The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [37]
“Your mother?” I asked the man.
“Allah forbid,” was the pious reply. “But I am the eldest living son, missus. I am taking the merchandise to my own shop; it is a fine shop, missus, on the Muski, a modern shop. Many English come to me; if you come, I will sell you beautiful things, very cheap—”
“Yes, yes; but that is not the question,” I said, absently accepting the card he handed me. “You cannot take these things away now. The police are investigating your father’s death. Didn’t they tell you to leave the scene of the crime undisturbed?”
“Crime?” A singularly cynical smile transformed the man’s face. His eyes narrowed to slits and his lips barely parted. “My unfortunate father has gone to make his peace with Allah. He had the wrong friends, missus. I knew that sooner or later one of them would remove him.”
“And you don’t call that a crime?”
The man only shrugged and rolled his eyes, in the ineffable and unanswerable fatalism of the East.
“In any case,” I said, “you cannot remove anything from the shop. Replace all the objects, if you please, and lock the door.”
The old woman’s cacodemonic laughter broke out again. She began to shuffle her feet in a grotesque dance of triumph. “I knew the honored sitt would not let an old woman be robbed. The wisdom of the Prophet is yours, great lady. Accept an old woman’s blessing. May you have many sons—many, many sons….”
The idea was so appalling I think I turned pale. The man mistook my reaction for fear. He said in a grating voice, “You cannot make me do that, missus. You are not the police.”
“Don’t you talk that way to my lady,” John said indignantly. “Madam, shall I punch him in the nose?”
A cheer, half-ironic, half-enthusiastic, broke out from those in the crowd who understood English. Evidently the son of Abd el Atti was not popular with the latter’s neighbors.
“Certainly not,” I said. “What is this talk of punching people? You must not attempt to imitate all your master’s habits, John. Mr.”—I glanced at the card I held—“Mr. Aslimi will be reasonable, I am sure.”
Mr. Aslimi had very little choice in the matter. The donkeys departed unencumbered, and although it is difficult to read the countenance of a donkey, they appeared pleased to be relieved of their burdens. The workmen left, cursing the paltriness of their pay, the crowd dispersed. I dismissed the dear old lady before she could repeat her ominous blessing. She went hopping off, cackling like a large black raven. Then I turned to Mr. Aslimi. He was an unpleasant individual, but I could not help feeling some sympathy for anyone who had to deal with such a stepmother.
“If you will cooperate, Mr. Aslimi, I will do my best to plead your case with the authorities.”
“How cooperate?” Aslimi asked cautiously.
“By answering my questions. How much do you know about your father’s business?”
Well, of course he swore he knew nothing about any criminal connections. I expected him to say that, but my intuition (which is scarcely ever at fault) told me he was not directly involved with the antiquities gang—probably to his regret. He also denied any acquaintance with the suspicious character I had seen with Abd el Atti. This time my intuition assured me he was lying. If he did not know the man’s identity, he had a good idea as to who it might have been.
I then asked to be allowed to search the shop. There were some fine and obviously illegal antiquities in various locked cupboards, but they were not my concern, and Aslimi’s dour expression lightened perceptibly when I passed them by without comment. I found nothing that gave me a clue to the identity of Abd el Atti’s murderer. The place had been trampled by many feet and thoroughly ransacked—and besides, I had no idea what I was looking for.
Nor was there any trace of the missing Bastet. Mr. Aslimi denied having seen her. This time I felt sure he was telling the truth.
We parted with protestations of goodwill that were false on both sides. I felt