The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [128]
I reminded myself that bare feet on sand make no sound, and that most of the villagers wore dark robes. If Abdullah had seen the form, he would have been certain that the spirit of one of the murdered monks had returned.
On hands and knees we crept forward. The huddled form was indeed that of our loyal reis; he did not stir, even when Emerson shook him gently. It was with a sense of infinite relief that I heard Emerson say, “Drugged. Hashish, from the smell of it. He’ll be none the worse in the morning.”
In the same whisper I said, “Do we assume our other men are in the same condition?”
“Or worse,” was the grim reply. “Give me your pistol, Peabody.”
“You dare not fire it, Emerson. The mud—”
“I know. I can only bluff. Will you stay here?”
“No, Emerson, I will not.”
“Then Ramses must be the lookout.” Turning to the boy he went on, “You understand, Ramses, that if your mama and I do not succeed in overpowering the intruders, you will have to go for help.”
“But, Papa—”
My nerves were a trifle strained. I seized Ramses by his thin shoulders and shook him till his teeth rattled. “You heard your papa. Wait fifteen minutes. If we have not summoned you by then, set out for Dahshoor as fast as you can go. And if you say one word, Mama will slap you.”
Ramses scuttled off into concealment without so much as a “Yes, Mama.” Like me, he is a literal-minded person.
“Really, Peabody, must you be so brusque?” Emerson inquired. “The lad has performed prodigies of devotion and skill tonight; some slight show of appreciation—”
“Will be rendered at the proper time and in the proper manner. Ramses knows I am not emotional. He does not expect it. Now, Emerson, let us not waste any more time. What the devil can they be doing in Ramses’ room?”
Whatever it was, they were still at it when we reached the courtyard. The door of Ramses’ room stood open, and we could hear voices. Obviously they did not fear interruption. Our men must be prisoners, as Emerson had suggested. And John—what had they done with poor John?
We moved noiselessly, close to the wall, until we stood behind the door, which opened out into the courtyard. Concealed behind it, Emerson applied his eye to the crack. I followed suit, on a lower level.
We could see one end of the room—the table that served Ramses as a desk, the screened window, the cage containing the lion cub, and the lower part of the bed, which had been overturned. Blankets and sheets lay in a tumbled heap. There were two men visible, both wearing the dark-blue turbans customary in the village. No, they did not fear interruption; not only had they left the door wide open but they were making a considerable amount of noise. The sounds of voices uttering expletives indicative of frustration and anger were interspersed with the crashes of the objects they overturned in their search and by the frantic yelps and growls of the lion. One of the men kicked the cage in passing. I ground my teeth. Nothing angers me so much as cruelty to an animal.
My hand closed over the handle of my parasol. We had no other weapon; our pistols were in our bedchamber, which was also occupied by the uninvited visitors. Fortunately I had left the parasol in the parlor the night before. I stood on tiptoe and applied my mouth to Emerson’s ear. “There are only two of them,” I breathed. “Now, Emerson?”
“Now.”
I am sure our attack would have been a complete success had not Emerson got in my way. There was a little confusion in the doorway, as both of us tried to enter at once. By the time I regained my feet, and my parasol, I was distressed to note that one of the men was pointing a pistol at us.
His features were vaguely familiar. I thought I had seen him among the “deacons” who served the priest. The other man was a complete stranger, and when he spoke I recognized the Cairene accent.
“You are hard to kill, O Father of Curses. Shall we see if a bullet can do what burial alive could not?”
As if in response the little lion gave a piercing wail.