Night Train to Memphis, page 12
Wishful thinking? I hoped not. Burckhardt had used the plural when he promised me protection. “Who?” I asked.
“If I knew I wouldn’t be talking to you.” Alice rubbed her forehead, as if it ached. It probably did. She went on, “I gather from the spy thrillers I’ve read that this is standard procedure. Minimal contacts, maximum anonymity.”
I’d read a few of the damned things myself. Ali had known me and Alice. If they had questioned him before they killed him… There wouldn’t necessarily be any marks on his body. Up-to-date torturers have all kinds of neat scientific devices at their disposal, including drugs.
“It couldn’t be Anton, could it?”
Her words made it as far as my ears but my brain refused to acknowledge them. “What?” I gasped.
“They’ll have to replace Ali,” Alice said. “Anton turned up this morning, out of the blue—”
“No! Are you crazy, or what? Schmidt isn’t…” I stopped to catch my breath. “The timing is too tight, Alice. They couldn’t have learned of Ali’s death until early this morning. Schmidt was already in Minya.”
“That’s true.” She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “No sense speculating, I guess. The situation won’t become critical until we get back to Cairo, and surely we’ll be contacted long before then—probably in Luxor. My advice would be to sit tight, play it cool, and be careful.”
It was excellent advice and I had every intention of following it—if I was allowed to.
After she had left I stood stock-still staring at the closed door. My heart was pounding as if I’d run a mile. Her suggestion that Schmidt might be Ali’s replacement was so far out that only a lunatic could believe it. Alice wasn’t a lunatic, though. Did she know something about Schmidt I didn’t know? Did other people know that same something?
Someone groaned. It had to be me; I was the only one there. “Impossible,” I informed myself. All other considerations aside, such as the possibility that I was prejudiced, condescending, and easily manipulated by a cute little, shrewd little actor, Schmidt couldn’t have gotten from Munich to Minya in three hours. I prayed with all my heart that the bad guys were as familiar with plane schedules as I was. I didn’t want them to think, as Alice had done, that Schmidt might be Ali’s replacement.
The telephone rang. Schmidt, of course. The sound of that fat, jolly, Father Christmas voice snapped me back into the real world. “Impossible,” I said.
“Was ist’s?” said Schmidt.
“I’m on my way, Schmidt.”
To judge by the image I saw in a mirror later on I must have selected clothes that were more or less coordinated, but I don’t know how I did it; I was thinking of other things.
The opposition seemed to be a lot more efficient than our group. They had fingered Ali, which was more than I had, and disposed of him without scruple or delay. Why now? I wondered. Just general tidiness, or had he been about to blow the whistle on one or all of them? He’d have to have solid evidence to do that—and they must have known he had it or they wouldn’t have taken the risk of committing murder at this stage.
Despite the record he’d managed to build up while hobnobbing with me, John wasn’t a killer. Admittedly that assessment depended to some extent on his own statements, which were far from reliable in other areas, but I was inclined to believe him. He could reasonably claim self-defense in both the examples to which I had been an eyewitness.
Or defense of me.
The phone distracted me from that uncomfortable train of thought. I didn’t bother answering, since I assumed it was Schmidt; I picked up my bag and headed out.
All prejudice aside, I couldn’t visualize John knocking Ali unconscious and holding his head underwater till he drowned. That wasn’t John’s style. Apparently he had got himself mixed up with a very nasty crowd. He had a bad habit of doing that.
Schmidt’s room was on the top deck, the sundeck, on the same side of the boat as mine. There were only four suites on that level—the choicest of all, I assumed, since Blenkiron had two of them.
Schmidt flung the door open before I could knock, and enveloped me in a huge hug. “At last! I was about to go in search of you. You are late.”
“No, I’m not. We didn’t settle on a time.”
His room was a tad bigger and fancier than mine. A fixed screen separated the sitting area from the bedroom and there were two overstuffed chairs, plus a long comfortable sofa. The sliding doors stood open, admitting a cool breeze and a breathtaking view of the sunset-reddened cliffs.
“We will sit on the balcony and admire the scenery,” Schmidt said, bustling around with glasses and bottles. “It is very pleasant, nicht? I have been on many cruise boats, but never one so luxurious as this.”
Like mine, his balcony was fringed with flowering plants. I edged cautiously onto it, telling myself nobody could drop anything on me here; there wasn’t another deck above this one. To my right I could see the prow—or maybe it was the stern—of one of the lifeboats. To the left a solid partition separated Schmidt’s balcony from the one next door. However, it wasn’t solid enough to muffle a voice as loud as Schmidt’s, and when he shouted cheerfully, “Sit, sit, my dear Vicky, and we will have a pleasant chat,” I said, “Who’s next door?”
“Ssssir…” Schmidt caught himself. “Mr. Tregarth and his wife.”
“Damn it, Schmidt,” I said savagely but softly. “That’s the precise reason I insisted on a private conversation. You’ve got to avoid slips like that.”
“Ach, yes, yes, I know. But what is the harm this time? You know and he knows—”
“Maybe she doesn’t.”
“They have gone downstairs.” Schmidt looked subdued. “You are right to remind me, though, Vicky. They have only been married a few weeks, and she is very young, very innocent. Perhaps he has not yet told her of his brave and perilous occupation. She is the sort of child one would wish to shield from the harsh realities of life, nicht?”
Down below I heard a rattle and clank that must have been the gangplank being drawn in. The boat began to move, gliding gently away from the shore. The eastern sky was darkening but the curving bay of cliffs glowed in reflected sunset light. A flock of egrets settling into the shallows looked like flying white flowers.
Schmidt was rambling on. “It may be that he will decide to retire from the service. A man of honor and of conscience would not wish to endanger his young bride or cause her a broken heart if he should—”
“It’s a nice plot, Schmidt. Why don’t you write a book? Now listen to me. You’ve never met him before. I’ve never met him before. Nobody has ever met anybody before. Can you remember that?”
Schmidt had taken advantage of the interruption to hoist his glass. Emerging from it, he fixed a stern eye on me. “Aber natürlich. And you, Vicky—do you promise me, on your word of honor, that you did not know he would be on this cruise?”
“I did not know,” I said steadily.
“Not that you wouldn’t lie to me if you wanted to.” Schmidt ruminated. I drank my beer. It was some local variety—not bad, actually. Then Schmidt said, “And your heart is not broken? You would not revenge yourself on your faithless lover by betraying him to his innocent, trusting—”
“For God’s sake, Schmidt!”
“Good,” said Schmidt calmly. “Then we will have a pleasant holiday, eh, and enjoy ourselves. I have not been in Egypt for many years. This should be a wonderful excursion. I have long looked forward to making the friendly acquaintance of Mr. Blenkiron.”
“And extracting a contribution?” I suggested.
Schmidt grinned. “It is my job, getting money from wealthy people. I am very good at it.”
He was, too. Our museum is remarkably well endowed for such a small institution. “He gives money to many worthy causes,” Schmidt went on reflectively. “Why not to us? Since your heart is not broken, you can help me do this. He is not such an ugly man, is he?”
“Shame on you, Schmidt. Is that any way to talk to a dedicated feminist like me?”
“Well, he is not ugly,” Schmidt declared. “I would not ask you to use your charms on a man who was disgusting to you. He is a woman hater, they say, but he said many nice things about you, Vicky, and asked many questions.”
I long ago gave up hope of convincing Schmidt that it is not nice to seduce potential donors. He’d have done it himself if he had had the necessary equipment. I suspect this is true of most museum directors. “What did he say?” I asked, pulling my chair closer.
II
I had planned to sleep in next morning; it had been a long day, concluded by one of Perry’s more boring lectures, but I was hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn by Schmidt, demanding that I join him on deck to watch the boat maneuver through the Asyut locks. Since I had already made the mistake of letting him in—the alternative being to let him go on yelling and pounding on my door—I scrambled into my clothes and let him lead me away.
The buffet on the upper deck offered tea and coffee and an assortment of pastries. I downed a cup of coffee while Schmidt wreaked havoc among the pastries, for, I presumed, the second time. It would have been unwise to admit it to him, but as the caffeine took effect I was glad he had awakened me. The sun was barely above the horizon and the air was fresh and cool. Ahead lay the massive barrier of the barrage; the traffic crossing the bridge atop it included buses, bicycles, and donkeys. The ship had stopped, waiting its turn to pass through. There was one boat ahead of us on this side of the lock.
Several other ships were already lined up behind us. Surrounding us and them, like minnows around a shark, were clusters of small boats filled with enterprising merchants, who were hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. I joined Schmidt and several of the others at the rail. Schmidt was yelling too, bargaining for a garment one of the merchants held up. It was a long robe, basically black but covered from shoulders to midsection with sequins, beads, and embroidery in pseudo-Egyptian patterns.
I was about to ask my tasteless boss how the exchange of merchandise and money could be made, since the little boats were a good thirty feet below us, when an object came hurtling through the air and landed with a splat on the deck.
I jumped back with the alacrity of a frog in reverse, and someone bent to pick up the parcel.
“You seem a trifle tense this morning, Dr. Bliss,” John remarked. Turning with a gallant bow, he presented the parcel to Suzi Umphenour.
I had believed I was getting used to Suzi’s outrageous outfits, but she constantly surprised me. This garment might have come straight out of a thirties’ film starring Jean Harlow: bias-cut satin trimmed with marabou feathers at the neck and the cuffs of the flowing sleeves. The things she had on her feet were, I think, referred to as mules. How she had managed to get upstairs in them without breaking her neck I could not imagine. As she reached for the parcel she slipped and tottered. Several pairs of masculine arms, including those of Sweet and Bright, made hopeful grabs at her, but she managed to avoid them, and fell heavily against John. He had to detach both her hands before he could set her on her feet.
Giggling merrily, Suzi removed her purchase and held it up: a shift, very tight and very short, completely covered with gold sequins. There was, I regret to say, a matching cap.
“Oh, very smart,” said John.
“It’s for the Egyptian party tonight,” Suzi explained, with one of her wide white grins.
“Ah, yes. I’d forgot. Perhaps I’d better get something for Mary. Advise me, will you, Suzi? Your taste is so impeccable.” He offered her his arm.
Did I follow them to the rail? Certainly. I was going that way anyhow. I heard Suzi ask why Mary wasn’t with him, and John’s reply: “I persuaded her to sleep late. She had rather a restless night.”
Plastic bags were landing all over the place. Schmidt had already retrieved one; tossing the hideous garment over a chair, he put money into the bag, knotted it tightly, and tossed it down. He had a good arm for a fat old guy; the seller snagged the bag without difficulty. Suzi’s aim wasn’t so good; her bag missed the boat entirely, splashing into the water, but it was neatly retrieved by the merchant using a long hook.
I didn’t see what gorgeous garment John bought for his bride. I was too busy trying to keep Schmidt from buying not one but several for me. I did succeed in talking him out of one of the gold-sequined shifts. More of the passengers had come on deck to join in the fun. It would have been fun, I guess, if it hadn’t been for my tense suspicious mind. Yet—I assured myself—it was an awfully sloppy method of exchanging contraband or delivering explosives. Especially when one of the boats down below was filled with men in black uniforms, who kept a keen eye on every transaction.
The party broke up when we started moving into the lock. It was a tricky maneuver, owing to the size of the Queen of the Nile; she filled the entire space, lengthways and sideways. The stone walls rose sheer on either side, broken only by a flight of stairs leading from the top to water level. Once we were in, even Suzi could have tossed a package into the hands of someone who stood on the steps.
The only person there, however, wore a black uniform and carried a rifle. There were more of them up above, lining the bridge that crossed the lock.
Schmidt tugged me away. “We will have breakfast,” he announced.
In a meaningful manner I brushed the crumbs off his mustache. He chuckled. “That was not breakfast, only a little snack.”
Since we were not going ashore that day, the service of food was practically continuous; the passengers had to be kept amused, and for some of them eating was a favorite sport. I kept Schmidt company while he stuffed himself, trying to decide how to occupy the long leisurely day. I am not ashamed to admit that Ali’s death had put a damper on my enthusiasm, which had already been fairly water-logged. If Alice was my only ally, we were both in deep trouble. If she wasn’t, why the hell hadn’t the other person identified him- or herself? I had left another message in the safe; its tone was peremptory, not to say hysterical, but if I didn’t get a response there was not a damn thing I could do about it.
As for the other guys, I was prepared to leave them alone if they did the same for me. I didn’t want to learn anything or even look as if I had. If there was ever a time for retreating into the fort and concentrating on defense, this was it. And I was going to take Schmidt into the fort with me. If Alice could get crazy ideas about him, so could the other guys.
Schmidt had a lovely day. Usually he follows me around. This time I followed him, tight as a tick on a dog, and he was innocently delighted by my companionship. We tried on the ghastly garments he had bought, and although he assured me most sincerely that I looked wonderful in all of them (fond as I am of Schmidt, I was unable to return the compliment), I persuaded him to pay a visit to The Suq, as Mr. Azad’s shop was called, to see if we could find something even gaudier.
Schmidt loved The Suq. He loves places where he can buy things, not only for himself but, bless his generous heart, for his friends and relations. The shop was small and crowded; the people who hadn’t purchased their costumes from the aquatic merchants were looking for appropriate attire for the banquet that evening. Mr. Azad didn’t have any gold-sequined shifts, but some of the robes were lavishly embroidered and trimmed with gold braid. With his smiling approval we carried an armful back to my room and tried them on. Schmidt adores trying on clothes and he likes even better watching me try them on.
After much consultation and much pirouetting in front of the mirror, Schmidt settled on the gaudiest and most voluminous of the robes. It was an ensemble, in fact; a long-sleeved floor-length caftan-type garment with a matching sleeveless robe, open down the front, that was worn over it. After he had tried three times to wind a long scarf around his head turban-fashion, I persuaded him he looked much more macho in a bedouin-type headdress.
By then it was time for Brotzeit—lunch. I don’t even want to think about what Schmidt ate. I had hoped he would want to take a nap afterward, but he was full of beans (among other edibles) and raring to go. “You will not want to miss the lecture, Vicky. Herr Foggington-Smythe is speaking on the tomb of Tetisheri, and showing slides!”
“You haven’t heard him lecture, Schmidt. He is the most boring—”
“But the slides, Vicky! Many have never been seen before. It is a complete photographic reproduction…”
I said I’d meet him in the lounge in ten minutes and he trotted off, after warning me not to be late and assuring me I was beautiful enough already.
I spent a few minutes putting on fresh makeup. Then I opened the safe.
My notes were gone, and something had been added. A nice shiny .45 automatic.
Chapter Six
I
I grew up on a farm in Minnesota. Dad taught all of us how to handle a shotgun and a rifle; he didn’t hunt, but he saw nothing wrong with discouraging varmints, including the human variety, when they attacked the livestock (including the human variety). A bullet was also the quickest and most humane method of dispatching a fatally injured or rabid animal. He hated handguns, though. He claimed they were cowards’ weapons and more likely to get a person into trouble than out of it.
I suppose it’s easy to take that attitude when you’re six-five and built like a tank.
Inconsistent or not, I share his attitude. I picked the thing up with all due caution, and examined it with even greater caution. I can tell an automatic from a revolver, but that’s about the limit of my expertise. This wasn’t one of the few models I had handled. The safety was on and there was a full clip, but no extras.
The presence of the gun proved Ali had had a backup on board, which was good news. I only hoped it wasn’t meant to convey a subtle message: “You’re on your own, baby, don’t expect me to rush to the rescue.”
