The Case of the Purloined Pyramid

by Sean McLachlan

  Heinrich shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Augustus rubbed his chin. “Then I daresay we’re a bit stuck. These idiots already overplayed their hand when they shot a man in my home. I doubt they’ll be in touch again. And with all the rioting, they’ll have gone to ground.”

  They sat in silence for a time, the only sound the faint ringing of a telephone in another room. A moment later, a servant appeared with the telephone on a tray, the receiver off the hook. A long extension cord trailed behind him.

  “Telephone, sir,” the servant said. Augustus had always wondered why they were trained to state the obvious.

  Heinrich picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” A voice on the other end made him smile. He looked at Augustus with a twinkle in his eye. “Good to hear from you, Mrs. Hanzade.”

  Augustus felt his insides roil with jealousy.

  “Yes, we’re all safe here. No trouble in my neighborhood. Most kind of you to ask. Yes, yes, he’s here. Oh, that’s very interesting. We’ll come over right away. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  Heinrich turned to him as he tried and failed to suppress a smug smile.

  “You gave her your telephone number?” Augustus asked.

  “I suppose she found my lecture on depictions of New Kingdom nude dancers invigorating,” the art historian said, taking a puff from his pipe.

  “Balderdash. What did she say? She asked about me, didn’t she?”

  “Well, she did mention you in relation to the case. Which are you more interested in?”

  “Heinrich, I’m warning you . . .”

  Heinrich laughed. “Oh, all right. Apparently our friends, having not found satisfaction with the retailers in town, are now hunting down antiquities wholesalers. Mrs. Hanzade was contacted yesterday and, being the bright woman she is, told them that she did, indeed, have an inscription of the kind that interested them. She wants us to come and listen in on the conversation. Perhaps we can find out more.”

  “Excellent idea! Let’s go,” Augustus said, checking his coat pocket to make sure his automatic was still there.

  They went out to Heinrich’s automobile. As the German drove them down the narrow residential street, Augustus noticed it was almost deserted. The houses were shut up tight, all windows closed. He suspected all the European neighborhoods looked like this.

  “One thing worries me,” Heinrich said. “What’s going to happen when the members of the Thule Society come to her house and Mrs. Hanzade can’t produce a monumental inscription on polished white limestone?”

  “Oh, I’m sure one has already been produced.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You’ll see,” Augustus replied.

  ***

  Augustus and Heinrich hid behind a thick tapestry adorning the wall of one of Zehra’s sitting rooms. A small tear in the old fabric allowed them to peek out while they remained hidden from view in the deep shadow between the tapestry and the wall.

  They had been waiting for several minutes before Zehra made her appearance. Giving the tapestry a smile, she sat down on a divan on one side of the room and faced the doorway to the tapestry’s right. A moment later, two muscular servants entered, struggling under the weight of a large block of polished limestone that they set down on a pile of cushions in the center of the room. They then took up position on either side of their mistress’s divan, crossing their arms and becoming as still as statues.

  Augustus and Heinrich took turns peering through the rent in the fabric. Heinrich’s eyes went wide when he beheld the carving.

  Augustus smiled. Suleiman had done his work well. It looked perfect. In style and dimension, the inscription was the exact match of the one found at Giza, although it was turned too far away for them to read. When they had arrived, Suleiman had pulled him aside and promised extra creativity in the contents of the inscription, something to lure even the most skeptical occultist.

  Zehra glanced at her Rolex with obvious impatience and then opened up a ledger, picked up a pen, and began to work on a balance sheet.

  Augustus watched in surprise as the open, flirtatious expression she usually wore vanished and was replaced by a hard, determined focus that almost startled him. This was a different side to her, one she didn’t show to associates. With her business work in front of her and her guests out of sight behind the tapestry, she had momentarily forgotten herself and shown her other face.

  Suleiman may have been the artist, but it was obvious that Zehra was the businesswoman in the Hanzade household.

  At last, the doorman announced the guests. Zehra snapped the ledger shut, and her demeanor warmed. The servant ushered in a pair of Europeans. Augustus immediately recognized Dieter Neumann, the diminutive diplomat who had searched his house. The other man was a stranger to him. He was powerfully built, with thick arms and broad shoulders, but with the beer belly and florid features of a German in comfortable middle age. A nudge from Heinrich hinted that this was Klaus Baumer.

  The two shook hands with Zehra, obviously enchanted, and gazed at the inscription.

  “This is one of them, isn’t it?” Neumann asked his companion in German.

  “Yes, and look at this inscription!” Baumer replied. “‘. . . the fourteen keys of wisdom unlock the doors of wisdom found beneath . . .’”

  “Beneath what?” Neumann asked breathlessly.

  “I don’t know. It breaks off there.”

  “Blast! We’re so close! But it makes sense. Ah, yes, the fourteen keys. I’ll wager those are for the portals.”

  “But where? Where are those damn portals?”

  “Be patient. We’ll find it. There’s still that other one to look at.”

  “Do you find this interesting?” Zehra asked in English. Augustus wasn’t sure if she knew German or not. At least she was acting like she didn’t.

  “Oh yes, most interesting, Mrs. Hanzade,” the diplomat said. “May I ask where it was found?”

  “It was found ten years ago on the Giza Plateau by an, um, amateur excavation. It’s not recorded in any archive.”

  The two Germans looked at each other and nodded, obviously pleased.

  Tea came, and they chatted for a time. Dieter asked her repeatedly if she knew of any other inscription fragments, and Zehra hinted that she did and would track them down. Finally they got down to business and quickly agreed on a price. Augustus had to fight to suppress a chuckle at hearing the high price she asked. Dieter barely tried to haggle.

  “Thank you most kindly, Mrs. Hanzade,” Dieter said, handing over the money in British pounds.

  Klaus Baumer went out and returned with four husky Germans. One had a livid facial scar that Augustus recognized as a poorly healed shrapnel wound. All four had the air of hardened veterans about them. They lifted up the inscription fragment with little effort and hauled it away.

  A few minutes later, the Germans were gone, and Zehra, Augustus, and Heinrich sat having tea.

  “I must compliment you, Mrs. Hanzade, on an excellent forgery,” Heinrich said.

  “Oh, please call me Zehra, and it was my husband’s work.”

  Augustus turned to him. “How did you know it was a forgery?”

  Heinrich took a sip from his tea. “Not from the work—that was perfect—but from the fact that it was exactly what our friends were looking for. By the way, I didn’t recognize the four toughs. I think they’re new in the city. I wonder how many more men they’ve assembled.”

  “What’s this other fragment they’re talking about?” Augustus asked.

  “I don’t know,” Zehra replied. “I’ll make enquiries.”

  They were waiting for one of Zehra’s trusted servants to return from tailing the Germans. Both Augustus and Heinrich would have been recognized, and while Augustus was chafing at the bit, he had to force himself to sit calmly and await the servant’s return.

  “So are all your antiquities fakes?” Heinrich asked.

  “Yes. Suleiman prides himself on the accuracy of
his work.”

  “I hope he isn’t getting too creative with form and content. Otherwise it will greatly complicate the study of Egyptology.”

  Augustus laughed. “Here we are investigating a murder by a sinister cult, and you’re worried about your magnum opus!”

  Heinrich looked offended. “I merely wish to preserve the knowledge of the past and hope that our charming host isn’t muddying the waters.”

  “Have no fear, Heinrich,” Zehra said with a smile. “Suleiman takes care to make his works as accurate as they can be. Mostly he works from genuine pieces, as he did with a certain statuette of Horus that Augustus ended up purchasing. It just so happened that his assistant had seen the original of that very same statuette come out of the ground and was able to identify it as an imitation.”

  “A bit of bad luck for you,” Heinrich said, tamping some tobacco into his pipe.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Zehra said, smiling at Augustus.

  Augustus hid himself behind his tea cup, which he hoped Zehra wouldn’t notice was empty. Moments later, he was saved by the return of the servant.

  “I followed the Germans to a house in Zamelek,” he told his mistress.

  “That’s an odd neighborhood for some foreigners to live in,” Augustus commented.

  “Says the Englishman who lives on Ibn al-Nafis Street,” Zehra replied. “They must want privacy as much as you do.”

  “Tell me about this house. What does it look like?” Augustus asked the servant.

  “It is set apart from the other houses and is built in the old French style. It is not very well kept, and I believe the Germans only moved in recently after the house stood for a long time empty. The front door looks stout, and the windows are barred. There is a back garden I did not get to see because it is surrounded by a high wall. The top of the wall is set with broken glass.”

  Augustus nodded and turned to Zehra. “Your man is a quick one. He divined the purpose of my question immediately.”

  “You mean you’re going to sneak into their house?” Zehra asked. “That’s very dangerous.”

  “The police are too busy, and I can’t just stand by while someone gets murdered in my own home. Besides, I’ve always liked a good mystery.”

  “Like when the khedive’s jewels went missing in Alexandria,” Zehra said.

  Augustus’s jaw dropped. “How did you hear about that? That was a private police matter!”

  “I’m a businesswoman. It’s in my interest to know all about my associates. And as for how I heard, surely you must know by now that Egyptians are the greatest gossips God ever made. Nothing stays a private affair for long. So when are you going to risk your life for the sake of an unwelcome guest?”

  “Tonight.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Faisal was worried. When he had shown up on Ibn al-Nafis Street to take Osman ibn Akbar to morning prayers, he found the blind old beggar too sick to stand. Osman slept in the doorway of a ruined building, having set up some old boards and stones as a rough wall in front of the doorway to make a tiny room that contained a frayed old blanket, a reed mat, and a begging bowl, his only possessions beside his staff and the clothes on his back.

  Usually Osman was sitting outside in the sun when Faisal came, ready to be led to the mosque so they could beg together. This morning, though, he still lay in his little cubbyhole.

  Faisal peeked in, biting his lip when he heard the ragged breathing and saw how the old man’s features appeared more sunken than usual.

  “Osman ibn Akbar, are you all right?” Faisal asked after a moment.

  The beggar didn’t seem to hear him, and Faisal had to repeat the question in a louder voice before he got an answer.

  “I think God is calling me.”

  The words came out so soft and weak that Faisal barely caught them. A coldness spread through the boy’s chest.

  “Nonsense!” Faisal said, rallying. “You just need to get out in the sun where it’s warm and get something in your stomach.”

  “I am too weak to go to the mosque today. May God forgive me.”

  Faisal removed the splintered board that served as the beggar’s front door and climbed inside. With a struggle, he got Osman to his feet and, fetching his stick and begging bowl, led him outside. Life on the street had made Faisal stronger than his years, and Osman felt like a bundle of papyrus reeds in his hands. It wasn’t long before he got him to his usual morning spot, where the sun could warm Osman’s aged bones before it got so hot he moved to a shady spot on the opposite side of the street for the rest of the day.

  The beggar groaned as Faisal set him down. The passersby barely noticed the two.

  “I’m sorry, Faisal, but you’ll have to get your breakfast elsewhere today. I can’t make it another step. God will provide for you.”

  Faisal felt inside his pocket for the last of the bread he had swiped from the Englishman. It was a bit stale, but neither of them were so high and mighty as to make a fuss about that.

  “He’s already provided!” Faisal said, trying to sound cheerful. He put the bread into Osman’s hands.

  The old man frowned. “Is this stolen?”

  “No, I earned it!”

  “Bah! You’ve never worked a day in your life.”

  “I did! I’m working for the Englishman now. He’s trying to find the man who shot one of his guests. I’m helping him. I found a book the killer dropped, and the Englishman took me all the way to Giza in his motorcar!”

  Osman ibn Akbar managed a weak smile. “If you’re not telling tales, you are a lucky boy.”

  “I’m not telling tales. I got to see the pyramids the jinn built and everything. And a tourist took my picture! Eat up.”

  Osman extended his hand, offering him a crust. “You have some too.”

  Faisal paused, staring at the bread and licking his lips. His grubby hand reached for the bread, and then he pulled back.

  “I’ve already eaten today,” Faisal said, turning away.

  He looked nervously up and down the street for Hassan. The bully usually slept late, so he should be safe for the moment, but he didn’t like sitting here exposed like this.

  The two sat in the morning sun as the old man ate, and the boy held out the begging bowl hoping someone would drop a coin or a bit of food in it. No one did.

  ***

  It was early afternoon, and Moustafa was stuck doing all the work himself while Mr. Wall visited Herr Schäfer. Moustafa hadn’t heard from him since he had confidently walked off into the riotous city alone. He hoped he hadn’t run afoul of the protestors.

  But Moustafa was too busy to dwell on his worries. Some workers had come to install a telephone and then demanded extra pay for coming out during the general strike. Moustafa almost had to knock their heads together to get them to do their job. And while he was keeping an eye on them, a customer had shown up, some picky little Englishman who kept asking when Mr. Wall would come back because he so obviously didn’t want to deal with Moustafa. That didn’t stop the fellow from asking Moustafa all sorts of technical questions about the artifacts. Moustafa got the impression that the Englishman was trying to prove he knew more than him, and he kept failing. Still, the fellow was looking at some ushabtis with interest, so perhaps he’d make a purchase after all.

  Between the foot-dragging Egyptian workers and the needy customer who just couldn’t make up his mind, he barely had time to perform the noon prayer. To his irritation, when the muezzin made the call to prayer, the telephone workers took the opportunity to sit in the courtyard and smoke cigarettes, but they didn’t bother to make their peace with God. Once Moustafa finished his prayers, he found the Englishman waiting for him impatiently with yet another pointless question designed to show off his knowledge and Moustafa’s ignorance.

  Moustafa ignored him for the moment and shouted at the telephone workers to stop shirking, then went to deal with the customer again.

  Shortly thereafter, the electric doorbell rang. Moustafa detac
hed himself from another one-sided battle of wits with the Englishman and answered it.

  That little monster who had found the German’s notebook stood outside.

  “What do you want?” Moustafa demanded.

  “Do you have any food?” the boy asked.

  “This is antiquities shop, not a soup kitchen. Go away!” Moustafa started to close the door. The impertinence!

  “Osman ibn Akbar is sick!”

  Moustafa paused. The boy pointed across the street where that blind old beggar sat. The old man looked paler and weaker than usual. In fact, he looked half-dead. He slumped against the wall, his jaw slack, lips barely moving in what Moustafa guessed was a prayer.

  “Please,” Faisal said. “We haven’t had breakfast, not a bite to eat all day, not even a crust of bread. Can’t you give us something?”

  Moustafa sighed and grudgingly pulled a half piastre coin out of his pocket.

  “God said to give to the poor, but that doesn’t mean you can come around here any time you like. This is not a bank.”

  Faisal snatched the coin without so much as a thank-you and peered around Moustafa.

  “Is the Englishman here?”

  “No, and he doesn’t want to see you anyway,” Moustafa said, trying to close the door again. Unfortunately, Faisal had managed to take a step inside and blocked the way.

  Faisal grinned up at him. “That notebook helped, didn’t it? He’s going to find the killer!”

  “The notebook helped,” Moustafa conceded. “But you’ve already been paid for that and quite well too. Now go get your beggar friend some food.”

  A deep rumble emanated from Faisal’s stomach at the mention of food. Despite this, he stayed put.

  “Does he pay you well?” Faisal asked.

  “That’s none of your business. If you want to know how jobs pay, why don’t you find work?”

  Faisal plucked up. “Maybe I could work for him! He needs a scout in this neighborhood, someone to watch out for him. Those foreigners might come back, and there’s still Hassan. He needs someone like me. I can guard the house.”