John didn’t bother to answer. Towing his stumbling bride, he was already on his way, leading the retreat as usual. Schmidt tugged at me. ‘He is right, there may be more shooting. Come, we can do nothing here.’
That seemed to be the general consensus. Screaming and shoving, people poured through the entrance. Their sheer numbers overwhelmed the guards, who appeared to be as shaken as the visitors. They were waving their rifles around in a disorganized manner, and one of them fired into the air. I think it was into the air. If it was intended to stop the stampede, it failed, the sound of gunfire made people even crazier. The crowd exploded into the parking lot, carrying us with them.
John materialized out of somewhere. He grabbed Schmidt by the collar. ‘This way.’
Ed was standing by the car. When he saw us coming he opened the back door and motioned vigorously with the large, heavy, lethal object he was holding in his right hand. ‘In. Move it!’
John still had Schmidt by the collar. He heaved him in, gave me a hard shove, and followed close on my heels, scooping said heels and the legs to which they were attached in with him. The door slammed and the car took off.
We got our arms and legs sorted out eventually. Ed had gotten in front with the driver. The gun was no longer in sight. Mary crouched in the corner; her eyes were open, but they had a fixed, glassy stare. Her pretty frock was crumpled and dusty. Perched on the jump seat opposite, John ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. There wasn’t a mark on him, or on Schmidt, who had cleverly managed to fall on top of me. I was bleeding all over Larry’s expensive velvet upholstery.
I fully expected a visit, if not a reprimand, from the police. I should have known no such vulgarity would be perpetrated on a person like Larry. Schmidt was in my room trying to persuade me to let him wind yards of bandages around my scraped arms and legs when a servant knocked at the door and informed us that the master hoped we would join him on the terrace for drinks.
The others were already there. Mary had changed her dress. She was wearing white – and the Greek earrings. Larry began fussing over my injuries, but I cut his expressions of sympathy short. ‘Just scrapes and bruises. I’m fine. Unlike poor Jean-Louis. It was he, wasn’t it? I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t be sure.’
‘So I have been informed. He was carrying identification, of course.’ Always the perfect host, Larry handed me a glass before dropping into a chair. He covered his eyes with his hand. ‘I dread telling his parents. They were so proud of him.’
A tear rolled down Schmidt’s cheek. ‘It is furchtbar – frightful, terrible. Just when he had attained his fondest dream. What will you do now about the institute, Larry?’
Impeccably groomed, gracefully lounging, John drawled, ‘Every cloud has a silver lining, they say. This seems to be Feisal’s silver lining. Or are you going to appoint someone else as director?’
Even Larry had a hard time remaining courteous in the face of that outrageous speech. He answered shortly, ‘Feisal will assume the post, of course. He’s on his way here now. We have a number of things to discuss, so I’ll have to ask you to excuse me when he arrives.’
‘Have they caught the terrorists?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. Apparently there was a great deal of confusion. The police are rounding up – ’
‘The usual suspects,’ I murmured. From what I’d heard ahout the SSI, the usual suspects wouldn’t have a pleasant time.
John put his glass on the table and stood up. ‘I think I’ll have a swim. Anyone join me?’
Mary shook her head. Schmidt said doubtfully, ‘It does not seem proper.’
Hands in his pockets, lips pursed in a whistle, John sauntered towards the house. His pitch was perfect. I recognized the strains of ‘The Wreck on the Highway.’ He really was exceeding himself in tactlessness that afternoon. There hadn’t been any whiskey but there had been plenty of blood. And I hadn’t heard anyone pray.
Larry reassured Schmidt – ‘After all, you hardly knew the poor man – ’ but Schmidt remained seated. I wouldn’t like to imply that he was lacking in sensitivity, but I suspected mixed motives. He wanted more to eat and more to drink and more in the way of information. Browsing among the hors d’oeuvres, he peppered Larry with questions. Had anyone else been injured? Had a motive for the attack been established? Where had the bombs been placed, how had they been set off . . . Larry had no answers. A servant finally came to announce that Feisal was waiting in Larry’s study, and Larry excused himself. Schmidt decided he’d have a swim after all and since I could not decide which alternative was less appealing – having a heart-to-heart with the pregnant bride or watching the pregnant bride’s husband flex his muscles at me – I went to my room.
I didn’t know the answers to the questions Schmidt had asked either, but my admittedly confused memories of the event raised a couple of others he hadn’t asked. I had seen a big hole in the pavement and a lot of dust, but to the best of my recollection not a single column had toppled and nary a sphinx had been scarred. I had seen a lot of fallen bodies, but only one that was undeniably dead. The murder of a foreigner, and a foreign archaeologist at that, would raise a real stink. The usual suspects were in for a hard time. But maybe this time they were fall guys, not perps. (Note the technical vocabulary. We well-known amateur sleuths like to sound professional.)
I cannot say I felt particularly professional at that moment. What I felt was scared spitless, as my mother used to say, innocently unaware of the word the euphemism concealed. Bits and pieces of a theory were scuttling around in my brain like beetles with too many legs and shifty dispositions, darting for cover behind lumps of stupidity whenever I tried to swat one of them. The overall pattern was so preposterous I’d have laughed it off if anyone but John had been involved.
One thing stood out shining and clear though, and when I joined the others for dinner I was trying to think of a way of proposing it that wouldn’t make matters even worse. Larry did not join us. He had sent his apologies, claiming he would be busy all evening. It seemed a heaven-sent opportunity for making my move.
‘I feel guilty about taking advantage of Larry,’ I said, poking at a delectable fruit salad. ‘He’s too polite to say so, but I’m sure we’re making things more difficult for him. Not only is he getting ready to leave, but Jean-Louis’s death will involve a good many additional administrative problems. What do you say we check out and move to a hotel, Schmidt?’
Usually Schmidt was agreeable to any activity as long as he could do it with me, but this time he looked mutinous. ‘We can give help and comfort to our poor friend – ’
‘I doubt you can give him the sort of help he needs,’ John said dryly. ‘I think Vicky’s hit on a splendid idea. We’ll miss you when you’re gone, of course. Both of you.’
If that wasn’t a hint I’d never heard one. From the tilt of John’s eyebrow I deduced it was also a quote from one of Schmidt’s country ballads. Lots of them are about missing people after they’ve gone, and in most cases ‘gone’ doesn’t mean temporarily removed from the scene.
The meal dragged on, prolonged primarily by Schmidt, who ate hugely of everything offered. Nobody else seemed to have much of an appetite. When we headed for the parlour for coffee, one of the servants drew me aside. ‘There is a gentleman to see you, miss,’ he murmured.
He was waiting in the hall. I didn’t recognize him at first. He might have been dressed for a funeral, in a dark suit and sombre tie, and his face was almost as gloomy.
‘Feisal,’ I said in surprise.
His attempt at a smile wasn’t very convincing. ‘I have been with Mr Blenkiron. I thought – I hoped I might persuade you to come with me to a café.’