The Curse of the Pharaohs (24 page)

I was spared the necessity of acting, however. When I reached the room in question, I found that Berengeria had anticipated me. The sound of her rasping snores was audible at some distance; even before I saw her sprawled in an ungainly and indecent heap on the carpet, I knew what had happened. An empty brandy bottle lay by her right hand.

Lady Baskerville was standing over her, and I trust I may not be accused of malice if I remark that one of the lady's dainty slippers was lifted as if in preparation for a kick. Seeing me, she hastily lowered her foot.

"Abominable!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. "Mrs. Emerson, I insist that you remove this dreadful woman from my house. It was an act of extreme cruelty to bring her here when I am in such a state of nerves, worn by grief—"

"Let me point out, Lady Baskerville, that the decision was not mine," I broke in. "I fully sympathize with your viewpoint; but we can hardly send her back to Luxor in this condition. How did she get at the brandy? I thought you kept the liquor cabinet locked."

"I do. I suppose she managed to get at the keys; drunkards are amazingly cunning when it comes to feeding their weakness. But good heavens, what does it matter?" She raised her white hands to her breast and wrung them vigorously. "I am going mad, I tell you!"

Her theatrics assured me that she had a new audience, for she knew I was impervious to that approach; I was therefore not surprised to see Vandergelt enter.

"Holy Jehoshaphat," he said, with a horrified look at the snoring mound on the floor. "How long has she been like that? My poor girl." Here he clasped the hand Lady Baskerville had extended, and pressed it tenderly in his.

"We must take her to her room and lock her in," I said. "Do you take her head, Mr. Vandergelt; Lady Baskerville and I will take—"

The lady let out a plaintive scream. "You jest, Mrs. Emerson; surely you jest!"

"Mrs. Emerson never jokes about such things," said Vandergelt, with a smile. "If you and I refuse to help, she will do it alone—dragging the woman by her feet. Mrs. Emerson, I suggest we call one—or two, or three—of the servants. There is no hope of concealing the poor creature's condition, or preserving her reputation."

This procedure was duly carried out; and I went next to the kitchen to tell Ahmed that Emerson and I would be dining out. As I strode along, deep in thought, out of the corner of my eyes I caught a glimpse of something moving among the trees. A corner of pale fabric, like the blue zaaboots worn by Egyptian men, fluttered and disappeared.

It might have been one of our own people. But there had been something hasty and surreptitious about the darting movement. I therefore took a firm grip of my parasol and went in pursuit.

Since the night on the loggia with poor Arthur I had determined never to go abroad without this useful instrument. To be sure, I had not needed it then; but one never knew when an emergency might arise. I had therefore attached the parasol to my belt, by means of one of the hooks with which this article of clothing was supplied. This was occasionally inconvenient, for the shaft had a tendency to slip between my legs and trip me up; but better to bruise one's knees than be left defenseless in case of attack.

I moved quietly over the soft grass, taking cover when I could. Peeping out from behind a thorny bush, I beheld the form of a man in native garb behind another bush. After glancing around in a furtive manner that assured me he was up to no good, he glided serpentlike across the turf and passed through the doorway of a small building, one of the mud-brick auxiliary structures used for storage of tools. I caught a glimpse of his face as he glanced slyly over his shoulder, and a villainous countenance it was. A livid scar twisted his cheek and ran down into his heavy grizzled beard.

Normally the door of the storage shed was padlocked. Theft, or worse, was obviously the man's aim. I was about to raise the alarm when I realized that an outcry would warn the felon and enable him to escape. I decided I would capture him myself.

Dropping flat, in Red Indian style, I slid forward. I did not rise to my feet until I had reached the shelter of the wall, where I pressed myself flat. I heard voices within, and marveled at the effrontery of the thieves. There were at least two of them—unless the original miscreant was talking to himself. They were speaking Arabic, but I could only make out an occasional word.

I took a deep breath and rushed into the hut, striking out with my parasol. I heard a grunt of pain as the iron shaft thudded against a soft surface. Hands seized me. Struggling, I struck again. The parasol was wrenched from my grasp. Undaunted, I kicked my attacker heavily on the shin, and was about to call out when a voice bade me cease. I knew that voice.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded somewhat breathlessly.

"I might echo that question," replied Emerson, in the same style. "But why ask? I know you are ubiquitous. I don't mind that, it is your impetuosity that distresses me. I believe you have broken my leg."

"Nonsense," I said, retrieving my parasol. "If you would condescend to inform me of your plans, these tiring encounters might be avoided, to our mutual benefit. Who is with you?"

"Allow me to present Ali Hassan Abd er Rasul," said Emerson. He finished the introduction in Arabic, referring to me as his learned and high-born chief wife—which would have been very flattering if his tone had not been so sarcastic. Ali Hassan, whom I now saw huddled in the corner, rolled his eyes till the whites showed, and made an extremely insulting remark.

"Son of a one-eyed camel and offspring of a deceased goat," I said (or words to that effect; the original Arabic is far too emphatic for decent English), "keep your infected tongue from comments about your betters."

Emerson amplified this statement at some length, and Ali Hassan cowered. "I had forgotten that the honored Sitt has our language," he remarked. "Give me my reward and I will go."

"Reward!" I exclaimed. "Emerson, do you mean—"

"Yes, my honored chief wife, I do," Emerson replied. "Ali Hassan sent a message by one of the servants to meet him here. Why he won't come to the house I do not know and frankly I do not care; but he claims he has found Armadale. Of course I have no intention of paying him until I am sure."

"Where is Armadale?"

"In a cave in the hills."

I waited for him to go on, but he said no more; and as the silence lengthened, a shiver of comprehension ran through me.

"He is dead."

"Yes. And," Emerson said gravely, "according to Ali Hassan, he has been dead for quite some time."

Twelve

THE declining sun thrust a long red-gold arm through the open doorway, lighting the shadowy corner where Ali Hassan crouched. I saw that Emerson was watching me quizzically.

"Throws your theories off a bit, doesn't it?" he inquired.

"I can hardly say at present," I replied. '"Quite a long time' is a rather indefinite term. But if it should prove that after all Armadale was already dead when the latest attack took place... No, that would really not surprise me; the alternative theory I had formulated—"

"Curse it, Amelia, have you the infernal gall to pretend ..." Emerson cut the comment short. After a few moments of heavy breathing he bared his teeth at me. The expression was evidently meant to be a smile, for when he continued his voice was sickeningly sweet. "I will say no more; I don't want Ali Hassan to think we are at odds with one another."

"These Arabs do not understand Western means of expressing affection," I agreed, somewhat absently. "Emerson, we must act at once. We face a dilemma of considerable proportions."

"True. Armadale's body must be brought back here. And someone must go to the tomb. It has never been more vulnerable than at this moment."

"Obviously we must divide forces. Shall I go after Armadale or guard the tomb?"

"Armadale," was the prompt reply. "Though I don't like to ask you, Peabody."

"You are giving me the less dangerous task," I said, much moved by the expression on Emerson's face as he looked at me. But there was no time for sentiment. With every passing moment the sun sank lower in the west.

Ali Hassan grunted and got to his feet. "I go now. You give me—"

"Not until you have taken us to the body of Armadale," Emerson answered. "The Sitt will go with you."

An avaricious gleam brightened Ali Hassan's eyes. He began to whine about bis advanced age and state of exhaustion. After some bargaining he accepted Emerson's offer of an additional fifty piasters to lead me to the cave. "And," Emerson added, in a soft, menacing growl, "you answer for the Sitt's safety with your life, Ali Hassan. Should she suffer so much as a scratch, should a single hair be missing from her head, I will tear out your liver. You know I speak truly."

Ali Hassan sighed. "I know," he said mournfully.

"You had better go at once, Peabody," Emerson said. "Take Abdullah and one or two other men; and perhaps Karl—"

"Won't I do instead?" a voice inquired.

The sun set O'Connell's hair ablaze. Only his head was visible around the doorjamb, and that gave the impression of being ready to disappear at the slightest sign of hostility. His smile was as broad and cocky as ever, though.

"Humph," said Emerson. "I looked for you earlier, Mr. O'Connell."

"I thought I had better keep out of your way at first," the journalist replied. Emerson's mild tone had reassured him; he stepped out from behind the shelter of the wall, his hands tucked in his pockets. "I couldn't help overhearing," he went on.

"Grrr," said Emerson. (I assure you, there is really no other way of reproducing this sound.)

"Honestly." O'Connell's blue eyes widened. "And it's as well I did, now isn't it, Professor? You don't want Mrs. E. wandering off into the hills without a man to protect her."

"I don't need a man to protect me," I said indignantly. "And if I did, Abdullah would be more than adequate."

'To be sure, to be sure. You'd be a match for Cormac himself, ma'am, and that's the truth. Just let me come along now, for my own sake, like the sweet lady you are; and I swear by the gods of old Ireland that after I've written my story I'll bring it straight to you."

Emerson and I exchanged glances.

"What about Mary?" I inquired. "Will you leave her here, with Karl? He admires her very much, you know."

"She's still not speaking to me," O'Connell admitted. "But, don't you see, this is the story of the year! 'New Victim of the Pharaoh's Curse! Our correspondent on the scene! The Courage of Mrs. Emerson, parasol in hand!'" Emerson growled again at this. I confess I found it rather amusing.

After a moment Emerson said grumpily, "Very well. O'Connell, fetch Abdullah. Ask him to bring the necessary equipment—ropes, lanterns—and meet us here in ten minutes, with two of his best men."

Grinning from ear to ear like an Irish Brownie, O'Connell rushed off. Heedless of the staring Ali Hassan, Emerson caught me in a fond embrace.

"I hope I shan't regret this," he muttered. "Peabody, take care."

"And you." I returned his embrace. "Go now, Emerson, before darkness falls to endanger us even more."

It was, of course, impossible to organize an expedition of that nature in ten minutes; but scarcely half an hour had passed before Abdullah arrived with the required supplies. His grave face was its usual copper mask, but I knew him well enough to sense a deep perturbation, and the behavior of the two men he had selected to accompany us was even more revealing. They looked like prisoners being led to execution.

"Do they know what we seek?" I whispered to Abdullah.

"I could not keep the redheaded man silent," Abdullah replied, with a hostile glance at O'Connell. "Sitt Hakim, I fear—"

"So do I. Let us go, quickly, before they have time to think and become more afraid."

We set out, with Ali Hassan slouching along ahead. O'Connell also seemed subdued; his eyes constantly darted from side to side, as if he were taking note of the surroundings for the story he would later write.

Ali Hassan led us directly to the cliffs behind Deir el Bahri. Instead of taking the path that led to the Valley of the Kings, he went south and soon began to climb, scrambling over the jagged rocks with the agility of a goat. I rejected O'Connell's attempts to assist me. Thanks to my parasol and my training I was in far better shape than he, and he was soon forced to use both hands in the climb. Abdullah came close behind me. I could hear him muttering, and although I could not make out the words I fancied I knew what was bothering him. Ali Hassan seemed to choose, deliberately, the most difficult path. At least twice I saw easier ways of ascent than the ones he selected.

At last, however, we reached the top of the plateau, and the going became easier. If we had had leisure to enjoy it, the view was spectacular. The broad reach of the river was stained crimson by the setting sun. The eastern cliffs were washed in soft shades of pink and lavender. Above them the sky had darkened to cobalt, with a few diamond points of starlight showing. But this view lay behind us. Ali Hassan headed toward the west, where the sun hung suspended, a swollen orb of fiery copper. Before long it would set and darkness would rush in like a black-winged bat; for there is little twilight in these climes. I tried to remember when the moon was due to rise. This part of the plateau was unfamiliar to me: an uninhabited wilderness of barren rock cut by innumerable cracks and fissures. It would make for dangerous walking after dark, even with the aid of the lanterns we had brought.

O'Connell was in some distress, having cut his hand rather badly during the climb. Since time was of the essence, I had not paused to attend him, except to wrap a handkerchief around the injured member. Abdullah was now close behind me, his quickened breathing betraying his agitation. He had ample cause for concern—the natural dangers of the terrain, the possibility of ambush, and the uneasiness of our own men, fearful of night demons and efreets.

Trotting along several feet ahead of me, Ali Hassan was singing, or keening, to himself. He showed no signs of fearing the supernatural terrors of the night; and indeed a man who practiced the sinister trade of robbing the dead might not be expected to be susceptible to superstition. His good spirits had precisely the opposite effect on me. Whatever pleased Ali Hassan was likely to prove unpleasant for me. I suspected he was deliberately leading us astray, but without proof I could hardly accuse him.