Elizabeth Peters - Night Train to Memphis

His lips touched mine and I threw caution to the winds and kissed him back so hard he let out a grunt.

‘I knew you didn’t mean it,’ he said complacently. ‘The men of my family are notoriously irresistible to women. Well, not my father; by all accounts, particularly those of my mother, he was a dull stick in every way. But Grandad was quite a lad in his time, and my great-grandfather has become something of a – ’

‘I don’t want to hear about your great-grandfather. I love you. Did I mention that?’

‘I wouldn’t object to hearing it again.’ But he held me off, and he was no longer smiling. ‘It took long enough to wring it out of you. What were you afraid of?’

There were too many answers to that question, some obvious, some not. He had to know most of them.

I tried to pass it off. ‘You know me. Independent, bull-headed – ’

‘And afflicted with bad dreams.’

‘Oh, God. Did I . . .’ I had. It was coming back to me. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right. You stopped crying and babbling when I got hold of you. Was it the old nightmare?’

‘Yes. Uh – no. Not that one.’

‘I thought not. You went on like Lady Macbeth.’

‘Blood and . . . roses.’ I remembered now. So that was why I hadn’t woken completely. ‘How embarrassing. My subconscious isn’t awfully original.’

His mouth relaxed. ‘I am willing to overlook a few minor flaws in a woman who is so talented in other areas.’

‘Are you sure you feel up to . . . Damn it, don’t laugh! That wasn’t intentional.’

‘I shoutd hope not. Trite and vulgar.’

I was only conscious of the movements of his hands and lips until he started violently and lifted his head. ‘Oh, Christ! Isn’t that – ’

It could only be. Schmidt was humming like a drunken bumblebee. I didn’t recognize the tune. Nobody could have recognized the tune.

‘It’s all right,’ I murmured tenderly. ‘I locked the door.’

‘I can’t.’ He sounded like a nervous virgin. ‘Not with Schmidt out there. I haven’t fully recovered from the time he broke the door down just when I – ’

‘He was labouring under a slight misapprehension.’ I drew his head back to my breast. ‘He won’t break this door down. He’s very romantic’

‘Then he’ll be listening at the keyhole,’ John mumbled. ‘I’ve become very fond of the little imp but I draw the line at providing him with vicarious entertainment.’

‘Try to rise above it,’ I suggested.

‘That was deliberate. Well, perhaps with a little of the proper sort of encouragement . . .’

‘How’s this?’

‘A step in the right direction, certainly. Do go on.’

‘More precious than jewels, more precious than gold,’ I murmured. ‘John, if you don’t stop laughing, Schmidt will think we’re telling jokes and want to come in.’

I figured we could count on half an hour. It didn’t seem that long, but it was actually forty minutes later when Schmidt raised his voice to a level that could not be ignored, even by me. Trust Schmidt to select an appropriate air with which to serenade us. This one was about a cold-blooded hoodlum named Pretty Boy Floyd. Folk music, like Schmidt, glamorizes outlaws; according to the lyrics of the ballad, Pretty Boy was a misunderstood martyr who had given Christmas dinners to families on relief.

‘I’ll head him off,’ I said, removing myself from John and the bed, in that order. ‘Stay there and rest.’

‘I don’t need to rest. I was just getting warmed up. Are you going to put on some clothes or have you decided to reward Schmidt for refraining from kicking the door in?’

‘I don’t have any clothes,’ I said bitterly. ‘Except that filthy, wrinkled, disgusting outfit I have worn day and night for too long. I will not put it on. I’m going to burn it first chance I get and dance around the bonfire.’

‘Widdershins,’ John suggested. ‘Have a sheet, then. You don’t want to get the old chap too worked up.’

He watched interestedly as I wrapped the sheet around me and tried to figure out how to keep it there. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t got the hang of it. Why don’t you come over here and let me show you?’

‘Some other time.’

‘Excellent suggestion.’

Schmidt had enjoyed himself with ‘the room service.’ I’ve never seen such a spread – everything from pastries to salads and from coffee to champagne. And, of course, beer.

‘I did not know whether you would like breakfast or Mittagessen,’ he explained, pulling out a chair. ‘So I ordered both. How is Sir John? How do you feel? Did you have a pleasant time making – ’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘You look very glamorous.’

I pushed my tangled hair back from my face. ‘I look very terrible. I don’t even have a comb. I need clothes, makeup, a toothbrush – ’

‘There is much to do,’ Schmidt said, around a mouthful of pâté. ‘We must organize ourselves.’

‘What’s happened since last night?’

‘I will wait to tell you until Sir John joins us. Perhaps I should go and – ’

‘No!’ I shoved Schmidt back into his chair. ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’

Knowing Schmidt, he was. He was more kempt than I, though he was wearing the same grubby clothes. After submitting with only a faint grimace to Schmidt’s embrace, he joined us at the table.

‘Eat, eat,’ Schmidt crooned. ‘And I will tell you the news.’

The Queen of the Nile had docked at midnight After the briefest of inspections the authorities had ordered the hold sealed, arrested the entire crew, including my shipmates Sweet and Bright, and carried a protesting Larry away.

‘Not to prison, though,’ Schmidt said. ‘It is a great embarrassmeut to all concerned. Not only is he an American citizen, but he is a powerful man with many friends. I do not know what will be done with him.’

‘Nothing,’ John said cynically. ‘At worst he’ll end up in an expensive nursing home till he recovers from his fit of temporary insanity. The fact that it went on for ten years will be tactfully ignored. What about the others?’

‘That is what we must discuss.’ Schmidt’s round face was unusually serious. ‘For you, my friend, are one of the others and even the dangers you have incurred in order to redeem your initial – er – error will not save you if the truth comes out. Feisal too must be cleared of blame. We are three intelligent people; I feel certain we can invent a scenario that will achieve those ends.’

If the situation hadn’t been so serious I would have enjoyed listening to those two concoct a plot. The greatest collaborators of fiction couldn’t have done better; Schmidt’s inventive imagination had been developed by years of reading sensational fiction, and John had always been the world’s champion liar.

Getting Feisal off the hook was the easiest part. He hadn’t been involved with the restoration of the tomb and he could reasonably claim he had suspected nothing until after Jean-Louis’s death. His activities thereafter warranted a medal, not a prison sentence. If all four of us told the same story and stuck to it, it would be hard to prove we were lying.

‘What about Larry?’ I asked.

‘It will be his word against ours,’ Schmidt began.

John shook his head. ‘Forget about Blenkiron. His wisest course is to say nothing and admit nothing. There will be a behind-the-scenes deal made, in order to avoid embarrassment all around. Egypt will get its treasures back and will accept with proper appreciation the gift of the Institute for Archaeological Research, and the blame will be placed on the shoulders of Max’s crowd – and on mine.’

‘No, no,’ Schmidt said energetically. ‘I have it all worked out, you wlll see.’