Authors: Braven
There was another pause
as the security agent's words sank in. Orloff continued in a casual
tone.
"If you pull this
off, you may have to refuse knighthood a second time."
Holmes dismissed this
idea with a gesture. "Poor Mycroft will be accused of
nepotism."
"It was Bellinger
and Lord Cantlemere who swung the day. I understand Cantlemere was
quite grandiose in his references to you, mentioning, among other
things, 'wooden ships and iron men.'"
"The aged peer may
not be original, but I have no doubts as to his eloquence," was
Holmes's dry comment. His eyes captured my startled ones.
"Well, Watson, we'd
best come up with something or we dare not show our faces on Baker
Street again."
"We, indeed! As
near as I can figure out, you are practically Viceroy of Egypt."
"Let us not
dramatize, ol' chap. Surely the word 'unofficial' will be used
in all dispatches and echoed by that august personage in
Balmoral Castle."
Orloff distrusted
politicians and disliked anything but the direct approach, but he
tried to be fair. "Really the only solution, you know.
'Investigation' is a very elastic word and does present the
government with a disclaimer if 'private' is used in conjunction
with it. The news has been relayed to the right quarters. You can
count on the cooperation of the authorities, as reluctant as
they may be."
"All right,"
said Holmes, springing to his feet. "The matter is coming
to a head, that we know. Our first move is to keep that yacht of Chu
San Fu's under observation. The Hishouri Kamu should also arrive
shortly. Now, if there is to be some revelation to the Moslem world,
it must take place in the Mosque of al-Ashar right here in Cairo. It
has been Islam's center for religious study for a thousand years."
"That concurs with
the feeling of the local men," said Orloff.
"Then we'd best to
bed," said the sleuth. "Why don't you stay with us?"
he asked Orloff. "There is ample room."
"I was hoping you
would ask. The sofa out here will be fine. Let me tend to a few
things, secure my bag, and rejoin you."
The only entry to our
suite was the main door, and I saw what the security agent was up to.
Holmes's presence in Cairo had become vital, and any unwarranted
visitor would have to pass Orloff before reaching our bedroom door.
Since Orloff had the nighttime instincts of a Bengal tiger, I ranked
such an attempt as impossible.
Before extinguishing the
lights, I recounted my adventure in the back alleys of Cairo to
Holmes, and his face reflected sternness, then gravity, and finally
relief.
"Good heavens,
Watson, had your quick wit not come to your aid and you'd come to
harm in the hands of Loo Chan, what would I have done?"
These few words were
Holmes's most emotional reaction since that day when I had been
superficially wounded by a bullet from the gun of Killer Evans. Once
again I had a brief glimpse of the great heart that lurked behind his
usual cold and austere manner. As though ashamed of himself, he shook
off the mood.
"But Shakespeare
was right. 'All's well that ends well.'"
The next morning,
following breakfast, there was a parade of local authorities to
our suite, and I recognized that the situation was an uncomfortable
one. It was they who had put in the time here on the edge of the
Arabian desert, yet in a moment of crisis, an unofficial investigator
from London was to call the shots. To have his associate, a doctor no
less, in attendance would have added to the strain. To vacate the
premises, I contacted Gray and asked if he would take me to the
pyramids as he had volunteered the previous evening. I could tell
that the Colonel felt he was being shunted off again, but he stood by
his invitation.
So it was that we passed
through the city to the Nile bridge. In the morning hours, Gray
informed me, one encountered a true cross-section of natives and
animals, and I agreed with him. There were camels and donkeys and
asses in profusion carrying or being led by turbaned men, veiled
women, and everywhere squalid children. I had expected to be assailed
by Arabs crying for baksheesh, but such was not the case, no doubt
because of Colonel Gray's trim uniform and official manner. On the
other side of the Nile donkeys awaited us, and we mounted them and
set off in the direction of the three huge figures, triangular
lighthouses rising from a sea of sand.
Gray must have
supervised many such a visit and he had, in fact, mentioned the
Prince of Wales's tour of Egypt. Since I recalled that this took
place in '62, he obviously had been on the scene a long time.
He had cautioned me
about the heat and took pains to remind me of my weakened condition
upon my arrival in Egypt. As a precaution I took my small medical kit
with me. The black valise rode nicely in a saddle pouch on my donkey.
The monuments or tombs
seemed but a stone's throw but proved to be considerably further. I
suggested visiting the largest, that of Cheops. As we drew closer, I
was amazed that the pyramid rising more than four hundred feet did
not seem that tall, but the blazing sun, reflected from the stones in
a dazzling manner, made an estimation difficult. At its base, I was
imbued with the thought of climbing to the top, an idea that found
little favor in Colonel Gray's eyes. However, it did not seem
difficult since the pyramid resembled a huge staircase, if one can
accept steps four feet high.
Gray decided to humor
me, and close to half an hour later, sweaty and breathless, I was
atop the oldest and largest of its kind. In former times it had
been taller, but now its apex was a platform that extended thirty or
more feet. Having Gray with me proved invaluable since he pointed out
and named other pyramids, easily seen, along with various
smaller tombs. From where I stood, the emerald green of the valley of
the Nile was of breathless beauty. In contrast, the vast desert that
was everywhere beyond the fruitful reach of the great river was
awesome in
its absolute desolation.
Gray's warnings about
the midday heat were made in a genuinely concerned voice and I began
to heed them, feeling as though I was in Neville's Turkish baths
on Northumberland Avenue.
There was no shade, nor
did there seem to be any at the base of the pyramid either, with the
midday sun blazing on all four sides. Gray took me to the north side,
saying that if we descended two-thirds of the way, we could gain the
entrance to the tomb of Cheops and find refuge from the inferno.
I agreed to this idea promptly. Gray cautioned me to step to the very
edge of each of the great stones, a necessity if one wished to
see the step below. Heights have always bothered me but did not on
this occasion, for all I could think of was relief from the desert
sun and heat.
Our descent was really a
succession of four-foot jumps from one tier to the next. Finally we
made it into a dark corridor that pitched sharply downwards. It was
airy and cool, thank heavens, or so it seemed in comparison to my
ill-conceived climb, which I felt must have melted the superfluous
fat from my frame. Gray offered to take me to the king's and queen's
chambers, but since I understood there was little to see, I declined.
I knew full well that the interior of Cheops was safe and constantly
traversed by tourists, but I was aware of those tons of huge stones
all round us and had an irrational fear of their moving inward and
downward. When I was sure that my body temperature was
sufficiently lowered, I was glad to vacate the entry to the colossus
and descend to our donkeys.
In riding towards the
Sphinx, we passed close by several large tents that I had noted from
the top of the pyramid. Gray had explained that they indicated Arabs
from the south and would be struck when the heat lessened and the
Bedouins chose to continue, probably to Cairo. Some spanking horses
were tethered by them, standing in the slight shade provided by these
white, mobile shelters.
Gray was riding ahead of
me as we drew abreast of the tents, probably computing the number of
times his duties had involved escorting visiting idiots. It was then
that a tall, bearded man emerged from the nearest tent. He was clad
in flowing garments that to my untrained eyes seemed of excellent
quality. Round his middle was a broad belt of interlocking silver
links, and it supported an ornate scabbard that, judging from
the hilt that protruded from it, contained a scimitar. His shoes were
of a soft material, with much handiwork, and the toes were pointed. A
desert dandy, I thought. Behind him came another man with an unkempt
black beard. A curved scar ran from his left temple across his
cheek towards his nose. The old wound had formed a puckered ridge in
healing, which pulled the lower lid of his eye downward, lending a
ghoulish expression to his face.
All this registered in a
split second, for my attention was captured by the curved dagger the
second man was pulling from a sash round his middle. My lips parted
and as a shrill shout burst from them, my right hand grabbed at the
saddle pouch of my donkey, plucking the medical kit from it. I threw
it desperately and the object reached the assailant, catching
him in the head as he lunged at the tall Arab who had whirled round
at my cry.
I know not if my
improvised weapon deflected the attacker's aim. The dagger
plunged, into the loose robe of the Arab, and there was a cry of pain
from him as he kicked his attacker in the groin. Then there was the
flash of the scimitar in the sun and a dull sound like a pole-axe
striking home in a slaughterhouse. The assailant was on the ground,
blood pouring from his neck, his head almost completely severed
from his body.
I was off my donkey in a
trice, every movement from memory and without planning or thought. As
I raced across the sand to retrieve my medical container, I noted the
Arab wipe his scimitar in a practiced fashion on the material of his
garment and return it to its scabbard. But there was a growing
redness in the vicinity of his ribs, and the blood was his.
Gray had reined round
and was trying to grasp the situation. From the tent four or
five forms emerged pell-mell, and as I opened my kit and noted that
the contents were undamaged, it seemed that the group of desert men
were about to annihilate me, for knives and guns appeared like magic.
The wounded man spoke sharply in a foreign tongue that I assumed was
Arabic, and the others drew up short. Then the dignified bearded man
made as though to address me, but did not get the chance.
"I, sir, am John
Watson, M.D. You are wounded, and I insist on tending your needs."
What I expected this to
accomplish I do not know; I couldn't speak to the man in Arabic, not
knowing a word. But this was no time to stand on ceremony, and I had
his garment half open, exposing his chest on the right side and
revealing a sizable though not fatal gash that was bleeding freely.
As I touched him, there was a murmur from the Bedouins behind me, but
another gesture from my patient subdued them. True to their
instincts, they formed a half circle and watched intently. If an Arab
cannot participate, he makes a rapt audience. Gray had recovered his
wits by now and his right hand was moving away from the army issue
holstered at his side, realizing that the tenseness of the situation
was relieved.
I grabbed one of the
Bedouins who formed my audience and pressed him into service. With
gestures, I managed to have him hold the bottle of antiseptic with a
peroxide base that I had automatically secured from my limited
supplies, while I fashioned a padding of cotton. The man's teeth were
broken and his breath was so garlic-ridden that I could have used it
as an antiseptic had I nothing better at hand. His eyes were wide
with fright, like an unwilling volunteer in a magician's act.
Poor beggar probably felt that he was just that, I thought, as I
removed the bottle stopper and indicated for him to pour the contents
onto the pad. A hand gesture stopped the flow of liquid, with which I
then swabbed the wound. Since I had managed to clean off the blood,
the considerable gash was revealed and the peroxide went to work with
its customary fizzing sound and bubbling appearance.
There was a deep sign of
wonder from my Arabian audience, though my patient seemed
unconcerned and stoical. I now was able to wind a bandage round the
man and, for a makeshift job, it seemed tidy enough. As I retrieved
my kit from my Bedouin assistant, I was surprised to note that his
broken teeth were actually chattering and his swarthy skin had
adopted a pale cast. I realize now that to him and his companions as
well, the action of the antiseptic had given the illusion that flesh
was being created by my wizardry. The bearded leader's face was
creased by a gentle smile of understanding.
"Some gesture of
reassurance will work wonders," he prompted, in Oxonian English
that startled me. It was as though we were an alliance of two in
placating less sophisticated minds.