The Mummy Page 14

  She stopped. She felt weary suddenly. Beneath the euphoria, she had been ever mindful of what happened; and the pain had only begun.

  "Something went wrong," she whispered.

  "Greed is what went wrong. Greed is what always goes wrong."

  He was looking out the window at the dull, broken windows above. Foul smells rose from the puddles and from the doorways. The stench of urine, and decay.

  She herself had never been in this part of London. It saddened her; it exacerbated her own pain.

  "This Henry should be stopped," Ramses said firmly. "Before he tries again to hurt you. And your father's death, surely you want it avenged."

  "It will kill my uncle Randolph when he finds out what happened. That is, if he doesn't already know."

  "The uncle, the one who came this morning with such fear for you-he's innocent and is afraid for his son. But cousin Henry is evil. And the evil is unchecked."

  She was trembling. The tears had risen to her eyes.

  "I can't do anything now. He's my cousin. They're my only family. And when something is done, it will have to be in a court of law.''

  "You are in danger, Julie Stratford," he said to her.

  "Ramses, I am not a Queen here. I cannot act on my own."

  "But I am a King. I always will be. My conscience can bear this burden. Let me act when I see fit."

  "No!" she whispered. She looked up at him imploringly. He pressed his arm against her, gently, then reached as if to embrace her. She held steady. "Promise me you will do nothing. If something happens, it will be on my conscience too."

  "He killed your father."

  "Kill him and you kill my father's daughter," she said.

  There was a silent moment in which he merely looked at her, marveling perhaps, she couldn't tell. She felt his right arm on her left arm. Then he drew her close to him, her breasts against his chest, and he kissed her, his mouth opening over hers. The heat was immediate and utterly consuming. She reached up to push him away, and found her fingers slipping up through his hair. She cradled his head gently. And then drew back, thoughtlessly, astonished.

  For a moment she couldn't speak. Her face was flushed, and she felt soft all over, and utterly exposed. She closed her eyes. She knew that if he touched her again, the game was up. She would end up making love to him in this cab, if she didn't do something. . . .

  "What did you think I was, Julie?" he asked. "A spirit? I'm an immortal man."

  He moved to kiss her again; she moved away, her hand up.

  "Shall we speak again of Henry?" he asked. He took her hand and clasped it and kissed her fingers. ' 'Henry knows what I am. He saw, because I moved to save your life, Julie. He saw. And there is no reason to let him live with this knowledge, since he is evil and deserves to die."

  He knew she could hardly concentrate on the words he was speaking. It made her angry suddenly, his lips grazing her fingers, his blue eyes flashing like lights in the dim cab.

  "Henry made a fool of himself with that story," she said. "And he won't try to hurt me again." She withdrew her hand and looked out the window. They were leaving this sad, miserable slum. Thank God.

  He gave a little thoughtful shrug.

  "Henry's a coward," she said. Her body was under control again. "A terrible coward. The way he did it to Father, such a coward."

  "Cowards can be more dangerous than brave men, Julie," he said,

  "Don't hurt him!" she whispered. She turned again to face Ramses. "For my sake, leave it to God. I can't be his judge and jury!"

  "So like a Queen," he said. "And wiser than most Queens."

  He bent slowly to kiss her again. She knew she ought to turn away, but she didn't. And the heat flooded her again, weakening her completely. When she pulled away, he tried to hold her; but her immediate resistance won out.

  When she looked at him again, he was smiling.

  "A guest in your court," he said with a little gesture of acceptance, "my Queen."

  Elliott had not the slightest difficulty overwhelming Rita. Even as she begged him to understand that her mistress was not at home, and surely he must come back another time, he moved past her, directly into the Egyptian room.

  "Ah, these lovely treasures. Not enough time in the world to examine them. Do get me a glass of sherry, Rita. I find I'm tired. I'll rest for a moment before going home."

  "Yes, sir, but-"

  "Sherry, Rita."

  "Yes, sir."

  How anxious and pale she looked, poor girl. And what a mess this library was. There were books scattered everywhere. He looked at the table in the conservatory. He could see from where he stood that there were dictionaries stacked on the wicker table; papers and magazines in neat little piles all about the chairs.

  But Lawrence's diary was here on the desk, just as he hoped. He opened it, confirmed that there was no mistake, then slipped it under his coat.

  He was staring at the mummy case when Rita came to him, with the glass of sherry on a small silver tray.

  Leaning heavily on his cane, he lifted the glass and took only a taste of it. "You wouldn't let me have a look at the mummy, now would you?" he asked.

  "Good Lord, no, sir! Please don't touch it!" Rita said. Pure panic as she stared at the mummy case. "It's very heavy, sir! We mustn't try to lift it."

  "There, there. You know as well as I do that it's a thin wooden shell, and not very heavy at all."

  The girl was terrified.

  He smiled. He took out a sovereign and gave it to her. She was astonished. She shook her head.

  "No, take it, dearest. Buy yourself something pretty."

  And before she could think what to say, he moved past her and towards the front door. She hurried to open it for him.

  He paused only when he had reached the bottom of the steps. Now, why hadn't he forced the issue? Why hadn't he looked in that case?

  His man Walter came forward to assist him. Good old Walter, who had been with him since he was a boy. He let Walter help him up into the idling car now, and he sat back, the pain in his hip biting deeply as he stretched out his legs.

  Would he have been surprised to find that case empty, to discover that this was not a little game? On the contrary. He realized that he fully believed the case was empty. And he had been afraid to see that for himself.

  Mr. Hancock of the British Museum was not a patient man. All his life he had used his devotion to Egyptian antiquities to bully people, to justify rudeness and downright meanness to others. This was part of his nature, as much as his genuine love for the relics and papyri which he had been studying ail his life.

  He read aloud the headline before him to the three other gentlemen in the room.

  " 'Mummy Walks in Mayfair.' " He folded the papers. "This is perfectly disgusting. Is young Stratford out of his mind?"

  The older gentleman who sat directly opposite on the other side of the desk merely smiled.

  "Henry Stratford's a drunkard, and a gambler. The mummy climbed out of its case, indeed!"

  "But the point is," said Hancock, "we have entrusted a priceless collection of antiquities to a private household, and now we have this little scandal! With Scotland Yard coming and going and reporters from the gutter press on the steps."

  "If you will forgive me," the elder gentleman countered. ' "The matter of the stolen coin is much more disturbing.''

  "Yes," said Samir Ibrahaim quietly from the outer edge of the circle where he sat. "But I tell you there were only five when I cataloged the collection, and none of us has seen this so-called stolen coin."

  "Nevertheless," said Hancock, "Mr. Taylor is a reputable coin dealer. He was certain the coin was authentic. And that it was Henry Stratford who offered it for sale."

  "Stratford could have stolen it in Egypt," said the elder gentleman. There were a couple of nods from the circle.

  "The collection should be in the museum," said Hancock. ' 'We should be making our examinations of the Ramses mummy now. The Cairo Museum is angry about th
is controversy. And now, this coin-"

  "But, gentlemen," Samir interrupted. "Surely we can make no decision about the safety of the collection until we've talked to Miss Stratford."

  "Miss Stratford is very young," Hancock said snappishly. "And she is in a state of grief which clouds her judgment."

  "Yes," said the elder gentleman. "But surely everyone present realizes that Lawrence Stratford contributed millions to this museum. No, I think Samir is right. We cannot move the collection until Miss Stratford gives her permission."

  Hancock glanced again at the newspapers. " 'Ramses Rises from the Grave,' " he read. "I tell you I don't like it."

  "Perhaps another guard should be posted," said Samir. "Perhaps two."

  The elder gentleman nodded. "Good suggestion. But again, Miss Stratford's feelings are to be considered."

  "Perhaps you should call on her!" Hancock said, glaring at Samir. "You were her father's friend."

  "Very well, sir," Samir answered in a low voice. "I shall certainly do that."

  Early evening: the Hotel Victoria. Ramses had been dining since four o'clock, when the sun was still slanting through the leaded glass, onto the white-draped tables. Now it was dark; candles blazed everywhere; the ceiling fans turned very slowly, barely stirring the fronds of the tall, elegant dark-green palms in their brass pots.

  Liveried waiters brought plate after plate of food without comment, eyebrows arched as they opened the fourth bottle of Italian red wine.

  Julie had finished her scant meal hours ago. They were deep in conversation now, the English flowing as easily as the wine flowed.

  She had taught Ramses how to use the heavy silver, but he ignored it. In his time only a barbarian would have shoveled food into the mouth.

  In fact, he had remarked after a little consideration, no one had shoveled food into the mouth. There was time for Julie to explain how silverware had come about. For now, she must agree that he was most, most . . . fastidious, she volunteered. Elegant, civilized, deft at the breaking of bread and meat into small portions, and the placing of them on the tongue without the ringers touching the lips.

  She was now deep into her discussion of revolution. "The first machines were simple-for weaving, tilling the fields. It was the idea of the machine that caught the mind."

  "Yes."

  "If you make a machine to do one thing, then you can perfect a machine to do another. ..."

  "I understand you."

  "And then came the steam engine, the motor car, the telephone, the airplane."

  "I want to do it, fly in the sky."

  "Of course, and we shall do it. But do you understand the concept, the revolution in thinking?"

  "Of course. I don't come to you, as you say, from the nineteenth dynasty of Egypt's history, I come to you from the first days of the Roman Empire. My mind is, how do you say it, flexible, adaptable. I am constantly in, how do you say it, revolution?"

  Something startled him; at first she didn't realize what it was. The orchestra had begun, very softly, so that she scarcely heard it over the hum of conversation. He rose, dropping his napkin. He pointed across the crowded room.

  The soft strains of the "Merry Widow Waltz" rose strongly over the hum of conversation. Julie turned to see the little string orchestra assembled on the other side of the small polished dance floor.

  Ramses rose and went towards them. "Ramses, wait," Julie said. But he didn't listen to her. She hurried after him. Surely everyone was looking at the tall man who marched across the dance floor and came to a quick stop right in front of the musicians as if he were the conductor himself.

  He positively glared at the violins, at the cello; and then as he studied the huge golden harp, the smile came back, so clearly ecstatic that the female violinist smiled at him and the old grey-haired male cellist seemed vaguely amused.

  They must have thought him a deaf mute as he stepped up and laid his fingers right on the cello, drawing back at the power of the vibration, then touching it again. "Oooh, Julie," he whispered aloud. Everyone was looking. Even the waiters were glancing at them in obvious alarm. But nobody dared question the handsome gentleman in Lawrence's best suit and silk waistcoat, even when he shuddered all over and clamped his hands to the sides of his head.

  She tugged on him. He wouldn't budge. "Julie, such sounds!" he whispered.

  "Then dance with me, Ramses," she said.

  No one else was dancing, but what did that matter? There was the dance floor, and she felt like dancing. She felt like dancing more than anything in the world.

  Baffled, he looked at her, then allowed himself to be turned, and his hand to be taken properly as she slipped her arm about his waist.

  "Now, this is the way the man leads the woman," she said, beginning the waltz step and moving him easily. "My hand should really be on your shoulder. I shall move, and you . . . that's it. But allow me to lead."

  They turned faster and faster, Ramses following her lead beautifully, only glancing down now and then at his feet. Another couple had joined them; then came another. But Julie didn't see them; she saw only Ramses' rapt face, and the way his eyes moved over the commonplace treasures of the room. It was a haze suddenly, the candles, the gilded fan blades turning above, the drowsing flowers on the tables, and the shimmer of silver everywhere, and the music surrounding them, the music carrying them along ever faster.

  He laughed out loud suddenly. "Julie, like music poured from a goblet. Like music that has become wine."

  She turned him rapidly in small circles.

  "Revolution!" he cried out.

  She threw back her head and laughed.

  Quite suddenly it was over. There must have been a finale. All she knew was that it was finished, and that he was about to kiss her, and she didn't want him to stop. But he hesitated. He noted the other couples leaving. He took her hand.

  "Yes, time to go," she said.

  The night outside was cold and foggy. She gave the doorman a few coins. She wanted a hansom.

  Ramses paced back and forth, staring at the crowds of commercial travellers coming and going from motor cars and carriages, at the newsboy dashing up to him with the latest edition.

  "Mummy's Curse in Mayfair!" the boy cried shrilly. "Mummy Rises from the Grave!"

  Before she could reach him, Ramses had snatched the paper from the boy. Flustered, she gave the child a coin.

  There it was all right, the whole silly scandal. An ink sketch of Henry running away from her front stairs.

  "Your cousin," Ramses said gloomily. " 'Mummy's Curse Strikes Again . . .' "he read slowly.

  "No one believes it! It's a joke."

  He continued to read: "Gentlemen of the British Museum say that the Ramses collection is entirely safe and will be returned to the museum soon." He paused. "Museum," he said. "Explain this word museum. What is the museum, a tomb?"

  The poor girl was miserable, Samir could see it. He ought to go. But he had to see Julie. And so he waited in the drawing room, sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa, refusing Rita's third offer of coffee, tea, or wine.

  Now and then he glanced down the length of the house to see the gleaming Egyptian coffin. If only Rita did not stand there, but clearly she was not going to leave him alone.

  The museum had been closed for hours. But she wanted him to see it. She let the cab go and followed him to the iron fence. He gripped the pickets as he looked up at the door and the high windows. The street was dark, deserted. And a light rain had begun to fall.

  "There are many mummies inside," she said. "Your mummy, it would have gone here eventually. Father worked for the British Museum, though he paid his own costs."

  "Mummies of Kings and Queens of Egypt?"

  "There are more in Egypt, actually. A mummy of Ramses the Second has been there for years in a glass case.''

  He gave a short bitter laugh as he looked at her. "Have you seen this?" He looked back at the museum. "Poor fool. He never knew that he was buried in Ramses' tomb."


  "But who was he?" Her heart quickened. Too many questions on the tip of her tongue.

  "I never knew," he said quietly, eyes still moving slowly over the building as though he were memorizing. "I sent my soldiers to find a dying man, someone unloved and uncared for. They brought him back to the palace by night. And so I ... how do you say? Made my own death. And then my son, Meneptah, had what he wanted, to be King.'' He considered for a moment. His voice changed slightly. It deepened. "And now you tell me this body is in a museum with other Kings and Queens?"