Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [110]
Apparently he had been right about the household schedule. We met no one. When we reached the study John’s fingers pressed a switch and prodded a button, both concealed in the carving of the frame, before he turned the knob. So, I thought, this wasn’t the first time he had enjoyed Larry’s hospitality. He was one of the world’s most efficient snoops, but even he coudn’t have discovered so many usefal details in two days.
It was at this point that John’s theories failed. I suppose it was something of a compliment to me that Larry had taken the precaution of stationing a guard in his study. Or, to look at it another way, it was something of an insult. Had he really believed I’d be foolhardy enough to return? Well, he had been right. And if I had been looking for evidence of guilt, this was where I’d have looked first.
The guard was the man I had known as Sweet. He was eating his supper off a tray, and he must have assumed his visitors were members of the household, familiar with the security system. That moment of misapprehension, brief though it was, saved our necks. Dropping his fork, he reached for his shoulder holster, but he was too slow. John had him covered.
‘Get his gun,’ John said. ‘Go round behind him. Far around, if you’ll forgive me for pointing out the obvious.’
Sweet’s expression didn’t live up to the nom de guerre he had chosen. His eyes, unblinking as those of a reptile, followed me as I sidled to one side, giving him a wide berth. I was not looking forward to coming within arm’s reach of him but I didn’t have to. As soon as I had reached a point at which Sweet had to turn his head to follow my progress John hit him, not with the gun, but with his left fist.
‘I didn’t know you were ambidextrous,’ I said, removing my Girl Scout neckerchief and winding it around Sweet’s wrists.
‘I’m not. Bloody hell! That hurt.’
‘Stop complaining and help me. I need some rope.’
‘Sorry, I’m fresh out.’ Removing his belt, he used it to bind Sweet’s ankles.
‘We need a gag. Where’s that nice, clean white handkerchief a proper gent always carries?’
‘Never mind the gag.’ John went to the fireplace and began running his hands over the panelling next to it. ‘What time is it?’
‘Seven twenty-five.’
‘Not much time. I hope to God I haven’t forgotten . . . Ah. That’s done it.’
A section of the panelling slid aside under the pressure of his hands. I could see lights behind it; they must have come on automatically when the door was opened. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch the unwanted baggage.’
‘Larry’s quite a romantic, isn’t he?’ I remarked, starting down the stairs the open panel had disclosed. ‘Secret passages all over the place.’
‘There’s a good and sufficient practical reason for this bit of romanticism.’ John followed me, towing ‘Sweet’ by his feet. I am as a rule a tenderhearted person but I did not wince when I heard his head bounce from step to step.
There was no door at the bottom of the stairs. They opened directly into a large windowless room.
No wonder I hadn’t been impressed with Larry’s collection of antiquities. Here was the real collection – his own private collection, hidden away from all eyes but his. The room was softly lit and carpeted. The air was cool, the temperature and humidity carefully controlled to preserve the exhibits. They stood along the walls and rested in velvet-lined cases. The cases were open, so he could touch and fondle to his heart’s content.
My eyes moved in dazed disbelief from one masterpiece to another. The lovely little statuette of Tetisheri in the British Museum was a fake, all right. The original was here. So was the Nefertiti bust – not the painted