The Hippopotamus Pool (21 page)

I found myself a trifle confused initially, for of course I had instinctively started for Ramses's room, which was across the corridor from ours. His door stood ajar, but so did another—that of Nefret's chamber. Light streamed through the opening and the continuing sounds of an altercation issued therefrom.

Parasol at the ready, I dashed in—and stopped short. Two individuals were struggling. I had anticipated as much. What I had not anticipated was that the individuals should be Nefret and Miss Marmaduke.

Advancing, I ordered them to desist at once. They broke apart, panting and trembling. Gertrude's loosened hair hung over her face and her nightgown had lost several buttons, but Nefret was in worse case. Her gown hung open to the waist and had been pulled off one shoulder. Catching my eye she hurriedly adjusted it and burst into speech.

"She struck him, Aunt Amelia! She was trying to—"

"Oh, heavens!" Gertrude sagged at the knees and leaned heavily against the wall. "I did not know! I thought—good God! He has come back! Don't let him go near her!"

"He" was David, accompanied by Ahmed, who had been on guard outside Ramses's window. Nefret had flung herself down on her knees at the foot of the bed. It struck me as an inappropriate moment for prayer, but before I could comment on this Nefret turned to me with a gesture of appeal and I saw to my horror that her raised hand was stained crimson.

"Help me, Aunt Amelia. And don't let that woman—"

"Certainly not," said Emerson, from the doorway. "Amelia, you had better do as she asks. No one else move."

I knew what I would see. Only one member of the party was not visible, and he was usually the first to turn up.

Ramses was curled up on the floor, half-hidden by the tumbled bedclothes and by the bed itself. Nefret was tugging at his bloody hands, which were clasped tightly over his side. His eyes were open.

Seeing me, he said, "Good evening, Mother. It was not David."

"Indeed?" I pushed Nefret out of the way, rather more forcibly than was necessary, and knelt by Ramses. He allowed me to lift his hands, remarking, "It would be advisable to stop the bleeding, I believe; I am beginning to feel a trifle giddy, and there are several things I want to say before—"

"I can well believe that, Ramses."

He had been holding a part of the sheet over the gash in his side. I folded another section into a heavier pad and pressed down on it.

"Ouch," said Ramses. "Mother—"

"Be quiet. Emerson, fetch my medical kit. Nefret, tear that sheet into strips."

Emerson was back almost at once. "How is he?"

"Luckier than he had any right to expect. The lung has not been punctured, probably because the knife struck a rib. Ramses, stop squirming. I know the alcohol stings, but I must disinfect the wound before bandaging it."

"I am not squirming," said Ramses, faintly but indignantly. "That was an involuntary physical reflex. And may I say, Mother, that I take exception to the word 'lucky.' Observing a glint of light along the blade of the knife I was able—"

"Be quiet, Ramses."

"He can still talk, at any rate," said Emerson, with a long breath of relief. "What the devil happened here?"

"The boy crept in and tried to—to—assault her," Gertrude cried. "I heard her scream and came at once, but he must have got out the window before I could—"

"That is a lie," Nefret said. "It was not David."

"It was dark." Gertrude's voice rose hysterically. "How could you see who it was? I saw his outline against the window."

"You saw Ramses," Nefret said. "He was the first to respond to my call for help. The man who ... the man let me go and ran to the window. Ramses went after him." Her hands continued to move mechanically, tearing strips from the sheet, but she was as pale as her nightdress and her voice was unsteady.

"That will do, my dear," I said. "Emerson—"

He took her into a fatherly embrace. "We'll sort this out tomorrow," he said, clumsily patting the bright head that had come to rest on his breast. Emerson's hands, as I had cause to know, were never clumsy. It was rage that made them tremble now.

With seeming coolness he went on, "Miss Marmaduke, return to your room. I will speak with you later. Nefret, your aunt Amelia will take you to our room as soon as she has finished with Ramses. He had better remain here. I will stay with him. David—"

"It was not David." Ramses's eyes were half-closed, but he was alert enough to hear how his father's voice had hardened when he pronounced the boy's name. "He was just stirring when I left our room. The individual was larger and stronger than David, though dressed the same. Someone is trying ..."

"You have made your point, Ramses," Emerson said. His arm around Nefret, he drew her toward the foot of the bed and stood looking down on his son. "Well, Peabody?"

"You can put him on the bed now," I said, tying a neat knot. "Carefully."

This operation having been performed, I covered Ramses and wiped the perspiration from his face. I believed him to be asleep or unconscious, but I might have known Ramses would insist on having the last word. His lips parted.

"Now you will be able to retain your reputation for honesty with Aunt Evelyn. When she arrives you can show her ... a genuine ..."

He would have gone on quite a bit longer, I suppose, if he had not lost consciousness. Leaving Emerson tight-lipped and silent by his bedside, and noting that David had settled down in the corner with a look that told me it would require force to remove him, I put my arm round Nefret and led her to our room.

There was no question about it, Ramses
was
developing a sense of humor. As I might have anticipated, it was a deuced peculiar sense of humor.

        CHAPTER SEVEN

The Soft Voice of the Father of Curses Is Like the                  Growl of an Angry Lion

For once Emerson was up before me

the following morning. He was trying to move quietly, but he is not good at that; a muffled swearword woke me and I opened my eyes to behold Emerson standing one-legged like a stork, holding his stockinged foot in his hands. I deduced he had stubbed his toe on the bedframe, since his mumbled maledictions were addressed to that article of furniture.

There was just enough light for me to make out his form. "And where do think you are going at this hour of the morning?" I inquired. I thought I knew, though.

"Curse it," said Emerson, in what he fondly believes is a whisper. "I didn't mean to wake you, Peabody."

"Then you should not stumble around in a dark room in your stocking feet." He had not answered my question, so I asked again. "Where are you going?"

"For a healthy morning stroll." Emerson sat down and began pulling on his boots.

"An excellent thought. I will join you."

Nefret still slept, her cheek pillowed on her hand. I slid out of bed and went behind the screen to dress. I did so with even greater celerity than ismy habit because I feared he would try to leave without me, but when I emerged I found him standing by the bed.

"Will she be all right?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes. The young have amazing powers of recuperation, and she was not hurt, only frightened."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, my dear. The fellow barely touched her. I believe she was more distressed about Ramses than about herself. How is he?"

"If there had been any cause for concern I would have told you at once," Emerson replied. "Selim is with him."

"Selim? But he was not here, he was ..."

"Not so loudly, Peabody. You will wake her."

"I am awake." The blue eyes, their color now discernible in the strengthening light, popped open. "How is Ramses?"

"As I was telling your aunt Amelia, sound asleep, with no sign of fever."

"You are going somewhere, aren't you?" She scrambled out of bed, displaying in her haste a long stretch of slender limbs. "I will sit with Ramses."

The nightgown was my own; I had bundled up her torn garment and put it out of sight. Mine covered her, once she was on her feet, from shoulders to floor. Nevertheless, I felt it necessary to administer a little reminder. "Put on your clothes first."

"Such nonsense," Nefret muttered. "Oh, very well. Don't worry about Ramses, I will take care of him."

"I am sure you will," I said, hoping that Ramses would refrain from mentioning his heroic rescue every five minutes, and that Nefret's grateful affection would prevent quarreling for a few hours at least.

"Sir?"

Emerson, on his way out the door, turned. She looked him straight in the eye and said slowly, in her best Arabic, "Good fortune attend thy purpose, O Father of Curses."

Emerson gave me no time for more than a glance at my son, who was indeed sleeping quietly. When we left the dahabeeyah, Anubis materialized out of somewhere, as cats do, and followed us down the gangplank.

"Emerson," I said. "What did Nefret mean?"

"You understand Arabic, don't you?"

"Yes, but... It sounded to me as if she were encouraging—approving, at least—some action that ..."

"I needed no encouragement, my dear," said Emerson mildly.

If I had not already known he was in no mood to trifle I would have deduced as much from the fact that the animals awaiting us were horses, notthe little donkeys. Abdullah was waiting too, his face unusually forbidding. Emerson tossed me onto one of the horses and swung into his own saddle.

"Don't propose washing the cursed horses, Peabody, you will have time to fuss with them later. I have hired them for the remainder of the season and sent one of the men across to Luxor to buy saddles for us. These are, I confess, a trifle worn. Confound it, Abdullah, make haste or I will leave you behind. You, too," he added, glancing at the cat, who responded with an agile leap onto Emerson's knee.

"Emerson, did you sleep at all last night?"

"I entertained myself instead by planning what I mean to do to Hamed."

"But you cannot be certain it was—"

He was off before I could finish the sentence and I had to urge my steed to the best pace the poor creature could attain in order to keep up with him. I dared not let him get ahead; in his present state of mind he was capable of thrashing the old man within an inch of his life—an action he would probably regret, once he had cooled off—and Abdullah was not the man to prevent him. Family honor as well as the affection Abdullah hid from all eyes but mine would demand retaliation for the suspicion cast upon his grandson.

The necessity of restraining two infuriated male persons would be a challenge even to me, but I thought I could manage it—with a little luck. Luck, or more probably the fact that Hamed had learned of our approach, was with me. The old villain was nowhere to be found. The courtyard was empty of any but gallinaceous life, and the servants and apprentices had fled.

Emerson stormed through the house kicking over furniture and ripping down the curtains that served in lieu of doors. He even invaded the harim— if one may use that word to distinguish a small room inhabited by two cowering females. A single glance showed him, and me, that neither could be Hamed; one was a wrinkled old crone and the other a black-eyed girl who could not have been more than thirteen.

They had neglected to veil themselves and they cowered only because it was expected of them. Both faces contemplated Emerson without alarm and with considerable interest. Saluting them respectfully, he looked under the divan and behind a curtain, and backed out.

"This is a waste of time, Emerson," I said. "He is not here. You have searched—"

"My dear Peabody, I have only just begun."

We returned to Abdullah, who was in the main room. Knife in hand, he was jabbing it randomly into the floor. "Nothing," he said, straightening.

"It will be in the master bedchamber, I expect," said Emerson, with a sardonic curl of his lip.

One room was certainly furnished more comfortably and garishly than the rest of the house. Rugs covered the floor. A divan was piled with cushions; beside it stood a water pipe and a tray with a bottle and glass. The glass was half full. Emerson picked it up and sniffed the contents.

"Brandy. He violates not only the commandment against spirits but the laws of Ramadan. Very well, Abdullah, let's get at it."

They did not bother to roll the rugs back. After a few stabs Abdullah grunted with satisfaction. "Wood. It is here, Emerson."

The trapdoor had been covered with a thin layer of dirt to make it look like the rest of the earthen floor. Emerson heaved it up.

Instead of the huddled figure of a fugitive I saw a pile of odd-shaped bundles wrapped in rags. The first one Emerson took out proved to be an exquisitely shaped alabaster (more properly, calcite) vase. The incised hieroglyphs on one side of it had been filled with blue paste.

"Ahmose Nefertari," Emerson muttered. "Royal wife, royal daughter, royal mother. Not our queen, Peabody. How many royal tombs have these bastards located?"

He put it carefully aside and reached again into the hole. The objects piled up: part of a finely carved wooden ushebti, royal by the headdress, but uninscribed; a heart scarab in green feldspar; several other ushebtis of glazed blue faience; a handful of turquoise and gold beads carefully wrapped in a cloth—and a small statue, ten inches high, that looked strangely familiar.

"Tetisheri!" I exclaimed. "There was a pair of statues, then. Or a trio."

"More likely an entire chorus. This is one of Hamed's copies, Peabody. I wonder how many others he made before he disposed of the original." Emerson rose to his feet and handed the statuette to Abdullah, who slipped it into the breast of his robe.

"Aren't you going to—er—confiscate the other antiquities?" I inquired.

"At the moment I don't want them, I want Hamed. Where the devil could the bastard have got to? I will search every confounded house in the cursed village if I must, but there should be an easier way of locating him. Perhaps if I inquired of the ladies ..."

"They may fear him too much to betray him, Emerson. But that girl— she is so young, hardly more than a child. Can't we take her away?"

"I doubt she would come, Peabody. Oh, I share your abhorrence of the custom, but if you are in a reforming mood you might start closer to home. The laws of civilized England allow females to marry at the age of twelve."

For once my well-honed instincts and my understanding of female psychology were in error. The ladies were only too eager to cooperate. They responded to Emerson's questions with rolling eyes and shrugs, but one ofthem—the elder of the two—mentioned, in a studiedly casual tone, that Hamed had recently embraced marriage for a third time.

"Ah," said Emerson. "She has her own house? She must be a pearl of beauty, to merit a separate setting—or a wealthy widow. Most likely the latter. Hamed loves money even more than he does ... er, hmmm. Marhaba, Sitt; Allah isabbekhum bilkheir."

As we left the room I saw the girl creep closer to the old woman, who put a motherly arm around her. Polygamy is a vicious unnatural custom, which I would never understand or condone; but a tender blossom of affection may grow from a compost heap. I wondered if it had been jealousy on the girl's account—not of Hamed's unprepossessing person but of the attentions he bestowed on his new wife—that had prompted the older woman's betrayal.

Our presence and Emerson's noisy actions had drawn an audience. Most were the usual curious idlers of all ages and sexes (and species), but I saw several ugly faces in the crowd, and I said softly to Abdullah, "Should we go for reinforcements?"

His knife in his hand, the other hand in the breast of his robe, Abdullah looked down at me in surprise. "No, Sitt, why?"

He invited me, with a gesture, to precede him. I took a firmer grip on my parasol and followed Emerson.

One of the spectators cheerfully supplied the information he requested. The house was not far distant. It was quite an elegant establishment, larger and in better repair than many of its neighbors. The door was beautifully carved and very old. Emerson considerately refrained from kicking it open. He did not bother to knock, however.

The features of the woman seated cross-legged on the divan opposite showed the racial mixture one finds in Egypt, particularly in the south, and they had combined in an uncommon pattern of striking character— full lips and high cheekbones, wide-set eyes of a shade more green than hazel, a jutting nose like that of a Roman general. Her skin was dark brown, sleek as velvet.

After a disinterested glance at me she looked Emerson over, head to foot and foot to head, and her lips parted in a smile. She had obviously been expecting company, for she was dressed in her best. Silver hung from her ears and brow and jangled at her wrist as she raised a cigarette to her lips.

Emerson began, "Salaam aleikhum—er—"

She cut him short, gesturing with the cigarette. "My name is Layla, Father of Curses. He is there."

"There?" Emerson echoed rather stupidly. He had not expected such ready compliance.

"Hiding in a corner, like the weasel he is," was the contemptuous reply. "You would soon find him, so why should I not tell you before you wreck my poor house?"

"Very sensible," Emerson said approvingly. He plunged through the curtained doorway she had indicated. A shriek announced the discovery of Hamed. Emerson returned, dragging the fellow by the neck of his robe.

The woman uncoiled herself and followed him to the door. "If you would visit me, Father of Curses, for you I lower the price to—"

"Good gracious!" I exclaimed. "That will be enough from you, miss— madam—"

"Never mind, Peabody," Emerson said. "Curse it, do you suppose I am in the mood for ... Even if I would, which I would never .. . Damn these women, they are always distracting a fellow!"

The spectators scattered when we emerged from the house, and then regrouped at a little distance, leaving three persons confronting us. They were the men I had noticed earlier, and their expressions were even uglier. Hamed, plucking at the fabric that constricted his throat, gasped, "Let me go. Let me go or they will ..."

"Oh, I think not," said Emerson, tightening his grip so that the threat ended in a choked gurgle. "Peabody, your parasol, if you please."

I did not know precisely what he had in mind, but guided by his words and his gesture I brandished the implement in question.

Two of our opponents hastily backed away and one—the largest and most muscular—fell to his knees. "No!" he shrieked. "No, not that! Sitt Hakim, Emerson Effendi, please, I beg—not that!"

It was a dramatic scene: the cowering man, face shining with perspiration, hands raised as if in prayer; the awed ring of watchers; Emerson's impressive form towering over the suppliant; and the cringing, whimpering bundle of rags that was Hamed. I confess the parasol was a slightly discordant note, however. Torn between astonishment and amusement, I held my pose, and Emerson said, "Get up, Ali Mahmud, and go away. Peabody, you may lower your—er—weapon. Now then, Hamed, let us talk."

He sat the old man down on a rock. Abdullah, knife in hand, growled. "He is mine by right, Emerson. The honor of my family—"

"You can murder him after I have finished questioning him, Abdullah," Emerson said. "Or not, as I decide. Hamed, I told you I had tired of your attentions. I do not often repeat a warning. Who was the man you sent last night? I want a little chat with him too."

Hamed's eyes rolled wildly from Emerson to me to Abdullah. He was not deceived by Emerson's mild tone. It had become a proverb in the villages of Egypt: "The soft voice of the Father of Curses is like the growl of an angry lion."

"You will not let him kill me if I speak the truth? I am an old man, old and broken—"

"Who was it? One of your sons, I presume. Which?"

I was not surprised to find Hamed ready to play Abraham to Emerson's wrathful Jehovah. "Solimen," he blurted. "But he did no harm. He meant no harm."