Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Nine

MARY HAD CRUMPLED to the ground in a huddle of green voile and tumbled brown curls. John dragged her to her feet. ‘Let’s get out of this.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the police?’ I squawked. I was trying not to throw up.

John didn’t bother to answer. Towing his stumbling bride, he was already on his way, leading the retreat as usual. Schmidt tugged at me. ‘He is right, there may be more shooting. Come, we can do nothing here.’

That seemed to be the general consensus. Screaming and shoving, people poured through the entrance. Their sheer numbers overwhelmed the guards, who appeared to be as shaken as the visitors. They were waving their rifles around in a disorganized manner, and one of them fired into the air. I think it was into the air. If it was intended to stop the stampede, it failed, the sound of gunfire made people even crazier. The crowd exploded into the parking lot, carrying us with them.

John materialized out of somewhere. He grabbed Schmidt by the collar. ‘This way.’

Ed was standing by the car. When he saw us coming he opened the back door and motioned vigorously with the large, heavy, lethal object he was holding in his right hand. ‘In. Move it!’

John still had Schmidt by the collar. He heaved him in, gave me a hard shove, and followed close on my heels, scooping said heels and the legs to which they were attached in with him. The door slammed and the car took off.

We got our arms and legs sorted out eventually. Ed had gotten in front with the driver. The gun was no longer in sight. Mary crouched in the corner; her eyes were open, but they had a fixed, glassy stare. Her pretty frock was crumpled and dusty. Perched on the jump seat opposite, John ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. There wasn’t a mark on him, or on Schmidt, who had cleverly managed to fall on top of me. I was bleeding all over Larry’s expensive velvet upholstery.

I fully expected a visit, if not a reprimand, from the police. I should have known no such vulgarity would be perpetrated on a person like Larry. Schmidt was in my room trying to persuade me to let him wind yards of bandages around my scraped arms and legs when a servant knocked at the door and informed us that the master hoped we would join him on the terrace for drinks.

The others were already there. Mary had changed her dress. She was wearing white – and the Greek earrings. Larry began fussing over my injuries, but I cut his expressions of sympathy short. ‘Just scrapes and bruises. I’m fine. Unlike poor Jean-Louis. It was he, wasn’t it? I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t be sure.’

‘So I have been informed. He was carrying identification, of course.’ Always the perfect host, Larry handed me a glass before dropping into a chair. He covered his eyes with his hand. ‘I dread telling his parents. They were so proud of him.’

A tear rolled down Schmidt’s cheek. ‘It is furchtbar – frightful, terrible. Just when he had attained his fondest dream. What will you do now about the institute, Larry?’

Impeccably groomed, gracefully lounging, John drawled, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining, they say. This seems to be Feisal’s silver lining. Or are you going to appoint someone else as director?’

Even Larry had a hard time remaining courteous in the face of that outrageous speech. He answered shortly, ‘Feisal will assume the post, of course. He’s on his way here now. We have a number of things to discuss, so I’ll have to ask you to excuse me when he arrives.’

‘Have they caught the terrorists?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. Apparently there was a great deal of confusion. The police are rounding up – ’

‘The usual suspects,’ I murmured. From what I’d heard ahout the SSI, the usual suspects wouldn’t have a pleasant time.

John put his glass on the table and stood up. ‘I think I’ll have a swim. Anyone join me?’

Mary shook her head. Schmidt said doubtfully, ‘It does not seem proper.’

Hands in his pockets, lips pursed in a whistle, John sauntered towards the house. His pitch was perfect. I recognized the strains of ‘The Wreck on the Highway.’ He really was exceeding himself in tactlessness that afternoon. There hadn’t been any whiskey but there had been plenty of blood. And I hadn’t heard anyone pray.

Larry reassured Schmidt – ‘After all, you hardly knew the poor man – ’ but Schmidt remained seated. I wouldn’t like to imply that he was lacking in sensitivity, but I suspected mixed motives. He wanted more to eat and more to drink and more in the way of information. Browsing among the hors d’oeuvres, he peppered Larry with questions. Had anyone else been injured? Had a motive for the attack been established? Where had the bombs been placed, how had they been set off . . . Larry had no answers. A servant finally came to announce that Feisal was waiting in Larry’s study, and Larry excused himself. Schmidt decided he’d have a swim after all and since I could not decide which alternative was less appealing – having a heart-to-heart with the pregnant bride or watching the pregnant bride’s husband flex his muscles at me – I went to my room.

I didn’t know the answers to the questions Schmidt had asked either, but my admittedly confused memories of the event raised a couple of others he hadn’t asked. I had seen a big hole in the pavement and a lot of dust, but to the best of my recollection not a single column had toppled and nary a sphinx had been scarred. I had seen a lot of fallen bodies, but only one that was undeniably dead. The murder of a foreigner, and a foreign archaeologist at that, would raise a real stink. The usual suspects were in for a hard time. But maybe this time they were fall guys, not perps. (Note the technical vocabulary. We well-known amateur sleuths like to sound professional.)

I cannot say I felt particularly professional at that moment. What I felt was scared spitless, as my mother used to say, innocently unaware of the word the euphemism concealed. Bits and pieces of a theory were scuttling around in my brain like beetles with too many legs and shifty dispositions, darting for cover behind lumps of stupidity whenever I tried to swat one of them. The overall pattern was so preposterous I’d have laughed it off if anyone but John had been involved.

One thing stood out shining and clear though, and when I joined the others for dinner I was trying to think of a way of proposing it that wouldn’t make matters even worse. Larry did not join us. He had sent his apologies, claiming he would be busy all evening. It seemed a heaven-sent opportunity for making my move.

‘I feel guilty about taking advantage of Larry,’ I said, poking at a delectable fruit salad. ‘He’s too polite to say so, but I’m sure we’re making things more difficult for him. Not only is he getting ready to leave, but Jean-Louis’s death will involve a good many additional administrative problems. What do you say we check out and move to a hotel, Schmidt?’

Usually Schmidt was agreeable to any activity as long as he could do it with me, but this time he looked mutinous. ‘We can give help and comfort to our poor friend – ’

‘I doubt you can give him the sort of help he needs,’ John said dryly. ‘I think Vicky’s hit on a splendid idea. We’ll miss you when you’re gone, of course. Both of you.’

If that wasn’t a hint I’d never heard one. From the tilt of John’s eyebrow I deduced it was also a quote from one of Schmidt’s country ballads. Lots of them are about missing people after they’ve gone, and in most cases ‘gone’ doesn’t mean temporarily removed from the scene.

The meal dragged on, prolonged primarily by Schmidt, who ate hugely of everything offered. Nobody else seemed to have much of an appetite. When we headed for the parlour for coffee, one of the servants drew me aside. ‘There is a gentleman to see you, miss,’ he murmured.

He was waiting in the hall. I didn’t recognize him at first. He might have been dressed for a funeral, in a dark suit and sombre tie, and his face was almost as gloomy.

‘Feisal,’ I said in surprise.

His attempt at a smile wasn’t very convincing. ‘I have been with Mr Blenkiron. I thought – I hoped I might persuade you to come with me to a café.’

I had a number of reasons for believing that might not be such a good idea. ‘I don’t think so, Feisal. Not tonight.’

He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and caught mine in a hard grip. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Please, Vicky. Only for a little while. It’s not what you think; do you suppose I feel like celebrating? I have to talk to you.’

There were also a number of reasons for believing it might not be such a bad idea. He saw I was weakening. In the same hoarse whisper he went on, ‘We’ll go to the ETAP or the Winter Palace, wherever you will feel comfortable. Please?’

‘Well . . .’

He practically dragged me to the door. I made a few feeble protests about freshening my makeup and getting my purse, which he overruled. I looked beautiful and I didn’t need my purse, he would escort me home.

The last part turned out to be true, anyhow, if not in the sense I expected.

I was relieved to see a taxi waiting for us instead of Larry’s mammoth car, and even more relieved to hear the words ‘Winter Palace’ in the midst of Feisal’s otherwise unintelligible order to the driver. We didn’t go in the hotel, but sat on the terrace, which was crowded with people. I ordered coffee.

‘Let’s not waste time,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Can you ask?’

‘I just did. It has to do with Dr Mazarin’s death, doesn’t it? A nice step up for you.’

He turned a queer shade of brownish grey. ‘You don’t think I had anything to do with that?’

‘I wouldn’t be here if I did. But you are a member of one of the – er – revolutionary societies, aren’t you?’

Feisal went a shade greyer. ‘If you’d like to see me hauled off to a detention cell, never to emerge again, speak a little louder.’

‘Sorry.’

Feisal drained his cup and ordered a refill. ‘Forget politics, they’ve nothing to do with the present situation. I have a feeling you’re well aware of that.’

He stopped, watching me expectantly.

What little he had said confirmed my hunch. But although I was dying – make that ‘anxious’ – to know more, I had no intention of blurting out my suspicions to one of the people I was suspicious of.

‘Please continue,’ I said.

Feisal took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. ‘I’m taking an awful chance warning you, but I couldn’t just walk away and leave you at risk. I’m going into hiding and so must you. I can take you to a place where you’ll be safe.’

I groaned. ‘Why do I do these things?’ I inquired of the room at large. ‘You’d think by this time I’d have learned better. No, thanks, Feisal. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go round the tables and panhandle a few bucks so I can take a cab – ’

‘Back into the lion’s den?’

‘You mean back into the frying pan. What you’re proposing sounds a lot like the fire.’

‘I told you – ’

‘You haven’t told me anything; you’ve just spouted vague threats. Appeal to my intelligence, Feisal. Give me two – hell, I’ll settle for one – good reason why I should accept your offer.’

Feisal groaned. We sounded like a pair of sick dogs.

‘I was told to show you this.’ He opened his briefcase and took out a piece of paper.

There was no writing on it. It was a piece of plain black paper ahout eight inches square.

I felt the blood drain slowly out of my face, staring with my brain and backing up in my vocal cords. All I could do for a few seconds was gurgle horribly. Finally I managed to clear my throat. ‘Who gave you this? Larry? Max?’

‘Who’s Max?’ Either he was honestly bewildered or he could have given drama lessons to Sir Laurence Olivier.

‘He cuts silhouettes,’ I mumbled, staring at the piece of black paper. ‘For a hobby. His other hobbies are fraud, theft and murder. Art and antiquities, those are his specialties. I thought he was in jail! I helped put him in jail! How the hell did he . . .’

I shoved my chair back and stood up. ‘I’ve got to get Schmidt out of there. If Max is one of them . . . Oh, Christ, of course, it has to be him! He was careful to keep out of my way, but I should have known, he was obviously wearing a wig the first time I . . .’

I wasted time fumbling under the table for my purse before I remembered I didn’t have it. Feisal grabbed my arm as I started blindly for the street.

‘Hold on a minute. You don’t have money for a cab.’

‘I’ll tell him to wait. Just long enough for me to collect Schmidt and my purse.’

‘I’ll come with you. Wait a second.’

He tossed a few bills onto the table and picked up his briefcase without relaxing his grip on me. I pulled away from him, and he said, ‘I sense you are now convinced of the danger. Come with me to the place I mentioned.’

‘Not without Schmidt.’

There were several decrepit-looking vehicles lined up in front of the hotel. I opened the door of the first one – hoping it was a taxi – and got in. Feisal followed me.

‘I’ll go back for him after I’ve taken you – ’

‘No, you won’t. Driver!’

Feisal enveloped me in a rib-cracking embrace and rattled off a string of directions to the driver. I didn’t understand a word, but I was pretty sure he had not given the order I would have given. I tried to free myself. ‘Let me go, damn you!’

‘Certainly,’ said Feisal, unwrapping his arms. I fell back against the seat and he socked me on the jaw.

* * *

He must have given me an injection of some kind, because it was morning when I woke up. Very early morning; the rosy hues of dawn fell prettily across the floor of . . . wherever I was. I didn’t wait to examine my surroundings, but made a rush for the door. Somehow I wasn’t surprised to discover that it was locked. The single window was blocked by ornate grillwork. It had been there awhile, rusty streaks stained the black iron, but it was still functional, as I discovered when I shook it. Had it been designed to keep people in or keep them out? I wondered. Whatever the original purpose, it would suffice to keep me in.

The rush of adrenaline subsided, leaving me shaking and weak-kneed. I staggered back to the bed and sat down.

After I had surveyed the room I had to admit that I had been shut up in worse places. The furniture looked as if it had come from the local equivalent of a low-budget outlet store, but it was clean and fairly new. In addition to the bed, the amenities consisted of a table, a lamp, and two straight chairs. On the table was a jug (plastic) full of water, a glass (plastic), a bowl (you guessed it), a bar of soap, a towel, and a paperback novel with the cover missing. I picked up the book. It was by Valerie Vandine. I threw it across the room.

There was only one door. I am not without experience. I was raised on a farm. I found what I was looking for chastely hidden under the bed.

After I had paced the room forty or fifty times I retrieved the book and started reading.

Voluptuous Madeleine de Montmorency was fighting off the villain for the second time when I heard a sound at the door. The book and my feet hit the floor simultaneously. There was nothing in the room I could use as a weapon, so I had to rely on craft, cunning, and my bare hands. Which left me, I had to admit, at a distinct disadvantage.

But when I saw the figure framed in the open doorway my clenched fist fell. Nothing my imagination had conjured up could equal that vision.

She was about three feet tall and about a hundred years old and she didn’t have a tooth in her head. Black cloth covered everything except her face and her hands – the standard garb of a conservative Muslim female. She wouldn’t wear a face veil in her own house with only another woman present. Baring her gums at me in what was probably not a smile, she sidled into the room, and deposited a tray on the table.

Where I come from, punching old ladies simply isn’t done. My stupefied stare must have reassured her. Straightening to her full height of three feet six, she gestured at the door and twisted her bony wrist – once, twice, three times. I got the message. Three doors, three locks, between me and freedom.

I was begining to think maybe I could overcome my conditioning about hitting old ladies – not hard, of course, just a little tap – when she gave a sudden backward hop, agile as an Egyptian cricket. (They are black and very large, and they don’t fly; they beam themselves from place to place like Captain Kirk.) Before I could move she was out of the door. It closed with a slam and I heard the key turn in the lock.

I didn’t swear. I was too dumbfounded to be angry. What the hell kind of jailer was this? Where the hell was I? Who the hell was responsible for this?

By the time I had finished the coffee and nibbled at a piece of flat, unleavened bread I was pretty sure I knew the answer to the last question. The situation had his distinctively lunatic touch, including Grandma Moses. I wondered where he had dug her up. So, fifty pages later, when I heard the key turn in the lock again, I didn’t bother assuming a posture of attack. Where John was concerned, bare hands weren’t worth a damn. I’d need a water cannon to handle him.

The man who entered had the same swagger and the same condescending smirk. It wasn’t John. It was Feisal.

‘Don’t you have any Barbara Michaels or Charlotte MacLeod?’ I asked, waving the book at him. ‘I loathe Valerie.’

Feisal settled himself comfortably in one of the chairs. ‘Wrong cue. You’re supposed to say, “How dare you,” or “What do you want with me?” so I can leer lustfully at you.’

‘Let’s not bandy words,’ I said. ‘Who’s the old lady?’

‘My grandmother.’

‘You low down skunk. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, dragging an innocent grandmother into this. Or is she innocent?’

‘Oh, quite. She thinks my interest in you is personal.’

‘Now wait a minute.’ I didn’t believe him, but I thought it might be a good idea to get up from the bed. I pulled out the other chair and sat down facing him. ‘A dear, old-fashioned Muslim granny wouldn’t connive at abduction and rape.’

‘Certaily not.’ Feisal looked shocked. ‘She knows I’m irresistible to women. She thinks you’re just playing hard to get. But don’t worry,’ he went on, while I struggled to express my feelings, ‘much as I’d enjoy overcoming your maidenly scruples, you are perfectly safe from attentions of that sort.’

‘And why is that?’

Feisal sighed. ‘It’s those years at Oxford, I suppose. The facade is only skin-deep but it sticks like glue. Besides, I have been told how many square inches of skin I would have removed if I so much as breathed heavily on you. He was quoting The Merchant of Venice, I think.’

‘He does quote Shakespeare a lot,’ I agreed. ‘How very gallant of him to be concerned about my maidenly scruples. Or is he saving me for later?’

Feisal folded his arms. ‘Vicky, you simply have to take this seriously. You are perfectly safe here. It’s probably the only place in Luxor where you are perfectly safe. I’ll supply you with additional reading material if you insist; just sit tight for a few days.’

Emulating his cool, I folded my arms and stretched my legs out. ‘What’s going to happen in a few days?’

‘I’m not going to ask how much you know,’ Feisal began.

‘I must know more than I think I know. What vital clue, observed but uncomprehended by me, prompted this rash act?’

Feisal’s beautiful black eyebrows drew together, but he sounded more puzzled than angry when he spoke. ‘Astonishing. You really haven’t a clue, have you?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Obviously not. So why don’t you just relax and leave it to us?’

‘Us being you and John? Boy, talk about broken reeds!’

I never did find out why so many Egyptians have such pretty thick lashes. Feisal’s were as fuzzy as a toothbrush. They fell, concealing his eyes, and he said, ‘He got me into this. He promised he’d get me out.’

‘Oh, you poor, dear trusting man,’ I said, with sympathy.

Feisal stopped trying to be cool. He scowled at me. ‘You really are an extremely irritating woman. I’m trying to save your life, at the risk of my own. If my part in this were discovered I would die a slow and horrible death.’

‘Where’s Schmidt?’ I demanded, ignoring this melodramatic remark. It might or might not be true, but at the moment I didn’t give a damn.

‘He’s safe.’

I figured it was now or never. Granny’s vigilance would be relaxed now that there was a big strong man in the house, and at least one of the three doors was unlocked. Under the same illusion of macho superiority, Feisal might have neglected to lock the others. I sighed, smiled, shrugged, leaned back in the chair, hooked both feet under the rung of Feisal’s chair and pulled.

The chair and Feisal combined made a very satisfying crash. As I had hoped and counted upon, the back of his head came into emphatic contact with the bare boards. I was already out of the door when I heard him shout. The words were Arabic, but the tone was unquestionably profane.

I spun in an agitated circle, not knowing which way to go. There was a door at either end of the short corridor. I had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting the right one, so I went left.

Wrong choice. The door didn’t lead to the street but to the kitchen. I found that out when it opened, to display a stove, a table, a sink, and Granny.

I should have such reflexes when I’m a hundred years old. Snarling toothlessly at me, she hopped back, reaching for something on the table. There were several things on the table: a pot, a bunch of onions, and a long knife. I didn’t wait to see which one she wanted. I pushed her, as gently as circumstances allowed, and headed for the other door, followed by screams and curses. The latter came from Feisal, whose footsteps I could hear in the corridor.

Door number three wasn’t locked either. My exultation received a rude check when I found myself, not on the street but in a walled enclosure. It was unpaved. Weeds, or maybe they were onions, stuck up from the dirt and there were a few chickens pecking disinterestedly at the ground. They scattered, squawking irritably, as I dashed for the gate. He hadn’t bolted that either, the egotistical thing.

I didn’t bother closing it behind me, nor did I stop to consider which way to go. Any way was better than where I was. I turned right this time and ran like hell, followed by renewed protests from the chickens and a lot of bad language from Feisal.

Back home they’d have called it an alley. It was narrow and unpaved and bounded by high walls – the backs of other such courtyards, I assumed. There was nobody around, not even a chicken, but not far ahead I could see people and cars and other hopeful signs.

I don’t know how far behind he was when I burst out of the alley onto the street. He didn’t follow me. I hadn’t thought he would. He wouldn’t dare drag me back fighting and yelling with all those people around.

I had no idea where I was. It had to be Luxor, but it didn’t resemble the part of the city with which I was familiar. It looked more like one of the country towns we had passed through on our shore tours – one-storey shops, street stalls, uneven sidewalks littered with debris. I walked on, ignoring the curious glances I got from passersby. This was definitely not one of the popular tourist spots. I was the only foreigner in sight.

I went on for another block or two, till my breathing slowed to normal speed. Still no sign of the river. The sun was no help; it was high overhead. I’d have to ask someone for directions. Luxor was a good-sized town, I could go on wandering in circles for hours, and I was in a hurry. Finally I saw what appeared to be a gas station, or rather two gas pumps and a shack roofed with rusty tin. A few men wearing T-shirts and jeans were lounging against the pumps.

I sidled up to them. ‘Corniche de Nil?’ I said hopefully.

I got a pointing finger and a spate of Arabic, including what sounded like an improper suggestion. I said ‘Thank you,’ and turned down the street the finger had indicated. I had to ask twice more before I saw an open space and a gleam of water ahead.

I had found the river and the corniche and, a short distance away, a familiar tumble of pylons and columns – Karnak. But I was still a long way from my destination; I was tired and thirsty and I didn’t have a piastre in my pocket.

I accosted the first tourists I met – a middle-aged couple strung with cameras, binoculars, and the other unmistakeable stigma of the breed. He was wearing walking shorts and a shirt printed with sphinxes and palm trees; she was reading from her Baedeker.

There is no better way of getting money from people than by appealing to their prejudices. Tourists in Third World countries expect to be mugged, though from what I had heard that was more likely to happen in New York and Washington than in Cairo, not to mention Luxor. My appearance certainly substantiated the pathetic story I told.

They wanted me to go to the police. I applied the handkerchief the kindly lady had given me to my eyes. ‘No, no, I can’t face it! I’ve got to get back to the hotel right away, my husband will be worried sick, I was supposed to meet him an hour ago, he warned me not to go off alone . . . There was a man . . .’

I got into the cab with ten pounds and the guy’s business card. I had every intention of paying him back, and I would have too, if I hadn’t lost the card.

The driver let me out some distance from the house. After I had paid him I was broke again; I suspected he had overcharged me, but I didn’t feel like arguing with him. The river glittered in the sunlight and the sky was a pale clear blue. I walked slowly, trying to figure out my next move.

Had they carried or enticed Schmidt off to a ‘safe place’ too? If he wasn’t at the house I had no idea where to start looking for him, but there was reason to hope they would consider him harmless and not bother to imprison him. No doubt they had concocted a convincing explanation for my failure to return the night before. My escape had changed the picture, though. Feisal had had plenty of time to report it, and they would certainly expect me to turn up. John knew I wouldn’t leave Schmidt in the lurch.

It all made sense to me at the time. So, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I was tired and hungry and thirsty and worried sick about Schmidt. And even if I had known what I was soon to discover, I don’t know what I could have done about it. Getting Schmidt out would still have been my first priority.

I had considered somewhat vaguely the minor problem of how I was going to get past the gate or over the wall. It would have to be the gate – I hadn’t the time or the equipment for climbing a wall topped with broken glass and barbed wire – and I didn’t suppose for a moment that I could enter without identifying myself. My plan, if it could be called that, was simple: get inside. After that . . . I had not the slightest idea what I was going to do after that. Oh, well, I thought. Fortune favours the brave and the meek shall inherit the earth, and, more to the point, there was a nice little gun in my bag. I might even have to use the damned thing – if it was still in the wardrobe where I had left it, and if I could get to it before I was caught.

When I reached the entrance I had my first piece of luck – and high time, too. Two large vans and a pickup truck were waiting outside the gate. The vans were closed, but the back of the pickup was open. It was also full – of men, locals by their clothing. Some were sitting down, others leaned against the sides of the truck.

They were delighted to see me and not inclined to ask unimportant questions. Or maybe they did ask questions. They certainly didn’t get any answers. I grinned ingratiatingly and held up my hands. A dozen brawny brown arms assisted me over the tailgate and a couple of the lads obligingly made room for me when I indicated my intention of sitting down. How true it is that language is no barrier to friendship! By the time the truck reached the house we were close buddies. Very close. I had to detach quite a few friendly arms before I could get out, but they accepted my departure with grins and shrugs and affectionate farewells.

With what I hoped was an insouciant smile, I strolled past the packers and entered the house. Once inside, I stopped being insouciant and ran along the corridor and up the first flight of stairs. My only hope, if there was hope, lay in speed. The servants probably weren’t in on the deal, but if one of the others caught sight of me I was dead meat.

I reached Schmidt’s door unobserved – I hoped – and turned the knob. The door wouldn’t open. My brain wasn’t working at top efficiency. All I could think was that they’d locked him in, that he was a prisoner. It took several important seconds for me to notice that the key was in the lock, and several equally vital seconds for my sweating fingers to turn it.

The room was empty. Not only was Schmidt not there, his clothes and luggage were gone too. I checked the wardrobe to be sure, but one glance had been enough; Schmidt can’t occupy a room for five minutes without littering every surface with his possessions.

The hinges of the door had been well oiled. If I hadn’t been looking in that direction I wouldn’t have known it was opening again. I made a wild grab for the nearest hard object – a brass vase, intricately worked in enamel and silver.

John slid through the narrow opening and eased the door shut. He wasn’t as neat as usual; his shirt was dusty and there was a cobweb in his hair. ‘Put that down,’ he said softly.

I brandished the vase. ‘What have you done with Schmidt? If you’ve hurt him – ’

‘He’s left.’ John kept a wary eye on my impromptu weapon. ‘Of his own free will and under his own steam.’

‘I’ve figured it out,’ I said.

‘Have you indeed?’

‘Yes. How you ever expected to get away with a stunt like this . . .’

He was trying, with great difficulty, to control his temper I knew the signs – the flexed hands, the taut muscles of the jaw. When he spoke his voice shook with fury but it was the same almost inaudible murmur. ‘For Christ’s sake, Vicky, won’t you ever learn? I don’t know how you got in here – ’

‘Don’t you? You were waiting for me.’

‘In that closet across the hall, to be precise. I was informed you’d got away, and although I hoped I was wrong for once, I had a strange foreboding you’d do something like this. Now get the hell out of here. If you can.’

I gave him back stare for stare. My teeth were clenched so hard my jaws hurt. I had no intention of going out of that door with John standing by, or of turning my back on him for so much as a split second. After a moment his hands relaxed and he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘If that’s how you want it,’ he said, and turned his back.

He couldn’t have heard me; I was wearing sneakers and the rug was thick. He couldn’t have seen me; there was no surface to reflect my movement. He just knew. His lifted arm struck mine with a jarring force that made me lose my grip on the vase. It clattered to the floor and I stumbled back, trying to elude those agile, reaching hands. I knew it was wasted effort but I went on squirming and struggling, even after he had pinioned my arms and clapped a hard hand over my mouth. He had lost the remains of his temper, his face was flushed, and he was hurting me. His nails dug into my cheek. I felt tears of pain and fury welling up in my eyes.

He took his hand from my mouth and relaxed his grip a little, but not enough to enable me to free myself. ‘You dim-witted twit, I’m trying to get you out of this. If you yell I’ll squeeze your silly neck.’

Since his fingers were now wrapped around my throat I didn’t doubt he could – or would – carry out the threat. I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax, leaning against him. The angry colour faded from his face and the corners of his mouth turned up.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he murmured.

I wasn’t thinking at all. His hand had moved from my throat to my cheek, long fingers twisting through my hair, tilting my head back.

I hate to think how I must have looked – lips parted, eyes half-closed . . . They weren’t quite closed, though, and I was facing the door. The sudden alteration of my expression, from vacant acquiescence to shamed horror, was sufficient warning. He let me go and spun around.

She was wearing dark pants and a loose linen jacket that made her look like a little girl dressed in her big brother’s clothes. Her hair was tied back with an amber-gold scarf. It matched the colour of her wide, unblinking eyes.

‘Why, it’s you, Vicky,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come back.’

‘If I had ever seen murder in a man’s eyes . . .’ I had read that trite phrase Lord knows how many times in Lord knows how many thrillers, and taken it for a figure of speech. It wasn’t a figure of speech. I saw it now.

He moved so quickly I barely reacted in time, catching his upraised arm with both hands. ‘For God’s sake, John!’

He threw me off with a single snap of flexed muscles, like a man dislodging a snake or venomous insect. I staggered back, slipped, and sat down with a thud. I didn’t hear the shot but I heard him scream and saw him fall, his body curling into a hard knot of pain.

So that was what a silencer looked like, I thought, staring at the gun in Mary’s dainty hand. For some reason I’d expected it would be bigger.

Her lips parted, and out came a string of obscenities that shocked me almost as much as what she’d just done. It was like hearing Dorothy cursing Uncle Henry and Auntie Em. Her pink mouth wasn’t pretty now, it had the grotesque shape of a Greek Fury’s, and her eyes were as opaque as coffee caramels.

‘Damn him! Why’d he have to get in the way?’ She turned those yellow-brown eyes towards me and the look in them made me shrink back. That pleased her. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. He won’t be going anywhere for a while, and you wouldn’t leave him, would you? See what you can do for him. I’d hate to have him die. I have plans for you, Vicky dear, and it won’t be nearly so much fun if John isn’t there to watch.’

The door closed. The key turned in the lock.

John sat up. ‘Missed,’ he said with satisfaction.

I stared at the spreading stain on his sleeve. ‘Missed?’ I croaked.

‘She meant to do a bit more damage than this.’

He didn’t have to elaborate. She must have known the only way she could stop him was to put a bullet in one or the other of us, and she probably didn’t care which. If he hadn’t pushed me away . . .

And if I hadn’t interfered he could have stopped her, before she aimed and fired.

Out of all the questions boiling in my overheated brain I fished the least important. ‘Is she pregnant?’

‘Not by me, at any rate.’ John didn’t look up. He was concentrating on rolling up his sleeve, and not doing a very good job of it.

‘Are you trying to tell me you didn’t . . . You never . . .’

‘As you have had occasion to observe, my principles are somewhat elastic, but there are some things at which even I draw the line. All other considerations aside . . .’ He glanced at me from under his lashes. ‘All other considerations aside, I’d as soon bed a black widow spider. If you don’t believe me, and you probably don’t, I can produce witnesses. Max and Whitbread took turns spending the night with us. Cosy little arrangement . . . Would you mind helping me with this? She’ll be back before long, and it would not be a good idea for either of us to be here when that event occurs.’

He had a point. I hoisted myself up and went to investigate the medicine cabinet. It was well equipped. You’d have thought they were expecting a small war.

I slapped some gauze and tape over the bloody furrow the bullet had left. ‘How are you planning to get out of this room?’ I asked. ‘The door’s locked.’

‘With these handy little devices you were clever enough to bring along.’ John plucked one of the pins out of my hair.

‘Was that why you . . . Ow! That’s the one with the hook on the end, it’s caught – ’

‘One of the reasons.’ His fingers brushed my cheek in a caress so fleeting I might have imagined it. ‘You do it, then. I haven’t had much practice at this, since I usually keep my lock picks elsewhere. Thank you.’

He knelt by the door and started poking at the lock. ‘Maybe we should start thinking about where we’re going after we get out,’ I said uneasily.

‘The operative word, my love, is “out.”’ He seemed to be having some trouble, possibly because he was perspiring heavily, despite the comfortably cool temperature of the room. ‘Mary won’t be pleased when she finds us gone.’

‘Is she in love with you?’

The pick slipped and rattled onto the floor. ‘Bloody hell,’ said John between his teeth. ‘Keep your grisly suggestions to yourself, will you? If I believed that were the case I’d cut my throat and be done with it. No . . .’ Something clicked, and his fingers tightened. ‘Her motive is much simpler. She blames me – correctly, I must admit – for her brothers’ death.’

‘Her brother . . .’

‘Brothers. Two of them.’ After a brief pause he said resignedly, ‘The fat’s deep in the fire now, so I may as well abandon reticence. Or have you enough clues to reason it out for yourself? Two brothers, a strong streak of homicidal mania, and those bright, empty brown eyes . . .’

It was true; I’d only known one other person with eyes of that unusual golden brown. When I first met him, in Stockholm, I had thought him a gorgeous specimen of Nordic manhood, built like a Viking, and tall – really tall. It’s hard to find men who are six inches taller than I am. I had been prepared to overlook the fact that Leif’s sense of humour was practically nonexistent, but when I found out he was Max’s boss and one of the gang, I sort of lost my girlish enthusiasm.

John had been responsible for Leif’s death. In this case my objection to murder had been overcome by the fact that Leif had been trying to kill me, and would undoubtedly have succeeded if John hadn’t intervened.

‘You didn’t kill Georg,’ I said, watching his hands twist and press. ‘Or did you?’

‘No. His cellmate did him in, rather messily, last year. However, since I was partially responsible for sending him away she has some justice on her . . . Ah. There we are.’

He handed me the pins.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked: ‘I know – out. How?’

‘Any ideas?’ John peered cautiously through the slit in the opening door.

‘My room. I want to get my purse.’

‘You won’t need a purse if we don’t make it out of here,’ was the depressing response.

‘My room has a balcony. Someone is sure to spot us if we go through the house.’

‘Point taken. Come on, then.’

My door was locked too. John left the key in place after he had turned it.

I offered him the lock picks. ‘If they find the door is still locked, they may not look in here.’

‘Once they discover we’ve gone they’ll look everywhere.’ He headed for the balcony. ‘You might have mentioned it’s a thirty-foot drop,’ he said, returning.

‘I assumed you knew.’ We were both whispering. Footsteps had passed my door without stopping, but I had a feeling they’d soon be back. ‘Knot some sheets together.’

‘Trite, but worth a try. Now what the hell are you doing?’

‘Looking for my bag. Maybe I put it in the wardrobe.’

I’d been expecting it, but I started convulsively when it came – a wordless, genderless shout of rage, hardly muted by the heavy door. The response was just as audible. ‘You two cover the doors. They may not have left the house.’

I recognized that voice, though it had been several years since I’d heard it. I froze, my fingers clutching the strap of my bag. John grabbed me around the waist, trying, as I thought, to pull me towards the balcony. Instead he lifted me, shot me into the wardrobe, and closed the door.

And locked it. I couldn’t imagine how, I hadn’t seen a key or a keyhole, but when I shoved at the damned thing it didn’t budge. Then I stopped shoving. I also stopped breathing. The door of the room had burst open.

Maybe they’d look under the bed first. The wardrobe would certainly be next, there was no place else to hide, and they were obviously thorough, well-organized chaps. And while they searched for me – and found me – John would have time . . .

He had time. He was as agile as a cat; he could have dropped from the balcony and taken his chances on breaking a rib or two. I would have risked it, given the alternative. He didn’t. I stood there in the dark, wincing and biting my knuckles and calling myself names as I listened to what was happening. It didn’t last long. They were three to one.

And one of them was Hans, Max’s large, slow-witted associate. I discovered this after I had realized the interior of the wardrobe wasn’t completely dark. The pierced openings in the grillwork admitted light. A couple of them were big enough to give me a clear view.

Fortunately I was too short of breath to cry out, or I might have done so when I spotted Max, less than two feet away from my wide blue eye. His bald head shone as if it had been polished. The heavy horn-rimmed glasses provided an additional distraction – he must have worn contact lenses before – but if I had ever gotten a long, close look at him I would have known him. ‘Mr Schroeder,’ Larry’s secretary, had found reasonable excuses for keeping out of my way.

One of Hans’s ham-sized-fists was wrapped around John’s left arm. The guy who held his other arm was familiar too. Rudi always looked as if he wanted to murder somebody, and his expression hadn’t changed. This time I deduced he wanted to murder John. Rudi had one hand pressed against his stomach and he was whooping for breath, but the gallant lad mustered enough strength to give John’s arm a sharp upward and backward twist. John yelled, of course. Stoicism was not a quality he chose to cultivate.

‘Gently,’ Max said gently. ‘That is his right arm, Rudi. He must be able to use it.’

There was blood on his chin. (I couldn’t help noticing that Hans was unbruised and unbloodied. John tried to pick on people who were smaller than he was.) Max took out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, studied the resultant smear of blood with fastidious distaste, and threw the handkerchief on the floor.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

John opened his eyes as wide as they would go. ‘Who?’

Rudi had got his breath back. His shoulder shifted and John let out a pained yelp.

‘Stop it,’ Max said. He didn’t sound as if he meant it, though.

‘The balcony, I suppose,’ Max went on. ‘While you put up a gallant battle to prevent pursuit. Or was that the reason? I find it hard to believe that you would risk yourself even for her.’

‘I was dumbfounded myself,’ John admitted. ‘No doubt I did have another motive. I wonder what it could have been? You’re such a profound student of human nature, Maxie, perhaps you can suggest – ’

‘Get him out of here,’ Max said shortly.

‘What about the woman?’ Rudi demanded. His eyes moved, scanning the room.

‘The only woman in the house is my child bride,’ said John smoothly. ‘I wouldn’t interrupt her if I were you, Rudi, old chap, she’s probably sharpening her knives or dismembering a baby or – ’

I knew Max would crack if he kept it up long enough. John must have known too. Max’s backhand swing was – understandably – aimed at his mouth. It was hard enough to snap his head back and leave him hanging limp between the men who held him.

‘Tie him up,’ Max said.

‘But, Herr Max,’ Rudi began.

‘And gag him. If he makes one more clever remark I may not be able to control myself.’

I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t stop myself. Gnawing on my knuckles, I followed the proceedings with dry-eyed, unblinking attention. They tied his wrists and ankles and used the handkerchief Max had tossed onto the floor as a gag. There was more than a smear of blood on it when they finished.

Max watched too. His back was turned to me when he said coldly, ‘Take him away. I will stay here and search the room, just to be certain.’