“How did he get in? A hefty bribe to the uncle of Ahman?”
“I don’t think so. The lock had been forced. An easy job, with a clumsy, old-fashioned lock like that one.”
“What was he looking for?” I asked. “A place to hide…” Ali’s name had been mentioned; there was no avoiding the subject any longer. “To hide a body? And then the killer decided it wasn’t a good place after all?”
“Not likely.” John’s mouth shut tightly. But I was on track now, I didn’t need any help from him.
“Not likely,” I agreed, thinking aloud. “There would be no hope of making Ali’s death look accidental if his body were found there.”
“Perhaps it was Ali who went there, looking for the mummy,” Schmidt offered. “And the thieves caught him.”
I shook my head. “The place had been searched. They, or he, or she, or whomever, wasn’t looking for Tut, they were looking for something relatively small.”
John leaned back, arms folded, and stared out the window. The car swerved around a camel loaded with bundles of some variety of herbage.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, poking him.
“A long cold shower.”
I had to admit it was the best idea I’d heard for a while.
J ohn didn’t join me in the shower. Perhaps, I mused, as the lovely element caressed my sticky self, the idea had struck him as somewhat inappropriate. I wasn’t in the mood either. I had never known Ali, but Feisal’s description and the collective memories of his family had painted the picture of the man: hardworking and honest, struggling to make ends meet against considerable odds. One of the common people. And worth more than any dead king.
We had found several messages tucked under the door of the sitting room. When I came out of the bedroom, toweling my hair, John was reading them.
“Let me see,” I said.
“Be my guest.” John went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Schmidt, pink and scrubbed and wrapped in one of the terrycloth robes supplied by the hotel, joined me before long.
“We are popular,” I said, handing him one of the slips of paper. “Ashraf has already been round to see us.”
“Aha,” said Schmidt, perusing it. “He is on his way to the West Bank. That implies that he has received Feisal’s news about Ali. Who is that one from?”
“Somebody I’ve never heard of.”
“It is addressed to me,” Schmidt said indignantly. “You opened the envelope?”
“John did. I did not read it,” I said virtuously. “Who is Jean-Luc LeBlanc?”
“A distinguished French archaeologist. His team works at Karnak. He has heard I am in Luxor and invites me to visit him.”
“French, eh? We’ve had suspicious encounters in Germany, Italy, and England. Maybe we shouldn’t have skipped Paris.”
“Jean-Luc cannot be an object of suspicion. He is a distinguished—”
“Right. This next one sounds like an American. Only a few more Western countries to be heard from. Is she another distinguished archaeologist?”
Schmidt looked at it and shook his head. “She writes to John, not to me. ‘I am staying at the Mercure, please call me as soon as possible.’”
John emerged. He had exchanged his sweat-stained shirt and jeans for a suit and tie. (Regimental or public school, I presumed.) I handed him the message.
“One of your floozies?”
“I do not have floozies. Not even one.”
He gave me a fond smile and bent over to kiss me on the top of the head.
“Who is she?” I asked, resisting distraction.
“An admirer, I expect. I have quite a number of them.”
“You don’t recognize—”
The unmistakable voice of Johnny Cash made itself heard. Schmidt fumbled in the pocket of his robe. “Where is my cell phone?”
“Probably in your bedroom,” John said. “You had better answer, it might be Feisal. I’ll help you look.”
Schmidt’s phone was on the table next to his bed, which was strewn with articles of clothing. I’ve tidied up after Schmidt so often it has become a habit; ears pricked, I began collecting cast-off garments. Among them was a rather large pair of boxers printed with hearts and bluebirds. Schmidt shares my fondness for fancy lingerie.
After an initial exclamation of distress, Schmidt didn’t say much. He rang off, and John said impatiently, “Well?”
“Feisal is on his way here,” Schmidt said. “With Ashraf.”
“Fast work,” John muttered. “Was it murder?”
“They will have to wait for the results of the autopsy. He had a fatal wound of the head and several broken bones, but they could have resulted from a fall.”
“Has his family been notified?” I asked.
“I forgot to ask.” Schmidt ducked his head. “I am ashamed.”
“You’ve no reason to be ashamed, Schmidt,” John said gently. “You’re a good man.”
It was a rare tribute, and Schmidt reacted by leaking tears. By way of distraction I suggested we fill out a laundry form. He must be getting low on white linen suits by now. Such proved to be the case. Schmidt fished out clothes from the floor of the wardrobe. It took a while to sort and list them and put them into the bag provided.
“I’ll call to have them picked up,” I said briskly. “You get dressed, Schmidt.”
“Yes, yes, we will soon be having guests. I will call the room service and—”
“I’ll do it. Beer?”
Schmidt nodded. Activity had got him out of his mournful mood, but he looked sober. “Time is running out, Vicky. How many days have we left?”
I tried to think. Ten days, Ashraf had said. That had been two days ago, and the message had been delivered to him…when? A day or two before we saw him.
“I don’t know, Schmidt. Fewer than I’d like.”
“You were right, you know, in what you said. A dead king is less important than a living creature. But we must persevere, to help our friends.”
“Of course.” I patted him on his bald head.
I towed the bulging bag of laundry out into the sitting room and called housekeeping and then room service. Then I sat down on the sofa and picked up the notebook and pen. The problem was one of simple arithmetic, but so much had happened I was beginning to lose track of the time. Our unscheduled meeting with Ashraf had taken place Tuesday morning. At the latest he would have received the “ransom” note the day before. So when we saw him there were nine days left, not ten. We had arrived in Luxor the following day, inspected Tut’s tomb and visited Ali’s family.
Eight days.
Today on the West Bank.
Seven days.
Or had I miscounted? At best we had a week. Maybe less.
I was doodling aimlessly on the page, drawing vultures and jackals, when the laundry maid—a gray-haired, timid little woman—arrived. We got excellent service, thanks to Schmidt’s habit of tipping everybody for every move they made. I was fishing in my pocket looking for a few stray pounds when Schmidt came out and provided them.
“You look very natty,” I said. “How about a rose for your buttonhole?”
“It does not seem fitting. A black armband, do you think?”
“That would be overdoing it,” I said, wondering whether a black armband formed part of his usual travel wardrobe.
“Perhaps you are right. Where is John?”
Yes, indeed, where was he? The bedroom door was closed. I opened it and looked in. Not a sign of him there or in the bathroom.
“Goddamn him,” I said. “He’s done it again.” I ran to the balcony and leaned over the balustrade. Three stories below, the corniche provided its picturesque view of camels and carts and cars and carriages, with a bustle of pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk or weaving their way through the traffic on the street. None of the foreshortened forms was familiar.