The Golden One Page 35

  We had played this little game often, and I will admit, in the pages of my private journal, that I had maneuvered Emerson into committing himself first on certain occasions when I was not entirely certain of my conclusions. On this occasion I did not hesitate.

  “Why, my dear, I think we are past that childish sort of competition. I will be happy to tell you. He disguised himself as Sahin Pasha.”

  Emerson let out a whoop of laughter. He sobered almost at once, however, and began stroking his beard. “Really, Peabody, that is deuced ingenious. But… No, it is impossible. What led you to that remarkable deduction?”

  “Your turn next,” I said playfully. “Whom did you suspect?”

  “I need my pipe,” Emerson muttered. “What did you do with it?”

  I hadn’t done anything with it. Muttering to himself, Emerson rummaged through his voluminous garments until he located the thing and his tobacco pouch. I helped him to light the pipe, keeping a wary eye out for sparks in his beard.

  “Well,” said Emerson, settling back onto the divan and puffing away with enjoyment. “Where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me whom you suspected of being Sethos.”

  The comfort of his beloved pipe had given Emerson new courage. “The servant,” he said decidedly.

  “The fellow who brought the tea? It was drugged, Emerson.”

  “Well, of course. It would have been a dead giveaway for him to ignore his master’s orders. People don’t look at servants,” Emerson went on. “And Sahin had borrowed the house and, one must suppose, the staff from someone else.”

  “It isn’t like Sethos to choose such an inconspicuous role.”

  “No, he much prefers to make a spectacle of himself. It would be a coup much to his taste to take over the role of someone as well known as Sahin.”

  He looked so chagrined that I felt obliged to offer his vanity a little encouragement. Husbands appreciate these gestures.

  “There are some things I don’t understand, though,” I said. “How could Sethos deceive Sahin’s men and his household and even his daughter?”

  “Oh, that,” said Emerson, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sethos has fooled more observant individuals than a handful of dull-witted guards. The girl may have seen very little of her father; I don’t suppose Sahin was the sort of papa who plays games with his children.”

  “Well, perhaps I am wrong,” I said handsomely. “Without knowing more about the household than we do, it is impossible to know for certain how he managed it.”

  “I don’t know how he managed it,” Emerson admitted. “Or what is behind all this maneuvering. But I have a feeling – yes, my dear, call it a premonition if you like – I have a feeling we will hear from my eccentric – er – acquaintance before too long. And since it appears that far too many people know our identities already, we may as well leave off pretending to be respectable Moslems. What do you say I borrow a bottle of whiskey from one of our chaps?”

  “I have considered the advantages and disadvantages of abandoning our masquerade, and in my opinion the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. The people we were trying to keep in the dark already know the truth, and the presence of the famous Father of Curses can only inspire respect from others. However, there is no need for you to borrow anything.” I reached behind the cushions and drew out the parcel I had kept in my personal charge during that long, wearisome journey. It was a large and rather lumpy parcel, as I knew to my sorrow, since I had sat on it most of the way.

  “Good Gad!” said Emerson, as I extracted the bottle, which I had wrapped in certain articles of clothing.

  “We will have to use plain water or drink it neat, like Cyrus. The gasogene was too large, and fragile besides.”

  Emerson’s smile faded. “What else have you got in there?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Trousers, shirts, and boots for me and Nefret – you saw them the other day – my knife, and hers – my belt of tools – and -”

  “No!” Emerson exclaimed, his eyes bulging.

  “You cannot suppose I would venture into danger without it.” I had spread the articles out on the divan. I added my parasol.

  Emerson’s lips writhed, but the light of forlorn hope lingered in his eyes. “Please. Tell me it isn’t…”

  I took hold of the handle and gave it a twist and a pull. “My sword parasol, yes. The one you were kind enough to give me.”

  Emerson reached for the bottle.

  We did not see the children again that evening. When they joined us for breakfast, I was pleased to observe that Ramses looked more rested. He was wearing the uniform shirt and trousers, but with the shirt open and his feet bare, the hated military look was diminished. He was in full agreement with my decision that we might as well abandon our disguises.

  “I didn’t suppose Mother would stand being confined to the harem for long,” he remarked, selecting a piece of fruit from the tray.

  “It is too inconvenient,” I explained. “We were running out of excuses for admitting strange men to our quarters. I haven’t spoken with Selim for days, and in my opinion a council of war is imperative. We must plan our next move.”

  “Next move?” Ramses’s eyebrows tilted up at the corners. “Surely that’s obvious. There’s no point in your staying on here.”

  The pronoun did not escape me, but I said only, “That is one of the things we must discuss. Let us ask Selim to join us. Perhaps he can find you something else to wear, Ramses. I brought a change of clothing for us, but not for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Nefret drawled. “I like those short trousers. You ought to wear them all the time. Father, too.”

  Emerson does have well-shaped lower limbs, but he is rather shy about it. He coughed and looked away. Ramses, less self-conscious than his father, laughed and said, “I ought to return them to their owner, along with the rest of his things. Never mind that now; let’s have Selim up.”

  Selim was delighted to accept the invitation. Settling himself comfortably on a cushion, he looked round with an air of approval. “This is good. We have not been able to talk. Now tell me everything. What happened in Gaza, Ramses?”

  He had known of Ramses’s safe return – had, in fact, been the first to know, for he had recognized him at once. Ramses had not lingered to chat, being anxious to reassure us, so he had to go over the whole business again for Selim.

  “Ah,” said that young man interestedly. “Is she beautiful?”

  Everyone laughed, and Ramses repeated what Sahin had said about multiple wives.

  “I have not found it so,” said Selim, looking a trifle smug. “She is a brave girl, to take the risk of freeing you. I hope she does not suffer for it.”

  “So do I,” Ramses said briefly.

  I knew then what I had only suspected before. He meant to go back to Gaza. His mission had not been accomplished, and the fate of that girl would haunt him until he made sure she was safe.

  Selim was unable to add anything to our own deductions, such as they were, but he was of the opinion that Ismail Pasha must be Sethos. “So what shall we do now?” he inquired.

  “We will wait a day or two for the news of our presence to spread,” replied Emerson. “If Sethos has not communicated with us by then, we’ll go in after him.”

  “Father!” Ramses exclaimed.

  “Now, my boy, don’t waste your breath. You mean to go; don’t deny it. If my – er – if he is being held against his will, he must be freed. If he has turned traitor – which,” Emerson said grimly, “is seeming more and more likely – he must be taken prisoner by us.”

  “Why do you consider it more likely?” I demanded hotly. “You said before -”

  “He couldn’t have managed Ramses’s escape if he were a closely guarded prisoner,” Emerson replied, with equal heat. “Don’t try to defend him, Peabody, or I will begin to wonder whether you have got over your -”

  “Please, Emerson!”

  “Father has the right idea.” N
efret’s quiet voice reminded both of us that we were in danger of getting off the subject. “Traitor or captive, we must get him out of Gaza.”

  Ramses turned appalled eyes on her. “What do you mean, we? I admit I didn’t succeed, but that was because Chetwode mucked things up. One person has a better chance than three… four… five… Good God, Father, you can’t -”

  “I believe I can,” said Emerson. “More safely than you, Ramses. Do you suppose Sahin won’t have everyone in Gaza looking for a man of your description?”

  “But how -”

  Emerson held up one hand, demanding silence, and reached with the other into his pocket. “I have another set of papers,” he announced proudly.

  They were a good deal more impressive than the first set – spattered with blobs of crimson sealing wax, framed in ornate curlicues, and with quite a lot of gilt. The script was equally ornamental; it looked like Arabic, but I could make nothing of it. I handed the papers to Ramses.

  “Turkish,” he muttered. “Father, do you have any idea what this says?”

  “No,” said Emerson placidly. “Is there more coffee?”

  “But – but -” Ramses ran one hand through his tumbled curls and brandished the papers in front of Emerson’s nose. “Were you planning to use these to get into Gaza? For all you knew, it might be a denunciation of you, or – or somebody’s laundry list!”

  “Is it?” Emerson inquired.

  Nefret served him and Ramses with fresh cups of the Turkish coffee she brewed so expertly, and Ramses inspected the papers again.

  “No,” he admitted. “They appear to be in order – so far as I can tell. I’ve never been privileged to see a direct order from the Sublime Porte, signed by the sultan himself.”

  “Few have,” said Emerson, and sipped his coffee. “Ah – excellent. Thank you, Nefret. I didn’t suppose el-Gharbi would play me false, but the very look of those documents is enough to overawe most people, especially since literacy is -”

  “El-Gharbi,” Ramses broke in. “I might have known. What did you promise him in return?”

  “My goodwill,” said Emerson, with an evil smile.

  Ramses was not quite himself, and the effect of the stunning surprises his father had administered showed on his face, together with evidence of another, equally strong emotion. “So,” he said, trying without complete success to control his voice, “if I had not come back you would have marched up to the Turkish lines with a set of papers you couldn’t read and a broken arm and -”

  “And your mother,” said Emerson.

  He was, I believe, attempting to lighten the emotional atmosphere with a touch of humor. His comment did not have that effect. Ramses went pale, and I said firmly, “Quite right. All for one and one for all – that is our motto, is it not? You would have taken equal or greater risks for any of us, Ramses. Now that that is settled, let us get back to business. Are those papers adequate for the purpose your father had in mind?”

  “Is my name on them?” Selim demanded.

  “No one else’s name is on them,” Emerson replied. “If an honorable sheikh, a friend of the sultan’s, decides to take his servants -”

  “And wives,” I said.

  “Bah,” said Emerson. “He can take anyone he likes, I suppose. Do be quiet, all of you. I haven’t decided yet how to go about this. It might be better to make my way through the lines under cover of darkness.”

  “With one arm in a cast,” said Ramses under his breath.

  Emerson inspected the cast irritably. “I don’t see why I need it. My arm itches like fury. Nefret -”

  “No, Father. Absolutely not.” She moved closer to Ramses, her shoulder against his. “We don’t have to come to a decision immediately. In fact, it would be the height of folly to go rushing into action until we know more. It’s all very well to say that Sethos must be in Gaza because only he could have got Ramses away, but we can’t be certain of that, can we? The most sensible course is to give him a chance to communicate with us, as Father suggested.”

  And keep Ramses with her a few days longer. “I agree,” I said. “It behooves us, then, to make our presence known. Shall we pay a little visit to the suk, Nefret? Gracious, it will be good to get out of this house.”

  Ramses’s limited wardrobe, and the fact that he had, as he remarked, seen enough of bloody Khan Yunus, made him agreeable to my suggestion that he remain in the house. Selim stayed with him. We left them deep in conversation, some of which had to do with Sahin’s interesting daughter.

  Squashed into the tonneau of the motorcar and half-buried in bundles, I had not seen much of the town when we arrived. It had only one structure of artistic interest, a fine thirteenth-century mosque. With a few exceptions the houses were small and mean, and the suk had not much to offer. However, the gardens made up for the general squalor. Some of them were enclosed by the same thick cactus hedges that surrounded the town, very curious in appearance and more effective than any fence or wall. It was a veritable garden spot, where every variety of fruit and vegetable was grown. Fig and almond trees, orange and pomegranate waved leafy branches.

  We strolled for an hour or so, admiring the luxuriant vegetation, and purchased a few articles of clothing for Ramses in the bazaar. By the time we returned to the house I felt certain our presence had been noted by the entire population of Khan Yunus. Nefret and I were wearing our European garments. Emerson was bareheaded, but he had declined to abandon his comfortable caftan, or his beard. (I meant to attend to the beard in due course.) Our presence occasioned considerable curiosity but less surprise than I had anticipated; and as we crossed the square, Emerson was accosted by a ragged individual who addressed him by name and demanded baksheesh.

  The fellow was tall for an Arab and well built; I thought for a moment Emerson was going to grab hold of his beard. But then he saw, as did I, that one of the extended arms had no hand, and that the sleeve hung empty from the elbow.

  “It is too soon to hear from him, Emerson,” I said as we walked away, followed by the loud blessings of the beggar.

  “No, it isn’t. We might have spared ourselves this little stroll; the word of our presence had already spread. Otherwise,” Emerson added, stroking his beard fondly, “that chap wouldn’t have recognized me.”

  “But how did it get about?” Nefret demanded, quickening her pace.

  “Any one, or all, of a number of ways,” I replied. “The servants have been gossiping and speculating about us ever since we arrived. There are undoubtedly informers in Khan Yunus who report to the Turks or the British; some probably sell the same information to both. Lieutenant Chetwode… Don’t be in such a rush, my dear; Selim is with Ramses, he won’t let anyone get near him.”

  Ramses was asleep, curled up like a cat on the cushions of the divan. Squatting by the door, his knife in his hand, Selim was obviously disappointed to see us instead of the assassin he had hoped for.

  “No one came,” he said regretfully.

  “But someone might have.” I patted his shoulder. “Thank you, Selim, for guarding him.”

  “It is my duty and my pleasure,” said Selim. “Now I will go and see what that fool of a cook is doing to our lunch.”

  We had several callers that afternoon. All of them wanted to sell us something.

  Our visit to the suk had aroused the mercenary instincts of every entrepreneur within a twenty-mile radius. It was customary for sellers of choice merchandise to bring it to the house of wealthy individuals, especially to the ladies of the harem. Female brokers are employed for this latter errand, but since we were known to be infidel English persons, we were attended by the merchants themselves, who spread out their silks and jewels, carpets and brassware, for our inspection. One of them, more canny than the rest, had several antiquities for sale, including a fine scarab of Seti I. The area had been in Egyptian hands for a long period of time, Gaza being one of the cities mentioned in documents of the fourteenth century b.c. Arms folded and lips set in a sneer, Emerson refused t
o violate his rule of never buying from dealers, but I saw the acquisitive gleam in his eyes and bought the scarab and a remarkably well preserved Phoenician vessel.

  After that I told Selim we would receive no more callers for a while, and Emerson got out the whiskey. We were using the ka’ah of the harem as our sitting room; I had got it in a state of relative cleanliness, which could not be said of other apartments in the house. Ramses had just opened the whiskey when Selim came hurrying into the room.

  “There is a man,” he panted. “An officer. He asks -”

  “I’ll do my own asking. Stand out of the way.” The officer had followed him. I recognized the voice and the square, flushed face that peered over Selim’s shoulder. Selim didn’t budge.

  Emerson took the pipe from his mouth. “Ah. Major Cartright, as I live and breathe. May I remind you that you don’t give the orders here? Ask politely.”

  Cartright got the word out, though it almost choked him. “Please!”

  Selim stepped aside, folding his arms. Cartright marched in. Emerson pointed out, in the same mild voice, that there were ladies present and Cartright removed his hat with a muttered apology.

  “That’s more like it,” said Emerson. He sipped appreciatively at his whiskey. “Well? Don’t stand there gaping, you must have something to say.”

  Emerson was doing his best to be annoying, and no one can do it better than Emerson. Cartright swallowed several words he knew better than to pronounce, and took a long breath. “Send – that is, will you please send that man away?”

  “No,” said Emerson. “But I will do my best to prevent him from using his knife on you. You are either very complacent or very courageous to show your face after the filthy trick you played.”

  Still standing – for no one had invited him to sit – Cartright took out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow. “Mrs. Emerson – I appeal to you. May I be allowed to speak?”

  He was looking at me, not at Nefret, whose tight lips and crimson cheeks must have told him he could not expect any consideration from her. I nodded. “Are you going to claim you knew nothing about Chetwode’s plan?”