Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [88]
Larry reassured Schmidt – ‘After all, you hardly knew the poor man – ’ but Schmidt remained seated. I wouldn’t like to imply that he was lacking in sensitivity, but I suspected mixed motives. He wanted more to eat and more to drink and more in the way of information. Browsing among the hors d’oeuvres, he peppered Larry with questions. Had anyone else been injured? Had a motive for the attack been established? Where had the bombs been placed, how had they been set off . . . Larry had no answers. A servant finally came to announce that Feisal was waiting in Larry’s study, and Larry excused himself. Schmidt decided he’d have a swim after all and since I could not decide which alternative was less appealing – having a heart-to-heart with the pregnant bride or watching the pregnant bride’s husband flex his muscles at me – I went to my room.
I didn’t know the answers to the questions Schmidt had asked either, but my admittedly confused memories of the event raised a couple of others he hadn’t asked. I had seen a big hole in the pavement and a lot of dust, but to the best of my recollection not a single column had toppled and nary a sphinx had been scarred. I had seen a lot of fallen bodies, but only one that was undeniably dead. The murder of a foreigner, and a foreign archaeologist at that, would raise a real stink. The usual suspects were in for a hard time. But maybe this time they were fall guys, not perps. (Note the technical vocabulary. We well-known amateur sleuths like to sound professional.)
I cannot say I felt particularly professional at that moment. What I felt was scared spitless, as my mother used to say, innocently unaware of the word the euphemism concealed. Bits and pieces of a theory were scuttling around in my brain like beetles with too many legs and shifty dispositions, darting for cover behind lumps of stupidity whenever I tried to swat one of them. The overall pattern was so preposterous I’d have laughed it off if anyone but John had been involved.
One thing stood out shining and clear though, and when I joined the others for dinner I was trying to think of a way of proposing it that wouldn’t make matters even worse. Larry did not join us. He had sent his apologies, claiming he would be busy all evening. It seemed a heaven-sent opportunity for making my move.
‘I feel guilty about taking advantage of Larry,’ I said, poking at a delectable fruit salad. ‘He’s too polite to say so, but I’m sure we’re making things more difficult for him. Not only is he getting ready to leave, but Jean-Louis’s death will involve a good many additional administrative problems. What do you say we check out and move to a hotel, Schmidt?’
Usually Schmidt was agreeable to any activity as long as he could do it with me, but this time he looked mutinous. ‘We can give help and comfort to our poor friend – ’
‘I doubt you can give him the sort of help he needs,’ John said dryly. ‘I think Vicky’s hit on a splendid idea. We’ll miss you when you’re gone, of course. Both of you.’
If that wasn’t a hint I’d never heard one. From the tilt of John’s eyebrow I deduced it was also a quote from one of Schmidt’s country ballads. Lots of them are about missing people after they’ve gone, and in most cases ‘gone’ doesn’t mean temporarily removed from the scene.
The meal dragged on, prolonged primarily by Schmidt, who ate hugely of everything offered. Nobody else seemed to have much of an appetite. When we headed for the parlour for coffee, one of the servants drew me aside. ‘There is a gentleman to see you, miss,’ he murmured.
He was waiting in the hall. I didn’t recognize him at first. He might have been dressed for a funeral, in a dark suit and sombre tie, and his face was almost as gloomy.
‘Feisal,’ I said in surprise.
His attempt at a smile wasn’t very convincing. ‘I have been with Mr Blenkiron. I thought