The Mummy Case (26 page)

"But, Mama—"

"If you are a good little boy and do everything your Papa tells you, Mama will give you your treat when she returns."

I regretted my promise to Ramses, for I had a great deal to do, and finding a given book in the shops devoted to that trade is a time-consuming process. Instead of being neatly arranged on shelves, the merchandise is piled in stacks; and since the bookdealers are scholarly gentlemen whose shops are frequented by the learned world of Cairo, I was tempted to linger and talk. I managed to find one of the volumes Ramses had requested. Then I left the Sharia 'el Halwagi and went to the bazaar of the shoemakers, where I purchased a dozen pair of slippers, two each for myself, Ramses and Emerson, and six for the lion. I hoped, by the time he had finished these, he would have done cutting his teeth.

Then, and only then, did I go to the Khan el Khaleel.

Abd el Atti's shop was closed and shuttered. No one answered, even when I went to the back door and hammered on it. Somewhat disheartened, I turned away. I had the address of Mr. Aslimi's shop on the Muski and I was about to go in that direction when another idea occurred to me. I went on past the fountain and under an ancient arch, farther into the bazaar.

Kriticas was the best-known antiquities dealer in Cairo, a
rival of Abd el Atti's and an old friend. He greeted me with mingled pleasure and reproach. "I understand you are looking for demotic papyri, Mrs. Emerson. Why did you not come to me?"

"I would have done, Mr. Kriticas, had I not been distracted by the death of Abd el Atti, of which I am sure you have heard."

"Ah, yes." Kriticas' noble Greek brow furrowed. "A sad tragedy, to be sure. Now I happen
to
have an excellent specimen of a Twenty-Sixth Dynasty papyrus__"

I examined the merchandise, drank the coffee he pressed upon me, and inquired after his family before saying casually, "I see that Abd el Atti's shop is closed. Who is the new owner— his son, or that charming old lady his wife?"

Kriticas had a characteristic silent laugh; his whole body shook, but not a sound came from his bearded lips. "You have met the lady?"

"Yes. She appears to be a very determined woman."

"Yes, one might say that. She has no legal claim, of course. She has been acting on behalf of her son, Hassan. He is a bad hat, as you English say; a user of drugs, often in trouble with the police. But you know how these mothers are; the worse a son, the more they dote on him."

"Hmmm," I said.

"Her cause was hopeless from the start," Kriticas went on. "Abd el Atti disinherited Hassan several years ago. No doubt he is in fresh trouble of some kind; he has not been seen for several weeks."

The idea that popped into my mind was so obvious I wondered I had not thought of it before. "I think I may have seen him," I said. "Is he of medium height, with scanty eyebrows and a missing front tooth?"

"He and a hundred thousand other Egyptians," said Kriticas, with his silent laugh. "Now, Mrs. Emerson, this papyrus is particularly fine. I have a buyer for it, but if you want it..."

I bought the papyrus, after considerable bargaining. The transaction put Kriticas in a good humor and lowered his guard;
and that was when I struck! "Is this papyrus one of the spoils of the Master, by any chance?"

I used the siim issaagha word. Kriticas' eyelids flickered. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Emerson?"

"You know the argot as well as I," I said. "Never mind, Mr. Kriticas. You have your own reasons for remaining silent, but remember, Emerson and I are your friends. If you ever need our help you have only to ask."

The dignified Greek pursed his lips. "Did you say the same to Abd el Atti?" he asked.

I took luncheon at Shepheard's. Emerson would have considered this a waste of time, but Emerson would have been mistaken. The hotel is the center of social life in Cairo, and I hoped to hear news about a number of individuals in whose activities I was interested. This proved to be the case. Mr. Baehler caught sight of me and—upon observing I was alone—joined me for an aperitif, and filled me in on the gossip. After he had gone I was taking coffee on the terrace when I caught sight of a familiar face. He pretended not to see me, but I rose and waved my parasol. "Prince Kalenischeff! Your highness!"

He affected great surprise at seeing me and was persuaded to take a seat at my table. "I thought you never left the side of your distinguished husband," he said.

"I am equally surprised to see you, your highness. I trust nothing is amiss at Dahshoor?"

This sample of the inanity of our conversation will suffice, I believe. I let him talk, waiting for the opportunity to insinuate a subtle but significant question. I did not notice that he was gradually oozing closer and closer until something touched my foot.

"I was in the Khan el Khaleel this morning," I said, moving my foot away.

"What a coincidence. So was I," said Kalenischeff. "It is a pity we did not meet earlier. I might have had the pleasure of offering you luncheon."

This time it was not a foot but a hand that, under cover of the tablecloth, made contact with one of my extremities. Again I moved away; again the chair of Prince Kalenischeff inched closer. "I have a charming little pied-a-terre here in Cairo," he went on, leering at me through his monocle. "Since we are too late for luncheon—what about tea?"

Hand and foot together intruded upon my person.

I will go to considerable lengths in my quest for truth and justice, but there are limits. I had left my useful chatelaine and its tools at home, but my trusty parasol was at my side. Raising it, I brought the steel tip down on the prince's foot.

Kalenischeff's monocle dropped from his eye and his mouth opened wide, but he did not scream aloud. I rose. "Good day, your highness. I will miss my train if I stay any longer."

All in all it had been a most productive day. I could hardly wait to tell Emerson of my discoveries. (The encounter with Kalenischeff would have to be edited, or Emerson would rush off to Dahshoor and commit various violent indignities upon the prince's person.) The most important discovery was that the man we knew as Hamid was really Abd el Atti's renegade son. But was Hamid guilty of the dastardly sin of patricide? At first the idea pleased me, but the more I thought about it, the more my enthusiasm cooled. I could visualize a quarrel—angry words—blows struck in the heat of passion. But I could not visualize Hamid, who was not notably muscular, making the perverse and terrible effort of hanging his father's huge body from the roof of the shop. In fact, this was one of the more curious aspects of the case. Why would anyone, muscular or not, make that effort? The most superficial examination would show that Abd el Atti had not committed suicide.

I amused myself during the train journey speculating on these matters. The sun had not yet set when I reached the house. I expected Emerson would be on the dig. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, to find him in the parlor with Ramses on his knee. A thrill of apprehensive inquiry pervaded my being, but the news I brought could not be contained.

"Emerson," I cried. "I have discovered who Hamid really is."

"Was," said Emerson.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Was. Ramses has just discovered his remains, torn and dismembered by jackals."

I was bitterly chagrined. Now we would never be able to question Hamid. I sat down and stripped off my gloves. "I begin to wonder about you, Ramses," I said. "How did you come to make such a discovery?"

"It was de cat Bastet, in fact," said Ramses calmly. "I have been training her to fetch for me. She is particularly interested in bones, which is not surprising, considering dat she is a carnivore; and I consider it a testimonial to my met'ods as well as to de intelligence of de cat Bastet dat she has been able to overcome her instinctive—"

"Say no more, dear boy," Emerson exclaimed. "Amelia, how can you ask Ramses to discuss a subject that has struck him dumb with horror?"

"I am not at all horrified," said Ramses, squirming in his father's affectionate grasp. "A student of physiology must develop a detached attitude toward specimens dat are de object of his research. I have been endeavoring to explain dis to Papa, but to no avail."

Emerson's arms relaxed and Ramses slipped out of his hold. "I saw at once, from de freshness of de specimen, dat despite de desiccation dat is de inevitable consequence of dis climate,
it was dat of an individual who had recently met his demise. De cat Bastet led me to de place where de odder parts of de—"

"Enough, Ramses," I said. "Emerson, where are the—er— remains?"

"I had them fetched back here."

"That was an error. I would like to have examined them in situ."

"You would not like to have examined them at all," said Emerson. "The word 'remains' is apt, Amelia."

"I examined dem carefully, Mama," Ramses said consolingly. "De body was unclot'ed. It had been dead for several days. Dere were no marks upon it except for extensive bruising around de neck. A rope tied tightly about dat part of de anatomy may have accounted for some of de contusions, but it is my opinion dat manual strangulation was de cause of deaf."

"Very good, Ramses," I said. "What steps have you taken, Emerson?"

"I have sent for the local chief of police."

"Good. If you will excuse me, I will go and change my clothes."

As I left I heard Ramses say, "May I remark, Papa, dat alt'ough your consideration for my sensitivities was quite unnecessary, I am not wit'out a proper appreciation of de sentiment dat prompted it."

The mudir was of no use whatever, but since I had not expected he would be, I was not put out. Viewing the remains—and I must confess that the word was, as Emerson had suggested, decidedly apropos—he stroked his silky beard and murmured, "Alhamdullilah. What will these unbelievers do next?"

"We are hoping, effendi, that you will tell us what this unbeliever did last," said Emerson courteously.

"It appears, O Father of Curses, that he hanged himself."

"And then walked out into the desert to bury himself?"

"The Father of Curses jests with his servant," said the mudir gravely. "A friend must have performed that office for him. Only the friend did not do a thorough job of it."

"Nonsense," I exclaimed. "The man was murdered."

"That is another possibility. If the sitt desires, I will question the other unbelievers."

He was obviously puzzled by our interest in the affair. It was nothing to him if unbelievers chose to murder one another and he could not understand why the death of a peasant, who was not even one of our servants, should concern us. Since I had no desire to see the villagers lined up and beaten in the local version of police interrogation, I declined his offer. Nor was I tempted to explain that Hamid was no Copt, nor a local resident. The story would only have confused the solemn old gentleman even more.

So we bade him farewell and watched him ride away, followed by his entourage of ragged, barefoot constables. I was about to return to the house when Emerson, leaning with folded arms against the door, said, "We may as well wait here, Amelia. The next delegation should be arriving at any moment."

"Whom are you expecting?"

"Jones—whom else? He will have heard the news by now; I dismissed the men, since it is almost sunset, and there was no getting any work out of them once they learned what had happened."

Sure enough, it was not long before a familiar procession appeared in the distance. The two men rode side by side. It was not until they had drawn closer that I saw the third donkey and its rider. "Good heavens," I exclaimed. "He has brought Miss Charity. Emerson, you don't suppose that dreadful man expects her to—to—"

"Lay out the remains? Even Brother Ezekiel would hardly go so far as that, I fancy. He likes to have the girl tagging at his heels like an obedient hound."

Brother David urged his mount to a gallop and was soon before us. "Is it true?" he asked in agitated tones. "Is Brother Hamid..."

"Dead," Emerson said cheerfully. "Quite dead. Very dead indeed. Unquestionably dead and..." The others had come up by then and he broke off. Charity had heard, however; her small calloused hands gripped the reins so tightly, her knuckles whitened. No other sign of emotion was apparent, for her face, as usual, was shadowed by the brim of her bonnet.

Ezekiel dismounted. "We have come to take our poor brother back for burial," he announced. "And to call down the wrath of the Lord on his murderer."

"I suppose you could fancy a cup of tea," I said.

Ezekiel hesitated. "It will lubricate your vocal cords," Emerson said hospitably. "And strengthen the volume of your anathemas."

Smiling to myself, I led the way into the parlor. Emerson might complain all he liked about my detective interests, but he was not immune to the fever. Here was a chance to find out from the missionaries what they knew about their 'convert.'"

I had intended to spare John the embarrassment of appearing, after his unorthodox behavior following the fire, but the presence of Charity sent out invisible tentacles that wrapped round his heart and drew him inexorably to her. Shortly he appeared, wreathed in blushes, to ask if he might serve us. To send him away would have been to wound him, so I acquiesced and resigned myself to watching him fall over the furniture and spill the tea, for he never took his eyes off the object of his affections.

The discussion turned at once to Hamid's death. "Poor fellow," David said mournfully. "You did him an injustice, Brother, when you said he had run away."

"I did," Ezekiel acknowledged. Then he looked around at the rest of us as if expecting admiration for his admission of fallibility. Presumably he got enough of it from Brother David to satisfy him, for he went on in the same rotund, self-satisfied voice, "He was a true vessel of grace."

"A fine man," Brother David said.

"He will be greatly missed."

"One of the elect."

"I never liked him."

The interruption of the litany by this critical remark was almost as surprising as its source; the words issued from under Charity's black bonnet. Her brother turned a look of outraged astonishment upon her and she went on defiantly. "He was too obsequious, too fawning. And sometimes, when you were not looking at him, he would smile to himself in a sneering way."