The Case of the Purloined Pyramid

by Sean McLachlan

  As if on cue, one of his guests, a Scottish engineer associated with the railways, came up to him.

  “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t see any statues of Isis. My wife wants one for her birthday. Is there one that I’ve missed?”

  Augustus shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I haven’t one at the moment.”

  “Oh, Augustus, don’t be silly!” Zehra chimed in. “Don’t you remember that lovely little statuette you have at my house?”

  “Oh right, that.”

  Zehra turned to the railroad man. “You must forgive Augustus. He has such a large collection he can’t even remember everything in it! The space he rented in the warehouse is filled to bursting, and he begged me to leave some things at my house, including the Isis. It’s in wonderful condition, in the style of the New Kingdom I think, but what do I know of these things?”

  “Oh, well, I’ve learned a thing or two while living here. It’s not all railway schedules with me!”

  At this point, the man launched into a lecture on ancient Egyptian mythology, much of it wrong and the rest superficial to the point of banality. Zehra made a brilliant show of being entranced. Augustus fled back to Heinrich.

  “She’s stunning,” his friend said. “Are you finally climbing out of your shell?”

  “She’s married, and I’m hideous.”

  “That wasn’t my question,” he said with a smile. Heinrich had a way of ignoring his comments that managed to totally disarm him. The art historian turned in the direction of the collection of inscription fragments. “Did you invite him?”

  Augustus studied the man his friend had indicated—a well-built Nordic-looking fellow in his early twenties. He was looking at each of the inscriptions and then checking something in a small notebook.

  “Not that I can recall, but the guests were encouraged to bring friends.”

  “He showed up at the German Club the day before yesterday. Got quite drunk, which isn’t uncommon at the club, but he was a morose drunk. I cannot stand a morose drunk. It seems to me contrary to the purpose of drinking.”

  “I’m cutting down myself,” Augustus admitted, remembering how that wine bottle got mysteriously drained.

  “I’ve never seen you as a morose drunk, or perhaps I cannot tell the difference from your usual mood. In any case, this fellow began grumbling about how the Jews led to Germany’s defeat.”

  “Really? I thought the British Empire and its allies had something to do with it.”

  “Apparently not. ‘We had the enemy worn to exhaustion, and the Jews stuck a knife in our back’ was one of his lines. I remember it exactly because he repeated it so often.”

  “German anti-Semites are even more common than English anti-Semites. Why point him out to me?”

  “Because beyond his distasteful prejudices he’s an uneducated boor. I see no reason why he would be here. I doubt he’s anybody’s guest.”

  “That’s two Germans interested in my inscriptions in as many days. What’s going on?” Augustus murmured.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Heinrich asked.

  But before Augustus could explain, another visitor showed up. This one he recognized.

  Cavell Martin stumbled up to the front door, obviously drunk. Moustafa blocked his way. When Cavell saw who it was, his face twisted in rage.

  “Get out of my way, you ape!”

  “Unless you want to get torn in half and stuffed down the privy, I suggest you leave,” Moustafa growled.

  This did not have the desired effect. Instead of becoming frightened or getting angrier, the Frenchman looked past Moustafa at the German standing by the inscriptions. His mouth opened in shock.

  “You! I knew I’d find you here!”

  The German spun around, jerked back in surprise, and whipped out a pistol from his pocket. The gun barked, and Cavell flew backward, his forehead punctured by a bullet hole. He fell flat on his back on the threshold and didn’t move.

  Before anyone could react, the German bolted for the door. Moustafa moved to stop him, but a near miss from a second shot sent him diving for cover behind the statue of a Middle Kingdom scribe.

  The German sent another shot after him, which chipped off part of the statue’s base but missed Moustafa.

  Within an instant, the gunman had disappeared out the door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Faisal felt terrible. He had acted like a coward and had left the Englishman to get killed by the jinn. The foreigner had risked his life to protect him from Hassan, and this was how he repaid him? Where was his sense of honor?

  That thing with the crocodile head looked a thousand times more frightening than Hassan. Even an Englishman wouldn’t be safe against such a creature. Faisal was sure that it had come up the stairs after him. He could have sworn he heard great, ponderous footsteps on the stairs as he ran out of the house and had dishonorably left the Englishman to his fate.

  Despite all his troubles, despite being hungry most of the time, despite sleeping in alleyway shacks and in the doorways of mosques, despite spending much of his time stealing from market traders and avoiding the police, Faisal had always prided himself on being a good friend. If one of the other boys who shared his shack was cold on a winter night, he’d share his blanket. If someone had come back from begging and scrounging with nothing, Faisal always had a scrap of bread for him. Plus, he tried to protect the smaller ones from the human jackals that prowled these streets.

  Now Faisal had to deal with his own pack of jackals. Not only had he gotten the Englishman killed, but he faced death himself. He had defied Hassan, and the gang leader and his men would be looking for him.

  Faisal had been hiding all day, avoiding the neighborhood around Ibn al-Nafis Street. After the dawn prayer had forced him and the other beggars to leave the portal of the Sultan Hassan mosque, he had wandered the city, carrying his blanket with him. Begging hadn’t produced anything to eat, and he hadn’t been able to steal anything either. His stomach growled. Faisal ignored it. He’d dealt with hunger so often before that it was as close a companion as the lice in his hair.

  And now the muezzin called for evening prayer. It looked like he wouldn’t eat today. He didn’t dare go back to Ibn al-Nafis Street to escort Osman ibn Akbar to the mosque and share his food. Wearily, he turned back toward the Sultan Hassan mosque when a familiar voice stopped him.

  “Hey, Faisal!”

  It was Yacoub, a ten-year-old who shared his shack. Faisal remembered that Yacoub sometimes begged in this district.

  “You get any food?” Faisal asked.

  Yacoub shook his head. “Sorry, but guess what! You have to come to Ibn al-Nafis Street. That Englishman without a face is having a big party.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. There are lots of Europeans there and some rich Ottoman woman.”

  Faisal’s jaw dropped. Could this be true? The Englishman actually got away from that jinni with the crocodile head? That man was invincible!

  But wait, could this be a trick to lure him back to the neighborhood? No, that didn’t make any sense. Hassan didn’t know about the jinni, so he couldn’t force Yacoub to make up stories about the Englishman being alive.

  So the Englishman really was alive! That made Faisal feel better. He had still run like a coward, though, and he still needed to warn him about Hassan and the others. He owed the Englishman that much. The man might be invincible, but they could still rob his house.

  Faisal needed to take care. Hassan would be lurking about, attracted by all the rich people. He’d be watching, awaiting his chance.

  “You coming back to the shack tonight?” Yacoub asked.

  “Um, maybe later. Goodbye.”

  Faisal took a back route to the neighborhood, deep in thought. How best to do this? With all those foreigners coming and going the street would be crowded with servants and people standing about staring. There would be police too, like when the Englishman moved in. Faisal decided his best chance was to bol
dly walk down the middle of the street in plain view. Sure, Hassan would see him, but with him watching the front of the Englishman’s house like a hawk, Hassan would see him no matter what he did. Hassan wouldn’t want to make a disturbance while the police were there. He’d be more interested in waiting for his chance to rob some rich European rather than going after Faisal. After he saw the Englishman, Faisal wasn’t sure how he’d get away, but maybe it wouldn’t matter. The Englishman could protect him like last time.

  Faisal found Ibn al-Nafis Street in as big of an uproar as when the Englishman had first moved in. Several carriages were stopped outside the house, plus a beautiful litter for some rich woman. Two bright electric lights flanking the front door illuminated a whole section of the street. A curious crowd was kept away from the front door by a large Nubian and several servants who had obviously come with the foreign guests. Strangely, Faisal didn’t see any policemen. Nevertheless, he decided to stick to his plan and go directly to the front door. With this crowd, he could probably slip away from Hassan if he needed to.

  Faisal darted through the crowd, trying to keep in the thick of it to make himself less visible. His heart beat fast. He didn’t see Hassan, but that didn’t mean Hassan didn’t see him.

  Working his way to the door, he ducked under a carriage and peeked out from behind the shelter of a wheel. With such a crowd, he could barely see inside, but he caught a glimpse of the Englishman with some other foreigners. Then he noticed something that made his heart clench.

  The jinni with the crocodile head stood in the corner. It had changed back into a statue like they often do when it was light. Right now it stood stiff and frozen, looming over the crowd, but Faisal knew as soon as all these people left and the Englishman went to bed, that thing would come to life.

  He had to warn him!

  When he saw a foreign man and woman walking to the door, he scampered out from beneath the carriage and walked in their shadow.

  Just as he stepped on the threshold, he was lifted up by the scruff of his neck.

  “Oh no, you don’t!”

  The Soudanese man unceremoniously dropped him back on the street.

  “But I need to talk to the Englishman!” Faisal objected.

  “Go beg somewhere else.”

  “You don’t understand. There’s a j—”

  “Move!”

  Faisal stuck out his tongue at the man and moved off into the crowd, frustrated. How could he get in? A foreign man shoved past him, talking angrily to himself and stinking of alcohol. Briefly Faisal considered trying to repeat his trick and decided against it. That big Nubian at the door would catch him for sure, and this time he’d give Faisal a beating.

  Wait—the upstairs window, of course! He could sneak in that way and wait until the Englishman was alone and warn him then. It might be a long wait, but at least he’d be off the street and safe from Hassan.

  Faisal was just about to make his way around to the back of the house when a sound of a gunshot rang from inside. The crowd buzzed with curiosity, and Faisal got jostled by all the adults as they pressed closer to the entrance to see what was going on.

  Then came a second shot, and a third, and the crowd started running away from the entrance. A fleeing shopkeeper knocked Faisal down. The boy leaped up immediately to avoid being trampled and saw a burly foreign man run out of the house with a gun in his hand.

  Like everyone else, Faisal tried to get out of his way, but the press of bigger bodies was too much, and he ended up right in the foreigner’s path.

  The foreigner was looking over his shoulder at the Englishman’s house as he ran and didn’t notice Faisal until he tripped over him.

  Both fell hard on the ground.

  The man snarled at Faisal, picked himself up, and ran off.

  Faisal sat on the ground for a minute. The impact had knocked the wind out of him, and he hurt all over. Everyone ignored him as some shouted for someone to go catch the gunman and nobody volunteered, others called out to their friends to see if they were all right, and others acted bolder than the rest and started gathering around the entrance to the Englishman’s house again to see what had happened.

  Faisal peeked through all the legs, trying and failing to see what was going on inside. He soon gave up. It was time to get out of here. The police would come and perhaps search the whole house. Faisal knew he’d have to wait until later before he could help the Englishman.

  Just as he was getting up to leave, he noticed a small notebook lying on the ground. It was encased in leather and had a strange symbol on it, maybe a letter. It certainly looked like something a European would have, not an Egyptian. Had the gunman dropped it when he’d tripped over Faisal?

  Faisal picked it up, put it in the pocket of his jellaba, and disappeared into the crowd before Hassan spotted him.

  ***

  “He’s dead.”

  Augustus felt silly for saying it. Cavell Martin lay on his floor, a neat bullet hole in his forehead and the back of his skull shattered from the exit wound. Of course he was dead. Back in the war such a sight wouldn’t have even elicited comment, but here in his own home in the supposedly peaceful city of Cairo, he felt he owed his guests some sort of statement. A circle of them stood around him as he bent over the body.

  “Why did this happen?” Zehra asked. Unlike the other women at the party, she had not allowed herself to be led away. She stood, pale and trembling, along with the men staring down at the body.

  “Cavell got sacked from his excavation for selling an artifact to someone. That German must have been him,” Augustus said.

  “Ach, I knew that man was trouble,” Heinrich Schäfer said.

  One of the guests grabbed a sheet from the refreshment table and covered the body.

  “Someone call the police,” Augustus ordered. “Moustafa, close and lock the door. I doubt he’ll come back, but we can’t risk it. Sorry, everyone, but I think we’ll all have to stay here until the police have taken a report.”

  One of the British cotton merchants ran to find an officer. He took almost half an hour before returning with a British policeman in tow. When Augustus complained about the slow response time, the officer apologized.

  “We’re short staffed tonight, sir. Most of the lads are guarding government buildings.”

  “Why?” Augustus demanded.

  “Sir Russell received orders to arrest Sa’ad Zaghloul and the rest of that independence lot.”

  An excited murmur ran through the crowd.

  “They should execute them. Prison is too good for that riffraff!” one of the cotton merchants shouted.

  “There’s bound to be trouble tomorrow once word gets out,” the policeman said.

  “I daresay there will be,” Augustus replied, shaking his head.

  The policeman interviewed Augustus and several other witnesses. Heinrich told him what he knew about the man, and the policeman took down the information while looking at the German with obvious distaste.

  “That’s what we get for letting all sorts into the colonies,” the policeman muttered under his breath. “So you don’t know his name?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Heinrich said stiffly.

  “Probably an assumed one anyway. May I see your papers, sir?” the policeman said.

  Augustus seethed as he watched his friend hand over his papers to a policeman like some common street thug. The policeman made a show of studying them and noting down every detail before handing them back to the scholar.

  “I’ll have to ask you not to leave the city without first notifying the police commandant’s office, sir,” the officer told him.

  Heinrich turned red. Augustus intervened.

  “This man has nothing to do with the murder. In fact, he warned me about the killer just before the man opened fire.”

  “Best to leave police work to the police, sir,” the officer replied in a cool voice, snapping his notebook shut. “We’ll look into this killer and track him down. We’re sure to get him i
n the end, but it might take more time than usual. Probably be a spot of bother with the natives tomorrow once the news about their leader spreads. You know how excitable they can get. I suggest everyone go home and not make any unnecessary trips outside tomorrow until this all blows over.”

  The policeman got a couple of the servants to help him remove the body. Before the guests left, Moustafa did a quick search of the neighborhood and reported back.

  “There’s no sign of that German. I suppose he’s far away by now. It does not seem that anyone has heard of the arrest of Sa’ad Zaghloul either. All the neighbors’ tongues are wagging about the shooting.”

  “Let them wag. They’ll learn about the arrest soon enough,” Augustus said. “Stay here a minute, will you? Heinrich, Zehra, could you stay too?”

  As the guests filed out, the Scottish railway engineer came up.

  “I’m so sorry for what happened. I suppose this isn’t the right time, but I did want to get that statue of Isis when you have the chance. You see, we’re heading back to Edinburgh the day after tomorrow.”

  Zehra gave him a bright smile. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve decided to buy it. I’m sure she’ll love it!”

  The Scotsman blushed a little and returned her smile. After he left, Augustus turned to her.

  “You’re quite the saleswoman. I don’t think anyone has ever sold an antiquity at a murder scene before.”

  She smiled back at him. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that.”

  Augustus lowered his voice. “Can Suleiman make the statuette in time?”

  “The man can work wonders. You’ll see.”

  Once the guests had all left, the four of them sat down in the study. Heinrich’s servants cleaned up in the front while Zehra’s porters guarded the front door.

  “There’s something strange going on,” Augustus said. “A German diplomat comes to inspect my inscriptions before I even open and doesn’t see what he wants. He asks to use the water closet, and I discover him upstairs examining the cracks in the wall. Something about the masonry of the house seemed to have excited him. Over on the Giza Plateau, a large piece of stone with an inscription gets stolen. I uncover Cavell Martin as the thief, and he shows up tonight hunting for another German, who came uninvited and also evinced an interest in my collection of inscriptions.”