He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Read online

  “I am sorry, Emerson,” I murmured.

  “Hmmm, yes. You are sometimes as impulsive as… Ah, Nefret. Have you finished the photographing?”

  “No, sir, not quite.” She was bareheaded, her cheeks rosy with heat, her smile broad and cheerful. “Selim came rushing into the tomb and said there was a policeman here asking for you. Are you under arrest, or is it Aunt Amelia?”

  Standing behind her, so close that the hair on the crown of her golden head brushed his chin, Ramses said lightly, “My money is on Mother.”

  “Damned if I know what he wants,” Emerson grumbled. “He might have had the courtesy to say. Assist the police indeed! I suppose we had better go.”

  “We?” Ramses repeated.

  “You and I.”

  “But this must be about what happened in the Khan the other night,” Nefret exclaimed. “I wondered why the police had not got round to questioning us. We must all go. It is our duty as good citizens to assist the police!”

  Emerson looked hopefully at his son. Ramses shrugged, shook his head, and inquired, “Precisely what do you think we should tell them?”

  “Ah.” Nefret stroked her chin in unconscious—or perhaps it was conscious!—imitation of Emerson. “That is a good question, my boy. I am against telling the police about our arrangement with Farouk. They are such blunderers—”

  “We do not, at the present time, have an arrangement with him,” Emerson interrupted. “And this, my dear, is not a symposium. I will make the decision after I have heard what Russell has to say. Selim! Keep the men at it for another two hours. You know what to watch out for. Stop at once if—”

  “My dear, he does know what to watch out for,” I said. “Why are you telling him again?”

  “Damnation!” Emerson shouted; and off he stalked, bareheaded and coatless, alone and unencumbered. He had gone some little distance before it dawned on me that he was heading for Mena House, where we had left the horses. Nefret let out a mildly profane exclamation and started to run after him.

  “Don’t forget the cameras,” Ramses said.

  “You bring them. Curse it, he needn’t think he can get away from me!”

  Lips compressed, Ramses entered the tomb chamber and began packing the cameras. The ever-present grit and dust was hard on the delicate mechanisms; it would not have done to leave them uncovered any longer than was absolutely necessary. I hesitated for only a moment before following him.

  “She cannot come with us,” he said, without looking up.

  “Mr. Russell specifically mentioned that we were not to bring her; but you and he are both being silly. She is a surgeon. She has seen horrible wounds and performed operations.”

  “I see we are thinking along the same lines.” Ramses drew the straps tight and slung the case over his shoulder.

  “It is one possible explanation for his failure to meet you, but it may not be the right one. Let us not look on the dark side!”

  “The way our luck has been running, it is difficult not to.” The words were flung at me from over his shoulder; he had already started off. I broke into a trot and caught him up. “There is no need to hurry. Your father won’t leave without us.”

  “Sorry.” He slowed his steps. After a moment of frowning concentration, he said, “Were you included in the invitation?”

  “Not in so many words, but—”

  “But you are coming anyhow.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  We left for Cairo as soon as we had changed. Russell was waiting for us in the reception area of the Administration Building —if a bare, dusty room containing two cracked chairs and a wooden table could be called by that name. His face was set in a look of frozen disapproval, which cracked momentarily when he saw Nefret.

  “No!” he exclaimed loudly. “Professor, I told you—”

  “He couldn’t prevent me from coming,” Nefret said. She gave him a bewitching smile and held out a small, daintily gloved hand. “You wouldn’t be so rude as to exclude me, would you, sir?”

  For once Nefret had met her match. Russell took her hand, held it for no more than two seconds, and stepped back. “I could and I would, Miss Forth. What the Professor chooses to tell you and Mrs. Emerson hereafter is his affair. Police matters are my affair. Take a chair. One of the men will bring you tea. Come to my office, gentlemen.”

  From Manuscript H

  “I asked you here,” Russell said, his voice as cold and formal as his manner, “because one of my men informed me you were present night before last when we raided Aslimi’s shop. Did you get a look at the fellow we were after?”

  “Yes,” Emerson said.

  “You followed him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Caught him, too,” Emerson added.

  “Damnation, Professor! You have the infernal gall to stand there and tell me you let the fellow go?”

  “I told you when we first discussed the subject that I would not help you capture Wardani, but that I would attempt to speak with him and convince him to turn himself in.”

  Emerson’s voice was as loud as Russell’s. Ramses didn’t doubt that every police officer in the building was in the corridor, listening.

  “It wasn’t Wardani!”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” Emerson demanded indignantly. “Not until after I had cornered the fellow. As it turned out, he was one of Wardani’s lieutenants. We—er—came to an agreement.”

  “Would you care to tell me what it was?”

  “No. I may do after I’ve spoken with him.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Russell said. “Come with me.”

  They followed him along the corridor and down several flights of stairs. Being underground, the room was a few degrees cooler than the floors above, but not cool enough. The smell hit them even before Russell opened the door. The only furnishings were a few rough wooden tables. All but two were unoccupied. Russell indicated one of the shrouded forms.

  “Damned inefficiency,” he muttered. “That one should have been buried this morning, he’s not keeping well. Here’s our lad.” He pulled the coarse sheet off the other corpse.

  Farouk’s face was unmarked except for a line of bruising around his mouth and across his cheeks. If he had died in pain, which he certainly had, there was no sign of it on the features that had settled into the inhuman flatness of death. His naked body showed no signs of injury except for his wrists, which were not a pretty sight. The ropes had dug deep into his flesh and he must have struggled violently to free himself.

  Russell gestured, and two of his men turned the body over. From shoulders to waist the skin was black with dried blood over a patchwork of raised welts.

  After a moment Emerson said, “The kurbash.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Emerson raised his formidable eyebrows. “You can’t? Why, man, it’s an old Turkish custom. The marks left by a whip made of hippopotamus hide are quite different from those of a cat-o’-nine-tails or bamboo rod. I’ve seen it before.”

  Ramses had seen it too. Once. Like Farouk, the man had been beaten to death. Unlike Farouk, he had not been gagged. He had screamed till his voice gave out and even after he lost consciousness his body convulsed at every stroke of the whip. An old Turkish custom—and one Ramses would have experienced if his father had not burst on the scene before they started on him. The memory still made him break out in a cold sweat of terror, and it was one of the reasons why he had agreed to take Wardani’s place. Anything that would help keep the Ottomans out of Egypt .

  Fingering his chin, Emerson added, “Government by kurbash. Popular in Egypt , as well.”

  “We outlawed the kurbash years ago,” Russell said stiffly.

  Emerson shot out a series of questions. “Any other marks on the body? How long has he been dead? Where was he found?”

  “Answer my question first, Professor.”

  “What question? Oh, that question.” Emerson scowled. “If we are going to engage in
a prolonged discussion, I would prefer to do it elsewhere.”

  He led the way back to Russell’s office, where he settled himself in the most comfortable chair, which happened to be the one behind Russell’s desk. Again Russell left the door ajar. The ensuing dialogue—Ramses could not have got a word in even if he had wanted to—got louder and more acrimonious as it proceeded. Emerson extracted the information he had demanded and gave a grudging, carefully edited account of their activities in the Khan el Khalili on the night in question.

  “Why didn’t you tell my men about the back entrance?” Russell shouted.

  Emerson glared at him. “Why didn’t they have the rudimentary intelligence to look for one?”

  “Confound it, Professor!” Russell brought his fist down on the desk. “If you had not interfered—”

  “If I had not, the fellow would have got clean away. He agreed to meet with me because he trusted my word.”

  “And because you offered him a bribe.”

  “Why, yes,” Emerson said in mild surprise. “As my dear wife always says, it is easier to catch a fly with honey than with vinegar. Unfortunately it appears the other side got wind of his intentions. Not my fault if he was careless. Well, well, that is everything, I think. Come along, Ramses, we’ve wasted enough time ‘assisting’ the police. Trying to do their job for them, rather.”

  He got up and started for the door.

  “Just a damned minute, Professor.” Russell jumped up and went after him. “I must warn you—”

  “Warn me?” Emerson thundered. He whirled round.

  Ramses decided it was time to interfere. His father was enjoying himself immensely, and he was in danger of getting carried away by his role.

  “Please, sir,” he exclaimed. “Mr. Russell is only doing his duty. I told you we oughtn’t get involved.”

  “I might have expected you would say that,” Russell said contemptuously. “Thank you for coming, Professor. You are one of the most infuriating individuals I have ever encountered, but I admire your courage and your patriotism.”

  “Bah,” said Emerson. He gave the door a shove. A dozen pair of boots beat a hasty retreat.

  Ramses lingered only long enough to breathe a few words and see Russell’s nod of acknowledgment.

  Still in character, Emerson stamped into the waiting room, collected his womenfolk, and swept the entire party out of the Administration Building .

  “Well?” Nefret demanded.

  “It was he,” Emerson replied. “What was left of him. Found early this morning lying in an irrigation ditch near the bridge. Dead approximately twelve hours.”

  “How did he die?”

  Emerson told her. He did not go into detail, but Nefret had an excellent imagination and a good deal of experience. Some of the pretty color left her face. “That’s horrible. They must have found out he meant to betray them, but how?”

  “The most likely explanation,” Ramses said slowly, “is that he told them himself, and demanded more than Father had offered. Oh, yes, I know, it would not have been a sensible move, but Farouk was arrogant enough to think he could bargain with them and get away with it. Being more sensible than he, they simply disposed of an unnecessary and untrustworthy ally, and in a manner that would have a salutary effect on others who might be wavering.”

  “An old Turkish custom,” Emerson repeated. “They have a nasty way with enemies and traitors.”

  Cursing somewhat mechanically, he dislodged half a dozen ragged urchins from the bonnet of the motorcar and opened the door for Nefret. As Ramses did the same for his mother, he saw that her eyes were fixed on him. She had been unusually silent. She had not needed his father’s tactless comment to understand the full implications of Farouk’s death. As he met her unblinking gaze he was reminded of one of Nefret’s more vivid descriptions. “When she’s angry, her eyes look like polished steel balls.” That’s done it, he thought. She’s made up her mind to get David and me out of this if she has to take on every German and Turkish agent in the Middle East .

  * * *

  Hope springs eternal in the human breast, particularly in mine, for I am by nature an optimistic individual. As we drove into Cairo , I told myself that Russell’s summons did not inevitably mean the dashing of our hopes; Farouk might have been captured and the end of Ramses’s deadly masquerade might be in sight.

  I tried to prepare myself for the worst while hoping for the best (not an easy task, even for me.) Yet the hideous truth hit harder than I had anticipated. Equally difficult was concealing the depth of my anger and despair from Nefret. She had only hoped we might do our country a service by destroying a ring of spies; she could not know that we had a personal interest in the matter. I had to bite my lip to control my anger—with Farouk for being stupid enough to get himself killed before we could interrogate him and with the unknown fiends who had murdered him so horribly. How much had he told them before he died?

  The worst possible answer was that Farouk had penetrated Ramses’s masquerade and had passed the information on to those who would not hesitate to dispose of Ramses as they had done Farouk. The most hopeful was that he had told them only of our arrangement with him. We could certainly assume that the enemy knew we were on their trail. The conclusion was obvious. We must go on the offensive!

  I remained pensively silent, considering various possibilities. They were provocative enough to take my attention off Emerson’s driving for once.

  “Are we taking tea at Shepheard’s?” Nefret asked in surprise. “I thought you would want to return home so we can discuss this unpleasant turn of affairs.”

  “There is nothing to discuss,” said Emerson, coming to a jolting halt in front of the hotel.

  “But, Professor—”

  “The matter is finished,” Emerson declared. “We made the attempt; we failed, through no fault of our own; we can do no more. Curse it, the damned terrace is even more crowded than usual. Don’t these idiots have anything better to do than dress in fashionable clothes and drink tea?”

  He charged up the stairs, drawing Nefret with him.

  We never have any difficulty getting a table at Shepheard’s, no matter how busy it is. The arrival of our motorcar had been noted by the headwaiter; by the time we reached the terrace a bewildered party of American tourists had been hustled away from a choice position near the railing, and a waiter was clearing the table.

  I leaned back in my chair and glanced casually at the vendors crowded round the stairs. They were not allowed on the terrace or in the hotel—a rule enforced by the giant Montenegrin doormen—but they came as close as they dared, shouting and waving examples of their wares. There were two flower sellers, but neither of them was David.

  Poor David. Almost I wished that the failure of our hope could be kept from him. There was no chance of that, though; by now he might have heard of it from other sources. Gossip of that sort spreads quickly; there is nothing so interesting to the world at large as a grisly murder.

  One of the disadvantages of appearing in public is that one is forced to be civil to acquaintances. I daresay that Emerson’s scowling visage deterred a number of them from approaching us, but Ramses’s pacifist views had not made him persona non grata to the younger women of Cairo . As Nefret had once put it (rather rudely, in my opinion), “It’s quite like a fox hunt, Aunt Amelia; the marriageable maidens after him like a pack of hounds while their mamas cheer them on.” We had not been seated long before a bevy of fluttering maidens descended on us. Some made straight for Ramses, while those who favored more indirect methods greeted Nefret with affected shrieks of pleasure.

  “Darling, what have you been doing? We haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Nefret said. “But I am glad to see you, Sylvia, I intended to pay you a little call. What the devil do you mean, writing those lies to Lia?”

  “Well, really!” one of the other young women exclaimed. Sylvia Gorst turned red with embarrassment and then white with terror. The glint i
n Nefret’s blue eyes would have frightened a braver woman than she.

  “You know of Lia’s situation,” Nefret said. “A friend would wish to avoid worrying or frightening her. You’ve written her a pack of gossip, most of it untrue and all of it malicious. If I hear of your doing it again I’ll slap your face in public and—and—”

  “Proclaim your perfidy to the world?” Ramses suggested. The corners of his mouth were twitching.

  “Not quite how I would have put it, but that’s the idea,” Nefret said.

  Sylvia burst into tears and was removed by her twittering companions.

  “Good Gad,” Emerson said helplessly. “What was that all about?”

  “You were very rude, Nefret,” I said, trying to sound severe and not entirely succeeding. “What was it she told Lia?”

  “Something about me, I presume,” Ramses said. “No doubt you meant well, Nefret, but that temper of yours—”

  Nefret shrank as if from a blow, and he stopped in mid-sentence. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

  “You shouldn’t have reproached her, Ramses,” I said, watching Nefret hasten toward the door of the hotel, her head bowed. “She had already begun to regret her hasty speech, she always does after she loses her temper.”

  “I didn’t mean what she thought I meant.” He looked almost as stricken as Nefret. “Damn it, why do I always say the wrong thing?”

  “Because women always take everything the wrong way,” Emerson grumbled.

  When Nefret came back she was smiling and composed, and accompanied. Lieutenant Pinckney, looking very pleased with himself, was with her. Naturally, with a stranger present, none of us referred to the small unpleasantness. Emerson would not have been deterrred by the presence of a stranger, but he still had no idea what the fuss had been about.

  After greeting Lieutenant Pinckney I allowed the young people to carry on the conversation. As my eyes wandered over the faces of the other patrons, I was reminded of something Nefret had said: “I feel that everyone I see is wearing a mask, and playing a part.” I had the same feeling now. All those vacuous, well-bred (and not so well-bred) faces—could one of them be a mask, concealing the features of a deadly foe?