Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [125]
“Or,” I suggested, “the impostor may have heard of our visit. As you yourself pointed out, it would have been a subject of gossip all day, all over the area.”
“Hmmm.” Emerson fingered the dent in his chin. “Yes, that makes even better sense. Saleh hoped his employer was still unaware of the latest turn of events, and believed he could trick him into handing over the money. Or, it may be, he meant to overpower and rob him. The—er—impostor took the risk of meeting Saleh because the risk of leaving him on the loose was even greater; he might have been able to tell us something that would give us a clue as to the identity of the man who had hired him. I expect he meant from the first to kill Saleh, once the deed was done. The dog was the only thing he had not anticipated. It began to howl, and the bastard shot it.”
“There was no trace of him, I suppose.”
“No. It took us awhile, in the dark, to find the spot. He had plenty of time to knife Saleh, kill the dog, and make himself scarce.”
“Foiled again!” I cried, shaking my fists at the dark, unheeding heavens.
Had I been allowed to follow proper procedures, I would have returned to the murder scene, searched for clues, and examined the body. This suggestion affected Emerson adversely. He assured me, with considerable vehemence, that he had done the job himself at least as thoroughly as I could have done. I doubted this, but his indignation rose to such a pitch, I deemed it advisable to abandon the idea.
“So what clues did you discover?” I inquired, as we rode back toward the house. Nodding graciously at Selim, I included him in the question. However, he was wise enough to remain silent.
“Nothing,” said Emerson. “Did you suppose he would leave his card?”
“No footprints, no scraps of clothing?”
“Not even a bit of paper clutched in the stiffening fingers of the corpse,” said Emerson, with awful sarcasm. “There was no struggle, not even an argument; the fellow came at Saleh from behind, put one arm round his throat to prevent an outcry, and drove the knife into his body with the other hand.”
“It is an ingenious reconstruction, Emerson, but how can you be sure?”
“Elementary, my dear Peabody. Saleh would not have stood still and silent without making some attempt to defend himself if he had faced a man with a knife. His own knife was still in his belt. Anyhow, that appears to be our friend’s approved method. He is as efficient as he is ruthless. One would prefer,” said Emerson didactically, “to avoid being spattered with blood. The victim’s own body would protect the murderer from that, except for his arm and sleeve.”
“Have you anything to add, Selim?” I asked.
“No, Sitt Hakim. Except that I am sorry he died so quickly.”
Such proved to be the general consensus. A number of our loyal men were still at the house; in lieu of a fantasia, they had decided to celebrate on a smaller scale. Food and drink (of a nonalcoholic variety) were flowing freely, and in the center of the room, like a monarch on his throne, was Gargery, excessively bandaged and smiling. The beverage in his glass appeared to be beer.
As soon as I could make myself heard over the questions and cries of welcome, I said, “I am pleased to observe, Gargery, that your injuries were not as painful as I had believed.”
“I felt obliged to join in the celebration, madam,” said Gargery self-righteously. “These good fellows insisted.”
“Ha,” said Emerson—but he said no more. Gargery’s current status as hero still held. I had a feeling it would not hold much longer if he took too much advantage of it.
We were both quite hungry, so we sat down on the settee and accepted plates of spiced chicken and stewed lentils, and Emerson told the audience what