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.”
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