Seeing a Large Cat (23 page)

"Once one has eliminated the probables, what remains, however impossible-"

"Yes, yes, I know," Emerson said impatiently. "But this really is impossible. Mrs. Jones could not have been involved with the mummification and removal of Mrs. Bellingham's body. She had not been in Egypt before this."

"We have only her word for that."

"The European community, especially here in Luxor, is small and close-knit. Someone would remember having met her."

"I have not explored that angle as thoroughly as I ought to have done," I said thoughtfully. "I will do so. Most of the members of that community will be at Cyrus's soiree tomorrow evening."

Emerson's protests about attending the soiree were less noisy than usual; he acknowledged the necessity of investigation and recognized this would be a useful opportunity for pursuing it. "It is only a matter of form, though," he said. "Consider the other difficulties. Preparing the body and placing it in the tomb required specialized knowledge, nor could she have anticipated five years ago that she would want a mummy at this time."

"Don't be so cursed pedantic and methodical, Emerson. I don't believe for a moment Mrs. Jones had anything to do with Mrs. Bellingham's death. The discovery of the body is quite another matter. Let us suppose ..."

"By all means," Emerson said gravely. "Supposition is the basis of criminal investigation."

"Let us theorize, then. Mrs. Jones has been in the spiritualist business for some time, and one of her controls is an Egyptian princess. Unlike some of her colleagues, she has taken the trouble to learn something about Egyptology; her conversation with us in Cairo proved that. Supposing she ran across the real killer. .. Emerson, please stop grinning in that annoying fashion. Coincidences do occur and people have been known to make unwise admissions, especially under circumstances of emotional stress such as prevail during a seance. Just allow me, for a moment, to hypothesize that Mrs. Jones knew that there was a likely mummy available. Producing it would be the final proof to Donald that her talents were genuine. You see what this means, don't you? If the clues we received directing us to the tomb came from Mrs. Jones, the killer need not be in Egypt. He may have fled to darkest Antartica or the wilds of the Rocky Mountains."

Emerson removed his pipe from his mouth. "You have progressed from 'suppose' to 'may have been' to a flat-out statement of fact, Peabody. I still believe it is a lunatic idea. However, it does raise a valid point. The killer need not be the same person who directed us to the tomb."

"You have overlooked something, though. I overlooked it too," I admitted. "The attacks on Dolly Bellingham."

"We only know for certain of one," Emerson pointed out. "I admit it is unusual, almost unheard of, for a foreign tourist to be attacked, but it could happen. The defections of her attendants might be due to purely natural causes."

"We ought to find out more about those defections."

"I will leave that in your hands, Peabody. I can't stand the girl. She is a giggler. You know how I feel about gigglers."

"Very well. I will also question Colonel Bellingham. We need a description of Scudder-his background, his physical appearance, his habits. And Abdullah . .."

I caught myself. Emerson gave me another of those annoying grins. "Yes, Abdullah. That was a good notion of yours, Peabody. I had the same idea myself."

"You always say that."

"So do you."

"So Abdullah confessed all."

"Certainly. No doubt he will confess to you tomorrow that I bullied him into betraying your confidence. I believe the old rascal enjoys playing us off one against the other."

"Let him enjoy his game, then. He can be a great help."

"Certainly." Emerson rose and stretched. "Let us get the children out of the darkroom and send them to bed. We are fortunate parents, Peabody; David and Nefret diligent in the darkroom, Ramses laboring on the dahabeeyah. I hope the poor lad won't stay up too late straining his eyes over those texts."

Chapter Eight

It was not a sporting thing to do, but the alternative would have been less acceptable. suggestion that we attend church services next morning was received with a massive display of disinclination. In his bluff fashion Emerson summed up the general consensus by remarking, "Don't be absurd, Peabody," and demanded another egg. His callused brown hands were marked by innumerable scrapes and bruises; I reminded myself to apply a few bits of sticking plaster, though I did not suppose he would leave them in place for long.

Ramses's eye sockets had the bruised look they got from lack of sleep, and when I taxed him with sitting up late over his texts he admitted he had not gone to bed until after two in the morning. My motherly lecture was interrupted by the appearance of Nefret, whose manners, as well as her appearance, showed signs of fatigue. Instead of greeting us with sunny smiles and affectionate embraces she dropped heavily into her chair and reached for the toast rack.

"You don't appear to have slept well either," I remarked. "Was it another of your bad dreams?"

"Yes," Nefret said shortly.

The dreams were infrequent, but disturbing enough to make it difficult for her to get back to sleep. I assumed they were prompted by childhood memories; heaven knows the poor girl's experiences in her Nubian oasis had been painful enough to provide material for a lifetime of nightmares. She claimed she could never remember the substance of them when she woke, though I had tried, tactfully and gently, to get her to recall them. I felt certain that if she could, they would stop.

"Oh, dear," I said sympathetically. "I had hoped you were getting over them."

"I doubt I ever will," Nefret said. "Ramses, will you come to the verandah with me?"

He rose obediently. She picked up the piece of bread he had left on his plate and thrust it at him. "Eat it," she snapped, and led him out.

David immediately rose and followed them. I did not ask what they were about, for I feel that children are entitled to their little secrets. The three of them were such good chums, they were always putting their heads together over some scheme or other.

Emerson was impatient to get to the Valley since, as he remarked sourly, he would be forced to stop early in order to attend a cursed party. In fact, as I believe I have said, many archaeologists left off work shortly after midday, not only because of the heat but because other tasks demanded their time. Keeping proper field notes was, by Emerson's own standards, as important as the excavation itself. Furthermore, the "cursed" parties were, in my opinion, not an unnecessary frivolity. It is necessary for great minds to enjoy periods of relaxation, and professional conversations at such social events could be illuminating. I had told Emerson this hundreds of times, so I did not bother repeating it on this occasion.

We left the house shortly after six.

The work went on even more slowly than it had the day before. The men were forced to use pickaxes to cut through the blockage, and in some sections only a skilled eye could distinguish between the hardened fill and the rock wall. Ramses went down to have a look. What he saw obviously did not inspire him to remain. He left us, and I found the opportunity for a chat with Abdullah.

He had nothing as yet to report. "One proceeds slowly with these matters, Sitt. It is known that I am in the confidence of you and the Father of Curses; a thief does not confess a robbery to the Mudir. But I have had another thought."

"Yes, Abdullah?"

"Last season the inspector [as he called Howard Carter] explored this wadi looking for tombs for the rich American. His men cleared to ground level on that side." His gesture indicated the opposite cliff and the open entrance of tomb Nineteen. "It was there in the courtyard of the prince's tomb that he found the small tomb with the two mummies. Could it have been one of the men who worked for him who discovered our tomb?"

Suddenly I remembered the workman we had met coming out of the wadi the day we located the tomb-thanks in large part to a marker someone had left for us. The basket he carried had concealed the fellow's face, and Nefret had innocently commented on his uncharacteristic haste.

"Good Gad," I exclaimed. "Abdullah, my friend, I think you have it! The murderer of Mrs. Bellingham must have lived all these years disguised as an Egyptian. He would need to work in order to earn his livelihood; what is more likely than that he should seek employment with one of the archaeologists here in Luxor? The discovery of the tomb may have been his alone, and the men of Gurneh would know nothing of it."

"It may be so, Sitt." A shout from Emerson summoned him. He heaved himself to his feet. "I will go on asking in Gurneh."

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Abdullah had hit on a productive line of inquiry, and I

berated myself for having overlooked the significance of the shy workman. But, to do myself justice, I had had a great many other things on my mind-and still did.

Rapidly I ran down the list of things to be done.

Delegating tasks is the mark of a good administrator. I had hoped I could safely leave Mrs. Jones to Cyrus, but I was beginning to have second thoughts. Beneath Cyrus's rough-hewn features and stalwart frame lay the heart of a romantic boy, insofar as women were concerned. He appeared to be quite fascinated by Mrs. Jones. Could I trust him to resist her female machinations?

I was not at all certain I could.

Clearly Emerson was the proper person to deal with the authorities concerning Mrs. Bellingham. His reputation and his formidable presence could induce answers from even a pompous British official. But would Emerson ask the right questions? Would he become bored or impatient with the inquiry and abandon it? Most important-would he tell me what he had learned, discuss it with me, accept my suggestions as to what he should do next?

I was fairly certain he would not.

So, as usual, it was all left to me.

I had, as was my habit, caused a little shelter of sailcloth to be erected so that we would have a shady place in which to rest and take refreshment. I always made certain we were well supplied with cold tea and water for washing; copious consumption of liquid is not a luxury in that climate, it is a necessity. Seated cross-legged on a blanket under this shelter, Nefret was writing busily in a notebook. I suspected she kept a diary-in emulation of me-but I had never asked her or looked for the book itself. (It had a distinctive dark red leather cover, so I certainly would have observed it if she had left it lying about.) Not that I would have dreamed of reading it, even if I had happened, by accident, to come across it.

Seeing her happily occupied, I took out my archaeolog ical notebook and began a neat little list of "Questions to Be Answered" and "What to Do about Them." I have tried various methods of organizing my ideas for the purpose of criminal investigation and have found this the most useful. The list was discouragingly long, but there was one hopeful aspect. Many of the individuals I wanted to question would be at Cyrus's soiree.

Fate was on my side that morning. Scarcely had I finished my list than I heard the crunch of approaching footsteps and looked up to see several people approaching. Two were Egyptians, in the usual galabeeyahs and turbans. The third was wearing a flannel suit and a straw hat, which latter object of apparel he whipped off upon seeing me.

"Mrs. Emerson? My name is Gordon, from the American consulate in Cairo. I was told your husband would be here."

"How do you do." I introduced Nefret, who nodded politely and then returned to her writing. "I presume, Mr. Gordon, that you have come about Mrs. Bellingham?"

"Yes, ma'am. If I could speak with Professor Emerson ..."

"I will send someone to tell him you are here. Take a seat, Mr. Gordon, and have a cup of tea."

"Thank you, ma'am, but I am in something of a hurry, and the Professor-"

"You may as well sit down. Emerson will not come out until he is good and ready."

"He is down there?" Mr. Gordon took out a handkerchief and mopped his flushed, perspiring face. He was rather stout and no longer in his first youth; a fringe of sandy hair framed his balding head.

"Yes. Put your hat back on, Mr. Gordon, or you will have a terrible sunburn. The top of the head is very sensitive."

Clapping his hat back on his head, Mr. Gordon took the seat I had indicated. "I'm new in town, Mrs. Emerson, but I have heard about you. May I say you live up to your reputation? That is meant as a compliment, ma'am."

"Thank you," I said. "Why did Lord Cromer send you instead of a police officer?"

"I expect the Professor will have the same questions, ma'am. Why don't we wait till he is here so I don't have to repeat myself?"

Mr. Gordon's round pink face looked rather like that of a friendly piglet. Pigs are proverbially stubborn animals, and the gentleman's small, deep-set eyes held a glint that told me it would be a waste of time to argue with him.

"That is sensible," I conceded. "I will call him."

I descended the steps and shouted into the tunnel. "There is a gentleman from Cairo to see you, Emerson."

His voice came booming back. "Send him down."

"Don't be absurd, Emerson. Come out at once."

The only answer was a reverberating oath. I returned to Mr. Gordon. "I apologize for my husband, Mr. Gordon. He does not like to interrupt his work."

"So I was told in Luxor. That is why I came here, instead of asking him to call on me at my hotel, but I never expected I would have to interview him inside a tomb. Do I have to go down there?"

"That would be inadvisable," I said, eyeing Mr. Gordon's nice neat flannel suit and flushed face. "He will be along shortly."

A few minutes later Emerson came bounding up the stairs. Mr. Gordon shied back as the strange figure strode toward him. Emerson had stripped to the waist, and his bare skin was the same color as his boots and trousers-mud-colored, to be precise. His hair, gray with muddy dust, clung to his head in damp waves. He was accompanied by an unpleasant smell. I recognized it as that of bat. Mr. Gordon probably did not recognize it, but he did not like it. The wrinkling of his nose further increased the porcine resemblance.

Seizing the jar of water I offered him, Emerson poured it over his head, shook himself like a large dog, sat down on the ground, and stared fixedly at Mr. Gordon.

"My attention was first drawn to the tomb when... Come, come, man, get out your notebook and write this down. I will not go over it more than once. I have work to do."

"Mind your manners, Emerson," I said. "This is Mr. Gordon, the American vice-consul. He has come all this way as a courtesy to you, and- No! Don't shake hands!"

Mr. Gordon having located a writing implement and paper, Emerson proceeded with his narrative, ending the account with a description of that grisly ceremony of unwrapping. "We ceased as soon as we were certain of the identification," he said virtuously. "You know the rest. Have you any questions?"

Mr. Gordon had recovered his aplomb, which had been considerably shaken by Emerson's initial appearance. "I believe not, sir," he said slowly. "I have spoken with the bereaved husband and with Dr. Willoughby."

"If that is all, I will get back to work," said Emerson, rising.

"Certainly, Professor. I have to thank you for a well-organized account. Mrs. Emerson, have you anything to add?"

"Only a few questions, if I may."

Emerson abruptly sat down again.

I repeated the question I had first asked, and Mr. Gordon explained that since the persons involved were all of them Americans, Lord Cromer had felt it best for an American official to take charge of the case. My next question-"What steps have you initiated in order to apprehend the murderer?"-received a less satisfactory response.

"The investigation is proceeding, Mrs. Emerson."

I recognized the usual closed-minded official attitude. Almost all of the police officers and investigators I have encountered take the position that women should not be encouraged to assist them.

I said, "You would do well to consult me, Mr. Gordon."

"No, you would not," said Emerson, galvanized into speech.

"Have you seen the body?" I inquired.

A shudder rippled along Mr. Gordon's jowls. "Yes, ma'am. I have run across a few unpleasant sights in the course of my duties, but none has affected me like that one. I felt obliged to have a look, though, since I must return to Cairo this evening and Colonel Bellingham wishes to hold the funeral on Tuesday."

"What!" I cried. "So soon? But surely there has not been time for an autopsy."

"The Colonel refused to consider it. He said the poor lady had been-er-violated was the word he used-enough already. He wants to lay her to rest as soon as possible."

I glanced at Emerson. He had stopped sputtering and glaring at me; now he said, stroking his chin, "Do you think that wise, Mr. Gorgon?"

"Gordon," the American said stiffly. "I see no reason for exacerbating the Colonel's distress by unnecessary delay, Professor. We have learned all we can from the poor lady's remains."

"Nonsense," I exclaimed. "Have you probed the wound to discover its depth and angle? Did you remove a section of skin so that tests could be made to determine what substance was used to preserve the body?"

"Mrs. Emerson, please!" Mr. Gordon heaved himself to his feet. His face was no longer pink but pale puce. "I guess I should not be surprised at hearing questions like that from you, but have you no consideration for that young lady?"

He gestured at Nefret. Her blue eyes wide and innocent, she smiled at him. "I was present during the examination of the body, Mr. Gordon. You should also examine the fingernails. They are somewhat loose, but-"

Mr. Gordon did not stop, even to thank us properly. Muttering incoherently, he fled.

"Hmph," said Emerson.

"Hmph indeed," I agreed. "His failure to carry out proper procedures is unconscionable. We must have another look at the body, Emerson."

Emerson groaned. "Peabody, I cannot discuss the matter now. The passage has taken a turn to the north, it is still descending, and the air is getting foul. How the devil the devilish bats got into the place I do not know, since we had to cut through ten feet of hardened rock to do so, but at some time or other they obviously did because they left not only a thick layer of guano, but a few hundred skeletons."