The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (15 page)

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"You must not tell the Amerikani!" Abdullah took hold of my sleeve and held me back when I would have rushed back into the house with the news. Drawing me farther away from the door, he went on
in an urgent whisper, "He would not let you go. It is dangerous, Sitt Hakim. I have not told you all."
"Then for God's sake, tell me! Have you seen him? Where is he?"
Abdullah's story gave me pause and forced me to curb my raging impatience. He did not need to caution me that we must move with the utmost discretion— especially since he had not yet set eyes on his master.
"But what other closely guarded prisoner could there be, so close to Luxor? The house is outside the town, near to the village of El Bayadiya. It is rented by a foreigner, an Alemani or Feransawi. A tall black-bearded man, an invalid, it is said, for he is pale and walks with a cane when he goes out, which
is not often. His name is Schlange. Do you know him, Sitt?"
"No. But it is surely not his real name, nor, perhaps, his true appearance. Never mind that now,
Abdullah. You have a plan, I know. Tell me."
His plan was the very one I would have proposed myself. We could not demand entry to the house until we were certain Emerson was there, and we could not be certain until we had entered it. "So we will go ourselves," said Abdullah. "You and I, Sitt. Not the Amerikani."
He went on to list all the reasons why Cyrus should not make one of the party. Obviously he was reluctant to share the glory, but his arguments had merit. The strongest of them was that Cyrus would
try to prevent me from going— and that was unthinkable. I would go mad if I had to sit waiting for news like some feeble heroine of romantic fiction, and I could trust no one but myself to act with the ruthlessness and determination the situation might well demand.
I arranged to meet Abdullah in an hour, in the garden behind the house, and assured him I would find
a way of deceiving Cyrus. Do I sound calm and collected? I was— then. I knew I had to be. When I returned to the table where Cyrus awaited me, I gave one of my most convincing performances— a
brave, sad smile, a forced cheerfulness.
"He is still pursuing idle rumors," I said, taking up my napkin. "I am sorry I was so long, Cyrus, but I
had to comfort him and make him feel his efforts were useful. Poor Abdullah! He takes this very much
to heart."
We returned to discussing our plans (only his part in them, had he but known) for the afternoon. I allowed myself to become increasingly agitated as he continued to insist I not keep the appointment. "Someone must go," I cried at last "I could not bear it if we failed to pursue even the frailest hope."
"Why, sure, my dear. I have it all figured out. I'll go in person to direct operations, as soon as you promise me you'll not leave the house till I get back."
"Very well. I yield only because I must— and because I know it is the safest course, for him. I shall go
to my room now, Cyrus, and stay there, with the door locked, until you return. I think I may take a little something to make me sleep, otherwise the minutes will drag too slowly. Godspeed and good fortune,
my friend."
Cyrus patted me clumsily on the shoulder. Handkerchief to my eyes,
I fluttered out of the room.
When I reached my room I found Anubis stretched out on the bed. How he had got there I did not
know, he came and went as he pleased, as mysteriously as the afreet the servants believed him to be. Abdullah hated him as much as he feared him, blaming the poor creature for Emerson's capture. Of course that was nonsense. Cats cannot be held guilty for their actions, since they have no morals to
speak of. If I had been given to superstitious fancies, I would have imagined Anubis regretted his inadvertent involvement in the disaster. He spent a good deal of time wandering about the house as if in search of something— or someone?— and he was often in my room, tolerating and even inviting my caresses. The feel of a compliant cat's fur has a surprisingly soothing effect
After greeting the cat in an appropriate if hurried manner, I hastened to change. I dared not wait until
after Cyrus had left the house, Abdullah and I had to cross the river and travel a considerable distance, and I wanted to reach the suspected house before nightfall. A surreptitious entry into unfamiliar territory
is hazardous in the dark. It took only a few minutes to rip off my ruffled gown and replace it with my working costume. I reached automatically for my belt, a voice audible only to my inner ear stopped me. "You jangle like a German brass band, Peabody," it reminded me. Sternly repressing the emotion that threatened to overcome me, I abandoned my belt, slipping revolver and knife into my handy pockets I locked my door— making certain Anubis was inside— and went onto the balcony. The cursed vine I
had counted upon to assist my descent proved to be too far away. I had to hang by my hands and drop
a considerable distance. Fortunately there was a flower bed below. Cyrus's petunias and hollyhocks cushioned my fall nicely.
Abdullah was waiting. I did not question or commend at that time the arrangements he had made—the donkeys, the felucca ready to sail, the horses waiting on the other side. One thought permeated every
cell in my frame.  Soon I would see him— touch him— feel his arms around me. For, as I am sure I
need not say, I did not mean to content myself with a cautious reconnoiter and strategic withdrawal.
My fingers touched the pistol in my pocket. If he was there, I would have him out, that day, that instant, no matter what or who stood between us.
The path Abdullah took followed an irrigation ditch through fields of cabbages and cotton. Half-naked workers straightened and stared after us as we galloped past, children playing in the courtyard of a
house waved and called. Abdullah slackened speed for neither man nor beast. When a careless billy goat— whose goatee and long face gave it a certain resemblance to my friend Cyrus— wandered out
into the road, Abdullah dug his bare heels into the horse's flank and soared over the goat. I followed his example.
He drew rein at last amid a huddle of huts, where another path crossed ours. Following his example,
I dismounted The place was strangely deserted, only a few men, drinking coffee at tables under a rude shelter, were to be seen. One of them came to us and handed Abdullah a bundle of cloth before leading the horses away.
"We must go on foot from here," said Abdullah. "Will you wear this, Sitt?"
He shook out the bundle—a woman's enveloping robe of somber black, with the accompanying burko,
or face veil. After I had put it on, he nodded approval. "It is good. You must walk behind me, Sitt, and not stride like a man. Can you remember?"
His bearded lips were twitching. I smiled back at him. "If I forget, Abdullah, you must beat me. But I
will not forget."
"No. Come then. It is not far."
As we walked, I glanced at the sun. After so many years in Egypt I had learned to read its position as readily as the hands of a clock, even now Cyrus's agents must be in their positions on the terrace of the Winter Palace Hotel. Was he there, the unknown villain who had laid such a dastardly plot? I prayed he was. If he was absent from his house, our mission of rescue would be easier.
My heart gave a great leap when I saw a high mud-brick wall ahead. Palms and dusty-leaved acacias surrounded it, and the tiled roof of a house showed over the top. It was a sizable establishment— an estate, in Egyptian terms— house, gardens and subsidiary buildings surrounded by an enclosure wall for privacy and protection Abdullah passed it without breaking stride, I shuffled humbly after him, my head bowed and my heart thudding. Out of the corner of my eye I noted that the wall was high and the wooden gate was closed.
When we reached the end of the wall, some sixty feet farther on, Abdullah darted a quick glance over
his shoulder and turned aside, pulling me after him. The wall continued now at right angles to the road Another turn brought us to the third side of the enclosing wall, and after a short distance Abdullah stopped, gesturing.
His meaning was plain, and I could only approve his decision. Behind us a field of sugarcane formed a green wall that hid us from casual passersby. We were now at the back of the estate, as far from the
main house as was possible. Mud-brick, the ubiquitous building material of Upper Egypt, is convenient but impermanent, the bricks and their plastered outer surface had crumbled, leaving chinks and crevices
"I will go first," he whispered. "No, you will not," I replied. "We must reconnoiter before we attempt
to enter, and I am younger . . . that is, I am a lighter weight than you. Give me a hand up."
I threw off the muffling black robe and veil. No disguise would save us if we were discovered inside.
I put the toe of my boot into a convenient hole, Abdullah— who had learned early on that it was a waste of time to argue with me— cupped his hands under the other boot and lifted me till I could see over the wall.
I had hoped to see a garden, with shrubs and trees that could offer concealment. No such amenities appeared, only a bare open space littered with the usual household discards— scraps of broken pots,
rusty bits of metal, rotting melon rinds and orange peel. Of such detritus are formed the kitchen middens dear to the hearts of archaeologists, and they are still in the process of formation in Egypt, for householders commonly dump their trash casually in their yards. This was as nasty a place as any I
had seen— clear evidence that the present occupant of the house was a transient, unconcerned about sanitation or appearance. The only unusual feature was the absence of animal life. No chickens scratched in the dirt, no goats or donkeys nibbled at the scanty weeds.
An open shed roofed with bundles of reeds had once served as an animal shelter, to judge by the scattered straw and other evidence. A row of straggling, dusty tamarisk trees half-hid the back of the mansion. There was one other structure visible: a small, windowless building some ten feet square. Unlike the rest of the place, it showed signs of recent repair. There were no gaps in those walls, every chink had been filled with fresh plaster that showed pale against the older gray-brown surface. The flat roof was solid, not the usual covering of reeds overlaid with mortar.
Something of value must be within, or the owner of the property would not have taken such precautions. Hope renewed weakened my limbs, Abdullah gave a pained grunt as my weight pressed heavily on his hands. I was on the verge of completing the ascent, for exultation had momentarily overcome prudence, when a dampening thought occurred to me. Surely something so valuable would not be left unguarded? I could only see the back and one side of the building. There were no windows, but there must be a door on one of the walls I could not see.
I motioned to Abdullah to lower me. He was glad to do so, I believe. He was perspiring heavily, and not only from my weight, suspense gnawed at his vitals as it did at mine.
Quickly I described what I had seen. "We must assume there is a guard," I whispered. "Can you move like a shadow, Abdullah?"
The old man's hand went to the breast of his robe. "I will deal with the guard, Sitt."
"No, no! Not unless we must. He may cry out and summon others. We will have to get on the roof. There is an opening of some kind there—"
"I will go first," said Abdullah, his hand still at the breast of his robe.
This time I did not argue.
The evening breeze had arisen, rustling through the cane and stirring the leaves. The small sounds
blended with the equally soft noises we could not avoid making, but they were few, for all his size Abdullah glided up the wall and over it like the shadow I had mentioned. He was waiting to lift me down when I reached the top, without pausing we crept toward the building It was low— a kennel for a dog or some other beast. Abdullah lifted me up and followed me onto the roof.
There was a guard Silently though we had moved, something must; have alerted him, I heard a mutter and the rustle of fabric as he rose and then the soft pad of bare feet. We flattened ourselves behind the low parapet and held our breaths. He went round the perimeter of the building, but it was a perfunctory performance and he did not look up, people seldom do when they are searching. Finally he settled down again and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in a thin gray curl, wavering in the breeze like a writhing serpent. Then and only then did we dare crawl toward the opening. It was closed by a rusted grille whose crossbars were set so close together that a finger could barely be inserted in the gaps.
I have not described my sensations, nor will I attempt to do so. The greatest of literary giants could not begin to capture their intensity. I pressed my face to the rusty metal surface of the grille.
The interior of the place was not entirely dark. There was another opening, a narrow slit over the door
on the wall opposite the one we had climbed. Through it enough light entered to enable me to see the interior of the reeking den. The walls were bare and windowless, the floor was of beaten earth. There
was no rug or carpet, only a flat square shape that might have been a piece of matting. The furnishings consisted of a table holding a few jars and pots and other objects I could not identify, a single chair— shockingly out of place in that setting, for it was a comfortable armchair of European style,
upholstered in red plush— and a low bed. On it lay the motionless form of a man.
Abdullah's face was so close to mine I felt his breath hot against my cheek. Then the sinking sun sent a golden arm through the gap over the door, illumining the interior. I had not needed light to know him. I would have known that outline, that presence, in the darkest night. But if there had been breath in my lungs I would not have been able to restrain a cry when I saw the familiar features— familiar, yet so dreadfully changed.
The beard banished by my decree had returned, blurring the firm lines of jaw and chin, spreading up his cheeks toward his hairline. His closed eyes were sunken and his cheekbones stood out like spars. His
shirt had been opened, baring his throat and breast . .
The memory of another time, another place, assaulted me with such force my brain reeled. Was THIS how a mocking Providence had answered my unspoken appeal for a return to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when Emerson and I had been all in all to one another— before Ramses? So had he appeared on that never-to-be-forgotten day when I entered the tomb at Amarna and found him fevered and delirious. I had fought death to save him then, and won. But now . . . he lay so still, his features pinched and immobile as yellowed wax. Only eyes as desperately affectionate as my own could have marked the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his breast. What had they done to reduce a man of his strength to such a state in only a few days?