The Curse of the Pharaohs (29 page)

I doubt that Habib could have produced a reply worthy of that eloquent demand even if he had been capable of speaking. Turning again to the circle of rapt faces, Emerson cried, "Brothers! What punishment does the Koran, the word of the Prophet, decree for a murderer?"

"Death!" came the answer, thundering among the echoing cliffs.

'Take him away," Emerson said and flung Habib into the waiting arms of Feisal.

A sigh of pure delight went up from a hundred throats. No one appreciates a good theatrical performance more than an Arab. An audience of Luxor men had sat enthralled through
Romeo and Juliet
—in English—a few years earlier. This was much more entertaining. Before they could turn to their friends and begin an animated critique of the show, Emerson spoke again.

"Habib was not the only evildoer among us," he called out.

Agitated eddies appeared here and there, as certain members of the audience hastily headed for the obscurity of darkness. Emerson made a contemptuous gesture.

"They are even smaller jackals than Habib; let them go. They did not cause the deaths of the English lord and his friend. They did not kill the watchman Hassan."

Vandergelt stirred uneasily. "What is he up to now?" he whispered. "That was a first-rate performance; he ought to let the curtain down."

I was myself a trifle apprehensive. Emerson has a tendency to overdo things. I hoped he knew what he was doing. His next sentence made me doubt that he did.

"Were they slain by the curse of the pharaoh? If so..." Emerson paused; and not one pair of eyes in that assemblage blinked or moved from his face. "If so, I take that curse on myself! Here and now I challenge the gods to strike me down or give me their blessing. O Anubis, the High, the Mighty, the Chief over the mysteries of those in the underworld, O Horus, son of Osiris, bom of Isis, O Apet, mother of fire..."

He turned to face the fire, which had died to a bed of red coals, against which his form was darkly silhouetted. Arms raised, he invoked the gods of Egypt in a sonorous but rather oddly pronounced form of their own language. All at once the dying fire soared heavenward in a rainbow flame, blue and sea-green and ghastly lavender. A gasp went up from the crowd; for in the uncanny light they saw on the topmost step of the tomb entrance an object that had certainly not been there before.

It had the form of a giant black cat with glowing yellow eyes. The play of firelight along the lean flanks gave the illusion of tensed muscles, as if the weird beast were preparing to spring on its prey.

The cat shape was a hollow shell, covered with bituminous pitch, and had once contained, if it did not still, the mummified figure of a real cat. Emerson had presumably acquired this object in Luxor, from one of the dealers, and had undoubtedly paid a pretty penny for it. No doubt many of the watchers were as cognizant as I of the true nature of the feline mummy case; but its seemingly miraculous appearance had as dramatic effect as any showman could wish.

Emerson broke into a weird, stiff-kneed dance, waving his arms. Vandergelt chuckled. "Reminds me of an old Apache chief I used to know," he whispered. "Suffered terribly from rheumatism, but wouldn't give up the rain dance."

Fortunately the rest of the audience was less critical. Watching Emerson's hand, I saw the same movement that had preceded the burst of multicolored flame. This time the substance he tossed onto the fire produced a huge puff of lemon-colored smoke. It must have contained sulfur, or some similar chemical, for it was singularly odorous and the spectators who were on its fringes began to cough and flap their hands.

For a few seconds the tomb entrance was completely veiled in coiling smoke. As it began to disperse we saw that the cat coffin had split down the middle. The two sections had fallen, one to each side, and between them, in the exact pose of the coffin, sat a living cat. It wore a jeweled collar; the gleaming stones winked emerald and ruby-red in the firelight.

The cat Bastet was extremely annoyed. I sympathized with her feelings. Caged, boxed, or bagged, as the case might be, she had been kidnapped and then thrust into a cloud of evil-smelling smoke. She sneezed and rubbed her nose with her forepaw. Then her glowing golden eyes lit on Emerson

I feared the worst. But then came the crowning wonder of that night of wonders, which would be the subject of folktales in the nearby villages for years to come. The cat walked slowly toward Emerson—who was invoking it as Sekhmet, goddess of war, death, and destruction. Rising on its hind feet, it clung to his trouser leg with its claws and rubbed its head against his hand.

Emerson flung his arms high. "Allah is merciful! Allah is great!" Another mighty puff of smoke burst from the fire, and the majestic invocation ended in a fit of violent coughing.

The performance was ended. Murmuring appreciatively, the audience drifted away. Emerson emerged from the fog and walked toward me.

"Not bad, eh?" he inquired, grinning demonically.

"Let me shake your hand, Professor," Vandergelt said. "You are as smooth a crook as I ever met, and that's saying something."

Emerson beamed. "Thank you. Lady Baskerville, I took the liberty of ordering a feast for our men once they get back to the house. Abdullah and Feisal particularly deserve an entire sheep apiece."

"Certainly." Lady Baskerville nodded. "Really, though, Radcliffe, I hardly know what to say about this—this peculiar business. Was it, by chance, my emerald-and-ruby bracelet around that beast's neck?"

"Ah—hem," said Emerson. He fingered the dent in his chin. "I must apologize for the liberty. Never fear, I will restore it."

"How? The cat has run away."

Emerson was still trying to think what to say when Karl joined us.

"Herr Professor, you were splendid. One little point, if you permit—the imperative form of the verb
iri
is not
iru,
as you said, but—"

"Never mind," I said quickly. Emerson had directed an outraged scowl at the earnest young German, rather like Amon Ra glowering at a priest who ventured to criticize his pronunciation. "Had we not better return to the house? I am sure everyone is tired out."

"There will be no sleep for the guilty tonight," said a sepulchral voice.

Madame Berengeria had risen from her chair. Her daughter and Mr. O'Connell, who flanked her on either side, made ineffectual attempts to keep her quiet and move her on. She waved them away.

"A fine show, Professor," she went on. "You remember more of your past lives than you admit. But not enough; you fool, you have mocked the gods, and now you must suffer. I would have saved you if you had let me."

"Oh, the devil," Emerson exclaimed. "Really, I can't tolerate much more of this. Amelia, do something."

The woman's bloodshot eyes moved to me. "You share his guilt and will share his fate. Remember the words of the sage: 'Be not proud and arrogant of speech, for the gods love those who are silent.'"

"Mother, please," Mary said, taking the woman by the arm.

"Ungrateful girl!" With a twist of her shoulder, Madame sent Mary staggering back. "You and your lovers... You think I don't see, but I know! Filth, uncleanliness... Fornication is a sin, and so is failure to revere your mother. 'It is an abdomination to the gods, going into a strange woman to know her...'"

The last comment was apparently aimed at Karl and O'Connell, whom she indicated by a wild gesture. The journalist was ashen with rage. Karl's reaction seemed to be chiefly one of surprise. I half-expected to hear him repeat, "The English! Never will I understand them."

Yet neither spoke to deny the vile allegations. Even I was momentarily nonplussed. I realized that Berengeria's earlier exhibitions had contained a certain element of deliberate calculation. She was not acting now; beads of froth oozed from the corners of her mouth. She turned her burning gaze on Vandergelt, who had thrown a protective arm around his bride-to-be.

"Adultery and fornication!" shouted Madame. "Remember the two brothers, my fine American gentleman; by the wiles of a woman Anubis was driven to murder his younger brother. He put his heart in the cedar tree and the king's men chopped it down. The lock of hair perfumed the garments of pharaoh; the talking beasts warned him to beware ..."

The narrow cord of sanity had finally snapped. This was madness and delirium. I suspected that not even a brisk slap, my usual remedy for hysteria, would avail in this case. Before I could decide what to do, Berengeria pressed her hand to her heart and slowly subsided onto the ground.

"My heart... I must have a stimulant... I have overtaxed my strength..."

Mr. Vandergelt produced an elegant silver flask of brandy, which I administered to the fallen woman. She lapped it greedily, and by holding it in front of her, like a carrot in front of a balky mule, I was able to get her into the carriage. Mary was weeping with embarrassment, but when I suggested she ride with us she shook her head.

"She is my mother. I cannot abandon her."

O'Connell and Karl offered to go with her, and so it was arranged. The first carriage set out on the return journey and the rest of us were about to follow when I remembered that Lady Baskerville had planned to spend the night at the hotel. I assured her that if she wanted to carry out her plan, Emerson and I could walk back.

"How can you suppose me capable of abandoning you?" was the heated reply. "If that wretched woman has suffered a heart attack you will have two sick persons on your hands, in addition to all your other responsibilities."

"That's my noble girl," said Mr. Vandergelt approvingly.

"Thank you," I said.

When we reached the house I rolled up my sleeves and went first to Arthur's room. He was deep in slumber, so I proceeded to see how Madame was getting on. The Egyptian woman who had been assigned to attend the lady was leaving her room as I approached. When I asked her where the devil she thought she was going she informed me that the Sitt Baskerville had sent her for fresh water. I therefore allowed her to proceed on her errand.

Lady Baskerville was bending over the gross shape that sprawled across the bed. In her elegant gown and delicate lace shawl she was an incongruous figure to be found in a sickroom, but her movements were quick and efficient as she straightened the sheets.

"Will you have a look at her, Mrs. Emerson? I don't believe her condition is serious, but if you feel we ought to call Dr. Dubois, I will send someone at once."

After taking Berengeria's pulse and heartbeat I nodded agreement. "It can wait till morning, I think. There is nothing wrong with her now, except that she is dead drunk."

Lady Baskerville's full red lips curved in a wry smile. "Blame me, if you wish, Mrs. Emerson. As soon as she had been placed on the bed she reached under the mattress and brought out a bottle. She did not even open her eyes! At first I was too surprised to interfere. Then... well, I told myself that to attempt to wrest the bottle from her would only lead to a struggle which I must lose; but to be honest I wanted to see her insensible. I am sure you must despise me."

In fact, I rather admired her. For once, she was being honest with me, and I could not blame her for carrying out a scheme which I had myself once contemplated.

After directing the servant, who had returned with the water, to keep a close watch and wake me if there was any change in Madame's condition, I went with Lady Baskerville to the drawing room, where the others were assembled. Emerson had commanded their presence, and as we entered we heard Kevin O'Connell berating my husband for his lack of consideration.

"Miss Mary is on the verge of collapse," he cried. "She ought to be in bed. Just look at her!"

The young lady's appearance did not support this diagnosis. Her cheeks were tear-stained and her costume somewhat the worse for wear, but she sat upright in her chair, and when she spoke her voice was calm.

"No, my friend, I do not require pity. I need to be reminded of my duty. My mother is a tormented, unhappy person. Whether she is ill or mad or simply evil-minded I do not know, but it does not matter. She is my cross and I will bear it. Lady Baskerville, we will leave you tomorrow. I am ashamed that I have allowed this to go on as long as it has."

"Very well, very well," Emerson burst out, before anyone else could speak. "I am sure we all sympathize with you, Miss Mary, but at the moment I have more pressing matters to discuss. I must have a copy of the painting of Anubis before I demolish the wall. You had better be at work early, before—"

"What the—" O'Connell sprang to his feet, red as a turkey cock. "You cannot be serious, Professor."

"Be still, Kevin," Mary said. "I made a promise and I will keep it. Work is the best medicine for a wounded heart."

"Humph," said Emerson, kneading his chin. "I agree with the sentiment, at least. You might think about it too, Mr. O'Connell; how long has it been since you sent off a story to your newspaper?"

O'Connell sank limply into a chair and shook his disheveled red head. "I will probably lose my position," he said gloomily. "When one is living the news, it is hard to find time to write about it."

"Cheer up," Emerson said. "In forty-eight hours—perhaps less—you will be able to steal a march on your colleagues with a story that will restore you to the good graces of your editor. You may even be able to demand a rise in pay."

"What do you mean?" Fatigue forgotten, O'Connell sat up alertly and reached for his notebook and pencil. "You hope to enter the tomb by then?"

"Of course. But that is not what I meant. You will be one to announce to the world the identity of the murderer of Lord Baskerville."

Fifteen

THE listeners were galvanized by this announcement. Vandergelt let out a loud "by Jimminy!" Mary's eyes opened wide. Even the phlegmatic young German stared at Emerson in surprise.

"Murderer?" O'Connell repeated.

"He was murdered, of course," Emerson said impatiently. "Come now, Mr. O'Connell, you have always suspected as much, though you did not have the effrontery to suggest it in your newspaper stories. The succession of violent tragedies that has occurred here makes it impossible that Lord Baskerville could have died a natural death. I have been working on the case and I will soon be in a position to announce results. I await one last piece of evidence. It will be here late tomorrow or the following morning. By the way, Amelia," he added, looking at me, "don't try to intercept my messenger, the news he carries has meaning only to me; you won't understand it."