Day of the Djinn Warriors (6 page)

“We would like to go Bannermann’s Island,” said John. “On the Hudson River, just north of here, in upstate New York. Do you know it?”

“Fortunately, there is almost nothing I don’t know,” said Leo. “One of the few benefits of being dead is that suddenly you seem to know everything. Well, perhaps not everything. But a lot more than you did before. Of course this is what makes it so easy for living people to be duped by mischievous spirits in séances and things like that.”

“Aye, that’s right enough to be sure,” said Mr. Rakshasas. “You never know who you’re talking to when you’re holding hands in the dark.”

“We’d better get going,” said Leo. “We’ve a longish journey ahead of us.”

Leo pushed the false door, which turned out to be a false door only in the real world. And being an experienced guide meant that he was ready with an explanation for this phenomenon: “In the spirit world this is one of the points through which a deceased person’s soul could magically pass between this world and the afterlife,” he said, ushering them through. “This would have been understood by the Egyptians, of course. Although not so well today. But you are welcome, sirs. Welcome to the place the Egyptians called the Kingdom of the West. Welcome to the afterlife.”

A
whirlwind carried Philippa, Nimrod, and Mr. Groanin to London, and the back garden of Nimrod’s house at number 7 Stanhope Terrace, Kensington.

“I used to think I could never get used to traveling like that,” moaned Groanin as Philippa and Nimrod went into the large house ahead of him. “Not anymore. Flying by airplane is quite spoiled for me now. Lines for check-in, did you pack this yourself, X-ray machines, biometric scanners, and Lord knows what else. It’s too much to think about. I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing a man can be in this world is a fool — a handsome fool.”

“Then it sounds to me like you’re halfway to being a very happy man,” Nimrod said.

Groanin muttered something under his breath and went off to prepare dinner.

“Nimrod,” scolded Philippa. “That was rude.”

“Unkind, maybe,” admitted Nimrod. “But it’s for his own good. Groanin’s not been himself lately. He is only ever happiest when he’s moaning about something. Just now was the first time in ten years that Groanin has ever said anything good about traveling by whirlwind.”

They ate some dinner and when it was dark, Groanin got the Rolls-Royce to drive the three of them to Madame Tussaud’s. In front of the entrance was an even larger electric-blue Rolls-Royce and out of this stepped a small, wiry-looking man with the most criminal-looking face Philippa had ever seen. He had a sloping forehead with lots of wrinkles, protruding ears with diamond stud earrings, and more tattoos than a beach in Florida. The little man touched his forelock as he approached Nimrod.

“Hello, sir,” he said in a quiet Cockney accent.

“Hello, Silman,” said Nimrod. “Silman, this is my niece, Philippa.”

“How d’you do, miss?”

“Philippa, this is the great Silman Franco, recently returned to these shores after a long stay in southern Spain. And very welcome, too.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Franco said modestly. “Too kind.”

“Over the years, Silman has performed many valuable services for our tribe,” said Nimrod. “He does jobs that, sometimes, for one reason or another, we’d rather not do ourselves. Snooping, sleuthing, ferreting, scouting, burgling,
breaking and entering, and shadowing. There’s nothing nefarious, illegal, or criminal that’s beyond him.”

“Anything to help you, sir, Mr. Nimrod.”

“Silman’s a good honest rogue that you can trust,” said Nimrod.

“All thanks to you, sir,” said Franco, bowing again.

“Have you brought it?”

“I have, sir; I have.” Silman Franco reached into his silk jacket pocket, withdrew a small, hard, leather case about the size of a matchbox, and handed it to Nimrod.

“Years ago,” Nimrod told Philippa, “I was obliged to grant Silman three wishes. One of these was that I should create a special key of his own special design.”

Nimrod opened the box to reveal a human skeleton that was no longer than a paper clip and not much thicker. He put the tiny set of bones in his fist and breathed on it, as if it were tiny dice. When he opened his hand, the skeleton stood up and stretched like someone who had been asleep for a very long time.

“Wakey, wakey,” said Silman, chuckling. “Rise and shine, my beauty.”

“Ugh,” said Philippa. “What is that?”

“A skeleton key,” said Nimrod.

Philippa watched, more than a little horrified as Nimrod held his hand next to the keyhole on the front door of the wax museum and the skeleton marched across his palm and disappeared inside.

“There’s no need to pick a lock with this remarkable little fellow in your pocket,” said Nimrod. “He does it all for you. Pushes the pins, moves the levers, pulls the bolts.”

“That’s right, Mr. Nimrod,” said Silman. “There’s nothing he can’t open.”

A few seconds passed, and sure enough, Philippa heard the sound of the door lock opening. A moment later, the little skeleton was climbing back into his leather box, and Silman was through the door as quickly as a greased ferret, to shut off the alarms. Before Philippa could say “Mission Impossible” he was back again, grinning triumphantly.

“There you go, Mr. Nimrod,” he said.

“Thank you, Silman,” said Nimrod. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting here, just in case you’re needed again.”

Silman touched his forelock. “Right you are, sir. I’ll wait in the car.”

Switching on his flashlight, Nimrod led the way into the wax museum, followed closely by Philippa and Groanin.

Groanin was right
, thought Philippa, pointing her own flashlight around the exhibition as she and Groanin followed Nimrod through the darkened building. It was creepy inside the museum. Everywhere you went it was like there were people staring at you. A few of them she recognized immediately, of course. The president. The British prime minister. The British royal family. Some movie stars. One or two of these wax dummies looked extremely realistic. But several almost made her laugh they were so bad.
Almost
. There was
something about the wax museum at night that discouraged laughter. And as usual it was Groanin who managed to put into words the sense of fear Philippa felt at being inside such a place after dark.

“It’s said that Madame Tussaud learned her trade in Paris,” he whispered, “from making models of the severed heads of them who’d been guillotined during the French Revolution. That would be creepy enough. But I can’t help but feeling that, perhaps, some of these wax figures are just the corpses of real dead people covered in wax. That it’s why they’re so lifelike, some of them. And have you noticed the way their eyes seem to follow you around?”

“I’ve been trying not to notice that, actually,” confessed Philippa. “And why are you whispering?”

“I was wondering that myself,” said Nimrod.

“Well, it’s like when you’re in a crypt or a cemetery,” said Groanin. “I always think that a ghost is more likely to come here and hang around the image of how someone used to be than the box of bones that ends up in a grave. Especially some of those murderers downstairs that’s been hanged or did themselves in.”

“Do shut up, Groanin,” said Nimrod, and opening a door, led the way down a narrow corridor. “You’re making my niece nervous.”

“No, I’m fine,” said Philippa, but quickened her step so as to avoid being left behind in the darkness.

“There are several old storerooms somewhere down here, where the old dummies are kept,” explained Nimrod. “And
it’s in one of these where Faustina left her body when her spirit took off to possess the prime minister. On shelf thirteen in storeroom thirteen to be precise.”

“Unlucky for some,” said Groanin.

“But it’s been more than ten years since I was down here,” said Nimrod. “And my bearings are a little bit rusty.”

They went down a long winding staircase into a deep and rather damp basement. Nimrod walked to the end of a corridor and opened another door. “Ah, this is it, I think,” he said, and brushing aside several cobwebs, went inside and switched on the electric light.

Philippa glanced around the storeroom in wonder. The chair in the corner was perhaps the one normal thing in the room. There were several rows of once famous heads, as if Madame Tussaud had collected them from the basket in front of a more recently active guillotine, and some larger racks where dummies had been stored separately. And there was a box of hands and a box of eyes.

“How could she do it?” said Philippa. “How could Faustina ever leave her body somewhere like this? I’d have been petrified just coming in here.”

“Faustina was not like most female djinn of her age,” said Nimrod. While he spoke, Nimrod advanced into the back of the storeroom where, on wide metal shelves, there lay hundreds of dummies. “She was a solitary child. Serious. Given to melancholy. Even a little cold-blooded. All of them excellent reasons why she was ideally suited to becoming the Blue
Djinn of Babylon. Besides, one of these old dummies is Ronald Reagan. My information was that Faustina always rather admired Ronnie in a granddaughterly way, and I suppose she must have thought it might be nice to stay on the same shelf as Reagan for a while. Because that’s where I found her the first time I came down here.”

“You mean the guy who used to be president of the United States?” said Philippa, only vaguely remembering him now.

“That’s right,” said Nimrod. “And here he is.”

Nimrod advanced on a man in a suit who was still grinning genially from the shelf where he was lying. But next to him on the shelf was an obviously empty space.

“Not anymore,” said Groanin.

“She was right here,” said Nimrod. “I’m certain of it.”

“Perhaps that ambulance came and took her after all,” suggested Philippa.

“No, no,” insisted Nimrod. “I told you, Philippa, I checked with the hospital. Besides, this has happened relatively recently. Look at the dust on this shelf. Clearly, a figure has been lying here until just a few months ago, I’d say. The figure of a young person, too. Look how much shorter this outline is than that of President Reagan.”

“You don’t suppose they took her to be melted down, thinking she was made of wax?” said Groanin. He walked down to the end of the freestanding shelves and pointed his flashlight into the shadows.

“What a horrible thought,” observed Philippa.

“But why her and not these others?” said Nimrod. “There are wax figures in this room that have been here much longer than Faustina. No, Groanin, Faustina’s body has been stolen, I’m quite certain of it.”

“Who would steal her body?” asked Philippa. “And why?”

“Perhaps there are more than one that are gone,” said Groanin. “Look at this.”

Nimrod and Philippa followed him to the end of the shelf. Clearly visible on the shelves were two more dusty outlines, where other wax figures had previously lain. “Yes, you’re right, Groanin,” said Nimrod.

Groanin bent down and picked up something off the floor. It was a small strip of peel-and-stick adhesive. And on it was a fingerprint. “Hello,” he said. “What have we here?” He shone his flashlight across the floor and found another similar strip, only this one was still unpeeled. “Looks to me like the police have been here, sir,” he said. “The crime scene people from Scotland Yard. This is an evidence strip. For fingerprints.”

“In which case,” said Philippa, “the theft of three wax-museum dummies may well have been noticed and reported.”

“Well done, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Very likely there will be a record of a police report upstairs in the office. Let’s go and see, shall we?”

Up in the museum office, Philippa tried to see what she could discover using the office computer while Nimrod and
Groanin searched through the filing cabinets. It didn’t take long for them to find the clues they were looking for.

“Here’s something,” said Nimrod. “It would seem that a disgruntled employee named Cristina Buonaserra was dismissed on suspicion of theft three months ago.”

Nimrod brandished a sheet of paper in front of Groanin, who made a note of the name and then began a search of another cabinet.

“She was suspected of having stolen three wax dummies,” continued Nimrod. “It doesn’t say who the dummies were. But one of them must have been Faustina. The dummies were never recovered. Soon after being dismissed, Miss Buonaserra left the country and went to live in Italy.
Italy
. Oh, Lord. We’ll never find her in time now. She could be anywhere.”

“Ahem. Not necessarily, sir,” announced Groanin. “This is Miss Buonaserra’s file, sir. Her next of kin is listed as living in Italy. It seems she has a brother who is a priest. Or more precisely, the abbot of the Carthusian Monastery in Malpensa, just outside the town of Eboli.”

“Malpensa,” said Philippa, typing a search word on the computer keyboard.

“Malpensa’s a town in the south,” said Nimrod.

“I’ll bet she went to see him,” said Groanin.

“Eureka,” said Philippa, sitting back from the computer screen. “I’ve found it. The Convento di Carthusi in Malpensa. Oh, gross! This has to be the place where she went. Look!”

On the screen was a picture of what looked like an underground cemetery consisting of tunnels and rooms with platforms and shelves for coffins and sarcophagi. But what was really strange was that all of the dead people were mummified and laid out like exhibits in a museum. Some of the corpses had long ago lost all their flesh and were little better than skeletons, while others looked as if they were only asleep.

“Gross,” repeated Philippa.

“They’re catacombs,” said Nimrod, looking over Philippa’s shoulder. “Underneath the monastery. Where people are preserved and put when they die instead of being buried. It’s an old Italian tradition.”

The pride of the catacombs, as shown on the Web site, was the corpse of a still perfectly preserved girl of about twelve years old who had died in 1920 and whom the local people called “the Sleeping Beauty.” The girl was displayed in an open glass case, and with the pink ribbons in her still-lustrous hair, she did indeed look like something from a fairy tale. But there was something about this young girl that seemed vaguely familiar to Philippa. For a moment she was struck by the odd resemblance to Dybbuk, of all people. And then Philippa remembered the portrait on the wall of the house on Bannermann’s Island — the same island where John and Mr. Rakshasas were now heading. That was where she’d seen this girl before. It was the girl in the portrait. This young girl wasn’t dead at all.
It was Faustina
.