Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [113]
He had! Shouts, thuds, the sounds of a furious struggle told me that so far our plan had miraculously succeeded. I leaped to my feet and ran to join the fray, hoping to get in a blow or two on my own account. I had an urge to pound something, preferably Lucas, with my clenched fists.
As I neared the scene of battle I found Emerson engaged, or so it appeared, with two adversaries. The agitation of long white skirts identified one of them as the missing Abdullah.
In the struggle Emerson was flung to the ground. Stepping back, Lucas lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed at Emerson’s defenseless breast.
I was several yards away, too far to do anything except shout, which of course I did. The sensation was nightmarish; I felt as if I were on a treadmill that ran backward as fast as I ran forward, so that I made no progress at all. I screamed again and ran faster, knowing I would be too late….
And then Abdullah sprang forward and wrenched the weapon from Lucas’s hands. The villain’s finger had been on the trigger; the bullet exploded harmlessly into the air.
I did not pause to speculate on Abdullah’s change of heart; I flew straight at Lucas. I shudder to think what damage I might have inflicted if Emerson had not anticipated me. Rising, he seized the wretch by the throat and shook him till he hung limp.
“Calm yourself,” he gasped, fending me off with his elbow. “We can’t murder the rascal until he has told us what we want to know.” Then, turning to his erstwhile foreman, he said, “You will have to decide whose side you are on, Abdullah; vacillation is bad for the character. I am willing to forget your recent indescretions in return for cooperation.”
“But I did not know,” Abdullah muttered, holding the rifle as if it were burning his fingers. “He say, he want only his woman; she is his. What is a woman, to make such trouble for us?”
“A true Moslem philosophy,” said Emerson drily. “As you see, Abdullah, he lied. He was ready to kill—and you, I think, would have been among the victims. He could not leave witnesses against him. Now…”
He was still holding Lucas, whose face had turned an unbecoming shade of lavender. He gave him an extra shake for good measure.
“Now, your lordship, speak up. Where have they gone? I beg, don’t tell me you don’t know; for the expectation of that information is the only thing that keeps me from throttling you here and now.”
His tone was almost genial; his lips were curved in a slight smile. But Lucas was not deceived.
“Very well,” he muttered. “The royal tomb. I told him to take her there—”
“If you are lying…” Emerson squeezed.
Lucas gurgled horribly. When he had gotten his breath back, he gasped,
“No, no, it is the truth! And now you will let me go? I can do you no more harm….”
“You insult my intelligence,” Emerson said, and flung him down on the ground. With one foot planted in the middle of Lucas’s back, he turned to me. “You must sacrifice another petticoat, Peabody. Only be quick; we have lost too much time already.”
We left Lucas bound hand and foot where he had fallen—not with my petticoat, for of course I was not wearing one. Using Abdullah’s knife, which he politely offered me, I ripped up the full skirts of my dressing gown, slit them fore and aft, and bound them to my nether limbs. It was wonderful what a feeling of freedom this brought! I swore I would have trousers made as soon as possible.
Abdullah remained to guard Lucas. Emerson seemed to have regained all his former confidence in his foreman; he explained that Abdullah had not been fighting him, but had been