Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [67]
Selim took a number of exposures, from various angles, of the corpse and various parts of it. In the light of our pocket torches the makeshift grave and its occupant resembled a scene from a horror story. The shifting shadows gave an illusion of movement. Emerson, who is not at all sensitive to such things, went briskly ahead. I sat on a stretch of wall eating a sandwich left over from lunch, for we had missed tea. I rather regretted doing so when Emerson and Selim lifted the piece of wood that had been inserted under the body. The head rolled to one side, and the jaw dropped, opening the mouth in a silent scream.
“All right, are you, Peabody?” Emerson inquired.
“A fragment of cucumber caught in my throat,” I replied, coughing. “Is it possible to tell how he died?”
“No doubt of that,” Emerson said, wiping his hands on his trousers. (I made a mental note to have them laundered immediately.) “His throat was cut. The poor devil may never have seen his killer; a man under attack from the front generally throws up his arms to protect his face, and his hands and forearms are unmarked. No skin or dried blood under his nails . . .”
“It was quick and relatively merciful, then,” I murmured. “Thank heaven for that.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. This is his usual reaction to a mention of God or heaven. Bending over, he examined the ground. “There are no signs of blood or other fluids under the corpse—another indication, if one were needed, that he was killed elsewhere. I would guess he’s been dead at least two or three days. Hard to tell, without knowing where he’s been during that time.”
“So he was killed before last night. The attack on us was not designed to keep him from speaking to us.”
“Not unless our attackers and his killer were not connected. That seems unlikely, on the face of it.”
“You had better hurry, Emerson. Russell will be here before long and it is getting too dark to see what you are doing.”
By the time Russell arrived, the velvety dusk of Egypt had fallen. Stars twinkled in the sky over Cairo. The moon had risen; it was several days past the full but still bright. Russell was accompanied by three of his men. Our people had left, except for Selim and Daoud. I had dismissed William, since he kept throwing up.
“What kept you?” Emerson demanded. “I want to get this thing off my hands and go home to dinner.”
Russell took off his hat. “Good evening, Mrs. Emerson—Professor. My apologies for the delay. I was out of the office.”
“Playing cricket or some other damn fool game at the Sporting Club, I suppose,” said Emerson. “Well, take him away. We’ve got him nicely bundled up for you.”
Russell turned his torch onto the recumbent form and examined it. “He’s Egyptian.”
“Brilliant!” Emerson exclaimed.
“Don’t be rude,” I said.
“Conversations with you, Professor, are excellent exercises in self-control,” Russell said. “I swore I would never again allow you to provoke me, but don’t push me too far. I see you’ve moved the body. What else have you done that is improper if not actually illegal?”
Brushing this bit of irony aside, Emerson proceeded to explain how and where we had come upon the remains. Russell did not interrupt, but I could hear him breathing stentoriously.
“You took photographs? Well, that’s something. Any clues as to the man’s identity or the identity of his killer?”
“I sifted the debris under the body and for several feet around,” Emerson said. “The murderer did not leave his name and address. I can identify the victim for you, however. His name—his nom de guerre—was Asad.”
After a time I said, “Really, Mr. Russell, you need more practice in self-control. Such language!”
Russell was bent over the body, inspecting the awful face more closely. “It could be,” he muttered.
“We found his eyeglasses,” Emerson said.
Russell snatched the twisted frames from his hand. “Anything else you forgot to mention? How, for example, you recognized a man you’d seen only once and whose present