‘Most observant of you,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, that is nothing, effendi,’ said Mohammed, warming to his theme. ‘I predict that very soon we shall meet two cars on this road. The first one will have a small English driver, the second a tall Arab. I also predict that the English driver will have his head under the bonnet of the car.’
Llewellyn stared at the back of Mohammed’s head. ‘How could you possibly know all that?’ he cried. He looked over at the surface of the road for clues, but other than a few blurred tracks in the sand, there was nothing that might yield that kind of information.
‘Just call it native intuition,’ said Mohammed slyly. Then he pointed ahead. ‘Behold,’ he said.
Something came into view through the thick heat-haze rising off the surface of the road. At first it was nothing more than a series of black swirls, but as they moved closer, Llewellyn saw to his amazement that two cars were parked at the side of the road. Sure enough, the bonnet of one of them was up and a small wiry figure was bent over, examining the engine. A tall Arab lounged against the second vehicle’s side, smoking a cigarette.
‘How on earth did you . . .?’ began Llewellyn; then caught himself as it suddenly dawned on him that he’d been suckered. Mohammed had been there earlier today when Wade had despatched Mickey Randall to fix his car; and of course, Mohammed must have passed the two men a short while earlier when he had driven over from Luxor to collect the detective.
‘Oh, very clever!’ said Llewellyn, and he laughed self-consciously, realizing that he had very nearly made a fool of himself. ‘You had me going for a moment!’
‘As I said,’ chuckled Mohammed. ‘Native intuition!’
Mohammed pulled the Ford to a halt alongside the first Crossley and Mickey ducked out from under the bonnet, raising a hand in greeting. He had a spanner in his other hand, his face was streaked with oil and he looked hot and bothered, heavy beads of sweat running down his grizzled forehead.
‘Still not working?’ asked Mohammed; and Llewellyn thought he detected a note of smugness in the man’s voice. He remembered that there had been some kind of rivalry between Wade and Mohammed – something about their respective automobiles.
Mickey shook his head. ‘Nah. Looks like the engine’s been eating sand,’ he said. ‘I’m nearly done though. There ain’t an engine in the world that I can’t bring back to life.’ He glanced at Llewellyn. ‘I believe I saw you up at the dig earlier,’ he said.
‘Yes, Wilfred Llewellyn, private detective. I’m investigating the disappearance of Tom Hinton.’ Llewellyn extended a hand to shake and Mickey wiped his own on the back of his overalls before dutifully obliging.
‘Terrible thing,’ he said. ‘Young lad like that.’
Llewellyn nodded. ‘His parents, as you might imagine, are very distressed.’ He turned and pointed back towards the circling vultures. ‘What’s the story with those brutes?’ he asked.
Mickey gazed at them a while as though he’d only just noticed them. Then he shrugged. ‘Never seen nothin’ like it,’ he said. ‘They’ve been circlin’ that spot for hours now, but none of ’em ever seems to land and start tucking in – it’s almost as though they think something’s wrong with the meat.’ He shook his head. ‘I never ’eard of vultures being that fussy before.’
‘Me neither,’ agreed Llewellyn, though in truth he hadn’t the slightest knowledge of the eating habits of Egyptian vultures, nor did he care to have.
‘You ’eading into Luxor?’ asked Mickey.
‘Yes, I’m staying at the Winter Palace tonight.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Mickey. ‘I wish I was joining yer. They serve the best dinner in Luxor, they do. They do a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding that would put the Ritz to shame. Not that I can afford to eat there very often. But Sir William always used to treat us to Christmas dinner there, every December.’
‘They serve some delicious native delicacies also,’ added Mohammed. ‘For those who are adventurous enough to try them.’
‘Well, yeah,’ admitted Mickey. ‘They’ll even serve you sheep’s eyeballs if you ask for ’em. But I always say, you can’t beat a good old English roast, eh? Even if you ain’t in Blighty.’ He frowned. ‘Anyway, it’s only wishful thinking. I’ve got to get this Crossley back to camp yet.’
Llewellyn nodded. ‘A shame,’ he said. ‘It would have been nice to have a little conversation over dinner.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you if you saw anything strange the night Tom Hinton disappeared?’ he said.
‘None whatsoever. I was busy trying to repair a wireless, tell you the truth. I didn’t even know about it until after the event.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But you might want to talk to Hassan there. ’E reckons he’s seen Tom.’
‘Seen him?’ Llewellyn’s pulse quickened. ‘When was this?’
‘Just the other night, I think. I told ’im ’e must have been mistaken, but—’
‘Hang on a minute!’ interrupted Llewellyn. ‘You’re telling me that this man claims to have seen Tom Hinton since the night of his disappearance?’
‘That’s what ’e reckons,’ admitted Mickey.
‘Well, let’s get him over here!’ said Llewellyn impatiently. ‘This could be important.’
Mickey nodded wearily. He would probably much rather have got on with the job at hand, but he dutifully waved to the Arab and the man stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and wandered over. He was a tall bearded fellow dressed in a black galabiya. He regarded Llewellyn with a sullen expression, as though the last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk to anyone.
‘What’s this about you seeing Mr Hinton?’ asked Llewellyn.
Hassan stared at him. ‘Hah?’ he grunted.
‘’Is English ain’t so good,’ said Mickey. He spoke a few words to Hassan in halting Arabic and after a moment or two received some kind of reply.
‘Yeah, ’e says ’e saw Tom two days ago at the bazaar in Sharia el-Karnak.’
‘The bazaar – that’s like a market, isn’t it?’
Mickey nodded. ‘Yeah, pretty much. You can buy anything there. Soap, razor blades, antiques, rugs—’
‘Yes, never mind what you can buy! I’m not planning a ruddy shopping trip. What does he think Mr Hinton was doing there?’
Mickey tried a few more questions, but didn’t seem to be getting through, so Mohammed pitched in, talking more confidently and in a lot more detail. He listened to the reply, then turned back to Llewellyn.
‘Effendi, he says that Mr Hinton was wandering around the antiquity stalls as though he was looking for something.’
‘I see. And was anybody else with Hassan who could verify the sighting?’
‘No, he says he was alone. He had gone there to try and buy some herbs for his mother, who has terrible backache.’
Llewellyn closed his eyes for a moment and counted to ten. Did Mohammed think he was remotely interested in Hassan’s mother’s ailments?
‘He’s sure it was Mr Hinton?’
Mohammed spoke to Hassan again. ‘Yes, quite sure. He says he knows Mr Hinton well, has worked with him for many years. He thought of going over to speak to him, to ask what he was doing there, but a camel laden with grain passed between them, and when it had moved on, he looked again and Mr Hinton had gone.’
Llewellyn frowned and stroked his chins. ‘Ask him why he didn’t mention this to anyone.’
Another exchange of words. Then:
‘He says he told Mr Randall when he got back to camp, but because he didn’t seem very interested, he didn’t bother to mention it to anyone else.’
Llewellyn stared accusingly at Mickey. ‘Is this true?’ he asked.
Mickey looked rather sheepish. ‘I do remember ’im saying that ’e’d seen Tom, but . . . well, I was in the middle of a job, an’ besides, I assumed ’e must’ve been mistaken.’ He moved a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘I’m not being funny but Hassan ain’t the most reliable person in the w
orld – know what I mean? ’E’s got things wrong before. I remember once ’e told me ’e’d seen this old fakir turn water into wine. Naturally, I was interested. So we went up to the place where this chap lived and asked ’im to show us ’ow ’e did it—’
‘Mr Randall! I am trying to establish the facts here.’ Llewellyn tapped Mohammed on the shoulder. ‘Ask him again, Mohammed. Is he sure it was Mr Hinton?’
He waited, sweating, as Mohammed spoke to Hassan again. Hassan was nodding, his expression one of absolute certainty.
‘He is positive,’ said Mohammed. ‘He would be prepared to bet money on it.’
‘Blimey,’ said Mickey, clearly impressed. ‘That certain, eh? Well, maybe I misunderstood the situation.’
‘Hmm.’ Llewellyn considered for a moment. His comfortable hotel was calling to him, but even so, this was a potential breakthrough after a day of no progress whatsoever. ‘Mohammed, is this bazaar place anywhere near my hotel?’
‘Yes, sir, not far away at all.’
‘Good. Take me there first, will you? We’ll have a quick look around before we go on to the Winter Palace.’ He glanced up at Mickey and Hassan. ‘Thanks very much for the tip,’ he said. ‘I hope it doesn’t take you too long to get the automobile fixed.’
‘All right, Mr Llewellyn. Enjoy your stay at the Winter Palace!’
Mohammed put the car into gear and they drove away, leaving Mickey and Hassan behind them on the road. Llewellyn glanced back over his shoulder at the parked Crossleys but everything had twisted back into the swirl of the heat-haze, indeterminate black shapes melting into the sunlight. Up above them, in the brilliant blue sky, the vultures continued to circle.
He thought about what he had just been told. Could Tom Hinton really be hanging around a bazaar a stone’s throw from his hotel? If only it could be so. He could have this whole case wrapped up and grab the first available berth back to England; back to reliable food, unreliable weather and cases that took him no further than a first-class train ticket. Right now it sounded like heaven.
CHAPTER NINE
Uninvited Guests
IT WAS JUST before nightfall and Alec was taking his seat at the communal dining table between Madeleine and Coates when Mickey and Hassan got back to camp with the two Crossleys. Everyone was waiting for the Scottish cook, Archie McCloud, to dispense the evening meal. As it was an unusually mild evening, everyone had opted to eat in the open air. Archie had recently replaced the team’s veteran cook, Henry Walters, who had retired back to his homeland after a nasty bout of malaria. Alec remembered from his previous visits that Henry had been an excellent chef, capable of creating good food out of the most unpromising ingredients, but Archie was an unknown quantity. A few mumbled remarks around the table soon warned him not to expect the same high standards.
Mickey took his place across the table from Alec, looking harassed, a mood which wasn’t helped when Ethan told him that all his belongings had been transferred to Archie’s tent so that Madeleine could enjoy a little privacy; but in the best stiff-upper-lip tradition, Mickey assured her that it would be no problem.
‘Don’t you worry yourself, miss,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fine once I find myself some ear plugs.’
‘Ee-yare plugs?’ said Madeleine, mystified.
‘Archie is famous for his snoring,’ explained Ethan. ‘On a good night they can hear him in Luxor.’
‘Oh, well, Coates might give you some competition there,’ said Alec. ‘He’s an absolutely phenomenal snorer when he gets going.’
‘Master Alec, may I just mention that it’s not the done thing to point out a person’s shortcomings?’ said Coates coolly.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Alec. ‘I was only making conversation.’
Ethan smothered a grin and helped Mickey to a large tin mug of the local red wine. ‘You were a long time,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Had to clean out every last bit of that engine. Never seen so much sand. I thought we’d never get the blessed thing going. And as for those dead hyenas . . .’ Mickey frowned. ‘Funny thing though. Vultures circling them the whole time, but not one of ’em seemed to want to come down and feed. Fair gave me the creeps, it did.’
‘I never heard of a vulture that wouldn’t eat,’ said Alec.
‘It’s true though,’ said Mickey. ‘I was telling Llewellyn – they were there the whole time I was working on the car, just wheeling around . . .’
‘Llewellyn?’ muttered Ethan.
‘Yeah, he passed us on the road, heading for the Winter Palace. Lucky blighter.’ Mickey lowered his voice. ‘At least he’ll be eating better than we will tonight.’
Ethan frowned and made a shushing motion. ‘Did he ask you any questions?’
‘A few. He was more interested in talking to Hassan though.’
‘Why Hassan?’
‘Because he only went and told Llewellyn that he thought he’d seen Tom Hinton at the bazaar in Sharia el-Karnak a couple of nights ago.’ Mickey raised his eyebrows.
Alec frowned. ‘You’re kidding!’ he said.
‘Nah . . . he mentioned it to me the other day, but . . . well, you know Hassan. He can be a bit of a romancer at the best of times.’
Ethan nodded. ‘True enough. I remember way back when I worked on that first dig. We found a mummified cat and he told everybody that he’d seen it moving. He had the workmen terrified – they were all for running out on us. In the end Will had to offer them more money to get them to stay. You warned Llewellyn about him?’
‘I tried to, but he got very excited about it all. Had Mohammed take him straight over to the bazaar. He must have thought it was worth checking out.’
‘Well, I guess it can’t do any harm. He can always pick up a few souvenirs to take back to England.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It’s strange about the vultures though . . . And you know, there was something screwy about those hyenas from the word go. You just don’t get hyenas this far north. And then I put two bullets into the heart of one of them but it kept right on coming at me. I had to finish it off with a head shot.’
Madeleine nudged Alec in the ribs and surreptitiously made her hand into the shape of a gun. She fired an imaginary shot, then blew on the tips of her fingers, cowboy-style, as though dispersing gun smoke. Alec stifled a laugh with the flat of a hand. He had already decided that he and Madeleine were going to be good friends. Although she had a serious side, there was also a playful, mischievous quality to her that Alec really responded to. Coates regarded her antics with rather less amusement. He had been polite enough when Alec had brought her to the tent for coffee earlier, but it was evident that the valet did not approve of her liberated ways and had been quite scandalized when she lit up a cigarette in his presence. He was of the school that preferred females to sit quietly, look pretty and leave the talking to the gentlemen. But Alec knew that the times were changing – that world was all but gone.
Now Madeleine was looking across the campsite to where the large team of Arab workmen were gathered around a fire, preparing their own meal in a big black cooking pot. Hassan had just joined them and was sitting staring into the flames.
‘Such a pity the native workmen can’t eat with the rest of us,’ observed Madeleine.
‘Table is nae big enough,’ growled a rough Glaswegian voice behind her. She turned to see Archie McCloud carrying a steaming metal pot towards the table. ‘Besides, I don’t think they’d much care for the kind of grub we serve.’ He was a big, red-faced fellow with a shock of unruly ginger hair and an equally unruly beard. A corncob pipe jutted from the corner of his mouth, emitting clouds of noxious smoke, and when he hefted the pot onto the table, Alec could see a crude tattoo etched into the sunburned skin of his forearm. It read: SCOTLAND FOREVER.
‘So, what delights have you got for us this evening, Archie?’ asked Ethan, and Alec noted the tone of desperate hopefulness in his voice.
‘It’s ma very own Highland stew,’ announced Archie, ladling out bowls of glutinous brown sludge. He pa
ssed the first bowl to Madeleine and gave her a little bow. ‘Ladies fust,’ he said.
‘Merci beaucoup.’ Madeleine gazed at the contents of the bowl in trepidation. ‘What kind of meat is this?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘The finest that the local suppliers can provide,’ said Archie, leaving the diners to speculate on the awful possibilities.
Probably donkey, thought Alec glumly, but he was too hungry to be fussy and he set to, chewing hard to consume chunks of the gristly meat. Madeleine was clearly not enjoying the experience either, but was gamely chomping away. Coates, on the other hand, was having none of it. As a former chef himself, he had strong views about the preparation of food and was never slow to voice his opinion.
‘Mr McCloud, may I enquire where you worked before you joined this expedition?’
‘You may, Mr Coates.’ Archie stood up ramrod straight, as though standing to attention. ‘I’m proud to tell ye that I was a cook in the army for many years. I served with the Royal Highland Fusiliers.’
‘Is that right? And is that where you learned to prepare food?’
‘That is correct, sir.’
‘And this . . . stew. It’s been made to your own recipe, has it?’
‘Aye, it has. One that’s been handed down through the McCloud family for generations.’
‘Well, if I may be so bold as to make a suggestion . . .’
‘Suggest away, Mr Coates,’ said Archie, his expression grim.
‘There are, I believe, several hotels in Luxor that for a small extra fee will plate up food and ferry it to the destination of your choice. Perhaps once in a while you should allow yourself a well-earned rest and we could see what the hotel kitchens could provide us with.’
He glanced around the table and was met with enthusiastic nods and hopeful looks. But Archie shook his head.
‘Now, Mr Coates, would I let you lot suffer through something like that when it is ma pleasure . . . nay, ma joy to prepare fresh food for ye every morning and evening? The looks of delight on yer faces is all the reward I need.’
The Eye of the Serpent Page 9
