Читать книгу Only Gods Never Die - Karl Hudousek - Страница 9

THE POLITICAL CENTRIFUGE created new countries from colapsing empires and gave rise to new frontiers; new objectives were pursued, and new allies mustered. Etienne knew the murderer could use this to his advantage and remain free. He shuffled through the heaps of autumn leaves blown against the stone parapet on the riverside of a small park opposite the Rudolfinum. Leaning against the low wall, he watched the undulations of the rain-swollen river. His thoughts were of a warmer land and another river, the Nile, as he attached his hopes to things he’d only just heard of.

Some streets away, in the sombre interview office, Felix met Novak.

“Two weeks have passed, and we have got nowhere,” Felix said.

“There’s more to this than meets the eye. Beaufort appears to be a man of mystery. If he’s bolted to Egypt, this may be more difficult to deal with.”

“Do you mean he can get away with murder?” asked Felix with a scowl.

“Yes. The borders are porous. I didn’t say it was hopeless, but first we’ve got to find him.”

“God damn it, I’ll do it for you. I’ll find him myself,” replied Felix tersely.

The inspector huffed dismissively. “I don’t like your chances when the British can’t find him in their backyard. Consider your actions thoroughly before you make your next move.”

“Are you implying he’s innocent?”

“Not at all, but don’t mistake main suspect for guilty. In Egypt you will be on your own. The place is full of fanatics and the fact is Allenby, the High Commissioner, has enough trouble protecting the colonial secretary and keeping order. You must be careful – and realise that this is a trifling matter to them, unless it threatens their security and national interest.”

Felix tossed his thoughts in his head as he walked to his next rendezvous in the riverside park. The sound of his footsteps was drowned by the screech of metal wheels against rails as trams crossed the bridge spanning the Vltava and then turned alongside the river.

“I’ve got the keys.” Felix dangled them as he spoke.

“Thank God,” Etienne breathed. “I’ve been waiting since the funeral with faith and trust. I want to see this map.”

“Then you’re standing at the perfect spot. A king once threw the best exponent of trust into this river, right here.”

“You mean John of Nepomuk, the priest?”

“Yes I do. He sacrificed his life so as not to betray the queen’s faith. Neither will we betray Victor’s trust in us. So let’s get on with it.” Even before the words died in his ears, Felix commenced to cross the street as Etienne followed.

“If that map is still there, our road’s a long one!”

Felix threw a sharp look at Etienne over his shoulder. He, too, knew if the map was gone they were in limbo; he believed it held the key to everything. They took the shortest route, past the old Jewish cemetery, then along the narrow medieval streets. On entering the building, Felix stopped as he set foot on the first step. He was surprised to be greeted by name and turned to look at a frail old man, the janitor. “You’re so familiar with me, yet we’ve never met.”

“Of course I know you; your uncle spoke of you, both of you, in his impatient wait for your arrival. Never did I expect to have such a tragedy on my doorstep – such a cold-blooded crime is uncommon here.” His shoulders sank, making him look even smaller than he was. “I’m so sorry, and I envied him. I’m not ashamed to say it; I admired him and his life in the Orient.”

“We understand,” Etienne tried to console the old man.

“No, you don’t,” he retorted as if he was being patronized. “You don’t understand how brazen he was, how calculating. He took advantage of me.”

Puzzled at first, Felix and Etienne realised he was talking about the assailant. “Tell us what you saw.”

“He aroused my suspicion with his endless pacing and watching from the street. I wondered what he was doing. The last thing I thought was that he might be a burglar. He appeared well presented, slim and neat. He had the bearing of a professional man. His clothes were fashionable; his suit was of an English cut, if I’m permitted a guess. On most occasions he wore a mackintosh and a trilby hat. I’m sure he was a foreigner.

“He slipped into the building when I left for a few hours that evening, and Victor surprised him when he returned earlier than usual. I told them what I saw; it puzzles me that the police haven’t found him. I’m sure it was him. He would stand on the corner of the street, or walk up and down looking at the shop windows for an hour or more, every day for a week, even longer. One day I almost walked into him at the tobacconist round the corner. On seeing me, he pinched the brim of his hat to lower it as he turned away and quickly walked off; he was back again the next day.”

Felix interrupted him: “Did you see any other visitors?”

“Oh yes. The day before, two Germans came in. They asked where Victor’s apartment was; after some time he left with them and returned alone. ‘At last I’m getting somewhere,’ he said to me when he came in, as if I was supposed to know what it was all about. You never know what’s in people’s minds, do you? And the more I think of it, I wouldn’t trust his last two visitors either.”

Felix and Etienne moved up the stairs, thanking the old man. He answered without looking up: “Everything depends on you boys; he believed in you.”

Inside the apartment, in front of the wall of books he had never heard of, Felix felt despondent even though their wait was at an end. “At this moment we have one secret. When we open it we may have a new one. What if the safe is empty?”

“Then we would know who has it, and we would have another responsibility – to get it back.”

Felix removed the crystal vase and tried to slide the wooden panel behind it. It wouldn’t move.

“I don’t want to break it.”

“No, don’t do that. There must be a release mechanism somewhere.”

Felix cranked his memory back to when he saw Victor slide it aside. He couldn’t recall him doing anything to release it. It also occurred to him that he didn’t know where to find the key to the safe. Frustrating hours passed as they continued their luckless search. While Etienne studied the collection of books, Felix searched for possible hiding places they may have overlooked.

“Why don’t we have a break? Perhaps a coffee on Paris Street; you won’t believe what a difference it could make,” suggested Etienne.

As they prepared to leave, Etienne stood back and surveyed the wall of books and shelves. “There’s a key to many a puzzle in those books. Maybe even the key to this strange affair.” He looked at Felix as he took several paces toward the door. “When you smile like that, I know you’re up to something.”

“You just gave me the clue. Coffee can wait.” Felix threw his coat over a chair and hurried back to the books. Reaching up, he removed a weighty book and brought it down on the desk with a thud. He inspected it closely. Then he did the same with a second tome. His heartbeat quickened as his fingers touched the key hidden inside the book’s spine. “The moment you said it, I remembered he removed a book from those four volumes. He then reached for another, but didn’t remove it, as if he changed his mind. I think it may have been a deliberate act in opening the concealed compartment.”

Etienne manoeuvred a chair so he could remove the books and inspect the higher compartments. Barefoot, he stood on the chair and checked a compartment for a release device; then he stepped down to repeat the procedure. He gave a pained cry as he lurched and dropped to his knees. Frowning, Felix watched as he sank to the floor where he crawled over the Persian carpet, and combed his fingers through its thick fringe. “Look.” He extricated a small silver and blue object from the thick tassels of the carpet and held it delicately between his fingers. The tie clasp was blue enamel on white gold, beautifully monogrammed CR. They looked at each other as they sat on the carpet, and then again at the tie clasp. Etienne turned it over as if reading Felix’s thoughts and both drew in their breath when they saw that blood smeared the embossed cyrillic letters which read ‘Fabergé’.

“So it was Reinhardt after all. Now we know what caused the cut on the palm of Victor’s hand.” Felix simmered with rage. “Novak was right; the proof was in this room after all.”

“Hmm, he put up a fight, and now the murderer is halfway down the Adriatic, if he’s not in Alexandria already. What have we here?” Etienne sighed. “The revolver belongs to Beaufort and the tie clasp belongs to Reinhardt.”

A thought ran through their minds almost simultaneously. Their conclusion was the same: “We won’t tell Novak.”

“Novak’s a clever man, but the true answer to this lies in Egypt,” Felix said, “and we’re on our own. My confidence in him is diluted every time he says, ‘we’ll look into it,’ as if he has a crystal ball and expects a fanciful divination. He’s just a bureaucrat.”

Etienne rose to his feet and repositioned the chair. “Fabergé may have recorded for whom the tie clasp was made.”

“Do we need proof? It’s obvious enough.”

Etienne stood on the chair and continued his inspection of the shelves, handing the books to Felix as he checked behind them. “Aha,” he said, “try the panel.”

Felix pushed against the panel; it glided back with ease, exposing the wall safe. A triumphant “yes!” resounded. The system was simple: a fine rail at the bottom of the shelf unlatched the panel when a book was pushed against it; the weight of the book kept it in place. Felix inserted the key into the safe; there was a clunk, and they looked anxiously at one another as he pulled on the handle and the thick fireproof door opened to reveal the contents still intact.

“One moment.” Felix darted to the bureau du plat and took the white cotton gloves from the drawer. He removed the items from the safe and placed them on the desk one by one. “Victor told me that everything belonged to the funerary treasure of Ramses II, except the ring.” There were some gold and jewelled objects he had not seen previously, which they both admired.

“A treasure worthy of any king; it’s almost a sin to lock it away from view in a safe.” Etienne sighed and turned his attention to the map. It was not in good condition, the protective varnish coating was cracked in creases and folds. Unsurprisingly, the area south of Marsa Matruh was blank. With the exception of the Siwa oasis, it was a featureless sea of sand feared by European explorers.

“It’s well used,” Etienne said, stating the obvious. “But this interests me.” He pointed to three short lines written in pencil, and barely visible.

140º S.E of SIWA

200º S. HARA

“H-A-R-A,” Felix pronounced each letter individually. “Is that Sahara, if the first two letters have faded?”

“It’s odd, he’s written the bearings for the purpose of triangulation – but why did he use Sahara? That’s not a reference point. We get the map, and even then we have only half of the directions.”

“I refuse to be surprised anymore,” Felix joked about his own uncertainty.

“Have a look at this.” Felix held out a letter from the curator of the Egyptian museum in Turin – it was recent. “Looks like we have another party interested.”

My dear friend,

I miss your interesting conversation and your pleasant company. I hope everything is well with you. Recently I came across information that I am sure will be of the utmost interest to you. A respected benefactor of the museum, himself a serious collector, asked me to research and assemble some information from various archives to confirm the authenticity of an item in his possession. In doing so, I came across some astonishing information purely by chance; it should be of immense interest to you exclusively.

We’re both familiar with the history of Colonel Vincent-Yves Boutin, an officer of the French secret service, who undertook a journey to the Siwa oasis in 1811. If you recall, we discussed this at length, as the purpose of his journey has always been a subject of interest and speculation. What caught my attention was a document in the archives indicating that Boutin acted on instructions from the Ministry of the Interior, with a warrant from Bonaparte to find the location of the caravan lost six years earlier. Attached to the document was an intelligence report from Boutin himself, which states that the British were suspicious of him and his motives. On reaching Siwa, he was forced into a hasty retreat by hostile natives, and as a result his mission could not be accomplished.

Have I surprised you? Or did you suspect as much? I hope this information alleviates any doubt. Once again I thank you for your past support, and hope that perhaps we could meet on your proposed outward journey.

Sincerely yours

E. Schiaparelli.

“Victor was right,” Felix muttered. “Ali did tell him the truth. The most important thing in this letter is what it doesn’t mention – the extraordinary interest in that caravan can only be in its cargo.

“All the questions are in Europe and the answers are in Africa. There’s only one thing to do, and on the way we can call in on the curator in Turin.”

Before they could leave, there were many arrangements to be made and matters to settle. It took time; on occasion they retreated to dine in a rowdy, smoke-laden pub, where the hospitality was generous.

Felix was irritated by the wait. “It was to be a day, two days, a week, now three weeks have passed and they haven’t progressed one step.” He thumped his glass down on the table. “It’s sheer incompetence in that police force.” A wan smile crossed his lips at the thought of his hypocrisy. “Though I must admit, we’re no help to them either.”

“I don’t think it would make much difference,” said Etienne. “We won’t get one right answer here, and this will hold me in its grip till we nail that Prussian, or find Beaufort.”