The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [169]
“Ich weiss nicht, Herr Professor,” he muttered. “A long time.”
I passed him my handkerchief. “Pull yourself together, Karl. It is vitally important that we extract a coherent statement from you.”
“I doubt we can get it,” said Emerson dryly.
By direct questioning we managed to extract a few scraps of information from Karl. He had been in Cairo at the Institut, not at Giza. The sun had been shining when he got to the house … At least he thought it had. Jack had arrived shortly after him. No, alas, he could not remember how long after. At some point it had begun to rain … He and Jack had been together ever since. As for the hashish, this was not the first time they had indulged. It was Jack who had provided the filthy stuff. He did not know where Jack had got it.
Depression so profound it forbade even the release of tears had gripped our friend. It soon became clear we would get no more from him that night—if ever.
Emerson abandoned his interrogation and went to the gun case. The key was in the lock; he turned it and opened the door. “I see only one of the famous Colts.”
“Jack mentioned some days ago that a weapon had been stolen.”
“That is what he would say if he intended to use it for purposes of homicide,” Emerson remarked. “However, it was not a revolver that was employed this afternoon.”
He removed each of the weapons from its place and examined it. “No,” he said, replacing the last. “If one of them was used it has been cleaned and any remaining ammunition removed. At least he has sense enough not to leave a loaded weapon in the case. There’s nothing more for us here, Peabody.”
“Should we not question the servants, Emerson?”
“Useless,” said Emerson. “They will say what they have been told to say or what they believe we want to hear. Von Bork, I will speak with you again tomorrow.”
A barely audible murmur of “Ja, Herr Professor,” came from the huddled form. Emerson’s stern face softened slightly. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he said.
Emerging from that house was like coming out of a prison—a dungeon that held two men in fetters more difficult to break than any material chains. Emerson took a deep breath of the clean night air.
“Don’t put up the cursed parasol, Peabody, it has stopped raining. Odd, isn’t it, that once again our old friend von Bork has provided an alibi for a suspected killer?”
“I cannot believe he deliberately lied, Emerson. He was so repentant after that other occasion—so grateful that we had forgiven him. Is it possible that Jack misled him? The drug has strange effects.”
“You are hopelessly soft-hearted, my dear. But you are right about the unpredictable effects of hashish. They depend on the constitution of the user and the purity of the substance. Euphoria is the commonest reaction, which is why people use the confounded stuff, but there are others, and most of them are easy to counterfeit.”
The clouds were lifting; stars glimmered in the sky over Cairo. Emerson’s steps slowed. He took out his pipe and I let go his arm so he could fill it, recognizing the need for his favorite aid to ratiocination.
“Are you implying that Karl’s remorse was pretense, Emerson? That he was acting the whole time?”
“It is a possibility.”
“But that would mean … Good Gad, that would mean that Karl is the man we are after! He supplied Jack with the drug, pretended to smoke it with him—took advantage of Jack’s stupor to creep away and follow Ramses … It wasn’t much of an alibi he gave Jack, you know. He was very vague about times.”
A match flared. Emerson chuckled. “Jumping to conclusions again, Peabody. There are a number of holes in that scenario. We are gradually getting closer to the truth, but we are still a long way from understanding how they all fit together—our ‘accidents’ at Zawaiet el ’Aryan, the drug business, the forgeries, the murder of Maude Reynolds.”
“You believe there is a common denominator?”
“There must be. It wouldn’t be playing fair if there were not.”
“God,” I remarked, “does not always play fair.”
“That is why I don’t believe