Children of the Storm by Elizabeth Peters

in—”
    “Damnation, Amelia!” Emerson sprang to his feet and fixed me with a terrible glare. “How can you use the words ‘finest’ and ‘criminal’ in conjunction?”
    Cyrus’s stare was hardly less forbidding. “Are you suggesting that Sethos is behind this, Amelia? I thought he had reformed.”
    “She isn’t suggesting anything of the sort.” Nefret’s musical voice quelled the complainants. “Aren’t we getting off the track? We are all in this together, and our first priority is to take what action can be taken before any more time is lost.”
    “Hmph,” said Emerson. His keen blue eyes softened. “Er. I beg your pardon, Peabody.”
    His use of my maiden name, which he employs as a term of professional approbation, told me I was in favor again. “Granted,” I said graciously. “Nefret is correct. We must get on Martinelli’s trail at once. If the search is unsuccessful we will consider what steps to take next. After all,” I added, attempting as is my custom to look on the bright side, “no one else knows of the theft, and M. Lacau will not be back for several weeks. That gives us time to think of a way out of this. I have several—”
    Nefret burst out laughing and the lines in Cyrus’s face folded into a grin. “If you can’t think of a way out of it, Amelia, nobody can. All right, you’re in charge. What do we do first?”
    The answer was obvious to me, as it must be to my intelligent Readers. Questioning of the gateman elicited the information that Martinelli had left the house late the previous night—“as he often did,” the fellow added with a grin and a leer. He had set off on foot along the road leading out of the Valley toward the river, “walking like a man who looks forward to a happy—” I cut the fellow short and asked another question. Yes, he had carried a small bag, just large enough to contain a change of clothing or a pair of pajamas.
    “Or three bracelets and a pectoral, carefully packed,” Emerson muttered after we had dismissed the witness.
    It took a while to locate the boatman who had taken the Italian across the river. He was nursing a grievance; at the Effendi’s request, he had waited for hours to bring him back, but his customer had not come. He had lost money, much money, refusing others . . . and so on, at length.
    I doubted there had been many others at that time of night, but we won his goodwill by hiring him to take us over to Luxor.
    Tourism was almost back to normal, and the little town was bustling and as busy as it had been before the war. The facade of the Winter Palace Hotel shone pink with fresh paint, and the dusty street was filled with carriages and donkeys and camels. Tourist steamers and dahabeeyahs lined the bank. From the decks of some, indolent travelers who had not chosen to go ashore leaned on the rails, looking out over the limpid waters. Some of them waved at us. I do not believe they knew who we were, since I failed to recognize any of the countenances, but I waved back at them. Emerson cursed them.
    “Too damned many people. We won’t find it easy to trace him in this mob.”
    His prediction proved to be correct. Katherine had remained at the Castle, but there were six of us to pursue inquiries, so we divided forces. We agreed to meet on the terrace at the Winter Palace, after making inquiries at the hotels and other, less respectable, places of entertainment. (My offer to question the female persons at certain of these latter establishments was unanimously voted down.)
    The results were disappointing if not unexpected. Martinelli was well known at the hotels and cafés, but no one admitted to having seen him the previous night. The female persons whom Emerson had taken it upon himself to question denied he had ever visited them. I was inclined to believe this, since they had no reason to lie. Apparently he had had sense enough (or success enough elsewhere) to avoid such dens.
    The last to join our party was Ramses, whose