The Hippopotamus Pool (40 page)

But I was not to have the opportunity. Cyrus had been gone less than a quarter of an hour when the message I had half hoped for and wholly dreaded was brought to me.

I was waiting on the bank when Emerson and Walter returned. Evelyn and Nefret were with me; they were still trying to persuade me to change my mind. "You cannot go," I said. "Riccetti's letter was most emphatic about that. Only Emerson and I."

Emerson flung himself out of the saddle and took the note from me. He scanned the message in a single comprehensive glance and allowed Walter to take it from him.

"Hmph," he said. "Are you ready, Peabody?"

"Good God, Radcliffe, you don't mean to take her with you?" Walter cried.

"It is her right," Emerson said quietly.

"This may be a trap! Even if Riccetti is holding Ramses—"

"I am in something of a hurry, Walter," Emerson said. "Please excuse me."

Daoud had the boat ready. As soon as we were on board he pushed off. Emerson took out his pipe.

"Obviously," I said, "you learned nothing in Gurneh."

"I would not say that." Emerson went about filling the pipe with precise, controlled movements. "Abd el Hamel has gone to earth again. This time no one seems to know where he has got to."

"Not even his wives?"

"None of them," said Emerson, with a faint smile and a glance at me.

This was not the time to pursue that particular matter. I tabled it for future discussion.

"His disappearance may have nothing to do with that of Ramses," Emerson continued. "But I would like to ask the bastard a few questions. Abdullah is still looking for him; he may have better luck than I, and he is as keen on the scent as either of us could be. What have you to report, my dear? For I do not suppose you have been idle all morning."

I told him of O'Connell and Sir Edward's plan to inquire in Luxor.

"Have you removed Sir Edward from your list of suspects, then?" he inquired.

"No, but I can't see that he presents any threat to Kevin. If he is a member of the gang—either gang, any gang—he will make sure Kevin doesn't learn anything of importance. It did occur to me that that was why he offered to go along—to head Kevin off."

"Suppositions, guesses and theories." Emerson's fist clenched. "If we only had something solid to go on!"

"The message is solid enough," I said. "Riccetti is too canny to admit in writing that he holds Ramses prisoner, but his suggestion that we join him to discuss a certain missing object of great importance can have no other meaning."

My voice was not as steady as I would have liked. Emerson put his arm around me. "Peabody, my darling, you can be certain Ramses is safe and sound. Riccetti is too good a businessman to damage valuable merchandise."

"You know what he wants in exchange, don't you?"

"Yes."

Neither of us spoke again until we reached the East Bank. Riccetti had said there would be someone waiting to lead us to him. I think I would have identified the guide even if he had not, of course, immediately identified us. Though he wore a galabeeyah and turban, he was not Egyptian. His physiognomy and complexion were those of a Greek or Italian or Turk. He spoke only two words, in accented Arabic.

"Follow me."

I had assumed the rendezvous would not be at one of the hotels, for in that case there would have been no need for a guide; and I did not suppose Riccetti would take the risk of bringing us to the house where he was staying. Sure enough, our destination was a cafe, a coffeehouse less than a quarter mile from the river. Our guide opened the door and stood back, waving us in with a burlesqued bow and an anticipatory smile.

As soon as we were inside the room I moved slightly to the right, so that I would not impede any pugilistic gesture Emerson might make. (Though he is equally capable with either hand, he prefers the right.) My own right hand was in my pocket, fingering my little pistol; my parasol was in my left hand. I sincerely hoped that not all the patrons of the place were in Riccetti's employ. Every table was occupied. I calculated the odds at roughly twenty to one.

It was difficult to make out details, for the place was poorly lit and the air was thick with the smoke of tobacco and hashish. There appeared to be two other exits from the room, one at the back and one in the wall to the left. The windows were shuttered. Feeble rays of sunlight, penetrating the foul gloom through cracks in the shutters, reflected off the brass mouth-piece of a nargheelah, a copper bowl, and the knife in the hand of a man at a nearby table.

Conversation stopped abruptly upon our entrance. Eyes examined us as intently as we were studying them. I heard a few hisses of indrawn breath, and then, so silently and suddenly that a magician might have been at work, the place was almost empty. The lowering of the odds did not comfort me, however. Those who had wisely decided to leave must have been local residents; the faces of the remaining men were lighter in color, with the unmistakable stamp of city dwellers—men of Lower Egypt, Cairenes, the dregs of that teeming metropolis.

Emerson spoke in his normal tones and in Arabic. "The son of a dog is hiding in his kennel, I see. Tell him the Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim honor his filthy den."

"Do you think it wise to irritate him, Emerson?" I whispered.

"Rudeness is the only way to deal with vermin, my dear," said Emerson, without lowering his voice. He added in Arabic, "Quickly! I will see him now."

He did not wait for a reply but strode toward the door at the back of the room, gesturing to me to follow. Before he reached it it was opened by an invisible hand and a familiar voice said, "Buon giorno, honored guests. Enter my ... kennel."

The door closed after us with an unpleasantly solid sort of thud. A quick glance told me that the doorkeeper was one of Riccetti's bodyguards. The other stood behind the couch where Riccetti reclined on a damask counterpane woven with gold threads.

The furnishings were a distinct improvement over the ones in the outer room. This chamber must be one of those reserved for wealthier clients. I thought Riccetti had probably brought the counterpane and the cushions and the fine crystal goblets with him, however. They were of a quality finer than the wooden table and chairs, the verdigrised brass lamps and threadbare carpet. I knew why he had overcome his delicate tastes to meet us here. It had been meant as an insult to me, for no decent woman of any nationality would enter the place. More important, it meant Riccetti was not as sure of himself as he would like us to believe. A man who held all the winning cards would not take such precautions.

The forlorn hope that dawned in my heart was short-lived. Riccetti gestured toward an object on the table. "You recognize it, of course?"

It was Ramses's pocket notebook. He never went anywhere without it. Emerson picked it up, thumbed through it, and coolly put it in his shirt pocket. "Yes," he said curtly.

"Then we have established the first premise on which our conversation will be based? Good. You must forgive my bad manners, Mrs. Emerson.

I would offer you a chair and a glass of wine if I thought there were the slightest possibility you would accept."

"I would not," I said.

"A pity." Riccetti sipped delicately at his wine. "It is an excellent vintage. You want the boy back, I suppose. I can't imagine why; he is a very irritating child."

"Tastes differ," said Emerson, as coolly as Riccetti. "And I would be averse to sharing any taste of yours. How did he find you?"

Riccetti chuckled. "It was I who found him. I have many—er—associates in Luxor; they were told to bring me word if anyone appeared to be interested in my whereabouts. I felt certain one of you would come looking for me sooner or later. The other day I came close to—" His jaws closed with a snap. "But I was about to boast about my cleverness. You English despise that sort of thing, don't you?"

"Let us get to terms," Emerson said. "I suppose that in exchange for Ramses you want me to remove myself and my guards from the tomb and leave it to you."

"Dio mio, no!" Riccetti's eyes widened. "You mistake me entirely, my friend. Would I interfere with the finest excavator in Egypt? I want you to go on with your work—to clear the tomb and preserve its contents with the utmost care."

Emerson was silent for a moment. "I see."

"I felt certain you would." Riccetti put his glass on the table and leaned forward. "Working in haste, as illicit diggers must, my people would damage some of the articles, thereby reducing my profits. I can't trust the swine, either," he added indignantly. "No matter how—er—forcefully I supervise them, there are always a few who will take the risk of robbing me."

Astonishment and—yes, I admit—admiration robbed me of breath for a few moments. The fellow's evil intelligence was brilliant. This scheme was worthy of Sethos himself—allowing us to carry out the work with the skill only we could demonstrate—then forcing us to hand the treasure over to him.

"I hope," Riccetti went on, "that you now have a reason to speed the work. The sooner you finish, the sooner you will have your son with you again."

"Aren't you afraid I will work too quickly?" Emerson asked ironically. "A devoted father might shovel up the lot without worrying about your profits."

"Not you, my friend. Your principles are too well known. Flagrant violation of them would arouse suspicion. A deliberate speed—a careful compromise—that is all I ask. Shall we say ... two weeks?"

"Two weeks? Impossible!"

"Some of your colleagues would have it out in two days," Riccetti said with his saurian grin. "I don't care about the broken scraps of pottery and wood. Pick the plums out of the pudding, you know what they are as well as I. And make sure you open that sarcophagus. I want what is inside, all of it—coffins, mummy and any other objects."

"Wait," I said. "What about David? He must be returned to us too."

Riccetti appeared to be genuinely puzzled. "David? Oh—the native boy. Why should you ask about him?" And then a slow, sneering smile spread across his face. "That famous British sentimentality! Would it distress you to learn, Mrs. Emerson, that he does not feel the same loyalty toward you that you appear to feel for him?"

"He is not your prisoner?" Emerson demanded.

"I don't know where he is and I don't care. No doubt he will return to you if he chooses. No more questions. Are we agreed?"

"Yes," Emerson said.

"Excellent. One final word of warning. I know you too well to suppose you have given up hope of finding the brat and freeing him. I would be seriously annoyed if you tried to do so. Let me make it perfectly clear, so there will be no unfortunate misunderstandings. If you are not, both of you, at your excavation every day, I will assume you are doing something else—something I have warned you not to do. Your first duty, my friends, is to your child. Should you lose sight of that, I will send you a little reminder. A finger, perhaps, or an ear."

I cannot remember how I got out of the place. When I become aware of my surroundings I was sitting on the cracked rim of a fountain with water dripping off my chin and Emerson bending over me.

"Say something, my love. Anything!"

"Curse it," I muttered. "I didn't faint, did I? If I gave that son of a dog the satisfaction of fainting ..."

"That's my Peabody," Emerson said, with a long breath of relief. "No, my dear, you walked out on your own two feet, steady as a rock. It wasn't until we got into the light and I saw your face that I realized you were not entirely yourself. Here, take my arm and let's get out of this."

He raised me to my feet. Though his voice was even, he was rather white around the mouth, and I said, "I am ashamed of myself, Emerson.

Forgive me for behaving like a weak worn------ Like a weakling. That

terrible threat must have shaken you as much as it did me."

"Not quite so much, for I was expecting something of the sort." He managed a fairly convincing smile. "You have encountered a good many criminals in your time, Peabody, but never one so totally without scruples as Riccetti. Do you know, I almost find myself regretting our old adversary. At least Sethos was, in his own fashion, a man of his word."

"He would never have harmed a child," I said. "And he would have made short shrift of a creature like Riccetti. Emerson, you don't mean to give up searching for Ramses, do you? We cannot trust Riccetti. We can't even be certain the boy is ... is still living."

"I think we can be, though. Riccetti knows I won't turn over so much as a potsherd without proof of that rather important matter. Your assessment of his character is correct, however. He wouldn't hesitate to slaughter the lot of us, including Ramses, after we have done as he asks. We will pursue our inquiries, but we will have to proceed with great care. The bastard has us neatly boxed in."

"You needn't tell me that. Oh, Emerson, what are we going to do? I confess that for the first time in my life I feel just a little—well—out of my depth."

"That state of affairs won't last," Emerson said with conviction. "What you need, my dear, is a good stiff whiskey and soda. Shall we drop in at the Luxor bar?"