Someone called out in Arabic from behind the carriage, his shrill voice rising above the general hubbub.
“A lovely lady you have there, Sir Augustus. Or should I call you by your real name? Take care that she remains lovely. The Apaches are loyal to their comrades and cruel to their enemies, and we will run this city before long.”
Augustus felt a chill go through him as he looked around for the caller, but whoever it had been had melded into the crowd. The driver looked around too, then caught his eye.
There was a question on his face. He had obviously heard the part about Augustus’ real name.
How could they know that? Only Sir Thomas knew, and he had sworn he wouldn’t tell anyone. The people back home didn’t know his new identity. His transition between his old life and his new one had been complete.
How could the Apaches have discovered his real name? He didn’t even have any French friends in his old life, unless you counted those he had met whilst in the army.
The army …
“What’s the matter?” Cordelia asked.
“Nothing, just a bit of native nonsense,” Augustus mumbled. “Driver, keep going.”
The driver did as he was told, but the looks he kept giving Augustus over his shoulder made the rest of the day pass in a tense haze.
11
Moustafa studied the piece of paper that had been stuffed in the ear of the decapitated head of Claude Paget.
On it was a crude drawing in pencil of a man tied to a post being shot by a firing squad. Beneath was scrawled in French:
“The ruling class turn us into murderers
We should murder them!
Too low. Too high. Perfect. Under the bridge. 100 cm.
The Apaches ruled Paris, and they will rule Cairo!
Will you be RULER or ruled?”
He stared at the slip of paper for a time and could not make head or tail of it. Perhaps Mr. Wall would be able to shed some light on the message. The second and final lines sounded like an invitation, and the third line like a clue.
“These savages warn us off but lead us on,” Moustafa muttered. “Are they insane or do they have some secret purpose?”
Leaving the sarcophagus lid ajar, he went over to the canopic jars.
With a grimace, Moustafa checked each one, and found they were all filled with Claude’s interior organs, each in their correct place. The Apaches obviously had someone with them who knew a bit about Egyptology. Well, perhaps not too much. Such information could be found in even the more basic texts, but it showed they had thought this crime through. These weren’t the usual class of street thugs.
He carefully replaced the tops on each of the four jars, feeling a surge of guilt. Poor Claude. He’d be still alive if Moustafa hadn’t gone to that wretched belly dancing bar and questioned him.
Moustafa secured the lock on the front door. This mess meant they couldn’t open today. The Apaches were beginning to hurt their business.
Even worse, he’d have to call the authorities and report the body. Mr. Wall would certainly want to avoid any further entanglements with Russell Pasha, but that made no difference. The law was the law, and what remained of poor Claude deserved a decent burial.
That didn’t mean he’d tell the police about the paper, though. Mr. Wall had been right about that. The Apaches had made this personal by breaking into the house not once but twice. And it would be good to show up Russell Pasha again. Let the police commandant conduct his own investigation. Mr. Wall could find out what he was up to and perhaps the vile oppressor would give them a useful lead or two.
A knock came at the door. Moustafa groaned. This was the first time he had ever worked in a shop, and he had discovered that the worst part of working in a shop was the customers.
He slid back the cover on the view slit, ready to make his polite excuses in whatever language the customer required.
He saw no one.
Immediately he ducked back, fearing a bullet. None came.
“Hello?” a small voice called in Arabic from the other side.
“Who goes there?” Moustafa demanded.
“It’s me, Faisal.”
“Go away, Little Infidel!”
“The Englishman has a message for you.”
“Well, give it and go away.”
“It’s a secret, I shouldn’t give it on the street where everyone can hear.”
Moustafa growled. What a pain in the backside this boy was!
He opened the door, hauled the brat inside, and slammed the door shut behind him.
“What?” Moustafa demanded.
“I saw how the Apaches broke into the house, and I saw how they did it. The Englishman told me to tell you.”
“Fine. Out with it,” Moustafa said, trying to hide his interest. Showing the brat he could occasionally be useful only encouraged him.
Faisal cocked his head and smiled. “He said that you should give me ten piastres and lunch.”
“Nonsense! Tell me what you know or I’ll wring your neck so hard your head will pop like a balloon.”
“OK. I only need seven piastres. Oh wait, actually only six and a half.”
“You’ll get half a piastre and lunch. If you’re not satisfied with that, I’ll beat the information out of you.” Why did he have to be plagued with such vermin?
“But I need six and a half,” Faisal whined. A growl from Moustafa made him get to the point. “It was a pair of Europeans and an Egyptian. They had trained baboons with them that went through one of the windows and opened the bolt on the front door after one of the Europeans picked the lock.”
“Baboons? Nonsense!” Moustafa scoffed. Then he remembered an entertainer he had seen in Khartoum. That fellow had a baboon who could perform backflips, smoke a pipe, and ride a camel all at the same time. Perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched as it sounded.
Faisal went on to describe the men. Moustafa’s heart beat faster as one of the people he mentioned sounded like the man he had fought in the alley.
So the boy was telling the truth and not just looking for money as usual …
Moustafa fished out a half paistre coin from his pocket and tossed it to him.
“And lunch?”
“I’ll get you some bread and fruit from the pantry.”
“You’ll give me more if I find the Apaches, right?”
“Fine,” Moustafa said, heading for the pantry.
“Get me one of those apples. They’re good.”
Moustafa hesitated. “How do you know there are apples in the pantry?”
“Um, the Englishman told me.”
“You better find those Apaches for all the trouble you’re putting us through.”
“I’ll find him,” Faisal said.
“You’ll find him, God willing,” Moustafa said.
“What?”
“God willing. Why do you never say ‘God willing’?”
“Why does everyone always say that? Either you do it or you don’t.”
“Bah! This is what happens when children are raised without religion. Not only do you defy God’s commands, but you deny his power. Everything happens by God’s will.”
“The stone box ended up in the Englishman’s house by the Apaches’ will.”
“Of course they were bad for doing it, but God decided it should happen.”
“But they killed a European! Why would God let that happen?”
“Why knows? Maybe he was an evil man and deserved it. Or maybe he was a good man and is now enjoying Paradise.”
Faisal blinked. “Europeans go to Paradise? I thought that was only for Muslims.”
“They’ll get there quicker than little street thieves,” Moustafa snapped. “Who knows? God is mysterious. Perhaps some good Christians go to Paradise. They are People of the Book, after all. What I’m trying to say is, that everything happens according to God’s will.”
Faisal frowned. Moustafa was taken aback. He’d never seen such an angry face on the boy before.
“So it’s God’s will that I have no parents and I live up … I live on the street?”
“God assigned everyone their portion,” he replied in a calming voice. “Maybe you’ll take the right path and be successful one day.”
“But only if God is willing. Why can’t I do it myself?”
Moustafa hesitated. For someone of such low station, this boy had remarkable pride. Then a story his father had told him back in his village in the Soudan came back to him.
“Look, do you know the story of Creation?”
“Sure! That’s when everything was created.” Faisal looked at him. “Right?”
Moustafa resisted the urge to throw him out the window. “Look. When God created the world, he created each animal one at a time. He created the monkeys, then the mice, then the scarab beetles—”
“Why did he create the monkeys before the mice?”
“I don’t know if He did. It’s just an example.”
“That why did you say it? Why not the mice first?”
“Shut up and listen! Anyway, as each animal was created, it said ‘God willing, I will fly.” The monkeys said this, but it did not happen and they accepted their fate. The mice said it and they didn’t get to fly either. Then crows said it and they did get to fly and praised—”
“But the scarab beetles came after the mice.”
“Pay attention! The point is that each animal put their faith in God and left it in His hands. But when it came the ostrich’s turn, it said ‘I will fly.’ It didn’t say ‘God willing’. Thus it became the only bird that cannot fly. It even has wings but they don’t do any good. Have you ever seen an ostrich? We have some in the south of my country. They flap their wings and flap their wings but they will never fly. At Creation they were too proud to put their faith in their Creator. God knew this because He knows all, and the ostriches were denied the flight the Creator had planned for them.”
Faisal rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
“So God knows all?” he asked.
Moustafa beamed at the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s correct.”
“And everything is according to God’s will.”
“Exactly! There’s hope for you yet.”
“Then God knew that the ostrich was going to say that, and so He never planned on letting them fly in the first place.”
“What? No, that’s—”
Faisal looked at him eagerly. “So if I say ‘God willing’ it doesn’t really matter, because God already knows whether I’m going to say it or not.”
“That’s crazy! What I mean is—”
Faisal jumped up and down. “I get it! So I can say whatever I want because God already decided what I’m going to say. And if I rob someone, that’s God’s will too!”
“You impertinent little—” Moustafa swung his arm out to knock him on the side of the head, but Faisal was too quick and ducked back.
“Thanks! It’s all clear to me. It’s God’s will that I’m poor and it’s God’s will that I’m a great thief. So it would be against religion for me to stop stealing.”
“Damn you, Little Infidel, I’ll tear you apart!”
Moustafa rushed after him, but Faisal darted out of reach. After chasing him around the showroom for a minute, Moustafa gave up.
Shaking his head, Moustafa went to the pantry, Faisal’s giggles taunting him. When he returned with the little brat’s lunch, he found Faisal crouched in a ball at the foot of the sarcophagus, pale and shivering.
“T-there’s a head in there!” the boy wailed.
“That should teach you not to peek around where you’re not welcome,” Moustafa said. It didn’t come out as cross as he intended. The boy looked beside himself. “Come on, get up. Here’s your lunch. Try to put it out of your mind.”
“They had a sack with them,” the boy whispered. “The head must have been inside.”
“I suppose so.”
At the door, Faisal turned to him, his face long with fear and worry. “These Apaches are as bad as the Egyptian gangs. Will the Englishman stop them?”
“Yes, with plenty of help from me, not that he’ll appreciate that enough.”
“Me too! I helped.”
Moustafa thought for a moment. “And you can help even more. You make a good spy. No one sees you. Search around and see what you can find out about these people. They seem to be establishing themselves here. All those thieves and lowlifes you waste your time with must be talking about them. Find out what you can.”
Faisal glanced at the sarcophagus and rubbed his neck. “It’s dangerous.”
“If you find out anything, we’ll pay you.”
Faisal looked at him as if he hadn’t thought of the possibility. Moustafa realized the boy really was scared. “Oh, um, all right.”
“Be careful, and report back as soon as you find out something useful,” Moustafa said as he let him out the door.
The boy wandered down the street, looking sick and not even wolfing down his food as he usually did.
As Moustafa watched him go, he felt a growing unease. He had already gotten Claude killed. He hoped he hadn’t put Faisal in danger too.
He sat down and studied the slip of paper, trying to puzzle out its meaning. After nearly an hour of staring, pacing, and staring again, he gave up. He got the feeling that the message was not intended for him anyway, but Mr. Wall. Perhaps he could shed some light on it once he got back from the grand distraction Russell Pasha had put in their path.
Moustafa went around the neighborhood again, asking if anyone had seen anything. He did not mention that the house had been broken into a second time, merely that he wanted to know if anyone had been seen lurking about. A sleepy-eyed Karim irritably told him that he had kept a sharp watch on the house and no one had even come close to it all night. Leaving the man without giving him the slap he so deserved, Moustafa checked on the neighbors and street idlers, but no one had seen a thing. The Apaches had been more careful this time.
Feeling at loose ends, he returned to the house and worked some more on his scientific paper. No one, not even the Apaches, would distract him from it. This would be the first step in a lifetime of scholarly work.
His tension eased as his mind was transported back to that wonderful time when Egypt and the Soudan were first among nations. The books Herr Schäfer had lent him were a gold mine. Just look at this frieze from a little-known tomb near Aswan. The style of the figures was Nubian through and through, and this in the XIV Dynasty, the late New Kingdom! And then there was this temple pylon just south of Thebes with exactly the same features. Of course this was XXII Dynasty and much later, but considerably further north. The Nubian incursion in the XXV Dynasty was only the political culmination of a cultural diffusion that had begun centuries before.
And he could prove it—with drawings in excavation reports, artifacts in the National Museum, and a stack of photographs.
Moustafa worked intently, the hours slipping by, but not unnoticed. He knew time was short. At any moment Mr. Wall would show up and whisk him off on that damned manhunt again.
Marcus Simaika’s offer whispered in his ears. Good pay. Artifact hunting trips. Learning a new language. He even would get to work with a fellow Egyptian, although a Christian one. A chance to be in the new order. And most of all, no murder investigations to waste his time and risk his life. He still hurt all over from Vincent’s kicks. Working for an Egyptian, he wouldn’t have to suffer any kicks.
He picked up the note the Apaches had left. One line in particular needled him.
“Too low. Too high. Perfect. Under the bridge. 100 cm.”
While the rest of the short note was just revolutionary babble, this line seemed to have substance.
But what?
A hundred centimeters was a meter. So something was a meter under a bridge? And why would that be the perfect level? The bridge over the Nile was higher than that.
Wait, no. While for most of its span it was higher than a meter above
water, on each side the riverbank gradually rose to meet it, so at some point the bridge was a meter above the surface.
He set the note aside and tried to get back to work, but the idea pestered him and wouldn’t allow him to concentrate. A meter under the bridge. There was a meter stick among Mr. Wall’s things. A “ruler” as some called it. The note had even had that word in all capital letters. He could go and check the bridge. There were only two spots to check, one on either side of the river.
Moustafa shook his head and tried to get back to work on his paper. Why couldn’t Mr. Wall check? It was that man’s ego insisting on doing work that should be better left to the police. He started to write.
A minute later he threw down his pencil with a growl. How maddening! He couldn’t do a thing until he had checked that bridge, and he didn’t even know what he was looking for! Stomping to the storeroom, he grabbed the meter stick and headed out the door. If this fool’s errand ended up with getting someone killed or himself beat up again, he would quit for sure. A week from now he could be exploring medieval monasteries and learning Coptic.
He got a tram to the bridge, standing in the second class carriage as it trundled along the tracks, leaving the native quarter behind and entering a richer neighborhood of Greek grocery shops, Jewish tailors, and Italian wine merchants. The independence movement still had a boycott against the tram, but that had mostly faded as the city eased back into a semblance of normal daily life. The car looked only a little less crowded than usual, and no one shouted at them from the street to get off like in the heady days of mass marches.
Had that been just a couple of months ago? It seemed like forever. The whole city had been in an uproar, with tens of thousands of people taking to the streets—Muslims, Copts, rich, poor. Even women.
He found his heart beating faster at the thought of it. The British had crushed the demonstrations, of course, but they had been put on the back foot. You could see it in their eyes. A lot fewer tourists ventured out of the international quarter. The police had a wary look to them. And while those here for a month or a season acted just as imperious as ever, longtime residents spoke to Egyptians with a bit more courtesy.
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 12