The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [165]
I had hoped he would not remember that, and I hoped even more that Daoud would not remember. There had not been time for me to give him precise instructions. ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘He has better sense than to delay so long. He will seek help closer at hand.’
‘Surely one of the neighbours will summon the police,’ Evelyn said.
Walter, who seemed to be in a state of some exasperation, would have made another sarcastic remark if I had not given him a little kick. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘But we ought to take stock of our weaponry, in case – er – in case.’
One of the iron cots fell over with a crash. The door was vibrating violently. ‘David has his knife,’ I shouted. ‘I have a knife and a pistol. Walter, you had better take my pistol.’
‘I too have a knife,’ Walter said, taking it from his belt. ‘Daoud gave me one of his.’
‘Don’t hold it that way!’ I demonstrated with my own. ‘An underhand blow is more likely to strike a vital spot than . . .’ One of the hinges gave way and the door buckled. A shout of triumph from without forced me to raise my voice even more. ‘Never mind, Walter, just do the best you can. Evelyn, would you prefer my knife or my pistol?’
‘Whichever you like, Amelia,’ Evelyn said politely.
‘Take the pistol, then,’ I screamed.
And suddenly the racket stopped. The door, hanging by one hinge, no longer shook. The voices outside dropped to a murmur. Heavy footsteps ran along the corridor.
The next sound to strike my ears came from outside the house. A high, undulating, inhuman shriek, it would have raised the hackles on the neck of a dog. Such a scream might have wavered through the night when Death rode the wind and a banshee on the battlements heralded the fall of an ancient house.
I knew that sound.
‘Saved!’ I cried, and ran to the balcony.
One of the men carried a torch. In its light Kevin’s head looked as if it were on fire. He had stopped screaming and was calling my name. Daoud was there, and the Mirror; The Times was holding the torch. I did not recognize the others, but there were at least a dozen of them, some in evening dress, some in galabeeyahs and turbans.
‘Saved!’ I cried again. ‘Up the O’Connells!’
Kevin looked up. ‘And the Peabodys! Will you come down, Mrs E., or shall we come in?’ A bullet whistled past him and he added hastily, ‘The latter, I think. Hang on!’
Our rescuers took cover, and just in time; a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the doorway. I heard The Times swearing and deduced that a bullet had nicked him but not seriously enough to affect his vocabulary.
A hand caught hold of me and pulled me back into the room. ‘Damn it, Amelia,’ my mild-mannered brother-in-law roared. ‘Don’t you know better than to stand chatting when people are shooting at you?’
‘There is no need to use bad language, Walter,’ I replied. ‘Everything is under –’
The door fell with a crash, splintering tables and cots. A man plunged through the opening. Before any of us could move, he had seized the nearest person in a grip like iron. The person happened to be David.
After the first involuntary cry the boy remained silent and motionless as a statue, as I believe anyone would have done when the blade of a knife rested against his throat.
From the open doorway a voice said, ‘Congratulations, Mrs Emerson. It appears you have won this skirmish. The next victory will be mine.’
For the first time since I had met him, Riccetti was standing unsupported. His great girth filled the doorway, but something about his stance gave me the feeling he was not so feeble as he had appeared.
For a moment I did not understand why he seemed to be conceding defeat. We were virtually weaponless. Like me, Walter stood frozen, unable to attack so long as the knife menaced the boy.
Then I saw that Evelyn was pointing my pistol at Riccetti. She held it with both hands, but the weapon did not waver.
‘There will not be another skirmish,’ I said, letting out my