Uttering incoherent curses, I started for the door. Schmidt inserted his solid form between me and the egress.
“You waste your time, Vicky, you cannot find John when he does not want to be found. Why are you angry? He will turn up, as he did the other night.”
“He’s up to no good, Schmidt. He knows something he hasn’t told us.”
“If he is,” said Schmidt, ponderously shifting position as I tried to slide past him, “it is because he is following a lead he can best pursue alone. You have no proof that he is concealing important information.”
Unbidden and unwelcome, the memory of John’s meeting with Helga, the dealer in Berlin, came back to me.
“Schmidt,” I said, “what does Helga look like?”
“Who?”
“The antiquities dealer in Berlin. What does she look like?”
“Oh, Helga von Sturm. Why do you—”
“Just tell me, okay?”
“She is a handsome woman. Not young, you understand, but soigné and elegant, always expensively dressed. She is very successful, and can afford—”
“So it wasn’t she John met in Berlin.” I slammed my fist onto the table. “Ouch. He lied about that, he’s lying about the woman who left that note. When he comes back, I’m going to tie him to a chair and torture him till he comes clean. I’m going to—”
“I am sure he has only gone to the bank or to purchase a newspaper,” Schmidt said. Someone knocked at the door. “Ah—there, you see.”
Primed and ready, I opened the door. A waiter with a cart shied away when he saw my expression. I forced my face into nonthreatening lines and stood back.
“What is all this?” I demanded. “I only asked for beer.”
“I spoke to the room service too,” said Schmidt. “I feared you would forget that we must offer hospitality to our friends, who have been hard at work in the hot sun. No doubt they will want…Ah. Just in time, they are here.”
We got Feisal and Ashraf in and the waiter, properly baksheeshed, out. It was obvious they had come straight from the West Bank; Feisal’s once-crisp shirt hung limp and the dust on his face was streaked with runnels of sweat. Ashraf was carrying his jacket and his two-hundred-dollar shoes were covered with dust. He hadn’t forgotten his manners, though; he waited until I had sat down before sinking into a chair. Schmidt bustled about, offering fizzy drinks and platters of hors d’oeuvres.
“Just water,” Feisal said hoarsely. He twisted the cap off a frosty bottle and drank deeply. “Alhamdullilah, that’s good. Where’s Johnny?”
“Out,” I said, snapping the word off.
“When do you expect him back?” Ashraf asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Ah.” Ashraf leaned back and loosened his tie. He’d hurried off to the West Bank without stopping to change. “Then perhaps you, his associates, can tell me how your investigation is proceeding.”
He looked inquiringly from me to Schmidt. I kept my mouth shut. Feisal shut his. Sensing a certain level of discomfort all round, Schmidt burst into speech.
“Today’s tragic development has altered the picture, Sie verstehen. We must analyze the ramifications before we can fully comprehend how they fit into the overall pattern.”
“So there is a pattern?” Ashraf inquired.
Feisal stood up. “If I may make use of your bathroom, Schmidt, I’d like to wash up.”
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into Schmidt’s room.
“Feisal has not been forthcoming,” Ashraf said smoothly. “He referred me to Mr. Tregarth. I did not press him, since he is clearly distraught about the death of his subordinate.”
Schmidt, for once at a loss for words, shoved a plate of cheese and sliced smoked turkey at him. Ashraf looked ruefully at his dirty hands.
“With your permission, I will emulate Feisal.”
I waved him toward the other bathroom. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Feisal popped out of Schmidt’s room, toweling his hands.
“Talk fast,” he ordered. “Has anything happened? Anything encouraging?”
“No,” I said, glancing at the outer door. It remained uncompromisingly closed.
“Damn. I can’t keep putting Ashraf off, he wants some indication of progress.”
“Make something up,” I said.
Feisal directed a desperate stare in my direction, and Schmidt said brightly, “I can do that.”
Ashraf reappeared, wearing his jacket. He had given his shoes a quick rub, probably with one of my towels, but what did I care?
“So,” he began.
“So it appears,” said Schmidt, hands raised and fingertips together, “that our preliminary theory was correct. The missing object is hidden somewhere in the Theban hills. Ali came to the same conclusion and went to look for it. He surprised the men guarding the cache and they were forced to silence him. What did you say to him, Dr. Khifaya, that might have given him the idea?”
That was taking the fight into the enemy camp, all right. Ashraf looked startled, and then thoughtful. “Nothing that I can think of. He was speaking from the taftish, to which I had summoned him; I cautioned him to watch what he said, since there were others present. I did most of the talking…Let me see. I told him that the theft had been discovered, and cut him off when he began babbling; assured him that I did not hold him responsible…”
“That I was the one responsible,” Feisal said, scowling.
“What is the American saying? ‘The buck stops here’?”
“That means you,” Feisal said. The two glowered at each other. I could see the family resemblance now, they glowered similarly.
“Do not quarrel,” Schmidt said. “You are getting off the track. What else did you say to Ali?”
Ashraf rubbed his forehead. “Not much. To notify me at once if anything out of the ordinary occurred.”
“Vague,” I said critically.
“I couldn’t be more specific,” Ashraf insisted. He was on the defensive now, which was just where I wanted him. “Not over the telephone.”
“No suggestions as to where the—er—missing article might be? No orders to search for it?” Schmidt demanded.
“No, I tell you. How could I propose an idea that hadn’t occurred to me? May I ask why it occurred to you lot?”
“I will explain,” said Schmidt, peering owlishly at Ashraf.
The explanation took a good ten minutes. Feisal couldn’t sit still; he paced and sat down, jumped up and went onto the balcony, came back, sat down, jumped up, paced. When Schmidt couldn’t drag it out any longer, he stopped talking and gave Ashraf a smug smile.
“It does open up a possible line of action,” the latter admitted. “But there are difficulties. If Ali’s death was not an accident—and we still have no actual proof that it was not—we must assume the murder did not occur near the place where his body was found. That leaves a large territory to be searched. Furthermore, how can I send search parties into the hills without telling them what they are searching for?”
“And without warning them that if they find it they could be murdered,” I said.
“That too,” said Ashraf.
Not a sound at the door.
“You disgust me,” I burst out. “All of you. A man is dead, a good, harmless man, and all you can think of is how to keep this business a secret. You’re willing to risk more lives to retrieve a dried-up corpse.”
Ashraf’s expression was so tender and kind I wanted to paste him one. That was the attitude he expected from a woman. If he had praised me for it I would have hit him. It might have been Feisal shaking his head or Schmidt’s fit of frantic coughing that warned him. All he said was, “If I decide to send out search parties, they will be armed and expecting trouble. We can easily find an excuse that does not involve—er—him. A missing tourist, perhaps. When did you say you expected Mr. Tregarth to return?”