with sweat. Even his giant hat hadn’t protected him entirely from sunlight reflected up from the surface. Guilt swamped me. I ought to have kept a closer eye on him.
“He’ll get along better without us,” John said. “I don’t think I can go any farther, Schmidt.”
He tried to look wan and wilted, which isn’t difficult for him. That air of aristocratic ennui serves him well.
Schmidt made clucking noises. “
He detached his compass and Feisal said, “You won’t need that, Schmidt, just head straight for FEPEA house and tell your driver to meet you there. He’ll know where it is.”
Schmidt started collecting his gear. Both boys denied any knowledge of the magnifying glass; while Schmidt was arguing with them I said softly to John, “Well done. You put on a good show of exhaustion.”
“It wasn’t a show.”
Feisal extracted Schmidt’s magnifying glass from one of the boys and went on with the boy—Yusuf—in the direction we had taken originally. He was out of sight almost immediately, behind an outthrust spur of rock. We started toward the river, accompanied by Ahman, the other boy, who carried a few remaining bottles of water and the last of the lunch boxes. It was downhill most of the way, but the sun was high overhead and by the time we reached our destination we were all drenched in sweat, except for Ahman, who was as brisk as a goat.
The compound, for such it proved to be, was on the edge of the cultivation. Palm trees and patches of greenery surrounded various structures which were presumably designed for storage and laboratory functions. The main house was a good-sized building, constructed of local mud brick that had been repeatedly patched and repaired, but the design was unusual for that part of the world. A veranda enclosed by screened arches stretched across the front of the house. John tried the door, which was also screened.
“It’s unlocked,” he said. “Let’s get out of the sun. Have a seat.”
The shade felt heavenly. The only pieces of furniture on the veranda were a wicker armchair with faded cushions and a rickety table. Empty pots of various sizes stood on the window ledge. Schmidt collapsed onto the chair and whipped out his cell phone. He hadn’t been able to reach his driver earlier. This time he succeeded.
“He was in the restroom,” he explained, supplying a tidbit of information I didn’t need to know. “He will come at once. Let us finish the lunch while we wait, eh?”
John perched on the wide window ledge. I joined him and looked around. “The caretaker hasn’t been doing his job,” I remarked, indicating the withered vines that had been trained to climb around the arches.
“He comes every week,” said Ahman.
It was the first time he had spoken English or given any indication that he understood the language. There’s a child among you taking notes, I thought, and scolded myself for falling victim to the unconscious superiority we feel for people of other cultures. I hoped I hadn’t said anything rude about him or his country or his relatives.
“Is he by chance your father?” John asked.
“The brother of my father. He is a good man.”
I was about to apologize for implying otherwise when I heard a sound at one of the closed windows of the house proper. An apparition met my startled gaze. Standing on its hind legs, scratching vigorously at the pane, was a large fluffy cat, striped in black and gray. Its mouth opened. A faint but peremptory mew penetrated the glass.
John went to the door. The handle turned and the door opened; the cat disappeared from the window and shortly thereafter marched out, bristling with indignation. Spotting the sandwich Schmidt was holding, it headed straight for him.
“A beautiful animal,” cooed Schmidt, dispensing scraps of chicken.
“Hmmm,” said John. “Was it supposed to be shut in the house?”
Ahman replied, from outside the veranda. I hadn’t even seen him move. “No.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He was staring at the cat, the whites of his eyes very much in evidence.
“You aren’t afraid of the cat, are you? Who does it belong to?”
Ahman opened the door just wide enough to slip in. “It lives here.”
“All the time? Who feeds it when the staff is away?”
“Everyone. It goes where it likes and does as it likes, and when it comes to a house it is given what it likes. People bring food to it.”
“Oho,” said Schmidt interestedly. “It is a locus genii, then.”
Ahman looked bewildered. “A supernatural guardian spirit,” I translated.
Tiring of this meaningless commentary, Ahman said, “It is not an ordinary cat. It goes where it likes and —”
“I understand,” John said, smiling. “I expect the creature has a den in one of the outbuildings and lives on mice and rabbits.”
“And dogs,” Ahman said seriously. “The dogs run from it.”
I could almost believe it. The animal was huge, a good three feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its enormous tail, which was now raised in feline approval as it finished Schmidt’s chicken.
“Someone seems to have fed it recently,” John said. He indicated the bowls on the ledge. “They’re all empty. Give it some water, Schmidt.”
The water was received with the usual feline appreciation; that is to say, the cat condescended to drink.
“It appears it hasn’t eaten or drunk since yesterday,” John said. “So it must have been shut in the house last night.”
He got up and went to the door, which he had left open.
“We shouldn’t go in,” I said. “Isn’t that breaking and entering, or something equally illegal?”
“Just entering,” John said. He added, “The cat couldn’t have let itself in, which means someone has been here. As good citizens, we are obliged to make certain the place hasn’t been robbed.”
The central block of the house was devoted to offices and a handsomely appointed library. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling and several tables, equipped with reading lamps, occupied the center of the library. Schmidt went at once to the bookshelves and began reading titles. “It is one of the best Egyptological libraries in the country,” he said admiringly. “Here are all the volumes of the Amarna Tombs series, and the
I let him ramble on while I inspected the contents of a pair of glass cases flanking the door. Expecting to find precious manuscripts and/or choice artifacts, I was somewhat taken aback to see a smallish, old-fashioned gun, a large knife, and a piece of folded fabric, roughly triangular in shape. The light was poor. I was trying to figure out what on earth it was when John forcibly removed Schmidt from the bookshelves and ordered us into the next room.
It had to be the director’s study. The desk was a massive piece of solid mahogany, hand-carved with Egyptian motifs, with crocodile heads forming the drawer handles. Oriental rugs in a glorious medley of colors covered the floor; a table was surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. The chairs showed evidence of being used as scratching posts. The long sofa against one wall was piled with cushions. There was a stone-faced fireplace along the inner wall, for those chilly desert nights, with a pair of crossed swords on the wall above it. It was a wonderful room, dignified and cozy at the same time. Even the filing cabinets were handsome articles of furniture, massive structures of polished wood. I was admiring the effect and wondering where I could get hold of a pair of crossed swords (and a comfy sofa) for my office when I heard a faint sound, no louder than a mouse’s scamper. I knew it probably was a mouse but it reminded me that we had no business being in the house.
“Let’s go,” I said uneasily.
“Yes, the driver is probably waiting,” Schmidt agreed. “Come, puss, puss, good puss, you do not want to be locked in again.”
The car and driver were there. So was Feisal. One look at him told me we were not about to hop in the car and go home.
“Let me have your camera, Schmidt,” he said.
Wide-eyed, Schmidt started fumbling in his pockets. For a few seconds no one spoke. Then John said evenly, “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
