It was a rare tribute, and Schmidt reacted by leaking tears. By way of distraction I suggested we fill out a laundry form. He must be getting low on white linen suits by now. Such proved to be the case. Schmidt fished out clothes from the floor of the wardrobe. It took a while to sort and list them and put them into the bag provided.
“I’ll call to have them picked up,” I said briskly. “You get dressed, Schmidt.”
“Yes, yes, we will soon be having guests. I will call the room service and—”
“I’ll do it. Beer?”
Schmidt nodded. Activity had got him out of his mournful mood, but he looked sober. “Time is running out, Vicky. How many days have we left?”
I tried to think. Ten days, Ashraf had said. That had been two days ago, and the message had been delivered to him…when? A day or two before we saw him.
“I don’t know, Schmidt. Fewer than I’d like.”
“You were right, you know, in what you said. A dead king is less important than a living creature. But we must persevere, to help our friends.”
“Of course.” I patted him on his bald head.
I towed the bulging bag of laundry out into the sitting room and called housekeeping and then room service. Then I sat down on the sofa and picked up the notebook and pen. The problem was one of simple arithmetic, but so much had happened I was beginning to lose track of the time. Our unscheduled meeting with Ashraf had taken place Tuesday morning. At the latest he would have received the “ransom” note the day before. So when we saw him there were nine days left, not ten. We had arrived in Luxor the following day, inspected Tut’s tomb and visited Ali’s family.
Eight days.
Today on the West Bank.
Seven days.
Or had I miscounted? At best we had a week. Maybe less.
I was doodling aimlessly on the page, drawing vultures and jackals, when the laundry maid—a gray-haired, timid little woman—arrived. We got excellent service, thanks to Schmidt’s habit of tipping everybody for every move they made. I was fishing in my pocket looking for a few stray pounds when Schmidt came out and provided them.
“You look very natty,” I said. “How about a rose for your buttonhole?”
“It does not seem fitting. A black armband, do you think?”
“That would be overdoing it,” I said, wondering whether a black armband formed part of his usual travel wardrobe.
“Perhaps you are right. Where is John?”
Yes, indeed, where was he? The bedroom door was closed. I opened it and looked in. Not a sign of him there or in the bathroom.
“Goddamn him,” I said. “He’s done it again.” I ran to the balcony and leaned over the balustrade. Three stories below, the corniche provided its picturesque view of camels and carts and cars and carriages, with a bustle of pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk or weaving their way through the traffic on the street. None of the foreshortened forms was familiar.
Uttering incoherent curses, I started for the door. Schmidt inserted his solid form between me and the egress.
“You waste your time, Vicky, you cannot find John when he does not want to be found. Why are you angry? He will turn up, as he did the other night.”
“He’s up to no good, Schmidt. He knows something he hasn’t told us.”
“If he is,” said Schmidt, ponderously shifting position as I tried to slide past him, “it is because he is following a lead he can best pursue alone. You have no proof that he is concealing important information.”
Unbidden and unwelcome, the memory of John’s meeting with Helga, the dealer in Berlin, came back to me.
“Schmidt,” I said, “what does Helga look like?”
“Who?”
“The antiquities dealer in Berlin. What does she look like?”
“Oh, Helga von Sturm. Why do you—”
“Just tell me, okay?”
“She is a handsome woman. Not young, you understand, but soigne and elegant, always expensively dressed. She is very successful, and can afford—”
“So it wasn’t she John met in Berlin.” I slammed my fist onto the table. “Ouch. He lied about that, he’s lying about the woman who left that note. When he comes back, I’m going to tie him to a chair and torture him till he comes clean. I’m going to—”
“I am sure he has only gone to the bank or to purchase a newspaper,” Schmidt said. Someone knocked at the door. “Ah—there, you see.”
Primed and ready, I opened the door. A waiter with a cart shied away when he saw my expression. I forced my face into nonthreatening lines and stood back.
“What is all this?” I demanded. “I only asked for beer.”
“I spoke to the room service too,” said Schmidt. “I feared you would forget that we must offer hospitality to our friends, who have been hard at work in the hot sun. No doubt they will want…Ah. Just in time, they are here.”
We got Feisal and Ashraf in and the waiter, properly baksheeshed, out. It was obvious they had come straight from the West Bank; Feisal’s once-crisp shirt hung limp and the dust on his face was streaked with runnels of sweat. Ashraf was carrying his jacket and his two-hundred-dollar shoes were covered with dust. He hadn’t forgotten his manners, though; he waited until I had sat down before sinking into a chair. Schmidt bustled about, offering fizzy drinks and platters of hors d’oeuvres.
“Just water,” Feisal said hoarsely. He twisted the cap off a frosty bottle and drank deeply. “
“Out,” I said, snapping the word off.
“When do you expect him back?” Ashraf asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah.” Ashraf leaned back and loosened his tie. He’d hurried off to the West Bank without stopping to change. “Then perhaps you, his associates, can tell me how your investigation is proceeding.”
He looked inquiringly from me to Schmidt. I kept my mouth shut. Feisal shut his. Sensing a certain level of discomfort all round, Schmidt burst into speech.
“Today’s tragic development has altered the picture,
“So there is a pattern?” Ashraf inquired.
Feisal stood up. “If I may make use of your bathroom, Schmidt, I’d like to wash up.”
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into Schmidt’s room.
“Feisal has not been forthcoming,” Ashraf said smoothly. “He referred me to Mr. Tregarth. I did not press him, since he is clearly distraught about the death of his subordinate.”
Schmidt, for once at a loss for words, shoved a plate of cheese and sliced smoked turkey at him. Ashraf looked ruefully at his dirty hands.
“With your permission, I will emulate Feisal.”
I waved him toward the other bathroom. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Feisal popped out of Schmidt’s room, toweling his hands.
“Talk fast,” he ordered. “Has anything happened? Anything encouraging?”
“No,” I said, glancing at the outer door. It remained uncompromisingly closed.
“Damn. I can’t keep putting Ashraf off, he wants some indication of progress.”
“Make something up,” I said.
Feisal directed a desperate stare in my direction, and Schmidt said brightly, “I can do that.”
Ashraf reappeared, wearing his jacket. He had given his shoes a quick rub, probably with one of my towels,
