I
I GREW UP ON A farm in Minnesota. Dad taught all of us how to handle a shotgun and a rifle; he didn’t hunt, but he saw nothing wrong with discouraging varmints, including the human variety, when they attacked the livestock (including the human variety). A bullet was also the quickest and most humane method of dispatching a fatally injured or rabid animal. He hated handguns, though. He claimed they were cowards’ weapons and more likely to get a person into trouble than out of it.
I suppose it’s easy to take that attitude when you’re six-five and built like a tank.
Inconsistent or not, I share his attitude. I picked the thing up with all due caution, and examined it with even greater caution. I can tell an automatic from a revolver, but that’s about the limit of my expertize. This wasn’t one of the few models I had handled. The safety was on and there was a full clip, but no extras.
The presence of the gun proved Ali had had a backup on board, which was good news. I only hoped it wasn’t meant to convey a subtle message: ‘You’re on your own, baby, don’t expect me to rush to the rescue.’
I can deliver subtle messages too. I put the gun back in the safe and closed the door. Anyhow, I couldn’t carry the damned thing on me; my clothes were all lightweight cotton and linen, there was no place I could stash it where it wouldn’t show. If I put it in my bag, either it would fall out at an inappropriate moment or it would sink to the bottom and I wouldn’t be able to locate it in a hurry.
Dad was right. The damned things were more trouble than they were worth. I hoped.
Schmidt had saved me a seat in the lounge. By what was probably not a strange coincidence, the only other person at the table was Larry. He did seem pleased to see me. Schmidt’s face had the bland, pink-cheeked innocence it wore when he was up to something. I knew what he was up to this time, and I wished him luck. I’m a loyal employee of the National Museum myself – up to a point.
‘So they let you off for a few hours?’ I said, glancing at the table where Larry’s two henchmen were sitting.
‘It’s the other way around, actually,’ Larry said with a smile. ‘I had to order Schroeder to take a break. He’s been on the phone to Luxor a dozen times, working on the arrangements for the reception.’
‘Mr Schroeder is your secretary?’ I asked.
‘Executive assistant, rather. Haven’t you met him?’
I shook my head. ‘I have,’ said Schmidt. ‘A very pleasant person. But shy, nicht?’
Larry laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But he’s been pretty busy. These changes in schedule have been a damned nuisance. We’ve had to revise our own schedule for the reception at my place in Luxor, and for the formal opening of the tomb.’
‘It is true, then, that we will have the honour of being the first to see the tomb in all its new glory?’ Schmidt asked eagerly.
‘The first and possibly the last,’ Larry said.
‘Aha!’ Schmidt nodded and winked. ‘I thought that would be your aim. I am in full agreement, of course. But can you do that, mein Freund? The Bureau of Tourism will surely object to closing the tomb.’
‘I have an argument that may convince them. No,’ he added pleasantly but firmly, ‘don’t ask, Anton; I’m saving it for a surprise. It will be announced at the reception day after tomorrow.’
‘I would not want you to tell me then,’ Schmidt announced, widening his eyes and pursing his lips. ‘I like surprises.’
He was overdoing the cute stuff, and I tried to tip him off with a slight shake of my head. Schmidt only grinned.
The room had filled. Everyone was there, even Suzi, whom I had expected to prefer sunbathing over culture. Perhaps she had found she lacked an audience.
It was a long lecture, but for once even Perry’s hopelessly pedantic delivery couldn’t spoil the fascination of the subject.
The tomb had been discovered around the turn of the century by a famous husband-and-wife team of Egyptologists. It was an unusual combination in those days, when women weren’t allowed to work in archaeology or any other serious discipline, and the excavators were also unusual in that they followed rigorous standards of recording and copying instead of the slash-and-burn, dig-’em-up-and-dump-’em techniques favoured by many of their contemporaries.
Since colour photography had not yet been developed, the only way of accurately reproducing the wall paintings was to have them copied by an artist. Howard Carter, known to the world for his discovery of Tutankhamon’s tomb, began his career as a copyist. He did some nice work, but I believe I cannot be accused of prejudice when I claim that the greatest archaeological copyists of that period were women. The discoverers of Tetisheri’s tomb had employed one of them, and she had copied the paintings with exquisite skill.
As Schmidt had mentioned a couple of dozen times, we were among the first people to see the photographs of the restorations. Larry had denied dozens of requests for permission to reproduce them. Even the
Perry had had the bright idea of comparing three versions, slide by slide – first the painting, then a colour photograph taken before the restoration began three years earlier, then the photograph of the same section as it now appeared. It was a fascinating and convincing demonstration of the hazards of accessibility, and an equally impressive demonstration of what expert restorers and pots of money could do. The paintings had deteriorated shockingly in only ninety years, but Larry’s crew had returned them to their original beauty.
After the lights had come on and the shades had been drawn back, Perry started taking questions. I got up and headed for the deck. Larry followed me.
‘In need of nicotine?’ he asked, smiling.
I kept forgetting I was a smoker. I took out a cigarette, and said with perfect honesty, ‘I didn’t want to spoil the impression. You’ve done a wonderful thing, Larry. I feel as if I ought to kiss your hand.’
Schmidt was close on Larry’s heels. ‘Sie hat recht, mein Freund,’ he said seriously. ‘The art lovers of the world owe you a great debt. I will not kiss your hand, but I would like to shake it.’
A dark flush spread over Larry’s face. He looked down and shuffled his feet like a bashful schoolboy. ‘Your praise means a great deal to me,’ he mumbled.
I was afraid Schmidt might take advantage of Larry’s emotional state to start hinting about certain other things he could do for the art lovers of the world, so I changed the subject. ‘What happened to her mummy?’
‘One of the unlabelled mummies in the Deir el Bahri cache is believed to be hers,’ Larry said. ‘I question the identification.’
‘On what basis?’ Schmidt asked interestedly.
‘It’s a rather complicated question.’
‘Ach, ja, I recall reading about it.’ Schmidt leaned against the rail, his eyes bright with interest. Schmidt is interested in practically everything, and as I have said, he remembers practically everything he has ever read. ‘There is a papyrus – Amherst, I believe – dating from the twelfth century B.C., which describes the confessions of tomb robbers of Thebes. So many of the royal tombs had been robbed that priests gathered up the royal mummies, or their battered remains, and hid them in a secret place. This cache was found in the 1880s, after it, in turn, had been looted by local thieves. Some of the mummies were unidentified and none were in their original coffins – ’
‘You are very well informed,’ Larry said curtly. He turned, arms on the rail, looking out across the river.
I would have taken the hint, but Schmidt went gaily on. ‘A few years ago the University of Michigan undertook a complete X-ray examination of the royal mummies. There were some peculiar discoveries. For instance, the small wrapped mummy found with the body of a high priestess was not, as had been believed, that of her stillborn child, but a baboon! One of the little old queens was bald and had – what do you call it – teeth that stuck out – ’
‘Brotzeit, Schmidt,’ I interrupted. ‘Specifically, teatime. Why don’t you get us a good table near the buffet before the others come out?’
The prospect of food can distract Schmidt from just about anything. He went bustling off.
‘Are you having tea?’ I asked Larry.
He shook his head. ‘I’m saving myself for the banquet this evening. Come to think of it, I ought to get a costume of some sort together. If you’ll excuse me . . .’
I joined Schmidt. ‘They are still setting out the food,’ he complained. ‘There was no hurry. Why – ’
‘A gentle hint, Schmidt: if you want to win Larry’s heart, don’t talk to him about mummies. Especially the mummies of beautiful Egyptian queens.’
