The Hippopotamus Pool, page 30
part #8 of An Amelia Peabody Mystery Series
Abdullah’s face brightened at this evidence of confidence. He so forgot himself as to interrupt Emerson’s admonitions about silence. “Our lips are sealed, Father of Curses. We will not fail you again.”
“It was not your fault, Abdullah,” I said, patting his arm.
“Yes, it was,” said Emerson, dismissing the subject. He took out his watch. “Where are the others? I cannot wait for them. Send Sir Edward up as soon as he arrives, Evelyn, and keep that tedious woman out of the way. The rest of you come with me.”
And off he went, up the stairs.
It was at my insistence that we stopped for luncheon. The air was thick with plaster dust and the bat guano stirred up by our movements; Walter’s breathing had become uneven and even Sir Edward was showing signs of distress. I had, over her strenuous objections, sent Nefret down earlier.
She came running toward me when I descended the last steps. “Aunt Amelia, you look terrible.”
“Do I? Then I had better tidy up a bit before we join the others.”
We all made use of the buckets of water and towels, and then retired to the shelter. Knowing Emerson would refuse to return to the Amelia until nightfall, I had ordered picnic baskets, and we tucked into the food and especially the drink with gusto. It was interesting to see how the group divided. I joined Gertrude at the little table, the men distributed themselves on various rocks, and the children went to join David in his tomb. Evelyn had been with him; when she took her place at the table I saw she was holding a sketch pad. I asked to see what she had been doing, and she handed it to me with an odd little smile.
“Are you giving drawing lessons?” I asked, thumbing through the pages in growing amazement.
“Taking them, rather. What a talent the boy has, Amelia! He knows nothing of the conventions of Western art, of course, but he is quick to learn—and he is giving me a new understanding of Egyptian art. I believe he could help me with the copying.”
“That will have to wait until we finish clearing the antechamber,” I said, with a warning glance at Gertrude.
She looked not quite the thing that morning; her eyes were shadowed and she seemed abstracted. Catching my eye, she cleared her throat and said hesitantly, “I have been thinking, Mrs. Emerson, about the kind invitation of Mr. Vandergelt. I would like to accept it, but I don’t feel it would be proper.”
“Why not?” I inquired, selecting a second sandwich.
“To be the only woman in the house?”
“Such old-fashioned notions are passé, Gertrude. We are in the twentieth century now. Surely you don’t suspect Mr. Vandergelt of improper intentions.”
“Oh, no! Only … I would feel so much more comfortable if Mrs. Walter Emerson were there too. Or Nefret?”
Emerson had finished eating. He came up to us in time to hear the last exchange.
“You will be perfectly safe with Vandergelt, Miss Marmaduke,” he said. “Do you happen to know where I can put my hands on a typewriting machine?”
“Now that I come to think of it,” I said, “Cyrus probably has one. You know how these Americans are about machinery.”
“Excellent!” Emerson gave me an approving smile. “That’s settled, then. You can pack your traps this afternoon, Miss Marmaduke, and be in the Castle by evening. I will run by later with my manuscript and tell you what I want done. You may as well go now. I will have one of the men take you over to Luxor. Finished, Peabody? Come along, come along.”
He trotted away, leaving Gertrude gaping. I provided the explanations Emerson had neglected to give—he assumes, incorrectly, that other people think as quickly as he and I do—and sent Gertrude off with Selim.
“It is a relief to have her out of the way,” I said to Evelyn. “Now we can talk freely.”
A reverberant bellow from Emerson reached our ears. Evelyn laughed. “We cannot talk at all, Amelia. I am dying of curiosity to know what you have found, but you had better go before Radcliffe begins swearing.”
The others had already obeyed the summons. As I followed, I saw Evelyn return to the spot where David was sitting.
When Emerson was finally persuaded to stop, the barrier was gone and most of the fallen stone had been removed from the steps. The sight of what lay below—the rock-cut stairs, plunging down at a steep angle, the low, uneven roof—was not alarming or unusual, but I noticed that our workers departed with alacrity as soon as Emerson gave the word. Abdullah must have told them about the mummy. How could I blame the men for dreading such an omen, when it had affected even me?
“That will suffice,” Emerson said, wiping his wet forehead with his filthy sleeve. “We will need more planks tomorrow, Abdullah, to finish shoring up the roof; I don’t like the looks of it.”
“It shall be as you say, Emerson. And then you will take …” His hand moved in an odd, shrinking gesture, as if he was reluctant even to indicate the mummy, much less name it.
“Yes.” Emerson glanced at me. “Go on, Peabody, we will be along shortly.”
Nefret and Ramses had already left the tomb with Walter. I allowed Sir Edward to offer me his hand.
“You must be very tired,” he said sympathetically.
“No more than you, I think.” He was a far cry from the elegant gentleman I had first met, his clothing sweat-stained and wrinkled, his hair white with dust. From the filth that smeared his face a pair of red-rimmed blue eyes met my eyes with visible amusement.
“I had believed myself to be an old hand at this,” he admitted. “But compared to your husband, Newberry and Spiegelberg, with whom I worked last season, are effete dilettantes.”
“He will maintain this pace until we have finished, you know. Can you keep up?”
“I will drop in my tracks before I admit defeat,” was the laughing response. “I am concerned about Mr. Walter Emerson, though. If there is anything I can do—with the utmost tact, of course—to relieve him …”
“A considerable degree of tact would be required. But I thank you, and I will bear it in mind. Have you decided to accept Mr. Vandergelt’s invitation to stay with him?”
My knees buckled as I stepped onto the ground. It was not fatigue; I had trod on a pebble. His hand was quick to steady me.
“I would prefer to remain at the hotel, if you and the Professor do not object.”
“I do not object,” said Emerson. “If you need a hand, Amelia, take mine.”
Sir Edward hastened toward the water bucket and I said, “Emerson, you must stop creeping up on people like that. It is not only rude, it is unnerving.”
“I wanted to hear what he was whispering so tenderly into your ear,” said my husband.
“He was not whispering, and it was not tender. It was interesting, though. I had expected he and Gertrude would want to remain together.”
“You were mistaken, Peabody. It does happen occasionally.”
I had observed earlier that Walter did not look well, but I did not take it seriously until after Sir Edward’s concerned comment. Even I had been affected adversely by the strenuous effort and bad air and the sickening stench from the bottom of the steps. He looked better—so did we all!—after a bathe and change of clothing, but when we met for an early supper I took a closer look at my brother-in-law and was not pleased at what I saw. I refrained from comment, however, until Emerson informed us that he meant from now on to spend the nights at the tomb, and Walter insisted on sharing the duty with him.
“You will not wish to be away from … away from the boat every night,” he said, carefully not looking at me. “We will do it in turn, Radcliffe, as we used to do.”
“I don’t see why either of you has to be there,” I said. “Abdullah will not be tricked a second time and it is sheer arrogance and prejudice to suppose the presence of a single Englishman will prevent what five loyal Egyptians cannot.”
I had hoped this would be convincing and that I would not have to voice my belief that Walter was not up to the job, since that would only make him more determined to prove he was. Oblivious to my subtle intent, Emerson foiled my plan by announcing loudly that he was not talking about Englishmen in general but himself in particular, and that if anyone doubted his effectiveness he could produce affadavits from most of the residents of Egypt.
So I was forced in the end to tell Walter he was not fit, and Walter indignantly denied it, and I sent him straight to bed.
After Emerson had gone off, carrying the manuscript he meant to leave with Miss Marmaduke before going on to the tomb, I returned to the saloon. I was alone; Nefret and Ramses were in his room, with David—giving him a lesson in English or ancient Hebrew or astronomy, I supposed—and Evelyn had taken Walter a tray. I had thought to distract myself by working on my translation, but the words never penetrated my head and finally I gave up, watching the moon rise over the silhouetted cliffs and trying not to think about Emerson.
I had arranged with Ibrahim, one of Abdullah’s nephews, or cousins—it was difficult to keep track of them all—to stand watch some little distance from the camp and to report instantly to me if anything untoward occurred. (I had not mentioned it to Emerson; he would have made indignant remarks about nursemaids.) I felt a little easier after doing this, but not much. Our foes were cunning and unprincipled.
The door opened and Evelyn slipped in. “If you are working I will not disturb you,” she said softly.
“You are the person I want most to see,” I said, realizing, with some surprise, that this was true. “Or at least—”
“I understand. There is no use telling you not to worry about him.”
“No. I hope you are not worried about Walter. I think he is only suffering from exhaustion.”
“He is asleep,” Evelyn said dismissively. She sat down and arranged her skirts. The lamplight aureoled her golden hair. “I wish there were something I could do. If only I were a man!”
“Well, as to that, I would not say that men have all the advantages. Poor creatures, they are singularly lacking in certain intellectual qualities.”
Evelyn’s tight lips relaxed into a smile. “That is not the common view, Amelia. Are not men supposed to be ruled by reason, and women by irrational emotion?”
“Ah, but who defines those views? Men, my dear—men! Only consider the facts. I have been attempting for weeks to convince Emerson to take a rational view of the situation, but he won’t even admit the facts, much less the logical conclusions to be drawn from them. They would be self-evident to any woman.”
“Perhaps not to me,” Evelyn said with a smile. She seemed easier now; her hands lay loose in her lap and her stiff shoulders had relaxed.
“You do yourself an injustice. In case I have not mentioned it, Evelyn, I have come to have great respect for your ratiocinative abilities. I feel certain that if we put our heads together we can solve the problem of who our enemies are and decide on the best method of defending ourselves.”
“My abilities, such as they are (and I fear affection makes you rate them too highly), are at your disposal, Amelia dear. You have already given me a brief account of what has transpired. Perhaps you would be willing to go over it again in greater detail?”
She was not really interested in hearing my account; she was hoping to keep my mind occupied so that I would not fret about Emerson. Mine had not been an empty compliment, however. I launched immediately into my narrative, beginning with the visit of Mr. Shelmadine. Evelyn listened in silence, and I must say it was a pleasure to talk with someone who did not interrupt every thirty seconds.
When I had finished she drew a sheet of blank paper to her and selected a pen. “I find it easier to keep things straight in my mind when I write them down. Do you object?”
“Not at all. I do that myself occasionally, though I have found that my mental processes do not readily lend themselves to organization of that variety.”
“Your mental processes are too complex,” Evelyn agreed gravely. “Let me see if I can summarize them.” She inscribed a list of names. “These, if I understand you, are the persons of whose integrity you are not certain.”
“That is a genteel way of putting it. You must add another name, Evelyn. I am fond of the boy too, but we cannot clear him completely of suspicion.”
“Yes, of course.” With a steady hand she added David’s name to the list, and took another sheet of paper. “Let us start with the assumption—which seems to me reasonable—that there are two different groups of thieves involved. Which is which?”
By the time we finished, the paper was all scribbled over and crossed out. “Well,” I said doubtfully, “I cannot say my mind is any clearer on this.”
“But we have made a beginning.” She pointed with the pen as she spoke. “Riccetti is the head of one such group. Shelmadine was his man. The horrible old man at Gurneh—Abd el Hamed—is connected with the second group. Shall we call them A and B, for easier reference?”
“More distinctive names are easier to keep straight,” I said. “Let me see. Nefret calls Riccetti ‘the Hippopotamus Man,’ and there is unquestionably a certain resemblance to that beast. Supposing we refer to his gang as the Hippopotami and to the other group as the Jackals.”
Evelyn laughed. “Those are certainly distinctive names. Then we can assume Abd el Hamed is a Jackal. His hatred of the man who crippled his hands must be intense. And if that is so, then David … Oh, Amelia, I cannot believe the boy would betray you. Any of you!”
“It would be a serious error to believe we can understand his motives,” I said soberly. “An old, long-established fear may be stronger than a new loyalty. If David is guilty, he is working for Abd el Hamed. What of the others?”
Evelyn shook her head. “I don’t see how we can possibly tell. The antiquities dealer in Luxor must be involved, but he could be in terror of either group; they appear to be equally unscrupulous. It is difficult for me to picture a gentleman like Sir Edward taking orders from a man like Riccetti—”
“I have known several villains who were perfect gentlemen. And there are Europeans, English and Americans up to their necks in the illegal-antiquities game. Leave him in the list of uncertains. What about Miss Marmaduke?”
“On the surface she is a perfect example of a certain type of English spinster,” Evelyn said thoughtfully. “Too perfect, perhaps? I have had a number of conversations with her, and I cannot find a flaw in her performance. There is only one thing that gives me pause, and that is her—excessive, don’t you think?—interest in Nefret.”
“Almost as if she knew some particular danger threatens the child,” I agreed uneasily. “Yes, I do think it is excessive. She suggested more than once that Nefret would be safer in her care.”
“She may be only superstitious and fanciful. A childless woman sometimes develops strong attachments to pretty young creatures in her care. Especially girls.”
“Gertrude certainly has not shown any strong affection for Ramses,” I agreed, laughing and yawning at once. “Emerson would say we are the ones who are fanciful, Evelyn. Our brilliant deductions are based on very tenuous evidence.”
“It is up to us to procure additional evidence,” Evelyn said. “But you are tired, Amelia; can you sleep now?”
“Yes.” It was not true, but she was also in need of rest and I knew she would sit with me all night if she felt I wanted her.
I left her at the door of her room, with a kiss and a fond good night; but after that door had closed I went to another chamber than my own. The sound of soft breathing and the sight of a slight form curled under the blankets should have been enough, but I did not leave the room until after I had bent over it and made certain the form was Nefret’s.
The conversation with Evelyn had brought into sharp focus fears that up till then I had tried to deny. In addition to the point she had mentioned—Gertrude’s unnatural concern—there was another, more alarming indication of danger to Nefret. Abd el Hamed’s excuses had been glib and reasonable, but the unpleasant fact remained: it was Nefret’s room the intruder had entered, and it was she whom his hands had seized.
I lay long awake, and it was not only fear for Emerson that kept Morpheus at bay.
We did not linger over breakfast next morning. Upon our arrival at the tomb I hastened at once to mount the stairs; when I entered the antechamber I saw Emerson sitting on the floor, his head bowed and Abdullah bending over him.
“Now what?” I inquired, with admirable calm.
Emerson raised his head, displaying a countenance sicklier in hue than was its wont. “Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept well.”
“Are you ill? Are you hurt?”
He pushed away my hands and those of Abdullah, and rose with all his old energy. “A passing queasiness, nothing more. I have just finished fixing the lid back over that mummy, and the stench was unpleasant.”
“Did you have to do that?” I demanded.
“I should have waited for you to do it, I suppose,” Emerson said mildly. The others filed into the room and he gave them an absentminded wave of greeting as he continued, “All right, Abdullah, let’s get the gruesome thing out of here. Send Daoud or Ali up to give me a hand. I could carry it myself, but I don’t want to joggle it.”
Abdullah folded his arms and did not budge. “I will be your hands, Emerson.”
Emerson stroked his chin and studied his reis thoughtfully. Then he smiled and gave the old man a clap on the shoulder. “Is it so? You and I then, Abdullah, as so often before. Peabody, just trot down, will you, and disperse the locals? One glimpse of a coffin being carried out of here and they will spread the word. The rest of you clear out, you will only be in the way.”
“Just a moment,” I said. “At least protect your breathing apparatus. You ought to have done it before. Where is your handkerchief, Emerson?”
It was a foolish question. He never has one. While he was fumbling in his pockets Walter produced his, and Emerson bound it over his mouth. Abdullah wound his scarf over the lower part of his face, and then they started down the steps. Both had to stoop; they were tall men and the roof was low.
