Moustafa cracked his knuckles. They sounded like a series of pistol shots.
“I would gladly shove that camera down his throat, sir, or anyplace else you feel appropriate, but I wish to accompany the Hanzades to Marcus Simaika’s house today to follow up on that lead.”
“Very well, I’ll just have to beat the fellow to a pulp myself.”
Moustafa grinned. “If you do, sir, please take a picture.”
“A pity I’ll miss Zehra,” Augustus sighed. “But it’s best to split up and cover as much ground as possible. Do give her my regards and tell her I’d like to have tea sometime soon, and let’s share with each other everything we learn, no matter how trivial. One never knows what will turn out to be useful.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Oh, and Suleiman is sending a shipment over. You’ll find the check on my desk.”
“Of course, boss.”
Augustus grabbed his cane and headed out.
He hadn’t made it far before a street urchin started following him.
“I leave you in God’s hands,” Augustus muttered in Arabic, using the usual Egyptian phrase for dismissing a beggar.
“It’s me!” a familiar voice said.
Augustus looked at the boy for the first time.
“Oh, hello Faisal. Not busy filching apples from the market today?”
“I heard about that big box with the body in it,” Faisal said as he walked beside him.
“You and everybody else. I seemed doomed to forever be at the center of neighborhood gossip.”
“I told you your house was infested with jinn. They, um, went away, but now they’re back! They creep in at night to cause all sorts of mischief.”
Augustus chuckled. “How many times to I have to tell you there is no such thing as jinn? By the way, did you see anyone coming into my house that night?”
“No. I was asleep, and jinn can turn themselves invisible anyway.”
Augustus stopped and turned to the boy. Faisal took a step back. Despite their acquaintance, the boy was still a bit skittish with him. Unfortunately, that didn’t make him go away. “Look, they were not jinn but men. Human beings. Well, human beings of a low order. Karim saw them, as did one of my neighbors. They unloaded the sarcophagus, that’s the big box you were talking about, and brought it into my house.”
“Really?”
To Augustus’s surprise, the boy looked relieved rather than disappointed at being proven wrong. Faisal scratched his head for a moment, then scratched it more persistently. Augustus didn’t want to know what he was scratching up there. Then Faisal switched to scratching his armpit. Finally, the boy looked up at him.
“How could they have opened the bolt?”
Augustus cocked his head. “How do you know my front door has a bolt?”
“Um, all front doors have bolts!”
“I suppose you’re right.”
Faisal brightened. “I know! The jinn opened the bolt.”
Augustus groaned. “Didn’t you once tell me that jinn don’t associate with Europeans?”
“Yes. Everyone knows that.”
“Well, the group that entered my house were from France. That’s in Europe.” Augustus decided not to mention that they had two Egyptians with them. Faisal would latch onto that as proof that one of them was a sorcerer. “The body was of a Frenchman too. The murderers are from a gang called the Apaches who—”
“The Apaches!” Faisal’s jaw dropped with shock. “The Apaches are here in Cairo?”
Augustus stared at him. Could Faisal actually know something useful? Living on the street, the boy came across all sorts of information and witnessed all kinds of seedy goings-on. Faisal probably knew as much about crime as the police commandant, and witnessed more. Cairo’s streets were no place for a child, but no one did anything about all these homeless children.
“You know about the Apaches?” Augustus asked.
“Of course! They are very great fighters. They kill people all the time. They break into houses and kill everybody inside and take all their things. I didn’t know they had come to Cairo. That’s very bad.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Tariq ibn Nagy told me. He knows all about them.”
“Does he really?” Augustus replied, getting more and more interested. This boy offered no end of surprises. “Could you take me to him?”
A sly smile spread across Faisal’s face. “Well …”
Augustus sighed. “Yes, Faisal, I’ll buy you lunch.”
“And a give me a piastre.”
“Lunch and half a piastre.”
“Half a piastre is nothing to you!” Faisal whined.
“Taking me to this Tariq fellow is nothing to you.”
“Oh, all right.” Faisal moped. “This way.”
Faisal led him through the labyrinthine streets of the neighborhood to a small square he had never been to before. An Ottoman-period mosque stood to one side, its walls striped with alternating courses of red and white stone and its slim minaret gracefully covered with calligraphy in low relief. Before the mosque was an open area where several vendors sold produce. A little to one side stood a man with a short, pointed beard wearing an odd jellaba made up of a patchwork of different colors. He had a headscarf made of some glittery material more suited for a bridal dress than a man’s headwear. He gestured to passersby, calling to them with words Augustus couldn’t hear over the sounds of the crowd. Atop a wooden stand in front of him sat a large rectangular box. The box was painted a sky blue decorated with stars and crescent moons made of hammered tin. Along its length were several little glass windows that looked like they had been made out of the bottoms of bottles.
“That’s Tariq ibn Nagy,” Faisal said in hushed tones. “He knows all about the Apaches.”
Augustus looked at him doubtfully. “I thought you were taking me to some criminal figure. Who is this fellow?”
“You’ll see. He knows everything!”
As they approached, Augustus could hear his patter.
“Come see the wonders of the world! Come see tales of heroism and derring-do! Only a half piastre to be sent into a world of magic and mystery.”
“Faisal, I don’t think this man is going to be of much help.”
As they came up to the man and his box, Tariq ibn Nagy turned to them.
“Ah, Faisal! My best customer. Who is this esteemed guest you bring with you?”
“This is the Englishman I told you about,” Faisal said, jumping and spinning in the air.
Tariq ibn Nagy put a hand on his heart and bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, sir. Faisal talks about you all the time.”
“Does he now?” Augustus felt both surprised and amused.
Tariq ibn Nagy raised a finger to the sky. “Ah yes, he says you are a man of rare bravery and education. I have been waiting for him to bring you to me, for I teach all that is hidden.”
Augustus felt like leaving, but he knew from bitter experience that Faisal would only follow him all day, pestering him to return.
“The boy says you know something about the Apaches.”
Faisal jumped up and down. “Are you still showing that?”
Tariq ibn Nagy smiled at him. “I am.”
Faisal tugged at Augustus’s sleeve. “It’s only half a piastre for each of us.”
“For what?” Augustus asked.
“To look in the box. Then you’ll see all about them.”
“Faisal, I really don’t think—”
“Come on. I’m trying to help you!”
Visions of Faisal dogging his footsteps throughout all of Cairo rose before him. With a grunt he dug into his pocket, pulled out a one piastre coin, and gave it to Tariq ibn Nagy.
The man bowed again, set down a pair of tiny stools before two of the box’s windows, cleaned one with his voluminous sleeve, and invited Augustus to sit.
Augustus glanced around. People had begun to stare. Not that this was anything new. In his neighborhood
everyone stared at him because he was a foreigner. They also stared at him because of his mask. Giving them a third reason to stare wouldn’t make much difference.
They sat. Faisal squirmed and fidgeted on the stool next to him, half mad with excitement. Tariq ibn Nagy lit a blue candle festooned with golden stars and moons, opened a small door at the back of the box, and put the candle inside.
“Look,” he intoned.
Augustus peered through the glass and saw only darkness. Then he heard a clack inside the box, as of a metal barrier shifting, and suddenly the interior became illuminated.
Before him appeared an engraving of Red Indians attacking a wagon train in the American West of the previous generation. It looked like it had been cut from the cover of some American dime novel, probably scrounged from some hotel room after being left behind by a young tourist.
“Behold the fierce Apache! Terror of America. When the white men came into their land, they fought with fierceness and bravery, killing settlers and soldiers alike.”
Augustus stifled a chuckle. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at Faisal. The boy was enraptured.
“This is a story that happened many years ago, in the Great American Desert, where the Apache dwell. They are fiercer than the Bedouin, and braver than the lion.”
Augustus heard another clack within the box, and the engraving moved away, to be replaced by another engraving. As he had suspected, the words Beadle’s Dime Library were just visible at the top of the image. The picture showed an Indian chief with a big headdress of feathers reaching halfway down his back. He gripped a tomahawk in one hand and a dripping scalp in the other.
“Behold the bravest Apache of them all, Chief Mohammed.”
At this point Augustus did chuckle. “Oh, the Apaches are Muslims now, are they?”
That earned him a bony elbow in the ribs.
“Shhh,” Faisal commanded. Tariq ibn Nagy went on.
“Chief Mohammed was the terror of the desert, as strong as ten men and faster than a cheetah. He was the greatest among his people, protecting the innocent and defeating the guilty. When he grew angry, lightning flashed in the sky.”
The entertainer flipped a lever back and forth and the light flickered over the image of the Indian chief.
Tariq ibn Nagy then proceeded to tell a tale of Chief Mohammed protecting his people from the evil white men. His biggest challenge, however, was a traitor in his own tribe, the wily warrior Snaketongue, who wanted to steal the Indian princess Fatima from Chief Mohammed. Princess Fatima was, of course, the most beautiful maiden in the tribe, so beautiful that birds followed her everywhere, singing about her beauty. Snaketongue, who Faisal booed every time his name was mentioned, had convinced Fatima’s parents that he would be chief one day and that they should give her to him in marriage instead of to her true love Chief Mohammed. Snaketongue spread lies about Chief Mohammed, saying he was a coward. To prove Snaketongue wrong, Chief Mohammed attacked a wagon train all by himself. The picture of the wagon train reappeared, gradually turning red as Tariq ibn Nagy eased down some lever inside the box. Returning triumphant to the village with an armful of American scalps, Chief Mohammed challenged Snaketongue to a duel and suddenly the light started flashing again. Two marionettes appeared within the box, painted up like Indians. Augustus glanced up to see Tariq ibn Nagy pulling some strings that ran through the top of the box, narrating the fight as he did so. The marionettes jumped and fought, hitting each other with little wooden tomahawks. With a swing of his mighty tomahawk, accompanied by a flash of red light, Chief Mohammed cut Snaketongue’s head off. The marionette’s body crumpled to the bottom of the box and the head bobbed on the end of the string. Faisal cheered and clapped. The light went dark and Tariq ibn Nagy stepped back and took a bow, putting one hand over his heart.
Augustus stood.
“Thank you for a very entertaining experience,” he told Tariq ibn Nagy.
“You are most welcome to come back anytime, good sir.”
As Augustus walked away, Faisal followed.
“So that is what you do with all the money you squeeze out of me?” he asked the boy.
“Only when I have a little extra. Mostly I spend it on food. Aren’t you going to ask him about the Apaches?”
“Well, it was all quite amusing but it doesn’t get me any closer to figuring out where these Apaches are or what they want. The Apaches I’m looking for are from a … different tribe.”
“I’ll find them for you.”
“That’s quite all right, Faisal.”
“For free!”
“Nothing with you is free.”
“Well, it’s free until I find out something.”
“Something useful this time, if you please.”
“Wasn’t it great how Chief Mohammed saved Princess Fatima?”
“A brave man, to be sure.”
“And birds followed Princess Fatima everywhere!”
“Quite poetic.”
Faisal went silent for a moment. Augustus glanced at him. Silence was a rare state of being with the boy. Faisal looked deep in thought, kicking a stone in front of him as he walked.
“Is it all right to go against the wishes of a girl’s parents if you need to save her?” he asked.
“Well, like the story said, the Princess Fatima was about to be married to an evil man, so I suppose it would be all right then.”
Faisal’s face brightened and he leaped into the air. “Chief Mohammed is a hero!”
“Most assuredly.”
Faisal put a finger to his chin. “I could never cut someone’s head off, though.”
“No one is asking you to, Faisal.”
Faisal looked up at him, all eagerness once more. “You’re right! There’s more than one way to save a princess from a bad marriage. Let’s get lunch while I think about it.”
“What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry, I’ll help you out too.”
After stuffing Faisal with shwarma and giving him his half piastre, Augustus got free of the little mite and headed to the offices of the Egyptian Gazette. The man at the front desk said the photographer’s name was Patrick Hind, but that he wasn’t available at the moment because he was in the darkroom. The receptionist seemed to anticipate that Augustus wanted to lodge a complaint and tried to fob him off to a subeditor, but Augustus shoved his way through and entered the newsroom. Englishmen and Egyptians sat hunched over rows of untidy desks, pounding furiously on typewriters. Stacks of notes and newspaper clippings were piled everywhere. One young man saw him and bounded over.
“You must be Sir Augustus Wall. Pleased to meet you,” he said, extending a hand. “Would you care to comment on the murder that happened in your house the other—”
His question got cut short by the metal head of Augustus’s cane being jabbed into his stomach.
A sign told Augustus where to find the darkroom. He opened the door, which elicited an immediate squawk from within, and peered inside.
By the light of a dim red bulb he saw a man bent over a row of low tubs on a table. An unpleasant chemical smell permeated the air.
“How dare you barge in here?” the photographer said. “You’ve ruined my negatives!”
“I’ll ruin more than that,” Augustus growled, closing the door behind him and jamming a chair against it.
As the photographer strode up to him, fists clenched, Augustus jabbed his cane into his stomach, grabbed him by the hair as he doubled over, and dunked his face into the nearest tub of chemicals.
He held the photographer there for a moment, letting him struggle, then pulled him up for some air.
“What was that for?” the man sputtered.
Augustus dunked him again.
When he pulled him out a second time the man pleaded. “What do you want?”
Augustus dunked him a third time. A furious knocking came at the door.
“One moment, please,” Augustus said in a pleasant voice.
/> That caught whoever stood outside off guard. For a moment there was no sound except for the photographer’s splashing, then a voice called, “Is everything all right in there?”
“Private conference about a breaking story,” Augustus said. “All is well.”
The photographer began to struggle more. Augustus realized he had forgotten to bring him up for air. Augustus turned his head so one ear was above water, or above the level of whatever noxious chemicals they used to develop photographs, and whispered, “Be a good boy and don’t shout when I let you up again, or next time I shan’t let you up at all.”
Augustus held him down for another second or two to show that he meant business before pulling him up. A photo print was stuck to the man’s face. Augustus kindly peeled it off.
The photographer gasped for breath. A knock came at the door.
“Is everything all right in there?” the voice asked again.
Augustus tweaked the photographer’s ear.
“Yes!” the photographer managed to call out, although his voice sounded somewhat hysterical.
“You are Patrick Hind, are you not? Perhaps I should have verified your name before meting out justice. Checking one’s facts is the cornerstone of responsible journalism, after all.”
“I am Patrick Hind. What do you want of me?”
“You broke into my shop.”
“It’s open to the public.”
“Not for journalists it’s not. The police commandant is a personal friend of mine, you know.”
That was more than a bit of an exaggeration, but this ingrate didn’t know that.
“I-I—”
“You took photographs on my property without my permission, causing me to lose a day of work to keep the gaping hordes away. I could sue you for damages. Also, you misattributed the information in your article. You didn’t get Edmond Depré’s name from the authorities, did you?”
“Of course I did!”
His head went back in the vat of developing liquid. The knocking started on the door again.
“Cover up the negatives, I’m coming in!”
Augustus pulled Patrick Hind back out.
“A Frenchman told you the name,” Augustus said. “Tell me all you know. A man’s been murdered and you’re speaking with the murderers in order to sell copy. I could have you up on charges.”
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 6
