Excerpt from the latest John Billings Mystery 

In Cairo

Morbius marched enthusiastically down the maze of bazaars in Cairo’s mercantile centre. There was a separate bazaar for everything: a slipper bazaar, a saddle bazaar, a tassled head-gear bazaar, a carpet bazaar, a tobacco bazaar, etc. He zig-zagged through the stalls, his little legs moving manically beneath him like an upturned beetle. Billings and Trotter struggled to keep up. 

Morbius seemed strangely at home in this city, which bustled with the splendour and richness of the orient. He didn’t seem to attract as many curious looks from passersby as he did in Europe. In fact, it was hard for him to stand out. Everywhere they looked, there were exotic characters: a Turk with his cake stall sitting in the recess of a beautifully engraved Moorish doorway; a ragged beggar sleeping on the white steps of the great Mosque; a veiled woman filling her water jar at the public fountain; or a Coptic priest striding down the street, holding on to his square cap as the breeze made his black robes dance behind him. Morbius was just one of many exotic curiosities in this enchanting town.

The dwarf led the detectives to a narrow alleyway, just outside the furniture bazaar. He stopped at the large oak door of a stone house.

“Is this it?” Billings took off his hat and fanned his heated head. He turned towards his assistant. Trotter was red like a tomato. He took out the handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. His glasses had steamed up again.

Morbius seemed unaffected by the heat. “This is it,” he said. “This is the shop where the count bought the sarcophagus.”

“I thought he bought it at an antiques shop.” Billings looked the house up and down. It was a tall stone building. Simple, but elegant. Built in the Ottoman style, it had a jutting balcony with a perforated wooden window case above an arched doorway. “This doesn’t look like an antiques shop.”

“The antiques worth buying aren’t sold in the bazaars,” Morbius said. “They’re sold in private homes such as this one.” He knocked on the door.

The door was opened by a tall thin man with a hooked nose and a black moustache. He wore a shiny clean djellaba and leather sandals. On his head was that symbol of status and respectability common throughout the Near East: a red fez hat. The man looked at Billings and Trotter, confused. It took a few seconds before he finally clocked Morbius standing waist high before him. He gasped with surprise and staggered backwards.

“Good day, Mr Nasser,” Morbius said. “Do you remember me?”

The man collected himself and forced a smile on his face. “Mr Morbius! Yes, of course I remember you. What a delight to see you again, my good friend.” He looked around him. “But where is Count Wittenborg?” 

“The count is in Germany. I’ve come back with two friends.” He pointed at his companions. “These are Mr Billings and Mr Trotter.”

The man nodded at the detectives and smiled. “And you have come back to buy more treasures?” There was a gleam in his eye.

“Not quite,” Morbius said. “There was an issue with the sarcophagus we bought from you?”

The man raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth in an exaggerated expression of surprise. “An issue?”

“May we come in to discuss it.”

“Of course, of course, you are welcome.” The man stood aside and gestured for his visitors to enter. “Please, please, come in. I will make you some tea.”

As soon as they entered, the shop owner retired to the back room leaving Billings, Trotter and Morbius to wander around quietly and look at the merchandise, their hands behind their backs, careful not to touch or damage anything. The glistening gold on display almost blinded them. Shelves upon shelves of gold statuettes of ancient Egyptian deities and other ornaments. At the end of the shop, there was a whole row of beautifully decorated sarcophagi. This shop was the real thing. Unlike the stalls in the bazaar, which only sold replicas, this shop sold genuine treasures found in the tombs of important Egyptians. Billings now understood the reason for the building’s anonymity and its heavy oak door. The merchandise on display was contraband. These items belonged in a museum.

 The shop keeper returned with a tea tray. “Here we are, my dear friends.” He placed the tray on his desk at the end of the shop. “Some nice Egyptian tea before we discuss the issue.” He proceeded to pour the tea into the cups and hand them out to his guests.

They stood in a circle, cup and saucer in hand. Trotter sniffed his tea before taking a sip. Swirling the tea around his mouth, he turned his eyes towards the ceiling and savoured the beverage. He swallowed and frowned. “It’s got mint in it!” he whispered to Billings.

The shop keeper finished his tea in one gulp. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and slammed his cup and saucer on the desk. “Now then, Mr Morbius. Tell me. What is this issue you have with the sarcophogus.”

“It’s not so much the sarcophogus that’s the issue, Mr Nasser. It’s what was inside it.”

“Inside it?”

“The mummy.”

“What was wrong with the mummy?”

“We were told the sarcophagus contained the mummy of Amenhotep the fifth.”

“Yes?” 

Billings watched Nasser’s face as they spoke. The mixture of expressions: concern, confusion surprise, seemed exaggerated and unconvincing.

“Well, Mr Nasser. My master unwrapped the mummy and discovered that it is not Pharaoh Amenhotep the fifth.”

The shop keeper gasped, clasped his hands to his chest and took a step backwards. “He unwrapped the mummy! He wasn’t supposed to unwrap the mummy!”

“Why not?”

“It is bad luck to unwrap a mummy!” He shook his head vigorously. “Oh, Mr Morbius! Really! You shouldn’t have done it!”

Morbius frowned. “The point is Mr Nasser, that the mummy you sold Count Wittenborg is a fake.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s the mummy of a woman.”

Nasser gasped again and put his hands to his mouth. “A woman?”

“A white woman.”

“A white woman?”

“Yes, Mr Nasser. The corpse of a recently deceased white woman.” He pointed at his companions. 

“These are detectives Billings and Trotter, who have come back to Cairo with me to find out who that woman is, how she was killed, and why you have used my master to ship her body out of the country.”  

Nasser stared back in shock.

Billings couldn’t help a smile from escaping his lips. Cunning little dwarf, he thought. Conveniently failing to mention that he and Trotter were private detectives.

“I know nothing of this, Mr Morbius. I am shocked, I tell you! Completely shocked! Are you sure it was a woman?”

Morbius frowned. “We have eyes, Mr Nasser. Now please tell us, where did you get the mummy from?”

“It was supplied to me by my usual supplier.”

“Who is this supplier?”

“Makin Salah.” Nasser picked a pencil up from his desk and jotted the name and address on a piece of paper. “ A respected scholar and archaeologist. Studied at Oxford. He supplied me with the sarcophagus and the mummy. Told me it belonged to Pharaoh Amenhotep the fifth. I took him at his word. If something illegal happened, then it happened on his side. I’d speak to him if I were you.” He quickly shoved the paper into Morbius’ hand.