The Eye of the Serpent

by Philip Caveney

  Ethan chuckled. ‘Yeah, Mohammed, I know what you’re getting at. I promise I won’t make any more bad jokes about your Model T, OK? Right now it looks like the nicest car a man could ever wish to see.’ He patted its rusting bonnet respectfully. ‘Though to be honest, I can’t believe that sandstorm didn’t finish off your engine too.’

  Mohammed looked puzzled. ‘Sandstorm?’ he murmured. ‘What sandstorm?’

  Ethan stared at him. ‘Well, you must have seen it,’ he spluttered. ‘You weren’t that far behind us. Near enough blew us right off the road.’

  But Mohammed was shaking his head. ‘I saw no sandstorm, Mr Wade. It has been like this all the way from Luxor.’

  Alec and Ethan exchanged puzzled looks.

  ‘It’s all very odd,’ continued Mohammed. ‘What on earth are hyenas doing so far north? And what made them attack you?’ He indicated the dead creatures lying in the sand. ‘They are usually such timid creatures. One shot of a gun should have been enough to see them off.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ethan tilted back his hat and stared down at the corpses. ‘How do you account for that?’ He indicated the biggest of them. ‘Took three shots to put that big feller down. Never known anything like it.’ He pointed to another dead hyena. ‘That guy I got with a head shot.’ He lifted his gaze and saw a third hyena lying dead some distance from the others. ‘And that one . . .’ He seemed to remember something. His eyes widened and he turned to look at Alec.

  ‘Kid,’ he said. ‘You . . . you saved my neck. I remember now. That hyena was on top of me and you stuck him with the blade.’

  Alec looked down at the hunting knife in his right hand, which was red and sticky with gore. He squatted down and plunged the blade into the sand to clean it.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t have time to think,’ he said. ‘That thing was on top of you and . . . well, I just did what I thought was best.’ He handed the knife back to Ethan, who slid it back into its sheath.

  ‘You did great,’ he said. ‘Really great.’

  Alec shrugged. He uncorked his canteen and began to wash the blood from his hand.

  Ethan turned to Llewellyn. ‘Now there’s a story for your newspaper,’ he said. ‘A story of courage . . . A young boy fighting off a savage beast and saving a man’s life! Your readers will love it. And unlike most stories you people print, this one is actually true.’

  Llewellyn stared at him for a moment as though he hadn’t the faintest idea what Ethan was on about. Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, ah, yes, of course! You must, er . . . let me have all the details . . . I shall talk to you when we reach our destination and I’ll, er . . . make some notes.’

  ‘Great. Say, which newspaper did you say you worked for?’

  ‘The . . . Examiner.’

  ‘Oh, right, so you must know Billy Farnsworth.’

  ‘Umm . . . Billy . . .?’

  ‘You know, the sports columnist?’

  Llewellyn smiled. ‘Oh yes, of course. Billy! He and I are great friends.’

  Ethan gave him a knowing look. ‘Tell me, he still got something going with that little cocktail waitress from the Sphinx nightclub?’

  Llewellyn winked. ‘I’m afraid so. It’s the talk of the office.’

  Ethan nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess that settles it. You’re no more a newspaper reporter than I am.’

  Llewellyn looked appalled. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he cried.

  ‘Mr Llewellyn, there is no Billy Farnsworth and no cocktail waitress neither. I just made ’em up. Now, either you tell me the truth or you can get out of this automobile and start walking.’

  Llewellyn’s expression turned to one of alarm. He reached into his inside pocket and produced a leather wallet, which he flipped open and held out to Ethan. ‘You must forgive me, Mr Wade. As you say, I am not a reporter but a private detective. I have been hired by the parents of Mr Thomas Hinton to investigate the circumstances surrounding their son’s disappearance.’ He withdrew a letter from the wallet and handed it over. ‘That’s from Mr Hinton,’ he said, ‘explaining the situation. I had hoped that my little deception might help me to obtain information.’

  Ethan studied the letter for a few moments in silence. Then he shrugged and handed it back. ‘Why didn’t you just tell the truth?’ he said. ‘I don’t appreciate being lied to.’

  Llewellyn frowned. ‘In my experience, Mr Wade, most people have a tendency to distrust detectives, but will tell newspapermen just about anything.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I ain’t most people. I hate reporters but I’ve got a lot of time for private dicks.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Detectives. One of my favourite uncles is in the business. Obadiah Wade – operates out of Boston. Maybe you heard of him?’

  Llewellyn shook his head and his cluster of chins wobbled alarmingly. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Ethan looked at Alec. ‘That explains how he knows about the tomb. When I informed Tom’s parents that he’d gone missing, they asked for more details, and I had to tell them about the new discovery.’

  Alec looked at Llewellyn. ‘So Tom’s parents told you about the tomb?’

  Llewellyn nodded. ‘They’re very worried about their son. They want some answers.’

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ said Ethan. ‘Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind a few myself.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Llewellyn. ‘From what Mr Hinton’s parents told me, you haven’t exactly been yelling about his disappearance from the rooftops.’

  ‘The rest of the team made a pretty thorough search for him before I even got here. They drew a blank. The local police didn’t seem to want to know about it. And when I first got here, I made enquiries about Tom too – discreet enquiries.’

  Llewellyn frowned. ‘Why so discreet?’ he asked. ‘It’s almost as though you don’t want to find Mr Hinton.’

  ‘That’s not true – of course we want to find him! But the thing is, I couldn’t open it up too wide: we’d have had the newspaper reporters at the site and then Sir William’s great discovery would be splashed over every paper from here to Chattanooga.’ He stared at Llewellyn for a moment, his arms folded. ‘So what do we do with you, Llewellyn? I confess, my first instinct is to leave you here, and if the rest of those hyenas come back, that’s just tough.’

  Llewellyn stared at Ethan in horror. ‘Mr Wade, I have apologized for my deception. Please, I beseech you, you cannot abandon me to such a fate.’

  Ethan scowled. ‘I must be getting soft in my old age, but I’m going to give you one chance. Just one, mind you! You can come with us to the dig and you can even ask questions. But I’m warning you – you ever lie to me again and you’ll be heading back to Luxor with my boot up your backside.’

  Llewellyn was evidently outraged by this remark and Alec had to smother a laugh at the expression on his face, but after a moment he nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wade. I was just trying to do my job.’

  ‘And I’m trying to do mine.’ Ethan thought for a moment. ‘How long is it going to take, this questioning? You need me to assign you a spare tent?’

  Llewellyn looked absolutely horrified. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘The Hintons have agreed to finance a room at the Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor.’

  Ethan raised his eyebrows. ‘Nice. Uncle Obadiah always used to say the best thing about the job was the perks. Maybe I went into the wrong line of work. It’s comfortable there.’

  ‘Very comfortable,’ agreed Alec. ‘Hot showers, ceiling fans, the best food for miles around . . . But of course, you won’t be doing it properly like us.’

  ‘I’ll live with myself somehow,’ said Llewellyn.

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ said Ethan. ‘But, Mr Llewellyn, I got to warn you. If you’re asking questions anywhere, please be discreet. Whatever you do, don’t go telling people that we found a tomb. It’s a sensitive situation and I’m trying to keep a tight lid on it. The last thi
ng I want is for this to get leaked to the newspapers. And listen, the native workers on the dig . . . I’ve kind of given them the impression that Tom went back to England—’

  ‘You did what?’ cried Llewellyn.

  ‘You need to understand, they’re a superstitious crowd. If I let them think for one moment that something strange is going on, they’ll be out of that site quicker than you can say Abraham Lincoln.’

  ‘And your colleagues?’

  ‘They know something screwy happened, and of course they’re all concerned about what might have become of Tom . . . but they also know how important a find this is, and they hate newspapermen every bit as much as I do. I wouldn’t think private investigators figure very highly on their Christmas lists either, but if you think any of ’em are holding out on you, tell ’em to come see me and I’ll put ’em straight.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wade,’ said Llewellyn gravely. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘That goes for you too, Mohammed,’ added Ethan. ‘Anything you just overheard is top secret. If it gets back to me that you’ve been blabbing, my team will be getting its goodies from a different trader.’

  ‘I understand, effendi,’ said Mohammed. ‘My lips are sealed. But for now we must decide what we are going to do with you. With all Mr Llewellyn’s luggage, there is no room in the automobile for more passengers.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Ethan gazed along the empty road for a few moments. ‘I guess we could just dump his luggage—’

  ‘What?’ cried Llewellyn, getting up out of his seat.

  ‘Aw, relax, I’m just joshing you,’ laughed Ethan. ‘No, Mohammed, maybe you could drive Mr Llewellyn on up to the dig and send Mickey back to collect us in the other Crossley.’

  ‘Perhaps, but after the trouble you have just experienced, I am reluctant to leave you out here alone. Those other hyenas might come back. May I suggest that you and this valiant young man come and stand on the running boards of my fine Ford automobile, and in this manner I will convey you to your destination.’

  Ethan looked doubtful but he waved Alec to the Ford and the two of them clambered into position on either side of it.

  ‘Think this thing will take our weight?’ muttered Ethan, bouncing up and down on the rickety board.

  Mohammed gave him a look. ‘Mr Wade, did you not just promise to stop making fun of my automobile?’ he said. ‘We could, of course, drive back to your magnificent Crossley and stand on the running boards of that, but strangely it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.’

  Ethan laughed. ‘All right, point taken,’ he said. ‘I guess we’ll just have to put our trust in the engineering skills of Mr Henry Ford.’

  Mohammed started up the automobile and eased it slowly back onto the firmer surface of the road. ‘There now,’ he said. ‘Are you both quite comfortable?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ said Alec. He was so pleased to be getting out of these wide open spaces, he wasn’t about to start complaining about a little discomfort.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Mohammed. ‘And because you are not properly seated, I am only going to charge each of you half fare.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Valley of the Kings

  IT WASN’T A huge distance by automobile but Alec knew that they would have been totally exhausted if they’d attempted to walk through the blazing heat of the afternoon.

  After some thirty minutes’ drive they came upon an unusual sight. A large grey biplane was parked on a small area of flat land beside the road. There didn’t seem to be anybody with it. Mohammed slowed the Ford to a halt so his passengers could step down and take a closer look. Llewellyn declined to get out of the car, saying that it would be too much effort.

  ‘Any idea who this belongs to?’ Ethan asked Mohammed as he approached the plane.

  ‘No, Mr Wade. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ethan walked around the plane and reached up a hand to stroke its fuselage. ‘Not a model I recognize,’ he said. ‘Foreign, I’d say. I used to fly these things during the war,’ he told Alec. ‘Spotter planes, mostly. My job was to go out over the enemy trenches and take photographs of their positions.’

  ‘That sounds dangerous,’ said Alec.

  ‘It could be,’ admitted Ethan. ‘Came close to being shot down a couple of times, but I guess my luck held. Say, maybe you and me should take this bird up for a quick spin!’

  ‘Really? Could we?’ Alec was delighted at the notion but Ethan just grinned and shook his head.

  ‘I’m only pulling your leg,’ he said. ‘You can’t just up and take somebody’s plane without permission. Where I come from, that’s called theft.’ He tilted his stetson back a little and gazed up at the sky. ‘Maybe that dust storm forced the plane down,’ he said. Alec didn’t say anything but it was already beginning to feel as though they had imagined the whole thing. ‘Come on,’ said Ethan after a short silence. ‘Let’s get going.’

  The two of them strolled back to the Ford and resumed their places on the running boards.

  ‘Fancy just leaving a plane standing there,’ said Alec. ‘What d’you suppose happened to the pilot?’

  Ethan shrugged. ‘Beats me,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with Tutankhamun. There’s all kinds visiting the site these days. Maybe some Hollywood movie star dropped by to get photographed with Howard Carter. OK, Mohammed, let’s drive on.’

  They continued on their way and after another half-mile they crested a rise and Alec saw the familiar limestone hills of the eastern Valley of the Kings below him, dominated by the high peak of Al-Qurn, the distinctive pyramid-shaped hill that many historians believed was the chief reason why this valley had been chosen as the burial place for so many Egyptian kings and nobles. Alec knew that there were over sixty tombs in this valley alone, with Tutankhamun’s the most recently discovered, and the only one that had survived with most of its artefacts intact – at least, until Uncle Will and Tom Hinton had opened the new tomb. But that was still a secret.

  Mohammed took the car slowly down the tricky winding road. The steep stone cliffs rose up on either side of them, shielding them from the full glare of the sun. The ramshackle car moved with difficulty across the rough terrain travelling at little more than walking speed. They passed a few people on the way – guides from a nearby village escorting tourists around the tombs, some of them mounted on camels, others on donkeys. Alec knew that since the discovery of Tut’s tomb the previous year, this site had become the most popular destination on the tourist routes: visitors from all around the world came to watch (and in many cases hamper) the work that was still going on there.

  ‘Luckily, very few tourists make it up to our end of the valley,’ said Ethan. ‘They get to Tut’s tomb and that’s as far as they go.’

  Sure enough, they soon saw a crowd of people standing at the roadside ahead of them and knew that they were approaching the site of the tomb. A large throng was watching intently as yet another antiquity was brought up the steps from the entrance, the men perspiring in suits and pith helmets, the women dressed in heavy skirts and jackets, shading themselves with dainty parasols. The onlookers ranged from well-to-do tourists to curious locals, with more than a sprinkling of journalists and photographers, eager to be the first to snap and write about each new discovery as it was brought out into the daylight. Alec caught sight of the slight figure of Howard Carter by the tomb entrance, issuing instructions to the two assistants who were carefully emerging with what looked like a large statue of the young pharaoh himself.

  As the Ford moved past, Carter glanced up and squinted into the sun; then he smiled and lifted a hand to wave to Alec. He looked tired, Alec thought, and seemed to have aged alarmingly in the single year since Alec had last seen him. Currently the most famous archaeologist in the world, he would probably have given anything to have all those onlookers removed, so he could get on with his work in peace.

  ‘Poor Howard,’ said Ethan. ‘He looks pooped. But in a way, I’m grateful.’

  Alec
looked at him, puzzled by the remark. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘He’s taking all the heat off us. So far, we haven’t had a single tourist coming after us and that’s just the way I aim to keep it.’ He gave Alec a sly wink. ‘Last thing we want is this situation.’ He gestured at the crowd. ‘Look at them, standing around like they’re watching a matinée at the theatre. I’m surprised they’re not selling popcorn.’

  ‘They’re selling curios though,’ said Alec, pointing to small groups of natives who were moving through the crowd, offering their bogus artefacts. Some of them even seemed to be making the odd sale.

  ‘There’s a sucker born every minute,’ muttered Ethan.

  As the vehicle edged slowly past the crowd, a figure stepped out to greet it, raising a hand to Mohammed to stop.

  ‘Oh, perfect,’ muttered Ethan. He leaned forward to whisper, ‘Watch what you say to this guy, he’s a reporter.’ He glanced at Llewellyn. ‘A real one,’ he added.

  ‘Hey, Wade,’ said the newcomer. ‘Whatever happened to your fancy English automobile?’ Another American, Alec decided, a thin, weasel-faced man with a pencil moustache and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, making him crinkle his eyes down to slits. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a formal white shirt and tie and a grey fedora. Though he had rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to cool off, there were large yellow sweat stains under his armpits.

  ‘Had a little engine trouble back aways,’ explained Ethan. ‘Mohammed happened by and gave us a lift.’

  Mohammed bowed politely. ‘Good day, Mr Corcoran,’ he said. ‘I trust the whiskey was to your taste.’

  The man looked annoyed by the remark. ‘Er . . . yeah, great thanks.’

  ‘Fine Irish whiskey. Just let me know if you need any more.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mohammed. It was just medicinal. I had a bit of a head cold, that was all.’