The Last Camel Died at Noon Read Online Free PDF

was always the favoured son. Not only did he share my grandfather's archaeological and geographical interests, but he had the physical strength and daring his younger brother lacked. My poor dear father was never strong - '

    I could tell by Emerson's expression that he was about to say something rude, so I took it upon myself to intervene. 'Get to the point, Mr Forthright.'

    'What? Oh - yes, I beg your pardon. Grandfather has never accepted the fact that his beloved son is dead. He must be, Professor! Some word would have come back, long before this -'

    'But no word of his death has come either,' Emerson said.

    Forthright made an impatient gesture. 'How could it? There are no telegraphs in the jungle or the desert wastes. Legally my uncle and his unfortunate wife could have been declared dead years ago. My grandfather refused to take that step. My father died last year - '

    'Aha,' said Emerson. 'Now we come to the crux of it, I fancy. Until your uncle is declared to be dead, you are not legally your grandfather's heir.'

    The young man met his cynical gaze squarely. 'I would be a hypocrite if I denied that that is one of my concerns, Professor. But believe it or not, it is not my chief concern. Sooner or later, in the inevitable course of time, I will succeed to the title and the estate; there is, unhappily, no other heir. But my grandfather -'

    He broke off, with a sharp turn of his head. This time there was no mistake; the altercation in the hall was loud enough to be heard even through the closed door. Gargery's voice, raised in expostulation, was drowned out by a sound as loud and shrill as the trumpeting of a bull elephant. The door exploded inward, with a shuddering crash; and on the threshold stood one of the most formidable figures I have ever seen.

    The mental image I had formed, of the pathetic, grief-stricken old father, shattered like glass in the face of reality. Lord Blacktower - for it could be no other than he - was a massive brute of a man, with shoulders like a pugilist's and a mane of coarse reddish hair. It was faded and liberally streaked with grey, but once it must have blazed like the setting sun. He seemed far too young and vigorous to be the grandfather of a man in his thirties, until one looked closely at his face. Like a stretch of sun-baked earth, it was seamed with deep-cut lines - a map of violent passions and unhealthy habits.

    The suddenness of his appearance and the sheer brute dominance of his presence kept all of us silent for several moments. His eyes moved around the room, passing over the men with cool indifference, until they came to rest on me. Sweeping his hat from his head, he bowed, with a grace unexpected in so very large a man. 'Madam! I beg you will accept my apologies for this intrusion. Allow me to introduce myself. Franklin, Viscount Blacktower. Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Radcliffe Emerson?' 'Er - yes,' I replied.

    'Mrs Emerson!' His smile did not improve his looks, for his eyes remained as cold and opaque as Persian turquoise. 'I have long looked forward to the pleasure of meeting you.'

    Advancing with a ponderous rolling stride, he extended his hand. I gave him mine, bracing myself for a bone-crushing grip. Instead he raised my fingers to his lips and planted a loud, lingering, damp kiss upon them. 'Mmmm, yes,' he mumbled. 'Your photographs quite fail to do you justice, Mrs Emerson.' I fully expected Emerson would object to these proceedings, for the mumbling and kissing went on for a protracted period of time. There was, however, no comment from that source, so I withdrew my hand and invited Lord Blacktower to take a chair. Ignoring the one I had indicated, he sat down on the couch beside me, with a thud that made me and the whole structure vibrate. There was still no reaction from Emerson, or from Mr Forthright, who had sunk back into the chair from which he had started when his grandfather burst in.

    'May I offer you a cup of tea, or a glass of