Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  “And that one?” I asked, indicating another low-slung building.

  “It belongs to a British archaeological group, FEPEA. They usually come out in October for six months or so.”

  “An admirable organization,” Schmidt declared. “I have been privileged to visit with them on several occasions. Their archives contain some remarkable material. It should be of particular interest to you, John.”

  John had been uncharacteristically silent that morning. He remained so, staring at the distant outline of FEPEA headquarters with a remarkably vapid expression. I nudged him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What?” He started. “Yes, certainly. Shouldn’t we get on with this?”

  On we trudged, stopping more and more often to let Schmidt catch his breath. There wasn’t an inch of shade even at the base of the bigger boulders; the sun was high overhead. To be honest, I was losing interest in the whole business. How on earth could anyone hope to find one human body in this wilderness? Even the living were diminished by the towering cliffs.

  Only once did something happen to shake me out of my fatalistic mood. Rounding a finger of cliff, we saw, projecting from the rubble ahead, an irregular dark shape. It moved slightly, like a feebly gesturing arm.

  Feisal dived for the heap of debris and began digging with his bare hands. The rest of us stood frozen until he straightened up and held out a torn scrap of fabric.

  “It’s from a woman’s robe,” he said, breathing hard. “Black. Faded.”

  He and the two boys leveled the heap of rock, though a second glance had indicated it wasn’t high enough to have concealed a body. Some careless female had snagged her hem, and not recently. The fabric was so rotted, it tore at a touch.

  “That’s it,” Feisal muttered, wiping his damp forehead with a damp handkerchief. “You three start back. I’ll catch you up.”

  “We cannot abandon Feisal,” said Schmidt the indomitable. His face was red and his mustache hung limp with sweat. Even his giant hat hadn’t protected him entirely from sunlight reflected up from the surface. Guilt swamped me. I ought to have kept a closer eye on him.

  “He’ll get along better without us,” John said. “I don’t think I can go any farther, Schmidt.”

  He tried to look wan and wilted, which isn’t difficult for him. That air of aristocratic ennui serves him well.

  Schmidt made clucking noises. “Ach, poor John. We will start back at once.”

  He detached his compass and Feisal said, “You won’t need that, Schmidt, just head straight for FEPEA house and tell your driver to meet you there. He’ll know where it is.”

  Schmidt started collecting his gear. Both boys denied any knowledge of the magnifying glass; while Schmidt was arguing with them I said softly to John, “Well done. You put on a good show of exhaustion.”

  “It wasn’t a show.”

  Feisal extracted Schmidt’s magnifying glass from one of the boys and went on with the boy—Yusuf—in the direction we had taken originally. He was out of sight almost immediately, behind an outthrust spur of rock. We started toward the river, accompanied by Ahman, the other boy, who carried a few remaining bottles of water and the last of the lunch boxes. It was downhill most of the way, but the sun was high overhead and by the time we reached our destination we were all drenched in sweat, except for Ahman, who was as brisk as a goat.

  The compound, for such it proved to be, was on the edge of the cultivation. Palm trees and patches of greenery surrounded various structures which were presumably designed for storage and laboratory functions. The main house was a good-sized building, constructed of local mud brick that had been repeatedly patched and repaired, but the design was unusual for that part of the world. A veranda enclosed by screened arches stretched across the front of the house. John tried the door, which was also screened.

  “It’s unlocked,” he said. “Let’s get out of the sun. Have a seat.”

  The shade felt heavenly. The only pieces of furniture on the veranda were a wicker armchair with faded cushions and a rickety table. Empty pots of various sizes stood on the window ledge. Schmidt collapsed onto the chair and whipped out his cell phone. He hadn’t been able to reach his driver earlier. This time he succeeded.

  “He was in the restroom,” he explained, supplying a tidbit of information I didn’t need to know. “He will come at once. Let us finish the lunch while we wait, eh?”

  John perched on the wide window ledge. I joined him and looked around. “The caretaker hasn’t been doing his job,” I remarked, indicating the withered vines that had been trained to climb around the arches.

  “He comes every week,” said Ahman.

  It was the first time he had spoken English or given any indication that he understood the language. There’s a child among you taking notes, I thought, and scolded myself for falling victim to the unconscious superiority we feel for people of other cultures. I hoped I hadn’t said anything rude about him or his country or his relatives.

  “Is he by chance your father?” John asked.

  “The brother of my father. He is a good man.”

  I was about to apologize for implying otherwise when I heard a sound at one of the closed windows of the house proper. An apparition met my startled gaze. Standing on its hind legs, scratching vigorously at the pane, was a large fluffy cat, striped in black and gray. Its mouth opened. A faint but peremptory mew penetrated the glass.

  John went to the door. The handle turned and the door opened; the cat disappeared from the window and shortly thereafter marched out, bristling with indignation. Spotting the sandwich Schmidt was holding, it headed straight for him.

  “A beautiful animal,” cooed Schmidt, dispensing scraps of chicken.

  “Hmmm,” said John. “Was it supposed to be shut in the house?”

  Ahman replied, from outside the veranda. I hadn’t even seen him move. “No.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” He was staring at the cat, the whites of his eyes very much in evidence.

  “You aren’t afraid of the cat, are you? Who does it belong to?”

  Ahman opened the door just wide enough to slip in. “It lives here.”

  “All the time? Who feeds it when the staff is away?”

  “Everyone. It goes where it likes and does as it likes, and when it comes to a house it is given what it likes. People bring food to it.”

  “Oho,” said Schmidt interestedly. “It is a locus genii, then.”

  Ahman looked bewildered. “A supernatural guardian spirit,” I translated.

  Tiring of this meaningless commentary, Ahman said, “It is not an ordinary cat. It goes where it likes and—”

  “I understand,” John said, smiling. “I expect the creature has a den in one of the outbuildings and lives on mice and rabbits.”

  “And dogs,” Ahman said seriously. “The dogs run from it.”

  I could almost believe it. The animal was huge, a good three feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its enormous tail, which was now raised in feline approval as it finished Schmidt’s chicken.

  “Someone seems to have fed it recently,” John said. He indicated the bowls on the ledge. “They’re all empty. Give it some water, Schmidt.”

  The water was received with the usual feline appreciation; that is to say, the cat condescended to drink.

  “It appears it hasn’t eaten or drunk since yesterday,” John said. “So it must have been shut in the house last night.”

  He got up and went to the door, which he had left open.

  “We shouldn’t go in,” I said. “Isn’t that breaking and entering, or something equally illegal?”

  “Just entering,” John said. He added, “The cat couldn’t have let itself in, which means someone has been here. As good citizens, we are obliged to make certain the place hasn’t been robbed.”

  The central block of the house was devoted to offices and a handsomely appointed library. Bookshelves stretched from floor to
ceiling and several tables, equipped with reading lamps, occupied the center of the library. Schmidt went at once to the bookshelves and began reading titles. “It is one of the best Egyptological libraries in the country,” he said admiringly. “Here are all the volumes of the Amarna Tombs series, and the Denkmäler of Lepsius, and…”

  I let him ramble on while I inspected the contents of a pair of glass cases flanking the door. Expecting to find precious manuscripts and/or choice artifacts, I was somewhat taken aback to see a smallish, old-fashioned gun, a large knife, and a piece of folded fabric, roughly triangular in shape. The light was poor. I was trying to figure out what on earth it was when John forcibly removed Schmidt from the bookshelves and ordered us into the next room.

  It had to be the director’s study. The desk was a massive piece of solid mahogany, hand-carved with Egyptian motifs, with crocodile heads forming the drawer handles. Oriental rugs in a glorious medley of colors covered the floor; a table was surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. The chairs showed evidence of being used as scratching posts. The long sofa against one wall was piled with cushions. There was a stone-faced fireplace along the inner wall, for those chilly desert nights, with a pair of crossed swords on the wall above it. It was a wonderful room, dignified and cozy at the same time. Even the filing cabinets were handsome articles of furniture, massive structures of polished wood. I was admiring the effect and wondering where I could get hold of a pair of crossed swords (and a comfy sofa) for my office when I heard a faint sound, no louder than a mouse’s scamper. I knew it probably was a mouse but it reminded me that we had no business being in the house.

  “Let’s go,” I said uneasily.

  “Yes, the driver is probably waiting,” Schmidt agreed. “Come, puss, puss, good puss, you do not want to be locked in again.”

  The car and driver were there. So was Feisal. One look at him told me we were not about to hop in the car and go home.

  “Let me have your camera, Schmidt,” he said.

  Wide-eyed, Schmidt started fumbling in his pockets. For a few seconds no one spoke. Then John said evenly, “Is he dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he can wait a little longer,” John said. “Where, how, and when?”

  The flat, almost callous tone was, contrary to expectations, the right one. Feisal replied as flatly.

  “We won’t know when or how until we get him out. I want to get photographs before we move him. He was at the bottom of a narrow ravine a few hundred yards back from the top of the cliff.”

  “Can we do anything?” I asked. It was a feeble attempt to convey the sympathy and distress I felt, but something told me not to go any further.

  “No. I’ve rung the police. I tried to reach Ashraf, but he’s on his way to Luxor even as we speak. I left a message. You may have to deal with him. Go back to the hotel and wait for me.”

  Mutely Schmidt offered him the magnifying glass. As a gesture it was perfect: heartfelt and absurd at the same time. Feisal’s frozen face cracked into normalcy. “Thanks, Schmidt.”

  After he had left, covering the ground with long, quick strides, Schmidt and I stood staring helplessly at each other. Neither of us could think of anything to say that wasn’t banal or useless.

  “What are you waiting for?” John demanded. “Get in the car.”

  “Shouldn’t we lock up?” I asked.

  “What with? We haven’t a key. Yusuf—”

  “Ahman,” said the individual addressed.

  “Sorry. What time of day does your uncle usually come here?”

  Ahman shrugged. The gesture might have indicated lack of comprehension, indifference, or ignorance of the answer.

  “Bloody hell,” said John. “We can’t wait indefinitely. Where does he live and what is his name?”

  Ahman gave him a blank look and shrugged again.

  “Feisal will know,” I said. “The kid isn’t going to tell you anything, John, he’s afraid his uncle may be in trouble. Give him some baksheesh and let’s go.”

  A long unpaved version of a road led down to the main highway bordering the river. Rejoicing in the blast of cold from the car’s air conditioner, I took off my hat and shook out my damp hair.

  “Someone searched that house,” I said.

  “A somewhat sweeping statement,” said John.

  “The director’s study, anyhow. Two of the chairs had been pulled away from the table and—”

  “Several desk drawers were open an inch or so.”

  “Oh,” I said, deflated. “You noticed.”

  “There were a few other indications, subtle but suggestive, that someone had been in that room recently.”

  “How did he get in? A hefty bribe to the uncle of Ahman?”

  “I don’t think so. The lock had been forced. An easy job, with a clumsy, old-fashioned lock like that one.”

  “What was he looking for?” I asked. “A place to hide…” Ali’s name had been mentioned; there was no avoiding the subject any longer. “To hide a body? And then the killer decided it wasn’t a good place after all?”

  “Not likely.” John’s mouth shut tightly. But I was on track now, I didn’t need any help from him.

  “Not likely,” I agreed, thinking aloud. “There would be no hope of making Ali’s death look accidental if his body were found there.”

  “Perhaps it was Ali who went there, looking for the mummy,” Schmidt offered. “And the thieves caught him.”

  I shook my head. “The place had been searched. They, or he, or she, or whomever, wasn’t looking for Tut, they were looking for something relatively small.”

  John leaned back, arms folded, and stared out the window. The car swerved around a camel loaded with bundles of some variety of herbage.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked, poking him.

  “A long cold shower.”

  I had to admit it was the best idea I’d heard for a while.

  J ohn didn’t join me in the shower. Perhaps, I mused, as the lovely element caressed my sticky self, the idea had struck him as somewhat inappropriate. I wasn’t in the mood either. I had never known Ali, but Feisal’s description and the collective memories of his family had painted the picture of the man: hardworking and honest, struggling to make ends meet against considerable odds. One of the common people. And worth more than any dead king.

  We had found several messages tucked under the door of the sitting room. When I came out of the bedroom, toweling my hair, John was reading them.

  “Let me see,” I said.

  “Be my guest.” John went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Schmidt, pink and scrubbed and wrapped in one of the terrycloth robes supplied by the hotel, joined me before long.

  “We are popular,” I said, handing him one of the slips of paper. “Ashraf has already been round to see us.”

  “Aha,” said Schmidt, perusing it. “He is on his way to the West Bank. That implies that he has received Feisal’s news about Ali. Who is that one from?”

  “Somebody I’ve never heard of.”

  “It is addressed to me,” Schmidt said indignantly. “You opened the envelope?”

  “John did. I did not read it,” I said virtuously. “Who is Jean-Luc LeBlanc?”

  “A distinguished French archaeologist. His team works at Karnak. He has heard I am in Luxor and invites me to visit him.”

  “French, eh? We’ve had suspicious encounters in Germany, Italy, and England. Maybe we shouldn’t have skipped Paris.”

  “Jean-Luc cannot be an object of suspicion. He is a distinguished—”

  “Right. This next one sounds like an American. Only a few more Western countries to be heard from. Is she another distinguished archaeologist?”

  Schmidt looked at it and shook his head. “She writes to John, not to me. ‘I am staying at the Mercure, please call me as soon as possible.’”

  John emerged. He had exchanged his sweat-stained shirt and jeans for a suit and tie. (Regimental or public scho
ol, I presumed.) I handed him the message.

  “One of your floozies?”

  “I do not have floozies. Not even one.”

  He gave me a fond smile and bent over to kiss me on the top of the head.

  “Who is she?” I asked, resisting distraction.

  “An admirer, I expect. I have quite a number of them.”

  “You don’t recognize—”

  The unmistakable voice of Johnny Cash made itself heard. Schmidt fumbled in the pocket of his robe. “Where is my cell phone?”

  “Probably in your bedroom,” John said. “You had better answer, it might be Feisal. I’ll help you look.”

  Schmidt’s phone was on the table next to his bed, which was strewn with articles of clothing. I’ve tidied up after Schmidt so often it has become a habit; ears pricked, I began collecting cast-off garments. Among them was a rather large pair of boxers printed with hearts and bluebirds. Schmidt shares my fondness for fancy lingerie.

  After an initial exclamation of distress, Schmidt didn’t say much. He rang off, and John said impatiently, “Well?”

  “Feisal is on his way here,” Schmidt said. “With Ashraf.”

  “Fast work,” John muttered. “Was it murder?”

  “They will have to wait for the results of the autopsy. He had a fatal wound of the head and several broken bones, but they could have resulted from a fall.”

  “Has his family been notified?” I asked.

  “I forgot to ask.” Schmidt ducked his head. “I am ashamed.”

  “You’ve no reason to be ashamed, Schmidt,” John said gently. “You’re a good man.”

  It was a rare tribute, and Schmidt reacted by leaking tears. By way of distraction I suggested we fill out a laundry form. He must be getting low on white linen suits by now. Such proved to be the case. Schmidt fished out clothes from the floor of the wardrobe. It took a while to sort and list them and put them into the bag provided.

  “I’ll call to have them picked up,” I said briskly. “You get dressed, Schmidt.”

  “Yes, yes, we will soon be having guests. I will call the room service and—”