The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus

by Sean McLachlan

  After more than an hour, the middle-aged man and old woman came out. Mina’s father did not. Faisal decided to follow the two strangers, easily falling in a few steps behind them while remaining unnoticed in the crowd.

  “… I think we are close to an agreement,” the old woman was saying as Faisal got within listening distance.

  “Splendid!” the middle-aged man replied, slicking back his hair and rubbing his belly. “I must say you are an excellent matchmaker. I just don’t understand why he is hesitating.”

  “No doubt it is his wife causing trouble. It is often the case when the daughter is so young.”

  “A wife should obey her husband in all things.”

  “That is so, sir, but you know how these poor families can be.”

  “Indeed. That is why we have to come to an agreement quickly, while she still doesn’t know herself. These lower class girls dishonor themselves as soon as they begin to blossom.”

  “Quite right, sir, quite right,” the old woman said. “Have no fear. One or two more days and we will have an agreement, and then you and Mina will celebrate your marriage.”

  Faisal nearly fell over with shock. He hadn’t understood much of the conversation up to this point, but the final statement by the matchmaker told him all he needed to know.

  Mina was getting married to that fat old fool?

  4

  Augustus preferred to be anywhere but the front terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel. Despite tourists being the mainstay of his antiquities customers, he loathed them, and the terrace at Shepheard’s was the epicenter of Egypt’s tourism earthquake. For anyone who wished to study human vanity, superficiality, and conspicuous consumption, there was no better place.

  It was Sir Thomas Russell’s favorite lunch spot, and the police commandant had an annoying habit of inviting Augustus to eat with him. Avoiding such an invitation wasn’t possible with one such as Sir Thomas, especially not when Augustus had just had a body delivered to his house.

  So Augustus sat in one of the wicker chairs eating his kidney pie while trying to ignore the incessant chatter around him. It was all boasting and flirting and cricket results gleaned from two-week-old newspapers. Good Lord, what a bore! No one seemed the least bit interested in Egypt. The terrace faced a broad street full of motor traffic and Egyptians passing back and forth on their daily business, plus a whole line of hawkers pressed against the railing selling everything from fezzes to stuffed crocodiles. Few of the people on the terrace even looked out at the street, and the rare times anyone even mentioned Egyptology it was with a sense of resigned obligation, as if coming to Egypt wasn’t about seeing its ancient wonders, but to sit here blustering about how much better England was.

  And Augustus had to endure it all because one does not say no to Sir Thomas Russell Pasha.

  Sir Thomas saved him from a terminal case of ennui by taking another sip of his coffee and actually saying something interesting.

  “I think I might have a lead on the Monsieur Legrand case.”

  “Really, what’s that?” Augustus asked, popping a final forkful of pie into his mouth. He was always a fast eater when faced with poor company. He had been thinking of an exit strategy when the police commandant hooked him back in by mentioning the case.

  “Before the war he was instrumental in crushing the Apaches. Not the savages in America, of course, but the Parisian gang that took their name.”

  “I’ve heard of them. They caused quite a bit of trouble, a bit like latter-day Mohawks.”

  “Oh yes, they were a gang in Georgian London, weren’t they?”

  “During the reign of Queen Anne, actually.”

  Sir Thomas waved away the correction. “Savages, the lot of them. No wonder they take on such names. I suspect that Monsieur Legrand might have been done in by some Apaches seeking vengeance.”

  “But surely they were all caught? I thought the gang was crushed.” While Augustus took a close interest in crime, the gang had all but disappeared by 1914. That had been a war ago, a lifetime ago. He kept memories from that time deliberately hazy.

  Sir Thomas took another sip of his coffee and replied. “Crushed? Well, it was and it wasn’t. Many of the thugs were killed in police raids or put in prison or sent to the penal colonies, but others escaped. A great number crossed the border into Spain, where they caused no end of trouble before the Spanish authorities woke up from their collective siesta and took care of business. From there many fled to the North African colonies.”

  “I suppose these Apache fellows could be a possibility, but how do you know it was them and not some other criminal gang? Surely the good Monsieur Legrand made many enemies in his line of work.”

  Sir Thomas pulled out a pack of Woodbines and offered it to Augustus, who took one and nodded a thank you.

  “I daresay he did, but the Apaches are cut from different cloth than your typical riff-raff. They’re anarchists, and like to make showy gestures such as this to thumb their noses at authority. It’s quite in their style, and we’ve heard rumors that some members of the Apache gang have come into Egypt in recent months on freighters from Algiers and Tunis.”

  “Would a gang of toughs go through such trouble with the body?”

  “Toughs indeed, but toughs with a political bent. Before Alexandre Legrand was a police official, he was in the army. He was instrumental in quashing the Paris Commune in 1871, making him the enemy of every socialist, anarchist, and rabble rouser in France. The French government loved him, of course, and the conservative press labeled him ‘The Lion of Paris’. That would explain why they put him in a sarcophagus with a lion carved on top.”

  “Actually it’s a panther,” Augustus said.

  Sir Thomas waved away this objection. “I’m not an Egyptologist and neither are they. It looks like a lion to the untrained eye.”

  “Fair enough. All right, that does seem like a good line of inquiry, but why deliver him to me? And why in such a dramatic and impractical fashion?”

  “I think I can answer your second question. Monsieur Legrand was a lover of ancient Egypt. He made quite a study of it and once in an interview joked that he wanted to be buried like a pharaoh. He seems to have gotten his wish. As for your first question, I have no idea why they broke into your home, or indeed how they managed it. Do you?”

  Augustus felt taken aback by the question, as well as the level gaze he was being treated to. “Why would I know? Do you think I socialize with anarchists? I had quite my fill of anarchy in the war, thank you.”

  Sir Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I didn’t mean it that way, my good man. But you do live in an odd part of town and are frequently seen in the company of the lower orders of society.”

  “By which you mean Egyptians,” Augustus said, his hand tightening its grip on the arm of his chair.

  “More coffee, sir?” asked a waiter dressed in an immaculate red fez with matching vest and slippers, plus billowing white pantaloons. No doubt the management at Shepheard’s had decided this was the European idea of how Egyptians dressed.

  “No, thank you,” Sir Thomas said in English, waving him away.

  “I would love some, thank you,” Augustus said in Arabic.

  “And there you go doing it again,” Sir Thomas said as the waiter poured the coffee. “This fellow speaks perfectly adequate English. Must you throw that babble about?”

  “Speaking Arabic helps me with my work,” Augustus explained, “and my investigations.”

  The waiter moved away without saying a word.

  “You won’t be needed for this investigation,” Sir Thomas said firmly. “We have the situation well in hand and we’re following several leads.”

  Augustus almost told him what he thought of his police skills but decided against it. It rarely paid to be rude, especially with the rude.

  Instead he asked, “Have you discovered where and when he was killed?”

  “We talked to his wife. The night before last he went out early in the evenin
g to meet some friends at a café. He never made it. We have yet to find any witnesses to his disappearance.”

  “Quite gentlemanly of them not to attack him in his home in front of the lady.”

  “Quite. The Apaches fancy themselves as sort of working class cavaliers. They rarely hurt ladies except for their own low doxies, who don’t count. We’ve put a couple of men on the house just in case.”

  “Good idea. Then I suppose my work with the case is done,” Augustus said, having no intention of leaving the murder unsolved.

  “Glad to hear it.” The police commandant looked at him hesitantly. “I did have one question, though.”

  Augustus didn’t like the sound of that. “What is it?”

  “You mentioned that you cannot be awakened at night? Whatever you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

  Augustus tensed. He saw no way of avoiding the question, however. The man would find out one way or another.

  “My physician prescribed tincture of opium to keep the dreams at bay.”

  Sir Thomas nodded grimly. “I’d take it as well if my work didn’t force me to keep such irregular hours. Damn that war. I was at Polygon Wood, you know. Filthy business.”

  The was silence between them for a moment. Augustus looked at him sidelong.

  “So how do you sleep?” Augustus asked.

  “A couple of stiff ones before bed and hope for the best. What I mean to say is that I worry about you not being able to respond if the murderers come back.”

  “They could have easily killed me last night had they wanted to. I suspect I’m quite safe, and I will not be moved from my house. They must have done some investigating, however, to know that I live alone and couldn’t be woken up.”

  “Hm, good point,” Sir Thomas said, rubbing his jaw. He looked at Augustus. “Very well, we’ll speak no more of it.”

  “Thank you,” he said with gratitude. As annoying at the police commandant could be, he did understand some things.

  The idea of the murderers observing him unsettled Augustus. How had they found out about the opium? He doubted his physician would reveal such a thing, so they must have seen him buy it at one of his regular trips to the chemist. He tried to recall noticing any Europeans lingering about, but since he went to one of the chemists in the wealthy part of town there had always been other foreigners in the shop. He couldn’t recall anything unusual.

  So what else did these people know about him, and why pick him in the first place? He had no connection with Monsieur Legrand. Was it only the fact that he was an antiquities dealer who couldn’t be woken up? Was it because he lived in the native quarter and thus their movements wouldn’t be challenged? There must be more to it than that, something he was missing, or hadn’t discovered yet.

  Sir Thomas leaned forward. “I do have one small favor to ask.”

  Oh dear, Augustus thought. This doesn’t sound good.

  “I am happy to be of service,” Augustus said, against his better judgment.

  “My youngest sister Cordelia is staying here for the season, accompanied by our aunt Pearl. They’ve both expressed an interest in meeting you. Would you mind showing them a few of the sights? Aunt Pearl wants to buy one or two mementoes and I’ve assured her that you provide the best. I’ve told them nothing else about you. That’s just between the two of us.”

  Augustus couldn’t have felt more trapped if Sir Thomas had slapped handcuffs on him and hauled him off to the Citadel. That casual comment about not telling the ladies anything about him was an obvious reminder that the police commandant knew he was living here under an assumed name, a crime Sir Thomas chose to overlook. Augustus had foolishly thought that was a courtesy of one gentleman and veteran to another, that the police commandant understood he wanted to cut ties with those who knew him back in England, but now he saw Sir Thomas could use it to get his way any time he liked. Not only would he have to play tour guide to a pair of silly Englishwomen, but it would take time away from investigating the murder. Augustus suspected the latter was the commandant’s true motivation.

  There was an insult included in all this, no doubt unintentional yet nevertheless present. Young women came down to Cairo for “the season” for only one purpose—to find a husband. Cairo had become quite the meeting place for such things, and Augustus recalled Sir Thomas mentioning on a previous occasion that his youngest sister was already twenty-two and still unmarried. The woman would need a chaperone and Sir Thomas was too busy, so who better than a mutilated ex-soldier who could be trusted to behave himself but would obviously not be a candidate for marriage?

  All this flashed through Augustus’s mind in an instant, as did many quite vivid fantasies of dispatching Sir Thomas by smashing the coffeepot over his head, strangling him with the tablecloth, or tossing him over the railing so that he would be impaled on that fake antique dagger one of the street vendors was holding up for sale.

  None of this showed on the half of Augustus’s face that remained to him.

  “I’d be delighted,” he said.

  “Perfect. Ah, here they are now!”

  Augustus and Sir Thomas stood as the ladies arrived. As Augustus sleepwalked through the meaningless introductions, which led to pointless formalities followed by insincere pleasantries, he studied the two women. Aunt Pearl was on the wrong side of fifty, plump, and fashionably dressed in a style more appropriate to a woman half her age. The effect would have been comic except for the fact that Pearl had a lively demeanor and quite obviously did not care what people thought of her. This was evidenced by two clues—the first being that she was neither accompanied by her husband nor dressed in widow’s black. A spinster aunt, then. The second clue was her florid features and a slight trembling of her hands. A dipsomaniac spinster aunt, although apparently quite happy in that state.

  Top marks for Aunt Pearl. The institution of matrimony was only useful for economic gain, producing children, and keeping up appearances. Augustus had all the money he needed and didn’t give a damn about children or appearances. Aunt Pearl was obviously of the same mind.

  Cordelia proved a bit more difficult to read. A pretty girl with blue eyes and cornflower hair, obviously educated and vivacious, there seemed no reason for her to still be unattached. She had an open, intelligent face that expressed more confidence than he was accustomed to seeing in women, and a direct manner and level gaze.

  That gaze fixed on him and he did not like the expression behind it.

  She was staring at his mask, of course. Many badly mutilated veterans had been given such masks. It was a project by a group of French artists. She had no doubt seen one before, so why stare for more than the usual second or two?

  Because she looked at him like he was a puppy with an injured paw.

  Blast, what an obnoxious emotion pity could be! He’d rather be hated than pitied. Hatred was honest; it came with a degree of respect. Pity, however, was demeaning. It automatically put the pitier on a higher plane than the pitied.

  For some relief he turned to Aunt Pearl to ask some triviality about the steamer that had brought them here from London. She, too, looked at him with pity, although a pity mixed with disappointment. He had the distinct impression that he had just been crossed off a list.

  That’s quite all right, Aunt Pearl. I wasn’t on the list in the first place.

  Once they had sat down, a waiter who had been hovering nearby with a smile pasted on his face swooped in.

  “How may I serve you, madams?”

  Cordelia turned to him and said something that sounded like “Gone west, mine fetlock.”

  The waiter’s smile did not falter, but a slight glaze filmed his eyes. Augustus had a stroke of insight.

  “Do you want coffee?” he asked Cordelia.

  “Yes,” she answered with an embarrassed smile.

  “Gahwa, min fadlak,” he told the waiter.

  Cordelia repeated the phrase and got it right this time. In fact, she got it pitch perfect.

  �
��I’m afraid my phrase book isn’t terribly accurate,” she said, then gave a bright, cheery laugh.

  “They never are,” Augustus replied. “Monsieur Berlitz is Swiss, I think. He should have stuck to making cuckoo clocks. And what would you like, Ms. Russell?”

  “Call me Aunt Pearl, everyone does. And I’ll order in English. A gin and tonic, please.”

  “Very good madam.”

  Augustus snuck a look at his watch. 12:17. Well, at least she didn’t drink before noon.

  Cordelia leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. If he had been a whole man he would have been intrigued. Now he just felt condescended to.

  “It’s so kind of you to offer to take us around Cairo,” the young woman said.

  Oh, so Sir Thomas assumed I’d say yes and already told you, did he? Cheeky bastard.

  Out loud he mumbled, “Don’t mention it. Glad to be of service.”

  Aunt Pearl leaned forward, pressing against Cordelia’s arm and forcing her to withdraw it. “I’m most interested in seeing your antiquities shop. I’d like to get one or two little things for my collection.”

  Sir Thomas gestured with his cigarette. “Aunt Pearl has been all over the world and has quite the collection of curiosities.”

  “I find travel much more invigorating than marriage,” Aunt Pearl declared.

  Sir Thomas laughed and turned to Augustus. “I suppose you find it strange for a spinster aunt to be put in trust of introducing a young woman to the Cairo season, but she was the only one in the family who wanted to come. Aunt Pearl yearns to see the ancient sites.”

  “I wanted to come to Egypt too,” Cordelia said.

  “For the ancient sites or the season?” Augustus asked.

  The bright smile she gave him warned him he had taken a misstep.

  “Both,” she replied.

  Aunt Pearl saved him from having to respond. “I tried to find Ibn al-Nafis Street on the map and had a devil of a time. I needed to summon the aid of the concierge. Right in the heart of the native quarter. You must be mad to live in such a district with all the independent riots going on.”