Waheeb nodded. “From that time to the present,” he said.
“And they’ve gone on unchecked?”
“Their secrecy is absolute. Their sect has recruited from the same families for generations. They intermarry and never marry anyone outside their sect.. You can only be initiated into the high priesthood by marrying into it. It’s a caste system. That’s why the Whitcliffs always married Egyptian wives. And it’s my belief that because they’ve married close relatives generation after generation, they’re insane, inbred. ” The colonel paused and took a sip from his drink. He wiped his tache again then continued slowly, “If anyone breaks ranks, if they discover an intruder…they eliminate him…or her.”
He let the significance of his words sink in. They already had ample proof of that with Manasas’ murder.
“But, my friends,” he went on, more quietly, “I believe for the very first time we have the opportunity of breaking them. They are few in number now. That’s why they’re going to such lengths to survive, to build up their ranks. Taking in such riff-raff as Blackwell and such charlatans as Madame Marie. It would have been unthinkable a generation ago.”
“And that’s why I want that coffin before it’s shipped out,” said Hartley grimly. “There’s more than murder been committed. There’s evil absolute and untrammelled.”
Ibrahim Khan glanced across at his boss. He’d long recognised Hartley fought more than crime. Each enquiry he conducted was his own personal war against evil. A jihad. A holy war. He was a priest and policeman in one. The longer Khan worked with him, the more his own policing went that way. Their religions joined in their fight against crime, especially murder.
Before they left the pub, they agreed they all must attend the opening of the Institute. That way they’d have a threefold chance of picking up a lead.
“The chief suspects will all be there. The whole jollyjack of ’em,” said Hartley. “Whitcliff, Listerton, Riad, Mukhtar - perhaps others we know nothing of. Not to mention Arthur Donaldson and the Chief Constable! I’ll have a word with Professor Edwards. He’s as keen as we are to catch the killers of Dr Manasas. He’ll get us on the invite-list.” Hartley gave the ghost of a smile. “Then I can show Donaldson my personal invitation card. He’ll like that!” He relished even more watching his superintendent’s face when he turned up at the Institute as one of the guests.
It was a black tie and jacket do, with medals, and each guest was announced on arrival. The old-timers and the titled were plastered with medal miniatures. Inspector Hartley had three: his National Service medal, his police long-service medal - and the Military Medal. They were the envy of Donaldson whose breast was bare save for a white hankie peeping from the pocket.
When they met, his eyes dropped from his inspector’s face to the three miniatures. Then he met Hartley’s steady gaze. Envy and surprise mingled in the Super’s face.
“How…how on earth did you get here?” he asked. Then saw Ibrahim Khan. “And you, too, Khan?”
“Through the door, sir,” said Hartley. Donaldson looked irritated. “We’re very much in with the Ancient Egyptians, sir, - and more recent ones. And as Khan speaks their lingo and we thought we might glean something on the Manasas case, Professor Edwards kindly sent us the wherewithal to attend.” He looked around before adding, “Oh - er- sir. Colonel Waheeb is also here. As Mr Fahid. You’ve never seen him before.”
“Of course, Hartley. I’m not so naïve.” Hartley raised his eyebrows, but before he could speak, Donaldson said, “You’re not onto anyone here, are you? For God’s sake, Hartley, tread carefully. The place is stiff with top brass. Put a foot wrong and we’re all in it up to our necks.”
His voice barked its usual note, but his eyes pleaded. He could see Hartley had the bit between his teeth. He’d go in feet first, not standing on ceremony.
“We’ve no leads yet, sir, if that helps,” he replied.
Donaldson breathed with relief.
“But we’re hoping to pick up something, sir” said Khan.
“What?” asked Donaldson, his old fears returning.
Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno, sir,” he said. “But this is where Dr Manasas worked. I’ve a gut-feeling someone here knows something about his death.”
Donaldson’s face tightened. “Positive data, Hartley. No gut-feelings. Hunches are out in today’s policing,” he said. “Don’t go blundering in without clear-cut evidence. We don’t want egg on our faces because you’ve put two and two together before and made five. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hartley, and moved off to greet Professor Edwards.
“Watch him like a hawk, Khan,” said Donaldson. “You’re about the only one he’ll listen to. You know what he’s like once he gets his teeth into anything. I don’t want to carry any cans away from here. Why Edwards had to invite him I can’t fathom!”
Khan said he’d do his best and Donaldson ran off name-collecting when Sir Jeremy Listerton was announced, cutting short his conversation with Khan and moving immediately across to the arms dealer. Hartley saw him move and came back to Khan.
“Our Arthur’s gone swimming with bigger fish, I see,” he remarked, nodding at the disappearing figure of their boss. In fact, when Listerton put in an appearance, the other guests shoaled in on him, too, and the detectives found themselves alone. Colonel Waheeb drifted over while the coast was clear.
“Seen anything worthwhile?” asked Hartley.
“Enough to tell me there’s something afoot . The place is stiff with El Tubans. Don’t let Listerton out of your sight. I’ll keep my tabs on Riad and Mukhtar.”
Before moving off, Waheeb nodded over Hartley’s shoulder. He glanced round and saw Dr Misha talking with Professor Edwards. Riad and Mukhtar were there, too, so she was also on the prowl.
As he turned Edwards saw him and smiled. Hartley waved and smiled back. To his surprise he realised the professor was bringing Sir Jeremy Listerton across to meet him, with Donaldson in his wake. Khan realised it, too, and quickly peeled off, mingling with the other guests.
“Inspector Hartley,” said the professor, “Sir Jeremy would like to meet you. Superintendent Donaldson has told him you’re handling the case of Manasas. I mentioned you’d been here already. He’s impressed.”
Arthur Donaldson was already bitterly regretting he’d opened his mouth. He didn’t think for one moment it would lead to Hartley’s being introduced to Listerton. As he followed the big name across, he prayed his inspector would act decently, would not come the blunt tyke, yet he feared the worst.
You couldn’t have come across two more contrasting men. Listerton was slim, fastidious, bespoke in dress and appearance. Hartley looked as if he’d been shovelled into his suit. It was off the peg and had seen at least twenty annual police dinner dances. Listerton’s hair was steely grey and immaculately cut at some expensive upper crustian London salon. Hartley’s was short and trimmed by his wife, but it was still a rich brown despite some flecking round the sideburns.
Though Hartley was the older man and heavier, he was healthier. Listerton looked puffy and had a battery of burst veins across his nose. There was an air of profligacy about the man from a lifetime’s high-living. He’d a clipped military moustache and a bark to go with it. Hartley was clean-shaven and craggy. Softly spoken.
Sir Jeremy Listerton had been a regular officer, in the cavalry, before he’d resigned his commission to go into arms dealing and politics. The expertise he’d gained in the army he put to good use in business. His career in politics brought him the contacts he needed. He fished for custom in both Westminster and the Middle East - and threw out plenty of bait.
Though he affected friendliness when he met Hartley, as soon as he heard Hartley speak he became condescending, patronising. As the professor introduced them, Listerton glanced at Hartley’s medals. He asked how the inspector had gained his Military Medal.
“Oh, nothing,” said Hartley, modestly. “I only did what anybody’d have done in th
e circumstances. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I was doing my National Service. There were others who deserved it more than me.” He switched the topic nodding at Listerton’s own array of medals; most of them foreign. “I see you served in the Middle East, sir,” he said.
“The Oman business. With Mad Harry’s lot. You remember him?” said Sir Jeremy. “One way or another, I seem to have been anchored in that part of the world ever since. I suppose you were in the red-caps, eh, inspector?”
“No,” said Hartley. “The Intelligence Corps. Field Security.”
“Oh! Hush-hush and all that,” said Listerton with a light laugh.
“No,” said the inspector. “Very routine stuff. Dull plodding for the most part except when I won my gong. A bit like policing. But I learned a lot. Completed my education, so to speak, in the army.”
“Glad to hear it,” said the other. “Hear too many whingers beefing about their National Service. They ought to bring it back. Put a bit of spine into the younger generation.”
Donaldson thought it was time to stick his oar in. He’d been marginalised by the medal and service talk.
“I quite agree,” he said. “Always regretted I missed out on National Service. Too young. But I can claim an interest in the Middle East. Once had a jolly fine cruise there. My wife’s very keen on that part of the world - Italy, Greece, Turkey, Israel, Egypt - we did the lot, including a trip down the Nile. We loved it. Except for the jippy belly we caught in Cairo.”
Listerton gave him an icy smile. But it was lost.
“I learned a great deal on that trip. Very educational,” he continued airily. “That’s why I’m so pleased about the Institute. Cross fertilising of cultures.”
He looked across at his inspector. Hartley nodded encouragingly. Give his boss enough rope…
“To tell you the truth, Sir Jeremy, I never realised just how much of the old Empire there was there till I made that trip. How much Britain played in shaping world history. But, of course, you’re an expert in all that, eh?
Sir Jeremy gave his icy smile again. “I’ve worked there many years. But I wouldn’t call myself an expert. Not compared with Professor Edwards.” He turned and smiled more affably at the professor. “I’ve merely picked up what I know through my army days and doing business.”
“I bet you have,” thought Blake Hartley, who disliked the man more and more. He couldn’t resist saying, in his broadest voice. “From what I’ve read, you’ve done very well for yourself, sir, if I may say so. Very well indeed. We often see your lorries knocking about. You must do a lot of trade round these parts.”
Listerton raised an eyebrow. He didn’t like Hartley’s tone. The dislike became mutual when the inspector went on, “I bet you’ve made a bob or two dealing with those oil sheiks. You’re working in the right part of the world. Where there’s plenty of brass to be earned!”
Sir Jeremy frowned darkly. Donaldson could have wept.
“You’re a died in the blood Yorkshireman,” said Listerton. “No beating about the bush, eh? Yes, we’ve done well in the Middle East. Britain and the Arabs have always had - how shall I say?- affinity. But trade like all else comes only through hard work. I work very hard to promote my country’s interests abroad.”
Hartley could see they were in for an election speech, so he cut in, “I can see that, sir. You don’t get far in both trade or politics without a great deal of graft.”
The other’s eyebrows shot up and his moustache twitched.
“Graft?” he echoed.
“It’s an expression they use up here, Sir Jeremy,” Donaldson explained hurriedly, glaring at Hartley. “It means ‘hard work’ in the local dialect. Nothing to do with sleaze!”
Listerton’s face relaxed, but he saw the inspector through new eyes. Someone to watch carefully. Someone who acted the fool, but was the sage. He found him not only objectionable, but uncomfortable. So he excused himself and moved to another group. Professor Edwards went with him leaving Donaldson and Hartley by themselves.
The Super was fuming. As soon as they were out of earshot he hissed, “What the devil are you playing at, Hartley? You went out of your way to insult Sir Jeremy!”
Blake Hartley put on his hurt look.
“Me, sir?” he said. “Whatever did I say to upset him?”
A waiter appeared on the scene to replenish their drinks. Donaldson had to hold fire till he moved on.
“You know perfectly well what I mean!” he snarled. “I’ve known you long enough to read you like a book, Hartley. You didn’t like him so you insulted him. Why, I don’t know. Unless it gives you some kind of perverse pleasure. From the start, you began taking the mickey. And Sir Jeremy didn’t like it at all. Neither did I!”
“Oh,” said Hartley. “I’m sorry. How was I to know he wouldn’t understand me? I mean, anybody who grafts is a hard worker. It’s how we say it up here. He ought to feel honoured!”
Donaldson snorted. “He’s dining with the Chief Constable tonight. I bet a penny to a pound Sir William will be on the phone to me first thing tomorrow about you. And if he bends my ear, by God I’ll bend yours, Hartley!”
He stomped off to re-join Listerton, leaving Hartley looking blank. But as soon as he’d gone the inspector grinned impishly. Sipping his drink, he wandered across to Khan and told him what had happened.
Meanwhile, Mordecai Waheeb had let himself into the laboratory where the Egyptians worked. Locking the door behind him, he rummaged through the trays on Riad and Mukhtar’s benches. Like Hartley, he noted the cuff-link with the cobra motif. He also came across a penknife smothered with black candle wax. He scraped samples of it into an old envelope and pocketed it. Barely had he finished when he heard a key turning in the lock. He hurried to the other end of the lab and ducked behind the benches there.
Three men came in speaking Arabic. He recognised the voices of Riad, Mukhtar and Whitcliff.
“We’ll be all right here,” Riad said as soon as they were inside. The door closed behind them and they moved to Riad’s bench where Waheeb had been moments before. “But why do you want to come here, sir?” Riad continued. “I thought you wanted to speak to Listerton.”
“Because the place is lifting with police, that’s why,” growled Whitcliff.
He was nervous and the moment they were inside he lit one of his Turkish cigarettes. Its smell drifted across the Waheeb. The bench which he hid behind stood obliquely to Riad’s at the other end of the lab. The colonel peered cautiously round it.
The three who’d just come in were seated at the front by a demonstration bench. They had their backs to him and Whitcliff sat twisting the thick gold rings on his fingers and puffing at his cigarette. He dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief from time to time, though it was cool in the lab.
“For starters, why are Hartley and his sidekick here? They must be onto something. But what?” he said.
Riad shrugged his shoulders. Mukhtar sat mute.
“Edwards invited them. That’s all. He was impressed when they came about Manasas. Hartley has some kind of amateurish interest in Egyptology,” said Riad.
“Nothing more? Hartley’s not as daft as he looks, believe me. He needs watching all the time,” said Whitcliff.
“You worry too much, sir. Like I said, Hartley showed some interest in our work and Edwards took a liking to him. Especially when he turned up with the Fahid character. He’s loaded, they say. And you know what academic politics are like. Anyone loaded is fair game for a touch. Mr Fahid will be Dr Fahid, when he’s shelled out enough money.”
Whitcliff gave a short laugh. “And Hartley? What will they give him…a BA? Bobby’s Award for snooping round the Mausoleum with Fahid.”
Riad laughed. “They were caught,…how is it the English say?…they were caught with their trousers down. No, sir. It was all too amateurish. Hartley went one step too far there with his local history research story. I doubt if they’ll return after their experience with Roxley’s
dog. It’ll do more than take a piece out of their trousers. It’s a killer!”
Whitcliff wasn’t convinced. He drew heavily on his cigarette.
“Hartley’s got his teeth into the Manasas business. It doesn’t surprise me what he does now, where he turns up. I said from the start we should never have taken Manasas back to the museum. We could have buried him in the crypt.”
“He paid the penalty of desecrating divine Hathor,” said Riad brusquely. “You as her High Priest know that, sir. Anyone touching her sacred body dies. It is written so.”
Whitcliff said nothing for a moment. He seemed lost in thought. Then he said,” You are right, Gamal. It is written.”
He got off his stool and began to pace up and down. Colonel Waheeb thought he was going to come to the back of the lab but he returned to the others. He switched the subject and talked about some consignment arriving safely in Leeds. Sir Jeremy had informed him. “The arms and the coffin together. An apt escort for our sacred sister,” he commented, adding, “You’ve paid Listerton in full, Gamal? We don’t want any hitches now.”
“Yes, sir,” said the other.
“And you’ve checked the shipping times? It’s a new run. It must all go smoothly.”
Mukhtar spoke for the first time. “Yes, sir. The consignment leaves next Wednesday from Listerton’s warehouse at Canal Road. It will be barged to Hull then shipped to Amsterdam. Our people there will truck it overland to Cairo by the usual route.”
“Good,” said Whitcliff. “Once she arrives, our sister will be placed in the Court of Hathor among the daughters of Hathor. She will live in the Great Temple of the Dead awaiting the Day of Hathor at the end of time. Listerton’s whore is greatly favoured!”
Then Whitcliff said they should return to the reception. “I don’t want to alert Hartley,” he said. “That man has eyes like a hawk. He misses nothing.”
Colonel Waheeb smiled. “How right you are,” he murmured, and once they were clear, he, too, rejoined the reception.
Chapter Twenty
1 The Museum Mystery Page 15