The Hippopotamus Pool (43 page)

David got to the door before I did. He pressed the latch and flung the door open in a single movement.

There was a guard. He was the very large man I had seen once before.

It is a mistake commonly made by criminals, I have observed, to hire a very large man instead of a smaller, quicker person. This fellow heaved himself up out of his chair with the ponderous deliberation of a moving mountain.

"Stop," I said softly but emphatically. "Do not make a sound or I will fire."

The large person stopped. David stopped too. He was holding his knife in the manner he had suggested and I did not doubt he would have used it.

"Lie down on the floor," was my next order. "Quickly!"

Instead of complying, the fellow looked from me to the boy. His brow furrowed. He was thinking. It was obviously a painful process, but unfortunately he appeared to have sense enough to weigh his options accurately. His curious gaze moved to the cat, who was sitting to one side, watching as coolly as a spectator at a play; then it came back to me, and a slow unpleasant smile spread across his face.

I much regretted having had to abandon my parasol; it must have been the sight of that magical weapon that had frightened him off before. Now he had decided that a child and a woman deprived of her magic presented no real threat. Any sound, a pistol shot or the sound of a struggle, would bring the others running. We seemed to be at something of an impasse.

With a sound like a snort of disgust, the cat Bastet crouched and leaped, straight at the man's face. He staggered back, his scream muted, first by ten pounds of cat and then by the chair David smashed over his head. He fell sideways across the bed, and across the feet of Ramses, who was lying on the bed.

I had seen Ramses, of course, but I had been too intent on the guard to give him more than a fleeting glance. Nor was I able as yet to attend to him. I had to strike the man several times with the butt of my pistol before he stopped squirming. Since I did not want to kill him (not very much), he had to be bound and gagged. There was no sheet on the hard cot, not even a blanket. David had to give up his robe, which we tore into strips.

I suppose the whole business only took a few minutes, but it seemed to go on for hours. Expecting at any second to hear feet in the corridor— frantic to assure myself that my son yet lived—wondering how the devil we were going to get him out if we could not rouse him—well, it was not a pleasant interval. When I turned to the bed, Ramses had not moved. The cat sat beside him, licking his head. She was kind enough not to object when I pushed her away and gathered Ramses into my arms.

His head fell back against my shoulder. There was no doubt as to what was wrong with him; his dirty, bruised face bore a look of utter bliss. Ramses had always wanted to experiment with opium—in a purely scientific fashion, he claimed. He had got his wish.

"Drugged," I gasped. "We will have to carry him. Take his feet."

I much regretted that Ramses had grown so much the past year. He was heavier than I had expected—not, heaven be thanked, a dead weight, but near enough. Getting him down the stairs was the most difficult part. My arms and shoulders were very tired by then, and his posterior kept bumping on the steps.

My goal was the room through which I had entered the house, and the image of that unprepossessing chamber hovered before my straining eyes with all the allurement of Paradise. If we could reach it before we were intercepted, we were safe. The sounds from the ground floor had increased in volume and in joviality; the thugs must be having their private celebration. I sincerely hoped they were enjoying themselves. If one of them tired of the party and decided to go to bed ... I addressed a brief prayer to that Power that rules our destinies, but I am afraid it came out sounding more like an order: "Keep them downstairs!"

We were on the last stretch of corridor, with the desired door only ten feet distant, when it opened. I think I would have screamed if I had had breath enough. David, ahead of me, dropped Ramses's feet and reached for the knife he had stuck in the band of the loose drawers that were his sole remaining garment.

There was just enough light from the stairwell to save Walter's skin. David could not have recognized his face, but the European boots and trousers warned him in time. He returned the knife to his belt and Walter scooped Ramses up.

"They are coming," he said. "Hurry."

We never knew what aroused the suspicions of the men below—the thud of Ramses's heels on the floor, or some sound from without? It must have been just enough to alert but not alarm them, for they came slowly, and I heard one make a joking remark about hearing afreets.

Evelyn was waiting behind the door; she closed it as soon as we were all inside. "How—" I began.

"Secure the door," Walter cut in. "Bolt it and shove the furniture up against it." Carrying Ramses, he went out onto the balcony.

Evelyn slammed the bolt in place; it was a flimsy thing, only a hinged strip of wood, but it would hold for a while. I left her and David moving furniture, and followed Walter.

He was leaning over the edge of the balcony; I was in time to see him drop Ramses into the upraised arms of Daoud.

"Now you, Sitt," Daoud called.

I would have chanced it had I been alone, but there was not time for all of us to get out that way. Our adversaries had discovered us; they were shouting, and pounding on the door of the chamber. Sooner or later it would occur to one of them that the balcony was our only means of escape.

Walter ran back inside and I said to Daoud, "No, it is too late. Run— get Ramses to safety and bring help. Go now, before they come out of the house!"

Even as I spoke, I heard the rattle of chains and bolts inside the front door. Daoud stood gaping up at me.

I called him the worst Arabic name I knew. Between Ramses and Emerson, I knew quite a lot of them. He jumped as if I had struck him and then ran, with Ramses draped over one shoulder. They were still in sight when— as I had feared and anticipated—the front door opened. One of the thugs burst out, pistol in hand, and started in pursuit.

I shot him in the back. It was not a sporting thing to do, but the alternative would have been less acceptable. He fell, dropping the pistol, but I knew I had not killed him because he screamed a good deal. Finally someone dragged him back inside. I did not want to waste any more bullets, so I fetched a pot (smelling strongly of the remains of someone's dinner), and when the door opened again and another head appeared, I dropped the pot on it.

"That should hold them for a while," I said, returning to my companions. "But I fear that exit is now unusable. They can cover us from the doorway. How are things going?"

I could see the answer for myself, and a discouraging one it was. The door reverberated under the pound of hard blows; they must have been using a heavy article of furniture as a battering ram. Every cot and table had been piled against the portal, but they were flimsy things and could not hold long once the door yielded, as it soon must.

"Did they get away?" Evelyn gasped.

A truthful answer would have been "I hope so," but it was safe to assume that my companions' morale was in need of a little boost. "Yes," I said firmly. "Can we hold these fellows off until help arrives?"

"Oh, certainly, if it arrives within the next five minutes," Walter said with awful sarcasm. "I seem to remember your telling Daoud he must go to Vandergelt if we failed to return."

I had hoped he would not remember that, and I hoped even more that Daoud would not remember. There had not been time for me to give him precise instructions. "Nonsense," I said. "He has better sense than to delay so long. He will seek help closer at hand."

"Surely one of the neighbors will summon the police," Evelyn said.

Walter, who seemed to be in a state of some exasperation, would have made another sarcastic remark if I had not given him a little kick. "Yes, of course," I said. "But we ought to take stock of our weaponry, in case— er—in case."

One of the iron cots fell over with a crash. The door was vibrating violently. "David has his knife," I shouted. "I have a knife and a pistol. Walter, you had better take my pistol."

"I too have a knife," Walter said, taking it from his belt. "Daoud gave me one of his."

"Don't hold it that way!" I demonstrated with my own. "An underhand blow is more likely to strike a vital spot than . .." One of the hinges gave way and the door buckled. A shout of triumph from without forced me to raise my voice even more. "Never mind, Walter, just do the best you can. Evelyn, would you prefer my knife or my pistol?"

"Whichever you like, Amelia," Evelyn said politely.

"Take the pistol, then," I screamed.

And suddenly the racket stopped. The door, hanging by one hinge, no longer shook. The voices outside dropped to a murmur. Heavy footsteps ran along the corridor.

The next sound to strike my ears came from outside the house. A high, undulating, inhuman shriek, it would have raised the hackles on the neck of a dog. Such a scream might have wavered through the night when Death rode the wind and a banshee on the battlements heralded the fall of an ancient house.

I knew that sound.

"Saved!" I cried, and ran to the balcony.

One of the men carried a torch. In its light Kevin's head looked as if it were on fire. He had stopped screaming and was calling my name. Daoud was there, and the
Mirror,
the
Times
was holding the torch. I did not recognize the others, but there were at least a dozen of them, some in evening dress, some in galabeeyahs and turbans.

"Saved!" I cried again. "Up the O'Connells!"

Kevin looked up. "And the Peabodys! Will you come down, Mrs. E., or shall we come in?" A bullet whistled past him and he added hastily, "The latter, I think. Hang on!"

Our rescuers took cover, and just in time; a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the doorway. I heard the
Times
swearing and deduced that a bullet had nicked him but not seriously enough to affect his vocabulary.

A hand caught hold of me and pulled me back into the room. "Damn it, Amelia," my mild-mannered brother-in-law roared. "Don't you know better than to stand chatting when people are shooting at you?"

"There is no need to use bad language, Walter," I replied. "Everything is under—"

The door fell with a crash, splintering tables and cots. A man plunged through the opening. Before any of us could move, he had seized the nearest person in a grip like iron. The person happened to be David.

After the first involuntary cry the boy remained silent and motionless as a statue, as I believe anyone would have done when the blade of a knife rested against his throat.

From the open doorway a voice said, "Congratulations, Mrs. Emerson. It appears you have won this skirmish. The next victory will be mine."

For the first time since I had met him, Riccetti was standing unsupported. His great girth filled the doorway, but something about his stance gave me the feeling he was not so feeble as he had appeared.

For a moment I did not understand why he seemed to be conceding defeat. We were virtually weaponless. Like me, Walter stood frozen, unable to attack so long as the knife menaced the boy.

Then I saw that Evelyn was pointing my pistol at Riccetti. She held it with both hands, but the weapon did not waver.

"There will not be another skirmish," I said, letting out my breath. "You have lost the war, Riccetti. Tell your man to let the boy go or she will pull the trigger. You might just fire a warning shot, Evelyn—a few inches over his head, perhaps."

Evelyn gave me a quick, agonized glance, and Riccetti laughed. "I doubt she would do anything so unladylike. Rather than take the chance, however, I will run away and live to fight another day. My men will remain until I am out of the house, so don't follow me."

He turned away. The fellow holding David was the very large man we had left bound and unconscious upstairs. Apparently he was the sort who held a grudge. His eyes glittered as he asked, "What shall I do with this one?"

Riccetti did not even pause. "Cut his throat."

I don't believe Evelyn meant to fire. The movement of her trigger finger was involuntary, a reflexive start of pure horror. Though it came nowhere near its target, it had the effect of hurrying Riccetti and, more importantly, of distracting the very large man for a vital second.

In that second Walter sprang. Murderer, victim and rescuer tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. I ran forward, knife at the ready; Evelyn was there before me, but we were both, helpless to act. It was all we could do to avoid the thrashing bodies and flailing arms. First one man was on top, then the other; David lay curled in a ball, his arms over his head as feet and fists lashed out at him.

Walter's grip failed; his knife clattered to the floor and he caught hisopponent's right wrist with both hands, exerting all his strength to loosen the fellow's hold on his own knife. For a moment it seemed as if he would prevail. Then the man shifted his weight and Walter was flung over onto his back. His head hit the floor hard enough to stun him momentarily. His opponent wrenched his arm free, rose to his knees, and struck.

With a scream almost as piercing as O'Connell's eldritch howl, Evelyn emptied the magazine of the repeater. Jumping over David, she pulled Walter out from under the fallen body of his foe and lifted his head into her arms.

I am seldom rendered incapable of action by sheer astonishment. I was on this occasion. However, it appeared action would not be necessary. The downstairs door had given way and our rescuers were in the house. David was sitting up, Walter's eyes were open, and the very large man was unquestionably dead. Evelyn—my gentle Evelyn!—had shot him four times full in the breast.

Feet pounded up the stairs and men crowded into the room. "God and all the saints be thanked," Kevin exclaimed. "We heard shooting and feared the worst."

I returned my knife to its sheath. "As you see, gentlemen, we have the situation under control. We are grateful for your assistance, all the same."