“Kit, that isn’t the worst of it though—” Ahmed broke off, as if scared to continue.
“Rachel,” I said.
“They had something with them. They brought it up the back stairs in a covered cage. Something they kept in a separate room. Our bellboy thought it must be a rare animal. He thought they were animal smugglers. Anyway he sneaked into the room. It was a young girl. A lovely girl, with her dark curls spread out over the pillow. She was asleep on the bed, fully clothed in her traveling dress. He was so surprised when he saw her close up that he stumbled and one of the glasses of water he was carrying on a tray fell over. It splashed on her face, Kit, but—”
“She didn’t wake up,” Isaac said in a low voice.
“I’ll kill them,” I said, so angry I could barely speak.
“At least she’s alive,” Isaac murmured, more as if he was trying to convince himself than to me.
“They’ve drugged Rachel. I wouldn’t have thought even the Velvet Mob could have behaved with such cruelty.”
“Probably some sort of sleeping draft,” Isaac said. “My guess is that they gave it to her at the hotel to keep her quiet.”
Dark fears were gnawing at me. Rachel who wouldn’t hurt anybody, the kindest, most truly good person I knew. How could anyone wish to harm her?
“Where are they?” I said.
“Wait, Kit.” Waldo put his hand on my arm. “This party, they left yesterday morning. They’re way ahead of us.”
“Let’s not sit around chatting about it. We’ve got to go after them!”
“Where?” Waldo asked.
“What do you mean?”
“We do not know where they have gone,” Ahmed interrupted gently. “They may have hired a dahabeeyah and gone down the Nile. They may have taken camels across the desert. We do not know where these people are headed.”
“They’re probably going to Memphis. Isn’t that where the scarab comes from?”
“It is not so simple, Kit,” Ahmed said patiently. “They may have gone to my home town and of course I have my own reasons for going back fast but we do not know—”
“Your father!” I blurted overcome with a wave of remorse. My poor friend. Not only did he have Rachel to worry about, he must also be so worried about his dying father.
He ignored me: “The most sensible plan is for me to ask around and see if anybody knows where they are headed. Meanwhile, Kit, I think you should take your aunt and Champlon and stock up on provisions for our journey.”
I wonder if you have ever shopped for provisions for a long desert journey? If you have you will know it is a tiring business. I had been looking forward to my first visit to Cairo’s famous Khan Al Khalil bazaar: narrow, winding streets densely packed with the stalls of turbaned merchants selling everything from amber to sweetmeats to bubbling water-pipes called shishes. Four long hours later, spent trooping around after my aunt and Champlon as she haggled over the price of everything from saddles to sugar, I’d have been happy never to see another bazaar. The din was constant, the chaos and variety of goods startling. I was forced to acknowledge that without Aunt Hilda I’d have been at a loss. Would you, for example, know that you must take a small pair of forceps on a desert trek? If you do not and your horse becomes lame you will be stuck indeed, because there will be no way to remove the thorn. You could scorch to death.
After we had bought more provisions for our journey than I had thought possible we returned to the hotel, where Ahmed told us what he had learned. After we had dressed for dinner—even in the East, apparently, such tedious English customs are observed—we all gathered in the restaurant. Aunt Hilda was wearing an evening dress of emerald velvet with a lace trim. A string of pearls nestled in her bosom. I had never observed such finery on her before and part of me wondered if she was hoping to attract Monsieur Champlon’s attentions. Being the soul of gallantry, the Frenchman was most generous with his compliments:
“Blooming amid ze desert sands, ze fair rose of Cairo!”
“Nonsense,” Hilda mumbled, blushing. “Order a bottle of claret if you please, monsieur. I’m absolutely parched.”
The restaurant at Shepheard’s was a glorious sight; a cavern of a room held up with pillars, the walls richly ornamented with Arabic carvings. Through the vast space stretched many dozens of tables, topped by snowy linen and glittering crystal. The dresses of the women were no less brilliant. I have seldom seen such a profusion of diamonds, emeralds and rubies. I could fancy that the room was crowded with countesses and dukes; the kings and queens of Europe could dine here. My steak and kidney pudding was excellent. A miracle that the hotel chefs could produce such fare from the bazaars of Cairo, though I suspected the steak was more horse than cow.
“Who are all these people?” I asked my aunt, looking around at the fashionable throng.
“Lightweights,” she snorted. “Mere tourists for the most part. Egypt is most fashionable in Europe nowadays, which I suppose is partly my fault for writing such exciting books. Though I blame that pest of a man Thomas Cook more. Ever since he started his tours down the Nile there have been streams of riff-raff coming here for their health. They infest the place. Get in the way of serious Egyptologists.”
“Such a nuisance for you.”
“They should be banned. Hello! Who’s over there?” My aunt had half-risen and was peering at a solitary diner in the corner of the room. He was an Egyptian-looking fellow, dressed in a cream suit. His black hair was smoothed down with grease. When my aunt pointed him out Ahmed stiffened and grabbed my arm, his fingers gripping too hard.
“I do believe it’s my old friend Ali,” Aunt Hilda exclaimed. “What a stroke of luck! Ali worked for me last time I was here. In fact he helped me find the mummy of Ptah Hotep.” She signaled to a passing waiter who glided over. “Present the compliments of Hilda Salter to the gentleman in the corner. Ali whatsis-name. Ask him to join us for a brandy.”
“Stop her,” Ahmed hissed in my ear. “That’s my cousin. He is a bad person.” The waiter had left and few minutes later the smooth young man stood by our table, a pleasant smile on his lips. He bowed to us all and then with an even broader grin, turned to Ahmed.
“My little cousin. Are you well, Ahmed?”
“Quite well,” my friend said, making it sound like a curse.
“It is indeed a pleasure to meet such good friends in these surroundings.”
Aunt Hilda was beaming. “This settles it. Tomorrow we ride early to Memphis. Would you accompany us as guide and interpreter?”
“I can interpret for you,” Ahmed put in but Ali had already accepted the job offer. They were very alike, the cousins, doe-eyed and strong boned. Whereas Ahmed could be stiff and awkward, Ali was all silk and honey.
I retired soon after dinner, determined to be fresh for our early start. In the corridors outside our rooms Ahmed stopped us.
“I don’t like this,” he hissed. “Ali is rotten.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Isaac said.
“Seems like a nice enough fellow,” said Waldo.
“’Nice! My cousin would not know ‘nice’ if you served it to him for dinner!” snapped Ahmed. “He is bad. Please be careful. I think he is their spy.”
“Hold on, Ahmed,” Isaac said. “He doesn’t even know the Baker Brothers or the Velvet Mob. I know he pulled a pretty mean trick on your family but that—”
“I think we should listen to Ahmed,” I interrupted him. “This is his homeland. He knows his cousin.”
“All I ask is be aware. Do not trust my filthy cousin. Do not tell him anything!”
I went to bed with Ahmed’s words ringing in my ears. It was a chilly night, though that didn’t stop the droning of mosquitoes. The little blood-suckers loved to feast on foreign flesh. Shepheard’s Hotel, standing in the middle of large gardens, was particularly bad for the insects. I crawled under the mosquito net, extinguished my gas lamp and laid my head on the pillow.
One of my blessings is that I sleep extremely well. Tonight, howe
ver, I found it hard to drop off. It didn’t help that there was a pack of wild dogs fighting somewhere under my window. I’m sure English mongrels do not make such a nuisance of themselves. When I did finally fall asleep, I was plagued by strange dreams. I was traveling down the Nile, light as a bird skimming over the twinkling waters. My arms were sails, hovering this way and that. My feet touched the water but didn’t get wet. Then slowly the river changed, and a low, tuneful melody started up. The Nile was no longer a thing of sparkling light and glory but an encircling net. It snaked around me in the darkness; oily, glistening, threatening to strangle me.
Panic bubbling inside me, I awoke with a start. That noise! With relief I realized it was only the muezzin, wailing from the top of his minaret, the call to prayer. This uncanny noise is a familiar sign here, a bit like the church bells ringing back home. God is great, the muezzin sang in his mournful heathen language. Everything was all right.
Or was it? As my eyes grew used to the gloom I saw something on top of my mosquito net. Bright eyes watched me. The thing glided down, making its way inexorably toward me. Dimly I saw glistening scales. A hood puffed up over its eyes, as it hissed. Someone had torn the net, leaving a hole for the snake to crawl through. I froze. Everything I’d ever heard about cobras flashed through my mind. If I was very careful, if I didn’t provoke it, I would have a chance of getting away. Cobras only lashed out if they were scared, I tried to tell myself. All the time I was aware that if the cobra bit me, I could die.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mouth very dry, palms sweating, I slowly sat up in the bed. No sudden movements, I told myself. I inched back against the wall, keeping my eyes lowered. The snake was hissing to show how angry it was, a slow continuous noise, like escaping gas. I drew up my knees till they were under my chin. Most of me wanted to bolt, right then and there, but I knew that would be fatal. The snake would have struck, too quick and sure for me to have any chance. My only hope lay in keeping my head.
I levered my body out of the bed, as slow as I could manage. I was so close to the cobra I could have reached my hand out and stroked it. I’d read somewhere that if you touch the back of a cobra’s neck, on the correct nerve, it goes limp and you can carry it like a length of rope. I was not so foolish as to believe I could manage this snake-charmer’s trick.
I was out of the bed, away from the cobra’s fangs. A clock chimed as I opened the door to my room. It was unlocked, though of course I had locked it before I retired to bed. Safely outside I let all my fright come pouring out and I screamed and screamed, like I never have before in my life. Down the corridors doors opened. Guests in nightcaps and gowns tumbled out of their rooms, cross and groggy. Among them were my friends. Ahmed quickly understood my story and a bellboy, who had been asleep in the corridor, was dispatched to find the gardener. Minutes later he returned with the man and we all followed him into my bedroom.
The cobra had curled up and gone to sleep in the middle of my bed as peacefully as a kitten. It gleamed against the white sheets; hard to believe now that I had been so scared of it. We watched as the gardener picked it up with a forked stick, holding it away from his body. Now we could see the splendid snake in its true light. It writhed and hissed furiously, spitting venom in a poisonous spray. The gardener was cool as anything, he flicked it with his finger and suddenly it went all limp. The snake was unconscious.
“He will not hurt it. We Egyptians have worshipped snakes since the time of the Pharaohs. He will take it away. To the other side of Ezbekiya Gardens,” Ahmed explained. “This man is very good with all wild things.”
“Why does everything happen to you, Kit?” Waldo exclaimed, jealously. I was about to explode at him, to tell him it was actually horribly frightening to wake up with a great snake in one’s mosquito net when Ahmed interrupted:
“It was my cousin, Ali. He put the snake in your mosquito net.”
“What?” I gaped at him. “Why do you say that?”
“This bears all the marks of Ali. It is just his style. I tell you, Kit, I remember his sense of humor from when he came to stay at our house during the holidays. I am sure it was him. I know it in my bones.”
“My bedroom door was unlocked,” I said slowly. “I’m absolutely sure I locked it before I went to bed. And my mosquito net. I remember now. Someone had torn it so there was a hole for the snake to crawl through. You think it was Ali?”
“Nonsense,” said my aunt Hilda who had joined the group just in time to witness the gardener’s dispatch of the snake. “You’re saying Ali put a cobra in Kit’s bed? Sheer nonsense. He’s one of the best guides I’ve ever had. Terribly knowledgeable chap, not to mention trustworthy.”
“Trustworthy!” Ahmed snorted, but I shushed him gently.
“Where is he then?” he went on angrily. “Where is he, if he is such a fine man?”
The excitement with the snake over, most people had returned to their bedrooms. The hall was empty. Only the boy who slept in the corridor lay curled up on the bare floor. Ahmed strode over to him and questioned him in Arabic. A few minutes later he returned and beckoned us to join him. We climbed a flight of back stairs, not carpeted in red velvet like the front ones, but bare and dingy, and emerged in another corridor. Room number 33. Ahmed tapped on it. There was no answer. He tried the door knob, which opened without resistance.
“See for yourselves!” he said, standing aside. “My cousin’s room.”
A curtain fluttered in the breeze from the wide open window. The bed was disheveled, blankets and sheets pushed to one side and spilling on to the floor. The basin from the washstand had tipped over, water collected in a puddle under it. Of valises and suitcases, of clothes and personal possessions, there was no sign. Except for one polished leather shoe, which half protruded from the pile of bedclothes. Someone had cleared out in a hurry, judging by the way they had forgotten a fine shoe.
Why had Ali tried to murder me, if indeed he had placed the cobra in my net? He didn’t know me, had no grudge against me. If Ali was the culprit he must be working for someone else. Like the Baker Brothers. But why had he disappeared like this? Surely the logical thing was for the villains to have left him here to spy on us. Unless he was scared that Ahmed had unmasked him. My head was full of questions, a cloud of buzzing gnats.
“Now do you believe me?” Ahmed said, staring my aunt fiercely in the face. “This man Ali, he betrayed my father, his own flesh and blood. He would think nothing of murdering Kit.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Zis is ze only life.” Monsieur Champlon smiled back at me on my old donkey, struggling to keep up as his stallion cantered smoothly over the golden sands. “Ze nomad way, it speaks to ze soul.”
“If you enjoy torturing yourself,” I muttered. How I longed for my own pony, Jesse. Trust my aunt to make sure she and Champlon rode Arab steeds while us “children” had donkeys. We had been riding through the desert since dawn and were finally approaching Memphis. Dust was irritating my eyes, I was parched and my head was throbbing. The heat was so relentless as we trotted toward our destination, I felt I was being roasted in some celestial furnace.
While my friends and I sweltered and suffered, the Frenchman, Ahmed and my aunt, were taking the pace in their stride. Monsieur Champlon in his pale flowing robes, turban wound magnificently over his head like a large red and yellow pillow, looked as if he had been born to this life.
“You enjoy?” Champlon went on.
“Of course Kit is enjoying it. She’s a Salter!” my aunt boomed, turning back on her fine mare. “Why, this is hardly proper desert at all. Just a little canter through the dunes, if you ask me.”
“I’m having the time of my life,” I said firmly. I did not want to give my aunt any cause for pitying remarks. “It’s magnificent.”
Magnificent our trip had truly been, through the rim of Cairo past the great pyramids of Giza, to which we had given scarcely a glance as we sped by on our mounts. How I wished we could stop. The pyramids. The last
one remaining of the seven ancient wonders of the world. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Colossus of Rhodes may have vanished in the sea of time, but the mighty pyramids still remain. What did I feel as I first saw them? Incredible as it might seem, I was a bit disappointed. You see, I had imagined them so many times that when I first glimpsed them it was something of an anti-climax. Almost like paper boxes buried in a child’s sandbox.
To tell the truth though, we scarcely got a good impression. Just a snatched glance as we rode past. I’ll come back to you, I promised the pyramids. Your mysteries shall not be forever hidden to me.
Finally we reached Memphis and again there was the sense of anti-climax.
“This is it?” I asked, joining the others in dismounting from my donkey. Champlon offered me a swig of water from his goatskin and I accepted with gratitude. Foolishly I had drunk all my precious liquid.
“The capital city of the ancient world,” Ahmed said, remaining on his donkey.
“But …” I began and stopped.
“Time …” Ahmed murmured.
He didn’t need to complete his sentence: time was the great destroyer. Where once mighty palaces and temples had stood there was now just a few heaps of rubble. Mud, sand, desolation. In fact the only remnant of former glory, a reminder that Pharaohs once ruled Memphis, were two huge statues lying past a clump of palm trees, face down in pools of mud. The once mighty Colossus of Rameses.
“Can we go on now? My family …” Ahmed gestured across the sand, to the distance where we could see the peaks of more pyramids. Sakkara, the graveyard of the old kingdom of Memphis. We knew Ahmed’s family lived just past it, in a small village.
“Of course,” Isaac said, hurriedly remounting the rather frisky donkey he had been given. Even though we were all weary and needed to stretch our legs, we understood. Finally so close to home, Ahmed must be desperate to see his father.
There were several more miles of hard riding before we neared Sakkara. Our Egyptian friend had sped up his pace as he neared home, ignoring the peak of the Sakkara pyramids, ignoring the urchins who ran after us selling their “antiques.” They thrust scarabs and other treasures at us, even trying to get in front of our horses, but Ahmed yelled at them and they scattered. This vast graveyard stretched for miles around us. We could see that the earth was littered with shards of ancient pottery, bits of bones and a spongy substance, which according to my aunt was the decayed stumps of mummies.
The Mummy Snatcher of Memphis Page 15
