‘I didn’t know you were ambidextrous,’ I said, removing my Girl Scout neckerchief and winding it around Sweet’s wrists.
‘I’m not. Bloody hell! That hurt.’
‘Stop complaining and help me. I need some rope.’
‘Sorry, I’m fresh out.’ Removing his belt, he used it to bind Sweet’s ankles.
‘We need a gag. Where’s that nice, clean white handkerchief a proper gent always carries?’
‘Never mind the gag.’ John went to the fireplace and began running his hands over the panelling next to it. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven twenty-five.’
‘Not much time. I hope to God I haven’t forgotten . . . Ah. That’s done it.’
A section of the panelling slid aside under the pressure of his hands. I could see lights behind it; they must have come on automatically when the door was opened. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch the unwanted baggage.’
‘Larry’s quite a romantic, isn’t he?’ I remarked, starting down the stairs the open panel had disclosed. ‘Secret passages all over the place.’
‘There’s a good and sufficient practical reason for this bit of romanticism.’ John followed me, towing ‘Sweet’ by his feet. I am as a rule a tenderhearted person but I did not wince when I heard his head bounce from step to step.
There was no door at the bottom of the stairs. They opened directly into a large windowless room.
No wonder I hadn’t been impressed with Larry’s collection of antiquities. Here was the real collection – his own private collection, hidden away from all eyes but his. The room was softly lit and carpeted. The air was cool, the temperature and humidity carefully controlled to preserve the exhibits. They stood along the walls and rested in velvet-lined cases. The cases were open, so he could touch and fondle to his heart’s content.
My eyes moved in dazed disbelief from one masterpiece to another. The lovely little statuette of Tetisheri in the British Museum was a fake, all right. The original was here. So was the Nefertiti bust – not the painted bust in Berlin, but the other, even more beautiful, that was – was supposed to be – in the Cairo Museum.
Had I been mistaken about Larry’s ultimate intent after all? The contents of this room represented the greatest art theft in history. Getting them out of the museum and into this room was only half the battle. He was in the process of finishing the job – getting his pieces out of Egypt. Packed in among his household effects, they would pass through customs without a hitch. No one would be boorish enough to inspect the possessions of the great philanthropist, the man who had just presented Egypt with a multimillion-dollar institute. Wasn’t this enough for Larry?
No. My original reasoning still held, tenuous and unsupported though it was. The convenient breakdown of the
Many of the cases were empty, their contents already transferred to the wooden packing boxes that spoiled the neatness of the room. But there was lots left. A small head of an Amarna princess, a diadem of twisted golden wire set with tiny turquoise flowers . . .
John heard me gasp. ‘I wondered if you’d spot that,’ he said, dragging Sweet into a corner and turning one of the empty boxes over on top of him.
The diadem bad been buried with a princess of the Middle Kingdom. I’d found a sketch of it in the workshop of the goldsmith who had been producing fake jewels for the gang in Rome. The original had been in the Cairo Museum, not the Metropolitan, as I had ignorantly supposed at the time. Obviously it wasn’t there now.
‘You . . .’ I began. ‘You . . . You started this that long ago?’
‘This sort of collection takes a while to build up,’ John said coolly. He joined me and studied the lovely thing with obvious appreciation. Then he shook his head regretfully. ‘Too large and too fragile. This will do the trick just as well, I expect.’
The object he shoved carelessly into his pocket was a pectoral, its complex design dominated by a huge scab of lapis lazuli. It had belonged to Tutankhamon.
John took my limp hand and led me up the stairs.
‘Time?’ he asked, closing the sliding panel.
‘Uh . . . seven-forty.’
‘We may as well get into position, then.’
‘Do you know what Max has planned?’
‘I’ve an inkling, yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t anticipated his intentions. You’re the one who is supposed to be in charge of this rescue.’
I snarled at him. The sight of that incredible collection – a good deal of which had probably come to Larry via John – had made me remember what he was, and the sight of him, bright-eyed and cheerful and higher than a kite in a March gale, didn’t relieve my apprehensions any. I had had more than a nodding acquaintance with amphetamines and other useful drugs during my days as a grad student. Sooner or later he would crash, and to judge by the immediate effects it would be a long hard fall. Some of the cuts were still bleeding. The bright splashes of red looked like flowers against the rusty stains.
He saw me staring at his shirt and misinterpreted my expression. ‘Lend me that peculiar garment you’re wearing.’
‘What for?’
‘For God’s sake, Vicky, pull yourself together and stop asking silly questions. It won’t serve you as a disguise, not with that mop of blond hair shining like a beacon, and you can probably run faster without it. If, as I hope but dare not expect, we get as far as the corniche, we’ll have to catch a taxi. Even a Luxor cab driver may be reluctant to pick up a fare who looks as if he’s been in a war.’
‘Especially these days,’ I muttered, stripping off the galabiya.
It didn’t suit him, but at least it covered the blood.
Max had instructed us to be ready at ten minutes to eight. Once he had made his move – whatever it was – we could count on five minutes, maybe less. If he hadn’t acted by ten after eight we were on our own, and he wished us the best of British luck.
Either he had overestimated the appetites of his associates or my watch was slow. We were crossing the hall, exposed and fully visible from at least four directions, when I heard them leaving the dining room. I almost ran over John, who was in the lead, in my wild dash towards what could only he described as comparative concealment. The first of them entered the parlour as I ducked under the stairs.
Before I had time to catch my breath, Max acted. It wasn’t until later that I figured out what he had done; at the time I was too confused to hear anything except a medley of shouts and expletives, in various languages and various voices. People were running in all directions, some through the French doors onto the terrace, others into the hall. Mary was among the latter. I caught only a glimpse of her as she darted past. One glimpse was more than enough. That face would have looked appropriate under a head of writhing snakes.
Larry was right behind her. Instead of following her up the stairs he ran towards his study. Interesting, how basic instincts prevail in moments of crisis. Inconvenient, too. I didn’t know how Mary planned to get through that locked door, but I didn’t underestimate the little dear’s cunning, and when she discovered she’d lost her new toy she’d be back. And so would Larry, as soon as he had found Sweet. And we were still in the house and the door was probably locked or guarded or both. I began to wonder if my girlish confidence in Max had been misplaced.
Even as this unkind doubt entered my mind I heard the door open. It must have been Hans who was standing guard outside, for Max called out in German. ‘Hurry! They went that way. After them!’
He followed Hans. When I started forward, assisted by a shove from John, the hall was empty and the front door stood open.
It was almost too easy. Max had directed the search towards the back of the house, which was where sensible fugitives would go – poorly lighted, thickly landscaped. It was even darker back there after Max shot out some of the lights. I assumed it was Max, since none of the others would have been so helpful.
Almost too easy, I said. One dedicated soul had stuck to his post. His black uniform blended with the
