A River in the Sky (29 page)

His eyes shifted. “I gave it back to Panagopolous. I have no idea what he did with it.”

“Hid it, I expect,” I said. “He didn’t trust you. With good reason.”

“I don’t have to put up with this,” Morley said loudly. “I didn’t kill the old fool and you cannot prove that I did. Now get out.”

“Shall I come with you?” Ali Bey asked Emerson hopefully.

“What about your errand here?”

“It can wait. I wish to observe the English police methods. You may need me if my subordinates are already there.”

“Good Gad!” Emerson shouted. He set out for the barrier at a dead run.

“Come if you like,” I said to the commandant. “We must hurry, Emerson is in one of his states. Major Morley, you have not seen the last of us.”

“What set the Professor off?” Nefret asked as we hastened away.

“He’s afraid someone will get at his precious discovery,” said Ramses, on my other side.

“Do you have any idea what it might be?” I asked.

“I wasn’t there,” Ramses reminded me.

Daoud, close behind us, had overheard. “Something caught his eye, Sitt Hakim, and he ordered us all out of the trench. He trusts no one but himself to deal with unusual objects.”

I suppose Emerson had counted on the usual delays that accompany any official action in Ottoman territory. He had not expected such a prompt reply from the authorities. I myself could only account for it by the fact that Panagopolous held a British passport. At any rate, when we arrived on the scene it was to see poor Plato’s body lying beside the open pit, surrounded by a group of policemen, who seemed to be arguing about what should be done next. From the depths of the trench came Emerson’s voice, raised in profane lamentation.

“Oh dear,” I said. “Ali Bey, will you be good enough to take charge of these people? Selim, what has happened to anger Emerson?”

Selim wiped his perspiring face. “I tried to stop them, Sitt Hakim, but they said they were from the police and they pushed me away, and then they went into the trench and dragged the body out, and—”

“Oh dear,” I said again.

The commandant had taken charge with a vengeance. One of
the police persons lay on the ground, nursing a bloody head. Another was in full flight and the others had retreated to a safe distance.

Emerson’s head appeared. He was a dreadful sight, his face set in a hideous grimace and his black hair wildly askew. “Stop that man!” he bellowed, pointing at the fleeing police officer. “Stop them all! Search them to the skin! It is gone, someone has stolen it!”

W
ITH THE ENTHUSIASTIC ASSISTANCE
of Ali Bey, I soon had the situation more or less under control. The uncontrollable part of the situation was Emerson. He insisted on searching each of the police officers, so thoroughly that I was forced to turn my back. The one who had fled had made good his escape.

“He’s got it!” Emerson shouted, and would have set out in futile pursuit had I not caught hold of him.

“In heaven’s name, Emerson, what has he got?”

“I would like to know that too,” said Ali Bey. “What have we been searching for? A clue to the identity of the murderer?”

“What?” Emerson stared at him. “No, no, nothing so insignificant.” He passed his hand over his brow, leaving a broad smear of dirt, and groaned aloud.

“An artifact of some sort,” I explained to the officer. “It is the only thing that sets Emerson off like this. But there is no use trying to get him to make sense just now. We have more imperative matters to settle. Selim, find someone to construct a coffin. He can’t be left lying here.”

“What shall we do with him, then?” Selim asked.

“Have him carried to our house,” I said.

As I had expected, this served to distract Emerson. “Now see here, Peabody—”

“What else can we do, Emerson?”

“Drop him off at Morley’s tent. You want to examine the body and look for clues and meddle in matters that ought not concern you.”

“I’m afraid they do concern us, Father,” Ramses said. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that one of us might be under suspicion?”

“Me?” Emerson inquired.

“Your antipathy toward him is well known. He was found in your excavation area.”

Ali Bey was listening with intent interest. “Motive and opportunity!” he exclaimed. “It is the British method.”

“Balderdash,” Emerson said.

“What does that mean?” the commandant asked.

“It means,” I explained, “that other people had even stronger motives for disposing of Panagopolous, and that the body may have been placed here in order to cast suspicion on Emerson. My husband, sir, does not carry a knife and his principles would not allow him to murder a helpless man.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Emerson, who—I was sorry to see—had begun to take a perverse pleasure in being a suspect. “Come up to the house with us and search for bloodstained garments. You can also examine my hands and arms for scratches.”

“You permit?”

“I insist. What is taking Selim so long?”

When Selim came back he was accompanied by Kamir and two fellows carrying planks of wood. The two set to work at once constructing a crude coffin while Kamir stood staring down at Plato’s body. He murmured something that might, or might not, have been a prayer and then said, “Who is he?”

“Don’t you recognize him?” I asked. “He was with us at the house the other day.”

“I did not see him there.” He turned away, as if the sight were distasteful.

The workmen finished nailing the coffin together and were persuaded, by the offer of extra baksheesh, to put the dead man into it. Upon the payment of additional baksheesh they agreed to carry the coffin up the hill to our house. Emerson handed over the money without arguing. His brow was furrowed in thought.

“My dear,” I said, for I believed he was brooding over his lost artifact, “shall we go?”

“Hmmm? Yes, certainly. Would there,” he asked pathetically, “be coffee, do you think?”

I
MADE SURE THERE
was coffee, enough for all of us, including Ali Bey. Selim and Daoud had been left at the excavation, with strict instructions to allow no one to approach it. We had some difficulty finding a place for the coffin, since none of the servants wanted it anywhere near them. At last we settled on one of the unoccupied rooms, the one I intended to be used as a study.

On the way back to the house I had had a private word with David. “I am sorry to ask you,” I added, “but it is absolutely necessary.”

“That’s quite all right, Aunt Amelia. I have had worse tasks. I’ll get at it right away.”

Ali Bey found our company delightful. He and Ramses got into an animated discussion of the detectival methods of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it was not until I reminded him that he had not yet carried out his original errand that he reluctantly rose to his feet.

“May I ask the nature of your errand?” I inquired. “If you are allowed to speak of it.”

“All the city knows, Sitt. The man Morley is the subject of
disquieting rumors, and public anger is rising. They say he is digging in the Haram itself. It cannot be true, but it is my duty to warn him.”

Emerson roused himself enough to mumble a farewell and then relapsed into brooding silence.

“Very well, Emerson,” I said. “Get it off your chest, metaphorically speaking. Do not brood, but share your loss with us. What was the artifact you found?”

Emerson sighed deeply. “You won’t believe it.” He looked round the room. “Where is Nefret?”

“She slipped out some time ago,” Ramses said. “Would you care to guess what she is doing?”

“Examining that confounded corpse, I suppose,” Emerson said.

“Do not speak ill of the dead, Emerson.”

“Bah,” said Emerson. “I will if I like. Find Nefret, I may as well…Ah, there you are, my dear.”

“What did your examination of the body reveal?” I asked.

“Nothing of importance. His throat was cut, but you had already suspected that. There were no other new injuries.”

“And nothing under his fingernails?” I inquired.

“No. I looked, of course.”

“Of course.”

“That would suggest he didn’t fight back,” Ramses said.

“Or that he was unable to do so,” I said.

“Of course.”

“Is anyone interested in my discovery?” Emerson said loudly.

The truthful answer was no, not at the moment. However, Emerson was clearly in need of being soothed. “We are all waiting with bated breath,” I assured him.

“You won’t believe it,” said Emerson in sepulchral tones. “The damned thing is gone, stolen by one of the men who lifted Panopolous
out of the pit. I knew it would prove an irresistible temptation. If it hadn’t been for that bastard Morley, I would have been there in time to prevent the theft. Selim was no match for—”

“Emerson,” I said. “Get to the point.”

“You won’t…” He caught my eye. “Er, hmph. It was a fragment of gold that might have been part of a cup or vase. It was flattened and crushed, but I was able to make out a few signs. They were Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

Regrettably, Emerson’s pronouncement did not have the effect he had anticipated. It was very interesting, to be sure, but to most of us it paled by contrast to the murder, riot, and mystery that surrounded us.

The only one who reacted as Emerson had hoped was Ramses. “Amazing!” he exclaimed, his eyes alight. “The first actual, physical evidence of Egyptian occupation here. What did the hieroglyphs read, Father?”

“As near as I could make out, they were part of the cartouche of one of the Amenhoteps. I left it in situ, since it had not been photographed or plotted.” He let out another groan. “So much for proper methodology. I ought to have known…”

He jumped up and headed for the door. “And where do you think you are going?” I demanded. “Come back here at once, Emerson.”

“There are still several hours of daylight left,” said Emerson. His
sapphirine eyes shone with the fearful glow of fanaticism. “And now, at last, I have my entire crew present. Come, all of you. Bring cameras—tripods—torches—sketching pads—measuring sticks—”

He rushed out, followed by Selim and Daoud. Ramses was about to follow when I stopped him. “You are a trifle flushed,” I said. “Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, of course.” He avoided my outstretched hand and ran after his father.

David glanced uncertainly at me. “Keep a close eye on Ramses,” I said. “Emerson is the most devoted of fathers, but when he is in this state of mind he wouldn’t notice a massacre unless it inconvenienced him.”

“You can count on me, Aunt Amelia.”

“I know I can,” I said affectionately. “And—er—by the way, there is no need to mention your sketch of—him—to anyone else. Tell Emerson Nefret will be along directly with the cameras.”

“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

Nefret had gone out of the room; I assumed she was looking for the cameras, but when she did not return at once, I went in search of her. I found her in the part of the courtyard we had designated as the kitchen. With her was Ghada, holding a bundle.

“She came for the laundry,” Nefret explained. “And she has brought the baby! Isn’t she sweet?”

The word could have applied to Ghada, whom I saw unveiled for the first time. She had a pretty little face, dominated by those melting brown eyes. I smiled at her; she responded by offering me the bundle. It was meant as a gesture of trust, so I had no choice but to respond. I took the bundle and bounced it experimentally.

There was nothing visible of the baby except a face. A knitted cap covered its head, and layer upon layer of wrappings covered the rest of it. It had its mother’s brown eyes and skin several shades lighter than hers; obviously it had seldom if ever been exposed to direct
sunlight. After a suspicious look at me it opened its mouth and let out a howl.

“Here,” I said, handing it over to Nefret. She bounced the baby. The aggravating little creature immediately stopped howling and gave her a dimpled grin.

I knew better than to praise the child. Complimentary remarks would bring down the wrath of innumerable demons. I smiled again, nodded, and went to fetch the washing. I had to order Nefret to hand the baby back to its mother, who inserted it into a sling on her back and went off with the laundry.

“I would like to examine the baby,” Nefret said, watching them go. “It appears to be healthy enough, but its nose was running.”

“Babies’ noses always run,” I said authoritatively (hoping I was right). “You can do that another time. Emerson is waiting for you.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Not just yet. It is time I made one of my little lists.”

I
RULED THE PAPER
according to my usual scheme, with columns headed: “Questions” and “What to do about them.” For reasons which will be apparent as my narrative proceeds, I did not keep a copy of the list. As I recall, the questions went something like this:

1. Who is Plato Panagopolous?
   
2. Who killed him?
   
3. Where is the man Mansur and what is his mission?
   
4. What has become of Mme von Eine and what is her aim?
   
5. Why did Major Morley increase the speed of his work?
   

I had taken the first step to identifying Panagolopous. He had avoided having a photograph taken, and he had avoided meeting
certain individuals. I would show David’s sketch, after it had been modified by me, to those individuals. Once I discovered his real identity, I might have the answer to the second question.

I couldn’t think what to do about Mansur, or even decide whether I needed to do anything. The answer to the second part of the question might be connected with the fifth question. Perhaps some sort of deadline for the completion of that mission was approaching, and perhaps Morley’s assistance was necessary. However, that was as yet only surmise, and interrogating Morley would almost certainly be a waste of time.

Which left me with question number four.

Vanity, alas, affects even the best of us. I took a little time to smooth my hair and change my shirt for a clean one before I selected a rather becoming broad-brimmed hat, with crimson ribbons that tied under my chin. After slipping my little pistol into one of my pockets and a few other useful items into another, I took my heaviest parasol and went forth.

Clouds hid the sun and a brisk breeze tugged at my hat brim. It would have taken more than inclement weather to stop me. The autumn rainy season, with its heavy downpours—the inundation of the river in the sky—was still a month away. If a shower were to occur, it would be brief, and I had my useful parasol.

I had hoped to find Ali Bey on duty at the barricade, but he was nowhere to be seen. I asked the fellow on duty where he had gone and got only a stare and a shrug; but the invocation of that mighty name got me past the ropes. I made my way to Morley’s tent, observing with some surprise that the toiling workmen were not at their task. The windlass hung empty from its support. Was that an indication that Morley had found what he sought, or that he sought it elsewhere?

It is not possible to knock at the flap of a tent. I called out. At first there was no response except for sounds of movement within.
Someone was there, then, probably Morley himself. He could—and would—tell me where the lady was staying. I called again, announcing myself by name.

The flap was drawn aside, just far enough to show Mme von Eine herself. She was dressed with her usual elegance, not a hair on her fair head ruffled. “Mrs. Emerson! What a surprise. If you are looking for Major Morley, he is not here.”

“I am looking for you,” I said, clutching my hat. “I was not expecting to see you, but I hoped to get your address from the major.”

“I see.” It was clear she wanted me to go away. Naturally, that made me all the more determined to stay.

In retrospect, that might not have been one of my wisest decisions.

After several long seconds she said, “Come in, then.”

She drew the flap farther aside. Not until I was inside the tent did I see the man sitting at a table to the right of the entrance. I had never beheld him before, but I knew at once who he must be, for his appearance matched Ramses’s description. The first part of my third question had received an answer.

Discretion, perhaps, would have dictated a speedy withdrawal. With the speed of light, alternatives raced through my mind. The lady stood between me and the exit, and Mansur had risen to his feet. They could easily prevent my departure. The only hope, it seemed to me, was to feign ignorance of Mansur’s identity and pretend that my motive for seeking Mme von Eine was purely social.

“I apologize for intruding,” I said. “I did not know you were entertaining a friend. I will come another time.”

“I cannot possibly let you go,” Madame said. “Without offering you a cup of tea. May I present Mr. Abdul Mohammed.”

“How do you do?” I produced my best social smile and inclined my head, without taking my eyes off his face. It was worthy of attention, with the combined delicacy and strength of a master carving.
Only the shape of his mouth spoiled the nobility of his countenance. It had curved into a thin-lipped smile. He wore a robe of creamy-white wool, embroidered at the neck and around the sleeves, and when he acknowledged my greeting by raising his hands in salute, I noticed he moved one arm stiffly.

Mme von Eine seated herself behind the tea service and waved me to a chair. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”

“Neither, thank you.”

The tea was tepid. I sipped it while I examined my surroundings. The tent was fitted out with all the luxuries money can buy, including several crates labeled “Fortnum and Mason” and another that bore the mark of a famous winery. Nothing I saw inspired an idea, or the means, of a daring escape. The silence of my companions, and Mansur’s fixed smile, persuaded me that there was little chance of their letting me go. I would have to make a dash for it.

Under cover of the table I slipped my hand into my pocket. When I jumped up I was holding my little pistol.

“I must make my excuses,” I said, pointing the gun at them. “Don’t move, either of you.”

I began backing toward the exit. The wind had risen; the tent shook and creaked and a blast of air tugged at my hat.

“Why, Mrs. Emerson,” said the lady, opening her eyes wide. “What has come over you?”

Mansur only smiled more broadly. He lifted his left hand and brought it down in a chopping motion. Pain blossomed through my head, and my eyes went blind.

W
HEN
I
CAME TO
my senses I was lying on one of the beautiful oriental rugs, with my hands and feet tied. Bending over me was Mme von Eine, her face set in a look of hypocritical concern.

“Gott sei Dank,” she exclaimed. “You are not seriously injured.”

“There was a guard,” I muttered. “He was not on duty when I came in…”

Mansur looked up from the paper he was reading. I recognized it as my list; I must have put it in my pocket without realizing it. “Most illuminating,” Mansur said with a tight smile. His voice was as deep and his English as excellent as Ramses had described. “If I had entertained any doubts as to your involvement, this would remove them. As for the guard, the fellow must have gone off on a—er—private errand, but he has redeemed himself by returning in time to obey my orders.”

“You forced us to act,” Madame said. “Your behavior was most extraordinary.”

“The conventional excuse of the villain—‘You made me do it,’” I said. “What am I going to make you do next?”

“Why, nothing, except to keep you comfortable and safe until we are certain you have recovered from your fit of hysteria. Mansur will watch over you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson.”

Only pride prevented me from begging she would remain. She would never commit an act of violence with her own hands, or even watch its being done. She would only authorize such an act, explicitly or by her silence. All down the centuries evil men—and a few women, I admit—had maintained their innocence of murder and torture by remaining aloof from the actuality. I doubted that Mansur would be deterred by those hypocritical excuses.

However, if I could keep him talking, something might yet turn up!

“What precisely is it you hope to accomplish here?” I asked.

He looked up from his examination of my pistol and an expression of genuine amusement transformed his face.

“You live up to your reputation for forthrightness, Mrs. Emerson. Do you really expect me to answer that question?”

“It never hurts to try,” I said, squirming about in an effort to find a more comfortable position. The ropes were not tight, but my surreptitious efforts to loosen them had had no effect. “If you are planning to dispose of me, there can be no harm in satisfying my curiosity before you do so.”

“Believe me,” he said earnestly, “I don’t want to kill you.”

“It is against your principles as a civilized man?”

“You heard that from your son, didn’t you? What else did he tell you?”

“Quite a lot. The other members of my family know everything he knows.”

Mansur shook his head. “They know it secondhand, as do you. The only person who threatens my cause is your son. If he is willing to exchange himself for you, you will be released unharmed.”

“No,” I exclaimed. “Impossible. I won’t permit it.”

“You cannot prevent it. Nor can the other members of your group. We have our methods, Mrs. Emerson. The message has already been sent. It will be delivered to him in private, and if he is as wily as I know him to be, he will respond to it without letting anyone else know.”

“O God,” I whispered. It was a prayer, not an expletive. Having made that appeal, knowing it would be understood, I said, “But how can you reach him without…Ah. The Sons of Abraham? You have been expelled from that group, you have no more power over its members.”

“The word of that event has not yet spread to all the persons involved.” He smiled. “You amaze me, Mrs. Emerson. Your powers of concentration function under the most adverse situations. I do hope my little scheme succeeds, for it would distress me, personally as well as philosophically, to be forced to harm you.”

“There it is again,” I said scornfully. “The specious reasoning of
the villain. No one is forcing you to do anything. You are the master of your destiny and you bear the responsibility for your acts.”

His face darkened, and he turned away without replying.

I had struck a nerve of some kind, but I did not pursue the conversation. Continuing to tug at my bonds, I strained my ears for the sound of someone approaching. How long had I been unconscious? How long would it take the message to reach Ramses? That he would respond instantly I did not doubt. If I could shout loudly enough, call out a warning…

Time seemed to stretch out forever. Mansur sat brooding over his cold tea. The wind had subsided somewhat. I thought I heard movement outside and drew a deep breath, but hesitated. It might have been the guard I heard. If I cried out, Mansur might decide to gag me.

There was no further sound, no warning. The tent flap lifted and Ramses entered. His eyes found me where I lay, my lips parted but incapable of speech. He held a knife. The blade was darkly stained.