Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (88 page)

Clutching the cat to his bosom, in flagrant disregard of this order, Ramses retired, with John in attendance. He (Ramses) smelled very peculiar. Goat, I believe.

Emerson also smelled of goat, and of the strong tobacco favoured by the men of Aziyeh. He looked tired, and admitted as much when I questioned him. When I questioned him further, he admitted that Ramses’ ‘boyish joie de vivre,’ as he put it, was responsible for his fatigue. Ramses had fallen out of a palm tree and into the river; he had been attacked and slightly trampled by a goat after attempting to loosen the rope around its neck, which he felt was too tight (the animal had either mistaken his motives or yielded to the irascibility of temper to which billy goats are traditionally prone); and had concluded the afternoon by consuming several pints of date wine, forbidden to devout Muslims, but brewed on the sly by some of the villagers.

‘Strange,’ I said. ‘He did not appear to be inebriated.’

‘He rid himself of the wine almost immediately,’ said Emerson. ‘On the floor of Abdullah’s house.’

At my suggestion Emerson retired behind the screen to freshen up, while I called the safragi and ordered whisky and soda for both of us.

As we sipped this refreshing beverage, we compared notes on the day’s activities. The results were most satisfactory. All the necessary arrangements had been completed and we were ready to leave at dawn. I had spent the remainder of the afternoon packing and sealing up our boxes – or rather, supervising the hotel servants in that endeavour – so we could spend the evening in quiet enjoyment. It would be the last evening for many weeks that we would enjoy civilized amenities, and although I yield to no one in my appreciation of desert life, I intended to take advantage of wine and good food, hot baths and soft beds while they were available.

We took Ramses with us to dinner, though he was reluctant to part with Bastet. ‘Someone has hurt her,’ he said, looking accusingly at me. ‘Dere is a cut on her back, Mama – a sharp cut, like dat made by a knife.’

‘I saw it, and have attended to it, Ramses.’

‘But, Mama – ’

‘It is a wonder she has no more scars than that to show for her adventure. I only hope she has not …’

‘Has not what, Mama?’

‘Never mind.’ I stared at the cat, who stared back at me with enigmatic golden eyes. She did not appear to be in a state of amatory excitement… Time, and only time, would tell.

For once Emerson did not grumble about being forced to dine out. Puffed with fatherly pride, he presented, ‘my son, Walter Peabody Emerson,’ to everyone he knew and several he did not know. I was rather proud of the boy myself. He was wearing Scottish dress, with a little kilt in the Emerson tartan. (Designed by myself, it is a tasteful blend of scarlet, forest-green and blue, with narrow yellow and purple stripes.)

All in all, it was a most pleasant evening, and when we retired to our rooms we sought our couch in serene contemplation of a day well spent and of useful work ahead.

The moon had set, and silvery starlight was the only illumination when I woke in the small hours of the morning. I was instantly alert. I never wake unless there is cause, and I soon identified the cause that had roused me on this occasion – a soft, stealthy sound in the corner of the room where our bags and boxes were piled, ready to be removed in the morning.

For an interval I lay perfectly still, allowing my eyes to adjust to the faint light, and straining to hear. Emerson’s stertorous breathing interfered with this latter activity, but in the lulls between inspiration and expiration I could hear the thief scrabbling among our luggage.

I am accustomed to nocturnal alarms. For some reason they occur frequently with me. I hardly need say that I was not in the least afraid. The only question in my mind was how to apprehend the thief. There was no lock on our door. The presence of the safragi in the hallway was supposed to be sufficient to deter casual thieves, few of whom would have had the temerity to enter a place like Shepheard’s. I felt certain that this unusual event was the result of my investigation into Abd el Atti’s murder. It was a thrilling prospect. Here at last, in my very room, was a possible clue. It did not occur to me to awaken Emerson. He wakens noisily, with cries and gasps and thrashing about.

On several previous occasions I had fallen into the error of tangling myself up in the mosquito netting, thus giving a midnight invader a chance to escape. I was determined not to commit the same mistake. The filmy folds of the netting were tucked firmly under the mattress on all sides of the bed. I began tugging gently at the portion nearest my head, pulling it free an inch at a time. Emerson continued to snore. The thief continued to explore.

When the netting was loose as far down as I could reach without moving more than my arm, the crucial moment was upon me. Mentally I reviewed my plans. My parasol stood ready as always, propped against the head of the bed. The thief was in the corner farthest from the door. Speed rather than silence was now my aim. Gathering a handful of the netting, I gave it a sharp tug.

The whole cursed apparatus came tumbling down on me. Evidently the nails holding it to the ceiling had become weakened. As I struggled in vain to free myself, I heard, mingled with Emerson’s bewildered curses, the sound of feet thudding across the floor. The door opened and closed.

‘Curse it,’ I cried, forgetting myself in my frustration.

‘Curse it,’ Emerson shouted. ‘What the devil …’ And other even more forceful expressions of alarm.

My efforts to extricate myself were foiled by Emerson’s frantic thrashing, which only succeeded in winding the netting more tightly about our limbs. When the sleepers in the next room rushed to the scene we were lying side by side, wrapped like a pair of matched mummies and incapable of movement of any kind. Emerson was still roaring out curses; and the look on John’s face as he stood staring, his nightcap standing up in a peak and his bare shanks showing under the hem of his gown, moved me to a peal of hysterical laughter.

Emerson’s breath finally gave out – he had inhaled a portion of the netting, which was wound around his face. In the blessed silence that followed I instructed John to put down the lamp before he dropped it and set the place on fire. The cat lowered her head and began sniffing about the room. The hair on her back stood up in a stiff ridge.

Ramses had taken in the situation with a look of mild inquiry. Now he disappeared into his own room and returned carrying some object that glittered in the light. Not until he approached close to the bed did I identify it. I let out a shriek.

‘No, Ramses! Drop it. Drop it at once, do you hear?’

When I speak in that tone, Ramses does not argue. He dropped the knife. It was at least eight inches long, and polished to a wicked shine. ‘My intention,’ he began, ‘was to free you and Papa from de incumbrance dat in some wholly unaccountable manner seems to have – ’

‘I have no quarrel with your intentions, only with your methods.’ I managed to free one arm. It was not long before I had kicked off the netting, and I turned at once, with some anxiety, to Emerson. As I feared, his open mouth was stuffed with netting. His eyes bulged and his face had turned a portentous shade of mauve.

It took some little time to restore order. I resuscitated my wheezing spouse, confiscated the knife – a gift from Abdullah which Ramses had not thought it expedient to mention – and ordered my son, my servant and my cat to return to their beds. Then, at last, I was able to turn my attention to the crime – for attempted burglary, I venture to assert, must be called a crime.

It was no use pursuing the thief. He had had time to cross half of Cairo by then. One look at the scene of his inquiries assured me he was a master at his illegal craft, for he had managed to create considerable havoc with a minimum of sound. He had not ventured to open any of the packing cases, for they had been nailed shut, but all our personal baggage had been searched. The contents lay in untidy heaps on the floor. A bottle of ink had lost its stopper, with disastrous consequences to my best shirtwaist.

Emerson, now fully restored but breathing loudly through his nose, pulled himself to a sitting position. Arms crossed, face engorged, he watched in grim silence for a time and then inquired gently, ‘Amelia, why are you crawling on all fours?’

‘I am looking for clues, of course.’

‘Ah, yes. A calling card, perhaps. A fragment of cloth torn from our visitor’s robe – a robe identical with those worn by half the population of Egypt. A lock of hair, courteously torn from his scalp in order to assist – ’

‘Sarcasm does not become you, Emerson,’ I said, continuing to crawl. And a tedious process it is, I might add, when the folds of one’s nightgown keep bunching up under one’s knees. Then I let out a cry of triumph. ‘Aha!’

‘A photograph of the burglar’s wife and children,’ Emerson went on, warming to his theme. ‘A letter, bearing his name and address – though there are no pockets in these robes, and few of the wearers can read and write – ’

‘A footprint,’ I said.

‘A footprint,’ Emerson repeated. ‘Hobnailed boots, perhaps? Of an unusual pattern, made by only one bootmaker in all Cairo, who keeps records of his customers – ’

‘Correct,’ I said. ‘At least as to the boots. I doubt, however, that the pattern will prove to be unique. I will make inquiries, of course.’

‘What?’ Emerson bounded from the bed. ‘Booted feet, did you say?’

‘See for yourself. There is a clear print. He must have trod in the spilled ink. I am glad of the accident on that account, though I do not understand why there should have been a bottle of ink in my bag. I suppose Ramses put it there.’

Now on all fours like myself, Emerson inspected the print.

‘There is no reason why a common sneak thief should not wear boots. If he were dressed in European clothing – or if he were European – he would find it easier to gain entry to the hotel…’ His voice trailed off in an indecisive manner.

‘A common sneak thief would not dare enter the hotel, Emerson. Even if the safragi is asleep most of the time.’

Emerson sat back on his haunches. ‘I know what you are thinking,’ he cried accusingly. ‘You will insist on some connection with the death of Abd el Atti.’

‘It would be a strange coincidence if the two events were not connected.’

‘Stranger coincidences have happened. What could he have been after?’

‘The mummy portrait,’ I suggested.

Emerson looked uncomfortable. ‘I intend to hand it over to the Museum, Amelia.’

‘Of course.’

‘It is a handsome piece of work, but not valuable,’ Emerson mused, rubbing his chin. ‘Did you – er – rescue anything from the shop?’

‘Only a scrap of papyrus, which appeared to be from the same manuscript as the one I obtained from Abd el Atti.’

‘Both together would not be worth the risk taken by the thief.’ Emerson seated himself. Elbow on his knee, chin on his hand, he might have sat as the model for M. Rodin’s splendid statue, even to his costume – or, to put it as delicately as possible, the absence thereof. Emerson refuses to wear a nightshirt, and the new fad of pyjamas has prompted a number of rude jests from him.

‘The papyrus from which the fragments came might conceivably be of value,’ he said after a time. ‘Sayce was intrigued, though he tried to hide it – the devious fellow. We do not have the papyrus, though. Do we?’

‘Emerson, you cut me to the quick. When have I ever deceived you about something of importance?’

‘Quite often, Amelia. However, in this case I will take your word. You agree that we possess nothing that would explain a visit from an emissary of your imaginary Master Criminal?’

‘Not to my knowledge. However –’

Emerson rose majestically to his feet. ‘The invasion was that of a common ordinary thief,’ he proclaimed, in orotund tones. ‘That is the end of it. Come to bed, Amelia.’

M
AZGHUNAH
.

Mazghunah! Mazghunah …

No, there is no magic in the name, punctuate it as one will. Not even a row of exclamation points can lend charm to such an uncouth collection of syllables. Giza, Sakkara, Dahshoor are no more euphonious, perhaps, but they evoke the lure of antiquity and exploration. Mazghunah has nothing whatever to recommend it.

It does possess a railway station, and we descended from the train to find that we were eagerly awaited. Towering above the spectators who had gathered on the platform was the stately form of our
reis,
Abdullah, who had gone on ahead to arrange for transport and accommodations. He is the most dignified of men, almost as tall as Emerson – that is to say, above the average Egyptian height – with a sweeping array of facial hair that turns a shade lighter every year, so that it will soon rival the snowy whiteness of his robe. Yet he has the energy of a young man, and when he saw us a broad smile lightened the solemnity of his bronzed countenance.

After our luggage had been loaded onto the donkeys Abdullah had selected, we mounted our own steeds. ‘Forward, Peabody,’ Emerson cried. ‘Forward, I say!’

Cheeks flushed and eyes glowing, he urged his donkey into a trot. It is impossible for a tall man to look heroic when mounted on one of these little beasts; but as I watched Emerson jog away, his elbows out and his knees well up, the smile that curved my lips was not one of derision. Emerson was in his element, happy as a man can be only when he has found his proper niche in life. Not even the disappointment of de Morgan’s decision could crush that noble spirit.