The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [39]
“I saw it, and have attended to it, Ramses.”
“But, Mama—”
“It is a wonder she has no more scars than that to show for her adventure. I only hope she has not…”
“Has not what, Mama?”
“Never mind.” I stared at the cat, who stared back at me with enigmatic golden eyes. She did not appear to be in a state of amatory excitement…. Time, and only time, would tell.
For once Emerson did not grumble about being forced to dine out. Puffed with fatherly pride, he presented, “my son, Walter Peabody Emerson,” to everyone he knew and several he did not know. I was rather proud of the boy myself. He was wearing Scottish dress, with a little kilt in the Emerson tartan. (Designed by myself, it is a tasteful blend of scarlet, forest-green and blue, with narrow yellow and purple stripes.)
All in all, it was a most pleasant evening, and when we retired to our rooms we sought our couch in serene contemplation of a day well spent and of useful work ahead.
The moon had set, and silvery starlight was the only illumination when I woke in the small hours of the morning. I was instantly alert. I never wake unless there is cause, and I soon identified the cause that had roused me on this occasion—a soft, stealthy sound in the corner of the room where our bags and boxes were piled, ready to be removed in the morning.
For an interval I lay perfectly still, allowing my eyes to adjust to the faint light, and straining to hear. Emerson’s stertorous breathing interfered with this latter activity, but in the lulls between inspiration and expiration I could hear the thief scrabbling among our luggage.
I am accustomed to nocturnal alarms. For some reason they occur frequently with me. I hardly need say that I was not in the least afraid. The only question in my mind was how to apprehend the thief. There was no lock on our door. The presence of the safragi in the hallway was supposed to be sufficient to deter casual thieves, few of whom would have had the temerity to enter a place like Shepheard’s. I felt certain that this unusual event was the result of my investigation into Abd el Atti’s murder. It was a thrilling prospect. Here at last, in my very room, was a possible clue. It did not occur to me to awaken Emerson. He wakens noisily, with cries and gasps and thrashing about.
On several previous occasions I had fallen into the error of tangling myself up in the mosquito netting, thus giving a midnight invader a chance to escape. I was determined not to commit the same mistake. The filmy folds of the netting were tucked firmly under the mattress on all sides of the bed. I began tugging gently at the portion nearest my head, pulling it free an inch at a time. Emerson continued to snore. The thief continued to explore.
When the netting was loose as far down as I could reach without moving more than my arm, the crucial moment was upon me. Mentally I reviewed my plans. My parasol stood ready as always, propped against the head of the bed. The thief was in the corner farthest from the door. Speed rather than silence was now my aim. Gathering a handful of the netting, I gave it a sharp tug.
The whole cursed apparatus came tumbling down on me. Evidently the nails holding it to the ceiling had become weakened. As I struggled in vain to free myself, I heard, mingled with Emerson’s bewildered curses, the sound of feet thudding across the floor. The door opened and closed.
“Curse it,” I cried, forgetting myself in my frustration.
“Curse it,” Emerson shouted. “What the devil…” And other even more forceful expressions of alarm.
My efforts to extricate myself were foiled by Emerson’s frantic thrashing, which only succeeded in winding the netting more tightly about our limbs. When the sleepers in the next room rushed to the scene we were lying side by side, wrapped like a pair of matched mummies and incapable of movement of any kind. Emerson was still roaring out curses; and the look on John’s face as he stood staring,