The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [55]
“Confound the confounded beast!” Emerson shouted. “Ukaf, driver—stop at once.”
“Oh, dear, we will never find it in the dark,” I lamented. “Here, Anubis. Here, kitty, kitty.”
Two eerily glowing orbs appeared, at ground level. “There he is,” Emerson said. “That is a door behind him; he is looking for mice, no doubt. Stay here, Peabody. I’ll go after him.”
Before I could stop him, he had jumped out of the carriage. Then—when it was too late—the recognition of peril struck me like a blow in the face. For as Emerson reached down to take the cat into his arms, the door behind it swung open. I saw Emerson fall forward and heard the sickening thud of the club that had struck his bowed head. Wild with apprehension as to his fate, I could not go to his assistance, for I was fully occupied in fending off the two men who had rushed at the carriage. The driver was face-down in the road; a third man held the head of the terrified horse. My evening parasol— curse my vanity!—broke as I brought it down on the turban of one of my assailants. It did no more than annoy him. Hard hands captured mine and dragged me out of the carriage.
I screamed—something I seldom do, but the situation seemed to warrant it. I did not expect a response. It was with incredulous relief that I heard, through the extremely filthy bag that had been pulled over my head, an answering voice. No—voices! Rescue was approaching! I renewed my struggles; the man who held me had to release one of my hands in order to hold the bag in place, and I clawed blindly but effectively at his face. He cried out and called me something rude in Arabic.
“Choke the witch and keep her quiet,” exclaimed another voice. “Hurry, they are—”
He broke off with a pained grunt and the man who held me let me go so suddenly that I fell to the ground. The bag was twisted around my head, I could not get it off; when hands seized me again I struck out as hard as I could.
“Ouch!” was the response—a good, familiar English “ouch.” I ceased my resistance and concentrated on removing the bag. A voice continued plaintively, “Confound it, ma’am, that’s not a ladylike thing to do to a fellow when he was only trying to help.”
I did not reply. I did not thank him or stop to see who he was. Leaping to my feet, I snatched a lantern from the hand of another individual who stood nearby and dashed toward the door of the warehouse.
It gaped open and empty. The darkness within was not complete; moonlight entering through holes in the ruined roof streaked the floor. Calling and rushing back and forth, I swept every foot of that floor with the lantern beam before I was forced to admit the truth. The place was deserted. There was no trace of Emerson—except for a damp spot, where some liquid darker and more viscous than water had soaked into the dirty floor.
CHAPTER 6
“I do not scruple to employ mendacity and a fictitious appearance of female incompetence when the occasion demands it.”
I fear my behavior thereafter did me no credit. The sight of the cat strolling toward me sent me into a frenzy; I snatched it up and shook it, and I think I shouted at it, demanding to know what it had done with Emerson. This action appeared to surprise it; instead of struggling and scratching, it hung limp in my hands and let out an inquiring mew. When its mouth opened I saw there was something caught on one tooth. It was a shred of dirty cotton that might have come from a native robe.
After a time I heard one of my rescuers remark in a worried voice, “Say, boys, the lady’s gone off her head. She’ll hurt herself tearing around like that; how about I give her a little sock on the jaw?”
“You can’t sock a lady, you lummox,” was the equally worried reply. “Damned if I know what to do.”
The words penetrated the fog of horror that