The Mummy Case (11 page)

"What is going on here?" I demanded. "This is the shop of Abd el Atti. Who are these people who are stealing his property?"

I had spoken in Arabic, but the man, identifying my nationality by my dress, replied in accented but fluent English. "I am no thief, missus. I am the son of the late Abd el Atti. May I ask your honored name?"

The last question was pronounced with a decided sneer, which vanished as soon as I gave my name. The old woman let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter. "It is the woman of the Father of Curses," she exclaimed. "The one they call Sitt Hakim. I have heard of you, Sitt. You will not let an old woman be robbed—an honorable wife be cheated of her inheritance?"

"You are the wife of Abd el Atti?" I asked in disbelief. This hideous old harridan? Abd el Atti, who was wealthy enough to purchase any number of young wives, and who had a keen appreciation of beauty?

"His chief wife," said the beldam. Belatedly recalling her bereaved state, she let out a sharp, unconvincing yelp of woe and stooped to scrape up a handful of dust, which she poured haphazardly over her head.

"Your mother?" I asked the man.

"Allah forbid," was the pious reply. "But I am the eldest living son, missus. I am taking the merchandise to my own shop; it is a fine shop, missus, on the Muski, a modern shop. Many English come to me; if you come, I will sell you beautiful things, very cheap—"

"Yes, yes; but that is not the question," I said, absently accepting the card he handed me. "You cannot take these things away now. The police are investigating your father's death. Didn't they tell you to leave the scene of the crime undisturbed?"

"Crime?" A singularly cynical smile transformed the man's
face. His eyes narrowed to slits and his lips barely parted. "My unfortunate father has gone to make his peace with Allah. He had the wrong friends, missus. I knew that sooner or later one of them would remove him."

"And you don't call that a crime?"

The man only shrugged and rolled his eyes, in the ineffable and unanswerable fatalism of the East.

"In any case," I said, "you cannot remove anything from the shop. Replace all the objects, if you please, and lock the door."

The old woman's cacodemonic laughter broke out again. She began to shuffle her feet in a grotesque dance of triumph. "I knew the honored sitt would not let an old woman be robbed. The wisdom of the Prophet is yours, great lady. Accept an old woman's blessing. May you have many sons—many, many sons__"

The idea was so appalling I think I turned pale. The man mistook my reaction for fear. He said in a grating voice, "You cannot make me do that, missus. You are not the police."

"Don't you talk that way to my lady," John said indignantly. "Madam, shall I punch him in the nose?"

A cheer, half-ironic, half-enthusiastic, broke out from those in the crowd who understood English. Evidently the son of Abd el Atti was not popular with the latter's neighbors.

"Certainly not," I said. "What is this talk of punching people? You must not attempt to imitate all your master's habits, John. Mr.—" I glanced at the card I held—"Mr. Aslimi will be reasonable, I am sure."

Mr. Aslimi had very little choice in the matter. The donkeys departed unencumbered, and although it is difficult to read the countenance of a donkey, they appeared pleased to be relieved of their burdens. The workmen left, cursing the paltriness of their pay, the crowd dispersed. I dismissed the dear old lady before she could repeat her ominous blessing. She went hopping off, cackling like a large black raven. Then I turned to Mr. Aslimi. He was an unpleasant individual, but I could not help
feeling some sympathy for anyone who had to deal with such a stepmother.

"If you will cooperate, Mr. Aslimi, I will do my best to plead your case with the authorities."

"How cooperate?" Aslimi asked cautiously.

"By answering my questions. How much do you know about your father's business?"

Well, of course he swore he knew nothing about any criminal connections. I expected him to say that, but my intuition (which is scarcely ever at fault) told me he was not directly involved with the antiquities gang—probably to his regret. He also denied any acquaintance with the suspicious character I had seen with Abd el Atti. This time my intuition assured me he was lying. If he did not know the man's identity, he had a good idea as to who it might have been.

I then asked to be allowed to search the shop. There were some fine and obviously illegal antiquities in various locked cupboards, but they were not my concern, and Aslimi's dour expression lightened perceptibly when I passed them by without comment. I found nothing that gave me a clue to the identity of Abd el Atti's murderer. The place had been trampled by many feet and thoroughly ransacked—and besides, I had no idea what I was looking for.

Nor was there any trace of the missing Bastet. Mr. Aslimi denied having seen her. This time I felt sure he was telling the truth.

We parted with protestations of goodwill that were false on both sides. I felt sure he would not venture to reopen the shop, since I had assured him I would notify the police of his activities.

As John and I retraced our steps through the crooked, shady streets, I kept on the lookout for a lithe, tawny form, but to no avail. There was no answer to my repeated cries, except for curious glances from passersby. I heard one say, in response to a question from his companion, "It is the name of one of the old gods. They are magicians of great power, she and her husband; no doubt she is pronouncing a curse on that-----Aslimi."

Reaching the Muski we took a carriage at the entrance to the bazaar. John sat uneasily on the very edge of the seat. "Madam," he said.

"Yes?"

"Oi—I won't be mentioning this to the master, if you like."

"There is no reason why you should bring up the subject, John. But if you are asked a direct question, naturally you will tell the truth."

"I will?"

"Certainly. We were looking for the cat. Unfortunately we found no trace of her."

But when I entered my room the first thing I saw was the familiar feline shape, curled up on the foot of my bed. As I had predicted, Bastet had found her way home.

The sun was setting the gilded spires and minarets of Cairo ablaze when the wanderers returned, in precisely the state I had expected. Ramses rushed, as usual, to embrace me. I was wearing my oldest dressing gown in anticipation of this. I was the only person, aside from his Aunt Evelyn, with whom Ramses was so physically demonstrative. Sometimes I suspected him of doing it out of malice, for he was almost always covered with some noxious substance or other. On this occasion, however, he veered off at the last moment and flung himself on the cat.

"Where did you find her, Mama?"

I was flattered by his assumption that I was responsible, but truth compelled me to reply, "I did not find her, Ramses— though I did look for her. She found her own way back."

"That is a relief," said Emerson, smiling wanly. "Ramses was quite cut up about her. Keep her on the lead from now on, my boy."

"And put her down until after you have bathed," I added. "I spent an hour combing and cleaning her. You will get her dirty again."

Clutching the cat to his bosom, in flagrant disregard of this order, Ramses retired, with John in attendance. He (Ramses) smelled very peculiar. Goat, I believe.

Emerson also smelled of goat, and of the strong tobacco favored by the men of Aziyeh. He looked tired, and admitted as much when I questioned him. When I questioned him further, he admitted that Ramses' "boyish joie de vivre," as he put it, was responsible for his fatigue. Ramses had fallen out of a palm tree and into the river; he had been attacked and slightly trampled by a goat after attempting to loosen the rope around its neck, which he felt was too tight (the animal had either mistaken his motives or yielded to the irascibility of temper to which billy goats are traditionally prone); and had concluded the afternoon by consuming several pints of date wine, forbidden to devout Muslims, but brewed on the sly by some of the villagers.

"Strange," I said. "He did not appear to be inebriated."

"He rid himself of the wine almost immediately," said Emerson. "On the floor of Abdullah's house."

At my suggestion Emerson retired behind the screen to freshen up, while I called the safragi and ordered whiskey and soda for both of us.

As we sipped this refreshing beverage, we compared notes on the day's activities. The results were most satisfactory. All the necessary arrangements had been completed and we were ready to leave at dawn. I had spent the remainder of the afternoon packing and sealing up our boxes—or rather, supervising the hotel servants in that endeavor—so we could spend the evening in quiet enjoyment. It would be the last evening for many weeks that we would enjoy civilized amenities, and although I yield to no one in my appreciation of desert life, I intended to take advantage of wine and good food, hot baths and soft beds while they were available.

We took Ramses with us to dinner, though he was reluctant to part with Bastet. "Someone has hurt her," he said, looking accusingly at me. "Dere is a cut on her back, Mama—a sharp cut, like dat made by a knife."

"I saw it, and have attended to it, Ramses."

"But, Mama—"

"It is a wonder she has no more scars than that to show for her adventure. I only hope she has not..."

"Has not what, Mama?"

"Never mind." I stared at the cat, who stared back at me with enigmatic golden eyes. She did not appear to be in a state of amatory excitement___Time, and only time, would tell.

For once Emerson did not grumble about being forced to dine out. Puffed with fatherly pride, he presented, "my son, Walter Peabody Emerson," to everyone he knew and several he did not know. I was rather proud of the boy myself. He was wearing Scottish dress, with a little kilt in the Emerson tartan. (Designed by myself, it is a tasteful blend of scarlet, forest-green and blue, with narrow yellow and purple stripes.)

All in all, it was a most pleasant evening, and when we retired to our rooms we sought our couch in serene contemplation of a day well spent and of useful work ahead.

The moon had set, and silvery starlight was the only illumination when I woke in the small hours of the morning. I was instantly alert. I never wake unless there is cause, and I soon identified the cause that had roused me on this occasion—a soft, stealthy sound in the corner of the room where our bags and boxes were piled, ready to be removed in the morning.

For an interval I lay perfectly still, allowing my eyes to adjust to the faint light, and straining to hear. Emerson's stertorous breathing interfered with this latter activity, but in the lulls between inspiration and expiration I could hear the thief scrabbling among our luggage.

I am accustomed to nocturnal alarms. For some reason they occur frequently with me. I hardly need say that I was not in the least afraid. The only question in my mind was how to
apprehend the thief. There was no lock on our door. The presence of the safragi in the hallway was supposed to be sufficient to deter casual thieves, few of whom would have had the temerity to enter a place like Shepheard's. I felt certain that this unusual event was the result of my investigation into Abd el Atti's murder. It was a thrilling prospect. Here at last, in my very room, was a possible clue. It did not occur to me to awaken Emerson. He wakens noisily, with cries and gasps and thrashing about.

On several previous occasions I had fallen into the error of tangling myself up in the mosquito netting, thus giving a midnight invader a chance to escape. I was determined not to commit the same mistake. The filmy folds of the netting were tucked firmly under the mattress on all sides of the bed. I began tugging gently at the portion nearest my head, pulling it free an inch at a time. Emerson continued to snore. The thief continued to explore.

When the netting was loose as far down as I could reach without moving more than my arm, the crucial moment was upon me. Mentally I reviewed my plans. My parasol stood ready as always, propped against the head of the bed. The thief was in the corner farthest from the door. Speed rather than silence was now my aim. Gathering a handful of the netting, I gave it a sharp tug.

The whole cursed apparatus came tumbling down on me. Evidently the nails holding it to the ceiling had become weakened. As I struggled in vain to free myself, I heard, mingled with Emerson's bewildered curses, the sound of feet thudding across the floor. The door opened and closed.

"Curse it," I cried, forgetting myself in my frustration.

"Curse it," Emerson shouted. "What the devil..." And other even more forceful expressions of alarm.

My efforts to extricate myself were foiled by Emerson's frantic thrashing, which only succeeded in winding the netting more tightly about our limbs. When the sleepers in the next room rushed to the scene we were lying side by side, wrapped
like a pair of matched mummies and incapable of movement of any kind. Emerson was still roaring out curses; and the look on John's face as he stood staring, his nightcap standing up in a peak and his bare shanks showing under the hem of his gown, moved me to a peal of hysterical laughter.

Emerson's breath finally gave out—he had inhaled a portion of the netting, which was wound around his face. In the blessed silence that followed I instructed John to put down the lamp before he dropped it and set the place on fire. The cat lowered her head and began sniffing about the room. The hair on her back stood up in a stiff ridge.

Ramses had taken in the situation with a look of mild inquiry. Now he disappeared into his own room and returned carrying some object that glittered in the light. Not until he approached close to the bed did I identify it. I let out a shriek.

"No, Ramses! Drop it. Drop it at once, do you hear?"

When I speak in that tone, Ramses does not argue. He dropped the knife. It was at least eight inches long, and polished to a wicked shine. "My intention," he began, "was to free you and Papa from de incumbrance dat in some wholly unaccountable manner seems to have—"

"I have no quarrel with your intentions, only with your methods." I managed to free one arm. It was not long before I had kicked off the netting, and I turned at once, with some anxiety, to Emerson. As I feared, his open mouth was stuffed with netting. His eyes bulged and his face had turned a portentous shade of mauve.