Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [74]
“Then you know I would not hesitate to use this weapon—not to kill, but only to wound. I want you to live, my friend—to live and talk to us.” Unable to control my excitement any longer, I added in English, “Good Gad, Nemo, do you realize who this man is? He is the first of the Master Criminal’s associates I have managed to capture. Through him we may reach his dread master. Do you approach him—carefully, if you please—and bind his arms with your turban. Are you too badly injured to do that?”
“No, of course not,” Nemo said.
The man raised his hand. There was such dignity in the gesture that Nemo halted. The Egyptian said quietly, “I have failed my master. There is only one fate for those who fail him; but I feel no shame at losing to the Sitt Hakim, who is not a mere woman, but one who has the heart of a man, as I was told. I salute you, sitt.” And he moved his hand from breast to brow to lips, in the respectful gesture of his people.
I was about to respond to this graceful compliment when a dreadful change came over the man’s face. His lips drew back in a hideous grin; his eyes rolled up until only the blank white of the eyeballs showed. His hands flew to his throat. He fell over backward and lay still.
Nemo rushed to him. “It’s no use,” I said, lowering my pistol. “He was dead before he struck the ground. Prussic acid, I suspect.”
“You are right. There is a distinct odor of bitter almonds.” Nemo straightened, white to the lips. “What sort of people are these? He took the poison rather than . . .”
“Allow himself to be questioned. Curse it! I should have taken steps to bind his hands immediately. Well, I will know better next time.”
“Next time?” Nemo raised a trembling hand to his brow. His sleeve was drenched with blood and I said, recalling myself from my chagrin, “You are not yourself, Mr. Nemo. Loss of blood has weakened you, and we must tend to your injuries without delay.”
Dazed and shaken, Nemo allowed me to bind his arm with a strip torn from the hem of his robe. “That will stop the bleeding,” I said. “But the wound requires to be cleaned and bandaged. Let us return to the house at once.”
“What about—” Nemo gestured.
I looked at the dead man. His empty eyes seemed to stare intently at the darkening vault of heaven. Already the vultures were gathering.
“Turn him over,” I said brusquely.
Nemo glanced from me to the birds circling overhead. Silently he did as I asked.
When we got back, the gates were open and Abdullah was standing outside. “Sitt,” he began, as soon as we were within hearing range, “Emerson has been asking—”
“So I imagine.” I could hear Emerson rampaging around the house, yelling my name. I had nurtured the fond hope he might still be absorbed in his work; but now there was nothing for it but to admit at least part of the truth.
“There has been an accident,” I explained to Abdullah, who was staring at Nemo’s bloody sleeve. “Please take Ali or Hassan and go at once to the ridge behind the tents. You will find a dead body there. Carry it here.”
Abdullah clapped his hand to his brow. “Not a dead man, sitt. Not another dead man . . .” A flicker of reviving hope returned to his stricken face. “Is it a mummy you mean, sitt? An old dead man?”
“I am afraid this one is rather fresh,” I admitted. “You had better fashion a litter or something of that sort with which to carry him. Get on with it, if you please; I cannot stand here fahddling with you, can’t you see Mr. Nemo needs medical attention?”
Abdullah staggered off, wringing his hands and muttering. A few words were intelligible: “Another dead body. Every year it is the same. Every year, another dead body . . .”
“Am I to understand you make it a habit to discover dead bodies?” Nemo asked.
I drew him toward the house. “Certainly not, Mr. Nemo. I don’t look for such things; they come upon me, so to speak. Now let me do the talking, if you will. Emerson is not going to like this.”
Before we reached the door, Emerson came bursting out. He stopped short at the sight of us. The blood rushed