1 The Museum Mystery

by John Waddington-Feather

  “Now if you don’t mind, inspector, some of us have got work to do,” said Blackwell. He nodded towards the gates and they took the hint. The detectives strolled back to the main gates. Just before they left, Blackwell asked again how they’d got in unseen.

  “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Hartley replied. “Give your friend here something to do working that out apart from toting his gun. Oh, before we go may I see your licence?”

  Smith pulled out a grubby certificate from his pocket. Hartley glanced at it and passed it back.

  The other smiled. “Like I told you, boss. It’s all above board. We don’t get these security jobs unless we do things right.”

  Hartley said nothing. By the way Smith kept calling him boss, Hartley guessed he’d got form. They left them at the gates and wandered back to their car to return to the quarry, but as soon as they were out of sight Blackwell and Smith began scouring the area round the Mausoleum to see how they’d got in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They reached the quarry and Colonel Waheeb brushed the mud from his trousers. They were plastered with the stuff where the guard-dog had pulled him to the ground. Then he began cleaning up his coat but Inspector Hartley stopped him. There were dog hairs all over it from the white Alsatian.

  “Hang on,” he said, carefully plucking some of the hairs from Colonel Waheeb’s coat and putting them into a specimen bag. Waheeb was puzzled and asked why he was bagging the hairs.

  “I collect dog hairs,” he said drily. Then he explained about the hairs found on the dead man’s clothing. Blackwell’s terrier’s hairs didn’t match. But these might.

  He dropped off his samples at forensic the next day en route for the Institute of Middle Eastern Studies for Mordecai Waheeb wanted to see the place. The Egyptian researchers, Drs Riad and Mukhtar interested him. If they were the same pair Anwar and Khan had seen, they were onto something. Those two weren’t at Madam Marie’s having their fortunes told, that was for sure.

  Waheeb kept to his cover as an Egyptian businessman interested in archeology. He’d met Blake Hartley at the museum, heard about the murder and thought it a dreadful business, but it was their mutual interest in Egyptian archaeology which had brought them together and Hartley thought Mr Fahid might like to see the Institute’s collection.

  “So you’re not here on police business, inspector?” asked Professor Edwards, when they signed in.

  “No, sir,” said Hartley. “Mutual scholarly interest you might say. I told Mr Fahid about the fine collection you have here. He knew about it already, of course, but didn’t know of my own connection. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not in the least,” said Edwards. Then added smiling, “Especially if we can pick up another sponsor.”

  Colonel Waheeb acknowledged his smile. “Who knows?” he said. “My company is always happy to back good research.” They had to pass Dr Manasas’ old office and Hartley caught the look of pain on Waheeb’s face when Edwards pointed it out. “Poor fellow,” said the colonel softly. “It must have come as great shock to his colleagues.”

  Professor Edwards pursed his lips and frowned. He said nothing for a moment then remarked, “Strange you should say that. To be brutally honest, it doesn’t seem to have upset them in the least. They never seemed to get on, but I’d have expected some expression of grief; but as it is they’re quite impassive.”

  “Did you get on with Dr Manasas?” asked Waheeb.

  “Of course. He was a very popular man with the rest of the department so I never really understood why Dr Riad and Dr Mukhtar, his fellow coutrymen, didn’t get on with him, too. Regarded him as some kind of intruder. I put it down to professional jealousy. Petty-minded, I know, but you know what academics are like.”

  Blake Hartley smiled wryly. “Just like the rest of us,” he replied. “But perhaps Mr Fahid could meet them. He’s particularly keen on the dynasties when the priests ruled Egypt and I believe it’s their speciality.”

  Professor Edwards laughed lightly. “It’s something more than a speciality. They’re into it in earnest. Belong to an outlandish sect connected with some goddess. They won’t discuss it with me. It’s a kind of freemasonry, I think. You’ve got to be on the inside before they’ll open up. I’ve stopped probing. It only seems to upset them.”

  Inspector Hartley listened keenly. He also made a mental note to bring in the cultic bit the next time the subject of freemasonry was brought up by Donaldson. An ardent freemason, he was always on about it. Hartley would enjoy telling him he was ‘cultic’.

  “Do they have a meeting place - a temple - like the freemasons?” asked Waheeb innocently.

  “I wouldn’t know. As I said, they clam up when I broach the subject and I don’t want to upset them. They’re good workers and I’m not into secret societies, least of all Egyptian ones. You probably know something about that, Mr Fahid.”

  Colonel Waheeb shrugged his shoulders. “Egypt’s full of them,” he said. “As numberless as the desert sands.”

  As they entered the work-room of the archeologists, Colonel Waheeb ran his eye over the nameplates on the door. As well as Riad and Mukhtar’s names there was a third, Dr Saniyya Misha. She was sitting at her workbench examining fragments of pottery when they went in.

  The room was littered with treasures and artefacts recovered from many Egyptian sites and sent to the Institute for evaluation and cataloguing. So packed was the place with the stuff, they might have walked into a tomb itself.

  “We’re identifying and cataloguing all this for the authorities in Cairo before we send it back,” explained the professor. “Not often they allow this much to leave Egypt, but there you are. Shows what faith they have in us - despite Nefertiti’s bust! It’ll all be returned safely when we’ve done with it.”

  They wandered over to Dr Misha and the professor introduced them. She and Waheeb conversed in Arabic for a moment, then Waheeb apologised to Hartley. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I was forgetting you don’t speak Arabic.”

  “Fire away,” said Hartley pleasantly. “It must make a change being able to speak in your own language. Mind if I have a look-see?” he asked.

  He left Colonel Waheeb talking to the archeologist while he wandered round the workroom asking Professor Edwards about the odd objects which caught his attention.

  Each of the Egyptian researchers specialised in some aspect of antiquity. Dr Misha was dating pottery and burial vestments. Dr Riad’s bench was packed with small effigies of gods and goddesses. But it was Mukhtar’s workbench which interested Inspector Hartley most. Arranged carefully in a long display cabinet beneath the window were row on row of death-masks, all staring back at him in the expressionless way the mummy had done in Keighworth Museum. As a boy he’d been at once fascinated and frightened by that mummy’s face. The old feeling flowed back as he looked over the line of faces and he shivered involuntarily.

  “Cold?” asked the professor.

  “No,” answered the inspector. “Someone must have walked over my grave.” And he wasn’t so sure he didn’t mean it when he stared at the death-masks again.

  There were about thirty in all. All faces of young women. Beautiful princesses of the Pharaoh kings. Beautiful but sinister. All wore the head-dress and jewellery of the goddess Hathor. All were coldly unsmiling. Inspector Hartley walked slowly along the display case fascinated, looking at the features of each princess. He was about to move on when he stopped suddenly. He turned back to look at the last face in the case. Its features were those of the missing girl - Kathy Burton! The mask was identical with the one Dr Dunwell’s technician had made.

  He said nothing to the professor, but told Colonel Waheeb to look at the mask. Professor Edwards was curious why they showed such interest.

  “Just thought it looked very like the mummy in our museum,” said Hartley casually.

  “Dr Mukhtar probably made a copy of it like the rest here. They’re all copies of originals in Egypt,” said the professor. “He’s b
een studying the mummy at Keighworth Museum for some time.”

  Professor Edwards had a closer look at the last death-mask. He commented how European it looked compared with the other faces. The shape of the nose, the eyes, the colouring, were different from the rest.

  “You bet,” thought Hartley and moved on to distract Edwards’ attention. He might start asking awkward questions but the professor went across to Dr Misha and enquired about her work. It gave the other two the chance to look over the workplaces of Drs Riad and Mukhtar.

  There wasn’t much to see. The archeologists were meticulously tidy - like Donaldson. Their desks had been cleared of everything except some newly sharpened pencils and marker pens. All in a neat little box, but there was something else in it which caught Mordecai Waheeb’s eye, a cuff-link. It looked expensive, gold, and had the cobra motif on it with some Arabic writing underneath.

  Waheeb picked it up and showed it to his colleague. “Interesting,” he whispered. “The El Tuban sign.”

  Inspector Hartley asked what the writing said.

  “ ‘In death our life,’ ” he said. “The motto of the T.F.G.”

  Blake Hartley looked puzzled.

  “It means that for every killing they make in Hathor’s name, their own souls will be assured of eternal life in paradise. That’s how they justify their killing. In ancient Egypt, Hathor’s followers sacrificed slaves regularly to ensure their own immortality. It still goes on among Hathor’s followers,” said Waheeb, looking at Hartley intently. “The death-mask over there of the girl…” he left his sentence unfinished.

  “It’s barbaric!” gasped Hartley.

  “Barbaric is a relative term, my friend,” said Mordecai quietly. “The Nazis did not consider their death-camps barbaric. Only expedient. They became barbaric when they were no longer efficient.”

  “The work of maniacs,” said Hartley.

  “Exactly,” said Waheeb. “And we’re dealing with madmen here who masquerade as priests.”

  “Are you religious?” asked Inspector Hartley.

  They weighed each other up a moment, before Colonel Waheeb replied, “Everyone’s religious.”

  “Atheists?”

  “Of course. Their religion is confined to this world and no other. To themselves. They see nothing beyond, if I judge them aright. If you mean, do I believe in God, I’m still searching. Not like you, my friend. In some ways I envy your certainty. It must bring you great comfort,” said Mordecai Waheeb.

  “I couldn’t make sense either of myself or the world without my faith. I assume you’re Muslim,” said Blake Hartley.

  “My mother was a Christian. My father a Muslim. I’m agnostic. Still searching, as I said. Does that answer your question?” said Waheeb.

  “Throws up a lot more questions,” said Hartley. “And I’m not so sure I know the answers. Let’s stick to what we both know. Let’s stick to this Hathor business, to an evil which religion is the cause of.”

  He broke off as Professor Edwards headed towards them. The professor said he had to leave but they were free to stay. Dr Misha would show them out.

  As soon as he left the room, Colonel Waheeb sprang a surprise. To say Hartley was gob-smacked was an understatement He called over Dr Misha.

  “Inspector Hartley, I want you to meet one of my colleagues. Saniyya Misha, or Dr Misha, or simply Mlle Misha, depending in what circumstances you meet her,” he said.

  The young woman shook Hartley’s hand smiling, enjoying his astonishment like Waheeb. Blake Hartley asked what was happening.

  “She was working undercover with Dr Manasas,” Waheeb explained. “She was sent here to report on Riad and Mukhtar, both members of the T.F.G. We’ve known for some time there’s a cell here in Britain which is active also in mainland Europe. We hoped to net bigger fish surveilling these two.”

  Blake Hartley scratched his head. “Well, that scoops the kitty!” he said. Then he asked if the Anti-Terrorist Squad in London knew about them, knew what he and Dr Misha were doing.

  “Of course,” Waheeb replied. “It’s a joint operation.”

  “Superintendent Donaldson knows nothing about it,” observed Hartley, and added more to himself than the others, “Not that he knows much about owt.”

  “It’s a golden rule of intelligence that the fewer who know, the more efficiently it works. The T.F.G. have their intelligence network, too. If anyone talked, they’d be onto us in a flash.”

  “Then the longer Donaldson is kept in the dark, the better. He never could keep his mouth shut,” said Hartley.

  Mordecai Waheeb smiled but made no comment.

  “We all feel Ahmad Manasas’ death keenly,” Dr Misha said. “But we’ll get his killers one way or another. He was a good man, a good policeman. It’s been difficult being friendly with his killers.”

  “Riad and Mukhtar, I suppose,” said Hartley.

  “Somehow they blew his cover,” said Waheeb. “Somebody in Egypt, we suspect. They have their plants in the police there.”

  “Aren’t you afraid they’ll blow yours?” Inspector Hartley asked Dr Misha.

  Saniyya Misha shrugged her shoulders. “You’re a policeman, a detective. You don’t think of fear till you have to. You just get on with your job”

  “We could pull them in now if you’ve enough evidence,” said Hartley.

  “Evidence? They’re much too clever to leave any evidence. But it’s them all right. They told me,” said Misha.

  “Told you!” exclaimed Hartley.

  “She’s infiltrated their cell,” said Waheeb.

  Blake Hartley regarded the young woman before him. She was young enough to be his daughter. Attractive. Intelligent. Acting the part of a terrorist and laying her life on the line by so doing. Playing them at their own dirty game. A trained killer. Somehow it didn’t seem right. He could never forgive himself if he placed a woman in that situation. He left with Colonel Waheeb shortly afterwards. But he’d plenty to think about. He’d sent in DWC Anwar undercover to flush out Mukhtar and Riad.

  Chapter Sixteen

  On his way home Blake Hartley dropped in to church. Rosie Adams’ mother happened to be there too and collared him. What she handed him persuaded him to pay a second visit to Kathy Burton’s apartment.

  Mrs Adams had found a notebook in her daughter’s room. She knew the inspector called in at church each night and had waited for him. The notebook belonged to Kathy Burton. There were some addresses in it, London addresses, but she couldn’t make much of them.

  Blake Hartley thumbed through the pages of the tatty book. It was a diary of sorts. There were dates and times against some of the names, many of which were repeated again and again. It was a list of Kathy Burton’s clients; but how had it come to be in Rosie Adams’ possession?

  Some names the inspector recognised. They were well-known figures in politics and industry, so-called pillars of the establishment. “A plaything of our scurvy politics,” he mused. If ever they found out, the media would have a field-day with the names he held in his hand.

  He pocketed the book and thanked Mrs Adams for bringing it. She’d no idea she’d landed him a bomb. If exploded, it could have brought down the government!

  “No word yet about Kathy?” asked Elsie Adams.

  He shook his head.

  “It’s that black magic lot she got mixed up with,” she went on. “I allus said no good would come of it. I said so from t’start!”

  Blake Hartley reassured her they were doing all they could to find the missing girl. He mentioned they were praying for Kathy Burton at church and it calmed Mrs Adams.

  “It seems all that’s left for us to do,” she said quietly. The inspector nodded, dreading the next question. “D’you…d’you think she’s dead, Inspector Hartley?”

  “We’ve had no word from the CID in London. They’d have let us know by now if…if they’d found her dead. We can only pray for her, Mrs Adams, eh?”

  The other shook her head and bit her lip, then joined the
inspector in a short prayer. He had to leave, but she said she’d stay on in the church. She wanted to be alone. He guessed she wanted to pray for her own daughter, too, and left her by herself. He told her to stay as long as she wanted. The church wouldn’t be closed till dusk.

  Mary was out when he arrived home. She’d left his meal in the oven, so he pulled out the notebook and browsed through it as he ate his tea. Kathy Burton was no downtown hooker. She’d a place in Knightsbridge - and a ‘maid’ who booked her clients, judging by the entries in the diary. She paid her well for she was earning big money. He wasn’t surprised for among her clients were a junior minister, a well-known barrister and a leading civil servant.

  There were other names. An Arab embassy official and a British arms dealer, who’d hit the headlines for some shady deals in the past. Only recently he’d been hauled before a parliamentary committee along with the junior minister whose name was in the book.

  When he’d finished eating he went at once to Kathy’s flat. He found Miss Pickles in the corridor, her ear to the door of the flat and her back towards him as he turned the corner of the corridor. He walked quietly towards her and startled her with “Hear owt?”

  She spun round, catching her breath, but looked relieved when she saw who it was. Then she put her finger to her lips and motioned him to follow her to her own flat.

  “Oh, I am glad to see you,” she said. “There’s that odd lot next door.”

  “What lot?” asked Hartley.

  “Madame Marie and that lass. An’ there’s a chap with ’em with a dog. It’s sniffing all over t’place in there.”

  “Who let them in? Does Mr Ali know about it?” asked the inspector.

  “Best ask him yourself,” she said, nodding at the phone.

  He took her advice and rang the landlord. Mr Ali knew nothing about it. He sounded upset. He’d heard nothing from Kathy Burton and she owed him rent. He was going to clear her flat if she didn’t return soon. And much more. In fact, he was coming over straight away to see who the intruders were. He hadn’t given them a key. Hartley told him to leave it to him and he’d go round and confront them. Better leave Mr Ali out of it with thugs like Blackwell about.