Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [109]
“Why, no. You see—”
“Why not?”
Emerson leaped to his feet. “Because,” he bellowed, “the police are consummate fools, that is why. Come along, Amelia. This jackanapes knows less than we do. Come, I implore you, before I kick his desk to splinters and perpetrate indignities upon his person which I might later regret.”
Emerson was still seething when we emerged from the building. “No wonder nothing is being done to stop the illegal trade in antiquities,” he growled. “With a fool like that in charge—”
“Now, Emerson, calm yourself. The major has nothing to do with antiquities. You said yourself, you had no great hopes of learning anything from him.”
“That is true.” Emerson wiped his perspiring brow.
“I wish you had not been so hasty, Emerson. I wanted to ask how the investigation into Kalenischeff’s death is progressing.”
“Quite right, Peabody. It is all the fault of that cursed idiot Ramsay for distracting me. Let us go back and ask him.”
“Emerson,” I began. “I don’t think—”
But Emerson had already started to retrace his steps. I had no choice but to follow. By running as fast as I could, I caught him up outside Ramsay’s office. “Ah, there you are, Peabody,” he said cheerfully. “Do try to keep up, will you? We have a great deal to do.”
At the sight of Emerson the clerk fled through another door, and Emerson proceeded into the inner office. Ramsay jumped up and assumed a posture of defense, his back against the wall.
“Sit down, sit down,” Emerson said genially. “No need to stand on ceremony; this won’t take long. Ramsay, what is the state of the investigation into the murder of that villain Kalenischeff?”
“Er—what?” Ramsay sputtered.
“The fellow is very slow,” Emerson explained to me. “One must be patient with such unfortunates.” He raised his voice and spoke very slowly, as people do when they are addressing someone who is hard of hearing. “What—is—the—state—”
“I understood you the first time, Professor,” Ramsay said, wincing.
“Speak up, then. I haven’t got all day. Is the young lady still under suspicion?”
I think Ramsay had come to the conclusion that Emerson was some species of madman, and must be humored for fear he would become violent. “No,” he said, with a strained smile. “I never believed she was guilty. It is out of the question for a gently bred lady to have committed such a crime.”
“That isn’t what you told my wife,” Emerson declared.
“Er—didn’t I?” Ramsay transferred his stiff smile to the madman’s wife. “I beg your pardon. Perhaps she misunderstood.”
“Never mind, Major,” I said. “Whom do you suspect, then?”
“A certain beggar, who was often outside Shepheard’s. One of the safragis claims to have seen him inside the hotel that night.”
“And the motive?” I inquired calmly.
Ramsay shrugged. “Robbery, no doubt. I haven’t much hope of finding the fellow. They all look alike, you know.”
“Only to idiots and ignoramuses,” said Emerson.
“Oh, quite, quite, quite, Professor. Er—I meant to say, they all stick together, you know; we will never get an identification from the other beggars. One of them actually had the effrontery to tell me the fellow was English.” Ramsay laughed. “Can you imagine?”
Emerson and I exchanged glances. He shrugged contemptuously. “And what of Miss Debenham,” I asked. “Have you found no trace of her?”
Ramsay shook his head. “I fear the worst,” he said portentously.
“That she is dead?”
“Worse than that.”
“I don’t see what could be worse than that,” Emerson remarked.
“Oh, Emerson, don’t be ironic,” I said. “He is referring to the classic fate worse than death—an assessment made, I hardly need add, by men. Major, are you really naive enough to believe that Miss Debenham has been sold into white slavery?”
“Slavery has not been stamped out,” Ramsay insisted. “Despite our efforts.”
“I know that, of course. But the unfortunates who suffer this fate—and I agree, it is a ghastly fate—are poor children of both sexes, many of whom are sold by their own families.