The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus

by Sean McLachlan

  He paused at the threshold. There were two rooms. The first was a plain little space with a desk covered in piles of paper and a typewriter. The room beyond was much nicer. The floor was covered in carpet and a picture of the English Sultan hung on the wall next to several photos of soldiers. There was a big desk covered with papers and ledgers. A telephone sat in one corner. Beyond the desk was a large window looking out past the walls of the Citadel to the sprawl of the city. Thousands of buildings clustered together, the spires of the mosques rising high above them. Along one wall stood a big wardrobe and some file cabinets.

  Faisal set the tea set down on the desk. Taking the letter out of his pocket, he put it on the commandant’s chair and glanced down the hall. No one.

  This was the only time he could be sure the Apaches couldn’t see what he was doing. He needed to leave a message for the Englishman. He was sure to come and investigate his friend’s disappearance. But how could he leave a message for him when he couldn’t write?

  Faisal hesitated. He didn’t have much time. What could he do? Draw a picture?

  He rushed over to Russell Pasha’s desk and found a pencil but no clean paper. The ledgers were all filled with writing and photos of Egyptians. Many of them had bruises on their faces. He tried to open the drawers but they were all locked and he didn’t have time to pick them in search of some unused paper. Faisal tried to draw on the stone walls the pencil tip broke without so much as leaving a mark. Stamping his foot, he looked around the room. What could he do?

  Then he saw a washbasin in the corner. Next to it stood a pitcher of water, a glass, and a washcloth.

  That gave Faisal an idea. He grabbed the cloth and laid it in on the floor where the Englishman would be sure to spot it, but out of sight of the door so no one in the hallway would see what he was doing. Filling the glass with water, he set it on the washcloth, then stuck the pencil in it. Then he took the rest of the water and poured it all around the washcloth.

  Just as he was replacing the ewer on the washbasin, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Faisal looked around. The office was at the end of a hall with no way out. He was trapped!

  He sped over to the wardrobe and opened it, thanking his luck that the door didn’t creak. Several coats and a uniform hung inside. He slipped in among the coats and closed the door behind him, leaving it open a crack so he could see.

  Russell Pasha strode into the room. As soon as he entered, he stopped and stared at the clue Faisal had left on the floor. Frowning, Russell Pasha glanced around the room.

  Faisal’s heart clenched. This was a policeman. Surely he’d see that the wardrobe door was open a bit when before it was closed. What a stupid thing to leave it open!

  But Russell Pasha did not see. He moved over to his telephone and picked it up. Just then he paused and stared at the chair where Faisal had left the message.

  Putting the telephone back down, Russell Pasha rounded the desk and picked up the message. He opened the envelope and took out the note within.

  His eyes went wide and his face paled as he read it.

  His hand made a fist, crumpling the note, and he bolted out of the room.

  As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded away, Faisal crept out of the wardrobe and peeked down the hallway. No one was in sight.

  Time to go. He only hoped the Englishman would figure out his message.

  “You did well,” Edmond said.

  They were back at al-Rawdah Island, living in that strange building that measured the river. Russell Pasha and another European were now their captives. Edmond had told him they were both bad men who had killed many Egyptians.

  The Apache leader pulled out a five-piastre coin. Faisal’s eyes went wide. Was that for him? Edmond made a fist and balanced the coin on top of it. Then he did something odd. With a flick of his thumb he made the coin spin up into the air. He caught it as it came down and repeated the movement. He had a way of flicking the coin so his thumbnail struck it and made the silver ring like a little bell. Faisal watched, fascinated.

  “Want this coin?”

  “Yes.”

  “For your little spell?”

  “It’s not little. It’s very powerful.” Faisal wondered if this counted as stolen money or not.

  Edmond chuckled. “Well, most people waste their money. The men who follow me waste it on booze and gambling and … other things you’ll understand when you’re older. I guess a spell is no more wasteful than those things.”

  He flicked it to him. Faisal caught it.

  “How do you do that?” Faisal asked.

  Edmond looked surprised. “You don’t flick coins here?”

  “No. Somebody would grab it.”

  “I suppose that’s right in your case. But would you try to steal a coin from me?”

  Faisal shook his head.

  “You’re young and small and you get picked on. I was like you once. But I learned to fight and I learned to survive. You’ve done well to last this long, but you need to get together with a group that will watch your back, then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  Faisal didn’t say anything. He was afraid, but he had to be afraid. The streets were a scary place. That’s why he was so happy to have his little shack on the Englishman’s roof. Now he could sleep the whole night through without waking up at every little sound.

  “Here, let me show you how to flip a coin.”

  Edmond moved up beside him and arranged the coin in his hand. “Now just flip your thumb up, like so.”

  Faisal did as he was instructed. The coin made a little ringing sound and spun in the air. He caught it as it came down.

  “Got it right the first time! What a clever boy!”

  Faisal grinned at him, basking in the attention.

  “Too clever,” Hakim said, sitting nearby.

  Faisal grew tense.

  “Relax,” Edmond said with a chuckle. “Ignore Hakim’s threats. You are part of our gang now. You have performed your task wonderfully and have already been rewarded. You can be an Apache if you like. You can go far with us.”

  Faisal nodded, pretending to be eager. “That five piastres sure feels good in my pocket.”

  Suddenly he had a thought.

  “Why kidnap Russell Pasha and not just kill him?” he asked. “Are you hoping someone comes after him? This is a trap, isn’t it?”

  A trap for the Englishman. Anger simmered inside him. Chief Mohammed would never behave like these people.

  What Edmond said next made his anger go away and replaced it with confusion.

  “It is. You’re very observant. You’re a sharp one, Faisal. I might just have to adopt you as my own little Apache.”

  The words hit Faisal like a camel at full gallop. Adopt him? Did he mean that? Faisal had dreamed of being adopted for as long as he could remember, even back in the days when he still had a supposed father. A real set of parents, or even just one real parent, had been what he had always wanted.

  The next instant, Faisal cursed himself for being stupid. This Frenchman would be just as bad as his father. No, worse. When he disobeyed his father, all he got was a slap. If he disobeyed Edmond, he’d get his throat slit.

  He was probably lying about the adoption anyway, right?

  Edmond grinned at him.

  “Let’s see you flick the coin again.”

  Faisal couldn’t help but smile back. “All right.”

  19

  Police Sergeant Willard Todd looked like he was fighting an epic battle with panic and losing. He met Augustus at the gate to the Citadel, sweat beading on his face and his eyes bugging out of their sockets.

  “Thank you so much for coming at such short notice,” he said, sounding out of breath.

  “Don’t mention it. What’s this about a disappearance?”

  “Please keep your voice down until we’re in private. You’ll have to leave your servant here,” he said, nodding to Moustafa.

  “I trust my assistant imp
licitly.”

  Sergeant Todd hesitated a moment, then led them through the gates with quick, long strides. He was practically running.

  They entered a large office building across from the barracks. Sergeant Todd led them into an empty meeting room and closed the door.

  “The commandant has gone missing!”

  “What! When?”

  “This morning. His tea hadn’t been touched. Some officers saw him running out of the building like it was on fire. One said he clutched a letter in his hand. Sir Thomas ran right out of the Citadel and into the city. A witness there saw him grabbed by a group of European men and bundled into a motorcar.”

  “Did the witness get the license number?”

  “No, it drove off too quickly.”

  “It’s the Apaches, I’ll bet my life on it.” Then something struck Augustus as odd. “But why did you call me?”

  Despite the circumstances, Sergeant Todd could not suppress a smile.

  “You have quite the reputation among the men, sir. The khedive’s jewels, the murder of that French archaeologist, and several other cases. The commandant speaks quite highly of you when he isn’t damning your interference. He suspects you know more about this Apache affair than you’re letting on.”

  Augustus rubbed his jaw. “He’s right about that. But I have no idea where these fellows might be.”

  “There might be a clue in Sir Thomas’s office, sir. There’s something rather odd up there.”

  Sergeant Todd led them back into the hallway. “I’ve made sure no one touched anything, sir.”

  They headed to the commandant’s office. From the door, Augustus could see nothing amiss, but as he stepped into Sir Thomas’s office, he stopped abruptly and stared.

  A washcloth had been laid on the floor to one side of the door, out of sight of the hallway. On it, near one end, stood a glass of water with a pencil in it.

  “Oh, you want to lead me on a bit more, eh? Well, Monsieur Savatier, I will not disappoint you.”

  Augustus drew his gun and walked around the room with care, keeping an eye out for tripwires or some other sign of a trap.

  He found none, and found no other clue than the strange assembly on the floor.

  He stared at it for a time, deep in thought. Then he noticed a slight discoloration in the carpet around the washcloth. He bent down and found it was damp. Since Sir Thomas had disappeared more than an hour ago, and the water must have been poured shortly before, the carpet must have been soaked. Nothing stayed damp for long in Cairo. Glancing at the washbasin and ewer, he found them both empty. He turned back and studied the odd message on the floor. This and perhaps that letter Sir Thomas had been holding when he ran out was enough to shake the police commandant into some wild act. He had fled without telling anyone where he was headed or asking for backup.

  But why? And what did this message mean? He could come up with nothing. Water under the bridge the note had said. Water in a glass. Water. Water. But what? And why the damn pencil and washcloth?

  “You think you are cleverer than me, don’t you?” Augustus muttered. “Well, for the moment I will concede the point. But I’ll get you. Oh yes, I’ll get you.”

  “What could this mean, boss?” Moustafa asked, gesturing at the arrangement on the floor.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh dear, in all the excitement I completely forgot.” This came from Sergeant Todd, who stood at the doorway and stared down the hallway with an even more panicked expression than before.

  When Augustus peeked down the hallway, he nearly panicked too.

  Cordelia and Aunt Pearl walked toward the office, accompanied by an NCO.

  Good Lord, this woman is like a bad penny.

  He and the sergeant moved a bit down the hallway to meet them, and to keep them from looking inside the office.

  “Cordelia! So nice to see you,” he said in that superficial friendliness people seemed to find so engaging. “Hello Aunt Pearl. How are things?”

  “We were supposed to get a tour of the Citadel from my nephew,” Aunt Pearl said, sounding uncharacteristically sober. “It’s generally off limits to visitors but of course my nephew can open all doors. But now he’s not here! Quite irritating. He’s usually so punctual.”

  “Um, yes. I believe he is detained.”

  Sergeant Todd nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, quite busy. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  “Well, where is he?” Aunt Pearl demanded.

  “We can’t say for sure,” Sergeant Todd said, drawing the words out slowly as he thought them through. “He’s engaged in police work.”

  “Um, yes. Interviewing criminals, one might say,” Augustus added.

  Cordelia stepped forward, a nauseatingly eager look on her face.

  “That’s all right, Augustus, you can show us around.”

  “Um, no. You see, I don’t really know the Citadel. Off limits to civilians, as you say.”

  “I see,” Cordelia said, undaunted. “At least we could go to the ramparts. I’m sure it offers a splendid prospect. Can you see the Nile from here?”

  “The Nile?” Augustus said, something clicking in his head. Water. “One moment please. Sergeant Todd, perhaps you could take the ladies downstairs to the canteen for some tea? I’ll join you in a minute. I just need to, ah, speak with my assistant.”

  Augustus hurried back into the office, where Moustafa still stared at the odd arrangement on the floor. Augustus stared too, then pulled out the note the Apaches had left, reading the lines over and over.

  “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?”

  The penultimate line was clear enough from their actions. Several leading figures in the underworld had shown up dead, suggesting a power struggle. The last line and the first two seemed to suggest that they wanted him to join their ranks. Perhaps that’s what “under the bridge” meant, as in “water under the bridge”? He had been an officer that grim day as well, but Yves Savatier didn’t seem to hold that against him. Perhaps his well-known aversion to the local expatriate community had suggested to the Apaches that they could recruit him, although after the fight on the riverside that invitation most likely had been rescinded.

  Then there was this other clue: A washcloth laid out in the middle of the floor. A glass of water with a pencil in it. Water again.

  Under the bridge, under the bridge. Water under the bridge. Water too high? Water too low? But a hundred centimeters was perfect, apparently.

  A hundred centimeters. A meter. Water. Ruler or ruled.

  The answer hit him like a lightning bolt. Of course—measuring water! The Nilometer!

  The Nilometer was a stone-lined well on the southern tip of al-Rawdah island in the Nile. Its interior was marked with a ruler for measuring the level of the Nile. Too low and the crops would be bad and famine threatened. Too high and there would be floods and the result would be the same. Every ruler from the first pharaohs measured the level of the Nile. The washcloth was the island, the wet floor was the Nile. The pencil in the glass of water was the measuring column in the Nilometer well!

  He grabbed Moustafa by the shoulders.

  “The Nilometer! They’re summoning us to the Nilometer!”

  Augustus quickly outlined his train of thought. At first Moustafa looked doubtful, but as he went on, his assistant grew more and more enthusiastic.

  “Yes, that could be it! We should go right now.”

  Augustus glanced back at Aunt Pearl and Cordelia, who were just rounding the corner to go downstairs. “It’s certainly a good excuse to get away from their clutches.”

  They hurried back to the ladies.

  “Terribly sorry,” Augustus said brusquely, “must be off. Enjoy your day. Important business. Sergeant Todd, I leave you in charge.”

  Cord
elia looked stricken. “But—”

  “Sorry, some other time.” Augustus was already heading out the door. “Come, Moustafa, to the Nilometer!”

  In his eagerness to be off he didn’t notice that Cordelia had heard him, and her expression changed from one of surprise to determination.

  20

  The Nilometer wasn’t much to look at from the outside. The low, round building with a steepled roof looked more like a stubby minaret missing a mosque than the home of an important bit of medieval history. It was one of the oldest buildings in Cairo, dating all the way back to the great Umayyad dynasty more than 1,300 years ago.

  That small door he and Mr. Wall watched from a distance was closed, the custodian no doubt having left to attend noon prayers at the little village mosque on the other end of the island. Moustafa should have been there too but he was stuck hunting down murderers. He supposed that was the will of God, but nevertheless he would say a second round of prayers in the evening to compensate. He always seemed to be compensating when he worked for Europeans.

  The words of Marcus Simaika came back to him.

  “Once we have our freedom we will need trained men like you to manage our heritage. There could be a place for you in the new order.”

  Hadn’t he sworn he would quit if he got beaten up or shot at again? And here he was with fresh bruises thanks to his second encounter with Vincent.

  Moustafa took his mind off that temptation. He saw no point in dreaming of the future when he might not survive the next five minutes.

  He wished they had told that sergeant in the Citadel where they were going right away, but Mr. Wall reasoned that a whole troop of police coming over to the island would spook the Apaches into doing something drastic, while the two of them could come over relatively unnoticed. On the way, they had stopped at the house arsenal to grab weapons, and Mr. Wall had also taken a large hooded cloak to hide his features. While the boatman who took them across the water had seen one of his passengers was European, those on the island would not know and hopefully remain off their guard.