The Curse

by Harold Robbins

  23

  I immediately regretted making a joke about the woman’s death.

  “Okay, you didn’t need to come all this way to talk to me,” I said. “Anything I have to say to you could have been done by a short text message that said, ‘I know nothing.’ So why don’t you go back to Cairo and save your department all the money you’re spending on a wild-goose chase.”

  “This is a serious matter, Miss Dupre,” he said brusquely.

  “To you, not me. Whatever poor Ms. Sari, you, the Egyptian government, or the ghosts of avenging pharaohs have going, I’m not a part of it.”

  “Why did you meet with Fatima in New York?”

  “I didn’t meet with her. If you have been in contact with the New York police, you already know as much about it as I do. She knocked on my door and tried to stab me, then threw herself in front of a subway train while babbling about something. I don’t have the faintest notion as to why she chose me other than that it must have been a case of mistaken identity.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Mistaken identity? She had your business card on her.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the fact that she didn’t know who I was, but that she was wrong about what she thought I was involved in.”

  “What did she think you were involved in?”

  “If you want to play games, please find someone else to do it with.”

  He held up his hands again, this time palms forward to ward off an attack. “Okay, you’re right, we know that she was involved with an attempt to return a national treasure to my country. But what was she babbling about?”

  “I don’t know. She spoke a few words in English and then reverted to Arabic. Something about a curse.” I gave him a blunt look. “But I’m sure you already know the answer to that. If you don’t, use some of that wonderful electronic gadgetry that you’re using to keep track of my every move and e-mail the New York cop in charge of the investigation.”

  “This is your idea of exchanging information? I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I have already admitted that attempting to intimidate you with official authority isn’t the best way to win cooperation.”

  “Oh, no, I intimidate just fine. I just don’t know anything. And I’ve discovered that while lying to a policeman just gets their adrenaline up, they hate it when you really don’t know anything.”

  “Please do me a favor and tell me what you do know—and don’t assume I know everything already.”

  I leaned forward and tried to look sincere. Now I wanted the man to go away. “Okay, this is the truth and the whole truth. I opened my apartment door and a woman I never saw before tried to stab me. She never told me why and I don’t know why.

  “A few hours later I was standing in a subway station. A woman I had never seen before until she tried to stab me came toward me talking irrationally about a curse. Why she approached me and had my card on her, I honestly don’t know. I had been consulted and retained by someone else about the scarab. I assume that was how she knew about me.” I leaned forward and gave him a tight grin. “Satisfied?”

  “Who retained you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose that. As I’m sure you know, art is a cutthroat business that operates under a veil of privacy.”

  “What has he hired you to do?”

  “I am not at liberty to disclose what he—or she—has consulted me about.”

  “Bedouins of my country would call you a dry well when it comes to information.”

  My turn to get exasperated again. “You see—it’s history repeating itself. You assume I’m being deceptive because I don’t know why the woman approached me and can’t disclose my client’s name. What’s the nature of your investigation?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”

  “I guess that means you’re lying.”

  He looked away, pursing his lips. I had the impression he was trying to keep from laughing.

  “Okay, Miss Dupre—may I call you Madison now that we’re old friends?”

  “My old friends call me Maddy, but you can call me Miss Dupre.”

  “Maddy, as you have already guessed, my investigation revolves around a certain national treasure—”

  “Why don’t you just call it the Heart of Egypt? Isn’t that what this is all about?”

  He merely gave me a polite smile, but I got the drift. For whatever reasons, he wasn’t able to reveal that he was searching for the Heart of Egypt even though he knew that I knew that he knew.…

  It never failed to amaze me that I could be so smart and poor and the politicians running this world were so rich and stupid.

  “Let’s get down to the bottom line. Tell me what you want from me before my jet lag pulls my brain out of my nose like they did when they mummified your pharaohs.”

  “I will give you the laundry list. Who has employed you? What has he—or she—said to you about the Egyptian national treasure that is missing? In essence, tell me everything you know about the artifact, its present location, and what services you have been retained to perform.”

  “The answers to your questions are that nothing I am doing, have done, or plan to do, involve any violation of the laws of Britain, Egypt, or my own country.”

  “That is simply being evasive. The New York authorities believe that Fatima Sari came there to ask your help in marketing the stolen artifact.”

  “Ah … you think she stole the scarab herself? Faked a robbery? Well, I can clue you in on this: the woman who tried to kill me, kill herself, or whatever she was doing, looked terrorized, and I can assure you that the person or persons who did the terrorizing were the thieves who took the scarab from her. If I were you, I’d be looking into a big league art theft organization, not the pathetic woman who threw herself in front of a subway train.”

  “Why do you have so much sympathy for a stranger who tried to kill you?” he asked.

  “Because when I looked into her eyes, I saw fear. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to close my eyes and try to get some sleep.”

  I got up and grabbed my bag to find another seat.

  “Maddy, please, you’re playing a dangerous game and you don’t know all the rules or the players. You need my help.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Good advice. Tell me everything you know and return to New York where you will be safe.”

  “Rather than leaving it to you and the New York police to decide my fate, I think I’ll stick with the Bible—knowing the truth is what sets us free.”

  “Please keep your seat,” he said. “I’ll find another.”

  A thought buzzed in my dense head as I sat back down. He hadn’t mentioned Mounir Kaseem, but I was pretty certain he knew who had hired me.

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I did come to one conclusion about the conversation: my right knee was shaking and my heart was beating faster.

  Something was said between us that triggered that primordial sense of fear that each of us have deep inside.

  I thought about it as the train sped toward the strange and mystical Salisbury Plain where the Radcliff estate was located.

  The Salisbury Plain was a somewhat bleak, windswept region with rolling hills, grasslands, and occasional stands of trees. The area was rich in history and archaeological sites, including Stonehenge, Old Sarum, a hill fort that was inhabited more than 5,000 years ago, and 2,000-year-old Roman roads.

  Somehow it seemed appropriate that an ancient Egyptian stone that can stir the emotions of millions with its mystical allure would be found in a land haunted by the ghosts of Druids and Celts.

  I had just started to doze off when I suddenly snapped awake, aware of what had been said that triggered the bone-chilling fear inside me—the look in Fatima’s eyes. I saw hurt, anger, confusion, but most of all, a deep sense of horror and repulsion, as if she had been forced to witness the unthinkable. Or perhaps experienced it herself.

  I had an insight about my own situation.

  I was
scared.

  24

  The art dealer who met me at the Salisbury train station to escort me to the Radcliff estate looked like he had slipped through a crack in time from a more elegant age.

  Sir Georges-Hamilton Edgeways was waiting for me as I stepped off the London train. He didn’t offer to shake hands, but tipped his hat and offered his arm.

  I surrendered my small carry-on to a porter he had arranged for because I didn’t want to offend his old-fashioned charm. Besides, after dealing with a death, a lying client, and cops on two continents, I was happy to be in the hands of someone whose eccentricities ran to fashion and manners.

  A chauffer-driven 1930 red Rolls-Royce Phantom II with black fenders was waiting for us outside. The chauffer was also a throwback to the 1930s, right up to the snobbery he radiated.

  The art dealer looked as much a period piece as the car in a vested wool gray suit and derby hat, striped tie, a purple handkerchief erupting out of his breast pocket, and a gold watch chain. Gray spats over his black shoes finished off the vintage couture look.

  The cane in his hand with a fancy ivory head seemed more of a fashion accessory than something used for walking. I was almost tempted to ask him if the cane had a secret sword.

  I suppose the car and clothes were advertising badges. They certainly would make him memorable to his clients.

  I’d heard of Sir Georges-Hamilton but had never dealt with him during my high-flying days in the trade. I’m sure he’d heard of me, but he pointedly didn’t mention anything about the indelible impression on British art that I made when I ran from the most prestigious art gallery in the country as it was blowing up behind me.

  Happy that my tainted past wasn’t discussed, as we were chauffeured to the estate I learned a bit about the rich, pampered, and slightly odd Heather Radcliff who sounded like she had too much money, too many neuroses, and not enough common sense.

  Regardless of whether you believed Stonehenge to be spiritually powerful, the stark landscape of the Salisbury Plain had a mystic, almost haunted feel for me and I wondered how Heather Radcliff felt about it.

  I shared that question with Sir Georges-Hamilton.

  “She spends most of her time in London, Monte Carlo, Manhattan, and wherever else people with enormous amounts of money and the hangers-on that flutter around them can be found. However, I do suspect that since she was born not too many miles from Stonehenge that is one reason she is, shall we say, eccentric.”

  “Heather’s not married?”

  “Not as of yesterday, but she is full of surprises. By the way, Lady Radcliff prefers to be called Isis. She has changed her name legally to Isis because she believes she is a reincarnation of the Egyptian goddess.”

  “Hmm … interesting.”

  “Quite.”

  Eccentric was his euphemism I guess for her being rich and crazy. One of the perks of being rich is that you can afford to be crazy, but since I was broke and needed her cooperation, I didn’t offer that observation.

  “You won’t meet Lady Radcliff until she gets out of jail this afternoon,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Jail?”

  He checked his watch. “About now she and a group of other Druids are attempting to reclaim Stonehenge from the government as their sacred temple for religious rites. They will be arrested, processed, and released. And fined later.”

  “Her claim of ownership is that she’s a Druid? Isn’t she an Egyptian goddess?”

  “Both, actually. Isis and her fellow Druids believe that Stonehenge was built by Egyptian priests who brought the practice of Druidism to Britain.”

  That made about as much sense as her claim to being the reincarnation of a goddess.

  “I don’t recall a historical link between Stonehenge, Druids, and Egypt, but I imagine the authorities would strongly object to Druid rites at the site since the ancient Druids practiced human sacrifice.”

  “I wouldn’t offer that observation to Isis. Her spiritual advisor has assured her otherwise.”

  “I take it her spiritual advisor isn’t the archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “For a certainty. Ramses is an interesting individual,” Sir Georges-Hamilton said.

  “He must be, since he’s named after an Egyptian pharaoh. Another case of reincarnation?”

  “Quite. And direct lineage to a Druid high priest who Ramses says built Stonehenge.”

  “I should have thought of that myself.”

  He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t want you to draw any negative impressions of Isis. Though she has gotten some rather negative publicity while trying to find herself, she is quite a fine lady, generous to the community, and a supporter of art.”

  “Supporter of art” meant he had sold her something.

  “I take it this Druid business isn’t the first cult experience she’s had on her journey of self-discovery.”

  “Unfortunately not. She was orphaned at the age of four after her parents died in a plane crash and literally raised by trust lawyers who hired a secession of nannies to ensure she never became too attached to any of them. Considerable efforts were also necessary to fight off relatives after her money.”

  She sounded like a cross between a sad Christina Onassis and a frivolous Paris Hilton.

  “She proves one of the fundamental laws of nature,” I said. “The richer you are, the crazier you’re allowed to be.”

  There I went again, opening my mouth. But I let that sink in and then asked, “Is there anything else about Isis and her clan of Druids that I should know so I don’t offend her?”

  “Yes. As you know, Isis was a goddess of love. You should be aware that Lady Radcliff–Isis is openly bisexual and quite liberal about sexual activities. She believes that sexual activity should not be prohibited regardless of age, gender, or relationship.”

  “How about the family pets?”

  25

  Before we arrived at Radcliff House I tried to get information about Mounir Kaseem from the art dealer and was surprised when he told me that he had never met the man or spoken to him.

  “Ramses is the person whom Mr. Kaseem dealt with in regard to the scarab,” he said.

  Sir Georges-Hamilton also carefully avoided all discussion about the scarab, obviously distancing himself from the mess.

  “Fuad Hassan, the curator of the Radcliff museum, will be able to answer all your questions.”

  Another runaround. I thought about asking him why he picked me up at the train station if he wasn’t going to give me information, but I suspected I already knew the answer—he wanted to clue me in on Isis so I wouldn’t do something reasonable like looking shocked when she started discussing ancient Egyptian spells, human sacrifice, humping with a camel, or whatever else she and her menagerie of parasites and weirdos were into.

  * * *

  I GOT MY FIRST glimpse of Radcliff House after the limo passed through a gate set in a medieval stone wall. The palatial manor house of weathered brick sat at the end of a long, straight cobblestoned road. The style was mostly Tudor and a little medieval castle, with a large gable on the right side and a turret with a circular top and crenellations.

  Big and solid, old and stately, it appeared to have descended from many centuries of high nobility, though Sir Georges-Hamilton told me that it was built in the early 1900s.

  My knight turned me over to the butler as soon as we entered and did a disappearing act.

  “Ramses will see madam in the library,” the haughty butler said. He could have played the villain in a 1930s mystery novel revolving around a murder in the library.

  I wondered how much of the Hollywood theatrics Isis had inherited and how much she had cultivated herself.

  Ramses was seated behind a desk, studying what looked to be an ancient manuscript.

  Short and slender, with grave, narrow features and a closely shaven head, his thin face and nose remind me of a hawk. He wore a dark black Nehru jacket, a hip-length tailored coat with a band collar named after the Indian p
rime minister.

  He wasn’t Egyptian, although his light copper complexion gave him a Mediterranean look—perhaps southern Spanish or Italian.

  Ramses didn’t bother looking up as I approached and didn’t bother returning my greeting when I said, “Good afternoon.”

  I could see the manuscript he seemed so engrossed in was written in ancient Greek, a language I had studied as part of my expertise in ancient Mediterranean artifacts, and I was almost tempted to see whether he really spoke the language, which I doubted, but reminded myself that I needed the money more than putting down the rude man.

  Instead, I spun around and walked out of the library.

  No one was in the great hall and I shouted out loud, “Hello! Butler!”

  The servant suddenly appeared beside me.

  “Will you call me a taxi?”

  “A taxi, madam?”

  “Yes, a taxi.”

  Ramses came out of the library behind me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  I looked him squarely in the eyes and said, “Since I’ve gotten involved in this mess less than forty-eight hours ago, I’ve seen a woman killed and I’ve been questioned by police on two continents. I’m in no mood for rudeness.”

  His mouth opened and closed as he tried to find words and then he turned to the butler and snapped, “Go on with your duties.”

  He was still struggling with something to say to me and finally got out, “Come,” as he retreated back into the library.

  It sounded like a command you say to a dog, but at least he didn’t say fetch or roll over. I knew I had to change my attitude toward him but it wasn’t easy.

  Back in the library, I held out my hand. “Madison Dupre.”

  He looked like he’d rather spit on it than shake it, but he gave me a moist, slimy-feeling paw. My sentiment about his handshake might have been affected by the fact that I thought of him as a cockroach that I wanted to stamp and squash.

  Ramses seated himself back down behind the Greek book and stared up at me with the small, false smile and suspicious eyes of a snake oil salesman.

  I realized he wasn’t just an arrogant bastard but was also wary of me and probably putting on a false front. Perhaps the situation with the scarab jeopardized his position as head guru or whatever he was to Isis.