John nodded graciously, like a teacher to a dull student who is finally getting the hang of it. ‘On the desk. Someone had smoothed it out.’

‘But Schmidt must have thrown it away. In the waste-basket or onto the floor, after he spilled food all over it . . .’

‘Deliberately spilled food all over it,’ John said encouragingly.

‘The implication being that he’d discarded the note because it was sticky and wet and illegible, and written another one.’ I began pacing the floor. ‘He expected they’d locate him sooner or later. I’ve been gone . . .’ I looked at my watch. ‘Over five hours, and they had been looking for us since early afternoon. Time enough to inquire at every hotel in Luxor. He registered under his own name . . .’

‘If he had the intelligence for which I am belatedly beginning to give him credit, he left this room shortly after you did,’ John said. ‘In disguise, if I know my Schmidt. Let’s see. What would I do next? Stake myself out in the lobby. Hope you’d make it back before they located him. Be ready to move on in case they got here first. He’d already have cashed his traveller’s checks and retrieved his passport.’

‘They did get here first.’

‘And found the discarded letter.’ John’s eyes were bright with amusement and, as he proceeded to make clear, admiration. ‘You see what the little elf’s done, don’t you? This letter is not only a red herring, it is an attempt to protect you, in the event that you had been recaptured. If he’s got the evidence that can convict them there’s no reason for them to harm you. In fact, there is every reason for them to keep you whole and healthy so they can try to strike a deal: silence, or at least delay, in exchange for you.’ He paused, and then delivered the highest accolade in his repertoire. ‘I couldn’t have done better myself.’

‘So you don’t think he’s gone back to the house?’

‘Not our Schmidt. Whether you are a fugitive or a prisoner, he can serve you best by remaining free.’ John returned to his study of the note. ‘I can’t see anything else here. But I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he had . . . Wait a Sec. What’s this?’

‘The sticky stuff must have spattered,’ I said, as he held up a blank page spotted with stains.

‘The spots make a suspiciously regular pattern,’ John muttered.

‘Try joining the dots,’ I suggested sarcastically.

John emitted a crow of triumph. ‘That’s it! Look here.’

Picking up a pen, he began to draw – not lines connecting the spots, but a series of parallel lines. Five parallel lines. They made the nature of those odd splotches plain. They were musical notes.