Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. “Such beautiful weapons, to be treated so cavalierly. They should be cleaned and replaced.”

“Not by you, Schmidt,” I said. “Ashraf, you had better get some of your henchmen in here to repair the damage before the expedition arrives, or you’ll have some explaining to do to.”

“I suppose that is true,” Ashraf admitted. Something crunched; he lifted his foot and examined the sole of his brogue. “Broken glass. Where did that come from?”

“In the mad rush to the rescue last night, someone knocked over one of the display cases,” John said, looking into the library. He bent over and delicately extracted a knife from amid the shards of glass. “Nice weapon.”

“The founders must have been a bloodthirsty lot,” I said.

“Life was hazardous in those days,” John said, admiring the knife. It was a good eight inches long, and showed signs of use.

“Never mind the nostalgia,” Feisal growled. “Where’s Tutankhamon?”

John came back into the study. He put the knife down on the table. “Here.”

“I tell you, we looked everywhere,” Feisal insisted.

“You were looking for a coffin-shaped box approximately six feet long,” John said.

The words fell like lumps of lead thudding onto a defenseless head. Feisal’s jaw dropped. Ashraf choked. Saida said calmly, “I thought so.”

John went to the file boxes piled in the corner. They were of heavy cardboard, squarish in shape, none longer than three feet. The one on top was about a foot square. With the slow deliberation of a magician preparing to produce a rabbit from a hat, John removed the lid and lifted a few loose papers. The head of Tutankhamon smiled shyly up at us.

“Ham,” I said. “Show off. Charlatan.”

“They broke him into pieces,” Ashraf wailed.

“He was already in pieces,” I reminded Ashraf.

Saida hovered over the box, uttering little moans of distress. In an effort to console her, I said, “They seem to have packed him quite carefully—cotton wool all around, nice sturdy boxes.”

Feisal rushed at the other boxes. Two legs, half a torso, the other half, arms. He was all there. Or rather, all of him was there, except for the hand that had been sent to Ashraf. Feet and the second hand occupied a separate container. While the others unpacked Tut, John stood to one side, nursing his arm and looking superior. Schmidt settled down in the director’s chair and began feeding the cat chicken from one of the lunch boxes he had brought. His mustache was twitching. Either he was deep in thought or he was trying not to laugh. Laughter was inapropos, but the situation did have an insane touch of black humor. I felt as if I were at a wake, there was so much groaning and gnashing of teeth.

Ashraf was the first to get his wits together. Unlike Feisal and Saida, he was less concerned with poor old Tut than with saving his reputation. He snatched the box containing the head. “We’ve got to put him back. Right now, before word leaks out. Feisal, start loading those boxes into the car.”

Schmidt looked up. “Now, in broad daylight, with tourists and guards in the Valley watching every move you make?”

“No, we can’t do that,” Feisal exclaimed. He snatched the box back from Ashraf. “Damn it, be careful. Don’t joggle him.”

“He won’t mind,” I said. “He’s dead.”

Feisal gave me a hateful look. Ashraf stroked his freshly shaven chin. “We must think,” he muttered. “Think before we act. Tonight, after the Valley is closed…”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” John drawled. “Take your own advice, Ashraf, and think this through. Aren’t you even slightly interested in the identity of the mastermind? You ought to hold a personal grudge; he was the one who bashed you on the head the other night.”

“We know who it was. Your assistant—I forget his name—”

“As I keep telling you, it’s not that simple. There’s no hurry. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable and let me explain?”

“Not another lecture,” I said.

“At the end of which,” said John, nostrils flaring with annoyance, “I will produce the real instigator of this affair. Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen.”

Grudgingly and grumbling, the rest of us took our places around the table. The head of Tutankhamon, placed tenderly on the table by Feisal, lent a macabre note to the proceedings. The solemnity of the meeting was somewhat marred by Schmidt’s passing round the box of chicken legs. (The cat had eaten the breasts.)

“If I may,” said Schmidt, “I would like to say a few words.”

“By all means,” said John, with a gracious inclination of his head.

“Thank you,” said Schmidt, graciously inclining his head. “Referring, John, to your deductions of last night: It seems to me that you left certain matters unexplained. The unfortunate Alan may have been able to locate the group you mentioned by getting access to your private files, but if he wanted money, why devise such a bizarre, complex scheme? Why Tutankhamon instead of an artifact he could sell on the illicit antiquities market?”

“I’m glad you asked,” John said. They nodded at each other again. Clearly they had set this charade up, the two of them. Just for the fun of infuriating Ashraf, or for some other reason? John kept sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch.

“Why Tutankhamon, indeed? The only logical answer was that Alan was working with someone else—someone whose primary motive was not financial. We won’t be able to question Alan for a long time, if ever. But I think this is how it came about.

“Alan was approached by an individual who had conceived the idea of embarrassing the SCA by making off with one of its most conspicuous treasures. At the outset he believed he was dealing with me. Alan convinced him that he, Alan, had taken over that aspect of the business. Alan also pointed out that the group of people who carried out the actual theft would expect to be paid, and paid handsomely. There was no way of raising that amount of money except by holding the mummy for ransom.”

“So it was the other guy who proposed stealing Tut,” I said. “But that means…That means he…Who, damn it?”

“Can’t you guess?” John’s smile was maddeningly superior.

I looked at Ashraf, who was looking at Feisal, who was looking at Saida, who was watching John, her lips slightly parted.

John looked at his watch.

Schmidt couldn’t stand it any longer. He sprang to his feet, pointing at the doorway. “Perlmutter! Jan Perlmutter. Who else!”

The doorway remained unhelpfully empty of Jan Perlmutter.

“Don’t be silly, Schmidt,” I said. “You just want him to be the villain because you’re still mad at him.”

“Schmidt is, as always, correct,” John said resignedly.

Ashraf sat up with a start. “Perlmutter? From the Altes Museum in Berlin? He’s behind this? Why? How?”

“You were driving him crazy,” John said simply. “During our interview with him in Berlin, Perlmutter was practically frothing at the mouth when he talked about preserving antiquities. It was as though he had a God-given right to defend them from the barbarians—as defined by him. He is, to put it simply, over the edge. Most of you archaeological types are somewhat demented, you know. Look at the way you and Feisal have been carrying on about the bloody mummy. A sane person wouldn’t give a damn what happened to it.”

“But Herr Doktor Perlmutter cared,” Saida said.

“You prove my point,” John said. He looked again at his watch, glanced at the door, and scowled.

“He planned to return it, unhurt,” Saida insisted. “We must give him credit for that.”

“Credit be damned,” Ashraf said furiously. “I will see that he suffers for this, and for his violence against me. I will catch a plane to Berlin tomorrow, after we have returned Tutankhamon to his tomb.”