Even Larry had a hard time remaining courteous in the face of that outrageous speech. He answered shortly, ‘Feisal will assume the post, of course. He’s on his way here now. We have a number of things to discuss, so I’ll have to ask you to excuse me when he arrives.’

‘Have they caught the terrorists?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. Apparently there was a great deal of confusion. The police are rounding up – ’

‘The usual suspects,’ I murmured. From what I’d heard ahout the SSI, the usual suspects wouldn’t have a pleasant time.

John put his glass on the table and stood up. ‘I think I’ll have a swim. Anyone join me?’

Mary shook her head. Schmidt said doubtfully, ‘It does not seem proper.’

Hands in his pockets, lips pursed in a whistle, John sauntered towards the house. His pitch was perfect. I recognized the strains of ‘The Wreck on the Highway.’ He really was exceeding himself in tactlessness that afternoon. There hadn’t been any whiskey but there had been plenty of blood. And I hadn’t heard anyone pray.

Larry reassured Schmidt – ‘After all, you hardly knew the poor man – ’ but Schmidt remained seated. I wouldn’t like to imply that he was lacking in sensitivity, but I suspected mixed motives. He wanted more to eat and more to drink and more in the way of information. Browsing among the hors d’oeuvres, he peppered Larry with questions. Had anyone else been injured? Had a motive for the attack been established? Where had the bombs been placed, how had they been set off . . . Larry had no answers. A servant finally came to announce that Feisal was waiting in Larry’s study, and Larry excused himself. Schmidt decided he’d have a swim after all and since I could not decide which alternative was less appealing – having a heart-to-heart with the pregnant bride or watching the pregnant bride’s husband flex his muscles at me – I went to my room.

I didn’t know the answers to the questions Schmidt had asked either, but my admittedly confused memories of the event raised a couple of others he hadn’t asked. I had seen a big hole in the pavement and a lot of dust, but to the best of my recollection not a single column had toppled and nary a sphinx had been scarred. I had seen a lot of fallen bodies, but only one that was undeniably dead. The murder of a foreigner, and a foreign archaeologist at that, would raise a real stink. The usual suspects were in for a hard time. But maybe this time they were fall guys, not perps. (Note the technical vocabulary. We well-known amateur sleuths like to sound professional.)