Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [55]
Dad was right. The damned things were more trouble than they were worth. I hoped.
Schmidt had saved me a seat in the lounge. By what was probably not a strange coincidence, the only other person at the table was Larry. He did seem pleased to see me. Schmidt’s face had the bland, pink-cheeked innocence it wore when he was up to something. I knew what he was up to this time, and I wished him luck. I’m a loyal employee of the National Museum myself – up to a point.
‘So they let you off for a few hours?’ I said, glancing at the table where Larry’s two henchmen were sitting.
‘It’s the other way around, actually,’ Larry said with a smile. ‘I had to order Schroeder to take a break. He’s been on the phone to Luxor a dozen times, working on the arrangements for the reception.’
‘Mr Schroeder is your secretary?’ I asked.
‘Executive assistant, rather. Haven’t you met him?’
I shook my head. ‘I have,’ said Schmidt. ‘A very pleasant person. But shy, nicht?’
Larry laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But he’s been pretty busy. These changes in schedule have been a damned nuisance. We’ve had to revise our own schedule for the reception at my place in Luxor, and for the formal opening of the tomb.’
‘It is true, then, that we will have the honour of being the first to see the tomb in all its new glory?’ Schmidt asked eagerly.
‘The first and possibly the last,’ Larry said.
‘Aha!’ Schmidt nodded and winked. ‘I thought that would be your aim. I am in full agreement, of course. But can you do that, mein Freund? The Bureau of Tourism will surely object to closing the tomb.’
‘I have an argument that may convince them. No,’ he added pleasantly but firmly, ‘don’t ask, Anton; I’m saving it for a surprise. It will be announced at the reception day after tomorrow.’
‘I would not want you to tell me then,’ Schmidt announced, widening his eyes and pursing his lips. ‘I like surprises.’
He was overdoing the cute stuff, and I tried to tip him off with a slight shake of my head. Schmidt only grinned.
The room had filled. Everyone was there, even Suzi, whom I had expected to prefer sunbathing over culture. Perhaps she had found she lacked an audience.
It was a long lecture, but for once even Perry’s hopelessly pedantic delivery couldn’t spoil the fascination of the subject.
The tomb had been discovered around the turn of the century by a famous husband-and-wife team of Egyptologists. It was an unusual combination in those days, when women weren’t allowed to work in archaeology or any other serious discipline, and the excavators were also unusual in that they followed rigorous standards of recording and copying instead of the slash-and-burn, dig-’em-up-and-dump-’em techniques favoured by many of their contemporaries.
Since colour photography had not yet been developed, the only way of accurately reproducing the wall paintings was to have them copied by an artist. Howard Carter, known to the world for his discovery of Tutankhamon’s tomb, began his career as a copyist. He did some nice work, but I believe I cannot be accused of prejudice when I claim that the greatest archaeological copyists of that period were women. The discoverers of Tetisheri’s tomb had employed one of them, and she had copied the paintings with exquisite skill.
As Schmidt had mentioned a couple of dozen times, we were among the first people to see the photographs of the restorations. Larry had denied dozens of requests for permission to reproduce them. Even the National Geographic hadn’t been able to talk him into letting them do a story.
Perry had had the bright idea of comparing three versions, slide by slide – first the painting, then a colour photograph taken before the restoration began three years earlier, then the photograph of the same