The Mummy Case (27 page)

"Charity, Charity," Brother David said gently. "You are forgetting your name."

The girl's slight, dark-robed form turned toward him as a flower seeks the sun. She clasped her hands. "You are right, Brother David. Forgive me."

"Only God can do that, my dear."

Emerson, who had been watching the exchange with undisguised amusement, now tired of the diversion. "When did you see the fellow last?" he asked.

All agreed that Hamid had not been seen since the night of the fire. He had taken his evening meal with the other converts before retiring to his humble pallet. Brother David claimed to have caught a glimpse of him during the confusion later, but Brother Ezekiel insisted Hamid had been conspicuous by his absence among those attempting to put out the flames. When he failed to appear the following morning, it was discovered that his scanty possessions were also gone. "We assumed he had gone back to his village," David said. "Sometimes our converts are... Sometimes they do not—er—"

"Yes, quite," said Emerson. "Your naivete amazes me, gentlemen. Leaving aside the question of conversion, to introduce into your home a complete stranger, without credentials or local references..."

"We are all brothers in the Lord," Ezekiel proclaimed.

"That is your opinion," Emerson retorted. "In this case Miss Charity appears to have had better sense than either of you
men. Your 'brother' was not a Copt but a Muslim; he did not come from a neighboring village but from the underworld of Cairo; he was a liar, most probably a thief, and very possibly a murderer."

Had Emerson consulted me beforehand, I would have advised against betraying this information—which, the reader will note, he implied he had discovered. However, the blunt announcement had the result of enabling me to study its effect on the missionaries. Since it is my practice to suspect everyone, without exception, I had naturally wondered whether one of them had murdered Hamid—for reasons which were at that time irrelevant to the inquiry. But their astonishment appeared genuine. Brother's David's expression was one of polite incredulity. Brother Ezekiel was thunderstruck. His heavy jaw dropped and for a few seconds he could only sputter unintelligibly. "What—where—how did you—"

"There is no doubt about it," Emerson said. "He was a thorough rascal, and he took you in very nicely."

"You accuse the poor chap of being a thief," said Brother David. "Since he is no longer here to defend himself, I must do it for him. Do you accuse him of robbing you?"

"He stole nothing from us. That is..." A shade of vexation crossed Emerson's face. I knew he was thinking of the peripatetic mummy cases. He decided not to attempt to explain this. Instead he said, "He was responsible for the theft of the baroness's antiquities."

"How do you know that, sir?" Brother Ezekiel demanded.

"Mrs. Emerson and I have our methods," Emerson replied.

"But at least one of the missing objects was recovered," Ezekiel said.

"That was an error. The mummy—" Emerson's voice caught, but he got the word out. "The mummy case was not the one belonging to the baroness. It is still unaccounted for. But we are on the track of it; it won't be long before we locate it."

Brother David rose to his full height. "Forgive me, Professor, but I cannot listen to accusations against the dead. Our servants
must have arrived by now; if you will show me where our unfortunate brother lies, we will take him away with us." "Certainly. I will also lend you a sack in which to carry him."

The sun was setting in fiery splendor when the funeral procession made its way toward the village, in somber outline against the darkening blue of the eastern sky. We had been bidden to attend the obsequies of "our dear brother" on the following morning, an invitation to which Emerson replied with sincere astonishment. "Sir, you must be out of your mind to suggest such a thing."

John had lit the lamps when we returned to the parlor. Ramses was there too. He had been eavesdropping, for he said at once, "Papa, I would like to attend de funeral."

"Why on earth would you want to do that?" Emerson asked.

"Dere is a variety of folktale dat claims dat de murderer is drawn to de funeral services of his victim. I suspect dat is pure legend, but a truly scientific mind does not dismiss a t'eory simply because it—"

"Ramses, I am surprised at you," Emerson said. "Scientific inquiry is one thing, but there is a form of morbid curiosity— to which, I regret to say, certain adult persons who ought to know better are also prone..."

Here he stopped, having got himself into a hopeless grammatical tangle. I said icily, "Yes, Emerson? Do go on."

"Bah," said Emerson. "Er—I was about to suggest an alternative form of amusement. Instead of attending the obsequies we might go to Dahshoor and harass—I mean, visit—de Morgan."

"An excellent idea, Emerson," I said. "But there is no reason why we cannot do both. The funeral is early in the morning, and after that we can ride to Dahshoor."

Somewhat to my surprise Emerson agreed to this proposal. Ramses was also kind enough to consent. Later, after Ramses had been sent to bed and John had retired to his room—he had
finally finished Leviticus and was now deep in the even greater intricacies of Numbers—I said to my husband, "I commend you on your self-control, Emerson. You didn't once lose your temper with Brother Ezekiel."

"He isn't worth my anger." Emerson pushed his notebook aside. "In fact, I find the creature quite entertaining. He is the most absurd person I have encountered recently."

"Do you think he murdered Hamid?"

Emerson stared. "Why the devil should he?"

"Emerson, you are always worrying about motive. You ought to know by now that is not the way to solve a case." Emerson continued to gape at me. I continued, "I can think of several reasons why Brother Ezekiel might exterminate Hamid. The man may have made unwelcome advances to Miss Charity— Ezekiel is such a prude he would interpret a polite greeting as an unwelcome advance. Or Ezekiel may have discovered that Hamid was not sincere in his conversion."

"Peabody—" Emerson began in an ominous tone.

"I have made a few notes on the case." I opened my own notebook. "We know now that Hamid was the disinherited son of Abd el Atti and that he was a member of the criminal ring of antiquities thieves. I agree with you that a falling-out among thieves is the most likely explanation of his murder. These secret societies are devilish things. If Hamid had betrayed his oath—sworn in secret ceremonies and sealed in his own blood—"

"Peabody, you never cease to astonish me. When do you find time to read such trash?"

Recognizing this as a rhetorical question, I did not answer it. "Drug takers are notoriously unreliable; the Master Criminal may have concluded Hamid was dangerous, and ordered him executed."

"I believe this is our first Master Criminal, is it not? I don't care for them, Peabody. The noble amateur villain is much more to my taste."

"Or—which is, in my opinion, more likely—Hamid decided to set up in business for himself, thus robbing the ring of the profits to which they believed themselves entitled. The Master Criminal is unquestionably the most likely suspect."

"Oh, quite." Emerson folded his arms. "I suppose you have deduced the identity of this mysterious—one might almost say apocryphal—figure?"

"Hardly apocryphal, Emerson. We can now be certain that more than one evildoer is involved, for Hamid was not the person who entered Ramses' room last night. He had been dead for several days, probably since the night of the fire."

"Humph," said Emerson. "I grant you a gang, Peabody— though that is stretching the evidence. But a Master Criminal?"

"A gang must have a leader, Emerson. Naturally I have given some thought as to who he may be." I turned over a page of my notebook. "Now pray don't interrupt me again. This is a complex problem and you will confuse me."

"I wouldn't do that for the world," said Emerson.

"The Master Criminal is obviously not what he seems."

"Brilliant, Peabody."

"Please, Emerson. What I mean to say is that he—or she— for one must not denigrate the natural talents of the so-called weaker sex__Where was I?"

"I have no idea, Peabody."

"The Master Criminal undoubtedly has another persona. He or she may be in outward appearance the most respectable of individuals. A missionary—a Russian nobleman—a German baroness—an archaeologist__"

"Humph," said Emerson. "I assure you, Peabody, I am not your Master Criminal. I claim an alibi. You know where I am at night."

"I never suspected you, Emerson."

"I am relieved to hear it, Peabody."

"Let us take the suspects in order. First, Brother Ezekiel. What do we know of him before he appeared at Mazghunah this year?

I don't doubt that the Brothers of the Holy Jerusalem are a legitimate sect, but they seem only too ready to accept plausible scoundrels into their ranks. The entire mission staff may be involved—Brother David as the liaison between Ezekiel and the Cairo underworld, and Miss Charity as a decoy. Her presence adds a look of innocence to the group."

Emerson's interest was growing, but he tried to hide it. "There it is again, Peabody—your weakness for young persons of pleasant appearance. Miss Charity herself may be the Master Criminal. There certainly is no less likely suspect."

"Oh, I don't deny she may be criminally involved, Emerson. She is almost too good to be true—a caricature of a pious young American lady. Or Brother David may be the head of the gang, with Ezekiel as his dupe or his confederate. However, I consider Prince Kalenischeff to be just as suspicious. His reputation is none of the best. His title is questionable, his source of income unknown. And Slavs, in my opinion, are very unstable persons."

"And Germans, Peabody?"

"Bismarck, Emerson—I remind you of Bismarck. And the Kaiser has been extremely rude to his grandmama."

"A palpable hit, Peabody." Emerson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I confess the idea of the baroness being a Master Criminal delights me. However, she is probably in Luxor by now. A successful leader of criminals should supervise her henchmen more closely."

"Ah, but she is not at Luxor," I cried triumphantly. "I spent the afternoon at Shepheard's, catching up on the news. The baroness's dahabeeyah went aground at Minieh, two days after she left Dahshoor. She returned to Cairo by train and is now staying at that new hotel near the pyramids—Mena House. Giza is only two hours from Dahshoor by donkey, less by train."

"The theft of her antiquities was a blind, then, to remove suspicion from her?"

"Possible but not probable; she was not under suspicion at
that time—at least not by us. I consider it more likely that the theft was an act of rebellion by Hamid. If, that is, the baroness is the Master Criminal."

"And who is your archaeologist suspect? Surely not our distinguished neighbor."

"What better disguise could a Master Criminal adopt? An archaeologist has the most legitimate of excuses for excavation, and the best possible means of learning of new discoveries. As inspector general, M. de Morgan can control all other excavators, heading them away from sites that promise to yield valuable objects. He worked at Dahshoor, where there are Twelfth Dynasty tombs, last spring; and last summer we first heard of the Twelfth Dynasty pectoral appearing on the market."

Emerson's face took on a far-off look; his brilliant blue eyes softened. Then he shook his head. "No, Peabody. We must not be led astray by wishful thinking. There must be some other way of getting de Morgan to give us Dahshoor besides putting him in prison. Your suggestion of a criminal archaeologist has intriguing aspects, however. And de Morgan is not the only excavator of my acquaintance who has displayed weakness of character."

"I do not for a moment believe that Mr. Petrie is the Master Criminal, Emerson."

"Humph," said Emerson.

Though we discussed suspects a while longer, we could add nothing to the list I had made. Emerson's suggestions—the Reverend Sayce, Chauncy Murch, the Protestant missionary at Luxor, and M. Maspero, distinguished former head of the Antiquities Department—were too ridiculous to be considered. As I pointed out to him, theories are one thing, wild improvisation is quite another. I hoped that the morrow's projected visit to Dahshoor would enable us to learn more. Kalenischeff was still there, purportedly assisting de Morgan, and I promised myself another interview with that gentleman.

It was rather late before we got to sleep, and although my
famous instinct brought me instantly alert at the sound of a soft scratching at the window, I was not quite as wide-awake as I ought to have been. I was about to strike with my parasol at the dark bulk looming at the open window when I recognized the voice repeating my name.

"Abdullah?" I replied. "Is it you?"

"Come out, Sitt Hakim. Something is happening."

It took only a moment to throw on my robe. Finding my slippers took a little longer; I had been forced to hide them to keep Ramses from feeding them to the lion, and in the muzziness of lingering sleep I could not recall where I had put them. At last I joined Abdullah outside the house.

"Look there," he said, pointing.

Far to the northeast a bright pillar of flame soared heavenward. There was something so uncanny about the scene—the utter stillness of the night, unbroken even by the lament of jackals—the vast empty waste, cold under the moon—that I stood motionless for a moment. The distant flame might have been the sacrificial fire of some diabolic cult.

I reminded myself that this was the nineteenth century A.D., not ancient Egypt, and my usual good sense reasserted itself. At least the mission was not under attack; the fire was somewhere in the desert. "Quickly," I exclaimed. "We must locate the spot before the flames die down."

"Should we not waken the Father of Curses?" Abdullah asked nervously.

"It will take too long. Hurry, Abdullah."

The site of the blaze was not as distant as it had appeared, but the flames had died to a sullen glow before we reached it. As we stood gazing at the molten remains Abdullah hunched his shoulders and shot a quick glance behind him. I sympathized with his feelings. The ambience was eerie in the extreme, and the smoldering embers were gruesomely suggestive of the contours of a human form.