Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

“We’ve just time for a coffee,” said John, taking Schmidt’s arm.

He stuck as close to Schmidt as a long-lost brother, through security, and even into the Gents. When we boarded, I was relegated to a seat between two strangers while John snuggled up next to Schmidt several rows forward.

Always expect the worst; then you are never disappointed. Always prepare for the worst; then you are never caught off guard. It was one of John’s basic rules of operation, but I felt sure that in this case he was overdoing it. Schmidt was acting strangely, but it was inconceivable that the old (oops) boy was up to no good.

I hadn’t brought anything to read, so after perusing the in-flight magazine and deciding which Hermès scarves I would have selected if anybody had offered to buy me a few, I tried to figure out why we were going to Berlin. I hoped we weren’t headed for a meeting with a German version of Bernardo. A German version of Monsignor Anonymous? Somebody connected with the museum? Maybe I could make myself a sign and join the picket line. If it didn’t accomplish anything else it would annoy the hell out of Perlmutter, especially if I could get on television. Ah well, I thought, mine not to reason why, mine but to follow blindly where the mastermind led. I might as well be married. Love, honor and especially obey.

There was no hired car waiting outside the terminal, but the hotel to which the taxi delivered us bore a certain resemblance to the one in Rome—in a quiet neighborhood, small, unobtrusive. The desk clerk did not indicate recognition of John, but after he had consulted with the manager we were given a suite, with two bedrooms, which strongly suggested hanky-panky past if not present. We showed ourselves up; within a few minutes a waiter arrived with a bottle of wine.

Schmidt had managed to get into the bathroom unescorted. When he came out he looked unenthusiastically at the wine.

“A pleasant little Merlot,” John said. “You prefer red wine, I believe.”

“I would rather have beer.”

“Certainly.” John picked up the telephone. “A small snack, perhaps? What would you like?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Schmidt,” I said, genuinely alarmed. “It’s past time for lunch. I feel sure they can supply anything you want.”

Impassive as a mustachioed Buddha, Schmidt stared off into space. John ordered, more or less at random, and sat back, arms folded.

“The time has come,” said he, in measured tones. “To tell all.”

Schmidt muttered something.

“What?” I said.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Your absolute trust and loyalty touches me to the depths of my heart,” said John, placing his hand on the approximate location of that organ. “It is because I feel the same for you that I want you to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but—”

“Cut that out,” I said irritably. “This is what happened, Schmidt. Three days ago…”

John kept trying to interrupt, but I was in no mood for his rhetorical embroidery. I made it simple and as short as the complexities allowed. Schmidt transferred his fixed stare to me; his eyes got wider and his mouth fell open.

“Tut?” he gasped. “They have stolen King Tut?”

“And they think I did it. They,” John explained, “being an indeterminate but measurable number of individuals involved in my erstwhile profession.”

“Crooks,” I translated.

A gurgling sound emerged from Schmidt’s open mouth.

“I am innocent, Schmidt,” John intoned. “Innocent as a new-laid—”

I poked him in the ribs. “This is no time for levity.”

“I wasn’t being levitous,” John said indignantly. Returning his candid blue gaze to Schmidt, he went on, “I am appealing to you, Schmidt. For old times’ sake, and because you are the wisest, most courageous ally I could ever want. Will you—can you—help me to clear my name?”

Schmidt sat down on the sofa and burst into tears.

He’s very sentimental, is our Schmidt, but these tears weren’t a gentle trickle from an overflowing heart, they were a flood, a torrent that soaked the ends of his mustache and wandered around the creases in his cheeks until they found their way to his chin and poured off.

I went to him and tried to put my arm around him; he fended me off with a frantic flapping of hands.

“No, do not be nice to me. I do not deserve it. I have betrayed you!”

FIVE

The scene ended on that dramatic note, because the waiter turned up with our order. Sobbing, Schmidt fled into the bedroom. John gestured to me to open the door, and flattened himself against the wall, prepared, I assumed, to defend me from pistol-packing waiters. This one had thinning gray hair and an expansive stomach. If he was a member of a gang, the gang must be pretty hard up. John indicated he need not linger; he gave me a genteel leer and took himself off.

Hearing the door close, Schmidt made a tentative appearance. Everything drooped—mouth, mustache, both chins.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he whimpered.

I gave him a big hug. John said, “Have a beer.”

It was probably the beer, not the hug, that did the trick.

“I will not weep again,” Schmidt announced after a long swig. “I will show the stiff upper lip. And I will bare my chest.”

John gallantly resisted that one. I joined Schmidt in a beer and John had a glass of wine. Health fanatics be damned, there’s nothing like a little alcohol to relieve stress and create a cozy atmosphere. The beer and the prospect of clearing his conscience did wonders; Schmidt was himself again, his cheeks pink and his eyes candid.

“Suzi put you up to this,” I prompted.

“I will tell it,” said Schmidt, manfully squaring his shoulders. “We were in your house, to look after Clara, as I promised. Clara did not want Suzi to look after her. She growled and spat and was rude. So I went to get her food and while I was doing that, Suzi went into your bedroom. When I found her there I was shocked—shocked! And then she told me. That a valuable, unique antiquity had been stolen from Egypt, and that you, John, were the principal suspect.”

He looked hopefully at John, who promptly provided him with another beer. “She didn’t tell you what antiquity,” he said. It was not a question; Schmidt’s drop-jaw astonishment had been proof that Tut had not been mentioned.

“She said she was not at liberty to do so. Natürlich, I thought of the great statues in the museum, Khafre and Menkaure, and the golden coffin and mask, the fabulous jewels. Who would bother to steal a dried-up ugly mummy?

“But now I understand why you are under suspicion. The caper has your trademark, nicht wahr? She knows who you are, John—who you were. She has not told her superiors, because she wants the credit of bringing you to justice.”

“So that’s it,” I said. “Before we left Egypt last time, I had a hunch she had fingered John but that she wasn’t blowing the whistle because she liked us and was sorry for us.”

“And because at that point she couldn’t prove anything,” said John.

“Right. God, what a sucker I am!”

“You trust people,” John said. “It is a serious character flaw which I have endeavored without success to correct. So, Schmidt, when she asked you to play spy, you agreed.”

Schmidt hung his head. “I was a besotted old fool. But, my friends, I swear to you that I agreed only because I knew I would find proof of your innocence. I will find it! And I will hurl it in her face!”

“So that pitiful story about Suzi breaking up with you was pure fiction?” I inquired.

“She told me what to say,” Schmidt admitted. “But it was my performance that convinced you, is that not so?”