The Mummy Case (12 page)

It took some little time to restore order. I resuscitated my wheezing spouse, confiscated the knife—a gift from Abdullah, which Ramses had not thought it expedient to mention—and ordered my son, my servant and my cat to return to their beds. Then, at last, I was able to turn my attention to the crime—for attempted burglary, I venture to assert, must be called a crime.

It was no use pursuing the thief. He had had time to cross half of Cairo by then. One look at the scene of his inquiries assured me he was a master at his illegal craft, for he had
managed to create considerable havoc with a minimum of sound. He had not ventured to open any of the packing cases, for they had been nailed shut, but all our personal baggage had been searched. The contents lay in untidy heaps on the floor. A bottle of ink had lost its stopper, with disastrous consequences to my best shirtwaist.

Emerson, now fully restored but breathing loudly through his nose, pulled himself to a sitting position. Arms crossed, face engorged, he watched in grim silence for a time and then inquired gently, "Amelia, why are you crawling on all fours?"

"I am looking for clues, of course."

"Ah, yes. A calling card, perhaps. A fragment of cloth torn from our visitor's robe—a robe identical with those worn by half the population of Egypt. A lock of hair, courteously torn from his scalp in order to assist—"

"Sarcasm does not become you, Emerson," I said, continuing to crawl. And a tedious process it is, I might add, when the folds of one's nightgown keep bunching up under one's knees. Then I let out a cry of triumph. "Aha!"

"A photograph of the burglar's wife and children," Emerson went on, warming to his theme. "A letter, bearing his name and address—though there are no pockets in these robes, and few of the wearers can read and write—"

"A footprint," I said.

"A footprint," Emerson repeated. "Hobnailed boots, perhaps? Of an unusual pattern, made by only one bootmaker in all Cairo, who keeps records of his customers—"

"Correct," I said. "At least as to the boots. I doubt, however, that the pattern will prove to be unique. I will make inquiries, of course."

"What?" Emerson bounded from the bed. "Booted feet, did you say?"

"See for yourself. There is a clear print. He must have trod in the spilled ink. I am glad of the accident on that account, though I do not understand why there should have been a bottle of ink in my bag. I suppose Ramses put it there."

Now on all fours like myself, Emerson inspected the print. "There is no reason why a common sneak thief should not wear boots. If he were dressed in European clothing—or if he were

European—he would find it easier to gain entry to the hotel__"

His voice trailed off in an indecisive manner.

"A common sneak thief would not dare enter the hotel, Emerson. Even if the safragi is asleep most of the time."

Emerson sat back on his haunches. "I know what you are thinking," he cried accusingly. "You will insist on some connection with the death of Abd el Atti."

"It would be a strange coincidence if the two events were not connected."

"Stranger coincidences have happened. What could he have been after?"

"The mummy portrait," I suggested.

Emerson looked uncomfortable. "I intend to hand it over to the Museum, Amelia."

"Of course."

"It is a handsome piece of work, but not valuable," Emerson mused, rubbing his chin. "Did you—er—rescue anything from the shop?"

"Only a scrap of papyrus, which appeared to be from the same manuscript as the one I obtained from Abd el Atti."

"Both together would not be worth the risk taken by the thief." Emerson seated himself. Elbow on his knee, chin on his hand, he might have sat as the model for M. Rodin's splendid statue, even to his costume—or, to put it as delicately as possible, the absence thereof. Emerson refuses to wear a nightshirt, and the new fad of pajamas has prompted a number of rude jests from him.

"The papyrus from which the fragments came might conceivably be of value," he said after a time. "Sayce was intrigued, though he tried to hide it—the devious fellow. We do not have the papyrus, though. Do we?"

"Emerson, you cut me to the quick. When have I ever deceived you about something of importance?"

"Quite often, Amelia. However, in this case I will take your word. You agree that we possess nothing that would explain a visit from an emissary of your imaginary Master Criminal?"

"Not to my knowledge. However—"

Emerson rose majestically to his feet. "The invasion was that of a common ordinary thief," he proclaimed, in orotund tones. "That is the end of it. Come to bed, Amelia."

Mazghunah.

Mazghunah! Mazghunah...

No, there is no magic in the name, punctuate it as one will. Not even a row of exclamation points can lend charm to such an uncouth collection of syllables. Giza, Sakkara, Dahshoor are no more euphonious, perhaps, but they evoke the lure of antiquity and exploration. Mazghunah has nothing whatever to recommend it.

It does possess a railway station, and we descended from the train to find that we were eagerly awaited. Towering above the spectators who had gathered on the platform was the stately form of our reis, Abdullah, who had gone on ahead to arrange for transport and accommodations. He is the most dignified of men, almost as tall as Emerson—that is to say, above the average Egyptian height—with a sweeping array of facial hair that turns a shade lighter every year, so that it will soon rival the snowy whiteness of his robe. Yet he has the energy of a young man, and when he saw us a broad smile lightened the solemnity of his bronzed countenance.

After our luggage had been loaded onto the donkeys Abdullah had selected, we mounted our own steeds. "Forward, Peabody," Emerson cried. "Forward, I say!"

Cheeks flushed and eyes glowing, he urged his donkey into a trot. It is impossible for a tall man to look heroic when mounted on one of these little beasts; but as I watched Emerson jog away, his elbows out and his knees well up, the smile that curved my lips was not one of derision. Emerson was in his element, happy as a man can be only when he has found his proper niche in life. Not even the disappointment of de Morgan's decision could crush that noble spirit.

The inundation was receding, but sheets of water still lay on the fields. Following the dikes of the primitive irrigation system, we rode on until suddenly the green of the trees and young crops gave way to the barren soil of the desert, in a line so sharp it appeared to have been drawn by a celestial hand. Ahead lay the scene of our winter's work.

Never will I forget the profound depression that seized me when I first beheld the site of Mazghunah. Beyond the low and barren hills bordering the cultivation, a vast expanse of rubble-strewn sand stretched westward as far as the eye could see. To the north, outlined bravely against the sky, were the two stone pyramids of Dahshoor, one regular in outline, the other marked by the curious change in the angle of the slope that has given it the name of the "Bent Pyramid." The contrast between these two magnificent monuments and the undulating sterility of our site was almost too painful to be endured. Emerson had halted; when I drew up beside him I saw that his eyes were fixed on the distant silhouettes and that a grimace of fury distorted his lips.

"Monster," he growled. "Villain! I will have my revenge; the day of reckoning cannot be far off!"

"Emerson," I said, putting my hand on his arm.

He turned to me with a smile of artificial sweetness.

"Yes, my dear. A charming spot, is it not?"

"Charming," I murmured.

"I believe I will just ride north and say good morning to our neighbor," Emerson said casually. "If you, my dear Peabody, will set up camp—"

"Set up camp?" I repeated. "Where? How? With what?"

To call the terrain in this part of Egypt desert is misleading, for it is not the sort of desert the reader may picture in his mind—vast sand dunes, rolling smoothly on to infinity without so much as a shrub or ridge of rock. This area was barren enough; but the ground was uneven, broken by pits and ridges and hollows, and every foot of the surface was strewn with debris— fragments of broken pottery, scraps of wood and other, less palatable evidences of occupation. My experienced eye at once identified it as a cemetery site. Beneath the rock surface lay hundreds of graves. All had been robbed in ancient times, for the scraps littering the ground were the remains of the goods buried with the dead—and the remains of the dead themselves.

Ramses got off his donkey. Squatting, he began sifting through the debris.

"Here, Master Ramses, leave that nasty rubbish alone," John exclaimed.

Ramses held up an object that looked like a broken branch. "It is a femuw," he said in a trembling voice. "Excuse me, Mama—a femur, I meant to say."

John let out a cry of disgust and tried to take the bone away from Ramses. I understood the emotion that had affected the child, and I said tolerantly, "Never mind, John. You cannot keep Ramses from digging here."

"That nasty rubbish is the object of our present quest," Emerson added. "Leave it, my son; you know the rule of excavation—never move anything until its location has been recorded."

Ramses rose obediently. The warm breeze of the desert ruffled his hair. His eyes glowed with the fervor of a pilgrim who has finally reached the Holy City.

95

Having persuaded Ramses to abandon his bones for the nonce, we rode on toward the northwest. Near a ridge of rock we found our men, who had come down the day before to select a campsite. There were ten of them in all, including Abdullah—old friends and experienced excavators, who would supervise the unskilled laborers we expected to hire locally. I returned their enthusiastic salutations, noting as I did so that the camp consisted of a fire pit and two tents. Questioning elicited the bland response, "But, Sitt, there is no other place."

On several of my expeditions I had set up housekeeping in an empty tomb. I recalled with particular pleasure the rock-cut tombs of El Amarna; I always say, there is nothing more commodious or convenient than a tomb, particularly that of a well-to-do person. Obviously no such amenity was available here.

I climbed to the top of the ridge. As I scrambled among the stones I gave thanks for one blessing at least—that I was no longer encumbered by the voluminous skirts and tight corsets that had been de rigueur when I first took up the study of Egyptology. My present working costume had been developed and refined by myself, and was wholly satisfactory, aesthetically and practically. It consisted of a broad-brimmed man's straw hat, a shirtwaist with long sleeves and a soft collar, and flowing Turkish trousers to the knee with stout boots and gaiters below the trousers. The uniform, if I may so designate it, was completed by an important accessory—a broad leather belt to which was attached a modification of the old-fashioned chatelaine. Instead of the scissors and keys housewives once attached to this device, my collection of useful tools included a hunting knife and a pistol, notepaper and pencil, matches and candles, a folding rule, a small flask of water, a pocket compass, and a sewing kit. Emerson claimed I jangled like a chained prisoner when I walked. He also objected to being jabbed in the
ribs by knife, pistol, et cetera, when he embraced me. Yet I am certain the usefulness of each item will be readily apparent to the astute reader.

Abdullah followed me onto the hill. His face had the remote, meditative expression it wore when he was expecting a reprimand.

We were not far from the cultivation. A cluster of palms some half-mile distant betokened the presence of water, and among the palms I could see the low roofs of a village. Nearer at hand was the object I sought. I had caught a glimpse of it as we rode— the ruinous remains of a building of some sort. I pointed. "What is that, Abdullah?"

"It is a building, Sitt," said Abdullah, in tones of amazement. One would suppose he had never noticed the place before.

"Is it occupied, Abdullah?"

"I do not think it is, Sitt."

"Who owns it, Abdullah?"

Abdullah replied with an ineffable Arabic shrug. As I prepared to descend the far side of the ridge, he said quickly, "That is not a good place, Sitt Hakim."

"It has walls and part of a roof," I replied. "That is good enough for me."

"But, Sitt—"

"Abdullah, you know how your Muslim reticence annoys me. Speak out. What is wrong with the place?"

"It is filled with devils," said Abdullah.

"I see. Well, don't concern yourself about that. Emerson will cast the devils out."

I hailed the others and directed them to follow me. The closer we approached, the more pleased I was with my discovery, and the more puzzled by it. It was not an ordinary house; the extent of the walls, some tumbled, some still intact, suggested a structure of considerable size and complexity. There were no signs of recent habitation. The barren waste stretched all around, with never a tree or blade of grass.

The building materials were an odd mixture. Some of the
walls were of mud brick, some of stone. A few blocks were as large as packing cases. "Stolen from our pyramids," Emerson grumbled. He pushed through a gap in the nearest wall. I need not say I was close behind.

The area within had been a courtyard, with rooms on three sides and a stout wall on the fourth. The wall and the southern range of rooms had fallen into ruin, but the remaining sections had survived, though most gaped open to the sky. A few pillars supported a roofed walkway along one side.