Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  It wasn’t that late. When we came out of the Marylebone Station there were plenty of people around, and—I noticed—several perfectly acceptable restaurants open for business. John relieved me of my backpack, so the only alternative to trotting docilely after him was to throw a temper tantrum in front of one of the perfectly acceptable restaurants.

  The street he graced with his presence was off the Edgware Road, in a residential area without a restaurant in sight, acceptable or otherwise. The lift was working, thank heaven. It doesn’t always. By the time we reached his door I was ready to sink my teeth into moldy cheese, stale bread, or anything else that might lurk in the depths of his pantry.

  Old habits die hard; John still enters a room as if he expects an assassin to be lurking within. Standing well back, he gave the door a shove and reached around for the light switch before peering cautiously into the room.

  “Oh my goodness,” I said, looking past him.

  Drawers stood open, pillows had been tossed onto the floor, and several books toppled from shelves. Through the door that led to the bedroom I caught a shadowy glimpse of comparable chaos.

  “Stay back,” John ordered, barring the door with an outflung arm.

  “If anybody was here, he’d be pointing a gun at us by now.”

  “I am in no mood for one of your arguments. Do as I say.”

  He made sure I would by giving me a shove, and then slid into the room. I heard him moving around, heard the click of light switches, and finally he said, “You can come in. Close the door.”

  One of the many reasons why John and I do not cohabit is that he is as neat as a finicky maiden lady and I am not. On closer inspection his living room didn’t look all that bad—no worse than mine on most days, after I have returned from work to find Clara and Caesar had been whiling away the lonely hours by knocking various objects off various surfaces. The sofa cushions had been pulled out and replaced, in a haphazard sort of way. I straightened them and plumped up one of the pillows, which was lying flat instead of being artistically propped up against the arm. (“You don’t sit on them,” John had once raged, “you look at them.”) Like everything John owns, it was beautiful—a fragment of Chinese embroidery in shimmering shades of gold and turquoise and scarlet. I replaced a few other items and made my way to the door of the room John used as an office. In addition to the desk and a few file cabinets, it contained a couple of straight chairs and a narrow sofa bed. Presumably this was where Jen slept when she visited. It had not been designed to inspire a prolonged stay.

  John sat at the desk, pecking away at the keyboard of his computer. Images came and went on the screen.

  “Did he get into your files?” I asked.

  “No.” John closed the file he was inspecting before I could get a look at it. “Not that he could; everything of importance is protected. But it looks as if he didn’t even try. That’s odd.”

  “Depends on what he was after.”

  John followed me into the bedroom. The drawers of the bureau stood half open. The mattress was half off the bed, sheets and blankets tumbled around it. I studied one of the drawers, sacred to John’s meticulously folded handkerchiefs. They were now in a tumbled heap. I considered refolding them and decided I wouldn’t.

  “What are you doing?” John demanded.

  I closed the drawer. “I’m about to investigate the kitchen. Who knows what havoc has been wrought there?”

  When John joined me I was sitting at the kitchen counter digging into a light repast of Brie and smoked oysters and crackers and a few other odds and ends.

  “I threw out the grapes,” I informed him.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. What was wrong with the grapes?”

  I swallowed. “They looked tired. The apples are withery and the bananas have gone dark brown. You don’t eat enough fresh fruit and vegetables.”

  “I have heard enough about healthy eating habits to last me, thank you.” He dug into the Brie, which was nice and runny. “Anything missing out here?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Not that I could see. He investigated all the cupboards, even the fridge. Spilled a bottle of milk.”

  “I don’t suppose you mopped it up,” John said, without hope. “What could he have been looking for in the fridge?”

  “The family jewels, maybe?”

  “I told you, we don’t have any.” John smeared Brie on a cracker. Not many people can chew and look thoughtful at the same time, but he could. “He dug into every drawer and looked under the mattress and the sofa cushions.”

  Not to be outdone in the deductive process, I chimed in. “He was looking for something relatively small and portable, something that would lie flat under a mattress or a pile of hankies.”

  “I do not hide stolen antiquities under my sofa cushions or in my bureau drawers, if that’s what you are implying.”

  “My, my, aren’t we sensitive.”

  He had finished the Brie. I snatched the remains of the smoked oysters. “I agree, you wouldn’t be that stupid.”

  “Even if I possessed stolen antiquities.”

  “Even if you did. One thing for sure—he wasn’t looking for King Tut.”

  John let out a choking sound. “Sorry. I had a sudden insane image. If this were a horror film, there’d have been a withered hand under the handkerchiefs, a leg or two among the sofa cushions and Tut’s head glaring out of the cupboard between tins of baked beans and tuna.”

  “He couldn’t glare, his eyes have been poked out.”

  John grimaced. “Did you have to say that? And how do you know?”

  “I looked him up at the museum. There are dozens of photos and X-rays. Back in 1926, when Howard Carter put him back in his coffin, he still had eyelids and a little skullcap thingie on his head, and lots of beads and gold bits on his chest—part of an ornamental collar that was so stuck in hardened resin, Carter decided not to try to remove it. In 1968, when a specialist X-rayed him, the skullcap was missing, and so were the pieces of the collar, along with the ribs that had lain under it. And the eyes were just empty sockets.”

  The photographs had struck me not as horrible but as pathetic. The shriveled skin was stretched tight over his bones and his teeth were exposed by shrunken lips, not in the menacing grin of filmdom mummies but in a smile that looked almost shy. He had only been eighteen years old when he died.

  Damn it, I thought, I refuse to feel sorry for a three-thousand-year-old corpse. And damn Feisal for infecting me with his sentimental nonsense.

  John was thinking along more practical lines. “That eliminates one motive for stealing the mummy. There was nothing of value left on it.”

  “No. His penis was missing too.”

  “Enough about bloody Tutankhamon!” John sprang to his feet.

  Men are so touchy about that particular part of their anatomy. Tactfully I changed the subject. “Are you going to call the cops and report a break-in?”

  “What would be the point? Nothing seems to be missing, no bodily assault occurred. I hate to trouble the overworked Metropolitan Police with such a petty crime.”

  “They could look for fingerprints.”

  “Nobody leaves fingerprints these days,” John said gloomily. “Thanks to television and films, even the dullest miscreant knows enough to wear gloves. The hell with it. I’m too tired to think straight. I’ll make the bed if you clear up the remains of the food.”

  He did look tired. “I’ll even mop up the spilled milk,” I offered. “Unless your daily is due tomorrow.”

  “I don’t have a daily, or even a fortnightly.”

  “Are you economizing or just suspicious-minded?”

  “Both.”

  I had to use a brush to loosen some of the dried-on milk. It had been there for at least twenty-four hours, if I was any judge. I don’t have many long-lasting spills. Caesar takes care of them immediately if they are edible, and sometimes if they aren’t.

  T he sound of low voices woke me from a dream t
hat featured the head of Tutankhamon gibbering at me and demanding to know what I had done with his penis. John was already up and dressed; I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.

  John was alone when I joined him in the kitchen. Accepting a cup of coffee, I asked, “Who was here?”

  “The super, as you would call him. He denies having seen any suspicious characters, or of having lent someone a key.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t admit it, would he? Someone must have had a key. The lock wasn’t forced.”

  “An expert could have picked it,” said John, in the tone of one who knows whereof he speaks.

  We breakfasted on coffee and stale bread and headed out. The Closed sign hung at the shop door, but it wasn’t locked, and the lights inside were on. John’s assistant manager was sitting at the desk at the back of the showroom, his head bent over an object in his hands.

  “Hi, Alan,” I said.

  Alan let out a little shriek and dropped the object he was holding. “Must you creep up on a person like that?” he complained. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “Too absorbed in your artistry?” John inquired. “I told you not to bring your sewing to work.”

  “Hi, Alan,” I said.

  “Vicky!” He sprang to his feet. “Do forgive me. John so dominates his surroundings, one fails to notice more attractive objects.”

  Superficially he resembled John—fair hair, slim build, and that indefinable air of superiority produced by a public school education. At close range one couldn’t have mistaken one for the other. To put it as nicely as possible, Alan was a watered-down version of John, paler, slighter, less well defined, as if he was trying to imitate his boss and not doing it very successfully.

  “What are you making?” I asked.

  It was obviously a hat—large, broad-brimmed, with a white plume drooping dispiritedly over one side. Alan was polite enough to avoid making a sarcastic remark about my dumb question. He picked up the hat and pushed the plume up. It fell over again. “It’s for the reenactment,” he explained. “I’m a Cavalier.”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s the Roundheads and the Cavaliers this time? Cromwell and the head of King Charles?”

  “Don’t show off,” John snapped. “Or encourage him. Of all the childish occupations in the world, reenacting old battles is the silliest.”

  “I’d offer to help,” I said, as Alan pushed the plume up again and watched it slowly subside. “But I can’t sew either. May I suggest superglue?”

  Alan pursed his lips. “It isn’t authentic, but it’s a very bright idea. Thanks.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” John said, raising both eyebrows, “but might I venture to inquire whether anything of interest has transpired in my absence? Anything in the way of vulgar business, that is?”

  “A couple of messages about the Egyptian piece. They’re on your computer.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.” John stalked into the office. Alan made a face at his back. “What’s new in dear old München?”

  “Not much.” I followed John into the office. He was already at the computer and into his e-mail.

  “Anything from…him?” I asked.

  “Mmmm,” said John, staring at the screen.

  I leaned over his shoulder. Feisal had written a nice chatty letter, full of irrelevant gossip about what was going on in Luxor. It ended with fondest regards and the hope that we’d be able to pay him a visit in the not too distant future.

  “So we can assume that everything is okay so far?” I asked.

  “Mmmm,” said John.

  “Do you want me to go away?”

  “Mmmm.”

  He shifted position so that I couldn’t read the screen. I took the hint. The bells over the door jangled as I entered the showroom. Alan looked up. “Would you mind demonstrating an inordinate interest in the amber necklace?” he hissed.

  A woman of what is known as “a certain age” had sidled in. What I could see of her hair, under her enormous hat, was an odd shade of grayish blue. The hat was eye-catching: bright scarlet, with a floppy brim that drooped down over her brow, leaving only nose and mouth exposed. Seeing me, she stopped just inside the door.

  “Oh,” she said.

  Alan advanced, smiling winsomely. “Come to have another look at the necklace?” he asked. “I put it aside for you, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come to a decision shortly. This lady is also interested.”

  “Oh,” said the hat. “No. I, um…Thank you.”

  The door closed after her. Alan shook his head. “One does meet the most peculiar people in this business.”

  “What’s so exciting about the necklace?” I asked, leaning over the case of jewelry. “It’s just rough chunks of amber.”

  “According to our esteemed chief, it came from a fifth-century Viking hoard. He’s got the papers to prove it.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Some people,” Alan rattled on, “buy not for the intrinsic value or the artistry of the piece concerned; they focus on specific periods or areas.”

  I stopped listening, since he was telling me stuff I already knew or didn’t care about. “This is nice,” I said, moving along the length of the case.

  “Which?” Alan leaned over the case. “Oh, that. I’d forgot you were an authority on antique jewelry. Would you like to have a closer look?”

  He fished out a bunch of keys, unlocked the case, and placed the pendant carefully on my outstretched palm. It was silver filigree set with roughly cut turquoise, with loops at the top so that it could be hung on a chain or cord.

  “Turkoman,” I said. “It’s not that old; late nineteenth century, probably.”

  “Show-off,” Alan said agreeably. He replaced the piece and locked the case again. “Darling, since you and the boss are here, would you mind if I popped out for a coffee?”

  “Not if you bring one back for me.”

  He waved his way out. The office door remained uncompromisingly closed.

  I amused myself by wandering around the showroom. Some of the objects on display had been there as long as I could remember: a study in black chalk of an elephant, purportedly by Rembrandt (I had my doubts), a stunning Entombment of Christ in walnut polished to satiny smoothness (fifteenth-century German), and a bronze Chinese ceremonial vessel of some sort (not my field). One new object occupied a pedestal in the center of the room. I was gaping at it when John emerged from the office.

  “Where on earth did you get this?” I asked.

  “Do I detect a note of accusation in your voice?” After a quick but comprehensive survey of the showroom, he came to stand beside me. “It’s been in the family for years. I am reduced, tragically, to selling off our treasures.”

  It was a treasure—a small alabaster head, with the distinctive elongated cranium of an Amarna princess. Eighteenth Dynasty Egypt is not my period either, but artifacts of that quality are memorable; they don’t come on the market often. The lips were delicately tinted and the musculature of the face sketched in by an expert hand.

  “How many years has it been in the family? Four?”

  “Your skepticism cuts me to the quick. It was purchased in Egypt quite legitimately in 1892. I have the original bill of sale, and several dated documents describing it.”

  I turned to meet his placid blue gaze. “So you do have family jewels.”

  “A few. Where—”

  “And they aren’t in the attic or your hankie drawer.”

  “No. Do stop asking irrelevant questions. I want to talk to you before Alan comes back. Where is he, by the way?”

  “Gone for coffee.”

  “That usually takes quite a while. Still, I will be brief. Amid the plethora of trivia that constitutes my correspondence, there were a few interesting items.”

  “From your former business associates?”

  “One or two. Indicating, in the most tactful fashion, that they were presently at loose ends and would be pleased to act as middlemen in a
ny transactions that might be pending.”

  “Competitors of Bernardo? Or Monsignor Anonymous?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t try that icy stare on me. You didn’t go all the way to Rome to ask about thefts from a place like the Vatican, and you didn’t hand over that wad of money for information about relics. Why can’t you tell me the truth?”

  “I paid you the compliment of assuming you would prefer to work it out for yourself.” He put a long arm round my shoulders and leaned toward me.

  “Don’t try that either.” I turned my head away. John planted a kiss on my cheek and removed his arm.

  “Assuming that you are on the level, which I am prepared to do for the time being,” I began.

  “How can you doubt me?” John asked in hurt tones.

  “Easily. Assuming that, I presume you are attempting to work out which organizations are capable of pulling off a job like the one in question. In the process you are weeding out people like Bernardo, who wouldn’t have tried to cut themselves in if they were already in, so to speak. May I add that your method of eliminating such individuals strikes me as somewhat hazardous?”

  John shrugged. “Not really. Persons of that ilk don’t take drastic action until they have tried and failed to achieve their ends through simpler methods. You don’t suppose I would have taken you to Rome if I had anticipated danger?”

  The door opened. Alan edged in, juggling several paper cups. “Thoughtful little me, I brought one for each of you. I expect to be reimbursed, naturally. My salary isn’t large enough to promote generosity.”

  “Take it out of petty cash,” John said. “Plus a generous tip, of course.”

  They sneered genteelly at each other; John gestured, and I followed him back into the office.

  “Why are you so nasty to him?” I asked, easing the cap off my coffee.

  “He’s a nasty little man,” John said, his lip curling. “I doubt he has a moral scruple in his head.”

  “So why did you hire him?”

  “Vicky, you have the greatest gift for idle curiosity of anyone I’ve ever met. He’s some sort of cousin—I have hundreds of them. He wormed his way into Jen’s good graces and asked her help in finding a nice gentlemanly job. He’s good with computers and he knows something about art and antiques. I need someone to look after the shop when I’m away, which is a great deal of the time: attending auctions, running down leads, responding to would-be sellers and so on. I know he’s untrustworthy, so I keep a close eye on him.”