The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery Read Free

not have a card, sir. He wouldn't give me his name or say what he wanted, neither, except that it was about some antiquity. I'd have sent him about his business, sir, only ... well, sir, he said you'd be sorry if you didn't see him."
"Sorry, eh?" Emerson's heavy black brows drew together. There is nothing that rouses my husband's formidable temper so much as a threat, explicit or veiled. "Where have you put him, Gargery? In the parlor?"
    Gargery drew himself up to his full height and attempted to look superior. Since his height is only five and a half feet and a bit, and his snub-nosed face is not designed for sneering, the attempt was a failure. "I have stood him in the dining room, sir."
Amusement replaced Emerson's rising ire; his sapphire-blue eyes sparkled. Being completely without social snobbery himself, he is much diverted by Gargery's demonstrations thereof. "I suppose a 'person' without a calling card does not deserve to be offered a chair, but the dining room? Aren't you afraid he will make off with the plate?"
"Bob is outside the dining room door, sir."
"Good Gad. He must be a villainous-looking 'person.' You have whetted my curiosity, Gargery. Show him—no, I had better go to him, since he seems anxious to keep his identity a secret."
I went with Emerson, of course. He made a few feeble objections, which I brushed aside.
          The dining room is not one of the most attractive apartments in the house. Low-ceilinged and limited as to windows, it has a somber air which is increased by the heavy, time-darkened Jacobean furniture and the mummy masks adorning the paneled walls. Hands clasped behind him, our visitor was examining one of these masks. Instead of the sinister individual Gargery had led me to expect, I saw a stooped, gray-haired man. His garments were shabby and his boots scuffed, but he looked respectable enough. And Emerson knew him.
"Renfrew! What the devil do you mean by this theatrical behavior? Why didn't you—"
"Hushhhhh!" The fellow put his finger to his lips. "I have my reasons, which you will approve when you hear them. Get rid of your butler. Is this your wife? Don't introduce me, I have no patience with such stuff. No use trying to get rid of her, I suppose, you'd tell her anyhow. That's up to you. Sit down, Mrs. Emerson, if you like. I will stand. I will not take refreshment. There is a train at noon I mean to catch. I can't waste any more time on this business. Wasted too much already. Wouldn't have done it except as a courtesy to you. Now."
The words came in short staccato bursts, with scarcely a pause for breath, and although he did not misplace his aitches or commit a grammatical error, there were traces of East London in his accent. His clothing and his boots were in need of brushing, and his face looked as if it were covered with a thin film of dust. One expected to see cobwebs festooning his ears. But the pale gray eyes under his dark gray brows were as sharp as knife points. I could see why Gargery had mislabeled him, but I did not commit the same error. Emerson had told me about him. A self-made, self-educated man, a misogynist and recluse, he collected Chinese and Egyptian antiquities, Persian miniatures and anything else that suited his eccentric fancy.
Emerson nodded. "Get to it, then. Some new purchase you want me to authenticate for you?"
Renfrew grinned. His teeth were the same grayish-brown color as his skin. "That's why I like you, Emerson. You don't beat around the bush either. Here."
Reaching into his pocket, he tossed an object carelessly onto the table, where it landed with a solid thunk.
It was a scarab, one of the largest I had ever seen, formed of the greenish-blue faience (a glassy paste) commonly used in ancient times. The back was rounded like the carapace of the beetle, with the stylized shapes of head and limbs.
The small scarabs were popular amulets, worn by the living and the dead to ensure good luck. The larger varieties, like the famous "marriage scarab"