Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [152]
I put my cup on the chest. “I am a little tired from all that thrashing about. Would you help me off with my clothes, my dear, and hand me the night robe that is on the stool?”
It wasn’t on the stool. While Emerson was searching for it, I put a few drops of veronal into his whiskey. I hated to do it, but if events transpired as I hoped I did not want to risk his interfering. The dear fellow dropped off almost at once. Affectionately I contemplated his supine form. It wouldn’t do him any harm to have a good night’s sleep.
I had no difficulty remaining awake, though it had been a busy day. I might be mistaken (though that was unlikely); my pretense of illness might not have deceived the individual for whom it was primarily intended. I didn’t expect he would turn up before midnight, supposing he came at all, but I took up my position immediately, for I leave very little to chance, and he was, to say the least, unpredictable. I had been waiting for some time before I heard the sound of soft footsteps. They would have been inaudible to a sleeper, or even to one who reclined on the bed, a few feet away. He must be barefoot—as was I. I took a firmer grip on my parasol and moved closer to the doorway. I had left a single lamp burning. In its feeble light I saw a hand pull the curtain aside.
It was at this point that I made a slight tactical error. In my excitement at having been proved right I forgot the little speech I had prepared and caught hold of the hand. This provoked him into immediate flight. I went in pursuit, naturally. He was wearing local garb, a long pale robe that flapped wildly as he ran—not toward the main entrance, but toward the doorway that led to the rock-cut chambers behind our rooms. It was at this point that I made my second error. Fearing he would elude me, for he was running quite rapidly, I hooked him round the leg with the handle of my parasol. He fell with a thud and a cry. Having overbalanced, I also fell, flat on my stomach.
I had underestimated either the dosage of the veronal or the strength of my dear Emerson’s attachment to me. A series of incoherent oaths announced his arousal and his discovery of the fact that I was no longer in the sleeping chamber.
It was at this point that Emerson made his own tactical error. Plunging wildly at the doorway, he got himself tangled up in the curtains. While he was attempting to extricate himself I seized the opportunity to speak to my quarry. He had rolled over onto his back, but his attempts to rise were feeble.
“Hush!” I hissed. “Remain silent and motionless.”
“My leg is broken,” muttered a voice—in English.
“No, it isn’t.” I stood up and nudged the member in question with my foot. A faint shriek was intended to suggest that my diagnosis might have been incorrect. It failed to convince me.
By that time Selim and Daoud had rushed in, and Emerson had unwound himself. All three converged on the tableau, which was dramatically lighted by moonbeams streaming through the high windows—myself, alert and erect, parasol raised, and the recumbent form at my feet, sprawled (rather gracefully) amid the spreading folds of his robe. My captive had wisely decided to accept defeat.
“What the devil!” exclaimed Emerson. “Who…By Gad, it’s that bastard MacFerguson!”
“The ears are certainly distinctive,” I agreed.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He appears to have fainted,” I said. As always, I was strictly accurate. “Appears” was the key word.
“I beg you will leave this to me, Emerson,” I went on. “Go away. You and Daoud too, Selim.”
“But—” said Emerson.
“You may tie his feet if you like,” I conceded. “But kindly leave the interrogation to me. He is, in my opinion, more likely to respond to kindness than to intimidation.”
“You and your opinions be—er—” said Emerson. “Oh, very well, Peabody, arguing with you is a waste of time. I will give you ten minutes of kindness before I begin intimidating.”
Daoud tied the fellow’s feet while I put a cushion under his head. At my request Emerson fetched