The Deeds of the Disturber (5 page)

Since four o'clock was the hour he had indicated, I had a little time to spare before leaving to keep the appointment, and I occupied it in reviewing the past week's newspapers. They had been tidied away, but at my request one of the footmen retrieved them and brought them to my room.

By the time I had finished reading, my amused tolerance for Mr. O'Connell had completely evaporated. His cool and unfounded statement that we had consented to investigate a fictitious criminal case was bad enough. His most recent references to us were positively infuriating.

Since the so-called mystery was no mystery at all, only a string of meaningless coincidences, it would have died a natural death had not

O'Connell and his co-conspirators of the press kept it alive by various doubtful stratagems. Especially useful to them were the activities of certain members of the lunatic public, including the
sem
priest who had been mentioned in an earlier article. This individual had become a regular visitor to the exhibit where, attired in flowing white robes and moth-eaten leopard skin, he prostrated himself and performed mysterious rituals with the intention, one presumes, of propitiating the mummy.

Emerson and I had been Mr. O'Connell's principal victims. There were several stories about our past activities, including a picture of Emerson that would assuredly drive him to homicide when he saw it. The artist had depicted an incident that had occurred the summer before, on the steps of the British Museum. Emerson had only waved his fist under Mr. Budge's nose, he had never actually struck the man; but the drawing might have served as an illustration to a sensational novel—"Take that, you dastardly cur!" Budge's bulging eyes and look of abject terror were very cleverly portrayed. (The dispute, a mere tempest in a teapot, had arisen after Budge had the effrontery to write to
The Times
objecting to Emerson's valid criticisms of an Egyptian pottery exhibition. In the course of the letter he had used language no gentleman should use of another.)

Mr. O'Connell had not even scrupled to exploit an innocent child in his pursuit of a journalistic sensation. The paragraphs mentioning Ramses were in the worst possible taste. There was no need to mention the fact that Ramses was regarded by certain Egyptians (the most ignorant and superstitious) as a kind of juvenile jinni, a demon in youthful shape. I also deeply resented O'Connell's implication that only negligent, uncaring parents would expose a child so young and so "delicate" (his word, not mine) to the unhealthy climate and manifold perils of an archaeological excavation. Compared to London, Egypt is a veritable health resort, and I had certainly done all any human female could do to prevent Ramses from exploring abandoned pyramids, being buried alive in the sand, and carried off by Master Criminals.

So it was in a frame of mind almost as homicidal as Emerson's would have been that I prepared myself for the assignation. I had of course meant to take my parasol. I never go abroad, in London or in Egypt, without it. It is the most useful object imaginable, serving not only as a protection against sun or rain, but, when need calls, as a defensive weapon. At the last minute I turned back to the bureau and removed from it another article of attire. Emerson is always making fun of my belt, even though the implements attached to it, in the manner of an old-fashioned chatelaine, have more than once saved us from a horrible
and lingering death. Matches in a waterproof box, a little flask of pure water, notebook and pencil, scissors, knife—these examples are sufficient to explain why my belt was an indispensable aid in all climes and countries—including certain parts of London. The belt itself was of stiff leather, two inches wide, and on one memorable occasion it had served me well—to fend off (for a brief but vital interval) a threat more perilous than death.

I managed to leave the house unobserved by any of the occupants except Gargery the butler. He was new to the post, having been hired since I last was in England: a sandy-haired, youngish man of medium height and build, with an ingenuous face that had not quite mastered the perfect imperturbability the office requires. He stared at my belt and its jingling accouterments as if he had never seen such a thing before (which in fact I suppose he had not).

St. James's Square is not far from Pall Mall and the bustling traffic of Regent Street; but on that dismal spring afternoon it might have been a thousand miles from the city. Fog muffled the clatter of wheels and horse's hooves and gave a ghostly air to the budding trees that surrounded the pool in the center of the square.

Following the direction O'Connell had indicated, I turned into York Street and then into the first street opening off to the left. I hoped I was going the right way; I wished he had not been so cursedly vague and theatrical. His gesture of drinking left open the question of whether he referred to a restaurant, or a teashop, or a coffee stall; the only thing I could do was walk on until I found an establishment in which liquid refreshment was purveyed, or until I saw O'Connell himself.

Before long I found myself in a neighborhood quite unlike the aristocratic purlieus of St. James's Square. It was respectable enough, I suppose, but the houses were cramped close together and the people hurrying by had a shabby, harried look. There were not many umbrellas in evidence; I held mine high, peering keenly from side to side in search of a familiar face and form.

It was not his face or form I made out first, but the flaming Titian locks not even a London pea-souper could mute. He stood peering out from the recessed doorway of an establishment bearing the extraordinary name of The Green Man; seeing me approach, he waved his cap and a broad smile spread across his freckled face.

I furled my umbrella and joined him in the shelter of the recess. Keeping a wary eye on the umbrella, he began, "Sure and you brighten the gloomy day, Mrs. Emerson. Indeed and the Fountain of Youth must be in Egypt, for you gain in youth and beauty each time—"

I shook the umbrella at him. "Spare me the brogue and the empty compliments, Mr. O'Connell. I am seriously annoyed with you."

"Empty, is it? Sure an' I spoke from the deepest depths . . . Please, ma'am, won't you open that infernal parasol and accompany me to a place where we can talk?"

"This will do nicely," I said, indicating the door.

O'Connell's eyes popped. "My dear Mrs. Emerson, this is hardly—"

"It is a public house, is it not? Very interesting. I have never patronized such an establishment. Emerson, though in general the most obliging of men, has always refused to visit one with me. Come, Mr. O'Connell; I am exceedingly short of time and I have a great deal to say to you."

"Sure an' I'll wager that's the truth," muttered O'Connell. With a shrug he followed me inside.

Our entrance caused something of a stir, though I cannot imagine why; I was certainly not the only woman present. In fact, there was a female behind the bar—a fleshy young person who would have been rather pretty if she had not painted her cheeks such a garish pink.

I led the way to a table, Mr. O'Connell trailing after me, and summoned the barmaid with a flourish of my parasol. Poor thing, she seemed to be a trifle lacking. When I ordered a pot of tea, her jaw dropped and she stared blankly at me.

"I'm afraid ..." O'Connell began.

"Oh, I see. This is an establishment in which only alcoholic beverages are served? In that case, I will just have a whiskey and soda."

O'Connell ordered, and I added in a kindly voice, "The table appears to be rather sticky, young woman. Please wipe it off." She continued to gape. Nudging her gently with my parasol I said, "Run along, run along. Time is of the essence."

Mr. O'Connell did not relax until I had stowed the parasol under my chair. Planting his elbows on the table, he leaned toward me.

"You are late, Mrs. E. Did you have trouble following my instructions?"

"Not at all, though they certainly might have been more explicit. However, I would not have troubled myself to follow them had I not been seriously annoyed with you. My only reason for being here is to demand an apology and a retraction for the things you have been saying about us in your wretched newspaper."

"But I said only the most complimentary things about you and Mr. Emerson," O'Connell protested.

"You implied I was an unfit mother."

''
Twas no such thing! My exact words were, 'She is the most affectionate of parents—' "

' 'Which makes her inability to prevent the lad from engaging in hair-raising adventures all the more astonishing.' " O'Connell met my stern gaze with eyes as blue, as limpid, and as serene as the lakes of Eire. "Well," I said after a moment, "perhaps, after all, the statement is not entirely inaccurate. But what on earth was in your reputed brain, Kevin, to say Professor Emerson and I had consented to solve the mystery of the malignant mummy? That is a flat-out fabrication."

"I said no such thing. I said—"

"I have not the time to exchange quibbles with you," I said sternly. "I slipped out of the house without Emerson's knowledge; if he misses me he will raise a hullaballoo."

A shudder ran through Kevin's wiry frame. "A very descriptive word, Mrs. E."

The young person shuffled up, carrying a tray and a damp cloth. The cloth was not very clean, but the energy with which she swabbed the table indicated a willingness to please, and so I forbore to comment, only pointing out a few spots she had missed. Kevin had already seized his glass and consumed a considerable amount of the contents. He ordered another of the same, and I remarked in the kindliest possible fashion, "Young woman, that is a very nice frock, but with so much of your chest exposed, you run the risk of catching a severe cold. Have you no scarf or shawl?"

The girl shook her head dumbly. "Take mine, then," I said, removing it from about my neck. It was a nice, thick wool plaid. "There. No, wrap it closely—so—that is much better. Now run along and get this gentleman his—what was it, Mr. O'Connell? Stout? A curious name for a beverage."

But O'Connell's arms were on the table and his head rested on his arms, and his shoulders were shaking. In response to my inquiries he assured me he was quite all right, though his face was almost as red as his hair and his lips were quivering.

"Now," I said, sipping my whiskey, "what were we talking about?"

O'Connell shook his head. "I have not the slightest idea. Conversation with you has a strange effect on my brain, Mrs. Emerson."

"Many people find it difficult to follow my mental processes," I admitted. "But really, Kevin, your profession demands quick thinking, flexibility, concentration. Especially the latter. You must learn to concentrate.

"We were discussing your statement that Professor Emerson and I had consented to investigate the case of the curse."

"I did not say you had consented. I said you would be consulted."

"By whom? The
Daily Yell?"

"Would that 'twere true," Kevin exclaimed, pressing his hand to his heart in an outrageous parody of rapture. "My editors would pay any sum—any reasonable sum, that is—to retain you and the professor as consultants. Dare I hope—"

"No, you may not. Not only would it be beneath our dignity to have our names associated in a professional capacity with a newspaper— especially a disgusting example of libelous trash like the
Daily Yell
— but there is absolutely nothing to consult about. We are not detectives, Mr. O'Connell. We are scholars!"

"But you solved the Baskerville murder—"

"That was another matter altogether. We were called into that case as Egyptologists, to carry on the work begun by Lord Baskerville, whose mysterious death was followed by other incidents of a desperate and dangerous and distracting character. This case is quite different. It is a wisp, a fiction, concocted by Mr. Kevin O'Connell."

"Now, indeed, ma'am, you wrong me. I am not the guilty party. Will you condescend to let me explain?"

"I have been waiting for you to do so."

Kevin tugged at his fiery locks. "It was not I who broke the story. It was—someone else. Such a sensation was aroused that my editors felt we had to follow it up. Since I am regarded as something of an authority on ancient Egypt and supernatural curses ... I couldn't refuse, Mrs. E., without risking the loss of my position. What was I to do?"

"Hmmm," I said thoughtfully. "The rival to whom you refer is the M. M. Minton of the
Morning Mirror?
I recall seeing the name on several stories, and wondering that the
Mirror
would stoop to such sensationalism. You weave a touching tale, Mr. O'Connell, but the fact remains that you have exploited your acquaintance with me in a contemptible manner."

"But you are my greatest asset," O'Connell explained guilelessly. "My acquaintance—dare I say friendship? No, perhaps not . . . My acquaintance, then, with you and the professor is the only advantage I have over rival journalists. It was my personal connection with the Baskerville case that made my reputation—and yours, insofar as the reading public is concerned. You and the professor are news, Mrs. E. People are fascinated by archaeology and archaeologists. Add to that
your—how shall I put it?—your panache, your disregard for convention, your remarkable talent for criminal investigation—"

"I prefer the term 'panache,' " I interrupted. "I cannot explain why Emerson and I are so often involved with violent crime; I am inclined to attribute it to a certain frame of mind, an awareness of suspicious circumstances that elude persons of duller wit."

"No doubt that is the case," Kevin said, nodding seriously. "So you understand why I was forced to mention your names."

"To understand all is not to forgive all," I replied. "This must cease, Mr. O'Connell. Our names must never again appear in your periodical."

"But I was hoping for an interview," O'Connell exclaimed. "The usual interview, concerning your archaeological excavations this past season."

His soft blue orbs met mine with a look so open, that a person unacquainted with him would instantly have offered him her confidence. I smiled ironically. "You must take me for a fool, Kevin. We read your effusions on the Fraser case. * Emerson raged for days. I feared for his health."