Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  John had recovered enough to catch the knife, though his movements lacked their usual smoothness. ‘Thank you. I trust there won’t be any – onus – misdirected at me either?’

  ‘Only insofar as my employers are concerned.’ John started to protest and Max went on smoothly, ‘You must realize that I can’t accept the responsibility without incurring a reprimand, at the very least. I take pride in my record and don’t want to see it blemished. You are at liberty to tell the police whatever you choose. You needn’t worry about retribution; from a financial viewpoint this affair has been a success for us and we haven’t time to waste on personal grudges. We won’t bother you if you stay out of our way.’

  ‘That, I assure you, is my greatest ambition,’ John said. He had cut the ropes around my ankles. Now he moved behind me and freed my arms. I just sat there. Joining in that conversation would have strained even my gift of repartee.

  ‘And mine,’ Max said. ‘I don’t like you, Mr Tregarth. I hope never to see you again. Goodbye. Goodbye, Dr Bliss.’

  ‘Goodbye, Max,’ I said. ‘I can’t bring myself to thank you, but . . .’

  ‘You owe me nothing.’ He hesitated briefly, and then an odd little smile stretched his thin mouth. ‘I wish you good luck. If you gain what you clearly desire, you will need it.’

  I sort of hoped that maybe, once we were alone, my hero, the man who had risked all to save me, would sweep me into his arms and hold me close, murmuring broken endearments the way they do in romantic novels. John just stood there string blank-faced at the closed door. So I got up all by myself. My legs seemed to be working all right, and I thought I was in full possession of my senses until I realized I was heading blindly for the balcony.

  John caught my arm. ‘No, Vicky.’

  ‘She could be – ’

  ‘No.’

  He touched my cheek. I had forgotten about the cut until his fingertip traced a line from my cheekbone to my jaw. I don’t know who moved first. His arms went around me with bruising strength, but he was shaking from head to foot and he didn’t resist when I guided his head onto my shoulder.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ I murmured. ‘John, don’t. You couldn’t have stopped him. He tried every trick in the book to get you to do it for him.’

  ‘He almost succeeded. God. It was so close. Too close . . .’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  ‘What? Oh. Right.’

  ‘Better now?’ I asked after a while. My voice wasn’t very steady.

  Neither was his. ‘Yes, thank you, I am experiencing temporary relief. Suppose we postpone further treatment? I can’t stand this ghastly place much longer.’

  ‘Is it safe to leave?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so. Maxie’s a man of his word – when it suits him to keep it.’

  ‘Are we going to keep ours? To give him an hour?’

  ‘I didn’t give him my word. However, annoying Max would not be a sensible move on my part. I shan’t turn him in, but there’s no reason why we have to wait out the time here.’

  ‘Okay. Wait just a minute.’

  The earrings were hard to see against the complex pattern of the rug. I finally found both of them. One of the wires was broken.

  ‘It can be repaired,’ said John, over my shoulder. ‘Though I shouldn’t think you’d want them now.’

  ‘Are you kidding? They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘How did you know I meant them for you?’

  ‘She told me. That just made me want them more.’

  ‘Vindictive little creature, aren’t you?’

  ‘Vindictive, yes. Little, no.’ The light ran softly along the tiny golden faces. I closed my fingers carefully around them. ‘Over twenty centuries they have probably been in worse hands. And ears.’

  The house was uncannily quiet and as eerie as a mausoleum. Dust covers shrouded most of the furniture and our footsteps echoed in the silence. It was hard for me to believe the place was really deserted; I kept expecting someone to jump out at us from the shadows huddling in those vast, high-ceilinged rooms. When we reached the door without meeting anyone John let out his breath.

  ‘There are television crews and newspaper reporters all around the house,’ he said. ‘I would offer to carry you out in a fainting condition, but appealing to the tender mercies of the press might not be as effective as making a run for it.’

  ‘We’ll run,’ I said. ‘I won’t even ask where.’

  ‘That’s an encouraging sign. Stay close.’

  He put his arm around me and opened the door.

  The limo was big and black and long. As we raced towards it, hotly pursued by assorted newspapers, the door opened. John tripped a reporter and pushed me into a pair of waiting arms.

  ‘Hi, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I had a feeling you’d be here.’

  When I woke next morning it wasn’t morning, but afternoon. I was lying on my side, facing the window, with my back to John. I could tell by his breathing he was still asleep, so I lay still, enjoying . . . enjoying the fact that I could hear him breathing and that I was doing the same.

  The scenery wasn’t bad, though. Few hotels in the world can boast such view: the Great Pyramid of Giza, golden in the late sunlight, seeming so close it might have been right outside the bedroom window. Trust Schmidt to come up with the fanciest suite in one of the most elegant hotels in the country, on short notice and during the height of the tourist season.

  We hadn’t arrived at Mena House until 4 a.m. Our first stop, at John’s insistence, had been at the hospital. The legal process which would clear Feisal might take some time, and the least we owed him and his family was to tell them at the earliest possible moment that it was under way.

  It required a call to the minister to get us past the guards who were still on duty, and when I saw Feisal’s father I felt so sorry for him I couldn’t hold on to my anger. His mother was there too; they were sitting side by side on a hard bench in the corridor, and her arm was around his bowed shoulders. They both broke down when Schmidt told them the good news and everybody except John the imperturbable started crying and hugging one another indiscriminately. Feisal was under deep sedation, but when I kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear I think he heard me.

  It had been John’s suggestion that I be allowed to see Feisal. (‘If anything can rouse him it will be a woman.’) When I suggested that so long as we were there he might let a doctor have a look at him, he glowered and made a pointed remark about other kinds of therapy, but with Schmidt’s assistance I managed to bully him into giving in. There would be time for another kind of therapy later. And I wanted to make sure he was in fit condition for it.

  After that we had to talk with a lot of people who wanted answers to questions we hadn’t figured out how to answer yet, and I had to droop and pretend to feel poorly so they would let us go. And later . . . He was out cold the moment his head hit the pillow. That’s what you get for being thoughtful.

  I changed position, trying to make as little noise as possible. His head was turned away; I could see only one side of his face and the curve of his cheek. I had always admired those cheekbones, but this one was too tightly shaped, and although his mouth was relaxed and his breathing even, a chill of superstitious terror ran through me when I saw how drawn his face was even in sleep.

  The one visible eye opened. It held an expression of mild interest.

  ‘‘Oh, you’re awake,’ I said brightly.

  ‘I am now. You were breathing on me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you? I’m not.’ He turned over and gathered me in.

  ‘The doctor said – ’

  ‘The subject was not mentioned. I carefully refrained from bringing it up.’

  His lips moved from my temple to my ear and were heading south when I said, ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea. You look awful and you’re too thin and – ’

  His lips touched mine and I threw caution to the winds and kissed him back so hard
he let out a grunt.

  ‘I knew you didn’t mean it,’ he said complacently. ‘The men of my family are notoriously irresistible to women. Well, not my father; by all accounts, particularly those of my mother, he was a dull stick in every way. But Grandad was quite a lad in his time, and my great-grandfather has become something of a – ’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about your great-grandfather. I love you. Did I mention that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t object to hearing it again.’ But he held me off, and he was no longer smiling. ‘It took long enough to wring it out of you. What were you afraid of?’

  There were too many answers to that question, some obvious, some not. He had to know most of them.

  I tried to pass it off. ‘You know me. Independent, bull-headed – ’

  ‘And afflicted with bad dreams.’

  ‘Oh, God. Did I . . .’ I had. It was coming back to me. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. You stopped crying and babbling when I got hold of you. Was it the old nightmare?’

  ‘Yes. Uh – no. Not that one.’

  ‘I thought not. You went on like Lady Macbeth.’

  ‘Blood and . . . roses.’ I remembered now. So that was why I hadn’t woken completely. ‘How embarrassing. My subconscious isn’t awfully original.’

  His mouth relaxed. ‘I am willing to overlook a few minor flaws in a woman who is so talented in other areas.’

  ‘Are you sure you feel up to . . . Damn it, don’t laugh! That wasn’t intentional.’

  ‘I shoutd hope not. Trite and vulgar.’

  I was only conscious of the movements of his hands and lips until he started violently and lifted his head. ‘Oh, Christ! Isn’t that – ’

  It could only be. Schmidt was humming like a drunken bumblebee. I didn’t recognize the tune. Nobody could have recognized the tune.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I murmured tenderly. ‘I locked the door.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He sounded like a nervous virgin. ‘Not with Schmidt out there. I haven’t fully recovered from the time he broke the door down just when I – ’

  ‘He was labouring under a slight misapprehension.’ I drew his head back to my breast. ‘He won’t break this door down. He’s very romantic’

  ‘Then he’ll be listening at the keyhole,’ John mumbled. ‘I’ve become very fond of the little imp but I draw the line at providing him with vicarious entertainment.’

  ‘Try to rise above it,’ I suggested.

  ‘That was deliberate. Well, perhaps with a little of the proper sort of encouragement . . .’

  ‘How’s this?’

  ‘A step in the right direction, certainly. Do go on.’

  ‘More precious than jewels, more precious than gold,’ I murmured. ‘John, if you don’t stop laughing, Schmidt will think we’re telling jokes and want to come in.’

  I figured we could count on half an hour. It didn’t seem that long, but it was actually forty minutes later when Schmidt raised his voice to a level that could not be ignored, even by me. Trust Schmidt to select an appropriate air with which to serenade us. This one was about a cold-blooded hoodlum named Pretty Boy Floyd. Folk music, like Schmidt, glamorizes outlaws; according to the lyrics of the ballad, Pretty Boy was a misunderstood martyr who had given Christmas dinners to families on relief.

  ‘I’ll head him off,’ I said, removing myself from John and the bed, in that order. ‘Stay there and rest.’

  ‘I don’t need to rest. I was just getting warmed up. Are you going to put on some clothes or have you decided to reward Schmidt for refraining from kicking the door in?’

  ‘I don’t have any clothes,’ I said bitterly. ‘Except that filthy, wrinkled, disgusting outfit I have worn day and night for too long. I will not put it on. I’m going to burn it first chance I get and dance around the bonfire.’

  ‘Widdershins,’ John suggested. ‘Have a sheet, then. You don’t want to get the old chap too worked up.’

  He watched interestedly as I wrapped the sheet around me and tried to figure out how to keep it there. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t got the hang of it. Why don’t you come over here and let me show you?’

  ‘Some other time.’

  ‘Excellent suggestion.’

  Schmidt had enjoyed himself with ‘the room service.’ I’ve never seen such a spread – everything from pastries to salads and from coffee to champagne. And, of course, beer.

  ‘I did not know whether you would like breakfast or Mittagessen,’ he explained, pulling out a chair. ‘So I ordered both. How is Sir John? How do you feel? Did you have a pleasant time making – ’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘You look very glamorous.’

  I pushed my tangled hair back from my face. ‘I look very terrible. I don’t even have a comb. I need clothes, makeup, a toothbrush – ’

  ‘There is much to do,’ Schmidt said, around a mouthful of pâté. ‘We must organize ourselves.’

  ‘What’s happened since last night?’

  ‘I will wait to tell you until Sir John joins us. Perhaps I should go and – ’

  ‘No!’ I shoved Schmidt back into his chair. ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’

  Knowing Schmidt, he was. He was more kempt than I, though he was wearing the same grubby clothes. After submitting with only a faint grimace to Schmidt’s embrace, he joined us at the table.

  ‘Eat, eat,’ Schmidt crooned. ‘And I will tell you the news.’

  The Queen of the Nile had docked at midnight After the briefest of inspections the authorities had ordered the hold sealed, arrested the entire crew, including my shipmates Sweet and Bright, and carried a protesting Larry away.

  ‘Not to prison, though,’ Schmidt said. ‘It is a great embarrassmeut to all concerned. Not only is he an American citizen, but he is a powerful man with many friends. I do not know what will be done with him.’

  ‘Nothing,’ John said cynically. ‘At worst he’ll end up in an expensive nursing home till he recovers from his fit of temporary insanity. The fact that it went on for ten years will be tactfully ignored. What about the others?’

  ‘That is what we must discuss.’ Schmidt’s round face was unusually serious. ‘For you, my friend, are one of the others and even the dangers you have incurred in order to redeem your initial – er – error will not save you if the truth comes out. Feisal too must be cleared of blame. We are three intelligent people; I feel certain we can invent a scenario that will achieve those ends.’

  If the situation hadn’t been so serious I would have enjoyed listening to those two concoct a plot. The greatest collaborators of fiction couldn’t have done better; Schmidt’s inventive imagination had been developed by years of reading sensational fiction, and John had always been the world’s champion liar.

  Getting Feisal off the hook was the easiest part. He hadn’t been involved with the restoration of the tomb and he could reasonably claim he had suspected nothing until after Jean-Louis’s death. His activities thereafter warranted a medal, not a prison sentence. If all four of us told the same story and stuck to it, it would be hard to prove we were lying.

  ‘What about Larry?’ I asked.

  ‘It will be his word against ours,’ Schmidt began.

  John shook his head. ‘Forget about Blenkiron. His wisest course is to say nothing and admit nothing. There will be a behind-the-scenes deal made, in order to avoid embarrassment all around. Egypt will get its treasures back and will accept with proper appreciation the gift of the Institute for Archaeological Research, and the blame will be placed on the shoulders of Max’s crowd – and on mine.’

  ‘No, no,’ Schmidt said energetically. ‘I have it all worked out, you wlll see.’

  Max and the boys had made their getaway. Three men of their descriptions had boarded a plane to Zurich shortly before midnight and were now believed to be somewhere in Europe. A rather large territory.

  ‘They will not be caught this time,’ Schmidt said. ‘Which is all to the good. They will say not
hing about you, John, and Blenkiron cannot accuse you without admitting things he will not wish to admit. So far as anyone else knows, you and Vicky met for the first time on the cruise. Neither of you had any reason to doubt Herr Blenkiron’s intentions until I expressed to you my suspicions – ’

  ‘Oh, so you’re going to take the credit for discovering the plot, are you?’ I inquired.

  ‘But I did discover it,’ said Schmidt.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I caught John’s eye and smiled self-consciously. ‘I never did get around to asking you how much you knew, Schmidt. I assumed – ’

  ‘You assumed I was a stupid old man,’ said Schmidt calmly. ‘And you did not ask because you were crazy with fear for the man you – ’

  ‘I think that point has been made, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘So tell me now, okay?’

  ‘It was ratiocination of the most brilliant,’ Schmidt explained, twirling his moustache. ‘Though I will confess that the truth did not dawn until John told me that Herr Blenkiron was a criminal and that I must leave the house. Mind you, he told me no more than that. It was while I was eating my lunch at the hotel that I put the pieces together. The crime, I deduced, must be theft; for what other reason would Herr Blenkiron have in his employment a person like – er – like Herr Max? And what was it that a rich man could not buy, that he must steal it? The death of M. Mazarin was the ultimate clue. He was killed, not by the explosion but by a bullet. A confidence, that the only one to die was the man who had directed the reconstruction of the tomb? I did not, think so. And when I remembered the way in which the reconstruction was carried out, and the sudden ending to the tour, and all the other suspicious circumstances . . . Voilà Eureka! So you see it spells Fröhliche Weihnachten; we are heroes, and everyone will live happily ever after.’

  Exhausted by this creative effort, he paused to eat a croissant.

  ‘Very well done, Schmidt,’ John said, ‘but you’ve overlooked one little detail. Vicky has already dutifully informed her mysterious superiors – and thereby, I feel certain, Interpol and every police department in Europe – that I am the dashing Robin Hood of crime they have sought so long in vain.’