Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

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Night Train to Memphis vbm-5 Page 17

by Elizabeth Peters


  She was a much better speaker than Perry, enlivening the facts with personal reminiscences and funny stories. Cued by Schmidt’s rumbling chuckles, I laughed in all the right places, but I have to admit I didn’t pay proper attention. Just when I thought I had come to a sensible sane decision, something happened to make me question it. Could I have been mistaken about Sweet and Bright? The answer to that was depressingly obvious. The corollary was equally depressing. They were the only ones to whom I had spoken about John. Several little reels of tape were jostling around in my bag at this very moment. I hadn’t left them in the safe. I kept telling myself there was nothing incriminatory on those tapes, only a series of rude remarks from John and feeble rejoinders from me, but I knew I was kidding myself. And I knew why.

  And I knew it was high time I stopped behaving like a fool. John claimed he was opposed to violence, but either he had changed his views or he was mixed up with people who didn’t share them. Ali had been murdered; I was as certain of that as if I had seen it done. I wasn’t at all happy about the failure of the refrigeration either. Machinery is always breaking down – at least my machines are always breaking down – and this damage seemed, on the surface, quite harmless. But our schedule had already been altered once and this might necessitate an even more drastic change, if the coolers couldn’t be repaired.

  The lights went on, and I hastily rearranged my features into an expression of smiling interest. Alice started taking questions. As I might have expected, the first one was about the curse of Tutankhamon.

  Pure coincidence, said Alice. Lord Carnarvon had cut himself shaving and blood poisoning had set in, followed by pneumonia. The others who had worked on the tomb with him had lived to ripe old ages. She reeled off names and dates with the assurance of someone who has been asked the question dozens of times before. Morbidly, I wondered whether tourists fifty years from now would be discussing the hideous doom that had fallen upon the passengers of the Queen of the Nile, and the sad fate of Victoria Bliss, cut off in her prime by an unfortunate coincidence.

  Everybody went to bed early that night. We were supposed to disembark at six forty-five for our visit to the Valley of the Kings.

  III

  The group that gathered in the lobby next morning was greatly diminished – only a dozen passengers, plus Alice and Feisal. Oh, and Perry. Sweet and Bright were not among them. John and Mary were among them. So was Suzi, somewhat to my surprise; I’d have expected her to spend the whole day primping for the grand reception that evening. Subtle questioning on my part elicited the information that the missing persons were all alive and undamaged; some were suffering from the conventional complaints, others had decided not to take the long tiring trek.

  I had been tempted to skip the tour too. A hasty glance at the itinerary had reminded me that several of the tombs we were to visit were described as ‘deep.’ I had acquired a violent aversion to tombs in general, never mind ‘deep’ tombs. But when I called Schmidt, hoping against hope he would be suffering from tummy trouble, he informed me he was on his way to breakfast and demanded I hurry up. So I hurried. Schmidt was determined to go ashore and I couldn’t let him go alone.

  Before I left my room I collected the reels of tape and locked them in my safe.

  The itinerary had reminded me of something else I had forgotten – the lay of the land. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank of the Nile. The Valley of the Kings and the other ancient cemeteries are on the west bank. The boat had landed us on the west bank. It would then cross the river and moor, along with the other tourist steamers, and we would take the ferry across to rejoin the others in time for lunch. That meant I’d have to wait till afternoon before calling Karl or attempting to locate police headquarters.

  The rising sun, behind us as we left the boat, turned the western cliffs an exquisite shade of deep rose. The air was cool and would have been fresh had it not been for a couple of dozen tour buses belching out pollution.

  Feisal shepherded us towards one of them. As we stood in line waiting to climb on, I managed to draw Alice aside.

  ‘I’ve decided to resign,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’m about to.’

  I asked how.

  ‘Someone will contact me this afternoon. Luxor Temple. I’m going to stamp my little foot and demand – ’ She broke off. The others had boarded the bus and Feisal was gesturing at us.

  Schmidt had saved me a seat. He insisted I take the one next to the window so I could see the sights, which he described in a loud voice as we drove on. The man’s memory was absolutely astonishing. By his own admission he hadn’t been in Egypt for ten years, but he hadn’t forgotten a thing.

  The drive took about fifteen minutes, through the cultivated fields and across the barren desert. We were headed straight for the cliffs. Then a cleft opened up; the road curved and passed through, into the desolate valley where for centuries the kings of the empire had been buried. Schmidt rumbled on, spouting statistics and historical data.

  Louisa, brooding among her veils, was sitting across the aisle. She interrupted Schmidt’s lecture to say, ‘What of the tomb of the great queen Nefertari?’

  ‘No, no, that is not on today’s tour,’ Schmidt explained tolerantly. ‘It is in the Valley of the Queens, so called. Now this,’ he went on, without drawing breath, ‘this has changed since my last visit. The new parking place is some distance from the tombs, which is a very good thing since the buses caused much damage. This tram on which we will ride the rest of the way is electric . . .’

  I wondered what the place looked like when tourism was at its height. It was bad enough now – a dozen buses, hundreds of people. As we got off the tram and trudged along a dusty path following Feisal, Schmidt said, in the loud mumble he thinks is a whisper, ‘How is with you, Vicky? Will it be too difficult, descending into the depths of – ’

  ‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have come if I couldn’t handle it.’

  My sharp tone didn’t offend him. Nodding sympathetically, he took my arm. ‘I will be next to you at all times. There will be bright lights, many people.’

  The first tomb was the easiest; it was also the one I didn’t want to miss. Tutankhamon’s tomb had been closed to tourists in the past. Like most of the others in the Valley, its wall paintings were deteriorating.

  In itself the small tomb was relatively unimpressive. Unlike the long complex structures designed for royal burials, this one had only a flight of stairs and a single corridor, with a few rooms at its end. The accepted theory was that Tutankhamon had died suddenly at the age of eighteen, before he had had time to prepare his tomb, so it had been necessary to take over a tomb previously constructed for a non-royal person.

  ‘Murder,’ said Feisal in a sepulchral voice, as we gathered around him. ‘Was that how the young king died? The fracture of his skull might have been the result of a fatal accident, but he had many enemies and no heirs.’

  The great stone box of the sarcophagus stood in the middle of the room. Tut’s mummy still lay there, decently hidden; it had been in ruinous condition. His golden coffins were now in the Cairo Museum. Involuntarily I looked at John, who was contemplating the sarcophagus with a look of pensive interest. Surely not even he would try . . . One of the damned coffins was of solid 22-carat gold, weighing almost three hundred pounds. You’d need a block and tackle just to lift the thing. But there were hundreds of other objects, all easily portable, that would be worth his time and trouble. The four small rooms of the tomb had been stuffed with objects of artistic and historic value.

  They were empty now, except for the sarcophagus and the poor, battered bones of the boy himself. Eighteen years old, childless, possibly murdered . . . Schmidt pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He’s disgustingly sentimental.

  We retraced our steps – twenty-five paces, I’d counted them – along the passage and up the stairs – sixteen of them, I’d counted them too. But it hadn’t bothered me. Not with lights all along the w
ay and Schmidt snuffling sentimentally beside me. After we had emerged into daylight the custodian swung the doors shut and locked them, to the audible annoyance of several loose tourists hanging around in the hope of getting in. The tomb must be officially closed. In this, as in other ways, our group had been favoured.

  Schmidt started fussing at me again when we reached the next of the tombs on our list, that of Amenhotep II. It was one of the ones the guidebook had described as ‘deep,’ and Schmidt kept insisting I ought not attempt it. He was talking loudly, as usual, and if there was anyone in the group who hadn’t known about my phobia, they knew now.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Down, down, down we went, and if you think I wasn’t counting you are dead wrong. The stairs led down, all the corridors sloped down, and just when I thought we had reached the bottom there was another flight of stairs – leading down, in case you are wondering – and another downward-sloping passage. The square pillars in the last room were painted and inscribed. That’s about all I remember. I was too busy keeping an expession of insouciant calm on my face.

  Other sources of discomfort aside, it was hot and close and very dusty down in the depths. By the time we started back up, Schmidt’s face was bright red and I didn’t like the way he was panting. Slowing my steps to match his, stopping frequently to rest, I forgot my own qualms in concern for him. I knew he’d never admit weakness and I could have kicked Feisal when he said solicitously, ‘Perhaps, Herr Doktor, you had better go to the rest house and have a cool drink instead of attempting the next tomb. That of Horemheb is the deepest in the Valley; the air is not good and the heat – ’

  Schmidt almost choked in his attempt to stop wheezing. Before he could protest I said, ‘I don’t care what you do, Schmidt, but I’m copping out. Where’s the rest house?’

  Everybody voted for the rest house, so we returned to the entrance and got onto one of the cars of the tram. The sun was now high enough to bleach all the colour from the cliffs, turning them a pale tan. Not that there was much colour to begin with – only the clear blue sky overhead and the garish garb of some of the tourists.

  Schmidt was on his second lemonade – he wanted beer, but I wouldn’t let him have it – when Larry, with whom I had been discussing tomb reliefs, broke off in mid-sentence. With a murmured ‘Excuse me,’ he rose and headed for the door.

  Schroeder, hat in hand, bald head shining with sweat, awaited him. I thought it was a little odd that the man hadn’t joined us, and I wasn’t the only one to wonder. Everyone stopped talking and stared. Everyone except John. After a quick glance at Schroeder he leaned back and lowered his eyes. He hadn’t spoken since we sat down.

  After a few minutes Schroeder left and Larry returned, shaking his head and smiling. ‘He takes his duties too seriously, as I keep telling him. Some unimportant detail about tonight’s reception.’

  ‘How long has he been with you?’ I asked guilelessly.

  ‘Let’s see . . .’ He turned to the omnipresent Ed. ‘How long has it been? A couple of years?’

  ‘’Bout that.’ Ed returned to his beer. He was not much of a conversationalist.

  If Ed could remember when Schroeder signed on, he had been with Larry even longer than two years. I reminded myself that I was no longer interested in details like that.

  Schmidt polished off another lemonade and two candy bars, and announced he was ready to resume the tour. I was trying to think of a way of taking him out of it when Larry said, ‘It’s too nice a day to spend underground. How about taking the path to Deir el Bahri, Vicky? It’s in the bay south of here, over that range of hills, and the view of the temple from above is wonderful. The bus could pick us up there, couldn’t it, Feisal?’

  Feisal nodded and Schmidt exclaimed, ‘Good, good. An excellent idea! I will come too.’

  ‘But Herr Direktor,’ Feisal protested, ‘it is a long, hard walk. Forty-five minutes . . .’ He eyed Schmidt’s rotund shape dubiously and added, ‘Or longer.’

  What was more, Schmidt hadn’t been invited. I didn’t waste my breath mentioning this. The walk might be the lesser of two evils. It couldn’t be more taxing for Schmidt than the hot dusty airlessness of the tombs.

  ‘We’ll take it easy,’ Larry said, with a reassuring nod at me.

  ‘An enticing prospect,’ said John. ‘I’ll join you, if I may.’

  ‘Yes, a walk would be lovely,’ Mary said eagerly.

  ‘No.’ He turned to her. ‘It would be too strenuous for you, in your condition.’

  Mary’s jaw dropped and a charming blush spread over her face. I don’t know what my face looked like, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t charming.

  ‘Anyone else?’ Larry asked, after a moment of embarrassed silence. ‘All right, then, we’ll see you all later.’

  Ed hadn’t said a word, but I was not surprised to find him making up one of our party. He tried to give Schmidt a hand during the first and most difficult part of the hike, the steep climb up from the Valley, but was huffily rebuffed. Once we had reached the top, Schmidt mopped his perspiring brow and gasped triumphantly, ‘Ha! Such a fuss you make over a little walk. If you had climbed the Zugspitze and the Matterhorn . . .’ His breath gave out, so he left it there, and we all looked impressed except John, who was grinning like an idiot.

  We admired the view for longer than it deserved, to give Schmidt time to recover, and Larry pointed out the locations of other tombs. Pale in the sunlight, the great pyramid-shaped peak called the Lady of the West rose over the valley it guarded.

  The next part of the walk led across the rocky summit of the plateau. The path was rough but level, and Schmidt charged valiantly ahead. John kept pace with him. I started to quicken my step. Larry took my arm. ‘I want to talk to you, Vicky. That’s why I suggested this.’

  I glanced over my shoulder. Ed was some distance behind, hands in his pockets.

  ‘What about?’ I asked.

  Larry lowered his voice. ‘About a mutual friend. His name is Burckhardt.’

  I stumbled over a stone no bigger than a Ping-Pong ball. Larry’s hand steadied me. ‘Sorry. You didn’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know a damn thing,’ I sputtered. ‘That son of a polecat Burck – ’

  ‘Let’s not mention the name again, okay? Don’t get the wrong idea, Vicky.’ His face wrinkled in an attractive, deprecating smile. ‘I haven’t been leading a double life, like some superhero in the comics. I was informed of the situation by the Egyptian government. They know how intensively I have worked for better relations between Egypt and the West, and how deeply I care about the wonderful antiquities of this country. The announcement I will make this evening . . . Well, you’ll hear that in due course. The idea that someone could use this trip as a cover for activities designed to destroy everything I’ve worked for . . .’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I know you do. And I can’t tell you how much I – all of us – appreciate what you’re doing. It was for your own protection that I was told not to contact you earlier. Now things have changed.’

  ‘That’s why Mr Schroeder came,’ I said. ‘To tell you – ’

  ‘That the refrigerating unit didn’t break down, Vicky. It was a deliberate act of sabotage. It can’t be repaired, it will have to be replaced. God knows how long that will take. The tour will have to be cancelled. Hamid will make the announcement when we return at noon. You see what that means, don’t you?’

  My eyes were fixed on Schmidt, who was gesturing animatedly. A sound like the howl of a coyote drifted to my ears. I caught a few of the words; they had to do with heaven, mama, and train whistles.

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ I said slowly. ‘What alternatives will the passengers be offered – aside from a refund of the fare?’

  ‘That, of course. But I expect most of them will choose to remain in Luxor for a few days, since this is the high point of the tour. Fortunately – or unfortunately, from the viewpoint of th
e tourism industry – there are plenty of hotel rooms empty. After that . . .’

  He looked expectantly at me. ‘Some may decide to return to Cairo,’ I muttered. ‘Sooner or later everybody will end up in Cairo. Where the museum is.’

  ‘Yes. Vicky, have you any idea of who these people are?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I gestured. ‘Him.’

  Schmidt and John had stopped, waiting for us to join them.

  ‘Not Anton!’ Larry exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Him.’ I couldn’t pronounce his name.

  ‘Mr Tregarth?’ Larry sounded almost as incredulous. He slowed his steps. ‘But he’s a well-known – ’

  ‘Crook. I’ve encountered him before. I don’t know who the others are; he’s the only one I recognized.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t bring his pregnant bride along.’ Larry looked shocked.

  ‘Excellent cover, wouldn’t you say?’

  I heard John laugh. Schmidt had taught him a new one. A few words floated back to me: ‘When I woke up, I had shackles on my feet . . .’

  ‘Come. Vicky, hurry, why are you so slow?’ Schmidt yelled. ‘It is a glorious view.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Larry said quickly. ‘I want you to stay with me while you’re in Luxor. I have a house here, you know – ’

  ‘Of course I know. You’re holding the reception there, right?’

  ‘Right. You’ll be safer there than in a hotel. Anton too, of course.’

  Schmidt has twenty-twenty hearing. ‘What about me?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ll tell you later, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  Schmidt loves surprises. Beaming, he demanded that I admire the view.

  The temple of the female pharaoh, Hatshepsut, lay below, its colonnades and courtyards sharp-etched by shadow and sunlight. It is probably the most graceful, perfectly proportioned structure in Egypt. I had looked forward to seeing it.

  But not under these circumstances. Beside me, hands in his pockets, hair shining like silver-gilt, John was humming wider his breath. ‘‘‘It takes a worried man to sing a worried song . . . I’m worried now – but I won’t be worried long.’”

 

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