Children of the Storm (6 page)

I nodded reluctant agreement. “That assumption would certainly be made by an experienced criminal, as he has been, trained by one of the finest criminal minds 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 assignment had been the railroad station. “No luck?” he inquired.

“No. And you?” Emerson asked.

“A man of his general description took the morning express to Cairo. It isn’t conclusive,” Ramses added quickly. “You know how obliging Egyptians are about supplying the information they think you want to hear. None of them remembered the portmanteau or that gaudy stickpin he usually wears.”

A dismal silence fell. “It looks bad,” Cyrus muttered. “Now what do we do?”

Everyone looked at me. It was most gratifying. “Have luncheon,” I said, and led the party into the dining salon.

We were well known to the management of that excellent hostelry and had no difficulty in getting a table. Over a bottle of wine and a meal Cyrus hardly touched, we put our heads together. Cyrus’s first idea, that we should wire the Cairo police immediately, seemed the obvious course; but I felt bound to point out its weakness.

“If Martinelli has learned anything from his former master, who was, as we all know, a master of disguise—”

“Yes, we do know,” grunted Emerson. “Pray do not go off on a long-winded and wholly unnecessary lecture, Peabody. The bastard may have altered his appearance, but we must at least make the attempt.” He bit savagely into a roll.

I took advantage of his tirade to finish my soup. I always say there is no sense in allowing worry to affect one’s appetite.

“I agree,” said Ramses. “We are fortunate in being well acquainted with the assistant commandant of the police. Russell will act on our request without the necessity for explanations.”

“What if he finds the jewelry?” Cyrus demanded.

“Then we will have it back,” I replied. “No, Emerson, do not you go off on a long-winded and wholly unnecessary lecture. Russell owes us a great deal—at least he owes Ramses a great deal, for his services to the police and the military during the war—and we may be able to get out of this without Sethos’s name being mentioned. That is supposing Russell is able to apprehend Martinelli, which I consider to be unlikely.”

Emerson had wolfed his food down at a great rate. Now he pushed his plate away and rose. “I will go to the telegraph office.”

“How many telegrams do you mean to send?” I inquired.

He stood looking down at me. “Two. Perhaps three.”

I sighed. “I suppose we must. Do you have the addresses?”

Emerson nodded brusquely and turned away.

“Hmm.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “Who’re the other telegrams going to?”

“You can probably guess,” Nefret said.

“Reckon I can. Shall we retire to the terrace for coffee and some confidential conversation?”

It was a bright, warm day. The twin terraces of the Winter Palace, reached by a pair of handsome curved stairs, were high enough above the road so that the clouds of dust kicked up by feet and hooves did not reach us, and the noonday sun sparkled on the river. Tourists were returning from their morning trips. Cyrus took out his cheroot case, and after asking our permission, lighted one. Wine and tobacco had calmed him, and his habitual keen intelligence was once again in the fore. In a way I was sorry for that. For years we had put Cyrus off about certain matters, some personal, some professional. Our responsibility for his present dilemma made it impossible, in my opinion, to keep the truth from him. Anyhow, we would have enough trouble keeping track of the lies we would have to invent for Russell and/or Lacau.

“So you’ve kept in touch with your old pal the Master Criminal?” Cyrus inquired. “You even know his current address. Where the devil is he?”

“I’m not sure where he is at this moment,” I admitted. “He has a house in Cornwall and a flat in London, but he travels a great deal.”

“I’ll just bet he does,” Cyrus said. “All right so far, Amelia. Now—who the devil is he?”

I looked at my children, who were seated side by side, their fingers entwined. Ramses’s eyebrows tilted up in amused inquiry. “Are you asking for our advice, Mother? A penny for our thoughts?”

“I’ll give you mine for nothing,” Nefret declared. “We can trust Cyrus completely, and I for one am tired of secrets. I move we tell him everything.”

“Quickly, before Father comes back,” Ramses added.

Since I was of the same mind, I did so. Cyrus was only too familiar with Sethos’s former criminal activities, since he had been involved in several of our encounters with our old adversary. He had not heard of Sethos’s courageous and dangerous exploits as a British secret agent, but—he claimed—it came as no surprise to him. I explained that I could not go into detail, since Sethos’s activities, and those of Ramses, were covered by the Official Secrets Act.

“That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “I don’t need to know the details, I saw some of the results. Back in 1915, when Ramses ended up in bed for a week, just after the first Turkish attack on the Canal had failed, I began to wonder how he got those particular injuries. Not from falling off a cliff, not him! David was hurt even worse; he was in on it too, wasn’t he? I kept my mouth shut, since it wasn’t any of my business. Then there was that interesting episode the following year, when Sethos suddenly turned up out of nowhere and helped catch a German spy. But even if he and Ramses were in cahoots in that job, it doesn’t explain why you are so intimate with the fellow now.”

“No,” I admitted.

“There’s Father,” said Ramses, who had been watching for him. “Get it out, Mother.”

I didn’t want Emerson sputtering and arguing either, so I said in a rush, “Sethos is Emerson’s half-brother. Illegitimate, I regret to say, but no less kin and in recent years no less kind. Hmmm. That doesn’t sound quite right . . .”

“I get the idea,” Cyrus said in a strangled voice. “Holy Jehoshaphat, Amelia! I won’t say I didn’t suspect there was some relationship, but—”

“I will of course inform Emerson that you have been made aware of the situation,” I said hastily, for Emerson was mounting the stairs two at a time. “But he is easier to deal with if he is presented with a fait accompli. Otherwise he wastes time arguing and going into long-winded—”

“Mother!” Ramses said loudly.

“Quite. Not a word to anyone else, Cyrus. Except to Katherine, of course. I trust her discretion as I trust yours.”

“Never,” Cyrus assured me.

Bertie had said very little. He seldom got a chance to say anything, for he was too well-bred to interrupt and too modest to differ with the admittedly dogmatic statements to which the rest of us are somewhat prone. His ingenuous countenance was a study in astonishment, but he found voice enough to express his sentiments.

“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your confidence, ma’am.”

“You have earned it, Bertie,” I said warmly. “And I know I can depend on you to keep the information strictly to yourself.”

“Of course. You have my word.”

“Word about what?” Emerson demanded, looming over me.

“Never mind, my dear,” I replied. “Do you want coffee?”

“No. We had better be getting back. There is nothing more we can do until we receive answers to our messages. I have work to do.”

“Your article? Quite right, Emerson.”

Emerson rubbed the attractive dimple (or cleft, as he prefers to call it) in his chin. “Oh. That article. There’s no hurry, Peabody. I thought I might go to the site this afternoon for a few minutes. Nefret, the light will be perfect for photographs.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” Nefret’s smile was warm, but she spoke firmly. “I promised the twins I would take them to visit Selim this afternoon, to play with his children. I can’t disappoint them.”

“Oh. No, you mustn’t disappoint them. Ramses—”

“Emerson, you know their visit to Selim is a Friday-afternoon custom,” I said. “Ramses looks forward to his time with Selim and with the children. In any case, you must finish that article before we leave for Cairo to meet the family. You don’t want it hanging over your head once they are here.”

“When are you leaving?” Cyrus asked.

“We are taking the train Sunday evening.” I gathered my belongings—handbag, gloves, parasol—and rose. “By that time we ought to have heard from Mr. Russell, and possibly from . . . someone else. One way or another, whatever the results of our initial inquiries, we will continue to pursue them in Cairo.”

I took Emerson’s arm and we started down the curving staircase. “Quite a crowd in Luxor this season,” I remarked. “It is nice to see things getting back to normal. Oh—there is Marjorie. Stop a minute, Emerson, she is waving at us.”

“Wave back and keep walking,” said Emerson. “You may indulge in gossip to your heart’s content, Peabody, but on your own time. I have no patience with such stuff.”

He put his hand over mine and pulled me with him. We had almost reached the foot of the stairs when I saw a little eddy, so to speak, in the crowd. Raised voices and a flurry of rapid movement betokened a disturbance of some kind. Owing to my lack of inches, I could not make out the cause, but Ramses, who had gone ahead with Nefret, obviously beheld something that provoked him into action. He dropped his wife’s arm and ran forward.

Needless to say, the rest of us were not far behind him. Emerson thrust through the ring of gaping spectators. They had prudently backed away from the two principal performers, who were grappling with each other. The struggle was brief; with an abrupt movement Ramses (for as the Reader must have surmised, one of the combatants was my son) caught the other man in a hard grip and twisted his arm behind him. His opponent was a burly, dark-haired fellow whose teeth were bared in a grimace of pain or rage. The third participant lay on the ground, apparently unconscious.

He was no more than a boy, slender and frail, dressed in a suit that could only have been cut by a British tailor. His cap had fallen off. Golden lashes fanned his smooth cheeks, and golden curls crowned his bare head. His gentle countenance and slight form suggested a fallen angel, struck down by some diabolical adversary. The other man looked devilish enough, his face dark with choler and his muscles bulging as he continued to writhe in Ramses’s grasp.

“Let me go, you fool,” he cried. “Let me go to him.”

“Hold on to him, Ramses,” I ordered.

“I have every intention of doing so, Mother. They were struggling when I first saw them, and then this fellow struck the boy. Is he badly hurt?”