Laughter of Dead Kings

“Well done.” The jam was all gone. I opened a little pot of honey. “Well? What did she say?”

“She did not see the attack itself, only Ashraf’s fallen body. Hearing Feisal approach, she hid herself and watched.”

“Those useful columns,” I murmured. “How did she get out of the temple?”

“Walked out, I expect,” Feisal said. “The guard wasn’t told to keep track of people leaving. Isn’t anybody going to ask how I spent the morning?”

I made encouraging noises, through a mouthful of bread and honey.

“Not happily,” Feisal said. “Ali’s family wants his body back. They sent a delegation—all the men in the family—to my office. I had to tell them the autopsy wasn’t finished. They didn’t like it.”

“According to Muslim law, the body must be buried before sunset of the day of death, or at latest the following day,” Schmidt informed me.

“It was too late for that when the body was found, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“You don’t reason with people who are in emotional distress,” Feisal said. “I’m going to the village to see the rest of the family, try to explain. Do you want to come with me?”

I didn’t want to. It was bound to be an upsetting experience. But maybe our presence would make it easier for Feisal.

He waited while I got my laundry together and Schmidt loaded his pockets with a variety of useful and useless objects, including the beloved magnifying glass, which Feisal had returned to him. One never knows when one will stumble across a Clue.

Since we did not have the limo at our disposal, we crossed the river on one of the boats. I like the boats; they have bright awnings and soft, if faded, cushions on the seats, and they have names like Rosebud and Cleopatra and Nefertiti. Watching Schmidt wobble across the gangplank added a certain element of suspense to the entertainment. Feisal’s Jeep was waiting on the other side.

“I have to stop by the Valley later,” he explained. “But I want to get this over with first.”

This encounter was a repeat of the first—the same swarm of importunate kids, the same darkened room and watching eyes, the same offer of tea and biscuits, the same chicken, or a close relative of same. I ended up sitting next to Umm Ali, who ducked her head in greeting and returned my mispronounced “Salaam aleikhum” with a few words in Arabic that weren’t in my current vocabulary. Schmidt sat in a chair across from me, his face somber. Everybody stared at Feisal.

They listened in silence to his brief speech. The silence lengthened. The chicken flapped up onto Schmidt’s knee. He patted it absently.

“Please, Feisal, express our sympathy to the family.”

“I did. We may as well go. My explanation wasn’t well received,” he added morosely.

I put my glass of tea on the little table and stood up. I felt a need to do or say something, not just walk out. Feeling miserable and ineffectual, I said, “I’m sorry. So very sorry. If there is anything we can do…”

The old lady got to her feet. One bony hand shot out and caught hold of mine. Standing on tiptoe, she looked up at me. The sharp black eyes were blurred with tears. She spoke softly and urgently, squeezing my hand. Her fingers felt like birds’ claws, thin and strong.

Feisal translated, his voice hoarse. “‘My son was murdered. Find his murderer, sitt, so that he can rest in peace.’”

“I will,” I said. “Aywa. Yes. I promise. Inshallah.”

Feisal didn’t have to translate. The old lady nodded and sat down. “Inshallah,” she echoed.

God willing. Nobody makes a promise without adding that. In the end it is in the hands of God. But by her God and mine, I meant to do my damnedest.

Schmidt was openly wiping his eyes when we emerged from the house. “That was very beautiful, Vicky.”

“It was the right thing to say,” Feisal admitted. He gave me an odd look. “I can’t imagine why she should appeal to you. In this culture—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, men rule the roost. Maybe some of the women know better.”

F eisal’s Jeep needed new springs (among other things). Schmidt kept bouncing off me as we hit potholes and swerved to avoid various fauna and other vehicles. A cloud of dust traveled with us, most of it inside the vehicle.

“Tell him to slow down,” I yelled at Feisal, who was up front with the driver.

“We’re late,” Feisal yelled back.

Late for what? I wondered. I didn’t ask. The Jeep hit another pothole; Schmidt ricocheted off the window frame and onto my lap.

Feisal deigned to explain after the driver had dropped us off at the entrance to the Valley of the Kings. “I’m meeting Ahmed Saleh, the subinspector in charge of western Thebes. He’s miffed because I haven’t been answering his calls. He’s a born complainer, but I figured I had better shut him up before he goes over my head. Or,” Feisal added, “behind my back, with a knife in his hand.”

“Is he after your job?” I asked.

“They’re all after my job. For ten piastres I’d let them have it.”

The subinspector was not at the guards’ kiosk. Feisal’s irritated question got an expansive gesture and an explanation Feisal cut short.

“He’s gone on along the main path. Confound him, I told him to wait for me here.”

He lengthened his stride. There’s no denying we were all a little sensitive about that particular tomb; like a murderer who is guiltily conscious of where the body is hidden, we got nervous whenever anyone went near it.

The sun was past the zenith. Many of the tourists had gone off to lunch, but there were enough of them left to slow our progress; we had to veer around groups clustered around a lecturing guide, and a few of those maddening trios and foursomes who spread themselves out across the path, yielding the way to no one. When we came in sight of the tomb—The Tomb—Feisal screeched to a stop. Dust spurted up from under his heels.

Perched on the enclosure wall above the entrance was a pretty little woman wearing a becomingly arranged head scarf and a full skirt which spread out around her in an amber pool. She was looking down, and seemed to be chatting with someone who was out of sight on the steps below.

Feisal let out a bellow. The woman looked up, displayed a set of gleaming white teeth, and sprang to her feet.

“Here you are at last,” she cried, hurrying toward him. “Saleh, here he is.”

Feisal put out a hand to fend her off. Unperturbed and still beaming, Saida threw her arms around me. Over her head I saw a man emerge from the depths of the stairs and come toward us. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

“What the hell are you doing?” Feisal shouted. “I told you no one was to be allowed in that tomb.”

Mr. Saleh’s most conspicuous feature was a magnificent black beard, which he kept stroking nervously. He greeted his superior with an ingratiating smile and looked imploringly at Saida.

Like the lady she was, she came to his rescue. “He was only inspecting the steps, Feisal. I asked him—”

“What’s to inspect? They’re steps!” Feisal lowered his voice a few decibels. “You asked him, did you? And smiled and fluttered your lashes and—”

Her melting brown eyes congealed like hardening fudge. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way!”

I detached myself from Saida’s fond embrace and took Feisal’s arm. “Watch it,” I muttered.

“What?” He stared at me and, with a visible effort, got himself under control. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry, Saida.”

Saida, now in Schmidt’s fond embrace, said cheerfully, “I forgive you.”

“As for you, Saleh,” Feisal began.

“I was only—”

“Never mind. What did you want to see me about?”

“It can wait. There is no problem. Whenever you can spare the time, Chief Inspector.”

He was backing away, step by step, as he spoke. Feisal nodded curtly. “Later, then.”

“Yes, sir. As you say.” He beat a hasty retreat, but I caught a glimpse of his face before he turned, and I