Lion in the Valley: An Amelia Peabody Novel of Suspense by Peters Elizabeth

Author:Peters, Elizabeth [Peters, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Historical, Adventure, Romance, Humour
ISBN: 9780061798375
Amazon: 0061798371
Goodreads: 10138687
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 1986-03-01T08:00:00+00:00

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Eight

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Suddenly there was a violent upheaval. I found myself on hands and knees, staring dizzily at what seemed to be twenty or thirty feet dancing briskly around me. A few inhalations of blessed ozone cleared my brain; the feet reduced themselves to four.

When I had gained strength enough to sit up, the combatants were locked in a close embrace. In their flowing robes they looked absurdly like two ladies performing a polite social ritual. Only the looks of agonized strain on their faces betrayed the ferocity of the struggle. One of them was Nemo. His turban had been displaced, and his bare head blazed in the rays of the setting sun. The other was a man I had never seen before. The darkness of his complexion suggested that he was a native of southern Egypt.

In a frantic flurry of fabric the men broke apart. Neither held a weapon. The hand of the Egyptian moved in a bewildering blur of motion. Nemo grunted and staggered back, his hands pressed to his midsection. It was a foul blow; but my defender was not daunted. Recovering, he knocked his opponent down with a shrewd uppercut to the jaw, and fell upon him.

The struggle was horrible to behold. I can only excuse my delay in halting it by pointing out that the fumes of the drug still clouded my mind, and that I was still trying to find my pocket. By the time I did so, Nemo was definitely in need of assistance. His assailant had both hands around his throat, and his face was turning black.

In my excitement I forgot myself, and shouted a phrase I had learned from an American friend: “Hands up, you varmint!” I doubt that the miscreant understood, but the tone of my voice was vehement enough to attract his attention, and when he glanced at me the sight of the pistol I held had the desired effect.

Slowly he rose from Nemo’s prostrate form. The fury of battle had faded from his face, to be replaced by a look of quiet resignation, as lacking in character as a mummy’s papier-mâché mask. There was nothing distinctive about his features or his faded cotton robe; they were similar to those of thousands of his fellow countrymen.

Nemo rolled over and staggered to his feet. He was panting heavily, in contrast to his opponent, whose breast was as still as that of a man in prayer. White patches which would shortly be bruises marked Nemo’s face, and a bright stain on his torn sleeve told me the violence of the struggle had reopened his wound. He edged toward me, circling to keep out of the line of fire. “Splendid, Mrs. E., splendid,” he gasped. “Why don’t you give me the pistol now?”

“And risk this fellow escaping while we made the exchange? No, Mr. Nemo. You may question my willingness to fire at a fellow human being—and my ability to hit him if I did—but I’ll wager he has no doubts. You know me now, don’t you, my friend? You made a mistake.

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