call and reserve my usual—”
“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “I mean, please shut up. Something’s gone wrong. What’s happened, John?”
“The guard, Ali—the only one except Feisal who saw that empty coffin. He’s disappeared.”
EIGHT
N ext morning Ashraf’s car delivered us to the terminal and we were whisked through the formalities by an efficient young woman who spoke English with a pronounced public school accent. Once we were on the plane, Feisal said it again.
“He’s gone into hiding. Ashraf put the fear of God into him.”
I said it again. “That isn’t Ashraf’s version.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt he thought he was being affable, but to simple souls like Ali he’s the voice of the Almighty, authoritative and unpredictable. Ali may have decided the safest course was to make himself scarce until things settle down.”
“Drop it,” John said. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”
And gotten nowhere. Feisal’s explanation could be the right one. If I had been in the shoes of the unfortunate guard, I’d have run for cover too.
W e were greeted at the Old Winter Palace by the manager, a handsome white-haired gentleman, another of Schmidt’s dearest friends, who personally escorted us to the Presidential Suite. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms, one of which incorporated a tub big enough to do laps in. I could tell by John’s expression that he wasn’t keen on being separated from Schmidt only by the width of the sitting room, good-sized though it was; but there wasn’t anything he could do about it since Schmidt had “forgotten” to reserve another room for us.
After lunch we headed for the West Bank. It’s a somewhat tortuous process—taking one of the gaily decorated motorboats across the river, picking up a taxi on the other side, and driving for a considerable distance. I hadn’t seen much of Luxor during my last visit, being primarily concerned with avoiding a number of people who bore me ill will. Schmidt had been there many times, but he gaped out the taxi window with that childlike sense of delight that is one of his most charming characteristics, commenting on the changes that had been made and asking questions of Feisal. He didn’t get many answers; the closer we got to the Valley of the Kings, the more tense Feisal became. It was with some difficulty that we persuaded him to hop on one of the electric trams that carry visitors to the entrance instead of setting out at a dead run. The sun was high and hot and the air was dusty and I didn’t want my chubby little boss to tire himself. Schmidt had decked himself out in one of the white linen suits he had bought in Berlin, and a natty panama hat which I hadn’t seen him buy. I wondered what the hell else he had in that overweight suitcase.
The tomb of Tutankhamon is a couple of hundred yards from the entrance to the Valley. I don’t know what Feisal had expected, or feared—that the tomb would have vanished along with Ali, or that it had been invaded by importunate tourists—but he let out a long sigh of relief when the rectangular opening came into view. It was closed by a heavy iron gate. A party of tourists was talking with the guards—or rather, to judge by their shrill expletives, trying to argue their way in. One of the men was wearing shorts that bared long hairy legs; the women bulged over the necklines of their skimpy T-shirts. When the harassed guard caught sight of Feisal he let out a cry of relief and ran to meet him.
Feisal disposed of the tourists with a few brusque words. They dispersed, sulking and muttering. Arrogant idiots like that have always been with us and probably always will be. I remembered the story of how Howard Carter had lost his job with the Service des Antiquites by defending his guards against the pushy drunks who had tried to force their way into a pyramid at Sakkara.
After an animated discussion with the guard, Feisal said, “Ali didn’t turn up for work yesterday. Mohammed here went to his house to inquire about him; his wife claimed he hadn’t come home the night before. I’m going to see her.”
“All in good time.” Hands in the pockets of his jeans, John gazed thoughtfully at the dark entrance to the tomb. “Can we get in?”
“Why?” Feisal asked.
“The scene of the crime,” John reminded him. “I know you’re worried about your subordinate, but I should think you’d want to make certain it hasn’t been disturbed.”
“Yes, that is the correct procedure,” said Schmidt. “I have brought a camera to record the clues.”
“Good thinking, Schmidt,” I said.
“And a notebook and pen.” Schmidt thrust them into my hands. I ought to have known I’d be appointed secretary. I thrust them back into Schmidt’s hands.
I have been accused by some (John) of learning all my history, except that which pertains to my own limited field, from popular novels. I had read a couple of reports about the discovery of this tomb, including that of Howard Carter himself; it’s almost as exciting as fiction. But I will admit that the version I remembered best was in a novel by some woman whose name I couldn’t recall. It claimed to be based on actual journals by actual eyewitnesses. I had never bothered to check her facts. Why should I, it wasn’t my field.
The last (and first) time I had called on King Tutankhamon, the tomb had been open to tourists. Today, everything looked the way it had before: the massive stone sarcophagus and its heavy glass cover smeared with dust and fingerprints, the golden shape inside. Schmidt stopped me with a warning shout when I was about to proceed into the small tomb chamber. From his pockets he extracted not only a digital camera but a large magnifying glass.
“The lighting is not good,” he complained, bending stiffly and squinting through the glass. “Has anyone a torch?”
“No, nor a fingerprint kit,” said John.
“Then we must get one.” Schmidt increased his angle of inclination, with imminent danger to the seat of his trousers.
“You’ll find hundreds of prints,” Feisal said. “Mine and Ali’s—”
“And those of the miscreants who removed the king.” Schmidt straightened and waved the magnifying glass. “Perhaps some of them are in the files of Interpol or another agency.”
“To which we have no access,” John said patiently. “Go ahead, Feisal. Don’t bother looking for footprints, just see if there is anything unusual, anything that is out of place.”
“Bloodstains,” said Schmidt, his eyes gleaming.
“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “Please.”
The floor wasn’t clean. In addition to the dust, there were bits and pieces, scraps of paper and bread crumbs, orange seeds and a pile of mouse droppings. Most of them had been there for weeks, if not months. Schmidt photographed every square inch of the damned place—the dusty floor, the painted walls, the sarcophagus and its contents. After I came across the mouse droppings I abandoned the hunt and joined Feisal, who stood looking down into the sarcophagus.
The golden face, with its beautiful inlaid eyes, stared up at me. It didn’t question or demand. It was dead, inanimate. Feisal, fingers clenched over the edge of the glass, said suddenly, “I keep thinking he’s still in there.”
If you want to hide something, put it in the least likely place, a place that has already been searched, a place so obvious, no one would think of looking there.
I read too many mystery stories. But there was a certain insane logic to that premise; hadn’t John said it would be difficult to smuggle Tut out of the Luxor area? What if “they” had come and put him back? Once the ransom was paid, they wouldn’t have to risk producing the mummy, they would just have to direct the searchers to the tomb. And what if Ali was the only witness to their second visit? He had disappeared. He couldn’t bear witness to anything.
“If he’s there, he’s missing a hand,” I said, trying to convince myself of the absurdity of the idea. “Uh—can you tell whether the coffin lid has been moved since you and Ali put it back?”
Unfortunately Schmidt overheard the question. I say unfortunately because he has an imagination even more lunatic than mine and a greater familiarity with sensational fiction.
“Aha!” he shrieked. “The old Purloined Letter trick! Brilliant, Vicky, brilliant!”
