“I am surprised at you, Vandergelt. One cannot arrest people without evidence of a crime.” Emerson smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I weary of Mr. Albion and his family. We will arrange a little ambush and catch them red-handed.”
“Hmmmm.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “I like the idea, Emerson. Just so nobody gets hurt.”
“And how do you mean to guarantee that?” I demanded. “What if they are armed?”
“We will have your pistol, Peabody,” said Emerson, grinning.
“We better have more than that,” Cyrus said. “I’ve got a couple of rifles and a pistol, latest-model Mauser. I only hope I can sneak ’em out of the house without Katherine seeing,” he added uneasily.
We had to get Sennia off to bed before we made the final arrangements. Emerson had sent word to Selim, warning him of our suspicions and giving him his instructions, and Cyrus did manage to get his weapons smuggled out of the Castle without Katherine’s knowledge. She would have been deeply distressed if she had known what we were up to.
A little contretemps arose at the last minute, when the men realized that Nefret and I and Jumana meant to accompany them. I put an end to their protests in short order, however.
“So long as you don’t bring that damned sword parasol” was Emerson’s way of conceding defeat.
The moon was on the wane, but the dazzling desert stars gave sufficient light for us to make our way over the ancient path that crossed the gebel. When we reached Deir el Medina, all was quiet. The coals of a fire burned near the place where our men were stationed; there were only four of them, including Selim. They had been ordered to look as if they had relaxed their guard, and on no account to resist an attack. One by one we descended the slope, and found concealment in the shadows of the ruined tombs.
We waited for over an hour before they came, from the south, creeping along the base of the hill. I counted the dim shapes: twelve in all. The last two carried rifles. Like the others, they were masked, but I had no difficulty in recognizing the rotund form of Mr. Albion and the taller outline of his son. One might have expected they would lead their troops from behind! When Selim sprang to his feet, Sebastian advanced, with his weapon aimed, while one of his hirelings called out in Arabic, “Do not move or we will shoot!”
For a moment I was afraid Daoud would forget his orders. It is not in his nature to submit meekly to threats. However, he remained seated, and within a few minutes our fellows were tightly bound, gagged, and blindfolded.
“Now?” Cyrus whispered.
Emerson shook his head.
Sebastian put his rifle down and began to climb the ladder. Obeying his gesture, five of the others followed. Neither he nor his father had spoken; our people could hear, if they could not see, and the use of English would have been a dead giveaway. Mr. Albion sat down with a grunt, and the other men stood close by him.
Emerson waited until Sebastian had reached the platform outside the tomb. His stentorian voice echoed between the cliffs. “Stop where you are, all of you. You are surrounded by armed men.” He added in English, “Drop the rifle, Albion.”
“Better fire a warning shot,” Cyrus advised. “In case they haven’t noticed our weapons.”
We were all on our feet, except for Nefret, who had given me her word she would not expose herself to gunfire. Emerson pointed his rifle toward the temple and pulled the trigger.
The men with Albion broke like a drop of quicksilver, scattering in all directions. “Let them go,” said Emerson, plunging down the slope. “It’s Albion I want.”
However, he was too late. I would never have supposed such a round, elderly man could move so fast. The bullet Emerson aimed at his heels only made him run faster.
“Emerson,” I said, tugging at his arm. “We had better do something about Sebastian, don’t you think?”
Emerson looked up and let out an exclamation.
The men who had started to follow Sebastian up to the platform were dropping to the ground, but Sebastian himself was still there – hanging by his hands from the edge of the platform and screaming at the top of his lungs. Quite a number of people were shouting, so his cries had been lost in the uproar. He must have lost his balance when the gun went off.
“I’ll get him,” Ramses said.
“Give him a hand, Bertie,” Emerson ordered. “You’ll need to get a rope round the bloody idiot. There’s plenty in the supply shed. I wonder how much longer he can hold on,” he added with mild interest.
Nefret and I set about freeing our men, who set about collecting fallen tomb robbers. Some of them had dropped quite a distance, so there were sprains and a broken bone or two, which Nefret treated in her usual efficient fashion.
“Have they got him?” she asked, referring to Sebastian. He was still screaming. “I can’t see from here.”
“Bertie got a rope around him,” Cyrus said. “They don’t seem to be in any hurry to pull him up, though.”
Leaving the robbers in Selim’s charge, we took a silent, shivering Sebastian back to his ma and pa. As Emerson declared, he had not finished with Mr. Albion, not by a damned sight. We all went along, naturally. No one wanted to miss the denouement.
There was no response to Emerson’s emphatic knocks on the door of the Albions’s sitting room. Fearing that he would wake the poor convalescent officers, I announced in low but penetrating tones, “We have your son. If you want him back you must let us in.”
The door was flung open by Mrs. Albion. Despite the lateness of the hour she was fully dressed and bejeweled. “What have you done to him?” she cried, seizing hold of the young man.
“He did it to himself,” I replied, pushing mother and son out of the way. Mr. Albion was sitting on the sofa. He must have arrived just before we did, since he was breathless, disheveled, and very red in the face.
“Now you’ve brought him back, get out,” he said.
“This is not a presentation, it is an exchange,” said Emerson. “Peabody, my dear, may I invite you to take a chair, since no one else has had the courtesy to do so? Albion, I want the artifacts you got from Jamil.”
“Be damned to you!” Albion growled.
Having determined that her son was intact, Mrs. Albion turned indignantly on Emerson. “Mr. Albion paid for those objects, sir. Are you a common thief?”
“Not at all common, madam,” said Emerson, with a smile that reminded me of his brother. “I propose not to press charges for armed assault and purchasing illegal antiquities, in return for the objects that were stolen – and for your promise to leave Luxor immediately. Your husband and your son are extremely inept criminals, but I cannot have this sort of thing. It interferes with my work. Come now, Albion, you are a practical man. Admit you’ve lost.”
“Lost?” Mrs. Albion gasped. “Mr. Albion does not lose. Mr. Albion -”
“Is a practical man,” her husband said, with difficulty. “All right, then. I’ll get them.”
“And I will come with you,” Emerson declared. “To make sure you don’t overlook anything.”
They returned with a heavy box, which Emerson handed to Cyrus. “All there. All yours. Shall we go, my dears?”
Mrs. Albion appeared to be in a state of shock. Her eyes had a bewildered look and she kept murmuring, “Mr. Albion does not lose. Mr. Albion…”
Was in for a spot of marital trouble, if I was any judge. I sincerely hoped so.
“Just one more thing,” Bertie said, in his quiet voice. “Sebastian, take off your glasses and put up your hands.”
“Hopelessly, incorrigibly well-bred,” said Emerson, shaking his head, as Bertie knocked Sebastian flat.
Cyrus’s fantasia was remembered for years as the finest, most extravagant entertainment Luxor had ever seen. The courtyard and the Castle were thrown open; tourists, convalescent officers, Egyptian workmen, and the permanent residents of Luxor mingled in amity, eating and drinking, dancing and singing. It was such a crush I soon gave up trying to do my social duty and was enjoying the sight of Selim and Nefret trying to waltz to the beat of an Egyptian drum, when someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see Marjorie Fisher, a longtime friend who lived in Luxor.