“Ask Hassan to come in,” said Rogers.
Hassan entered, wearing a long white robe and the red Nubian cap, tall, slender, and serious. He saluted the group gravely, according Mrs. Murray an extra flicker of respect. He placed on the table a heavy package wrapped scantily in newspaper, and stood back, looking expectantly at Rogers. Rogers in turn looked at Van Alt, who, with a wave of his hand, indicated that he should proceed.
“Hassan came to us this morning with this story. And although he understands the language well enough, he would rather I tell you what he told us.
“This morning he was cleaning out his carriage when he noticed something about that” — he pointed at the package — “which made him realize he knew more about Beasley s murder than he thought. He hurried to the boat to catch us before we sailed. On the night of the murder Hassan was waiting outside the temple area in front of the cafe to see if he couldn’t pick up some of the people returning from the sound-and-light show and drive them through the temple area and along the boulevard for a view of the river. About half an hour after the sound-and-light was over, a fare got into his carriage and asked to be driven through the temple grounds. Before they moved off, the passenger asked Hassan to go into the cafe and get cigarettes, and to have a drink of some kind for himself.”
Hassan nodded solemnly.
“When he came back, his carriage was gone. One of the other drivers said he had seen it turning into the temple grounds. Hassan was concerned because these carriages are owned by a concessionaire and if any damage was done, he would lose his job. But he waited, and in about fifteen minutes his horse and carriage drove up in front of the café with no harm done, and Hassan was given a big tip — the equivalent of a full week’s earnings.”
Hassan shrugged, as though dismissing hyperbole.
“This package Hassan brought with him today contains a concrete building block, the kind that has two apertures running through it from top to bottom. It weighs, I should judge, between fifteen and twenty pounds. A five- or six-foot length of rope is tied to the block and the other end is snapped to the horse’s bridle. The block is placed on the ground near the horse’s forelegs and its weight discourages him from moving very far. The drivers carry them in their carriages and use them when they can’t hitch to a tree. In the old days, the hitching block used to be a solid, conical piece of iron, made especially for the purpose. But what attracted Hassan’s attention was this.”
Rogers carefully unwrapped the newspaper and set the block up on end. One end was smeared with blackened stains.
“Tell them, Hassan.”
With patriarchal dignity, his flowing sleeve dropping away from his thin arm, Hassan pointed at Mrs. Murray.
“This lady. She take my carriage.”
Trewin looked at her with puzzled amazement, Hunter with startled awe.
“What nonsense! Yes, I took the carriage. But I didn’t kill anyone,” Mrs. Murray said.
“But what could be a weapon, one with bloodstains on it, was found in the carriage you made off with,” Rogers pointed out.
“The explanation is simple,” she said. “Except that.” She pointed to the concrete block. “I can’t explain that. What happened was that when we returned from the sound-and-light, I didn’t feel ready to get back on board. It was a lovely night, with a full moon. I wanted to go back into the temple area where I could see it alone. I walked back to that cafe where the carriages wait and arranged with one of the drivers — it had occurred to me that the driver himself could become a nuisance, so I gave him some money to go into the cafe and get himself cigarettes and a drink. As soon as he was gone, I climbed up on the driver’s seat, picked up the reins, and drove into the temple grounds. But I didn’t kill anyone. What reason would I have to kill a man I’d never seen until a few days before in Cairo?”
“May I have that letter?” Rogers asked Trewin. “The one your sister received from the building inspector. And your papyrus, Mrs. Murray.”
He placed the letter on the table before him and held the square of papyrus up for all to see, feeling, as he did so, his lecture manner returning.
“This papyrus with the cartouche sketched on it was bought by Mrs. Murray at Abdul s shop the day we went to the temple at Abydos. The first character, this horizontal zigzag line, is the symbol for water. The next character, the one here under the first one which looks like a tree branch, is the symbol for wood. The last character, here on the right, looks like a mouth and has the phonetic value of R. These are phonograms, in this case representing consonants in the ancient language of Egypt. The zigzag line stands for N and the tree branch stands for HT. These hieroglyphics may be translated as N, H, T, R.”
Van Alt stirred in his chair. “This is no time to be giving a lecture on the meaning of hieroglyphics,” he muttered.
The others said nothing. Mrs. Murray was quietly attentive, Trewin somber and tense. Hunter reached to pick up his fly whisk, changed his mind, and hastily withdrew his hand.
“Mrs. Murray, you said that you asked Abdul to write your name in hieroglyphics.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Hieroglyphics are generally read from right to left,” Rogers explained. “So the cartouche on your papyrus would show ‘R’ for your first initial. I think you said your first name is Ruth.”
Mrs. Murray nodded.
“The consonants N, H, and T formed the word which meant ‘strong’ in ancient Egyptian. The name you gave to Abdul, from habit, without thinking, was your full name, Ruth Strong — the same Mrs. Strong to whom this letter was addressed. The mother of Eve Strong, who died when Beasley’s roof collapsed.”
He held up Trewin’s worn letter which opened downward on a hinge of tape.
“You and Trewin are sister and brother. The two of you came on this trip to kill Beasley. Trewin has already admitted his intention. I submit that one of you succeeded — you, Mrs. Murray.”
The lounge was silent. Outside, the deckhands were casting off the mooring lines. The ship trembled faintly. The loudspeaker warned.
“I succeeded,” Mrs. Murray said tersely. “I got tired of waiting for Tom. He was too cautious. Luck is better than careful planning. And I was lucky.
“I had just driven the carriage around the corner into the cross street in front of the forecourt steps. I saw Beasley sitting there alone. I stopped the carriage and asked him if he would like to ride with me through the temple area. At first he seemed hesitant, and then shrugged his shoulders as if surprised that someone was offering to share something with him on an open, friendly basis. As Beasley bent his head looking for the step to climb up beside me, I hit him.”
“With what?”
“With what was at hand. That.” She pointed at the building block. “It was on the floor under the driver’s seat. He fell, but he wasn’t dead. I dragged him into that alcovelike place between the obelisk and the wall. I climbed up on the wall and dropped the block on his head from there — about nine feet, I think. Whatever it was, it was enough. There was no question this time. I put the hitching block back into the carriage, continued along the cross street until I was free of the temple area, turned left, and made it back to the boulevard. Hassan was waiting there, very excited, but I tried to convince him the horse had gotten out of control.”
“How did you get back on the boat? The watchman didn’t mention your coming back.”
“The bridge players were just coming back from a walk on the boulevard. I just followed them up the gangplank. The watchman would assume we were all together. Eight people left for a walk. Nine came back.”