Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

“I’ll get rid of her,” I said, going to the door. The knock had been somewhat tentative. Maybe Suzi was feeling apologetic. When I saw who the caller was, I went on offense. “Suzi sent you, didn’t she? She didn’t have the nerve to come herself.”

The little woman with the big hat said, “Who is Suzi?”

“Oh, come on, you’re one of hers, you have to be. I fingered you some time ago.”

The woman drew herself up to her full five-feet-two-inches. “I have come to see Mr. Tregarth. Don’t tell me he isn’t here, I bribed the concierge to inform me when he returned. This time I will not be put off.”

John had overheard. He came up behind me. “I’m Tregarth. How may I—”

“I know you are. I have been trying for days to see you. If you don’t let me in, I will sit outside the door and—and do something disruptive.”

She was trying to look fierce, but I have never seen a countenance or a form so unintimidating, or heard a threat so absurd. John passed his hand over his mouth to hide a smile, and waved me back. “Do come in, Miss—Ms.—Mrs.—”

“My card.” She handed it to him and swept into the room. Schmidt rose gallantly to his feet; Saida poked Feisal, who was sunk in happy dreams of Tutankhamon, and he followed suit.

“Oh, yes,” John said. “I remember now. I don’t believe we ever met, though. You dealt solely with my mother…”

His voice trailed off. A series of rapid, strong emotions passed over his face, and then he burst out, “You were the one who broke into the house and searched the attic!”

“Please.” She looked up at him from under the hat. “Please don’t shout at me, it makes me very nervous, and when I am nervous I start shouting back. Just let me explain. I have done wrong and I am here to confess and to make restitution. I don’t know what came over me!”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt, at John. “Madam, do not be alarmed. No one will shout at you while I am here.”

“How kind you are.” She smiled at him. Up at him. She had a dimple. From a chain round her neck, barely visible in the vee of her prim blouse, hung a fat gold ring. The Ring. An exact duplicate of the one Schmidt owned. A hideous foreboding came over me.

“Please have a seat,” said Schmidt the chivalrous. “May I offer you a beer, Miss—Ms.—”

He snatched the card from John’s hand and looked at it. “Ah! It comes back to me now. I know your name. I know all of them!”

“How many does she have?” I asked, unwillingly distracted.

“Three, is it not?” Schmidt got a modest smile of acknowledgment. “Two are noms de plume, you understand.”

“Then the name on the note you left—”

“Is my real name.” She smiled apologetically. “I have to use it when I travel, because of credit cards and passports and that sort of thing. I know it is confusing. I get mixed up myself.”

“But the pseudonyms are necessary,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Because of your many admiring readers. I wrote to you once a fan letter, and you sent me an autograph.”

“I remember. You asked for a photograph, and I was sorry to refuse, but I make it a rule never to—”

“Send photos as if you were some sort of media celebrity,” Schmidt cried. “An admirable attitude. I fully understood.”

“Would you like the rest of us to leave?” John inquired in a devastatingly polite voice.

Schmidt said “Hmph” and the woman—whose name I still didn’t know—turned pink. “Let me make my confession, please. It was I who broke into your family home, I who searched your flat, I who have followed you across Europe in various disguises. I was temporarily deranged.”

John leaned over and delicately removed the hat. They looked each other in the eye. The corners of his lips turned up and he said, “Yet I suspect you rather enjoyed it, didn’t you? Especially the disguises.”

A fleeting smile echoed his. Then she said primly, “That is not the point. You see, the journals your mother sold me some time ago formed the basis for a very successful series of novels. Then—then I ran out of journals! I knew there must be more, since there were gaps in the chronology, but your mother denied having them, and she refused to let me search for myself. I was desperate.”

“Why didn’t you just make something up?” Saida asked interestedly. “Isn’t that what novelists do?”

“No, she could not do that,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Not a writer of integrity like this one, whose work has always been based on true history.”

“Thank you for understanding,” said the writer of integrity, who had just admitted to having broken into two different dwellings. “However, that does not excuse what I did. I found three of the missing journals in the attic of your home, Mr. Tregarth (you really ought to get someone in to clean the place properly). I took them. I will return them if you insist, but I beg you will accept my check and my heartfelt apologies instead.”

Leaning against the back of the sofa, John said solemnly, “How much?”

“Stop teasing her,” I exclaimed. She was genuinely repentant, and very short. I have a soft spot for women like that.

“I think she’s rather enjoying that too,” said John. He got a fleeting but unregenerate grin in reply. “All right. Same price as the others. Agreed?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you so much.” She only hesitated for a second. “And if you should know of any more…”

“Have you searched the library of the FEPEA headquarters?” Saida asked. She had recognized a kindred spirit, even if this one was pretending to be a sheep.

“I tried, but I did not succeed. And that is one of the reasons why I have been trying to talk to you, Mr. Tregarth. That house, which is sacred to the memories of your distinguished ancestors, is now occupied by a group of suspicious individuals. When I approached the house five days ago—”

“With the intent of committing another burglary?” John broke in.

“Who cares?” I exclaimed. “Tell us about these individuals.”

“I meant to proceed with complete decorum this time” was the indignant reply. “I had observed evidence of someone being in residence, so I knocked at the door. Eventually it was opened by a person who spoke emphatically to me in Arabic. I do not understand the language well, but his gestures made his meaning clear. When I offered my card, he shut the door in my face.”

“Good God,” Feisal exclaimed. “You must have a guardian angel looking after you. You might have been killed or kidnapped.”

“They wouldn’t risk violence,” I said. “They wanted to avoid anything that would draw attention to them. Five days ago, you said?”

“Yes. That was why I was emboldened to approach Mr. Tregarth, since I felt he ought to be warned of their presence. I hope—I do most sincerely hope—that my failure to speak out has not caused trouble. I can’t help but notice you appear to have been injured.”

She certainly couldn’t, since John had insisted on a sling and a copious application of bandages to the cuts on his hand and cheek. He murmured something vague and deprecatory, and I said, “It wasn’t your fault, you tried your best.”

“You are most kind. I also felt obliged to inform him that his assistant is a venal young man who does not deserve his trust. He charged me a hundred pounds for the use of the key to your flat.”

“Ah,” I said.

John cleared his throat. “I appreciate your telling me.”

“It was my duty.” She picked up her hat and rose. “Thank you for overlooking my malefactions. I will send a check tomorrow.”

Schmidt bounded up. “I will escort you back to your hotel.”

“No, no, I have taken enough of your time. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Herr Doktor.”