Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Eleven

IT WAS FORTUNATE John was too petrified to argue or make long-winded, sarcastic speeches. Time was running out on us. The meeting had broken up; people were dispersing, to dress for dinner – and for other purposes.

Max was waiting for Mary. He had told us what we were to do, but he wouldn’t answer my questions. There was no time, he had said, and when I heard that shrill, arrogant voice outside the door where we stood listening, I understood. He had expected she would want to amuse herself for a while before she changed.

‘Get out of my way, Max.’

‘No, I forbid it. You have done enough already.’

‘You have no authority over me!’

‘Then I will appeal to someone who does.’ His voice hardened. ‘He will not allow you to endanger the entire enterprise.’

She spat out a string of nouns and adjectives. I thought she was applying them to Max until he replied dryly, ‘I have no fondness for Tregarth either, but business must take precedence over personal resentment. He cannot be forced to carry out his part of the plan unless we hold a hostage as surety for his compliance, and he will be unable to carry it out if you go on playing your little games with him. I have locked the door and I will keep the key, so don’t bother coming back after I have gone.’

She stormed off, using language no lady should employ, and I heard the reverberation as she slammed her door. Max moved away without speaking to us. He’d already given us our instructions, and I couldn’t blame him for minimizing the risk to himself. They probably kept Mary happy by letting her play with traitors and other expendable individuals before disposing of them. Her brother had been fond of knives, too.

Max had given me the key and told me to lock the door. My hand was clenched so tightly John had to pry my fingers loose one by one before he could take it from me.

‘What are you doing?’ I demanded in a hoarse whisper. ‘He told us to stay here.’

‘He told us not to attempt to leave the house for an hour,’ John corrected. ‘I’d prefer to wait elsewhere. I don’t entirely share your blind faith in Maxie.’

‘Why is he doing this then?’

‘God knows. But you can be certain it isn’t because his heart was touched by an appeal to sentiment, of which he has none. Possibly he’s come to think of you as a kind of mascot or good-luck charm. He’s frightfully superstitious – look at those ghastly silhouettes of his. They aren’t a hobby any longer, they have become an obsession.’ He unlocked the door and then turned to look at me. ‘Do you want your gun back?’

‘No.’

‘Then get the knife. You left it on the floor by the chair. And don’t put it in your pocket! Keep hold of it. Stay close behind me. If we’re spotted and I tell you to run, do it, without one of those interminable arguments of yours, and without looking back. Is that clear?’

I nodded. His orders had been perfectly clear. Whether or not I would follow them was another matter.

‘Come on, then.’

Either he had explored the house more systematically than I had had the opportunity of doing or he had stayed there before. Instead of heading for the main stairs he turned in the opposite direction. We had to pass several of the bedrooms, including Mary’s, and if I had not reached a state of total emotional paralysis I would have dropped in my tracks when I heard a crash and an inarticulate shriek from her room. The cry had been one of rage. She must be relieving her feelings by smashing lamps, vases, and other fragile objects.

John’s long, even stride didn’t alter. He was moving more easily now. The end of the corridor was in shadow, there were no wall sconces near it. What I had taken to be a dead end turned out to be a door, painted the same neutral colour as the wall. When he opened it I saw a landing with narrow, uncarpeted steps leading down, and another flight going up. It was lighted by a single bulb on the ceiling. I ought to have known there would be a separate staircase for the servants. Not that the knowledge would have helped. There would be people in that part of the house too.

I felt somewhat easier after John had closed the door, but when he sat down on the topmost step I said nervously, ‘What are you waiting for? The servants will be coming this way.’

‘No, they won’t. Not for a while.’ leaning back, supporting his weight on his elbows, he went on in the same subdued voice, ‘It’s obvious that you have never seriously contemplated a career in crime. If you do, bear in mind that strict attention to schedules is vitally important. Human beings are creatures of habit, and the older they get, the more they insist on regularity. Blenkiron always dines at seven-fifteen. The servants will be preparing dinner for the guests and eating their own; they don’t come upstairs to turn down the beds and so on until the guests have retired to – ’

‘John, if you don’t stop lecturing and start answering questions I am going to scream.’

‘Ask a sensible question, then.’

‘How did you get involved with – ’

‘No, no. That is a reasonable question, I admit, but under the present circumstances it is less relevant than a number of others, and the answer would involve a prolonged explanation which you probably wouldn’t believe anyhow. Try again, keeping in mind that our primary concern at this moment – ’

‘All right! Are we going to stay here until eight o’clock?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Seven-fifteen.’

‘How time flies when one is enjoying oneself,’ John murmured. ‘For the next half hour this is as safe a place as any. I’ve a little errand to do before we leave. You wait here while I – ’

‘No.’

‘It may be a bit tricky – ’

‘No. I’m not letting you out of my sight.’

John studied me speculatively. I scooted back, out of his reach. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. Not another sock on the jaw, for my own good.’

‘It’s a tempting idea. But in this case it might do more harm than good. Besides, you’d probably hit me back. Come along, then. And don’t forget what I told you.’

The stairs ended at another closed door. When John eased it open I started; the voices sounded as if they were only a few feet away. They were. The room to our left was the kitchen. I could smell cooking and hear pots and dishes rattling.

John went the other way, moving as soundlessly as if he too were barefoot. I hadn’t been in this part of the house and I had no idea where we were or where we were going, so I stayed close on his heels. When he opened the next door I did know where we were, and that encouraging old adage about the frying pan and the fire came back to me. Ahead was the main hall of the house, lighted like a stage by the hanging brass chandelier and a dozen sconces. The open archway to my right led to the parlour. Lights blazed from that room as well; in another forty minutes, give or take five minutes, Larry and his ‘guests’ would be entering it. On my left was the staircase. I’d have preferred to stay in the illusory safety of the shadows cast by that massive structure, but John didn’t pause. He walked unconcernedly past the foot of the stairs and entered the corridor that led to the library and Larry’s study.

Apparently he had been right about the household schedule. We met no one. When we reached the study John’s fingers pressed a switch and prodded a button, both concealed in the carving of the frame, before he turned the knob. So, I thought, this wasn’t the first time he had enjoyed Larry’s hospitality. He was one of the world’s most efficient snoops, but even he coudn’t have discovered so many usefal details in two days.

It was at this point that John’s theories failed. I suppose it was something of a compliment to me that Larry had taken the precaution of stationing a guard in his study. Or, to look at it another way, it was something of an insult. Had he really believed I’d be foolhardy enough to return? Well, he had been right. And if I had been looking for evidence of guilt, this was where I’d have looked first.

The guard was the man I had known as Sweet. He was eating his supper off a tray, and he must have assumed his visitors were members of the household, familiar with the security system. That moment of misapprehension, brief though it was, saved our necks. Dropping his fork, he reached for his shoulder holster, but he was too slow. John had him covered.

‘Get his gun,’ John said. ‘Go round behind him. Far around, if you’ll forgive me for pointing out the obvious.’

Sweet’s expression didn’t live up to the nom de guerre he had chosen. His eyes, unblinking as those of a reptile, followed me as I sidled to one side, giving him a wide berth. I was not looking forward to coming within arm’s reach of him but I didn’t have to. As soon as I had reached a point at which Sweet had to turn his head to follow my progress John hit him, not with the gun, but with his left fist.

‘I didn’t know you were ambidextrous,’ I said, removing my Girl Scout neckerchief and winding it around Sweet’s wrists.

‘I’m not. Bloody hell! That hurt.’

‘Stop complaining and help me. I need some rope.’

‘Sorry, I’m fresh out.’ Removing his belt, he used it to bind Sweet’s ankles.

‘We need a gag. Where’s that nice, clean white handkerchief a proper gent always carries?’

‘Never mind the gag.’ John went to the fireplace and began running his hands over the panelling next to it. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven twenty-five.’

‘Not much time. I hope to God I haven’t forgotten . . . Ah. That’s done it.’

A section of the panelling slid aside under the pressure of his hands. I could see lights behind it; they must have come on automatically when the door was opened. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch the unwanted baggage.’

‘Larry’s quite a romantic, isn’t he?’ I remarked, starting down the stairs the open panel had disclosed. ‘Secret passages all over the place.’

‘There’s a good and sufficient practical reason for this bit of romanticism.’ John followed me, towing ‘Sweet’ by his feet. I am as a rule a tenderhearted person but I did not wince when I heard his head bounce from step to step.

There was no door at the bottom of the stairs. They opened directly into a large windowless room.

No wonder I hadn’t been impressed with Larry’s collection of antiquities. Here was the real collection – his own private collection, hidden away from all eyes but his. The room was softly lit and carpeted. The air was cool, the temperature and humidity carefully controlled to preserve the exhibits. They stood along the walls and rested in velvet-lined cases. The cases were open, so he could touch and fondle to his heart’s content.

My eyes moved in dazed disbelief from one masterpiece to another. The lovely little statuette of Tetisheri in the British Museum was a fake, all right. The original was here. So was the Nefertiti bust – not the painted bust in Berlin, but the other, even more beautiful, that was – was supposed to be – in the Cairo Museum.

Had I been mistaken about Larry’s ultimate intent after all? The contents of this room represented the greatest art theft in history. Getting them out of the museum and into this room was only half the battle. He was in the process of finishing the job – getting his pieces out of Egypt. Packed in among his household effects, they would pass through customs without a hitch. No one would be boorish enough to inspect the possessions of the great philanthropist, the man who had just presented Egypt with a multimillion-dollar institute. Wasn’t this enough for Larry?

No. My original reasoning still held, tenuous and unsupported though it was. The convenient breakdown of the Queen of the Nile, the violent death of the new director of the institute, only a few hours after he had found a sympathetic and notoriously inquisitive listener in me, the precise timing of Larry’s permanent departure from Egypt, his bizarre obsession . . . The collection I saw before me was a convincing demonstration of that obsession. Almost every object in the room depicted, or had belonged to, a queen or princess.

Many of the cases were empty, their contents already transferred to the wooden packing boxes that spoiled the neatness of the room. But there was lots left. A small head of an Amarna princess, a diadem of twisted golden wire set with tiny turquoise flowers . . .

John heard me gasp. ‘I wondered if you’d spot that,’ he said, dragging Sweet into a corner and turning one of the empty boxes over on top of him.

The diadem bad been buried with a princess of the Middle Kingdom. I’d found a sketch of it in the workshop of the goldsmith who had been producing fake jewels for the gang in Rome. The original had been in the Cairo Museum, not the Metropolitan, as I had ignorantly supposed at the time. Obviously it wasn’t there now.

‘You . . .’ I began. ‘You . . . You started this that long ago?’

‘This sort of collection takes a while to build up,’ John said coolly. He joined me and studied the lovely thing with obvious appreciation. Then he shook his head regretfully. ‘Too large and too fragile. This will do the trick just as well, I expect.’

The object he shoved carelessly into his pocket was a pectoral, its complex design dominated by a huge scab of lapis lazuli. It had belonged to Tutankhamon.

John took my limp hand and led me up the stairs.

‘Time?’ he asked, closing the sliding panel.

‘Uh . . . seven-forty.’

‘We may as well get into position, then.’

‘Do you know what Max has planned?’

‘I’ve an inkling, yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t anticipated his intentions. You’re the one who is supposed to be in charge of this rescue.’

I snarled at him. The sight of that incredible collection – a good deal of which had probably come to Larry via John – had made me remember what he was, and the sight of him, bright-eyed and cheerful and higher than a kite in a March gale, didn’t relieve my apprehensions any. I had had more than a nodding acquaintance with amphetamines and other useful drugs during my days as a grad student. Sooner or later he would crash, and to judge by the immediate effects it would be a long hard fall. Some of the cuts were still bleeding. The bright splashes of red looked like flowers against the rusty stains.

He saw me staring at his shirt and misinterpreted my expression. ‘Lend me that peculiar garment you’re wearing.’

‘What for?’

‘For God’s sake, Vicky, pull yourself together and stop asking silly questions. It won’t serve you as a disguise, not with that mop of blond hair shining like a beacon, and you can probably run faster without it. If, as I hope but dare not expect, we get as far as the corniche, we’ll have to catch a taxi. Even a Luxor cab driver may be reluctant to pick up a fare who looks as if he’s been in a war.’

‘Especially these days,’ I muttered, stripping off the galabiya.

It didn’t suit him, but at least it covered the blood.

Max had instructed us to be ready at ten minutes to eight. Once he had made his move – whatever it was – we could count on five minutes, maybe less. If he hadn’t acted by ten after eight we were on our own, and he wished us the best of British luck.

Either he had overestimated the appetites of his associates or my watch was slow. We were crossing the hall, exposed and fully visible from at least four directions, when I heard them leaving the dining room. I almost ran over John, who was in the lead, in my wild dash towards what could only he described as comparative concealment. The first of them entered the parlour as I ducked under the stairs.

Before I had time to catch my breath, Max acted. It wasn’t until later that I figured out what he had done; at the time I was too confused to hear anything except a medley of shouts and expletives, in various languages and various voices. People were running in all directions, some through the French doors onto the terrace, others into the hall. Mary was among the latter. I caught only a glimpse of her as she darted past. One glimpse was more than enough. That face would have looked appropriate under a head of writhing snakes.

Larry was right behind her. Instead of following her up the stairs he ran towards his study. Interesting, how basic instincts prevail in moments of crisis. Inconvenient, too. I didn’t know how Mary planned to get through that locked door, but I didn’t underestimate the little dear’s cunning, and when she discovered she’d lost her new toy she’d be back. And so would Larry, as soon as he had found Sweet. And we were still in the house and the door was probably locked or guarded or both. I began to wonder if my girlish confidence in Max had been misplaced.

Even as this unkind doubt entered my mind I heard the door open. It must have been Hans who was standing guard outside, for Max called out in German. ‘Hurry! They went that way. After them!’

He followed Hans. When I started forward, assisted by a shove from John, the hall was empty and the front door stood open.

It was almost too easy. Max had directed the search towards the back of the house, which was where sensible fugitives would go – poorly lighted, thickly landscaped. It was even darker back there after Max shot out some of the lights. I assumed it was Max, since none of the others would have been so helpful.

Almost too easy, I said. One dedicated soul had stuck to his post. His black uniform blended with the darkness. If he hadn’t moved closer to the gate, drawn by curiosity, we wouldn’t have seen him in time. The light glinted dully off the rifle barrel.

We froze in a puddle of shadow, knowing the slightest movement would betray our presence. There wasn’t even a skinny shrub between us and the guard.

‘Give me the knife.’ John breathed the words into my ear.

I didn’t ask what he was going to do with it. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to do with it. The guy was ten or fifteen feet away and there was no way of creeping up on him unobserved. The rifle wasn’t slung over his shoulder, it was in his hands.

John’s arm shot back and his foot hooked around my ankle, sending me sprawling to the ground. A bullet whined through the air over my head; when I got up, which I did with considerable alacrity, the guard lay face down and unmoving.

‘Is he dead?’ I asked breathlessly.

John straightened, the rifle in his hand. ‘Not unless he passed on from sheer terror. I can’t throw a knife that accurately; it was only meant to distract him. Vicky, would you mind terribly if we postponed this conversation and started running? They’ll have heard the shot, you know.’

Running barefoot over a hard, broken surface is no fun. The first time I stubbed my toe John tossed the rifle away and took my hand. When I stumbled, which I did every two or three steps, he yanked at my arm and kept me moving forward in a series of staggering rushes. I stopped listening for sounds of pursuit, I stopped worrying about whether there would be another guard at the street; I could only think how much my feet hurt.

When we emerged, unchallenged, onto the brightly lit expanse of the corniche I was still preoccupied with my feet. ‘Slow down,’ I panted, trying to free my hand. ‘We made it.’

‘Not yet.’ He stopped, raising his arm. ‘Praise be to God and Saint Jude, there’s a taxi. I do hope you have some money. I’m getting tired of hitting people.’

The driver may have been dubious about picking us up but John didn’t give him time to think about it. As the cab pulled away he looked out of the back window and said something under his breath. I deduced that Saint Jude, the patron of hopeless causes, wasn’t going to get a donation after all. Someone had seen us get into the cab.

After giving the driver directions John didn’t speak again except to demand money, in the tone a bank robber might have employed. I handed over part of Schmidt’s wad and sat nursing my sore feet. I wondered where we were going, but I didn’t have the energy to inquire. After we passed the Luxor Temple the cab turned away from the river into the streets of the town and finally came to a stop.

‘Can you walk a little farther?’ John asked, helping me out.

‘What’s the alternative?’ I stood on one foot. It only hurt half as much that way.

‘Crawling a little farther.’

But he put his arm around me and lifted me over the worst spots. The sidewalk was broken and littered. I was too busy watching where I stepped to notice my surroundings; when he turned into a doorway and knocked, I was only glad we had reached our destination. I was beginning to think the occupant wasn’t home when I heard a rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened a crack. Then it started to close again.

John inserted his foot. ‘Open, sesame,’ he said.

It was the foot, not the request, that got the point across. The door swung open and there she was. She had drawn a fold of cloth across her face, hiding all her features except beady little black eyes. But I’d have known her anywhere.

‘Hi, Granny,’ I said. ‘I’m back. Aren’t you glad to see me?’

Feisal wasn’t glad to see us either. After a prolonged and obviously profane monologue in his own lanunage he threw up his hands. ‘In here,’ he snapped, opening a door. It was Granny’s parlour, elegantly fitted out with shiny upholstered furniture and a television set and a rug covered with bright red roses. Granny let out a wavering howl of protest. I couldn’t really blame her for not wanting two dusty vagabonds in her nice clean room. However, my bloody footprints blended with the red roses.

I collapsed into the nearest chair and stretched my legs. When he saw my feet, Feisal’s face changed. ‘What happened?’

‘Quite a lot has happened,’ John said.

Granny had slipped out of the room. Now she returned with her veil pinned firmly in place. She was carrying a basin of water, which she set down on the floor beside my chair. There was a dead fly floating in the basin; I pushed the body callously aside with my toes and slid my feet into the warm water. It felt wonderful. I smiled and nodded at the old lady. She ducked her head and muttered in Arabic.

‘She is begging your pardon,’ Feisal translated. ‘She thinks you hurt yourself running away from her. She says she didn’t mean to frighten you.’

I leaned over and touched Granny on her bowed shoulder. ‘Shoukran,’ I said. ‘That’s all the Arabic I know, Feisal; tell her I owe her an apology and that I’m very grateful.’

‘She’s not the only one to whom you owe an apology,’ said John, unmoved by this touching exchange. ‘If you’d stayed here as you were supposed to – ’

‘I did apologize to you. It’s your own fault. If you would stop pushing people around and take the trouble to explain why you’re doing what you’re doing, instead of being so insufferably condescending, people might – ’

‘Enough!’ Feisal exclaimed. ‘We have not the time to waste on recriminations. You promised you’d get me out of this mess, Johnny – ’

‘Johnny?’ I repeated. ‘Isn’t that sweet. How come you never let me call you Johnny?’

‘I never allow him to do it either. It’s only a crude attempt to soften me by recalling sentimental memories of our school days.’

‘Then I’ll have to go on thinking of you as my blue eyes.’

I thought he’d miss that one, but Schmidt’s tutelage had been more extensive than I had believed. Spontaneous, unguarded laughter transformed his face, and my defensive barriers developed a few more cracks. I hadn’t often seen that look.

‘I’ll never forget the pleasures we’ve both seen together,’ he assured me.

‘What in God’s name – ’ Feisal began.

‘You don’t want to know. The fact is, old chap, I can’t get you out unless I can extricate myself as well, and the only way I can do that is to turn my coat and join the forces of law and order. Until our former associates are safely stowed away in a maximum-security prison neither of us is going to be out of this.’ He sighed. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? Forced by circumstances beyond my control to become an honest man . . .’

‘Don’t let it bother you too much,’ I advised. ‘You can console yourself with the knowledge that it wasn’t morality but self-preservation that drove you to that painful decision. Clearing your name is going to be something of a tall order, though. How are you planning to go about it?’

‘A good question.’ John rubbed his forehead. ‘How many of the local gendarmes are in Blenkiron’s pay, Feisal?’

‘Too many,’ was the blunt response. ‘He’s got enough money to buy several medium-sized countries, much less a few poor devils who are trying to raise families on inadequate salaries. Some of them are honest, but I don’t know which, and the honest ones think he’s the greatest thing to come along since King Tut’s tomb. If it’s our word against his, we haven’t a prayer.’

‘I’ve a little more than that,’ John murmured. ‘But I think we’ll have to take it to Cairo – straight to the Ministry and the EAO.’

‘They’ll be watching the airport and the train station,’ Feisal said soberly. ‘I assume they know you’re on the loose.’

‘You assume correctly. We’ll have to go by road.’

‘I don’t own a car’,’ Feisal said. ‘And don’t suggest I steal one. I’m in enough trouble already.’

‘How much money have we?’ John asked.

It added up to more than I had realized. Grimacing but game, Feisal contributed his hard-earned savings – a few hundred pounds Egyptian. John had only a few pounds in his wallet. Being broke when payment was required was an old habit of his, but in this case I refrained from caustic comment. He hadn’t had a chance to pick up his luggage before we left.

‘Schmidt will have money,’ I said. ‘He was going to cash more traveller’s cheques.’ John started to speak, but I cut him off. ‘I’m not leaving without Schmidt. We’ll have to collect him before we go.’

‘Of course,’ John said, raising one eyebrow. ‘You didn’t suppose I’d throw Schmidt to the wolves, did you? And before you burst into a fiery denunciation, let me remind you that it was I who got him out of that bloody house and into . . . I hope to God he’s not still at the winter Palace?’

‘No. He – ’

‘Hold on.’ He handed Feisal the roll of bills. ‘You’ll have to hire the vehicle, Feisal.’

‘They’ll be looking for me too,’ Feisal objected.

‘Not as assiduously as they will be looking for us. Try to find one that has four wheels and some rudimentary brakes if you can. And don’t dawdle.’

Feisal went out, shaking his head. Granny, bless her heart, was still trying to make up for being so mean to me. She had been trotting in and out with trays and bottles.

‘Now,’ John said, reaching for a beer. ‘Tell me what happened after Maxie sprang you.’

‘Should you be drinking alcohol?’

‘I certainly shouldn’t be drinking the local water. Please try to concentrate on essentials, my dear. We don’t have much time and I need to know what’s been going on. Where did you run into Schmidt? Obviously he didn’t succeed in intercepting you.’

‘Obviously. But he was waiting when I came out.’ I gave him a brief synopsis of succeeding events to which he listened with amused and infuriatingly detached interest.

‘Good old Schmidt. We’ll have to get someone to present him with a medal and kiss him on both cheeks. He’d love that.’

‘I’ll settle for getting him out of this in one piece. I don’t trust him, John. If I don’t turn up pretty soon he’s apt to go looking for me. Trying to sneak into the institute disguised as James Bond, or – ’

‘I hardly think even Schmidt would do anything so useless. He must realize his best hope of helping you is to blow the whistle on Blenkiron. How much does he know?’

‘Uh – ’

John said something under his breath. Then he said it out loud.

‘Dammit,’ I said defensively, ‘there wasn’t time for a leisurely discussion! He said he thought he knew and I said I did too and then . . . Uh.’

‘What do you think you know?’ John inquired very softly.

‘Well . . . I assume Larry’s using the Queen of the Nile to transport his loot. He had to get rid of the tour group so he could make a quick run, no stops, no delays. The reason for the changes in schedule really was concern about low water levels, he has to get through the locks – ’

‘The schedule wasn’t changed. It was the one he intended all along.’

‘You knew – ’

‘No, I did not. Never mind that, it’s a side issue. You are correct so far. Once the boat reaches Cairo the loot – how well you put it! – will be transferred to the airport.

I’m sure I hardly need mention that Blenkiron owns one or two airlines.’

‘Or that the Luxor airport is too small for big cargo planes?’

‘Clever girl.’

‘How long will it take him – ’

The sound of someone at the door made me break off. It was Feisal. ‘A friend of mine has gone after the car,’ he announced. ‘He’ll bring it by in an hour or so.’

‘We’d better be ready to leave when he arrives,’ John said.

He pulled the robe over his head. Feisal sucked in his breath. ‘You need a doctor. Or a hospital.’

‘Oh, right,’ John said. ‘I can see myself explaining how I absentmindedly walked into a sausage slicer. What I need is a clean shirt.’

Dried blood had glued the fabric to his skin in a number of places. For once he resisted the temptation to overact, peeling the garment off with only a few manfully repressed groans. The full effect, which I now saw for the first time, was grisly enough to require no additional theatrics. Feisal winced and averted his eyes. Sympathetic he may have been, but I had a feeling that he was picturing himself in the same condition. I also suspected that John was well aware of the effect on his reluctant ally. A visual demonstration is worth a thousand words.

I didn’t volunteer to administer first aid. I was outvoted. It wasn’t the first time I had patched John up after a work-related accident. Some of the others had required more extensive first aid, but this was worse – deliberate sadism instead of random violence. The less said about that process, the better. John was obliging enough to make a lot of noise, which made it a little easier for me. A little.

‘Now what?’ I inquired, tossing the roll of tape and the scissors onto the bed. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any wigs, fake moustaches, and miscellaneous disguises around, Feisal?’ John was still muttering profanely, but he couldn’t resist the chance to instruct the ignorant. He began, ‘The art of disguise – ’

‘I don’t want to hear you lecture on the subject of disguise.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Feisal. ‘But she has a point. I could go out and get – ’

‘No time,’ John said. ‘As I was saying, the art of disguise depends on posture and mannerisms rather than crude physical alterations. Let’s see what you’ve got on hand.’

Fitting John out wasn’t a problem; he and Feisal were about the same size. Feisal objected violently when John selected his best Cairo-tailored suit, but he was overruled. ‘I’ve got to look like a respectable businessman when I go in after Schmidt. Or are you volunteering for that little job?’

‘No,’ Feisal said unhesitatingly.

‘A wise decision. They’ll be checking the hotels by now if they haven’t already done so. I intend to be as unobtrusive as possible, but – ’

‘You’ll have to dye your hair, then,’ Feisal said. After John’s demonstration of what might happen to him if we were caught he was cooperating wholeheartedly, if not happily. ‘And your eyebrows.’

‘I don’t suppose you have any boot polish?’

‘I don’t polish my own shoes,’ Feisal said haughtily.

‘Do forgive me,’ John said. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you did anything so vulgar. You’ll have to wind me a nice neat turban, then. Dark glasses will look a little out of place at this time of night. The honoured sitt your grandmother must have some kohl or other eye paint?’

I must say it was an education to watch him work. He didn’t use much of the black stuff, whatever it was – just enough to darken his eyebrows and touch up those long lashes. He tanned easily; I had seen other Egyptians with skin as fair as his. Once the turban was in place, the difference in his appearance was astounding. It was partly a matter of expression – tight lips, out-thrust chin, lowering brows.

‘What about your beautiful, beautiful blue eyes?’ I asked.

His response was automatic – ‘“I’ll never love brown eyes again – ”’ and then he laughed shortly. ‘A truer word was never spoken. As for my beautiful blue eyes, I don’t intend to stand still long enough for anyone to gaze deeply into them. Now what are we going to do about you?’

‘Maybe Granny could lend me a robe and a veil.’

John shook his head. ‘You’re too tall to pass as an Egyptian female. It’s male attire for you, I’m afraid. Your bonnie blue eyes are beyond my modest skill – ’

‘“You told me more lies than the stars in the . . .” Sorry. Don’t take it personally. Country music does have a thing about blue eyes, doesn’t it?’

Feisal was staring at us as if we had lost our minds. He was probably right. John had that effect on me.

‘So far the score is tied,’ said John. ‘As I was saying, we’ve got to do something about your hair.’

‘Cut it off,’ I said, reaching for the scissors. ‘Then Feisal can wind me a turban too.’

John took the scissors from me. ‘Sit down. I’ll do it.’

‘I should have known you numbered barbering among your varied skills.’

His hands moved slowly from the crown of my head to the base of my sknll, smoothing the tangled masses of hair and gathering them together. There was a long pause before he said, ‘I’ve a better idea. A spot of cosmic cleansing wouldn’t do you any harm.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I tried to turn, but he closed his fingers around the impromptu ponytail and gave it a hard tug.

‘Communing with the universe, awakening the collective consciousness of the world,’ John chanted. ‘You’re not quite grubby enough for a New Ager, but that’s easy to fix.’

When he finished fixing it, I was a dirty blonde with a long lank ponytail and a distinct four o’clock shadow. The dirt and the beard came from the garden, the single gold earring from Granny, and the collarless long-sleeved shirt from Feisal. Entering into the spirit of the thing, I demanded a crystal and a pair of cutoffs.

‘We’ll pick up some mystic insignia at one of the bazaars,’ John said. ‘These types go in for scarabs and ankh signs and such. The shorts are out. Your knees aren’t knobby enough.’

‘You might have expressed it in more flattering terms,’ I said.

‘Your legs, my darling, are masterpieces of sculptural elegance,’ John said agreeably. ‘Those appendages would grace an Aphrodite or a young Diana. Never could such marvels of slender rounded beauty be taken for those of a man. Your form, in short, is rare and divine.’

‘“Philadelphia Lawyer,”’ I said.

John raised one finger and made an invisible mark on the air. ‘One point for you.’

Feisal’s friend was a shy, retiring chap. As soon as we left the house in response to his signal on the horn, he slid out of the driver’s seat of the car and walked away without looking back. If he wanted to make certain neither John or I could identify him, he succeeded.

As for the car, I had seen its likes before – in junkyards or abandoned in vacant lots. If it had been in good condition it would have ranked as a vintage vehicle; those tailfins had to be thirty years out of date.

‘Good God,’ John said, staring. ‘Is this the best he could do? We won’t get twenty miles in this wreck.’

‘I hope you won’t think me rude,’ said Feisal, ‘if I remind you that you are in no position to be fastidious, and that you sound like a typical supercilious twit of a tourist. We underprivileged Third World types can’t afford a new car every year, so we learn how to keep them on the road.’

‘Touché,’ John admitted. ‘After you, Vicky.’

He handed me the basket Granny had pressed upon us. It was our only luggage except for Feisal’s suitcase.

Feisal got in behind the wheel. ‘Where to?’ he asked.

‘The ETAP.’

‘Oh, wonderful. The big tourist hotels are the first places they’ll look.’

‘Just drive,’ John said shortly.

Schmidt had given me one of his keys, ‘just in case.’ I hadn’t asked, ‘Just in case of what?’ I had had other things on my mind. As I crossed the lobby, trying to look as if I were focusing on auras instead of potential kidnappers, I wished I had asked. There was no need for him to leave the room except to cash his traveller’s cheques, which wouldn’t take long, and every reason for him to stay put. Even if they located him they couldn’t get at him unless he opened the door, and surely Schmidt wouldn’t be foolish enough to admit anyone except . . . Except the room service? Someone imitating my voice?

John had gone ahead. He was waiting by the elevator when I got out of it. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

I didn’t ask how he could tell. He could always tell. ‘I’m having premonitions,’ I admitted.

‘It’s always best to assume the worst.’ He took the key from me. ‘Stand out of the way.’

He gave the door a sharp kick and dropped to a crouching position. ‘That’s what they do in the films,’ he remarked, straightening. ‘Futile, really, when you consider that most criminals use automatic weapons these days, but I suppose they believe it looks – ’

‘He’s not here. Damn the crazy old idiot, where the hell has he got to now?’

The doors to the bathroom and closet stood open. The import of that didn’t dawn on me until after we had investigated all possible hiding places; my morbid imagination was convinced we’d find Schmidt’s crumpled body in the bathtub or under the bed.

‘He must have left under his own steam; there’s no sign of a struggle,’ I said. ‘If he’s gone back to Larry’s, looking for me, I’ll kill him.’

‘He’s not gone there,’ John said.

‘What?’ I spun around. He was bending over the desk. ‘How do you know?’

‘He’s left you a note.’

The paper had been crumpled and then smoothed out. It was so badly stained by something brown and sticky that the words were barely legible.

‘My dear Vicky,’ it began. (I translate; he had written in German.) ‘I have the proof we need. I will drop this off at your hotel and then proceed to the rendezvous we . . .’

‘What is this?’ I demanded. ‘What proof? He never mentioned it to me. What hotel? What rendezvous?’

‘Calm down.’ John seated himself at the desk ‘Let’s see if we can figure out what he’s up to.’

‘Maybe we’d better get out of here.’

‘No need for haste. They’ve already been.’

‘How . . .’ I stopped myself. He was dying to show off; his half-smile and cool stare invited me to make a babbling fool of myself so he could patiently explain things to me. ‘Where was the note?’ I asked.

John nodded graciously, like a teacher to a dull student who is finally getting the hang of it. ‘On the desk. Someone had smoothed it out.’

‘But Schmidt must have thrown it away. In the waste-basket or onto the floor, after he spilled food all over it . . .’

‘Deliberately spilled food all over it,’ John said encouragingly.

‘The implication being that he’d discarded the note because it was sticky and wet and illegible, and written another one.’ I began pacing the floor. ‘He expected they’d locate him sooner or later. I’ve been gone . . .’ I looked at my watch. ‘Over five hours, and they had been looking for us since early afternoon. Time enough to inquire at every hotel in Luxor. He registered under his own name . . .’

‘If he had the intelligence for which I am belatedly beginning to give him credit, he left this room shortly after you did,’ John said. ‘In disguise, if I know my Schmidt. Let’s see. What would I do next? Stake myself out in the lobby. Hope you’d make it back before they located him. Be ready to move on in case they got here first. He’d already have cashed his traveller’s checks and retrieved his passport.’

‘They did get here first.’

‘And found the discarded letter.’ John’s eyes were bright with amusement and, as he proceeded to make clear, admiration. ‘You see what the little elf’s done, don’t you? This letter is not only a red herring, it is an attempt to protect you, in the event that you had been recaptured. If he’s got the evidence that can convict them there’s no reason for them to harm you. In fact, there is every reason for them to keep you whole and healthy so they can try to strike a deal: silence, or at least delay, in exchange for you.’ He paused, and then delivered the highest accolade in his repertoire. ‘I couldn’t have done better myself.’

‘So you don’t think he’s gone back to the house?’

‘Not our Schmidt. Whether you are a fugitive or a prisoner, he can serve you best by remaining free.’ John returned to his study of the note. ‘I can’t see anything else here. But I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he had . . . Wait a Sec. What’s this?’

‘The sticky stuff must have spattered,’ I said, as he held up a blank page spotted with stains.

‘The spots make a suspiciously regular pattern,’ John muttered.

‘Try joining the dots,’ I suggested sarcastically.

John emitted a crow of triumph. ‘That’s it! Look here.’

Picking up a pen, he began to draw – not lines connecting the spots, but a series of parallel lines. Five parallel lines. They made the nature of those odd splotches plain. They were musical notes.

‘No key signature,’ John muttered. ‘Let’s assume it’s the key of C and that there are no accidentals. Hard to indicate them, really . . .’ He began to whistle. ‘Strike a chord?’

‘Try to avoid puns if possible,’ I said critically. ‘No, it isn’t familiar.’

‘How about this?’ There was a slight difference. I assumed he’d thrown in a few miscellaneous sharps and/or flats.

‘This is a waste of time,’ I grumbled. ‘Schmidt probably was trying to be cute, but if that’s one of his beloved country music tunes you’ll never figure out which song because there are only three or four melodies in the whole damned repertoire.’

John dropped heavily into a chair. ‘My God. I should have known.’

‘What? What?’

He tried to give me the definitive version, but he was laughing so hard he couldn’t keep his lips puckered. ‘If the Egyptians don’t strike a medal for him I’ll do it myself. And kiss him on both cheeks. He’s taken the night train to Memphis.’