The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [145]
CHAPTER 13
“Superstition has its practical uses.”
WELL, Sitt Hakim,” said a voice behind me. “Will you admit this case is beyond even your skill?” It was Emerson, of course, speaking in the annoying drawl that indicates he is trying to be sarcastic. I turned, holding the curtain aside.
“He is dead,” I said. “How did you know?”
“It requires very little medical expertise to realize that a man cannot live long with a knife in his heart.”
I had not seen the haft of the knife till then; I was a good deal more shaken than I would have admitted, especially to Emerson. “Not his heart,” I said. “The knife is in the center of his chest. Many people make that mistake. The blade may have pierced a lung. A man in his condition would not survive even a slight wound.”
Squaring my shoulders, I started toward Mohammed. Emerson pushed me rudely aside, and bent over the body. I made no objection. Revolting as Mohammed had been in life, he was even more disgusting dead. After a few moments I heard a nasty sucking sound and Emerson straightened, the knife in his hand.
“He has only been dead for a few hours. The blood has dried, but there is no sign of stiffening in the jaw or extremities. The knife is the kind most of the men carry, with no distinctive features.”
“We must search the place,” I said firmly. “Let me pass. The killer may have left some clue.”
Emerson took my arm and pushed me out of the shelter. “When you own a dog you are not supposed to bark, Peabody. Where is your tame detective?”
He was sitting by the fire with the others, calmly drinking tea. Surprise—and that short-lived—rather than horror was the general response to Emerson’s terse announcement that Mohammed was no more. Charlie appeared to be as astonished as anyone, which only confirmed my suspicions. If a spy and a traitor does not learn how to counterfeit emotion convincingly, he does not last long in his profession.
Cyrus was the only one to comprehend instantly the seriousness of the blow. “Doggone it! Don’t feel bad, my dear, you did all you could. A serious injury like that—”
“Even the great Sitt Hakim’s talents could not have prevailed in this case,” said Emerson. He had been holding the knife behind him; now he tossed it onto the ground. “Mohammed was murdered—and not by me. In the dark of night the deed was done, with that knife.”
The others eyed the weapon as if it had been a snake coiled to strike. Charlie was the first to speak. “Then—then he was deliberately silenced! This is horrible! It means there is a traitor among us!”
He did it very well, I must say.
“We knew that,” Emerson said impatiently. “And now that it is too late, we know that Mohammed was a danger to him or to his leader. How the devil did the killer get past your guard, Vandergelt?”
“I am going to find out pretty quick,” said Cyrus grimly.
“Mr. O’Connell will wish to accompany you,” said Emerson, as Cyrus got to his feet.
Kevin was not at all anxious to volunteer. “At least let me finish my breakfast,” he pleaded. “If the fellow is dead, he can wait a few more minutes.”
“You lack the dogged zeal that is supposed to characterize your profession, Mr. O’Connell,” said Emerson. “I had expected you would be on fire to examine the body, study the ghastly face, probe the wound, search the bloodstained garments, crawl around the floor looking for clues. The fleas and lice and flies won’t bother a man of your hardened nerve, but do watch out for scorpions.”
Kevin’s face had gone a trifle green. “Stop that, Emerson,” I ordered. “Come, Kevin. I will go with you.”
“Chacun à son goût,” remarked Emerson, taking a chair and reaching for the teapot.
As I had expected, Kevin was of no help at all. After one glance at Mohammed’s motionless form he hastily turned his back and began scribbling in his notebook while I crawled around the floor and carried out the other actions Emerson had suggested. I did allow myself to omit one; probing the wound was not