“Then he can wait a little longer,” John said. “Where, how, and when?”
The flat, almost callous tone was, contrary to expectations, the right one. Feisal replied as flatly.
“We won’t know when or how until we get him out. I want to get photographs before we move him. He was at the bottom of a narrow ravine a few hundred yards back from the top of the cliff.”
“Can we do anything?” I asked. It was a feeble attempt to convey the sympathy and distress I felt, but something told me not to go any further.
“No. I’ve rung the police. I tried to reach Ashraf, but he’s on his way to Luxor even as we speak. I left a message. You may have to deal with him. Go back to the hotel and wait for me.”
Mutely Schmidt offered him the magnifying glass. As a gesture it was perfect: heartfelt and absurd at the same time. Feisal’s frozen face cracked into normalcy. “Thanks, Schmidt.”
After he had left, covering the ground with long, quick strides, Schmidt and I stood staring helplessly at each other. Neither of us could think of anything to say that wasn’t banal or useless.
“What are you waiting for?” John demanded. “Get in the car.”
“Shouldn’t we lock up?” I asked.
“What with? We haven’t a key. Yusuf—”
“Ahman,” said the individual addressed.
“Sorry. What time of day does your uncle usually come here?”
Ahman shrugged. The gesture might have indicated lack of comprehension, indifference, or ignorance of the answer.
“Bloody hell,” said John. “We can’t wait indefinitely. Where does he live and what is his name?”
Ahman gave him a blank look and shrugged again.
“Feisal will know,” I said. “The kid isn’t going to tell you anything, John, he’s afraid his uncle may be in trouble. Give him some baksheesh and let’s go.”
A long unpaved version of a road led down to the main highway bordering the river. Rejoicing in the blast of cold from the car’s air conditioner, I took off my hat and shook out my damp hair.
“Someone searched that house,” I said.
“A somewhat sweeping statement,” said John.
“The director’s study, anyhow. Two of the chairs had been pulled away from the table and—”
“Several desk drawers were open an inch or so.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated. “You noticed.”
“There were a few other indications, subtle but suggestive, that someone had been in that room recently.”
“How did he get in? A hefty bribe to the uncle of Ahman?”
“I don’t think so. The lock had been forced. An easy job, with a clumsy, old-fashioned lock like that one.”
“What was he looking for?” I asked. “A place to hide…” Ali’s name had been mentioned; there was no avoiding the subject any longer. “To hide a body? And then the killer decided it wasn’t a good place after all?”
“Not likely.” John’s mouth shut tightly. But I was on track now, I didn’t need any help from him.
“Not likely,” I agreed, thinking aloud. “There would be no hope of making Ali’s death look accidental if his body were found there.”
“Perhaps it was Ali who went there, looking for the mummy,” Schmidt offered. “And the thieves caught him.”
I shook my head. “The place had been searched. They, or he, or she, or whomever, wasn’t looking for Tut, they were looking for something relatively small.”
John leaned back, arms folded, and stared out the window. The car swerved around a camel loaded with bundles of some variety of herbage.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, poking him.
“A long cold shower.”
I had to admit it was the best idea I’d heard for a while.
J ohn didn’t join me in the shower. Perhaps, I mused, as the lovely element caressed my sticky self, the idea had struck him as somewhat inappropriate. I wasn’t in the mood either. I had never known Ali, but Feisal’s description and the collective memories of his family had painted the picture of the man: hardworking and honest, struggling to make ends meet against considerable odds. One of the common people. And worth more than any dead king.
We had found several messages tucked under the door of the sitting room. When I came out of the bedroom, toweling my hair, John was reading them.
“Let me see,” I said.
“Be my guest.” John went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Schmidt, pink and scrubbed and wrapped in one of the terrycloth robes supplied by the hotel, joined me before long.
“We are popular,” I said, handing him one of the slips of paper. “Ashraf has already been round to see us.”
“Aha,” said Schmidt, perusing it. “He is on his way to the West Bank. That implies that he has received Feisal’s news about Ali. Who is that one from?”
“Somebody I’ve never heard of.”
“It is addressed to me,” Schmidt said indignantly. “You opened the envelope?”
“John did. I did not read it,” I said virtuously. “Who is Jean-Luc LeBlanc?”
“A distinguished French archaeologist. His team works at Karnak. He has heard I am in Luxor and invites me to visit him.”
“French, eh? We’ve had suspicious encounters in Germany, Italy, and England. Maybe we shouldn’t have skipped Paris.”
“Jean-Luc cannot be an object of suspicion. He is a distinguished—”
“Right. This next one sounds like an American. Only a few more Western countries to be heard from. Is she another distinguished archaeologist?”
Schmidt looked at it and shook his head. “She writes to John, not to me. ‘I am staying at the Mercure, please call me as soon as possible.’”
John emerged. He had exchanged his sweat-stained shirt and jeans for a suit and tie. (Regimental or public school, I presumed.) I handed him the message.
“One of your floozies?”
“I do not have floozies. Not even one.”
He gave me a fond smile and bent over to kiss me on the top of the head.
“Who is she?” I asked, resisting distraction.
“An admirer, I expect. I have quite a number of them.”
“You don’t recognize—”
The unmistakable voice of Johnny Cash made itself heard. Schmidt fumbled in the pocket of his robe. “Where is my cell phone?”
“Probably in your bedroom,” John said. “You had better answer, it might be Feisal. I’ll help you look.”
Schmidt’s phone was on the table next to his bed, which was strewn with articles of clothing. I’ve tidied up after Schmidt so often it has become a habit; ears pricked, I began collecting cast-off garments. Among them was a rather large pair of boxers printed with hearts and bluebirds. Schmidt shares my fondness for fancy lingerie.
After an initial exclamation of distress, Schmidt didn’t say much. He rang off, and John said impatiently, “Well?”
“Feisal is on his way here,” Schmidt said. “With Ashraf.”
“Fast work,” John muttered. “Was it murder?”
“They will have to wait for the results of the autopsy. He had a fatal wound of the head and several broken bones, but they could have resulted from a fall.”
“Has his family been notified?” I asked.
“I forgot to ask.” Schmidt ducked his head. “I am ashamed.”
“You’ve no reason to be ashamed, Schmidt,” John said gently. “You’re a good man.”
