bouncing up and down in his chair, delighted at the prospect of active detecting. I was trying to decide whether to throw the cold water of common sense on the scheme or let them amuse themselves when there was a knock at the door.
“Saved by the knock,” I said, and went to answer it.
It was a hotel employee carrying a plastic bag with the logo of one of the expensive shops in the arcade. “For you, lady,” he said, offering me the bag.
Schmidt had rushed to my side, his right hand in his pocket. Visibly disappointed at seeing a harmless messenger instead of a knife-wielding assassin, he withdrew the hand. Instead of a weapon, it held a wad of banknotes.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That can’t be mine. I haven’t bought anything at Benetton.”
“You ordered it,” the man insisted. “It came to the desk just now.”
Schmidt took the bag and handed over baksheesh.
“It is a present for you, perhaps,” he said, closing the door. “Let us see if there is a note.”
What there was, under a layer of tissue, was a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The sort of box you can find at any shop in the suk.
“Oh my God,” I said.
My exclamation brought Saida and Feisal in from the balcony. We stood around the table staring down at the box. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it.
“It is very pretty,” Saida said politely. She reached for the box. Feisal knocked her hand away. His face was an ugly shade of gray. “Let me,” he said hoarsely.
She hadn’t seen the other box, but his reaction and the fixed glares of Schmidt and me were enough to jog her memory. She shied back and raised her hands to her mouth. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Not another…”
The catch was stiff. Feisal pried it up and removed a layer of cotton wool.
It was a hand, but not the hand of a mummy. By the look of it, the body to which it had been attached had lost it within the past twenty-four hours.
TWELVE
S aida made it to the bathroom in time. Swallowing strenuously I followed her and sat on the edge of the tub until she was through.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, raising a pale face.
“It’s okay.” I offered a glass of water and a handful of tissues. “You’re blase about mummies; I’m not. But I expect I’m more accustomed to fresh corpses than you are.”
She got unsteadily to her feet and took the glass. “Vicky. Was it…It wasn’t his?”
“No.” I hadn’t thought it was, not even for an instant; I knew those long, elegantly shaped hands too well. The very idea that it might have been made my stomach churn. I went on, deliberately matter-of-fact, “It was a woman’s hand. Small, brown, traces of henna on the nails and skin.”
“I’m all right now.” She squared her slim shoulders. “We must look again. Try to determine who it was.”
I had a pretty good idea of who it was.
Feisal had turned away from the exhibit and lit a cigarette. Schmidt was still peering down into the box.
“It is the hand of a woman,” he said.
“An Egyptian woman.” I joined him and forced myself to have another look. “She was already dead when they cut it off. There’s very little blood.”
Saida let out a long shuddering sigh. Feisal put an arm around her shoulders. “The woman Ashraf met last night,” he said, and blew out smoke in a long exhalation.
“It’s a reasonable guess.” I was sorry I’d quit smoking. Then I remembered I had another bad habit. I went to the minibar and selected two small bottles more or less at random. At that point I didn’t care what I drank so long as it was alcoholic.
Schmidt took the glass I handed him. “
“As right as one can be under the circumstances.” Scotch jolted down into my queasy interior, which welcomed it heartily. “What are we going to do with—with it?”
“Notify the police, of course,” Feisal said.
Schmidt carefully lowered the lid of the box. “Not of course, my friend. Not until we have had time to consider this. There was a message.”
The slip of paper in his hand must have been under the horrible thing. It certainly hadn’t been on top of it. Bless the old dear, he had more guts than any of us. Bushy brows raised, he held it out. When no one offered to take it, he read it aloud.
“‘You are responsible for her death. The price is now four million. You have three days.’ Well, Feisal? Do you want to show this to the police? Even if we do not hand over the note they will want to know why the box was sent to us.”
Feisal ran a hand through his hair. “What do you suggest?”
“Ashraf,” I said.
At first Feisal resisted the idea of calling his boss. “He’ll only make matters worse. This would never have happened if he hadn’t tried to be clever.”
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s his mess, and I vote we shove it in his face.”
“So do I,” Saida said. “Schmidt? Yes. You are outvoted, Feisal.”
A shraf answered on the first ring. Feisal was uninformative but peremptory. “No, I can’t tell you what the problem is, but it’s bad. Just get over here, right now.”
Then we waited. He was there sooner than I had expected. He had to be pretty worried to respond so quickly, but, being Ashraf, he wasn’t about to admit it.
“I was on my way to an appointment,” he said stiffly. He was dressed to the nines, a monogrammed hankie tucked in his breast pocket, which bore the insignia of a Cairo sporting club. “What is so—”
The sentence ended in a hiss of breath. I had cleared everything off the table except for the box, and was standing in front of it. I stepped to one side with a graceful wave of my hand; there it was, conspicuous as a signboard even to one who had not seen the first delivery. I felt a little guilty when I saw the blood drain from Ashraf’s face. But only a little. He was afraid it was another piece of his precious mummy.
I felt even less guilty when his reaction to the reality was visible relief. “I thought,” he began, and then turned on Feisal. “Did you arrange this charade? I know you dislike me, Feisal, but to torture me in this way—”
“It’s not a charade,” I said furiously. “And it’s not a damned dried-up mummy that’s been dead for three thousand years. Sit down and shut up, Ashraf. Give him the note, Schmidt.”
I gave him two seconds to read it and then said, “This was meant for you, Ashraf. It was safer for them to deliver it here rather than approach you directly, after the dumb stunt you pulled last night. What are you going to do about it?”
“Four million,” Ashraf mumbled, staring at the paper.
“Can you raise that much?”
“Not in three days. Not without stripping myself of every asset I own.”
“Then it seems to me your only recourse is to inform the Ministry.”
Ashraf let out a bleat of protest. “What other option have you?” I went on remorselessly. “Leave it to them to decide whether to raise the money or risk the negative publicity. If I were in their shoes I’d choose the latter alternative. The gang may take the money and not return your precious Tut. For all you know, he’s already been destroyed.”
Ashraf drew a long breath. He tossed the note onto the table. “There is another option,” he said. “We must locate these villains before the deadline.”
“Any ideas?” I inquired sarcastically.
“Keep looking. We have three days. I have the authority to request police assistance. I will tell them we are searching for a missing tourist who may have been kidnapped.”
“It’s worth trying,” Feisal said. “Schmidt, you questioned the concierge. Did he give you a description of the man who delivered the parcel?”
“Only that he was a neatly dressed man who said he was a clerk at the store in question. The lady had
