The Ape Who Guards the Balance (45 page)

“Perhaps not,” his father conceded graciously. “Follow me, then.”

He started for the nearest door, his boots thumping on the bare floor. Walking boldly through a curtained doorway wasn’t what Ramses would have done, but obviously it was his father’s intention. Ramses caught hold of his sleeve and managed to get in front of him. “At least let me go first.”

His father gave him a hard shove. It struck him as an excessively violent reaction until he heard the first shot. The second followed before his body hit the floor. Then his father landed heavily on him. The last of his breath went out in a cry of alarm.

“God! Father—”

“Don’t get up,” said Emerson calmly.

“I—I can’t. You’re lying on top of me. Damn it, are you—”

“Dead? Obviously not.” He rolled off Ramses and raised himself cautiously to his hands and knees. A third shot rang out.

“Get down,” Ramses gasped. “
Please
get down, sir!”

“Hmm,” said Emerson. “Something odd about that, you know. No bullet.”

“What?”

“That’s where the first two hit.” Emerson gestured at the splintered holes in the plastered wall. “Where did the last go?”

“Through the curtain opposite?”

“It isn’t opposite,” Emerson pointed out. “Her aim doesn’t appear to be that bad. We’ll just wait a bit, I think.”

They waited, Ramses still prone, his father leaning negligently against the wall. When Emerson suddenly straightened and whipped through the doorway, he caught Ramses completely by surprise. He had forgot how quickly his father could move, like a cat or a panther, as his mother said. Scrambling to his feet he followed, thinking unfilial thoughts.

But no shot, no outcry, no sound of any kind followed his father’s abrupt entrance into the “more pretentious apartment.” It was a little larger than the rooms downstairs, and it contained an actual bed instead of a hard pallet, a table, and two chairs. Emerson stood by the bed looking down at something that lay on it. The window over the bed was open and uncurtained. There were flies. Hundreds of flies. The whining buzz rasped like a file. As he went slowly to join his father, Ramses saw the tall green bottle on the table, and the empty glass next to it.

The gun lay by her lax hand. She was dressed in a dark blue garment like the riding habits ladies wore, and she looked neat as a pin, from the velvet facings of the bodice to the elegant buttoned boots. The only mess was on the pillow. She had shot herself through the head.

:

“S
top fussing, Peabody, the bullet only grazed me.”

It had cut a long furrow across Emerson’s back and upper arm. I added a final strip of sticking plaster and sat down beside him. He gave me a somewhat self-conscious smile. “Another shirt ruined, eh?”

“It might have been mine if he hadn’t knocked me down,” Ramses said. “How did you know she was about to fire, Father?”

We were sitting on the verandah, with Fatima hovering and clucking and trying to get us to eat. It was the first moment we had been calm enough to conduct a sensible conversation.

When we came out of Mohassib’s house and found Emerson gone, I was extremely put out. The amiable villains sitting on the mastaba indicated the direction in which he had gone, which was not of much help. Ramses had not been with him. As one explained, they believed he had accompanied us into the house, and he certainly had not come out of it.

I knew Ramses had not been with us, so I felt fairly sure that he had followed his father in some guise or other—which was somewhat reassuring. We had no choice but to wait where we were. The villains kindly made room for us on the mastaba and entertained us with speculations as to Emerson’s whereabouts. Since these ranged from suggestions that he had gone to raid the antiquities shop of Ali Murad to sly hints that his destination might have been someplace less respectable, they did not entertain me very much. Sir Edward, cradling the papyrus box as if it were a baby, and watching me with evident concern, finally offered to go and look for him.

“Where would you look?” I demanded somewhat peevishly.

He had no answer to that, of course.

It was David who first saw the returning wanderers, and his low cry of relief turned all our heads in the direction in which he was looking. From dusty boots to uncovered black heads they appeared no more unkempt than was usual for them, but I observed that Ramses was trying not to limp.

By the time we got back to the house our most immediate questions had been asked and answered, and I had seen the rent in Emerson’s coat, which, like his shirt, was beyond repair. He removed the coat at my request, remarking that it was too cursed hot anyhow, but insisted he was not in need of medical attention. I was therefore forced to conduct these operations on the verandah while Emerson sought refreshment in a whiskey and soda.

“You first, Peabody,” he said. “Did you learn anything from Mohassib?”

“Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Emerson?” I demanded passionately. “You sent me to Mohassib in order to get me out of the way while you kept another appointment. You did not expect I would learn anything. In fact, he did tell me something of considerable importance, but it pales into insignificance compared with your experience. How did you know she was there? And why the devil didn’t you tell me?”

“Now, Peabody—”

“Why did you go there alone? She might have killed you!”

“I wasn’t alone,” Emerson said meekly. “Ramses—”

“As for you, Ramses,” I began.

Emerson cut me off. “Ramses, while you are there at the table, will you get your mother a—”

Ramses had already done so. He handed me the glass.

“Thank you,” I said. “Very well, Emerson, I will listen to your explanation. In detail, if you please.”

“Promise you won’t interrupt?”

“No.”

Emerson grinned. “Keep your mother’s glass filled, Ramses, my boy.”

The clue of the silver ornament had only confirmed Emerson’s suspicion that the House of the Doves was the place to look for Bertha. Where could she find more willing allies than among the unfortunates who had good reason to despise men and to yearn for greater independence? The consistent failure of her attacks on us, he reasoned, must be rendering her increasingly angry and frustrated. Giving away her whereabouts was a bold step, a calculated risk, but it was the sort of risk a bold, reckless woman might take in order to dispose of one of us.

“I didn’t realize she was that desperate, though,” Emerson admitted. “It may well be that she had used up her resources of money and manpower. The revenge of the crocodile . . . A good phrase that, eh, Peabody? Almost as literary as one of yours. The revenge of the crocodile was designed to inspire terror in her subordinates, but it may have backfired. People are inclined to resign from positions that repay failure by torture and death.”

“It makes a certain amount of sense now,” I admitted. “But you couldn’t have known that when you went there.”

“No; but I did not suppose there would be any difficulty,” said Emerson. “I—what did you say, Ramses?”

“Nothing, sir,” said my son. “That is—you didn’t answer my question.”

“Excuse me,” said Sir Edward. “But I have forgot the question.”

He looked quite bewildered. That is often the case with individuals who are unable to follow the quickness of our mental processes.

“I asked how Father was able to anticipate the precise moment of her attack,” said Ramses. “The fact that the house appeared to be deserted and unusually quiet had aroused my own suspicions, but to judge by Father’s behavior—”

“That was designed to mislead our adversaries,” said Emerson complacently. “It was obvious that we were expected. I say we, since she could not have anticipated how many of us would turn up. No doubt our approach was observed; she had time to bundle the girls out of the place, if she had not already done so. Finding no one below, we ascended the stairs, and I announced in a loud voice that I had come to the conclusion no one was there. I did that to put her off guard, you see, so that she would expect me to blunder into a trap.”

“It was very convincing,” said Ramses.

Emerson looked pleased. I had the distinct impression, however, that the statement had not been meant as a compliment. “Expecting difficulty, I heard the faint click of the gun being cocked. So I pushed Ramses out of the way and got myself out of the line of fire as well. We waited a bit. She had fired three shots, and I thought perhaps she would go on until she had emptied the gun, but after a time I—uh—”

“Lost patience and went in anyhow,” I said. “Confound it, Emerson!”

“That was not the way of it, Peabody. As I told Ramses at the time, the third shot came nowhere near us. I assumed it was intended to delay us long enough for Bertha to make her escape via a window. It was something of a shock to see her lying there. There was nothing we could do for her, so we stopped by the police station and reported the incident before returning to Mohassib’s house.”

“Then her body is now in the morgue?”

“I presume so. Please don’t tell me you want to have a look at it. I assure you, you would not want to.”

“I will spare myself that job, I think. I will always be curious, though, as to what role she had been playing. A tourist, I suppose. I wonder . . .”

“Do not wonder,” Emerson said firmly. “Now, then, Peabody, it is your turn. What was this piece of vital information Mohassib gave you?”

“The papyrus came from the Deir el Bahri cache.”

“Ah,” said Emerson. He started to reach for his pipe, but failed to find it since he was wearing neither coat nor shirt. “Ramses, would you look in my coat pocket for . . . Thank you. Well, Peabody, we surmised that, didn’t we?”

“It was only one of several possibilities, none of which was susceptible to proof. Mohassib was certain. According to him, the Abd er Rassuls kept it hidden for years, until it was taken away by . . .” I paused for effect.

“Sethos, I suppose,” said Emerson calmly. “Well, that ties up the last loose end, I think. Nefret’s theory was right after all. Bertha and Sethos were in league. She took the papyrus when she left him.”

A thoughtful silence followed. The sun had set, and the rosy flush of the afterglow lit the eastern hills. From the villages scattered across the plain rose the blended musical voices of the muezzins. The evening breeze stirred Nefret’s hair.

“Then it is over,” she said. “I can’t seem to take it in. We’ve been on the defensive so long. To have it end so suddenly and so finally . . .”

“High bloody time,” Emerson declared. “Now I can get back to work. We must go to the Valley early. Maspero will want to invade the tomb tomorrow, and I have a few things to say to him.”

I allowed the ensuing discussion to proceed without me, for I was deep in thought. Everyone seemed to believe Bertha’s death had ended our troubles. Even Emerson, who was usually the first to suspect the Master Criminal of every crime in the calendar, had dismissed him from consideration. I was not so certain. Bertha had robbed Sethos of at least one valuable antiquity. She might have taken others as well, and I did not think he was the man to accept this complacently.

Perhaps we had not been the only ones on Bertha’s trail. Had it been fear, not of us, but of her former master that had prompted her to end her life? Had
she
ended it? Sethos had once boasted to me that he had never harmed a woman, but there is always a first time. His anger against those who had betrayed him could be a terrible thing.

Fatima came to announce that dinner was served. I observed that Ramses was slow to arise and waited for him.

“Did your father break any bones—your bones, that is—when he fell on you?” I inquired.

“No, Mother. I assure you, I am not in need of your medical attentions.”

“I am relieved to hear it. Ramses . . .”

“Yes, Mother?”

I tried to think how best to express it. “Your father is—er—not always the most perceptive of observers when he is in a state of emotional excitability, as I am sure he was at the sight of that unfortunate woman’s body. Did you see anything that might suggest she had not taken her own life?”

Ramses’s eyebrows rose. I had the feeling that he was not so much surprised by the question as by the fact that I had asked it, and the promptness of his reply was another indication that he had already given the matter some thought. “The revolver was under her hand. There was no sign of a struggle. Her garments were neatly arranged and her limbs straight, except for the arm that had held the weapon. There were powder marks on the glove on her right hand.”

“And the blood was . . .”

“Wet,” said Ramses, without emphasis.

“It seems to be a clear-cut case, then.”

“Sethos claimed, I believe, that he had never harmed a woman.”

“I cannot imagine why you should suppose I was thinking of Sethos. He is not in Luxor.”

“Unless he is—”

“Sir Edward? Nonsense.”

“The possibility had occurred to you, though.”

“I knew it had occurred to
you,
” I corrected. “Do you suppose I could be deceived? I knew Sethos in London, disguised though he was. I would know him in Cairo—in Luxor—wherever he happened to be. Sir Edward is not the Master Criminal!”

The next morning brought a sight one seldom sees in Luxor—lowering gray skies and wind squalls that blew the branches wildly about. We had risen before sunrise, and Emerson is not at his best in the early morning, so it was not until we gathered for breakfast that he took note of the weather. He started up from his chair.

“Rain!” he cried. “The tomb will be flooded.”

I knew it was not our poor little tomb number Five that had roused such alarm, and exasperation for what had become Emerson’s idée fixe made my voice sharper than usual. “Sit down and finish your breakfast, Emerson. It is not raining, only dark and windy.”

After poking his head and shoulders out the window to check on the accuracy of my report, Emerson returned to the table. “It looks like rain.”

“The tomb to which I presume you refer is not your responsibility, my dear. I am sure Ned and Mr. Weigall have taken all necessary precautions.”