The Curse of the Pharaoh #1 (5 page)

Dash and Chandler stood at attention.

“All right, Dash can be the cinematographer,” Agatha said decidedly. “Chandler, you’ll play the part of the wealthy producer.”

“And what about you?”

“Microphone, notebook, and pen: I’ll be the reporter,” she said, grinning.

Patricia Mistery clapped appreciatively. “That’s the spirit!”

It took them more than an hour to find the equipment and load up the camels. Dash took advantage of the downtime to print out some key documents, handing them to his cousin for safekeeping. He still wasn’t comfortable riding a camel, and he was afraid he might lose precious data if he fell off.

Next, they all went into guest bedrooms to change their clothes. When they came back out, they looked exactly like a professional television crew.

“Perfect!” Patricia exclaimed, handing out press passes. “Now I’ll accompany you to the boat I’ve booked, so you can cross the Nile!”

But as soon as they got to the courtyard, a nasty surprise met their eyes: Hasan, one of the camel handlers in their aunt’s service, sat on the edge of the fountain, stiff as a statue.

His colleagues were muttering, frightened. Nobody dared to touch him.

“What happened?” demanded Patricia Mistery.

“It’s a curse,” they responded in chorus. “The punishment of the serpent Apep!”

Agatha had already guessed what had happened. Inspecting Hasan’s hands, she discovered a needlelike spine stuck in his palm.

“
Indionigro petrificus
,” she whispered to herself. “Hasan must have touched the cactus while he was loading it into the saddlebags!”

Luckily she had just finished reading the book on poisons and knew an antidote to the paralyzing toxin. “Auntie, have you got a couple of lemons?” she asked.

In a flash, Patricia darted into the kitchen and came back with a basket of lemons.

Agatha squeezed a few drops of juice onto Hasan’s dry lips, then used the peel to remove the spine.

Like magic, the handler came back to life and
stretched. “What happened?” he asked, looking dazed.

His colleagues cheered, waving their arms in the air and singing a song in Agatha’s honor.

“What are they saying, Auntie?”

Patricia Mistery smiled, pleased. “That you have the power to waken the dead. They believe you’re the reincarnation of Isis, queen of the underworld!”

“Queen of the underworld?” Dash said with a snort. “More like queen of the lemons!”

“
A
unt Patricia is kind of…eccentric,” said Dash, leaning over the railing to stare at the muddy waters of the Nile. Was that a log floating ahead or a crocodile?

“Big surprise,” countered Agatha. “She’s a Mistery, right? Our whole family’s got a few screws loose.”

“Yeah, sure…but where did she come up with this tugboat? What do you think?”

“Stinky, rusty, and slow. My parents would love it.”

They both laughed, watching the old tugboat’s
funnel belch clouds of black smoke. Two long-masted boats with graceful, triangular sails—
feluccas
, thought Agatha happily—glided past them.

Before she said good-bye, Aunt Patricia had assured them. “The
Duat
won’t attract attention from anyone. I’ve instructed the crew to dock at an abandoned pier near the foot of the path on your map. Will this suit you, dear children?”

At the sound of “abandoned pier,” Dash gave a weak smile.

But Agatha was more excited than ever. Thumbing through her dictionary of ancient Egyptian, she informed everyone that the name “Duat” meant “afterlife.” This news depressed Dash even more.

The afterlife tug was no speedboat, but at least it would get them where they had to go. To the abandoned pier. Dash gulped as the dark shape ahead took a sudden dive, flashing its scaly tail.
Not
a log.

“I propose we look over those downloads,” said Agatha, popping open her travel umbrella for shade. “Okay with you, cousin?”

Dash nodded, glad to think about anything besides crocodiles.

They made themselves comfortable upwind of the camels’ enclosure and pored over the printouts.

Meanwhile, Chandler was busy chasing Watson around the deck. Quick as lightning, the cat scurried between sailors’ legs, hiding in the most unlikely places.

“Okay, here’s a file on that Egyptologist from the film clip,” said Agatha.

“Professor Maigret, right?”

“Hercule Maigret of the Sorbonne.”

“The Sore Bun?” Dash echoed.

She raised her eyebrows. “The Sorbonne? World-famous university in Paris?” Sometimes Agatha wondered if Dash ever studied. “The file says he has two assistants, one Polish and one German, and twenty-one Egyptian laborers,” she continued, licking her finger to flick through the pages.

Suddenly she spotted a curious photograph. She pulled it out.

It was a full-length snapshot of four people, looking proud and satisfied. At their feet lay an ancient clay tablet covered in tiny, chiseled hieroglyphs.

Dash peered at the photo. “Professor Maigret is the guy in the middle. You can tell by the Santa Claus beard,” he laughed. “What are the other two names again?”

“Let me see…” Agatha pulled back a wisp of hair. “There’s Dr. Paretsky, he’s Polish and an expert in hieroglyphic writing, and Dr. Dortmunder from Germany, he’s a geochemist.”

“I bet Paretsky is the blond guy, and the chubby one is Dortmunder.”

“Me too. But who is the fourth man?” she asked, almost talking to herself.

The man’s tunic was decorated with glyphs, and his long, pointy beard gave him a sinister look. He had the air of an ancient Egyptian priest: someone who might turn you into a mummy.

“Wow, what hypnotic eyes!” Dash said with a shudder.

Meanwhile, Agatha flipped through the pages looking for any hint of his identity. “I’m afraid we won’t know who he is until we get to Tomb 66,” she said, disappointed. She drew a large question mark in her notebook and wrote underneath it:
FOURTH MAN
. “Can you bring that photo back up on your EyeNet?”

Dash nodded, his thumbs flying over the keypad. “Got it,” he said.

“Good. Now zoom in on the tablet.”

He did.

“Notice anything?”

“It looks thin and fragile, like pastry crust,” Dash observed. “How could someone steal it without it crumbling to bits?”

“Excellent analysis, cousin!”

Agatha wrote down
TRANSPORTATION OF TABLET?
in her notebook. “Anything else?” she asked.

“Umm, don’t think so…”

“Look harder, Dash.”

He zoomed in even closer. He rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes. “Is it something about the hieroglyphs?” he murmured doubtfully.

“Way to go, Dash! I pulled open one of the little drawers in my memory, and realized…” Agatha paused for dramatic effect.

Dash hung on her words: his cousin’s prodigious photographic memory was legendary in the Mistery family.

“In the hieroglyphs compendium I studied last spring…,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Yes, I’m quite sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“Don’t quote me on this, but I think every hieroglyph on that tablet is carved in reverse!”

Reaching into her saddlebag, Agatha pulled out a makeup case.

Dash’s jaw dropped. “So that means you’re putting on lip gloss?”

“Don’t be silly,” Agatha winked. “A woman’s purse is a useful tool kit. Check it out!”

She popped open a mirrored compact and set it in front of the screen.

In the mirror image, each hieroglyph seemed to be written the right way.

“Remember, they only had simple bronze mirrors back then, and no zoom key,” said Agatha, resting her chin on her intertwined fingers. “Whoever carved these hieroglyphs
wanted to make sure they were a challenge to read.”

Dash jumped to his feet, excited. “Of course!” he said. “That explains why Professor Maigret sounded so vague in the film…”

“He never had time to translate the tablet!” Agatha said, finishing his thought. She scrawled hieroglyphs reversed in her notebook.

“What else?” she pressed.

But just at that moment, the
Duat
’s crew all started talking at once as the engine shut down with a groan and a shrill, metallic squawk. “Is it broken?” cried Dash.

He and Agatha were joined by Chandler, who had Watson tucked under one arm. “Looks like some trouble, Miss Agatha,” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“It seems to be a police checkpoint.”

A patrol boat sped toward them, water
spraying from the propeller. Then it pulled up alongside with machine guns pointing at the
Duat
.

Dash went as white as a sheet. “Aunt Patricia promised we wouldn’t get any attention!” he screeched. “I call this a
lot
of attention!”

“Well, yelling won’t help,” said Agatha. “And we’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Right. Just pretending to be a TV crew to get to a tomb that’s not opened yet. No problem there.”

Agatha shushed him. In the tense moments that followed, a uniformed officer boarded the
Duat
with one hand on his gun belt. The captain came out of the cabin and met him on deck. The tugboat captain looked tough, with a grizzled face, hooked nose, and no-nonsense manner. He sent the crew away with a snap of his fingers, speaking quietly with the imposing policeman.

“I wish I spoke better Arabic,” Agatha whispered.

“I wish I spoke
any
,” said Dash. “Or maybe it’s best not to know.”

The policeman checked the tugboat’s registration, took a quick glance at the cargo, including the camels, then pointed at Agatha and her companions.

“Where did we put those press passes?” muttered Dash. “Without them, our cover is blown!”

The captain continued to speak in low tones, then beckoned to them with an eloquent wave of his hand.

“We’re done for!” Dash panicked. “They’re going to arrest us!”

Agatha grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Get a grip, Dash! Man up!”

She had to forcefully haul him in front of
the policeman, who greeted them with a toothy smile.

“He wants to be filmed by the BBC,” the captain explained. “Do what he asks and keep your mouths shut. He doesn’t speak very much English.”

“Um, great. Good to know,” said Dash awkwardly. He picked up his video camera and said, “Action! I think.” Raising her microphone, Agatha signaled to the policeman, who furrowed his brow and moved through a series of Hollywood action-star poses.

“Bond, James Bond.” He grinned, flashing two thumbs-up. “Shaken, no stir, yes?” He bounded dramatically back onto the patrol boat, which raced away, roaring.

The tugboat captain eyed Dash. “The police were looking for a gang of smugglers. That’s not you three, is it?”

“Absolutely not!” Dash said with a gulp.

“Good,” rasped the captain. “Next time, remember to take off the lens cap.” Pulling down the brim of his cap, he strode back to the cabin.

Dash hit himself in the forehead. “Lens cap. Duh!” While he put the camera back into its case, Agatha filled Chandler in on their findings. He listened attentively, turning the photos in his giant hands.