I arranged for breakfast to be served in our room, since I knew Emerson was incapable of reasoned discourse until he had had several cups of coffee. When the servant arrived he brought with him two messages. Emerson was splashing about in the washbasin at the time, so I hastily inspected them. None bore the writing I had hoped to see, so I handed them over to Emerson unopened and waited impatiently until he had imbibed a sufficient amount of caffeine.
“Well, well,” he remarked, perusing the first. “Our arrival, it seems, has become known. Furman Ward of the American Palestine Organization begs the favor of a meeting at our earliest convenience.”
“I am not familiar with that organization, Emerson.”
“It is, I believe, of fairly recent date. This,” he continued, “is from Ward’s British counterpart. He would be happy to call on us as soon as is possible.”
He handed the notes to me. “There is a certain air of urgency about them,” I commented. “I believe I can hazard a guess as to what-or rather, who-has prompted it.”
“More than a random guess, Peabody. Morley has been here for several weeks, long enough to stir up the local archaeological community. Suppose we call on these gentlemen this morning? They can tell us what the bastard has been up to.”
We dispatched messages to the individuals in question. I could only hope that they would be able to receive us, for Emerson refused to wait for a reply. He never made appointments; he simply turned up and carried on with extreme indignation if the person he wanted was not there. Ah, well, I told myself philosophically, we would at least enjoy a stroll through the hallowed streets of the world’s holiest city.
The others were finishing their breakfast when we joined them. Nefret’s eyes were shadowed, as if she had not slept well. Daoud was his usual placid self but Selim seemed a trifle on edge. He kept looking at a group on the far side of the room. Heads bowed, Bibles in their hands, they were intent upon a peroration delivered by one of their number. Garbed all in black, he resembled a bird of prey, with a nose like a beak and thin, clawlike fingers. His eyes were raised to heaven (the ceiling of the dining salon, to be precise) and his voice was remarkably penetrating; I could hear him clear across the room.
“‘Beautiful for situation, the joy of the earth, is Mount Zion.’ How true the words of the Psalmist, O my beloved brothers and sisters! If her beautiful situation charms us now, what will it be in that day when the true king returns, when that psalm will have its perfect fulfillment?”
“Good Gad,” said Emerson, over a chorus of rapturous “amen’s.” “Why is that fellow making such a racket? He needs to be reminded of his manners. This is not a cursed church.”
“If you have all finished breakfast, we must be on our way,” I said, slipping my arm through that of Emerson before he could explain his notion of good manners to the speaker. I was just in time. The speaker started on another psalm, at an even higher pitch than before.
Nefret had scarcely spoken, except for a murmured “Good morning.” Now she asked, “Where are you and the Professor off to?”
I explained our mission, adding, “We are all going. You will enjoy meeting the gentlemen, I am sure. We will go on foot, enabling you to photograph the sights of the city.”
“Very well. I will just run up and get the camera and my hat.”
“Dear me,” I said. “I seem to have forgotten mine as well. And my parasol.”
“I’ll get them,” Nefret said. “There is no need for both of us to go. May I have the key to your room?”
She gave me a winning smile and met my eyes with a candid gaze that aroused certain suspicions. I am a firm believer in the old adage that says “Never trust a man who looks you straight in the eye.”
Or words to that effect. I couldn’t think what mischief Nefret could get up to in ten minutes, but after David’s defection I was taking no chances. With a winning smile of my own I said I would accompany her, since I hadn’t made up my mind which hat to wear. (The hat I selected was my traveling hat, of fine straw with ribbons that tied under the chin and topped with a tasteful arrangement of dried flowers.) She came out of her room before I could knock at the door, hat and camera in hand. So perhaps the offer had been genuine. Perhaps I was becoming too suspicious.
The men had scattered in all directions, which men are inclined to do when women leave them to their own devices for any length of time. I believe they are easily bored. Selim and Daoud had gone back to the dining room for a last bite, and Emerson was arguing with a bewildered man, whom I deduced to be a Protestant minister. I collected them, to the relief of the clerical gentleman, and then looked round.
“Now where has Mr. Plato got to?”
“Perhaps he is waiting outside,” Selim suggested.
However, he was nowhere to be seen. “Confound the man,” I exclaimed. “He has wandered off. We will never locate him now.”
“The devil with him,” said Emerson, consulting his pocket watch. “He will find his way back, or he won’t. I’ll wager he will turn up when he gets hungry-within an hour or two, at most.”
The British Society for the Exploration of Palestine was housed at that time in a lovely old Arab building in the center of the Old City. It took us a while to get there. None of the persons we asked for directions had ever heard of the place. So we wandered, quite happily on my part, quite otherwise on the part of Emerson, along tortuously winding streets, under ornamented arches, up and down steps as narrow and as steep as staircases. The Babel of tongues, the cries of street vendors, the variety of costumes, the elegance of carved fountains and elaborate doorways-all added to the pleasure of the stroll. But when Emerson’s complaints rose to a thunderous grumble I returned my attention to our errand. Stopping a picturesquely garbed individual towing a goat, I asked where the mosque of Sheikh Abu al Mahmud was to be found. The Society offices, as I had taken pains to ascertain from the clerk at the desk, was nearby.
Following the directions provided by the amiable goatherd, we were soon at our destination.
“We are late,” said Emerson, beating a tattoo on the door with the massive iron knocker. “Why didn’t you ask for the mosque before?”
I never lie unless it is absolutely necessary, so I did not reply. The time elapsed from our leaving the hotel meant that we had arrived at a respectable hour in midmorning, instead of turning up at 8:00 A.M.
From the enthusiastic welcome we received I realized we might have come at almost any hour. The director, Mr. Samuel Page, was a lean individual almost as tall as Emerson, and only half his bulk. His shoulders had the characteristic scholarly stoop, and his hair had vanished except for a thin gray tonsure. His office was a pleasant room lined with bookshelves and carpeted with several fine old oriental rugs. Peering at us through gold-rimmed eyeglasses, he shook hands with everyone except Selim and Daoud, whom he acknowledged with a polite inclination of his head.
“You have brought your own reis and assistant with you, I see. An excellent thought. What other staff have you?”
Settling himself with a thud into the chair Mr. Page had indicated, Emerson replied, “Mrs. Emerson and myself, Miss Forth, and-and…” He cleared his throat loudly and looked to me for help.
“My son and his friend, the artist of our group,” I finished. “They have been delayed but will soon join us.”
“Quite right,” said Emerson, overcoming his moment of weakness.
“Will that be sufficient? I may be able to introduce you to a few qualified persons who are familiar with this region.”
“As a matter of fact,” I began.
“It will be sufficient,” Emerson said loudly. “Our excavations will be limited in time and extent.”