The Hippopotamus Pool (17 page)

Since time was of the essence I did not wait to put the laudanum in Miss Marmaduke's coffee, as I had originally intended. I selected a rich burgundy to accompany the meal; the sticky black liquid dissolved quite well and the wine was dark enough to hide the color. Miss Marmaduke was not enough of a connoisseur to know that one should never serve Burgundy with chicken, but she certainly enjoyed it. I had to support her when she rose from the table, with incoherent apologies for her extraordinary fatigue.

Our preparations had been made. Daoud and Selim were to accompany us, while Abdullah remained at the dahabeeyah on guard. He did not like being left behind, but if we ran into trouble we wanted younger, more agile men to assist us. We gathered on deck waiting for Daoud to return from his scouting expedition. Our departure must be unobserved.

"Now is it clear?" Emerson said softly. "They will come by one of two paths—over the mountain path from the direction of Deir el Bahri, or along the base of the hill from the north. Ramses, you and Nefret and Daoud will cover the northern route. Remember, you are not to interfere in any way. Keep out of sight and well behind them. Once they have entered the tomb, mark the location and come to join us. We will be—"

"I am as familiar with the terrain as you, Father," said Ramses. "And you have already explained the plan three times. There is Daoud. He is beckoning us to proceed."

In single file we crept down the gangplank and sought concealment in the shadows of a group of palm trees. Here we assumed our disguises— galabeeyahs like those worn by the villagers, rags wound round our heads and scarves covering the lower parts of our faces. I must say Nefret made an unconvincing Arab, even with her bright hair hidden.

Though the hour was still early by European standards, the villagers ofthe West Bank kept country hours, rising with the sun and retiring when it set. Most of them. The ones we hoped to encounter worked only at night.

We met only curious goats and snapping dogs as we crossed the green fields of the cultivation, avoiding the clusters of rude huts. The moon was only half full, but it gave enough light to enable us to see the path. Starlight illumined the pale colonnades of the temple of Deir el Bahri, and from the Egypt Exploration Fund expedition house, now occupied by our friend Howard, shone a glow of lamplight. We gave it a wide berth; if Howard had known what we were up to he would certainly have disapproved, though primarily on the grounds of danger to us.

There was danger if Emerson's plan succeeded. The Gurnawis had attacked archaeologists before, and men like Riccetti were even less scrupulous of human life. After we had crossed the stretch of open desert and begun our ascent of the cliff, I ventured to speak.

"You think they will come by this path."

"Why else do you suppose I sent Ramses and Nefret in the other direction? That route is too roundabout for the men we are after; they will come from Gurneh, and the tomb must be high in the hills; the lower slopes have been picked over by archaeologists—if you can call Mariette an archaeologist—"

"Emerson."

"Hmph, yes. Give me your hand, Peabody; this stretch is a bit steep." He hauled me up onto a ledge, and then went on. "As you knew perfectly well, Peabody, I have been talking stuff and nonsense. I do believe the thieves will return to the tomb tonight, but this is a largish stretch of territory, and without more specific information than the abstruse scholarly clues I discussed with you some days ago we could wander these hills all night without finding men who will obviously be attempting to avoid scrutiny. Fortunately I have more specific information. You remember my asking Sir Edward about the death of a workman during last year's Northampton excavations? In fact I had already ascertained the truth of the matter from Newberry. Like Sir Edward—typical English snob that he is!— Newberry did not consider the fatal fall of a fellah important, but when I questioned him about it he was able to tell me approximately where the so-called accident occurred. He still doesn't know why I was interested," Emerson added, with an evil chuckle.

"But I do."

"Of course you do, Peabody."

"So that is why you were so anxious to see Mr. Newberry! Why the— why didn't you say so, and why didn't you mention the subject during our dinner party?"

"Because," said Emerson, giving me the sort of smile that drives wivesto violence, "I had already called upon him. After considering the matter I decided it would be best to request a private interview. I had heard of the workman's death but paid it no attention at the time; not until after I realized that a number of people were after the tomb did it occur to me that the incident might be significant."

"The man had got too close to the tomb," I said. "Or actually came upon the thieves when they were at work. Well done, Emerson. You know the location, then?"

"Roughly. We had better stop talking now. Are you with us, Selim?"

When we reached the summit we paused to catch our breaths. Behind and below was the narrow strip of green bordering the Nile. Ahead, for hundreds of miles, lay a land as barren as a dead world. Clefts and wadis, canyons and deep valleys broke the surface of the plateau.

Paths, some of them ancient, crisscrossed its slopes. One of the oldest goes from the Valley of the Kings to Deir el Bahri and continues southward along the ridge toward the Ramesseum and Medinet Habu. We went north, following a less defined route that wound up and down the hillside. Despite his size, Emerson is as surefooted as a goat on such terrain and he seemed to be familiar with every inch of it, for always he chose the easiest way.

When he stopped, we were just below the top of the hill, with a steep slope below and a wilderness of broken ridges, canyons and clefts behind and ahead. We sat down in the shadow of a heap of stones and I passed round my canteen. Selim's eyes glittered. I knew his quick breathing was not due to exertion. It had been my suggestion that he accompany us and leave the older, more placid Daoud to watch over the children. Ramses could twist poor Selim around his little finger—and so could I. I smiled at him and raised a finger to my lips. He nodded vigorously.

Before long Emerson began to fidget. I had known he would. Waiting is not something he does well. I moved closer to him and kept him quiet for a while, but it was fortunate we had not much longer to wait. The moon had set and the hillside was in shadow. One of the approaching men must have stumbled or stubbed his toe. His involuntary cry of pain was loud enough to carry some distance.

Emerson started to rise. "Damna------!"

I clapped both hands over his mouth. After a moment he subsided and I felt it was safe to remove my grip.

"Sssh! Listen," I breathed.

The murmur of voices and the sounds of movement went on for some time, and eventually my straining eyes made out, not isolated forms, but a shifting section of darkness. How many of them were there? More than one or two, certainly. They seemed to be arguing. Gradually their voices rose, and one harsh whisper pierced the silence of the night.

"I tell you, he lied! What will the Master do to us if he learns—"

Another outburst of hissing argument drowned his voice. It died into silence; a temporary agreement must have been reached. The succeeding sounds were those of surreptitious movement. Pebbles rolled and rattled; something grated on rock.

Emerson could bear it no longer; he rose to one knee. I took firm hold of his turban and pressed my mouth against his ear.

"Emerson, wait until they have all entered the tomb. Then we can creep away—"

"And allow them to rob MY tomb?" His furious whisper echoed like the distant voice of an outraged deity. He twisted his head, leaving his turban in my hands, and surged to his feet. Pulling the robe over his head, he tossed it at me. "You and Selim go and fetch Carter."

"Emerson! At least take my—" But by the time I had freed myself from the tangled folds of his robe he was out of reach. Pistol in hand, I followed as fast as I dared. Selim, gasping with excitement, was hot on my heels.

I found Emerson; he was standing on a ledge some ten feet below the path. It was so small the toes of his boots protruded over an empty space as dark and narrow as the gullet of a crocodile.

"Ah, there you are, Peabody," he remarked. "Hang on a minute, I will be right back."

And without further ado he knelt, grasped the rock ledge with both hands, and swung himself down into the cleft.

Silence and caution were no longer necessary. Emerson would either fall into the tomb or past it, on his way to the bottom of the ravine, unequivocally informing those within of his presence.

Though every muscle and every nerve ached with the need for action, I forced myself to be calm. It was an exercise to which I had become accustomed after living with Emerson for so many years. Stripping off my own robe I tossed it aside. Then I lay down on the ground and lit a candle.

The slope was not precipitous; under ordinary circumstances I would not have hesitated to tackle it, using my trusty parasol as a stick. Under present circumstances, when a slip might precipitate me into a bottomless chasm, I decided not to take the chance. Regretfully laying parasol and candle aside, I instructed Selim to lie flat on the edge of the drop and give me his hand. Abdullah would have argued with me (though not for long). Selim never argued with me, but he would have if he had dared. Our faces were close together as I began the descent, clinging to his hand; his eyes were so wide his eyeballs gleamed like pigeon's eggs.

My feet had not quite touched the ledge when I had to let go of Selim's hand, for his head and shoulders as well as his arm were over the edge.

There was a nasty moment when one boot slipped; the scrape of metal on stone was echoed by a muted cry from Selim.

"Do be quiet, Selim," I hissed. "I am on the ledge, it is all right."

"Oh, Allah! Sitt Hakim—"

"Sssh!"

It was not so much that I feared discovery—though if Emerson was in the clutches of a gang of desperate tomb robbers, surprise might be my best weapon when I burst in upon them—but the need to listen. I could see nothing below but blackness. I could hear sounds, though. The pit was not bottomless, but it must be very deep; the noises were faint and impossible to classify. The moans of a fatally injured man? The fall of a corpse— Emerson's corpse? My hands were so unsteady I had to strike three matches before I could light another candle.

A rope had been tied round a protruding rock spur; it vanished into the darkness, as Emerson had done. Kneeling, I felt of it. The strands were limp; no weight pulled them taut. Living or dead, fallen or triumphantly arrived at his goal, Emerson was not holding on to the rope. Grasping it, I lowered myself into the darkness.

I covered the first few feet more quickly than I had intended, but finally I got my knees wrapped round the cursed flimsy thing and was able to proceed more deliberately. It was a long descent—over ninety feet, as we discovered later. The sounds I had heard were no longer audible. Oh, heaven, I thought; will I be too late?

The darkness was intense. I might have missed the tomb entrance if the rope had not ended just below it. This came as a considerable surprise, and for an unpleasant moment or two I hung suspended only by my hands. Then the toe of my boot found a crack and my eyes made out a faint glow of light. Faint in fact, but bright as a beacon to eyes accustomed to utter blackness.

The tomb entrance had been cut in the side of the gully. It was approximately six feet square, but it was filled with rubble except for a narrow tunnel dug by the thieves. The light came from the far end of the tunnel. With the aid of the holes in the rock face—which, I began to believe, were not natural but man-made—I got into the tunnel. Crawling as fast as possible, I was only vaguely aware of the sharp stone scraps that scored my hands and knees.

I emerged somewhat suddenly into a small, dimly lit chamber. Before I could observe details I was grasped, pulled to my feet and caught in a tight hold that pinned my arms to my sides.

Though archaeological fever burned hot in my brain, at that moment I had eyes for no other object than Emerson. He lived! He was upright and unharmed! He was also extremely angry, and with reason. A robed andturbaned figure whose face was concealed by a scarf held a pistol pressed to his head.

"Confound it, Peabody," he began. "I told you—"

The man drew back his arm and struck. It was only a glancing blow, but I cried out in alarm. "Control yourself, Emerson! Don't risk another blow to the head."

Emerson was too furious to heed this excellent advice. "Take your hands off her, you—you—"

He stopped as the person who held me promptly obeyed—not Emerson's command, but a nod from the fellow who held the gun. I was no threat to them; my own pistol was in my pocket, nor would I have dared to use it when the other weapon was pressed against Emerson's temple.

The man who had held me was dressed like the first, and there was a third one too, equally anonymous in robe and turban and scarf. Where were the others? Had I been mistaken about their numbers?