Golden Relic (19 page)

"Loitering?" Maggie repeated. "We're staying at a tourist hotel, within walking distance of one
of the city's main tourist attractions, Sam, we're bound to see the same people more than once."

"But he was watching us and he's a local, not a tourist."

"And now you're going to tell me it was the man with the fez," Maggie chuckled.

"Yes," Sam said indignantly. "The man with the fez, the moustache and the bad skin, who was in
the lobby and then followed us into the bar."

"Are you sure it's not a case of 'all these Arabs looking the same' - to you at least?
Perhaps it's the fez that looks suspicious."

Sam scowled. "Behind me is a middle-aged probably American couple dressed in safari suits, she's
an unnatural blonde, he's got no hair under his hat. There's two red-headed guys, probably brothers,
sitting on the retaining wall, and next to them are two handsome young Egyptian men wearing black
trousers and white shirts, who look like students rather than 'expert museum guides'. There's a
small tour group, comprised of three inappropriately dressed women and five just plain badly dressed
men. An elderly Egyptian man in a blue nightgown thing is offering a trinket to a snooty-faced woman
in a red dress; and three Egyptian men are doing I don't know what, but the one with the beard is
wearing a beige gown and turban and the other two, who are alike enough to be father and son, are
wearing dark green gowns and brown turbans. Beyond them is the guy in the fez."

Maggie's eyes grew wider as Sam correctly identified half the people who were 'loitering' in
front of the museum. "The nightgown thing is called a
galibeya
," she stated, trying to cover
how impressed she was, before they both burst into laughter. "There's no man in a fez," Maggie
managed to say, "at least not anymore. If he was watching us then I'll wager he's going to pounce on
us later and invite us to his cousin's 'very best' perfume shop. Don't worry about it, Sam."

"Whatever you say, Maggie," Sam agreed reluctantly. "Did you find out about Noel?"

"Yes, and no. He hasn't done any consultancy work here for nearly two years and Ahmed hasn't
actually seen him since January. Noel had then just moved into a new apartment in Maadi, which is a
district about 10 kilometres south of here, where most of the expats live. Ahmed said Noel had
almost finished his ninth book and was heading off to Mexico in June to research to the tenth."

"So he mightn't be here at all," Sam said.

"Or he might be entrenched in his apartment tapping a way at Jake St James and the Curse of the
Aztecs," Maggie suggested.

"Jake St James?"

Maggie shrugged. "A hero has to have a memorable name."

Half an hour later Sam leapt out of the taxi, in which she and Maggie had been crammed with three
German businessmen because the driver had refused to go anywhere until his car was full, and stood
on the footpath muttering "ser-veece taxis, very bad drives".

"Emil did warn you, Sam," Maggie reminded her.

"Do they all have to pass a lunatic test to get their licences here or something?" Sam asked,
following Maggie into the decrepit 'Riverview' apartment building which, as old as it was, was
probably quite modern by Cairo standards.

Maggie pushed the intercom button for apartment 20 and, hearing an unfamiliar voice, asked for
Noel Winslow.

There was silence on the other end for quite a while before the man said, "Who are you?"

"My name is Dr Tremaine, Maggie Tremaine. I'm a friend of Noel's from Australia."

Another pause, then the interior door clicked open. "Come on up. Top floor at the front."

The lift wasn't working, so about three centuries later Sam and Maggie stood panting on the
10
^th
floor landing. The door opposite was opened by a middle-aged man with a somewhat
boyish face, deep blue eyes, and greying hair brushed back into a short pony tail. He ushered them
into a huge living room lined with bookshelves, crowded with an odd assortment of furniture, and
cluttered with books, magazines, newspapers and half-packed boxes.

"Please come in. I've just made some fresh lemonade," he offered, waving them to the wicker table
and chairs on the balcony overlooking the river. "I've heard a great deal about you Maggie
Tremaine," he said. "I'm Patrick Denton," he added, shaking her hand.

"Ah, Patrick," Maggie said, pleased she could finally put a face to the name she'd heard many
times over the years. "This is my friend Sam Diamond."

Sam shook his offered hand and sat in the seat he indicated, but she got the impression that
while Patrick Denton was being extremely hospitable it was obvious he was also stalling. She
wondered whether they had intruded on Noel Winslow's most creative time of the day.

"Are you two moving again?" Maggie asked, nodding at the boxes as she accepted the glass of
lemonade.

"I was," Patrick said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Noel died four months ago Maggie. He
went out for coffee with an acquaintance, had a stroke in the cafe and never recovered."

"Oh my god Patrick, I am so sorry. I had no idea." Maggie reached out and held his hand.

Four months ago? Sam felt like a pair of cold clammy hands had just given her a rub down.

"My first thought after his funeral was that I had to go home, but I didn't even leave the
apartment for a month. I just sat here staring out at that timeless, never-ending damn river, till I
nearly went mad. It's the lifeblood of this country you know, but I felt like it had bled me dry. I
would have starved if not for friends who dropped in daily with food. When I did decide to go back
to Canada they brought boxes and I started packing away 20 years of my life with Noel. Then one
morning I just walked out, wandered down to the Nile,
didn't
throw myself in, and went for
coffee where Noel and I used to lunch every day. I realised that with or without Noel, but mostly
because of him, this is my home. So now I'm slowly unpacking again."

"When did he die?" Sam asked softly.

"The same day, thankfully. The doctor said he wouldn't have known what hit him."

"I mean exactly when, what day was it?"

"It was a Friday," Patrick replied, puzzled by the question. "May 29th. Why?"

Sam looked meaningfully at Maggie who looked questioningly back at her. "That was the day after
he sent the postcard to the Professor," she said.

"What postcard?" Patrick asked.

"Noel, at least we're guessing it was Noel," Maggie explained, "sent Lloyd Marsden a postcard of
the Nile Hilton with a very cryptic message. That's why we're here."

"Lloyd sent you?" Patrick asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Maggie replied. "Lloyd was murdered in Melbourne last Tuesday."

"Good god, how dreadful," Patrick exclaimed. "But what could that possibly have to do with Noel?
I don't understand why you're here?"

"We think Lloyd's death is linked to whatever it was Noel was trying to tell him in the
postcard."

"It sounds like you've read one too many of Noel's books, Maggie," Patrick shook his head in
amusement. "Although," he added, getting up to rummage around in the antique desk by the window, "it
might explain this rather curious thing I found while going through Noel's effects. Where on earth?
Ah, here it is." He returned to his chair and handed Maggie a cigarette tin. "Open it."

Sam leaned over as Maggie removed the lid. Inside was a small green envelope with 'For Lloyd or
Muu-Muu
only
' written on it.

"MM," Sam said. "His postcard said 'inform MM'. Who the bloody hell is Muu-Muu?"

"Um, that would be me, actually," Maggie admitted sheepishly. "Sam, I swear I had no idea that MM
meant Muu-Muu. It was a pet name that Pavel gave me back in 1968 because of this, in retrospect,
insanely awful caftan thing I used to wear. There were only three people in the world who called me
that, Pavel, Noel and Lloyd, and none of them used it in the last 15 years because I would've
throttled them."

"Okay, Muu-Muu," Sam teased, "it seems you're licensed to open the envelope."

Maggie did so and removed half a drink coaster, with a six-digit number and the words 'Americo
Bank' scrawled under the beer logo.

"Does it help?" Patrick asked.

"Not really," Maggie fibbed. "Can we hang on to it?"

Patrick shrugged. "You're the only Muu-Muu I know," he smiled.

"Maggie, what if Noel's death wasn't natural causes?" Sam asked, as they emerged from the
Riverview apartments onto the street.

"Oh, Sam," Maggie sighed, turning to head for the corner and the main road along the Nile. "There
are some coincidences which are just that. Not everything is connected. Besides, I'm sure a doctor
knows a stroke victim when he sees one."

"Yeah, sure, which means he wouldn't have thought to look for something else - like poison,"
Sam stated. "The forensic pathologist in Melbourne initially thought the Professor had had a
stroke."

"Oh. I didn't know that," Maggie said, stopping in her tracks as the colour drained from her
face. "She reached out for Sam's arm. "That makes it much more than a coincidence then."

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Maggie. Do you need to sit down?"

"No, I'm fine. But you know my friend Alistair Nash, the one who died in the car accident last
October?"

"On the same day his museum was burgled," Sam nodded.

"The accident happened because he lost control of his car after suffering a stroke."

"Oh boy, this is getting too weird," Sam said flatly. "Oh shit, it just got weirder," she
added.

"What, why?"

"It's the suspicious fez from the hotel. He's just up the road there, this side."

"Are you sure?" Maggie asked, glancing casually at the man leaning against a car about 15 metres
away. She couldn't see his face clearly but he was indeed wearing a fez.

"Yes I'm sure. Come on, we'll cross the road, take a tourist stroll along the river in the
opposite direction and get the first taxi that comes along."

They were lucky. An empty taxi heading back towards Cairo did a u-turn and skidded to a stop in
the gutter in front of them. Maggie babbled something to the driver as soon as they were in the back
seat. He planted his foot with apparent glee and sped out into the traffic, barely missing the back
bumper of the Mercedes in front.

"What's the fez doing?" Maggie asked Sam, who was looking out the back window.

"He's about five cars back and determined not to lose us," Sam stated, turning to sit properly
on the seat. "His cousin's perfumes must really be something special."

"Ha, ha." Maggie leant forward to speak to the driver. "Khan el Khalili," she said. "And we'll
double your fare if you don't stop to pick up any other passengers."

"We're going shopping now?" Sam asked in amazement.

"We're going to lose ourselves in the most labyrinthine market in the world," Maggie smiled. "He
won't be able to keep track of us there."

"
Insha-allah
," Sam laughed. "He'll probably just go back to the hotel and wait for
us."

"Then we'll walk right up to him, in public, and ask him what the hell he wants," Maggie
said.

Sam honestly wondered whether the speeding taxi driver had found an anomaly in the
space time continuum when he deposited them, 35 minutes later and six centuries ago, at one of the
medieval gateways of the area known as Islamic Cairo. Towering minarets loomed over streets which
were crowded with people and animals, and lined with rickety, balconied buildings that looked set to
topple at any moment - although they'd probably been 'about to fall' since the 10
^th
century.

Islamic Cairo, Maggie had explained, was no more Islamic than any other part of the city, it was
just much older. The Khan el Khalili, through which they now walked, was a maze of stalls selling
fruit and vegetables or displaying open barrels or trays of rice, beans, nuts, cheeses, aromatic
spices, and a host of exotic and unrecognisable delicacies. There were shops where artisans toiled,
as they had for centuries, on their woodwork, glassware or jewellery; and cafes, where the aroma of
cooking food wafted around men who sat drinking coffee while they talked and puffed on a sheesha, or
water pipe.

Maggie was constantly waving off merchants who kept on extolling, even after they'd walked by,
the excellence and best prices of the leather goods, fabrics, Pharaonic 'relics', perfumes, spices,
clothing or souvenirs displayed in their open-fronted shops.

Sam felt like all her senses, plus a couple she didn't know she had, were being teased, assaulted
and tantalised. If it wasn't for the smell of exhaust fumes and the occasional Coca Cola sign or
shop selling runners and T-shirts, she would have been convinced she'd stepped back, way back, in
time.

"Coffee," Maggie announced, taking a seat a table in an open-sided restaurant, next to group of
lounging camels. "How are you feeling?" she asked, realising Sam looked a little odd.

"Overwhelmed and completely awe-inspired," Sam enthused. "And starving," she added.

Maggie looked up as a young boy approached the table. She held up two fingers and said, "
Ahwa
saada
and
kushari
, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded.

"Coffee, no sugar, and a noodle dish," Maggie translated for Sam. "Very Egyptian."

"This is great," Sam grinned. "But Maggie, you have to promise we won't get separated. I have
absolutely no idea where I am and it will be getting dark sometime soon."

"I promise, Sam," Maggie said, crossing her heart. "
Insha-allah
," she added quietly.

"Maggie," Sam growled.

"I promise, I promise," she grinned, sitting back so the boy could place the food on the table.
"Just eat Sam, there's no need to dissect it."

"I like to know what I'm eating," Sam explained.

"Black lentils, fried onions, rice, noodles and a tomato sauce," Maggie said, taking a
mouthful.