The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [51]
‘Emerson Effendi,’ he said smoothly. ‘And his lady. You honour my poor house. If you will be seated and take coffee with me –’
‘I am sure Abdullah would be delighted to accept the invitation,’ Emerson said, taking me by the arm. ‘This way, Peabody.’
He moved with catlike quickness, reaching the curtained doorway at the back of the shop before Ali Murad could intercept him. Abdullah was close on our heels.
I had visited the shop before, but had never gone beyond the front room. Obviously Emerson had. The doorway led into a small odorous vestibule. Before the curtain fell back into place, cutting off most of the light, I saw a floor of cracked tiles and a pile of rags and papers under a flight of narrow stairs. Without pausing, Emerson headed up the stairs, towing me after him. Abdullah had not followed us. I deduced that he had been instructed to prevent anyone else from following us. Indignant cries from the shop supported this assumption.
At the top of the stairs Emerson paused long enough to light the candle he took from his pocket. The house was larger than it had appeared from the street; a regular rabbit’s warren of corridors and rooms filled the upper floor. Emerson kept hold of my hand and I kept tight hold of my parasol. People may jeer all they like about my parasols – Emerson often does – but there is no more useful article to be had, and mine were specially made, with heavy steel shafts and tips rather more pointed than is customary.
The upper floor was not unoccupied. I heard soft, unpleasantly suggestive sounds from behind some of the closed doors. I could also hear the sounds of footsteps in rapid pursuit of us. Either Ali Murad had got past Abdullah or the latter had been instructed only to delay him.
Finally Emerson stopped and held up his candle. I spun round, ready to defend him, for Murad had caught us up. When he saw my parasol he stopped and cried out, raising his ringed hands.
‘Don’t be such a bloody coward, Murad,’ Emerson said. ‘You don’t suppose a lady like Mrs Emerson would attack a man in his own house, do you? This is the right room, I believe. I hope you have the key; I would regret having to kick the door down.’
Watching Emerson like a man in the presence of a savage dog, Murad made one final attempt at dignity. ‘You break the law, Emerson Effendi. You defy the Star Spangled Banner. I will summon the police.’
Emerson laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall.
Cursing under his breath. Ali Murad unlocked the door. The windows of the room were covered with heavy wooden shutters; from the quantity of dust that shrouded them I concluded they had not been opened for a long time. There was no need for light. Potential customers were never brought here; the merchandise from this special storeroom was carried down to them.
A few tables and a few shelves, cluttered with small objects, constituted the furnishings. Ali Murad’s housekeeping left a great deal to be desired. The artefacts had not been arranged in any particular order; ushebtis lay next to vessels of stone and pottery, and on top of ostraca. The floor had not been swept for heaven knows how long; the litter covering it would probably repay an excavation in itself.
As Emerson moved slowly round the room, one object after another appeared in the limited candle glow and then vanished again into shadows. He stopped before a slab of stone, square-sided except for its rounded top. It was a stela from some tomb, probably Nineteenth Dynasty, to judge by the quality of the sculptured scene at the top. Hieroglyphic inscriptions covered the rest of the surface.
I heard a grinding sound. It emitted from Emerson – from his teeth, to be precise – but he moved on without comment. His behaviour made Ali Murad very nervous. Like me, he knew that when Emerson controlled his temper to that unusual degree it was because he was up to something.
The objects in the room were genuine and every one of them had come from an illegal source – stolen by workers from a legitimate excavation or pillaged