Lion in the Valley (34 page)

The
ground was soft, but the impact drove the breath from my lungs, and when I
attempted to free myself from the dead weight upon me I was unable to move. I
hoped the figure of speech was only that, and not a description of fact, but
the utter inertness of his limbs aroused the direst forebodings. Nor was my
apprehension relieved by the sensation of something wet and sticky trickling
down my cheek. I felt no pain, so I knew the blood must be Donald's.

I
was trying to turn him over when I heard the rustling of foliage. Someone was
approaching! I feared it was the murderer, coming to ascertain whether his foul
deed had been accomplished, and I struggled to free myself. Then the weight
holding me down was removed, and I heard a voice cry out in extreme agitation.

"Donald!
My dearest—my darling—speak to me! Oh God, he is dead, he is slain!"

I
raised myself to a sitting position. Enid sat on the ground, all unaware of the
mud that soaked her skirt. With the strength of love and desperation she had
lifted the unconscious man so that his head lay on her breast. Her blouse and
her little hands were dabbled with his blood, which was flowing copiously from
a wound on his forehead.

"Put
him down at once, you ninny," I said.

For
all the attention she paid me, I might not have been there at all. She went on
moaning and showering kisses on his tumbled hair.

I
was still short of breath but I forced myself to crawl toward them. "Lower
his head, Enid," I ordered. "You ought not to have lifted him."

"He
is dead," Enid cried repetitiously. "Dead—and it is all my fault. Now
he will never know how I loved him!"

Donald's
eyes flew open. "Say it again, Enid!"

Joy
and relief, shame and confusion stained her lovely, tear-streaked face with a
glory as of sunrise. "I—I—" she began.

"Say
no more," Donald exclaimed. With an agility that belied his encrimsoned
visage, he freed himself from her embrace, and took her into his. She made but
a feeble attempt to resist; his masterful manner overcame her scruples, and
when I left them—as I did almost at once—I had no doubt that he would prevail.
I also had no doubt but that my lecture on the subject of firmness had had the
desired effect, and I congratulated myself on bringing this romantic confusion to
a satisfactory end.

I
had not gone far before I heard sounds indicative of haste and alarm. The
sounds of haste were produced by a heavy body crashing through the reeds; the
sounds of alarm were those of a well-loved voice raised to its fullest extent,
which, as I have had occasion to remark, is considerable.

I
answered, and Emerson soon stood face to face with me. He had dressed in such
haste that his shirt was buttoned askew and hung out of his trousers. Upon
recognizing me, he rushed forward, tripping over his dangling bootlaces, and
lifted me in his arms.

"Peabody!
Good Gad, it is as I feared—you are wounded! You are covered with blood! Don't
try to talk, Peabody. I will carry you home. A doctor—a surgeon—"

"I
am not wounded, Emerson. It is not my blood you see, but Donald's."

Emerson
set me on my feet with a thud that jarred my teeth painfully together. "In
that case," he said, "you can damned well walk. How dare you,
Peabody?"

His
angry voice and furious scowl touched me no less
than his tender
concern had done, for I knew they were prompted by the same affection. I took
his arm. "We may as well go back to the house," I said. "Donald
and Enid will follow at their leisure."

"Donald?
Oh, yes. I assume he is not seriously wounded, for if he were, you would be
dosing him and bandaging him and generally driving him out of his mind."

"I
suppose you followed Enid," I said. "And she followed me, and I
followed Donald.... How ridiculous we must have appeared!"

"You
may call it ridiculous," Emerson growled, holding my hand tightly in his.
"I would call it something else, but I cannot find words strong enough to
express my opinion of your callous disregard for every basic marital
responsibility. How do you suppose I felt when I woke to find you gone, and saw
a female form slip out of the gate? I thought it was you. I could not imagine
why you should creep from my side unless— unless..."

Emotion
overcame him. He began to swear.

"You
must have realized that only the sternest necessity could have moved me to such
a step, Emerson. I would have written a note, but there was not time."

"There
was time to wake me, though."

"No,
for then explanations would have been necessary, delaying me even longer."

I
proceeded to render the explanations. Emerson's face lightened a trifle as he
listened, but he shook his head. "It was extremely foolhardy of you,
Peabody. For all you knew, you were walking into a conference of desperate
criminals. You did not even take your belt of tools."

"I
had my parasol, Emerson."

"A
parasol, though an admirable weapon—as I have
been privileged to
observe—is not much defense against a pistol, Peabody. Those were pistol shots
I heard."

"They
were, Emerson. As you know, the sound is quite different from the report of a
rifle or shotgun. And Donald may thank heaven it was a hand weapon, for at such
close range only a very poor shot could have missed with a rifle."

Emerson
stopped and looked back. "Here they come—positively intertwined, upon my
word. I take it an understanding has been arrived at."

"It
was most touching, Emerson. Believing him dead or mortally wounded, Enid
confessed the profound attachment she had kept hidden—though not, I hardly need
say, from me. It is a great relief to have it all settled."

"I
would say it is far from settled," remarked Emerson. "Unless you can
clear the young lady of a charge of murder and the young man of embezzlement or
fraud or forgery, or whatever it may have been, their hopes of spending a long
and happy life together do not appear prosperous."

"But
that is precisely why we are going to Cairo today. Do hurry, Emerson, or we
will miss the train."

Thanks
to my organizational talents we did not miss the train, but it was a near
thing, and not until we had settled ourselves in the carriage did we have a
chance to discuss the morning's interesting events. To my astonishment I
learned that Emerson did not share my belief as to the identity of the
concealed marksman.

"But
there is no other possible explanation," I insisted. "The Master
Criminal is still seeking a scapegoat for the murder of Kalenischeff.
Furthermore, Donald has on several occasions foiled his attacks on us.
Naturally, Sethos would resent his interference. Or—here is another attractive
idea, Emerson—perhaps it was not Donald but my humble self at whom the bullet
was aimed."

"If
that is your notion of an attractive idea, I shudder to think what you would
call horrible," Emerson grumbled. "You were not the target of the
assassin, Amelia. In fact, the whole business is unaccountable. It makes no
sense."

"Aha,"
I exclaimed. "You have a theory, Emerson."

"Naturally,
Peabody."

"Excellent.
We have one of those amiable little competitions of ours, to see who can
guess—deduce, I meant to say—the solution to this most perplexing mystery. For
I feel sure," I added, with an affectionate smile, "that our opinions
do not coincide."

"They
never have yet, Peabody."

"Would
you care to disclose to me your reading of the matter thus far?"

"I
would not." Emerson brooded in silence, his rugged profile reminding me of
the Byronic heroes so popular in some forms of literature. The dark hair
tumbling on his brow, the lowering frown, the grim set of his mouth were
extremely affecting. At least they affected me, and had there not been a dour
old lady sharing the compartment with us, I might have demonstrated my
feelings. As it was, I had to content myself with looking at him.

Emerson
went on brooding and finally I decided to break the silence, which was getting
monotonous. "I don't understand why you find this morning's events
puzzling, Emerson. It is obvious to the meanest intelligence that the—that
Sethos used a pistol instead of a rifle because he hoped to make Donald's death
look like suicide.
 
Donald
 
would
 
have been
 
found
 
with the
weapon in his hand, and a
suicide note in the other— for I have no doubt that the genius of crime could
reproduce his handwriting."

"Oh,
yes," Emerson said bitterly. "You wouldn't be surprised to see him
sprout wings like a bat and flap off across Cairo, spouting lyric poetry as he
flies."

"Lyric
poetry?" I repeated, genuinely perplexed.

"Merely
a flight of fancy, Amelia. Your theory of a false suicide falls apart on one
simple fact. You were there."

"Suicide
and murder, then," I said promptly. "Sethos would not be balked by a
little matter like that, and I am sure he would shed no tears over my
demise."

Again
Emerson shook his head. "You astonish me, Peabody. Can it be possible that
you fail to see ... Well, but if the truth has not dawned on you, I don't want
to put ideas into your head."

And
he would say no more, question him as I might.

Eleven

E
merson
was more forthcoming when I asked precisely what he intended to do in Cairo.
"For it is all very well," I added, "to talk vaguely of getting
on the trail of Sethos, but without any notion of where to start, it will be
difficult to find a trail, much less follow it."

My
tone was somewhat acerbic, for Emerson's refusal to confide in me had wounded
me deeply. He appeared not to notice my annoyance, but replied amicably,
"I am glad you raised that question, Peabody. I have two approaches in
mind. First, we must inquire of official sources what they know of this
villain. We have a legitimate reason to demand information, since we have cause
to suppose ourselves threatened by him.

"I
have greater hopes, however, of my second approach—to wit, my acquaintances in
the underworld of Cairene crime. I would not be surprised to discover that even
Sethos' chief lieutenants are unaware of his true
identity; however,
by putting together bits and scraps and odds and ends, we may be able to
construct a clue."

"Good,
Emerson. Precisely the approach I was about to suggest."

"Humph,"
said Emerson. "Have you any other suggestions, Peabody?"

"I
could hardly improve on your ideas, Emerson. However, it has occurred to me to
start from the other end, so to speak."

"I
don't follow you, Peabody."

"I
mean that instead of gathering more information, we should pursue the few facts
we already have. I am convinced it was Sethos himself who brought the communion
vessels to our room. And we know that he or one of his hired assassins was in
the hotel on the night of Kalenischeff's murder. I propose to question and, if
necessary, bribe or threaten, the servants who were on duty upon those
occasions."

"Of
course you know the police have questioned them already."

"Oh
yes, but they won't have told the police anything. There is a reluctance among
people of that class in all countries to cooperate with the police."

"True.
Anything else?"

"Yes,
one other thing. Has it occurred to you that if Ronald Fraser is not Sethos
himself, he may be involved with the gang?"

"Oddly
enough, that had occurred to me," Emerson replied, fingering the dimple in
his chin. "Or, if not Ronald, then Donald. Curse these people," he
added, "why can't they have distinctive names? I keep mixing them
up."

"I
am sure we can eliminate Donald, Emerson. He was with me this morning, and it
was a miracle he was not killed."

"What
better alibi could there be?" Emerson demanded. "If he is Sethos, he
could instruct a confederate to fire at him and miss—as indeed he did."

"He
couldn't know I would awaken and follow him, Emerson."

"That
isn't why you want to eliminate him, Peabody," Emerson grumbled. "You
have a pernicious weakness for young lovers."

"Nonsense,
Emerson. I eliminate Donald on purely logical grounds. We both heard Ronald
Fraser ask his brother to meet him; as Donald explained to me, the reference
was to a place where they had been accustomed to meet as children. How did
Ronald learn the whereabouts of his brother, and of Enid, unless he is in touch
with that mysterious personage who knows all and sees all? And how did Sethos
know Donald would be by the river at dawn unless Ronald told him?"

"Curse
it, Peabody, you have a positive genius for overlooking the obvious! It is
because you are obsessed with this villain. You see him everywhere and credit
him with well-nigh supernatural powers!"

"Really,
Emerson—"

"The
simplest and most obvious explanation," Emerson continued angrily,
"is that Ronald tried to kill his brother. An act of purely private
villainy, Peabody, with not a Master Criminal in sight! Why Ronald should hate
Donald I do not know, but there are several possibilities—an inheritance, or
rivalry for the hand of the young lady, for instance. People do kill people for
the most ridiculous reasons."