Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [93]
There is no better way of getting money from people than by appealing to their prejudices. Tourists in Third World countries expect to be mugged, though from what I had heard that was more likely to happen in New York and Washington than in Cairo, not to mention Luxor. My appearance certainly substantiated the pathetic story I told.
They wanted me to go to the police. I applied the handkerchief the kindly lady had given me to my eyes. ‘No, no, I can’t face it! I’ve got to get back to the hotel right away, my husband will be worried sick, I was supposed to meet him an hour ago, he warned me not to go off alone . . . There was a man . . .’
I got into the cab with ten pounds and the guy’s business card. I had every intention of paying him back, and I would have too, if I hadn’t lost the card.
The driver let me out some distance from the house. After I had paid him I was broke again; I suspected he had overcharged me, but I didn’t feel like arguing with him. The river glittered in the sunlight and the sky was a pale clear blue. I walked slowly, trying to figure out my next move.
Had they carried or enticed Schmidt off to a ‘safe place’ too? If he wasn’t at the house I had no idea where to start looking for him, but there was reason to hope they would consider him harmless and not bother to imprison him. No doubt they had concocted a convincing explanation for my failure to return the night before. My escape had changed the picture, though. Feisal had had plenty of time to report it, and they would certainly expect me to turn up. John knew I wouldn’t leave Schmidt in the lurch.
It all made sense to me at the time. So, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I was tired and hungry and thirsty and worried sick about Schmidt. And even if I had known what I was soon to discover, I don’t know what I could have done about it. Getting Schmidt out would still have been my first priority.
I had considered somewhat vaguely the minor problem of how I was going to get past the gate or over the wall. It would have to be the gate – I hadn’t the time or the equipment for climbing a wall topped with broken glass and barbed wire – and I didn’t suppose for a moment that I could enter without identifying myself. My plan, if it could be called that, was simple: get inside. After that . . . I had not the slightest idea what I was going to do after that. Oh, well, I thought. Fortune favours the brave and the meek shall inherit the earth, and, more to the point, there was a nice little gun in my bag. I might even have to use the damned thing – if it was still in the wardrobe where I had left it, and if I could get to it before I was caught.
When I reached the entrance I had my first piece of luck – and high time, too. Two large vans and a pickup truck were waiting outside the gate. The vans were closed, but the back of the pickup was open. It was also full – of men, locals by their clothing. Some were sitting down, others leaned against the sides of the truck.
They were delighted to see me and not inclined to ask unimportant questions. Or maybe they did ask questions. They certainly didn’t get any answers. I grinned ingratiatingly and held up my hands. A dozen brawny brown arms assisted me over the tailgate and a couple of the lads obligingly made room for me when I indicated my intention of sitting down. How true it is that language is no barrier to friendship! By the time the truck reached the house we were close buddies. Very close. I had to detach quite a few friendly arms before I could get out, but they accepted my departure with grins and shrugs and affectionate farewells.
With what I hoped was an insouciant smile, I strolled past the packers and entered the house. Once inside, I stopped being insouciant and ran along the corridor and up the first flight of stairs. My only hope, if there was hope, lay in speed. The servants probably weren’t in on the deal, but if one of the others caught sight of me I was dead meat.
I reached Schmidt’s door unobserved – I hoped – and turned the knob. The door wouldn’t open. My