Laughter of Dead Kings

FOUR

G oddamn it,” said John. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was just…Ow. That hurts. What do you think you’re doing?”

His grip relaxed. I rubbed my ribs.

“Saving you from a fate worse than death. Again. Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

The suspect vehicle had vanished. “I don’t suppose you got the license number,” I said, trying to catch my breath. It was beginning to dawn on me that I had just had a narrow escape.

“I was otherwise occupied. A futile procedure in any case; the vehicle was probably hired, and tracing a license number isn’t easy unless you’re a copper. Did you get a look at him?”

“No,” I said, resisting his attempt to lead me back to the shop. “He was hiding behind a map. Naturally I assumed…Give me a break, John, I had no reason to suppose anybody was after me. What made you suppose that?”

“My general operating principle—always expect the worst. Hasn’t it dawned on you that you are my weak point?”

He paid me the compliment of not spelling it out in detail. The attempt had been so blatant that it might well have succeeded by virtue of its sheer unexpectedness. A few seconds of shock and confusion on the part of bystanders, and they’d have had me inside the vehicle and away. And once they, whoever the hell they were, had a hostage, they could get anything they wanted from John. I remembered seeing someone in the backseat. Maybe more than one.

A few passersby had stopped to stare. John kept tugging at me and I kept resisting. One Good Samaritan, a little man with a brushy mustache and horn-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat. “Miss, is this person annoying you?”

John turned to give him a furious look. I was tempted to say yes, but his nobility demanded a kinder response. “No, we’re just having a little domestic disagreement,” I said. “He wants to go one way and I want to go another. But it’s very kind of you to ask. You are the sort of citizen who makes this country great.”

The little man marched off, preening himself, and John said under his breath, “Come back inside.”

“I was going to the market,” I explained. “Which is where I’m going now. With you by my side, my hero, who would dare interfere with me? Stop glowering before some other chivalrous soul decides to come to my rescue.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitched. “You win, as usual. I doubt they’ll try it again so soon. Give me your word, for what that’s worth, that you won’t venture out alone from now on.”

I love street markets. I still retain the delusion that produce is fresh from the local farm, even though I know most of it is imported from faraway places with strange-sounding names. Some of the stalls had lovely veggies, lettuce and tomatoes and bananas and artichokes, some sold baked goods and bottled fruit juices, coffee, chocolate, and so on. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be allowed out for a while, so I loaded up as for a siege. “We need butter for the artichokes,” I remarked.

“I’ve got all I can carry,” said John. One hand was empty, but I saw his point.

When we got back to the shop, Alan was lounging in the doorway. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Why should you suppose otherwise?” I inquired.

“No reason.” Alan gave John an odd look. “Do you want me to stick around? I have a date, but I can cancel it.”

“Take the rest of the day off,” John said. “And don’t forget your hat.”

After Alan had stalked out we retired to the office, and I spread out a few edibles on the desk. John condescended to accept an apple.

“Spare me the lecture,” I said. “I realize I have to alter my behavior. I just wish I knew what the hell is going on. Is everybody after us?”

“Three, by the latest count. Bernardo and Company, the chap in the car just now, and the spinster lady in Kent.”

It took me a minute to remember. “Oh, the lady with the pre-Columbian collection. You called her?”

“She was a baritone.” John studied the apple distastefully and put it down on the desk. “Said she had a cold.”

“And?” I prompted.

“She suggested I call on her at the earliest opportunity. Today, if feasible. Gave me directions to her remote manor house deep in the country.”

“Oh. Was that what alerted you to my peril?”

“I suppose so.” John rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps it was the mental bond between us, the marriage of true minds, et cetera.”

“Right.”

“And the fact, brought home to me by the baritone, that some individual or group here in England is already on our trail. That we need to be on our guard every bloody second of every day.”

“You’d like me to butt out of this, wouldn’t you?” I said, responding not so much to his words as to his tone of voice.

“It’s too late for that, Vicky.” He put his head in his hands.

“We could have a spectacular public fight,” I suggested. “Declare to the world that we have split up and that we loathe each other.”

John lowered his hands and gave me a feeble grin. “You have the most unusual ways of trying to cheer me up. Believe me, I thought of that. There are two problems. First, that we wouldn’t be believed. Second, that the lads and lasses who are after me would assume you’d be more than happy to cooperate with them for the sake of revenge.”

“Okay,” I said briskly. “So what do we do now?”

“Leave town. As soon as possible.”

“What about Schmidt?”

“That’s our next problem. He didn’t tell you what time he’ll arrive?”

“No. I could call him back.”

“There’s not a chance we could get on a plane before tonight. Anyhow, I think we need to have a little chat with Schmidt. It’s too much of a coincidence that Suzi should decide to break off with him at this precise time. We’ll hole up in the flat, wait for him to ring, and then go to see him at the Savoy. If he makes it that far.”

Leaving me with that encouraging thought, he turned back to the computer. “Nothing of significance,” he reported, after checking his e-mail. “You had better see if Schmidt has been in touch again.”

Once again I found myself yearning for the good old days when letters and telephone calls (with no call-waiting, no voice mail, no answering machines) were the only means of communication, bar the occasional telegram. There was nothing new from Schmidt. By the time I finished reading chatty notes from a few friends, John was brooding over his cell phone.

“Feisal is beginning to sound a trifle nervous,” he remarked, and read the message aloud.

“‘Looking forward to seeing you. I have much to tell you, much to show you. Let me know the time of your arrival.’”

“Perhaps you had better reassure him.”

“At the moment I can’t think of any news that would do that.” He began poking at the buttons, pronouncing the words as he wrote them. “‘Hope to have plans made by tomorrow. Let’s keep your news for a surprise, shall we?’”

“You both have a somewhat telegraphic style,” I remarked. “I take it you haven’t gone in for instant messaging?”

“We have to assume that all our means of communication are compromised. How I loathe modern technology,” he added petulantly. “Every new so-called advance in communication is only a new way of eavesdropping.”

Before I could voice my hearty agreement the bell at the shop door jangled. John stood up. “Stay here,” he ordered, and went out.

Naturally I went to the door and looked into the shop. The potential customers looked harmless enough: two middle-aged women wearing twin sets and pearls. John advanced on them, exuding charm; in response to his question, “May I be of assistance?” one of them chirped, “Just browsing.”

“By all means,” said John. He retreated to the desk at the back of the showroom and sat down.

The women—Mabel and Allie, as they referred to each other—looked at every painting and every artifact, asking questions and requesting prices. They were free with their comments. “Two hundred pounds for that? It’s quite ugly, you know.”

They were at it for almost an hour, obviously killing time, with no intention of buying anything. John answered their questions fully and courteously, but without moving from his chair. After they left I ventured out of the office.

“I suppose you get a lot of that,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Most of the drop-in customers are ‘just having a look round.’ But one never knows when a live one may turn up. Come here and sit down. We close in another three-quarters of an hour.”

He didn’t seem inclined toward conversation, so I opened a drawer looking for the magazine Alan had been reading. It wasn’t there. But something else was.

“I thought you never carried—”

“It’s a toy. Good enough to fool most people, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Modern technology,” I murmured, staring at the deadly black shape.

“Life in the metropolis,” said John, “is increasingly hazardous, especially for innocent merchants. I’ve had this ever since an acquaintance of mine up the road was robbed at gunpoint a few months ago. They beat him rather badly and got away with two diamond rings.”

He picked up a pile of papers from the in-box and began going through them. An occasional grimace suggested that some of them were bills.

One other customer showed up just before closing time. The drawer was open and John’s hand was on the fake Beretta before the bell stopped jangling. It was a man this time, sturdily built and bearded, wearing a turban.

“I am in the market,” he said, in the accents of Whitechapel, “for African textiles.”

“I’m afraid we have nothing of that sort,” John said. “Try Alfie’s.”

“I have been there,” said the bearded man, standing his ground.

“There’s a place around the corner that specializes in African crafts,” John said, gripping the barrel of the gun so hard his knuckles went white. “Marks and—uh—Markham and Wilson. Turn right when you leave, and right again at the next intersection. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” The beard opened in a smile. “You are most helpful.”

The bell jangled. John let out his breath and relaxed his grip. “That’s it. Get your gear while I close up.”

J ohn unlocked the door of the flat. “No one’s been here.”

“The old thread-in-the-doorframe gimmick,” I said, watching it float to the floor.

“Simple but generally efficacious. However, just to be on the safe side…” He cast a searching glance round the room, went into the bedroom and study and did the same, and preceded me into the kitchen.

“All clear,” he said.

I put the groceries away and then settled down to watch telly and wait for Schmidt to call. John, who professes to despise popular culture, retreated into the study, his nose in the air. In a way I didn’t blame him for avoiding what has become an exercise in despondency (the news) and/or idiocy (most sitcoms), but I find it relaxing. I had a bag of crisps in one hand and a beer in the other and was switching from channel to channel when I caught something that made me spill the crisps.

“John,” I yelled. “Get in here. Quick!”

He shot through the door. Seeing me bolt upright and unthreatened, he was about to expostulate when I gestured at the screen. “Look. It’s him!”

I recognized the background: the facade of the Altes Museum in Berlin. In the foreground Dr. Ashraf Khifaya, secretary general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, in full glorious color, was being interviewed by a BBC reporter. He was wearing a pristine pith helmet and carrying a huge sign that read, in English, German, and Arabic: “Let Nefertiti come home.” Other newspersons surrounded him. He looked like a particularly gorgeous Hollywood star playing an adventurous archaeologist. The bullwhip would appear any second. In the background a long line of black-robed women paced slowly along the sidewalk, accompanied by the slow throb of drums.

“No dancing girls,” John said critically.

“This is better. Solemn and dramatic.”

“I ask only for what is ours,” Khifaya declaimed, in excellent English with just enough accent to sound exotic. “After years of exploitation…”

They cut him off in mid-spiel; no news item is worth more than a few minutes. In keeping with their declared policy of presenting both sides, the cameras switched to a man sitting behind a desk.

“It’s him,” I squealed.

“He,” said John.

“Shh.”

“This is a free country,” said the man behind the desk in clipped tones. “If the distinguished secretary general chooses to make an exhibition of himself, that is his privilege. Thank you.”

“So Nefertiti is not going home?” asked a blond female, twinkling at the camera.

“You have received a press release on the position of the museum. It has not changed. Thank you.”

“So the feud continues,” said the blonde, with a merry laugh.

She was replaced by an equally blond starlet answering questions about her upcoming divorce. John grabbed the remote and switched off the set.

“You recognized him, didn’t you?” I demanded. “Not Khifaya, the second guy.”

“I presume he is the director of the museum.”

“Assistant director. It was Jan Perlmutter. You remember—the guy that stole the Trojan Gold out from under our noses.”

“Your nose.”

“Oh, come on, you were in on the hunt too. So we picked the wrong grave. I still don’t know how Perlmutter figured out which was the right one.”

“Ah, yes, it’s coming back to me.” John began collecting scattered crisps. “My guess would be that he winkled the information out of your chum, the little old woodcarver. I got the distinct impression that the old chap knew more than he was telling you. Didn’t you ever ask?”

“There wasn’t time. I fled with my tail between my legs and Herr Müller had left Garmisch to stay with his sister. I meant to get in touch with him, but a few weeks later I got a note from the sister telling me he had died.”

I still felt a little guilty about not making more of an effort to find out how the old fellow was doing. I had grown fond of him and I had thought he was fond of me. Had he been holding out on me? If so, it was surely because he feared that for me knowledge might be dangerous. As it definitely had been. He might have meant to tell me more if he hadn’t died suddenly…It was irrelevant now.

“If you mean did I ask Perlmutter how he figured it out, the answer is a loud profane no,” I went on. “I haven’t spoken to the skunk since then.”

“I didn’t recognize him,” John admitted. “He’s losing his hair.” He ran a gentle hand over his own shining locks.

“Serves him right,” I said vindictively. “That discovery put him on the high road to promotion and left me looking like an idiot.”

“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t look very happy.”

“He didn’t, did he? He’s finding out that being a museum big shot isn’t all rich donors and fine art. Hey—why don’t you check the Net and see if there are any stories about the siege of the museum?”

“Sure to be,” said John. “Every other piece of trivia is.”

Reuters and the German newspapers had stories, with lots of photographs, mostly of Khifaya. His good looks, his showmanship, and most of all that pith helmet had a visual impact as impressive as that of any celebrity. He spoke with eloquence and passion and an occasional winning touch of humor. I could have sworn there were tears in those big dark eyes when he appealed to the world for justice.

“You’re drooling,” John said nastily, and switched to what he referred to as the Egyptology blogs. They were full of Khifaya too. I pulled up a chair, shoved John over, and began reading some of the comments. Opinion was divided. Some thought Egypt’s claim should be honored, some had accepted the museum’s statement that the famous bust was too fragile to be moved. Then I got distracted by other items. They ranged from the soberly professional to the utterly loony. Debates raged about everything from the construction of the Great Pyramid to the age of the Sphinx, and ignorance of the subject didn’t prevent people from voicing their ideas.

A word caught my eye and I stopped John as he was about to scroll down.

The word was “mummy.”

It took a few minutes to pick up the thread of the discussion, which had apparently been going on for a while. Somebody had found Queen Hatshepsut—again—and somebody else said no, it couldn’t be she, because she was another mummy in another tomb, identified only by a number that didn’t strike an immediate chord, and somebody else declared that mummy number two was Nefertiti or maybe her daughter.

“I could get hooked on this,” I said, fascinated. “Look at that sketch of mummy number two. She’s copied it straight off the Berlin head.”

“The world is full of fanatics,” said John. “At least they aren’t talking about—”

My cell phone rang. I snatched it up.

“I am here,” said a doleful voice. “Shall I come there?”

“No,” John said loudly.

“Schmidt, are you all right?” I said.

“No. I am in deep distress. I am coming—”

“Stay where you are.” John grabbed the phone. “The Savoy?”

“Aber natürlich. I always stay at the Savoy when I am in London. I am well known here, and they—”

“We are coming to you,” I said, retrieving the phone. “Stay put, Schmidt. We’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Sehr gut. I will buy you dinner.”

A long sigh followed. I hung up in the middle of it.

“You had better change,” John said, eyeing my jeans and T-shirt critically.

“Don’t they have a grill, or someplace less formal than the main dining room?”

“There is no informal dining spot at the Savoy. Change. And hurry. Schmidt isn’t known for his patience.”

He skinned off his jeans and shirt as he spoke. By the time I had located a pair of respectable pants and a top without a rude saying printed on it he was knotting his tie.

“The Royal Marines?” I asked, studying the pattern of stripes.

“First Gloucestershire Regiment.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“My dear girl, there is no law against wearing a regimental tie.” He began transferring various items from the jacket he had worn that day into the pockets of an elegant wool-and-silk navy blazer. The last item was the fake gun. Toy or not, it was heavy enough to make the pocket sag. He studied the effect in the mirror, frowned, and transferred the gun to an inside breast pocket.

“How about getting me one of those?” I asked.

“You move around too much. Try getting one of these through airport security and you will discover that nobody finds it amusing.”

The Savoy was one of the numerous (read: expensive) places in London to which John had never taken me. I took to it right away—the circular drive set back from the Strand, the top-hatted serf who leaped to open the door of the taxi, the beautifully appointed lobby. Schmidt was waiting, arms open. He hugged me and would have hugged John if John hadn’t been ready for him, and announced he had been able to wangle a table in the grill. It must have been a big deal. John looked impressed.

While Schmidt pored over the menu I studied him with mounting concern. His color was fine and he certainly hadn’t lost any more weight, but there was something…His eyes kept shifting. He babbled, not with his usual manic enthusiasm, but as if he were talking at random to keep his mind off other things.

Finally I said, “Okay, Schmidt, that’s enough. Get it off your chest. That’s what we’re here for.”

Schmidt took out a large handkerchief and pressed it to his face. “I do not want to talk about it. Later, perhaps. Not here. I do not wish to weep in public. Distract me. Tell me about yourselves, what you are doing. How is the business? Any new objects of interest?”

“There’s a rather nice Entombment of Christ by one of the fifteenth-century German wood-carvers,” I said. “But don’t expect you’ll be offered a discount. He always ups the prices for friends.”

Schmidt broke into a loud peal of laughter. “Very good, very good. I will go to the shop tomorrow to have a look.”

I opened my mouth and got a sharp kick on the ankle.

“By all means,” John said. “How long do you intend to stay, Schmidt?”

“I do not wish to interfere with your plans,” Schmidt said.

“They are flexible,” said John, in what had to be the understatement of the year. I felt sure he still intended to get out of town next day, without telling Schmidt. Not a good idea, I thought. That would leave Schmidt on the loose in London, thoroughly and (from his point of view) legitimately mad as hell at us. I had learned not to underestimate my boss. He’d be on our trail as soon as he learned we had vanished from his ken. The idea of having his rotund and conspicuous person following us to Egypt made me very uneasy. Supposing, that is, that we were going to Egypt.

Observing my knitted brows, Schmidt said, “You are not worrying about Clara, I hope. I have made certain she will be looked after.”

“Good,” I said absently.

I think we had an excellent meal, though I can’t remember what I ate. New and alarming ideas kept popping into my head. John had made rather a point of making sure Schmidt stayed off the streets. Was the old boy in danger? And if so, from whom? And if so, why? And if so, we couldn’t leave him unprotected.

I came back to the real world to hear John and Schmidt chatting about the Victoria and Albert Museum.

“I have not been there for some time,” said Schmidt, dabbing daintily at his mustache. “I would like to have another look at the armor collection. Vicky, you will join me, I hope? You too are welcome, John, though I suppose you will be busy with the shop.”

“I thought you were coming by to look at the Entombment,” John said.

“Another day, perhaps.”

Schmidt insisted on escorting us to the door. “So,” he said, “tomorrow at nine, Vicky, for breakfast, and then the Victoria and Albert.”

He stood waving and blowing kisses as the taxi pulled away.

“Did you get the impression that I am not wanted tomorrow?” John asked.

“I got a lot of impressions, none of which makes any sense. I am beginning to think—”

“Not now. That is to say,” John amended, “you are of course free to think all you like, but let’s not discuss it now.”

So I confined myself to staring out the window. London is one of my favorite cities. I used to feel safe there, even after the suicide attack in the Underground and the foiled bombings. Terrorist attacks are as random as tornadoes, I told myself; they are, unhappily, as likely in New York and Madrid as in the Middle East. But that morning I had come close to being yanked into a car by people who were after me, Vicky Bliss, not any anonymous victim. One would suppose I had become accustomed to it during my long acquaintance with John, but take it from me, you never get used to that sort of extremely personal interest.

John made a quick tour of the flat before settling down on the sofa and gesturing me to join him.

“Still thinking?” he inquired.

“Yes. No. I think we ought to let Schmidt in on the whole thing.”

His only response was a raised eyebrow. I had marshaled my arguments, so I plunged on.

“Schmidt has a lot of contacts. He knows everybody. You keep denigrating him with adjectives like old and little, but if it hadn’t been for Schmidt, our Egyptian venture last year wouldn’t have ended so well. Hell’s bells, he was the deus ex machina the whole time, dragging us out of one hairy situation after another. He may strike you as a comedic figure—”

“He is a comedic figure. That’s one of the things that makes him so effective. People underestimate him. But I,” said John, “am learning not to do so. Believe it or not, I was considering the same idea. The only thing that deters me is the fact that I am rather fond of the old—sorry—the dear chap. I don’t want to see him hurt.”

“Do you think I do? But he’s an adult, John, even if he is fat and—oh, hell—not as young as he used to be. I haven’t the right to make decisions for him, and neither do you. His male ego has already taken a blow, from that bitch Suzi. Maybe he’d rather risk his life than his self-esteem. Maybe you’ll feel the same way when you’re his age.”

John reached for my hand. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” I said snuffily.

“You had me on the verge of tears,” John said, handing me a handkerchief. (He always has one.) “And you’ve convinced me. God knows I’d rather have Schmidt on our side than against us.”

“Furthermore…Oh. You agree? So what’s the plan?”

“You meet him at the Savoy as promised, enjoy a hearty breakfast, hop in a cab, and head for Heathrow. I’ll meet you there. International terminal, half past ten.”

I had more or less expected it. “What’ll I tell Schmidt?”

“If I know Schmidt, all you need say is that we are off on another thrilling adventure and that I will fill him in on the details in due course. You have sworn an oath of secrecy,” said John, warming to the theme, “and dare not divulge the plans of the mastermind. (That’s me.) We are all in deadly peril until we arrive at our destination, at which time he will be formally inducted into the cabal. We might have a little ceremony, handing out disguises and masks and the like.”

John employed silliness as a defensive weapon. It was contagious—to such an extent that when he asked if I felt like a snack I declined in favor of another variety of amusement.

S chmidt’s reaction to the change of plan wasn’t what I had expected or John had predicted. When I told the cabdriver we wanted to go to Heathrow instead of the V and A, he looked as if he had just been informed of the death of a close friend.

“So, you are on the run,” he said, his brows knit. “Again.”

“We are on the run,” I corrected. “What’s the matter, Schmidt? I thought you enjoyed adventures.”

“Yes, yes,” Schmidt said testily. “But why did you not tell me? How can I set off for—for some unknown destination without my luggage?”

He had the most important things—his passport—and his laptop, encased in elegant leather. I doubted that he would have been allowed to take it into the museum, but there was no point in bringing that up since we weren’t going there anyhow. He wasn’t much worse off than I. I had crammed a change of underwear and a toothbrush into my backpack. Sooner or later somebody was going to have to buy me a new wardrobe. I hoped it would be Schmidt. He was more generous than John.

Reasonably enough, Schmidt wanted to know where we were headed. And why. John’s speech, which I repeated almost verbatim, didn’t improve his mood. After announcing that he would ask no further questions, he relapsed into sullen silence, arms folded and lower lip outthrust. That wasn’t like Schmidt, and if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with other worries, I might have wondered what was up. Not that it would have mattered in the end.

John was waiting for us, boarding passes in hand. Schmidt snatched one of them.

“Berlin,” he said flatly.

“Berlin?” I said, on a rising note.

“We’ve just time for a coffee,” said John, taking Schmidt’s arm.

He stuck as close to Schmidt as a long-lost brother, through security, and even into the Gents. When we boarded, I was relegated to a seat between two strangers while John snuggled up next to Schmidt several rows forward.

Always expect the worst; then you are never disappointed. Always prepare for the worst; then you are never caught off guard. It was one of John’s basic rules of operation, but I felt sure that in this case he was overdoing it. Schmidt was acting strangely, but it was inconceivable that the old (oops) boy was up to no good.

I hadn’t brought anything to read, so after perusing the in-flight magazine and deciding which Hermès scarves I would have selected if anybody had offered to buy me a few, I tried to figure out why we were going to Berlin. I hoped we weren’t headed for a meeting with a German version of Bernardo. A German version of Monsignor Anonymous? Somebody connected with the museum? Maybe I could make myself a sign and join the picket line. If it didn’t accomplish anything else it would annoy the hell out of Perlmutter, especially if I could get on television. Ah well, I thought, mine not to reason why, mine but to follow blindly where the mastermind led. I might as well be married. Love, honor and especially obey.

There was no hired car waiting outside the terminal, but the hotel to which the taxi delivered us bore a certain resemblance to the one in Rome—in a quiet neighborhood, small, unobtrusive. The desk clerk did not indicate recognition of John, but after he had consulted with the manager we were given a suite, with two bedrooms, which strongly suggested hanky-panky past if not present. We showed ourselves up; within a few minutes a waiter arrived with a bottle of wine.

Schmidt had managed to get into the bathroom unescorted. When he came out he looked unenthusiastically at the wine.

“A pleasant little Merlot,” John said. “You prefer red wine, I believe.”

“I would rather have beer.”

“Certainly.” John picked up the telephone. “A small snack, perhaps? What would you like?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Schmidt,” I said, genuinely alarmed. “It’s past time for lunch. I feel sure they can supply anything you want.”

Impassive as a mustachioed Buddha, Schmidt stared off into space. John ordered, more or less at random, and sat back, arms folded.

“The time has come,” said he, in measured tones. “To tell all.”

Schmidt muttered something.

“What?” I said.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Your absolute trust and loyalty touches me to the depths of my heart,” said John, placing his hand on the approximate location of that organ. “It is because I feel the same for you that I want you to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but—”

“Cut that out,” I said irritably. “This is what happened, Schmidt. Three days ago…”

John kept trying to interrupt, but I was in no mood for his rhetorical embroidery. I made it simple and as short as the complexities allowed. Schmidt transferred his fixed stare to me; his eyes got wider and his mouth fell open.

“Tut?” he gasped. “They have stolen King Tut?”

“And they think I did it. They,” John explained, “being an indeterminate but measurable number of individuals involved in my erstwhile profession.”

“Crooks,” I translated.

A gurgling sound emerged from Schmidt’s open mouth.

“I am innocent, Schmidt,” John intoned. “Innocent as a new-laid—”

I poked him in the ribs. “This is no time for levity.”

“I wasn’t being levitous,” John said indignantly. Returning his candid blue gaze to Schmidt, he went on, “I am appealing to you, Schmidt. For old times’ sake, and because you are the wisest, most courageous ally I could ever want. Will you—can you—help me to clear my name?”

Schmidt sat down on the sofa and burst into tears.

He’s very sentimental, is our Schmidt, but these tears weren’t a gentle trickle from an overflowing heart, they were a flood, a torrent that soaked the ends of his mustache and wandered around the creases in his cheeks until they found their way to his chin and poured off.

I went to him and tried to put my arm around him; he fended me off with a frantic flapping of hands.

“No, do not be nice to me. I do not deserve it. I have betrayed you!”