Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [20]
Sending the wires would serve another purpose—or at least I hoped it would. Those who were on the trail of Sethos would not hesitate to bribe the clerks at the telegraph office. If they learned we were ignorant of Sethos’s whereabouts they might turn their attention elsewhere.
Emerson pooh-poohed this idea as soon as I mentioned it, which I did the following morning at breakfast.
“You underestimate their persistence and their intelligence, I believe,” he said, cutting savagely into his bacon. “The men we encountered were ordinary thugs, but there is a cleverer mind behind this, there must be. We may be able to prove he has not communicated with us thus far, but what’s to prevent him from doing so in the future? He certainly wouldn’t be fool enough to telegraph us. He is fully aware of the fact that the clerks gossip with all of Luxor.”
He had made a point, and I was prompt to admit it.
The replies to our wires were unsatisfactory. The telegram to Mr. Smith had been carefully couched, referring to Sethos as “our mutual friend.” Smith’s answer was brief and to the point. “Have no idea. Do you?” Margaret’s newspaper, the Morning Mirror, informed us she was on assignment and could not be reached.
“That sounds ominous,” I remarked. “You don’t suppose she is running around with the Bolsheviks, do you?”
“It would be like her,” Ramses said. “The woman will stop at nothing in pursuit of a story. Remember the time she sallied into Hayil and was taken prisoner by the Rashid?”
“I detect a certain note of vexation in Mr. Smith’s reply,” I said, studying the brief message.
“I don’t detect anything except that he is unable or unwilling to give us information,” Emerson growled. “We’ve come to a dead end, and I for one intend to forget the whole business.” He tossed his napkin onto the table and rose. “Who is coming to the Valley with me?”
“No one, Emerson. The Vandergelts arrive this morning and we are going to meet the train. Yes, my dear, you too.”
There was quite a crowd waiting at the station. Galabeeyahs flapped and turbans bobbed up and down. Cyrus was a generous employer and very popular. When the train stopped and his smiling face appeared at the window, a cheer arose. Cyrus swept off his fine Panama hat and bowed in response.
Winters spent in Egypt’s sunny clime had turned our American friend’s face lined and leathery, and his sandy hair and goatee were sprinkled with silver, but he jumped out of the train with the agility of a young man. Though without formal training in archaeology, unlike other wealthy individuals who sponsored excavations as a form of amusement, Cyrus was no dilettante. He had always worked side by side with his crew and listened respectfully to the advice of my distinguished spouse.
Turning, he offered his hand to his wife Katherine. I observed that she had gained a bit more weight; her cheeks were pink with heat and her green eyes looked tired. Her son Bertie followed her, his somewhat plain features transformed by the affability of his smile. He immediately offered an arm to Jumana, the other member of Cyrus’s staff, but the girl hopped lithely out without giving him so much as a glance of thanks. A typical Egyptian beauty with melting dark eyes and delicate features, she was as ambitious as she was attractive. Bertie had been in love with her for years, but had not succeeded in winning her heart.
“Good to have you back,” Emerson declared, wringing Cyrus’s hand.
“Good to be back,” said Cyrus, drawing a deep breath. “What have you been up to? Any fresh corpses, Amelia?”
“You will have your little joke, Cyrus. We don’t have a murder every season.”
“Name one,” Cyrus countered with a grin.
“There have been a few odd occurrences—”
“Never mind,” said Emerson sharply.
I declined Katherine’s invitation to a late luncheon, wishing to give our friends time to rest after the long dusty train ride. “We will see you this evening, if you feel up