The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus

by Sean McLachlan

  A man seemed to appear out of the very earth just behind and to the left of Mr. Wall. Silent as the shadow he resembled, he ducked behind Mr. Wall and reached around his neck.

  It must have been a garrote, because the attacker jammed a knee against Mr. Wall’s lower back and pulled against his neck, making Mr. Wall arch backwards, his feet nearly coming off the ground. From behind the beached boats, two more figures sprinted over to him, angling in from either side.

  Moustafa drew the heavy English Webley revolver his boss had lent him from the house arsenal and rushed forward.

  He hadn’t made it three steps before his boss made his move. Gripping his cane by the knob and by the shaft, Mr. Wall separated the two to reveal a sword hidden inside. Splaying his arms, he swiped at the man on his left with the sword and the man to his right with the metal shaft.

  The man on the left jerked to the side. In his haste to avoid being slashed he lost his balance and stumbled to his knees in the sand.

  The man on the right wasn’t so lucky. He took the metal shaft right in the head, the impact making a loud thwack that Moustafa heard over the sound of his running footsteps. The Apache spun and fell.

  That left the man strangling his boss. He put extra effort into the garrote, grinding his knee into Mr. Wall’s back and lifting him further off his feet with an impressive display of strength.

  Mr. Wall, however, appeared rather unimpressed. Turning the tip of his sword cane downwards, he jabbed it into the man’s foot.

  The strangler howled and let go of his prey. Mr. Wall tumbled forward and the man with the garrote fell backwards, to land on the one who had dodged the first swing of the blade.

  All three Apaches were down, but not for long. The man who had cut in from the left remained unhurt and jumped up, landing a fist in Mr. Wall’s stomach. He doubled over, letting out a great gust of air, and the Apache gave him a vicious bow to the head that sprawled him flat.

  “Stop right there!” Moustafa shouted in French. “I have a gun.”

  He was still several paces away but had a clear shot, so he didn’t expect the man to face him and for fire to erupt from his fist.

  The bullet whizzed by like an angry hornet, barely missing. Moustafa stopped and dropped to one knee. The next shot nicked his shoulder. He still couldn’t see the man’s gun.

  Moustafa ignored both the wound and the mystery, leveled his revolver, and took the man out with a single shot.

  As the man fell, one of the other two lobbed something at Moustafa. It looked small and round. Other than that he could not tell what it was, except that he should get as far away from it as possible.

  Moustafa sprang to one side.

  Too late. A blinding flare and an earsplitting bang ripped the night.

  Blinded, Moustafa fired twice more, aiming high and not hoping to hit anything but just to drive them off.

  A garish afterimage shrouded his eyes. Moustafa squinted, trying to see. He heard the sound of running steps moving away.

  “Moustafa,” he heard Mr. Wall cry out.

  “You all right, boss?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  Moustafa blinked, his vision slowly returning. He could make out a dark figure staggering to his feet.

  “Is that you, boss?”

  “What’s left of me, at any rate. They’ve scarpered. No point giving chase or firing after them in this dark. They’re too far. Despite having stabbed one in the foot he seems to have legged it with some alacrity.”

  Mr. Wall stumbled over to a dark figure lying on the sand.

  “We have this one, though. Good work, Moustafa.”

  Moustafa came up and saw the man he had shot. A neat hole had pierced the Apache right through the heart. The man’s gun was missing. Moustafa assumed the other two had taken it.

  He peered around. He couldn’t even see the Apaches any more.

  “What happened to that woman?” he asked.

  “Long gone.” Mr. Wall bent over the body and pulled a pair of brass knuckles off the man’s hand. “This hurt quite a bit.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t knock you out with that blow to the head.”

  “Oh, that.” Mr. Wall said with a grin. He pulled his hat off. “Feel inside.”

  Moustafa did as he was bidden and felt a thin metal cap lining the inside of the hat. A slight divot told him where the brass knuckles had struck.

  Mr. Wall pulled down his collar to reveal more metal protection.

  “I’d read that the Apaches’ favorite attack was to garrote you from behind or kosh you. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  He knelt back down and rummaged through the Apache’s pockets. All he found was a bit of money.

  “Well, that’s that I suppose.” Mr. Wall said, standing up. He sounded disappointed. Then he bent down again and pried the brass knuckles off the man’s hand.

  “These look unusual but it’s difficult to see in the dark.”

  Moustafa glanced around. Waiters urged everyone off the hotel terrace. “I think it best that we move, boss.”

  “Hmm, right.” He sounded disappointed.

  They hurried down the riverside. Glancing over his shoulder, Moustafa saw two figures running along the bridge toward their side of the river. As they came into the light cast by one of the streetlamps, he saw they were policemen. He was tempted to stop his boss and call over to them, but of course Mr. Wall wouldn’t want that. No, he’d get into a fight with a criminal gang and not tell the police about it at all. He’d rather solve everything himself.

  Why? Was it the war? His injury? Was Mr. Wall trying to prove to himself that he was still useful?

  Perhaps. But what was Moustafa trying to prove to himself by going along with all this nonsense? Because he couldn’t deny the thrill that went through his veins any time his boss got him into a mess like this. It made him feel alive.

  But more importantly, it made him feel superior to those bumbling colonial policemen.

  They got away from the scene without too much trouble and went back to the house. Once there, Moustafa bandaged the nick on his shoulder and made some tea and sandwiches for them both. When he came to the little sitting room where his boss took most of his meals, he found Mr. Wall examining the brass knuckles he had taken from the Apache.

  “This is a curious device,” he said, turning the weapon over in his hands.

  Now that Moustafa could see it clearly, he noticed it was far more than a set of brass knuckles.

  It was actually a small pocket pistol with brass knuckles for a grip. The cylinder had six chambers for small bullets such as the old Derringers fired. There was no barrel, the bullets firing straight out of the chamber.

  Moustafa pointed at it. “I’m surprised he was able to hit me with that little thing.”

  “I suspect it’s not terribly accurate, but in close quarters it would be deadly enough. And look here.”

  His boss reached under the cylinder where a small spike was tucked beneath. He turned it and it snapped into place, creating a miniature bayonet protruding from below the cylinder.

  “This is a nasty bit of work,” Mr. Wall said. He fitted his fingers through the brass knuckles. “A bit awkward to use for punching, though.”

  Moustafa pointed at a button. “I think the gun collapses if you press this, sir.”

  Mr. Wall tried it and found his assistant was correct. The cylinder tucked behind the brass knuckles perfectly and with the spike extended below his fist it made for a weapon that could be used for punching or stabbing.

  “This is one for the arsenal, Moustafa,” Mr. Wall said with a grin.

  Moustafa suppressed a shudder. In a locked room upstairs, his boss kept a rack of rifles, a couple of machine guns, a collection of pistols and bladed weapons, and even a German trench mortar from the war. No further evidence of his madness was needed.

  Moustafa hesitated, knowing his question would be unwelcome, but also necessary.

  “Um, boss …”

  “Y
es?” Mr. Wall asked, still fiddling with the Apache pistol like a child with a new toy.

  “Did you have … any trouble during the fight?”

  Mr. Wall looked up at him sharply. The flash in his eyes was so fierce that Moustafa almost took a step back. Then his gaze softened.

  “No. I suppose I didn’t have time. Before I knew what was happening I was in the thick of it. It’s gunshots that usually set me off, and by the time you and that other chap were blasting away at each other I’d already been given a good rap on the head. Hurt like the Dickens even with that metal lining.”

  “I see,” Moustafa said. “Now what do we do?”

  “We try to figure out that note and await their next move. I doubt they’ll be so charitable in their little game of cat and mouse now that we have killed one of their own. I think it best if you stay here tonight.”

  Moustafa sighed. He had suspected as much. Nur had gotten accustomed to his absences, and although she never complained he knew they bothered her and the children.

  Still, he didn’t see any way out of it. And at least in the morning he could take care of something he needed to do. Something for his own future, rather than for this strange madman whose fate God seemed to have tied up with his.

  The next morning, Moustafa walked into the offices of The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology with his head held high, his paper on the impact of Nubian art proudly tucked under his arm. The journal’s office was in a fine colonial building just off Tahrir Square near the Egyptian Museum. After the grandiose exterior, the office itself came as a bit of a disappointment. A desk stood to one side, at which an Englishman sat, busily typing. The desk and the shelf behind were stacked with papers and correspondence. Several large filing cabinets lined the opposite wall. Above them hung a photograph of King George. A door on the far wall had the word “director” stenciled on it. In short, this office looked much like any other colonial office. But what did that matter, Moustafa asked himself with a smile. This was the home of one of the most prestigious archaeological journals in the world. He asked the man in the front office to see the director.

  “What’s your business?” the Englishman asked, barely looking up from his typing.

  “I’ve come to submit this paper for consideration to be published in The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology.” Just saying the words swelled up Moustafa with pride.

  The secretary stopped typing and looked at him. “For whom are you submitting it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who is your dig director?”

  “Oh, you misunderstand, sir. I am submitting it for myself.”

  Moustafa extended the paper. The secretary did not take it.

  “You wrote it?” the man asked with a notable tone of disbelief.

  “I did. I have several years of experience with excavations both here and in the Soudan. I have worked under Professor Somers Clarke and—”

  “I really don’t think the journal would be interested. Run along now.”

  “You haven’t even read it yet,” Moustafa said, waving the paper in front of his face. What was wrong with this man?

  With an indifferent air, the man took the paper and leafed through it. His eyes did not follow the lines of text.

  “It’s a study of how the XXV Dynasty was only the culmination of the Nubian influence on Egyptian monumental art,” Moustafa explained, “and that in fact the influence started much earlier, and runs much deeper, than previously thought. For example, if you look at the pylons of the temple at—”

  “Thank you for your time, but I don’t think we will be needing this,” the secretary said, handing it back to him.

  “Why not?” Moustafa asked, dumbfounded.

  “We have a high standard of quality at this journal. Now if you please, I have much to do.” The man started typing again.

  “This paper is a high standard of quality,” Moustafa said, his anger rising.

  “Then your dig director must have written it and it should have his name on it,” the man replied, continuing to type.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? This is my own work!” Moustafa bellowed.

  The man didn’t seem phased by Moustafa’s outburst. He glanced up from his typewriter and said in a cool voice, “Very well, it is your own work. As I said, we keep very high standards here at the journal.”

  “You didn’t even read it!”

  A door behind the secretary opened partway and a pasty-faced, older Englishman poked his head out.

  “Any problem here, Winston?”

  “No sir, I was just showing the boy out.”

  Moustafa recognized Dr. Lansing, the editor of the journal.

  “Ah, Dr. Lansing!” he said, bringing his voice to a polite level again. “Most honored to meet you. I attended your lecture on Middle Kingdom anthropoid sarcophagi last month. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Moustafa Ghani El Souwaim. I have extensive experience on excavations in Egypt and the Soudan and wish to submit a paper to your esteemed journal.”

  “All papers must go through Winston,” Dr. Lansing said, and shut the door.

  Winston smirked at him. “Well that’s that, my boy. No work for you here. It’s been a dusty day, though. Perhaps I can find you some shoes to shine.”

  Moustafa slammed his fist on the desk, making the typewriter leap into the air and crash back down.

  “Once we have independence you people will learn some respect!”

  Dr. Lansing called from the other room. “Winston, shall I call the police?”

  “I think that might be a good idea, sir.” Winston had backed into a corner.

  “They’ll be thrown out too!” Moustafa shouted and kicked the desk. He was happy to see he left a crack in the wood. “Apologize this instant!”

  Winston rallied.

  “When pigs fly, as the Yanks say,” he said with a sneer.

  Moustafa almost lost control of himself. He almost took the three steps separating him from Winston and gave him the thrashing he so thoroughly deserved.

  But he did not. He’d be arrested, thrown in jail, and Mr. Wall would be stuck trying to solve the murder alone. Plus who would take care of Nur and the children?

  Good God, did he just think of his employer before his own family? These English were like mosquitoes—when one is in the room you can pay attention to nothing else! They nag you and nag you until you go mad!

  He glared at Winston, who made a bold attempt to glare back but remained pressed against the corner. The only sound in the room was their heavy breathing and the low voice of Dr. Lansing in the next room, no doubt speaking with the local police station.

  Oh, how he’d like to beat them both to a pulp! If they were Egyptian they’d be lying on the floor already for showing him such disrespect.

  If they were Egyptian.

  But they’re not Egyptian, Moustafa thought.

  “What’s my name?” he asked Winston.

  “W-what?”

  “I said my name just now, do you remember it?”

  Winston managed to curl his lip, although his voice was less than steady. “Why should I?”

  “You people never do, do you?”

  Moustafa picked up Winston’s typewriter and hurled it against Dr. Lansing’s door. It crashed right through the paneling, leaving a beautiful typewriter-shaped hole in the wood. Dr. Lansing face appeared behind it, looking even pastier than before.

  “I bet you don’t remember my name either!” Moustafa said and laughed.

  “I sure do, Mohammed el-Gawani, and I’ve told the police too!”

  “Fools!” Moustafa snatched his paper and stormed out of the office. He shoved past a few curious Europeans who had gathered in the hallway, confident that none of them would be able to adequately describe him, and left the building. He swore to God he would return. He’d show them all.

  15

  Faisal couldn’t believe he lived to see the dawn. Hakim hadn’t laid a finger on him all that long afternoon and the even longer
night that followed it. Instead he had asked endless prying questions about his life and how he made his way in the world. Faisal had tried to lie, but Hakim was quick to find even the slightest inconsistency in his story and chase it down like a hunting dog that has caught the scent. Hakim learned all about how he had ended up on the street and that he was a good housebreaker and pickpocket. Faisal had managed to hide the facts that he worked for the Englishman and lived on his roof.

  Faisal had done this by playing a trick with his own mind. He blanked out everything that had happened since the Englishman had come into the neighborhood, instead talking about how he slept in the entrance of the Mosque of Sultan Hassan, something he had done before the Englishman appeared. He talked about how he and his friends had a shack in an alley he sometimes used as well, and how he begged with an old blind beggar who had died.

  Hakim learned nothing about the Englishman. Faisal didn’t even let himself think about the Englishman or all the good things that had happened since that man had moved to Ibn al-Nafis street. It was like he was eleven again, still alone and hopeless and prey to neighborhood bullies like Hassan and his cousins, who the Englishman had first beaten up and then gotten arrested. It was like he had no protector in the world, just like before. That’s how talking with Hakim felt.

  During all this the baboons had squatted nearby, watching him.

  Then Hakim had put him through a series of tests. He had made Faisal grab objects out of the air. He had made him climb halfway up the wall of the tomb in which he lived and then traverse all the way around it to end up at the spot where he had started. He had taken him out to the market and made him pick a pocket, the baboons coming along in case he made a run for it. To Faisal’s surprise, Hakim let him keep what he had stolen.

  “You see?” Hakim said when they returned. “Working for me can be quite profitable. I will feed you and give you some of the take and I will not hurt you unless you defy me. And if you defy me, I will hurt you very, very badly.”