“After all, sir, there’s no telling where you might get to if we crack this case and break up an international terrorist organisation to boot. The sky would be the limit for promotion for us all if we did that. The Police Commisioner would be all over you. Shall I ask Colonel Waheeb to come up?”
“Of course. Of course,” said Donaldson, brightening visibly. The picture of promotion Hartley had painted rose like a mirage. His inspector was right. If they cracked this murder and caught the El Tuban gang, he’d make headline news. He could ask for anything he wanted and the Chief Constable would give. “You’ve always been good at dealing with foreigners, Hartley,” he said. “You, too, Kahn.”
There was a knock on the door and the clerk let the colonel in. You’d never have guessed Mordecai Waheeb was a detective. The best. He was a small dapper man, finicky about his appearance; and in that he resembled Superintendent Donaldson. But the likeness ended there. Waheeb was highly intelligent and had a sense of humour. There was also wiry strength and stamina in his slight frame. He hadn’t gone to seed like Donaldson.
He’d once been very handsome and still had good looks, sporting a thick, trimmed moustache; but he was greying and time was etching lines deeper across his face each year. His eyes were dark, always alert. When he looked at you it was as if he read your very thoughts. Donaldson found this alarming, yet Waheeb was charm itself.
He spoke fluent English, one of several languages he was at home in and he unnerved Donaldson when they first met by his flawless command of English. After all, Waheeb was a foreigner. He shouldn’t have spoken like that. The Super had an innate distrust of all foreigners, especially when they tried to pass as English. He wasn’t xenophobic, but he distrusted anyone from abroad. His schoolboy French had never got him past Calais on day-trips there, and in England ‘abroad’ started once you’d left the Home Counties and travelled North.
When Colonel Waheeb appeared he sat him between Hartley and Khan the other side of the table. He felt in control that way. If international terrorists were to be caught, he had to be the one in charge, not Waheeb. Donaldson had fallen for Hartley’s ploy, hook, line and sinker.
He told the duty sergeant to bring in some tea; just to get the ball rolling, to make them all feel at home and part of a team of which he was captain. First, he asked Colonel Waheeb to brief them about this El Tuban group, how he’d come to pin them down in Keighworth and what Mordecai Waheeb told him surprised them all.
“The El Tuban Freedom Group has been active for many years in my country. Only recently have they moved over here where they have a support group,” he began. “You know what el tuban means?” asked, looking at Ibrahim Khan.
“Snake,” he replied.
Colonel Waheeb smiled. “Correct. It’s the raised cobra of the ancient pharaohs. Their sign, logo if you like. They left it on poor Manasas’ body as a warning.”
“Warning?” echoed Donaldson, fidgeting with the inside of his collar again. “You mean…you mean they’ll strike again?”
Colonel Waheeb tried to reassure him. They attacked only those who got too close. Those who confronted them. Donaldson breathed more freely. He’d certainly no intention of confronting them. He’d leave that to the others.
“You see they’re here for one purpose. To recover the object of their worship.”
“Worship?” echoed Donaldson again. The whole business was becoming more and more bizarre.
“They believe they are the chosen people of the ancient gods, and that one day the whole world will fall under their influence, with them as the rulers. Amon was the father of the gods. Hathor was the sky-goddess. They are her followers, her servants, sent here to recover the mummified body in your museum which is, they believe, her original incarnation four thousand years ago. It was taken from its burial chamber by Sir Joshua Whitcliff. Since then there have been a succession of incarnations of the sky-goddess - all of them sacrificed to her, to serve her as handmaids in the next life.”
By this time Arthur Donaldson was staring wide-eyed. “Are you serious?” he said. “In this day and age? In Keighworth? Sacrifice to the gods?”
Colonel Waheeb nodded gravely.
Donaldson could hardly get out his next statement. “And - er how does the present Mr Whitcliff fit into the picture? He’s not connected with these mad men, is he? He comes from a very respectable family, y’know. Eccentric, maybe. But not in any way connected with murderers!”
“It’s often the most respectable people who are used as fronts by terrorists,” said Waheeb. “They play on their ideals then use them for their own ends.”
“And where’s the front located for their set-up here?” asked Blake Hartley.
“I don’t know, “ Colonel Waheeb replied. “Ahmad Manasas was on the point of telling us but they got to him first. I was hoping I might find some clue when you visited his office.”
“No go,” Khan informed him. “Someone got there before we did and cleaned the place out. They covered their tracks well. Not even a sign of a fingerprint.”
“All we found were Manasas’s credentials and his gun hidden in a compartment of his cabinet. And that was thanks to Sgt Khan. I missed it completely,” said Hartley.
By this time, Donaldson was staring blankly from one to the other. He could hardly take in what he was hearing.
“I said earlier that these people carry out female human sacrifice as part of their ritual. They’ve done it in my country for years,” said Colonel Waheeb. He paused and wiped his moustache gently with his forefinger. “I believe they will do it here before they take the mummy back to its original burial chamber in Egypt. That is their avowed intent, superintendent.” He turned to Inspector Hartley. “There is a girl missing, I believe.”
It was Hartley’s turn to look surprised.
“Why, yes, Colonel. Khan and I were looking into her disappearance. We drew a blank.” He said nothing of what Tom Driscoll had told him. That would come later when Donaldson wasn’t present. To start hares with Donaldson meant chasing them over the horizon and losing them.
Waheeb, too, had said all he wanted to say. and the four of them sat in silence while what they had heard sank in. But Arthur Donaldson didn’t like silence. He began drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk. Then he got up and stared desperately out of the window. There wasn’t much option for him but to keep the whole business under wraps. They’d laugh in his face if he tried to explain it to his superiors and he imagined the Chief Constable’s face staring back at him as he attempted to tell him. No. He had to keep the whole thing under wraps till the right time. But all sorts of dreadful things could go wrong before then if these people were as crazy as Waheeb had said, and where would that leave him?
It was the Colonel who broke the silence. He had a solution to the superintendent’s problem.
“If I may suggest, sir,” he began, “I’d like to infiltrate these followers of Hathor with one of your own officers.”
“Risky business,” said Donaldson, pursing his lips and frowning. “Look what happened to your man.”
“We take risks all the time,” said Inspector Hartley. “Coppers in peacetime are in the front line. It goes with the job.”
Donaldson unpursed his lips. “Of course, Hartley,” he said. “We’re well aware of that! But the question is, how do we penetrate their set-up. I mean, you’re known to them already - all too damn well!”
Waheeb smiled softly. “But I’m not,” he said. “And if I can provide an alibi which could ease me into the group, I could penetrate it quite easily.”
Donaldson brightened . He thought it a splendid idea. As he remarked to the Chief Constable later, setting a dog to catch a dog is the first principle of policing - only Colonel Waheeb wasn’t present when he said it.
Sergeant Khan also added his ha’porth which pleased Donaldson. He’d get his promotion yet.
Khan suggested he and an Asian colleague tried worming their way into the group. “After all, sir, we look the part,
” he said.
The Super couldn’t deny that.
And Colonel Waheeb said Khan would pass any day as a follower of Hathor, if the sergeant saw what he meant. Ibrahim Khan agreed. “I mean, both of us look the part,” he said.
“It’s the sun-tan,” said Hartley, with a wink at his sergeant.
Arthur Donaldson winced. He’d never have dared make such a remark. He was always politically correct.
“We could watch each other’s backs that way,” said Khan to Waheeb.
The Super rubbed his hands. “My thoughts exactly. We’d work as a team, Khan,” he said.
In fact, Donaldson became so enthusiaistic, they stayed some time working out a plan of campaign: how Colonel Waheeb and Sgt Khan would infiltrate the terrorists. Then the first thing Mordecai Waheeb did when he left the station was to visit the museum with Blake Hartley and examine the mummy.
Chapter Twelve
The mummy had been moved to the curator’s office for safe-keeping. It was stored in a room behind the main office, hidden by rows of ancient military uniforms. The glass-topped box stood on trestles guarded by the military sartorial relics spanning nearly two centuries, from the Iron Duke Wellington to the Iron Lady Thatcher. Inspector Hartley introduced Waheeb as a friend called Mr. Fahid, who was interested in the Egyptian artefacts held by the museum.
They were met by Ernie Hodgson, the caretaker.
“Found the key yet which went missing? ” asked Hartley as they went to the office.
“Funny business that, sir,” said the caretaker. “Turned up the next day like it had never gone. Whoever took it wanted it for summat here an’ when he got what he wanted, he put it back. Though what it was he wanted I don’t know. We’ve checked the whole museum an’ there’s nowt missing. It’s a mystery!”
“It is indeed,” the inspector remarked, but he’d a shrewd idea why the key had gone adrift.
He enquired when the mummy had been moved. The previous week, said Ernie. He himself had helped carry it to the office. “An’ that’s another mystery,” he said. “I’ll swear it weighed a lot heavier than when we moved it last.”
“When was that?” asked Hartley.
“Last year, when we gave the floor a new seal,” the caretaker replied.
By this time they were at the office and Inspector Hartley introduced his companion to Maurice Bottomley. Before they went through to the storage room, Colonel Waheeb had to sign the visitors’ book. Hartley glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the number of visits by the Egyptian researchers from the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies had dropped appreciably. They hadn’t been for some time. He mentioned it to the curator.
“They said they’d completed their research,” he explained. “They promised me a copy of their paper when it was published.”
“Kind of them,” said Hartley. “And the spare key which disappeared. When did that come back?”
Bottomley took out his notebook. He’d made a note of the date. Hartley glanced again at the visitors’ book. The date in the curator’s book tallied with the last visit of Dr Riad and Dr Mukhtar.
Maurice Bottomley read his thoughts. “You don’t think it was them?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to think, Maurice,” he replied. “Can’t see why they’d want to nick the spare key, then bring it back straight away.”
“Unless they didn’t want it to be missed,” offered Bottomley.
“You ought to be a detective,” said Hartley smiling. “You sure it wasn’t one of your staff who’d mislaid a key and borrowed that one temporarily?”
“No,” said Bottomley firmly. “I checked them out. In any case, only Hodgson has his own key to the museum.” He led them into the back room where the mummy was. “They’re not allowed to have any keys. There’s too much valuable stuff here. Lots of stuff some of your clients would like to get their hands on,” said the curator. “Costs us a bomb in security and insurance.”
“I bet,” said Hartley looking round. “And they wouldn’t be your common or garden thieves who’d nick owt here. Owt nicked here would be over the water in Europe before nightfall, believe me. There’s a reg’lar run to fences there. All part and parcel of the Common Market. Only there’s no taxes paid on what they sell.”
The curator laughed and showed them into the storage room. It smelled strongly of preservatives, and moth-balled uniforms. Martial ghosts paraded there from the past.
“I bet this lot could tell some right old tales if they could talk,” said Hartley, glancing round at the musty uniforms. They ranged from the Napoleonic War to the National Service era. Inspector Hartley nodded at the latter.
“A long time since I wore a uniform like that,” he remarked. “1956 to be precise.”
Colonel Waheeb smiled wryly. “I was in the Egyptian army then.”
“Suez?” asked Hartley.
“Yes, my friend. We were on opposite sides then,” he replied.
“But not now,” said Hartley.
“Very much so,” concurred Waheeb.
Blake Hartley stood before the old National Service uniform worn by one of his contemporaries. “The twilight of the British Empire,” he mused.
“The dawn of a new world,” said Colonel Waheeb. “Our world when we were young.”
Blake Hartley smiled wryly. “And a world we’re still trying to put to rights.”
By this time they’d reached the mummy. The curator pulled back the covering. The figure inside stared back at them motionless and expressionless. Colonel Waheeb moved round it silently, examining the wrappings intently as he read the hieroglyphics and Blake Hartley looked at the box more closely.
“What d’you make of it then?” he asked at length.
Colonel Waheeb drew a long breath. “It’s been switched. This isn’t the original,” he said.
“I guessed as much,” said Hartley. “The box it’s in is new, too. They’ve tried to doll it up to look like the original. But it’s botched.”
“But how?” asked Bottomley amazed.
His question remained unanswered for there was knock at the door. It was Hodgson. He said Mr Whitcliff was in the office and wanted to see Bottomley urgently. Inspector Hartley drew the caretaker inside and closed the door.
“You haven’t told him we’re here, have you?” he said.
“No, sir,” replied the other. “He’s just turned up.”
“Say nothing to him, Hodgson. We’re not here. Understand? What’s he want?”
“He came to look at the mummy and it had gone. He wants to know where,” said Hodgson. “I said we’d brought it in here for safekeeping and he wants to see it, sir.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let him know we’re here,” said the inspector to Maurice Bottomley. “We’ll make ourselves scarce, but show him in. I’d like to know why he’s so interested in the mummy’s removal.”
The detectives hid behind the rows of uniforms. They could hear everything there and not be seen when the curator re-appeared with Whitcliff.
“I know you must be busy,” he was saying,” but I simply had to make sure the mummy’s all right. The slightest move can cause deterioration. I’d like to check the sealing on the case. It’s getting pretty fragile now and needs replacing. May I request you don’t move it again, Mr Bottomley? You don’t mind my looking, I hope. Don’t want to be regarded as an interfering old know-all, but I am concerned. I feel some sort of responsibility after all these years and I’ll pay for any new sealing.”
The curator tried to put him at ease, but Whitcliff, cool as ever, thanked the curator profusely for letting him see the case, and spent some time looking over it. At length he seemed satisfied all was in order. He asked when it would be returned on display. In about a week’s time, said Bottomley. They sealed the floor in sections and had to let it dry before they polished it.
“Do handle it with care,” said Whitcliff. “It’s become very very fragile. Best to leave it in situ in future and polish round it rather than move it ag
ain.”
Maurice Bottomley thanked him and said he’d remember that. Whitcliff moved to the door, but paused on his way out and asked, “Oh, by the way. Has Inspector Hartley been here again? He seems to have developed a sudden interest in all things Egyptian.”
“Inspector Hartley is a man of many interests. Always has been. I’ve known him some years,” said the curator.
“Unusual in a policeman,” said the other suavely. “They’re usually so - how shall I say? - mundane, down-to-earth. Inspector Hartley’s quite a dreamer according to his superintendent. Quite a dreamer.”
“I’d say he’s quite a scholar,” said Bottomley. “A man of many parts.”
Whitcliff gave his throaty laugh. “You may be right,” was all he said, then wished him good-day.
When he’d gone the detectives emerged from hiding.
“What do you make of all that?” asked Hartley.
“He’s worried about something,” said Waheeb.
“But he looked relieved to find the mummy here intact,” said Hartley. They walked through into Bottomley’s office when he’d seen Whitcliff out. “The quicker we let Dr Dunwell have a look at this thing, the better. I’d like to know exactly what - who is inside that box.”
He rang for transport to take the mummy to forensic and while they waited they browsed through the Whitcliff collection of books in the library. They were interrupted again by Hodgson. Superintendent Donaldson was downstairs and wanted to see Hartley urgently. They could tell by the way he stomped up the stairs Donaldson was in a sweat over something. Maurice Bottomley tactfully withdrew.
“Oh, I might have guessed it!” he said when he saw Hartley.
“What, sir?” asked the other dumbfounded.
“That you had a hand in the mummy’s removal. I’ve just had Mr Whitcliff on the phone and he didn’t seem very happy. The call was put through to me in my car on my way home for lunch. He was most concerned his precious mummy had been moved and thought you had something to do with it. He wanted me to check it out.”
1 The Museum Mystery Page 8