"Hadji. Ahmed Hadji."
"Mr. Hadji, who would like to rent your room. He only needs it for a week, but he says he'll pay the month. . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh. Okay. Okay, fine. Bring him right over."
"It is settled, then?"
"Sure, if the price is okay with you. You see, I work on a commission when it comes to rentals. One month's rent. She wants two hundred a month for the room, so that'll be four hundred." Lewis paused. "You know, Mr. Hadji, you could stay in a hotel for a week for a lot less than that."
"No. I know what I require."
"Okay, if you say so. I just don't want you to think that I'm trying to cheat you or anything."
Hadji smiled coldly. "I am quite certain that your honesty is above suspicion." He reached into his pocket. "Shall I pay you or the lady?"
"Well, just give me the commission, two hundred. You can give Mrs. March the rent." Lewis's eyes widened as he saw the thick stack of hundred-dollar bills which filled Hadji's wallet. Hadji drew two bills from the wallet and tossed them on the desk before him. Lewis picked them up and grinned as he stuffed them into his pocket. "Well, that's fine, fine."
Hadji rose to his feet. "If you are ready, I wish to go there immediately. I have some important phone calls to make."
"Oh, yeah, sure, sure." Lewis rose also and led Hadji toward the door of the office. "Marjorie," he said to his secretary, "I'll be back in about ten minutes." They walked outside to where Lewis's car was parked at the curb. Lewis opened the door and held it for the diminutive Egyptian, who climbed in and sat rigidly in the front seat. Lewis walked around the car and took his own place in the driver's seat. Turning to Hadji, he said, "You know, you'll like Mrs. March. She's a dear old lady."
"I'm sure," Hadji muttered.
Lewis started the car and pulled away from the curb. "She's been renting that room of hers for as long as I can remember. She don't need the money, really. Got a pension from the phone company and Social Security. But I think she likes meeting people and making a few extra bucks now and then. Know what I mean?" Hadji stared ahead of him without speaking, and Lewis decided to abandon any further attempt at conversation.
Hadji smacked his forehead in consternation. "Ah, I forget. My luggage is at the train station. Can we stop there first?"
"Sure, sure, no problem," Lewis replied. "It's not too far out of the way." He made a sudden turn, throwing Hadji against the passenger door. Hadji strove to appear unruffled, and failed.
Lewis drove a few blocks and then pulled in in front of the Greenfield train station. Hadji scurried out of the car and ran inside. Lewis sat patiently, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, giving an occasional glance at the train station door. After a few minutes had passed, Hadji emerged from the station, carrying two large, obviously very heavy suitcases. Lewis got out of the car and opened the trunk as Hadji came panting over. "Whatcha got in there, rocks?"
Hadji did not understand the joke. "Pardon?"
"I say, whatcha got in there, rocks?"
He shook his head slowly. "No."
Rather than try to explain, Lewis heaved the suitcases into the trunk and then shut it. When they had resumed their places in the front seat, he began to back track along the route to Mrs. March's house. They drove the short distance in silence, Lewis attending to the road and Hadji gazing impenetrably out the window.
Lewis pulled the car to a stop in front of a small cape cod which, though aging, had been very lovingly cared for. The white picket fence which girdled the property displayed a fresh coat of paint, and the carefully-tended garden which ran along the front of the house rested attractively beneath glistening clean windows.
Hadji removed his suitcases from the trunk and insisted upon carrying them himself, even though Lewis had made an attempt to take one of them. Lewis preceded him up the steps and rang the doorbell.
An elderly white-haired woman opened the door with one hand as she wiped the other on her apron. She squinted at Lewis through her bifocals and then smiled. "Oh, hello, Jack. That was quick."
"Woulda been quicker, Mrs. March, but we had to get his bags from the station first." He stepped, inside. "This is Mr. Hadji. Mrs. March."
Hadji extended his hand and bowed slightly. "My pleasure, madam."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hadji. Won't you come in?"
"You two go ahead," Lewis said. "I have to get back to the office." He shook Hadji's hand. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Hadji." Hadji grunted and then picked up his bags and carried them through the door, which Mrs. March was holding for him.
She shut the door and asked, "Where are you from, Mr. Hadji? Not from around here, I'm sure."
"I am an Egyptian," he replied, inspecting the interior of the house. Small foyer, somewhat larger living room, kitchen off to the left, small dining room adjoining it. Stairway against one wall of the living room, doubtless leading to the bedrooms upstairs.
"From Egypt! Isn't that exciting." She smiled maternally. "Are you here as a tourist?"
"No, I am on business." He turned and looked at her, noticing the gentleness of the somewhat watery blue eyes and the face which, wrinkles and the ravages of time notwithstanding, bespoke a kindly and caring personality. "In fact, I decided upon your room because I need peace and quiet while I engage in my business. Mr. Lewis tells me that your son is the only other resident, and that he is not here at the moment?"
"Oh, yes, that's right. Eddy is out in Oregon. He's an architect, you know. He's working on the design for a bridge." She was obviously very proud of her son.
"That's good. I shall be here for less than a week, and I need solitude and privacy. I hope you do not frequently entertain guests?"
She laughed. "Oh, my, no. Most of my friends have passed beyond this veil of tears. Reverend Sloan calls on Saturdays —that's his visiting day—but other than him nobody ever comes by." Smiling, she added, "That's one reason why I rent the room. I like the company."
"Excellent," Hadji muttered. "Perfect."
"Well, if you will follow me, I'll show you the room. I hope—"
"If you please," he interrupted, "I would like first to make a very important phone call. It is long distance, but I shall reverse the charges. May I please use your phone?"
"Oh, yes, of course. It's right in here." She shuffled slowly into the kitchen and gestured toward the wall phone which hung beside the kitchen table.
"Thank you," Hadji said. Picking up the receiver, he dialed "0" and waited for a moment.
"Operator," the tinny voice said on the line.
"Operator, I wish to place a call, a collect call to Mr. Haleel Haftoori in Cairo, Egypt. The number is 46-687-5344."
"Thank you. Please spell the name." He did so. "Thank you. And your name, please?"
"Ahmed Hadji—that's H-a-d-j-i—and please emphasize to the person who answers that I am calling from the United States."
"Thank you. Please hold."
Hadji waited impatiently as the various connections were made and the several operators passed their charge on to one another. At last the connection was made to the number he had given.
"Reclamation," the lightly accented voice said in English.
"Is this Cairo 46-687-5344?" asked the overseas operator.
"Yes, National Institute of Reclamation. May I help you?"
"I have a collect person to person call for Mr. Haleel Haftoori from Mr. Ahmed Hadji in the United States."
"One moment please." There was a pause, and then the institute receptionist said, "Mr. Haftoori is on the line. Go ahead, please."
Hadji spoke now in Arabic. "This is Hadji."
"Hello, my son," said Haftoori, the aged high priest of the ancient cult. "What is the status of your mission."
"I have found the Lord Sekhemib and the others."
"All seven? Intact?"
"I have seen only the Lord Sekhemib. But he is whole and uninjured."
"Praise the gods!" the old man said, his voice shaking with emotion. "Pra
ise the gods!"
"But master, wait." Hadji licked his lips. "There are problems. I arrived too late to prevent the sale of the lords to a museum here in the United States."
"The United States! You are not in England?"
"No, my master. I arrived too late. They have been sold to a museum in a small town here."
"You must acquire them by any means! You must!"
"Yes, I know I must. I shall! But . . ." He stopped speaking.
Haftoori waited for him to continue, and then said angrily, "Yes, yes, go on."
Hadji sighed. There was no way to avoid stating the unpleasant truth. "One of the Americans placed his hand upon the head of the Lord Sekhemib."
Hadji thought he heard a gasp from the other end of the line. There was a long pause, and then Haftoori said, "There is now no choice. You know what must be done."
Though Haftoori could not see him, Hadji inclined his head in respectful submission. "Yes, my master."
"Proceed with caution, but with haste. I shall make the travel arrangements. What phone number can you be found using?"
Hadji looked at the phone housing which hung from the wall. "Area code in the United States 315, number is 642-1119."
"Good. Proceed as you must." Haftoori paused and then added, "Do not reproach yourself, Ahmed."
"I am to blame."
"No, you are not to blame. The tekenu has chosen himself."
Hadji nodded. "Yes, my master."
"The gods bless your labors. Anet hrauthen neteru."
"Anet hrauthen neteru." Homage to the gods.
The phone clicked dead and Hadji replaced the receiver. He turned to Mrs. March, who was standing over the stove, saying, "I've just made some bran muffins. Would you like one?" She moved the hot muffin tin from the stove to the work counter beside the sink and closed the oven door with her knee.
"No thank you, madam. But there is something I wish to show you, if you don't mind."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Come, it is in my suitcase." Hadji went back out to the foyer and, putting one suitcase on its side, opened it and drew out a small leather toiletry case. Mrs. March shuffled in behind him and watched with curiosity as he drew a glass bottle and some cotton from the case.
"Why, whatever is that, Mr. Hadji?"
"I believe, Mrs. March," he replied as he opened the bottle and, holding it some distance from his face, poured some of the liquid contents onto the cotton, "that in English it is called chloroform."
He was on her in an instant. She was too startled to struggle with any success as he pressed the drug-soaked cotton down over her nose and mouth. The old woman attempted to push him away from her, but he forced her to the ground and held her immobile with his weight until by degrees she ceased to struggle. When he was certain that she was unconscious, he released her and returned to his suitcase. He drew a length of rope and a strip of cloth from the side pocket.
Once he had bound and gagged the old woman, he made a quick inspection of the house. He drew the curtains on the side and rear windows but left the front curtains open so as not to arouse the suspicions of the neighbors. He went down into the basement and found it unfinished, a mere storage area, dimly lighted and rather dank. It would do.
He returned to the foyer and dragged Mrs. March to the steps of the basement. She was still unconscious but was beginning to move her hands spasmodically as the small dose of chloroform began to lose its effect. He dragged her down the stairs to the basement and left her lying on the cold stone floor as he returned to fetch his suitcases. He brought them both down with obvious effort and stood for a moment, wiping his brow and trying to catch his breath.
Hadji then opened one suitcase and took out a series of highly polished wooden planks, each one approximately three feet in length and two feet in width. He also took out a screwdriver and a small plastic bottle filled with screws.
He fitted the pieces of wood together, connecting them by means of screws driven into the predrilled holes. He was thinking of other things as he assembled the portable altar. He needed to pay very little attention to his current task, for he had assembled and disassembled and reassembled his portable shrine so often that he could have done it now in the dark, if need be.
A low moan escaped from Mrs. March as she slowly rose back to consciousness. Good, Hadji thought. Her awareness is necessary. He glanced over at her to find her staring at him in confusion and terror. He ignored her pleading eyes and muffled cries, and opened the second suitcase. He drew forth a small obsidian statuette of a man with the head of a jackal. Anubis.
Hadji placed the statuette upon the flat surface of the altar and bowed before it. Mrs. March felt her heart pounding, and she struggled against her bonds as she tried to make out the words she heard Hadji chanting in a high singsong voice.
Then Hadji rose from his knees and walked over to Mrs. March. He took her by the arms and dragged her over to the altar. She tried to force herself to struggle, but she found that fear had bound her more strongly than any rope, and she lay limp. Hadji lifted her to her knees and leaned her frail body over the front of the altar. Then, drawing a knife from his back pocket, he slit her throat.
The blood gushed over the lacquered wood, the severed artery shooting spurts of warm liquid upon the statue of Anubis. Mrs. March's eyes grew glassy, and then ceased to see.
Hadji propped her body against the altar with a nearby milk crate which he had seen, tossed apparently at random into the basement. As the blood poured out of the woman's throat, Hadji prostrated himself before the altar and chanted, "Au arina neterhetepu en neteru, perchkheru en khu." I have made offerings to the gods. I have sacrificed to the spirits. "Anpu kheg tetta, nekhemkua ma aterit." Anubis, Prince of Eternity, deliver me from calamity.
"Anpu neb nifu, nekhemkua ma ab."
Anubis, Lord of the Winds, deliver me from death.
The dark, damp basement echoed to the words of his chant. The only other sound was the sound of the blood running off the altar onto the floor. It ran as if it were a river. Then it dripped. Then it stopped.
CHAPTER 5
Much to his surprise, Roderick had been finding the conversation fascinating. Knowing so little about almost everything, he had sat in rapt attention as Harriet expounded upon the process, techniques, and varieties of mummification, and he found himself reluctant to tear himself away from the table at Bottadio's restaurant when the maitre d' told him that the call he had been trying to place all afternoon and evening had finally gotten through. He playfully enjoined Harriet from continuing her exposition until he returned to the table.
He stood casually with the phone in his hand, one knee bent, one hand thrust in his pocket. If he noticed the curious looks the locals cast in his direction as they passed, he gave no indication. Resting the receiver between his jaw and shoulder, he drew a cigarette from his cigarette case and lighted it. He tapped his foot impatiently and blew smoke rings as he waited.
"Lord Selwyn?" the London operator's voice asked.
"This is Selwyn," he replied testily. "What the devil is the problem now?"
"Terribly sorry for the delay, Your Lordship. We've gotten an answer on the line. Please proceed."
Pause. "Horace Pearson's offices. Are you there?"
"Yes, hello, Gladys?" What's wrong with her voice, he wondered.
"Speaking."
"Selwyn here. I've been trying to get hold—"
"Oh, Your Lordship, it's been terrible here, terrible. Are you returning to England?"
"Return! What on earth for?" He was suddenly concerned. "The damned Commons haven't raised the inheritance tax again, have they?"
"Oh, no, Your Lordship!"
"Well, thank God for that! What's the problem?"
She paused. "Oh, my gracious, haven't you been informed?"
"Damn it all, Gladys. Informed of what?"
"It's Mr. Pearson, Your Lordship. He's dead. He's been killed. Murdered."
Roderick was stunned. "What—what
are you talking about?"
"I am sorry, Your Lordship. I thought you'd been contacted."
"No, no, I had no idea. What happened?"
"No one seems to know. Poor Mr. Pearson left the office to accompany you to the airport yesterday, and he told me that he had an evening appointment with an Eastern gentleman. That was the last time he was seen alive. When I came to the offices this morning, I found him lying on the floor in a pool of blood. His throat had been cut!"
"My God!"
"Yes, it was horrible. I've been at Scotland Yard all day."
"Pearson," Roderick muttered. "Poor old bloke."
"The police want to question the Eastern gentleman, but I have no idea who he was, and poor Mr. Pearson's appointment book is gone. All of his files have been rifled."
"Do the police think this fellow killed him?"
"They don't know. No one seems to know anything."
"Bloody wog!" Roderick spat. He actually had no idea what a wog was, but his uncle had always said that whenever Easterners were discussed, so he felt it to be an appropriate comment.
"Oh, Your Lordship, what are we going to do?"
"Eh? Do? Whatever do you mean?"
"All of Mr. Pearson's records are disorganized, strewn about the office! I've been here for hours, trying to sort things out. I don't know where anything is!"
"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" Roderick was annoyed at the question, but realized as soon as he spoke that his voice had been harsher than intended. More gently, he said, "Gladys, I'm certain that you will persevere. For now, just go home and get some sleep."
"Perhaps I should," she sighed. "I've been here all evening."
"What time is it there?"
"About ten-thirty. I've been trying to reorganize the files since five!"
"Well, then, you certainly had a long enough day. Take tomorrow off," he added expansively.
"Yes, Your Lordship," she replied with relief, even though she was not his employee.
"Goodnight, now," he said. "And don't worry about Pearson's files."
"Goodnight."
Roderick tossed the receiver to the waiting maitre d' and then walked back to the table. Why didn't they call me? he wondered, and then answered his own question. Of course, if they had the itinerary which he had submitted to his people, and not the one which Pearson had written up for him, Scotland Yard would expect him to be in Orlando with his chauffeur, his butler, and most of his luggage. Roderick frowned. Those bloody twits were enjoying Disney World, and he was stuck in this rural backwater. "Damn!" he muttered. And then he thought, Poor old Pearson.
Stolen Souls Page 10
