The Eye of the Serpent (12 page)

He looked up and saw that Mohammed was studying him in the rear-view mirror, as though gearing himself up to ask a few questions of his own.

‘You are a private detective,' he said, glancing back over his shoulder.

It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact; and of course Mohammed had been present when he had been obliged to confess his true
occupation to Wade and the boy. Llewellyn nodded, not feeling particularly inclined to waste time on idle chit-chat. But Mohammed was not so easily discouraged.

‘How do you become a detective?' he asked. ‘Is there a lot of training involved?'

‘Oh yes,' said Llewellyn. ‘Heaps. I had to study at college for years.'

This was not strictly true. Llewellyn had set himself up as a detective with a minimum of fuss. The simple truth was that the diploma hanging on his office wall was a fake and he had learned most of his tricks from reading classic detective fiction, like Sherlock Holmes; but nevertheless he seemed to be doing all right for himself. He generally found steady work handling divorce cases, the odd bit of fraud, even the occasional missing person around London. This was the first case that had taken him abroad, and he had already decided it would be the last. He had been lured by the easy money and the thought of visiting the country that was currently the talk of London; but he hadn't anticipated just how hot it would be here. It had been a nightmare from the word go. Even getting here had been a trial, a full four days of travel by plane, train and steamer,
only to find himself, travel stained and weary, in the most intense heat he had ever experienced. A man of his considerable dimensions had no business travelling in such a climate. He could quite easily make himself ill.

‘Supposing I wanted to be a detective,' persisted Mohammed, ‘here in Egypt. What would I have to do?'

A tricky question. Llewellyn cast around for a means of changing the subject and was handed one on a plate when he noticed a series of dark shapes flapping and circling in the sky a short distance ahead of them.

‘Good Lord,' he said. ‘Are those . . . vultures?'

Mohammed nodded. ‘Yes,
effendi
. They have been there all day, circling the remains of those damned hyenas.'

As the Ford drew closer, Llewellyn could see that the Arab was right. Three dark bloated shapes lay stretched out on the white sand. The huge birds were coasting low over the dead creatures but none of them seemed willing to land. Llewellyn suppressed a shudder. Everything about Egypt seemed to disagree with him.

‘It all looks the same,' he complained. ‘The landscape. It's impossible to know if you're
making any progress or not. How much further to Luxor?'

‘Not so very far,
effendi
. And my fine Ford automobile is not going to break down and leave us stranded like Mr Wade's Crossley.'

‘Oh, well, that's a relief,' said Llewellyn flatly.

‘You know,
effendi
, I have always thought I could be an excellent detective,' said Mohammed, who was clearly not ready to abandon his previous line of thought just yet. ‘I notice things.'

‘Is that right?' murmured Llewellyn.

‘Yes. For instance, I noticed when I picked you up at the site that you had lost a button on your jacket. That could be important.'

Llewellyn looked down at his midriff to see that Mohammed was quite correct. Another button had given up the thankless struggle to hold Llewellyn's monumental girth at bay and had popped off. He made a mental note to ask the hotel to have somebody sew a new one on. After all, he had his reputation to think of.

‘Most observant of you,' he muttered.

‘Oh, that is nothing,
effendi
,' said Mohammed, warming to his theme. ‘I predict that very soon we shall meet two cars on this road. The first one will have a small English driver, the second a tall
Arab. I also predict that the English driver will have his head under the bonnet of the car.'

Llewellyn stared at the back of Mohammed's head. ‘How could you possibly know all that?' he cried. He looked over at the surface of the road for clues, but other than a few blurred tracks in the sand, there was nothing that might yield that kind of information.

‘Just call it native intuition,' said Mohammed slyly. Then he pointed ahead. ‘Behold,' he said.

Something came into view through the thick heat-haze rising off the surface of the road. At first it was nothing more than a series of black swirls, but as they moved closer, Llewellyn saw to his amazement that two cars were parked at the side of the road. Sure enough, the bonnet of one of them was up and a small wiry figure was bent over, examining the engine. A tall Arab lounged against the second vehicle's side, smoking a cigarette.

‘How on earth did you . . .?' began Llewellyn; then caught himself as it suddenly dawned on him that he'd been suckered. Mohammed had been there earlier today when Wade had despatched Mickey Randall to fix his car; and of course, Mohammed must have passed the two men a short while earlier when he had driven
over from Luxor to collect the detective.

‘Oh, very clever!' said Llewellyn, and he laughed self-consciously, realizing that he had very nearly made a fool of himself. ‘You had me going for a moment!'

‘As I said,' chuckled Mohammed. ‘Native intuition!'

Mohammed pulled the Ford to a halt alongside the first Crossley and Mickey ducked out from under the bonnet, raising a hand in greeting. He had a spanner in his other hand, his face was streaked with oil and he looked hot and bothered, heavy beads of sweat running down his grizzled forehead.

‘Still not working?' asked Mohammed; and Llewellyn thought he detected a note of smugness in the man's voice. He remembered that there had been some kind of rivalry between Wade and Mohammed – something about their respective automobiles.

Mickey shook his head. ‘Nah. Looks like the engine's been eating sand,' he said. ‘I'm nearly done though. There ain't an engine in the world that I can't bring back to life.' He glanced at Llewellyn. ‘I believe I saw you up at the dig earlier,' he said.

‘Yes, Wilfred Llewellyn, private detective. I'm investigating the disappearance of Tom Hinton.' Llewellyn extended a hand to shake and Mickey wiped his own on the back of his overalls before dutifully obliging.

‘Terrible thing,' he said. ‘Young lad like that.'

Llewellyn nodded. ‘His parents, as you might imagine, are very distressed.' He turned and pointed back towards the circling vultures. ‘What's the story with those brutes?' he asked.

Mickey gazed at them a while as though he'd only just noticed them. Then he shrugged. ‘Never seen nothin' like it,' he said. ‘They've been circlin' that spot for hours now, but none of 'em ever seems to land and start tucking in – it's almost as though they think something's wrong with the meat.' He shook his head. ‘I never 'eard of vultures being that fussy before.'

‘Me neither,' agreed Llewellyn, though in truth he hadn't the slightest knowledge of the eating habits of Egyptian vultures, nor did he care to have.

‘You 'eading into Luxor?' asked Mickey.

‘Yes, I'm staying at the Winter Palace tonight.'

‘Lucky you,' said Mickey. ‘I wish I was joining yer. They serve the best dinner in Luxor, they do. They do a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding that
would put the Ritz to shame. Not that I can afford to eat there very often. But Sir William always used to treat us to Christmas dinner there, every December.'

‘They serve some delicious native delicacies also,' added Mohammed. ‘For those who are adventurous enough to try them.'

‘Well, yeah,' admitted Mickey. ‘They'll even serve you sheep's eyeballs if you ask for 'em. But I always say, you can't beat a good old English roast, eh? Even if you ain't in Blighty.' He frowned. ‘Anyway, it's only wishful thinking. I've got to get this Crossley back to camp yet.'

Llewellyn nodded. ‘A shame,' he said. ‘It would have been nice to have a little conversation over dinner.' He thought for a moment. ‘I don't suppose there's any point in asking you if you saw anything strange the night Tom Hinton disappeared?' he said.

‘None whatsoever. I was busy trying to repair a wireless, tell you the truth. I didn't even know about it until after the event.' He thought for a moment. ‘But you might want to talk to Hassan there. 'E reckons he's seen Tom.'

‘
Seen
him?' Llewellyn's pulse quickened. ‘When was this?'

‘Just the other night, I think. I told 'im 'e must have been mistaken, but—'

‘Hang on a minute!' interrupted Llewellyn. ‘You're telling me that this man claims to have seen Tom Hinton since the night of his disappearance?'

‘That's what 'e reckons,' admitted Mickey.

‘Well, let's get him over here!' said Llewellyn impatiently. ‘This could be important.'

Mickey nodded wearily. He would probably much rather have got on with the job at hand, but he dutifully waved to the Arab and the man stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and wandered over. He was a tall bearded fellow dressed in a black galabiya. He regarded Llewellyn with a sullen expression, as though the last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk to anyone.

‘What's this about you seeing Mr Hinton?' asked Llewellyn.

Hassan stared at him. ‘Hah?' he grunted.

‘'Is English ain't so good,' said Mickey. He spoke a few words to Hassan in halting Arabic and after a moment or two received some kind of reply.

‘Yeah, 'e says 'e saw Tom two days ago at the bazaar in Sharia el-Karnak.'

‘The bazaar – that's like a market, isn't it?'

Mickey nodded. ‘Yeah, pretty much. You can buy anything there. Soap, razor blades, antiques, rugs—'

‘Yes, never mind what you can
buy
! I'm not planning a ruddy shopping trip. What does he think Mr Hinton was doing there?'

Mickey tried a few more questions, but didn't seem to be getting through, so Mohammed pitched in, talking more confidently and in a lot more detail. He listened to the reply, then turned back to Llewellyn.

‘
Effendi
, he says that Mr Hinton was wandering around the antiquity stalls as though he was looking for something.'

‘I see. And was anybody else with Hassan who could verify the sighting?'

‘No, he says he was alone. He had gone there to try and buy some herbs for his mother, who has terrible backache.'

Llewellyn closed his eyes for a moment and counted to ten. Did Mohammed think he was remotely interested in Hassan's mother's ailments?

‘He's sure it was Mr Hinton?'

Mohammed spoke to Hassan again. ‘Yes, quite sure. He says he knows Mr Hinton well, has
worked with him for many years. He thought of going over to speak to him, to ask what he was doing there, but a camel laden with grain passed between them, and when it had moved on, he looked again and Mr Hinton had gone.'

Llewellyn frowned and stroked his chins. ‘Ask him why he didn't mention this to anyone.'

Another exchange of words. Then:

‘He says he told Mr Randall when he got back to camp, but because he didn't seem very interested, he didn't bother to mention it to anyone else.'

Llewellyn stared accusingly at Mickey. ‘Is this true?' he asked.

Mickey looked rather sheepish. ‘I do remember 'im saying that 'e'd seen Tom, but . . . well, I was in the middle of a job, an' besides, I assumed 'e must've been mistaken.' He moved a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘I'm not being funny but Hassan ain't the most reliable person in the world – know what I mean? 'E's got things wrong before. I remember once 'e told me 'e'd seen this old fakir turn water into wine. Naturally, I was interested. So we went up to the place where this chap lived and asked 'im to show us 'ow 'e did it—'

‘Mr Randall! I am trying to establish the facts here.' Llewellyn tapped Mohammed on the shoulder. ‘Ask him again, Mohammed. Is he sure it was Mr Hinton?'

He waited, sweating, as Mohammed spoke to Hassan again. Hassan was nodding, his expression one of absolute certainty.

‘He is positive,' said Mohammed. ‘He would be prepared to bet money on it.'

‘Blimey,' said Mickey, clearly impressed. ‘That certain, eh? Well, maybe I misunderstood the situation.'

‘Hmm.' Llewellyn considered for a moment. His comfortable hotel was calling to him, but even so, this was a potential breakthrough after a day of no progress whatsoever. ‘Mohammed, is this bazaar place anywhere near my hotel?'

‘Yes, sir, not far away at all.'

‘Good. Take me there first, will you? We'll have a quick look around before we go on to the Winter Palace.' He glanced up at Mickey and Hassan. ‘Thanks very much for the tip,' he said. ‘I hope it doesn't take you too long to get the automobile fixed.'

‘All right, Mr Llewellyn. Enjoy your stay at the Winter Palace!'

Mohammed put the car into gear and they drove away, leaving Mickey and Hassan behind them on the road. Llewellyn glanced back over his shoulder at the parked Crossleys but everything had twisted back into the swirl of the heat-haze, indeterminate black shapes melting into the sunlight. Up above them, in the brilliant blue sky, the vultures continued to circle.

He thought about what he had just been told. Could Tom Hinton really be hanging around a bazaar a stone's throw from his hotel? If only it could be so. He could have this whole case wrapped up and grab the first available berth back to England; back to reliable food, unreliable weather and cases that took him no further than a first-class train ticket. Right now it sounded like heaven.