Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  “Here in Luxor or here in the Valley?” She studied his flushed face and sobered. “I suppose I can travel where I please? I tried to reach you this morning but you did not answer your phone. Then I called your office, and they told me you would be in the Valley this afternoon. When I arrived, Saleh was at the guard post. He graciously accompanied me.”

  She stopped talking and looked inquiringly at him, as if inviting him to reply. The eyes were melting and the lashes were fluttering. Poor bemused Feisal was trying desperately to think of a way of dropping the subject, but I, immune to melting eyes and so on, realized we were in for it. She was not the lady to let him off the hook or quit excavating when she suspected something important lay just beneath the surface.

  “All right, Saida,” I said. “Let’s stop playing games. What are you after?”

  She burst into speech, eyes blazing and hands weaving patterns. “Honesty! Candor! The trust of the man who says he loves me! You insult my intelligence, Feisal. Do you think I am too stupid to put two and two and two and two together? For days you have been worried and afraid—”

  Stung, Feisal interrupted at the top of his lungs. “What do you mean, afraid?”

  Saida brushed the interruption aside with a sweeping gesture. “Your friends, your famous friends, who helped you to save Tetisheri, suddenly appear. They are interviewed by Ashraf, who does not waste time on social courtesies. They visit the museum and one of them, a lady who is not known to suffer from squeamishness, expresses a dislike of mummies. I begin to wonder. And then Ali, poor Ali, who had not an enemy in the world, disappears and is found dead. I begin to ask questions. It is not difficult to get answers if you know what questions to ask. Ali was not the only one to see that interesting van stop at the tomb. The others thought nothing of it, because no one told them they should! They believed it was an official visit. But it was not, was it, Feisal, because if it had been you would have told me about it. Me, of all people. Me, who has been nagging Ashraf for years to take better care of—”

  Feisal covered her mouth with his hand. Over his fingers her eyes widened until the whites showed all around the dark pupils. She pushed his hand away.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Tell me. Do not spare my feelings. Is he—did they—”

  Schmidt’s resigned expression mirrored my own thought. Denial would have been futile. She’d insist on seeing for herself, and a flat refusal would only strengthen her suspicions.

  Feisal’s silence had the same effect. He was the picture of guilt, shoulders bowed, head hanging. He was seeing not only exposure, but the loss of his beloved.

  “They took him,” I said. “They’re holding him for ransom.”

  Men think they rule the roost, but some women know better. Saida blew out a breath of relief. She had feared the worst—the destruction or mutilation of the mummy. “Well, then,” she said briskly, “we must get him back. And when we do, Feisal will be the hero, and Ashraf will look like a blithering idiot!”

  I t was a pretty ambitious agenda, and I could see trouble brewing if Saida stuck to it. I started to point this out, but nobody heard me, since the lovers were wrapped in a passionate embrace and Schmidt was watching with romantic relish. Once the two had untangled themselves, Schmidt said, “Let us go somewhere for a nice lunch, eh?”

  “We need to talk, Schmidt,” I said.

  “Talking and eating are not mutually exclusive. In fact,” said Schmidt, “I think more clearly when I am eating.”

  We found a restaurant across the street from one of the big temples—Medinet Habu, I think it was—where the proprietor greeted Feisal by name and promised to produce anything we wanted, so long as it was chicken or rice. We settled ourselves with various beverages at one of the long tables while he went off to cook it. Wary cats brushed against our ankles. The place was cool and shady and a little shabby, and the view was about as good as it could get: the great pylons of the temple, pale gold against an azure sky.

  “Now,” said Saida, “tell me everything.”

  Schmidt was more than happy to oblige, interrupting himself from time to time to tell the cats to be patient, there would be chicken. Saida listened attentively, her head cocked and her elbows on the table. When Schmidt wound down, she said, “So you have not the slightest idea where he might be?”

  I thought she was referring to Tutankhamon until she turned those big brown eyes to me. “You feel that he has betrayed you?”

  My first reaction was anger. Nobody else had been rude enough to suggest that John had made a fool of me, that his protestations of innocence had been false, that he was the one behind the whole scam. I hadn’t wanted to talk about it either. Meeting her sympathetic but steady gaze, I realized it was time I did.

  “He’s certainly told me a pack of lies,” I said. “From the very beginning.”

  “Are you sure?” Schmidt asked anxiously.

  “Oh, yes.” The dealer in Berlin who wasn’t a dealer, the so-called monsignor who probably had nothing to do with the Vatican…

  “But that does not prove he is guilty of stealing—” Schmidt began.

  “Shh,” we all three hissed.

  He continued, “…him. He—John—may be pursuing a Clue.”

  “Without telling us?” Feisal demanded. He looked as if he too was relieved to be able to discuss what had been weighing on his mind.

  “Candor is not one of his most conspicuous characteristics,” I said.

  “He would not want to endanger us,” Schmidt insisted. “Especially Vicky.”

  “You are such a bloody romantic, Schmidt,” Feisal growled. “Face it. He was always the most obvious suspect. He has the connections and the insane imagination. If I hadn’t provided him with an excuse to come to Luxor he’d have invented one, so he could be on the scene for the final negotiations.”

  There was pain as well as anger in his voice. It hurts to think you have been betrayed by someone you trusted.

  Only Schmidt, the bloody romantic, spoke up in John’s defense. “I will not believe it until he admits it.” He considered the statement and then added, “Perhaps not even then.”

  “All right, let’s go over it again,” Feisal said wearily. “He was in the temple last night—”

  “Along with a number of other dubious characters,” I interrupted. “Let’s not go over it again. We’ve got to stop speculating and guessing and concentrate on locating it…him. And I don’t mean John. Anybody got a bright idea?”

  The food (chicken and rice) arrived, along with bowls of stewed tomatoes and bread and hummus. The genial host left, the cats came out from under the table, and we stared stupidly at one another until Saida banged her fist on the table.

  “Vicky is right! To begin with, let us assume that he is still somewhere in the Luxor area.”

  “That’s an unverified assumption,” Feisal said.

  Saida gave him a scornful look. “We have to start somewhere, and it is a logical assumption, given the difficulties involved in transporting him elsewhere. The second assumption—”

  Feisal opened his mouth. Saida raised her voice a notch and went on. “Which is also logical, is that he is still on the West Bank. Shall I explain to you why?”

  “A conspicuous vehicle like that would have run a greater risk of being noticed on the streets of Luxor,” Feisal said in a bored voice.

  “Very good,” Saida said condescendingly. “Whereas, on this side of the river, there are sparsely inhabited areas where, with caution, the vehicle could pull off the road, transfer its passenger, and remove the distinctive camouflage. Disappear, in other words.”

  We’d considered some of those points before, but hearing them laid out in that incisive contralto carried greater conviction. Feisal wasn’t ready to admit it, though. “So you’ve narrowed it down to a few hundred square miles. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Go to hell,” Saida said pleasantly. “To proceed. There are two general types of hiding places for such an object—a cave or abando
ned tomb in the cliffs, or a room in a structure of some sort.”

  I remembered my dream, of Tutankhamon laid out on a bed in a fancy hotel, with the air-conditioning going full blast. Crazy, of course, but…

  “They would want to protect him as much as possible, wouldn’t they?” I asked. “Away from dust and insects and predatory animals and rockfalls and so on. And there would be less chance of someone stumbling on the hiding place by accident if it had walls around it and doors that could be closed and locked.”

  “But Ali’s body was found in the cliffs.” Feisal was still fighting a rearguard action.

  “Pah,” said Saida. “The villains would take him far away from the place where he met his death.” She looked around. Schmidt and the cats had eaten all the chicken. “Let us go. Vicky, would you like to visit the loo before we start back?”

  She led the way to a room at the back which, to put it as nicely as possible, would not have rated even one star in a guide to elegant restrooms. I will spare you the details, except to mention that I understood why she was wearing skirts instead of trousers. While we washed our hands at a stained basin with a well-used scrap of soap, she gave me a sidelong glance and sighed.

  “Men are very pleasant to have around, but they are deficient in common sense, poor things. You saw at once the logic of what I was saying.”

  “They don’t think the way we do, that’s for sure.”

  “Except for your lover?”

  She had got me away for a little girl talk. I liked her a lot but I wasn’t in the mood for confidences. Not yet.

  “John doesn’t think the way anybody else does,” I said with perfect accuracy.

  “You are worried for him, aren’t you?”

  I accepted a handful of tissues which she produced from the billowing folds of her skirt. There was a towel, hanging on a hook by the sink, but I’d rather have wiped my hands on the floor.

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” I said.

  S chmidt had fallen in love with Saida early on, and when she asked for the loan of his notebook and pen he was ready to kneel at her feet. Their heads together, the two of them made lists while we drove to the boat landing. Once we were on the East Bank, Feisal and Saida went off arm in arm, destination undeclared, and Schmidt and I headed for the hotel.

  The telephone was ringing when we entered his suite. I pounced on it; why kid myself, I was still hoping a familiar voice would announce a triumphant return, with Tut under one arm and the principal perp under the other. The caller was from housekeeping, asking if she could bring my laundry.

  She’d come and gone and Schmidt was in the shower and I was about to head for mine when there was a knock at the door. Hotel employees popped in and out all the time, offering small services in return for badly needed small tips, so I assumed it was someone with a vase of flowers or a bowl of fruit. Instead I beheld a woman who was a total stranger. Her wash-and-wear gray pantsuit and low-heeled shoes reminded me of my Aunt Sue’s going-out-for-lunch-with-the-girls outfits. Horn-rimmed glasses framed faded brown eyes, and brownish hair streaked with gray had been pulled back into a bun set off by a coquettish red bow. She was clutching an enormous purse, held in front of her. I half-expected her to ask me to contribute to the local animal shelter or subscribe to Ladies’ Home Journal.

  Her eyes tried to see past me. Since I pretty well filled the doorway and she was considerably shorter than I, they did not succeed.

  “Yes?” I said, meaning no, what do you want?

  She cleared her throat and said in a soft, precise voice. “I would like to speak to Mr. John Tregarth.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “he isn’t here.”

  “May I ask when you expect him back?”

  “I don’t know. That is,” I amended, “you may ask, but I can’t give you an answer.”

  “Oh.”

  I figured I had been polite enough for one day. This had to be another of John’s ambiguous acquaintances. She didn’t look like a crook, but then the best of them don’t.

  “Won’t you come in?” I asked, stepping back and stretching my lips into a smile.

  The smile may have been a mistake; it probably showed altogether too many teeth. She shook her head. The red bow bounced. “No, thank you. I—I will come another time.”

  “Who the—who are you?” My tone of voice and the hostile stare that accompanied it alarmed her. She jumped back, lifting the purse like a shield. Her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, were wide with alarm. I was afraid she’d start to scream and I’d be arrested for threatening a harmless lady who was twice my age, so I produced a modified version of the smile and said, “I mean—can I help you?”

  “No. No, thank you. It is a private matter. But very important. I left a message earlier.”

  “Oh, are you…” I couldn’t remember the name.

  “If you will be good enough to ask him to telephone me at the Mercure? Thank you. I am sorry to have bothered you. But it is very important.”

  I had lied when I had pretended to Saida that I wasn’t worried about John. I was worried and angry and frustrated, and here was a possible lead to his motives if not his current whereabouts. I was almost ready to grab her and drag her into the room and take my chances with the screaming when the portly form of Mahmud, the room steward, came into sight. He was carrying a vase with a pink rose in it.

  “Goddamn it,” I said vehemently.

  Ms. Whatever let out a ladylike shriek and ran. Mahmud beamed and bowed and offered me the vase. I waved him in. “Put it on the table.”

  Schmidt’s suite was at the far end of a long corridor. The unknown personage was still in sight, trotting as fast as she could toward the elevators. Just as well Mahmud had heaved into view, I thought. He had given me time to reconsider my initial impulse.

  Across the hall from where I stood, two long flights of stairs led down to the mezzanine of the New Winter Palace lobby, where it was connected to its older neighbor. I made a dash for them, leaving the door open. If I moved fast enough and if the elevator was slow, as it usually was, I might reach the Old Winter Palace lobby before she left.

  I went down the stairs at a breakneck pace, hanging on to the rail to keep from falling, and pelted along the corridor that led into the older building, and down the stairs to the lobby.

  My first quick glance around the lobby failed to find her. A second, more deliberate glance, also came up empty. I didn’t run, but I walked really fast to the front entrance. From the terrace I had a good view of the street one story below. Conspicuous by its absence was a small figure in a gray pantsuit.

  “Goddamn it,” I said.

  Continuing the pursuit would probably be a waste of time. Now that I had calmed down, I realized I shouldn’t have pursued at all. After all, I had her name and current address—assuming I could find her original message. I had no idea what had become of it. I ought to have made nice instead of frightening her into flight.

  When I got out of the elevator I saw Schmidt standing in the open doorway of the suite, swinging from side to side like a pendulum. He saw me and let out a shout.

  “Where have you been? How could you alarm me so? Never do that again. Herr Gott, do you not know better than to open a door when I am not present to defend you?”

  I apologized and explained. Schmidt’s eyes narrowed.

  “You are starting at shadows, Vicky. This woman, whoever she may be, cannot have anything to do with the Tutankhamon affair or she would not have given you a name and an address. Now come and change. Feisal has just telephoned; he and Saida are joining us for dinner.”

  When I emerged from the bedroom, clean and freshly clothed and more or less in my right mind, Saida and Feisal were sitting on the balcony with Schmidt, watching the sunset. Saida was telling us what we were going to do next.

  “We begin tomorrow at daybreak,” she declared, waving a piece of paper. “I have made a list of places to be searched.”

  I took the list from her. It filled the entire page
. “Us and what army?” I inquired. “We can’t go bursting into the headquarters of respectable organizations like the German Institute or—”

  “Who said we would burst? We will visit, as colleagues.”

  I glanced at Feisal, who avoided my eyes. I couldn’t count on help from him, or from Schmidt, who was bouncing up and down in his chair, delighted at the prospect of active detecting. I was trying to decide whether to throw the cold water of common sense on the scheme or let them amuse themselves when there was a knock at the door.

  “Saved by the knock,” I said, and went to answer it.

  It was a hotel employee carrying a plastic bag with the logo of one of the expensive shops in the arcade. “For you, lady,” he said, offering me the bag.

  Schmidt had rushed to my side, his right hand in his pocket. Visibly disappointed at seeing a harmless messenger instead of a knife-wielding assassin, he withdrew the hand. Instead of a weapon, it held a wad of banknotes.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “That can’t be mine. I haven’t bought anything at Benetton.”

  “You ordered it,” the man insisted. “It came to the desk just now.”

  Schmidt took the bag and handed over baksheesh.

  “It is a present for you, perhaps,” he said, closing the door. “Let us see if there is a note.”

  What there was, under a layer of tissue, was a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The sort of box you can find at any shop in the suk.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  My exclamation brought Saida and Feisal in from the balcony. We stood around the table staring down at the box. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.

  “It is very pretty,” Saida said politely. She reached for the box. Feisal knocked her hand away. His face was an ugly shade of gray. “Let me,” he said hoarsely.

  She hadn’t seen the other box, but his reaction and the fixed glares of Schmidt and me were enough to jog her memory. She shied back and raised her hands to her mouth. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Not another…”

  The catch was stiff. Feisal pried it up and removed a layer of cotton wool.