Covert in Cairo, page 21
Of course, Fredricks had vanished immediately after he’d fetched the doctor. He didn’t even wait for the prognosis. Turns out it was just a flesh-wound. My poor dress was damaged more than my person.
Sigh. At least I had managed to call Captain Hall, and hopefully in time to save the Suez Canal. The British army had to move a whole battalion from Crocodile Lake to Port Said by Christmas, the day after tomorrow. I hoped to heaven they could do it.
Kitty stirred. I rolled over. Poppy stared at me, her large eyes shining in the darkness, as if she dared me to wake her mistress.
I really must get up. I threw back the covers. There was still investigating to do. Murder weapons to find. Murders to solve.
All three victims were found in the same tomb, which was originally Herrs Borchardt and Gabler’s concession. And Herr Hermann Gabler was holed up at the institute when he should be back in Berlin. He had to be our murderer. And Fredricks was his accomplice. I knew it. Now, I just had to prove it.
What had been sitting on that empty pedestal? And where was it now? If it was a treasure valuable enough to display in the lobby of the new institute, surely Herr Gabler wouldn’t just throw it away, even if it was the murder weapon.
I had to get back there and find it.
I threw my legs over the side of my bed.
“Wherever you’re going…” Kitty’s voice came out of the darkness. “I’m coming with you.”
Poppy yipped in disapproval.
I had to admit, Kitty’s foot-fighting would come in handy if Herr Gabler made another surprise visit.
“Well then, get a move on, dear.”
Poppy bounded out of the darkness and onto my lap. When the little beast licked my face, I couldn’t help but laugh. “I suppose you want to come too.” I patted her on the head. Like her mistress, the dog had hidden talents. “After we get a nice hot bath and cuppa.”
I wasn’t about to go anywhere, not even to investigate a murder or three, with blood encrusted on my person.
My grandmother had taught me that every decision in life should be faced with a clean conscience and a full stomach.
After a warm bath and a breakfast of tea and toast with marmalade, I was ready for espionage.
Of course, Clifford wanted to go with us. But given his tendency to talk nonstop, he wasn’t the best companion on a stealthy mission. When conversation was key to the investigation, however, he was brilliant. I suggested he explore the antiquities markets to find out about illegal trade and whether that was motivation for any of the murders.
Captain Hall had ordered me to follow the illegal antiquities trade and link it back to the Germans. If the Germans were funding their spy ring by selling antiquities, Clifford would find out. If anyone could weasel information out of shady antiquities dealers, it was Clifford.
Thrilled to be given an important assignment, he drained his coffee cup and bade us good hunting.
I patted my pockets to make sure I had all my espionage paraphernalia, and then slipped on my gloves.
Careful not to be noticed, Kitty and I skated around to the side door where I had entered the institute on my last clandestine visit. I used my lockpick set again and had the door opened in no time. The look on Kitty’s face was priceless. She was obviously impressed with her “Aunt Fiona.”
The cluttered storage room was a challenge. Chock full of artifacts, it would have been easy for the killer to hide a murder weapon among all the other antiquities. Kitty and I divided the room in half and began our search.
As I methodically shone my torch on each object in the north half of the room, Kitty did the same in the south half. Eventually, we met in the middle, disappointed that neither of us had found any evidence of foul play. We ventured out into the hallway to explore the rest of the facility.
Where would I hide an artifact that I’d used to commit murder?
Kitty searched the gallery, and I made my way to the back office. Halfway down the hallway, the aroma of coffee overpowered the dusty smell of artifacts. My heart sped up.
Someone was here.
I held my breath and extinguished my torch. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim natural light coming from windows in the galleries. After a few seconds, on tiptoes, I continued along the wall until I reached the office door.
The office was dark. I stopped and listened. Nothing.
Had the coffee drinker left or was he lying in wait?
Slowly, I turned the doorknob. The door creaked open. I gritted my teeth. Stepping into the room, I half expected to be hit on the head. Inhaling, I clicked on my torch. My pulse was racing as I scanned the room. I didn’t see anyone—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding behind a chair or the desk, waiting to jump out at me.
The office was big with windows that faced the back alley. Along with the usual office furniture, there was a mattress on the floor in one corner and a wooden table. Atop the table sat a cooking pot, a portable gas stove, and a tin kettle. There was even a small ice box.
Someone was indeed living in here. It had to be Herr Gabler. That was how he avoided being deported back to Berlin when the war broke out. He’d hidden here at the boarded-up institute.
Curious, I opened the ice box. A bottle of beer, a couple of potatoes, and a package of dates. Did I expect to find the murder weapon in the ice box? Come on, Fiona. Focus.
Where would I hide a bloody artifact?
I crossed the room and went behind the desk to the filing cabinet. I pulled on the handle of the top drawer. Locked. Another job for my lockpick set. Pulling at the fingers of my gloves, I removed them. I slid the leather pouch out of my pocket and withdrew the tension wrench and got to work. The flimsy lock was no match for my wrench. It gave way immediately.
I opened the top drawer. Exhilarating. A filing cabinet. I was in my element.
Rifling through the file folders, I came upon one labeled G-1500. If I wasn’t mistaken, that was the concession Jean-Baptiste Lorrain had taken over from the Germans. The tomb he’d died in.
My pulse quickened. I cracked open the file and took mental photographs of the pages as I flipped through them. Each page had a long list of artifacts found in G-1500. Some were followed by the notation “ENT,” and some had two notations: “ENT” and “TRANS.” Others had no notations but were circled in red ink. One, Isis statue, was circled twice.
Interesting. But what the blazes did it mean?
I’d read somewhere that Isis, the goddess of nature and magic, was a precursor to the Virgin Mary. If memory served—which it usually did—Mr. Dilly Knox once told me that the name of the city of Paris was from Par Isis, meaning near the temple of Isis; and the church of St. Germain-des-Prés stood where the temple of Isis once was. Of course, Mr. Knox was known to flights of fancy. I doubted the German abbreviations had anything to do with Paris.
Presumably ENT and TRANS were abbreviations for German words. Hopefully Clifford could help. His German was much better than mine.
I opened the second drawer and found more files. I thumbed through them without finding anything of note. The third and lowest drawer was difficult to open. Whatever was inside was heavy. I had to squat down and yank on its handle.
After picking myself up off the floor, I peeked inside. What have we here? I tugged my gloves back on.
Astonished, I carefully lifted the stone bust of the young pharaoh out of the drawer. It was deuced heavy and tested the strength of my barely healed arm.
I plopped down on the floor, sat the statue next to me, and fished out my torch. Using the torch, I examined every inch of the artifact.
Aha! Just as I suspected. A bloodstain. I’d found the blooming murder weapon. I repressed the urge to shout for Kitty. After all, I didn’t know whether we were alone in the building.
The bust was so heavy, I heaved it from the floor with both hands. Carrying it like a stone baby, I strained to get it out of the office, down the hallway, and back to the lobby where Kitty was waiting. Whatever happened to using conventional weapons like knives, guns, or even candlesticks?
By the time I reached the lobby, my arms hurt, and I was more than a little winded. I had to unburden myself soon. I made my way through the display cases and marble pedestals to the empty place where this lad belonged. With one final heave, I lifted the stone head up to the corner of the base and slid it the rest of the way onto its stand.
I’d hide it in plain sight, a trick I’d learned from Edgar Allan Poe’s The Purloined Letter. After all, Sherlock Holmes didn’t have the corner on the literary detective genre.
Now to find Kitty.
I searched the institute high and low. No sign of Kitty.
Where had the girl got to now?
I didn’t have time to loiter around the institute, especially with the murderer on the loose and Herr Gabler living in the back office. He could be back at any minute. I hoped to heaven that Kitty had left to follow some lead.
I hurried back to the hotel as fast as my legs would carry me. Although it was only a couple of streets away, I was winded when I arrived at the entrance. Hands on my knees, I stopped for a second to catch my breath.
Clifford was waiting for me inside. No sooner had I entered than he dashed across the lobby to my side. “Wait until you hear what I found out.” His blue eyes danced with excitement. “Ali at Ali’s Antiques told me that one of his suppliers trades with a local who trades with someone at the German Archeology Institute, which is not supposed to happen.” He was talking a mile a minute. “State archeologists don’t sell antiquities. But—”
“Let’s sit down… and slow down.” I took his arm and led him to a small sitting area off reception. Partially hidden by a fern, two overstuffed chairs with lacy antimacassars sat apart from the others. Perfect.
I was counting on Clifford to help me decipher the list—ENT, TRANS, and the circled entries. That could give us a clue as to motive. I wanted a crack case before going to the police, especially since they still suspected me of murdering Agent Relish.
Clifford waved his pipe in the air as he told me all about his exploits at the antiquities markets. He’d tracked down three different shop owners who had purchased artifacts from someone connected to the German Archeology Institute. Illegally purchased. Even Jean-Baptiste Lorrain was known to make a deal under the table from time to time.
Clifford was gleeful as he recounted how he’d got the tradesmen to tell all. His constant chitchat was disarming, if annoying. Maybe the tradesmen had just given in rather than listen to another of Clifford’s stories.
“That’s why Monsieur Lorrain had German money and his man Frigo lied to the police. As for Herr Gabler, he is underhanded, indeed.”
As the winds of Clifford’s adventures were subsiding, I ventured to change the subject. “Have you seen Kitty?”
He shook his head and then lit his pipe.
Blasted girl. Where was she?
Waving away the foul pipe smoke, I ventured to crack the case of the German code. I took out my notebook and pencil and recreated a few lines of the list I’d seen at the institute. “Any idea what ENT or TRANS might mean in German in the context of a list of artifacts?” I passed the notebook to Clifford.
He puffed on his pipe and studied the list. “Well, some items have both notations, and the circled items have no notation.” His brow wrinkled. “ENT. TRANS.” His mouth twisted as he thought. “TRANS could be transportiert or transported. Transported from the tomb? Transported back to Berlin?” He handed the notebook back to me. “ENT, that could be entfernt, removed. Removed from the tomb.”
“If ENT means removed from the tomb, and TRANS means transported back to Berlin…” I stared down at the list I’d recreated. “Then the circled items could be ones still in the tomb.” No wonder Herr Gabler didn’t want Jean-Baptiste to excavate at G-1500. There were still treasures in there that he hadn’t managed to get out of the country before the Germans were forced to leave. “That would give him a motive,” I said under my breath.
“Give who a motive?” Clifford relit his pipe.
“Herr Gabler.” I’d already taken too much time listening to Clifford’s stories. “I found the murder weapon.”
“Good lord.” Holding his pipe in midair, Clifford sat there blinking at me. “Where?”
“A bloody stone bust at the German Archeology Institute.”
“Did you notify the police?” He clamped his pipe between his teeth.
“Not yet.” I turned my head to avoid inhaling a cloud of foul pipe smoke. “You call the police and I’ll meet you at the institute.”
“Shouldn’t you wait for the police?” He puffed his pipe.
“Rubbish.” I waved him off. “Good work at the antiquities market, by the way.” Herr Gabler had been dealing in illegal antiquities. Getting caught was motive enough. Then there were the treasures still left in the tomb. Even more motive.
Blushing, Clifford beamed at me.
“Just meet me at the institute.” I patted his sleeve. “I’m going to look for Kitty.” I didn’t want to worry him by telling him that the girl might be in danger. “And bring the police.”
22
THE CONFESSION
Back in our hotel room, Poppy did circles around me, but Kitty was nowhere to be seen. Judging by the outfits laid out on her bed—outfits that had been there since morning—she hadn’t been back. Kitty never came back to the room and went out again without changing her kit.
I was getting deuced worried about the girl. Foot-fighting or not, she was no match for a cold-blooded murderer or a nest of German spies.
“Come on, little beastie.” I snagged Poppy’s leash off the hook by the door and attached it to her collar, careful not to cut myself on that bloody sharp diamond. “Let’s go and find your mummy.”
At the door, I turned around and dashed back to the dressing table to fetch my handbag and Mata Hari’s gun, just in case. I wrapped the bag’s drawstring around my wrist and made to leave.
Once outside the hotel, Poppy was eager to find a patch of green to do her business. After she’d completed the task, and given a few proud kicks of her hind feet, she trotted out in front of me like she knew where she was going.
Walking along the busy pavements with a dog was an adventure. As Poppy weaved in and out of passersby, her leash did too, which resulted in a few stumbles and quite a few more curses. Poppy jerked this way and that, alternating between a full-throttled dash followed by an abrupt stop to sniff a plant or a disgusting puddle alongside the road.
Her tongue lolled and her little feet moved as if she were on wheels.
By the time we reached the institute, I was bushed. I dragged the pup around to the side door, where she promptly peed in the stairwell. The door was still open from my last visit. As soon as we’d crossed the threshold, Poppy was off. I struggled to keep up.
She led me through the storage area, out into the hallway, and down to the lobby.
I scanned the lobby. Aside from the painted faces of ancient Egyptians, there were no others to be seen. Trotting down a second hallway, Poppy and I peeked into every gallery and cubby hole as we went.
Poppy stopped in front of a door about halfway down the hall. I was about to turn the doorknob when I heard voices. My hand in midair, I froze.
Poppy yipped.
I scooped her up into my arms. “Shhhhh.” Pricking up my ears, I listened at the door.
“Meine Liebe, wir müssen etwas tun.” The woman’s heavily accented voice was familiar. She was obviously not a native German.
Neither was I. Far from it. I think she’d just said, “My love, we must do…” Tun. What was tun?
“She knows.” When the woman spoke English, I recognized her voice immediately. Mori Al-Madie. La Sultana. “Fiona Figg knows.”
Hearing my name made me jump back. Poppy let out a squeak. I held her tighter to my chest. Drat. I shouldn’t have mentioned her mistakes or asked after the costume girl. How could I have been so stupid?
“Why did you let her out of the theater?” The man had a thick German accent.
“I tried to stop her, but I must have missed.”
So, it was Mori Al-Madie who stabbed me.
“I should do for that nosy Hündin what I did for your friend Monsieur Lorrain.” The German’s voice was harsh.
“I told you not to be jealous of him, meine Liebe.” The way she said meine Liebe made my skin crawl.
“First the Schweinehund took my dig and then he tried to take you,” he scoffed. “If your friends hadn’t stuffed that British agent in my tomb, I wouldn’t have had to kill the French Schwein.”
My hand flew to my mouth. Oh dear. I nearly dropped Poppy. She struggled for traction against my blouse. I reeled her in. Herr Gabler killed Jean-Baptiste.
If your friends hadn’t stuffed that British agent in my tomb. What friends? German spies?
He had killed Jean-Baptiste to stop the dig. To stop him finding Agent Dankworth’s body in the tomb.
“If you’d been more careful, Dankworth wouldn’t have discovered you were selling antiquities on the black market.” She huffed. “My heritage to the highest bidder.”
So, Agent Dankworth had learned about the illegal antiquities trade. That’s why he was killed. This was the information Captain Hall needed. Herr Gabler was selling antiquities from the institute to fund the German spy ring operating out of the Isis Theater.
“You’re lucky no one knows you went to the hospital to kill the other British agent.” The tone of her voice soured. “That Relish creep.”
And Agent Relish. Herr Gabler killed him too. When? How? So, it wasn’t Fredricks after all, unless they were working together.
“We need to win this verdammt war so I can get back to my dig.” The man’s voice shook with rage.
