The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis (12 page)

“Let him go at once,” I said, in my most commanding voice. “Ahmed El Kassul, is my friend and guest. My aunt, the countess, shall hear about this! And my father, the Bishop!”

A slight shadow passed over the policeman's face but he stood his ground. “Sorry, young lady, I got no choice. I'll have to take him in,” he said.

I was so angry it was all I could do to control my
temper. At the same time, Ahmed's obvious desperation, made me feel terribly guilty. I glared at the policeman but at the same time my heart was beating a scared rhythm. I had landed us in a horrible mess. I'd taken a package from Jabber with absolutely no idea what was inside. If the policeman searched my bag, and found something criminal, I would go to prison too! How then would I free Ahmed? What would my father and Aunt Hilda say?

“We're taking 'em all to Covent Garden Police Station,” the policeman said, nodding at me, as if to say that was enough talking. He motioned Ahmed to join Jabber, who, let us be thankful for small mercies, was at least not talking for once. The two of them were marched away, joining the miserable procession of jail-bound men and women. Their shuffling progress from all over the gin palace was endlessly reflected in the huge mirrors. While this was going on, most of the patrons carried on drinking their gin and chatting; watching the arrests with the sort of mild interest that most people show at a schoolboy cricket match.

I staggered against the wall, Ahmed's face swimming before me. A scream came out of me, before I could stop it. Ahmed looked back at me helplessly and a few other patrons turned their eye on me, before resuming puffing on their cigarettes. There was no one here to
help me, no one who cared. Before they were led out of the Norfolk Punch Jabber turned his head round and looked straight at me. I was amazed to see he was grinning. His left eye closed in a wink, before the policeman gave him a shove and he vanished out of the door.

Chapter Thirteen

“So, you've had Ahmed arrested and you're carrying a package which probably contains stolen goods. How do you plan to dig yourself out of this hole?” Rachel asked.

“I don't know.” I hung my head, shame boiling inside me.

“You don't know!”

“The police have taken them to Covent Garden station. I'll come up with a plan in a moment.”

“Please! Spare us.” Rachel strode around my aunt's parlor, her skirts swishing in agitation. “Promise me one thing, Kit, no more plans.”

Nothing Rachel could say would make me feel any worse than I already did. My friends had warned me not to go to the gin palace. But I hadn't listened and now all I had achieved was getting Ahmed arrested. Maybe Rachel was right. Maybe I did need to think more before I acted. While Rachel had cleverly managed to get a message about the attack on Baruch to the tailor's niece
I had achieved …

“That's right, Kit. You've achieved nothing. Actually no, that's not true. You have managed something, you've made things much worse,” Rachel said, breaking in on my thoughts.

“Don't go on so,” I begged, casting a glance at the linen-wrapped package which sat on the card table. “Let's open the package. Maybe it'll help in some way. Give us some clue.”

“Sometimes I think you shouldn't be let out,” Rachel continued relentlessly. “Not without a dog collar and some groom or chaperone to stand guard over you.”

“I could go to the police station—” I began.

“Certainly not,” Rachel said. “We'll wait till your aunt gets home. You'll have to explain it to her, somehow, and get her to help you—”

I interrupted. “I know I'm awful. Will you stop now, please.” Listlessly I picked up the package. String was tied around the coarse, grayish linen. It was about the size of a book, squishy to the touch. I squeezed it: there was something harder inside.

“You don't know what it is. Could be poison. Or a gun,” Rachel said.

“Wrong shape.” I tried biting the string. “Maybe I can open it with my teeth.”

Silently Rachel held out a pair of embroidery scissors.
Feeling foolish, again, I snipped the string and revealed—not a pistol, exotic jewels, diamonds. Certainly not something that would give us a clue to the mummy's whereabouts. Instead nestling in the wrinkled folds of cloth was a dirty old dish.

“Just a butter dish!” Rachel blurted.

I looked at the thing that lay in the cloth with mounting excitement. It shone dully under a coating of dirt.

“It's not a butter dish,” I said.

“Certainly it is.” Rachel picked it up, looking closely at the thing. It was engraved with an odd sort of crest, a cow like animal. “An ugly one, at that.” She turned it over in her palm, puzzled.

“NO!” I shook my head. “I mean it's not
just
a butter dish.”

Rachel looked at me, as if I was talking sheer gibberish.

“How did it get into Jabber's hands, I wonder?” I continued, turning my attention back to the dirty cloth package. I felt in the package, nothing, except a tiny stub of paper. I took the paper and read the scrawl of writing.

I handed the note to Rachel and strolled over to the
window, my mind working furiously. Should I give Rachel the slip and go to Covent Garden Police Station? I could try and find out which prison Ahmed and Jabber had been taken to, if indeed they had been jailed. Or would they be held in the police station? Would a little bribery work? I'd heard that sometimes one could pay to have minor prisoners released from jail. Meanwhile I had a feeling about the note and the butter dish, I
knew
how we could make it work to our advantage.

It was time I had a good talk with Jabber.

“What in heaven's name does it mean?” Rachel asked, coming over to the window to return the note to me.

“Isn't it obvious?” I couldn't resist the opportunity to get back at Rachel a little, after all she had been lecturing me non-stop.

“No, it isn't.” Rachel replied shortly.

I was about to explain the significance of the butter dish and the note when down in the street I suddenly saw something that made my words dry up. Emerging from the shadows of a hansom cab was a stick of a boy. Something in his outrageous swagger was familiar. Even from the fifth floor there was no mistaking that burst of fiery hair. Jabber Jukes!

Not bothering to explain to Rachel I dashed out of the room and ran pell-mell down the stairs. Jabber was trying to convince Mary to let him in when I got to the
front door. From behind him stepped the slight figure of Ahmed.

“Ahmed!” gasped Rachel, who had run after me. “How glad we are to see you!”

“Jabber,” Ahmed explained shyly, clearly thrilled with his reception from Rachel. “He freed me.”

“Called in a few favors, I did,” Jabber shrugged. “Plenty o” folk owe me one.'

While Rachel fussed over Ahmed, I pulled Jabber into the dining room. He gawked at the sideboard laden with crystal, china and silver, the chandelier hanging over the polished table. Maybe estimating how much my aunt's possessions would fetch from one of his criminal friends.

“I don't want you to get any clever notions, Jabber,” I said firmly, with a sudden vision of returning to the house to find it robbed of all valuables. “I don't want any of your rascally friends after my aunt's silver.”

“Yer got the wrong idea,” he replied, trying to look hurt.

“So, Jabber?”

“I came to say fank you, didn't I? It was right kind of you to save me from the rozzers like that. I'd have got jugged for sure if they found that package on me.”

“What do you mean—jugged?” I asked, my mind wandering back to the note. I would have to play this hardened young criminal carefully. “You're not a hare.”
Jugged hare was one of Cook's specialties.

“Put inside.” He explained as if I was very stupid. “Arrested by 'Er Majesty's rozzers and put in prison.”

“Probably the best place for you.” I grinned.

“Oh that's very nice, that is.”

“Only joking. It seems we have to thank you too, for helping Ahmed.”

“One good turn deserves another. Now, can I 'ave me package back?” he gestured at the bundle, which I had in my hand.

I gaped, astounded by his cheek. “I know what's in the package. I know where you got it from and I know what you planned to do with it!”

“Yer bluffing,” the boy said, regarding me uneasily.

“Oh no, I am most certainly not. I'll warrant, Jabber, that you're pretty quick to seize
any
opportunity. You are a downright thief.”

“Who says?” he stared at me, defiantly.

“I do,” I replied. “Last night there was a robbery at Lady Mary Leland's house in Belgravia. The thieves stole a quantity of items from the kitchens before they were discovered by the butler and chased out of the house. In the process they shot the dog. It was a cocker spaniel. Totally harmless, I believe.” I threw a newspaper at him, folded on the page with the report of the robbery; it fell on the rug between us. “The details are all in there.”

“Shame about the mutt,” Jabber murmured looking at the rug. He spoke so low I almost wasn't sure I had heard right.

Slowly I drew the butter dish out of the linen package.

Jabber looked up at me, unapologetic. “Go on then, Princess, go to the police,” he said, his brown teeth revealed in a wide smirk. “Course you won't find me, not for dust.”

“That's not what I had in mind.” I smiled.

“Wot?”

“I've something more interesting planned.” I drew the note to “Jacko” out of the linen package and read it out slowly to Jabber, who didn't flinch. When I had finished there was a moment's silence. “You must take me for a fool,” I said eventually.

He shrugged, as if to agree with my statement.

“Think again,” I said calmly. “This isn't just any old dish, it is a very valuable object made of the finest silver. You see, I know
exactly
what that note means. What happened to honor among thieves?”

“Come again?”

“Here's how it happened, Jabber. You didn't just steal that butter dish from Lady Mary Leland. You stole it from your ‘captain'—what was the name you were blabbering in the Norfolk Punch? ‘Velvet Nell'? That's
it, Velvet Nell. You were planning to send the dish to a receiver of stolen goods, have it melted down for silver and split the proceeds. You were betraying your Velvet Nell—going behind her back.”

“Business is business.”

“Business, is that your name for thieving?” I regarded him steadily. “I wonder what Velvet Nell will have to say about it?”

He didn't reply; the stream of blabber had finally dried up. There was something cringing about him now—underneath the fancy oversize jacket and the studded belt, Jabber was just a scared boy.

“I don't care about your gang's thieving, I don't care about the protection business. Not at present, anyway. I'm going to help you, Jabber, by keeping quiet about your little swindle. So, I want you to help me in turn.”

“All right, miss.” He was visibly trying to pull himself together again.

“What I want to know about is the fake mummy. Who had it made at Moses Zwingler's workshop? Who is paying?”

A wary look came over Jabber's face and he blinked once or twice. After a moment of this he looked me in the face. “I'll tell yer, miss, though Velvet Nell, my captain, she'd kill me—you saw what she done to the greener. If she ever finds out about this I'll be pushing
up the daisies.”

“Who is this Velvet Nell?”

“'Aven't yer 'eard of Velvet Nell? She's right 'ard, is Nell. One of the most feared captains in the whole game. She done the job stealin' that Egyptian mummy and makin' the other at the sweatshop. And the greener—” he paused.

I interrupted: “She had poor Baruch stabbed, because your gang followed him and saw him talking to us. She must be a monster.” Then another thought occurred to me. “Were you there at the omnibus stop?”