None of this was my fault. But perhaps it would have to be my responsibility.
I sat down on the wooden stool and thought. What might have happened here?
When I’d last seen Ventrian – perhaps 15 minutes ago for me, and who knew how long for him – he was fleeing with the Eye of Horus Device. The Vortex Manipulator had brought him here – and stored on the Vortex Manipulator was the almost finished manuscript of The Ruby’s Curse. I’d read most of the book to him back in Stormcage so he knew it well, and he could have accessed the file in voice format. In short, he had virtually the complete novel at his fingertips.
So – was he the one who finished writing it?
The book was still lying on the floor where I’d dropped it. I turned to the last page. ‘The End’. Well, it had been finished by someone, anyway.
Back to the first page. A – dedication? There was no name. A quotation? Not one I knew.
Beware the Ides – now Caesar’s gone
The Eye’s the only Rubicon.
A riddle perhaps? I hadn’t written it, and with a risible rhyme like that, I don’t think I ever would. Someone else had put it there.
The events slowly took shape within my mind.
Ventrian arrives.
He accesses the file of The Ruby’s Curse and writes it all down.
He finishes the story. (Why? Boredom?)
Meanwhile, his wound has become infected. They don’t have the medical technology to deal with it here. He’s dying. He has the Eye of Horus Device with him. ‘I’ve used it too much,’ he said. But he wouldn’t use it to heal himself. I’d heard him talk about his wife. He’d never do that.
Just before he dies, he bundles up the scrolls and attaches the Vortex Manipulator. He has Amy’s address, it’s on the note from the parcel. He knows the time and date from that too. He writes down instructions for her to follow and sends it, using the VM’s voice controls.
Why not just use the VM’s fast return switch? Why not send the papyrus to me?
No, he was right not to. The fast return switch would take it straight to Deff. Plus I’d have been lumbered with a few dozen rolls of papyrus which would have been rather awkward to carry through time and space, to say the least.
But the question remained – why go to such a lot of trouble at all? And had he really just finished my book out of boredom, and written a cryptic credo for fun? He could have left, gone to any place or time. So was there a deeper purpose at play …?
I’ve told you how. Destroy the Eye, River.
He must have faced so many hardships, knowing all the time that he was dying. Refusing to heal himself – and, I suspect, not wanting to heal himself. The only reason he had to keep on living was to safeguard others from the Eye of Horus Device.
But he’d finally found a way to destroy it. He couldn’t do it himself – so he’d got in touch with the one other person who knew about it. The one person he seemed to think he could trust to do what he couldn’t. Me.
And he’d sent me instructions – instructions disguised as a 1930s hard-boiled crime novel.
What I needed to do was read the book from the start and see how it had changed. Not only did I need to see what clues Ventrian had left for me, I was rather interested to read the ending. Ventrian had no idea how the mystery was supposed to conclude, no idea who Melody was going to reveal as the murderer. I’d planned a huge showdown on board a flying boat – the first transatlantic passenger flight was due to happen in summer 1939, and I thought I’d cash in on the publicity. I shuddered to think what strangeness Ventrian might have introduced. But then there was more than my authorial name at stake, and a kicking on Goodreads couldn’t happen for another half-century.
Twilight had passed and dusk had fallen. I’d had to break the oil lamp during my search and my eyesight is precious. It made sense to bed down here for the night; I’d start my research in the morning.
My old man has been heard to remark that sleep is for tortoises, but I still need my 40 winks of beauty sleep if I’m not to get all grouchy in the morning – and coffee doesn’t arrive in Egypt until the sixteenth century, so I’d be a monster. Seriously.
Not fancying a corpse as a bunk mate, I covered up Ventrian, and took the remaining linen sheets from the bed to make myself a nest on the floor. It reminded me of some of the more uncomfortable dig sites I’d camped in over the years, but those experiences, not to mention my many years of incarceration, had taught me to sleep anywhere. I treated myself to that pomegranate, a hunk of bread the consistency of pumice stone, and a ceramic cup of lumpy beer, and settled down for the night.
My time sense kicked in as usual, and I rose with the sun. A quick breakfast of figs and I was ready for the day.
The first thing I would do was find someone who could make arrangements to remove the body, preferably someone who wouldn’t declare me responsible and make a song and dance about it. Every schoolchild (well, those at Leadworth Secondary, anyway) knows that the Ancient Egyptians made a big deal about death. Brains pulled out of the nose by a hook. Organs in canopic jars. Months of drying out the body, packing it and wrapping it with linen. Coffin, sarcophagus, tomb. Fill the tomb with food and games and possessions and maybe a few dead slaves and cats, ready for the afterlife.
Sorry, no. That’s a myth. Most Egyptian people were just buried in holes in the desert and mummified by the heat. And Ventrian needed no ceremony to enable him to traverse the underworld; he was just … gone.
I could see why people clung to their beliefs and rituals, though. How comforting to think that your spirit would survive death, that you would continue to exist, perhaps meeting again with friends and family. I have no intention of dying for some considerable time, but if I had to go – yes, those thoughts would comfort me too. A happy afterlife, surrounded by friends, lost no more. For a moment, it almost felt like something that could happen, and I smiled.
But I knew it wasn’t a reality. Just a dream.
I found a spare linen robe and changed into it. There was no kohl – an Egyptian essential – and I decided against using the dish of ink instead; with no mirror I was likely to achieve a look more ‘hungover panda’ than ‘glamorous Nefertiti-alike’. Perhaps I’d try to pick up some actual make-up if I it looked like I was going to hang around here for long.
I wrapped up my book in a bundle, together with the remaining food and anything else I could find in the room that might be worth something to someone – I’d have to barter for goods and services, no doubt – and headed out.
I’ve been to many times and places, so I’m not going to say Alexandria was unlike anywhere I’d ever been. But it managed to cram so many experiences into a single city. In Earth terms it felt like Rio Carnival, Times Square on New Year’s Eve, Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar and a hen party in Newcastle all mixed together, surrounded by more art than you’d find in the Louvre and smelling like cinnamon, cardamom and salt. I wanted to dance, I wanted to party. But I also wanted this place and all the people in it to survive, and possibly – just possibly – that was up to me. The partying could come later.
A small amount of initial research was required, and no time traveller has yet come up with a way of asking ‘Madam, what year is this?’ and not sound ridiculous. Waking up after a night on the town and not being one hundred per cent sure if it’s Wednesday or Thursday is one thing, accosting passers-by and asking if we’ve got to Anno Domini yet is clearly another. And if you do find a way of framing such a question, you might not get an easy answer. Be very, very suspicious of anyone who says, ‘Yes, mate, it’s 50 BC.’ In this case, however, being a white woman in Africa was an advantage – oh, there were people of many skin tones to be found, I wasn’t out of place, but I could reasonably claim to be a visitor who knew little of what had been going on in the city recently.
What I found out seemed extremely significant. Cleopatra was dead. Egypt was now a Roman province, captured by the man currently called Octavian, who would become known to history a
s Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome. Remember my little history lesson to Ventrian, all those chapters ago? But the Roman victory and the death of Cleopatra and her paramour Mark Antony were recent events – only a few weeks had passed. The people seemed to have returned to their normal day-to-day lives – Octavian had left the city almost immediately after the queen’s death – but there was a general sense of awareness in the air that they were now subjects of Rome.
I wondered – I wondered very much – if Ventrian had arrived before or after such a momentous occurrence. Perhaps something in the book would tell me.
I wandered down to the green banks of the Nile, relishing the breeze. Bald, naked children were playing in the water, splashing the adults who’d come there for their daily bathe. Boats and barges sailed past – or rowed past, depending on their direction of travel. I decided to perch myself down by the riverbank, hoping I could persuade a couple of young men to waft feathered fans over me while I read. If I asked very nicely, they might even peel some pomegranates for me too. I was (probably) on a life-or-death mission, true, but aside from that, going by first impressions, I’d definitely recommend Ancient Egypt for a getaway break.
I settled down to read …
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NEW YORK, AD 1939
Dealing with the cops ain’t my favourite thing, but we’ve crossed paths enough times and they know I’m straight. Me and Harry get the easiest ride being as we was alibis for each other. That canary gets all hysterical when she works out what’s going on and throws herself in Harry’s arms – you ask me, though, she’s been looking for an excuse. Harry passes her off soon as he can, and when we vamoose she’s crying on a cop’s shoulder instead. Keep crying, canary – we want to be out of reach before she starts singing about the fur coat she saw.
We need to track down the Peterson-Lee dame before the cops fix on her as a suspect. Could be a lot of leg work, or we might get lucky. She don’t know that anyone saw her in the Pink Tiger, maybe she don’t feel the need to hide. Now, that map? It’s a secret. No one knows about it but me and Harry and Phil and maybe a couple people way over in Egypt, that’s what Harry tells me – and it’s darn sure Wallace ain’t going to be telling anyone about it any more. Peterson-Lee? Why did she take it, if she don’t know what it was (and speaking as one who’s seen it, ain’t no one gonna work it out at first glance)? Well, I got a theory about that. Peterson-Lee was at the auction, she knew the ruby came with a letter. The map – it had all those little hieroglyphs on it, same as the letter did. So, there’s the ruby on the desk, there’s this paper with funny writing on it Egyptian-style – wouldn’t you jump to the conclusion they’re connected? That maybe that’s the letter? So if you’re taking the ruby, makes sense you’d take that too.
We go back to my office. I grab the directory and turn to the section on hotels. Not the first time I’ve had to do the rounds – it’s a slog, but a private eye’s job is 5 per cent guesswork, 5 per cent grey matter, and 90 per cent legwork. Maybe I could’ve phoned around and hang the cost, but trotting around the city with Harry appealed some.
So, I turn to A for Adelphi, and I’m just gonna start making a list when my eye catches a name just a couple of lines further down and I come to a full stop. I show the listing to Harry and Phil.
‘What d’you reckon? Say you’re the reincarnation of Cleopatra – where else would you go?’
He looks and he agrees. So together we set off for 250 West 103rd Street, just off Broadway, and the Hotel Alexandria.
It was an impressive building of 14 storeys – mind you, it had to be impressive, to charge five bucks a night. I’d slipped a mink over my workaday clothes before we left; not my style at all, and there’d been many a time I’d thought of hocking it for rent money, but it was worth its weight in – well, in mink. Put on a coat like that and you’re somebody. So I assume my best ‘I belong here’ face, with Harry and Phil hurrying after me like a well-trained secretary (or Boston Terrier), sweep up to the desk and demand Mrs Peterson-Lee’s room number.
The desk doll starts to say, ‘We ain’t supposed to … ’ but I look at her like no one has ever said no to me in my life before and anyone trying to start now will be looking at the Help Wanted ads tomorrow morning. She caves.
I go over to the elevator and instruct the liftboy to take me to the fifth floor, calling over my shoulder to tell Harry and Phil to take the stairs. I just figure that’s what a really rich dame would do – plus it’s funny. His face as he said, ‘Yes, madam’ was a picture. It’s even better when Harry and Phil then joins me on the fifth floor and I say, ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ as he gets his breath back and tidies his hair (one wavy lock tends to spill over his forehead when he runs, that’s pretty much the whole reason I did this. It’s pretty darn adorable).
We find the room. A maid with a trolley full of fluffy white towels is just coming down the corridor, so as the Peterson-Lee woman opens the door in response to my knock, I go ‘Susan, honey! It’s me! Thought I’d surprise you!’ Then I sweep past her, followed by Harry and Phil, while she’s still standing there, kisser wide open in shock.
A few seconds later she’s composed herself. ‘You seem to know my name, but I’ve never seen either of you before in my life. What precisely is the nature of your business here?’ she says, in that hoity-toity tone.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I say, and she looks real sore. Something to hide?
But she raises her chin high. ‘And that gives you the right to barge into my hotel room, does it? State your business at once, or I will call the manager.’
‘Oh, I think you know what our business is,’ I say. It’s not like she’s covered in blood and I’m pretty certain she ain’t packing heat, but there’s still that wary look in her eyes, for all she’s acting the grand dame.
‘I have no idea.’ But she shoots a quick, questioning look at Harry. ‘Have we met before?’
‘RMS Caesarion,’ he says. ‘We both crossed on the same ship. Although you wouldn’t have found me in first class.’
That seems to relieve her. Maybe there are places she’d rather not be recognised from – like the Pink Tiger club. But all she says is, ‘I see. I have naturally tried to forget all about that terrible journey. What are you doing?’ This last, strident question is aimed at Harry, who’s ankling into her high-class en-suite bathroom.
He comes out again a few moments later, carrying her sponge bag in one hand and what looks to be a pot of something – face cream maybe – in the other.
‘Unless you leave immediately I will call the real detectives in the New York Police Department and have you removed,’ she says.
‘Fine,’ says Harry. ‘Just before you do that, though, I’m guessing you won’t mind me giving this the up and down.’
He holds up the pot of cream. Yeah, I can see now it is face cream, and a real high-end brand at that.
‘Do you know how much that costs?’ the dame demands.
Probably about three months’ rent, would be my answer.
But Harry says, ‘yeah, it’s pretty damn valuable. Let’s have a look-see.’ He untwists the lid, and to both my and Peterson-Lee’s astonishment, digs his fingers into the cream. Out comes something dripping with globules of thick white lotion. Harry wipes his hand on a handkerchief, then wipes the object.
It’s the Eye of Horus. Can’t mistake that. Not many rubies the size of pigeon’s eggs hanging around.
Mrs Peterson-Lee, eyes wide, collapses on to her satin counterpane. ‘But … but … how did that get there?’ she asks.
‘You tell me!’ I say, reaching out to take the stone from Harry. I lift it up and examine it closely. Yeah, it’s the real deal. I’ve already stared into its soul once; ain’t no question this is the same ruby I picked up from George Badger Junior.
She’s staring at it too, now. ‘Is that … it?’ she says. ‘Is that the ruby?’
I don’t know what she’s trying to pull with this ‘is that the ruby?�
� rubbish – no, wait, I know exactly what she’s trying to pull. Playing dumb – that’s a trick I’ve tried myself on occasion. It don’t ever work.
‘That’s an old trick, lady,’ says Harry, putting down the tub of cream. ‘And believe me, I know all the tricks. Hey, Malone, why don’t you have a look around, see if I missed anything.’ By which he means look for the map, of course.
‘What are you looking for?’ Peterson-Lee demands, although it looks like she can barely drag her eyes away from the ruby.
‘As if you don’t know.’
I start on a thorough search. Bed, wardrobe, curtains, rug, dresser – nothing.
‘I didn’t get all the way through the bathroom,’ Harry says. ‘Maybe try in there.’
Fair enough. I head into the bathroom, which is bigger than my entire joint. Stick a couple of pillows in the bath and I’d bunk there, no problem.
Like Harry, I know a few tricks – but turns out I don’t need them. There’s a mirror screwed to the wall, and the map’s been folded and pushed behind it. Pretty obvious place to hide something.
I go back to the bedroom and give Harry a nod. ‘Got it,’ I say.
‘Got what?’ demands Peterson-Lee. She’s still staring at the ruby, like she’s hypnotised, then it’s like she wakes up. ‘I am calling the police!’ She stands up – and sits down again as Harry whips out his bean-shooter and points it straight at her.
‘Hey, Malone,’ he says to me, ‘the lady here wants the cops called. I reckon we should oblige.’
I agree. I go over to the phone and pick up the receiver.
‘Tell them we got some information they’re gonna want to hear about a certain murder they’re looking into,’ Harry says to me.
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