The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [91]
O’Connell was in some distress, having cut his hand rather badly during the climb. Since time was of the essence, I had not paused to attend him, except to wrap a handkerchief around the injured member. Abdullah was now close behind me, his quickened breathing betraying his agitation. He had ample cause for concern—the natural dangers of the terrain, the possibility of ambush, and the uneasiness of our own men, fearful of night demons and efreets.
Trotting along several feet ahead of me, Ali Hassan was singing, or keening, to himself. He showed no signs of fearing the supernatural terrors of the night; and indeed a man who practiced the sinister trade of robbing the dead might not be expected to be susceptible to superstition. His good spirits had precisely the opposite effect on me. Whatever pleased Ali Hassan was likely to prove unpleasant for me. I suspected he was deliberately leading us astray, but without proof I could hardly accuse him.
My eyes were fixed on the tattered robe of Ali Hassan, alert for the first sign of treachery; I did not see the creature until it brushed against my ankle. One’s first thought, in that region, is of snakes; automatically I took a quick sideward step, catching Mr. O’Connell off balance, so that he went sprawling. Reaching for my parasol, I turned to confront the new danger.
The cat Bastet perched atop a nearby boulder. It had leaped out of my way, as I had leaped away from it, and its outraged expression showed how little it approved of my rude greeting.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “But it is your own fault; you ought to give notice of your approach. I trust I have not hurt you.”
The cat only stared; but Ali Hassan, who had come back to see why we had stopped, invoked the name of Allah in a voice fraught with emotion.
“She speaks to the cat,” he exclaimed. “It is a demon, a spirit; and she is its mistress.” He turned so quickly that his robe ballooned out; but before he could flee I hooked him around the neck with the crook of my parasol.
“We have played this game long enough, Ali Hassan,” I said. “You have been leading us in circles. The cat, who is indeed the spirit of the goddess Sekhmet, came to tell me of your treachery.”
“I thought as much,” Abdullah growled. He tried to seize hold of Ali Hassan. I waved him away.
“Ali Hassan knows what Emerson will do to him if I report this. Now, Ali, take us directly to the place—or I will send the cat goddess to tear you in your sleep.”
I released the miscreant and Abdullah moved forward ready to seize him if he tried to run. But there was no need. Ali Hassan stared wild-eyed at the cat, who had leaped down from the rock and was standing by my side, its tail lashing ominously.
“She was there, when I found the dead man,” he muttered. “I should have known then. I should not have tried to strike her with a stone. O Sekhmet, lady of terror, forgive this evildoer.”
“She will if I ask her,” I said pointedly. “Lead on, Ali Hassan.”
“Why not?” Ali shrugged fatalistically. “She knows the way; if I do not lead, she will show you.”
When we went on Abdullah accompanied Ali Hassan, his big hand firmly clamped over the Gurneh man’s arm. Ali Hassan sang no more.
“How did you know?” O’Connell asked respectfully. “I had no suspicion at all.”
“I simply