The Hippopotamus Pool (14 page)

As Emerson moved slowly round the room, one object after another appeared in the limited candle glow and then vanished again into shadows. He stopped before a slab of stone, square-sided except for its rounded top. It was a stela from some tomb, probably Nineteenth Dynasty, to judge by the quality of the sculptured scene at the top. Hieroglyphic inscriptions covered the rest of the surface.

I heard a grinding sound. It emitted from Emerson—from his teeth, to be precise—but he moved on without comment. His behavior made Ali Murad very nervous. Like me, he knew that when Emerson controlled his temper to that unusual degree it was because he was up to something.

The objects in the room were genuine and every one of them had come from an illegal source—stolen by workers from a legitimate excavation or pillaged from a site that was supposed to be protected. Inspectors like Howard Carter had an impossible job; they could not guard every tomb and every temple in Egypt, and so long as collectors were willing to pay high prices for carved blocks and painted scenes, so long would the monuments be vandalized.

Leaning haphazardly against the back wall, or laid carelessly on the floor, were appalling examples of that vandalism—sections of paintings and bas-reliefs which had been hacked from the walls of tombs. I recognized one fragment, depicting the serene profile and elegantly coiffured head of a high nobleman, as part of a scene I had observed only five years earlier in a tomb at Gurneh.

I was standing quite close to Ali Murad, so I was conscious of a gradual stiffening in his posture when Emerson began examining the fragments, holding the candle close to each one in turn. At one point he let out a barely audible sigh of relief—and then caught his breath as Emerson turned back to a particular piece.

It was painted, not carved. The colors were bright and clear, except where dust had blurred them.

Before I could make out the details Emerson whirled round, holding the candle high. Whether he intended it or not, this had the effect of exaggerating the shadows that outlined his strongly marked features, which had not worn a pleasant expression to begin with. He looked positively demonic.

"Where did you get it?"

Ali Murad's voice broke like that of Ramses. "Effendi—"

"I'll have it out of you by one means or another," Emerson said.

Ali Murad's face, equally distorted by shadow, was a mask of pure terror. I suspected that Emerson was not the only one he feared. Caught between a rock and a hard place, as the quaint saying has it, he grasped at a frail strand of hope. "It is known that the Father of Curses does not employ the kurbash."

"Certainly not," Emerson agreed. "A whip is the weapon of a weakling. A strong man does not need it, nor does he resort to empty threats. You will tell me what I want to know because I am the Father of Curses, and my threats are not empty. Who was it? Mohammed Abd er Rasul? Abd el Hamed? Ah. I thought so. You see, Murad, how easy it was?"

He stripped off his coat and wrapped it carefully around the painted fragment before lifting it in his arms. Ali Murad's face shone greasily with perspiration, but at this act of flagrant brigandage he mustered enough courage to protest.

"You cannot do that. I will complain—"

"To the police? Come now. In violation of all my principles I am leaving you with the rest of your stolen goods. I won't even tell those American tourists the limestone head is a forgery. One of Abd el Hamed's, I would guess; it is not at all bad. Take the candle and light us down."

Abdullah, still on guard at the door, stood aside to let us pass. "All is well?" he inquired, in the tone of one who had expected nothing less.

"Yes, certainly," said Emerson, in the same tone. Turning to Ali Murad, who stood holding the lighted candle like a torchbearer, he bade him a pleasant good evening.

There was no response from the antiquities dealer. He appeared to be unaware of the fact that hot wax was dripping onto his hand.

As soon as we were out of the shop, Emerson handed Abdullah the fragment of painting. He walked close beside me, but did not offer me his arm, and his eyes kept moving, inspecting each passerby and examining every dark doorway. I did not really believe Ali Murad would attack us in order to retrieve his property—if one could call it "his." He had appeared to be thoroughly cowed, not to say petrified. However, I thought it wiser not to distract Emerson with conversation, and so I waited until we had reached the boat and were under way before I spoke.

"You did not look to see whether any other artifacts from the tomb might be there."

"It would have taken too long. You saw what a jumble the place was. I wanted to be in and out before the fellow could muster enough courage to call for help. This is enough. It proves what I suspected."

"Well done, my dear. How do you know this fragment comes from the tomb we are after?"

"I am familiar," said Emerson modestly, "with every tomb in Egypt and its decorative reliefs. That fragment is unknown to me."

The claim was dogmatic enough to verge on arrogance. Coming from Emerson it carried conviction, but not necessarily proof of his conclusion.

"But Tetisheri's tomb?" I persisted. "I was under the impression that queens' tombs of this period were not decorated."

"No queens' tombs of this period have been found," Emerson retorted somewhat acrimoniously. "We don't know
whether
or
how
they were decorated. If you will accept my conclusion for the moment, I will explain my reasoning when we have an opportunity to examine the fragment more closely."

"Certainly, my dear. I would never dream of questioning your expertise."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "We are on the right track, Peabody, I have no doubt of it. The next step is to—er—persuade Abd el Hamed to tell me which of the local looters brought the piece to him."

"And then we will—er—persuade the looter to lead us to the tomb. Oh, Emerson!"

"It may not be so simple, Peabody."

"No," I agreed. "For there are at least two groups of criminals after our tomb. One wishes to assist us, the other—"

"Amelia." The little boat had come gently to rest against the bank, but Emerson did not rise. Turning, he took my hands in his and bent over me. I had the distinct impression, even before he spoke, that he was not about to make a romantic gesture.

"I know what you are thinking, Peabody. Don't say it. Don't even think it."

"I had no intention of saying anything of the sort, Emerson. I know how the mere mention of that man's name maddens you—"

"What name?" Emerson's shout echoed across the quiet night. "We never knew his name, only a collection of aliases—several of them invented by you. Master Criminal indeed!"

"His men called him the Master, Emerson, you cannot deny that."

"I am not denying anything," Emerson declared untruthfully. "Devil take it, Peabody, I knew you were thinking of Sethos when you started to quote that absurd statement of Riccetti's. Assist us, indeed! No one is going toassist us! Riccetti was lying, and Sethos is dead. Why do you persist in romanticizing that rascal? He came to
your
rescue only because he wanted you for himself, the contemptible swine! He did his damnedest to exterminate
me.
Amelia, will you please stop thrashing around like that? You are not paying attention."

"You are shouting, Emerson. And squeezing my hands quite painfully."

His grip relaxed. Raising my hands to his lips, he kissed each finger in turn. "Forgive me, my dear. I admit I have felt an occasional trifling, fleeting touch of jealousy of that .. ." He glanced over his shoulder at Abdullah. "What are you grinning about, Abdullah?"

"I am not grinning, Father of Curses. It is the light." . "Oh. And," Emerson resumed, "I wondered for a time whether he really was dead."

"We saw him die, Emerson."

"I wouldn't put it past him to survive solely in order to annoy ME," Emerson declared. "However, Riccetti's reappearance proves that Sethos's organization is leaderless. The vultures are gathering."

"How extraordinary, Emerson! The exact same metaphor occurred to me only the other evening."

"That does not surprise me in the least."

"Then you admit that Riccetti may not be the only villain who is trying to take over the illegal antiquities trade? That Mr. Shelmadine was a rival of Riccetti's and was foully murdered in order to prevent him from disclosing information?"

"Confound it, Peabody, will you stop that? I admit nothing of the sort. I haven't the ghost of an idea why Shelmadine called on us, and neither have you, and I have not the strength to hear the sort of theories you are likely to propose."

There was a brief silence.

"Are you feeling well, Peabody?" Emerson inquired. "You failed to interrupt me."

"Our discussion had reached an impasse," I said. "We have not enough information to reach a conclusion—except that there are obviously two different groups of criminals involved. One wishes to assist us, the other—"

"Don't be a fool, Amelia," Emerson snarled. "That statement was Riccetti's, and I don't believe it for—"

He did not complete the sentence. The quiet of the night was rent by a piercing falsetto shriek. It was succeeded by the sounds of violent struggle, easily identifiable by me since I had become accustomed to them. It was not difficult to locate their source. We had landed as close to the dahabeeyah as Daoud could manage.

I observed that last detail as I leaped agilely out of the boat. The muddy bank was rather slippery; only the support of my trusty parasol prevented me from falling headlong. Emerson had not waited for me; he was already some distance ahead, covering the ground with great bounds. As he reached the foot of the gangplank a dark form rushed down it with such precipitation that Emerson, caught off balance, was sent sprawling.

I hesitated for a second, unable to decide whether to pursue the fugitive, assist my fallen spouse, or find out what had transpired on board. Another shrill cry from the deck decided me. Emerson regained his feet; dripping mud and cursing vehemently, he preceded me up the gangplank.

Someone had had the presence of mind to fetch a lamp. Nefret it was who held it; her hand was steady, though her face was as white as her nightdress. In its glow I beheld a scene like the conclusion of a stage melodrama. Blood spattered the deck and there were fallen bodies everywhere.

The cat Bastet sat beside one of the bodies, ears pricked and eyes glowing eerily. The body stirred and sat up.

Ramses's nose was bleeding again. The galabeeyah he wore in lieu of a nightgown had been torn half off him, baring his thin shoulders. In his right hand he held a long knife.

I looked from my son to the unconscious form of Gertrude Marmaduke, and then to the third recumbent body. Blood blurred the features, but I recognized the ribs and the festering toe and the bruised shins.

"Ramses!" I cried. "What have you done now?"

             CHAPTER FIVE

                   The Fatal Fall of a Fellah

I beg your pardon, Ramses," I said. "In the shock of the moment I spoke without thinking. I know, of course, that you would never be so uncivilized as to carry a knife or use it on a living creature."

"Your apology is noted and accepted, Mother. Though if truth were told—"

Emerson muffled him by pressing a cloth to his face. "Hold this in place, Ramses, it will stop the bleeding."

I glanced sharply at Ramses. Only a disheveled mop of curls and a pair of wide black eyes were visible over the cloth. The "truth" he had been about to tell might have been a comment on my own habit of carrying a knife (a different matter altogether), or an admission of something I preferred not to hear, so I did not pursue it. Having observed that nosebleed appeared to be the extent of his injuries, I turned my attention to the other boy, who was in far worse case.

Emerson had carried David to Ramses's room and put him on the bed. I had been less tender of my third patient, slapping her cheeks until she recovered from her faint and then shoving her into her room and ordering her to remain there until I returned. Ramses's cabin was uncomfortably crowded as it was, with five of us gathered round. Abdullah had arrived on the scene in time to see Emerson lift the limp, bleeding body of theboy. Though not a word had escaped his lips, he had followed us to the cabin and I had not had the heart to send him away. He had retreated to a corner where he stood like a stately statue, arms folded across his breast, face impassive.

"How is he?" Emerson inquired, bending over the bed.

"He is, to employ the word in its literal sense, a bloody mess," I replied. "Malnourished, flea-bitten, bruised and dirty. His assailant's knife inflicted two wounds. The one on his back is shallow, but this gash on his temple will require to be stitched up. I had better do it now while he is still in a swoon. Get a basin of clean water, Nefret, if you please."

Quickly and efficiently she obeyed, emptying the bloody water into the slop jar and rinsing the basin before refilling it. "What else can I do?" she asked.

Her voice was calm, her hands steady; the color had returned to her face. There was no danger of
her
falling into a faint at the sight of blood. "You might have a look at Ramses," I said.

Ramses sprang to his feet and backed away, clutching the torn remnants of his robe around him. "I do not require to be looked at," he said, the freezing dignity of the words somewhat marred by his blood-smeared face and torn garment. "I am perfectly capable of looking after myself should such be necessary, which it is not, since the only damage done was to my nasal appendage."

"Hmmm, yes," said Emerson, distracted by this candid admission. "I must show you how to defend yourself against that particular blow, Ramses. Your nose seems particularly—"

"Not now, Emerson, for pity's sake," I interrupted. "Leave him be, Nefret."

Nefret had backed Ramses into a corner. "I only want to help him, Aunt Amelia. He is behaving like a silly little boy. I am quite accustomed to the sight of—"

"Leave him be, I said. Bring the lamp over here, I cannot see to thread this needle. Ramses, wash your face and then tell me what happened."

"I was on guard, as Father instructed," Ramses explained. "I assumed he meant me to watch out for David. He had been following us all day."

"What?" I cried.

"He attempted to, as the saying is, lose himself in the crowd. The attempt was a failure, insofar as I was concerned. I believed it possible that he had been sent to spy on us by Abd el Hamed." Ramses completed his ablutions— more or less—modestly adjusted his robe, and squatted by the side of the bed, Arab fashion. "After I had extinguished my lamp, the cat Bastet and I took up a position by the window. The night was still, the air fresh and cool; my senses were at their keenest pitch, since I had been urged to retirelong before the time to which I am accustomed. And may I remark, on that subject—"

"No, you may not," I said, without looking up.

"Yes, Mother. I sat, as I said, by my window, and although my mind was occupied with philosophical subjects, on which I would elaborate if I believed I would be allowed to do so, they did not interfere in the slightest with my concentration. It was the cat Bastet who warned me of the advent of an intruder, as I had anticipated she would, since her senses are keener than those of any human. A soft growl and a stiffening of the hairs along her spine alerted me. Before long I was rewarded by seeing a head appear over the gunwale. The head was followed by a body as the individual pulled himself up onto the deck, and it was then that I recognized David, for, though I had anticipated it would be he, I am not so rash as to leap to—"

"Ramses," I said.

"Yes, Mother. David—I knew him by his outline and by the way he moved—came creeping toward the cabins. I remained motionless, for I feared that precipitate action might enable him to elude me. As I waited for him to come within grasping range I was somewhat startled to observe another head appear, and another, bulkier, form climb over the gunwale. Faced, as I believed, with two opponents, I was considering my options when the second individual leaped forward and I saw the moonlight glitter on an object in his raised hand. I saved David's life," said Ramses, without false modesty, "for my cry of warning enabled him to twist aside, so that the knife glanced across his back instead of entering his heart.

"I had expected the assailant would flee when he heard my voice, but he bent over David, who had fallen to the deck, and struck again. I therefore jumped out of the window and grappled with the fellow."

"Good heavens, Ramses," I exclaimed. "That was courageous but extremely foolish."

Ramses concluded it would be advisable to revise the statement. "Er— the word 'grapple' is not precisely accurate, Mother. The fellow managed to land one blow—on my nose, as you see—before I—uh—I kicked him."

"Where?" Nefret inquired innocently.

"Stop teasing him, Nefret," I ordered. "It was well done, Ramses. Ordinarily I would deplore any deviation from the rules of civilized combat, if there can be such a thing, but when one combatant is a large man with a knife, bent on homicide, and the other is a little—"

"I beg your pardon, Mother," said Ramses, reddening. "Do you wish me to continue my narrative?"

"Not at the present time," said Emerson. "The boy is awake, Amelia."

When I returned my attention to David I saw that his eyes were open.

"I am going to have to clean and stitch this wound in your head," I said in my best Arabic. "It will be painful."

"No," said the boy through clenched teeth. "I do not need your help, Sitt. Let me go."

"Why did you come here, David?" Emerson asked.

"My dear, you should not question him now; he is in pain and requires—"

"I have no quarrel with your medical ethics or your altruistic intentions," Emerson replied, now talking English, as I had done. "You may dose him and bandage him and stitch him as much as you like, but first it is essential to ascertain the reason why he was attacked and take the necessary steps to prevent further harm to him—or one of us. Well, David? You heard my question."

The last sentence was again in David's native tongue, but I suspected, from the tightening of the boy's lips, that he had understood some, at least, of the preceding speech. Abdullah certainly had.

Emerson did not repeat the question; he stood waiting, inflexible as a judge. Then Ramses rose to his knees, and David's eyes turned to him. For a moment I had the uncanny impression that I was seeing my son reflected in a mirror that showed him, not as he was, but as he might have been had hard usage and poverty changed him. His eyes and David's were almost identical in color and setting, with the same fringe of thick dark lashes.

Neither spoke. After a moment Ramses resumed his squatting position and David looked at Emerson.

"After you went, Abd el Hamed tried to beat me," he muttered. "I struck the stick from his hands and ran away."

"He had beaten you before," Emerson said.

"Yes. I had run away before."

"But always before this you went back," Emerson said.

"He had nowhere else to go," Nefret exclaimed. "Must you continue, Professor? It is obvious that he—"

"No, my dear, it is not obvious," was the gentle but firm reply. "He could have gone to his mother's family. Is that not true, Abdullah?"

Abdullah nodded, but his face was so grim that only someone who knew him as well as I did would have sensed the softer emotion he was ashamed to display. I could understand why David, who knew his mother's family only from the bitter speeches of his father, would not want to seek refuge with them. And something had happened to the boy that day—Nefret's gentle concern, Emerson's interest and offer of help, even the vulgar, boyish tussle with Ramses—no single event, but a combination of all of them, had, perhaps without his conscious awareness, affected his decision.

"Hmph," said Emerson, who knew Abdullah as well as I did. "So you decided to accept my offer of help. Why did you wait until night?"

"I did not come to ask for help," David said haughtily. "I thought about the things you said—all day, as I lay hidden in the hills, I thought about them, and I thought, I will see the Inglizi again and speak with them again, and then perhaps .. . But it would have been stupid to come openly, in daylight; I knew Abd el Hamed would be looking for me, trying to catch me and bring me back. I did not know he would go to such lengths ..."

"You do not know why he would rather see you dead than out of his hands?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it was not Abd el Hamed. I do not know who it was, or why ..."

His voice had become hoarse and faint. I said firmly, "Enough, Emerson. I am going to stitch this cut, and then he should rest. Hold on to him. Ramses, sit on his feet."

But before Emerson's big brown hands could close over the boy's bony shoulders, he was pushed aside and Abdullah took his place.

Having had considerable practice with Emerson, I made quite a neat job of my sewing. David did not groan or move a muscle; with his grandfather looking on, he would not have cried out if I had been amputating his leg. He was fairly done in by the time I finished, however, and Abdullah's brow was bedewed with perspiration.

I was itching to get to work on the boy with a bar of soap and a scrub brush, but I decided to spare him that exercise until he was rested. A few drops of laudanum, which he was too weak to resist, assured me that he would rest. I then ordered the others to their rooms.

"This is my room," said Ramses.

"True. You can sleep on the couch in the saloon."

"If you will consider a suggestion, Mother, it might be best for me to sleep here, on the floor. In that way—"

"You need not point out the advantages of the suggestion," I said somewhat curtly (for I thought I had detected a tinge of sarcasm in his introductory sentence). "It is a good one. There are extra blankets in the cupboard outside my room. Wake me if there is any change."

"Yes, Mother."

I waited until Nefret had left and Emerson had gone off with Abdullah before I said, "Were you hurt, Ramses? Be candid, I beg. Denial, if untrue, would be foolish, not courageous."

"I was not hurt. Thank you for inquiring."

"Ramses."

"Yes, Mother?"

He stiffened when I put my arms around him, but it was not from pain, and after a moment he gave me an awkward hug in return.

"Good night, Ramses."

"Good night, Mother."

I met Emerson in the corridor. "What did Abdullah have to say?" I inquired.

"Nothing. He is desperately cut up about the boy but is too proud to admit it. Confound the stubborn old fool; he behaves more like an Englishman than an Egyptian! Arabs are not usually so reticent about expressing their emotions. If he had been more affectionate with the boy earlier, David might have gone to him instead of coming here. I am prepared to accept David's explanations up to a point, but they fail to explain the ferocity of the attack on him. And I beg you, Peabody, don't start inventing theories! I am in no mood to listen to them, and I want to have a closer look at that fragment of wall painting. Daoud has taken it to our room."

"Daoud hasn't returned to Gurneh, I hope? I want him to—"

"What sort of idiot do you take me for? He is on the deck, outside Ramses's window. I say, Peabody, Ramses did well tonight, didn't he? I trust you told him so."

"There was no need for me to tell him so. Just let me look in on Gertrude for a moment, and then I will join you."

Gertrude was asleep, or pretending to be asleep. I went to our room.

"She is asleep."

"Or pretending to be asleep."

"Ah," I said, unbuttoning my jacket. "So that possibility occurred to you, did it?"

"Certainly. At this point in time I am prepared to suspect everyone of practically everything. What was she doing on deck in a dead faint?"

"I suppose she will claim that Ramses's cry of warning to David woke her, and that the sight of blood made her swoon. I believe we ought to dismiss her. Either she is a spy, in which case she is dangerous, or she is innocent, in which case she is a confounded nuisance."

Having removed my outer garments I put on my dressing gown over my combinations; I felt it wise to be prepared for action in case I was summoned in the night. For once Emerson paid no attention to this activity, which usually interested him a great deal. He was bending over the table, studying the painted fragment.

"Have a look, Peabody."

"Oh, dear," I exclaimed. "That is a king, Emerson, not our queen Tetisheri. The nemes headdress and the uraeus serpent on his brow—"

"Quite. Only traces of the cartouche remain, but it is probably that of Tetisheri's husband. He would be depicted in her tomb, and probably hergrandson Ahmose would appear as well, if she lived on into his reign and was buried by him."

"Of course!" I bent over to examine the details more closely. "It is a handsome piece of work, isn't it? I had no idea artists of that period were so skilled."