Authors: Joan Hess
“No,” he said in an undertone, his lips unmoving. He backed me into a corner and added, “Say that you need to look in on Caron and Inez, then go to the suite. Mahmoud’s number is on a pad by the telephone in our bedroom. If you can’t get through to him, call Bakr.”
“Was Nabil poisoned?” I asked.
“Do I look like a toxicologist?”
“I have no idea, but you’re in danger of looking like a person who’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight.”
“The lab will run tests,” he said. “Nabil’s color isn’t good, and he has some sort of respiratory difficulty. A heart attack could account for that. Poisoning seems far-fetched. Will you please make the call?”
Despite Lord Bledrock’s assertion that they couldn’t step over the body on the floor, everyone seemed to be finding ways to get to the bar to replenish drinks. Magritta resumed jabbing Nabil’s back, which would be covered with small bruises if he survived. I slipped out the door and hurried down the corridor. I had no more confidence in my ability to make a local call than I did in my ability to make an international one, but Caron or Inez could assist me. I faltered as I remembered they had gone to the lobby for the evening to play cards with some American teenagers they’d met in the computer room. This was not a call I wanted to make through the concierge.
I was debating options when Samuel came out of the elevator.
We were equally surprised to be staring at each other underneath an inept painting of a sunset behind the pyramids in Giza.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Malloy?” he asked. “You look awfully pale.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Lord Bledrock’s party. He invited me. It’s not my idea of a good time, but I wanted to ask your husband if he’d heard anything more about Buffy. I don’t have any contacts at the embassy, and I can’t get past the receptionist. I can’t stand not doing anything to find her.” He sat down on the bench provided for those guests who needed a few minutes to recover from the arduous fifteen-second elevator ride before they continued to their rooms. “Has he?”
“Has he what?” I said distractedly.
“Heard anything more about Buffy? Do you need me to help you to your suite, Mrs. Malloy?”
“No, he hasn’t, and I don’t need any help. When did you get back from Abu Simbel?”
Samuel gave me a puzzled look. “Earlier today. The captain arranged for me to be taken ashore before breakfast, and I went directly to the airport. I had this crazy idea that Buffy would be in the hotel, gloating over all the fuss about her abduction.”
“You think she arranged it?” I asked.
He looked down at the carpet. “Why would she? The idea’s insane. It’s more likely that the horsemen came to their senses and dumped her somewhere. Instead of telling anyone, she decided to take advantage of her temporary celebrity status as a victim. When she broke off a fingernail at the oasis at Farafra I thought she was going to demand a lavish funeral for it, with professional mourners and a gold coffin.”
“Well, there’s been no word about her, and she certainly hasn’t checked into any hotels in Luxor.” I turned toward the suite, then stopped. “When did Lord Bledrock invite you?”
“This afternoon, at the excavation. There’s been quite a
buzz out there the last few days. Magritta’s crew uncovered a stone step. When I got there, there must have been two dozen people standing around the rim of the pit, watching and offering advice. Wallace was photographing every pebble. Magritta got so fed up with Shannon that she began shrieking at her in German. I don’t know what she said, but I’ll bet it wasn’t flattering.”
“A stone step? When we were there last week, we saw steps leading down along the edge of the hut foundations. Lots of them.”
Samuel gave me a condescending smile, thus earning my animosity in all future encounters. “This particular step dates back to the original construction, and suggests there may be a tomb. Considering its proximity to Tut’s tomb, it may be of the same era. The excavation has been blocked from view from the path with canvas screens, and the Supreme Council of Antiquities was notified. Shannon King alerted the media, of course. If something of significance is found, she’s a lock for the department chairmanship.”
“How thrilling for her,” I said. My first husband had thrown himself into the petty viciousness of departmental politics. Plotting in the faculty lounge was no more than an entertaining pastime. They were satisfied to cause dissension on a daily basis and gloat at wine and cheese affairs on the weekends.
Samuel stood up. “If you don’t need help, I guess I’ll go on to Lord Bledrock’s party. Please don’t repeat what I said about Buffy. I’m truly worried about her.”
“Run along,” I said. “I need to check on Caron and Inez.”
“They’re downstairs, playing poker with some kids. Your daughter looked annoyed, but her friend was raking in the pound notes.” Samuel remained where he stood, clearly worried about me. “I saw them not more than five minutes ago, and they’re fine. Ahmed is keeping an eye on the group. No alcoholic beverages or anything like that.”
“Wonderful.” I spun around and continued to the suite, hoping he wouldn’t follow me. Once inside, I locked the door and went into the bedroom to find Mahmoud’s telephone
number. I punched the appropriate number for an outside line, then punched the remainder of the numbers and hoped for the best. Whoever answered at the police department did not speak English. I bleated Mahmoud’s name several times and at last was connected to someone else. It was not Mahmoud, but I conveyed the message and replaced the receiver, feeling as though I’d done my duty.
Instead of racing back to Lord Bledrock’s suite, I sat down on the bed and tried to sort things out. Nabil had been poised to make some sort of dramatic announcement but had fallen on his face instead. A step had been uncovered at the excavation site that aspired to be known as KV64. Buffy was in the clutches of twenty-first-century desert tribesmen. Samuel was back, but Sittermann was not. My apartment had been searched. Inez knew how to play poker. Everything deserved to be qualified with “maybe.”
I was contemplating the wisdom of a couple of aspirin when Salima came into the parlor and said, “Hello? Anybody here? I do so need a martini.”
“I locked the door,” I said as I came out of the bedroom. “How is it that nobody even notices?”
Salima was wearing very tight jeans, a silk blouse, and high heels. Her hair was artfully tousled and her makeup deftly applied, as if she’d flown in from Paris or Rome. “Caron and Inez didn’t lock their door. Did I mention I need a martini? I’ve been invited to Lord Bledrock’s soiree, but I cannot face those people when I’m sober. Shall I make one for you?”
It was a moot issue, in that she was already taking out glasses and a bottle of gin from the shelf next to the mini-bar. “Yes, thank you,” I said as I sat down. “How was Cairo?”
“Tedious. I hear there was some excitement on the cruise.” She set down a martini in front of me and draped herself across a chair, her high heels dangling from her toes. “I have a vague memory of the American girl. Not the brightest jewel on the tiara, if I recall. Her boyfriend isn’t unattractive, but he’s shady. He has the look of someone
who’d rob a tomb.” She laughed, then gulped down her drink. “Based on no more than a few minutes of conversation, mind you. He was undoubtedly the president of some college honor society and an inspiration to family and friends. After all, his field of expertise is Graeco-Roman architecture. Mine is mummified pussycats.”
“Why did you come here instead of the party at the other end of the corridor?”
“Because I want to hear the dirt. Was the girl grabbed by a sheik in a voluminous white robe, with a dagger clutched between his teeth, mounted on a stallion?”
“A couple of scruffy guys,” I admitted. “You might pretend to be worried about her. The rest of us are.”
Salima stopped smiling. “I am worried about her, Mrs. Malloy. This could cause an international situation. My father and I went to a reception at the American Embassy to meet a flock of scholars from a university. There was a palpable tension, simply because we’re Arabs. I don’t want to be harangued on the street when I’m in New York, or heckled while giving a lecture in D.C. I already get enough dirty looks in airports. What happened at Wadi es Sebua?”
I told her what I’d seen, which wasn’t much, and after a second martini told her what Sittermann had said. “I have no theory how he could have found that out,” I continued. “My husband’s… connections didn’t have that information.”
“But now they do,” she said succinctly, not bothering to make the obvious comment. “Did she have her passport in the cabin?”
“Samuel didn’t know. He mentioned that she left the majority of her luggage here at the hotel, maybe in a storage room in the basement.”
Salima sat up. “I’ve always dreamed of exploring a tomb at the bottom of a stairwell. Howard Carter stayed here. He might have left mummies propped against the wall and scarabs scattered on the floor. I think we should have a look.”
It was a terrible idea, and I said as much as we took the elevator to the lobby. Ahmed was behind the desk, snapping
at his underlings. In some unseen corner, I heard Inez chortle as she no doubt dragged in another pot. Bellmen in white coats and red felt fezzes eyed us indifferently.
“Now what?” I said as Salima and I huddled behind a pillar.
“You’re the next best thing to a master criminal, Mrs. Malloy. You tell me,” Salima whispered.
“I saw a door marked “Staff Only” past the computer room. It might lead to the lower levels.” I stopped and frowned at her. “I am unfamiliar with the strategies of a master criminal, Salima. The most heinous crime I’ve committed involved overdue library books.” Technically speaking, this wasn’t true, but I saw no reason to accept responsibility for her rash scheme.
We strolled across the lobby, ever so casually, and went down a few steps to the computer room. No one was there or at the counter where I supposed one arranged to run up an enormous bill. The door beyond it was ajar. As I clutched Salima’s elbow, we found ourselves in a dim, grubby hallway. Cleaning carts were lined against the wall. Machines clunked. Desperate moths fluttered around low-wattage bare bulbs. My shoes squeaked as we walked on the sticky floor past a freight elevator and a laundry room.
“Any more bright ideas?” I asked.
Salima opened a door, then quickly closed it. “Cleaning supplies. Your turn.”
I discovered a boiler not unlike the paleolithic one at my bookstore a million miles away in Farberville. “Your turn.”
We continued down the hallway in this fashion until I found a room crowded with suitcases and trunks. An open padlock hung from a bolt. I fumbled until I found the light switch, then dragged Salima inside. “My goodness,” I said, awed. “Most of these are tagged from the UK. The Brits are well equipped for the entire season.”
“Lord Bledrock brought six cases of gin, and Mrs. McHaver stockpiled enough scotch to keep the staff inebriated for a year,” Salima said from behind a stack of crates. “Neither of them would notice if I were to …”
“Don’t even think about it.” I began to peer at suitcases haphazardly piled in a corner. Some were battered from travel and covered with decals, others merely bruised. “Over here. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to share the blame.”
She joined me and we regarded three suitcases, all labeled with the name Franz. “Louis Vuitton,” Salima said, “and locked.”
“Your idea—and your call.”
“I think we should go up to the bar in the lobby and think about it over a martini.”
“If we have another martini, we won’t be able to find this room again.”
Salima sat down on a steamer trunk and rubbed her forehead. “Do you know how to pick locks?”
I sat down on a nearby trunk that appeared to have been in use since the Crimean War. “Only from what I’ve read in mystery novels, and they don’t include instructions. I’ve never had any luck with hairpins. Not that I have a hairpin.”
“Me, neither,” she said.
It was unlikely that we could remain in the room for much longer without being discovered by an employee. It would be challenging to explain our presence to hotel security, as well as to Ahmed and whoever else appeared on the scene. Such as Peter, who was surely aware of my absence by now. It had been over half an hour since I’d left Lord Bledrock’s party to make one simple phone call.
We both caught our breath as we heard a cart rumbling down the hall. Wordlessly we moved to a corner and crouched down behind a metal shelving unit for smaller suitcases and flimsy cardboard boxes held together with string and tape. The cart stopped by the door, and the padlock clicked. The sound was disheartening, at the very least. The cart continued on its way until we could not longer hear it.
“We seem to have a problem,” I said as we came out of hiding.
“But we don’t have to worry about dehydration. How unfortunate we don’t have proper glasses.”
“We need to work on an explanation for being here,” I said. “Our only crime so far is being in an unauthorized location, possibly with the intent to steal valuables. Let’s not compound the misdemeanor by drinking Mrs. McHaver’s cache.”
“It’s excellent scotch. Lord Bledrock has a bottle behind his bar, and I tried a wee drop. She wouldn’t begrudge us a few sips.”
“Will you please cut that out and pay attention? We can’t stay here all night. Peter’s already wondering why I’m not back at the party. Once he finds out I’m not in our suite or in the lobby, he’ll assume something dire happened to me. Mahmoud, the chief inspector, is on his way to the hotel.”
“Is he psychic?”
I told her about Nabil. “His arrival might have something to do with the excitement at the excavation. Have you heard about the portentous step?”
“There was a small twitter at the university yesterday,” she said. “Archeologists are always finding something or other that’s going to shatter all the prevailing theories. A step, a lintel, a shard with a partial hieroglyph, a bead—none of monumental significance. They act just as hysterically when they come across a scrap of bone from a goat that died five years ago.”
“Didn’t something like this happen last spring?”