The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections)

by William Meikle

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Have you come to take me for a pint?”

  “I’m afraid not.” I said. “Business this time.”

  His eyebrows almost raised through his hairline when I showed him the photograph and he got visibly excited.

  “The Johnson Amulet,” he whispered, and I thought he would drool over the picture.

  “You know it, then?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said, and lapsed into what I had come to know as his ‘teaching’ voice.

  “It was found in Ur, sometime around the turn of the last century, and was brought back into the country by James Johnson, a shipping magnate of the time. It’s got a long history—something about Devil worship or black magic, ancient immortal Arab sorcerers—hocus-pocus, anyway. It caused quite a stir in the twenties. There was some sort of scandal, and Johnson died in suspicious circumstances. The amulet wasn’t amongst his effects, and hasn’t been seen since.”

  A predatory look came to his eyes. “Where did you get the picture?” he asked.

  “From a client. I’ve been hired to find it.”

  He laughed. “Better people than you have tried,” he said.

  “Is it worth much?” I asked, hoping that I might at least expose one of Mrs. Dunlop’s lies, but I was to be disappointed.

  “It’s priceless,” Doug said, and this time I believe he did drool. “Archaeologists the world over would be cutting off parts of their body for just a look at it. I suppose that if it ever came up for auction it would go for, say, a couple of million. But, as I said, it has been lost for around eighty years—some rich private hoarder probably sits and gloats over it during the long winter nights.”

  “It can’t be too far lost,” I said. “This picture is a lot more recent than that.”

  I watched the excitement grow in Doug’s eyes. I knew it was time to leave—he was getting close to his manic puppy dog phase, and I would have him following me everywhere if I wasn’t careful.

  “If I find it I’ll let you have a fondle before I give it back,” I said

  “Come on, Derek,” he said. “Let me go with you on this one.”

  “No way,” I said. “Remember the last time?”

  Doug had badgered me for months about ‘running’ a case with me. I’d been stupid, and let him come with me as I tried to track down a missing teenager. When we found the kid in the garden of the parent’s holiday home he’d thrown up all over the body.

  “That was different,” Doug said, pleading. “I’ve got the expertise this time.”

  “I’ll give you that,” I said. “But I really don’t want you on the street with me. People will think I’m giving out charity.”

  “Cheap shot, Derek,” he said. “And stop avoiding the subject.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, and you’ll be more help to me here, with the ‘expertise’ in hand. Besides, the University pays you to do your stuff in here—not out on the streets.”

  That did it—he backed down—I knew he would when I played on his sense of duty. I turned toward the door, but he stopped me.

  “Wait,” he said. “You’ll be wanting more information about the amulet. I’ve got a book about it somewhere.”

  I laughed, and he joined me. It was an old joke between us—there were few topics under the sun that Doug didn’t have a book on. The key word was somewhere. Until he got round to marrying a librarian, the chances of him ever finding a book he wanted were slim.

  “No,” he said. “I know where this one is.” He dug into a pile of books behind his desk and came up with a small, dusty, leather bound tome.

  “In Ur with a Philanthropist,” he read from the spine. “By George Dunlop.”

  I almost dropped the photograph at the mention of the name, but managed to hide my surprise while putting it back into my wallet. Doug hadn’t noticed, and continued.

  “Dunlop was well known around here. He was Professor of Antiquities at the University. He did some solid work in Turkey before the Ur expedition. There’s some detail about how the amulet was found. More hocus-pocus, I’m afraid. Old Dunlop obviously got too much of the sun out in the desert. But at least you’ll know more about what you’re looking for.”

  I took the book from him. It fit snugly into my jacket pocket, and its weight reassured me that I’d at least made a start on the case. I thanked Doug, and left him with my promise of first look at the pendant.

  I made my way back to the real world. It was raining again—heavy pelting, driving rain that forced its way through my coat and my trousers.

  By the time I got to the bank I’d got wet through even though the walk had been less than a quarter of a mile. The teller smiled at me as I made my deposit, both things rare occurrences.

  When I came out of the bank the rain still drove hard, almost vertically along the road. Little old ladies forced themselves into the wind, umbrellas raised in lethal poses. A couple of teenagers passed wearing only thin shirts and light trousers. They thought they looked tough, but the misery in their eyes just made me want to laugh in their faces.

  Tennant’s bar beckoned as I passed. I knew I had a lot of legwork ahead of me, but the thought of doing more of it in this weather didn’t appeal much. The idea of a beer or two loomed large in my mind, but I knew that way led to oblivion. And besides, Doug was right—I did need to know more about the pendant.

  I went back to the flat.

  I live on the first floor of a Victorian building, shops below, students above. I have my own stairwell, with a security-locked door at street level. During the day I tend to leave the bottom door closed and unlocked, but as I approached I noticed that the door was partially open. It was at times like these that I wished I lived somewhere else, somewhere quieter, where I didn’t run the risk of meeting muggers, drug-addicts, or just plain old-fashioned drunks.

  There was no one on the stairs, though, just a faint, rancid odor that I couldn’t quite place, which faded as I went up the stairs.

  My office, or more properly, the place where I receive my clients, is actually a large hallway at the top of the stairs, with my flat proper through a doorway off to the left, and my bathroom to the right.

  For furniture I have two large chairs and a desk. They sit in the middle of the large room, and give the place a menacing air, like something out of Kafka. In an attempt to make it more inviting I’d imported a few large pot plants, but they had begun to die on me recently, their browning leaves dotted around on the hardwood floor. Not for the first time I made a mental note to employ a cleaner—a cheap cleaner.

  Ten minutes later I went through to the flat proper. I had locked the downstairs door, and was soon settled in my armchair, cigarettes and beer at handy arm’s length. It wasn’t long before I was lost in Dunlop’s world of sun, desert and blinding heat. At some point I drifted to sleep, but the story kept unfolding even then.

  We had been in the desert for nigh on two months before things came to a head. Johnson was becoming increasingly discontent with our lack of progress.

  “You promised me discoveries,” he said to me. “Wonders to rival Tutankhamun or Troy, you said. And what have we got? Clay pots and meaningless daubs on tablets, that’s all.”

  “But we are getting close,” I told him, for perhaps the fifth time that week. “Those ‘meaningless daubs’ you refer to are actually an inventory, a list of the treasures buried with the priest-kings.”

  “So you’ve said,” Johnson replied. “But where are the tombs? Where are your precious priest-kings? When will you give me anything other than clay?”

  And in truth, I couldn’t answer him. The tablets spoke of great wealth, but what I needed was a map. And without it, we were digging blind. The tablets and pottery showed we were in the right general location, but it could be months yet before we found anything of value, never mind the tombs of the priest-kings.

  That wasn’t what Johnson wanted to hear.

  “Back in Glasgow, whe
n I asked you the most probable site for us to make a discovery, you gave me this one,” he said. His blue eyes were wide and staring, and I feared an outburst at any moment. “Was I wrong to put my faith in you?”

  “No,” I replied. “It’s just that these things take time. Each level must be catalogued and described before moving on.”

  “Why?” Johnson said, and this time he was shouting. “Just get that bloody dynamite out and we’ll blast this dune to hell.”

  “We can’t do that,” I said, and it was my turn to shout. “Think of the archaeology.”

  “Bugger the archaeology,” Johnson said, and lifting a clay tablet from the desk he smashed it against my chair. “I need results. And I need them now.”

  He stormed out of the tent, leaving me to pick up the fragments of tablet. Luckily it had only broken in two pieces, and would be easily matched together. Whether I could reconcile Johnson’s needs with those of science was another matter, but I had chosen my bedfellow for the money he could provide to fund the dig. It would be churlish for me to start complaining now.

  This had been a dream of mine for more years than I cared to remember. Schliemann had his Troy, Carter had Egypt. I would have Ur, farther back in time than either—the true cradle of civilization. For years I’d been looking for a sponsor. I’d trodden the halls of academe, I’d given lectures to the Royal Society—I’d even talked to women’s groups. And it all came to nothing.

  Until one night I was at a dinner party in Kelvinside. I was introduced to a big man with blazing eyes and a lot of money. Johnson had caught my enthusiasm, but he wanted gold sarcophagi, facemasks, statues—he wanted to out-do Carter. As for me, I wanted to see the priest-kings, to touch them and know they really existed. I wanted to know how they lived, these people who defined the beginning of our civilization.

  I went back to trying to translate the tablets I had been working on before Johnson had stormed into my tent. If I’m being honest, I was almost as frustrated as my benefactor. This had been the hottest, dustiest, most unrewarding dig I had ever had the displeasure to manage. Even Carthage hadn’t been this bad. But there was nothing for it but to keep going, keep cataloguing. The scientific method, and the needs of archaeology, demanded it. That didn’t mean I had not prayed every night for a breakthrough.

  But that night wasn’t the one. The tablets for the day spoke of grain, wine and honeycombs. All very interesting, but nothing that would please Johnson. I dragged myself off to my cot and prayed once more for a find.

  The next day dawned hot and dusty, just like the sixty days before it. I broke my fast on the tough, dry bread of the area and a glass of lukewarm tea before heading out to survey the progress of the dig.

  We were already fifty feet into the side of the dune, and the amount of shoring required to stop it falling on us was increasing all the time. I spent the first hour of the day supervising the next layer of planks before taking myself down to the floor of the dig. Young Campbell had found another hoard of tablets, and he thought these ones were promising. The fact that he’d said the same thing about the last three piles of tablets he’d discovered didn’t seem to dim his enthusiasm. I got on my knees beside him and helped to clear the area. I lost myself in the monotony of it, and only noticed the passing of time when the sun came over the cutting and our shadows fell dark on the ground we were working on.

  I patted young Campbell on the shoulder.

  “Come on, lad,” I said. “Time for a break and some water.”

  And that’s when it happened, the thing that changed the dig, and my life, for evermore.

  We had just come out of the cutting when a new shadow fell on us. I looked up, squinting against the sun, to see someone walking over the dune towards us.

  At first all I could make out was an amorphous shape, like some great jellyfish, and I believe I actually stepped backward in fear as a sudden chill ran the length of my body. But young Campbell was right behind me, and by the time I regained my composure the figure had come out of the sun, and I was able to make out that it was an old Arab, his robes flowing around him.

  As he got closer I saw that he wasn’t just old, he was ancient. His skin was wrinkled and stained like the bark of an old tree, and his hair hung in loose grey wisps over a liver-spotted scalp. But his eyes were blue, bright and clear, and when he spoke his voice was strong, and his English impeccable.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Johnson,” he said, as if he’d just met us on a busy thoroughfare. “If you’d kindly direct me to him?”

  “I’m Johnson,” a voice said to my left. I turned to face my benefactor. It was obvious that the man had been drinking heavily—his eyes were bloodshot and sunk deep beneath his brows. His hair, usually perfectly groomed, stood out at angles from his head, and his skin had a grey, unhealthy pallor. The old Arab didn’t seem perturbed.

  “Mr. Johnson,” he said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I believe I have some information for you that will prove to be of our mutual benefit.”

  Johnson looked at me and raised his eyebrows. I merely shrugged—I had no idea where this man had come from.

  The Arab saw the hesitation. He reached into his robes and produced a bottle.

  “I have some fine brandy, the sun is over the yard-arm, and your tent will be cooler than out here,” he said. “And I promise you, I have an offer that will cure all your problems.”

  The last was said directly to Johnson, and I saw something shift in the big man’s eyes—something that looked like hope.

  The Arab took Johnson by the arm and led him off, straight to the correct tent. That was when my suspicions were first raised.

  Young Campbell looked at me, and again I shrugged.

  “The last thing he needs is more drink,” I said, “But if it keeps him off my back, then let him have it. And talking of drink, I need that water now.”

  Ten minutes later we were back at the cutting. Johnson hadn’t emerged from his tent, and there was still no sign of him some three hours later when Campbell and I called it a day.

  It was not until nearly sundown that I saw him again. I was on my second cigar, and third gin. The temperature had started to fall, the flies had stopped swarming, and I had changed into a clean suit of crisp linen. Life was almost bearable for a short while. Then Johnson walked past my tent.

  He had the distracted air of a man deep in thought, and would have kept on walking if I hadn’t hailed him. His hair was back to its usual sleek glory, and his eyes were clear again. Whatever he had spent the afternoon doing, I doubted if there had been any alcohol involved.

  “Oh, hello Dunlop,” he said, as if it was a surprise to him that I should be in my own tent.”I was just taking the air.”

  I invited him inside and offered him a drink and a cigar. He took the cigar, but turned down the gin.

  “I’m afraid I over-indulged myself last night,” he said sheepishly, “Trying to drown my sorrows—all I did was give them a swim.”

  I laughed, but his eyes stayed serious.

  “And what about the old Arab? Did he have anything for you?” I asked.

  I saw him take some time deliberating on his answer.

  “No. Just another desert chancer trying to make some money from the rich foreigners,” he said, but he wasn’t a good liar.

  “And don’t worry about last night’s row,” he said to me. “I’m sure the finds will come in time.”

  He turned and left, and I went to find young Campbell.

  The lad was in his tent, still poring over some of the day’s tablets.

  “I believe we’re getting closer,” he said as I entered. “This tablet tells of numbers of servants buried with a great king, and details their families and their worth.”

  That was very good news, but I was more worried about Johnson’s behavior.

  “Leave that alone for a minute,” I said. “I want you to go and check on the munitions.”

  “It’s Johnson, isn’t it?” he said. “He’s been tal
king of little else these past few days.”

  I nodded.

  “He’ll know I suspect something if he sees me going near the dynamite. Just make sure that the explosives are out of harm’s way and come back straight away,” I said. “I’m going to have a long talk with him in the morning. We may need his money, but we don’t need it that much.”

  Campbell dropped a mock-military salute and left.

  While he was gone I checked the tablet he was working on. The lad had been right. This was proof that we were in the vicinity of an important burial. I felt my heart beat just a little bit faster as I read on.

  And that’s when the blast tore through the night air. I almost fell from the shock of it, and was on my way out towards the cutting before the ringing had left my ears.

  I found Campbell on the ground close to where we’d been working that day. He was carrying an oil lantern that spluttered and almost went out as I lifted it from his hand, then strengthened again as I bent to check on him. There was an egg-sized bruise just above his ear, but he was breathing steadily, although out cold.

  Inside the cutting, sand and dust began to settle. I could just see that the blast had ripped a hole in the dig, a deep yawning blackness that stretched down and into the depths of the dune.

  I was torn between helping the lad and following Johnson into the hole. I’d actually chosen to stay with the lad when his eyelids fluttered and he looked up at me. He grabbed my arm, tight.

  “You must stop him,” he whispered, his voice throaty. He’ll destroy the site.”

  He tried to stand, but dizziness forced him back to his knees. He pushed me away from him.

  “Go, and please stop him. I’ll be all right.”

  I didn’t need any more prompting. I went down into the dune.

  My lantern was barely strong enough to pierce the dust that still hung ahead of me, but there were two sets of footprints on the floor of the passageway. By crouching and holding the lantern close to the ground I was able to follow them downwards.

  After ten yards the dust was less dense in the air. I was able to see that the walls to either side of me were no longer just compacted sand; they were stone blocks. We had been close.