The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [52]
Leaning haphazardly against the back wall, or laid carelessly on the floor, were appalling examples of that vandalism – sections of paintings and bas-reliefs which had been hacked from the walls of tombs. I recognized one fragment, depicting the serene profile and elegantly coiffured head of a high nobleman, as part of a scene I had observed only five years earlier in a tomb at Gurneh.
I was standing quite close to Ali Murad, so I was conscious of a gradual stiffening in his posture when Emerson began examining the fragments, holding the candle close to each one in turn. At one point he let out a barely audible sigh of relief – and then caught his breath as Emerson turned back to a particular piece.
It was painted, not carved. The colours were bright and clear, except where dust had blurred them.
Before I could make out the details Emerson whirled round, holding the candle high. Whether he intended it or not, this had the effect of exaggerating the shadows that outlined his strongly marked features, which had not worn a pleasant expression to begin with. He looked positively demonic.
‘Where did you get it?’
Ali Murad’s voice broke like that of Ramses. ‘Effendi –’
‘I’ll have it out of you by one means or another,’ Emerson said.
Ali Murad’s face, equally distorted by shadow, was a mask of pure terror. I suspected that Emerson was not the only one he feared. Caught between a rock and a hard place, as the quaint saying has it, he grasped at a frail strand of hope. ‘It is known that the Father of Curses does not employ the kurbash.’
‘Certainly not,’ Emerson agreed. ‘A whip is the weapon of a weakling. A strong man does not need it, nor does he resort to empty threats. You will tell me what I want to know because I am the Father of Curses, and my threats are not empty. Who was it? Mohammed Abd er Rasul? Abd el Hamed? Ah. I thought so. You see, Murad, how easy it was?’
He stripped off his coat and wrapped it carefully around the painted fragment before lifting it in his arms. Ali Murad’s face shone greasily with perspiration, but at this act of flagrant brigandage he mustered enough courage to protest.
‘You cannot do that. I will complain –’
‘To the police? Come now. In violation of all my principles I am leaving you with the rest of your stolen goods. I won’t even tell those American tourists the limestone head is a forgery. One of Abd el Hamed’s, I would guess; it is not at all bad. Take the candle and light us down.’
Abdullah, still on guard at the door, stood aside to let us pass. ‘All is well?’ he inquired, in the tone of one who had expected nothing less.
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Emerson, in the same tone. Turning to Ali Murad, who stood holding the lighted candle like a torch-bearer, he bade him a pleasant good evening.
There was no response from the antiquities dealer. He appeared to be unaware of the fact that hot wax was dripping onto his hand.
As soon as we were out of the shop, Emerson handed Abdullah the fragment of painting. He walked close beside me, but did not offer me his arm, and his eyes kept moving, inspecting each passerby and examining every dark doorway. I did not really believe Ali Murad would attack us in order to retrieve his property – if one could call it ‘his.’ He had appeared to be thoroughly cowed, not to say petrified. However, I thought it wiser not to distract Emerson with conversation, and so I waited until we had reached the boat and were under way before I spoke.
‘You did not look to see whether any other artefacts from the tomb might be there.’
‘It would have taken too long. You saw what a jumble the place was. I wanted to be in and out before the fellow could muster enough courage to call for help. This is enough. It proves what I suspected.’
‘Well done, my dear. How do you know