The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense by Elizabeth Peters Page A

loot. Those scoundrels cheat even one another.” “I suppose you are now even more on fire to go on to Luxor and track down the thieves,” Nefret said, tucking her feet under her and leaning against Ramses. “You would like a few more days at the hospital, wouldn’t you?” Emerson asked. “Well, yes; but I wouldn’t want you to change your plans on my account.” I must give my dear Emerson credit; he was too forthright to pretend he was doing it on her account. “The tomb has already been robbed and the loot dispersed,” he explained. “And I expect everyone knows the identity of the thieves — the Abd er Rassuls, or one of the other Gurneh families who specialize in such activities. It is strange, though, to have some of the objects turn up in Cairo. The local boys usually work with Mohassib or another of the Luxor dealers. Ramses, are you certain that ointment vessel is Eighteenth Dynasty?” “No, of course not,” Ramses said, somewhat defensively. “I’m not an expert on hard stone vessels. The same forms and materials were used over a long period of time. If you think it’s important, we might pay a visit to the Museum and see what examples they have.” “If we can find them,” Emerson muttered. “The way that place is arranged is a damned disgrace.” Emerson always complained about the Museum and about almost everything else that was not under his direct supervision. I pointed out that Mr. Quibell, the director, was doing the best he could under difficult circumstances. Emerson nodded grudgingly. “No doubt. I suppose we ought to call on him. Or we might have one of your little archaeological dinner parties, Peabody. The Quibells, and Daressy, and anyone else you can collect.” My dinner parties, celebrating our return to Egypt, had been very popular. For the past few years I had been loath to hold them; it was too painful to see the diminished company and reflect on the fates of those who were no longer with us: our German and Austrian colleagues departed, the ranks of the French and English Egyptologists depleted by death or military service. However, I had already been in receipt of friendly messages from those who were still in Cairo — the news of our arrival had, of course, immediately become known. Emerson’s proposal solved the difficulty of how I was to respond to these greetings and invitations, and astonished me not a little, for he was never inclined toward social engagements, and he had been insistent on leaving Cairo as soon as was possible. A brief period of reflection explained his change of heart. The letter from Cyrus and the discovery of the artifacts at Aslimi’s had whetted his curiosity; Cyrus’s mention of Howard Carter being in some manner involved aroused an understandable desire to question that individual. There was another reason for his willingness to stay on in Cairo; he was hoping for a further communication from his brother. He had made a point of looking through the messages every day and his disappointment at finding nothing of the sort was evident to me at least. I confess I was also somewhat exasperated with Sethos. What had been the point of that brief encounter? Unfortunately I was unable to locate the archaeologist whom Emerson had hoped to interrogate. Howard Carter was not in Cairo. No one knew where he was. However, when the sadly diminished group met next evening, he was the chief topic of conversation. Owing to the short notice, the Quibells were the only ones who had been able to accept my invitation. “You just missed him,” Annie Quibell said. “He got back from Luxor a few days ago, and went off again without any of us seeing him. James was furious.” She smiled at her husband, whose equable temper was well known, and who said calmly, “I presume his duties for the War Office called him away, but I had hoped to hear more about his recent work in Luxor.” “And his dealings with Mohassib?” Emerson inquired, motioning the waiter to refill