The Count of the Sahara (24 page)

The Count weakly raised a hand in greeting. “Hello my friends, what brings you here on such a hot day?” then allowed himself a small exhausted giggle.

The two tribesmen, looked at each other, then back at the tomb and the exhausted expedition members. One looked like he wanted to say something, but no words were spoken. Both men turned and calmly walked down the hill, climbed aboard their kneeling camels and headed at a slow trot towards the northeast.

“That’s not good,” Chapuis muttered as he continued to wave farewell.

“What’s not? They’re leaving aren’t they?” De Prorok didn’t much like his tone.
What does he know that I don’t?

“Abalessa is the other way. They’re heading to Tamanrasset. If they get to Akhamouk before help gets here, it’s all over.”

Belaid picked up a smooth stone and put it in his mouth to generate a little saliva and ease his thirst. “There’d better be gold in there, otherwise this is an asinine way to die.”

Chapter 17

Rockford, Illinois

February 24, 1926

The good thing about the afternoon lecture in Rockford was it left us little time to dwell on the morning’s disastrous meeting with Kenny. We packed up, got picked up by a Rotarian from Rockford in a LaSalle, drove mostly in silence, checked into the Chick House—which was actually nicer than it sounds, slightly—and went on to the Rotary do.

I was shell shocked. It didn’t help that Havlicek was there waiting for us, making no effort to be inconspicuous. In fact, he seemed to take great pleasure in waggling his fingers at me in greeting, although he never approached us or directly interfered. He may as well have. I was all thumbs, missing a couple of cues like some kind of amateur. Not badly enough for the audience to notice, but plain enough that I earned the daggers the Count shot me from the stage.

De Prorok, on the other hand, never missed a beat. It always seemed that the worse things were, the closer to perfect he was onstage, never fumbling a word or stepping on his own jokes. He was bulletproof. He was completely, flawlessly, dashingly, infuriatingly brilliant. Until he came off stage that is.

He rushed towards me and I braced myself for the tongue lashing I knew I deserved. “Willy,” he said, which was strange because he always called me Brown, “do me a favor and get all this stuff back to the hotel please. I need to find a Western Union office.” He spun on his heel so fast that a pocket-sized notebook fell to the floor, but he just kept walking.

A little mystified, I picked it up and put it with the projection gear. Then I saw his pith helmet lying on a stool, and scooped that up as well. The Venus sat on a table next to a half-drunk glass of water. He’d left a trail of relics, props and debris from the projector to the backstage door. I shook my head and gathered them up.

I looked at the Venus in my hands, taking a really long look at it for the first time. It was just a rounded, rough piece of rock with four scratches where the girl parts should be, but he sure acted like it was important. Until he had better things to think about, then it was left lying where anyone could pick it up. The only other Venus I remembered was in a painting, and she looked pretty hot to trot on that clamshell. This one was built more like Mrs. Kaczmierek, the old Polish woman across the street from us. Of course, the thought of seeing these specific parts of Magda Kaczmierek was mildly horrifying. The statue was short and squat, like her, but at least the old bat had a face, such as it was.

Why was he so careless with things that mattered so much? And there was no reason to carry it around everywhere. It would be easy enough to copy, especially if people didn’t really know what they were looking at. It was the same with the sword. He could just as easily use a dummy, and keep the original safe. I made a note to get some supplies from the hardware store.

Back at the hotel, I carefully stacked all the equipment for a quick escape tomorrow. There was a quick “shave and a haircut” knock on the door. I was afraid it was Havlicek, and considered not answering, but a young voice came through the door. “Cable for de Prook.”

I opened the door to see the desk clerk. Unlike in the nicer hotels, he wasn’t wearing a uniform or a nametag, just a ratty sweater vest like mine, although without all the little wool pills all over it, and a tie. “Are you de Prook?”

“Prorok… no, I’m his…” Jesus what was I? I could never get my tongue around “projection technician”, “frie…assistant. I’m his assistant. What can I do for you?”

“Yes sir. Just got this cable for Mr. De Proo..rok. From Paris. France,” he added, just in case I might confuse it with some other Paris. It took the yellow envelope from him, then realized I was on the hook for a tip and made a mental note to start dunning the Count for all the money I’ve spent. Like the man said, a deal was a deal, and this expense wasn’t part of our arrangement. I pulled out a quarter and saw Pete’s eyes crinkle up in a smile. Pocket change went a lot further in Rockford than in Chicago.

“Thanks, what’s your name?”

“Pete, sir.” The ‘Sir’ didn’t even faze me anymore.

“Do you know where there’s a hardware store nearby?”

“Sure do. Anything you need, I can…”

“Nah, I’ll get it. Then I reached into my pocket for another quarter. “You wouldn’t happen to know where a fella could find a drink, maybe after hours?”

He looked around suspiciously, then leaned in. “You looking for a good time? I know a girl…”

“Nah, just sometimes I like to go out at night… if I get bored or something.” He exchanged my fifty cents for some fairly useless directions to both a hardware store and a respectable speak, but Rockford wasn’t that big a town, the kind of place where “a piece” is considered an accurate measure of distance. If I had to track the Count down later, it wouldn’t be tough.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to chase the Count that night, because no sooner had Pete left, when he burst through the door and threw his walking stick and coat onto the floor.

“Lost my damned notebook…” The panic in his voice was palpable. I nodded to the cheaply stained pine bedside table. “Thank God, Brown. You’re a peach, an absolute life saver. I need to get a cable to Paris and couldn’t find the… oh never mind. We have it now, eh?”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Never better, why?” It was a whopper, but he nearly pulled it off.

“A telegram came for you… from Paris.” The words were hardly out of my mouth when he ripped the envelope from my hand.

“Is it from Alice?” He tore it open and read it, his shoulders slumping a bit. He read it a second time, smiling. Whatever it was, wasn’t horrible at least. “Not bad news, though. Not in the least. Do you know what this is?”

I hated when he asked me that. In three weeks of working with him, I’d never once guessed right. This time, he didn’t really expect an answer because he just kept talking. “This is from a friend of mine at
L’Academie des Arts et Sciences
in Paris. Brad Tyrrell and I are being awarded the
Palme d’Or
this year.”

“Congratulations.” I had a vague idea who Tyrrell was, he’d been on the Sahara expedition, and no idea whatsoever what the Academy-days-whatever was, but an award was usually a good thing. After the day he’d had, he deserved to get tossed a bone of some kind.

“Congratulations indeed. Y’see, this is actually a very high honor, in some circles at least. Extraordinary achievement in the sciences, and all that. Yes, it’ll help a great deal.” He could tell I didn’t have the foggiest clue what it all meant and he was getting impatient. “Don’t you see? If Tyrrell, and by extension Beloit and the Logan, are winning international prizes, they won’t want to cut ties with me. It’d be a scandal. They’ll sign the contracts just to maintain face. I’ll get the contract… and that bastard,” and I knew exactly which bastard he meant, “can go piss up a rope. Anyway, it’s good news, Brown.”

He looked around the room and saw the Venus on the table. “Thank goodness you found her. I was afraid I’d left her behind.”

“You almost did.”

He picked it up and stroked it affectionately. “Lovely isn’t she?”

I shrugged. “I s’pose. Why do you t-t-travel with the real thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s v-v-v-valuable. You should be more careful with it. You kind of leave stuff behind, especially when you’re… you know.”

“I can’t just leave her behind. She’s all I’ve got from that trip.”

“What do you mean, all?”

He sat on the end of the bed, running his long fingers over the smooth grey stone. “I mean it’s literally the only thing I have. Most of what we found was confiscated before I left, or stayed in Africa with Reygasse or in Paris at the Institute. I barely escaped with the clothes on my back and all the film and snaps. They’re the only things of real value I have left.”

“But you said it was the greatest treasure since Tutan—that Tut guy.”

He barked out a laugh. “It is, but it’s been a bad few years for archaeology. The good news is, no one’s really found anything worth a damn since Howard Carter, so technically speaking it
is
the best of a pretty shabby lot. Plus the New York bloody Times said so, so it must be true.” He shook his head like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. I didn’t get it, though, because I always thought if the Times said it, it had to be true.

“It’s a souvenir, I guess. Certainly it’s useful, I mean people love to touch things that are old or from exotic places. And it’s stone. Even I can’t break it.”

I thought of all the pictures he took with him that he never showed, or how he traveled with that stupid piece of wood from Shackleton’s sled. He traveled so much, but he never went anywhere without it. It reminded him of his past. What had I brought with me? Two changes of clothes and that bag of odds and ends. Sure as hell nothing that reeked of Milwaukee or home. Why would I?

“Honest Injun, there’s no jewels, or treasure?”

His eyes hardened. “Et tu, Brute? We’ve discussed this. Do you think me a thief?”

My eyes dropped to the floor. “N-n-no sir.”

“Right then. Ask me again and you’ll get the sack. Understood?”

“There’s something else,” I said. “You owe me fifty cents for t-t-tips.” I explained why, and he ponied up good-naturedly.

“Good on you, Brown. Never let the little debts pile up. Although, over-tipping is a bad habit. Looks gauche.” He gave me a silver dollar and told me not to worry about the change. Then he pulled his pipe from his breast pocket, stuffed it with some cherry wood tobacco, struck a match with his thumb and lit it. “Oh, and stay sharp. No more slipups like today, eh? Everything hinges on our being perfect, especially at Beloit.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just gathered up his notebook. “I have to find the Western Union office…” and he was out the door.

The next few days were a blur; packing, unpacking, identical lectures then repacking. Madison, La Crosse, Eau Claire. I saw very little of my boss. Sometimes he was gone at dawn and didn’t come stumbling in until late. Sometimes it was because he’d kick me out of our room when he was on the phone.

I never really knew what was going on. All I got were glimpses of notes scribbled on telephone pads and snatches of telephone conversations.

“Reygasse, Maurice Reygasse, see voo play…”

“St Hulbert, Paris, France… yes France. The country… Oh for…”

“Please, Operator. Try again… I know she must be…”

The lectures were perfect. The other twenty-two hours in the day were starting to wear on both of us.

One morning in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as he poured his third sugar into his coffee, I handed him a brown paper bag. “It’s n-n-not very g-g-good.”

“What’s this?” He opened it up and pulled out a grey plaster copy of his Venus. “Did you do this? It’s wonderful.”

It wasn’t. He was just being kind, it was slightly lopsided for one thing. “It needs another c-c-c-oat, but I thought we could keep the original safe and use this one onstage. I made two copies.”

“Good thinking. Yes, fine, fine.” He fixed his eyes on me until I squirmed. “It’s really quite good you know.”

“Really?” I hated the way I warmed whenever he gave me a compliment. Like a girl brown-nosing a teacher. Hated it but kind of liked it, too.

“Mm-hmm. In fact, I know some reputable artifact sellers in Carthage who could take lessons. You’ve got a career in art forgery if you want it. What else are you working on?”

“Nothing really. Well, maybe a couple of things, but they’re not ready to show you yet.”

He accepted that, and took a couple of more slurps of his coffee. “You know, it’s much warmer here than in St. Louis. Do you have a lighter jacket?”

“Not really.”

“You’re really going to have to do something about your wardrobe. I’m getting quite tired of that grey vest. I’m sure the moths are, too. You really should think about it, now that you’re Mr. Moneybags and all.” He smiled and slipped me an envelope. It was payday. A week since I left Milwaukee.

“Clothes maketh the man, Brown. You should think about that.”

I must have made some incoherent grunt, promising to think about it. Really, all I could think about is that “we” were going to St. Louis.

South, where it was warmer than Wisconsin.

Away.

Wednesday the 3rd dawned sunny and bright in Beloit, despite being colder than a well-digger’s ass. The view from the Grand Hotel wasn’t much, but the recent snow was still a pure white, blown into a hard crust that sparkled in the cold sunshine and blinded you if you stared too long.

I was worried the Count would wind up with a dog and cane, the way he kept staring out the window for long periods of time, saying nothing. He was as nervous as I’d ever seen him, puffing pipe smoke like a coal train. His mouth ran non-stop. Without a reason, he’d just start yakking and couldn’t seem to stop himself. He’d apologize for “going on so,” then just keep going.

It didn’t get any better after lunch. We went out, and he picked up the Beloit and Janesville papers, expecting to read about the upcoming lecture. Nothing. Not a word. Well, there was a small notice in the “Upcoming Events” but hardly enough to draw a crowd.