Covert in Cairo, page 6
A commotion just behind me made me twist around in my saddle.
Sitting astride a black stallion, Frigo leaned over and grabbed the rein of Kitty’s camel. “I’m taking you to Lorrain’s concession.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and his horse walked toward the pyramids.
Clifford steered his camel after them.
Pulling on the reins, I tried to do the same. The beast wouldn’t budge.
“Excuse me.” I waved. “Yoo hoo. Mr. Frigo.”
Clifford twisted around in his saddle.
“Don’t leave me,” I shouted.
Clifford tapped his camel with a riding stick, and it ran toward me. “Whoa.” Clifford dismounted. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“Blasted beast won’t move.”
He chuckled as he patted my camel’s neck. “I wouldn’t leave you.”
To whom was he speaking? Me or the camel?
In one graceful movement, he slid my camel’s rein through his fingers and mounted his camel again. With a flick of his riding stick, we were off.
Heavens. I had no idea camels could move so fast. I gripped the saddle for dear life.
When we arrived at the dig, Clifford helped me off the animal. I was never so glad to be on my own two feet. Kitty and Frigo were already sitting on chairs positioned near a long table under a tent. I joined them, while Clifford took care of the animals. The shade of the tent was welcome after an hour and a half in the blazing sun. Only my large-brimmed hat stood between me and sunstroke.
Frigo offered me water from a dented metal cup. Undeterred by the greenish tint, I gulped it down as if my life depended on it, which in this dry desert, it probably did. Thankfully, it tasted better than it looked.
A few feet away, two men in robes and headdresses squatted, picking at the earth with trowels. Nearby, a cave-like tomb was barred with a makeshift door and padlock.
To my surprise, the barren sands around the dig were nothing to write home about. Not like the Sphinx or the pyramids. Men digging in the dirt. That was all I saw. The landscape was flat and brown. In fact, the furrows reminded me of my grandfather’s farm, only drier. At least on the farm there was an orchard and eventually the brown furrows grew green wheat.
While the earth at my grandfather’s farm yielded only fruit and vegetables, the Egyptian desert held unimaginable treasures. My pulse quickened to think of what prizes were hidden inside those nondescript furrows. Even the smallest pot shard could be thousands of years old and might once have graced the palace of a queen.
My Baedeker’s Guide to Cairo listed so many “must see” pyramids, monuments, mosques, and markets I could stay here for months and still not see all its wonders. Offering both moral probity and practical wisdom, in the name of virtue, Mr. Baedeker warned against unseemly pleasures while informing the adventurous traveler where to find them. I chuckled to myself. The irony.
Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Clifford joined us under the tent. “Is that your entire crew?”
“The war takes all the men away.” Frigo shrugged. “European and Egyptian.”
“How do the archeologists carry on their work?” Clifford said.
“They don’t.” Frigo handed the same dented metal cup to Clifford. “Most digs are closed.”
Clifford downed the water in one gulp and then dropped into the chair next to me.
Frigo refilled the cup from a waterskin and passed it to Kitty, who sipped and then handed it to me. I wiped the lip with my handkerchief and took a sip.
“Where is Monsieur Lorrain?” I scanned the items on the table: a hand-drawn map of the dig, a large journal, a stack of papers held down by a rock, a dirty coffee cup, along with a half-eaten tin of something, now covered in flies. Monsieur Lorrain did not keep a very tidy dig.
“The boss never arrives before eleven.” Frigo lashed the waterskin to his chair.
“He needs his beauty sleep.” Kitty giggled behind her hand.
“Is this where Borchardt found the bust of Nefertiti?” Clifford removed his pipe from his jacket pocket.
Frigo shook his head. “That was in Amarna.”
“Bloody Germans pilfering Egypt.” Clifford leaned back in his chair and lit the foul thing.
“And what about the French and the British?” I fanned the pipe smoke away from my face.
“I don’t speak for the French.” Clifford puffed and then emitted a grand cloud of smoke. “But the British are gentlemen and scholars interested in conservation, not theft.”
“Conservation at the British Museum in London.” I raised my eyebrows. “To the Egyptians, what’s the difference? What do they care whether their heritage is on display in London or Berlin?” I was starting to sound like Fredricks. As a South African, he was always complaining about the British “colonizers.”
“Good lord, Fiona. How can you say that?” Clifford scowled. “The Kaiser killed your husband with mustard gas.”
“Ex-husband.” My chest tightened, recalling Andrew’s scarred face and last choked-out words about his baby son, the son he’d had with the husband-stealing Nancy. The son my defective body couldn’t give him. I took a deep breath and shook the thoughts from my mind. Stiff upper lip, as my father always said.
I glanced at my watch. “It’s gone quarter past eleven. When will Monsieur Lorrain arrive?” I couldn’t wait all bloody day. I had missing British agents to find and a canal to save, not to mention locating Fredrick Fredricks.
“Can’t you give us a tour while we wait?” Kitty batted her long lashes at Frigo.
“No.” Frigo crossed his log-sized arms in front of his barrel-sized chest. “We wait.” He looked straight ahead, not even glancing over at Kitty. Her pretty smile and long lashes were lost on Mr. Frigo.
A muffled sound came from the boarded tomb. I pricked up my ears.
Was that a human cry? A cold chill ran up my spine. “Is there a mummy in that cave?” I’d heard of a mummy’s curse, but of course I didn’t believe such nonsense. Still, that horrible sound emanating from the tomb was deuced unnerving.
“We don’t know yet.” Frigo gave me a strange look. “What have you heard?”
“I heard a voice cry out.” I tilted my head. “Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything.” Clifford held his pipe in midair, staring at the mouth of the cave.
“Well, I did.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Your imagination is playing tricks on you, old girl.” Clifford relaxed back into his chair.
“Let’s find out.” Kitty jumped up from her chair and trotted over to the entrance. “Have you got a key to the lock, Frigo?” she called back.
When Frigo stood up, a set of keys on his belt jangled, giving us the answer. He marched over to where Kitty was fiddling with the padlock.
I dashed across the scree and loose sand.
Kitty had one of her hairpins inserted in the lock.
“What in heaven’s name?” I patted my handbag for my lockpick set. Why use a hairpin when I had the real deal?
Thud.
My pulse quickened. “Did you hear that?” I grabbed Kitty’s wrist. “There’s someone—or something—”
“Move aside,” Frigo boomed as he stepped in between me and Kitty.
“Good lord, there’s someone in there.” Clifford joined us in front of the tomb entrance.
Frigo selected a key from his bunch and inserted it into the padlock. The lock popped open, and he slid it out of its latch. Slowly, he pushed the door open. “Hello,” he said into the darkness.
“We need a torch.” I made a mental note to add my new American torch to the handy instruments I carried on my person. Soon I would need a regular tool belt.
Following on Frigo’s heels, I stepped into the tomb. Cool damp air made the hairs on my arms stand on end. A dark, dank smell hit my nostrils.
Clifford stepped forward and lit a match. “Good lord.”
Just inside the door, the outline of a body came into view.
Blimey. It was lying motionless on the ground.
Kitty gasped, her face a mask of terror in the flickering light of the match.
I knelt by the body and put two fingers on his neck. Pressing harder, I hoped for a pulse. We’d just heard the chap shouting and moving about. He had to be alive.
No. Nothing. But the body was still warm.
I lifted the man’s wrist and again felt for a pulse. Nothing. My heart sank. “He’s dead.”
The noise we’d heard must have been the killer. I shuddered to think. Was the killer still in the tomb with us?
The match went out. The tomb was pitch black. A cold breeze blew across the back of my neck and I shivered. This place gave me the creeps.
A hissing sound and then a flickering light. Clifford had struck another match. He squatted next to the body and held the flame above the face of the dead man.
“Oh, dear.” My hand flew to my mouth. “It’s Monsieur Lorrain.”
The dead eyes of Jean-Baptiste Lorrain stared up at me. Around his head, blood pooled in a tiny puddle.
Carefully, I touched his head. A wet gaping wound met my fingers. I grimaced. “He’s been hit on the head.”
Why had he been exploring the tomb in his evening suit? Had he fallen and hit his head? The door was locked from the outside. Obviously, he hadn’t come to the tomb alone. Someone had locked him inside. And that someone had dealt the fatal blow to his skull.
I glanced around.
There was a murderer on the loose. And perhaps he was still in this tomb.
6
THE CRIME
Frigo sent one of the men back to Cairo to fetch the police. In the meantime, I insisted he get a torch so I could examine the crime scene properly.
Jean-Baptiste could have hit his head by accident. But he couldn’t have locked himself inside the tomb. Someone had intentionally locked him in. And I suspected that someone had hit the poor man on the head and then left him for dead.
Frigo held the torch while I assessed the scene.
Jean-Baptiste was wearing the clothes from the night before. So, he must have come here from the ball. The last time we’d seen him at the party, he was drunk as a sailor. In his intoxicated state, did he invite someone out to visit his tomb?
Kitty had seen him home.
“Where did you leave Jean-Baptiste last night?” I asked Kitty.
She may have been the last person to see him alive… apart from the person who locked him in the tomb, of course. Unless—no, impossible. Kitty wouldn’t… would she?
Trembling, Kitty crouched next to Jean-Baptiste’s body, holding his hand. She’d only just met him yesterday, and yet his death profoundly moved her. Poor girl. She brought her face close to his hand as if to kiss it. Could she have fallen for him so quickly? Instead of kissing his hand, she just stared at his fingers.
“I left him at his room in the hotel,” Kitty said, finally. She laid his hand over his chest and then stood up. “At Shepheard’s.”
“Was anyone else with you?” Clifford leaned against the wall of the cave, smoking his pipe.
Frigo must have been in shock to allow smoking inside an ancient tomb full of artifacts. Either that, or he was just Jean-Baptiste’s bodyguard. In that case, he’d failed miserably. The big man’s eyes shone as he held a lantern above the body of his dead boss.
“No.” Kitty wiped dirt from her hands. “I left him very much alone. And very much alive.”
“He may have been alive when we got here.” I walked around the body, careful not to step in the pool of blood around his head. “Making those noises.” Of course, it wasn’t a mummy. I knew that. It was poor Jean-Baptiste calling for help. I glanced around. Unless, of course, the killer was still here, hiding in the tomb. “Clifford, why don’t you find another torch and have a look around?” Just in case…
“There’s another lantern in the tent.” Frigo pointed to the tomb entrance.
I bent down to examine Jean-Baptiste’s fatal head wound. “Whatever hit him was very heavy and very sharp.” The gash was large. “If the blow didn’t kill him right away, he must have bled to death.” I glanced around. There wasn’t as much blood pooled around his head as there should be for such a large gash. Why not?
Carefully, I leaned over the body and patted his pockets.
“What are you doing?” Frigo said.
“Don’t worry,” I said in a reassuring tone. “I have experience with murder investigations.”
“Murder.” Frigo’s eyes went wide. “Who would want to kill Monsieur Lorrain?”
“Good question.” I stood up and brushed a lock of hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. “You would know better than we.”
“Me?” Frigo looked like I’d just accused him of the bloody crime. “No. Everyone loved the boss.”
“Everyone except Mr. Carter, Lady Enid, General Clayton, and Cleopatra.” One, two, three, four. I counted on my fingers. “And those are just from last night.”
“You are mistaken, lady.” Frigo’s mustache twitched.
“If you say so.” Of course, I was not mistaken. Last night, Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Lorrain had insulted Lady Enid and General Clayton. He’d thrown over Cleopatra for Kitty. And he and Mr. Carter had nearly come to blows, over what I didn’t know.
I turned to Kitty, who was intent on something she was rolling between her fingers, something quite invisible to me. “What was Mr. Carter discussing with Jean-Baptiste at the ball last night?” I tried to sound nonchalant.
Kitty looked up from whatever was so captivating. “Jean-Baptiste told Mr. Carter he’d never amount to anything because he was a fraud.”
“A fraud?” I repeated.
“Mr. Carter is a volatile chap.” Clifford had returned with the second lantern. “I read about him years ago. The Saqqara Affair. He told off some French tourists and got fired.”
“What affair?” I’d never heard of it. How in the world did Clifford know about such scandals?
“Carter and his men had to rein in some drunken French tourists.” He chuckled. “Obviously, not a fan of the frogs.”
The question was, did Mr. Carter hate Frenchmen enough to kill one?
“He works for Lord Carnarvon now.” I blew at the lock of hair that had fallen back into my face. I really needed a better wig. “Surely Lord Carnarvon wouldn’t hire a fraud, or a hothead.”
Perhaps there were clues on the body… or in the tomb. “Clifford, search the tomb for the murder weapon, if you please. A bloody rock or other heavy sharp object.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lantern in hand and his pipe between his teeth, Clifford was only too happy to oblige.
I knelt beside the corpse to get a better look.
Frigo moved closer, whether to give me more light or to keep an eye on me, I wasn’t sure.
I removed Jean-Baptiste’s leather wallet from the pocket of his jacket. Inside he had money, a lot of money, in various currencies—French, British, and German. “He wasn’t robbed.” French and British, alright. But German? Jolly odd. I held up the wad of notes. “So, the motive wasn’t money.” I continued rifling through the wallet.
“Lady, please have some respect…” Frigo’s voice trailed off.
When I looked up at him, there were tears in his eyes.
“Never fear, Mr. Frigo.” Wallet in hand, I stood up again. “I will find whoever committed this heinous crime against your boss.” I couldn’t turn my back on justice. A man had been murdered. And the killer must pay. More to the point, Jean-Baptiste had mentioned Agent Dankworth. Agent Dankworth was missing, and the Frenchman was dead. There must be a connection between the two. I wasn’t about to let a British agent go missing in the field. I would find Jean-Baptiste’s killer and I would find Agent Dankworth… and, of course, I would find Fredrick Fredricks. That went without saying.
“You?” Frigo sounded incredulous.
“Yes, me.” I held up the German notes. “Unless you want the police to discover what your boss was really doing here.”
In the light of the lantern, Frigo’s face took on a ghostly pall.
I continued with my hunch. “He was working with the Germans—”
“No, lady.” Frigo shook his head. “Never. He hated the Germans.”
It didn’t add up. He may not have been working with the Germans. But he was up to something. Frigo’s face told me as much.
I stuffed the notes back into the wallet. In addition to the money, the wallet contained a coat-check receipt from Shepheard’s and a small photograph of a woman wearing an aviator’s jacket and a balaclava… decidedly not the woman dressed as Cleopatra who clung to him at the ball. Another jilted lover? A betrayed wife? A long-lost sister?
“Who is she?” I showed the photograph to Frigo. He just shrugged.
If not for money, perhaps a crime of passion. I bent down and slipped the wallet—sans photograph—back into the dead man’s pocket.
Wait. I felt the corner of something. I teetered on my toes, reached further into his breast pocket, and pulled out a small, slim notebook. When I flipped through the pages, I saw it was a datebook. I held my breath and flipped to the last entry, dated yesterday:
HG at GAI 11.
“HG at GAI 11.” I looked up at Frigo. “Do you know what that means?”
He wrinkled his brow and shook his head.
“HG at GAI 11,” I repeated. “What do you suppose it means?”
“A code, perhaps?” Kitty held out her hand. “May I see it?”
I handed her the notebook. My leg was cramping, and I had to stand up.
Clifford returned with the lantern. “I couldn’t find anything.” He gestured toward the back of the cave. “There seems to be another chamber further on, but it’s boarded up.”
Kitty turned the pages of the notebook. Clifford went to her side and looked over her shoulder as she ran her finger down each page, working backwards.
“I say.” Clifford pointed at the book. “Look there.” He stabbed the page with his finger.
“What is it?” I joined them and stared down at the page. Dated last week, it had the same notation, “HG at GAI.” Instead of 11, it said 10, which made it clear the 11 was indeed a number. But was the number a time or a place?
