Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [117]
‘Touché,’ John admitted. ‘After you, Vicky.’
He handed me the basket Granny had pressed upon us. It was our only luggage except for Feisal’s suitcase.
Feisal got in behind the wheel. ‘Where to?’ he asked.
‘The ETAP.’
‘Oh, wonderful. The big tourist hotels are the first places they’ll look.’
‘Just drive,’ John said shortly.
Schmidt had given me one of his keys, ‘just in case.’ I hadn’t asked, ‘Just in case of what?’ I had had other things on my mind. As I crossed the lobby, trying to look as if I were focusing on auras instead of potential kidnappers, I wished I had asked. There was no need for him to leave the room except to cash his traveller’s cheques, which wouldn’t take long, and every reason for him to stay put. Even if they located him they couldn’t get at him unless he opened the door, and surely Schmidt wouldn’t be foolish enough to admit anyone except . . . Except the room service? Someone imitating my voice?
John had gone ahead. He was waiting by the elevator when I got out of it. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
I didn’t ask how he could tell. He could always tell. ‘I’m having premonitions,’ I admitted.
‘It’s always best to assume the worst.’ He took the key from me. ‘Stand out of the way.’
He gave the door a sharp kick and dropped to a crouching position. ‘That’s what they do in the films,’ he remarked, straightening. ‘Futile, really, when you consider that most criminals use automatic weapons these days, but I suppose they believe it looks – ’
‘He’s not here. Damn the crazy old idiot, where the hell has he got to now?’
The doors to the bathroom and closet stood open. The import of that didn’t dawn on me until after we had investigated all possible hiding places; my morbid imagination was convinced we’d find Schmidt’s crumpled body in the bathtub or under the bed.
‘He must have left under his own steam; there’s no sign of a struggle,’ I said. ‘If he’s gone back to Larry’s, looking for me, I’ll kill him.’
‘He’s not gone there,’ John said.
‘What?’ I spun around. He was bending over the desk. ‘How do you know?’
‘He’s left you a note.’
The paper had been crumpled and then smoothed out. It was so badly stained by something brown and sticky that the words were barely legible.
‘My dear Vicky,’ it began. (I translate; he had written in German.) ‘I have the proof we need. I will drop this off at your hotel and then proceed to the rendezvous we . . .’
‘What is this?’ I demanded. ‘What proof? He never mentioned it to me. What hotel? What rendezvous?’
‘Calm down.’ John seated himself at the desk ‘Let’s see if we can figure out what he’s up to.’
‘Maybe we’d better get out of here.’
‘No need for haste. They’ve already been.’
‘How . . .’ I stopped myself. He was dying to show off; his half-smile and cool stare invited me to make a babbling fool of myself so he could patiently explain things to me. ‘Where was the note?’ I asked.
John nodded graciously, like a teacher to a dull student who is finally getting the hang of it. ‘On the desk. Someone had smoothed it out.’
‘But Schmidt must have thrown it away. In the waste-basket or onto the floor, after he spilled food all over it . . .’
‘Deliberately spilled food all over it,’ John said encouragingly.
‘The implication being that he’d discarded the note because it was sticky and wet and illegible, and written another one.’ I began pacing the floor. ‘He expected they’d locate him sooner or later. I’ve been gone . . .’ I looked at my watch. ‘Over five hours, and they had been looking for us since early afternoon. Time enough to inquire at every hotel in Luxor. He registered under his own name . . .’
‘If he had the intelligence for which I am belatedly beginning to give him credit, he left this room shortly after you did,’ John said. ‘In disguise, if I know my Schmidt. Let’s see. What would I do next? Stake myself out in the lobby. Hope you’d make it back before they located him. Be ready to move on in case they got here first. He’d already have cashed his traveller’s checks and retrieved