people who see you will not know the object of your search.’
Sullenly the escort fell in. Dame Beatrice was led through the labyrinthine cavern once more, and, sooner than she had anticipated, she and her bandits were picking their way among the pebbles and boulders of the dried-up watercourse. This wound round the foot of the mountain and they followed it for several miles. At last Carlos, who was in the lead, called a halt.
‘We are now’, said he, ‘in line with the cave. It is where we found the twenty-third king. Here.’ He pointed to the ground. ‘We must clamber up this cliff. It is a steep climb, not dangerous. We will eat before we attempt it.’
He produced gofio , the unleavened bread of the island, cheese, and fruit, and the five of them perched themselves on boulders for a picnic. The bandits offered no conversation, but champed and swallowed, or spat out bits of fruit-skins and pips, in what Dame Beatrice recognized as a comradely and sociable manner. At the end of a quarter of an hour of stolid mastication, and a swig all round from a flask of raw, red wine, the escort rose as one man, and Carlos led the way to the bank and began to climb. The woods were thick here on the mountain-side, and formed an effective screen up to a thousand feet. After this there was nothing but heather until they had climbed to the next wooded slope. Above this was the cave, which they reached by a narrow gulley between two lava streams.
When the party were all assembled at the mouth of the cave, the bandits lit their lanterns, crossed themselves, and advanced towards the stone table around which the dead men were stiffly and majestically seated. Dame Beatrice made a rapid count, and then, accompanied by Carlos, who seemed not to relish the task, she inspected each cadaver closely.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Ask your comrades to gather round. I must have witnesses.’ She stripped the mask from the swathed head of the tallest dead man. The bandits, who had gathered round, recoiled and crossed themselves. ‘Here, you see,’ she said, ‘is the face of Mr Emden. Help me to lay him flat and take off his robes.’
CHAPTER 7
Owls and Pussy-Cats
‘ STABBED IN THE back, and with an islander’s knife? So we know where we are,’ said Peterhouse, ‘and that is something. Now the authorities will have to deal with it. Not that they’re the slightest bit of good. They will probably think that the fact that a modern man has joined the kings in the cave will add to the attractions for tourists.’
Pentland Drashleigh took it upon himself to report to Ruiz, and to order him to call in the police. Ruiz became excited, and retorted that his hotel had always borne a good name.
‘What are the police?’ he demanded with impassioned rhetoric. ‘Dogs, cowards, assassins, creeping cut-purses, usurers, spies! I tell you, you can trust them with nothing! This Emden was an Englishman. Why should my hotel be turned into a sty for these pigs of policemen? If an Englishman is killed on Hombres Muertos, is it my fault? Can I help it if other Englishmen wish to send him to hell? It is you others who must see to it. I will not countenance the police. They would eat my food, drink my wine, and ravish my daughter. No, I tell you! A thousand times, no! If the police come here, I tell them at once that the English do it. You!’ He pointed dramatically at Mr Drashleigh. ‘You, perhaps, are the man!’
‘Very well,’ said Dame Beatrice, coming to the rescue. ‘There is much in what you say, Señor Ruiz. I have had experience of investigating the causes of unnatural death, and am prepared to undertake the duty of finding Mr Emden’s murderer. I shall rely upon the willing cooperation of you all.’
‘Clement,’ said Mr Drashleigh, ‘must be taken back to our home on Santa Catalina. He cannot be mixed up in this horrible business.’
‘He has contrived to mix himself up in it,’ Dame Beatrice pointed out, ‘but I agree with you
Sullenly the escort fell in. Dame Beatrice was led through the labyrinthine cavern once more, and, sooner than she had anticipated, she and her bandits were picking their way among the pebbles and boulders of the dried-up watercourse. This wound round the foot of the mountain and they followed it for several miles. At last Carlos, who was in the lead, called a halt.
‘We are now’, said he, ‘in line with the cave. It is where we found the twenty-third king. Here.’ He pointed to the ground. ‘We must clamber up this cliff. It is a steep climb, not dangerous. We will eat before we attempt it.’
He produced gofio , the unleavened bread of the island, cheese, and fruit, and the five of them perched themselves on boulders for a picnic. The bandits offered no conversation, but champed and swallowed, or spat out bits of fruit-skins and pips, in what Dame Beatrice recognized as a comradely and sociable manner. At the end of a quarter of an hour of stolid mastication, and a swig all round from a flask of raw, red wine, the escort rose as one man, and Carlos led the way to the bank and began to climb. The woods were thick here on the mountain-side, and formed an effective screen up to a thousand feet. After this there was nothing but heather until they had climbed to the next wooded slope. Above this was the cave, which they reached by a narrow gulley between two lava streams.
When the party were all assembled at the mouth of the cave, the bandits lit their lanterns, crossed themselves, and advanced towards the stone table around which the dead men were stiffly and majestically seated. Dame Beatrice made a rapid count, and then, accompanied by Carlos, who seemed not to relish the task, she inspected each cadaver closely.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Ask your comrades to gather round. I must have witnesses.’ She stripped the mask from the swathed head of the tallest dead man. The bandits, who had gathered round, recoiled and crossed themselves. ‘Here, you see,’ she said, ‘is the face of Mr Emden. Help me to lay him flat and take off his robes.’
CHAPTER 7
Owls and Pussy-Cats
‘ STABBED IN THE back, and with an islander’s knife? So we know where we are,’ said Peterhouse, ‘and that is something. Now the authorities will have to deal with it. Not that they’re the slightest bit of good. They will probably think that the fact that a modern man has joined the kings in the cave will add to the attractions for tourists.’
Pentland Drashleigh took it upon himself to report to Ruiz, and to order him to call in the police. Ruiz became excited, and retorted that his hotel had always borne a good name.
‘What are the police?’ he demanded with impassioned rhetoric. ‘Dogs, cowards, assassins, creeping cut-purses, usurers, spies! I tell you, you can trust them with nothing! This Emden was an Englishman. Why should my hotel be turned into a sty for these pigs of policemen? If an Englishman is killed on Hombres Muertos, is it my fault? Can I help it if other Englishmen wish to send him to hell? It is you others who must see to it. I will not countenance the police. They would eat my food, drink my wine, and ravish my daughter. No, I tell you! A thousand times, no! If the police come here, I tell them at once that the English do it. You!’ He pointed dramatically at Mr Drashleigh. ‘You, perhaps, are the man!’
‘Very well,’ said Dame Beatrice, coming to the rescue. ‘There is much in what you say, Señor Ruiz. I have had experience of investigating the causes of unnatural death, and am prepared to undertake the duty of finding Mr Emden’s murderer. I shall rely upon the willing cooperation of you all.’
‘Clement,’ said Mr Drashleigh, ‘must be taken back to our home on Santa Catalina. He cannot be mixed up in this horrible business.’
‘He has contrived to mix himself up in it,’ Dame Beatrice pointed out, ‘but I agree with you
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