The Hippopotamus Pool (11 page)

"She is not well or he would have elaborated on her improvement," I murmured. "Is there anything else of ... What is that?"

"As you see, it is a clipping from a newspaper." Emerson's heavy brows drew together as he read. I held out my hand and Emerson passed over the clipping with a muttered "Oh, curse it."

It was a short paragraph from the English-language newspaper in Cairo, dated a few days after our departure, and it described the discovery of a body that had been drawn from the Nile. It was that of a man of middle age, five feet ten inches in height, but precise identification had not yet been made, since no personal possessions had been found on the body and the face was unrecognizable. The police requested the assistance of the public in reporting anyone of that general description who might be missing from his accustomed haunts.

"Mr. Shelmadine!" I cried. "We must communicate with Cairo at once, Emerson!"

"If you go near the telegraph office I will have you locked up," said Emerson with a snap of his teeth. "Control your outrageous imagination, Peabody. The description might match half the male population of Egypt."

"He did not return to his house, Emerson; Riccetti told us so. It would take approximately three days for gases to form in the body and bring it to the surface."

A furious gesture from Emerson warned me of Nefret's return. "Gases?" she repeated. "What are you talking about, Aunt Amelia?"

"Nothing," said Emerson, grimacing at me.

"One of the principles of criminal investigation," I explained, knowing that if I did not tell her she would go and ask Ramses, and that he would be more than happy to show off.

Nefret seated herself and crossed her slim ankles. "What sort of gases, Aunt Amelia? I have observed the phenomenon but never understood its reasons."

Emerson threw up his hands and stamped out, leaving me to explain the processes of decomposition. Nefret listened with interest and asked a number of intelligent questions.

We went ashore early the next morning. Emerson had meant to go alone, I believe, but that hope was doomed from the start. Short of ordering me to stay behind—an order I would have flatly refused to obey, as he well knew—he could not prevent me from accompanying him, and I was determined to go because I suspected he was about to pursue that one essential clue he had not chosen to share with me. Ramses was equally determined, and once Emerson had given in to Ramses he could not refuse Nefret's request. The only person he succeeded in heading off was Miss Marmaduke, because she was the only one who had to obey his orders. Handing her a sheaf of notes, he asked her to transcribe them.

I had not heard Emerson tell Abdullah of his plans, but he must have found a way of doing so, since Abdullah was waiting for him. I also deduced that Abdullah had not expected
me,
since he had not washed the donkeys.

Emerson swore a great deal when I insisted on doing so. It was only his engaging habit; Emerson is always kind to animals, and the poor little donkeys were never properly cared for. I had got the process down to a fine art by now. It took less than an hour to wash the little creatures, apply ointment to the sores under the filthy saddlecloths, and replace those saddlecloths with clean ones supplied by me. Ramses assisted with the medication. Nefret held the donkeys' heads and murmured sympathetically in their ears, and I confess they behaved a good deal better than they usually did when being washed.

Emerson was still complaining when we mounted our steeds. "If we had a motorcar . ..," he began.

"Now, Emerson, be sensible," I interrupted. "How would you get one to Luxor? There are no roads."

Emerson's reply was inaudible because his donkey, still skittish from its unaccustomed ablutions, had broken into a trot.

Our destination, as I had of course suspected, was the village of Gurneh.

We had enjoyed encounters with the citizens of this insalubrious spot before. Located on a hill near Deir el Bahri, its dwellings mingle with the tombs of the ancient dead. In early times, its dwellings
were
the tombs, and the occupants resisted, sometimes by force, any effort of the authorities to relocate them. Their attitude was understandable. Why go to the trouble of building a house when there is a nice cool tomb handy? Besides, as Emerson once remarked, a fellow likes to be close to his work. The Gurnawis were the most accomplished tomb robbers in Egypt.

The other flourishing industry of Gurneh was the manufacture of forgeries, which were offered to tourists and, in some notorious cases, gullible archaeologists, as the genuine article. Emerson's and my dealings with the Gurnawis were complicated by the fact that a number of them were related to Abdullah. It made things a bit awkward for Abdullah too. His loyalty to Emerson (and, I hope I may say, to me) was paramount, but we tried to avoid little embarrassments such as arresting his nephews and cousins.

Leaving our donkeys at the bottom of the slope, we followed Emerson along the upward path, which led past tomb entrances and mud-brick houses and sometimes through their courtyards. Emerson's destination appeared to be a more pretentious dwelling, larger and in better condition than most of the others. I noticed that Abdullah had fallen behind, and spared breath enough to direct a question at Emerson.

"Is it one of Abdullah's family you mean to visit, Emerson?"

Emerson stopped and offered me his hand. "A trifle out of condition, are you, Peabody? How are the children?"

"Climbing like goats, both of them. They stopped to talk with ... good Gad, what villainous-looking men! Acquaintances of Ramses, I suppose. Answer my question."

"What question? Oh. No."

He went on, pulling me with him.

A walled courtyard fronted the house itself. Our approach had been observed; as soon as we got there, the door of the house opened and a man appeared. A heavy stick in one hand and a boy, on whose shoulder he leaned, supported his stooped body. Lifting his head he blinked at us and croaked, "Marhaba—welcome. Is it you, O Father of Curses? Even to old, failing eyes like mine that majestic form is unmistakable; and so it must be the honored Sitt your wife who is with you, though she is only a dim vision of loveliness to—"

"Yes, yes," Emerson interrupted. "Essalamu aleikum, and so forth, Abd el Hamed. Will you invite us in?"

"You honor my house," said Abd el Hamed morosely.

Turning, he transferred his entire weight to the bony brown shoulder of his attendant. The boy stiffened and bit his lip; Hamed's fingers were like claws, and he had dug his nails hard into the boy's flesh. Not that there was much of it. I could have counted his ribs, since he wore only a pair of ragged knee-length drawers. He appeared to be a year or two younger than Ramses, though with such unfortunates, undernourished and mistreated, it was difficult to estimate. Bruises stained his bare shins and the big toe on his right foot was a festering sore.

Emerson had seen too. With a ripe Arabic swearword he pushed the boy aside, tucked the old man under his arm, and proceeded into the house.

The room was like the others I had seen in such houses—the floor of beaten earth, the walls of mud-brick, the windows high and narrow. Aside from the divan running along one wall, the only article of furniture was a low table. Emerson deposited the old man on the divan, removed the chickens that had been roosting there, and invited me to sit down.

"Yes, rest yourself, honored Sitt," said Hamed. "I will call my women to prepare—"

"No need to disturb them," Emerson said genially. "I am in the market for antiquities, Hamed; let us just see what you have, eh?" In one long stride he reached the curtained doorway at the back and passed through into the next room.

Squeals of surprise and alarm greeted him, and Hamed, miraculously recovered from his infirmity, leaped up and scuttled after Emerson. I followed, with Ramses and Nefret hot on my heels.

The room was a workshop, and the cries had been uttered by a child whom Emerson was holding by the collar of his filthy galabeeyah. Shelves around the room held a collection of ushebtis, scarabs and other small antiquities. The simple tools of the trade lay scattered about—a small furnace for melting the glassy faience, molds of various kinds, chisels and gravers and files.

Emerson released the child, who fled through another door. Selecting an object from the shelf, he held it out to me. "Not so bad, eh, Peabody? Hamed's workshop turns out the best fakes in Luxor. Not that these are his best; they are saved for serious collectors like Wallis Budge."

Ramses had picked up a large scarab fashioned of green faience. "This is really quite good, Father. However, the hieroglyphs are faulty. He has copied a text of Amenhotep III, but the owl sign—"

Surprisingly, it was the boy, not Hamed, who interrupted him. Snatching the scarab from Ramses he confronted him, eyes blazing. "It is right, son of a blind camel! I know the signs!"

Emerson had not appeared to be watching Hamed, but his booted foot intercepted the stick before it could strike the boy's shin. "So you made this, my son? What is your name?"

The lad turned. Anger had given his thin face animation; he would have been a nice-looking boy if his features had not been distorted by dirt, bruises and a fierce scowl.

"What is your name?" Emerson repeated inflexibly.

"David." The reply came from Abdullah, who was standing in the doorway. "His name is David Todros. He is my grandson."

         CHAPTER FOUR

Candor Is Not a Conspicuous Characteristic of Criminals

What is a grandson of yours doing in a place like this, Abdullah?" I demanded.

Abdullah's eyes fell before my indignant gaze. "It is not my doing, Sitt Hakim. I would have taken him into my house. He would not come. He would rather be starved and beaten by this criminal than—"

"Be a servant to the Inglizi," the boy interrupted. His eyes, feral as those of a trapped animal, darted around the room. I stood in one doorway and Emerson in the other, so flight was impossible. He might be cornered, but he was still defiant; he pursed his lips and spat—not at me or Emerson, for he was not so rash as that, but between the feet of Ramses. My son's expression did not change perceptibly. However, I could have told David that he had made a serious error in judgment.

"You prefer to be a slave to this man?" Emerson inquired evenly. "The Inglizi do not beat their servants."

The boy's lip curled. "They hire them to fetch and carry and then dismiss them. I learn a trade here. I learn—" He brandished the scarab at Emerson. "The signs are right. I know what they mean!"

"Oh, indeed," said Emerson. "Read the inscription, then."

It had been copied from one of the commemorative scarabs of Amenhotep III; I recognized the names and titles, which David rattled off, indicating the signs with a filthy forefinger, but he stuck after a while. Ramses, who undoubtedly knew the text by heart, opened his mouth. Catching his father's eye, he closed it again.

"It is well done," Emerson said. "And so is the workmanship. What else have you made for Hamed?"

The boy gave his master a wary look and shrugged. Hamed, who had settled himself on a stool, decided it was time to assert himself.

"Father of Curses, you are the greatest of men, but by what right do you break into my house and question my apprentice? I will show you my poor collection if you like. Let the boy go. He knows nothing."

"The boy may go when he chooses," Emerson said, in the same mild voice. Hamed, who knew that voice, swallowed audibly. "And where he chooses. David, we are hiring workers. If you come to us, now or at any time, you will be well treated."

He moved away from the door.

David looked from him to Hamed, and, for the first time, directly at his grandfather. Abdullah's stern face did not change. I was the only one, I believe, to see the look in his eyes.

Ducking his head, the boy ran out the back door.

"Oh, go after him," Nefret cried. "We cannot leave him with this terrible old man."

"The choice must be his," Emerson said.

"Yes, yes." Hamed shot Nefret a malignant look. "The young Sitt has a tender heart, she knows nothing of evil. You did wrong to offer him a place with you, Emerson Effendi. The boy is dangerous, he will attack like a wild dog. I keep him only out of charity."

"A quality for which you are well known," Emerson said. He tossed the scarab negligently into the air and waited till the last second before catching it. Hamed squawked in alarm. "Well, my dears—"

An outburst of cries, thuds and thumps interrupted him. They came from beyond the door through which the boy had vanished. Emerson vanished in his turn, for he, like myself, had recognized an all-too-familiar voice. How Ramses had slipped out without being observed I did not know, but he obviously had, for he was not in the room.

A short passage, more like a rough tunnel than a corridor, led into a room cut out of the rock of the hillside. The only light came from a few small crude pottery lamps, but it was sufficient for me to see, not only the traces of paint on the walls, but the tableau vivant before me.

Emerson had separated the two boys and held them apart, one hand on Ramses's shirt collar and the other gripping David's bony shoulder. I could not tell what damage Ramses had inflicted on the other boy, but it was evident that at least one blow had struck Ramses, for his prominent nose was streaming blood.

Both were too breathless to speak at first. Then Ramses dragged his torn sleeve across his face and gasped, "He was eavesdropping, Father. He ran when I confronted him and I went in pursuit and when I cornered him, for, as you see, this is a dead end, he—"

David called Ramses something extremely rude in Arabic. Ramses called him something so much ruder that even Emerson blinked, and David's eyes widened—with, I thought, a certain degree of admiration. Emerson shook them both.

"There are ladies here," he said, in the same language. "The Inglizi do not use such words in the presence of women. Perhaps you did not know that, David. But you, Ramses—"

"I apologize, Mother," Ramses muttered.

"You had better apologize to Nefret too," I said, moving farther into the room so that Nefret could enter.

"Oh, good Gad. I did not see her there. However, I cannot suppose that she understood."

"Wrong again," said Nefret. "You called him—"

Ramses raised his voice. "Mother, Father, he was—"

"Eavesdropping?" Emerson released his grip on the boys. They exchanged threatening glares but deemed it wiser to leave it at that. "He lives here, Ramses, and you are a visitor. What he does is none of your affair."

"I will not apologize to him," Ramses said sullenly. "He hit me first."

"What a cowardly excuse!" Nefret exclaimed. "He is younger and smaller than you. For shame, Ramses! Poor boy, did he hurt you?"

She placed a gentle hand on David's arm. Ramses appeared to be struck dumb—with indignation, probably. David was even more surprised. He looked from the slim fingers, pale against his skin, to the face that smiled so bewitchingly at him, and for a moment . .. But I decided I must have imagined that fleeting response, for he darted out, brushing past Nefret and bumping into Hamed, who sent a flurry of curses after him.

"Have a look, Peabody," Emerson said, picking up one of the clay lamps and approaching the nearest wall. "The old rascal has built his house smack up against an Eighteenth Dynasty tomb. The corridor leading to this chamber was an ancient thief's tunnel. One of Hamed's ancestors, no doubt."

"How do you know it is Eighteenth Dynasty?" I asked curiously. "There is almost nothing left of the decoration."

"The majority of the private tombs in this area are of that period. And one can make out a few outlines here"—he moved the lamp—"and here. It appears to have been a banqueting scene, similar to those in the tombs of Ramose and Nebamon. This tomb was never finished. Observe that the back wall is still rough; the surface was not smoothed or plastered in order to provide an even surface for the draftsmen who laid out the outlines of the scene, and the painters who followed them. Hamed has enlarged the original tunnel, which was inconveniently narrow. And this opening was probably—"

We had all listened interestedly, for it is a privilege to hear an expert like Emerson expound on methodology; but when he approached the rough opening in the back wall, Hamed squawked in protest.

"Father of Curses, you go too far. That is a private place. The—the women—"

"You keep your women in this dark hole?" Emerson inquired. "As I was saying, Peabody, this opening was meant to lead into another rock-cut chamber, but it was never completed; and now it forms a handy storage cupboard for Hamed here."

The space was approximately ten feet square and five feet high. It was filled with sculptured forms. Stony faces stared out at us, some human in outline, some grotesque similacra of beast or bird—falcon and feline heads, ibis and crocodile. The shadowed eye sockets of a ram-headed sphinx sent out a glint of reflected light from a speck of mica in the stone.

"The sculptors' storeroom," Emerson remarked, as Hamed stamped and swore.

"They are copies, yes," muttered Hamed. "What is the crime in that?"

"None—unless you sell them as genuine." He hesitated for a moment and then shook his head. "Come, Peabody."

I waited until we were outside the house before I spoke. "Upon my word, Emerson, that was a somewhat abrupt departure. Why did you not remain until you had achieved your purpose? For I cannot believe—"

"I had not achieved my purpose, no. But it would have been useless to pursue the matter. I will have to return another time. Without," Emerson added, distributing an impartial glower among us all, "the rest of you. I might as well have shouted my business aloud to the whole of Gurneh!"

"Which you are doing now," I pointed out. A group of curious idlers had assembled while we were within, and Nefret was besieged by ragged urchins demanding baksheesh.

"Oh, damnation," said Emerson. Thrusting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a handful of coins and flung them.

This would have been a fatal error coming from anyone else—the only way to avoid repeated demands is to give nothing—but Emerson was well known to the Gurnawis, even the children. After scrabbling for and squabbling over the coins, the onlookers reluctantly dispersed, and we started back down the hill.

"Now then, Abdullah," said Emerson, in a more moderate growl, "what the devil do you mean by failing to warn me that one of your descendants was in the employ of that old villain? Had I but known I would have proceeded differently."

"I did not know that is where you were going," Abdullah muttered. "I thought you intended to visit our house."

"I do. We will go there now. Well, Abdullah? Who is the boy?"

"The son of my daughter."

"Where is his mother?" I asked.

"Dead."

"And his father?"

"Dead."

"Really, Abdullah," I said in exasperation. "Do we have to wring every word out of you? Never mind, I believe I am beginning to understand. You called him David, not Daoud. Was his father a Christian—a Copt?"

"He was nothing," Abdullah burst out. "Even Christians are People of the Book, but he gave himself up to drunkenness and cursing God."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "He sounds a very sensible—ouch!"

I had just given him a little pinch. Emerson's opinions on the subject of religion are somewhat unorthodox. (Heretical might be a better word.) Freedom of conscience is the right of every human being, and I would never dream of questioning Emerson's, but there are occasions on which a frank expression of opinion may be counterproductive as well as rude.

Plodding along ahead of us, Abdullah threw the phrases over his shoulder. "My daughter was here, living with her uncle. He was arranging a marriage for her—a fine marriage, a marriage any girl would want. Michael Todros stole her away, and by the time my brother found them out, she was to bear his child. What other man would have her then? And she . .." The words came hard to him, even now. "She would not leave him. When she died bearing the child I tried to take it, but Todros would not consent, and now—now he too is dead, dead of the drink and drugs given him by Abd el Hamed in payment for David's work, and still the boy will not give up his evil ways. Todros taught him to hate his mother's family, and he stays here, in the village of his kin, shaming them before their faces."

Nefret, close behind us, said, "Don't be sad, Abdullah. We will get him back."

"Quite right," I said firmly.

"Hmph," said Ramses.

Abudullah had exaggerated only a trifle when he said (though not in those precise words) that his renegade grandson lived too close for comfort. The house he and our men had hired was on the outskirts of the village; the residence of Hamed was visible from its door. We paid a brief call on them so that I could inspect the premises, for I felt obliged (by friendship as well as duty) to make certain they were comfortably housed. Since men seem to measure comfort by the degree of dirt and confusion that prevails, I deduced that they were very comfortable.

After the obligatory consumption of tea and bread, we mounted our donkeys. "So long as we are here, we may as well have a look round, eh?" said Emerson. "And show Nefret something of the area. She has not been here before."

"The nobles' tombs," Ramses suggested.

"No, no, it is too fine a day to spend underground," Emerson said, in a voice that brooked no argument. There are many sights of interest in Western Thebes, but I knew what was in his mind; his eyes were fixed on the hills to the north of where we stood—the brown, barren slopes of Drah Abu'l Naga.

We passed the temple of Deir el Bahri, where Emerson dismounted in order to walk with Abdullah and Daoud, who had accompanied us. His intention, I am sure, was to spare the poor donkey, but the truth is Emerson looks ridiculous mounted on a small donkey and superb when he is striding boldly forward, shoulders squared and head bared to the elements.

Admiring the symmetry of his form and wondering where the devil he had lost his hat, I paid little heed to the monotonous cadences of Ramses's voice. He was riding beside Nefret. They appeared to be back on friendly terms, probably because Nefret was so anxious to learn that she was willing to put up with Ramses's condescending lecture. I did not doubt, however, that he would pay for that condescension in due course. Women have their little methods.

The sun was high overhead by the time we stopped, and I began to wonder whether I would get any luncheon that day. I feared not. Emerson's narrowed eyes had the intent sapphirine glitter that indicated he was hot on some archaeological trail from which it would take more than food to distract him. I persuaded him to let the others rest for a while—he would have disdained such a suggestion on his own account—and passed round the canteen of cold tea that hung from my belt.