The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [179]
“Kindly refrain from putting ideas into his head, Peabody,” said Emerson.
Jack’s forehead wrinkled. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Mrs. Emerson. Don’t you come any closer—nor you, Nefret. It’s Ramses I’m after. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
“None of us is going to stand quietly by while you shoot him, Jack,” Nefret began. “Please—”
“Shoot?” His voice cracked. “D’you suppose I would shoot an unarmed man? I only want a square deal.”
An inkling of the truth had begun to dawn on me, but it was so horrifying my brain refused to take it in. Emerson was the first to respond to Jack’s statement. “If you don’t intend to shoot anyone, why are you pointing that rifle at me? Put it down and we will talk.”
“As soon as you promise you won’t interfere. Make it a fair fight. Not everybody jumping me at once.”
“Hold on a minute, Father,” Ramses said, as Emerson, sputtering with fury, tried to articulate a reply. “What precisely do you have in mind, Reynolds? If this is a challenge, the choice of weapons is mine.”
“Weapons be damned,” Jack snarled. “Fists are good enough for me.”
“And for me,” Ramses said quickly.
“Jack, no!” Geoffrey cried. “You can’t win. He doesn’t fight like a gentleman!”
“Stay out of this, Geoff.” Jack passed his sleeve across his sweating face. “He murdered Maude and wants to blame me for it, and I’ll kill him if I can; but I’ll do it with my bare hands in a fair fight. If he kills me … well, what have I got to live for now? Maude is gone, and you’ve got the woman I wanted, and he’s manufactured enough evidence against me to send me to the gallows. But I won’t shoot a man in cold blood.”
Honesty—the honesty of a decent, rather stupid man—echoed in every word he had uttered. If he had spoken the truth, and I was certain he had, that meant that the evidence against him had been manufactured, and that his actions and beliefs had been subtly manipulated by another. The list of suspects had suddenly shrunk to one.
And now that individual knew his schemes had been thwarted by his failure to understand the limits to which a man of honor can be pushed. He could not allow the absurd exchange of fisticuffs to take place; Jack would lose, because Ramses did not fight like a gentleman, and under interrogation (especially of the variety Emerson employs) Jack would point the finger of blame at the real culprit.
He had to act instantly, and he did. His hands were in his pockets; he whipped the gun out and fired, with the cold calculation that had always guided him, at the only armed man present. The bullet struck poor gaping Jack in the thigh; he dropped the rifle and fell writhing to the sand. Ramses, who had sprung forward, jolted to a stop as the pistol turned, not toward him, but toward me.
“Don’t bother fumbling for that little peashooter of yours, Aunt Amelia,” Geoffrey said. “And don’t any of the rest of you stir so much as an inch. I can kill at least three of you before you could reach me, and I will start with her.”
“You will have to start with me,” said Nefret in a clear, thin voice. “I am going to see what I can do for Jack.”
“Please yourself,” said her husband indifferently. “Just don’t touch the rifle.”
“She has better sense than that,” said Ramses. “You could, and would, fire before she aimed the weapon. You have just demonstrated that you are an excellent shot, and that your squeamishness about guns was part of the facade you presented to us, and to the world. It was a masterful performance.”
“Coming from you that is indeed a compliment,” Geoffrey said. “I have heard a number of stories about your skill in the art of disguise. But you caught on to me before this, didn’t you? Was it last night, while I was out of the house encouraging Jack to make himself scarce, that you removed the bullets from the Colt? Not a bad notion, but you underestimated