Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  Giggling merrily, Suzi removed her purchase and held it up: a shift, very tight and very short, completely covered with gold sequins. There was, I regret to say, a matching cap.

  ‘Oh, very smart,’ said John.

  ‘It’s for the Egyptian party tonight,’ Suzi explained, with one of her wide white grins.

  ‘Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Perhaps I’d better get something for Mary. Advise me, will you, Suzi? Your taste is so impeccable.’ He offered her his arm.

  Did I follow them to the rail? Certainly. I was going that way anyhow. I heard Suzi ask why Mary wasn’t with him, and John’s reply: ‘I persuaded her to sleep late. She had rather a restless night.’

  Plastic bags were landing all over the place. Schmidt had already retrieved one; tossing the hideous garment over a chair, he put money into the bag, knotted it tightly, and tossed it down. He had a good arm for a fat old guy; the seller snagged the bag without difficulty. Suzi’s aim wasn’t so good; her bag missed the boat entirely, splashing into the water, but it was neatly retrieved by the merchant using a long hook.

  I didn’t see what gorgeous garment John bought for his bride. I was too busy trying to keep Schmidt from buying not one but several for me. I did succeed in talking him out of one of the gold-sequined shifts. More of the passengers had come on deck to join in the fun. It would have been fun, I guess, if it hadn’t been for my tense suspicious mind. Yet – I assured myself – it was an awfully sloppy method of exchanging contraband or delivering explosives. Especially when one of the boats down below was filled with men in black uniforms, who kept a keen eye on every transaction.

  The party broke up when we started moving into the lock. It was a tricky manoeuvre, owing to the size of the Queen of the Nile; she filled the entire space, lengthways and sideways. The stone walls rose sheer on either side, broken only by a flight of stairs leading from the top to water level. Once we were in, even Suzi could have tossed a package into the hands of someone who stood on the steps.

  The only person there, however, wore a black uniform and carried a rifle. There were more of them up above, lining the bridge that crossed the lock.

  Schmidt tugged me away. ‘We will have breakfast,’ he announced.

  In a meaningful manner I brushed the crumbs off his moustache. He chuckled. ‘That was not breakfast, only a little snack.’

  Since we were not going ashore that day, the service of food was practically continuous; the passengers had to be kept amused, and for some of them eating was a favourite sport. I kept Schmidt company while he stuffed himself, trying to decide how to occupy the long leisurely day. I am not ashamed to admit that Ali’s death had put a damper on my enthusiasm, which had already been fairly water-logged. If Alice was my only ally, we were both in deep trouble. If she wasn’t, why the hell hadn’t the other person identified him- or herself? I had left another message in the safe; its tone was peremptory, not to say hysterical, but if I didn’t get a response there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

  As for the other guys, I was prepared to leave them alone if they did the same for me. I didn’t want to learn anything or even look as if I had. If there was ever a time for retreating into the fort and concentrating on defence, this was it. And I was going to take Schmidt into the fort with me. If Alice could get crazy ideas about him, so could the other guys.

  Schmidt had a lovely day. Usually he follows me around. This time I followed him, tight as a tick on a dog, and he was innocently delighted by my companionship. We tried on the ghastly garments he had bought, and although he assured me most sincerely that I looked wonderful in all of them (fond as I am of Schmidt, I was unable to return the compliment), I persuaded him to pay a visit to The Suq, as Mr Azad’s shop was called, to see if we could find something even gaudier.

  Schmidt loved The Suq. He loves places where he can buy things, not only for himself but, bless his generous heart, for his friends and relations. The shop was small and crowded; the people who hadn’t purchased their costumes from the aquatic merchants were looking for appropriate attire for the banquet that evening. Mr Azad didn’t have any gold-sequined shifts, but some of the robes were lavishly embroidered and trimmed with gold braid. With his smiling approval we carried an armful back to my room and tried them on. Schmidt adores trying on clothes and he likes even better watching me try them on.

  After much consultation and much pirouetting in front of the mirror, Schmidt settled on the gaudiest and most voluminous of the robes. It was an ensemble, in fact; a long-sleeved floor-length caftan-type garment with a matching sleeveless robe, open down the front, that was worn over it. After he had tried three times to wind a long scarf around his head turban-fashion, I persuaded him he looked much more macho in a bedonin-type headdress.

  By then it was time for Brotzeit – lunch. I don’t even want to think about what Schmidt ate. I had hoped he would want to take a nap afterward, but he was full of beans (among other edibles) and raring to go. ‘You will not want to miss the lecture, Vicky. Herr Foggington-Smythe is speaking on the tomb of Tetisheri, and showing slides!’

  ‘You haven’t heard him lecture, Schmidt. He is the most boring – ’

  ‘But the slides, Vicky! Many have never been seen before. It is a complete photographic reproduction . . .’

  I said I’d meet him in the lounge in ten minutes and he trotted off, after warning me not to be late and assuring me I was beautiful enough already.

  I spent a few minutes putting on fresh makeup. Then I opened the safe.

  My notes were gone, and something had heen added. A nice shiny .45 automatic.

  Chapter Six

  I

  I GREW UP ON A farm in Minnesota. Dad taught all of us how to handle a shotgun and a rifle; he didn’t hunt, but he saw nothing wrong with discouraging varmints, including the human variety, when they attacked the livestock (including the human variety). A bullet was also the quickest and most humane method of dispatching a fatally injured or rabid animal. He hated handguns, though. He claimed they were cowards’ weapons and more likely to get a person into trouble than out of it.

  I suppose it’s easy to take that attitude when you’re six-five and built like a tank.

  Inconsistent or not, I share his attitude. I picked the thing up with all due caution, and examined it with even greater caution. I can tell an automatic from a revolver, but that’s about the limit of my expertize. This wasn’t one of the few models I had handled. The safety was on and there was a full clip, but no extras.

  The presence of the gun proved Ali had had a backup on board, which was good news. I only hoped it wasn’t meant to convey a subtle message: ‘You’re on your own, baby, don’t expect me to rush to the rescue.’

  I can deliver subtle messages too. I put the gun back in the safe and closed the door. Anyhow, I couldn’t carry the damned thing on me; my clothes were all lightweight cotton and linen, there was no place I could stash it where it wouldn’t show. If I put it in my bag, either it would fall out at an inappropriate moment or it would sink to the bottom and I wouldn’t be able to locate it in a hurry.

  Dad was right. The damned things were more trouble than they were worth. I hoped.

  Schmidt had saved me a seat in the lounge. By what was probably not a strange coincidence, the only other person at the table was Larry. He did seem pleased to see me. Schmidt’s face had the bland, pink-cheeked innocence it wore when he was up to something. I knew what he was up to this time, and I wished him luck. I’m a loyal employee of the National Museum myself – up to a point.

  ‘So they let you off for a few hours?’ I said, glancing at the table where Larry’s two henchmen were sitting.

  ‘It’s the other way around, actually,’ Larry said with a smile. ‘I had to order Schroeder to take a break. He’s been on the phone to Luxor a dozen times, working on the arrangements for the reception.’

  ‘Mr Schroeder is your secretary?’ I asked.

  ‘Executive assistant, rather. Haven’t you met him?’r />
  I shook my head. ‘I have,’ said Schmidt. ‘A very pleasant person. But shy, nicht?’

  Larry laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But he’s been pretty busy. These changes in schedule have been a damned nuisance. We’ve had to revise our own schedule for the reception at my place in Luxor, and for the formal opening of the tomb.’

  ‘It is true, then, that we will have the honour of being the first to see the tomb in all its new glory?’ Schmidt asked eagerly.

  ‘The first and possibly the last,’ Larry said.

  ‘Aha!’ Schmidt nodded and winked. ‘I thought that would be your aim. I am in full agreement, of course. But can you do that, mein Freund? The Bureau of Tourism will surely object to closing the tomb.’

  ‘I have an argument that may convince them. No,’ he added pleasantly but firmly, ‘don’t ask, Anton; I’m saving it for a surprise. It will be announced at the reception day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I would not want you to tell me then,’ Schmidt announced, widening his eyes and pursing his lips. ‘I like surprises.’

  He was overdoing the cute stuff, and I tried to tip him off with a slight shake of my head. Schmidt only grinned.

  The room had filled. Everyone was there, even Suzi, whom I had expected to prefer sunbathing over culture. Perhaps she had found she lacked an audience.

  It was a long lecture, but for once even Perry’s hopelessly pedantic delivery couldn’t spoil the fascination of the subject.

  The tomb had been discovered around the turn of the century by a famous husband-and-wife team of Egyptologists. It was an unusual combination in those days, when women weren’t allowed to work in archaeology or any other serious discipline, and the excavators were also unusual in that they followed rigorous standards of recording and copying instead of the slash-and-burn, dig-’em-up-and-dump-’em techniques favoured by many of their contemporaries.

  Since colour photography had not yet been developed, the only way of accurately reproducing the wall paintings was to have them copied by an artist. Howard Carter, known to the world for his discovery of Tutankhamon’s tomb, began his career as a copyist. He did some nice work, but I believe I cannot be accused of prejudice when I claim that the greatest archaeological copyists of that period were women. The discoverers of Tetisheri’s tomb had employed one of them, and she had copied the paintings with exquisite skill.

  As Schmidt had mentioned a couple of dozen times, we were among the first people to see the photographs of the restorations. Larry had denied dozens of requests for permission to reproduce them. Even the National Geographic hadn’t been able to talk him into letting them do a story.

  Perry had had the bright idea of comparing three versions, slide by slide – first the painting, then a colour photograph taken before the restoration began three years earlier, then the photograph of the same section as it now appeared. It was a fascinating and convincing demonstration of the hazards of accessibility, and an equally impressive demonstration of what expert restorers and pots of money could do. The paintings had deteriorated shockingly in only ninety years, but Larry’s crew had returned them to their original beauty.

  After the lights had come on and the shades had been drawn back, Perry started taking questions. I got up and headed for the deck. Larry followed me.

  ‘In need of nicotine?’ he asked, smiling.

  I kept forgetting I was a smoker. I took out a cigarette, and said with perfect honesty, ‘I didn’t want to spoil the impression. You’ve done a wonderful thing, Larry. I feel as if I ought to kiss your hand.’

  Schmidt was close on Larry’s heels. ‘Sie hat recht, mein Freund,’ he said seriously. ‘The art lovers of the world owe you a great debt. I will not kiss your hand, but I would like to shake it.’

  A dark flush spread over Larry’s face. He looked down and shuffled his feet like a bashful schoolboy. ‘Your praise means a great deal to me,’ he mumbled.

  I was afraid Schmidt might take advantage of Larry’s emotional state to start hinting about certain other things he could do for the art lovers of the world, so I changed the subject. ‘What happened to her mummy?’

  ‘One of the unlabelled mummies in the Deir el Bahri cache is believed to be hers,’ Larry said. ‘I question the identification.’

  ‘On what basis?’ Schmidt asked interestedly.

  ‘It’s a rather complicated question.’

  ‘Ach, ja, I recall reading about it.’ Schmidt leaned against the rail, his eyes bright with interest. Schmidt is interested in practically everything, and as I have said, he remembers practically everything he has ever read. ‘There is a papyrus – Amherst, I believe – dating from the twelfth century B.C., which describes the confessions of tomb robbers of Thebes. So many of the royal tombs had been robbed that priests gathered up the royal mummies, or their battered remains, and hid them in a secret place. This cache was found in the 1880s, after it, in turn, had been looted by local thieves. Some of the mummies were unidentified and none were in their original coffins – ’

  ‘You are very well informed,’ Larry said curtly. He turned, arms on the rail, looking out across the river.

  I would have taken the hint, but Schmidt went gaily on. ‘A few years ago the University of Michigan undertook a complete X-ray examination of the royal mummies. There were some peculiar discoveries. For instance, the small wrapped mummy found with the body of a high priestess was not, as had been believed, that of her stillborn child, but a baboon! One of the little old queens was bald and had – what do you call it – teeth that stuck out – ’

  ‘Brotzeit, Schmidt,’ I interrupted. ‘Specifically, teatime. Why don’t you get us a good table near the buffet before the others come out?’

  The prospect of food can distract Schmidt from just about anything. He went bustling off.

  ‘Are you having tea?’ I asked Larry.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m saving myself for the banquet this evening. Come to think of it, I ought to get a costume of some sort together. If you’ll excuse me . . .’

  I joined Schmidt. ‘They are still setting out the food,’ he complained. ‘There was no hurry. Why – ’

  ‘A gentle hint, Schmidt: if you want to win Larry’s heart, don’t talk to him about mummies. Especially the mummies of beautiful Egyptian queens.’

  ‘Ah.’ Schmidt thought it over. ‘Ah! Vielen Dank, Vicky, I should have realized. A romantic he is, nicht? He dreams of the lovely images, the paintings and the statues.’

  ‘That’s my guess. Even at their best, mummies aren’t romantic’

  ‘Mmmm, yes. That is why he does not want to believe the little old lady, who is bald and sticking out of tooth like her descendant, is his dream queen. The head was broken from the badly damaged body – ’

  I let out a croak of protest. ‘Schmidt, I’m no romantic, but I am just about to eat. Knock it off, will you?’

  I realized I was still holding the cigarette. I was about to return it to the packet when a lighter went off, so close to the end of my nose that I shied back.

  ‘May we join you?’ Mary asked.

  Schmidt leaped to his feet and held a chair for her. I sucked on the damned cigarette, womanfully suppressing a cough. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘A pleasure,’ said John.

  I didn’t doubt it.

  ‘We were talking about Tetisheri,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Vicky did not want to hear about her mummy.’

  ‘Mary dotes on dead bodies,’ said John.

  ‘Oh, darling, don’t tease!’ Mary’s pretty mouth quirked with distaste.

  Over the past days her skin had darkened from cream to pale gold, without so much as a hint of homely sunburn. She wore a white silk shirt with a scarf of burgundy and gold knotted loosely around her throat. The Greek earrings would have suited the ensemble better than the diamonds she was wearing – a carat and a half each, if I was any judge (and I am). At that they were smaller than the stone in the ring on her third finger. It overwhelmed the simple gold band next to it.


  Schmidt was beginning to catch on to the idea that very few people enjoy talking about mummies. ‘You prefer the charming little statuette of the lady that is in the British Museum?’ he said with a twinkle and a chuckle.

  Mary glanced shyly at John. ‘I’m afraid I don’t – ’

  ‘There is no need to apologize,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘A lovely young woman should not trouble her head with antiquities.’

  ‘Thanks, Schmidt,’ I said.

  ‘In your case it is different,’ Schmidt said calmly.

  I decided not to pursue that point, but I admit it was partly pique that inspired my next comment. ‘I’ve always loved that little statue. I was crushed when they decided it was . . . it was . . .’

  ‘A forgery.’ Schmidt, oblivious to undercurrents, finished the sentence.

  I tore my eyes away from John’s face. He had raised one eyebrow, a trick of his I particularly dislike, and a faint smile curved his lips.

  ‘What does it matter, if it is beautiful?’ he asked. ‘A respected authority on Egyptian art said it was the most appealing and charming of the sculptures of that period. Has it lost artistic merit?’

  ‘Ah, but you miss the point; my friend,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘The authenticity of the work . . .’

  I was only too familiar with the arguments pro and con, including John’s arguments. I’d heard them before, when I was about to blow the whistle on him and his scheme for substituting forgeries for valuable antique jewellery. They had been superb copies, almost indistinguishable from the originals. But one example of the counter-argument had dangled from Mary’s dainty earlobes the night before. I lusted after those Greek earrings, and I wouldn’t have felt the same about copies, however accurate.

  Mary reached for John’s hand. The movement stretched the silk of her blouse across her arm; the fabric was so thin I could see the golden tan of her skin through it. I could see the dark spots too. There were several of them, spaced regularly. Not the sort of bruise you’d get from bumping into a piece of furniture or a door. More like the marks of fingers.