Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (86 page)

But I had looked, and I knew the sight would haunt my dreams: Abd el Atti, hanging from the roofbeam of his own shop, swaying to and fro like some winged monster of the night.

C
LEARING
my throat, I reassured my husband. ‘I am quite myself again, Emerson. I apologize for startling you.’

‘No apologies are necessary, my dear Peabody. What a horrible sight! He was grotesque enough in life, but this …’

‘Should we not cut him down?’

‘Impractical and unnecessary,’ Emerson said. ‘There is not a spark of life left in him. We will leave that unpleasant task to the authorities.’ I tried to put his hands away, and he went on, in mounting indignation, ‘You don’t mean to play physician? I assure you, Peabody – ’

‘My dear Emerson, I have never pretended I could restore life to the dead. But before we summon the police I want to examine the situation.’

Accustomed as I am to violent death, it cost me some effort to touch the poor flaccid hand. It was still warm. Impossible to calculate the time of death; the temperature in the closed room was stiflingly hot. But I deduced he had not been dead long. I struck several matches and examined the floor, averting my eyes from Abd el Atti’s dreadful face.

‘What the devil are you doing?’ Emerson demanded, arms akimbo. ‘Let’s get out of this hellish place. We will have to return to the hotel to call the police; people in this neighbourhood don’t respond to knocks on the door at night.’

‘Certainly.’ I had seen what I needed to know. I followed Emerson into the back room and let the curtain fall into place, concealing the horror within.

‘Looking for clues?’ Emerson inquired ironically, as I inspected the litter on the floor. The mummy portrait was not there. I made no comment; the piece had been stolen anyway, and it could not be in better hands than those of my husband.

‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ I replied. ‘It is hopeless, I suppose; there is no chance of finding a clear footprint in this debris. Ah! Emerson, look here. Isn’t this a spot of blood?’

‘The poor fellow died of strangulation, Peabody,’ Emerson exclaimed.

‘Obviously, Emerson. But I am sure this blood – ’

‘It is probably paint.’

‘… that this blood is that of the thief who …’

‘What thief?’

‘… who cut himself during the fight,’ I continued, being accustomed to Emerson’s rude habit of interrupting. ‘His foot, I expect. He trampled on a bit of broken pottery while struggling with Abd el Atti – ’

Emerson seized me firmly by the hand. ‘Enough, Peabody. If you don’t come with me, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you.’

‘The passageway outside is too narrow,’ I pointed out. ‘Just one minute, Emerson.’

He tugged me to my feet as my fingers closed over the object that had caught my attention. ‘It is a scrap of papyrus,’ I exclaimed.

Emerson led me from the room.

We had reached the broad stretch of the Muski before either of us spoke again. Even that popular thoroughfare was quiet, for the hour was exceedingly late; but the beneficent glow of starlight lifted our spirits as it illumined the scene. I drew a long breath. ‘Wait a minute, Emerson. I can’t walk so fast. I am tired.’

‘I should think so, after such a night.’ But Emerson immediately slowed his pace and offered me his arm. We walked on side-by-side, and I did not scruple to lean on him. He likes me to lean on him. In a much milder tone he remarked, ‘You were right after all, Peabody. The poor old wretch did have something on his mind. A pity he decided to end it all before he talked to us.’

‘What are you saying?’ I exclaimed. ‘Abd el Atti did not commit suicide. He was murdered.’

‘Amelia, that is the merest surmise. I confess I had expected you would concoct some wild theory. Sensationalism is your meat and drink. But you cannot – ’

‘Oh, Emerson, don’t be ridiculous. You saw the murder room. Was there anything near the body – a table, a chair, a stool – on which Abd el Atti might have stood while he tied the noose around his neck?’

‘Damnation,’ said Emerson.

‘No doubt. He was murdered, Emerson – our old friend was foully slain. And after he had appealed to us to save him.’

‘Pray do not insult my intelligence by attempting to move me with such sentimental tosh,’ Emerson exclaimed furiously. ‘If Abd el Atti was murdered, the killer was one of his criminal associates. It has nothing to do with us. Only an unhappy coincidence – or, more accurately, your incurable habit of meddling in other people’s business – put us on the spot at the wrong time. We will notify the police, as is our duty, and that will be the end of it. I have enough on my mind this year. I will not allow my professional activities to be interrupted…’

I let him grumble on. Time would prove me right; the inexorable pressure of events would force our involvement. So why argue?

A few hours’ sleep restored me to my usual vigour and spirits. When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens. My first act, even before drinking the tea the safragi brought me, was to open the door to the adjoining room. It was empty. A note, placed prominently on the table, explained that John and Ramses, not wishing to waken us, had gone out to explore the city. ‘Do not worry, sir and madam,’ John had written. ‘I will watch over Master Ramses.’

Emerson was not reassured by the message. ‘You see what happens when you go off on your absurd adventures,’ he grumbled. ‘We overslept and now our helpless young son is wandering the streets of this wicked city, unprotected and vulnerable.’

‘I too am deeply concerned,’ I assured him. ‘I dare not imagine what Ramses can do to Cairo in the space of a few hours. No doubt we will soon be receiving delegations of outraged citizens, with bills for damages.’

I spoke half in jest. I did expect a confrontation, not with Ramses’ victims, but with the police; for though Emerson resolutely refused to discuss the murder of Abd el Atti, I felt sure our involvement with that affair was not over. And indeed the message came as we were finishing breakfast, which had been brought to our room. The white-robed safragi bowed almost to the floor as he delivered it. Would we, in our infinite condescension, come to the manager’s office, where an agent of the police wished to consult us?

Emerson flung down his napkin. ‘There, you see? More delay, more vexation. It is all your fault, Amelia. Come along, let’s get this over and done with.’

Mr Baehler, the manager of Shepheard’s, rose to greet us as we entered his office. He was Swiss – a tall, handsome man with a mane of greying hair and an ingratiating smile.

My answering smile turned to a grimace when I saw the other persons who were present. I had expected to find a police official. I had not expected that the official would have in his custody the small and incredibly filthy person of my son.

Emerson was equally affected. He brushed past Mr Baehler, ignoring the latter’s outstretched hand, and snatched Ramses up in his arms. ‘Ramses! My dear boy! What are you doing here? Are you injured?’

Crushed to his father’s bosom, Ramses was incapable of replying. Emerson turned an infuriated look upon the policeman. ‘How dare you, sir?’

‘Control yourself, Emerson,’ I exclaimed. ‘You ought rather to thank this gentleman for escorting the boy home.’

The police officer gave me a grateful look. He was a grizzled, heavyset man, with a complexion of beautiful coffeebrown. His excellent English and tidy uniform displayed the unmistakable British discipline that has transformed Egypt since Her Majesty’s government assumed beneficent control over that formerly benighted land.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said, touching his cap. ‘The young master is not hurt, I promise.’

‘So I see. I had anticipated, Inspector – is that the proper mode of address? – I had anticipated that you had come to question us concerning the murder last night.’

‘But I have, ma’am,’ was the respectful reply. ‘We found the young master at the shop of the dead man.’

I sank into the chair Mr Baehler held for me. Ramses said breathlessly, ‘Mama, dere is a matter I would prefer to discuss wit’ you in private – ’

‘Silence!’ I shouted.

‘But, Mama, de cat Bastet – ’

‘Silence, I say!’

Silence ensued. Even Mr Baehler whose reputation for equanimity and social pose was unequalled, appeared at a loss. Slowly and deliberately I turned to focus my gaze on John, who stood flattened against the wall between a table and a tall carved chair. It was not possible for a person of John’s size to be inconspicuous. But he was trying his best. When my eye fell upon him he stammered, ‘Ow, madam, Oi tried me best, indeed Oi did, but Oi didn’t ’ave the least idear where we was until – ’

‘Watch your vowels,’ I said sternly. ‘You are reverting to the unacceptable verbal customs of the ambience from which Professor Emerson rescued you. Five years of my training ought to have eradicated all traces of your past.’

John swallowed. His Adam’s apple quivered violently. ‘I,’ he said slowly, ‘did not know where we was – where we were – until – ’

‘Dat is right, Mama,’ Ramses piped up. ‘It was not John’s fault. He t’ought we were only exploring de bazaars.’

Everyone spoke at once. Mr Baehler implored we would settle our family disputes in private, since he was a busy man; the inspector remarked that he had work to do elsewhere; Emerson bellowed at John; John tried to defend himself, his vowels suffering dreadfully in the process; Ramses defended John. I silenced the uproar by rising impetuously to my feet.

‘Enough! Inspector, I presume you have no further need of Ramses?’

‘I do not,’ said the gentleman, with heartfelt sincerity.

‘John, take Ramses upstairs and wash him. Remain in your room – both of you – until we come. No, Emerson, not a word.’

I was, of course, obeyed to the letter. After the miscreants had departed, I resumed my chair. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘To business.’

It was soon dispatched. To my exceeding annoyance I found that the policeman’s view of the case coincided with that of Emerson. He could hardly refuse to listen to my interpretation, but from the glances that passed among the gentlemen, not to mention Emerson’s constant interruptions, I knew my views would be disregarded. ‘A falling-out between thieves,’ was the inspector’s summary. ‘Thank you, Professor and Mrs Emerson, for your assistance.’

‘When you have located the suspect, I will come to the police station to identify him,’ I said..

‘Suspect?’ The inspector stared at me.

‘The man I saw yesterday talking to Abd el Atti. You noted down the description I gave you?’

‘Oh. Yes, ma’am, I did.’

‘That description would fit half the male population of Cairo,’ Emerson said disparagingly. ‘What you really require, Inspector, is an expert to evaluate the contents of the shop. Most of it is stolen property; it belongs by rights to the Department of Antiquities. Though heaven knows there is no one in that dusty barn of a museum who has the slightest notion of how to care for the exhibits.’

‘My friends,’ Mr Baehler said piteously. ‘Forgive me – ’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Emerson, Mr Baehler is a busy man; I cannot imagine why you continue to take up his time. We will continue our discussion of the case elsewhere.’

However, the inspector unaccountably refused to do this. He did not even accept Emerson’s offer of assistance in cataloguing the contents of the shop. Emerson would have followed him, arguing, had I not detained him.

‘You can’t go out on the street looking like that. Ramses has rubbed off on you. What is that blackish, sticky substance, do you suppose?’

Emerson glanced at the front of his coat. ‘It appears to be tar,’ he said in mild surprise. ‘Speaking of Ramses – ’

‘Yes,’ I said grimly. ‘Let us speak of, and to, that young man.’

We found John and Ramses sitting side by side on the bed, like criminals awaiting sentence – though there was little sign of guilt on Ramses’ freshly scrubbed countenance. ‘Mama,’ he began, ‘de cat Bastet – ’

‘Where is the cat?’ I asked.

Ramses became quite purple in the face with frustration. ‘But dat is what I am endeavouring to explain, Mama. De cat Bastet has been mislaid. When de policeman took hold of me, radder more roughly dan de circumstances required, in my opinion – ’

‘Roughly, did you say?’ Emerson’s countenance reflected the same angry shade as that of his son. ‘Curse it, I knew I should have punched the villain in the jaw. Remain here, I will return as soon as I – ’

‘Wait, Emerson, wait!’ I caught hold of his arm with both hands and dug my heels into the mat. As we struggled, I to hold on and Emerson to free himself, Ramses remarked thoughtfully, ‘I would not have kicked him in de shin if he had been more courteous. To refer to me as a meddlesome imp of Satan was uncalled for.’

Emerson stopped struggling. ‘Hmmm,’ he said.

‘Forget the policeman,’ I cried. ‘Forget the cat. She will return of her own accord, Ramses; she is, after all, a native of the country.’

‘De reputed ability of animals to cross great stretches of unknown country is exaggerated, in my opinion,’ said Ramses.

‘You have too many opinions,’ I retorted severely. ‘What were you doing at Abd el Atti’s establishment?’