Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  It meant that up until now nobody had wanted to kill one of us. Up until now.

  We retired to the comfort of the bar at the hotel, a cozy place with dim lights and soft chairs. Saida flirted indiscriminately with Feisal and Schmidt, but made little progress with John, who seemed even more preoccupied than usual.

  “He is your lover, yes?” she inquired, turning to me. “That is nice. Feisal and I have not made love yet. He is very proper. And he is afraid of my father. I tell him there is no reason, Papa is not even in Egypt, he is in Paris. He is a brain surgeon, and my sister is also a medical doctor.”

  She told her whole life story and expounded her views on marriage, religion, and life in general. “Now you must tell me all about yourself,” she said. “I am glad to meet you at last. Feisal has spoken of you often. I was a little jealous!”

  “Now you know you needn’t have been,” I said. “What has he told you about me?”

  “That you are a distinguished professor of art history and an official of the National Museum in Munich and a close friend of Herr Doktor Schmidt.” She paused invitingly. She had been more than candid with me, and it was hard to resist those big brown eyes and friendly smile, but I remembered one of John’s basic rules: Find out how much the other person knows before you let your hair down. Stick to trivia.

  So I told her about Clara and Caesar, and my family back in the States, and about my pathetic attempt to crochet a baby cap for my soon-to-be-niece or nephew. She wasn’t trying to pump me, I would have bet on that; but she had a way with her, and it was a rare pleasure to gossip with a fellow female with whom I had so much in common. We started swapping funny stories about our work. She told me about the man who had entered her office at the museum carrying a huge wreath of flowers, and asked if he might put it on the coffin of one of the anonymous female mummies. She had been his mother in a former incarnation, he had explained, and she had been haunting him demanding attention. I countered with the story of a visitor whom we found in the torture room trying to get into the Iron Maiden. He kept yelling, “I have sinned, I have sinned,” as the horrified guards dragged him away.

  “And then there was the time…” I said.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” John, who had seemed to be engrossed in chitchat with Schmidt, turned toward us. “We were discussing where to go for dinner. Feisal said you could recommend a restaurant, Saida.”

  “Yes, there is one not far from here. I will telephone.”

  We had to cross Tahrir Square, which was an adventure I hope not to repeat with any frequency. There are a dozen lanes of traffic, none of which obeys any discernible rules. Saida took charge of Schmidt, who had probably had too much beer; I heard his loud chuckles as she guided him across with the skill of a matador sidestepping the horns of the bull. The rest of us followed, less skillfully, but as Feisal pointed out, nobody really wanted to run into us; it would have delayed them.

  “Shouldn’t you call Ashraf?” Feisal asked.

  “Not until we get rid of your girlfriend,” John said.

  Feisal gave him a hurt look. “Don’t you like her?”

  “I adore her. Be polite. But get rid of her.”

  Saida and Schmidt would have made a night of it if John hadn’t mentioned that we had to get up early to catch our flight. I almost said, “What flight?”

  “What flight?” Schmidt asked.

  “Luxor,” John said. “Dear me, you are getting forgetful, Schmidt. It’s time you were in bed. Come along quietly.”

  Feisal insisted on taking Saida home. “I won’t be long,” he promised.

  “Ha,” said Schmidt. “Were I in your place, I would not come back at all.”

  We subdued Schmidt. The walk back, and a few hairbreadth escapes crossing the square, sobered him up enough to be sensible, but he could not stop singing Saida’s praises.

  “A wonderful young woman. Feisal is lucky to have won her heart. We must attend the wedding. Will it be soon, do you think?”

  “There may not be a wedding if we can’t get Feisal and ourselves out of this mess,” I said.

  Feisal was true to his word. He got to the hotel only half an hour after we did.

  “I had a hard time getting away,” he reported.

  “Ach so,” said Schmidt, leering genteelly.

  “She wanted to come to Luxor with us,” Feisal went on, ignoring the leer.

  “Just what we need,” I said. “An expert on mummies with a particular interest in Tutankhamon following us around. Feisal, how much does she know about the Tetisheri affair?”

  “You might call it an expurgated version,” Feisal said wryly. “A lot of people knew about the retrieval of the paintings, and my part in it. I was appointed to my present job because of my heroism, and over the heads of a lot of people who thought they had a better claim to it.”

  “I bet you described our mad dash to Cairo, with innumerable villains hot on our trail,” I suggested.

  Feisal grinned self-consciously. “She led me on. You know how it is.”

  “You were a hero,” I said, patting him on the arm. “So nothing about your initial involvement—or John’s?”

  “Good God, no. And if she ever finds out…”

  “She won’t,” John said impatiently. “If you keep your mouth shut. I trust you talked her out of coming with us?”

  “Yes. Have you spoken with Ashraf yet?”

  “I guess I’ve left him dangling long enough. Hang on.”

  We could hear only John’s end of the conversation, but it wasn’t hard to fill in the intervening lines.

  “We accept your proposition…

  “I know. I assure you, we won’t waste any more time…

  “Tomorrow. We would appreciate it if you would make arrangements. In view of the fact that our earlier flight was—er—canceled…”

  He was silent for a while, listening. His expression didn’t change much—nothing so obvious as a raised eyebrow—but I knew the outlines of his features well enough to know he’d heard something he didn’t like.

  “Very well,” he said and snapped the cell phone shut.

  “What?” Schmidt demanded. “What did he say?”

  “He’ll see that we catch the ten-thirty flight tomorrow. He’ll send his car for us and make reservations at the Winter Palace.”

  “The Old Winter Palace, I trust,” said Schmidt, still feeling no pain. “The New is not acceptable. I had better call and reserve my usual—”

  “Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “I mean, please shut up. Something’s gone wrong. What’s happened, John?”

  “The guard, Ali—the only one except Feisal who saw that empty coffin. He’s disappeared.”

  EIGHT

  N ext morning Ashraf’s car delivered us to the terminal and we were whisked through the formalities by an efficient young woman who spoke English with a pronounced public school accent. Once we were on the plane, Feisal said it again.

  “He’s gone into hiding. Ashraf put the fear of God into him.”

  I said it again. “That isn’t Ashraf’s version.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt he thought he was being affable, but to simple souls like Ali he’s the voice of the Almighty, authoritative and unpredictable. Ali may have decided the safest course was to make himself scarce until things settle down.”

  “Drop it,” John said. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

  And gotten nowhere. Feisal’s explanation could be the right one. If I had been in the shoes of the unfortunate guard, I’d have run for cover too.

  W e were greeted at the Old Winter Palace by the manager, a handsome white-haired gentleman, another of Schmidt’s dearest friends, who personally escorted us to the Presidential Suite. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms, one of which incorporated a tub big enough to do laps in. I could tell by John’s expression that he wasn’t keen on being separated from Schmidt only by the width of the sitting room, good-sized though it was; but there wasn’t anything he could do about it since Schmidt
had “forgotten” to reserve another room for us.

  After lunch we headed for the West Bank. It’s a somewhat tortuous process—taking one of the gaily decorated motorboats across the river, picking up a taxi on the other side, and driving for a considerable distance. I hadn’t seen much of Luxor during my last visit, being primarily concerned with avoiding a number of people who bore me ill will. Schmidt had been there many times, but he gaped out the taxi window with that childlike sense of delight that is one of his most charming characteristics, commenting on the changes that had been made and asking questions of Feisal. He didn’t get many answers; the closer we got to the Valley of the Kings, the more tense Feisal became. It was with some difficulty that we persuaded him to hop on one of the electric trams that carry visitors to the entrance instead of setting out at a dead run. The sun was high and hot and the air was dusty and I didn’t want my chubby little boss to tire himself. Schmidt had decked himself out in one of the white linen suits he had bought in Berlin, and a natty panama hat which I hadn’t seen him buy. I wondered what the hell else he had in that overweight suitcase.

  The tomb of Tutankhamon is a couple of hundred yards from the entrance to the Valley. I don’t know what Feisal had expected, or feared—that the tomb would have vanished along with Ali, or that it had been invaded by importunate tourists—but he let out a long sigh of relief when the rectangular opening came into view. It was closed by a heavy iron gate. A party of tourists was talking with the guards—or rather, to judge by their shrill expletives, trying to argue their way in. One of the men was wearing shorts that bared long hairy legs; the women bulged over the necklines of their skimpy T-shirts. When the harassed guard caught sight of Feisal he let out a cry of relief and ran to meet him.

  Feisal disposed of the tourists with a few brusque words. They dispersed, sulking and muttering. Arrogant idiots like that have always been with us and probably always will be. I remembered the story of how Howard Carter had lost his job with the Service des Antiquités by defending his guards against the pushy drunks who had tried to force their way into a pyramid at Sakkara.

  After an animated discussion with the guard, Feisal said, “Ali didn’t turn up for work yesterday. Mohammed here went to his house to inquire about him; his wife claimed he hadn’t come home the night before. I’m going to see her.”

  “All in good time.” Hands in the pockets of his jeans, John gazed thoughtfully at the dark entrance to the tomb. “Can we get in?”

  “Why?” Feisal asked.

  “The scene of the crime,” John reminded him. “I know you’re worried about your subordinate, but I should think you’d want to make certain it hasn’t been disturbed.”

  “Yes, that is the correct procedure,” said Schmidt. “I have brought a camera to record the clues.”

  “Good thinking, Schmidt,” I said.

  “And a notebook and pen.” Schmidt thrust them into my hands. I ought to have known I’d be appointed secretary. I thrust them back into Schmidt’s hands.

  I have been accused by some (John) of learning all my history, except that which pertains to my own limited field, from popular novels. I had read a couple of reports about the discovery of this tomb, including that of Howard Carter himself; it’s almost as exciting as fiction. But I will admit that the version I remembered best was in a novel by some woman whose name I couldn’t recall. It claimed to be based on actual journals by actual eyewitnesses. I had never bothered to check her facts. Why should I, it wasn’t my field.

  The last (and first) time I had called on King Tutankhamon, the tomb had been open to tourists. Today, everything looked the way it had before: the massive stone sarcophagus and its heavy glass cover smeared with dust and fingerprints, the golden shape inside. Schmidt stopped me with a warning shout when I was about to proceed into the small tomb chamber. From his pockets he extracted not only a digital camera but a large magnifying glass.

  “The lighting is not good,” he complained, bending stiffly and squinting through the glass. “Has anyone a torch?”

  “No, nor a fingerprint kit,” said John.

  “Then we must get one.” Schmidt increased his angle of inclination, with imminent danger to the seat of his trousers.

  “You’ll find hundreds of prints,” Feisal said. “Mine and Ali’s—”

  “And those of the miscreants who removed the king.” Schmidt straightened and waved the magnifying glass. “Perhaps some of them are in the files of Interpol or another agency.”

  “To which we have no access,” John said patiently. “Go ahead, Feisal. Don’t bother looking for footprints, just see if there is anything unusual, anything that is out of place.”

  “Bloodstains,” said Schmidt, his eyes gleaming.

  “Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “Please.”

  The floor wasn’t clean. In addition to the dust, there were bits and pieces, scraps of paper and bread crumbs, orange seeds and a pile of mouse droppings. Most of them had been there for weeks, if not months. Schmidt photographed every square inch of the damned place—the dusty floor, the painted walls, the sarcophagus and its contents. After I came across the mouse droppings I abandoned the hunt and joined Feisal, who stood looking down into the sarcophagus.

  The golden face, with its beautiful inlaid eyes, stared up at me. It didn’t question or demand. It was dead, inanimate. Feisal, fingers clenched over the edge of the glass, said suddenly, “I keep thinking he’s still in there.”

  If you want to hide something, put it in the least likely place, a place that has already been searched, a place so obvious, no one would think of looking there.

  I read too many mystery stories. But there was a certain insane logic to that premise; hadn’t John said it would be difficult to smuggle Tut out of the Luxor area? What if “they” had come and put him back? Once the ransom was paid, they wouldn’t have to risk producing the mummy, they would just have to direct the searchers to the tomb. And what if Ali was the only witness to their second visit? He had disappeared. He couldn’t bear witness to anything.

  “If he’s there, he’s missing a hand,” I said, trying to convince myself of the absurdity of the idea. “Uh—can you tell whether the coffin lid has been moved since you and Ali put it back?”

  Unfortunately Schmidt overheard the question. I say unfortunately because he has an imagination even more lunatic than mine and a greater familiarity with sensational fiction.

  “Aha!” he shrieked. “The old Purloined Letter trick! Brilliant, Vicky, brilliant!”

  There was no restraining him, and by that time I had half-convinced myself. Even with four of us it was a tricky job manipulating the glass cover and the coffin lid; I couldn’t imagine how Feisal and Ali had managed it. Sheer desperation, I supposed. Feisal kept repeating, “Be careful! Don’t damage it!”

  “Get a grip,” John said impatiently. “Pun, deliberate. You can blame any damage on the thieves. Ready? Lift, shift and lower. One, two…”

  We didn’t have to shift the lid far. It was dark down in there; Feisal slid his hand through the gap, which I wouldn’t have done, and felt around. His face fell.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a preposterous idea,” John said.

  “But it had to be done,” Schmidt said.

  “Quite so. Leave no stone unturned, no coffin lid unlifted. I see no point in moving it back, do you?”

  He addressed Feisal, who shook his head. “If anyone gets this far, we’re lost anyhow. Just replace the glass so it doesn’t fall and break.”

  Just, he said. We got the job done, though I pulled something in my shoulder, and Schmidt mashed a finger. Our first casualty, I thought, as I wound a hankie round his hand. Schmidt rather enjoys being wounded in the course of battle; he nobly refused my suggestion that we return to the hotel for more extensive first aid.

  “We must go at once to the house of the poor guard and question his wife,” he insisted.

  “Th
ere’s no need for you to come with me,” Feisal said. “You should get that finger cleaned up, Schmidt, it’s only too easy to get an infection here.”

  “It has bled freely,” said Schmidt, admiring the stained hanky. “You will want witnesses, Feisal, and persons skilled in interrogation. Vicky will take notes.”

  Feisal locked the gate and switched off the lights. We made our way back to the entrance; Feisal hailed a taxi, and I asked, “Don’t you rate a car and driver?”

  “I rate an ancient Jeep. It’s in the shop. It usually is.”

  From his sour tone I figured he was thinking of Ashraf’s upholstered limo and squadron of assistants.

  The road led back the way we had come, toward the boat landing. Having failed to force notebook and pen into my hands, Schmidt was trying to make notes. Considering the state of the road and the taxi’s springs, I doubted he would be able to decipher his scrawled writing, but it kept him busy and happy. The scenery was monotonous in the extreme, stretches of barren earth reaching back to equally barren cliffs—all shades of tan and brown, with an occasional vivid patch of green. I didn’t criticize, since I knew I’d be jumped on by the experts, who would start pointing out fascinating heaps of rubble and telling me what they were.

  The taxi stopped in front of a cluster of houses that clung to a rocky hillside. They looked like square boxes, randomly placed, but they were the most interesting things my uneducated eyes had seen since we left the Valley. Some of the flat facades were painted shining white or golden yellow or faded blue, some had scenes of people and camels, ships and airplanes, in nonchalant juxtaposition.

  “I thought the authorities were moving these people to a new village,” said Mr. Know-It-All Schmidt, without looking up.

  “They’re about to.” Feisal got out of the front seat and wrestled with the back door, which had no inside handle. It gave way finally and I got out. “We’ll have to walk from here,” Feisal went on. “Ali’s house is farther up, near the tomb of Ramose.”