Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  Jen was speaking to me. I turned to her with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I was admiring the murals. They are excellent copies, aren’t they?’

  ‘Morbid,’ Jen said decidedly. ‘Pictures from tombs are not suitable for a dining room.’

  Her lips had tightened and her brows had drawn together. It was a forbidding expression, and I remembered a comment John had made about his mother: ‘She looks like Judith Anderson playing a demented housekeeper.’ The wild surmise that entered my mind was equally demented. Ridiculous, I told myself. Chicanery isn’t hereditary.

  Sweet had finished ordering. ‘But Mrs Tregarth, the paintings show the Egyptians’ enjoyment of the pleasures of life. What could be more appropriate for such an occasion as this?’ Jen turned The Look on him; he swallowed and said, ‘People are much more interesting though, aren’t they? Tell us about yourself, Dr Bliss.’

  ‘I will if you will,’ I said coyly. ‘What business are you in, Mr Sweet?’

  He manufactured nuts and bolts. Very special nuts and bolts, for a specific kind of machine. Don’t ask me what kind. I was no more interested than Mr Sweet appeared to be. After rattling off a description of the process, he explained that he and Mr Bright were partners in business as well as in their passion for archaeology. ‘When we heard of this cruise we knew it was an opportunity not to be missed,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘To see so many sites that are normally closed to tourists, and of course the pièce de résistance – the tomb of Queen Tetisheri. We are the first visitors to behold the restoration of the paintings. The work has taken years – ’

  ‘And a great deal of money that might have been spent on more worthy causes,’ said Jen, with a loud sniff.

  ‘Mr Blenkiron has contributed munificently to a number of worthy causes,’ Sweet protested.

  ‘That is a matter of opinion,’ Jen said. An opinion, her expression made clear, that she did not share.

  ‘Is he here? Which one is he?’ I swivelled around.

  ‘Don’t stare,’ Jen said.

  My head snapped back into position. It was pure reflex – shades of Aunt Ermintrude. Sweet gave me a wink and a knowing smile. ‘We are all staring,’ he said amiably. ‘It’s only natural, Mrs Tregarth, that we should take an interest in our fellow travellers. For long weeks we will be together in a little world all our own, separated from our friends and families, thrown together in an artificial intimacy. Which of these strangers is to be cultivated, which to be avoided? Will some of these passing encounters result in lasting friendships, or even in – er – more intense relationships?’

  ‘You have quite a gift for words, Mr Sweet,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you aren’t a famous writer in disguise?’

  Sweet laughed. ‘Alas, no. We do have a well-known writer with us; she is travelling under her own name, but she has made no secret of her pseudonym. No doubt she means to make copy of us all! Mr Blenkiron is the tall, dark-haired gentleman at the table under the painting of the fellow spearing fish.’

  Jen had given me up as a bad job and was devouring smoked salmon, so I proceeded to stare to my heart’s content.

  The activities of most excessively wealthy individuals bore me to tears, but Blenkiron was an exception. Unlike some of his billionaire peers he shunned publicity; he didn’t attend fund-raisers or hoity-toity social functions, or hobnob with politicians and rock stars. He didn’t give interviews, or even get divorced. I knew his name because he had been a generous and unobtrusive supporter of many cultural enterprises – the rebuilding of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence after a bomb blast, the conservation of the water-rotted monuments of Venice, to name only a few. His chief interest, however, was ancient Egypt. I had read of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb, and I admit that the prospect of visiting it was one of the few plus entries in an otherwise negative agenda. To see the famous paintings restored to their original freshness, with the film of grease and grime removed and the damaged sections repainted, would be a unique experience.

  I had expected Blenkiron to be older. There was grey in his hair but it was only a sprinkling of silver against dark brown, and the lines in his face, fanning out from the corners of his deep-set eyes and framing a long-lipped flexible mouth, were those of good nature and maturity. He too was inspecting his fellow passengers; catching my eye, he nodded and smiled.

  ‘The person on his right is his secretary,’ Sweet informed me in a conspiratorial whisper.

  The person wasn’t a blond female but a bald male. I couldn’t see his face, since he had his back to me.

  ‘Who’s the other guy at the table?’ I had a pretty good idea. He resembled all the lean, lined heroes of western films and his dinner jacket didn’t fit quite right.

  Sweet rolled his eyes. ‘Bright and I have dubbed him The Bodyguard.’

  ‘How clever of you,’ I said.

  By the time we had finished (five courses, not six), Sweet had identified some of the other passengers for me, and supplied capsule biographies for many of them. The blonde in the tight corset was a Mrs Umphenour from Memphis (Tennessee, not Egypt), who had taken the cruise to console herself for the death of her third husband. The misanthropic reader alone at a nearby table was a German surgeon who specialized in urology. What he was doing on the cruise Sweet could not imagine; he was not a friendly person and he appeared to be only mildly interested in Egyptology.

  I sincerely hoped he was not interested in medieval Islamic art.

  Jen had eaten her way through all five courses and was looking a trifle bloated by the time we prepared to return to the lounge for coffee and after-dinner drinks. Sweet announced he and Bright would have to deny themselves that pleasure, since the group was to leave for a shore tour at seven the next morning. ‘You young ladies can do without sleep,’ he said, with a gallant bow, ‘but if Bright and I don’t get our eight hours we are good for nothing.’

  Bright nodded and smiled. He hadn’t said a word.

  Jen took me by the arm. I winced. John had mentioned that his mother was a dedicated gardener; I had no idea that form of exercise could develop such formidable muscles. I don’t like being manhandled, even by women, so I said, ‘I’m a little tired myself. I think I’ll skip the coffee.’

  ‘But it’s included,’ Jen exclaimed.

  Bright and Sweet had faded away. I was on my own. I let her tow me towards the stairs. Not until she had settled us at a table and waved imperiously at a passing waiter did I remember I had an excuse to escape.

  ‘I’m going out on deck to have a cigarette,’ I announced, rising.

  Again that imperative hand closed over my arm. ‘No need for that, my dear. We’ll move to the smoking section. You should have told me. Waiter!’

  ‘But you don’t – ’

  ‘I do indulge occasionally. My son smokes,’ Jen said, as if that were justification for any evil habit. (Any evil habit?)

  The sinners had gathered in a railed-off area near the open doors. Among them, I was surprised to see Mr Blenkiron. His secretary was not with him, but he was surrounded by Mrs Umphenour and her fur coat. It was the biggest damned coat I’ve ever seen, some sort of long, silky white fur I couldn’t identify in the dim light; she had tossed it over her shoulders and it appeared to be eating Blenkiron.

  Jen dragged me to a table as far from the pair as she could get. ‘Disgusting,’ she muttered. ‘Her husband not dead a month and she’s already looking for number four.’

  I took out a cigarette. I supposed I had to smoke the damned thing.

  Jen accepted one when I offered it. She also had brandy (included). She was decidedly glassy-eyed by the time. the newlyweds turned up. They must have been strolling the deck. Mary’s hair was bewitchingly windblown.

  ‘Still at it?’ John inquired of his mother, as the waiter delivered another glass of brandy.

  Jen giggled. ‘Darling, you’re such a tease. What will you and Mary have? It’s all – ’

  ‘Included,’ John finished. He held a chair for Mary but remained standi
ng, an inimical eye on his maternal parent. ‘The doctor warned you about your spastic colon.’

  ‘Delicate stomach,’ Jen corrected.

  ‘You’d better take some of that ghastly medicine,’ her son said resignedly. ‘I watched you at dinner. You were shovelling it in like a stevedore.’

  ‘Darling,’ Mary said. ‘Aren’t you being a little rude?’

  ‘He’s just teasing,’ Jen explained, rummaging in her bag. ‘And taking good care of his old mum. I will take a dose, right this minute. I brought the bottle . . . I thought I had . . . Oh, never mind, it can wait. I feel quite well.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ John said. ‘Give me your key.’

  She handed it over and he left. He hadn’t acknowledged my presence except by a brusque nod.

  ‘He’s so thoughtful,’ Jen murmured.

  ‘What does your son do for a living, Mrs Tregarth?’ I asked.

  Mary gave me an odd look. The question had been somewhat abrupt, but Jen was in no condition to notice nuances, and John was obviously her favourite topic of conversation.

  ‘Why, my dear, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him, since his line of work is so closely related to yours.’

  I inhaled involuntarily and burst into a fit of coughing. Jen slapped me on the back and went on, ‘He began in a modest way – a little shop in Truro – but his business has expanded at such a rapid rate that he has just opened an establishment in London. I am informed that he is regarded as one of the most reputable authorities in all of England.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I wheezed. ‘Let me guess. Antiques?’

  ‘And works of art.’

  ‘Of course.’ Gasping for breath, I covered my face with my hands.

  ‘There’s plenty of this revolting stuff to go round,’ said John. ‘Would you care for a nip?’

  I fumbled for a napkin and looked up. He stood over me, one eyebrow elevated, both lips curling.

  ‘Darling,’ Mary said reproachfully.

  ‘It’s all right. I just inhaled the wrong way.’ I wiped my eyes.

  John handed his mother a bottle filled with a virulent pink liquid. ‘Here you go, old girl. Would you care to try one of my cigarettes, Dr – er – Bliss, isn’t it? Yours appear to be a trifle too strong.’

  II

  By the end of the evening I had managed to meet most of the other passengers. Jen had been guilty of unkind exaggeration when she described them as senile, but ‘elderly’ wouldn’t have been inaccurate; the majority of them had to be at least seventy.

  One of the exceptions was Suzi Umphenour, the bleached blonde from Memphis (Tennessee). I hadn’t expected to like her, but I did, perhaps because she cheerfully admitted that she had joined the cruise only because it was hideously expensive and very exclusive. ‘All my friends in Memphis were green with envy,’ she had declared with naive satisfaction.

  ‘Then you aren’t interested in Egyptology?’

  She emitted a fat chuckle and grinned, displaying an expanse of expensively capped teeth. ‘I’m interested in men, honey. Young men. All my husbands were old and boring. I figure now I’m entitled to a little fun. There aren’t as many cute guys on this trip as I’d hoped, but some of the Egyptian boys are kind of sweet, don’t you think?’

  I agreed that they were, and left Suzi closing in on Feisal.

  By the time I got back to my room I was tired enough to die, but I knew I was too uptight to sleep, so I went out onto the balcony. The lights of the city glowed like jewels against the dark – diamond white, ruby and emerald and sapphire. The night breeze was cool, and if it was polluted – there was no ‘if’ about it, in fact – I didn’t notice.

  The worst was over, I told myself. I hadn’t lost my temper or my dignity, and there was no danger of my doing so now – not when I had him dead to rights, under my thumb and in my power.

  I had replaced the tiny tape reel in my gold locket, but the old tape was still on the table. It was supposed to be in the little safe under the dressing table.

  Every suite had such a safe – not an ordinary lockbox, but specially designed safe with a specially designed key that could not be reproduced by an ordinary locksmith. I’d heard of luxury hotels that provided such a service, but never a cruise ship. However, this was a special ship in every way, and people who were rich enough to take the cruise probably expected such amenities.

  We had been warned that if we lost the key the safe would have to be drilled open, at our expense, since there was only one. In my case that wasn’t true. At least one other person had a key to mine. I was supposed to leave messages in it and he – she – it? – would communicate with me in the same way.

  Nobody would be entering my room that night The door was equipped with enough hardware to stop a tank. People were nervous about travelling in Egypt, and this was only one of many additional security precautions our management had provided. My mysterious ally wouldn’t open the safe until after I had left the room the following morning. I could leave the tape anytime before then.

  There was nothing on that tape that could be of use to Burckhardt and his pals. John hadn’t admitted anything, except that he and I had known one another before.

  But that conversation might be enough to identify him to other people who knew him only by one of his innumerable aliases. My acquaintance with Sir John Smythe, et cetera, ad infinitum was a matter of record in the police departments of at least three countries, and I didn’t doubt that Interpol was one of the organizations involved in this investigation.

  I sat with my elbows on my knees and my chin propped on my hands and tried to think clearly. That mysterious message of Burckhardt’s had been rather vague. Maybe his informant had been mistaken. Even hot-shot secret agents are mistaken sometimes. Suppose that for once John was on the level. He had a job – a nice, honest job – and a nice little wife. Maybe he had turned over a new leaf. Maybe he was trying to go straight. He must realize that he’d have to find a new profession before arthritis and/or the cops caught up with him, and surely he wouldn’t involve his mother and his bride in one of his forays into crime.

  A voice from the not-so-distant past jeered, ‘And if you believe that, you are as innocent as a new-laid egg.’

  So maybe I was. I’d rather be innocent (translation: stupid) than vindictive.

  He had told me once that he loved me. Only once – and I had badgered him into saying it, at a time when he was too battered and bruised to fight back. I owed him for those bruises, and for a couple of other times when he had risked his precious hide to get me out of a nasty situation. Perhaps he had meant it at the time. Perhaps he had only said it to shut me up.

  If I betrayed him now I would stand accused, if only by my own conscience, of revenging myself on a man who had wounded my pride and my vanity. My initial protest to Burckhardt was still valid. Even if I identified John as the thief and swindler half the police of Europe were looking for, they couldn’t arrest him on my word alone. From what I had heard about the Egyptian security forces, they weren’t always too scrupulous about legal formalities, but John was a British subject, protected by the noble code that proclaims a man innocent until proven guilty. I believed in that code, even if it did seem at times to give crooks an unfair advantage.

  There was no hurry. The tour wouldn’t return to Cairo for three weeks. If John did mean to have a shot at the museum I’d have to turn him in, there was no question about that. But I could afford to wait a little longer.

  I decided to go to bed. A book I had brought along, on the medieval mosques of Cairo, had my eyelids at half-mast before I had read two pages. At that rate, I’d never become an expert on Islamic art in time to lecture on the subject. Cheer up, Vicky, I told myself; you may not have to. Once they put the handcuffs on your ex-lover, you can pull out. With a clear conscience.

  III

  The horrors of rising at dawn, an activity I try to avoid, were mitigated by the handsome, dark-skinned youth who tapped at my door less than a minute after the
chimes had wakened me. I was in no condition to appreciate him, but I certainly appreciated the tray he carried. After two cups of coffee and a cool shower I was ready to face the day.

  I made it to the dining room ten minutes before the tour was to leave. Breakfast was buffet-style; there was still plenty of food on the table, but only a few people lingered in the room. One of them was the German urologist, still hunched over his book.

  My professional colleagues were gathered in one corner. I deduced that they were waiting for me; as I contemplated the lavish spread, trying to decide what to eat, Feisal rose and joined me.

  ‘An embarras de richesse, is it not?’ he said, giving me a dazzling smile. ‘I don’t recommend the eggs Benedict; they are a trifle overdone.’

  ‘I’m late, I know,’ I said. ‘All I want is a roll and – ’

  ‘No, no, take your time. Sit down and relax, I will select something for you.’

  I joined my ‘colleagues’ and we shook hands all around. Foggington-Smythe graciously informed me that I could call him Perry, and returned to his breakfast. Alice Gordon gave me a friendly grin.

  ‘It’s difficult to get used to this schedule,’ she said. ‘One is tempted to linger in the saloon, but dawn comes all too soon. How nice you look! Very professional.’

  I had tried to control myself with Burckhardt’s money, but I hadn’t been able to resist the safari outfit. The pants were modestly loose – we had been warned not to offend Egyptian sensibilities by wearing scanty or skin-tight garments – and the jacket had more pockcts than a shoe bag. It made me feel like Amelia P. Emerson, but when I saw Alice’s calf-length cotton skirt and casual shirt I realized I had made a fool of myself. Professional archaeolosts didn’t dress like that. Not these days, anyhow.