Golden Relic

by Lindy Cameron

  Maggie’s eyes grew wider as Sam correctly identified half the people who were ‘loitering’ in front of the museum. “The nightgown thing is called a galibeya,” she stated, trying to cover how impressed she was, before they both burst into laughter. “There’s no man in a fez,” Maggie managed to say, “at least not anymore. If he was watching us then I’ll wager he’s going to pounce on us later and invite us to his cousin’s ‘very best’ perfume shop. Don’t worry about it, Sam.”

  “Whatever you say, Maggie,” Sam agreed reluctantly. “Did you find out about Noel?”

  “Yes, and no. He hasn’t done any consultancy work here for nearly two years and Ahmed hasn’t actually seen him since January. Noel had then just moved into a new apartment in Maadi, which is a district about 10 kilometres south of here, where most of the expats live. Ahmed said Noel had almost finished his ninth book and was heading off to Mexico in June to research to the tenth.”

  “So he mightn’t be here at all,” Sam said.

  “Or he might be entrenched in his apartment tapping a way at Jake St James and the Curse of the Aztecs,” Maggie suggested.

  “Jake St James?”

  Maggie shrugged. “A hero has to have a memorable name.”

  Half an hour later Sam leapt out of the taxi, in which she and Maggie had been crammed with three German businessmen because the driver had refused to go anywhere until his car was full, and stood on the footpath muttering “ser-veece taxis, very bad drives”.

  “Emil did warn you, Sam,” Maggie reminded her.

  “Do they all have to pass a lunatic test to get their licences here or something?” Sam asked, following Maggie into the decrepit ‘Riverview’ apartment building which, as old as it was, was probably quite modern by Cairo standards.

  Maggie pushed the intercom button for apartment 20 and, hearing an unfamiliar voice, asked for Noel Winslow.

  There was silence on the other end for quite a while before the man said, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Dr Tremaine, Maggie Tremaine. I’m a friend of Noel’s from Australia.”

  Another pause, then the interior door clicked open. “Come on up. Top floor at the front.”

  The lift wasn’t working, so about three centuries later Sam and Maggie stood panting on the 10th floor landing. The door opposite was opened by a middle-aged man with a somewhat boyish face, deep blue eyes, and greying hair brushed back into a short pony tail. He ushered them into a huge living room lined with bookshelves, crowded with an odd assortment of furniture, and cluttered with books, magazines, newspapers and half-packed boxes.

  “Please come in. I’ve just made some fresh lemonade,” he offered, waving them to the wicker table and chairs on the balcony overlooking the river. “I’ve heard a great deal about you Maggie Tremaine,” he said. “I’m Patrick Denton,” he added, shaking her hand.

  “Ah, Patrick,” Maggie said, pleased she could finally put a face to the name she’d heard many times over the years. “This is my friend Sam Diamond.”

  Sam shook his offered hand and sat in the seat he indicated, but she got the impression that while Patrick Denton was being extremely hospitable it was obvious he was also stalling. She wondered whether they had intruded on Noel Winslow’s most creative time of the day.

  “Are you two moving again?” Maggie asked, nodding at the boxes as she accepted the glass of lemonade.

  “I was,” Patrick said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Noel died four months ago Maggie. He went out for coffee with an acquaintance, had a stroke in the cafe and never recovered.”

  “Oh my god Patrick, I am so sorry. I had no idea.” Maggie reached out and held his hand.

  Four months ago? Sam felt like a pair of cold clammy hands had just given her a rub down.

  “My first thought after his funeral was that I had to go home, but I didn’t even leave the apartment for a month. I just sat here staring out at that timeless, never-ending damn river, till I nearly went mad. It’s the lifeblood of this country you know, but I felt like it had bled me dry. I would have starved if not for friends who dropped in daily with food. When I did decide to go back to Canada they brought boxes and I started packing away 20 years of my life with Noel. Then one morning I just walked out, wandered down to the Nile, didn’t throw myself in, and went for coffee where Noel and I used to lunch every day. I realised that with or without Noel, but mostly because of him, this is my home. So now I’m slowly unpacking again.”

  “When did he die?” Sam asked softly.

  “The same day, thankfully. The doctor said he wouldn’t have known what hit him.”

  “I mean exactly when, what day was it?”

  “It was a Friday,” Patrick replied, puzzled by the question. “May 29th. Why?”

  Sam looked meaningfully at Maggie who looked questioningly back at her. “That was the day after he sent the postcard to the Professor,” she said.

  “What postcard?” Patrick asked.

  “Noel, at least we’re guessing it was Noel,” Maggie explained, “sent Lloyd Marsden a postcard of the Nile Hilton with a very cryptic message. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Lloyd sent you?” Patrick asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Maggie replied. “Lloyd was murdered in Melbourne last Tuesday.”

  “Good god, how dreadful,” Patrick exclaimed. “But what could that possibly have to do with Noel? I don’t understand why you’re here?”

  “We think Lloyd’s death is linked to whatever it was Noel was trying to tell him in the postcard.”

  “It sounds like you’ve read one too many of Noel’s books, Maggie,” Patrick shook his head in amusement. “Although,” he added, getting up to rummage around in the antique desk by the window, “it might explain this rather curious thing I found while going through Noel’s effects. Where on earth? Ah, here it is.” He returned to his chair and handed Maggie a cigarette tin. “Open it.”

  Sam leaned over as Maggie removed the lid. Inside was a small green envelope with ‘For Lloyd or Muu-Muu only’ written on it.

  “MM,” Sam said. “His postcard said ‘inform MM’. Who the bloody hell is Muu-Muu?”

  “Um, that would be me, actually,” Maggie admitted sheepishly. “Sam, I swear I had no idea that MM meant Muu-Muu. It was a pet name that Pavel gave me back in 1968 because of this, in retrospect, insanely awful caftan thing I used to wear. There were only three people in the world who called me that, Pavel, Noel and Lloyd, and none of them used it in the last 15 years because I would’ve throttled them.”

  “Okay, Muu-Muu,” Sam teased, “it seems you’re licensed to open the envelope.”

  Maggie did so and removed half a drink coaster, with a six-digit number and the words ‘Americo Bank’ scrawled under the beer logo.

  “Does it help?” Patrick asked.

  “Not really,” Maggie fibbed. “Can we hang on to it?”

  Patrick shrugged. “You’re the only Muu-Muu I know,” he smiled.

  “Maggie, what if Noel’s death wasn’t natural causes?” Sam asked, as they emerged from the Riverview apartments onto the street.

  “Oh, Sam,” Maggie sighed, turning to head for the corner and the main road along the Nile. “There are some coincidences which are just that. Not everything is connected. Besides, I’m sure a doctor knows a stroke victim when he sees one.”

  “Yeah, sure, which means he wouldn’t have thought to look for something else - like poison,” Sam stated. “The forensic pathologist in Melbourne initially thought the Professor had had a stroke.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that,” Maggie said, stopping in her tracks as the colour drained from her face. “She reached out for Sam’s arm. “That makes it much more than a coincidence then.”

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Maggie. Do you need to sit down?”

  “No, I’m fine. But you know my friend Alistair Nash, the one who died in the car accident last October?”

  “On the same day his museum was burgled,” Sam nodded.r />
  “The accident happened because he lost control of his car after suffering a stroke.”

  “Oh boy, this is getting too weird,” Sam said flatly. “Oh shit, it just got weirder,” she added.

  “What, why?”

  “It’s the suspicious fez from the hotel. He’s just up the road there, this side.”

  “Are you sure?” Maggie asked, glancing casually at the man leaning against a car about 15 metres away. She couldn’t see his face clearly but he was indeed wearing a fez.

  “Yes I’m sure. Come on, we’ll cross the road, take a tourist stroll along the river in the opposite direction and get the first taxi that comes along.”

  They were lucky. An empty taxi heading back towards Cairo did a u-turn and skidded to a stop in the gutter in front of them. Maggie babbled something to the driver as soon as they were in the back seat. He planted his foot with apparent glee and sped out into the traffic, barely missing the back bumper of the Mercedes in front.

  “What’s the fez doing?” Maggie asked Sam, who was looking out the back window.

  “He’s about five cars back and determined not to lose us,” Sam stated, turning to sit properly on the seat. “His cousin’s perfumes must really be something special.”

  “Ha, ha.” Maggie leant forward to speak to the driver. “Khan el Khalili,” she said. “And we’ll double your fare if you don’t stop to pick up any other passengers.”

  “We’re going shopping now?” Sam asked in amazement.

  “We’re going to lose ourselves in the most labyrinthine market in the world,” Maggie smiled. “He won’t be able to keep track of us there.”

  “Insha-allah,” Sam laughed. “He’ll probably just go back to the hotel and wait for us.”

  “Then we’ll walk right up to him, in public, and ask him what the hell he wants,” Maggie said.

  Sam honestly wondered whether the speeding taxi driver had found an anomaly in the space time continuum when he deposited them, 35 minutes later and six centuries ago, at one of the medieval gateways of the area known as Islamic Cairo. Towering minarets loomed over streets which were crowded with people and animals, and lined with rickety, balconied buildings that looked set to topple at any moment - although they’d probably been ‘about to fall’ since the 10th century.

  Islamic Cairo, Maggie had explained, was no more Islamic than any other part of the city, it was just much older. The Khan el Khalili, through which they now walked, was a maze of stalls selling fruit and vegetables or displaying open barrels or trays of rice, beans, nuts, cheeses, aromatic spices, and a host of exotic and unrecognisable delicacies. There were shops where artisans toiled, as they had for centuries, on their woodwork, glassware or jewellery; and cafes, where the aroma of cooking food wafted around men who sat drinking coffee while they talked and puffed on a sheesha, or water pipe.

  Maggie was constantly waving off merchants who kept on extolling, even after they’d walked by, the excellence and best prices of the leather goods, fabrics, Pharaonic ‘relics’, perfumes, spices, clothing or souvenirs displayed in their open-fronted shops.

  Sam felt like all her senses, plus a couple she didn’t know she had, were being teased, assaulted and tantalised. If it wasn’t for the smell of exhaust fumes and the occasional Coca Cola sign or shop selling runners and T-shirts, she would have been convinced she’d stepped back, way back, in time.

  “Coffee,” Maggie announced, taking a seat a table in an open-sided restaurant, next to group of lounging camels. “How are you feeling?” she asked, realising Sam looked a little odd.

  “Overwhelmed and completely awe-inspired,” Sam enthused. “And starving,” she added.

  Maggie looked up as a young boy approached the table. She held up two fingers and said, “Ahwa saada and kushari, okay?”

  “Okay,” he nodded.

  “Coffee, no sugar, and a noodle dish,” Maggie translated for Sam. “Very Egyptian.”

  “This is great,” Sam grinned. “But Maggie, you have to promise we won’t get separated. I have absolutely no idea where I am and it will be getting dark sometime soon.”

  “I promise, Sam,” Maggie said, crossing her heart. “Insha-allah,” she added quietly.

  “Maggie,” Sam growled.

  “I promise, I promise,” she grinned, sitting back so the boy could place the food on the table. “Just eat Sam, there’s no need to dissect it.”

  “I like to know what I’m eating,” Sam explained.

  “Black lentils, fried onions, rice, noodles and a tomato sauce,” Maggie said, taking a mouthful.

  “Mmm, oh yum,” Sam said, following suit. “But I have to say, Maggie, the coffee looks strong enough to stay in shape without the cup.”

  “Hello, hello, you want perfume?”

  “La’ shukran,” Maggie snapped at the bearded man who had approached their table.

  “They don’t give up, do they,” Sam commented.

  “Never,” Maggie laughed. “You know the Khan started life as a caravanserai, built by Sultan Barquq’s Master of Horses in the 1300s. It was a simple inn and way station for caravans, and I don’t mean the sort that retired Australians drag around the country behind their cars. Merchants, travellers and their trains of camels used to rest here and do a little trading. When the Ottomans took over Egypt in the 16th century it grew into a fully-fledged Turkish bazaar attracting traders from all over the known world. It was���”

  “Maggie,” Sam interrupted earnestly, “I thought you said the fez guy wouldn’t find us here.”

  “It was a hundred to one against that he wouldn’t” Maggie remarked. “Where is he?”

  “Loitering by the spice stall behind you.”

  “Well, we’ll just let him loiter while we finish our food, and then we’ll lose him again.”

  “Is he still with us?” Sam asked 15 minutes later as she and Maggie stopped to investigate a stall of ‘authentic’ relics from the Valley of the Kings.

  “Yes,” Maggie replied, ignoring the merchant who was explaining that the recently-carved figurine she was holding was a centuries-old statuette unearthed near the tomb of Ramses III.

  They continued walking, pretending to take interest in carvings, jewellery and a bizarre-looking vegetable floating in soup, until they turned another corner and stopped to buy a bottle of water.

  “Perhaps we should split up,” Maggie suggested.

  “No way, Maggie,” Sam stressed.

  “Okay, but let’s see what he does if he thinks we’ve separated. I won’t get lost here, so how about we wander down to that perfumery on the next corner, have what looks like a serious arrangement-making conversation, then I’ll tap my watch and walk off. You stay right there, don’t move no matter what, and I’ll come back in 10 minutes.”

  “Okay,” Sam agreed reluctantly, “in the absence of a sensible plan, that will have to do I guess.”

  Twenty minutes after Maggie had pointed up the street, recited a bawdy limerick as if it was the most important information she’d ever imparted, tapped her watch and disappeared into the crowd, closely followed by the guy in the fez, Sam was still standing on her own - waiting. She had so far managed to fend of marauding children wanting to sell trinkets by saying ‘imshi’ a lot, and had also deterred several grown-up shopkeepers and hawkers with her very firm “la’ shukran”, but now she was starting to get worried.

  She checked her watch again. It was 5.45 and all was not well. When she looked up, the situation got suddenly worse as she noticed the guy in the fez was striding back up the street towards her with what could only be described as serious intent. There was still no sign of Maggie.

  Sam had little choice but to stand her ground but just as Mr Fez reached out, apparently trying to grab her arm, another man barged between them shoving him out of the way and sending Sam sprawling backwards over a box. She struggled to her feet and took off down the short alley next to the perfumery and rounded the next corner only to find herself in a cul de sac with a donkey
.

  ‘Shit,” she exclaimed, turning to go back the way she’d come only to find Mr Fez had already found her.

  “Nowhere to go, Miss Detective,” he said.

  “Yeah? What is it you want exactly?” Sam asked, moving so that she could see back down the alley, or rather be seen by anyone passing.

  “The key,” he answered simply.

  “What key?” Sam asked, backing up against the wall.

  “Do not fool with me. Give me the key from the safety deposit box or I will take it from you,” he said, pulling out a decidedly nasty-looking knife as he moved closer. “Is it worth dying for?”

  “No, not all. You can have it, just don’t hurt me, okay,” Sam pleaded, pulling a set of keys from her belt pouch and removing one from the ring. As he reached out for it, Sam swivelled on her left foot, raised her right one and slammed it into his knee. He went down in a screaming heap on the ground. The only problem was that he was still between her and the way out. As she kicked him again, she realised that someone was calling out as he ran down the alley towards her.

  “Thank goodness,” Sam said. “Oh shit,” she added. The help that was on the way had obviously come for Mr Fez. It was the other man from the hotel lobby, the swarthy-looking gent who had tried to hide his bad suit behind the newspaper.

  Just make a run for it, Sam told herself but Mr Fez had other ideas. His groan turned to a growl as he launched himself off the ground at Sam and slammed her head and body back into the wall. The whole world turned upside down, in a sickening swirl. Sam was vaguely aware that the other man was still shouting, then a fist connected with her jaw. She slid down the wall and into a very dark place.

  Chapter Seven

  Cairo, Tuesday September 22, 1998

  Sam strolled, vaguely, along the Corniche el Nil wondering how on earth she’d got from the cafe in the Khan with Maggie back to the Nile Hilton without her. But the hotel was there, up ahead on her left, its windows reflecting the last rays of sunset. She closed her eyes to enjoy the gentle breeze that brushed her face and when she opened them again she noticed a group of people, including the hotel concierge and the Miss Marple triplets, gathered around something on the ground near the gangplank of a multi-sailed white yacht moored to a pontoon.