Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [174]
“We cannot wait until they begin lifting the packing cases,” I whispered. “We must stop them now, before damage is done to the artifacts.”
We had arrived in the nick of time, thanks to my informant. A burst of sound and a blaze of flame was followed by loud outcries from the wadi below.
“Now!” I cried. Brandishing my parasol, I dashed at the group of villains.
It was a brisk but brief encounter. Caught off-guard, the thieves had been on the point of descending into the wadi when we fell upon them. Realizing that my supporters had the situation well in hand, I went in pursuit of a man who was creeping away among the ridges of the uneven terrain.
“It is no use, Sir Malcolm,” I cried. “You are fairly caught. Stand up and face your punishment like a man.”
The arrival of Sethos put an end to any idea of resistance Sir Malcolm might have entertained. We escorted him back to what had been the scene of battle. The would-be thieves huddled on the ground, watched over by Ramses. Among them were Aguil and Deib ibn Simsah.
“Any damage?” I called to Emerson, who had descended the cliff and was inspecting the tomb.
“A largish hole some yards down the wadi. Well done, you fellows,” Emerson added in Arabic.
He came back up, climbing like a mountain goat. The thieves had proceeded along the lines Sethos had proposed. One group had fallen upon the guards in front of the tomb of Seti II, after setting off an explosion to distract them. The guards had been warned and were ready for them. We, atop the cliff, had taken care of the party waiting with ropes and camels to carry the loot away.
Sir Malcolm seated himself on the ground. He had lost his wig; his head, bare as an egg, glimmered in the starlight. I stood over him with parasol raised, while his servant crouched at his feet.
“Caught red-handed,” Emerson exclaimed in satisfaction.
“Doing what?” Sir Malcolm was not an easy man to intimidate. He had had time to catch his breath and invent an excuse. “I came here for the same reason you did, Professor. I suspected an attempt would be made to rob the tomb.”
“That’s a lie!” Emerson cried.
“Prove it.”
“I can,” I said, holding Emerson back. “Mr. Gabra?”
Sir Malcolm’s servant rose to his feet. “May I present Lieutenant Gabra of the Luxor police,” I said. “He is here with the permission of his chief, Inspector Aziz, and he was present, though unseen, during every conversation you held with Aguil and Deib. Being men of little wit and no morals, they were willing to go on working for you even though you were responsible for the death of their brother.”
Sir Malcolm’s face was as white as his bald head. “His death was an accident,” he cried. “The fool ignored my instructions.”
“Ah,” I said in satisfaction. “You have admitted that much.”
Gabra spoke for the first time. He was still wearing his patched galabeeyah, but his bearing had changed, so that he now looked like the upstanding, competent man he really was.
“That is what he told Deib and Aguil,” he said. “The bomb was a practice run, as you say; Farhat was supposed to take it to a safe distance and set it off, to prove he knew how. He did not know how.”
“Negligent manslaughter,” I said musingly.
“You cannot charge me with that,” Sir Malcolm muttered. Despite the cool of the night, sweat was running down his face. “Farhat was an arrogant fool.”
“Perhaps I cannot,” I admitted with regret. “But there is enough evidence to charge you with an attempt to steal the treasures of Tutankhamon. Take him away with the others, Lieutenant, and congratulations on a job well done.”
“He’ll talk or bribe his way out of it,” Sethos said. Half-reclining in an easy chair, legs stretched out, he raised his glass in a general salute.
“I fear so,” said Emerson. “He’s a rich titled Englishman and Gabra is, in the eyes of the idiot administration, ‘only’ a native.”
“Do you mean I can’t print