“How much?” Feisal asked bluntly.
Ashraf hesitated. “Two hundred and fifty thousand, for herself.”
“In exchange for Tut’s current address?” I asked.
Feisal and Ashraf both flinched. “I wish you wouldn’t be so frivolous about this,” the latter said. “In essence, yes, that is what we agreed. We were about to set up our next and final meeting when your friend interfered. When I recovered from that cowardly blow, he and she were both gone.”
He lit another cigarette, looking pleased with himself.
He’d told a plausible story, one that made him look like both hero and victim. I wondered how much spin he’d put on it. I was prepared to believe that one of the gang was ready to make a deal. Criminals are not noted for loyalty to one another. Ashraf had private means. He could probably raise that much if he had to.
“Ashraf, you damned fool,” I said. “Didn’t it occur to you that someone would be keeping an eye on your lady friend? I hope for her sake the other guy didn’t overhear too much. Crooks have ways of dealing with traitors.”
“He must have overheard a good deal,” Ashraf admitted. “He struck me down just as we were about to come to an agreement.”
We had to come to it, sooner or later. “He was behind you,” I said, in a last-ditch effort. “How do you know it was John—Mr. Tregarth?”
“I caught only a glimpse. I heard a sound, and started to turn. But I saw enough. How many fair-haired individuals were present tonight?”
“Several, I should think.”
“But only one who is involved in this affair,” Ashraf said triumphantly. “Up to his neck, I should add. Why would he have gone to the temple unless he knew a meeting was planned? You claim you were able to anticipate my intentions through—ratiocination, was it not?—and I am willing to consider the possibility that Tregarth has deceived you as he tried to deceive me; but the evidence against him is strong. If he was not there, where was he? Where is he now?”
“He’ll turn up,” I said. “With a perfectly good explanation.”
“Let me know when he does.” Ashraf put out his cigarette and stood up. “It is late and I am feeling a trifle fatigued. Can I give you a lift, Feisal?”
Feisal looked as if he would like to refuse, but exhaustion overcame pride. None of us was in the mood to go on rehashing the affair. The two men left; Schmidt trudged off to his room; I hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door into the hall, peeled off the outer layers of clothing, and collapsed into bed.
I was so tired, every muscle in my body ached, but my brain wouldn’t shut down. Ashraf had presented a circumstantial but damning case. He wasn’t the only one who claimed to have seen John. Suzi had too, if we could believe her. And what had become of Suzi? Feisal had been following her when he heard Ashraf being attacked. Could it have been Suzi who hit him? She had blond hair, cut short like a man’s. That was all Ashraf had seen, the glimmer of light on a head of fair hair. Feisal had only seen a woman who was wearing a head scarf.
The windows were rectangles of pale gray. Dawn wasn’t far off. I was too exhausted to get up and close the drapes. I pulled the sheet over my head and fell asleep.
B right sunlight hit me in the eyes and woke me. My watch informed me it was almost ten. I rolled over onto the cold, empty space next to me. The rustle of bedclothes produced a knock at the door.
“Are you awake?” Schmidt, who else. He must have been standing right outside, with his ear pressed to the panel.
“No.”
“I will order breakfast.” Footsteps retreated.
Having been left with no choice in the matter, I dragged myself into the shower. In fact, I felt better than I had any reason to expect. My subconscious hadn’t come up with any answers to the questions that had kept me awake the night before, though.
I got dressed, realizing I had better send some laundry out too. I was buttoning my last clean shirt when the door opened, after what I can only call a perfunctory knock.
“You are dressed,” said Schmidt.
“Sorry about that.”
“There is coffee,” said Schmidt, resigned. “And Feisal is here.”
I didn’t ask whether John had returned. Schmidt would have said so.
The waiter had been and gone and Schmidt was tucking into a plate of eggs and turkey sausages. I accepted a cup of coffee from Feisal.
“Did you get anything useful out of Ashraf?” I asked.
Feisal made a wry face. “All he did was gloat about his cleverness and scold me for queering the deal.”
“How much of his story do you think is true?”
“The basic facts, I believe,” said Schmidt thoughtfully. “But there are many unanswered questions. I have now heard Suzi’s version of what transpired.”
“You’ve been a busy little bee this morning. Sorry I overslept.”
“A man in my physical condition does not require much sleep.” Schmidt smeared jam on a roll. “In accordance with my new policy I expressed concern over her safety and offered to tell her what had happened to Ashraf, since I assumed she would already have heard of it.”
“Well done.” The jam was all gone. I opened a little pot of honey. “Well? What did she say?”
“She did not see the attack itself, only Ashraf’s fallen body. Hearing Feisal approach, she hid herself and watched.”
“Those useful columns,” I murmured. “How did she get out of the temple?”
“Walked out, I expect,” Feisal said. “The guard wasn’t told to keep track of people leaving. Isn’t anybody going to ask how I spent the morning?”
I made encouraging noises, through a mouthful of bread and honey.
“Not happily,” Feisal said. “Ali’s family wants his body back. They sent a delegation—all the men in the family—to my office. I had to tell them the autopsy wasn’t finished. They didn’t like it.”
“According to Muslim law, the body must be buried before sunset of the day of death, or at latest the following day,” Schmidt informed me.
“It was too late for that when the body was found, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“You don’t reason with people who are in emotional distress,” Feisal said. “I’m going to the village to see the rest of the family, try to explain. Do you want to come with me?”
I didn’t want to. It was bound to be an upsetting experience. But maybe our presence would make it easier for Feisal.
He waited while I got my laundry together and Schmidt loaded his pockets with a variety of useful and useless objects, including the beloved magnifying glass, which Feisal had returned to him. One never knows when one will stumble across a Clue.
Since we did not have the limo at our disposal, we crossed the river on one of the boats. I like the boats; they have bright awnings and soft, if faded, cushions on the seats, and they have names like Rosebud and Cleopatra and Nefertiti. Watching Schmidt wobble across the gangplank added a certain element of suspense to the entertainment. Feisal’s Jeep was waiting on the other side.
“I have to stop by the Valley later,” he explained. “But I want to get this over with first.”
This encounter was a repeat of the first—the same swarm of importunate kids, the same darkened room and watching eyes, the same offer of tea and biscuits, the same chicken, or a close relative of same. I ended up sitting next to Umm Ali, who ducked her head in greeting and returned my mispronounced “Salaam aleikhum” with a few words in Arabic that weren’t in my current vocabulary. Schmidt sat in a chair across from me, his face somber. Everybody stared at Feisal.
They listened in silence to his brief speech. The silence lengthened. The chicken flapped up onto Schmidt’s knee. He patted it absently.