The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [14]
Saleh had returned the pistol to his pocket. Coolly he resumed the chair he had abandoned and picked up his glass. ‘The ring is not proof enough?’
Emerson snorted, and Saleh went on, irony colouring his voice, ‘Not to a mind as rigidly logical as yours, I suppose. What would satisfy your requirements?’
‘Precise directions,’ Emerson replied promptly. ‘The entrance must be well hidden or it would have been found before this. There are many acres of rough, broken ground in the region you mentioned.’
‘I thought you would say that.’ Saleh had finished his whiskey. Placing the glass on the table, he reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. ‘I was told . . . I . . .’
His voice broke in a horrible, rattling gurgle. One hand went to his throat; the other clenched, crumpling the paper it held. Emerson jumped forwards, but he was too late; a violent, convulsive movement threw the stranger out of the chair and onto the floor.
‘Get back, Peabody,’ Emerson said, reinforcing the suggestion with a sharp shove. I got back in time to avoid a kick from the recumbent man; his limbs thrashed in uncontrolled, tetanic spasms that jerked his body back and forth, as if he were performing some prone and primitive dance. Emerson threw himself onto the writhing body and interrupted his eloquent curses long enough to gasp instructions. ‘Fetch a doctor, Peabody – go yourself, don’t – damnation! – Captain Cartright or – oh, good Gad!’
Even his formidable strength was taxed by the effort of holding the sufferer, in order to prevent injury not only from the furniture but from the violent spasms of his own tortured muscles. I needed no further admonitions; picking up my skirts, I ran.
By the time I reached the ballroom I was in a considerable state of breathless agitation and physical disarray. People fell back before my wild rush. At first the room was only a blur of colour and movement; there were too many cursed uniforms, I could not locate the one I wanted. Forcing myself to calmness, I saw Captain Cartright guiding a stately dowager in purple plush through the mazes of the cotillion. I rushed to him and caught him by the arm.
‘You must come at once, Captain Cartright! An emergency – strychnine poisoning . . . convulsions . . .’
‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed the person in purple, whom I now recognized as the wife of Cartright’s commanding general. ‘What is the meaning of this? The woman is mad or intoxicated!’
We stood in the centre of a circle of gaping faces, for my voice, I daresay, had been shrill enough to attract attention.
‘Instantly,’ I insisted, shaking the captain. ‘He is dying! My sitting room –’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Emerson,’ Cartright said quickly. ‘Where are your rooms?’
‘This way,’ said a voice behind me. It said no more; as Cartright followed after the speaker, I saw that it was Ramses. He was moving rapidly even for him, squirming through the crowd like an eel.
Now that help had been dispatched, I felt it would be advisable to catch my breath before hurrying back. Breathing slowly and deeply, I pondered the precipitation of Ramses. It was his insatiable curiosity, of course, but he might have had the courtesy to offer an arm to his mother.
Another gentleman did so. It was Mr Jenkins, the assistant manager, and it may have been a desire to end the disturbance, rather than concern for me, that prompted his action. The dancing had stopped altogether and people were staring rudely. ‘What is wrong, Mrs Emerson?’ he inquired, leading me off the floor.
Realizing he had not heard my announcement to Captain Cartright, I decided not to enlighten him. He would only make a fuss. Hotel managers do not like to hear of dead or dying guests.
‘It is all taken care of, Mr Jenkins,’ I replied, hoping that