Children of the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page B

could have accomplished. It would make my reputation had it not already been made. But if Lacau had had the patience to wait another week, he would have seen the finish.”
    “So soon as that?” I inquired.
    “Yes, yes, I must finish soon. I have other engagements, you know.”
    He winked and smirked at me through the cloud of smoke. Another of his vexatious habits was to refer frequently if obliquely to a subject we never discussed, even among ourselves—namely, the fact that Martinelli had been for years in the employment of the world’s most formidable thief of antiquities, who also happened to be Emerson’s half-brother. It was Sethos, to use only one of his many aliases, who had recommended Martinelli. I had every reason to believe my brother-in-law was now a reformed character, but I didn’t count on it, and I certainly did not want to discuss his criminal past in the presence of persons who were only slightly acquainted with it. So I did not ask Signor Martinelli about the nature of those other “engagements,” though I would have given a great deal to find out.
    Before Martinelli could go on teasing me, the servant announced M. Lacau. The enthusiasm with which he was greeted obviously pleased him, though a twinkle in his eye indicated he was not entirely unaware of ulterior motives.
    Lacau was at that time in his late forties, but his beard was already white. Although he had been appointed in 1914 to the post which was traditionally the perquisite of a native of France, he had spent a good part of the past five years in war work. No one questioned his fitness for the position, but his patriarchal appearance was not the only reason why he had acquired the nickname of “God the Father.” He had already dropped a few ominous hints that he was considering toughening the laws about the disposal of antiquities. Generally speaking, the rule was that they should be shared equally between the excavator and the Egyptian collections. The former director of the Service, M. Maspero, had been generous—excessively generous, some might say—in his divisions of artifacts. The entire contents of the tomb of the architect Kha, consisting of hundreds of objects, had been handed over to the Turin Museum. But this was a royal cache, and Lacau could legitimately claim that the objects were unique. On the other hand, there were four sets of them—coffins, canopic jars, Books of the Dead. I smiled very sweetly at M. Lacau and told him how well he was looking.
    With Katherine’s assistance I managed to keep the conversation general throughout dinner. Cyrus made sure the wineglasses were kept filled and Emerson refrained from criticizing the Museum, his fellow archaeologists, and the Service. That left him with very little to say, which was all to the good. After dinner we ladies retired, a custom of which I normally disapprove but which I felt would be approved by Lacau. By the time the gentlemen joined us, even I was unable to control my impatience.
    Under ordinary circumstances the artifacts would have been sent to the Museum as soon as they were stable enough to be moved. Circumstances were abnormal, however. The war had left the Museum and the Service shorthanded; Lacau had been away from Egypt a good deal of the time, and political unrest the previous winter made the transport of such valuables risky. Cyrus’s home provided the security of stout walls and well-paid guards, as well as ample space for storage and laboratory facilities. The same could not be said of the Museum, which was already overcrowded and understaffed (and I only hoped Emerson had not said so to Lacau—one may know that something is true without wishing to hear it from others).
    We went at once to the storage rooms. I had seen the display before, but it never ceased to take my breath away. As it looked now, it was a far cry from the jumbled, faded, broken contents of the small chamber we (Bertie, in fact) had discovered. It was not the original tomb,