believe they would have left him there unattended.”
“No,” John said.
“Where can he be?” Ashraf’s voice rose in a poignant plea.
“Well, now, that’s the question, isn’t it?” John said coolly. “Let us control our emotions and examine the matter logically.”
“Please,” I said. “Not another lecture on crime and the criminal mind.”
“Just crime, darling. I was about to go into that aspect of the matter when we were interrupted. If anyone has a better suggestion…” Eyebrow lifted, he swept his audience with an inquiring eye. No one responded. Ashraf had relapsed into gloomy despair, Feisal was pacing, Schmidt watched John with amiable expectation, and even Saida was fresh out of ideas. The blow had been devastating; it had never occurred to any of us that the damned mummy wasn’t there.
I refrained from additional criticism. John had been through a lot lately; as he had frequently remarked he hates being hurt, and his amour propre had also taken a beating. He had, to put it rudely, screwed up not once but several times. So I folded my hands and gave him an encouraging nod. He would have gone ahead anyhow.
“This,” said John, “was an expensive operation. It required a number of people to carry it out, people with special skills. There aren’t as many of them as you might suppose, particularly in this part of the world—not terrorists, not politically motivated, a criminal organization pure and simple, interested only in the money. After checking my sources I had determined before we arrived in Egypt that one group was the most likely. They had pulled off several rather neat thefts of antiquities, from storehouses and in one case from a well-guarded temple.”
“Denderah,” Feisal exclaimed.
“Right. The modus operandi in that case was similar to the one employed here. Now you may well ask why, if I had identified the group in question, I didn’t tell you. The answer is that the gang itself was unimportant. They are for hire, they carry out orders. I wanted the man who had hired them, and at that point I didn’t have a clue as to his identity. There were too many possible motives, too many possible suspects.
“Gangs have their uses, but they also have inherent disadvantages. They’re in it for the money. So if somebody offers them more money, they may decide to take it and run. Or if something goes wrong they may decide to save their own skins—and run. That’s why I don’t use them. You simply can’t count on the buggers. Vicky, you’re twitching. Am I boring you?”
“Yes.”
“Me too,” Feisal snarled. “Where is all this leading?”
“I am trying to explain,” said John loftily, “why I didn’t let you in on my deductions. You were all suspects. Yes, Feisal, even you. You would have been happy to see Ashraf disgraced and you the hero who had saved Tut. The only people I didn’t suspect were Vicky and Schmidt, and both of them have a deplorable tendency to take matters, and in Schmidt’s case, weapons, into their own hands.”
Taking this as a compliment, Schmidt chuckled and opened another bottle of beer. “I didn’t have any damned weapons,” I said grumpily. “Schmidt, how the hell did you get hold of that gun?”
“I got it the night I went shopping with Saida and Feisal,” Schmidt explained. “From a taxi driver, after they had left. There are ways to find things, Vicky, if one knows the ropes.”
Feisal rolled his eyes heavenward. “I don’t want to hear about it, Schmidt, and I don’t want to hear any more theories. I want to know what the hell has happened to Tutankhamon!”
“So do I,” Ashraf said. “If you’re so bloody clever, Tregarth, answer that.”
John went to the minibar. “I never drink to excess, but I think this evening I’m entitled to approach that level.” He winced theatrically and rubbed his arm. “Tut? He’s at the FEPEA house, of course.”
Ashraf was too infuriated for coherent speech; he sputtered and waved his arms. Feisal swore eloquently. “Impossible. We searched the place from top to bottom.”
“You didn’t look in the right places,” John said.
J ohn refused to say more, claiming he was feeling faint and needed his rest.
“Tomorrow,” he said wanly. “I—I may be up to the job tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow be damned,” Feisal yelled. “I’m heading there right now.”
“I strongly advise against that,” John said. “You’ve left some of your people guarding the place, I presume? He’ll be perfectly all right.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the threats and curses. “Do you want the man who is behind this? Then be patient. It will be worth the wait. Trust me on this.”
We got Feisal and Ashraf out before they could commit bodily assault on John. I was tempted to join them, but I was beginning to get an inkling of an idea. I think Saida was too. She hadn’t joined in the general outcry.
T he cat was the first to greet us. It came round the corner of the house, tail erect, and made a beeline for Schmidt.
“She remembers,” Schmidt said happily, stooping to stroke the animal’s head.
“It’s a he, Schmidt,” I said, from the other end of the cat. “Definitely a he.”
“I was worried about you,” Schmidt informed the cat. “I ought to have known that you would be sensible enough to stay away from a place where there were loud noises and projectiles.”
Schmidt held the door for me and the cat. The others were in the director’s office. Schmidt stopped and looked down at the dark stain on the Bokhara rug.
“It’s okay, Schmidt,” I said, patting his shoulder. “He’s still alive.”
Schmidt sighed. “Barely. But it was necessary. He might have killed you or John.”
The dark stain wasn’t the only evidence of violence. The study looked the way my living room looks most of the time—chairs pulled out or knocked over, various objects strewn around the floor. Among the latter were the two swords. The tips were darkly stained.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. “Such beautiful weapons, to be treated so cavalierly. They should be cleaned and replaced.”
“Not by you, Schmidt,” I said. “Ashraf, you had better get some of your henchmen in here to repair the damage before the expedition arrives, or you’ll have some explaining to do to.”
“I suppose that is true,” Ashraf admitted. Something crunched; he lifted his foot and examined the sole of his brogue. “Broken glass. Where did that come from?”
“In the mad rush to the rescue last night, someone knocked over one of the display cases,” John said, looking into the library. He bent over and delicately extracted a knife from amid the shards of glass. “Nice weapon.”
“The founders must have been a bloodthirsty lot,” I said.
“Life was hazardous in those days,” John said, admiring the knife. It was a good eight inches long, and showed signs of use.
“Never mind the nostalgia,” Feisal growled. “Where’s Tutankhamon?”
John came back into the study. He put the knife down on the table. “Here.”
“I tell you, we looked everywhere,” Feisal insisted.
“You were looking for a coffin-shaped box approximately six feet long,” John said.
The words fell like lumps of lead thudding onto a defenseless head. Feisal’s jaw dropped. Ashraf choked. Saida said calmly, “I thought so.”
John went to the file boxes piled in the corner. They were of heavy cardboard, squarish in shape, none longer than three feet. The one on top was about a foot square. With the slow deliberation of a magician preparing to produce a rabbit from a hat, John removed the lid and lifted a few loose papers. The head of Tutankhamon smiled shyly up at us.
“Ham,” I said. “Show off. Charlatan.”
“They broke him into pieces,” Ashraf wailed.
“He was already in pieces,” I reminded Ashraf.
Saida hovered over the box, uttering little moans of distress. In an effort to console her, I said, “They seem to have packed him quite carefully—cotton wool all around, nice sturdy boxes.”
Feisal rushed at the other boxes. Two legs, half a torso, the other half, arms. He was all there. Or rather, all of him was there, except for the hand that had been sent to Ashraf. Feet and the second hand occupied a separate container. While the others unpacked Tut, John stood to one side, nursing his arm and looking superior. Schmidt settled down in the director’s chair and began feeding the cat chicken from one of the lunch boxes he had brought. His mustache was twitching. Either he was deep in thought or he was trying not to laugh. Laughter was inapropos,
