The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [40]
Emerson’s breath finally gave out—he had inhaled a portion of the netting, which was wound around his face. In the blessed silence that followed I instructed John to put down the lamp before he dropped it and set the place on fire. The cat lowered her head and began sniffing about the room. The hair on her back stood up in a stiff ridge.
Ramses had taken in the situation with a look of mild inquiry. Now he disappeared into his own room and returned carrying some object that glittered in the light. Not until he approached close to the bed did I identify it. I let out a shriek.
“No, Ramses! Drop it. Drop it at once, do you hear?”
When I speak in that tone, Ramses does not argue. He dropped the knife. It was at least eight inches long, and polished to a wicked shine. “My intention,” he began, “was to free you and Papa from de incumbrance dat in some wholly unaccountable manner seems to have—”
“I have no quarrel with your intentions, only with your methods.” I managed to free one arm. It was not long before I had kicked off the netting, and I turned at once, with some anxiety, to Emerson. As I feared, his open mouth was stuffed with netting. His eyes bulged and his face had turned a portentous shade of mauve.
It took some little time to restore order. I resuscitated my wheezing spouse, confiscated the knife—a gift from Abdullah, which Ramses had not thought it expedient to mention—and ordered my son, my servant and my cat to return to their beds. Then, at last, I was able to turn my attention to the crime—for attempted burglary, I venture to assert, must be called a crime.
It was no use pursuing the thief. He had had time to cross half of Cairo by then. One look at the scene of his inquiries assured me he was a master at his illegal craft, for he had managed to create considerable havoc with a minimum of sound. He had not ventured to open any of the packing cases, for they had been nailed shut, but all our personal baggage had been searched. The contents lay in untidy heaps on the floor. A bottle of ink had lost its stopper, with disastrous consequences to my best shirtwaist.
Emerson, now fully restored but breathing loudly through his nose, pulled himself to a sitting position. Arms crossed, face engorged, he watched in grim silence for a time and then inquired gently, “Amelia, why are you crawling on all fours?”
“I am looking for clues, of course.”
“Ah, yes. A calling card, perhaps. A fragment of cloth torn from our visitor’s robe—a robe identical with those worn by half the population of Egypt. A lock of hair, courteously torn from his scalp in order to assist—”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Emerson,” I said, continuing to crawl. And a tedious process it is, I might add, when the folds of one’s nightgown keep bunching up under one’s knees. Then I let out a cry of triumph. “Aha!”
“A photograph of the burglar’s wife and children,” Emerson went on, warming to his theme. “A letter, bearing his name and address—though there are no pockets in these robes, and few of the wearers can read and write—”
“A footprint,” I said.
“A footprint,” Emerson repeated. “Hobnailed boots, perhaps? Of an unusual pattern, made by only one bootmaker in all Cairo, who keeps records of his customers—”
“Correct,” I said. “At least as to the boots. I doubt, however, that the pattern will prove to be unique. I will make inquiries, of course.”
“What?” Emerson bounded from the bed. “Booted feet, did you say?”
“See for yourself. There is a clear print. He must have trod in the spilled ink. I am glad of the accident on that account, though I do not understand why there should have been a bottle of ink in my bag. I suppose Ramses put it there.”
Now on all fours like myself, Emerson inspected the print. “There is no reason why a common sneak thief should not wear boots. If he were dressed in European clothing—or if he were European—he would find it easier to gain entry to the hotel….” His voice trailed off in an