Laughter of Dead Kings

THIRTEEN

S chmidt scampered out onto the road right in front of a camel.

The camel howled, or whatever they do—it’s a horrible sound—its rider screamed, and Schmidt, writhing on the ground, added a few howls of his own. I stood frozen for a second or two; then a fat, white-clad arm waved imperiously, and I realized that this was Schmidt’s idea of a distraction and that he had fallen, not been knocked down.

When I emerged from the loo, swathed in black, Schmidt was still carrying on at the top of his lungs. I could hear him but I couldn’t see him because his prostrate form was surrounded by a crowd—Feisal, Saida, the camel driver, the camel, the cook, the waiter, and a motley collection of passersby. One, I was happy to see, was a woman, unveiled but robed in black, carrying a baby. I sidled up to her and stood watching with the other spectators. Nobody was leaving the scene, it was just too darned interesting.

Finally Schmidt allowed himself to be raised to his feet and led back into the restaurant. He was doing his best to cover my retreat, insisting that it was his fault, that the hysterical camel rider was not to blame, that he wanted water, beer, and the arm of Saida to support him. My newfound friend shifted the baby to her other arm and spoke to me. I shrugged apologetically and pointed at the spot where my ear lurked under the head covering. She smiled and offered me the baby.

I took it as it was meant, as a gesture of goodwill and sympathy. I also took the baby. The baby did not approve. As Mama and I started off down the road, side by side, it began to cry. The veil covering my face might have put it off, or maybe it was just me. I don’t have much experience with babies. It was too good a disguise to give up, though. Feisal and Saida had realized I was missing. They had hurried out of the restaurant and were making little dashes along the road, first in one direction, then in another, shouting questions at everyone in sight. The two ladies in black, one of them toting a screaming infant, didn’t register on their radar.

I parted company with the baby, to the relief of baby and Mama, as soon as we were out of sight of the restaurant. Hiccuping sobs succeeded the screams when Mama took it. I thanked her for the treat by ducking my head, and then struck off to the right.

I was still some distance from my destination, but I was in no hurry. Trudging along the path, I went over my program. It was simple: Get into the house unobserved, find a place to hide, stay there until something happened…or it didn’t.

I have a lot of faith in hunches, which are often based on evidence observed but unprocessed by the conscious mind. In this case, the processed evidence was thin. A house that fit all the specifications we had come up with, a house purportedly unoccupied, but which had been entered within the last few days, a house where I had thought I might have heard a suspicious noise, a house whose custodian hadn’t been carrying out his duties. A house shunned by the locals because it was haunted by a demon cat. I could be way off base on all those counts. The only way of finding out for sure was to do what I was doing now.

Dust sifted into my shoes and whitened the hem of my robe as I plodded along. What did I have to lose, after all? If my hunch was wrong, a few hours of my time. If I was right…A few years of my life?

Don’t be such a pessimist, Vicky, I told myself. If you’re right you stand to gain a lot.

I began to understand why some Muslim women regarded the veil as protection rather than a sign of subjugation. The people I met along the way paid no attention to me. The men didn’t even look in my direction. The closer I got to the house, the fewer people I encountered. That was either a good sign or a bad one—good because it showed the locals did avoid the place, bad because anyone approaching was conspicuous. I slowed to a slower shuffle.

The first item on my program was the hardest—getting inside without being observed. I didn’t see any signs of life, but it wouldn’t have been sensible to march up to the front door and knock.

Someone had gone to considerable lengths to establish and maintain a garden. There must be water somewhere, an irrigation ditch or pool, although most of the plants might be varieties that can survive in hot, dry conditions. I’m no gardener; the only ones I recognized were cacti and palms, and stands of the dusty green tamarisk that is common in the area. I hadn’t cased the place in detail on our first visit, having no reason to do so, but I remembered a view of some kind of green stuff outside the window of the director’s study. I wandered off to the right, following a narrow track that appeared to go in the direction I wanted—around the house, toward the side. The grounds were more extensive than I had realized. Wings stretched out at odd angles, and I could see other buildings and sections of wall through the trees. More to the point, a grove of low, shrubby trees, vine-entangled, ran along the side of the house, from the veranda toward the back.

It was mid-afternoon, when people in hot climates stay indoors, napping or resting. I couldn’t be seen from the house, thanks to those convenient trees; a quick look around assured me that there wasn’t another soul in sight. It wasn’t going to get any better than this. I divested myself of my black shroud; it left me feeling naked and exposed, but the folds of fabric encumbered easy movement and no disguise was going to do me any good if I was found inside. And now I could get at the objects I had stowed away in my pockets. I had abandoned the backpack, with the pious hope that an honest soul would turn it in to the proprietor of the restaurant, or that Saida would retrieve it. I took out my wristwatch. Quarter to three. It had taken me too damn long to get here. Siesta time would end soon.

I moved carefully, pushing branches aside instead of plowing through. The trees, whatever they were, prickled. The vine was a pretty thing, covered with sprays of little pink flowers. It had climbed and intertwined, reaching for light, and it provided a screen so thick I didn’t see the window until I was almost upon it.

The window was open.

Seeing the first actual confirmation of my wild theory shocked me into a brief mental blackout. I guess I had never really expected to get this far. It took several seconds for me to get my wits, or what passes for them, back.

The couch is under the window, I reminded myself. The sill is about four feet above the ground. Now, before you rush in where angels fear to tread, make sure nobody is there. That’s not too hard. Look and listen and take it slow.

The room was shadowy and still, except for a buzzing, which, after a heart-stopping second, I identified as a gathering of flies. The doors, one to the library and one into the central hall, were closed. The couch was unoccupied. One of the high-backed chairs had been pushed away from the table. Otherwise the room looked pretty much as it had before.

John would have been over the sill in a single movement. John. I didn’t let myself think about him. It took me three movements: one foot in a crack, a knee on the sill, the other knee onto the couch.

The sound wasn’t loud, just a faint squeak of rusty springs. It was echoed by another sound, a cross between a snore and a snort.

I was under the couch before the snort stopped. There’s nothing like sheer terror to inspire agility. Someone was sitting in that big chair. I hadn’t seen him—or her?—because of the high back. Luckily for me, the occupant had been napping.

The couch was long enough to conceal me, but there wasn’t a lot of room underneath, thanks to those sagging springs. One of them poked into my derriere and another into my left shoulder. I didn’t dare wriggle around to find a more comfortable position. The snoring had resumed—not in a steady rhythm, but the intermittent noises of a sleeper who has been disturbed and has not sunk back into deep slumber.

I lay there for what seemed like hours. Nobody had dusted under the couch in recent memory; I kept swallowing sneezes. My nose itched. Splinters dug into my cheek. By turning my head sideways, a millimeter at a time, I found I could see out from under the spread. The view was limited; however, it included the suspect chair and one of the doors, the one leading to the central hall. Something new had been added, after all; a pile of buff storage boxes next to the library door.

None of them was long enough to hold Tutankhamon.

The sleeper’s breathing had evened out and so—finally—had mine. Now for the next maneuver.

My left arm was straight at my side, my right slightly bent at the elbow. My mobile was in the right-hand pocket of my pants. I could only move horizontally unless I wanted to risk another screech from the rusty springs. If I hadn’t let that snore panic me I would have got the cursed phone out before I squashed myself under the couch. With the same slow deliberation, flinching at every rustle of fabric, I got my hand down and in the pocket. I was breathing fast, from sheer nerves, when my fingers closed over the cell, and I was sorely tempted to proceed by feel alone. I knew I couldn’t risk it, though. This call had to be dead right, and fast. By the time I got my hand up to my face I was sweating bullets, and not from the heat, though it was pretty warm under there.

Discomfort was succeeded by numbness and, believe it or not, drowsiness. (I am told by those who know that this is not an uncommon reaction to stress.) The room was dim and quiet, except for the soothing buzz of insects. I was on the verge of dozing off when there was a knock at the door. It woke me as effectively as a shout in my ear.

It also woke the occupant of the chair. I heard the rustle of cloth as he shifted position, and then a brusque order. The door opened and the chandelier over the desk blazed. John came in.

He looked as sleek as a well-fed cat—not a hair on his head out of place, not a mark on him. His hands were in the pockets of his khakis, his shirt, open at the throat, was one I’d never seen before—a rather girlish baby-blue-and-white-striped. He stopped a few feet inside the room and tilted his head inquiringly. The man sitting in the chair barked out another baritone order. The door closed.

They played the old “Let the other guy speak first” routine for a short time. John had been playing it longer. The other guy said, “I trust you have been given everything you require?”

It was the first time he had spoken more than a single word. The language was English, the accent well-educated British. I knew I’d heard that voice before, but I couldn’t place it. My head was buzzing as loudly as the flies. He hadn’t been injured. He was shaved and brushed, neat as a pin. But someone had opened the door for him. Someone was outside, in the hall, guarding the door. Not yet, I told myself. Wait.

“Come off it,” John said pleasantly. “There’s no one listening. Shall we proceed to the next stage of negotiations?”

“You’ve nothing to negotiate with.”

From beneath the couch, I could see as John raised an eyebrow. “Then let me put it another way. What are you planning to do next?”

“To you?” The other man laughed. Damn, that laugh was familiar! He went on, “Nothing at all. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured out my plans for you?”

“Oh, that. It was the obvious course.”

“Obvious?” His voice rose. “Most people in my position would have—”

“Now, now,” John said, in the tone he would have used to a peevish child, “don’t get excited. You’ve done very well for an amateur.”

He was trying to bait the other man, for no good reason that I could see, except that he couldn’t resist being cute. Then it dawned on me. I was a little upset, or I would have seen it immediately.

The chair legs let out a screech as the other man pushed back from the table and sprang to his feet. The two of them confronted each other like mirror images—lean and tall, fair-haired, dressed almost identically. I ought to have recognized the voice and the laugh, but the very idea of his being here was too preposterous to accept. Even now I had a hard time believing it.

John’s little game didn’t work. Alan was unarmed, and he knew better than to tackle John with his bare hands. If I had been in his position I’d have been armed to the teeth, but that was Alan’s problem—he had to outdo John on John’s terms, beat him at his own game. Besides, he wasn’t risking bodily harm; he had help right outside the door.

Alan managed to get his breathing and his temper under control. “How kind,” he said, in a fair imitation of John’s drawl. “You can’t admit, can you, that I’ve succeeded where you would have failed? This operation exceeds any and all of your childish games. It will go down in the annals of crime.”

“Is that the only reason you had me brought here?” John asked. His eyes moved fractionally, from Alan’s face to his hands and back. He was calculating the odds. They were against him, and he knew it. “To boast? Should that be the case, I hope you will excuse me.”

I had preprogrammed the call. I only had to press one button. I kept hoping Alan would really lose his temper and start yelling, but I didn’t dare wait any longer. I pushed the button.

“Sit down,” Alan said tightly.

“What would be the point? Unless you want my advice.”

“I don’t need your damned advice! I know precisely what I’m doing. In a few days I’ll walk away with four million pounds in hard cash, and you will be found unharmed and unconfined in company with the stolen mummy of Tutankhamon. Even your trusting friends can’t get you out of this. You haven’t been exactly forthright with them, have you?”

“I daresay several incidents will lend credence to the assumption of my guilt,” John admitted.

Schmidt, Schmidt, where are you? I thought wildly. Now’s the time. He’s here, where he has no business being, and no excuse for being here. I’ve heard his confession. Come on, Schmidt, call in the troops.

I hoped to hear alarms and excursions, gunfire, shouts, explosions. What I got instead was a door bursting open, banging back against the wall. It wasn’t the door to the hall. I stuck my head out from under the couch and saw what I had hoped not to see. Schmidt had come in through the library. Schmidt. Just Schmidt, all alone. He was brandishing what appeared to be, and almost certainly was not, an automatic pistol.

Alan spun round to face Schmidt, John nodded a gracious greeting, and—driven beyond endurance—I yelled, “Bloody hell, Schmidt, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t kill anybody with a toy gun!”

“It is not a toy,” Schmidt yelled back. He proceeded to prove it.

We were yelling because the long-awaited cacophony had finally burst out—gunfire, crashes, yells, and in the case of Schmidt, a fusillade fired back into the library toward several persons who were about to follow him into the study. They ceased to follow and Schmidt slammed the door shut.

“Also,” he panted. “Put up your hands, Mr. Whoever-You-May-Be. It is a fair cop. Guten Abend, John. Where is Vicky?”

“Here,” I said faintly.

John sauntered to me, bent over, and offered me his hand. “Well, well,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

My appearance distracted and alarmed Schmidt. “Is she hurt? Is she safe?”

For a few vital seconds nobody was looking at Alan. A musical clatter drew our attention back to him. If I had had false teeth I would have swallowed them when I saw that he was now brandishing one of the swords that had hung over the mantel. The other one lay on the floor near the fireplace.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” John said, hauling me to my feet. “Put that down, you damned fool.”

“Yes, drop it,” Schmidt ordered. “Or I will fire.”

“No, you won’t,” Alan said breathlessly. “In the first place you are too much of a gentleman to shoot a man armed only with a sword. In the second place, you emptied the clip just now.”

Schmidt let out a string of Mittelhochdeutsch swear words and began searching through his plethora of pockets. John edged toward Alan and came to a sudden stop as the blade whistled past his face.

“Pick up the other one,” Alan said, baring his teeth. “We’ll see who is the better man.”

“You,” John said hastily. “No question. I give up. I can’t fence.”

“I happen to know that you can. Not as well as I, however. Those reenactments at which you chose to sneer honed my skills. Pick it up or I’ll carve my initials in Vicky.”

I would never have supposed that one blade could hold three people at bay. It can, if the other three haven’t so much as a knife, and if it moves as fast as it did when Alan wielded it.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

“Not much choice, really,” John said, his casual tone at odds with his tight mouth and narrowed eyes. “He’s gone over the edge. All those fantasy games…Oops.”

He ducked just in time, and scooped up the fallen sword. I jumped back as Alan swung in my direction. Schmidt wobbled indecisively, still searching his damned pockets.

“Call for help, Schmidt,” I shouted. “Where is everybody?”

From the continuing sounds of battle, it was evident that “everybody” was fully occupied. Alan’s gang was firing back, from all four sides of the house.

“Just hold him off,” I said to John.

His lips moved soundlessly but eloquently. I didn’t blame him for wanting to call me bad names; it had not been one of my more brilliant suggestions. I knew he could fence a little. I’d seen him do it—with an opponent who was fat, drunk, and essentially incompetent. Alan was none of the above and he was in a state of manic exhilaration. I don’t think he cared any longer about the money or the game. All he cared about was inflicting as much damage as possible, with his own hands, on the man he admired and hated and envied most.

John managed to parry the first pass. The next three opened up cuts on his cheek, forearm, and side. He avoided some of Alan’s thrusts by various moves that looked unorthodox even to my uneducated eyes, ducking and twisting and weaving, but he was breathing hard and he kept retreating. Schmidt had finally located another clip and was trying to slide it into the gun. He was swearing. Alan was laughing. That laugh was one of the ugliest sounds I had ever heard. I picked up a poker and tried to get behind Alan. He whipped round and knocked the poker out of my hand before turning back to John and parrying his clumsy thrust with insulting ease.

“Touché,” he yelled and ran John through the right arm.

The blade fell from John’s hand. His back against the wall, he slid slowly down to a sitting position. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, none of them except the last serious, and he was too out of breath to speak. I ran to him and knelt beside him, supporting his sagging body.

“Shoot, Schmidt,” I yelled.

“Allmächtigen Gott im Himmel, curse the verdammt gun,” said Schmidt, at the top of his lungs. He tossed the gun aside; I let out a shriek, which rose to siren pitch as Schmidt picked up the sword John had dropped.

There was still noise somewhere in the background, but none of it penetrated my horrified brain. All I could think was that Schmidt, the self-proclaimed greatest swordsman in Europe, had finally lost his mind. And he wasn’t even drunk.

Struggling to sit up, John gasped, “No, Schmidt, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t—” Schmidt assumed the position—I guess it was the position—and bellowed challenges in various languages, ending with “En garde!” Alan was laughing so hard I thought he would fall over. That annoyed Schmidt. He took a step forward and…

I can’t describe what happened. All I saw was a whirlwind of flashing steel, all I heard was the ring of metal on metal. When it stopped, Alan had fallen back, out of range of Schmidt’s weapon. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His eyes were big as saucers and his mouth hung open. Schmidt stood planted in the exact same spot, teeth bared and mustache bristling. “Ha!” he shouted. “Have at you!”

It went slower this time. Alan poked his sword at Schmidt and Schmidt knocked it away with contemptuous ease, before poking back at Alan. John started squirming, trying to pull away from my tenderly supportive arms. “Damn it, Vicky, get out of the way! I can’t see.” His voice rose in a howl of delight. “Get him, Schmidt! Let him have it!”

When the two broke apart this time, blood was streaming down Alan’s left arm. With slow dignity Schmidt took a single step forward and went at it again, forcing Alan back. I was vaguely aware of a voice babbling close to my ear. Every sentence ended in an exclamation point.

“The greatest swordsman in Europe! He was, by God, he was! A-to-Z Schmidt, Alphabet Schmidt—Olympic gold medalist, world champion! We were made to watch the films! I ought to have known! But it was almost twenty years ago, and he’s always been good old Schmidt…”

Schmidt’s fat old arm moved with the quick precision of a metronome. Alan was streaming blood from multiple cuts. Schmidt’s revenge, I thought wildly. He’s doing the same thing to Alan that Alan did to John.

This time it was Schmidt who stepped back. His breathing was ragged, but Alan was also gasping for breath, more from disbelief than exertion, I thought.

Schmidt intoned, “Do you yield?”

Melodramatic to the end, Alan cried, “Never!” and attacked.

Two quick passes; then Schmidt dropped to one knee and lunged, arm and sword in a single straight line. The point entered Alan’s chest.

For several long seconds there wasn’t a sound, not even that of exhaled breath. I will never forget the look on Alan’s face. Not pain, not anger—utter disbelief. He fell slowly, first to his knees, then onto his side, pulling the weapon from Schmidt’s hand.

John removed himself from my limp embrace and staggered to his feet. “Schmidt,” he said softly. “Schmidt, I…You…” and then, almost prayerfully, “Christ.”

He knelt by Alan and turned him onto his back. The hilt of the sword swayed gently, like a flower on a stem. Schmidt hadn’t moved. Still on one knee, he said, between gasps, “Vicky, will you please give me a hand?”

“Schmidt, are you hurt?” I hurried to him.

“No. It is…Well, you understand, it is my knee. Just help me up, please.”

I took his hand and pulled. Accompanied by a series of popping noises, Schmidt rose like a wounded whale. “Ach, Gott,” he wheezed, leaning heavily against me. “I have killed him. I did not mean to. God forgive me.”

“He’s not dead,” John said. “But he’s in bad shape. Call for an ambulance.”

“It’s on the way,” said a voice I hadn’t heard for some time.

Sans auburn wig and avec gun, Suzi stood in the door of the library. Behind her I saw several other familiar faces. I don’t know how long they had been there. I wouldn’t have noticed a stampede of buffalo.

“Typical,” I said bitterly. “Where were you when I needed you?”

“I came as soon as I received your message,” Suzi said.

“Swell,” I said. “There’s your thief, Suzi. And there, wounded but undaunted, is the man whom you wrongly suspected.” I flung my arm out. Never one to miss a cue, John got slowly to his feet. I went on with mounting passion, “If you ever bother us again, I’ll make sure your bosses hear how you screwed this one up. You weren’t looking for the perpetrator, you were blinded by your desire to nail John. He might have been killed if it hadn’t been for—”

“Schmidt,” John said, swaying theatrically. “Anton Z. Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe.”

T he lunge, you see, becomes difficult with middle age,” Schmidt explained. “The knee joints do not cooperate so well. Hence a fencer must rely on the strength of his arm and his expertise. He knew that, and did not think I would attempt it.”

The words “middle age” didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Schmidt could have described himself as “a mere youth” and none of his adoring fans would have contradicted him. Especially me.

“Oh, Schmidt,” I said. “I do love you.”

“You have said that before.” Schmidt’s eyes twinkled. “But you can say it as often as you like.” He examined his empty glass. “I believe I will have more beer.”

John beat me to the minibar. I was ahead on points, though, since I had phoned the hotel to order the beer before we left the battlefield.

The word was not inapropos. Alan’s allies had put up a pretty good fight, barricading most of the windows and defending the doors. Loyalty probably had little to do with it; anyone trying to leave the house, with or without a white flag, might have been mowed down. People with guns like to shoot them. They don’t always shoot straight when they are excited, though, and miraculously, no one had been killed.

Our allies, summoned by Schmidt, had waited for my signal before moving in. (Schmidt was in command because he was the only one who knew where I had gone.) They were a motley lot and it’s a wonder they didn’t start fighting among themselves—Suzi and Ashraf and their “assistants,” Feisal and a band of men from the village, and, of course, Saida. Schmidt was the glue that had held them all together. Feisal said he sounded like a French revolutionary stirring up the mob. “Avenge the murder of Ali! Retrieve the stolen treasures of Egypt! Rescue the beautiful American girl and save her lover!” I don’t know where they got all the guns and I had sense enough not to ask. Feisal wouldn’t let Saida have one, so she threw rocks. She claimed to have brained at least two of the enemy.

She and Feisal had come back with us to our now dear and familiar home away from home at the Winter Palace, leaving Ashraf and Suzi to direct the cleanup operations. John flatly refused the assistance of the ambulance personnel. “It’s a nice neat stab,” he said approvingly. “And I need a clean shirt. Alan has frightful taste.”

“That’s one of Alan’s?” I asked.

“Did you suppose I had another wardrobe hidden away in Luxor?”

His voice wasn’t exactly accusing, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. “What was I supposed to suppose?” I demanded.

“Never mind, darling, I forgive you. I will tell all in due course. In the meantime I could do with a little first aid.”

“And beer,” said Schmidt.

He had his beer, and John and I had something a little stronger. After I had patched John up—a job at which I had become only too adept—and he had selected a shirt in a much more becoming shade of blue, we took turns telling our tales. I have to admit John’s was the most interesting.

“I shall begin at the beginning,” he announced, fondling his glass of Scotch, “and continue until I reach the end. Kindly do not interrupt with questions. An occasional inquiring look will indicate you require elaboration of a particular point.”

Saida chuckled. John raised an eyebrow at her, cleared his throat, and began at the beginning.

“As soon as I read that message from LeBlanc I felt certain Ashraf had arranged the moonlight visit in order to facilitate his meeting with his contact. It was well thought out, really; the place is so huge he could select a safe spot, yet there were enough people wandering around to confuse potential followers. He certainly succeeded in confusing me. After a while I couldn’t tell who was following whom, though I began to realize that far too many of them were following me. When the meeting actually took place I was some distance away. I saw that Ashraf’s contact was a woman, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When she bolted I went after her. My motives were not entirely altruistic, I admit…Vicky, will you stop giving me what you presumably believe to be inquiring looks?”

“I want you to skip the elegant syntax and get on with it. You followed her because you thought she would lead you to the headquarters of the gang.”

“I didn’t mean her to get that far. I was reasonably certain we could shake a confession out of the poor creature and I certainly didn’t intend to get within arm’s reach of the bad boys. She was too quick for me,” John admitted with obvious chagrin. “She knew where she was going and I didn’t. I didn’t catch her up until she had actually reached the house, and when I intercepted her she shrieked like a banshee. They were obviously on the lookout for her. The door burst open and several large unkind men dragged both of us inside. No, Vicky, I did not put up a fight. I do not fight large men armed with knives when I’m outnumbered six to one. They had me trussed up like a turkey, blindfolded and gagged, before I could reason with them, and then they bundled me into a cart, with a sack of some heavy granular substance on top of me, and drove away. The whole business didn’t take more than two minutes.”

He paused for a refreshing sip and I said, “So by the time clever Suzi arrived, you were long gone. Probably by way of the back gate. She’s dead, you know.”

He knew I wasn’t referring to Suzi. “I do know. Alan told me, in lurid detail. She had tried to make a separate deal. I’m sorry. She was a relatively new recruit whose only crime was attempted extortion.

“What with being banged around in the cart and mashed by heavy objects, I wasn’t in top-notch condition when we arrived at our destination. Expecting the worst, as is my habit, I was pleasantly surprised when they unwrapped me quite gently and supplied me with a nice soft chair and a glass of brandy. I recognized the surroundings at once and it dawned on me that the thieves had been using the FEPEA house as a secondary headquarters. The house on the East Bank served them well at the start, but if anything went wrong—which it did—they needed a fall-back location. I was gazing about, trying to find an exit, when Alan made his appearance. I was not surprised to see him. I had already realized he must be involved. Ah. I see from a number of doubtful glances that I must justify that statement.

“You had mentioned seeing me at Luxor Temple. I knew I hadn’t been there, and it occurred to me that perhaps your sense of recognition was based on the resemblance between me and Alan. That got me started thinking. I had hired him in part because of his computer skills. It had become obvious that someone had got into my closed files, the ones that listed my former rivals and associates—”

“Damn it,” I burst out. “You said some time ago that you had severed relations with that lot.”

“I did. In the sense that I had not communicated with any of them until—”

“Berlin. Rome. You didn’t ask the monsignor about missing relics, you bribed him to give you information about current criminal gangs. And every word of that conversation you reported having with Helga was a flat-out fabrication.”

“I thought I made it sound quite convincing,” John said with a complacent smile.

But then he looked directly at me, and now it was his eyes that fell. “I had promised you I would cut off all contacts with my former associates. I lied. I had to. You’d have argued and protested, and those files were too valuable to destroy. I always expect the worst. The worst happened.”

“How true,” Schmidt exclaimed. “The present situation has justified your decision.”

They nodded gravely at each other. “So,” John resumed, “when I spotted Alan at Karnak, flitting about in the moonlight, I wasn’t surprised. He didn’t bother with a disguise, because he wanted to be taken for me. Such proved to be the case. The light was poor and people see what they expect to see.”

“Never mind the lectures on crime,” Feisal said impatiently.

“Oh, I find them fascinating,” Saida exclaimed. “Do go on.”

“Well, the lad was quite full of himself,” John said. “Another sign of an amateur is that he talks too much, which Alan proceeded to do. Psychologically he’s an interesting case. He hates my guts but he wants to be me, only better—or, from another point of view, worse. His role-playing was a way of compensating for his dull existence. Then I entered his life and he realized he didn’t have to play hero. The dashing Cavalier became the Dark Lord, the master of crime. Evil, as someone has said, is more interesting than good.”

“Yes, yes,” said Schmidt eagerly. “Many more visitors to the fantasy conventions come attired as Darth Vader or Saruman or storm troopers than as—”

“Who?” Feisal said in bewilderment.

“The bad guys,” Saida translated. “I’ll explain another time, dear boy.”

“As I was saying,” John remarked loudly, “he told me everything. He started making deals on the side, cooking the books with a skill I couldn’t hope to match. He made copies of my keys, got into locked desk drawers and the safe.”

“So he was the one who searched your flat?”

John’s brow wrinkled. “Must have been. Though I don’t understand why he—”

The phone rang. I picked it up, since no one else seemed inclined to move. The concierge’s voice informed me that someone was at the desk asking for us. “Send him up,” I said and hung up.

“It must be Ashraf,” I informed the others. “That was quick.”

“He has found him,” Feisal exclaimed. “Alhamdullilah!”

“Unless it is Suzi.” Schmidt looked severe. “I will not see her.”

I was curious to hear Suzi’s accusations, excuses, or whatever, but Schmidt’s word was law that evening, and Suzi could wait. I meant to have a long talk with her at some point. In private.

“I’ll get rid of her,” I said, going to the door. The knock had been somewhat tentative. Maybe Suzi was feeling apologetic. When I saw who the caller was, I went on offense. “Suzi sent you, didn’t she? She didn’t have the nerve to come herself.”

The little woman with the big hat said, “Who is Suzi?”

“Oh, come on, you’re one of hers, you have to be. I fingered you some time ago.”

The woman drew herself up to her full five-feet-two-inches. “I have come to see Mr. Tregarth. Don’t tell me he isn’t here, I bribed the concierge to inform me when he returned. This time I will not be put off.”

John had overheard. He came up behind me. “I’m Tregarth. How may I—”

“I know you are. I have been trying for days to see you. If you don’t let me in, I will sit outside the door and—and do something disruptive.”

She was trying to look fierce, but I have never seen a countenance or a form so unintimidating, or heard a threat so absurd. John passed his hand over his mouth to hide a smile, and waved me back. “Do come in, Miss—Ms.—Mrs.—”

“My card.” She handed it to him and swept into the room. Schmidt rose gallantly to his feet; Saida poked Feisal, who was sunk in happy dreams of Tutankhamon, and he followed suit.

“Oh, yes,” John said. “I remember now. I don’t believe we ever met, though. You dealt solely with my mother…”

His voice trailed off. A series of rapid, strong emotions passed over his face, and then he burst out, “You were the one who broke into the house and searched the attic!”

“Please.” She looked up at him from under the hat. “Please don’t shout at me, it makes me very nervous, and when I am nervous I start shouting back. Just let me explain. I have done wrong and I am here to confess and to 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!”