“Is he by chance your father?” John asked.
“The brother of my father. He is a good man.”
I was about to apologize for implying otherwise when I heard a sound at one of the closed windows of the house proper. An apparition met my startled gaze. Standing on its hind legs, scratching vigorously at the pane, was a large fluffy cat, striped in black and gray. Its mouth opened. A faint but peremptory mew penetrated the glass.
John went to the door. The handle turned and the door opened; the cat disappeared from the window and shortly thereafter marched out, bristling with indignation. Spotting the sandwich Schmidt was holding, it headed straight for him.
“A beautiful animal,” cooed Schmidt, dispensing scraps of chicken.
“Hmmm,” said John. “Was it supposed to be shut in the house?”
Ahman replied, from outside the veranda. I hadn’t even seen him move. “No.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He was staring at the cat, the whites of his eyes very much in evidence.
“You aren’t afraid of the cat, are you? Who does it belong to?”
Ahman opened the door just wide enough to slip in. “It lives here.”
“All the time? Who feeds it when the staff is away?”
“Everyone. It goes where it likes and does as it likes, and when it comes to a house it is given what it likes. People bring food to it.”
“Oho,” said Schmidt interestedly. “It is a locus genii, then.”
Ahman looked bewildered. “A supernatural guardian spirit,” I translated.
Tiring of this meaningless commentary, Ahman said, “It is not an ordinary cat. It goes where it likes and—”
“I understand,” John said, smiling. “I expect the creature has a den in one of the outbuildings and lives on mice and rabbits.”
“And dogs,” Ahman said seriously. “The dogs run from it.”
I could almost believe it. The animal was huge, a good three feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its enormous tail, which was now raised in feline approval as it finished Schmidt’s chicken.
“Someone seems to have fed it recently,” John said. He indicated the bowls on the ledge. “They’re all empty. Give it some water, Schmidt.”
The water was received with the usual feline appreciation; that is to say, the cat condescended to drink.
“It appears it hasn’t eaten or drunk since yesterday,” John said. “So it must have been shut in the house last night.”
He got up and went to the door, which he had left open.
“We shouldn’t go in,” I said. “Isn’t that breaking and entering, or something equally illegal?”
“Just entering,” John said. He added, “The cat couldn’t have let itself in, which means someone has been here. As good citizens, we are obliged to make certain the place hasn’t been robbed.”
The central block of the house was devoted to offices and a handsomely appointed library. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling and several tables, equipped with reading lamps, occupied the center of the library. Schmidt went at once to the bookshelves and began reading titles. “It is one of the best Egyptological libraries in the country,” he said admiringly. “Here are all the volumes of the Amarna Tombs series, and the Denkmäler of Lepsius, and…”
I let him ramble on while I inspected the contents of a pair of glass cases flanking the door. Expecting to find precious manuscripts and/or choice artifacts, I was somewhat taken aback to see a smallish, old-fashioned gun, a large knife, and a piece of folded fabric, roughly triangular in shape. The light was poor. I was trying to figure out what on earth it was when John forcibly removed Schmidt from the bookshelves and ordered us into the next room.
It had to be the director’s study. The desk was a massive piece of solid mahogany, hand-carved with Egyptian motifs, with crocodile heads forming the drawer handles. Oriental rugs in a glorious medley of colors covered the floor; a table was surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. The chairs showed evidence of being used as scratching posts. The long sofa against one wall was piled with cushions. There was a stone-faced fireplace along the inner wall, for those chilly desert nights, with a pair of crossed swords on the wall above it. It was a wonderful room, dignified and cozy at the same time. Even the filing cabinets were handsome articles of furniture, massive structures of polished wood. I was admiring the effect and wondering where I could get hold of a pair of crossed swords (and a comfy sofa) for my office when I heard a faint sound, no louder than a mouse’s scamper. I knew it probably was a mouse but it reminded me that we had no business being in the house.
“Let’s go,” I said uneasily.
“Yes, the driver is probably waiting,” Schmidt agreed. “Come, puss, puss, good puss, you do not want to be locked in again.”
The car and driver were there. So was Feisal. One look at him told me we were not about to hop in the car and go home.
“Let me have your camera, Schmidt,” he said.
Wide-eyed, Schmidt started fumbling in his pockets. For a few seconds no one spoke. Then John said evenly, “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Then he can wait a little longer,” John said. “Where, how, and when?”
The flat, almost callous tone was, contrary to expectations, the right one. Feisal replied as flatly.
“We won’t know when or how until we get him out. I want to get photographs before we move him. He was at the bottom of a narrow ravine a few hundred yards back from the top of the cliff.”
“Can we do anything?” I asked. It was a feeble attempt to convey the sympathy and distress I felt, but something told me not to go any further.
“No. I’ve rung the police. I tried to reach Ashraf, but he’s on his way to Luxor even as we speak. I left a message. You may have to deal with him. Go back to the hotel and wait for me.”
Mutely Schmidt offered him the magnifying glass. As a gesture it was perfect: heartfelt and absurd at the same time. Feisal’s frozen face cracked into normalcy. “Thanks, Schmidt.”
After he had left, covering the ground with long, quick strides, Schmidt and I stood staring helplessly at each other. Neither of us could think of anything to say that wasn’t banal or useless.
“What are you waiting for?” John demanded. “Get in the car.”
“Shouldn’t we lock up?” I asked.
“What with? We haven’t a key. Yusuf—”
“Ahman,” said the individual addressed.
“Sorry. What time of day does your uncle usually come here?”
Ahman shrugged. The gesture might have indicated lack of comprehension, indifference, or ignorance of the answer.
“Bloody hell,” said John. “We can’t wait indefinitely. Where does he live and what is his name?”
Ahman gave him a blank look and shrugged again.
“Feisal will know,” I said. “The kid isn’t going to tell you anything, John, he’s afraid his uncle may be in trouble. Give him some baksheesh and let’s go.”
A long unpaved version of a road led down to the main highway bordering the river. Rejoicing in the blast of cold from the car’s air conditioner, I took off my hat and shook out my damp hair.
“Someone searched that house,” I said.
“A somewhat sweeping statement,” said John.
“The director’s study, anyhow. Two of the chairs had been pulled away from the table and—”
“Several desk drawers were open an inch or so.”
“Oh,” I said, deflated. “You noticed.”
“There were a few other indications, subtle but suggestive, that someone had been in that room recently.”