The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [36]
“Ow, madam,” he began. “Oi promised the master—”
“Vowels, John,” I said. “Mind your vowels.”
John fell in behind me as I passed under the archway leading from the square. “Yes, madam. Madam, are we going to that there—to that place?”
“Quite right.”
“But, madam—”
“If you promised Professor Emerson you would prevent me from going there, you ought to have known better. And he ought not to have extracted from you a promise you could not possibly keep.” John let out a faint moan and I condescended to explain—something I seldom do. “The cat, John—Ramses’ cat. The least we can do is search for the animal. It would break the boy’s heart to leave it behind.”
A scene of utter pandemonium met our eyes when we turned into the street before the shop. The narrow way was completely blocked by bodies, including those of several donkeys. Most of the people were men, though there were a few women, all of the humblest class, and all seemed intent on some spectacle ahead. They were laughing and talking, their bodies swaying as they tried to see over the heads of those in the front rank. Children wriggled through the crowd.
A few polite Arabic phrases, and the judicious application of my useful parasol to backs, shoulders and heads soon captured the attention of those nearest me. Obligingly they parted to let me pass.
Abd el Atti’s shop was the focus of the crowd’s interest. I had expected to find it locked and shuttered, with a constable on duty. Instead the place stood wide open, with not a policeman in sight. The small front room of the shop was filled with workmen wearing the cheap blue-and-white-striped robes of their class, and raglike turbans upon their heads. As soon as I saw what was going on I understood the amusement of the spectators. One workman would rush forward with a bundle in his arms, which he would load on the nearest donkey. Another workman would remove it. The process appeared to have all the futility of Penelope’s weaving and unpicking of her tapestry, and at first I could not imagine what it all meant. Then I saw two people who stood nose to nose in the center of the room, shouting contradictory orders. One was a man, wearing a proper European suit and a bright red tarboosh. The other was a woman clad in dusty black from head to foot. In her agitation she had let fall her veil, disclosing a face as wrinkled as a currant and as malevolent as that of a witch in a German fairy tale. Her mouth gaped, showing toothless gums, as she alternatively shouted orders at the workmen and insults at her opponent.
It appeared to be the sort of situation that demanded the assistance of a sensible person. I applied the ferrule of my parasol briskly but impartially to the people blocking my way, and proceeded to the door of the shop. The old lady was the first to catch sight of me. She stopped in midword—a most improper word for anyone, much less a woman, to employ—and stared at me. The workmen dropped their bundles and gaped; the crowd murmured and swayed, watching expectantly; and the man in the tarboosh turned to face me.
“What is going on here?” I demanded. “This is the shop of Abd el Atti. Who are these people who are stealing his property?”
I had spoken in Arabic, but the man, identifying my nationality by my dress, replied in accented but fluent English. “I am no thief, missus. I am the son of the late Abd el Atti. May I ask your honored name?”
The last question was pronounced with a decided sneer, which vanished as soon as I gave my name. The old woman let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter. “It is the woman of the Father of Curses,” she exclaimed. “The one they call Sitt Hakim. I have heard of you, Sitt. You will not let an old woman be robbed—an honorable wife be cheated of her inheritance?”
“You are the wife of Abd el Atti?” I asked in disbelief. This hideous old harridan? Abd el Atti, who was wealthy enough to purchase any number of young wives, and who had a keen appreciation of beauty?
“His chief wife,” said the beldam. Belatedly recalling her bereaved state, she let