Edmond nodded. “This is the uniform the tea boys wear at the Citadel. I have connections there and can get you in without you having to show your papers. Once inside, you can pass without notice.”
Faisal’s heart pounded. “You want me to break into prison? Who does such a thing?”
Edmond laughed. “No, not the prison part of the Citadel, although we will break out those prisoners in good time. I want you to go into the offices.”
Faisal blinked. That did not sound like an improvement. Then a realization struck him.
“Sir Thomas Russell Pasha! You want me to get at him.”
“Look at this clever boy,” Edmond said with a smile, and Faisal could not help but feel good at the compliment. Hardly anyone ever said nice things to him. “Yes, you will meet with my contact. He’s an Egyptian policeman we have in our pay. He will get you inside and then you can pass unnoticed among the buildings.”
“Won’t they notice I’m a new face and stop me?”
Edmond cocked his head. “Will they?”
Faisal thought for a moment. “No. No they won’t. They never recognize us.”
Except for the Englishman.
“Exactly. And when you get into his office, you will put a letter on his desk. That’s all you have to do.”
“What does the letter say?”
At that, Edmond only smiled.
16
“Damn it, Moustafa, why did you have to call them!”
“Because there’s a dead man in our showroom, boss. The canopic jars are beginning to smell funny.”
Augustus grunted and went back to the front door, where Sir Thomas was still patiently knocking.
“Just as I thought,” the police commandant said as Augustus let him in, “taking police work into your own hands.”
“Why do you say that?” Augustus asked, trying to put an innocent tone in his voice. A colonial policeman followed Sir Thomas in. Augustus looked past them and did not see Cordelia or Aunt Pearl.
Thank God for small favors, he thought.
“Because you hid a body and interfered with a crime scene,” Sir Thomas said. “Those are criminal offenses, my good man. Now where is it?”
Augustus glared at Moustafa, who gave him a defiant look in return, and led Sir Thomas and the policeman to the sarcophagus and canopic jars. He lifted the lid of one and Sir Thomas peered inside, wrinkling his nose.
“All four are full with Claude Paget’s internal organs. His head is in the sarcophagus,” Augustus told him. “Paget was a doorman who acted as a messenger for the Apaches.”
“So you actually slept last night knowing these body parts were in the house?” Sir Thomas sounded more angry than shocked.
“I spent three years in France sleeping with body parts. One gets used to it.”
“That was France, this is Cairo. The war is over and it is about time you accepted that.”
“The Apaches haven’t accepted it, so why should I?”
Sir Thomas frowned. “What do you mean?”
Augustus paused. How much should he tell him?
He glanced at the sarcophagus. Two men were dead and he was still far from finding the culprits. As much as he wanted to solve this himself, at this point the police needed to know everything.
“Let’s step away from the others, shall we?” he said in a low voice.
Augustus took him to the other side of the room and showed him the note left by the Apaches. Sir Thomas paled as he stared at it, and his hand began to tremble.
“Whatever is the matter?” Augustus asked.
“Nothing. Go on,” the commandant said, handing the note back to him.
Augustus related what had happened in the belly dancing bar, although replacing Moustafa with himself. He had no doubt that if he told Sir Thomas the truth, Moustafa would get in trouble. He did not mention the fight by the river. The fight would land him in even more trouble.
Sir Thomas seemed to listen with only half an ear. He looked at the floor, still pale, nodding occasionally.
“Do you have any idea what this note means?” Sir Thomas asked softly.
“I’ve been puzzling over it for some time now.”
“And the … firing squad?”
Augustus’ breath caught. “No.”
The police commandant gave him a sharp look. Augustus didn’t say a word. His wartime crimes were his business, and taking on the Apaches was his fight.
After a moment, Sir Thomas shook his head and chuckled. The laughter sounded false. “My good man, leave police work to the professionals. If you wanted to tail this Claude Paget fellow, you should have sent your man instead of yourself. You would be easily recognized, while he could have blended in with the crowd. He could have also questioned the native doormen on Paget’s street to find out more information.”
“I must admit I didn’t think of that. Yes, I suppose I should leave it to the professionals.”
Sir Thomas patted him on the shoulder.
“You got lucky with the khedive’s jewels. Don’t let it go to your head. Now I’m willing to overlook the crime of hiding a body, and I’m willing to overlook the fact that you engaged in police work without permission, but here’s my price. You will stay out of it from now on. I have enough on my hands without having to keep an eye on you. The whole city is going mad.”
“I haven’t heard of any more protests.”
“No, not that. We’ve taken the wind out of their sails. It’s the underworld. Several major crime figures have turned up dead. An illegal casino owner was found with his throat slit, a couple of gang leaders found strangled, and a pimp was found floating in the Nile. There’s probably more we haven’t found yet.”
“The Apaches are gaining a foothold.”
Sir Thomas scoffed. “You read too many illustrated papers. They aren’t criminal masterminds, just a few political fanatics here on a vendetta. No, I suspect it’s some native group.”
“Natives led by the Apaches.”
Sir Thomas shook his head.
“No, my good man. Now where will you be today? I want to know so I can keep an eye on you.”
Augustus almost came out with a lie until he realized he would be in too public of a place not to be seen.
“I am having lunch at the Continental. After that I’ll be here in my shop.”
“Very good. My man is cleaning up that mess in your showroom. I’m afraid we’ll have to take those jars as evidence. Stay out of trouble.”
Within a few minutes Sir Thomas, the colonial policeman, the canopic jars, and Claude Paget’s head were all gone.
“I got you off the hook for the belly dancing bar by saying I went,” Augustus told his assistant. “Although I was tempted to let you hang. You’ve severely interfered with our ability to solve this case.”
“Monsieur Paget deserves a decent burial. It is humiliating to be chopped up like this.”
“It might happen to the two of us if we’re not careful. You want out?”
Moustafa thought for a moment, then shook his head. “The Apaches need to be stopped.”
Augustus smiled. “And we’re the ones to do it, not that windbag who just left.”
Moustafa smiled back. “Now what do we do, boss?”
“I have a lunch date with Zehra,” he said, his heart lifting. “Perhaps she can throw some more light on this. After that I suspect there will be more night work.”
The dining hall at the Continental more closely resembled a post-Reformation cathedral than a restaurant. Lofty ceilings held up by soaring arches, painted white and devoid of decoration and all but the simplest of architectural embellishment, dwarfed the guests seated at the tables. The atmosphere seemed to encourage a respectful hush. Even those already well into their third drink—and there were many of those of both sexes—managed to keep their voices to a respectful level. This was encouraged by the waiters, all Nubian, who asked what the “good gentlemen” and “good madam” would like in voices barely above a whisper.
If Augus
tus had to go through the ordeal of dining outside his home, he preferred coming here. The lack of inane babble, or at least his inability to hear very much of it, made it an attractive option.
Today it seemed like the most beautiful place in the world, because Zehra Hanzade was in it. She looked radiant as usual in one of her unlimited number of gorgeous Ottoman caftans, this one a brilliant turquoise with silver embroidery. As usual, she let her luxuriant black curls fall around her shoulders.
She was the only Turk in the dining room, and the sharp looks she got from the English ladies filled Augustus’s heart with joy. He was equally happy to see that her husband had not come. Not that he had anything against Suleiman. He was a good man, a trustworthy business partner, and an expert in forging antiquities, it’s just that Augustus wished he didn’t exist.
“It is so good to see you again,” Zehra said as they sat down. “We really must see more of one another.”
A waiter, obviously charmed, hurried up to take their order.
“Mango juice and the Greek salad. It’s always nice to have something from the former colonies,” she told him.
“Those Greek statues you have in your house make quite the collection,” Augustus said. He and Moustafa ordered. His assistant looked ill at ease but Augustus barely noticed.
“Ah, but the Greeks sculptors were masters at creating beautiful bodies,” Zehra said. “Do you remember my gladiator? The one in the drawing room? Such a perfect example of the manly form.”
Augustus gulped. Zehra extended a hand. On her wrist was a slim gold Rolex studded with emeralds.
“I just bought this downtown. Do you like it?”
“It’s exquisite, but didn’t you already have a Rolex?”
Zehra laughed, a clear resonant sound like church bells.
Oh, church bells, Augustus thought. Ringing for me and her.
“Really Augustus, a lady can never have too many Rolexes. Or gladiators.”
Zehra took off the watch and laid it on Augustus’s wrist. Her touch nearly gave him a coronary.
“Hmmm, not suitable for a man. You need something more robust.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Speaking of robust warriors,” Zehra said, fixing him with a delicious look that he knew he’d carry with him for days to come, “we have a new stock of friezes showing battle scenes. Pharaohs smiting enemies and shooting from the backs of chariots. Would you be interested in some for your shop?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll sell well. Send them over. We’ll arrange the price later.”
Zehra smiled. “You have such excellent taste, Augustus.” Her gaze lingered on him. “I’d like to think I have excellent taste too. In fact, I know I do.”
Oh, Zehra. You do have a way with words.
They chatted amiably through the appetizer and the main course, and it was only after some persistent nudging from Moustafa that he remembered the supposed reason for this meeting. The nudging also reminded him that Moustafa was still at the table.
“Ah, yes,” Augustus cleared his throat. “The case.”
Augustus outlined what they had learned and experienced since last they met. Zehra listened with interest, and Augustus swelled with pride at the admiring look she gave him when he recounted the fight on the river. Once he finished, she thought for a moment and shook her head.
“I haven’t learned any more about the Apaches. They haven’t approached any other antiquities dealer. I suspect as experienced as they are, they wouldn’t try the same trick twice. They know you’re after them.”
“Hmm, then we’re stumped.”
Zehra brightened. “Ah, perhaps not! I did hear that one of the families in our neighborhood suffered a break-in. The thieves took a number of diamonds from the safe.”
“From the safe? Had it been blown open?”
“No, the robbery happened while the family was at home asleep. Someone snuck in somehow, opened the safe with the combination, and then left. There was no sign of a break in.”
“Where is the safe?”
“In the study.”
“Was the front door bolted like mine?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like our men. One of the Apaches must be a professional safe cracker.”
“Or the master slipped up and opened the safe in front of a servant, who then sold the information to the Apaches. None of the staff who live in the servant’s quarters did it. They were thoroughly questioned and their rooms searched.”
“Who does that leave?” Moustafa asked.
“The chef and the second footman,” Zehra said. “They both live in their own homes.”
Augustus smiled. “Been doing a bit of sleuthing, have you?”
She fixed him with those warm brown eyes. “Anything for you, Augustus.”
If only that were true, madam.
Moustafa began to speak. It took Augustus a force of will to put aside his fantasies.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Augustus asked.
“I said that the chef is an unlikely suspect because he would be in the kitchen most of the time and would rarely come upstairs, and when he did would more than likely take instructions from the lady of the house, who would generally be in the drawing room. The second footman serves drinks and takes mail, so is much more likely to enter the gentleman’s study.”
Zehra nodded. “That’s good reasoning.”
“So we must find out where this second footman lives,” Augustus said.
Zehra handed him a slip of paper. “His name is Idris Wakil. Here’s his address. I had one of my servants go to the house where he works to deliver a letter and check on him. He’s working today and will be off at sunset. Shall we go pay him a visit?”
“Best if you don’t go. The last time we ran into these chaps we had a bit of shooting.”
Zehra tut-tutted. “Why do men have all the fun?”
“There’s nothing fun about getting shot at,” Augustus said. Moustafa nodded, rubbing his shoulder where the Apache’s bullet had grazed him.
“Then why do you keep finding opportunities for that to happen?” Zehra asked.
“They seem to find me,” Augustus grumbled, then saw trouble. “Oh good Lord.”
Sir Thomas and Cordelia had made an appearance. They spotted him from across the room and approached their table. Augustus and Moustafa stood.
“Augustus! What a coincidence!” Cordelia said.
“Yes. Coincidence,” Augustus grumbled.
She barely glanced at Moustafa and then her eyes settled on Zehra. A trace of a frown, quickly suppressed, passed over her features.
“And who is this?” Zehra said.
“Cordelia Russell, may I introduce Zehra Hanzade, a fellow antiquities dealer and close friend.” Augustus decided to emphasize “close” and leave out the “Mrs.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Cordelia said in a flat voice.
“And this is Sir Thomas Russell Pasha, commandant of the Cairo police.”
“Ah, you poor man!” Zehra said. “You have inherited all the troubles we Ottomans used to have with this country.”
“The Egyptians are a spot of trouble, madam, but we have them well in hand,” Sir Thomas said, bowing slightly but not taking his eyes off her. He turned to a waiter standing nearby.
“Bring the menu, will you? And get the lady whatever she wants.”
“A lemonade, please,” Cordelia said.
“And a scotch and soda for me,” Sir Thomas said.
They all sat. Cordelia beamed at Augustus. To his eternal gratitude, Zehra shifted her seat ever so slightly closer to him. Just a little. Just enough. The look on Cordelia’s face was priceless.
“Hard at work on the case?” Augustus asked the police commandant, lacing his question with an ironic tone.
Sir Thomas lit a cigarette.
“A fellow deserves some rest once in a while. After all, it’s just the underclass killing one another. I have several good men on it.”
&nb
sp; “Only the underclass? I heard a European was attacked by the river,” Augustus said, then realized he had slipped.
Sir Thomas gave him a sharp look. “That wasn’t in the papers.”
Luckily Zehra came to his rescue. “I heard about it through the rumor mill. One hears such things when one deals with the public.”
“He was a rather low character, despite his station,” Sir Thomas said.
“Oh I don’t think that would stop Ms. Hanzade from knowing him,” Cordelia said, then as a cover quickly added. “All sorts buy antiquities, just think of that odd gentleman who wanted canopic jars full of actual organs.”
Sir Thomas nearly dropped his cigarette. Augustus turned away. He didn’t want to know the expression on his face. In any case, the front was flaring up in a different sector.
“Yes, you do get the occasional low person coming to look at my stock. Mostly those here for the season,” Zehra said, giving Cordelia a withering look.
“Oh, I bet you get all sorts of men looking at your stock,” Cordelia replied.
“Perhaps that’s because my stock is more attractive to them than what others have to offer.”
“Cheap price, too.”
Augustus cleared his throat. “Ah look, drinks!” He grabbed a glass of whiskey off the tray.
“Sir, that is for a different table,” the waiter said.
“Then it’s on me,” Augustus said, downing it.
The drinks did not douse the fireworks.
“You have quite the unusual name,” Cordelia said. “What is it, gypsy?”
Zehra’s eyes sparked, showing Cordelia had landed a hit. To Zehra’s credit, Cordelia lived through the next several seconds.
“No, it is Ottoman. You’ll find it to the east of Greece.”
“Oh, my relations found it easily enough during the war.”
Sir Thomas tried to cut in but his words got drowned out by Zehra’s riposte.
“Pity your relations didn’t find it four thousand years ago when we had a great civilization and you were painting yourselves blue and dancing around stone circles.”
Augustus made a quick decision. He needed to get out of here not only for his own sanity but to shake Cordelia once and for all.
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 18