by Simon Brett
But, he thought with mounting panic, she must have passed out at the same time as he had. Where was she? What had happened to her?
His ugly imaginings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He turned to see the entrance of two men in dark uniforms. Though they were not the ones who had been at the fake Valley of the Kings, they had a lot in common with them. The same pistols in holsters, the same surly expressions of men who wouldn’t be afraid of – indeed would take great pleasure in – using them.
‘Can you tell me what in the name of strawberries is going on?’ demanded Blotto. ‘I am a British citizen and I have been kidnapped! When the boddos in the British embassy hear about this, there’ll be one hell of a stink! His Majesty’s Government might even send a spoffing gunboat!’
The uniformed men were unmoved by his arguments (and not only because they didn’t understand the language in which he was speaking). While one of them covered him with his revolver, the other opened one handcuff, released Blotto from the bed and snapped the cuff back on his wrist before he had time to do anything about it.
‘Come,’ grunted the other one in heavily accented English. ‘They want to see you.’
Just before he was manhandled out of the room, Blotto managed to get a glimpse through the window. He could see the breadth of the Nile and, on the nearside bank a terrace of tables under umbrellas of a distinctively purple hue. His brain working more quickly than it frequently did, he deduced that he was being held in the Two Pharaohs Hotel.
* * *
Blotto’s guards stayed behind as he was pushed into a room on the same floor. They closed the door and he found himself in what appeared to be the sitting room of a suite; doors led off presumably to the bedroom and bathroom.
But he hardly had time to take that in, so great was his shock at seeing, seated at a table, Mr Crouptickle and Mr Snidely. Between them lay Blotto’s precious cricket bat.
And on the floor, piled high, were the ingots of bullion marked with the words: ‘PROPERTY OF US GOVERNMENT’.
Both accountants were dressed in their customary black suits and their similarities to predatory insects seemed more marked than ever.
‘Milord,’ said Mr Crouptickle with insolent condescension, ‘welcome to Cairo.’
‘Huh,’ said Blotto with the hauteur that had carried the Lyminsters through many predicaments since the time of the Crusades.
‘And may I thank you so much for being our unwitting mule in smuggling this precious hoard . . .’ he indicated the bullion ‘. . . into the country for us.’
‘You absolute stencher!’ cried Blotto. ‘You told the Mater that you’d sold that lot and invested the proceeds in shares.’
‘Which is what Her Grace had instructed me to do.’
‘Yes, but clearly you didn’t do it!’
‘Which was a very wise move. The price of shares has fluctuated considerably in recent years, making them a very hazardous investment, whereas gold has maintained its value commendably well.’
This time Blotto didn’t need to have the word ‘investment’ explained to him. ‘The fact remains that you stole that bullion from the Lyminster family. It is ours by right!’
‘Really?’ asked Mr Crouptickle drily. ‘Not according to what is engraved on the side of each ingot.’
Blotto was in no mood for discussions of relative morality. ‘You lumps of toadspawn,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me that you set up this whole spoffing scheme to get the gold out to Egypt?’
Mr Crouptickle inclined his head as if accepting a compliment. ‘That is exactly what we did.’
‘But why?’
‘Milord, the movement of currency from one country to another is not always an uncomplicated process. Various permissions need to be sought, various taxes and other levies paid. How much simpler, it seemed to me, to avoid all such complications. I knew, you see, that I could realise the value of the bullion easily once it had been brought out to Egypt – a task in the achievement of which you, your sister and chauffeur have proved so helpful.’
Blotto was silent for a moment as his mind slowly worked through the implications of this. Finally he asked, ‘So you planted the sarcophagus in the Tawcester Towers attic?’
Another gracious nod.
‘How in the name of Stanley did you manage to do that without any of us noticing?’
‘You may recall, milord, that some months ago the Tawcester Towers plumbing underwent a degree of modernisation. During that time you and the rest of your family, unwilling to submit to the upheaval of having common builders in the house, adjourned to stay with the Duke of Melmont at Snitterings . . .’
‘And it was then that you . . . ?’
‘It was easy to arrange,’ said Mr Crouptickle smugly. ‘The British working man has always been susceptible to a little extra financial inducement.’
‘You mean you bribed these plumber boddos to put the sarcophagus in place?’
‘Exactly so, milord.’
‘And you set up all those murdy things that happened to Corky Froggett?’
‘Yes, and in that I must acknowledge the invaluable assistance of my colleague, Mr Snidely.’ The two accountants exchanged smiles of self-congratulation. ‘Having been infiltrated into Tawcester Towers on the spurious excuse of taking an inventory of the contents, Mr Snidely was uniquely placed to organise that sequence of unpleasant events.’
‘All of which,’ Mr Snidely added, ‘were exceptionally easy to arrange, except for the lice, which did involve my getting hold of Mr Froggett’s uniform while he was asleep.’
‘So it was you who switched the water bucket for one full of blood, you set up the frogs and the lice and the flies and the moron . . . ?’
Mr Snidely acknowledged that these had all been his handiwork.
‘But how on earth did you arrange Corky’s spoffing boils?’
‘It was our estimation,’ Mr Crouptickle replied smoothly, ‘that you would be on your way to Egypt before we reached the Plague of Boils.’
‘But Corky has got boils!’
‘Poor Mr Froggett,’ said Crouptickle without much sympathy.
‘But why did you want the bullion out here, anyway?’
‘Egypt is a land of opportunity, milord. Thanks to the many archaeological wonders of the country, the tourist industry is ripe for development. But the kind of development required needs capital.’ He gestured to the pile of bullion. ‘Capital which you, milord, have very generously brought out for us.’
‘So what kind of spoffing investment are you talking about?’
‘Hotels, milord. This hotel where we are at this moment has been built by a business consortium of which Mr Snidely and myself are a part. The building site which yesterday you so readily took to be the Valley of the Kings is the foundations of yet another hotel. Thanks to you, milord, Mr Snidely and myself are set fair to make a great deal of money.’
The mention of yesterday’s events reminded Blotto of another preoccupation. ‘Christabel Whipple!’ he cried. ‘What have you done with Christabel?’
‘Miss Whipple,’ said Crouptickle oleaginously, ‘is completely safe. And she will remain safe, so long as she cooperates with us.’
‘Christabel would rather cooperate with a posse of plague rats!’ Blotto asserted stoutly.
‘We will see about that. It’s amazing how cooperative people can be . . . when the alternative is death.’
‘You wouldn’t dare kill Christabel!’
Mr Crouptickle smiled. ‘Wouldn’t we just?’
‘Anyway,’ said Mr Snidely to his colleague, ‘don’t you think we should proceed with the reason why we brought Lord Devereux here this morning?’
‘A good idea, Mr Snidely.’ Crouptickle turned a watery beam on Blotto. ‘Now the hotel-building consortium in which we are involved does not only do business in Egypt. We are looking to expand into other countries until our reach stretches across the globe. And an area on which we are particularly concentrating at the moment is the
British Isles. Which is where you come in, milord.’
‘Sorry? Not on the same page. What for the love of strawberries are you talking about?’
‘As you know, milord,’ Crouptickle continued evenly, ‘your family estate Tawcester Towers is on the verge of bankruptcy. The proposition has been put to your mother the Dowager Duchess – indeed, I put it to her myself – that she should sell up and allow the place to be developed as an hotel.’
‘No Lyminster would ever agree to that!’
‘No Lyminster would have much choice in the matter. The economic reality is far too real.’
‘And are you saying it’s your spoffing consortium that wants to develop the place?’
‘How very perceptive you are, milord. We are of the optimistic view that over the years a good few properties whose aristocratic owners have run out of money will come on to the market. And we intend to snap those up too for development as luxury hotels. Mr Snidely and I stand to make a lot of money.’
‘Never!’ Blotto cried defiantly. ‘The Mater will never sell Tawcester Towers!’
‘We were thinking she might be persuaded to . . .’ Mr Crouptickle slid a typewritten sheet of paper out of a folder on the table ‘. . . particularly if her younger son endorsed the proposal.’
‘I’d never do that! I’m not the kind of stencher who’d sell his own family down the plughole! You could burn my hands off before I’d do that.’
‘Really?’ Mr Crouptickle smiled. ‘An interesting suggestion. And one that might be arranged. Though I think we’ll start with less violent means of persuasion.’ He pushed the letter towards Blotto. ‘So we all we need is your signature on this letter addressed to your mother.’
‘I will never sign it!’
‘No? Even if your unwillingness to sign might result in something rather unpleasant happening to Miss Whipple?’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh, but we would, milord. I’m afraid Mr Snidely and I are not in the habit of being affected by sentimental considerations when we are trying to get our own way. After all, we are accountants.’
‘But you won’t hurt Christabel?’
‘We certainly will, milord . . . if you do not sign this letter.’
‘Give me a spoffing pen,’ said Blotto miserably.
‘I’m glad you’ve come to see sense, milord,’ said Mr Crouptickle as he handed a fountain pen across the table. ‘After all, what greater persuasion could the Dowager Duchess have to sell Tawcester Towers than knowing it was her younger son’s dying wish?’
‘“Dying wish”?’ echoed Blotto.
29
Released!
Blotto made rather a meal of trying to pick up the pen in his cuffed hands. ‘Sorry, can’t do it,’ he apologised.
Mr Snidely rose from his chair and moved around the table with the key to the handcuffs and released one wrist. Blotto reached towards the fountain pen.
But that was only a feint. What he really grabbed was his cricket bat. Immediately reassured and emboldened by the feel of its familiar handle in his hands, he made an upward sweep which connected perfectly with the tip of Mr Snidely’s chin. The accountant fell like a tree hit by a tank.
Mr Crouptickle rose from his chair, but he wasn’t quick enough, as Blotto brought his bat down heavily on the back of the man’s neck. He too slumped to the floor.
Blotto picked up the key to his handcuffs. He had also noticed a key on the inside of the door, on a ring from which hung two others. He snatched this as he burst out into the corridor.
The two uniformed men were smoking cigarettes. But not for long. The glowing stubs shot up into the air as Blotto’s cricket bat connected with their chins. One suffered from a well-placed square drive, the other a reverse hook. They too crumpled to the floor and lay still.
Now to find Twinks and Corky Froggett. Not to mention Christabel Whipple!
As he had hoped, one of the keys on the ring turned out to be a master which opened every room he passed. All of the doors were on one side, so that the rooms had views over the Nile. The first three were empty, but he struck gold with the fourth.
Chained to a bed, just as he had been, lay his sister.
‘Larksissimo!’ cried Twinks, as he uncoupled her handcuffs. ‘I knew you’d come and rescue me, Blotto me old trouser button!’
‘Any idea where Christabel is?’
‘No, but I’m sure Corky Froggett’s in the next room. I’ve heard him snoring so much in the Lag while you were driving that I’d recognise that sound anywhere.’
She was right. In a matter of moments the chauffeur too was released. ‘You’re a welcome sight, milord,’ he said. ‘And if you’re being pursued by villains, I would welcome the opportunity to fend off the attackers, with the likely risk of my laying down my life in the process.’
‘That’s very white of you, Corky, but I don’t think I am being pursued at this precise moment. Come on, let’s see if Christabel’s in the next room!’
Their luck was in. Twinks now had the master key and she unlocked the door. The large blonde archaeologist was indeed there, also handcuffed to a brass bed. The moment of her release, she and Blotto fell instinctively into each other’s arms.
When the four of them were back in the corridor, they took their bearings. There were stairs at either end.
‘We need to get out of here as quick as cheetahs on skates,’ said Twinks.
‘Yes, but . . .’ Blotto gestured towards the suite outside which lay two stunned men in uniform. ‘All of the Tawcester Towers bullion is in that room.’
‘What?’ cried Twinks. ‘How on earth did that get there?’
‘No time to explain now. But we must get the goodies out.’
‘Corky and I’ll go and fetch the Lag,’ said Twinks, practical as ever. ‘Then we can load the stuff and make our getaway.’
‘Be careful!’ said Blotto. ‘Crouptickle and Snidely own this hotel, so it’s likely all the staff are in their pay.’
‘Crouptickle and Snidely?’ echoed Twinks. ‘What in the name of snitchrags are they doing here?’
‘No time to explain! You and Corky go and get the Lag! Christabel, you go with them!’
‘I’m staying with you, Blotto,’ said Christabel Whipple.
Given the pressures of the moment, he was only briefly aware that these were possibly the most wonderful words he had ever heard spoken.
Twinks and Corky Froggett rushed off down the stairs at the far end while Blotto led Christabel back towards the room he had broken out of. Tying up Crouptickle and Snidely, not to mention the two guards, seemed a good idea. Then they could wait till Twinks and Corky returned, load the bullion in the Lagonda and get the hell away from Egypt and back to Tawcester Towers. There was no doubt in Blotto’s mind that Christabel Whipple would be coming with them.
The uniformed guards still appeared to be insensible on the floor of the corridor, so Blotto and Christabel went into the room. The two accountants had not got up, but they were moaning and beginning to stir. Blotto stripped off the silken ropes which tied back the curtains at the windows overlooking the Nile. He started to tie up Mr Crouptickle’s wrists and ankles.
They were aware of sounds in the corridor, people moving about, muttered conversation. Placing a finger to his lips for Christabel’s benefit, Blotto stopped his trussing and moved cautiously towards the door. At that moment a knuckle rapped on it sharply.
Blotto flung the door open, to find himself faced by some dozen men in the Two Pharaohs Hotel uniform. Some carried revolvers, others knives and cudgels.
‘Hoopee-doopee!’ cried Blotto, flexing the cricket bat in his hands. ‘These are the kind of odds I like, Christabel!’
He surged out into the corridor. Flicks of the bat to left and right sent revolvers flying. Arabic cries followed the clatter of willow on bone. Christabel Whipple watched in an attitude of love-struck hero worship as Lord Devereux Lyminster, armed only with his cricket bat, sent his foes scattering into retreat.
As the last few ran off down the stairs, he stood in the doorway, a glow of triumph on his impossibly handsome features.
So much was she concentrating on Blotto’s derring-do that Christabel was not aware of the door behind her opening. Nor did she see Bengt Cøpper emerge from the suite’s bathroom with a leather-covered cosh in his hand. Only when it was too late for her to do anything about it did Christabel watch helplessly as the blackjack was brought down hard on the back of Blotto’s neck.
He fell like a toppled statue.
30
The Final Voyage
While Corky Froggett had gone off to Shepheard’s Hotel to fetch the Lagonda from its garage, Twinks had decided to keep watch in the Two Pharaohs, well aware now that it was owned by their enemies. Knowing that she might be conspicuous in her grey silk flapper dress, white silk stockings and cloche hat, she had reached into her sequinned reticule for a disguise she had packed there for just this kind of emergency.
She changed in the ground-floor ladies’ powder room at the hotel and when she emerged in a full-length blue robe, black hijab and veil, no one looked at her twice. She decided that her best point of view would be in the foyer. There she could sit quietly and unobserved, waiting until Corky arrived with the Lagonda. She also had a good view of the main staircase, down which Blotto or Christabel Whipple might come once they had finished trussing up his victims. Twinks resigned herself to waiting.
But what ended her surveillance was something totally unexpected. She did indeed see Christabel Whipple coming down the stairs from the upper floors, but the young archaeologist was not in Blotto’s company. She was closely attended by two men in dark uniforms who seemed to be virtually frogmarching her. Following closely behind, skeletal in their black suits, were Mr Crouptickle and Mr Snidely with Bengt Cøpper. Bringing up the rear were two more uniformed men, carrying something heavy wrapped in a carpet. Twinks assumed it must be some of the bullion that Blotto had said was in the suite upstairs.
Rather than coming to the main doors of the Two Pharaohs, this little procession went out the back towards the Nile-side terrace. They were not aware of the veiled woman in a blue robe who followed discreetly behind them.
