The Hippopotamus Pool (4 page)

"The secret cannot be kept much longer. For a thousand generations we have protected her from the tomb robbers of Gurneh, from Greek and Roman and Byzantine thieves, from the predators of Europe and America. There are ways of leading searchers astray. When all else failed ..."

"Murder?" I breathed the word.

"When all else failed. But now there are too many searchers for treasure, and the number continues to increase. Foreign archaeologists swarm over the cliffs of western Thebes, and the Theban thieves are busier than before. If she must be found, better it should be by a scholar than by the local robbers; they will destroy what they cannot carry away, sell the treasures to any purchaser, scatter them to the far ends of the earth. You will give me your promise—your solemn oath." The hand that held the weapon had fallen to his side; he took a step closer to Emerson. "You will not allow her mummy to be violated. You will keep her funerary equipment intact and undamaged, treat her remains with reverence. Do you swear?"

The deep, solemn tones echoed like a prayer, or a curse. Emerson shifted uneasily, but he met the other man's gaze straight on.

"I cannot swear," he said. "If it were within my power, I would do precisely as you ask, though in all honesty I must tell you my motives would not be the same as yours. Such a find would be unique; scholarly principle would demand it be kept intact, guarded and carefully preserved. Your assessment is correct: if tomb robbers find it first, they will tear the mummy to pieces and destroy what they cannot carry off. It would be a tragedy in scientific terms.... Oh, good Gad, why am I wasting time in futile speculation? There is no such tomb, and even if there were, I could not give you my word, for mine would not be the ultimate decision."

"You have said enough. You have spoken the truth. Few men would do that. And no man would fight to preserve her tomb as you would."

"That is true," I said, for Emerson remained silent. "And you know, Emerson, there is a good chance we could succeed. As the excavators we would have certain claims to the contents of the tomb; if we gave up those rights to the Museum, in exchange for M. Maspero's promise that he would keep the objects all together—"

"Oh, do be quiet, Peabody!" Emerson turned on me, glaring. My dear Emerson is never more handsome than when he is in a rage. His large white teeth were bared, his eyes glowed like the eastern sky when theapproach of night deepens the azure depths, his lean cheeks were becomingly flushed. Speechless with admiration (and with the impossibility of making myself heard over his bellowing), I gazed on him.

"It is just like you to plan an entire campaign of action on the basis of a fantasy," Emerson went on bitterly. "My patience is running out, Saleh. I will give you"—he took out his watch—"precisely sixty seconds longer. If at the end of that time you have not produced something tangible to prove your claim, I will throw you out."

Saleh had returned the pistol to his pocket. Coolly he resumed the chair he had abandoned and picked up his glass. "The ring is not proof enough?"

Emerson snorted, and Saleh went on, irony coloring his voice, "Not to a mind as rigidly logical as yours, I suppose. What would satisfy your requirements?"

"Precise directions," Emerson replied promptly. "The entrance must be well hidden or it would have been found before this. There are many acres of rough, broken ground in the region you mentioned."

"I thought you would say that." Saleh had finished his whiskey. Placing the glass on the table, he reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. "I was told ... I ..."

His voice broke in a horrible, rattling gurgle. One hand went to his throat; the other clenched, crumpling the paper it held. Emerson jumped forward, but he was too late; a violent, convulsive movement threw the stranger out of the chair and onto the floor.

"Get back, Peabody," Emerson said, reinforcing the suggestion with a sharp shove. I got back in time to avoid a kick from the recumbent man; his limbs thrashed in uncontrolled, tetanic spasms that jerked his body back and forth, as if he were performing some prone and primitive dance. Emerson threw himself onto the writhing body and interrupted his eloquent curses long enough to gasp instructions. "Fetch a doctor, Peabody—go yourself, don't—damnation!—Captain Cartright or—oh, good Gad!"

Even his formidable strength was taxed by the effort of holding the sufferer, in order to prevent injury not only from the furniture but from the violent spasms of his own tortured muscles. I needed no further admonitions; picking up my skirts, I ran.

By the time I reached the ballroom I was in a considerable state of breathless agitation and physical disarray. People fell back before my wild rush. At first the room was only a blur of color and movement; there were too many cursed uniforms, I could not locate the one I wanted. Forcing myself to calmness, I saw Captain Cartright guiding a stately dowager in purple plush through the mazes of the cotillion. I rushed to him and caught him by the arm.

"You must come at once, Captain Cartright! An emergency—strychnine poisoning .. . convulsions .. ."

"Good heavens," exclaimed the person in purple, whom I now recognized as the wife of Cartright's commanding general. "What is the meaning of this? The woman is mad or intoxicated!"

We stood in the center of a circle of gaping faces, for my voice, I daresay, had been shrill enough to attract attention.

"Instantly," I insisted, shaking the captain. "He is dying! My sitting room—"

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Emerson," Cartright said quickly. "Where are your . rooms?"

"This way," said a voice behind me. It said no more; as Cartright followed after the speaker, I saw that it was Ramses. He was moving rapidly even for him, squirming through the crowd like an eel.

Now that help had been dispatched, I felt it would be advisable to catch my breath before hurrying back. Breathing slowly and deeply, I pondered the precipitation of Ramses. It was his insatiable curiosity, of course, but he might have had the courtesy to offer an arm to his mother.

Another gentleman did so. It was Mr. Jenkins, the assistant manager, and it may have been a desire to end the disturbance, rather than concern for me, that prompted his action. The dancing had stopped altogether and people were staring rudely. "What is wrong, Mrs. Emerson?" he inquired, leading me off the floor.

Realizing he had not heard my announcement to Captain Cartright, I decided not to enlighten him. He would only make a fuss. Hotel managers do not like to hear of dead or dying guests.

"It is all taken care of, Mr. Jenkins," I replied, hoping that was the case. "Thank you."

Anxious as I was to return to the scene of the action, I could not in conscience do so until I had made sure Nefret, now abandoned by Ramses, was safe in the charge of Miss Marmaduke. But that lady's chair was now occupied by someone else, and as I continued to scan the room I caught sight of Nefret, alone and unescorted, entering from the direction of the Moorish Hall.

The sight of her would have aroused the direst suspicions in any maternal breast—the faint smile, the flushed cheeks, the slight disarrangement of her hair. The Moorish Hall, with its soft divans and pearl-inlaid furniture, is the most romantic setting imaginable; mashrabiya screens and painted arches enclose shaded recesses that might have been designed for lovers.

With a muttered "Good Gad," I hastened to her. When she saw me, an even more betraying flush brightened her face. She began, "Oh, Aunt Amelia—"

"Come with me at once."

"I was only—"

"Not now, Nefret. Hurry."

By a fortunate chance, the lift was waiting. I directed the attendant to close the door and take us directly to the third floor. The presence of others prevented speech between me and my errant ward; she stood staring straight ahead, biting her lip and—I did not doubt—inventing alibis. However, as I hurried her along the corridor it began to dawn on her that my agitation might have a more serious cause than her misbehavior.

"What is wrong?" she exclaimed. "Has something happened? Oh, heavens—not to the Professor!" For such was her name for Emerson, who would have responded unfavorably to being called "Uncle Radcliffe." He dislikes his given name, which is one of the reasons why I never employ it.

Not until I heard Nefret's question and the alarm that deepened her voice did it dawn on me that Ramses might have jumped to a similar if erroneous conclusion. No wonder he had been in such a hurry. "Confound the boy," I muttered, "I would have reassured him if he had waited a moment. It is his own fault."

He and the captain had not arrived long before us. Ramses, arms folded and shoulders stiff, was looking particularly enigmatic. Cartright knelt by the fallen body. He glanced up as I entered and said, "I must have misunderstood, Mrs. Emerson. You will be relieved to know that there is no indication of poisoning; it is only—"

A long, quavering cry stopped him. The cry came from my throat, for I had seen that the form sprawled supine and senseless upon the floor was not that of the stranger.

Pushing the doctor aside, I fell on my knees and gathered his bleeding head into my arms.

"Emerson! Oh, my dear Emerson!"

"It is only a bump on the head, Mrs. Emerson," Cartright said, picking himself up. "No cause for concern, I assure you."

"No cause for concern!" I cried wildly. "You know not whereof you speak, sir. The last time he suffered such a blow ... Emerson!" For his eyes had opened, and his gaze had focused on my face. "My dearest Emerson, speak to me. Who am I?"

            CHAPTER TWO

A Lady Cannot Be Blamed If a Master Criminal         Takes a Fancy to Her

Now be fair, Peabody," Emerson said.

"It is no wonder the poor chap believed you to be hysterical. That was a damned—er—deuced idiotic question."

I rubbed my cheek. It still stung.

"The phraseology was certainly open to misinterpretation," I admitted. "But is it any wonder I was overwrought? Are you certain ..."

"You are my wife," Emerson said. Removing the pipe from his mouth, he employed the stem as a pointer. "That is our son Ramses. That is our daughter Nefret. The animal presently occupying her lap is the cat Bastet. The larger four-footed creature is another cat, Anubis by name. This bit of material on my head, placed there over my strenuous objections, is called sticking-plaster. It covers, quite unnecessarily, a slight bump and a small cut."

"I do wish you wouldn't be sarcastic, Emerson. It is particularly trying to my nerves."

"I am endeavoring to change the subject, my dear."

The reminder was justified. Neither of the children knew the whole truth about the terrible events of the previous winter, when another blow on the head had destroyed Emerson's memory even of ME.

My efforts to keep Ramses in the dark about his father's bout of amnesia had failed, but he did not know about our most recent encounter with our great and terrible adversary, the Master Criminal. It would have been impossible to explain all that had transpired without admitting that an illicit passion for my humble self had prompted certain of Sethos's activities.

Not that I had anything to be ashamed of. A lady cannot be blamed if a Master Criminal takes a fancy to her. Nevertheless, it was not a subject I particularly wanted to discuss with my son.

At least I devoutly hoped Ramses was unaware of those facts. I did not count on it, because Ramses had ways of finding things out. Our workmen, and other individuals who ought to have known better, believed he was a djinni, whereas, in fact, he was only one of the world's most efficient snoops. In his younger days he had been only too prone to discussing the information he had acquired by such morally questionable means, but of late he had become more taciturn. I don't know which was worse. The discussions were often very embarrassing, but wondering what might be going on in Ramses's mind was a nerve-racking exercise.

The ball was still in progress; the distant strains of music and laughter floated in through the open window. The temperature had dropped rapidly, as it does in Egypt after sunset. A cool breeze lifted the curtains and stirred the filmy chiffon ruffles trimming the loose collar and elbow sleeves of my wrapper.

After slapping me (with the kindest of intentions, as Emerson had indicated), and assuring himself that Emerson did not require his services, the young surgeon had taken his departure. Obviously he regarded my earlier reference to poison as no more than an example of female hysteria, and although under normal circumstances I would have felt obliged to set him straight (in justice to myself and my sex), under these circumstances I allowed the delusion to remain.

The four of us—six, including the cats—had gathered in the sitting room, where we sat sipping restorative cups of tea. I had changed into a loose-fitting, but, I believe I may say, becoming negligee of white silk cut en princesse. Emerson had also changed clothing, not because of damage to his evening attire (most of the blood had come off on me when I clasped him to my bosom), but because he prefers to wear as little as possible. In addition to his evening pumps he had also removed his coat, waistcoat, tie, and shirt. The last-named garment had a stiffly starched front and attached collar, and buttoned up the back, so I could not dispute his claim that it was "the most confoundedly uncomfortable piece of clothing in existence, except, oh, yes, Peabody, I grant you, except for corsets, but you never wear them anyhow." He had replaced the garment with one of his work shirts, open at the neck and rolled up to the elbows. He was smoking his pipe, and stroking the cat that lay across his knees.

Like his female counterpart Bastet, Anubis is a brindled Egyptian cat, larger and wilder than European varieties of felines. He was Emerson's— or, to be more accurate, since cats cannot be said to belong to anyone, he had condescended to concentrate his attentions on my husband. Bastet, who had been with us longer, favored Ramses, to such an extent that some superstitious persons considered Bastet to be Ramses's feline familiar, with magical powers of her own. She certainly was devoted to the boy (though of late she had begun to share her favors with Nefret), and Ramses would go nowhere without her. We had brought Anubis as well, since our servants in Kent refused to be left alone with him. I confess that Anubis made me a trifle uncomfortable too. Larger and darker than Bastet, he had not her benevolent nature. It could not be said that the two were friends. On the occasion of their first meeting Anubis had attempted to force his attentions on Bastet and she had knocked him head over heels. Their relationship at present could best be described as a negotiated truce.

Curled on Nefret's lap, the cat Bastet purred hoarsely as the girl's hand moved across her head. Nefret had not changed her dress; bright-eyed and alert, she demanded an account of what had happened.

"Unless," she added, with a prettily curled lip and a flash of blue eyes, directed at Emerson, "you, sir, are of the school that believes females should be kept ignorant and out of harm's way."

"Don't play your little games with me, young lady," Emerson replied good-humoredly. "Even if I were of that opinion, experience has taught me the futility of insisting upon it." Sobering, he went on, "I had intended to tell you and Ramses the whole story, for I have a strange foreboding— er—that is to say, I have a feeling this evening's adventure may presage danger to come."

Whereupon he launched into his account. It was somewhat verbose but quite well-organized, so I did not interrupt.

Ramses did. "Hmmm," he said, stroking his chin. "Very interesting. May I ask, first, whether Mr. Saleh's fit was feigned? Was it he, or another person, who struck you? Where did—"

"I don't know," said Emerson loudly. "If you will allow me to finish, Ramses .. ."

"I beg your pardon, Father. I was under the impression that you had finished; otherwise I would not have—"

"Hmph," said Emerson. "The fact is, the fellow's struggles, or fit, or feigned fit, ended shortly after you left, Peabody. He was limp and unresponsive, so I went to the sideboard to get him a glass of brandy. That is all I remember. It must have been Saleh who banged me on the head, though, since I only turned my back for a few seconds and I am sure I would have heard the door open."

"Not if another person was already in the room," I said, before Ramses could point this out. "In concealment, behind the draperies or on the balcony."

"Ridiculous," said Emerson, for he could see where this line of argument was heading. "How could another person have got in? The suffragi—"

"Is susceptible to bribery. I suggest we interrogate him immediately."

"Out of the question, Peabody. Your theory is pure fantasy."

"Let us assume," said Ramses, "since there is no indication of another person being present, and since there are a number of logistical difficulties, such as how he could have got in without being observed by the suffragi, and how he could have departed, dragging an unconscious body—"

"Oh, for pity's sake, Ramses," I snapped. "Let someone else speak occasionally. Nefret has been trying to get a word in for the past five minutes. The points you have made are valid, though my initial suggestion, that the suffragi might have been bribed or temporarily absent from his post, would account for the seeming anomalies. Furthermore, I cannot conceive why Mr. Saleh should come here for the admitted purpose of giving us information and then suddenly change his mind and resort to physical violence in order to get away, for if he had changed his mind, he had only to say so; there was no need, surely ..."

My breath gave out. Nefret was first out of the starting gate this time.

"Quite right, Aunt Amelia, that is just what I was going to say. It is much more likely that some unknown second party wanted to silence Mr. Saleh before he could betray the secret. And that means ... But you see what it means, Aunt Amelia!"

"Oh, good Gad," Emerson groaned, taking his pipe from his mouth. "Nefret, don't encourage her. You may consider that an order."

"He is just making one of his little jokes," I told Nefret.

Emerson said, "Damn," and banged his pipe against the ash receptacle.

I said, "Language, Emerson, please."

Emerson said, "You drive me to it, Peabody."

"But Nefret is correct, Emerson. The fellow's symptoms were consistent with those of strychnine poisoning, and I detected a distinct odor of bitter almonds."

"I beg your pardon, Mother," said Ramses—for his father had gone red in the face and was incapable of articulation. "But I fear you are confusing your poisons. Prussic acid is the one that smells like almond extract. Furthermore, both prussic acid and strychnine act very quickly. Are you suggesting that the postulated poison was in the whiskey you served him? That was the only substance he imbibed within the requisite time period, but had whiskey been the medium, you and Father would also have been affected."

"That is precisely the point I intended to make," said Emerson.

"Did you get a look at the map, Father?" Ramses asked.

"What map? Oh—you mean the paper Saleh was about to show me? I don't know that it was a map. I had requested—demanded, in fact— specific directions. His reply was, 'I thought you might ask that.' He then took the paper from his pocket."

"Precisely," Ramses said. "So it must have been a map, or a verbal substitute therefor."

"Or a blank sheet of paper," Emerson grumbled. "Confound it, Ramses, you are as bad as they are. The most logical explanation is that the fellow is a lunatic. He believes in his own fantasy, that he is the reincarnation or the descendant of an ancient Egyptian priest, but when he was forced to produce evidence he went into a fit rather than admit the truth to me or to himself. By this time he is safe at home, wherever that may be, and no doubt he is firmly convinced that he and I were attacked by demons or by an imaginary enemy. That is the way these people think."

"Why, Emerson," I exclaimed. "You have been reading up on psychology."

"Bah," said Emerson. "I have not the time to waste on such nonsense. Unfortunately, I have been acquainted with enough lunatics to understand how their minds work. Now, see here, all of you. The fellow's story was pure fabrication, but if he believes it he may approach us again, and he may be dangerous. Keep on the alert, at least until we have left Cairo."

"And when will that be?" I inquired.

"Soon." Emerson smiled at me. "I have a little surprise for you, Peabody, one I am sure you will like."

"When?" I strove to speak firmly, for his behavior really was maddening; but it is difficult for me to be firm with Emerson when his keen blue eyes soften and his well-cut lips part in a smile.

"Tomorrow. I want to get an early start, so we had better go to bed. It has been a tiring day."

"Especially for you, my dear Emerson," I said, directing a hard stare at Ramses.

"Father certainly should rest," said that young hypocrite, who obviously had no intention of allowing his father to do so. "One question, if I may. The ring you mentioned—"

"Is missing," I said. "Ramses—"

"You neglected to put it in a safe place?"

"I dropped it onto the table when Mr. Saleh collapsed, being more concerned with his condition than with a bit of lifeless metal," I said, with heavy sarcasm. "It was not there when I returned. I trust, Ramses, that your question was not meant to imply criticism of my behavior?"

"Certainly not, Mother. I know you bitterly regret your failure to retain that interesting bit of evidence, and I would not for all the world add to—"

"Go to bed, Ramses."

Nefret had risen obediently. Eyes lowered, hands clasped, she went to Emerson. "Good night, sir."

He took her golden head in his hands and kissed her on the brow. "Good night, my dear. Sleep well."

"Good night, Aunt Amelia." She came to me and I kissed her as Emerson had done.

Ramses had recently decided that he was now too old for kissing—of his parents, at any rate. Further than that I was not in a position to say. Gravely he shook hands with his father—a process that amused Emerson very much. "Good night, Father. Good night, Mother."

"Good night, Ramses. Don't leave your coat on the chair; take it with you and be sure to hang it up."

Nefret had already slipped away, carrying Bastet with her. Her room opened off the sitting room, as did ours. Ramses occupied a chamber next to ours but not connected with it.

"How fortunate we are to have such intelligent, obedient children," Emerson said fatuously. "I told you, Peabody, that Nefret would be no trouble."

"Your naivete constantly astonishes me, Emerson. I don't know what prompted Ramses to obey an order without arguing, for once in his life, but Nefret was trying to escape a lecture. I must have a word with that young woman. She behaved very improperly this evening. I caught her coming out of the Moorish Hall—you know what that place is like, Emerson!—and I strongly suspect that she was there alone with a man!"

"You contradict yourself, Peabody. If she was with a man, she was not alone."

"You are not taking this seriously, Emerson."

"And you are taking it too seriously, Peabody. You have no proof that anything untoward occurred. Admonish the child if you must, but can't it wait until morning?" Emerson yawned and stretched.

I now make certain that the buttons on Emerson's shirts are sewn with double thicknesses of thread, since they were always popping off when he disrobed in haste or when he expanded the impressive breadth of his chest. This was an old shirt; the buttons slipped handily out of the holes, and as he extended his arms to their full length, quite a large expanse of his person, smoothly tanned and artistically modeled, became visible.