“Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because he shares an obsession.” She straightened the knot on his necktie. “We have one mojo bag left?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need it. The newspaper mentioned a gala being held Sunday night. The owner’s trying to court Hollywood to film more pictures in San Francisco, and he’s putting his personal collection on display. Bet you anything we’ll find the Qebehsenuef jar there.”
Definitely worth a try.
And try, they did . . .
Early Sunday evening, Lowe held open the silver Packard’s passenger door and helped Hadley onto the curb, where other well-heeled gala attendees were gathered in front of the Alexandria Theater. Walking through lotus-topped columns, they stepped beneath the Egyptian-revival entrance and got in line near a ticket booth that was closed for the night—a tuxedoed man collected private invitations at the door. Nearby, reporters snapped photographs of a handsome couple—motion-picture stars, according to the buzzing chatter. But even the minor Hollywood dazzle couldn’t distract Lowe from the strange, prickling sensation that they were being watched. He’d used Velma’s last mojo bag, so they should be safely hidden. But he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
“Everyone has invitations,” Hadley whispered.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Please do, because I think I see someone I know in a car that just pulled up.”
Lowe groaned. All they needed was someone to blow their cover. Big, public con jobs were so much more trouble than the intimate ones. He watched the line for a break, and when no one was paying attention, quickly prodded Hadley forward to skip several couples.
The doorman looked up and smiled. “Good evening.”
“It will be once we’re inside,” Lowe said, matching the man’s enthusiasm. “Damn cold night. Say, I hate to be trouble, but my assistant here accidentally left our invitation at the hotel. It’s my fault, really. We drove up from Los Angeles this afternoon, and I guess it was a longer trip than I thought, because I fell asleep in the room when I should’ve been changing clothes.”
“Well, it’s just that—”
“Then when she rang me to say that the car was ready, I had to scramble to get ready and we barely made it here on time. Anyway, if you really need the invitation, I’m sure we can telephone the Palace Hotel inside the lobby and ask one of the managers to open the room and verify it’s there.”
The attendant glanced at the impatient people in line behind them and scratched his ear.
“We’re booked under Columbia Pictures, if you want to call the hotel yourself,” Lowe added.
“Columbia?” He glanced at Hadley’s fur and extended an arm into the lobby. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Please, do come in.”
Well. That wasn’t so bad, after all.
Lowe led Hadley inside. Green patterned carpet spanned the spacious lobby. Lots of columns. Bronze Egyptian bas-relief on the walls. A train of attendees headed up and down an attractive staircase to a curved landing where drinks and finger food were being served. But it was what was on display at the back of the lobby that captured Lowe’s attention.
Sammy Levin’s private collection.
Hadley was right. They all shared a common obsession, all right. Mr. Levin’s, however, leaned toward the surreal. The centerpiece of his collection was a massive Egyptian throne with thick, carved arms lined with lotus blossoms. The sign above identified it as a prop from the movie Cleopatra, which meant that Theda Bara’s barely covered ass once sat upon that wood. How Mr. Levin managed to obtain it wasn’t much of a mystery, because lining the shelves around the throne was an expensive, if not eclectic, mix of Egyptian objects, from painted Hollywood paste to some statuary that looked very ancient, and very real.
Mr. Levin was loaded.
And with pockets deep enough to not only build a handful of neighborhood theaters like this but also acquire treasures that rightly belonged in Hadley’s antiquities wing. “Did you know he had all this?” Lowe whispered in Hadley’s ear.
“He’s outbid the museum on a few occasions,” she said. “Nothing big. A few pieces of jewelry and a broken funerary mask. I’d heard he has little academic knowledge of what he collects. He’s like a small boy in a toy store. He just desires and takes what he wants. The glitzier, the better.”
Hadley hadn’t met the man in person—Lowe knew that much. She’d said she caught a glimpse of him at a charity function last year, and had heard rumors he might be missing a few marbles upstairs. People said he had secret living quarters on the second floor of the theater and could sometimes be spotted in the balcony drinking whiskey in his bathrobe between shows.
Lowe could clearly imagine one of the canopic jars sitting pretty among all of this strange mix of old and new. But his curiosity warred with a renewed itch that they were being trailed. Would Dr. Bacall’s old partner dare attack them with magical creatures in a public place like this?
Best find the damned thing and get out. Fast.
After scanning the crowd for suspicious eyes, Lowe protectively drew Hadley closer and joined the line of people filing past the uniformed police guarding the display shelves. Half of them didn’t have any idea of the worth that sat inches away from their fingers. Hell, most folks just wanted their photograph taken as they perched on the throne. Hollywood trumped dusty relics.
Fine by him. It left half the exhibition wide open for their perusal. His gaze skipped over the objects, looking for the distinctive urn. But as they rounded a bay of shelves, Lowe’s eyes fixed on something else. Something horribly, horribly familiar.
The golden crocodile statue.
Levin was Monk’s silent customer.
No. It couldn’t be. Absolutely impossible. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could will it away, then looked again. Oh, yes. It was the crocodile. And since he knew for a fact that the other statue—the real crocodile—was resting in a display case in New York, this had to be Adam’s forgery.
Lowe’s entire body seemed to catch fire from within. He loosened his tie, momentarily numb as panic jumbled his thoughts. He wiped his brow and glanced behind him. Okay, all wasn’t lost. All they had to do was find the damn urn and run for the door. And maybe it wasn’t even here. Maybe Hadley had guessed wrong. He swung back around to suggest it, only to find her leaning inches away from the shelf, staring at the crocodile.
“Lowe,” she whispered. “This looks exactly like the Late Period statue that was stolen from the tomb at Faiyum. How in the world did it end up here?”
He stood mute, feeling dangerously unsteady, as if the floor had liquefied beneath his feet. His body flashed from hot to cool. Sweat coated his skin.
He’d have to tell her now. And when he did, she’d suspect forgery with the amulet. She’d know he’d been planning to cheat her father, and she’d hate him for it. For the past week, he’d been thinking he was uncomfortable about all the sneaking around he’d been doing to keep their affair hidden, but that was only half the problem, wasn’t it? That was him lying to himself about lying to her, thinking that he could somehow juggle all the deceptions and sweep the forgeries under the proverbial rug. That he could cancel his debt to Monk and help Hadley’s father, all without her knowing. Which would’ve been a fine plan if it were only a simple affair.
But somewhere between the time he first saw her in the train station and the last night he’d slept in her bed, it became so much more, and now he was well and truly fucked.