“Your apprentices,” said Emerson, biting off each syllable, “are working on objects that are clearly copies of the original head. Two objects. One, you say, is for Herr Morgenstern. For whom is the other intended?” He clutched Harun’s beard. “Is it for you, you miserable pile of goat dung? You are renowned for prowess, and you have had ample time to make copies. Are you hoping to sell them on the black market?”

Harun’s eyes rolled up so far only the whites were visible. “No, Father of Curses,” he whined. “Never would I do such a thing.”

“Damnation!” roared Emerson. “I haven’t the patience to fight my way through the labyrinth of lies this old reprobate will tell us. I think we can deduce the answer, can we not, Peabody?” Had he uttered Sethos’s name, flames would have leapt from his blazing eyes. He settled for a particularly vulgar oath.

“Oh yes, Emerson,” I said hastily. “Shall we seek more salubrious surroundings in which to ponder our options?”

“I will not leave this treasure in the hands of this miscreant!”

Harun’s eyes narrowed craftily. “Only Herr Morgenstern can take this from me, as you know, Father of Curses.”

Emerson paused. Reluctantly, he yielded the point. “Very well, Harun, but I will return tomorrow morning with the proper authorization from Maspero to seize the head of Nefertiti. If it is not here, I will curse you for this life and the next.”

“Yes, yes, Father of Curses,” Harun mumbled as he scuttled backward in fear.

“We must hope that the old scoundrel knows what I will do if he disobeys,” Emerson muttered to me uneasily.

We started back toward the Muski. Emerson set a rapid pace, and I knew he was anxious to get out of the maze of narrow streets that characterize the old city. The Muski was at that time an odd blend of the old and the new; modern stores, with plate glass windows and actual doors, stood side by side with open-fronted shops whose woven goods were hung from hooks outside and fluttered in the breeze. Glazed pots and elaborately decorated hookahs lined the shelves.

We were passing one of the latter establishments, where oriental carpets framed the entrance, when it happened.

Events occurred so rapidly that I cannot claim I remember them accurately; but as I recall, Daoud let out a bellow of alarm and tried to urge our group forward. ’Twas of no avail; the street ahead was blocked by hordes of people running every which way from a man who stood in the opening to a narrow alley. He was tall, at least six feet in height, and cadaverously thin. Locks of rusty orange hair hung from under his broad-brimmed felt hat. In one hand he held a brown stick approximately a foot long. One end was sparking.