Unknown (27 page)

"Now, ol' clap, we
must come to a brief parting of the ways. I know our sea voyage did
not sit well with you, nor the train trip ether. Gray tells me this
valley is a desolate and forbidding place indeed. Best you remain
here until we reconnoiter the area and find out what's going on."

My mouth automatically
began to form protests at the mere thought of being left behind when
the case was coming to a head, but strangely it was Colonel Gray
who weighed down the scales.

"Doctor Watson, you
must come to my aid. I'm well aware that Mr. Holmes can take care of
himself, but no matter how you cut it, I'm responsible. Not only for
him but for those soldiers who are a bit new to this area and only
have a vague idea of where they are save that this is a training area
on the road to India. Let's put it this way: if every man isn't
tip-top, we're at a disadvantage."

What could I say? As a
medical man I well knew I was ill-equipped to fudge over rocky and
hilly terrain trying to match steps with vigorous young Highlanders.
Holmes's whipcord body and fencer's legs could manage it, but I saw
in my mind's eye a middle-aged general practitioner gasping for
breath and falling behind as the column surged forward. I nodded
in agreement with Gray's words and tried to summon some esprit de
corps to suit the situation.

"Well, it's a rum
show, but—you chaps watch out for yourselves, will you?"

Holmes, for the first
time that I could remember, avoided my eyes, but his hand rested
briefly on my shoulder and there was a reassuring pressure from
his long, tremendously strong fingers. Then he and Gray were
gone.

A young lieutenant, but
recently from Sandhurst I judged, who really hadn't the vaguest idea
of what was going on, also had the good taste not to try to expand
his knowledge of the situation. He took me and my belongings to the
Luxor Hotel and volunteered to show me round the modern city that
stood in the place of the former capital, Thebes. I declined his kind
offer and, after a bath and change of clothes, made my way to the
hotel bar for a stiff brandy and soda, which I willed to stay
peaceably in my stomach. There is much to be said for assertive
action, and after several growls of protest, my intestinal tract
reflected a comforting warmth. Since success had favored my efforts,
I repeated the dosage and decided to have a look round on my own.
There were no claims on my time until Gray and Holmes returned with
what information they could glean from the distant hills.

Luxor was now a modern
city and a far cry from the river port that had flourished as the
capital of so many pharaohs of the old civilization. As I left the
hotel in an aimless fashion, I determined to try to detect what
remnants of former grandeur had withstood civilization's onrush
and were still in evidence. However, my sightseeing was fated to be
of short duration. I was passing the entrance to a mosque when a
tall figure left the citadel of religion, turning in my direction so
that we were face to face, and an acknowledgment of coincidence was
impossible to avoid. It was the desert chieftain whom I had
encountered near the Sphinx.

I confess being taken
aback at this unexpected meeting, but the Arabian exhibited no
surprise. Rather, his greeting was accompanied by a shrug, a gesture
of his acceptance of Kismet.

"Ah, the good
Doctor Watson. Our paths cross again. What brings you south from
Cairo?"

"I was about to ask
you the same thing," I responded guardedly. Holmes chided me on
occasion as being the most revealing of men, and I had grown more
cautious through the years.

"My journey to
Cairo was, as anticipated, a fruitless one. Another witless tale
spewed from idle tongues in the bazaars." He sighed and shook
his head. His bearded face and predatory, sharp features reminded me
of a desert eagle owl, free and fierce.

"Men with idle
hands and empty pockets do tend towards mischief. But come,
Doctor, motivations are a subject you hear much of. Let us seek
refuge from the fading sun, and I shall secure some coffee for you
unless you prefer tea."

In a most casual manner,
as though our meeting had been planned, the tall Arabian was ushering
me to a table at a caf
é
nearby, and I
admitted that the shade cast by its awning was welcome. Whoever my
chance acquaintance was, he secured prompt, nay obsequious, service,
and we were soon enjoying coffee served in the Turkish manner in
small cups. It was viscous and thick, but strong with a sweetness my
taste buds were unaccustomed to.

"We have now met
twice, Doctor, and both times you were separated from your most
illustrious companion. I trust that Mr. Holmes is in good health."

Well, I thought, this
fellow is certainly well informed. My suspicions were aroused, of
course.

"Holmes is, at the
moment, on other business," I replied. Two can play the
information game, and I decided to take a stab at it.

"Sheik, you are
most familiar with me and my friend. Have we met at another time? In
England, perhaps?"

The bearded face
registered a negative. "As you easily deduced, I was educated in
your native land. However, I did not meet Mr. Holmes there."

My nostrils quivered at
this, and the scent was the musky odor of doubt. Where would Holmes
have met an Arabian sheik, pray tell? I had used that title as a
quest for a name, but my companion had accepted it without comment.
Then, of a sudden, my thoughts reversed. During the period that
Holmes was thought dead, his wanderings had taken him to Khartoum,
where he had visited with the Khalifa, a meeting that resulted in
information communicated to the Foreign Office. I had always
entertained private thoughts regarding his being in the Sudan at
that particular time. My friend had never gone into detail
regarding this part of his mysterious absence from England,
though he had often spoken of his explorations during the same
period when he passed himself off as the Norwegian "Sigerson."

"You are then of
the Sudan?"

An affirmative nod
joined forces with a smile. "I see you have pieced some facts
together, Doctor. I am from the south and do know Sherlock Holmes. I
was able to be of some service to him at one time, and," he
added with a candor unusual for those of these parts, "the
reverse is also true. Do I detect some concern on your part for your
friend's safety? This land is known to me and I am, if you recall,
obliged to you."

This put matters in a
different light, for I had heard that even the greatest rascals in
Arabia were scrupulous regarding a debt of honor. I had an impulse to
match his frankness and decided to give in to it.

"Holmes is with an
expedition going to the Valley of the Kings."

"The Scottish
soldiers," he said instantly. Conscious of the return of
suspicion to my face, he explained. "My men are camped on the
west bank awaiting my arrival. We noted the Highlanders there."
He thought for a moment. "Now what would the king of sleuths
wish to find in the gateway to Amenti?"

"Amenti?"

"An Egyptian word
referring to the underworld. Though Wady Biban al-Maluk is certainly
a place of mystery. Actually that desolate valley under the cliff at
Deir al-Bahri was selected in a search for secrecy."

It was painfully obvious
that I was following none of this, and the sheik poured me some more
coffee.

"Forgive me,
Doctor, but tales of the ancient land are endlessly told round
campfires under the desert sky. It was the great king, Thutmose First
of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who made the decision. The age of the
pyramids was over, for their very size was a magnet to the grave
robbers, and no secret doors or false passages could outwit them. So
the great military pharaoh decided to construct a secret tomb wherein
his mummy might remain, inviolate, for the after-life. He selected
this valley beneath the cliff, which he could see from his capital,
Thebes. His tomb, constructed by the architect Ineni was a hidden
thing, and its secret was preserved until the nineteenth dynasty. How
this was done but six miles from Thebes amazes me."

I had difficulty
remaining in my seat. "Six miles! Why, I thought this Valley of
the Kings was at least a day's march away!"

The sheik displayed his
perspicacity. "Had you known it was so near, you would have
attempted the journey?"

"Why—yes,"
I sputtered.

"Perhaps I've
misled you, Doctor. The entrance to the valley is six miles from the
west bank, but the place itself is sizable. Fully forty Egyptian
monarchs were buried there, and some of the tombs are enormous. If I
knew where Mr. Holmes was headed . . ."

"I don't think he
knows himself."

"But you feel he
may be in some peril?"

My memory stirred and I
responded automatically. "All things are possible in the caravan
of life. Holmes said that recently."

The man startled me with
a burst of laughter, and he slapped a knee under his robe forcibly.
"He has not forgotten. It was I who told him that." He
seemed to reach a decision. "Come now, Doctor, you would be with
your friend, if possible?"

"My dearest wish."

"Then it shall be
fulfilled. Dearest wishes are the divining rods of destiny. The
Scots are gone by now, for they would wish to reach the valley before
dark, but even their ground-eating, in-cadence march cannot rival the
swiftness of the finest Arabians on these plains. Let us depart, for
we have an appointment with Anubis, the jackal god of the dead!"

Chapter
Sixteen

The
Charge of the Light-Horse Irregulars

In looking back on those
later years of my association with the greatest detective the world
has ever known, I cannot but wonder if madness had not become my lot.
Here I stood on the west bank of the Nile but a few miles from stark
and foreboding cliffs beyond which stretched the vast Sahara. I was
better than three hundred miles from Cairo, and that city was, by
design and style of life, a million miles from where I belonged. My
habitat, by training and inclination, was Harley Street, where
my conflicts should have been women with real or imaginary ailments
and sniveling tots who needed to have their noses blown. Instead, I
stood beside a scurvy-looking band of ruffians as sinister in
appearance as their steeds were magnificent. What knew I of them or
their leader either, despite his open and ingratiating manner? And
yet there had been that moment in Luxor when he had spoken of Holmes
and I had seen that flash in his eyes. A picture plucked from the
scrapbook of time and projected like a magic lantern slide onto the
mirror of his mind. I had seen that look before—in the green
eyes of Wakefield Orloff and the brown ones of von Shalloway of the
German police—in the bland eyes of Slim Gilligan and the
roguish ones of Burlington Bertie. I'd have staked my last shilling
that the sheik belonged to that esoteric fraternity, the friends of
Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Upon our arrival at the
Arab's camp, that grimy Bedouin who had assisted in my bandaging
of the sheik descended upon me, all grins, and jabbering in Arabic.

"Mahoot is quite
taken by you, Doctor Watson," said the chieftain. "He
refers to you as the 'man of magic.'"

"I would have use
for the arts of Cagliostro at this moment," I admitted,
looking towards the towering cliff that seemed so near. "Nightfall
is upon us. Can we make the valley now?"

For an answer, the sheik
swung into the saddle of a superb Arabian stallion, signaling to
his men as he did so. Mahoot, who seemed to derive a savage joy at
the prospect of action, assisted me onto another Arabian, and in a
trice the entire group were mounted and ready.

"Our horses are
sure-footed, Doctor, and the rocky terrain we shall soon
encounter holds no terrors for them. But be alert, for Arabians
swerve quickly."

The sheik had no doubt
noted the difficulty with which I had gained my seat. As we started
out at a slow canter, which accelerated into a flowing gallop, I felt
comforted that my saddle was much larger than the English type. There
was but one rein, a curb undoubtedly, which made things easier for
me, and I tried not to hold in my animal too tightly but let it take
the lead, which it did, matching speed with the sheik's horse.

The set of tropicals
that I wore featured large coat pockets, rather like a bush
jacket. I transferred my trusty Smith-Webley, which I had with me,
fortunately, shoving it into my belt where it would be more
available. The band of fierce-looking Arabs that accompanied me made
my firearm unnecessary in anything but a major crisis, especially
since every one of my unusual companions was armed to the teeth.
One's mind plays strange tricks. Here I was racing over flat and lush
terrain, for all the world like my hero, General Gordon, surveying
his defenses at Khartoum before that ill-fated and final battle. What
was I thinking of? I blush to mention that I was wondering what the
sedate members of the Bagatelle Club might think if they could see me
now.