The Serpent on the Crown (33 page)

“Not twopence. One can’t blame Carter.”

“You never blame anyone for anything short of mayhem. I wonder if the Professor realizes that he got permission to work in the Valley because Carter thinks it will soften him up. He wants the statuette for Carnarvon.”

Ramses called the waiter and paid for their whiskeys. “Father is even more duplicitous than Carter. He’ll take full advantage and admit no obligation.”

The sun was setting in a dusty haze. Across the way the lights of the Ezbekieh twinkled in the twilight.

“Why don’t we dine here, or at the Savoy?” David suggested.

“Because the food isn’t as good as Bassam’s, and I am not going to behave like a timid tourist. No,” he said, as David raised his hand to hail a cab. “We’ll walk.”

“Down the dark streets and narrow alleyways. You’re hoping he’ll try again, aren’t you?”

“If he does, we’ll be ready for him. We haven’t had much luck tracing him.”

It wasn’t the first time they had strolled the byways of the old city keeping a wary eye out for attack. The ambience was certainly conducive to justifiable paranoia. There were few lights and the balconies of the tall houses overhung the streets, casting shadows even in the daytime.

“Ah, the fond memories,” David said, as they crossed a small plaza with a central fountain. “Isn’t this where you ended up after you escaped from the lady dressed like Hathor?”

“No, that’s farther on. This is where Mother whacked Selim over the head when she mistook him for a spy.”

Bassam had heard they were in Cairo and was expecting them. “But where else would you dine?” he demanded. “I have prepared for you bamiyeh and lamb cooked with spices and fresh cucumbers and tomatoes in oil.”

“So I see,” said David, glancing at Bassam’s apron. Bassam had grown stout on his own cooking, but he was still capable of throwing a rowdy patron out the door.

He joined them for coffee and asked what brought them to Cairo. “Has the black afrit come here?”

“You know about that, do you?” Ramses said.

“Yes, to be sure. It seems,” said Bassam, “that the Father of Curses did not cast it off after all.”

Emerson’s reputation was obviously in jeopardy. Suppressing a smile, Ramses said, “That was only a—er—preliminary attempt. Sometimes, with a spirit so powerful, even the Father of Curses has to try more than once.”

“Hmmm.” Bassam scratched his beard. “That is so. He will perform another ceremony, then.”

Ramses let that statement stand. He didn’t bother to ask about the Pethericks; this was not the sort of place they would visit. The talk soon turned to politics. Bassam knew they were in sympathy with the cause of independence, so he spoke freely and passionately. His comments gave Ramses a new insight into the situation. If Bassam, a peaceable man and a successful merchant, felt so strongly about the subject, the mobs of Cairo could easily be incited to violence. There would be unrest in Egypt for years to come.

By the time they left the restaurant, the street outside was deserted except for a slow-moving donkey and its rider. Ramses stopped long enough to inform the fellow, in his most courtly Arabic, that beating a tired beast violated the laws of the Prophet and that he was about to discover whether beating a driver made him move faster.

“I did not see you, Brother of Demons,” the driver faltered. “I hear and obey.”

Beyond the lights from the restaurant the familiar street, hardly wider than a path, was dark as pitch. David fell back a step or two.

The attack did not come from behind. Ramses was the first to hear the sound—not the regular pad of bare feet, but a faint, surreptitious rustle as of cloth rubbing against a harder surface. He broke into a run. The shot whistled past his side and David cried out. Cursing, Ramses whirled round, ran full tilt into David, and caught hold of his sagging body.

“Where are you hit?”

“Not hit. My damned leg gave way when I started to run. Don’t worry about me, go after him. Be careful!”

Ramses followed his advice, staying close to the walls on his right. The pursuit was almost certainly futile. He had caught a glimpse of a dark figure disappearing around a sharp curve in the street before he turned back. No hero, that one. Ramses’s rapid advance had caught him by surprise and spoiled his aim.

And if he hadn’t run away he might have picked both of them off with a second and third shot.

He could hear David hobbling behind him and quickened his pace. Rounding the curve, he saw ahead the lights of the Place de Bab el-Louk. The plaza was deserted except for two cabs hoping for passengers. No fleeing fugitive, no lurking shadows.

He waited for David to catch him up, keeping an eye on the arcade across the plaza for signs of movement.

“No sign of him,” he said. He did not inquire about David’s leg. The grisly wound David had received during the War would slow him for the rest of his life, but he didn’t acknowledge weakness or appreciate solicitude.

“He’s not very gung ho,” David said. “If he’d gone on shooting he stood a good chance of hitting one of us.”

“Well, I was coming at him at a good pace,” Ramses said fairly. “If he had waited to fire again, and missed again, I might have caught him.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“I’ll give you three guesses what I saw.”

“A shadowy figure robed in black,” David recited in a singsong voice. “That disguise is rather wasted on us.”

“But it’s totally concealing and easily obtained. Almost half the women in this country still wear the tob or the habara.”

One of the cabdrivers looked hopefully in their direction. Ramses waved him to them and looked the other way while David climbed in. The carriage was an open victoria and the horse was setting a good pace. Ramses leaned back with a sigh.

“Another missed opportunity.”

“We learned one thing,” David said. “He has a gun.”

“Must you always look on the bright side? I took Adrian’s away from him, you know.”

“He could easily get another. If one looks respectable and has the money, shopkeepers don’t ask for identification. Not even a visiting card.”

“Visiting card…Oh, good God!” He smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand.

“Don’t hit yourself on the head, it damages the brain.” David recited one of his mother’s admonitions.

“I’ve done it too often, I guess. Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“Think of what?” David asked patiently. The cab circled the Ezbekieh and pulled up in front of Shepheard’s. It was still early; the terrace was filled, and flower-and souvenir-sellers milled around at the foot of the stairs, vying with one another to see who could yell loudest.

“They wouldn’t have to register under their own names,” Ramses said. “They wouldn’t need passports, not the lordly English.”

David was silent for a moment while this sank in. “Oh, hell. Does that mean we have to start all over again? You don’t know what they look like or what name they might have used.”

“I think I do, though.” Ramses tossed the driver a coin and jumped out of the cab. David was slow to follow. He was still favoring his bad leg. Ramses said, “We’ll wait till morning. I’m too tired to go on tonight.”

Sethos went across to Luxor with us and then announced his intention of returning to the railway station instead of accompanying us to the zabtiyeh.

“There’s been only one train since midday and it’s a local, with no first-class carriages,” he explained. “He’d have stood out like a sore thumb if he had caught that one. I’ll wait for the evening trains.”

“You’ll miss dinner,” I said.

Sethos made a face. “I’ll have time for a bite at the Station Hotel. A single bite is about all I’ll be able to stomach, but my beloved Fatima will leave something in the larder for me. Good luck.”

Inspector Ayyid was not at the zabtiyeh. He had gone home for dinner, his assistant informed us. Goodness knows he had every right to do so, but I shared Emerson’s sense of urgency, which led him to swear and ask for Ayyid’s address.

Torn between his orders from his superior and the looming presence of Emerson, the assistant did not hesitate long. “I am not supposed to do that, Father of Curses, but I know he will not object if it is you who ask.”

The inspector had a flat in a new group of buildings behind Luxor Temple. The door was answered by an elderly lady wearing black, who screeched and retreated at the sight of Emerson.

“What did I do?” Emerson demanded in a hurt voice. “I was just about to address her respectfully.”

“Your mere presence is enough to frighten the timid, my dear,” I replied. “Ah, Inspector Ayyid. Our profound apologies for disturbing you and the lady…your mother? Yes. I assure you we would not have intruded had not the matter been urgent. Please go on with your dinner.”

“I was not eating,” said Ayyid, as courtesy demanded. “Come in.”

The small sitting room was neat enough to meet even Fatima’s standards, and comfortably furnished with a mixture of European and Egyptian furniture. At Ayyid’s insistence we seated ourselves in a pair of matching armchairs upholstered in purple plush and accepted his offer of tea. It would have been rude not to do so—even ruder than our uninvited visit. Ayyid’s mother had got over the first shock of Emerson and kept peeping round the door at him.

“We will not keep you long,” I promised, and launched into the reason for our visit.

“Papyrus?” Ayyid’s eyebrows lifted. “You want me to arrest a man who stole scraps of papyrus?”

“They are valuable antiquities,” Emerson began. “Er—that is—oh, what the devil. We may as well tell him the truth, eh, Peabody?”

It was a clever move on Emerson’s part, I must say. Ayyid was clearly flattered at being taken into our confidence, and he was in complete agreement with our reasons for not wishing the truth to be more widely known.

“The temptation would be too great, even for some of my own men,” he admitted.

“For most men,” said Emerson, who was really in top form that evening. “So, you will give the necessary orders?”

“Yes. He is to be held for questioning—at your request, Professor.”

Emerson grinned. “That’s right. Why should you take the responsibility?”

I had remembered another responsibility—the one we owed Cyrus, who was almost as deeply involved in the business as we. Rather than keeping Nefret waiting for news (or irritating the cook), we went straight back to the house and sent Jamad off to the Castle with a message inviting the Vandergelts to an after-dinner conference. We were just finishing the meal when they all turned up.

“What has happened?” Katherine demanded. “Your message only said the matter was urgent. Has someone been hurt?”

I reassured her on that point and suggested we retire to the parlor for coffee. “I thought it best not to go into detail in a letter,” I explained. “But the situation is serious enough. Mr. Lidman came here this morning, and after he left, without seeing us, we discovered that the statue was gone.”

“And you’re just getting round to telling us now?” Bertie cried. “Good Lord, this is terrible. What can we do?”

In my usual well-organized fashion I described the steps we had taken.

“Well, I guess you’ve been busy,” Cyrus admitted. “It’s terrible news, all right, but see here, folks, the son of—the fellow can’t get away with this. So long as he doesn’t leave town—and it sounds as if you’ve got that covered—we’ll catch up with him sooner or later. You put Selim and Daoud on the job and with their contacts they’ll track him down. You just let us know what you want us to do.”

Sethos did not return to the house until after midnight. Ayyid himself had been on hand at the train station. Lidman had not.

W
here the devil can he have got to?” Emerson demanded, between bites of egg and bacon. Daoud sniffed appreciatively at the latter comestible but of course did not eat any of it. He and Selim had come by to report and to enjoy Fatima’s cooking, which included a variety of other dishes besides the forbidden bacon.

“It is a mystery,” said Daoud.

“You are sure he has not been seen on the West Bank?” I inquired of Selim.

“Not yet, Sitt Hakim. But before long he will need food and water and shelter. The villages here are small, not like Luxor. He cannot approach any of them without being noticed.”

“Perhaps the Father of Curses should use his magical powers to find the man,” Daoud suggested.

Emerson, who was still smarting over the failure of his exorcism, looked suspiciously at Daoud, and then concluded, correctly, that his large friend had not meant to be sarcastic.

“The devil with magical powers,” said Emerson, jumping up. “I’m going to look for him.”

“Please, Emerson, do not go riding off in all directions,” I implored. “Wait until I—”

“Make one of your little lists? Peabody, my dear, I have the highest respect for your lists, but—”

“Selim has raised an important consideration, Emerson. How many places on the West Bank are there where a man like Lidman could remain concealed for more than a few hours?”

“Hmph.” Emerson sat down again. “He could not take shelter with one of the villagers. They would turn him in, to us if not to the police.”

“He wouldn’t take the chance,” I said. “Not when he has the—ouch!”

“I beg your pardon, Peabody,” said Emerson, giving me a terrible look. “My foot slipped.”

“The statue, you mean,” said Selim. Fatima refilled his cup. He thanked her, and I said, rubbing my shin, “Fatima, did you—”

“No, Sitt,” Selim said. “Fatima said nothing. I deduced it, myself. A valuable object and a missing man whom you want to find—it is, as Ramses would say, too much of a coincidence.”

He was so proud of himself I hadn’t the heart to deny the truth. “We were naive to suppose that the connection would not be made,” I admitted. “Though not everyone is as clever a detective as you, Selim. To return to the previous subject: Can we assume Lidman would not openly approach any of the villagers? Yes. He would be just as noticeable if he took a room at one of the West Bank hotels. So that leaves only a hiding place in the cliffs of the high plateau. There are dozens of empty tomb shafts and caves there.”