The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [95]
“Never mind her. He can’t have got out, there wasn’t time.” Kneeling on the rubble-strewn ground, Emerson took out his torch and shone it down into the shaft.
It was as empty as we had left it, and that in itself was confirmation of our theory. Sand and pebbles would have partially filled it unless someone had kept it clear. In the light of the torch I saw additional confirmation: a rough but sturdy wooden ladder.
Before I could stop him, Emerson, disdaining the ladder, had lowered himself by his hands and dropped, landing with a thump of booted feet. Jamil must have heard that, even if he had not heard the sound of our approach.
“Damnation, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “Wait for me!”
He had already proceeded into the short passage that led to the chamber. The roof was low; he would have to bend over, which would put his head at a particularly convenient level—convenient for a blow, that is—when he emerged. I dropped my parasol into the shaft and descended the ladder. Snatching up the parasol, I proceeded quickly into the passageway.
There was light at the end of it, but I could hear nothing, which did not lessen my anxiety; already Emerson might be unconscious and bleeding. I removed my little gun from my pocket.
It was plucked from my hand the moment I reached the end of the passage.
“I knew you’d be waving that damned pistol,” Emerson remarked, helping me to rise. “He’s not here, Peabody. He’s been here, though.”
He shone his torch round the small chamber. A pile of rugs, forming a rough pallet, tins of food, jars of water, and . . . I lifted the saucer that covered one of them. Beer. He had made himself comfortable.
“He has eluded us again,” I said angrily. “How could she have warned him?”
“Obviously he was not in residence,” Emerson replied. “That’s all to the good, Peabody; if he wasn’t here he can’t have seen us. He will come back eventually—it’s a cozy little den, isn’t it? We’ll go for the others and stake the place out. Once I get my hands on that girl I will make certain she cannot warn him.” His large square teeth, bared in a snarl, shone white in the torchlight.
“Let us go,” I said uneasily. “I am not at all comfortable here, Emerson.”
“One of your famous premonitions?” He chuckled, but perhaps he had one, too, for he added, “I’ll go first.”
He waited in the shaft while I crawled through the passage.
The ladder was no longer there.
Before I could stop him, Emerson reached up and gripped the rim of the shaft with both hands. The muscles on his bare forearms tightened as he prepared to pull himself up.
“Watch out!” I shrieked, an instant too late. The heavy stick struck Emerson’s arm, causing him to loosen his grip and fall down. I had heard the bone crack.
A trifle unnerved, I took out my pistol and fired twice. The bullets went ricocheting round the walls. The only response was a laugh. I had heard that laugh before, in the Gabbanat el-Qirud.
“A waste of ammunition,” remarked Emerson, who was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, cradling his left arm with his right. His face shone with perspiration.
“Don’t move your arm,” I ordered, fumbling with the implements hanging from my belt. “Confound it! From now on I will carry some bits of wood with me. Why did we clear the place so thoroughly? There is nothing to serve as a splint. I will go and—”
“Don’t even think of it, Peabody. I might be able to lift you up with one arm, but as soon as your head is within range, he’ll strike. He’s got us in a pretty pickle, my dear.”
“He cannot stay there all day,” I said, and ducked my head as a rain of small stones descended.
“He appears to have another plan in mind,” Emerson said coolly. More rocks fell, including a fist-sized boulder. It landed on my head, which was quite painful, since I was not wearing my pith helmet. “We had better get back into the tunnel,” Emerson continued.
I rigged up a rough sling with my shirt, fastening it in place with safety pins from my sewing kit. It was the best I could do in a hurry. If we stayed where we were, one of us would be brained by a