The Ape Who Guards the Balance by Elizabeth Peters Page A

particularly boring collection of tombs. In all fairness to Maspero it must be admitted that Emerson’s stubbornness was chiefly responsible. He had infuriated Maspero by refusing to open the tomb of Tetisheri—our great discovery—to tourists. This refusal had been couched in terms that were remarkably rude even for Emerson. Maspero had retaliated by rejecting Emerson’s request to search for new tombs in the Valley of the Kings, adding insult to injury by suggesting that he finish clearing the smaller, nonroyal tombs, of which there were quite a number in the Valley. Most of these sepulchres had been discovered by other archaeologists and were known to contain absolutely nothing of interest.
    In all fairness to Emerson, we had every right to expect special consideration from Maspero, since, for reasons that have no bearing on the present narrative, we had handed over the entire contents of the tomb to the Cairo Museum, without claiming the usual finder’s share. (This had also had a deleterious effect on our relations with the British Museum, whose officials had expected we would donate our share to them. Emerson cared no more for the opinion of the British Museum than he did for that of M. Maspero.)
    A sensible man would have backed off and asked for permission to work elsewhere. Emerson is not a sensible man. With grim determination, and a good deal of bad language, he had accepted the project and kept at it until we were all ready to scream with boredom. Over the past years he had investigated a dozen of the tombs in question. There were, I calculated, a dozen more to go.
    “I will go alone, then,” I said.
    “No, you will not!”
    I was pleased to observe that our little disagreement (together with several cups of strong coffee) had roused Emerson from his habitual morning lethargy. He sat up, shoulders squared and fists clenched. A handsome flush of temper warmed his cheeks, and the cleft in his strong chin quivered.
    It is a waste of time to argue with Emerson. I turned to the children. “And what are your plans for the day, my dears?”
    Ramses, sprawled on the settee in a position as languorous as Emerson’s had been before I stirred him up, started and straightened. “I beg your pardon, Mother?”
    “How lazy you are this morning,” I said disapprovingly. “And Nefret looks as if she had not slept either. Was it one of your bad dreams that kept you awake, my dear girl?”
    “No, Aunt Amelia.” She covered her mouth with her hand to hide a yawn. “I was up late. Studying.”
    “Very commendable. But you need your sleep, and I would like to see you take a little more trouble over your morning toilette. You ought to have put your hair up, the wind is blowing it all over your face. Ramses, finish doing up your shirt buttons. David at least is . . . What is that mark on your neck, David? Did you cut yourself?”
    He had buttoned his shirt as high as it would go, but eyes as keen as mine cannot be deceived. His hand went to his throat.
    “The razor slipped, Aunt Amelia.”
    “Now that is just what I mean. Lack of sleep makes one clumsy and careless. Those straight razors are dangerous implements, and you—”
    The engines of a passing tourist steamer made me break off, for it was impossible for me to make myself heard over the racket. Emerson managed to make himself heard, however.
    “Damnation! The sooner we leave this cacophonous chaos, the better! I am going to speak with Reis Hassan.”
    Hassan informed him we could not possibly get off before the Thursday, two days hence, and Emerson had to be content with that. He was still muttering profanely when we started for the museum, where he proposed to spend the morning examining the most recent exhibits.
    His refusal to call on Maspero suited me quite well, in fact, since an encounter between them was sure to make matters worse. I decided to take Nefret with me. She and M. Maspero were on excellent terms. French gentlemen are usually on excellent