He Shall Thunder in the Sky (44 page)

     It struck Ramses as a good idea, so he complied. Emerson got the torch and positioned it more effectively before he began unwinding the strips of cloth from round the fellow’s legs. Ramses studied the man’s face curiously. It was a hard face, narrow across the forehead and broadening to a heavy jaw and protruding chin, but the mouth, relaxed in unconsciousness, was almost delicate in outline. He was younger than he had appeared. Hair, mustache, and scanty brows were fair, bleached almost to whiteness by the sun. His lips moved, and his eyes opened. They were blue.

     “Sind Sie ruhig,” Ramses said. “Rühren Sie sich und ich schiesse. Verstehen Sie?”

     “I understand.”

     “You prefer English?” inquired Emerson, wrapping strips of cloth round the booted ankles. “It’s no good, you know. You gave yourself away when you pulled that gun.”

     “I know.”

     “Are you alone?”

     The pale-blue eyes rolled toward Ramses and then looked down. Emerson had managed to knot the strip of cloth by holding one end between his teeth. With his lips drawn back, he looked like a wolf chewing on a victim’s torn garments. The German swallowed.

     “What are you going to do with me?”

     “Take you back to Cairo,” Ramses said, since his father was still tying knots. “First we have a few questions. I strongly advise you to answer truthfully. My father is not a patient man and he is already rather annoyed with you.”

     “You torture prisoners?” The boy tried to sneer. He can’t be much over twenty, Ramses thought. Just the right age for a job like this — all afire to die for the Fatherland or the Motherland or some equally amorphous cause, but not really believing death can touch him. He must have attended school in England.

     “Good Gad, no,” Emerson said. “But I cannot guarantee what will happen to you in Cairo. You are in enemy uniform, my lad, and you know what that means. Cooperate with us and you may not have to face a firing squad. First I want your name and the name of the man who sent you here.”

     “My name . . .” He hesitated. “Heinrich Fechter. My father is a banker in Berlin.”

     “Very good,” Emerson said encouragingly. “I sincerely hope you may live to see him again one day. Who sent you?”

     “I . . .” He ran his tongue over his lips. “I see I must yield. You have won. I salute you.”

     He raised his left hand. Ramses saw it coming, but the split second it took him to comprehend the boy’s real intent was a split second too long. The muscles of his hand and arm had locked in anticipation of an attempt to seize the gun; before he could turn the weapon away the young German’s thumb found Ramses’s trigger finger and pressed it. The heavy-caliber bullet blew the top of his head off in a grisly cloud of blood and brains, splintered bone and hair.

     “Christ!” Ramses stumbled to his feet and turned away, dropping the pistol. The night air was cold, but not as cold as the icy horror that sent shivers running through his body.

     His father put Ramses’s coat over his bare shoulders and held it there, his hands firm and steadying. “All right now?”

     “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

     “Never apologize for feeling regret and pity. Not to me. Well. Let’s get at it, shall we?”

     It was a vile, horrible task, but he was up to it now. The search produced a set of skillfully forged documents, including a tattered photograph of a sweet-faced gray-haired woman who was probably not the boy’s mother. Emerson pocketed them. “Shall we try to find his horse?”

     “We can’t leave it here to die of thirst.”

     “No, but to search this terrain in the dark is to risk a broken leg. We will send someone to look for it in the morning, and for his camp.”

     There was one more thing. Neither of them had to suggest it; they set to work in silent unanimity, deepening the shallow depression in the corner of the wall. Ramses wrapped his coat round the shattered head before they moved the body. A good hard push sent the remains of the wall tumbling down over the grave.

     “Do you remember his name?” Emerson asked.

     “Yes.” It was not likely he would ever forget it, or neglect the request implicit in that single answer to their questions. Someday the banker in Berlin would know that his son had died a hero, for whatever comfort that might give him.

     Another death, another dead end, Ramses thought. It appeared there was to be no easy way out.

     He got the canteen from the body of Emerson’s horse and gave Risha a drink before he addressed his father. “D’you want to go on ahead? You can make better time alone. I’ll be all right here.”

     “Good Gad, no. What if I fell off again? You go. I’ll wait here.”

     He knew exactly what his father had in mind, and now he had no hesitation in saying so. “You want to explore your bloody damned ruins, don’t you? If you think I am going to leave you stumbling round in the dark, without food or water or transport, you can think again. We’ll go together. You ride Risha, I’ll walk.”

     They had extinguished the torch, to save what was left of the failing batteries. He couldn’t make out Emerson’s expression, but he heard a soft chuckle. “Stubborn as a camel. Very well, my boy. Give me a hand up, will you? The sooner we get back, the better. God only knows what your mother has been up to.”

Eleven

T
he flat was in the fashionable Ismailiaya district. Waiting in the cab I had hired, I saw him enter the building at a few minutes past three. He had been lunching out.

     I do not lie unless it is absolutely necessary. In this case it
had
been absolutely necessary. If Emerson had known what I intended, he would not have let me out of his sight. If I had told Nefret the truth, she would have insisted on accompanying me. Neither would have been acceptable.

     I gave my quarry half an hour to settle down, and then inspected myself in the small hand mirror I carried. The disguise was perfect! I had never seen anyone who looked more like a lady bent on an illicit assignation. The only difficulty was my hat, which tended to tip, since the hat pins did not penetrate through the wig into my own hair. I pushed it back into position, adjusted the veil, and crossed the street. The doorkeeper was asleep. (They usually are.) I took the lift to the second floor and rang the bell. A servant answered it; his dark coloring and tarboosh were Egyptian, though he wore the neatly cut suit of a European butler. When he asked my name I put my finger to my lips and smiled meaningfully.

     “You need not announce me. I am expected.”

     Evidently the Count was accustomed to receive female visitors who did not care to give their names. The man bowed without speaking and led me through the foyer. Opening a door, he gestured me to enter.

     The room was a parlor or sitting room, quite small but elegantly furnished. A man sat writing at an escritoire near the windows, with his back to me. Apparently he agreed with Emerson that tight-fitting garments interfered with intellectual pursuits. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow.

     I took a firmer grip on my parasol, readjusted my hat, and entered. The servant closed the door behind me — and then I heard a sound that made my breath catch.

     I flung myself at the door. Too late! It was locked.

     Slowly I turned to face the man who had risen to confront me, his hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. The black hair and mustache and the eyeglass were those of the Count de Sevigny. The lithe grace of his pose, the trim body, and the eyes, of an ambiguous shade between gray and brown, were those of someone else.

     “At last!” he exclaimed. “I have waited tea for you, my dear. Will you be good enough to pour?”

     An elegant silver tea service stood on the table he indicated, together with with a dumbwaiter spread with sandwiches and iced cakes.

     “Please take a chair so that I may do so,” said Sethos politely. “I believe you have a fondness for cucumber sandwiches?”

     “Cucumber sandwiches,” I said, regaining my self-possession, “do not appeal to me at this moment. Pray let us not stand on ceremony. Sit down and keep your hands where I can see them.”

     In a single long step he was at my side. “The wig does not become you,” he said, deftly whisking off the hat and the wig to which it was (somewhat precariously) attached. “And if you will permit me a word of criticism, that parasol does not match your frock.”

     The hand that rested on my shoulder fell away as I leaped back. He made no attempt to detain me. Instead he folded his arms and watched with infuriating amusement as I tugged in vain at the handle of the parasol. The release button was still sticking. I would have a few words to say to that lazy rascal Jamal when I returned home!

     If I returned home.

     “May I be of assistance?” Sethos inquired. He held out his hand.

     The mocking smile, the contemptuous gesture gave me the additional strength I required. The button yielded. I whisked the blade out and brandished it.

     “Ha!” I cried. “Now we will see who gives the orders here! Sit in that chair.”

     He appeared quite unperturbed for a man who has a sharp point an inch from his jugular, but he obeyed the order. “An engaging little accoutrement,” he remarked. “Put it away, my dear. You won’t use it; you are incapable of cutting a man’s throat unless your passions are aroused, and I have no intention of arousing yours. Not that sort of passion, at any rate.”

     His gray — hazel — brown eyes sparkled wickedly. What color were they? I leaned closer. Sethos let out a little yelp. “Please, Amelia,” he said plaintively.

     A thin trickle of blood ran down his bared throat. “That was an accident,” I said in some confusion.

     “I know. I forgive you. Do sit down and give me a cup of tea. There is no need for this combative approach, you know. You have won. I yield.”

     “Have I? You do?”

     Sethos leaned back, his hands on the arms of the chair. “I presume you have left the usual message to be opened if you fail to return home, so I can’t keep you here indefinitely; your husband and son will not be back for some hours, but there are others who may be moved to come looking for you, including that charming little tigress, your daughter. She isn’t really your flesh and blood, though; sometimes, Amelia, I am filled with wonderment at how you can be so clever about so many things and miss others that are right under your nose.”

     “Confound it!” I cried in considerable confusion. “How do you know . . . What do you mean by . . . You are trying to get me off the subject. We were speaking of —”

     “My surrender.” Sethos smiled. “I apologize. Conversation with you has such charm, I am always moved to prolong it.”

     “I accept your surrender. Come with me. I have a cab waiting.” I took up a position of attack, feet braced, sword at the ready. Sethos’s mouth underwent a series of contortions. Instead of rising, he leaned forward, his hands clasped. They were long-fingered, well-tended hands, and the bared forearms to which they were attached had a symmetry many younger men might have envied.

     “You misunderstand me, dear Amelia. You have already captured my heart, and the rest of me is at your disposal, but not if you want to dispose of it into a prison cell. What I meant was that you have destroyed the usefulness of this persona. The Count will never be seen again in Cairo. Now sit down and have your tea, and we will chat like the old friends we are. Who knows, you may be able to trick me into betraying information that will enable you to put an end to me once and for all.”

     His mouth twitched again. He was laughing at me! All the better, I thought; in his arrogance he believes me incapable of catching him off-guard. We would see about that!

     I sat down on the sofa behind the tea table, leaned the parasol, still unsheathed, against one of the cushions, and placed my handbag at my feet. My position was greatly improved thereby, since it left both my hands free. I had been unable to extract the handcuffs or the pistol or the length of rope from my bag while I held the sword. I would defeat him yet! But before I took him prisoner I wanted explanations for several of his enigmatic statements.

     “How do you know Ramses and Emerson will not be back for some hours?” I inquired, pouring the tea. “Milk or lemon? Sugar?”

     “Lemon, please. No sugar.” He leaned forward to take the cup from my hand. His eyes met mine. Surely they were brown?

     “And how dare you refer to Nefret so familiarly?” I went on, pouring a cup for myself. Excitement had made me quite thirsty, and I knew the tea could not be drugged since both cups came from the same pot. “And what were you implying when you informed me of a fact I know quite well, namely that she is not —”

     “Wait!” Sethos held up his hand. “A little order and method, my dear, if you please. Let me take your questions one by one.”

     “Pray do.”

     He indicated the plate of sandwiches. I shook my head. His smile broadened. “They have not been tampered with.” He took one, seemingly at random, and bit into it.

     “But you expected me. How did you know I would come here today?”

     Sethos swallowed. “Another question! These are excellent sandwiches, by the way. Are you sure you won’t . . . ? Very well. I expected you today because I knew you had recognized me last night.”

     “I told you I would know you anywhere, in any disguise.”

     “Yes. Touching, isn’t it? I believed you when you told me that, and I have been careful to stay out of your way, though I was unable to resist presenting you with a token of my affection. Are you going to thank me properly?”

     The melting look he gave me would have been more effective if I had not known he was laughing at me. “It was a foolish gesture,” I said severely.

     “Yes, I suppose it was. A student of psychology like yourself might claim I did it because subconsciously I wanted you to find me. I didn’t anticipate you would follow the young lady — is that what you were doing, or was it a joint venture? — but I knew you instantly, in spite of that hideous wig. It works both ways, you know. The eyes of love —”