The Laughter of Dead Kings (8 page)

“Business isn’t what I’d call brisk,” I observed.

“This isn’t Marks and Sparks, duckie. We aren’t trying to attract the sort of people who shop at Alfie’s.”

There was that sneer again. Personally, I am very fond of Alfie’s, which is an antiques market just up (or down, depending on which way you are going) the street. However, many of the dealers focus on twentieth-century stuff and what is known in the trade as collectibles. Known to John as junk.

“It takes time to build the kind of clientele we want,” Alan went on. “Museums, serious collectors, specialists. We notify them when we acquire a piece we believe will be of interest to them, and if the object is valuable enough, we’ll deliver it for inspection.”

I was familiar with the process, since I am sometimes called in to evaluate and authenticate an object that’s being considered for the museum. I nodded. “Are you still accepting bank transfers and checks?”

Alan gave me a wry smile. “Oh, you heard about that little scam.”

“I’ve heard of several.” The most outrageous, which had happened only a few years earlier, involved a gang that had rented a chic apartment near the Grand Canal in Venice. Dealers from London, Frankfurt, and Amsterdam had delivered paintings worth more than a million pounds to a charming, elegantly dressed gentleman in exchange for a receipt and the promise of a bank transfer next day. The bank transfer never arrived, and (I like this touch) the check for the apartment bounced.

“It served the suckers right,” I said.

“That sort of transaction used to be standard practice, Vicky. In part it’s because people in this business like to think of themselves as gentlemen, dealing with gentlemen.” Alan shook his head. “Unbelievably naive. Fine art and rare antiquities have become big business.
Paintings are selling for incredible sums at auction galleries, and the black market is flourishing. I might accept a wire transfer from the Metropolitan Museum, but not from anyone or anything less well known.”

“Interesting. Well, thanks for the lecture.”

“I didn’t mean to sound patronizing.”

“That’s okay. Art scams aren’t my field.”

Which was not strictly true. My long association with John in his Mr. Hyde (i.e., Sir John Smythe) persona had taught me more than I really wanted to know about the illegal aspects of the trade. Take forgeries, for instance. Laymen innocently assume that any museum curator knows how to spot a fake, but I wouldn’t swear to anything unless it was in my own limited field, and sometimes not even then. So-called critics talk learnedly about brushstrokes and technique, but the only sure way of detecting a fraud is through scientific analysis—such as the use of pigments which weren’t known before the twentieth century in a purportedly sixteenth-century painting. As for flat-out theft, the security systems in many museums can be circumvented by anybody with a pair of pliers or a nail file—or enough money to bribe a guard. As John had once remarked, the fancier a gadget, the greater the likelihood it will break down at the wrong time. He preferred to deal directly with venal human beings.

It was all very depressing.

I said, “I’m going out for a breath of air.”

I wandered slowly along the street, looking in windows and thinking vaguely about lunch. There was an open-air market not far away; I decided to check it out and maybe pick up a few healthful fruits and vegetables for the flat. I hadn’t gone far when a car pulled to the curb and a voice called, “Miss? Excuse me, miss?” At the window I made out a large piece of paper that appeared to be a
map, with the top of a bald head visible over it. Some poor lost soul wanting directions, I assumed.

The sun was bright, the pavement (as they call it in England) was busy with pedestrians. Helpful little me, I was within a few feet of the car when an arm went round me and pulled me back. The car took off with a screech of rubber, barely missing a taxi.

G
oddamn it,” said John. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was just…Ow. That hurts. What do you think
you’re
doing?”

His grip relaxed. I rubbed my ribs.

“Saving you from a fate worse than death. Again. Have you no sense of self-preservation?”

The suspect vehicle had vanished. “I don’t suppose you got the license number,” I said, trying to catch my breath. It was beginning to dawn on me that I had just had a narrow escape.

“I was otherwise occupied. A futile procedure in any case; the vehicle was probably hired, and tracing a license number isn’t easy unless you’re a copper. Did you get a look at him?”

“No,” I said, resisting his attempt to lead me back to the shop. “He was hiding behind a map. Naturally I assumed…Give me a
break, John, I had no reason to suppose anybody was after me. What made
you
suppose that?”

“My general operating principle—always expect the worst. Hasn’t it dawned on you that you are my weak point?”

He paid me the compliment of not spelling it out in detail. The attempt had been so blatant that it might well have succeeded by virtue of its sheer unexpectedness. A few seconds of shock and confusion on the part of bystanders, and they’d have had me inside the vehicle and away. And once they, whoever the hell they were, had a hostage, they could get anything they wanted from John. I remembered seeing someone in the backseat. Maybe more than one.

A few passersby had stopped to stare. John kept tugging at me and I kept resisting. One Good Samaritan, a little man with a brushy mustache and horn-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat. “Miss, is this person annoying you?”

John turned to give him a furious look. I was tempted to say yes, but his nobility demanded a kinder response. “No, we’re just having a little domestic disagreement,” I said. “He wants to go one way and I want to go another. But it’s very kind of you to ask. You are the sort of citizen who makes this country great.”

The little man marched off, preening himself, and John said under his breath, “Come back inside.”

“I was going to the market,” I explained. “Which is where I’m going now. With you by my side, my hero, who would dare interfere with me? Stop glowering before some other chivalrous soul decides to come to my rescue.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitched. “You win, as usual. I doubt they’ll try it again so soon. Give me your word, for what that’s worth, that you won’t venture out alone from now on.”

I love street markets. I still retain the delusion that produce is
fresh from the local farm, even though I know most of it is imported from faraway places with strange-sounding names. Some of the stalls had lovely veggies, lettuce and tomatoes and bananas and artichokes, some sold baked goods and bottled fruit juices, coffee, chocolate, and so on. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be allowed out for a while, so I loaded up as for a siege. “We need butter for the artichokes,” I remarked.

“I’ve got all I can carry,” said John. One hand was empty, but I saw his point.

When we got back to the shop, Alan was lounging in the doorway. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Why should you suppose otherwise?” I inquired.

“No reason.” Alan gave John an odd look. “Do you want me to stick around? I have a date, but I can cancel it.”

“Take the rest of the day off,” John said. “And don’t forget your hat.”

After Alan had stalked out we retired to the office, and I spread out a few edibles on the desk. John condescended to accept an apple.

“Spare me the lecture,” I said. “I realize I have to alter my behavior. I just wish I knew what the hell is going on. Is everybody after us?”

“Three, by the latest count. Bernardo and Company, the chap in the car just now, and the spinster lady in Kent.”

It took me a minute to remember. “Oh, the lady with the pre-Columbian collection. You called her?”

“She was a baritone.” John studied the apple distastefully and put it down on the desk. “Said she had a cold.”

“And?” I prompted.

“She suggested I call on her at the earliest opportunity. Today, if feasible. Gave me directions to her remote manor house deep in the country.”

“Oh. Was that what alerted you to my peril?”

“I suppose so.” John rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps it was the mental bond between us, the marriage of true minds, et cetera.”

“Right.”

“And the fact, brought home to me by the baritone, that some individual or group here in England is already on our trail. That we need to be on our guard every bloody second of every day.”

“You’d like me to butt out of this, wouldn’t you?” I said, responding not so much to his words as to his tone of voice.

“It’s too late for that, Vicky.” He put his head in his hands.

“We could have a spectacular public fight,” I suggested. “Declare to the world that we have split up and that we loathe each other.”

John lowered his hands and gave me a feeble grin. “You have the most unusual ways of trying to cheer me up. Believe me, I thought of that. There are two problems. First, that we wouldn’t be believed. Second, that the lads and lasses who are after me would assume you’d be more than happy to cooperate with them for the sake of revenge.”

“Okay,” I said briskly. “So what do we do now?”

“Leave town. As soon as possible.”

“What about Schmidt?”

“That’s our next problem. He didn’t tell you what time he’ll arrive?”

“No. I could call him back.”

“There’s not a chance we could get on a plane before tonight. Anyhow, I think we need to have a little chat with Schmidt. It’s too much of a coincidence that Suzi should decide to break off with him at this precise time. We’ll hole up in the flat, wait for him to ring, and then go to see him at the Savoy. If he makes it that far.”

Leaving me with that encouraging thought, he turned back to the computer. “Nothing of significance,” he reported, after check
ing his e-mail. “You had better see if Schmidt has been in touch again.”

Once again I found myself yearning for the good old days when letters and telephone calls (with no call-waiting, no voice mail, no answering machines) were the only means of communication, bar the occasional telegram. There was nothing new from Schmidt. By the time I finished reading chatty notes from a few friends, John was brooding over his cell phone.

“Feisal is beginning to sound a trifle nervous,” he remarked, and read the message aloud.

“‘Looking forward to seeing you. I have much to tell you, much to show you. Let me know the time of your arrival.’”

“Perhaps you had better reassure him.”

“At the moment I can’t think of any news that would do that.” He began poking at the buttons, pronouncing the words as he wrote them. “‘Hope to have plans made by tomorrow. Let’s keep your news for a surprise, shall we?’”

“You both have a somewhat telegraphic style,” I remarked. “I take it you haven’t gone in for instant messaging?”

“We have to assume that all our means of communication are compromised. How I loathe modern technology,” he added petulantly. “Every new so-called advance in communication is only a new way of eavesdropping.”

Before I could voice my hearty agreement the bell at the shop door jangled. John stood up. “Stay here,” he ordered, and went out.

Naturally I went to the door and looked into the shop. The potential customers looked harmless enough: two middle-aged women wearing twin sets and pearls. John advanced on them, exuding charm; in response to his question, “May I be of assistance?” one of them chirped, “Just browsing.”

“By all means,” said John. He retreated to the desk at the back of the showroom and sat down.

The women—Mabel and Allie, as they referred to each other—looked at every painting and every artifact, asking questions and requesting prices. They were free with their comments. “Two hundred pounds for that? It’s quite ugly, you know.”

They were at it for almost an hour, obviously killing time, with no intention of buying anything. John answered their questions fully and courteously, but without moving from his chair. After they left I ventured out of the office.

“I suppose you get a lot of that,” I said.

“Oh, yes. Most of the drop-in customers are ‘just having a look round.’ But one never knows when a live one may turn up. Come here and sit down. We close in another three-quarters of an hour.”

He didn’t seem inclined toward conversation, so I opened a drawer looking for the magazine Alan had been reading. It wasn’t there. But something else was.

“I thought you never carried—”

“It’s a toy. Good enough to fool most people, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Modern technology,” I murmured, staring at the deadly black shape.

“Life in the metropolis,” said John, “is increasingly hazardous, especially for innocent merchants. I’ve had this ever since an acquaintance of mine up the road was robbed at gunpoint a few months ago. They beat him rather badly and got away with two diamond rings.”

He picked up a pile of papers from the in-box and began going through them. An occasional grimace suggested that some of them were bills.

One other customer showed up just before closing time. The
drawer was open and John’s hand was on the fake Beretta before the bell stopped jangling. It was a man this time, sturdily built and bearded, wearing a turban.

“I am in the market,” he said, in the accents of Whitechapel, “for African textiles.”

“I’m afraid we have nothing of that sort,” John said. “Try Alfie’s.”

“I have been there,” said the bearded man, standing his ground.

“There’s a place around the corner that specializes in African crafts,” John said, gripping the barrel of the gun so hard his knuckles went white. “Marks and—uh—Markham and Wilson. Turn right when you leave, and right again at the next intersection. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” The beard opened in a smile. “You are most helpful.”

The bell jangled. John let out his breath and relaxed his grip. “That’s it. Get your gear while I close up.”

J
ohn unlocked the door of the flat. “No one’s been here.”

“The old thread-in-the-doorframe gimmick,” I said, watching it float to the floor.

“Simple but generally efficacious. However, just to be on the safe side…” He cast a searching glance round the room, went into the bedroom and study and did the same, and preceded me into the kitchen.

“All clear,” he said.

I put the groceries away and then settled down to watch telly and wait for Schmidt to call. John, who professes to despise popular culture, retreated into the study, his nose in the air. In a way I didn’t blame him for avoiding what has become an exercise in despondency (the news) and/or idiocy (most sitcoms), but I find
it relaxing. I had a bag of crisps in one hand and a beer in the other and was switching from channel to channel when I caught something that made me spill the crisps.

“John,” I yelled. “Get in here. Quick!”

He shot through the door. Seeing me bolt upright and unthreatened, he was about to expostulate when I gestured at the screen. “Look. It’s him!”

I recognized the background: the facade of the Altes Museum in Berlin. In the foreground Dr. Ashraf Khifaya, secretary general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, in full glorious color, was being interviewed by a BBC reporter. He was wearing a pristine pith helmet and carrying a huge sign that read, in English, German, and Arabic: “Let Nefertiti come home.” Other newspersons surrounded him. He looked like a particularly gorgeous Hollywood star playing an adventurous archaeologist. The bullwhip would appear any second. In the background a long line of black-robed women paced slowly along the sidewalk, accompanied by the slow throb of drums.

“No dancing girls,” John said critically.

“This is better. Solemn and dramatic.”

“I ask only for what is ours,” Khifaya declaimed, in excellent English with just enough accent to sound exotic. “After years of exploitation…”

They cut him off in mid-spiel; no news item is worth more than a few minutes. In keeping with their declared policy of presenting both sides, the cameras switched to a man sitting behind a desk.

“It’s him,” I squealed.

“He,” said John.

“Shh.”

“This is a free country,” said the man behind the desk in clipped
tones. “If the distinguished secretary general chooses to make an exhibition of himself, that is his privilege. Thank you.”

“So Nefertiti is not going home?” asked a blond female, twinkling at the camera.

“You have received a press release on the position of the museum. It has not changed. Thank you.”

“So the feud continues,” said the blonde, with a merry laugh.

She was replaced by an equally blond starlet answering questions about her upcoming divorce. John grabbed the remote and switched off the set.

“You recognized him, didn’t you?” I demanded. “Not Khifaya, the second guy.”

“I presume he is the director of the museum.”

“Assistant director. It was Jan Perlmutter. You remember—the guy that stole the Trojan Gold out from under our noses.”

“Your nose.”

“Oh, come on, you were in on the hunt too. So we picked the wrong grave. I still don’t know how Perlmutter figured out which was the right one.”

“Ah, yes, it’s coming back to me.” John began collecting scattered crisps. “My guess would be that he winkled the information out of your chum, the little old woodcarver. I got the distinct impression that the old chap knew more than he was telling you. Didn’t you ever ask?”

“There wasn’t time. I fled with my tail between my legs and Herr Müller had left Garmisch to stay with his sister. I meant to get in touch with him, but a few weeks later I got a note from the sister telling me he had died.”

I still felt a little guilty about not making more of an effort to find out how the old fellow was doing. I had grown fond of him
and I had thought he was fond of me. Had he been holding out on me? If so, it was surely because he feared that for me knowledge might be dangerous. As it definitely had been. He might have meant to tell me more if he hadn’t died suddenly…It was irrelevant now.