Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

“It convinced Vicky,” John said. “She trusts people. Especially her friends.”

“But you do not.” Schmidt gave him a reproachful look. “You made sure to be at my side every minute, so I could not text to her. Vicky—I would not have done it anyhow. From the moment I saw you again I was in agony, torn between friendship and—er—”

“Lust,” John suggested.

Lips pursed, Schmidt considered the noun. “Yes, yes, that was part of it. But only part. I loved her. She made me laugh.”

“Suzi?” I said. She hadn’t struck me as the funniest lady in the cabaret.

Schmidt blushed. “Private jokes, you understand. And she said that I did not owe you loyalty, John, because you had deceived me and lied to Vicky. But now I know she pretended to care for me only because she wanted to lay you by the heels. I have learned my lesson. Never again will I succumb to the lure of the flesh. The marriage of true minds, mutual respect, common interests, they will be my guiding principles.”

“Quite,” John said. “Go on. What other orders did she give you?”

“To report to her at once if you left London.”

“But you didn’t,” I said.

“No. No, I have told you—”

“They’ll track us down before long,” John said. “But it may take a little time. What else, Schmidt?”

“Only to pass on any information about your recent activities, persons you had contacted, but—”

“But you didn’t,” John said, with a curl of his lip. “Can I believe that?”

Schmidt wilted, and I said, “Lay off, John. I believe you, Schmidt.”

“So do I,” John said. The curl of his lip turned into a smile.

The declaration of faith cheered Schmidt enough to awaken his appetite; he started lifting covers, and browsed among the varied dishes while, at his suggestion, we gave him a rundown of our recent activities. Schmidt didn’t say much because his mouth was full, but he nodded and rolled his eyes and made inarticulate noises indicative of amazement, concern, and interest. Finally he sat back, wiped his chin, and opened another beer.

“ Also, ” he said. “Let us summarize. Feisal (poor Feisal!) is holding the fort in Luxor. The Supreme Council has not yet learned of the theft. Several dangerous persons have learned of it—Bernardo in Rome and at least one unknown party in London. They, however, are not the persons who committed the theft. Suzi has also found out. The dissemination of information seems random, but is it? Is there a pattern? A single source, vielleicht ?”

“Very good, Schmidt,” I said. “If we knew the answer to that, we would be well on the way to learning not only the motive for the theft but the identity of the real thieves.”

“Possibly,” said Schmidt. He steepled his fingers and peered at me over them. I recognized the Sherlock Holmes persona. Well, he was entitled, bless his heart. I remained respectfully silent and, for a wonder, so did John.

“You seem to have considered most of the possible motives,” Schmidt resumed. “The most likely would seem to be simple greed. Ransom, to be precise. But if that is the case, why has not the Egyptian government or the Supreme Council been approached?”

“How do we know they haven’t been?” John asked.

“I was about to make that point,” Schmidt said, giving John a Holmes-to-Watson look. “They would have good reason to remain silent.”

“No, but surely their first move would be to make sure he was missing,” I argued. “Tut, I mean. Feisal is sounding nervous, but not as frantic as he surely would be if somebody from the SCA had demanded entry into the tomb.”

“This is all idle speculation,” Schmidt grumbled. “There is one way to find out for sure whether the secretary general of the SCA has received a ransom note. We will ask him.”

What Schmidt meant was “I will ask him.” He claimed to be a dear personal friend of Khifaya. He thought he was a dear personal friend of everybody he’d ever met, but his connections and his reputation did give him an edge when it came to extracting information. I offered, out of the goodness of my heart, to approach Khifaya by joining the picket line at the museum. Schmidt thought this was a fine idea. He would carry a sign too. However, we were doomed to disappointment. Khifaya had left Berlin.

Hovering over his laptop, Schmidt continued to search the more esoteric reaches of the World Wide Web, from one of which he had retrieved that information. Khifaya was no longer an item of current interest, but his name turned up in a lot of places, including his Web site. So did Tutankhamon’s, although he didn’t have his own Web site.

“Nothing relevant to our inquiries,” Schmidt announced, rolling the r. “We must proceed forthwith to Egypt.”

“In hot pursuit of Khifaya?” I asked hopefully.

“Has anyone a better suggestion?” Schmidt demanded.

John put down the wurst on which he had been nibbling. “I wondered when someone would ask me.”

“Consider yourself asked,” I said, investigating the cheese selection.

“I had several reasons for coming to Berlin,” John said. “The notion of joining the picket line had its charm, but I also hoped I might hear from an old acquaintance.”

“Another crook?” I inquired. “I don’t mean to sound critical, but you’ve already got one gang in Rome and another in London after you. Why can’t you leave bad enough alone?”

“I agree,” said Schmidt, reaching for the last slice of Gouda. “Now let us organize ourselves. First, you should communicate with Feisal. Who can tell what may have transpired within the last few hours?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” John admitted. “Perhaps I’ll risk a telephone call.”

Feisal answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” he demanded.

“On our way,” said John. “We saw your boss on the telly the other night. He seems to be having a jolly good time harassing the Berlin museum.”

“He’s back. In Cairo. I,” said Feisal pointedly, “am in Luxor. When will you join me?”

Schmidt reached for the phone. John turned his back, clutching it protectively, and I hissed, “Don’t say anything, Schmidt.”

“But I would like—”

“We’re saving you for a surprise.”

John rang off. “So far so good, one may deduce. He wasn’t actually screaming. I told him we’d try to get a flight first thing tomorrow.”

“No, we cannot do that,” said Schmidt. “In the evening, vielleicht . In the morning I am going to picket at the museum. Yes, yes, I know, Dr. Khifaya has left, but some of his students may still be there, and if they are not—well, I will be even more visible, will I not? Perhaps I will lie down on the pavement and be arrested.”

“You want to make Perlmutter squirm,” I said, torn between amusement and consternation.

“ Warum nicht? He has made me squirm, allowing me to dig up that grave in full public view when he knew nothing was there! Also, I would like to question him, subtly and slyly, as is my method. Has either of you bothered to ascertain whether museums and legitimate collectors have heard the rumors?”

“I haven’t had time,” John said defensively.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. (He is the only person I’ve ever met who pronounces each separate consonant.) “Not even the British Museum? The Keeper, I believe, is a distant—”

“Very distant. He wouldn’t know me from Adam.”

“Leave it to me, then.” Schmidt glanced at his watch and rose. “We must hurry. There is much to do.”

“What precisely do you have in mind?” I asked, expecting the worst.

“Shopping, of course. I do not have with me so much as a toothbrush.”