Laughter of Dead Kings

“Very distant. He wouldn’t know me from Adam.”

“Leave it to me, then.” Schmidt glanced at his watch and rose. “We must hurry. There is much to do.”

“What precisely do you have in mind?” I asked, expecting the worst.

“Shopping, of course. I do not have with me so much as a toothbrush.”

“The concierge,” John began.

“The concierge cannot purchase for me clothing. Heiliger Gott, I cannot go to Egypt with only one suit and no pajamas, no dressing gown, no—”

“Can I come too?” I asked hopefully.

“Aber naturlich.” Schmidt beamed at me.

He trotted into his room to put his laptop away and, as he put it, “tidy myself as much as is possible.” John gave me a critical look and began, “Vicky, you aren’t going to let him—”

“Buy me a new wardrobe? Damn right. Don’t you see, he’s trying to make up for mistrusting us. I bet he’ll buy you a new suit too if you’re nice.”

“Not under any circumstances whatever.”

I gave him a quick kiss. “You’re just sulking because you aren’t the mastermind anymore.”

S chmidt was well known in all the right shops. One genuflecting merchant promised to have the pants of three white linen suits shortened and delivered to the hotel by eight the next morning. Another supplied various items of haberdashery, from socks to nightshirts. I put my foot down when Schmidt tried to lure me into an elegant boutique, and led the way to Gesundbrunnencenter, where I picked up jeans and a couple of shirts. Schmidt went off, sulking, while I was in the dressing room, and came back with several bags, which he pressed into the unwilling grasp of John.

“We have almost finished,” he announced. “Another stop and then we will go to dinner.”

One look in the window of the establishment to which the taxi delivered us was enough to confirm my suspicions. There was a single garment on display: a nightgown which appeared to have been spun by spiders. It glimmered like a dragonfly’s wings, semitransparent, shot with pearly threads.

“They’re closed,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. A woman of my height doesn’t go forth in lace and chiffon, but as Schmidt well knew, I have a weakness for sexy nightgowns.

“Trudi will open for me,” Schmidt said. “She expects us.”

He pushed a discreetly concealed button. A light went on inside; a curtain was drawn aside, an eye peered out, a cry of rapture echoed, and the door was flung wide. Schmidt rushed into the outspread arms of a well- endowed blonde wearing a negligee trimmed with crystals, cascading ruffles, and God knows what else.

He and John sat at a marble-topped desk sipping champagne while Trudi thrust intimate garments into the dressing room to which I had been led. None of them had anything so vulgar as a price tag, which was in itself a sign that I couldn’t have afforded so much as a hanky. I was determined to behave myself, but that damned nightgown, which Trudi removed from the show window, was too much.

Ideas of sensuality vary from culture to culture and era to era, but an excessive display of skin can be—well —excessive. (Especially when, as is only too often the case these days, the skin covers vast expanses of wobbly flesh.) It isn’t so much what you show as how you show it. Victorian gents used to get short of breath when a lady bared an ankle, and the ancient Egyptians knew what they were doing when they draped queens and noblewomen in transparent linen. I wanted that nightgown. It moved with me, graceful as a cloud. I wanted it really badly.

I’ll pay him back, I told myself.

I joined Schmidt in a glass of champagne (another glass, in his case) and Trudi presented him with a pale pink, gold-handled bag with tissue paper billowing out the top.

“Many many thanks for your courtesy, Liebchen,” said Schmidt, handing the bag to John. “Put it on my account.”

The taxi she had called pulled up as we exited; we waited until we heard the chains rattle and the locks click; and I thought, Account? How come Schmidt had an account at a shop that specialized in hideously expensive lady’s underwear? How many other women had been beneficiaries of his largesse? And what business was it of mine?

When I unpacked Trudi’s bag later that night, I found not only the nightgown but a matching negligee and a selection of bras and panties. They all looked as if they had come from the spiders’ workshop—and they were all my size. Either Schmidt had a trained eye or he had been rummaging around in my bureau drawers.

If I had been true to my principles I would have marched into Schmidt’s room and handed them back, with a dignified refusal. I couldn’t resist trying a few things on, though, and the nightie inspired John to quote several of the Restoration poets. It inspired more than that. That night I didn’t dream about Tutankhamon.

A thunderous pounding on the door woke me. I groaned and sat up. The flow of dragonfly wings all about me made me confine my response to a mild “What do you want, Schmidt?”

“It is time to get up,” Schmidt yelled. “We must be at the museum in one hour. There is coffee. Shall I bring it there to you?”

John had pulled the sheet over his face, but that offer got him up and out of bed. I put on the negligee that matched the nightgown and wafted my way to the door.

“Ooh, that is very nice,” said Schmidt, inspecting me.

“You look very natty yourself,” I mumbled. “You got your suits, I see.”

“Oh, yes, I can always depend on Friedrich. Have your breakfast. There are eggs and wurst, hot rolls and jam, cheese and ham.”

“What, no caviar?” said John, emerging.

Schmidt reached for the telephone. “I was joking,” John said hastily.

Schmidt had already eaten breakfast, but he kept us company, nibbling on various odds and ends until we finished, and then shooed us into the bedroom, demanding that we hurry. When we came back, Schmidt was on his knees putting the finishing touches on an enormous banner. In passionate German it besought the return of Nefertiti.

“Is that a bedsheet?” I asked.

“Yes, I could not find paper large enough,” said Schmidt, working away with his purple Magic Marker. “I will pay for it, of course.” He added a few words.

“You can’t say that about Perlmutter,” I objected.

“I wish to get his attention.” Schmidt rose stiffly to his feet. “Oh, and by the way, I have made reservations for us on the evening flight to Cairo. You should telephone to Feisal and tell him we arrive at ten forty-five.”

“I think I’d better wait to see whether you two get out of jail in time,” John said.

Meekly we followed Schmidt to the lift. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked John.

“I’m beginning to. There is something to be said for being a foot soldier instead of an officer. Whatever happens, it won’t be my fault.”

“What about your friend?”

John shrugged. “I’ll see if I can get in touch later. This is bound to be one of Schmidt’s more memorable performances. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

There were no pickets in evidence. The handsome classical facade of the museum faced onto a circle with a fountain in the center. The sidewalk was wide enough for half a dozen people walking abreast—or, as it turned out, for two people holding Schmidt’s banner. I took one end and Schmidt the other.

“The center sags,” Schmidt said. “John—”

“Oh, no,” said John, retreating.

“Do we start walking or stand in front of the stairs?” I asked.

“We wait.” Schmidt consulted his wristwatch. “He said he would be here. Where—Ah!”

The green van that screeched to a stop had the logo of a local television channel. A man wearing dark glasses and carrying a camera got out.

“Verzeihen Sie, Herr Professor. Sorry I couldn’t get the whole crew, there’s a warehouse fire in Dahlen.”

“We must do the best we can,” Schmidt replied. “Ernhardt Flug-schaften—my assistant, Fraulein Doktor Victoria Bliss. Now, Ernhardt, go back ten feet; we will come marching toward you, carrying the banner and shouting our slogan.”

“What is our slogan?” I asked, holding my end of the banner high.