The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [133]
“All right,” Lidman said. “All right. The statue. It is mine by rights, but I will give it up in exchange for freedom. When Mrs. Emerson has escorted me to Cairo I will tell her the hiding place. You will never find it otherwise. Even if you captured me and tortured me I would not speak. Wild horses could not tear the truth from my lips!”
“We haven’t any horses of that sort,” Emerson said absently.
Like the sensible man he was, Cyrus had not spoken, though he had tugged at his goatee so persistently that it hung limp and twisted. Now he said, “See here, Lidman, what about if I go with you? I’m a harmless old fellow, not nearly so dangerous as Mrs. Emerson. What’s more, I’ll pay you for the statue. We’ll go straight to my bank in Cairo and I’ll hand over fifty thousand pounds. I’ll trust you to keep your part of the bargain.”
“I must think,” Lidman muttered. “You have me confused.”
“Go ahead,” Cyrus said.
I wondered what trick Lidman had up his sleeve. He must know his proposed plan and all its variants were doomed to failure. There were too many of us; he couldn’t herd the lot of us onto the train or control the activities of those left behind. Unless he had a confederate? I looked up at the cliffs towering toward the sky and saw only a pair of vultures swinging on the blue air. And what had he meant by that claim, repeated a second time—that the statuette was his by rights? As I pursued these thoughts I also kept a close eye on the less predictable members of the group—Lidman, Bertie, and Jumana. Bertie was poised on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched into fists, his face distorted. Jumana was quiet—too quiet.
Even as the thought entered my mind, the reckless girl acted. Stiffening, she pulled away from Lidman’s grasp and threw herself sideward against his right arm. At the same instant, almost as if they had been in mental communication, Bertie made such a leap as I have never seen, even from Emerson. He caught Lidman’s knife hand and dragged it away from Jumana. As the two struggled for possession of the knife, Jumana fell and rolled, a helpless bundle, down the stairs into the tomb. Cyrus rushed after her; Emerson pulled Bertie away from his adversary and clamped a hard hand over the boy’s wrist, which was spurting blood like a fountain; Lidman looked wildly around and began to climb up the cliff.
Emerson reached in his pocket, and, to my astonishment, produced a handkerchief. He hardly ever has one. Knotting it tightly around Bertie’s arm, he shoved the boy at me. “Here,” he said, and began to climb after Lidman.
The makeshift tourniquet had stopped the worst of the bleeding. Single-minded and staggering, Bertie made for the opening of the tomb. I considered my choices, selected the most imperative, and took my little pistol from my pocket. Lidman was a good twenty feet above, slipping and stumbling, and dislodging stones that bounced off Emerson’s bare head.
“Get back, Emerson,” I shouted. “I am about to shoot.”
Emerson looked down. “Peabody, don’t do that,” he exclaimed loudly. “Oh, good Gad…”
He ducked, trying to force his body into a crack less than a foot wide. I pulled the trigger.
I had aimed at Lidman’s leg. Somewhat to my surprise, for the angle was difficult, my aim was true. Lidman screamed and lost his balance. He fell quite heavily, hitting the cliff face at least twice and missing Emerson by a narrow margin before his body came to rest at my feet.
“So much for the statuette,” said Emerson, lowering himself to the ground. “Peabody, I told you—”
“He isn’t dead,” I said. “But he might have got away, Emerson, if I hadn’t fired. I hit him, you see!”
“Very nice, my dear,” said Emerson. He turned the crumpled body over with his foot. Lidman’s face was smeared with blood and his shirt was torn to bloody rags, but he was still breathing. “Your bullet didn’t do as much damage as the fall.