but the situation did have an insane touch of black humor. I felt as if I were at a wake, there was so much groaning and gnashing of teeth.
Ashraf was the first to get his wits together. Unlike Feisal and Saida, he was less concerned with poor old Tut than with saving his reputation. He snatched the box containing the head. “We’ve got to put him back. Right now, before word leaks out. Feisal, start loading those boxes into the car.”
Schmidt looked up. “Now, in broad daylight, with tourists and guards in the Valley watching every move you make?”
“No, we can’t do that,” Feisal exclaimed. He snatched the box back from Ashraf. “Damn it, be careful. Don’t joggle him.”
“He won’t mind,” I said. “He’s dead.”
Feisal gave me a hateful look. Ashraf stroked his freshly shaven chin. “We must think,” he muttered. “Think before we act. Tonight, after the Valley is closed…”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” John drawled. “Take your own advice, Ashraf, and think this through. Aren’t you even slightly interested in the identity of the mastermind? You ought to hold a personal grudge; he was the one who bashed you on the head the other night.”
“We know who it was. Your assistant—I forget his name—”
“As I keep telling you, it’s not that simple. There’s no hurry. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable and let me explain?”
“Not another lecture,” I said.
“At the end of which,” said John, nostrils flaring with annoyance, “I will produce the real instigator of this affair. Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen.”
Grudgingly and grumbling, the rest of us took our places around the table. The head of Tutankhamon, placed tenderly on the table by Feisal, lent a macabre note to the proceedings. The solemnity of the meeting was somewhat marred by Schmidt’s passing round the box of chicken legs. (The cat had eaten the breasts.)
“If I may,” said Schmidt, “I would like to say a few words.”
“By all means,” said John, with a gracious inclination of his head.
“Thank you,” said Schmidt, graciously inclining
“I’m glad you asked,” John said. They nodded at each other again. Clearly they had set this charade up, the two of them. Just for the fun of infuriating Ashraf, or for some other reason? John kept sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch.
“Why Tutankhamon, indeed? The only logical answer was that Alan was working with someone else— someone whose primary motive was not financial. We won’t be able to question Alan for a long time, if ever. But I think this is how it came about.
“Alan was approached by an individual who had conceived the idea of embarrassing the SCA by making off with one of its most conspicuous treasures. At the outset he believed he was dealing with me. Alan convinced him that he, Alan, had taken over that aspect of the business. Alan also pointed out that the group of people who carried out the actual theft would expect to be paid, and paid handsomely. There was no way of raising that amount of money except by holding the mummy for ransom.”
“So it was the other guy who proposed stealing Tut,” I said. “But that means…That means he…Who, damn it?”
“Can’t you guess?” John’s smile was maddeningly superior.
I looked at Ashraf, who was looking at Feisal, who was looking at Saida, who was watching John, her lips slightly parted.
John looked at his watch.
Schmidt couldn’t stand it any longer. He sprang to his feet, pointing at the doorway. “Perlmutter! Jan Perlmutter. Who else!”
The doorway remained unhelpfully empty of Jan Perlmutter.
“Don’t be silly, Schmidt,” I said. “You just want him to be the villain because you’re still mad at him.”
“Schmidt is, as always, correct,” John said resignedly.
Ashraf sat up with a start. “Perlmutter? From the Altes Museum in Berlin? He’s behind this? Why? How?”
“You were driving him crazy,” John said simply. “During our interview with him in Berlin, Perlmutter was practically frothing at the mouth when he talked about preserving antiquities. It was as though he had a God-given right to defend them from the barbarians—as defined by him. He is, to put it simply, over the edge. Most of you archaeological types are somewhat demented, you know. Look at the way you and Feisal have been carrying on about the bloody mummy. A sane person wouldn’t give a damn what happened to it.”
“But Herr Doktor Perlmutter cared,” Saida said.
“You prove my point,” John said. He looked again at his watch, glanced at the door, and scowled.
“He planned to return it, unhurt,” Saida insisted. “We must give him credit for that.”
“Credit be damned,” Ashraf said furiously. “I will see that he suffers for this, and for his violence against me. I will catch a plane to Berlin tomorrow, after we have returned Tutankhamon to his tomb.”
“Forgive me for mentioning,” John said, “that you have still to work out how to accomplish the latter. As for Berlin, there is no need. Here he is, in person. Finally,” he added in exasperation. “I told him to be here at ten.”
All eyes focused on the doorway. “I was detained,” Jan said.
He had ruined John’s meticulously plotted scenario by failing to appear on cue. The cue being, I presumed, John’s smarmy question, “Can’t you guess?”
For a criminal who has just been unmasked, Jan looked unnervingly pleased with himself. Silver-gilt curls shining, he moved toward a chair. “I could not help overhearing the last part of your conversation,” he said coolly. “Your wild accusations are pure fantasy, of course.”
Ashraf pushed his chair back and surged to his feet, fists clenched. “Coward! You struck me down, from behind. You will pay.”
Jan smiled. One could almost hear what he was thinking: These excitable Arabs, they are too emotional to look after their treasures. I wanted to kick Ashraf to shut him up, but I was too far away from him. Schmidt and John were just getting started. How much real evidence they had against Jan I didn’t know, but I had a feeling it was flimsy. He would have to be tricked into making a damaging admission. Skilled interrogators know violence is counterproductive in inducing confessions; punching Jan in the chops would only make him mad and reinforce his sense of superiority.
It was good ol’ boy Schmidt who took the necessary steps. His shout made the rafters ring.
“Sit down and be quiet!”
Schmidt doesn’t exert his authority often, but when he does he is formidable. Ashraf sat down as suddenly as if he had been pushed. If I hadn’t already been seated, my knees would have buckled.
“You too,” Schmidt went on, glowering at Jan. “Speak only when you are spoken to. I am taking charge of this inquiry and I will brook no interruptions. Yes. That is better. Now, John, proceed with your deductions.”
John was still not used to the new Schmidt. Visibly awestruck, he cleared his throat. “As I was saying…What was I saying?”
“That all archaeologists are slightly mad,” Schmidt prompted.
“Right. Um. Stealing the mummy of Tutankhamon was the sort of idea that would only have occurred to a monomaniac, someone who placed inordinate value on it and believed that other monomaniacs would share his estimate of its importance. In other words, a psychotic Egyptologist or authority on ancient remains. That ruled out Alan and the gangs of professional thieves. It also indicated that the motive was personal and abnormal rather than financial or political. We had proposed that as one possibility among others, but we had never actually followed through on the idea. I wasted a certain amount of time speculating about a grudge against a specific individual— Ashraf, or Feisal, or me. However, all of us had led blameless lives—”
That was too much for Jan, who had been increasingly maddened by John’s use of insulting adjectives. He
