The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (50 page)

"It seemed advisable to present a smaller target."

"There is blood on your shirt," said Nefret.

"Jam," said Ramses. "I took tea with Sennia."

My wounds were negligible, but the maiden insisted upon binding them up with strips torn from her diaphanous garments ...

M
y
suggestion, that we fan out in search of the hidden assassin, was unanimously rejected. Ramses claimed he could not tell from which direction the shots had come; Nefret declared that such a procedure would be foolhardy in the extreme; Lia pointed out that the increasing darkness would render a search futile. David did not get a chance to say anything, and Emerson's blistering comments cannot be reproduced in these pages.

So we finished packing up and started for home. By the time we reached the house, rain was falling heavily. It splashed into the fountain and formed puddles on the tiled floor of the courtyard. Fatima had seen the storm approaching and moved all the overstuffed furniture and cushions under cover.

As soon as Emerson had seen his precious boxes of bones and scraps safely stowed away, he started across the courtyard toward the front door. I had anticipated this, so I was able to intercept him when he reached the takhtabosh, where the doorman had taken shelter from the rain and was sitting on one of the benches.

"And where do you think you are going?" I demanded. "You are soaked to the skin. Change your clothing at once."

"Why? I will be wet again immediately," said Emerson.

The door to the street opened, admitting Ramses and David, who had taken the horses to the stable. "What is the matter?" David asked.

I did not blame him for asking; Emerson's and my relative positions were somewhat combative. "I am attempting to prevent him from rushing off to Mr. Reynolds's house and accusing him of attempted murder," I explained, taking a firmer grip on my impulsive husband's shirtsleeve. "That is where you were going, wasn't it, Emerson?"

"I want to get to him before he has time to conceal the evidence," snarled Emerson. "Out of my way, Peabody."

"It is already too late for that," said Ramses. "Assuming there was any evidence to conceal."

"Quite right," I agreed. "Quiet, calm consideration is what we want now, not impulsive action. Go and change, all of you, and we will meet in the sitting room for a council of war!"

Since it was necessary for me to make certain Emerson did as he was told before I took care of my own needs, I was the last to join the group. The sitting room felt quite cozy with the lamps lighted and the soft murmur of falling rain outside the open windows. Nefret had supplied Lia with a change of clothing and David was wearing one of Ramses's galabeeyahs, and Geoffrey ...

I had completely forgot about him! Guilt made my greeting warmer than the situation actually demanded. In response to my question he explained that he had returned to the house in the afternoon, meaning to rest for a few minutes, and had fallen sound asleep. At this point in his narrative a burst of coughing interrupted his speech.

"That cough is getting worse," I said. "You had better let me— er—let Nefret—"

"Perhaps he will let
you,"
said Nefret, smiling at my inadvertent faux pas even as a frown wrinkled the smooth surface of her brow. "He refuses to see a physician or allow me to examine him."

"It's only the dust," Geoffrey protested.

"Have a whiskey and soda," said Emerson. He has very little patience with illness, his own or anyone else's. "And then we can get to business. Did Nefret tell you about your friend Reynolds's latest aberration?"

"Yes, sir," Geoffrey said in a low voice. "I had thought he was better."

"It seems to me," said Ramses, "that you are all ignoring one of the basic principles of British law. We have no proof whatever that Jack Reynolds fired those shots."

"I was attempting to get that proof when your mother prevented me," Emerson replied, giving me a whiskey and soda and an inimical look.

Ramses leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees and hands clasped. "That's all very well, sir, and I agree someone ought to pay Jack a visit; but first we must consider what it is we hope to learn. He had ample time to clean and replace the weapon. If he has an alibi for the critical time, well and good; if he has not, which is more likely, that is still not proof of guilt."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "It won't do any harm to ask, will it? Have I your permission to call on Reynolds and inquire, with the utmost tact and subtlety, where he was and what he was doing this afternoon at approximately ... What time was it?"

Another brief and inconclusive discussion ensued. None of us had been keeping track of the time. Finally Emerson declared that we had talked long enough and that he meant to go at once. Alone.

Naturally I accompanied him. The rain had almost stopped, and the night air was refreshing. Emerson had his torch and I my parasol. He would not come under it with me or walk close by me, since he claimed the spokes kept hitting him in the face, so we splashed through puddles and patches of mud like two strangers who happened to be going in the same direction.

I was preoccupied with my own thoughts, as—I did not doubt—Emerson was with his. I had persuaded Lia and David to stay and dine with us, but I felt certain they would be off shortly after dinner, and Ramses with them—and that shortly after that, he and David would be on their way to Cairo to risk heaven only knew what terrible danger. I found myself wishing Ramses
had
been struck by a bullet—not in a vital organ, of course, but in a spot that would keep him immobile for a few days.

The little house which had once been filled with merriment and harmless (for the most part) pleasure looked desolate and forlorn. Few lights showed. Raindrops dripped in mournful melody from the surrounding trees. The doorman had retreated within. We had to pound and ring for several minutes before there was a response and that, when it came, was not welcoming.

"Go away," a voice shouted in Arabic. "The effendi is not at home."

Emerson shouted back. His voice is unmistakable; before he had got more than a few words out, the portal was flung open and the groveling servant ushered us into the house. We sent him off to announce us while I tried to persuade Emerson to wipe his feet.

"Why bother?" he inquired, with a critical look round the untidy entrance hallway.

We were kept waiting rather a long time, and Emerson was about to lose his patience when someone came. The Reader may conceive of my surprise when I recognized Karl von Bork. I ought not to have been surprised, in fact, since I remembered hearing that Karl had got in the habit of spending a great deal of time with his friend Jack, though what the two had in common aside from their interest in Egyptology I could not imagine. It was not until he bowed us into the sitting room that I got a good look at him.

Evidently he and Jack had been having one of those comfortable masculine evenings at home. A man's idea of comfort is to be as untidy as possible. Karl had reassumed his coat, in some haste, since it was buttoned askew; his attempt to smooth his hair with his hands had not been successful. His face was flushed, his eyes unfocused. He began to apologize for Jack, who, he explained, was unwell.

"Intoxicated, you mean?" I inquired. "I am sorry to see, Karl, that you have been encouraging his weakness by drinking with him."

"Not drinking," said Emerson. His nose wrinkled. In one long stride he reached the door of Jack's study and turned the knob.

Disheveled and coatless, Jack sat sprawled in an easy chair, staring blearily at the door. The sofa cushions were every which way, so I presumed Karl had been reclining on that article of furniture when the servant summoned him. On a nearby table were an ash receptacle, a pipe, and a plate of almond biscuits, one half-eaten. Jack held his pipe in one lax hand. The smoke that eddied about the room did not have the scent of ordinary tobacco. It was the same strange odor I had once taken for that of decay. There was no mistaking its origin now.

I turned to Karl. "Shame!" I cried. "Oh, Karl, how could you? What would Mary say?"

Tears filled his eyes. He flung his arm up to cover his face. "I was so lonely for her," he gasped. "Und fur die Kinder. Ach, Gott, ich habe myself disgraced—meine Geliebte betrayed .. ."

Sobs stifled his speech, which had become increasingly incoherent. I patted him absently on the shoulder. Emerson removed the pipe from Jack's hand and shook him vigorously. The only response was a faint smile.

"Too far gone," said Emerson. "It will take several hours for the effects to wear off. How long have you been here with him, von Bork?"

His curt tone recalled Karl to some semblance of manhood. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.

"Ich weiss nicht, Herr Professor," he muttered. "A long time."

I passed him my handkerchief. "Pull yourself together, Karl. It is vitally important that we extract a coherent statement from you."

"I doubt we can get it," said Emerson dryly.

By direct questioning we managed to extract a few scraps of information from Karl. He had been in Cairo at the Institut, not at Giza. The sun had been shining when he got to the house ... At least he thought it had. Jack had arrived shortly after him. No, alas, he could not remember how long after. At some point it had begun to rain ... He and Jack had been together ever since. As for the hashish, this was not the first time they had indulged. It was Jack who had provided the filthy stuff. He did not know where Jack had got it.

Depression so profound it forbade even the release of tears had gripped our friend. It soon became clear we would get no more from him that night—if ever.

Emerson abandoned his interrogation and went to the gun case. The key was in the lock; he turned it and opened the door. "I see only one of the famous Colts."

"Jack mentioned some days ago that a weapon had been stolen."

"That is what he would say if he intended to use it for purposes of homicide," Emerson remarked. "However, it was not a revolver that was employed this afternoon."

He removed each of the weapons from its place and examined it. "No," he said, replacing the last. "If one of them was used it has been cleaned and any remaining ammunition removed. At least he has sense enough not to leave a loaded weapon in the case. There's nothing more for us here, Peabody."

"Should we not question the servants, Emerson?"

"Useless," said Emerson. "They will say what they have been told to say or what they believe we want to hear. Von Bork, I will speak with you again tomorrow."

A barely audible murmur of "Ja, Herr Professor," came from the huddled form. Emerson's stern face softened slightly. "Don't do anything foolish," he said.

Emerging from that house was like coming out of a prison— a dungeon that held two men in fetters more difficult to break than any material chains. Emerson took a deep breath of the clean night air.

"Don't put up the cursed parasol, Peabody, it has stopped raining. Odd, isn't it, that once again our old friend von Bork has provided an alibi for a suspected killer?"

"I cannot believe he deliberately lied, Emerson. He was so repentant after that other occasion—so grateful that we had forgiven him. Is it possible that Jack misled him? The drug has strange effects."

"You are hopelessly soft-hearted, my dear. But you are right about the unpredictable effects of hashish. They depend on the constitution of the user and the purity of the substance. Euphoria is the commonest reaction, which is why people use the confounded stuff, but there are others, and most of them are easy to counterfeit."

The clouds were lifting; stars glimmered in the sky over Cairo. Emerson's steps slowed. He took out his pipe and I let go his arm so he could fill it, recognizing the need for his favorite aid to ratiocination.

"Are you implying that Karl's remorse was pretense, Emerson? That he was acting the whole time?"

"It is a possibility."

"But that would mean... Good Gad, that would mean that Karl is the man we are after! He supplied Jack with the drug, pretended to smoke it with him—took advantage of Jack's stupor to creep away and follow Ramses... It wasn't much of an alibi he gave Jack, you know. He was very vague about times."

A match flared. Emerson chuckled. "Jumping to conclusions again, Peabody. There are a number of holes in that scenario. We are gradually getting closer to the truth, but we are still a long way from understanding how they all fit together—our 'accidents' at Zawaiet el 'Aryan, the drug business, the forgeries, the murder of Maude Reynolds."