Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

“Three, by the latest count. Bernardo and Company, the chap in the car just now, and the spinster lady in Kent.”

It took me a minute to remember. “Oh, the lady with the pre-Columbian collection. You called her?”

“She was a baritone.” John studied the apple distastefully and put it down on the desk. “Said she had a cold.”

“And?” I prompted.

“She suggested I call on her at the earliest opportunity. Today, if feasible. Gave me directions to her remote manor house deep in the country.”

“Oh. Was that what alerted you to my peril?”

“I suppose so.” John rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps it was the mental bond between us, the marriage of true minds, et cetera.”

“Right.”

“And the fact, brought home to me by the baritone, that some individual or group here in England is already on our trail. That we need to be on our guard every bloody second of every day.”

“You’d like me to butt out of this, wouldn’t you?” I said, responding not so much to his words as to his tone of voice.

“It’s too late for that, Vicky.” He put his head in his hands.

“We could have a spectacular public fight,” I suggested. “Declare to the world that we have split up and that we loathe each other.”

John lowered his hands and gave me a feeble grin. “You have the most unusual ways of trying to cheer me up. Believe me, I thought of that. There are two problems. First, that we wouldn’t be believed. Second, that the lads and lasses who are after me would assume you’d be more than happy to cooperate with them for the sake of revenge.”

“Okay,” I said briskly. “So what do we do now?”

“Leave town. As soon as possible.”

“What about Schmidt?”

“That’s our next problem. He didn’t tell you what time he’ll arrive?”

“No. I could call him back.”

“There’s not a chance we could get on a plane before tonight. Anyhow, I think we need to have a little chat with Schmidt. It’s too much of a coincidence that Suzi should decide to break off with him at this precise time. We’ll hole up in the flat, wait for him to ring, and then go to see him at the Savoy. If he makes it that far.”

Leaving me with that encouraging thought, he turned back to the computer. “Nothing of significance,” he reported, after checking his e-mail. “You had better see if Schmidt has been in touch again.”

Once again I found myself yearning for the good old days when letters and telephone calls (with no call-waiting, no voice mail, no answering machines) were the only means of communication, bar the occasional telegram. There was nothing new from Schmidt. By the time I finished reading chatty notes from a few friends, John was brooding over his cell phone.

“Feisal is beginning to sound a trifle nervous,” he remarked, and read the message aloud.

“‘Looking forward to seeing you. I have much to tell you, much to show you. Let me know the time of your arrival.’”

“Perhaps you had better reassure him.”

“At the moment I can’t think of any news that would do that.” He began poking at the buttons, pronouncing the words as he wrote them. “‘Hope to have plans made by tomorrow. Let’s keep your news for a surprise, shall we?’”

“You both have a somewhat telegraphic style,” I remarked. “I take it you haven’t gone in for instant messaging?”

“We have to assume that all our means of communication are compromised. How I loathe modern technology,” he added petulantly. “Every new so-called advance in communication is only a new way of eavesdropping.”

Before I could voice my hearty agreement the bell at the shop door jangled. John stood up. “Stay here,” he ordered, and went out.

Naturally I went to the door and looked into the shop. The potential customers looked harmless enough: two middle-aged women wearing twin sets and pearls. John advanced on them, exuding charm; in response to his question, “May I be of assistance?” one of them chirped, “Just browsing.”

“By all means,” said John. He retreated to the desk at the back of the showroom and sat down.

The women—Mabel and Allie, as they referred to each other—looked at every painting and every artifact, asking questions and requesting prices. They were free with their comments. “Two hundred pounds for that? It’s quite ugly, you know.”

They were at it for almost an hour, obviously killing time, with no intention of buying anything. John answered their questions fully and courteously, but without moving from his chair. After they left I ventured out of the office.

“I suppose you get a lot of that,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Most of the drop-in customers are ‘just having a look round.’ But one never knows when a live one may turn up. Come here and sit down. We close in another three-quarters of an hour.”

He didn’t seem inclined toward conversation, so I opened a drawer looking for the magazine Alan had been reading. It wasn’t there. But something else was.

“I thought you never carried—”

“It’s a toy. Good enough to fool most people, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Modern technology,” I murmured, staring at the deadly black shape.

“Life in the metropolis,” said John, “is increasingly hazardous, especially for innocent merchants. I’ve had this ever since an acquaintance of mine up the road was robbed at gunpoint a few months ago. They beat him rather badly and got away with two diamond rings.”

He picked up a pile of papers from the in-box and began going through them. An occasional grimace suggested that some of them were bills.

One other customer showed up just before closing time. The drawer was open and John’s hand was on the fake Beretta before the bell stopped jangling. It was a man this time, sturdily built and bearded, wearing a turban.

“I am in the market,” he said, in the accents of Whitechapel, “for African textiles.”

“I’m afraid we have nothing of that sort,” John said. “Try Alfie’s.”

“I have been there,” said the bearded man, standing his ground.

“There’s a place around the corner that specializes in African crafts,” John said, gripping the barrel of the gun so hard his knuckles went white. “Marks and—uh—Markham and Wilson. Turn right when you leave, and right again at the next intersection. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” The beard opened in a smile. “You are most helpful.”

The bell jangled. John let out his breath and relaxed his grip. “That’s it. Get your gear while I close up.”

John unlocked the door of the flat. “No one’s been here.”

“The old thread-in-the-doorframe gimmick,” I said, watching it float to the floor.

“Simple but generally efficacious. However, just to be on the safe side…” He cast a searching glance round the room, went into the bedroom and study and did the same, and preceded me into the kitchen.

“All clear,” he said.

I put the groceries away and then settled down to watch telly and wait for Schmidt to call. John, who professes to despise popular culture, retreated into the study, his nose in the air. In a way I didn’t blame him for avoiding what has become an exercise in despondency (the news) and/or idiocy (most sitcoms), but I find it relaxing. I had a bag of crisps in one hand and a beer in the other and was switching from channel to channel when I caught something that made me spill the crisps.

“John,” I yelled. “Get in here. Quick!”

He shot through the door. Seeing me bolt upright and unthreatened, he was about to expostulate when I gestured at the screen. “Look. It’s him!”

I recognized the background: the facade of the Altes Museum in Berlin. In the foreground Dr. Ashraf Khifaya, secretary general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, in full glorious color, was being interviewed by a BBC reporter. He was wearing a pristine pith helmet and carrying a huge sign that read, in English, German, and Arabic: “Let Nefertiti come home.” Other newspersons surrounded him. He looked like a particularly gorgeous Hollywood star playing an adventurous archaeologist. The bullwhip would appear any second. In the background a long line of black-robed women paced slowly along the sidewalk, accompanied by the slow throb of drums.