Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (30 page)

The driver said something in Turkish, and Ali turned to Harold. “He can go no farther. Streets too narrow.”

“Oh, wonderful,” muttered Harold. Then he said, “So what do we do now?”

“We walk,” said Ali.

Harold said, “If we rescue Detective Rotondo and he’s injured”—my heart did another of those flippity-flop things it had taken to doing of late—“how will we get him back to the hotel?”

It was a reasonable question, although I wished Harold hadn’t asked it. I gazed hopefully upon Ali, who didn’t disappoint.

“We hire donkey cart,” Ali said. “And I tell cab driver to wait for us here.”

“Thank God,” I whispered. Very well, I suppose a donkey cart might be bumpy if Sam were grievously injured, but at least I knew we’d be able to find some sort of conveyance. We’d also have the cab. I guess a donkey cart and cab would be able to carry us all, including the prisoners we aimed to take to the police station with us.

Harold shot a nasty glance at me before he said, “All right. I suppose I’m the one who’ll pay the drivers?”

Ali shrugged.

I said, “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll pay him!” Harold’s lousy attitude was beginning to annoy me.

“Don’t be silly,” barked Harold. He handed the driver a bunch of coins, the driver’s eyes bugged slightly, as did Ali’s, and we got out of the cab.

“I wish you’d ask how much things cost and not just toss money at people,” I said softly to Harold. “You’re paying way too much, and you’re demeaning these good people.”

“Demeaning them?” Harold looked at me as if I were insane. “Does he seem to feel demeaned?”

I took a peek at the driver, who was smiling and bowing at Harold. “Well, I still think you should ask. No wonder people don’t like Americans. We just toddle into their countries and throw our money around.”

Another grouchy look from Harold. “Whoever said people we overpay don’t like us? Did Billy read you that from an article in National Geographic?”

“Well, no, but it smacks of imperialism to me. We don’t take time to get to know other people’s cultures.”

“Damn it, Daisy, we don’t have time to study Turkish culture! You’re the one who made me come on this idiotic rescue mission.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

As we’d talked, Ali had started shoving ahead of us through the throngs of people and donkeys and chickens and goats. At least there weren’t any camels here as there had been in Egypt. Although I loved their blankets, of which I’d purchased a couple, I wasn’t fond of camels. We had to hustle to keep up with Ali. Harold kept looking around nervously as if he didn’t approve of the crowds. I figured they were Turkish crowds in a Turkish town, and they belonged there. We didn’t. So I just tried to keep close to Ali.

I darned near bumped into him when he came to a sudden
halt and held out his hand in a gesture that meant for us to stop. Three men, two of whom were as tall as Ali, and all of whom were almost as good-looking as he, surged out of the crowd and met Ali with smiles and warm embraces. His brothers, I deduced. Boy, these Turkish gents had it all over people from the other countries I’d visited in the looks department. Not that I should have been noticing such things at a time like this.

Turning to us, Ali said, “My brothers. Mehmet, Demet and Barbaros.”

The men bowed in turn, and I knew I’d never keep their names straight, and that didn’t have anything to do with the fact that my mind kind of snagged on the last name. But . . . Barbaros? What a great name! Well, never mind that.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, and bowed in my turn. Then I felt stupid. But what’s a girl to do? This was the most unusual situation in which I’d ever found myself. I turned to Harold and saw him bow, too, so I didn’t feel so bad.

“Follow us,” said one of Ali’s brothers. I don’t know which one it was, except that I knew it wasn’t Barbaros, because I’d paid attention to him especially because of his name.

“You follow, Demet. Be sure nobody follow Missus Majesty and Mister Harold.”

“You in trouble?” Demet asked us. I knew it was he, because he’s the one who let us pass, and then he followed us.

“A friend of ours is,” I said. “And thank you very much for helping us get him back.”

“Insh’Allah,” said Demet. Whatever that meant.

But I didn’t have time to ruminate on the linguistic intricacies I was hearing all around me—although I did notice that I heard not a single English word spoken in this part of the city of Istanbul, which was a
odd sensation. Talk about being your basic stranger in a strange land.

Ali and his other brothers kept up a stream of low chatter as we followed them through the crowds. The crowds, by the way, didn’t smell awfully good, although that could probably be chalked up to a lack of running water, no proper sanitation and stuff like that. Most of us Americans don’t know how lucky we are. The closer we got to our destination, the odors also became more fishy. Ah. Good. I wasn’t partial to the small of old fish, but I figured the aroma meant we were nearing the place where Sam was being held captive.

Ali and his brothers turned down what appeared to be a narrow alleyway, although it happened to be merely another street, only less populated than the one we’d just left. Most of the people we saw here were barefoot and had shorter wide trousers than the rest of the populace. Then I noticed that the trousers weren’t necessarily shorter, but their wide bottoms were kilted up underneath their wearers’ sashes, and I figured we were amongst fishermen. Better and better, if slightly smellier.

And then I saw Ahmet! Crouching in that characteristic Middle-Eastern way beside a ratty building right, smack next to the water, he was. Sam’s lair! Surrounded by fishy things—nets, ropes, barrels,
stray pieces of lumber and wood, and all sorts of other stuff I didn’t recognize—he spotted Ali and nodded.

“Mister Sam, he still there,” said Ali. Then he said, “Wait here,” and we did, Harold, Ali’s three brothers, and I while Ali padded softly up to Ahmet, avoiding walking in front of any windows. Mind you, all the windows I saw in that long, low building were so filthy, I doubted anyone could see out through them, but still, it was wise to take precautions.

I’m not good at waiting. I get really impatient. At that moment, my nerves were stretched to taut, I’m surprised one or two of them didn’t snap right in half. I was so worried about Sam and so wanted to get him back in one piece!

And speaking of pieces . . . I picked up a bit of lumber lying on the ground, figuring it might be strong enough to smack a person with should the need arise. I wished Ali had given me a dagger, although I suppose he was right not to do so. You probably have to take lessons to learn how to use a dagger properly. Anybody, even a phony spiritualist, can whack someone across the shins with a piece of wood.

After approximately six and a half hours—I’m exaggerating, of course—Ali crept back to where we stood, everyone waiting patiently except yours truly.

“Demet, go to the south end of the building. Barbaros, go to the water side of the building. Mehmet, you take east side. Ahmet and me, we take north end. We break down door and rush in. The three men still there, along with Mister Sam.”

“What about us?” I demanded. “We want to rescue Sam, too.”

“I don’t,” said Harold. “I’d just as soon watch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I need to see if he’s all right.”

“He all right,” said Ali. Then he sighed, must have realized I wasn’t going to hang back while everyone else did the dirty work, and said, “You follow me. But stay back. No get hurt.”

“Um, do you think they have any weapons?” I asked, feeling the least little bit squeamish. A fine time for that to happen, but there you go.

Nodding, Ali said, “They have guns.”

Oh, good God.

“Daisy, you’d better stay with me,” said Harold.

“Nuts. Come with us and bring your gun if you want to be useful.”

Ali rolled his eyes. I was getting quite tired of men rolling their eyes at me, but I’d wait until later to scold him for it. “Mister Harold, he stay here. You follow me.” His voice was quite authoritative, so we did as he demanded.

My heart hammered like a kettle drum as I tiptoed after Ali, being as silent as I possibly could be, my piece of lumber held in both hands and in striking position, just in case. Ali gestured to me to crouch as we neared Ahmet, who still stood watch. Well, he crouched, too, but you know what I mean.

Putting his finger to his lips, Ali joined Ahmet. Then Ali produced a piercing whistle, clearly a prearranged signal I didn’t know about beforehand, the two men smashed down the door with their shoulders and rushed into the building. Ali’s brothers had also heard the signal, and they charged into the building, too, a couple through another door, and one through a window he broke out.

And then all hell broke loose, as the saying goes. Everything was so confusing there for a few minutes, I wasn’t sure who was who and what was happening, but I struck out at anyone who came near me wearing a European suit, managing to get one of the villains a good one on the shins. I think it was Futrelle, because he said something in French that I was pretty sure was a swear word, although I don’t speak French. I think it was Stackville who pulled the trigger on his gun, but he didn’t hit anyone because Ali or one of this brothers—or maybe it was Ahmet—whacked him with the backside of his dagger and the gun went flying. I didn’t see where it landed because at that moment, Mr. Gaylord Bartholomew, the third villain, shoved me aside and ran for the door.

I gave chase and managed to give him a good wallop on the back of his head with my board, but he only swore, staggered a little bit, and kept running. By that time I was out of breath—I’d been through a good deal that day already, and I had to stop and catch my breath. But I saw that Mr. Bartholomew was headed straight in Harold’s direction, so I shrieked, “Harold! Stop that man!”

And, by gum, Harold pulled out his gun and fired. Mr. Bartholomew screamed, clutched at his leg, and fell down.

Then Harold fainted.

* * * * *

It turned out that Harold had shot Mr. Bartholomew in the thigh, and that his injury wasn’t life-threatening. I, feeling pretty darned bloodthirsty by that time, said I was disappointed to hear it.

Sam, looking much the worse for wear in a filthy white suit and with bumps and bruises all over him, scowled at me. “What the devil did you come with the men for? Don’t you have any sense at all?”

By this time we were all piled into the Turkish police headquarters, and the two London policemen had joined us. There were other Turkish officials there, too, although I don’t know who they were. Harold was having palpitations, but Dr. Weatherfield, who’d been sent for to attend to Sam and Mr. Bartholomew, gave him a powder and he eventually calmed down.

“Darn you, Sam Rotondo! I helped in your rescue. The least you could do is be grateful we got you out of there.”

“I’m glad to be out of there. I’m not glad you were involved. For God’s sake, Daisy, don’t you have the brains God gave a goose?”

I was so mad at Sam, I couldn’t speak to him without hollering, so I turned my attention to Harold. “You turned out to be a genuine hero, Harold. If you hadn’t shot Mister Bartholomew, he might have escaped.”

“Please don’t remind me.” Harold’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and he keeled over sideways. I caught him before he could fall out of his chair.

“Let’s have some order and discipline here,” said DCI Miller. “I don’t like it that you civilians carried out this so-called rescue by yourselves. Why didn’t you come to us? We have the fire power and the men to do the job, and you also bypassed the Turkish officials, who aren’t any more happy about your shenanigans than we are.”

Ah. A target for my anger. “A lot you know about it!” I cried. “You’d have taken forever and ever to get organized. Ali and Ahmet and Ali’s brothers knew exactly where Sam was and how to get him back again, and they did. And they rounded up the crooks, too. You should be thanking them instead of moaning about how you were left out of the party!”

“My dear Missus Majesty—”

“Don’t you ‘dear Missus Majesty’ me, DCI Miller! We rescued Sam and you didn’t, and we caught the crooks, and that’s that. What I want to know now is why they’ve been plaguing us ever since Egypt!”

I glared at Mr. Stackville, who appeared much less suave than usual, thanks to having been knocked about a bit by Ali and his brothers. Futrelle, also most untidy, was grumpy and kept rubbing his shin where I’d smacked him with my board. Good for me. Except for Mr. Bartholomew, who moaned a bit, none of the criminals said a word.

It was Sam who finally told us what the three villains had been after all this time.

“They tell me you bought a golden canopic jar in Cairo. The shop keeper wasn’t supposed to sell it, because it was stolen from a royal tomb, although nobody’s supposed to know about the tomb yet, especially the authorities and the antiquities department or whoever keeps track of these things. Evidently the shop keeper’s nephew or brother or some other relation was running the shop for him that day, and he sold it to you.”

“A golden canopic jar?” I stared blankly at Sam, who, naturally, frowned back at me. “I don’t have a golden canopic jar. I don’t even know what a canopic jar is.”