make restitution. I don’t know what came over me!”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt, at John. “Madam, do not be alarmed. No one will shout at you while I am here.”
“How kind you are.” She smiled at him. Up at him. She had a dimple. From a chain round her neck, barely visible in the vee of her prim blouse, hung a fat gold ring. The Ring. An exact duplicate of the one Schmidt owned. A hideous foreboding came over me.
“Please have a seat,” said Schmidt the chivalrous. “May I offer you a beer, Miss—Ms.—”
He snatched the card from John’s hand and looked at it. “Ah! It comes back to me now. I know your name. I know all of them!”
“How many does she have?” I asked, unwillingly distracted.
“Three, is it not?” Schmidt got a modest smile of acknowledgment. “Two are noms de plume, you understand.”
“Then the name on the note you left—”
“Is my real name.” She smiled apologetically. “I have to use it when I travel, because of credit cards and passports and that sort of thing. I know it is confusing. I get mixed up myself.”
“But the pseudonyms are necessary,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Because of your many admiring readers. I wrote to you once a fan letter, and you sent me an autograph.”
“I remember. You asked for a photograph, and I was sorry to refuse, but I make it a rule never to—”
“Send photos as if you were some sort of media celebrity,” Schmidt cried. “An admirable attitude. I fully understood.”
“Would you like the rest of us to leave?” John inquired in a devastatingly polite voice.
Schmidt said “Hmph” and the woman—whose name I still didn’t know—turned pink. “Let me make my confession, please. It was I who broke into your family home, I who searched your flat, I who have followed you across Europe in various disguises. I was temporarily deranged.”
John leaned over and delicately removed the hat. They looked each other in the eye. The corners of his lips turned up and he said, “Yet I suspect you rather enjoyed it, didn’t you? Especially the disguises.”
A fleeting smile echoed his. Then she said primly, “That is not the point. You see, the journals your mother sold me some time ago formed the basis for a very successful series of novels. Then—then I ran out of journals! I knew there must be more, since there were gaps in the chronology, but your mother denied having them, and she refused to let me search for myself. I was desperate.”
“Why didn’t you just make something up?” Saida asked interestedly. “Isn’t that what novelists do?”
“No, she could not do that,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Not a writer of integrity like this one, whose work has always been based on true history.”
“Thank you for understanding,” said the writer of integrity, who had just admitted to having broken into two different dwellings. “However, that does not excuse what I did. I found three of the missing journals in the attic of your home, Mr. Tregarth (you really ought to get someone in to clean the place properly). I took them. I will return them if you insist, but I beg you will accept my check and my heartfelt apologies instead.”
Leaning against the back of the sofa, John said solemnly, “How much?”
“Stop teasing her,” I exclaimed. She was genuinely repentant, and very short. I have a soft spot for women like that.
“I think she’s rather enjoying that too,” said John. He got a fleeting but unregenerate grin in reply. “All right. Same price as the others. Agreed?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you so much.” She only hesitated for a second. “And if you should know of any more…”
“Have you searched the library of the FEPEA headquarters?” Saida asked. She had recognized a kindred spirit, even if this one was pretending to be a sheep.
“I tried, but I did not succeed. And that is one of the reasons why I have been trying to talk to you, Mr. Tregarth. That house, which is sacred to the memories of your distinguished ancestors, is now occupied by a group of suspicious individuals. When I approached the house five days ago—”
“With the intent of committing another burglary?” John broke in.
“Who cares?” I exclaimed. “Tell us about these individuals.”
“I meant to proceed with complete decorum this time” was the indignant reply. “I had observed evidence of someone being in residence, so I knocked at the door. Eventually it was opened by a person who spoke emphatically to me in Arabic. I do not understand the language well, but his gestures made his meaning clear. When I offered my card, he shut the door in my face.”
“Good God,” Feisal exclaimed. “You must have a guardian angel looking after you. You might have been killed or kidnapped.”
“They wouldn’t risk violence,” I said. “They wanted to avoid anything that would draw attention to them. Five days ago, you said?”
“Yes. That was why I was emboldened to approach Mr. Tregarth, since I felt he ought to be warned of their presence. I hope—I do most sincerely hope—that my failure to speak out has not caused trouble. I can’t help but notice you appear to have been injured.”
She certainly couldn’t, since John had insisted on a sling and a copious application of bandages to the cuts on his hand and cheek. He murmured something vague and deprecatory, and I said, “It wasn’t your fault, you tried your best.”
“You are most kind. I also felt obliged to inform him that his assistant is a venal young man who does not deserve his trust. He charged me a hundred pounds for the use of the key to your flat.”
“Ah,” I said.
John cleared his throat. “I appreciate your telling me.”
“It was my duty.” She picked up her hat and rose. “Thank you for overlooking my malefactions. I will send a check tomorrow.”
Schmidt bounded up. “I will escort you back to your hotel.”
“No, no, I have taken enough of your time. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Herr Doktor.”
“The pleasure is mine! At least allow me to see you into a taxi.”
They went out together. Rebound, I thought. One-hundred-and-eighty-degree rebound. The marriage of true minds, not the lure of the flesh. Shared interests, mutual respect…
The silence that followed their departure could only be described as critical. If John had replied to her first message, we would have learned several facts of interest. Maybe they would have made a difference. Maybe not. But as my mom always says, it never hurts to be polite.
Schmidt’s return gave John an excuse to change the subject that was in everyone’s mind. “Back so soon?” he inquired.
“I wanted to entertain her in the bar, but she would not stay,” Schmidt said. “A delightful woman, is she not? An admirer of J.R.R. Tolkien too! She is leaving Egypt tomorrow, but she was good enough to give me her telephone number. John, had you but had the common courtesy to respond to her first—”
“Water over the dam,” John said hastily. “As I was saying earlier…Confound it, now what?”
“Ashraf, I hope,” I said, going to answer the knock at the door.
“If it is Suzi…” Schmidt began.
“I know, I know.”
It was Ashraf, though I almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hair stood on end, his face was streaked with dust, and his eyes were wild, and when he spoke his voice cracked.
“He wasn’t there! He’s still missing!”
FOURTEEN
W e restored Ashraf with brandy—permissible for medicinal purposes—and barraged him with questions.
“What do you mean, he wasn’t there?” Feisal cried. “Where else could he be? You didn’t search thoroughly!”
“We tore the place apart.” Ashraf spread his dust-smeared, splinter-riddled hands. “Not only the main house, but every outbuilding. That woman—that dreadful woman—has gone to investigate the villa at Karnak, but I cannot
