Dead Men's Hearts

“Oh, yes?” Gabra said. “That is interesting. And what did this Abdul look like?”

“Look like?” Arlo was thoroughly disconcerted. He had come here to say something. He had planned it and rehearsed it, and Gabra had thrown him off his stride. Arlo’s hands fluttered indecisively. “He was… he had a…” His hand went to his face and pulled the right cheek down.

Gabra glanced meaningfully at Gideon.

“I can also tell you who killed him,” Arlo said.

“Ah,” Gabra said softly, “now this I would very much like to hear.”

“Well, it was, um—well, it was sort of—”

“Would you like to sit down, Dr. Gerber?”

“No thank you,” Arlo said mechanically, at the same time seating himself in a wooden chair on Gideon’s side of the table. He looked utterly flustered. “Could I please have one of those?” he said, gesturing at Gabra’s Cleopatras.

“Certainly.” Gabra held out the pack and lit Arlo’s cigarette with a lighter. Gideon hadn’t seen him smoke before.

Arlo’s fingers shook as he brought the cigarette to his lips. He inhaled with his eyes closed. His color improved slightly.

“It was me,” he said. “But it was an accident.”

Well, it was and it wasn’t. El-Hamid’s death, as Gideon had thought, had been caused by a fall. But the fall had been caused by Arlo. Directly and precipitately. As Arlo told it, he had surprised el-Hamid one night, walking out the back door of the annex with an Amarna head.

“And when was this, please?” Gabra asked.

“October 16, 1989,” Arlo said, like a man reciting the date of doomsday.

Gabra and Gideon exchanged glances. That made it just one week after the theft of the statuette at WV-29. Interconnected monkey business, all right.

“Proceed,” Gabra said.

Arlo proceeded. He had shouted at the man to stop. Instead, el-Hamid had begun to run. Arlo, calling upon reserves that came as a surprise to Gideon, and had very likely come as a surprise to Arlo, had chased after him. As el-Hamid rounded a bend his foot had caught on something and he had fallen hard, striking his head on the stone base of a defunct fountain.

When Arlo realized that he was dead he had gotten frightened. He had dragged the body twenty or thirty feet to the unused enclosure, thrown the Amarna head in after him, and left them there, shielded from nonexistent passersby by the stucco walls and the piles of junk, Arlo, whose eyes had been fixed on the floor as he spoke, looked up. “And that’s about it.”

Not by a long shot, Gideon thought.

Gabra didn’t think so either. “Why did you become frightened? If all was as you say, you did nothing wrong. Whyyou have said nothing all this long time? Why do you come forward now?”

“Oh, well,” said Arlo reluctantly, “that’s a long story.”

Gabra gestured with his cigarette. Time was no problem.

Arlo carefully laid his cigarette in an aluminum-foil ashtray and began. He spoke like a man who’d already been tried and condemned, hunched forward as if against the fetid damp of an Egyptian jail, with his hands squeezed flat between his knees.

It had started several weeks before the fatal night. There had been an outbreak of pilfering from the annex. It was an old and recurring problem at Horizon House. Nothing of significance; merely the sort of generic, everyday bits and pieces that might be palmed off to tourists for five or ten dollars. It had been going on in Egypt for millennia, and there always seemed to be more where they had come from. Still, Arlo said, one couldn’t help but hate to see them go off to Topeka and Fort Lauderdale to gather dust on knickknack shelves next to Toby jugs and commemorative spoons. He had grown suspicious of Abdul, who had started there at about the time the latest rash had begun, and who, as a janitor in the annex, had easy access to the collection.

He had reported his suspicions to Haddon and a trap had been laid. The bait had been snapped up and Abdul had been fired, but not until after a horrible scene during which the Egyptian had refused to accept Haddon’s decision and loudly accused Arlo, as Allah was his witness, of everything from offering him money to steal the objects to—and here Arlo flushed and lowered his voice—asking him to procure women and, er, ah, little boys, young children. It was too absurd for anyone to take any of it seriously, of course, and Haddon had called for a constable to send Abdul packing, but it had been terribly stressful for Arlo.

“May I have another cigarette?” he asked Gabra. His own, left untouched in the foil tray, was a cylinder of ash.

Gabra slid the open pack across to him along with the lighter.

“And you saw him next… ?”

Arlo had some trouble getting the cigarette lit but finally managed. “I told you, that night at the back door of the annex, the night I—the night he fell.”

“Died,” said Gabra.

“Yes,” Arlo said after a moment. “Died. When that happened, I—J suppose I panicked. How could I tell anyone what happened? I was afraid it would look as if I killed him because of his revolting accusations. I was nearly hysterical— I felt—I heard his head crack, you see—all I wanted to do was get out of there, get him out of sight, so I—well, you know the rest.”

“No, not all,” Gabra said. “Since 1989 you can easily dispose of these bones. Why have you not done it sooner? Why do you leave them all this time until they are discovered, which must happen eventually?”