Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

‘Or why a man might prefer a woman who has been dead for four thousand years to certain of the living specimens,’ said John.

‘Why, John, how cynical!’ Sweet exclaimed.

Mary had heard; her lips tightened and colour darkened her cheeks.

The trailer stopped and we climbed out. A hot breeze whipped the ends of my scarf across my face.

We were at the foot of the cliffs. High above I could see the entrances to the tombs. Once visitors had had to scramble up the steep, dangerous slope at the base of the rocks, but the need for tourist dollars and pounds, marks and yen had prompted the building of easier paths and several flights of steps. Straight ahead the trek began with a flight of long shallow stairs. Some of our party had already started up.

Perched on one of the steps was a figure wearing a pair of enormous sunglasses and the biggest, snowiest pith helmet I had ever beheld. He was surrounded by a pride of mewing cats and he was feeding them scraps which he took from the innumerable pockets of his khaki jacket. His comments, addressed to the cats, came to my ears like the tolling of a funeral bell.

‘Do not push; it is rude. There is plenty for all. Ach, you are a bad Mutti; let the little ones eat first.’

Behind me a voice said hollowly, ‘I don’t deserve this. Admittedly I have not led a wholly exemplary life, but no one deserves this. Even Jack the Ripper or Attila the Hun . . .’

My sentiments exactly. I couldn’t say so because my vocal cords were paralyzed. Please, God, I thought, let me be suffering from sunstroke or schizophrenia or something harmless like that.

Schmidt looked up. His bushy white moustache flapped and his cute little pink mouth opened in a broad grin.

‘Excuse me,’ John said, shoving me aside. He set off with that deceptively leisurely stride that could cover ground faster than a run. Intent on me, Schmidt didn’t notice him at first; when he did, a look of rapture spread over his face. John reached him before he could bellow out a greeting and bent over him.

‘Isn’t that adorable?’ The speaker was Mary. I had recovered enough to turn my head.

‘Adorable,’ I repeated, in the same doom-ridden voice John had employed.

‘That dear old gentleman feeding the cats.’ Mary slipped her arm in mine. ‘I should have thought of bringing some scraps; all the animals here are so neglected, so hungry.’ She let out a fond little laugh. Her eyes were shining as she looked at John, who had seated himself on the step next to Schmidt. John was doing the talking; Schmidt listened, open-mouthed.

‘John is so tenderhearted,’ Mary went on. ‘He loves cats.’

That was news to me. John certainly didn’t love Clara, who had disliked him on sight. She was an astute judge of character.

The cute little pussycats had given him an excuse to have a private and vital conversation with Schmidt, though. By the time we reached my boss, John had gone on ahead and Schmidt had finished serving breakfast to the pride. He heaved himself to his feet and let out the shriek the sight of John had aborted.

‘Vicky! Grüss Gott, good morning, hello! I am so glad to see you!’

‘What are you doing here, Schmidt?’ I inquired. My voice was very calm.

‘It was Fate, no less. I will tell you all about it later.’ Schmidt glanced at Mary and then back at me. His grin faded and he blinked rapidly. John must have told him. He’d have had to, in order to forestall any embarrassing references to former acquaintanceships. I wished to God I knew what other confidences had passed between the two.

I introduced Mary. Schmidt didn’t say much; he was very gallant with her, though, studying her pretty face intently. They were almost the same height.

She excused herself, saying that her husband was waiting for her. He hadn’t waited; he was already some distance ahead. She hurried after him.

‘My poor dear Vicky,’ Schmidt said gently. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. ‘Do not allow evil to enter your heart, my child.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Schmidt?’

‘You are not in despair?’ Schmidt peered up into my face from under the brim of his hat. ‘Well. Perhaps you are not. A woman with so many lovers as you – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I said.

Schmidt paid no attention; he’d heard me say that so often, the words just washed past his ears. ‘And it is not to be expected that all your lovers would remain faithful when you do nothing to encourage them and are, in fact, often very rude to them. Nein, nein, do not deny it, I have seen it myself. I only hope that Sir John did not marry this poor child on the rebounce, for that would not be fair to her. She seems a charming young lady.’

‘Schmidt . . .’ He waited expectantly; but I couldn’t think what to say. It was probably safer to say nothing at all until I had had a chance to find out what pack of lies John had told Schmidt. So I finished lamely, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘This is not, perhaps, the best place for an intimate conversation,’ Schmidt agreed. Feisal was bearing down – or up – on us, shepherding the last and slowest of the group – a very elderly English lady whose physical strength didn’t equal her zest for living.

Gallant as always, Schmidt whipped off his pith helmet and bowed from the approximate region of the waist. That part of him doesn’t bend easily. I introduced them and Feisal nodded. ‘Yes, Herr Doktor Schmidt; we were told you would be joining us here. Willkommen.’

‘But how well you speak German,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘You are our guide, my friend? Excellent! I have many questions. You can tell me – ’

‘It would be better, Dr Schmidt, if you waited until we reach the tombs. The others are already far ahead.’

‘My fault, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Blessington (she had told me to call her Anna, but I couldn’t manage it yet) said cheerfully. ‘You young things are most kind to put up with my infirmities.’

Her smile included Schmidt, who puffed up to twice normal size and exclaimed, ‘I will carry you! Yes, yes, it will be a pleasure, an excuse to hold a beautiful woman in my arms!’

He’d have tried it, too. I looked meaningfully at Feisal, who said quickly, ‘No, no, Herr Schmidt, that is not fair; I saw her first. Anna, if you will allow me – ?’

Laughing, she allowed him. She couldn’t have weighed much, she was all bones and skin and gumption; even so, the ease with which Feisal mounted the stairs was an impressive demonstration of muscle. Schmidt trotted alongside, offering to take over whenever Feisal tired. They seemed to be having a very good time, so I said, ‘I’ll just run on ahead,’ and did so.

It was a long climb, up stairs and along winding paths, and the interval gave me time to think. The only positive aspect of the disaster of Schmidt was that in this at least John and I were on the same side. He didn’t want Schmidt involved any more than I did.

On an earlier occasion John had somehow managed to convince Schmidt that he was an ‘undercover agent’ of some variety, even though Schmidt was well aware that John had been trying to pull off an illegal deal involving antique jewellery when I first encountered him. John and Schmidt were perfectly matched: one the world’s most accomplished teller of tall tales, the other happy to believe any lie so long as it was ‘romantic’

John wouldn’t dare tell Schmidt he was on another ‘secret mission’ this time. But Schmidt wasn’t stupid, even if he was romantic. How could I, or John, possibly explain how we happened to turn up on the same cruise?

Coincidences happen. This was a pretty hard coincidence to swallow, but John might have been desperate enough to insist on it. He had only had about ten seconds to come up with a story that would convince Schmidt we weren’t engaged in some dangerous, exciting bit of undercover work, in which Schmidt would of course want to participate.