The Laughter of Dead Kings (11 page)

“Many many thanks for your courtesy,
Liebchen,
” said Schmidt, handing the bag to John. “Put it on my account.”

The taxi she had called pulled up as we exited; we waited until we heard the chains rattle and the locks click; and I thought, Account? How come Schmidt had an account at a shop that specialized in hideously expensive lady’s underwear? How many other women had been beneficiaries of his largesse? And what business was it of mine?

When I unpacked Trudi’s bag later that night, I found not only the nightgown but a matching negligee and a selection of bras and panties. They all looked as if they had come from the spiders’ workshop—and they were all my size. Either Schmidt had a trained eye or he had been rummaging around in my bureau drawers.

If I had been true to my principles I would have marched into Schmidt’s room and handed them back, with a dignified refusal. I couldn’t resist trying a few things on, though, and the nightie inspired John to quote several of the Restoration poets. It inspired more than that. That night I didn’t dream about Tutankhamon.

A
thunderous pounding on the door woke me. I groaned and sat up. The flow of dragonfly wings all about me made me confine my response to a mild “What do you want, Schmidt?”

“It is time to get up,” Schmidt yelled. “We must be at the museum in one hour. There is coffee. Shall I bring it there to you?”

John had pulled the sheet over his face, but that offer got him up and out of bed. I put on the negligee that matched the nightgown and wafted my way to the door.

“Ooh, that is very nice,” said Schmidt, inspecting me.

“You look very natty yourself,” I mumbled. “You got your suits, I see.”

“Oh, yes, I can always depend on Friedrich. Have your breakfast. There are eggs and wurst, hot rolls and jam, cheese and ham.”

“What, no caviar?” said John, emerging.

Schmidt reached for the telephone. “I was joking,” John said hastily.

Schmidt had already eaten breakfast, but he kept us company, nibbling on various odds and ends until we finished, and then shooed us into the bedroom, demanding that we hurry. When we came back, Schmidt was on his knees putting the finishing touches on an enormous banner. In passionate German it besought the return of Nefertiti.

“Is that a bedsheet?” I asked.

“Yes, I could not find paper large enough,” said Schmidt, working away with his purple Magic Marker. “I will pay for it, of course.” He added a few words.

“You can’t say that about Perlmutter,” I objected.

“I wish to get his attention.” Schmidt rose stiffly to his feet. “Oh, and by the way, I have made reservations for us on the evening flight to Cairo. You should telephone to Feisal and tell him we arrive at ten forty-five.”

“I think I’d better wait to see whether you two get out of jail in time,” John said.

Meekly we followed Schmidt to the lift. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked John.

“I’m beginning to. There is something to be said for being a foot soldier instead of an officer. Whatever happens, it won’t be my fault.”

“What about your friend?”

John shrugged. “I’ll see if I can get in touch later. This is bound to be one of Schmidt’s more memorable performances. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

There were no pickets in evidence. The handsome classical facade of the museum faced onto a circle with a fountain in the cen
ter. The sidewalk was wide enough for half a dozen people walking abreast—or, as it turned out, for two people holding Schmidt’s banner. I took one end and Schmidt the other.

“The center sags,” Schmidt said. “John—”

“Oh, no,” said John, retreating.

“Do we start walking or stand in front of the stairs?” I asked.

“We wait.” Schmidt consulted his wristwatch. “He said he would be here. Where—Ah!”

The green van that screeched to a stop had the logo of a local television channel. A man wearing dark glasses and carrying a camera got out.

“
Verzeihen Sie, Herr Professor
. Sorry I couldn’t get the whole crew, there’s a warehouse fire in Dahlen.”

“We must do the best we can,” Schmidt replied. “Ernhardt Flug-schaften—my assistant, Fräulein Doktor Victoria Bliss. Now, Ernhardt, go back ten feet; we will come marching toward you, carrying the banner and shouting our slogan.”

“What is our slogan?” I asked, holding my end of the banner high.

“Or perhaps we should sing,” said Schmidt, who obviously hadn’t come up with a slogan. “What is the Egyptian national anthem?”

“Damned if I know.”

Inspiration came to Schmidt. He let out a bellow that made me and Ernhardt jump.
“Wahrheit! Freiheit! Gerechtigkeit!”

I couldn’t see what freedom had to do with it, unless it was our freedom from jail, but I joined in at the top of my lungs. “Truth! Freedom! Justice!” It had a great rhythm, and it rhymed, too. Grinning, Ernhardt backed away, filming as he went. From a safe distance near the railings, John looked on, hands in his jacket pockets. We were beginning to attract an audience—not only the people who had had to jump out of our way and remained to shake their fists at us, but several museum guards.

“Wahrheit!”
we shouted.
“Freiheit!”

The nearest of the guards cleared his throat noisily.
“Herr Doktor—entshuldigen Sie—”

He jumped back as Schmidt barreled down on him without stopping or veering aside.
“Ach, Überwald, mein alter Freund! Ihre Familie ist gesund?”

“Ja, vielen Dank, Herr Doktor—aber—aber…”
We made a right about-face, not too smartly, since I wasn’t expecting it, and bore down on Überwald again. “You cannot do this! It is
verboten. Bitte…
”

We passed him at a brisk walk and Schmidt handed him a card. “Announce me to Herr Doktor Perlmutter.”

Schmidt knew everybody. Guards at the museum, shopkeepers, restaurant owners, journalists; he probably knew the name of the guy who picked up the trash, and the names and ages of all the guy’s kids. He had a memory like the proverbial pachyderm and he had often proved his claim that he never forgot a face. We weren’t going to get arrested. Everybody knew Schmidt.

It took several trips back and forth to arrange the interview with Perlmutter. He wanted us to come to his office and Schmidt insisted he come down to us. Schmidt handed another of the guards a wad of money and told him to go get food, lots of food, any sort of food, not only for us but—with an expansive gesture at our growing audience—“for all our friends here.”

Before long we were joined by several people who didn’t know what we were marching about but who wanted to get on television. The rest of them sat down on the steps to watch. John remained aloof. The chorus swelled.
“Wahrheit! Freiheit! Gerechtigkeit!”

Jan Perlmutter tried to make an unobtrusive appearance, but Schmidt was on the lookout and saw him cowering behind one of the columns. Alerted by Schmidt, Ernhardt got an excellent shot of the
huge classical columns and Perlmutter peeking nervously out. Chortling, Schmidt handed his end of the banner to me and trotted up the steps, waving and calling. I passed the banner on to a couple of volunteers and followed.

Wrenching himself free of Schmidt’s fond grasp, Jan tried to maintain his dignity. “I am surprised to see you here, Vicky.”

I had once had an old-fashioned crush on Jan, who resembled a gorgeous young saint in one of my favorite paintings. Alas, the magic was gone. Not only did I have a new crush, but Jan was no longer gorgeous. The hawklike features had sagged, the crisp curls were silvery pale instead of bright gold, and they had retreated so far that his forehead looked like a mountain massif topped with snow. He turned his back on Ernhardt, who was climbing the stairs, filming industriously, and hissed, “Tell him to stop! Schmidt, come inside at once. Have you not made a sufficient spectacle of yourself?”

Schmidt nodded judiciously. “Perhaps so. Come, Vicky, John. Ernhardt, my thanks, and best wishes to Erma.”

Jan led the way to his office, moving at a clip that left our admirers behind. Settling himself at his desk, he demanded rather piteously, “Why have you done this to me, Schmidt?”

Schmidt said,
“Wahrheit! Freiheit!”
and offered Jan a sausage in a bun.

“Spite,” said Jan, ignoring the sausage. “Revenge. This is not worthy of you. It is not my fault if you were not clever enough to find the gold of Troy.”

Schmidt started to eat the hot dog, to use that term loosely, so I took it upon myself to reply. “How did you do it?”

Schmidt swallowed. “That is in the past,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We are here in the cause of truth, freedom—”

“What will it take to make you go away?” Jan demanded.

“…and justice,” said Schmidt. He put the bun down, leaving a smear of mustard on the polished desk. Jan snatched a tissue from his pocket and wiped it off. “The Egyptians ask only that Nefertiti be lent to them for a special exhibit. Why can you not agree?”

“The bust is too fragile—”

“Bah,” said Schmidt. “Special packing, a private airplane. The Egyptians have sent equally delicate objects abroad.”

“They won’t give her back,” Jan burst out. He leaned forward, hands tightly clasped. “They will refuse to return her, claiming, as they have always done, that she was stolen. And what will happen to her there? The Cairo Museum is a disaster, overcrowded, filthy, vulnerable to theft. Without climate controls, even air-conditioning, objects are deteriorating by the minute. All over Egypt there are tombs, temples, precious monuments falling to pieces. We have rescued Nefertiti! She is part of our heritage too, she belongs to the world!”

It was the old familiar argument, made by all the looters. Where would the Elgin Marbles be today if they had remained on the Parthenon? What would have happened to the Pergamum Altar if it hadn’t been “rescued” from what is now Turkey by a German expedition? Would the Rosetta Stone have ended up in a Cairene house foundation if the French hadn’t recognized its worth? There are usually two sides to every argument, and this side had its merits.

So did the other side.

“The new museum, where they plan to exhibit her, will have all the amenities,” I said. “They’re doing the best they can, Jan. Egypt has too much stuff. The world ought to be helping preserve that heritage, instead of wasting money on wars.”

“Stuff,” Jan muttered. He passed his hand over his forehead. “Your proposition is noble, but it will never happen, Vicky. All we can do is save what we can.”

“And how far would you go,” Schmidt asked, “to save what you can?”

Jan stiffened. “What are you implying, Schmidt?”

“There are rumors,” Schmidt began.

Jan didn’t bite. Schmidt went on, “That the museum has objects acquired under dubious circumstances.”

“Oh, that. The same is said of almost every museum in the world. Laws have changed. What is now illegal was once perfectly proper.”

“So if you were offered a unique artifact you would refuse unless you were certain of its provenance?”

If that was Schmidt’s idea of subtle, sly questioning, it missed the target. Jan actually laughed. “Certainly. And now, Schmidt, if you have nothing more to say…”

He hadn’t asked us to sit down. The desk was a barricade and a symbol of authority and superiority. Leaving us standing constituted a strong hint that we should go away.

“Where are your manners?” John asked. “Here, Vicky, take this chair. Schmidt…”

“Who the devil are you?” Jan demanded.

“You did not give me time to make introductions,” Schmidt said. “Mr. John Tregarth, a colleague of mine and a well-known art dealer.”

“I believe I have heard of you,” Jan admitted. “A colleague?”

“Friend,” John said modestly. “You might call me an amicus curiae.”

“On which side? As a dealer in antiquities, surely you realize the importance of protecting precious articles.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “He realizes the importance of making money from them.”

“Hmmm.” Jan studied John’s impassive face. “I cannot recall
that we have ever purchased anything from you. Yet you look somewhat familiar…”

“We’ve never met,” John said. It was true; he had made a point of staying out of Jan’s way during the Trojan Gold fiasco. He went on, “I have recently acquired a few Egyptian pieces in which the museum might be interested.”

“You might send us photographs,” Jan said. “Assuming, of course, that their provenance is impeccable.”

“I assure you, it is.”

“We would never consider purchasing an object that had not been legally acquired.”

He smirked at Schmidt and gave John a warm smile. John smiled warmly back.

T
hough we assured him it wasn’t necessary, Jan summoned a guard to escort us out of the museum. This indication of mistrust offended Schmidt, who insisted on stopping by to say hello to Nefertiti.

I had seen her many times, but I never tired of it. The photographs don’t do her justice. The tall, distinctive blue crown that hides her hair, the delicately tinted face and smiling lips, the long throat and lifted chin…Even the missing eye didn’t detract from her beauty. I could see why the Egyptians wanted her back. If Tutankhamon is the most famous of all Egyptian symbols, Nefertiti runs him a close second—and she’s much nicer to look at.

Schmidt paid her the tribute of a long sigh, and then let himself be led away.

The audience had dispersed, and our banner had disappeared—thrown into a trash can, I supposed.

“Time for lunch,” said Schmidt. “There is a restaurant—”

“You just ate four hot dogs,” I protested.

“We may as well feed him,” John said. “He’s more amenable to suggestion when he’s eating.”

The restaurant was crowded and noisy. The perfect setting, as all spies know, for a private conversation.

“So what suggestion?” Schmidt demanded. “Perlmutter gave nothing away, the sly dog, but you did well, John, to form a bond with him.”

“Thank you,” John said humbly.

“Do you really have objects of museum quality? Why was I not given a chance to see them?”