He led Alec through the open doorway and they stepped into the antechamber. Alec got his first real look at the interior of the new tomb. His initial impression was of a complete mess. There were so many different artefacts in here, piled carelessly one on top of the other. The workmen had hung oil lanterns around the walls to illuminate the treasures; the resulting fumes made it hard to focus on them at first. Alec looked around in wide-eyed wonder. He saw statues and jars and murals and jewellery and scrolls and more jars . . . Behind the almost perfect remains of a battle chariot there was another doorway and he noticed something strange about it: a small oval of midnight-black that must have been an opening into another room beyond the first.
‘We’ve still got a lot to do,’ explained Ethan. ‘Everything was shut down when Will became ill so we lost the best part of a month. I’ve only just got things running again.’
There were various people working in the antechamber. A man whom Alec recognized as the team’s medic, Doc Hopper, held a sketchpad and was painting a watercolour of a bas relief carving on a wall. Like all members of the team, he had a secondary talent to supplement his main function, and it was his artistic abilities that came to the fore; but at any moment he might be obliged to drop his sketchpad and run to help deal with a broken leg or an infected scorpion sting. He noticed Alec and nodded to him with a welcoming smile.
On the other side of the chamber an Arab workman with a box camera was photographing a statue of Apophis (once again, the snake god, Alec thought), and every so often the space was lit by the brief glare of flash powder, the resulting smoke making it even harder to breathe. Over to Alec’s right, a couple more Arabs were carefully brushing away the fine dust that had accumulated around a necklace, the cord of which had long since rotted away, so that it could be photographed intact before being removed bead by bead and reassembled somewhere else.
This was the world Alec wanted to belong to. He realized it wasn’t something that would appeal to everyone. It was a world of painstaking research, where the wheels turned slowly and a week’s hard work was deemed as nothing when compared to the long passage of centuries. And yet he felt that it was what he had been born to do.
Ethan was looking around impatiently. He spotted a young woman standing alone in a corner, studying an elaborate mural, and he made a beeline for her.
‘Say, honey, you must be with Dr Duval. Any idea where he is?’
The woman turned to look at Ethan. She was probably in her mid twenties, Alec thought, strikingly pretty with bobbed black hair and dark brown eyes. She was dressed in a khaki shirt, jodhpurs and brown leather boots and she was looking at Ethan as though she was having trouble understanding him.
Ethan tried speaking louder and slower. ‘You go fetch Dr Duval,’ he said. ‘Tell him Ethan Wade is here.’
‘Dr Duval knows you are ’ere,’ said the woman, in a pronounced French accent.
Ethan did a slow 180-degree turn to look around the tomb, but clearly saw nobody he didn’t recognize. The obvious answer began to dawn on Alec and he stepped forward to try and intervene, but he was too late.
‘Sorry, sister, you’re not making much sense,’ said Ethan flatly.
The woman stared at him. ‘I am Dr Duval,’ she said.
There was a long moment of silence while the awful truth registered, and Ethan’s face went through a silent pantomime of open-mouthed shock.
‘You . . . oh . . . my . . . God,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry, madame, I had no idea. You see, I was expecting . . .’
‘A man,’ said Dr Duval tonelessly. ‘Obviously.’
‘Well, yeah, tell you the truth. See, I had no idea that . . .’
‘. . . a woman could be a doctor? Perhaps this is against the law in America?’
‘Yeah . . . NO! No, not against the law. Just . . . you know, unusual. I was expecting some crusty old guy in tweeds, not a woman. Especially such a pretty one.’
Alec winced. Now the look on Dr Duval’s face was a picture of pure outrage. ‘Oh, so the way I look precludes me from ’aving any brains!’ she observed. ‘’Ow charming.’
‘I didn’t say that!’ protested Ethan. He glanced at Alec as though seeking support. ‘Did I say that? I don’t think I did.’
‘No, madame,’ said Alec, trying to smooth troubled waters. ‘I think what Mr Wade was saying, is—’
‘It is mademoiselle, not madame,’ added Dr Duval.
‘Er . . . oh, right,’ said Ethan. ‘That means you’re . . . not married, yeah? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.’
Dr Duval stared at him and Alec winced a second time.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
Alec tried once again to calm things down. ‘I think what Mr Wade means is . . . he’s sure you’d make somebody a perfectly good wife,’ he said; and then realized that didn’t sound quite right either. ‘Er . . . it’s . . . it’s just that what with you being an archaeologist, it probably doesn’t leave an awful lot of time to . . . er . . . you know . . . do wifely things.’
There was a terrible silence while she mulled that one over and Ethan made a desperate attempt to change the subject.
‘Dr Duval, please let me introduce Alec Devlin, just arrived from Cairo. Alec is the nephew of Sir William Devlin, who I think I mentioned in my telegram?’
‘Enchanté.’ She stepped forward and shook Alec’s hand. ‘Your uncle is a genius, Alec. I ’ave read, I think, everything ’e ’as ever published. I was so sorry to ’ear of ’is illness.’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Duval,’ said Alec.
‘Oh, non, you must call me Madeleine, please.’
‘Madeleine,’ said Ethan. ‘Pretty name. Maddie for short?’
Madeleine directed a withering look at him. ‘Madeleine,’ she said, ‘as that is my name.’
‘Oh, right.’ Ethan laughed. Then, realizing that the remark hadn’t been intended as a joke, stopped himself. ‘You, er . . . sure didn’t waste any time getting here. May I ask how you—?’
‘I flew,’ explained Madeleine, her voice as cold as a fall of December snow.
‘Yeah? You were pretty lucky to find an airline that could bring you so soon. It usually takes—’
‘I flew myself,’ she said. ‘In my own plane. I managed to put down on the road a few kilometres from ’ere.’
Now Ethan really was taken aback. He stared at Madeleine in astonishment.
‘Whatever is the matter, Mr Wade?’ she asked him. ‘Are women not permitted to fly aeroplanes in America?’
‘Of course not! I mean, of course they are!’
Alec snapped his fingers. ‘Oh, so that must have been your biplane back along the road,’ he said. ‘We stopped to take a look at it, didn’t we, Ethan? You even said you’d take me up for a spin in it!’
Madeleine glared at Ethan. ‘You told ’im what?’
‘I was just kidding, obviously. I used to do a little flying myself, in the war. Spotter planes mostly – my job was to—’
‘’Ow long before you open the door to the burial chamber?’ interrupted Madeleine, who seemed unimpressed by Ethan’s past exploits.
‘Hmm? Oh, hard to say. We’re making good progress, but it all takes time. A couple of days, maybe three?’
‘Voilà. For now, we must leave these people to their work. Per’aps you can show me where I am going to be staying?’
‘Sure.’ Ethan turned to go but then swung back with a worried expression. ‘No, wait . . . I . . . I can’t show you just yet.’
‘Why not?’ asked Madeleine impatiently. ‘I am tired. I would like to take a little rest.’
‘Er . . . sure, I understand. It’s just that . . . with me expecting you to be a man and all, I kind of arranged for you to share a tent with someone called Mickey Randall. He’s a swell guy, but I expect you’d prefer to have a tent of your own.’
‘But of course!’ Madeleine looked exasperated. ‘A woman sharing with a male stranger? This would not be a suitable arrangement at all.’
Alec shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Ethan.’
‘Thanks, kid. This shouldn’t take long.’ Ethan shot Alec a harassed look as he hurried out of the antechamber.
Madeleine stared after him. ‘What kind of a man is this Ethan Wade?’ she asked Alec. ‘’E doesn’t seem to know what ’e’s doing.’
Alec smiled. ‘Oh, I think he’s a nice enough chap when you get to know him. He was a little thrown by you, that’s all.’
She gave him a puzzled look. ‘Thrown?’ she said. ‘Like a stone?’
‘Er . . . no! I mean . . . I think the two of you got off on the wrong foot.’
Now Madeleine was studying her boots with a puzzled look.
‘He . . . he’s more of a man’s man, I think.’
‘Ah, yes, I understand this expression. Why does ’e wear a big cowboy ’at?’
Alec thought about it for a moment, remembering how he had been surprised by it but had quickly got used to it. ‘I suppose it’s just an American thing,’ he said.
‘’E looks like somebody out of a Western film. Beely the Kid or . . . Tom Mix.’ Now Madeline was looking around the packed interior of the antechamber. ‘You know, this is truly amazing,’ she said. ‘A find like this is going to make ’istory. This is your first dig, oui?’
‘Oh no, my third. I’ve worked with my uncle twice before, but they weren’t having very much luck then – we only found a few trinkets. All this’ – Alec gestured around him – ‘it is rather exciting. When news gets out, it’s going to put Tutankhamun in the shade.’
Madeleine smiled. ‘I wanted very much to work on Tut’s tomb. I ’ad just graduated – it would ’ave been a good opportunity for me . . . but they did not need another expert, so I ’ad to be patient. When this opportunity came up, I said to myself, Madeleine, you must not waste any time! I set off just as soon as possible.’
‘In your own plane.’ Alec couldn’t disguise the tone of envy that seeped from his voice. ‘That must be marvellous. Did you come all the way without stopping?’
Madeleine laughed. ‘Oh no, that is not possible, Alec! I ’ave to make many stops. I go Paris to Lyon, then to Miramas, Pisa, Rome, Otranto, Potasi, Crete and then to Cairo. This takes me three days to complete.’
‘Ethan didn’t know what kind of plane it was.’
‘It is a Caudron C fifty-nine biplane. Built for the Aviation Militaire. Top speed one ’undred and seventy kilometres. Very fast, very smooth. If you like, I take you up for a flight some time.’
‘Really? Gosh, I’d love that! I’ve never actually been in an aeroplane before.’
‘Non?’ Madeleine closed her eyes for a moment. ‘But you must try it, Alec. There is nothing else in this world so good! It is like . . . it is like being a bird, you know? You look down on this tiny planet and you feel you can do whatever you want.’ She laughed. ‘My parents are not so keen on my flying. My mother is quite sure I will come to a . . .’ ow you say? A bad end. I tell her, Maman, one day, everyone will ’ave a plane of their own – people will fly around the world and think nothing of it. She is not so convinced.’ Madeleine glanced up suddenly as though something had interrupted her thoughts. She took a long look around the smoky interior of the antechamber. ‘There is a strange feeling ’ere,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’ Alec asked her.
‘I don’t know exactly. It feels like . . . the people that built this place, they ’ave only been gone a little time and now we ’ave returned to disturb their sleep.’
Something seemed to catch her attention and she pointed. ‘And there,’ she said. ‘Something is missing, I think.’
Alec followed the direction of her finger and saw again the smooth oval opening in the door that led to the next chamber. ‘Oh yes, I noticed that when I came in,’ he said. ‘It looks as though somebody has prised an object off the door. A jewel, perhaps?’
‘A priceless jewel if it was that big,’ observed Madeleine. She gestured around. ‘But nothing else ’as gone. In ’is telegram, Mr Wade says that the seals on the doors were unbroken. I ’ave never ’eard of such a thing.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ah well, it is a mystery to solve. I like mysteries.’ She licked her lips and indicated the canteen that was still hanging from Alec’s shoulder. ‘I wonder if I could ask you for a drink of water.’
Alec frowned. ‘I’m sure we can do better than that,’ he said. ‘Do you like tea?’
‘Tea is OK,’ she told him, ‘but I prefer café.’
‘Coffee? In that case I’m sure my valet, Coates, will be more than happy to prepare some. He does very good Turkish coffee. He’s famous for it.’
Madeleine looked at Alec in surprise. ‘You ’ave brought your valet?’ she said incredulously.
‘Oh, Coates is like my shadow,’ said Alec. ‘He follows me everywhere. But he does make a cracking cup of coffee. If we ask nicely, he might even offer us a buttered crumpet.’ He laughed at the look of confusion on her face. ‘Don’t ask,’ he advised her, and laughing he led her towards the exit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Road to Luxor
WILFRED LLEWELLYN SAT in the back of Mohammed Hansa’s ancient Ford as it rattled along the dusty road to Luxor. He was sweating profusely and thinking how much he hated this godforsaken country: he wished he had never been offered this thankless assignment.
He had spent the day up at the dig, asking questions to anyone who would give him the time, and he had come up with precisely nothing. Nobody knew anything. Nobody had seen anything. It was as if Tom Hinton had simply vanished into thin air. But in Llewellyn’s experience, people didn’t just vanish: there was always a reason for their disappearance and when you dug deeper, when you peeled back the layers of lies and misdirection, it always turned out that there was somebody else involved.
Tom Hinton had been kidnapped or murdered, of that he was sure; and getting to the truth was simply a matter of persistence.
But Llewellyn had asked enough questions for one day. Now he was heading for the comforts of the Winter Palace, where he could take a cold shower, change his sodden clothing and relax over a good meal and a bottle of fine wine. Tomorrow, of course, he’d have to return to the dig and talk to those people he hadn’t interrogated today, but somehow he knew already that the exercise would be every bit as pointless as today’s.
He looked up and saw that Mohammed was studying him in the rear-view mirror, as though gearing himself up to ask a few questions of his own.
‘You are a private detective,’ he said, glancing back over his shoulder.
It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact; and of course Mohammed had been present when he had been obliged to confess his true occupation to Wade and the boy. Llewellyn nodded, not feeling particularly inclined to waste time on idle chit-chat. But Mohammed was not so easily discouraged.
‘How do you become a detective?’ he asked. ‘Is there a lot of training involved?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Llewellyn. ‘Heaps. I had to study at college for years.’
This was not strictly true. Llewellyn had set himself up as a detective with a minimum of fuss. The simple truth was that the diploma hanging on his office wall was a fake and he had learned most of his tricks from reading classic detective fiction, like Sherlock Holmes; but nevertheless he seemed to be doing all right for himself. He generally found steady work handling divorce cases, the odd bit of fraud, even the occasional missing person around London. This was the first case that had taken him abroad, and he had already decided it would be the last. He had been lured by the easy money and the thought of visiting the country that was currently the talk of London; but he hadn’t anticipated just how hot it would be here. It had been a nightmare from the word go. Even getting here had been a trial, a full four days of travel by pla
ne, train and steamer, only to find himself, travel stained and weary, in the most intense heat he had ever experienced. A man of his considerable dimensions had no business travelling in such a climate. He could quite easily make himself ill.
‘Supposing I wanted to be a detective,’ persisted Mohammed, ‘here in Egypt. What would I have to do?’
A tricky question. Llewellyn cast around for a means of changing the subject and was handed one on a plate when he noticed a series of dark shapes flapping and circling in the sky a short distance ahead of them.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘Are those . . . vultures?’
Mohammed nodded. ‘Yes, effendi. They have been there all day, circling the remains of those damned hyenas.’
As the Ford drew closer, Llewellyn could see that the Arab was right. Three dark bloated shapes lay stretched out on the white sand. The huge birds were coasting low over the dead creatures but none of them seemed willing to land. Llewellyn suppressed a shudder. Everything about Egypt seemed to disagree with him.
‘It all looks the same,’ he complained. ‘The landscape. It’s impossible to know if you’re making any progress or not. How much further to Luxor?’
‘Not so very far, effendi. And my fine Ford automobile is not going to break down and leave us stranded like Mr Wade’s Crossley.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a relief,’ said Llewellyn flatly.
‘You know, effendi, I have always thought I could be an excellent detective,’ said Mohammed, who was clearly not ready to abandon his previous line of thought just yet. ‘I notice things.’
‘Is that right?’ murmured Llewellyn.
‘Yes. For instance, I noticed when I picked you up at the site that you had lost a button on your jacket. That could be important.’
Llewellyn looked down at his midriff to see that Mohammed was quite correct. Another button had given up the thankless struggle to hold Llewellyn’s monumental girth at bay and had popped off. He made a mental note to ask the hotel to have somebody sew a new one on. After all, he had his reputation to think of.
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