Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  I can’t say that intimate dinner party was particularly enjoyable. Whitbread and Schroeder weren’t present; I assumed they were supervising the final arrangements for the reception. Schmidt devoted himself to Mary, whose slim arms and delicate collarbones were exposed by a low-cut, blue chiffon frock that might as well have been printed with dollar signs. She was wearing a parure of sapphires and diamonds – earrings, necklace, and bracelet. The heavy bracelet weighted her narrow wrist.

  For once John said very little. He seemed preoccupied; once or twice Mary had to repeat a comment or question before he responded.

  Finally Larry looked at his watch. ‘We’d better go in. The guest will be arriving soon.’

  The grand salon occupied one entire side of the house. Words fail me when I attempt to describe it. (They fail me because I still don’t know much about Islamic architecture.) The outside wall, the one facing the gardens, was a glorious hodgepodge of stained-glass panels and intricately carved wooden screens. The arches and pillars framing the windows were covered with antique tiles in shades of blue-green and coral.

  The objects arranged in niches along two inner walls weren’t Islamic, but ancient Egyptian – a life-sized sandstone head of a pharaoh wearing the double crown, a small painted statue of a slender girl carrying a basket on her head, a wooden panel from a cosmetic box, with a charming painting of an ibis crouching, or squatting, or whatever ibises do. It was a modest collection for a man with Larry’s money and taste. They were all good pieces, but none was what I’d have called outstanding.

  I didn’t have time to examine them in detail. Larry drew me to the door, where I stood for the next half hour helping him receive his guests. It was probably the high point of my social life. As I shook hands with the Minister of the Interior and allowed the head of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization to kiss my fingertips I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, wait till Mom hears about this! Even the best of us (which doesn’t include me) is susceptible to snobbery.

  Our buddies from the tour were among the last to arrive. Suzi flashed her teeth at Larry and gave me a huge hug. Her diamonds left dents in my chest. Larry passed her on to a minister of something. I greeted Sweet and his silent companion, noted that Louisa’s veils were already slipping, and pressed the flesh with the others. Among them was Feisal, resplendent in black tie and tails. He kissed my hand and winked at me.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Larry said, when the last of them had gone on. ‘Come and have some champagne. You’ve earned it.’

  Almost at once he was captured by some dignitary or other and I retreated to a relatively quiet corner. Sipping my champagne – with caution, since it has an unfortunate effect on me – I surveyed the room. ‘Our’ crowd had gathered together, except for Suzi, who had found herself a general. Or maybe a colonel, I didn’t know the significance of the insignia. He had several square acres of ribbons on his chest, and he seemed to be as fascinated by Suzi as she was by him. I spotted Ed, strategically situated by the windows opening onto the lawn, his eyes ceaselessly scanning the crowd. His tux had been cut by a good tailor, but it bulged in several places. At first I couldn’t locate Schmidt. Then I saw him coming towards me, accompanied by a youngish man with a broad, open face that inspired a sudden wave of violent homesickness. My home town is full of people with faces like that. He had to be from Minnesota.

  He had been born in Duluth, but that didn’t emerge until later in the conversation. Schmidt introduced him as Dr Paul Whitney, the director of Chicago House, the Luxor-based branch of the Oriental Institute.

  ‘Skip the titles,’ Paul said, with a broad smile. (Oh, those lovely big teeth! Only inMinnesota . . .) ‘The place is swarming with doctors. Quite an occasion, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what the occasion is,’ I admitted. ‘Larry said something about a surprise, but . . .’

  ‘It’s not that much of a surprise. We’re a hopeless bunch of gossips here in Luxor. Larry is handing this place over to the Antiquities Organization and endowing it as a research institute specializing in conservation.’

  He took a glass from the tray a waiter had offered. So did I. What the heck, two glasses wouldn’t hurt me.

  ‘A most kind and generous action,’ said Schmidt. ‘I hope, my young friend Paul, that you are not out of joint in the nose concerning this.’

  It took Paul a few seconds to figure that one out. Then he laughed. ‘It’s certainly a more impressive set-up than ours. The Epigraphic Survey began in the twenties, and although we’ve tried to keep up-to-date, it isn’t easy to get funding. There have been many new technological developments in archaeology, and the equipment costs a bundle. Everything here is state-of-the-art, from the computer set-up to the laboratories. But no, our noses aren’t out of joint. Quite the contrary. We’re in the conservation business too, recording the monuments before they are destroyed.’

  Schmidt asked a couple of questions about the Temple of Medinet Habu, which had been one of the Survey’s major projects, and in which I had only a vague interest. Actually, to be honest, I had no interest whatever. Seeing my wandering eye, Paul amiably changed the subject.

  ‘If you have the time, Vicky, we’d be delighted to have you visit our humble establishment. Our library is one of the best in the country, should you care to use it.’

  I expressed my appreciation, adding that between Feisal, Alice, and Perry I had already been stuffed full of information I’d probably forget within two weeks.

  ‘They’re all first-rate,’ Paul agreed. ‘Only the best for a fancy tour like yours. Oh, that reminds me – there is someone among your crowd I’m anxious to meet. You both know Mr Tregarth, I’m sure. Can you point him out to me?’

  ‘We will do better,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘We will present you. He is an old . . . er, hmm. We have become good friends during the voyage. Now where . . . Ah, there he is talking with the Minister of the Interior.’

  If I’d needed anything else to complete my state of demoralization, that last sentence would have done it. The Interior Ministry controls, among other offices, that of State Security.

  As we approached, the stout, coffee-coloured gentleman with whom John had been conversing gave him a friendly slap on the back and turned away. John saw us coming. Eyebrow raised in polite inquiry, he awaited us.

  Paul introduced himself; he was too eager to wait for Schmidt. ‘This is indeed a pleasure, Mr Tregarth. The Director wrote to you, but I’m delighted to be able to express our appreciation in person.’

  ‘Appreciation,’ said somebody. Me, in fact.

  John lowered his eyes modestly but not before I had seen the wicked glint in them.

  ‘Mr Tregarth was instrumental in restoring to the Oriental Institute an artifact that had been stolen,’ Paul explained. ‘One of his employees bought it, accepting the fraudulent documentation the seller presented, but when Mr Tregarth saw it he recognized the piece and contacted us.’

  ‘How much did he take you for?’ I inquired. Two glasses of champagne had been too many.

  John’s face lengthened into a look of noble suffering, but the glint was still there, and it was still directed at me. Paul said, shocked, ‘Only what he had paid for the piece, which was minimal. He wouldn’t even accept a finder’s fee.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ John murmured. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  I was spared further dramatics by Larry, who called for silence so that he could make his announcement. It was brief and quiet and modest, but bureaucrats can’t do anything simply; everybody who was anybody had to make a speech. A couple of them embraced Larry, to his evident embarrassment. He concluded by presenting the new director of the new institute, a stocky, bearded young Swiss named Jean-Luis Mazarin. I had noticed him earlier, chug-a-lugging champagne. He had cause for celebration, all right. Jobs in archaeology are scarce, and this one was a scholar’s dream. It was a fitting gesture of appreciation, said Larry, for Dr Mazarin’s supervision of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb paintings. />
  Fitting, maybe; but not particularly tactful. I was surprised that the first director wasn’t an Egyptian.

  But not as surprised as I had been at Paul’s gushing thanks. What was John up to now? He must have some ulterior motive, he always did. The most obvious explanation was that the Oriental Institute now owned a very well-made fake. Making them pay for it was a particularly nice touch.

  The party was still in full swing when Larry edged up to me and invited me to come see his etchings. They were sketches, actually – the original hand-coloured drawings of Egyptian sites made back in the 1830s by an artist named David Roberts. I’d seen countless reproductions of them on postcards and notepaper. Even the prints sold for hundreds of dollars at auction.

  The main object of interest, however, was a man, short and slim and straight. He rose from his chair when we entered Larry’s study, and although he was in civilian clothes you could see the invisible uniform. He cut Larry’s introduction short.

  ‘First names will suffice,’ he said, with a smile that came nowhere near his intent dark eyes. ‘Call me Achmet.’

  ‘I’d like to call you a few other names,’ said my champagne-loosened tongue. ‘What the hell’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold without even a woolly scarf?’

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said Achmet.

  I sat. I imagine most people sat when Achmet told them to.

  ‘I am sorry you feel that way,’ he went on. ‘We could not anticipate that our arrangements would be . . . disarranged.’

  ‘Ali was disarranged some too, wasn’t he?’

  His lips tightened. ‘He was murdered, yes. But you have nothing more to worry about, Dr Bliss. Your part of the job is finished. Tregarth was the only one you recognized? You have not identified any of his allies?’

  ‘Yes and no, in that order,’ I said shortly.

  ‘Then there is no more for you to do.’ He sat back and spread his hands wide. ‘He will be under observation from now on. Enjoy the remainder of your visit to our country, and forget what has happened.’

  ‘Just a damned minute,’ I said, as he got to his feet. ‘I’ve got a few questions of my own.’

  ‘The less you know the better for you.’

  ‘Oh, that haunting old refrain! So I’m curious. What if he doesn’t go through with it? He knows me. He knows – ’

  ‘That he is under suspicion?’ Achmet stroked his neat black moustache. ‘I imagine he does. Your presence on the cruise would be enough to alert him to that.’

  ‘I told Burckhardt so at the beginning.’

  Achmet shrugged. ‘It does not matter. If he proceeds, and we believe he will, there is no way he can avoid being caught.’

  ‘What’s he after?’ I demanded. ‘I hope it’s occurred to you, as it has to me, that the museum could be a decoy. While you increase security there, he may walk off with something else.’

  ‘Certainly it occurred to us.’ Achmet was halfway to the door. Obviously I bored him. He turned for a final word. ‘I told you to forget it, Dr Bliss. Stay away from Tregarth, from the museum, and most especially from the offices of State Security.’

  ‘That’s all very well and good. What if he – they – won’t stay away from me?’

  Achmet looked exasperated. At least I think that was the import of his frown. His face didn’t appear to be capable of any more affable expression than annoyance. ‘Why should they bother with you? You have passed on the only information you possessed. Stop prying into matters that no longer concern you and you will be perfectly safe.’

  I returned his scowl with interest. ‘You guys were the ones who asked me to pry.’

  ‘That is true. We are very grateful for your assistance.’

  It was the most insincere thank-you I have ever heard, and I include a few I’d wrung out of John.

  My memories of the remainder of the evening are somewhat blurred. People kept pressing champagne on me, and by that time I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. I had a little chat with Alice, who was looking quite elegant in sequins and chiffon; she had been told the same thing Achmet had told me: you’re off the case, forget the whole thing. I vaguely remember congratulating Jean-Louis, the new director, but I don’t recall what we talked about or how I got to bed.

  I woke with a hangover, of course. Served me right.

  The reopening of Tetisheri’s tomb turned out to be another big occasion. I had expected a minister or two, but I hadn’t realized there would be so many reporters or that security would be so tight. Our little caravan was accompanied by a military escort, and when we reached the site I realized there were no tourists around except us. Everywhere I looked I saw uniformed men carrying rifles.

  Tetisheri’s tomb is not in the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens. The royals and nobles of her dynasty had been buried on the slopes of a hill called the Dira’ Abu’l-Naga. She was one of the last of her line to be buried in that cemetery; her predecessors had taken the choicer and more accessible sites in the flanks of the hill. The fact that hers was higher, at the back of a narrow cleft, had probably contributed to its survival.

  We climbed the modern stairs that had made access to the tomb easier for the men who had worked on it for over three years. Naturally there were more speeches. Larry handed over a huge key to the minister, who unlocked the iron gates that had been built over the entrance. Everybody clapped, and Larry led the first party inside. All were government dignitaries. The rest of us commoners had to cool our heels.

  While we were awaiting our turn I chatted with Paul Whitney. Only a few archaeologists had been invited, and according to Paul, plenty of noses were out of joint. ‘We all complain about the damage done to the tombs by visitors,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But we except ourselves.’

  ‘So are you going to decline the invitation?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘I am.’

  I wasn’t even worried about my claustrophobia. Compared to the more elaborate later tombs, this one was small and simple – a single flight of stairs, a short corridor, and two rooms. Only ten people were allowed in at a time, but the rooms seemed very crowded because we huddled together, elbows tight against our sides. We had been warned not to touch the paintings.

  Carefully I edged up to one of the walls and squinted at close range. The ancient artists had covered the rock walls with a layer of plaster before applying the paint, and by the time Larry’s people got to work, moisture and the formation of salt crystals had separated large sections of plaster from the rock behind it. The loose sections had been carefully removed and placed onto padded supports; then the rock wall had been cleaned before the plaster was replaced, using modern adhesives that wouldn’t flake or dry or shrink as older types had often done. Not until that process was complete could the actual restoration begin – cleaning off the accumulated grime of decades, replacing tiny flakes of paint that had fallen to the floor or between the rock and the facing. The patience and skill required had been extraordinary.

  After we emerged I found a convenient boulder and sat down, tipping my hat over my eyes. I must be getting used to the climate. The hot, dry air felt good. Yes, by God, I would do as jolly old Achmet had suggested – forget distractions and enjoy myself.

  I could probably talk Schmidt into going to Aswan. It would be pleasant to cruise, without distractions. We could come back to Luxor later, after . . .

  They’d be watching every move he made from now on, poised like cats by a mouse hole, waiting for him to commit the act that would condemn him to prison, or to a narrower and more permanent resting place. People have been shot while resisting arrest

  A pair of booted feet came into view and I looked up to see Jean-Louis. I wasn’t sorry to have my train of thought interrupted.

  ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Jean-Louis asked brusquely.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’ Then I remembered that I did. Reaching into my bag, I dredged out my cigarettes. The pack was almost
full, but it was rather squashed. ‘Keep it,’ I added generously.

  ‘That is most kind.’

  It wasn’t, but I didn’t say so. He must be a chain-smoker. The ground where he had been standing was littered with butts.

  ‘So, did you enjoy the paintings?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m still dazzled. You’ve done a magnificent job. Mes hommages.’

  Between the mop of bushy hair and the beard I couldn’t see much of his face, but he didn’t respond to my smile. ‘It is only one small part of what needs to be done. That is what the work of the institute will be – preservation. A worthy cause, do you not think?’

  ‘Unquestionably. As I said – ’

  ‘A cause worthy of sacrifice.’

  He appeared to be talking to himself rather than to me. I wondered if the guy was drunk. Surely not at this hour? His hands were shaking as he lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.

  I could feel relays clicking into place. I don’t know how society conditions women into feeling that they are obliged to console, reassure, and flatter melancholy males. I’d fought the impulse ever since I was old enough to recognize it, but I hadn’t been entirely successful. I decided that Jean-Louis must be one of those unfortunate people who can’t see the doughnut for the hole. Apparently he was brooding on the magnitude of the task ahead and questioning his ability to carry it out. The job would never be finished, not in his lifetime at least; there was too much to be done. That’s true of a lot of things, though, including the achievement of social justice, universal peace, and a world in which there are no hungry children. It’s no excuse to stop working towards those ends.

  I said as much, larding the pompous speech with compliments, and gradually his face, or at least his mouth, relaxed. ‘It is true,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And I am one of the few who can work effectively in this area.’

  ‘Uh – right,’ I said.

  He went on to tell me how good he was at the restoration business and I went on to regret my womanly instincts. My wandering eye caught that of Larry, who had been watching us, and he responded to my unspoken plea for rescue.