The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [32]
“My dear Emerson, I have never pretended I could restore life to the dead. But before we summon the police I want to examine the situation.”
Accustomed as I am to violent death, it cost me some effort to touch the poor flaccid hand. It was still warm. Impossible to calculate the time of death; the temperature in the closed room was stiflingly hot. But I deduced he had not been dead long. I struck several matches and examined the floor, averting my eyes from Abd el Atti’s dreadful face.
“What the devil are you doing?” Emerson demanded, arms akimbo. “Let’s get out of this hellish place. We will have to return to the hotel to call the police; people in this neighborhood don’t respond to knocks on the door at night.”
“Certainly.” I had seen what I needed to know. I followed Emerson into the back room and let the curtain fall into place, concealing the horror within.
“Looking for clues?” Emerson inquired ironically, as I inspected the litter on the floor. The mummy portrait was not there. I made no comment; the piece had been stolen anyway, and it could not be in better hands than those of my husband.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” I replied. “It is hopeless, I suppose; there is no chance of finding a clear footprint in this debris. Ah! Emerson, look here. Isn’t this a spot of blood?”
“The poor fellow died of strangulation, Peabody,” Emerson exclaimed.
“Obviously, Emerson. But I am sure this blood—”
“It is probably paint.”
“…that this blood is that of the thief who…”
“What thief?”
“…who cut himself during the fight,” I continued, being accustomed to Emerson’s rude habit of interrupting. “His foot, I expect. He trampled on a bit of broken pottery while struggling with Abd el Atti—”
Emerson seized me firmly by the hand. “Enough, Peabody. If you don’t come with me, I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you.”
“The passageway outside is too narrow,” I pointed out. “Just one minute, Emerson.”
He tugged me to my feet as my fingers closed over the object that had caught my attention. “It is a scrap of papyrus,” I exclaimed.
Emerson led me from the room.
We had reached the broad stretch of the Muski before either of us spoke again. Even that popular thoroughfare was quiet, for the hour was exceedingly late; but the beneficent glow of starlight lifted our spirits as it illumined the scene. I drew a long breath. “Wait a minute, Emerson. I can’t walk so fast. I am tired.”
“I should think so, after such a night.” But Emerson immediately slowed his pace and offered me his arm. We walked on side-by-side, and I did not scruple to lean on him. He likes me to lean on him. In a much milder tone he remarked, “You were right after all, Peabody. The poor old wretch did have something on his mind. A pity he decided to end it all before he talked to us.”
“What are you saying?” I exclaimed. “Abd el Atti did not commit suicide. He was murdered.”
“Amelia, that is the merest surmise. I confess I had expected you would concoct some wild theory. Sensationalism is your meat and drink. But you cannot—”
“Oh, Emerson, don’t be ridiculous. You saw the murder room. Was there anything near the body—a table, a chair, a stool—on which Abd el Atti might have stood while he tied the noose around his neck?”
“Damnation,” said Emerson.
“No doubt. He was murdered, Emerson—our old friend was foully slain. And after he had appealed to us to save him.”
“Pray do not insult my intelligence by attempting to move me with such sentimental tosh,” Emerson exclaimed furiously. “If Abd el Atti was murdered, the killer was one of his criminal associates. It has nothing to do with us. Only an unhappy coincidence—or, more accurately, your incurable habit of meddling in other people’s business—put us on the spot at the wrong time. We will notify the police, as is our duty, and that will be the end of it. I have enough on my mind this year. I will not allow my professional activities to be interrupted….”
I let him grumble on. Time would prove me right; the inexorable pressure of events would