The Mummy Case (37 page)

Our plans were soon made. They were simple: to collect our
loyal men and procure a fresh supply of firearms (my pistol, being choked with mud, was unusable) before proceeding to the village to arrest the Master Criminal.

"We must catch him unawares," I said. "He is desperate and may be armed."

"He?" Emerson said. "Miss Charity is not your choice for the role?"

I had had time to revise my first hasty impression, so I replied, "We never saw the face of the elusive figure, Emerson. Any young person, male or female, could have worn Charity's dress, and that unfashionable bonnet concealed the person's features as effectively as a mask could do. Nor does the message I received incriminate her, for I have never seen her handwriting. Anyone could have written that note."

"Not anyone, Peabody."

"Correct, Emerson. If the note was a forgery, as I believe, it could only have been penned by Brother Ezekiel or Brother David."

"Which have you settled on?" Emerson asked.

We were now so close to concluding the case that further equivocation seemed futile. "Brother Ezekiel, of course," I said.

"I disagree. Brother David."

"You only choose him because you dislike his manners."

"People who live in glass houses, Peabody. You have a weakness for pretty young men with smooth tongues. Whereas Brother Ezekiel—"

"All the clues point to him, Emerson."

"Quite the contrary, Peabody. They point to Brother David."

"Would you care to explicate, Emerson?"

"Not just at present, Peabody. There are one or two minor questions to be resolved. What about you?"

"I am also undecided about a few exceedingly unimportant details, Emerson."

So the discussion ended. Ramses' attempt to offer his views was rejected by mutual consent, and we went on in silence. It was fortunate that we did. Sounds carry some distance in the
desert, and we were close to the house when Emerson, who had been casting increasingly anxious glances about, came to a sudden stop.

"Ramses," he said softly, "did you leave a light in your room?"

"No, Papa."

"Nor did we. Look."

Two squares of yellow broke the darkness of the house. Emerson took my arm and pulled me to the ground. Ramses slipped from his shoulders and crouched beside us.

"John may have discovered Ramses' absence and be looking for him," I suggested.

"In utter silence? And where is Abdullah? I have an uneasy feeling about this, Peabody."

"I think I see Abdullah—there, to the left of the door. He seems to be asleep."

I half rose, for a better look. Emerson held me down.

Around the corner of the wall, from the direction of the ruined church, came a dark and ghostly shape. Flitting from shadow to deeper shadow, it passed the sleeping form of Abdullah and vanished into the house.

I reminded myself that bare feet on sand make no sound, and that most of the villagers wore dark robes. If Abdullah had seen the form, he would have been certain that the spirit of one of the murdered monks had returned.

On hands and knees we crept forward. The huddled form was indeed that of our loyal reis; he did not stir, even when Emerson shook him gently. It was with a sense of infinite relief that I heard Emerson say, "Drugged. Hashish, from the smell of it. He'll be none the worse in the morning."

In the same whisper I said, "Do we assume our other men are in the same condition?"

"Or worse," was the grim reply. "Give me your pistol, Peabody."

"You dare not fire it, Emerson. The mud—"

"I know. I can only bluff. Will you stay here?"

"No, Emerson, I will not."

"Then Ramses must be the lookout." Turning to the boy he went on, "You understand, Ramses, that if your mama and I do not succeed in overpowering the intruders, you will have to go for help."

"But, Papa—"

My nerves were a trifle strained. I seized Ramses by his thin shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled. "You heard your papa. Wait fifteen minutes. If we have not summoned you by then, set out for Dahshoor as fast as you can go. And if you say one word, Mama will slap you."

Ramses scuttled off into concealment without so much as a "Yes, Mama." Like me, he is a literal-minded person.

"Really, Peabody, must you be so brusque?" Emerson inquired. "The lad has performed prodigies of devotion and skill tonight; some slight show of appreciation—"

"Will be rendered at the proper time and in the proper manner. Ramses knows I am not emotional. He does not expect it. Now, Emerson, let us not waste any more time. What the devil can they be doing in Ramses' room?"

Whatever it was, they were still at it when we reached the courtyard. The door of Ramses' room stood open, and we could hear voices. Obviously they did not fear interruption. Our men must be prisoners, as Emerson had suggested. And John—what had they done with poor John?

We moved noiselessly, close to the wall, until we stood behind the door, which opened out into the courtyard. Concealed behind it, Emerson applied his eye to the crack. I followed suit, on a lower level..

We could see one end of the room—the table that served Ramses as a desk, the screened window, the cage containing the lion cub, and the lower part of the bed, which had been overturned. Blankets and sheets lay in a tumbled heap. There were two men visible, both wearing the dark-blue turbans customary in the village. No, they did not fear interruption; not only had they left the door wide open but they were making a considerable amount of noise. The sounds of voices uttering
expletives indicative of frustration and anger were interspersed with the crashes of the objects they overturned in their search and by the frantic yelps and growls of the lion. One of the men kicked the cage in passing. I ground my teeth. Nothing angers me so much as cruelty to an animal.

My hand closed over the handle of my parasol. We had no other weapon; our pistols were in our bedchamber, which was also occupied by the uninvited visitors. Fortunately I had left the parasol in the parlor the night before. I stood on tiptoe and applied my mouth to Emerson's ear. "There are only two of them," I breathed. "Now, Emerson?"

"Now."

I am sure our attack would have been a complete success had not Emerson got in my way. There was a little confusion in the doorway, as both of us tried to enter at once. By the time I regained my feet, and my parasol, I was distressed to note that one of the men was pointing a pistol at us.

His features were vaguely familiar. I thought I had seen him among the "deacons" who served the priest. The other man was a complete stranger, and when he spoke I recognized the Cairene accent.

"You are hard to kill, O Father of Curses. Shall we see if a bullet can do what burial alive could not?"

As if in response the little lion gave a piercing wail. The other villain gave the cage a vicious kick.

Then a voice replied to what I had believed to be a rhetorical question. It came from the end of the room we had not been able to see and it spoke the purest classical Arabic-Egyptian. "There will be no killing unless Emerson leaves us no choice. And do not kick the cage. Did not the Prophet cut off his sleeve rather than disturb his sleeping cat?"

The speaker stepped forward into the illumination cast by the lamp on the table. Dark turban, black robe, black beard— and the features of Father Girgis of the church of Sitt Miriam.

In my astonishment I almost let my parasol fall from my hand. "You? You are the Master Criminal?"

He laughed and replied, in English as unaccented as his Arabic had been, "A melodramatic term, Mrs. Emerson. I am only the chairman of a business organization with whose operations you and your family have been interfering."

Hands raised, eyes watchful, Emerson said calmly, "You speak excellent English. Is that, by any chance, your nationality?"

The "priest" smiled. "I speak most of the European languages with equal facility. Speculate, Professor—speculate! You are a determined pair of busybodies. If you had kept out of my way, you would not be in danger."

"I suppose tossing us into a pyramid and sealing the entrance was not dangerous," I said tartly.

"I would have taken steps to ensure your release once we had left the region, Mrs. Emerson. Murder is not my business."

"What of the priest of Dronkeh? I am sure the Patriarch in Cairo has no idea that his local representative has been replaced. What have you done with the poor man?"

A flash of white teeth broke the blackness of that extraordinary beard. "The dear old gentleman is an honored prisoner. He is learning first-hand of the worldly pleasures he has abjured. I assure you, the only dangers he faces are spiritual."

"And Hamid?"

A spark glimmered darkly in the deep-set eyes. "I would have executed the traitor, yes. But I did not. Another's vengeance reached him before mine."

"You don't expect me to believe that, I hope?"

"Amelia," said my husband, "there is surely no profit in annoying this—er—this gentleman."

"It doesn't matter, Professor. I don't care whether Mrs. Emerson believes me or not. I am here on business. I was looking for a certain item__"

"That?" I raised my parasol to point, and both the Copts (or pseudo-Copts) jumped. Their leader swore at them. Then he answered my question.

"I am not such a fool as to waste my time over a fragment of Coptic manuscript, Mrs. Emerson. No. I came for this."

He drew the box from the breast of his robe and removed the lid.

Lamplight caressed the gleaming gold and the soft glow of turquoise, the royal blue of lapis lazuli, the red-orange of carnelian. I caught my breath. "The Twelfth Dynasty pectoral!"

"Another Twelfth Dynasty pectoral," the priest corrected. "With its necklace of gold and carnelian beads, and a set of matching bracelets. The parure of a princess of the Middle Kingdom, hidden so well under the floor of her tomb that it escaped the tomb robbers who looted her mummy. It is the second such cache we have found at Dahshoor, Mrs. Emerson, and were it not for that interfering brat your son, we would perhaps have found others. He has been digging around all the Dahshoor pyramids for the past weeks. One of my men was watching when he found the princess's tomb and removed these ornaments, but we refrained from repossessing them because we hoped he would abandon his pursuits and leave us to go on with our work in peace. That hope has not been realized. You spoil the child, Mrs. Emerson; how many boys of that age are allowed to excavate on their own?"

I was about to reply when I saw something that made my blood run cold. It was a face, pressed against the barred window, and set in a hideous grimace. I might not have recognized it, had it not been for the nasal appendage that protruded into the space between two bars. Ramses!

The priest went on. "Such, however, are the unavoidable vicissitudes of my profession. Now I must beg you to excuse me. I must notify the men who are searching your room that the objects I wanted have been found. This, then, is farewell. I trust we may not meet again."

He strode toward the door.

His men watched him go.  Emerson's back was to the window. I was the only one who saw the framework of wooden bars shiver and give way. Silently it swung out--and then I knew how Ramses had come and gone by night without being observed. I was helpless. I could not order him away without
calling attention to his presence. I could only avert my eyes and plan the indignities I hoped to perpetrate upon his person.

Neither Emerson nor I had replied to that last taunt, though I knew the same thought was in both our minds: "We will meet again, never fear; for I will make it my business to hunt you down and put an end to your nefarious activities." Emerson always has to have the last word, however. The priest was at the door when my husband shouted, "Are you leaving us to be slaughtered by your henchmen? I might have known you would leave the dirty work to others; but our blood will be on your head, you villain!"

"My dear Professor, not a drop of your blood will be shed if you accept the inevitable. My men have orders to bind and—" Turning, the priest broke off with a gasp. Ramses fell into the room. He picked himself up off the floor and started forward. "Give it back to me," he said, in a growl that was terrifyingly like that of his father.

The priest laughed contemptuously. "Imp of Satan! Seize him, Mustafa."

With a malevolent grin the man he addressed threw out a careless arm. The blow caught Ramses across the midsection and lifted him clean off his feet. His body hit the wall with a horrible crash; he fell in a heap and lay motionless.

I heard Emerson's roar, and the crack of a pistol. I saw nothing. Inky blackness engulfed me, like a cloud of thick smoke shot with bursts of flame. A great rushing filled my ears, like the thunder of an avalanche__

After an immeasurable interval I became aware of hands clasping me and a voice calling my name. "Peabody! Peabody, for God's sake..."

The mists before my eyes cleared. I was still on my feet, parasol in hand, and Emerson was shaking me.

Ramses sat bolt upright, his back against the wall, his hands braced on the floor, his legs sticking straight out. His mouth hung open; his eyes were popping.

"You are alive," I said.

Ramses nodded. For once in his life he seemed incapable of speech.

On Emerson's face I saw the same expression of incredulous horror. Yet there was no reason for alarm; one villain lay face down on the floor, his arms over his head. The second huddled in a corner, babbling incoherently. The priest was gone.

"You seem to have the situation well in hand, Emerson," I said, wondering why my voice sounded so hoarse. "My congratulations."

"I didn't do it," Emerson said. "You did."

"What are you saying, Emerson?"

Emerson released me and staggered back. He dropped heavily onto the tumbled blankets. "There is blood on your parasol, Peabody."

I realized that I was holding the instrument poised, as if to strike. There was certainly some viscous substance on the steel-dark tip. A drop formed and fell as I stared.

"Berserk," Emerson went on, shaking his head dazedly. "That
is the term__A berserker rage. I have heard it described. One
could almost believe in the old legends, that the one possessed is impervious to blows, weapons, bullets___The maternal instinct, roused to fury—the tigress defending her cub...."