by C J Turner
Alice told him that she had explained to the police inspector that she had no idea where the Professor was but assumed the girl was with him and she had promised that she would pass on their message as soon as he made contact. She also told Blake that as he had carelessly left details of their destination in the study, it would seem that there was a very good chance that the gang knew their whereabouts!
Blake spent some time calming Alice and assuring her that there was really no need for her to worry. It would be all right, he told her firmly, but he wanted her to stay away from the house until he returned.
Ignoring the other messages, he angrily threw the tiny black cell phone down on the bed and slammed out of the room, resolved to wake Meredith and demand an explanation!
Show time! he muttered grimly under his breath and tapped briskly on her door. No response. He knocked louder but still nothing stirred from within and returning to his own room, he dialed her extension on the house telephone. Still no reply. She could not be asleep, he thought, which left two possibilities; either she was deliberately not answering or she was not in the room at all! She would not ignore a telephone call, not knowing whom it might be from, so that must mean she had gone out.
Curious, at this time of night, but he had been expecting a move on her part at some time, and now he had something tangible to go on! Leaving his door slightly open, he positioned a chair so that he had a clear sighting through the crack and across the hall to Meredith’s door and settled down to wait.
The hotel was quieter now, it was out of season, and there were not many other guests staying on this floor. It was hushed, what sounds there were, muffled and discreet and he was reminded of the times he had spent with Meredith in the hospital. Vastly different surroundings, of course, as he eyed the thick, opulent carpets, elaborate hangings and gilded furniture, but the atmosphere was the same, that feeling of intimacy, rising expectancy and intrigue.
It was some time later and his eye lids were beginning to feel lead weighted, when the slightest of sounds alerted him. Noiselessly he sprang to the door and cautiously peered through the crack.
Meredith was limping down the corridor towards her room, wildly dishevelled, the torn and dirty shawl falling from her tousled head. With great control, he restrained himself from leaping out to go to her aid - after all she knew where he was if she needed him. If she had unwittingly got into trouble, she would surely knock on his door or ring him when she got to her room. He did not want to appear as if he was spying on her, and if her clandestine mission was not so innocent, he would be the last person she would wish to see.
He pulled the door to until it was practically shut as she went past. Did he imagine that her steps faltered a little when she came to his door? No, the laboured breathing passed up the corridor and still he hesitated, undecided whether he should go and openly confront her now, with her defenses so obviously down, or continue to hope that she would seek him out with the truth. Too late. She fumbled with her key in the door, managed to open it on the second attempt and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her.
Aware that indecision had never been part of his character, he berated himself fiercely for a lost opportunity. What the hell was the matter with him and more importantly, what had that little minx been up to, dragging herself back to the hotel in that state? He noticed that she had entered the corridor from the service stair, obviously taking care to avoid drawing attention to herself.
He could kick himself, he thought ruefully; she was certainly in no state to pull any of her Mata Hari tricks on him again! On reflection though, probably that very vulnerability had caused him to hold back. Gaining her trust and her confidence was becoming an obsession with him - a frustratingly remote ambition, as he was well aware.
Idiot! Blake disgustedly castigated himself as he reluctantly prepared to turn in for what was left of the night. His suspicions were confirmed, she was in serious trouble, but he would not make the same mistake again. She had been placed in his care, and whether she liked it or not, he would not take the responsibility lightly. He had learnt a lesson but next time, he promised himself, there would be no quarter.
Chapter 10
Next morning, the bright Egyptian sun shone through the large glass windows of the Orangerie, shining across the broad green fronds of the palms and glinting off the snowy linen tablecloths and starched napkins. There was the delicious smell of coffee wafted to tables by smiling, scarlet jacketed waiters, the busy clink of silver against porcelain and a cheerful hubbub of conversation as the hotel guests made their plans for the day.
A bright and bustling scene - with one notable exception. A white-faced girl, nervously crumbling a bread roll on her plate, but eating nothing. The scowling, hawk-faced man sitting opposite her was ostensibly drinking coffee, but he watched her from under frowning brows, barely answering in monosyllables each time he was addressed by his other companion, who of the three, was the only one attempting some semblance of normality.
‘Is there anything wrong, Meredith?’ Max kindly enquired at last, worn out by all the unrewarding effort.
The concern in his voice was too much to be borne that morning. She hurriedly got up from the table, murmuring that she would have to go back to her room; she had woken with a horrendous headache, which refused to go away, and she needed to lie down until it had passed.
Max stood up at once full of sympathy, but she pressed him back into his seat and told him not to worry, doubtless it was the travelling and air flight - a rest was all she needed to put her right. The Professor said nothing.
‘What rotten luck, you don’t think it’s her head injury playing up, do you, Blake? She did look a little peaky, perhaps we should get a medic to check her over. After all, it’s not that long since…’
‘I doubt very much that she would agree to you doing any such thing, Max. If she says it’s just a headache, then that is what it probably is, don’t fuss.’
‘I’m not fussing, I am just concerned and it’s a good job that one of us is!’
Blake looked up with a scowl, but whatever blistering retort hovered on his lips died there, as the well-known figure of Armand Revenoir, the Hotel Manager, came up to their table and addressed them jovially.
‘Ah, Professor, Sir Maxwell, I hope everything is to your satisfaction? Bon! I have just come to tell you that the orders you gave last night have been carried out; the supplies you asked for have been delivered to the back of the hotel and you will be able to conduct your interviews for porters and guides this afternoon.’
He paused with exaggerated long suffering as a desk clerk hurried up and hovered at his elbow, deferentially waiting for Monsieur to finish speaking. Graciously, the distinguished head with its hallmark sweep of silver hair tilted to allow the clerk to murmur discreetly in the august ear. Abruptly, some of Monsieur’s legendary poise fleetingly deserted him.
‘Vraiment?…Peste! Eh bien…mais oui, d’accord, I will be there directly, tell them to wait in my office.’ Then, turning back to the interested gaze of the two men, ‘My apologies, gentlemen, you will have to excuse me. I have to attend… a most vexation occurrence …’
‘Come on, Armand, spill the beans, what’s going on?’ interrupted Blake irreverently, taking shamelessly advantage of his standing as a favoured client. ‘Something must be up … Chef poisoning the guests again?’
With anyone else, Monsieur would have quelled this impertinence with a cool non-committal rebuff, but the Professor was, well, was the Professor, and Sir Max too was a favoured guest of long standing.
Ignoring the outrageous slur on his beloved Hotel, he stroked his immaculately trimmed moustache and smiled politely at the Professor’s misplaced witticism.
‘Ah, very amusing, the Professor is pleased to make his little joke,’ he responded gravely, ‘Mais, d’alors it is no matter for the laughing, monsieurs.’ The Maitre-de looked around self-consciously but most of the guests had already departed and the staff were busy clearing the tables
. Blake gestured to the empty chair opposite and Monsieur sat down. Taking out a snowy white handkerchief to dab delicately at his brow, he leaned in close to confide his woes.
As well as his regular staff, a hotel as large as his also required a host of casual workers, who were employed behind the scenes in various menial capacities. Now to his consternation and growing indignation, the police had arrived and wanted to interview certain members of this shifting population about a crime that had been discovered early this morning. Max and Blake shifted closer. What sort of crime? Monsieur shrugged his shoulders dismissively. Nothing of any importance, a body found with his throat cut - no doubt some rascal who had betrayed his accomplices in some felonious activity and paid the consequence.
However, the body had the audacity to be discovered just inside the hotel’s rear gates by the watchman on his dawn patrol. To make matters worse, silk threads and a torn scrap of material had been found caught in the broken black fingernails of the corpse. It was true that the Hotel’s boutique did sell shawls of this material, embellished with similar silk fringing, but it was ludicrous to imagine there could be any connection between the Hotel and this sordid affair. However, the police had to start somewhere and with the body found actually in the grounds, they had decided to begin their investigations here. Quelle imbeciles! Just a formality, of course, nothing whatsoever to do with the Hotel and certainly nothing for the guests to worry about, but vexing nevertheless, that he should have to waste his precious time on such distasteful matters! Now, he really would have to go, he could rely on their discretion, of course? But of course, they assured him.
Blake was willing to bet that he could guess the colour of those tell tale threads. Gold silk such as Meredith had worn last night!
Max, of course, knew nothing of Meredith’s escapade the previous evening, or for that matter the recent developments in London. He was not, therefore, inclined to dwell much on Monsieur Revenoir’s shocking disclosures and seemed more interested in supervising the final minutiae of the proposed expedition. A mercy devoutly appreciated by Blake. He left Max surrounded by lists and fluttering personnel making helpful suggestions and made his way back upstairs to Meredith’s room.
Even as he had sat listening to the hotel manager’s account of the discovery of the body, a vision had filled his mind of soft honey coloured shoulders sloping from a swathe of golden silk. Then another more disagreeable scene took its place, an ugly picture of a torn and bedraggled shawl trailing from a shivering figure creeping furtively through the night.
Blake needed to have a long overdue talk with this infuriating girl, and this time he would not be put off.
His first loud and peremptory knock brought forth only a profound silence. As he strained his ears for any sound of movement on the other side of the door, he caught the soft hum of the lift at the far end of the corridor. Acting on a sudden instinct, he ran down the hall to the tightly shut sliding doors, in time to see the gilded indicator point to the basement. That was only four flights down from his present position and he took them two and three steps at a time, now quite certain of his destination and why Meredith had need to go there.
He reached the boiler room by way of the service stairs just as the drone of the lift indicated that it was on its return journey. At this time of the morning, between shifts, the place was deserted, the workmen no doubt taking their mid-morning break. Blake glanced around the grimy underground warren of sinister hissing pipes, the gloom only dimly relieved by a few feeble, naked electric light bulbs overhead. There was a steady muted roar from the great furnaces and the hot air was dry and acrid. He selected one of several rusted metal doors and stepped quietly inside.
He found himself in a small dark room, one wall of which was taken up with round steel doors. Cautiously he opened the heavy metal hatch nearest to him; the sudden blast of heat confirmed that he had picked the right one. The furnace had obviously only recently been banked, no raging inferno was revealed therein, just a sullen, intense heat smelling strongly of tar and ash. Even as he gave an involuntary grunt of satisfaction and looked round for some tongs, the draught from the open door fanned the smoldering black coals. The heap of dirty golden silk thrown hastily inside suddenly ignited into bright flames, and in seconds, was utterly consumed.
After that, Blake was in no mood to run into Max or even Meredith herself. Even though his theory had been proved correct, he had no feeling of satisfaction, in fact quite the contrary. Now it was his turn to need time to re-evaluate. He arranged to hire a horse for the afternoon and left a message with reception informing his companions that he had gone out and would see them this evening at dinner. By that time, he fervently hoped that he would have routed his demons. He took the ferry to the west bank and after making his selection at the livery stable, he deliberately turned the big, spirited bay stallion towards the open desert. He intended to get as far away as possible from the crowds of excited tourists who eddied around the ancient necropolis, like so many busy ants crawling over a fallen sandwich.
Alone in the ancient stillness between an endless blue sky and the secret golden sands, he slowed his mount to a walk. Here, there was enough space for him to confront his feelings and put things into perspective. He took a deep breath of the hot dry air, redolent with the smell and taste of the East and felt the brazen heat of the sun beating on his unprotected head. After a while, the deep silence soothed his conflicting emotions and brought a degree of solace.
Blake now believed that he had a theory that explained Meredith’s action. If she was involved in some sort of criminal racket smuggling antiquities out of Egypt but had double-crossed the rest of the gang, it would explain the attacks, as they would be after the scarab amulet themselves. Perhaps she had been on her way to see Blake to try to sell him the artifact, although this did not seem very likely. However, that did not explain Meredith’s uncanny ability to speak a dead language, unspoken and unheard for many long centuries. In this at least, although puzzling to the extreme, he was prepared to believe her oft-repeated denial that she had no knowledge of the archaic speech of the pharaohs.
At least she had not stood by and allowed Alex Bentley to be beaten-up without doing something about it. That the girl was tied up somehow with the gang responsible for the break-ins and the assault on poor old Bentley, he had no doubts, but then why had she come to the poor man’s aid? Was it the old story of thieves falling out? For it was certainly Amunet who had appeared in fancy dress to warn the attackers off! No spectral apparition she, as the talcum powder he had seen in her hair that night testified, when she had came to warn him that the police were about to descend.
He remembered her delicate, worried little face turned towards him with the bright kitchen light reflected dazzlingly in those extraordinary eyes, the clear grey luminous and innocent as the dawn. He thought then that there could be no evil in her.
He wished he could be so certain now.
Chapter 11
When Amunet returned to her room after her mission to destroy the bloodstained shawl, she was satisfied that she had hidden her tracks, but frustrated that the incident last night had prevented her from getting a message to her Aunt.
She still could not leave until she had found out where Blake had hidden the dagger so that she could get it back. Then all she had to do was persuade him to tell her where it had come from, so that she could put it back. Mmm, not so easy, a change in tactics was obviously called for, she needed to disarm him, and she also had to be ready to follow him if he started to act suspiciously. What she really needed was a burqa, the ubiquitous black all concealing robe of the Middle East, similar to the one worn by her assailant in London. She must bribe one of hotel maids to get her one tomorrow before they left for this trip the men were planning. Now racked with a real headache, she collapsed onto the bed to think up, and ultimately discard, many impractical and unlikely solutions to her problems.
It seemed that both antagonists had mutually decided to call a temporary
truce that evening, and Max for one, was profoundly thankful. It was just as well for his peace of mind that he had no idea of the real motives underlying this sea change in the tactics of both parties. During dinner, Amunet, in sparkling humour and displaying a roguish wit, was prettily attentive to both men as she topped up their drinks and encouraged them to talk. She drew all eyes as she set herself out to charm and soon had them chuckling, even Blake did not resist her for long.
Max was obviously enchanted, and even Blake relaxed enough to keep them in fits of laughter, as he told them highly scurrilous and outrageous anecdotes of events that had taken place on his many travels. He was attentive to Amunet, even offering to collect her shawl for her as the evening lengthened and grew cool. Her lips tightened but she recovered well, protesting that she was feeling almost too warm in their company, and blaming his stories as she laughingly poured them all another glass of wine.
This mendacity on the part of the two protagonists appeared to pass straight over Max’s head, and he declared that he had not enjoyed an evening so much for a long time. Eventually, Blake looked at his watch and reluctantly reminded them that they should be making a move as they had an early start in the morning and it was getting late. Full of high spirits, Max and Amunet went up the stairs together arm in arm with only slight unsteadiness, Blake following close behind.
They bade each other goodnight at Amunet’s door, and Max kissed her hand with great panache, which made her giggle. Retiring to their respective rooms, Max fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, but sleep was the last thing the other two had on their minds.
