He tried thirty, then forty. Nothing; he was still left standing in the middle of the garden. He switched directions, going north instead of east, but found nothing. One or two tourists, watching him, were beginning to mutter among themselves; he decided to stop.
“We need a guidebook,” Ross said.
Angela bought one, and he thumbed to the index, looking under Irving, Washington. He found the proper page.
There was only a paragraph, describing the American writer’s fascination with the hilltop fortress and his careful collection of all fables associated with the buildings. Several of the stories were summarized at the bottom of the page. Ross glanced over them briefly.
Then, returning to the text, he read: “A bronze plaque, 16 by 24 inches, stands in the south wall of the Palacio Arabe, commemorating Washington Irving’s interest in the Alhambra. It was erected in 1894, and bears the inscription …”
“Come on,” Ross said, closing the book. “I think we’re onto something.”
“Figured it out?”
They walked across the courtyard, toward the Arab Palaces. “Yes. I had the number of paces right. But I was starting from the wrong place.”
They came up to the plaque, the letters raised and slightly corroded.
“Washington Irving,” Ross said. “Twenty paces east from the Washington Irving …”
He stepped it off. He was heading for the Alcazaba, with its twenty-foot-high walls of brown masonry. He covered fourteen paces, then sixteen, and stopped.
At sixteen, he was up against the wall.
“Wrong again,” Angela said.
“Maybe my paces were too big. Hamid was shorter.”
Angela lit a cigarette, and Ross leaned against the wall. He thought about the problem. Even if he reduced the size of his steps, he would strike the wall too early. That couldn’t be it.
He looked around the ground, but the dirt was hard-packed, undisturbed.
“Maybe it’s inside the wall itself,” Angela said. “Maybe there’s a secret tunnel or a passage.”
They turned to look at the wall, running their fingers over the crude bricks, touching, feeling.
“Señor y Señorita.”
They turned. It was a policeman. He looked at them curiously.
“Yes?” Ross said.
“A pleasant day,” the policeman said, touching his cap. But the eyes were alert and watchful.
“Yes,” Ross said. “We were just admiring the masonry. The ancient methods were excellent, do you agree?”
The policeman’s face showed hesitation, then relief. They were tourists examining the masonry, touching it. Nothing more complicated. He smiled. “Indeed, we are very proud of it. Very proud.”
He touched his cap again and moved off.
Angela sucked on her cigarette and watched him leave. “I was frozen up,” she said. “I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. I just froze.”
“It’s all right,” Ross said. “It doesn’t matter.”
He snapped his fingers, and shook his head.
“Of course,” he said. “Twenty paces. That’s inside the wall.”
“You mean inside the fortress itself?”
“Yes. It can’t be anything else.”
They hurried inside the fortress, passing through the arched, carved gate and climbing a ramp that led to a parapet. There, they could look down over the interior of the fort. For the most part, it was old and uninteresting—utilitarian barracks, squat buildings, and heavy stonework.
Then Ross saw something. A section of the fort had collapsed and was under repair. It was fenced off from the public, with signs in four languages to keep away.
“What’s underneath the fort?”
“A cellar, I think. For storing ammunition and supplies.”
“That’s it,” Ross said. “I’m sure of it.”
“Sure of what?”
“Where the body is.”
“What do we do?” she said.
“We check. I check.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Stand guard.”
They climbed down from the parapet and walked across the courtyard of the fort to the place where the floor had collapsed, opening onto the cellars beneath. They looked down the hole. A musty, dank odor rose into the sunlight.
“Lovely,” Angela said.
Ross turned and glanced around the courtyard. A group of tourists were lined up at a far corner, waiting to climb up a round tower. Nobody was paying them much attention. He gave her the guidebook.
“Here. You can pretend to read this.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going down there.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He grinned and slipped under the fence. “See you.”
It was a drop of ten feet to the stone floor below. He poised on the edge, tensed himself, and jumped. He landed on all fours, raising a cloud of dust.
“You all right?” Angela said.
“Fine.”
He looked around. A series of arched rooms and tunnels led off, fading into darkness. There was a smell of decay, damp stone, and ancient dust. He sneezed, hearing the sound echo through the vaults. He paused to get his bearings, then headed off in what he hoped was the right direction.
As he left the hole, it became shadowy, then completely dark. Fortunately, he still had his penlight; he clicked it on. The batteries were already weakening, the light turning yellow. He would have to be careful; the light was helpful now, but it would be essential when he returned in the evening.
He passed through a room which had obviously been a dungeon. There were small cramped cubicles and heavy rusted bars. Iron rings on the walls once held torches; he could see spots of lampblack on the ceiling. On the floor, the dust was several inches deep; probably no one had set foot here for centuries.
Or had they?
He looked and saw the clear imprint of a man’s foot. Then another, and another. They were leading west, toward the wall. He noticed the pattern, the unevenness of the steps.
Like a man staggering under a heavy weight.
Hamid.
With the body.
He followed the impressions through the dust. Around him, everything was black. All he could see was the small cone of yellow light coming from his penlight.
He moved forward.
The air became colder and damper. And he began to hear sounds. At first, it was a clicking, very far off. As he approached, it became a chattering, like the excited jabber of monkeys. The odor in the passage became more fetid, and it turned still colder.
The noise was louder.
What was it?
Abruptly, the passage took a sharp right-angle turn, and he saw. The body, still draped in white, lay in a corner.
And he also saw the source of the chattering.
Rats.
20. The Odds Favored It
HE STOOD FOR A MOMENT in horror. There were hundreds of them, some more than a foot long. They crawled over the body in a thick swarm, chattering, shoving, gnawing at the cloth. In places, they had torn through and were at the flesh of the body.
The smell here was very bad. He looked at the rats, and in his flashlight, they turned glowing beady eyes on him. He shifted the light away and fought a moment of nausea. He leaned against the wall, feeling damp stone, breathed deeply, and turned away, stumbling, heading back to the hole, to daylight, to the sun and the air.
Behind him, he heard the infernal chattering.
He tripped, almost fell, and caught himself. He was moving quickly, as quickly as he could. Up ahead, he saw sunlight filtering down through the dust.
The hole. Thank God.
He reached it and looked up, blinking in the bright light.
“Angela?”
“Yes.”
“Is it all right? Can I come up?”
“Yes, but quickly.”
A heap of rubble stood near one side of the hole. He scrambled up, reached th
e lip, and came over. It took just a moment to slip out through the fence and join her.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Intact?”
“I couldn’t tell,” Ross said. “The rats beat me to it.”
Angela wrinkled her nose. “There are rats up here, too. Someone’s been watching us.”
“Where?”
She nodded vaguely toward the parapet, not pointing. “A man. Up there. He left as you started to come up.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was very fat and pale. I couldn’t see much more. He had sunglasses.”
“The professor,” Ross said.
“Who is he?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Is he after the emerald too?”
“Isn’t everyone?” Ross said. He squinted up at the parapet. “Well, anyway. Now he knows.”
“Do you think he’ll try to get it?”
“If he does, he’s in for a surprise. You can’t get near that body with less than a small army. The rats are all over the place.”
“Then how are we going to do it?”
Ross shook his head. “I don’t know.”
They left the fort and wandered over toward the Arab Palaces.
“Where now?”
“Let’s walk through the grounds. I need time to think, and I’m not quite ready for lunch.”
They walked, marveling at the beauty of the place. The palaces were a series of open courts, with ponds, gurgling water, splashing fountains, and greenery. The buildings were graceful, beautifully decorated in limestone and carved stone, intensely, richly decorated.
As they walked, Ross said, “You know, Hamid said something very odd.”
“What’s that?”
“He talked about another place, about lions. Down low, by the lions, near the water. And he said one was real, and the other not …”
“What does it mean?”
“Damned if I know.” He reached for the map. “There’s a place here called Patio de los Leones. That’s the Court of Lions.”
“Yes. It’s very famous. But we haven’t come there yet.”
Ten minutes later, passing through cool secluded gardens and sparkling fountains, they arrived. The Court of Lions was rectangular and open to the sun. In the center was a large circular basin and fountain, supported by twelve stone bodies of lions, each spouting water through its mouth. Leading down to the central fountain were four small rivulets of water, coming from the four sides of the court.
“So this is it,” Ross said.
“And Hamid said?”
“Down low, near the water.”
They headed for the central fountain, just as a party of fifty tourists arrived, swarming around the court, while the guide shouted names, dates, and facts. The tourists scratched themselves, took photographs, and sipped the water. Nobody paid any attention to the guide.
Ross stopped. “We can’t search now. We’ll have to wait.”
“What do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know.”
They turned away, moving through still other gardens. It was now almost noon, and they were both hungry. They headed for a restaurant, located at one corner of the mountaintop. On the way, a voice called,
“Oh, Doctor.”
Ross stopped and turned. Puffing slightly, the professor came up to them.
“I thought I’d find you eventually.”
“Yes,” Ross said.
“Having a good time?” the professor asked pleasantly. He wore a lightweight blue suit, which wrinkled around his bulging abdomen. His tie was a map of the world: Mercator projection.
“Fine, thanks.”
“And Miss Angela Locke. How are you today?”
Ross started. “You know her?”
“In a way. I know she works for the count.”
“Did,” Angela corrected.
“Oh, there’s been a falling out, has there? I’m not surprised. The odds favored it. And what are you two young people doing now?”
“Sight-seeing,” Ross said. “Pure and simple.”
“Wonderful, wonderful. I’m pleased for both of you. You must allow me to take you to lunch.”
“Thanks anyway, but—”
“I insist,” the professor said.
“Really quite impossible.”
The professor grinned. “A clash of wills,” he said. “How quaint. Would it change your mind if I told you I had a gun in my pocket?”
“It might,” Ross said.
“Please do reconsider,” the professor said. “Besides, I would like you to meet a friend.”
“Your flighty assistant?”
“Please,” the professor said. “Jackman would be terribly hurt if he heard you talk that way.”
Ross sighed.
They went into the restaurant. It was pleasant, with an open court, palm trees, flowering geraniums and orchids. Sitting at a far table, Ross saw a blonde woman; her back was to them. But as they approached, Ross began to have a strange feeling …
“I think you’ve met her,” the professor said. “Miss Brenner, my special assistant”
Karin turned and smiled. “Dr. Ross.”
“Well well,” Ross said. “Well, well, well.”
They all sat down. The professor introduced Angela, then said, “Now then: shall we order?”
Neither Ross nor Angela said much during the meal. Ross thought of several nasty things to say to Karin, but he knew she wouldn’t care what he said, and besides, it was too late now.
Toward the end of the meal, the professor said, “I must admit that I underestimated you, Doctor. I thought you were naïve and innocent. I must revise my opinion.”
“Just lucky,” Ross said.
“I think not. The odds against your getting so far are infinitesimal, I assure you. You are to be congratulated.”
“Is that before I’m shot, or afterward?”
“Then too,” the professor said, ignoring the comment, “you have acquired a charming young lady.” He smiled at Angela. “Most charming.”
Angela looked away, smoking a cigarette.
“You may be wondering, Doctor,” the professor continued, “why I arranged this meeting. I had no desire to upset you. Quite the contrary. I have the utmost respect for you. But I hope seeing Miss Brenner here will jolt you into an understanding of the complexities of this situation. Complexities which you barely understand.”
“You’re suggesting I get out.”
“Before you are killed, yes.”
“Who will kill me?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” the professor said.
“Not you?”
“Me? How absurd. I am here on holiday. A simple holiday.”
“I see.”
“The Moorish influence on Spanish art and architecture has always fascinated me, you know.”
“Yes. Fascinating.”
“Yes,” the professor said, smoothing his tie, caressing India and Africa.
“Will you stay long?” Ross said.
“Not long. You?”
“We’re leaving tonight.”
“Imagine. So am I.”
“That’s interesting,” Ross said.
“Yes.”
The meal was finished; they drank coffee, then the professor paid the bill. They all got up from the table and walked out the entranceway, garlanded with flowers. There, a girl in a waitress uniform was spraying the air with insect repellent. As the four of them walked past, the girl accidentally sprayed them all, catching them across the back of the neck and shoulders.
The professor spun and swore loudly in fluent Spanish.
The girl dropped the can and apologized profusely, sputtering, hanging her head.
“Stupid bloody fool,” the professor said, touching his damp neck. “Never teach these people anything. Damnable country.” He sighed. “Oh well. At least we won’t get bitten by mosquitoes today, eh?”
He laughed. Outsi
de, in the sunlight, he extended his hand.
“Good luck, Doctor. I trust you’ll have a successful career.” He bowed slightly. “Miss Locke.”
Ross shook hands.
“Good luck to you, Professor. I think you’re in for some surprises, later.” He remembered the rats, swarming, chattering, crawling …
“Oh, I think we are all in for some surprises,” the professor said with an easy smile. “Quite a few, in fact. Good day.”
Angela and Ross watched them go: the professor, trundling and fat; Karin Brenner, blonde and wholesome. They made a weird pair.
“What did you think?” Ross said.
“They’re crazy,” Angela said. “Both of them.” She frowned and sniffed. “This insect stuff really stinks, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ross said. “Almost like a bad cologne. I suppose we could try to wash it off.”
“Why bother?”
They set off, continuing through the grounds. It was later in the day, now, and the sun was sinking, no longer so fiercely hot and bright. They moved on to the Generalife and remained there until sunset, passing through the gardens, the fountains, the cool airy rooms.
As the sky deepened, turning from blue to purple and finally violet, Ross said, “Full moon tonight.”
“That’s good.”
“We’ll need it.”
“Do you think the professor will stay on the grounds?”
“I’m certain of it. What are we going to do?”
“Watch him,” Ross said. “Watch him like a hawk.”
Despite their best efforts, the professor and Karin eluded them late in the afternoon. Ross and Angela searched for them for another hour and then gave up. They had dinner in another restaurant, and then hid behind a hedge near the main gardens of the Alhambra. The light was failing; only a few scattered tourists remained on the grounds. A guard walked by, repeating mechanically that the Palace was closing, the Palace was closing, all visitors must now leave, all visitors must now leave …
“Does anybody stay the night?” Angela whispered.
“Don’t think so. Maybe some custodians, to clean up. Maybe a few guards.”
Angela scratched the back of her neck. “You know, I still smell that spray junk. I thought it would wear off, but it hasn’t.”
“No time to worry about it now.”
An hour passed. It became quite dark. The last of the tourists and daytime guards left the park.
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