Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

The matter of the Trojan gold 4gave me an excuse to contact John, through the anonymous channels that were the only ones I knew. To be honest, I was surprised when he responded. He had once told me I brought him nothing but bad luck.

His luck didn’t improve. He got me out of trouble a couple of times, and the second rescue resulted in a considerable amount of damage to John himself. This was decidedly against his principles. He had once explained them to me: ‘It is impossible to convince some people of the error of their ways without hitting them as often and as hard as possible. I simply object to people hitting me.’

The Trojan gold affair had ended with another event John undoubtedly resented as much as he hated being hit by people. I had taken ruthless advantage of a man who was battered, bruised, and bloody to force him to admit he loved me. He had used the word before, but always in context – Shakespeare or John Donne or some other literary glant. The phrases I had wrung out of him that day were boringly banal and dire. They had no literary merit whatever.

It had been ten months since that momentous event. I had seen John only three times, but almost every week I’d received some message on a postcard or a silly present or a few words on my answering machine – just enough to let me know he was all right.

The last postcard had arrived at the end of August – six weeks ago. There had been nothing since.

I got up and went to the washbasin to rinse the jelly off my hand. I’d have to leave the museum and call Karl from a kiosk or a café; I didn’t want Gerda listening in.

The ‘individual’ referred to in the message from Burckhardt’s agent had to be John. He was the only crook I knew that well, and I was one of the few people in the world who knew him that well, one of the few who had seen him au naturel, who would probably recognize him no matter what disguise he assumed. He couldn’t hide the shape of his hands or his long lashes or . . .

Six weeks without a word. How could he do this to me, the bastard? Love had nothing to do with it. I was inclined to take that declaration of his with a grain of salt, and I had never returned the compliment; but if he meant to end the relationship, the least he owed me was a courteous dismissal.

It had of course occurred to me that John might have planted the message himself. He’d done it before. If that was the case I wouldn’t be in danger. John was no killer. (‘What, never? Well, hardly ever.’) I had known all along I was going on that damned cruise. As Burckhardt had said, it was an opportunity not to be missed.

IV

I’ve never been very good at poker. I quit playing with Karl Feder a couple of years ago. We had agreed to meet at a café. He was waiting when I arrived and before I so much as opened my mouth I saw he was smirking. He had known I’d fall for it.

I said, ‘Supposing I did agree – I’m not agreeing, but supposing I did – why couldn’t I go as a tourist? I don’t want to make a fool of myself pretending to knowledge I don’t possess.’

‘Because there is no way you could have saved the money for such a trip,’ Karl said. His voice was as smooth as the whipped cream on his coffee. (Bavarians put whipped cream on everything except sauerkraut. That’s one of the reasons why I love Bavaria.) ‘Oh, yes, we could invent an aunt who died and left you her fortune, or some such piece of fiction; but who would believe it? Why would you spend your windfall on such a trip? As you said, this is not your main area of interest. No, let me finish.’ He raised his finger and shook it in grandfatherly admonition. ‘The story will be that you agreed to replace a friend who was taken ill at the last moment. You are cheating a little, that is understood, but who would not, given such an opportunity? You will be lecturing on – um, let me see. Ah! On medieval Egyptian art! That will be perfect, nicht?’

‘Nicht,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything about . . . Oh, hell, what’s the use? There’s just one thing, Karl. Schmidt.’

‘What about him? Everyone knows he has a fondness for you; he would give you leave of absence for such a chance as this.’

‘No! I mean, yes, he would, that’s just the trouble. He’ll want to come too!’

‘So? He will not know your real purpose.’

‘Oh, God.’ I clutched at my head with both hands. My hair promptly fell down over my face. I had been experimenting with braids that week, and I hadn’t quite got the knack of winding them around my head. No matter how many bobby pins I stuck in, the structure had a tendency to collapse under pressure.

Karl began collecting bobby pins from the table while I tried to explain. ‘Schmidt has the most lurid imagination of anyone I know. Even if I were an innocent tourist he’d assume I had an ulterior motive – something romantic, as he calls it. He’ll poke his nose into everything and screw everything up and get himself in trouble, and I’ll have to get him out of it. If Schmidt goes, I don’t. That’s flat.’

Karl Feder looked thoughtful. He wasn’t as familiar with Schmidt’s peculiarities as I was, but he had heard a thing or two. ‘Ah, I see. Well, my dear Vicky, do not worry. We will think of some way of preventing him.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘You’re not to hurt him, Karl. No hit-and-run or broken legs.’

‘Would we do such a thing?’

‘You might not, but if I read Herr Burckhardt and his crowd aright, they wouldn’t hesitate. I’m not kidding, Karl. If you touch a hair of Schmidt’s moustache I’ll blow the whole deal wide open.’

‘I believe you,’ Karl said.

‘You damn well better. All right. If you can get Schmidt out of the way, I’ll do it. What happens next?’

‘We will handle all the arrangements. Your passport is in order, I assume? Good. Visa, tickets, and other necessary documents will be delivered to you within a few days. My secretary will make the appointments for you, but she cannot take the inoculations – hepatitis, typhoid, typhus – ’

‘Urck,’ I said. I hate shots. ‘Is all that necessary? I thought this was a luxury cruise.’

‘We cannot risk your falling ill,’ Karl said seriously. He took a thick manila envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to me. ‘I must ask you to sign a voucher acknowledging receipt of the money. We will supply a medical kit, camera, binoculars, and the like, but I assume a young lady will want to purchase her own clothing and other personal effects.’

It was a very thick envelope. Karl’s smile was very bland. I sighed. ‘We have already determined what you are, madam,’ I quoted. ‘All that is left is to determine your price.’

‘Bitte?’ said Karl.

‘Never mind.’

‘We will take care of everything,’ Karl repeated. ‘You need do nothing . . . Excuse me, what was it you said?’

He knew perfectly well what I had said. He prefers to believe a lady doesn’t use words like that.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. ‘Anything else?’

Karl reached into his pocket again. The object he withdrew was a slick, brightly coloured brochure. It had been folded once, lengthwise, to fit in his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to me.

On the cover, under a tastefully designed title, was a photograph of the Sphinx, with the pyramids of Giza behind it. It was a gorgeous photo; the pyramids were a soft pale gold, the sky above them was a bright clear blue. The smile on the face of the Sphinx has been described in a number of ways – mysterious, enigmatic, contemplative. At that moment it seemed to me that it bore a distinct resemblance to the smug smirk on Karl Feder’s face.

V

Two weeks later I sat on a rock at Giza contemplating the real thing. I was trying to avoid the eyes of the Sphinx. It was still smirking.