The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense by Elizabeth Peters

high good humor and rather inclined, in my opinion, to rub it in. “I told you Aslimi had lied to you.” “Was that why you went disguised as the man he had described?” “No, I did that because I wanted to,” said Emerson, chuckling. “The description I finally pried out of him was the exact opposite of the one he gave you: medium height, slim, young.” “But unknown to Aslimi.” “It doesn’t fit any of the thieves or go-betweens known to me either. We must accept it, however.” The beard assumed a particularly arrogant angle. I was forced to agree with him. After I had restored Aslimi from his faint, he could not quite get it straight in his head who the intruder was: a thief bent on robbing and murdering him; or the Father of Curses, bent on something equally unpleasant; or both in the same body. He was certainly too confused and terrified to lie. We reached the hotel without anything of interest happening, to find that the children had not yet returned from dinner. Emerson had removed the turban and caftan, but the beard and mustache occasioned a certain hesitation in the desk clerk; had it been anyone but me asking for the key, he might have questioned the identity of the fellow I was taking with me to my suite. “He didn’t recognize me either,” Emerson declared smugly. “Ha,” I said. Emerson was sitting with his chin and mouth in a basin of water, breathing through his nose, and I was enjoying a restorative whiskey and soda when there was a tap on the door. I responded, and Nefret put her head in. “We only stopped by to say . . .” she began; catching sight of Emerson, she flung the door wide and hurried to his side. “Father! Are you hurt?” “No,” said Emerson, gurgling. He spat out a mouthful of water. Ramses’s face twitched in a frantic attempt to control his amusement. “It’s the beard,” he got out. “I think that’s done the job,” Emerson said. He peeled the thing off and gave Nefret a cheerful smile. “Hold it over the basin, Emerson,” I said, as water streamed from the bedraggled object onto the carpet. “What? Oh.” Chagrin wrinkled his brow, and he attempted to wring the water out of the beard. “Hope I haven’t spoiled it, my boy. I would have asked you for the loan of it, but you see, the idea came to me after you left, and I had to act at once.” “That’s quite all right, sir,” said Ramses. “Might one ask . . .” “Certainly, certainly. I will tell you all about it. Make yourselves comfortable.” It was evident that he planned to revel in every detail, so the children followed his suggestion, settling themselves on the sofa side by side and listening with interest. Neither of them interrupted until Emerson, with great gusto, told of my pulling out the sword. “Good God, Mother!” Ramses exclaimed. “How many times have I told you —” “She didn’t know me, you see,” Emerson said, beaming. “She won’t admit it, but she didn’t.” “I did not recognize you immediately,” I admitted. “But the room was dark and Aslimi was shrieking in alarm, and I didn’t expect you would come that way. Nefret, my dear, are you laughing?” “I’m sorry. I was picturing the two of you scuffling in Aslimi’s back room. Neither of you was hurt?” “No,” I said, while Emerson grinned in a particularly annoying fashion. “It may take Aslimi a while to recover, though.” “He admitted that his original description was false in every particular,” Emerson said smugly. “The seller was bearded, of course — most Egyptians are — but he was young, slender, and of medium height.” Ramses could not come up with a name to match the new description either. “Someone new to the business,” he said thoughtfully. “Someone who has been in Luxor recently,” Emerson added. “Assuming, that is, that the artifacts did come from the tomb of the princesses. He must have got them direct from one of the robbers, who had withheld them from the rest of the