Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  “How many does she have?” I asked, unwillingly distracted.

  “Three, is it not?” Schmidt got a modest smile of acknowledgment. “Two are noms de plume, you understand.”

  “Then the name on the note you left—”

  “Is my real name.” She smiled apologetically. “I have to use it when I travel, because of credit cards and passports and that sort of thing. I know it is confusing. I get mixed up myself.”

  “But the pseudonyms are necessary,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Because of your many admiring readers. I wrote to you once a fan letter, and you sent me an autograph.”

  “I remember. You asked for a photograph, and I was sorry to refuse, but I make it a rule never to—”

  “Send photos as if you were some sort of media celebrity,” Schmidt cried. “An admirable attitude. I fully understood.”

  “Would you like the rest of us to leave?” John inquired in a devastatingly polite voice.

  Schmidt said “Hmph” and the woman—whose name I still didn’t know—turned pink. “Let me make my confession, please. It was I who broke into your family home, I who searched your flat, I who have followed you across Europe in various disguises. I was temporarily deranged.”

  John leaned over and delicately removed the hat. They looked each other in the eye. The corners of his lips turned up and he said, “Yet I suspect you rather enjoyed it, didn’t you? Especially the disguises.”

  A fleeting smile echoed his. Then she said primly, “That is not the point. You see, the journals your mother sold me some time ago formed the basis for a very successful series of novels. Then—then I ran out of journals! I knew there must be more, since there were gaps in the chronology, but your mother denied having them, and she refused to let me search for myself. I was desperate.”

  “Why didn’t you just make something up?” Saida asked interestedly. “Isn’t that what novelists do?”

  “No, she could not do that,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Not a writer of integrity like this one, whose work has always been based on true history.”

  “Thank you for understanding,” said the writer of integrity, who had just admitted to having broken into two different dwellings. “However, that does not excuse what I did. I found three of the missing journals in the attic of your home, Mr. Tregarth (you really ought to get someone in to clean the place properly). I took them. I will return them if you insist, but I beg you will accept my check and my heartfelt apologies instead.”

  Leaning against the back of the sofa, John said solemnly, “How much?”

  “Stop teasing her,” I exclaimed. She was genuinely repentant, and very short. I have a soft spot for women like that.

  “I think she’s rather enjoying that too,” said John. He got a fleeting but unregenerate grin in reply. “All right. Same price as the others. Agreed?”

  “Oh, yes! Thank you so much.” She only hesitated for a second. “And if you should know of any more…”

  “Have you searched the library of the FEPEA headquarters?” Saida asked. She had recognized a kindred spirit, even if this one was pretending to be a sheep.

  “I tried, but I did not succeed. And that is one of the reasons why I have been trying to talk to you, Mr. Tregarth. That house, which is sacred to the memories of your distinguished ancestors, is now occupied by a group of suspicious individuals. When I approached the house five days ago—”

  “With the intent of committing another burglary?” John broke in.

  “Who cares?” I exclaimed. “Tell us about these individuals.”

  “I meant to proceed with complete decorum this time” was the indignant reply. “I had observed evidence of someone being in residence, so I knocked at the door. Eventually it was opened by a person who spoke emphatically to me in Arabic. I do not understand the language well, but his gestures made his meaning clear. When I offered my card, he shut the door in my face.”

  “Good God,” Feisal exclaimed. “You must have a guardian angel looking after you. You might have been killed or kidnapped.”

  “They wouldn’t risk violence,” I said. “They wanted to avoid anything that would draw attention to them. Five days ago, you said?”

  “Yes. That was why I was emboldened to approach Mr. Tregarth, since I felt he ought to be warned of their presence. I hope—I do most sincerely hope—that my failure to speak out has not caused trouble. I can’t help but notice you appear to have been injured.”

  She certainly couldn’t, since John had insisted on a sling and a copious application of bandages to the cuts on his hand and cheek. He murmured something vague and deprecatory, and I said, “It wasn’t your fault, you tried your best.”

  “You are most kind. I also felt obliged to inform him that his assistant is a venal young man who does not deserve his trust. He charged me a hundred pounds for the use of the key to your flat.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  John cleared his throat. “I appreciate your telling me.”

  “It was my duty.” She picked up her hat and rose. “Thank you for overlooking my malefactions. I will send a check tomorrow.”

  Schmidt bounded up. “I will escort you back to your hotel.”

  “No, no, I have taken enough of your time. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Herr Doktor.”

  “The pleasure is mine! At least allow me to see you into a taxi.”

  They went out together. Rebound, I thought. One-hundred-and-eighty-degree rebound. The marriage of true minds, not the lure of the flesh. Shared interests, mutual respect…

  The silence that followed their departure could only be described as critical. If John had replied to her first message, we would have learned several facts of interest. Maybe they would have made a difference. Maybe not. But as my mom always says, it never hurts to be polite.

  Schmidt’s return gave John an excuse to change the subject that was in everyone’s mind. “Back so soon?” he inquired.

  “I wanted to entertain her in the bar, but she would not stay,” Schmidt said. “A delightful woman, is she not? An admirer of J.R.R. Tolkien too! She is leaving Egypt tomorrow, but she was good enough to give me her telephone number. John, had you but had the common courtesy to respond to her first—”

  “Water over the dam,” John said hastily. “As I was saying earlier…Confound it, now what?”

  “Ashraf, I hope,” I said, going to answer the knock at the door.

  “If it is Suzi…” Schmidt began.

  “I know, I know.”

  It was Ashraf, though I almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hair stood on end, his face was streaked with dust, and his eyes were wild, and when he spoke his voice cracked.

  “He wasn’t there! He’s still missing!”

  FOURTEEN

  W e restored Ashraf with brandy—permissible for medicinal purposes—and barraged him with questions.

  “What do you mean, he wasn’t there?” Feisal cried. “Where else could he be? You didn’t search thoroughly!”

  “We tore the place apart.” Ashraf spread his dust-smeared, splinter-riddled hands. “Not only the main house, but every outbuilding. That woman—that dreadful woman—has gone to investigate the villa at Karnak, but I cannot believe they would have left him there unattended.”

  “No,” John said.

  “Where can he be?” Ashraf’s voice rose in a poignant plea.

  “Well, now, that’s the question, isn’t it?” John said coolly. “Let us control our emotions and examine the matter logically.”

  “Please,” I said. “Not another lecture on crime and the criminal mind.”

  “Just crime, darling. I was about to go into that aspect of the matter when we were interrupted. If anyone has a better suggestion…” Eyebrow lifted, he swept his audience with an inquiring eye. No one responded. Ashraf had relapsed into gloomy despair, Feisal was pacing, Schmidt watched John with amiable expectation, and even Saida was fresh out of ideas. The blow had been devastating; it had never occurred to any of us that the damned mum
my wasn’t there.

  I refrained from additional criticism. John had been through a lot lately; as he had frequently remarked he hates being hurt, and his amour propre had also taken a beating. He had, to put it rudely, screwed up not once but several times. So I folded my hands and gave him an encouraging nod. He would have gone ahead anyhow.

  “This,” said John, “was an expensive operation. It required a number of people to carry it out, people with special skills. There aren’t as many of them as you might suppose, particularly in this part of the world—not terrorists, not politically motivated, a criminal organization pure and simple, interested only in the money. After checking my sources I had determined before we arrived in Egypt that one group was the most likely. They had pulled off several rather neat thefts of antiquities, from storehouses and in one case from a well-guarded temple.”

  “Denderah,” Feisal exclaimed.

  “Right. The modus operandi in that case was similar to the one employed here. Now you may well ask why, if I had identified the group in question, I didn’t tell you. The answer is that the gang itself was unimportant. They are for hire, they carry out orders. I wanted the man who had hired them, and at that point I didn’t have a clue as to his identity. There were too many possible motives, too many possible suspects.

  “Gangs have their uses, but they also have inherent disadvantages. They’re in it for the money. So if somebody offers them more money, they may decide to take it and run. Or if something goes wrong they may decide to save their own skins—and run. That’s why I don’t use them. You simply can’t count on the buggers. Vicky, you’re twitching. Am I boring you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too,” Feisal snarled. “Where is all this leading?”

  “I am trying to explain,” said John loftily, “why I didn’t let you in on my deductions. You were all suspects. Yes, Feisal, even you. You would have been happy to see Ashraf disgraced and you the hero who had saved Tut. The only people I didn’t suspect were Vicky and Schmidt, and both of them have a deplorable tendency to take matters, and in Schmidt’s case, weapons, into their own hands.”

  Taking this as a compliment, Schmidt chuckled and opened another bottle of beer. “I didn’t have any damned weapons,” I said grumpily. “Schmidt, how the hell did you get hold of that gun?”

  “I got it the night I went shopping with Saida and Feisal,” Schmidt explained. “From a taxi driver, after they had left. There are ways to find things, Vicky, if one knows the ropes.”

  Feisal rolled his eyes heavenward. “I don’t want to hear about it, Schmidt, and I don’t want to hear any more theories. I want to know what the hell has happened to Tutankhamon!”

  “So do I,” Ashraf said. “If you’re so bloody clever, Tregarth, answer that.”

  John went to the minibar. “I never drink to excess, but I think this evening I’m entitled to approach that level.” He winced theatrically and rubbed his arm. “Tut? He’s at the FEPEA house, of course.”

  Ashraf was too infuriated for coherent speech; he sputtered and waved his arms. Feisal swore eloquently. “Impossible. We searched the place from top to bottom.”

  “You didn’t look in the right places,” John said.

  J ohn refused to say more, claiming he was feeling faint and needed his rest.

  “Tomorrow,” he said wanly. “I—I may be up to the job tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow be damned,” Feisal yelled. “I’m heading there right now.”

  “I strongly advise against that,” John said. “You’ve left some of your people guarding the place, I presume? He’ll be perfectly all right.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the threats and curses. “Do you want the man who is behind this? Then be patient. It will be worth the wait. Trust me on this.”

  We got Feisal and Ashraf out before they could commit bodily assault on John. I was tempted to join them, but I was beginning to get an inkling of an idea. I think Saida was too. She hadn’t joined in the general outcry.

  T he cat was the first to greet us. It came round the corner of the house, tail erect, and made a beeline for Schmidt.

  “She remembers,” Schmidt said happily, stooping to stroke the animal’s head.

  “It’s a he, Schmidt,” I said, from the other end of the cat. “Definitely a he.”

  “I was worried about you,” Schmidt informed the cat. “I ought to have known that you would be sensible enough to stay away from a place where there were loud noises and projectiles.”

  Schmidt held the door for me and the cat. The others were in the director’s office. Schmidt stopped and looked down at the dark stain on the Bokhara rug.

  “It’s okay, Schmidt,” I said, patting his shoulder. “He’s still alive.”

  Schmidt sighed. “Barely. But it was necessary. He might have killed you or John.”

  The dark stain wasn’t the only evidence of violence. The study looked the way my living room looks most of the time—chairs pulled out or knocked over, various objects strewn around the floor. Among the latter were the two swords. The tips were darkly stained.

  “Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. “Such beautiful weapons, to be treated so cavalierly. They should be cleaned and replaced.”

  “Not by you, Schmidt,” I said. “Ashraf, you had better get some of your henchmen in here to repair the damage before the expedition arrives, or you’ll have some explaining to do to.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Ashraf admitted. Something crunched; he lifted his foot and examined the sole of his brogue. “Broken glass. Where did that come from?”

  “In the mad rush to the rescue last night, someone knocked over one of the display cases,” John said, looking into the library. He bent over and delicately extracted a knife from amid the shards of glass. “Nice weapon.”

  “The founders must have been a bloodthirsty lot,” I said.

  “Life was hazardous in those days,” John said, admiring the knife. It was a good eight inches long, and showed signs of use.

  “Never mind the nostalgia,” Feisal growled. “Where’s Tutankhamon?”

  John came back into the study. He put the knife down on the table. “Here.”

  “I tell you, we looked everywhere,” Feisal insisted.

  “You were looking for a coffin-shaped box approximately six feet long,” John said.

  The words fell like lumps of lead thudding onto a defenseless head. Feisal’s jaw dropped. Ashraf choked. Saida said calmly, “I thought so.”

  John went to the file boxes piled in the corner. They were of heavy cardboard, squarish in shape, none longer than three feet. The one on top was about a foot square. With the slow deliberation of a magician preparing to produce a rabbit from a hat, John removed the lid and lifted a few loose papers. The head of Tutankhamon smiled shyly up at us.

  “Ham,” I said. “Show off. Charlatan.”

  “They broke him into pieces,” Ashraf wailed.

  “He was already in pieces,” I reminded Ashraf.

  Saida hovered over the box, uttering little moans of distress. In an effort to console her, I said, “They seem to have packed him quite carefully—cotton wool all around, nice sturdy boxes.”

  Feisal rushed at the other boxes. Two legs, half a torso, the other half, arms. He was all there. Or rather, all of him was there, except for the hand that had been sent to Ashraf. Feet and the second hand occupied a separate container. While the others unpacked Tut, John stood to one side, nursing his arm and looking superior. Schmidt settled down in the director’s chair and began feeding the cat chicken from one of the lunch boxes he had brought. His mustache was twitching. Either he was deep in thought or he was trying not to laugh. Laughter was inapropos, but the situation did have an insane touch of black humor. I felt as if I were at a wake, there was so much groaning and gnashing of teeth.

  Ashraf was the first to get his wits together. Unlike Feisal and Saida, he was less concerned with poor old Tut than with saving his reputation. He snatched the box containing the head. “We
’ve got to put him back. Right now, before word leaks out. Feisal, start loading those boxes into the car.”

  Schmidt looked up. “Now, in broad daylight, with tourists and guards in the Valley watching every move you make?”

  “No, we can’t do that,” Feisal exclaimed. He snatched the box back from Ashraf. “Damn it, be careful. Don’t joggle him.”

  “He won’t mind,” I said. “He’s dead.”

  Feisal gave me a hateful look. Ashraf stroked his freshly shaven chin. “We must think,” he muttered. “Think before we act. Tonight, after the Valley is closed…”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” John drawled. “Take your own advice, Ashraf, and think this through. Aren’t you even slightly interested in the identity of the mastermind? You ought to hold a personal grudge; he was the one who bashed you on the head the other night.”

  “We know who it was. Your assistant—I forget his name—”

  “As I keep telling you, it’s not that simple. There’s no hurry. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable and let me explain?”

  “Not another lecture,” I said.

  “At the end of which,” said John, nostrils flaring with annoyance, “I will produce the real instigator of this affair. Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Grudgingly and grumbling, the rest of us took our places around the table. The head of Tutankhamon, placed tenderly on the table by Feisal, lent a macabre note to the proceedings. The solemnity of the meeting was somewhat marred by Schmidt’s passing round the box of chicken legs. (The cat had eaten the breasts.)

  “If I may,” said Schmidt, “I would like to say a few words.”

  “By all means,” said John, with a gracious inclination of his head.

  “Thank you,” said Schmidt, graciously inclining his head. “Referring, John, to your deductions of last night: It seems to me that you left certain matters unexplained. The unfortunate Alan may have been able to locate the group you mentioned by getting access to your private files, but if he wanted money, why devise such a bizarre, complex scheme? Why Tutankhamon instead of an artifact he could sell on the illicit antiquities market?”