John reached for my hand. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I said snuffily.
“You had me on the verge of tears,” John said, handing me a handkerchief. (He always has one.) “And you’ve convinced me. God knows I’d rather have Schmidt on our side than against us.”
“Furthermore…Oh. You agree? So what’s the plan?”
“You meet him at the Savoy as promised, enjoy a hearty breakfast, hop in a cab, and head for Heathrow. I’ll meet you there. International terminal, half past ten.”
I had more or less expected it. “What’ll I tell Schmidt?”
“If I know Schmidt, all you need say is that we are off on another thrilling adventure and that I will fill him in on the details in due course. You have sworn an oath of secrecy,” said John, warming to the theme, “and dare not divulge the plans of the mastermind. (That’s me.) We are all in deadly peril until we arrive at our destination, at which time he will be formally inducted into the cabal. We might have a little ceremony, handing out disguises and masks and the like.”
John employed silliness as a defensive weapon. It was contagious—to such an extent that when he asked if I felt like a snack I declined in favor of another variety of amusement.
S chmidt’s reaction to the change of plan wasn’t what I had expected or John had predicted. When I told the cabdriver we wanted to go to Heathrow instead of the V and A, he looked as if he had just been informed of the death of a close friend.
“So, you are on the run,” he said, his brows knit. “Again.”
“We are on the run,” I corrected. “What’s the matter, Schmidt? I thought you enjoyed adventures.”
“Yes, yes,” Schmidt said testily. “But why did you not tell me? How can I set off for—for some unknown destination without my luggage?”
He had the most important things—his passport—and his laptop, encased in elegant leather. I doubted that he would have been allowed to take it into the museum, but there was no point in bringing that up since we weren’t going there anyhow. He wasn’t much worse off than I. I had crammed a change of underwear and a toothbrush into my backpack. Sooner or later somebody was going to have to buy me a new wardrobe. I hoped it would be Schmidt. He was more generous than John.
Reasonably enough, Schmidt wanted to know where we were headed. And why. John’s speech, which I repeated almost verbatim, didn’t improve his mood. After announcing that he would ask no further questions, he relapsed into sullen silence, arms folded and lower lip outthrust. That wasn’t like Schmidt, and if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with other worries, I might have wondered what was up. Not that it would have mattered in the end.
John was waiting for us, boarding passes in hand. Schmidt snatched one of them.
“Berlin,” he said flatly.
“Berlin?” I said, on a rising note.
“We’ve just time for a coffee,” said John, taking Schmidt’s arm.
He stuck as close to Schmidt as a long-lost brother, through security, and even into the Gents. When we boarded, I was relegated to a seat between two strangers while John snuggled up next to Schmidt several rows forward.
Always expect the worst; then you are never disappointed. Always prepare for the worst; then you are never caught off guard. It was one of John’s basic rules of operation, but I felt sure that in this case he was overdoing it. Schmidt was acting strangely, but it was inconceivable that the old (oops) boy was up to no good.
I hadn’t brought anything to read, so after perusing the in-flight magazine and deciding which Hermès scarves I would have selected if anybody had offered to buy me a few, I tried to figure out why we were going to Berlin. I hoped we weren’t headed for a meeting with a German version of Bernardo. A German version of Monsignor Anonymous? Somebody connected with the museum? Maybe I could make myself a sign and join the picket line. If it didn’t accomplish anything else it would annoy the hell out of Perlmutter, especially if I could get on television. Ah well, I thought, mine not to reason why, mine but to follow blindly where the mastermind led. I might as well be married. Love, honor and especially obey.
There was no hired car waiting outside the terminal, but the hotel to which the taxi delivered us bore a certain resemblance to the one in Rome—in a quiet neighborhood, small, unobtrusive. The desk clerk did not indicate recognition of John, but after he had consulted with the manager we were given a suite, with two bedrooms, which strongly suggested hanky-panky past if not present. We showed ourselves up; within a few minutes a waiter arrived with a bottle of wine.
Schmidt had managed to get into the bathroom unescorted. When he came out he looked unenthusiastically at the wine.
“A pleasant little Merlot,” John said. “You prefer red wine, I believe.”
“I would rather have beer.”
“Certainly.” John picked up the telephone. “A small snack, perhaps? What would you like?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Schmidt,” I said, genuinely alarmed. “It’s past time for lunch. I feel sure they can supply anything you want.”
Impassive as a mustachioed Buddha, Schmidt stared off into space. John ordered, more or less at random, and sat back, arms folded.
“The time has come,” said he, in measured tones. “To tell all.”
Schmidt muttered something.
“What?” I said.
“You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“Your absolute trust and loyalty touches me to the depths of my heart,” said John, placing his hand on the approximate location of that organ. “It is because I feel the same for you that I want you to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but—”
“Cut that out,” I said irritably. “This is what happened, Schmidt. Three days ago…”
John kept trying to interrupt, but I was in no mood for his rhetorical embroidery. I made it simple and as short as the complexities allowed. Schmidt transferred his fixed stare to me; his eyes got wider and his mouth fell open.
“Tut?” he gasped. “They have stolen King Tut?”
“And they think I did it. They,” John explained, “being an indeterminate but measurable number of individuals involved in my erstwhile profession.”
“Crooks,” I translated.
A gurgling sound emerged from Schmidt’s open mouth.
“I am innocent, Schmidt,” John intoned. “Innocent as a new-laid—”
I poked him in the ribs. “This is no time for levity.”
“I wasn’t being levitous,” John said indignantly. Returning his candid blue gaze to Schmidt, he went on, “I am appealing to you, Schmidt. For old times’ sake, and because you are the wisest, most courageous ally I could ever want. Will you—can you—help me to clear my name?”
Schmidt sat down on the sofa and burst into tears.
He’s very sentimental, is our Schmidt, but these tears weren’t a gentle trickle from an overflowing heart, they were a flood, a torrent that soaked the ends of his mustache and wandered around the creases in his cheeks until they found their way to his chin and poured off.
I went to him and tried to put my arm around him; he fended me off with a frantic flapping of hands.
“No, do not be nice to me. I do not deserve it. I have betrayed you!”
FIVE
T he scene ended on that dramatic note, because the waiter turned up with our order. Sobbing, Schmidt fled into the bedroom. John gestured to me to open the door, and flattened himself against the wall, prepared, I assumed, to defend me from pistol-packing waiters. This one had thinning gray hair and an expansive stomach. If he was a member of a gang, the gang must be pretty hard up. John indicated he need not linger; he gave me a genteel leer and took himself off.
Hearing the door close, Schmidt made a tentative appearance. Everything drooped—mouth, mustache, both chins.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he whimpered.
I gave him a big hug. John said, “Have a beer.”
It was probably the beer, n
ot the hug, that did the trick.
“I will not weep again,” Schmidt announced after a long swig. “I will show the stiff upper lip. And I will bare my chest.”
John gallantly resisted that one. I joined Schmidt in a beer and John had a glass of wine. Health fanatics be damned, there’s nothing like a little alcohol to relieve stress and create a cozy atmosphere. The beer and the prospect of clearing his conscience did wonders; Schmidt was himself again, his cheeks pink and his eyes candid.
“Suzi put you up to this,” I prompted.
“I will tell it,” said Schmidt, manfully squaring his shoulders. “We were in your house, to look after Clara, as I promised. Clara did not want Suzi to look after her. She growled and spat and was rude. So I went to get her food and while I was doing that, Suzi went into your bedroom. When I found her there I was shocked—shocked! And then she told me. That a valuable, unique antiquity had been stolen from Egypt, and that you, John, were the principal suspect.”
He looked hopefully at John, who promptly provided him with another beer. “She didn’t tell you what antiquity,” he said. It was not a question; Schmidt’s drop-jaw astonishment had been proof that Tut had not been mentioned.
“She said she was not at liberty to do so. Natürlich, I thought of the great statues in the museum, Khafre and Menkaure, and the golden coffin and mask, the fabulous jewels. Who would bother to steal a dried-up ugly mummy?
“But now I understand why you are under suspicion. The caper has your trademark, nicht wahr? She knows who you are, John—who you were. She has not told her superiors, because she wants the credit of bringing you to justice.”
“So that’s it,” I said. “Before we left Egypt last time, I had a hunch she had fingered John but that she wasn’t blowing the whistle because she liked us and was sorry for us.”
“And because at that point she couldn’t prove anything,” said John.
“Right. God, what a sucker I am!”
“You trust people,” John said. “It is a serious character flaw which I have endeavored without success to correct. So, Schmidt, when she asked you to play spy, you agreed.”
Schmidt hung his head. “I was a besotted old fool. But, my friends, I swear to you that I agreed only because I knew I would find proof of your innocence. I will find it! And I will hurl it in her face!”
“So that pitiful story about Suzi breaking up with you was pure fiction?” I inquired.
“She told me what to say,” Schmidt admitted. “But it was my performance that convinced you, is that not so?”
“It convinced Vicky,” John said. “She trusts people. Especially her friends.”
“But you do not.” Schmidt gave him a reproachful look. “You made sure to be at my side every minute, so I could not text to her. Vicky—I would not have done it anyhow. From the moment I saw you again I was in agony, torn between friendship and—er—”
“Lust,” John suggested.
Lips pursed, Schmidt considered the noun. “Yes, yes, that was part of it. But only part. I loved her. She made me laugh.”
“Suzi?” I said. She hadn’t struck me as the funniest lady in the cabaret.
Schmidt blushed. “Private jokes, you understand. And she said that I did not owe you loyalty, John, because you had deceived me and lied to Vicky. But now I know she pretended to care for me only because she wanted to lay you by the heels. I have learned my lesson. Never again will I succumb to the lure of the flesh. The marriage of true minds, mutual respect, common interests, they will be my guiding principles.”
“Quite,” John said. “Go on. What other orders did she give you?”
“To report to her at once if you left London.”
“But you didn’t,” I said.
“No. No, I have told you—”
“They’ll track us down before long,” John said. “But it may take a little time. What else, Schmidt?”
“Only to pass on any information about your recent activities, persons you had contacted, but—”
“But you didn’t,” John said, with a curl of his lip. “Can I believe that?”
Schmidt wilted, and I said, “Lay off, John. I believe you, Schmidt.”
“So do I,” John said. The curl of his lip turned into a smile.
The declaration of faith cheered Schmidt enough to awaken his appetite; he started lifting covers, and browsed among the varied dishes while, at his suggestion, we gave him a rundown of our recent activities. Schmidt didn’t say much because his mouth was full, but he nodded and rolled his eyes and made inarticulate noises indicative of amazement, concern, and interest. Finally he sat back, wiped his chin, and opened another beer.
“Also,” he said. “Let us summarize. Feisal (poor Feisal!) is holding the fort in Luxor. The Supreme Council has not yet learned of the theft. Several dangerous persons have learned of it—Bernardo in Rome and at least one unknown party in London. They, however, are not the persons who committed the theft. Suzi has also found out. The dissemination of information seems random, but is it? Is there a pattern? A single source, vielleicht?”
“Very good, Schmidt,” I said. “If we knew the answer to that, we would be well on the way to learning not only the motive for the theft but the identity of the real thieves.”
“Possibly,” said Schmidt. He steepled his fingers and peered at me over them. I recognized the Sherlock Holmes persona. Well, he was entitled, bless his heart. I remained respectfully silent and, for a wonder, so did John.
“You seem to have considered most of the possible motives,” Schmidt resumed. “The most likely would seem to be simple greed. Ransom, to be precise. But if that is the case, why has not the Egyptian government or the Supreme Council been approached?”
“How do we know they haven’t been?” John asked.
“I was about to make that point,” Schmidt said, giving John a Holmes-to-Watson look. “They would have good reason to remain silent.”
“No, but surely their first move would be to make sure he was missing,” I argued. “Tut, I mean. Feisal is sounding nervous, but not as frantic as he surely would be if somebody from the SCA had demanded entry into the tomb.”
“This is all idle speculation,” Schmidt grumbled. “There is one way to find out for sure whether the secretary general of the SCA has received a ransom note. We will ask him.”
W hat Schmidt meant was “I will ask him.” He claimed to be a dear personal friend of Khifaya. He thought he was a dear personal friend of everybody he’d ever met, but his connections and his reputation did give him an edge when it came to extracting information. I offered, out of the goodness of my heart, to approach Khifaya by joining the picket line at the museum. Schmidt thought this was a fine idea. He would carry a sign too. However, we were doomed to disappointment. Khifaya had left Berlin.
Hovering over his laptop, Schmidt continued to search the more esoteric reaches of the World Wide Web, from one of which he had retrieved that information. Khifaya was no longer an item of current interest, but his name turned up in a lot of places, including his Web site. So did Tutankhamon’s, although he didn’t have his own Web site.
“Nothing relevant to our inquiries,” Schmidt announced, rolling the r. “We must proceed forthwith to Egypt.”
“In hot pursuit of Khifaya?” I asked hopefully.
“Has anyone a better suggestion?” Schmidt demanded.
John put down the wurst on which he had been nibbling. “I wondered when someone would ask me.”
“Consider yourself asked,” I said, investigating the cheese selection.
“I had several reasons for coming to Berlin,” John said. “The notion of joining the picket line had its charm, but I also hoped I might hear from an old acquaintance.”
“Another crook?” I inquired. “I don’t mean to sound critical, but you’ve already got one gang in Rome and another in London after you. Why can’t you leave bad enough alone?”
“I agree,” said Schmidt, reaching for the last slice of Gouda. “Now l
et us organize ourselves. First, you should communicate with Feisal. Who can tell what may have transpired within the last few hours?”
“I suppose that makes sense,” John admitted. “Perhaps I’ll risk a telephone call.”
Feisal answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“On our way,” said John. “We saw your boss on the telly the other night. He seems to be having a jolly good time harassing the Berlin museum.”
“He’s back. In Cairo. I,” said Feisal pointedly, “am in Luxor. When will you join me?”
Schmidt reached for the phone. John turned his back, clutching it protectively, and I hissed, “Don’t say anything, Schmidt.”
“But I would like—”
“We’re saving you for a surprise.”
John rang off. “So far so good, one may deduce. He wasn’t actually screaming. I told him we’d try to get a flight first thing tomorrow.”
“No, we cannot do that,” said Schmidt. “In the evening, vielleicht. In the morning I am going to picket at the museum. Yes, yes, I know, Dr. Khifaya has left, but some of his students may still be there, and if they are not—well, I will be even more visible, will I not? Perhaps I will lie down on the pavement and be arrested.”
“You want to make Perlmutter squirm,” I said, torn between amusement and consternation.
“Warum nicht? He has made me squirm, allowing me to dig up that grave in full public view when he knew nothing was there! Also, I would like to question him, subtly and slyly, as is my method. Has either of you bothered to ascertain whether museums and legitimate collectors have heard the rumors?”
“I haven’t had time,” John said defensively.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. (He is the only person I’ve ever met who pronounces each separate consonant.) “Not even the British Museum? The Keeper, I believe, is a distant—”
“Very distant. He wouldn’t know me from Adam.”
“Leave it to me, then.” Schmidt glanced at his watch and rose. “We must hurry. There is much to do.”
“What precisely do you have in mind?” I asked, expecting the worst.
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