“I saw you taking the motorcar. You always go somewhere interesting when you take the motorcar.”
“You couldn’t have hidden in the back seat this time,” Moustafa said, his suspicion growing. “I was sitting in it with the Hanzades.”
“Oh, I, um, ran along behind you.”
Moustafa clipped him on the side of the head.
“Don’t lie!”
“Ow! It’s the truth.”
“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the ass! Now tell me what happened before I pull off your fingers one by one and feed them to the jackals.”
Faisal gulped. “I saw you come in here and looked for a back way in. The only one I found was this one, but the door was locked. So I sat in the alley hoping for it to open. What’s going on inside? Did you see some moving pictures?”
“Just answer the question, Faisal,” Mr. Wall said patiently. Too patiently. Just because Faisal had helped out on one or two cases, Mr. Wall had become far too indulgent with the little beggar.
“I was sitting there and that flute player came to the door and unlocked it.”
“Flute player?” Moustafa asked. The lice must have dug into the boy’s skull and eaten his brain.
“Sure, he was carrying a long reed flute. He unlocked the door and went in. Then I snuck in behind him. I didn’t like that room, though. Too many places for the djinn to hide. So I went back to the alley.”
“Then what?” Mr. Wall asked.
“The flute player came running out a few minutes later, with you two chasing him. He didn’t have his flute, though.”
“What’s this about a flute?” Moustafa demanded. “We were chasing a killer, not a member of some band!”
“I think I know,” Mr. Wall said. “Faisal, you stay here. We’ll be back.”
“Did I help? That’s got to be worth something. I only need—” Faisal’s voice was cut off as Mr. Wall closed the door on him. Moustafa gave a sigh of relief. That boy was more annoying than a swarm of mosquitos.
They reentered the storage cellar. By now another light had been switched on and several men were searching the room.
“He’s gone,” Mr. Wall told them. “He had a key to this back door and he left through it.”
“We’ll call the police,” one of the men said.
“And the professor?” Moustafa asked.
“Dead.”
Moustafa grimaced. That’s what he had suspected.
Mr. Wall did not grimace. The side of his face not covered by his mask was open and eager. He squatted near the back door and peered around him.
“Ah! There it is.”
He bent under an old desk and pulled out a reed tube about a meter long.
“This is the murder weapon,” Mr. Wall announced. “What Faisal mistook for a flute.”
Moustafa looked at it uncertainly. “How did it shoot the dart?”
“It’s a blow tube. You place the dart in, daubed with poison of course, and blow. The dart shoots out. Effective enough at short distances. They’re common in many jungle cultures around the world. Not known in this region at all. Our killer is obviously a traveler.”
Mr. Wall’s knowledge of Egyptology was only surpassed by his expertise in different and unusual ways to kill people.
“Why didn’t he just shoot the professor?” Moustafa asked. “Wouldn’t it have been more certain?”
“Perhaps. It’s one of the many questions we have yet to answer.”
Moustafa suppressed a groan. Mr. Wall had found another case.
CHAPTER THREE
Faisal didn’t know what to think. He had followed the Englishman to this place hoping to have some fun and instead someone got killed. People got killed around the Englishman a lot. Maybe someone had put a curse on him.
While that would be bad, this curse sure did make Faisal a lot of money. He always found ways to help the Englishman and that earned him some really big tips, plus lots of good food and even some rides in the motorcar. Once it had even gotten him into the place where they showed moving pictures.
It had nearly gotten him killed a few times too. Plus he had seen all sorts of terrible things like severed heads. He hoped whoever was dead inside this big English building didn’t have a severed head. He never wanted to see another one of those as long as he lived.
Faisal paced back and forth in the alley, thinking of the possibilities. What could he ask for this time? Money, of course. He always needed money. Maybe another trip to the moving pictures? Oh, and some sandals. The ones he had gotten as part of his disguise last time were almost worn out.
What was taking them so long? He stopped and stared at the door. They weren’t going to forget him, were they? Moustafa was always telling him to go away, but the Englishman knew better. He knew how useful Faisal was.
Maybe they had caught another killer inside? Maybe the whole band were killers and not just the flute player. The Englishman could be fighting for his life with a murderous drummer right this minute while Faisal cooled his heels outside.
It was up to Faisal to save him again.
Just as he made it to the door, the Englishman flung it open, knocking Faisal onto the ground.
“Faisal, where are you?” The Englishman looked around, then down at his feet. “Oh, there you are. What are you doing lying down at a time like this?”
“Ouch. Nothing. Did you catch anyone else?”
“No, the man worked alone. Did you get a good look at his face?”
Faisal nodded. He really had, and this would mean all sorts of good things if he could point the man out.
“What did he look like?” Moustafa demanded, appearing at the door.
Faisal hesitated. If he told them, they wouldn’t need him anymore.
“Oh, he’s hard to describe, but kind of unusual looking. I’d recognize him for sure.”
“Bah! The Little Infidel doesn’t know a thing,” Moustafa scoffed. “He’s just hoping for a handout.”
“I’m not!” Faisal whined.
“You say you saw him, but did he see you?” the Englishman asked.
Faisal shook his head. “No one sees me.”
“Just like we don’t want to see you,” Moustafa barked. “Now go away.”
The Englishman held up a hand. “Wait. If he says he saw the murderer’s face, I believe him. You better stay with us.”
Faisal stuck out his tongue at Moustafa, then had to scamper back as the Nubian tried to clout him.
“Behave,” the Englishman said, and held up the flute. “Have you seen this before?”
“Yes, it’s the flute the man was carrying.”
“If this is a flute, then it plays pretty deadly music.”
“How can music kill someone, you silly Englishman?”
The Englishman reached into his pocket. Faisal perked up. He was getting his reward so soon?
He deflated a little to see the Englishman only hand over a piastre.
“I deserve more than that if I help you catch the musician!” Faisal whined.
“You’ll get more if you catch him,” the Englishman said. “Go get yourself something to eat and bring it back here. Then stay put. We’ll need you later.”
The Englishman and Moustafa closed the door on him again.
Faisal shook his head in frustration. They were always leaving him behind when something interesting was going on. He bet something really interesting was happening in that big English building, and he didn’t get to see it. Maybe he could sneak in without them noticing him. There were a lot of Englishmen in that building, so it would be hard, but he could manage it.
His stomach grumbled.
He looked at the door, then looked at the piastre in his hand. His stomach grumbled again.
Food first.
He ran off to find the nearest falafel stand.
By the time he got back, several motorcars from the Colonial Police had parked in front of the building. He avoided them and went to the back alley, sitting against the w
all and eating his dinner. The Englishman, like all Englishmen, didn’t know the prices of things and so he had given him too much. That was all right. He had only spent half a piastre on the falafels and so had another half piastre left over for breakfast. He could go the ful stand where Mina worked and tell her he was working on a mystery for the Englishman again.
Faisal had to wait a long time. Once Moustafa popped his head out the door, shouted “Wait there!”, and then slammed it shut again before Faisal could say anything. Faisal shrugged. He was ten years old. Or maybe twelve. No, more like ten. Or eleven. Anyway, he had learned a lot in however long he had been alive, and one of the things that he had learned was that patience paid off. It sure paid off when you were waiting for everyone in a house to fall asleep before you snuck inside, or for a market stall owner who thought he was on to you to finally stop paying attention just long enough for you to swipe something.
At last Moustafa and the Englishman appeared. Faisal’s heart skipped a beat. They were not alone.
With them was the worst and most important Englishman in Cairo.
Sir Thomas Russell Pasha ran the Colonial Police. Faisal had snuck into his office once. That had been the scariest break-in he had ever done, and he didn’t even get anything out of it.
Well, he got a new djellaba and sandals to play the part. That was nice.
But those hadn’t been worth the danger. No.
The policeman said something in English to the Englishman, who turned to Faisal and asked him in Arabic,
“He wants a complete description of the man you saw.”
Faisal gulped. He could hold out on the Englishman, but he couldn’t hold out on Sir Thomas Russell Pasha. It looked like that piastre was all he was going to get.
“He was older. Not old, though. His hair was black, and he had a tanned face like a farmer or a road worker. Kind of a flat face. Lots of lines in it. He had a scar here on the left cheek and a short beard that was a bit messy and needed a trim.”
The Englishman translated this and the policeman laughed.
“Sir Thomas says you just described ten thousand people here in Cairo and probably a hundred thousand in all of Egypt.”
“I’d know him if I saw him again. Honest!”
“Was he with anybody?”
“No. Oh, I forgot to tell you. He was about as tall as Youssef.”
“Who?”
“The barber on our street.”
“You mean my street? You don’t live on my street. The neighborhood watchman would have beaten you flat by now.”
Karim? Ha! That old goat was so slow and stupid he couldn’t catch a blind donkey with a broken leg.
“That’s right, Englishman. I live on another street.”
The Englishman was very smart but also very easy to fool, which didn’t make any sense but that sure was lucky for Faisal, who had made a comfy home for himself in an abandoned shed on the Englishman’s roof. The Englishman never came up there. He always hid inside his house, hardly seeing anyone.
“We might need you again, Faisal, if we catch a suspect and want him identified. Come around to the house tomorrow.”
“I will. But what am I going to eat until then?” Faisal said clutching his stomach.
“You can eat garbage!” Moustafa shouted. “Stop asking for money every time you open your mouth.”
“Here,” the Englishman said, giving him another piastre while Moustafa grumbled. “Show up around sunset. We might have more on this case by then.”
Faisal jumped up and spun in the air.
“Thanks, Englishman! I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find out something more for you.”
He sure hoped so. The Englishman always paid well for information. Faisal needed to figure out where he could find the flute player who had killed someone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Augustus met with the chief of police at his favorite lunch spot, the front terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel. That is to say, it was Sir Thomas’s favorite spot. Augustus had no favorite spot, or rather his favorite spot was as far away from people as one could get.
But the chief of police had invited him because of the previous night’s murder. That piqued Augustus’ interest enough to show up. He assumed that because they would discuss police business, Sir Thomas wouldn’t bring any unwanted companions along. When Augustus arrived, he let out a sigh of relief to see he was right.
They sat as usual at a small table close to the end of the terrace. The terrace was set above and a bit back from the street, further protected by a railing of ornate ironwork. Lined up on the opposite side was a crowd of Egyptians selling tours, live animals, and fake antiquities. One fellow in a dirty yellow djellaba and matching skullcap had a tired-looking monkey in a small wire cage. A parrot perched on another man’s shoulder nearby screeched at the monkey. The monkey banged on the wire cage, baring its teeth at the parrot. Vendors shouted at the Europeans having breakfast. Traffic blared. The hotel guests carried on with their conversations.
“Do you pick this table because it’s so loud here it’s impossible for people to eavesdrop?” Augustus asked.
“Of course, my good man. The only more private spot is my office on the Citadel, only that’s a long way off. The crime happens down here in the city, so this is where I prefer to be.”
Augustus nodded. Sir Thomas was a conscientious and hardworking enforcer of the law, although a tad unimaginative. The stranger aspects of the more unusual cases tended to elude him. Augustus suspected that was why he was here eating lunch with him.
He did not expect what the police chief said next, however.
“You’ve come in on the final stages of an extensive investigation, old chap.”
“Have I?”
“Indeed. We have been investigating a series of crimes connected with members of the Geographical Association of Egypt for some time.”
Sir Thomas dug into his eggs Benedict as he let this sink in. Augustus took a sip of his coffee, waiting to hear more. He had often helped the police chief on various affairs. This was the first time he was being asked in so late in the game, however. That murder taking place right in front of him proved fortuitous.
“We received a complaint from a clerk at the society a few months ago, saying that the assistant director, one Carl Riding, was embezzling money by funding expeditions that never materialized. Poor old Sir Archibald Windell is very much a figurehead, you see. A bit too long in the tooth to pay attention to affairs, so Riding is the man really running the show. The clerk said the money would be itemized and doled out to private parties for work all up and down the Nile, but no results ever came back. This has been happening for years and the supposed recipients of the funds came up with various excuses for their failures—sickness among the party, a boat capsizing and losing all the artifacts and photographic plates, that sort of thing. These were all relatively modest expeditions spread out over the course of several years, so no one noticed at first. It was only after some time in Riding’s office that the clerk realized what was happening. Fearing his position if he spoke out at the society, since he didn’t know who else might be in on the game, he came to us.”
“An honest man. Your clerk is a rarity.”
“Indeed. It would make my job quite a bit easier if there were more of his ilk. At first we thought this to be a routine affair. We had a man watch Riding and discovered something rather surprising. He was funding expeditions, just not the ones he said he was. It appears that the recipients of the money did buy the equipment they said they would, and did set out from Cairo. So far their destination and purpose is unknown to us.”
“Do you have the dates and personnel for these expeditions?”
“I’ll send you a list, but it won’t do you much good, I’m afraid. As far as we can tell all the names and institutional affiliations are fake.”
“Was Professor Harrell funded by the society?”
“Yes, but here’s the interesting part. His was a legitimate operation. Ri
ding also doled out funds to real expeditions using real scholars that came back with real results. Harrell’s was one of them.”
“I suppose the society couldn’t fund only false expeditions without being revealed,” Augustus mused.
“What’s more, the good professor had requested a meeting with me.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, he sent me a note the other day. We were supposed to meet this morning. A pity he didn’t tell me what he wanted to see me about.”
“You should have met him earlier.”
“Indeed.”
“You seem to have found a most interesting puzzle.”
Sir Thomas grinned and popped the last bit of egg into his mouth. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “A puzzle that is all but complete, my friend. Our man watching Riding, along with the assistance of the clerk, has discovered at least three respected members of the society who have knowledge of what Riding has been doing. They are all listed as donors to various false expeditions. Other donations are listed as anonymous.”
“And Riding wouldn’t solicit donations from people who weren’t in on the game, because he’d have difficulty explaining why none of these expeditions ever succeed.”
“Precisely. And the clerk took a peek at the donation records and found these three individuals only contributed to the false expeditions. I’ll write down their names, and the name of the clerk. A most enterprising fellow, but don’t contact him unless absolutely necessary. He quite rightly fears for his position and doesn’t want his work for us to be revealed.”
“I’m sure you’ve gotten all you can out of him,” Augustus said, while adding silently, and anything more interesting I’ll have to dig up myself.
“What we really want to know are the identities of those anonymous donors,” Sir Thomas said. “We’re thinking they were in the audience, and that Harrell was mixed up in it somehow, and that he was killed not only to keep him quiet, or to keep him from learning something, but also to keep others quiet.”
“So Harrell’s very public killing was to send a warning of some sort.”
The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 2