Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  “I’ll do it. Beer?”

  Schmidt nodded. Activity had got him out of his mournful mood, but he looked sober. “Time is running out, Vicky. How many days have we left?”

  I tried to think. Ten days, Ashraf had said. That had been two days ago, and the message had been delivered to him…when? A day or two before we saw him.

  “I don’t know, Schmidt. Fewer than I’d like.”

  “You were right, you know, in what you said. A dead king is less important than a living creature. But we must persevere, to help our friends.”

  “Of course.” I patted him on his bald head.

  I towed the bulging bag of laundry out into the sitting room and called housekeeping and then room service. Then I sat down on the sofa and picked up the notebook and pen. The problem was one of simple arithmetic, but so much had happened I was beginning to lose track of the time. Our unscheduled meeting with Ashraf had taken place Tuesday morning. At the latest he would have received the “ransom” note the day before. So when we saw him there were nine days left, not ten. We had arrived in Luxor the following day, inspected Tut’s tomb and visited Ali’s family.

  Eight days.

  Today on the West Bank.

  Seven days.

  Or had I miscounted? At best we had a week. Maybe less.

  I was doodling aimlessly on the page, drawing vultures and jackals, when the laundry maid—a gray-haired, timid little woman—arrived. We got excellent service, thanks to Schmidt’s habit of tipping everybody for every move they made. I was fishing in my pocket looking for a few stray pounds when Schmidt came out and provided them.

  “You look very natty,” I said. “How about a rose for your buttonhole?”

  “It does not seem fitting. A black armband, do you think?”

  “That would be overdoing it,” I said, wondering whether a black armband formed part of his usual travel wardrobe.

  “Perhaps you are right. Where is John?”

  Yes, indeed, where was he? The bedroom door was closed. I opened it and looked in. Not a sign of him there or in the bathroom.

  “Goddamn him,” I said. “He’s done it again.” I ran to the balcony and leaned over the balustrade. Three stories below, the corniche provided its picturesque view of camels and carts and cars and carriages, with a bustle of pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk or weaving their way through the traffic on the street. None of the foreshortened forms was familiar.

  Uttering incoherent curses, I started for the door. Schmidt inserted his solid form between me and the egress.

  “You waste your time, Vicky, you cannot find John when he does not want to be found. Why are you angry? He will turn up, as he did the other night.”

  “He’s up to no good, Schmidt. He knows something he hasn’t told us.”

  “If he is,” said Schmidt, ponderously shifting position as I tried to slide past him, “it is because he is following a lead he can best pursue alone. You have no proof that he is concealing important information.”

  Unbidden and unwelcome, the memory of John’s meeting with Helga, the dealer in Berlin, came back to me.

  “Schmidt,” I said, “what does Helga look like?”

  “Who?”

  “The antiquities dealer in Berlin. What does she look like?”

  “Oh, Helga von Sturm. Why do you—”

  “Just tell me, okay?”

  “She is a handsome woman. Not young, you understand, but soigné and elegant, always expensively dressed. She is very successful, and can afford—”

  “So it wasn’t she John met in Berlin.” I slammed my fist onto the table. “Ouch. He lied about that, he’s lying about the woman who left that note. When he comes back, I’m going to tie him to a chair and torture him till he comes clean. I’m going to—”

  “I am sure he has only gone to the bank or to purchase a newspaper,” Schmidt said. Someone knocked at the door. “Ah—there, you see.”

  Primed and ready, I opened the door. A waiter with a cart shied away when he saw my expression. I forced my face into nonthreatening lines and stood back.

  “What is all this?” I demanded. “I only asked for beer.”

  “I spoke to the room service too,” said Schmidt. “I feared you would forget that we must offer hospitality to our friends, who have been hard at work in the hot sun. No doubt they will want…Ah. Just in time, they are here.”

  We got Feisal and Ashraf in and the waiter, properly baksheeshed, out. It was obvious they had come straight from the West Bank; Feisal’s once-crisp shirt hung limp and the dust on his face was streaked with runnels of sweat. Ashraf was carrying his jacket and his two-hundred-dollar shoes were covered with dust. He hadn’t forgotten his manners, though; he waited until I had sat down before sinking into a chair. Schmidt bustled about, offering fizzy drinks and platters of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Just water,” Feisal said hoarsely. He twisted the cap off a frosty bottle and drank deeply. “Alhamdullilah, that’s good. Where’s Johnny?”

  “Out,” I said, snapping the word off.

  “When do you expect him back?” Ashraf asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ah.” Ashraf leaned back and loosened his tie. He’d hurried off to the West Bank without stopping to change. “Then perhaps you, his associates, can tell me how your investigation is proceeding.”

  He looked inquiringly from me to Schmidt. I kept my mouth shut. Feisal shut his. Sensing a certain level of discomfort all round, Schmidt burst into speech.

  “Today’s tragic development has altered the picture, Sie verstehen. We must analyze the ramifications before we can fully comprehend how they fit into the overall pattern.”

  “So there is a pattern?” Ashraf inquired.

  Feisal stood up. “If I may make use of your bathroom, Schmidt, I’d like to wash up.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into Schmidt’s room.

  “Feisal has not been forthcoming,” Ashraf said smoothly. “He referred me to Mr. Tregarth. I did not press him, since he is clearly distraught about the death of his subordinate.”

  Schmidt, for once at a loss for words, shoved a plate of cheese and sliced smoked turkey at him. Ashraf looked ruefully at his dirty hands.

  “With your permission, I will emulate Feisal.”

  I waved him toward the other bathroom. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Feisal popped out of Schmidt’s room, toweling his hands.

  “Talk fast,” he ordered. “Has anything happened? Anything encouraging?”

  “No,” I said, glancing at the outer door. It remained uncompromisingly closed.

  “Damn. I can’t keep putting Ashraf off, he wants some indication of progress.”

  “Make something up,” I said.

  Feisal directed a desperate stare in my direction, and Schmidt said brightly, “I can do that.”

  Ashraf reappeared, wearing his jacket. He had given his shoes a quick rub, probably with one of my towels, but what did I care?

  “So,” he began.

  “So it appears,” said Schmidt, hands raised and fingertips together, “that our preliminary theory was correct. The missing object is hidden somewhere in the Theban hills. Ali came to the same conclusion and went to look for it. He surprised the men guarding the cache and they were forced to silence him. What did you say to him, Dr. Khifaya, that might have given him the idea?”

  That was taking the fight into the enemy camp, all right. Ashraf looked startled, and then thoughtful. “Nothing that I can think of. He was speaking from the taftish, to which I had summoned him; I cautioned him to watch what he said, since there were others present. I did most of the talking…Let me see. I told him that the theft had been discovered, and cut him off when he began babbling; assured him that I did not hold him responsible…”

  “That I was the one responsible,” Feisal said, scowling.

  “What is the American saying? ‘The buck stops here’?”

  “That means you,” Feisal said.
The two glowered at each other. I could see the family resemblance now, they glowered similarly.

  “Do not quarrel,” Schmidt said. “You are getting off the track. What else did you say to Ali?”

  Ashraf rubbed his forehead. “Not much. To notify me at once if anything out of the ordinary occurred.”

  “Vague,” I said critically.

  “I couldn’t be more specific,” Ashraf insisted. He was on the defensive now, which was just where I wanted him. “Not over the telephone.”

  “No suggestions as to where the—er—missing article might be? No orders to search for it?” Schmidt demanded.

  “No, I tell you. How could I propose an idea that hadn’t occurred to me? May I ask why it occurred to you lot?”

  “I will explain,” said Schmidt, peering owlishly at Ashraf.

  The explanation took a good ten minutes. Feisal couldn’t sit still; he paced and sat down, jumped up and went onto the balcony, came back, sat down, jumped up, paced. When Schmidt couldn’t drag it out any longer, he stopped talking and gave Ashraf a smug smile.

  “It does open up a possible line of action,” the latter admitted. “But there are difficulties. If Ali’s death was not an accident—and we still have no actual proof that it was not—we must assume the murder did not occur near the place where his body was found. That leaves a large territory to be searched. Furthermore, how can I send search parties into the hills without telling them what they are searching for?”

  “And without warning them that if they find it they could be murdered,” I said.

  “That too,” said Ashraf.

  Not a sound at the door.

  “You disgust me,” I burst out. “All of you. A man is dead, a good, harmless man, and all you can think of is how to keep this business a secret. You’re willing to risk more lives to retrieve a dried-up corpse.”

  Ashraf’s expression was so tender and kind I wanted to paste him one. That was the attitude he expected from a woman. If he had praised me for it I would have hit him. It might have been Feisal shaking his head or Schmidt’s fit of frantic coughing that warned him. All he said was, “If I decide to send out search parties, they will be armed and expecting trouble. We can easily find an excuse that does not involve—er—him. A missing tourist, perhaps. When did you say you expected Mr. Tregarth to return?”

  Back at you, Vicky.

  “When he’s good and ready,” I said. “Have some cheese.”

  TEN

  T he sun sank slowly in the west, as it is wont to do, the muezzins sang the praises of God, and still John had not returned. Feisal kept running out onto the balcony. I kept trying not to look at the door. Schmidt tried his best to distract Ashraf, but eventually he was reduced to mentioning dinner. Ashraf declined his invitation to join us.

  “I have an appointment this evening. I will meet you at your office tomorrow at eight, Feisal.”

  It was an order. Feisal acknowledged it with a surly nod, and Ashraf strode out. I collected the messages we had received and for want of anything better to do, began rereading them in the forlorn hope that we had missed something. The note from the unknown American female provided nothing new. I picked up the one from the French archaeologist and wrinkled my brow over it. My French isn’t as good as Schmidt’s. It took me a while to decipher the crabbed handwriting.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s this about Karnak? ‘I have received permission to enter the temple tonight after the Son et Lumière and hope that you will be able to join me.’”

  “Ah, that is most interessant,” said Schmidt, perking up. “It is a rare privilege, seldom granted, to see the temple by moonlight.”

  Feisal looked up from his frowning contemplation of the floor. “Rare is right. How did LeBlanc manage that?”

  “He apologizes for not notifying you earlier,” I went on. “He only learned of the plan this morning. Feisal, who is in a position to arrange this?”

  “Not me. Not without permission from a higher authority.”

  “Ashraf?”

  “I suppose so. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not sure.” I grabbed hold of my head with both hands, as if that would keep the wild ideas flooding into my brain from leaking out. “Let me think. Ashraf must have been the one who set this up. He invited LeBlanc, and maybe a few others. He didn’t invite us, though.”

  “That was not kind of him,” Schmidt said, pouting. “It is a rare opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime—”

  “Exactly! So why didn’t he?”

  Feisal opened his mouth. “Shut up,” I said distractedly. “Remember what I said before—that there had been no either/or in that message from the thieves? Something else was missing—a means of contact. They said they’d be in touch. Suppose they have been. Suppose that’s why Ashraf came to Luxor. To meet with one of them. At the temple of Karnak, late at night, when only a few people are around. But not us. He didn’t count on Schmidt’s wide circle of dear old friends. He doesn’t want us to be there.”

  Feisal’s eyebrows wriggled. “Is paranoia rearing its ugly head?”

  “Not raising its head, upstanding, yelling, and waving its arms. They have to make contact with him sooner or later. How else can they collect the ransom?”

  Feisal said something under his breath. I turned on him. “What was that?”

  “I said, wire transfer. You need to move up into the twenty-first century, Vicky.”

  “Oh,” I said, momentarily deflated.

  “No, she is right,” Schmidt declared. “He must confirm that he has received their message and will agree to their terms, nicht wahr? They would not give him a telephone number or a post restante, or any other address that could be traced. A personal meeting may be old-fashioned, but it is the safest way. When the actual exchange takes place, it will be carried out in the same manner.”

  “Yes! And the ambience is perfect for the first meeting—dark and deserted, isolated—those vast spaces, huge statues and towering columns, people wandering romantically through the shadows—just enough people to make it look legitimate…” Feisal’s eyebrows continued to convey skepticism, but I had convinced myself. “If Ashraf were fool enough to bring along a squad of cops they would be spotted right away. He wouldn’t dare risk it, it would queer the deal and the next thing you know he’d get Tut’s head delivered to his door, and the price would go up.”

  “Hmmm.” Feisal scratched his bristly chin. “Why didn’t he let us in on the program?”

  I was pacing, waving my arms like Mr. Paranoia. It was all coming together. “Ego. The man’s an egomaniac. He thinks he can pull this off without us, take all the credit, maybe even persuade his contact to turn on his bosses and reach a private agreement. He doesn’t trust us. After all, what have we accomplished so far? Damn little. He gave us a chance, today, to prove we were making progress. We couldn’t because we still haven’t a clue.”

  “Almost,” said Feisal slowly, “you convince me.”

  “It can do no harm to proceed on that assumption,” Schmidt said, nodding at me. “We should certainly be present, if only for the experience.”

  “And I’ll tell you who else will be present.” I was at full throttle, roaring along the track. “John. He read that note. He reached the same conclusion I—we—have. He skun out of here before Feisal and Ashraf arrived because he knew it would be more difficult to get away from four of us.”

  “How can he gain entrance, though?” Schmidt asked. “LeBlanc said he will have told the guards to admit me and my party, so one must assume that only those on a select list will be allowed in.”

  “There are ways,” Feisal said. “He could attend the Son et Lumière and not leave with the other viewers. There are plenty of places to hide. Or climb over the enclosure wall, or—”

  “If anyone can find a way, John can,” I said. “So…we go?”

  Feisal raised his shoulders in a shrug. “What have we to lose?”

  I could think of several things. I refrain
ed from enumerating them.

  I t was obvious to me by then that wherever he might be, John had no intention of returning anytime soon, but Schmidt insisted on leaving a message at the desk telling him that we were having dinner at the hotel. Feisal appropriated John’s razor and certain items from his wardrobe, including a tie (regimental?), which was de rigueur in the restaurant. John hadn’t taken anything with him except his precious self, which might have suggested to a trusting soul that he had not left us in the lurch. It didn’t convince me. For all I knew, he might have a pied-à-terre and another wardrobe elsewhere in Luxor. Or he could be on a plane to Cairo, or Berlin, or Kathmandu.

  We had time to kill (and Schmidt was paying), so we dallied over a five-course meal and drank a lot of wine. My initial enthusiasm had faded a bit and I began to wonder if I was on the wrong track. My scenario made perfectly good sense, but so do the plots of a lot of novels.

  Schmidt, full of wine and sipping a brandy, had become a convert. He has a head like a rock, though, and it was he who brought up the unpleasant subject of possible pitfalls.

  “We must make a plan,” he declared. “In case something goes amiss.”

  “Something is sure to,” Feisal said morosely. He hadn’t had any wine.

  “First,” said Schmidt, ignoring this, “we stick together, yes? We do not separate for any reason.”

  “Fine so far,” I agreed. “Second?”

  “We find Ashraf and follow him, but at a discreet distance, being sure he does not see us.”

  Seemed to me we had already hit the first snag in the plan. Three people don’t lurk well, especially when Schmidt is one of the three.

  “When he meets his contact,” Schmidt continued, “we stay at a distance, we do not interfere unless it appears that Ashraf may be in trouble. Then we follow the man he meets.”

  “All of us?” I said dubiously.

  “We must not be separated,” Schmidt insisted. “If by chance one of us is, she must return immediately to the entrance and wait.”

  “What do you mean, she?”

  “She or he,” Feisal said. “That goes for you too, Schmidt. All right, I think that covers the main points. The rest is in the hands of God.”