by Joan Hess
“Is he psychic?”
I told her about Nabil. “His arrival might have something to do with the excitement at the excavation. Have you heard about the portentous step?”
“There was a small twitter at the university yesterday,” she said. “Archeologists are always finding something or other that’s going to shatter all the prevailing theories. A step, a lintel, a shard with a partial hieroglyph, a bead—none of monumental significance. They act just as hysterically when they come across a scrap of bone from a goat that died five years ago.”
“Didn’t something like this happen last spring?”
“You’re referring to Oskar Vonderlochen?” Salima began to prowl among the pillars of crates and luggage. “Yes, they found a scarab, and it was authenticated as being of the era of Tutankhamun. That doesn’t mean his concubines are stashed inside a tomb, their coffins neatly arranged on tiers. Oskar was desperate, because he was afraid he’d lose the concession. He overreacted, but he had Shannon King breathing down his neck to produce something before the end of the season. Lord Bledrock was beginning to voice misgivings about future financial support. It was silly of Oskar to go out there alone, especially when he was drunk.”
“Why didn’t Magritta go with him?”
“She claimed she was asleep. Gossip has it that she wasn’t in her own bed.” Salima staggered into view, carrying a metal box. “Tools,” she said, panting. “We might as well look inside Buffy’s luggage while we’re here.” She took out a hammer.
“Wait! Monsieur Vuitton will never forgive us if we smash the locks. Find a little screwdriver.”
She found several, and in ten minutes we mastered the art of springing the locks with minimal damage. I opened the smallest bag and pawed through the contents. “Hair products, moisturizers, and that sort of thing,” I said. “Postcards from New York and San Francisco, unsigned, with banal messages. A letter from someone named Bunnikins, describing what they did”—I stopped reading and folded up the letter—“in a hotel room in Paris. It’s… ah, explicit.”
Salima opened another bag. “This is peculiar. The clothes are cheap and ratty. I can’t picture Buffy wearing them.” She held up a polyester blouse. “It’s missing a button, and the seam in the armpit is torn.” She dropped it and continued digging. “These pants would never fit her—much too large. This dress is stained, and has a faint smell of fish.”
I moved on to the third bag. The clothes were as unfashionable, as well as wrinkled and in varying stages of disrepair. “Why on earth would she bring these things? I’ve never seen her wear anything without a label that howled of money. Why would she even own them?”
Salima examined the clothes more carefully. “A lot of them seem to have been bought in Italy, possibly at a flea market. Very lower class, mostly used.”
“She didn’t bring them from home,” I said slowly. “She bought them after she arrived in Rome. Maybe she fell madly in love with an Italian bricklayer, and was going to run away with him and lead the life of a plump housewife in some obscure village.”
“Buffy?”
“Just a thought.” I closed the suitcase and put it with the others. “In any case, she must have taken her passport on the cruise. Sittermann probably found it in her cabin and sent the information to his mysterious associates. They used the Internet to attempt to verify the personal data. Why Sittermann bothered is the question. He met Samuel and Buffy a week ago at an oasis. He’s not a dear old family friend or an inconsolable lover. The Egyptian authorities and the American Embassy would have gotten the passport information from customs in Cairo in the event Buffy wasn’t found safe and well within a few days.”
Salima rose and brushed the dust off her derrière. “You’ll have to ask him, if we ever get out of here. The situation doesn’t look promising. It’s one thing to open a suitcase lock when it’s here in front of us. The padlock is on the other side of the door. Tomorrow morning some unsuspecting bellman will come in to leave or fetch luggage, and find us passed out on the floor amidst empty bottles of McHaver’s finest scotch whiskey. What’s more, I was planning to dine on canapés in Lord Bledrock’s suite. I wonder if any of these aristocrats sent boxes with tins of caviar and smoked oysters.”
“Call room service,” I said dispiritedly. “Order me a sandwich and a bottle of water while you’re at it.”
She blinked at me, then took a cell phone out of her pocket. “I forgot I had this. Do you have a menu?”
“You might have remembered this earlier.”
“Don’t be petty. I am a law-abiding citizen, and I was overwhelmed by the audacity of our crime.”
“And I’m Nefertari, for ‘whose sake the sun doth rise,’ according to the travel guide.”
“Any clever ideas whom I should call? My father will be displeased. I can’t trust my relatives to stay quiet about this, and my friends are either in Cairo or off at digs. I can call information and get the number of the hotel. Surely the manager won’t file charges, since he’d have to admit to sloppy security in the most venerated hotel on the Nile.”
I grabbed the phone away from her. “You are not going to call Ahmed. He’ll be in Lord Bledrock’s suite, ratting us out, before you can hang up. He seems to think Peter is the U.S. Secretary of State in disguise.”
“Is he?” asked Salima.
I went to the door and rattled it on the off chance the padlock was not fully engaged. “Of course not,” I said firmly. “He’s in real estate and development.”
“Like Sittermann.”
“Yes.” I mentally cursed the hapless employee who’d clicked the padlock, as well as his or her family, camels, goats, and satellite dish. The lightbulb flickered above my head. I spun around. “Did you see any packs of lightbulbs on a shelf? This one has a limited life expectancy.”
“Should I call housekeeping?”
Sighing, I sat back down. The only thing worse than having Peter catch me in the act was the specter of sitting in the dark all night. Although the room had no windows, it had vents, cracks, and numerous other potential entrances for bewhiskered visitors. “All right,” I said, “call the hotel desk and explain the problem. We’ll have a few minutes to concoct some transparently false reason for being here. At least I’ll have a honeymoon to remember after the divorce.”
“I could ask for Bledrock’s suite and hope Alexander answers,” she said. “He already thinks I’m an insipid brat, so I don’t have anything to lose. He can tell Abdullah that his father wants another bottle of gin and wheedle the key out of him. You can hide, and after Alexander lets me out, I’ll make sure the padlock is left open. You can sneak out once we’re gone.”
“You’ll have to tell Alexander something.”
She blushed. “I’ll distract him with expressions of my undying gratitude. It worked wonderfully with my tutor, who was a doddery old man with hair poking out of his ears and a distasteful habit of whistling through his teeth. He spoke Hungarian with a lisp. I don’t know how I survived.”
I considered her scheme. “What will you do if a police officer answers the phone?”
“Hang up and think of something else.”
To our mutual dismay, the lightbulb made a small popping sound and went dark. The only thing visible was a narrow strip of light under the door. It was much like being in a cave, or quite possibly in the most distant chamber of a burial tomb. The air had a stale, oppressive odor that I hadn’t noticed earlier. I felt sure the walls were closing in, although I couldn’t actually see them. Something rustled behind me.
Salima’s disembodied voice said, “This may slow me down.”
“Well, don’t be all night about it.”
“Afraid we’re in the sequel to the sequel of that inane movie about the mummy? No one in Hollywood looked at a photograph of a mummy. They weren’t wrapped for optimum mobility, you know. By the time they’re discovered, they’re really just a desiccated, pathetic bundle of brown bones.”
“I don’t want to be dragged ou
t of here by hotel security,” I said, not elaborating on my anxiety regarding mice, rats, bats—and snakes, for all I knew. “Go ahead and try to get Alexander.”
She got busy on her cell phone, chattering in Arabic. I would have taken the opportunity to have a more careful look at the contents of Buffy’s suitcases, had I been able to see beyond the tip of my nose. As it was, I had to settle for imagining Peter’s expression as he realized I’d been gone far too long. He’d had time to go to the suite, where he would find nothing more telltale than two glasses on the coffee table.
“It’s ringing,” Salima said. “Any suggestions about what I should say to Alexander?”
“Make him promise not to say anything, then tell him where we are and what he needs to do. Don’t try to explain. I can’t think of a plausible lie, but maybe we can come up with something before he gets here.”
Someone else answered the phone. Salima giggled nervously, then asked to speak to Alexander, as if she were an adolescent girl who had chanced upon the telephone number of her idol. It seemed to work. A minute later, she resumed her normal voice, cautioned him not to speak, described our location, and told him to come as quickly as he could. The light on her cell phone blinked out as she turned it off.
“Now all we can do is wait,” she said. “It’s a good thing you’re here. He wouldn’t come dashing to my rescue. He was such a horrid boy, all smirky and superior because he went to some antiquated prep school. I wasn’t fond of his parents, either. Lord Bledrock used to give me pennies, and his stepmother always patted me on the head as if I were a lapdog. I dreaded their visits, but my father felt obliged to entertain them.”
“Alexander has mellowed, and you’ve grown up.”
“Maybe,” she said sulkily.
I heard a noise outside the door. “That was quick,” I said in a low voice. “Too quick, actually. Even if Alexander left the suite immediately, he’d just now be reaching the lobby. I’d suggest we hide if we weren’t in danger of breaking an arm or leg in the process.”
The padlock fell open with a clunk and the door opened. The light from the corridor blinded me as my eyes struggled to adjust. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.
“Alexander?” I said without much hope.
“Hardly, ma’am. Sittermann at your service. Why don’t you two fine ladies come out of that nasty room before a cockroach runs up your pant leg? I saw some by the pier that were bigger than newborn pups.” He looked over his shoulder. “The coast is clear, if that’s worrying you. I don’t recommend you push your luck, though. The employees bring the dirty towels to the laundry room after they finish turning down beds for the evening.”
I muttered an unseemly expletive as Salima and I went out to the hallway. Sittermann was beaming at us; I did not reciprocate. “How did you know we were here?” I demanded. “How did you undo the padlock?”
“You want to stand here all night?” He clasped my elbow with one hand and Salima’s with his other. “I reckon we can discuss your questions elsewhere. Right offhand, I’d suggest the bar in the lobby. That way you can call your husband and tell him where you are. Salima, you might want to keep an eye out for young Bledrock. He’s likely to come storming the castle any second now. He’s a mite upset.”
I submitted to being hustled out of the hallway and into the lobby, all the while thinking furiously. By the time we reached a table in the bar, I had more questions. I suspected I would not receive answers. Salima gasped as she spotted Alexander heading for the front desk and hurried over to catch him.
“Well, Sittermann?” I said.
“Scotch and water, right? I’m surprised you and the little Egyptian gal didn’t swipe a bottle of McHaver’s finest. I’m a bourbon drinker myself. Ain’t classy, I know, but that doesn’t worry me.” He barked the order to the bartender, then sat back and grinned at me. “Found yourself in a real pickle, didn’t you? There was one time back when I was in college, some of my fraternity brothers and I decided we was going to sneak into the Alpha Theta Eta house, so we shinnied up—”
“Don’t even bother,” I said. “I wouldn’t believe you if you told me what time it is. How did you know where we were?”
His grin widened. “What a thing to say, Mrs. Malloy. I have been nothing but honest with you since the day we met. Don’t you think you ought to call your husband? You can tell him you came down here to make sure your girls weren’t up to anything naughty. There’s a house phone on the concierge’s desk.”
I stalked across the lobby, ignoring the startled look from Caron as I went past the card game, and picked up the receiver. Lord Bledrock answered with a bleat. I made polite noises while he described the chaos in the suite—his suite, mind you—and finally persuaded him to allow me to speak to Peter.
“Hello, dear. Is Mahmoud there yet?” I asked.
“Where are you?”
“In the lobby, calling from the concierge’s phone. What about Nabil?”
“The doctor thinks he had a heart attack. As soon as an ambulance arrives, he’ll supervise Nabil’s evacuation via the service elevator. Ahmed is terrified that the hotel guests will be scandalized if they discover a local workman had the audacity to behave so crudely within the sacred confines.” Peter paused. “Why are you in the lobby? Is there a crisis involving Caron and Inez? Are they in trouble?”
“No, they’re fine.” I stared at a potted palm while I tried to come up with something that was not precisely a lie. One should never lie to one’s beloved spouse, at least not for the first few months. “Salima showed up after I called the police department. We came down here, and subsequently bumped into Sittermann. It was quite unexpected, considering the circumstances.” I realized I was babbling myself into deeper trouble. “Because I didn’t know he was back in Luxor, I mean. He didn’t take a launch to Abu Simbel this morning, and I assumed he was still on the ship. Same thing with Samuel. Is he there now? Did he mention we met by the elevator?”
“Samuel’s here,” Peter said slowly. “Alexander’s not, however. He received a call a few minutes ago, then left without a word. Do you know anything about that, Claire?”
“He’s here, talking to Salima. They make a handsome couple. It’s unfortunate that they can’t seem to have a civilized conversation. Now that you know I’m fine, you can get back to pretending you’re not a cop. It must be a terrible strain.” I hung up before he noticed the gaps in my story, some of them large enough to drive a camel through.
Salima and Alexander joined me. Salima’s lips were clamped together, and her eyes were simmering. Alexander looked no less furious. If they inadvertently bumped shoulders, the lobby might be consumed by a fireball.
“What is this about, Mrs. Malloy?” he said icily. “All I’m hearing from Miss el-Musafira is rubbish, interspersed with gibberish. Not that I’m surprised. She’s as arrogant and insufferable now as she was as a child. Please be kind enough to explain this nonsense about a room in the basement.”
“It’s complicated,” I conceded, “but I’ll try. Right now, I’d like to ask Sittermann some questions.”
Alexander surveyed the lobby. “And just how are you going to do that, if I may be so bold?”
Sittermann was gone.
CHAPTER 12
Salima and Alexander ignored me when I suggested that we go back upstairs, and were glowering at each other as I left. The door to Lord Bledrock’s suite was open. Nabil was no longer supine on the floor. Peter was behind the bar, morosely watching the others, who were huddled around the low table in front of the sofa. Mrs. McHaver had taken a seat between Miss Portia and Miss Cordelia, and the three were staring raptly at something on the table. Lady Emerson, the Fitzwillies, Wallace, and Jess nudged one another for the best position. Lord Bledrock was on tiptoe, peering over Miriam’s shoulder. Paunchy, living up to his name, presented a bulky barrier. I couldn’t see anything because of the wall of bodies, but I presumed they had not laid out Nabil in order to perform an autopsy.
“What h
appened?” I asked Peter.
“Mahmoud went on to the hospital. Nabil was still alive when they left, although the doctor is worried.” He paused as a shriek came from the group across the room, then he continued, “I’ve seen symptoms like his after an overdose of a methamphetamine—dilated pupils, intense sweating, erratic heartbeat. Illegal drugs are available, but Mahmoud said that this kind isn’t common among the older Egyptians. They prefer to smoke hashish or opium.”
“And Nabil was coming here,” I said. “Hardly the time to get high.”
The shrieks were getting louder. Magritta yanked Jess away from the group and dragged him out to the balcony for an inaudible but emphatic conversation. Shannon was cackling with glee. Wallace stood up and moved away, looking worried. Mrs. McHaver thumped her cane, in her case possibly an extravagant display of pleasure. Lady Emerson whacked Lord Bledrock on the back, as if they were comrades in a trench on the front line.
“What’s all that about?” I asked Peter.
“Some artifact Nabil had in his pocket, wrapped in a rag. I didn’t get a good look at it. Miriam spotted it when she knelt next to him to wipe his face with a washcloth. As soon as she picked it up, the rest of them swooped in like vultures and snatched it from her. Mahmoud and the doctor arrived seconds later, followed by medics with a gurney. I was going to mention it to Mahmoud, but then Ahmed arrived and began squawking about the hotel’s reputation. Lord Bledrock took offense at the implication that it was his fault, and pretty soon they were all offering opinions and outlandish theories. Mahmoud was not inclined to linger once Nabil was ready to be transported to the hospital.”
Although my beloved had the courage of a rogue elephant, he seemed content to observe the Egyptologists from a safe distance. Having forsaken my last shred of dignity in a dark room in the basement, I went over to Miriam. “Why is everybody so excited?”
“I was wondering where you were, Mrs. Malloy. I do hope you’re not ill.” She plucked a tendril of a dusty cobweb off my shoulder. “Wherever have you been?”