The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

8

AS MIDNIGHT struck, Elliott closed the notebook.

He had spent the evening reading Lawrence's translations through and through, and reexamining his dusty old biographies of the King called Ramses the Great, and the Queen known as Cleopatra. There was nothing in these historical tomes that could not accommodate the assertions of the mummy's preposterous story.

A man who ruled Egypt for sixty years might damn well have been immortal. And the reign of Cleopatra VI had been by any standards utterly remarkable.

But what intrigued him more than anything at the moment was a paragraph Lawrence had written in Latin and in Egyptian-the very last of his notes. Elliott had had no trouble reading this. He had kept his diary in Latin when he was in Oxford; and he had studied Egyptian for years along with Lawrence, and then on his own.

This was not a transcript of the material in Ramses' scrolls. Rather the paragraph contained Lawrence's private comments on what he'd read.

"Claims to have taken this elixir once and once only. No further infusion was required. Brewed the mix for Cleopatra, but felt it was unsafe to discard it. Reluctant to take it into his body for fear of adverse results. What if all chemicals in this tomb are properly tested? What if there is some chemical here which has a rejuvenating effect upon the human body, and can substantially prolong life?''

The two lines in Egyptian were incoherent. They said something about magic, secrets, natural ingredients combined to wholly new effect.

So that is what Lawrence had believed, more or less. And he had taken pains to conceal it in the ancient languages. Now what did Elliott really believe about this situation? Especially in light of Henry's story of the mummy coming to life?

It occurred to him again that he was playing a very dramatic little game; that belief is a word we seldom thoroughly examine. For example, he had all his life "believed" in the teaching of the Church of England. But he did not really for a moment expect to enter a Christian heaven when he died, and certainly not a Christian hell. He would not have gambled one farthing on the existence of either.

One thing was most certain. If he had actually seen the thing climb out of the coffin, as Henry claimed to have done, he would not be behaving like Henry. A man of no imagination, that was Henry. Perhaps the lack of imagination had always been the tragic flaw. It occurred to him that Henry was a man who did not grasp the implications of things.

Far from running from this mystery, as Henry had chosen to do, Elliott had become obsessed with it. If only he had stayed longer in the Stratford house, been a little more clever. He could have examined those alabaster jars; he could have taken one of the scrolls. That poor little Rita would have settled for just about any explanation.

He wished he had tried.

He also wished that his son, Alex, were not suffering. For that was the only unpleasant aspect of this entertaining mystery so far.

Alex had been calling Julie all day. He was in a great state of alarm over the guest in Julie's house, whom he had only glimpsed through the conservatory doors-"an enormous man, well, very tall, anyhow, with blue eyes. Quite a ... a good-looking fellow, but certainly too old to be courting Julie!"

Then at eight this evening, there had come a call from one of those well-meaning friends who make a point of circulating rumors relentlessly. Julie had been seen dancing at the Victoria Hotel with a handsome and imposing stranger. Were not Alex and Julie engaged? Alex was now beside himself with worry.

Though he had called Julie every hour upon the hour all afternoon, there had been no response from her. Finally he had begged his father to intervene. Could not Elliott get to the bottom of this?

Yes. Elliott would get to the bottom of this. In fact, Elliott felt curiously enlivened by this entire development. Elliott felt almost young, daydreaming about Ramses the Great and his elixir hidden among poisons.

He rose now from his comfortable chair by the fire, ignoring the familiar pain in his legs, and went to his desk to write a letter.

Dearest Julie,

It has come to my attention that you are entertaining a guest, a friend of your father's, I believe. It would give me great pleasure to meet this gentleman. Perhaps I can be of some service to you during his stay, and certainly would not wish to miss such an opportunity.

May I ask you to join us here tomorrow night for family dinner. . . .

In a few moments he had finished this note. He put it in an envelope, sealed it, and took it into the front hall, where he laid it in a silver tray for his man, Walter, to deliver in the morning. Then he paused. Of course it was what Alex wanted him to do. But he knew that he was not doing it for Alex. And he knew that if any such dinner took place that Alex might be hurt even more than he had been already. On the other hand, the sooner Alex realized ... He stopped. He did not really know what it was that Alex was supposed to realize. He knew only that he himself was inflamed with the mystery that was slowly unfolding before him.

He limped uneasily to the hook behind the stairs, removed his heavy serge cloak and then went out the side door of the house onto the street. There were four motor cars parked there.

But the Lancia Theta with the electric starter was the only one he ever drove. And a whole year had passed during which he had not enjoyed that extraordinary pleasure.

It delighted him now that he might take the thing out all alone, without having to consult a groom, a coachman, a valet or a chauffeur. What a lovely development, that such a complex invention took one back to simplicity.

The worst of it was easing himself onto the front seat, but he managed it. Then he pressed down on the starter pedal, gave it petrol and he was soon on horseback again, free, as he'd been when he was a young man, heading toward Mayfair at a gallop.

* * *

Leaving Ramses, Julie hurried up the stairs and into her room, closing the door behind her. For a long moment she leaned against the door, her eyes closed. She could hear Rita bustling about. She could smell the fragrant wax of the candles Rita always lighted by her bed. A romantic little touch that Julie retained from her childhood-before there had been electric lights-when the smell of the gaslights had always faintly sickened her.

She thought of nothing now except all that had happened: it filled her so completely there was no room for true reflection or evaluation. That pounding sense of an all-consuming adventure was the only attitude she could rationally identify within herself. Except of course for a physical attraction to Ramses that was acutely painful.

No, not merely physical. She was falling in love totally.

As she opened her eyes, she saw the portrait of Alex on her dressing table. And Rita in the shadows, who had just laid out her nightgown over the lace-covered counterpane. Then gradually she became aware of flowers everywhere. Bouquets of flowers in glass vases on the dressing table, on the night tables, on her desk in the corner.

"From the Viscount, miss," Rita said. "All these bouquets. I don't know what he's going to think, miss, about all this . . . these strange goings-on. I don't know what 1 think myself, miss. ..."

"Of course you don't," Julie said, "but, Rita, you mustn't tell a soul, you know that."

"Who would believe me, miss!" Rita said. "But I don't understand it, miss. How did he hide in that box? Why does he eat all that food?"

For a moment Julie couldn't answer. What in the world was Rita thinking?

"Rita, there's nothing to worry about," she said firmly. She took Rita's hands in hers. "Will you believe me when I tell you that he is a good man, and there is a good explanation for everything?"

Rita stared blankly at Julie. Her small blue eyes grew very wide suddenly. "But, Miss Julie!" she whispered. "If he's a good man, why did he have to sneak into London like that? And why didn't he smother under all that wrapping?"

Julie considered for a moment.

"Rita, my father knew of the plan," she said soberly. "He approved of it."

Can we really burn in hell for telling lies? Julie thought. Especially lies that calm other people immediately?

"I might even add," Julie said, "that the man had a very important purpose here. And only a few people in the government know about it."

"Ohhhh . . ." Rita was dumbfounded.

"Of course a few very important people at Stratford Shipping know as well, but you mustn't breathe a word. Especially not to Henry, or Uncle Randolph, or Lord Rutherford or anyone else, you see. . . ."

Rita nodded. "Very well, miss. I didn't know it was like that."

After the door had closed, Julie started to laugh and put her hand to her mouth like a schoolgirl. But the truth was, it made perfect sense. For what Rita believed, mad as it seemed, was a great deal more plausible than what had really happened.

What had really happened. She sat down before her mirror. She began almost idly to take the pins from her hair, and her vision blurred as she looked at her own reflection. She saw the room as if through a veil; she saw the flowers; she saw the white lace curtains of her bed; she saw her world, remote, and no longer important.

She drifted slowly through the motions of brushing her hair, of rising, undressing, putting on her gown, and climbing under the covers. The candles still burned. The room had a soft lovely glow. The flowers gave a faint perfume.

Tomorrow she would take him to the museums, if he wanted. They would take a train perhaps out in the country. To the Tower of London they might go. Oh, so many things ... so many, many things. . . .

And there came that great lovely cessation of all thought; she saw him; she saw herself and him together.

* * *

Samir had been sitting at his desk for the better part of an hour. He had drunk half a bottle of Pernod, a liqueur he had always loved, which he had discovered in a French cafe" in Cairo. He wasn't drunk, however; he had merely blunted the palm-tingling agitation that had taken possession of him shortly after he left the Stratford house. But when he tried to really think about what was going on, the agitation would return again.

He was suddenly startled by a tap at his window. His office was at the back of the museum. And the only light shining in the entire building was his light, and perhaps another somewhere deep inside where the night guards took their cigarettes and coffee.

He could not see the figure outside. But he knew who h was. And he was on his feet before the tap came again. He went into the back corridor, and to a rear door and opened it on the back alleyway.

In a rain-spattered coat, his shirt open and unbuttoned halfway down the front, Ramses the Great stood waiting for him. Samir stepped out into the darkness. The rain had left a sheen on the stone walls, and on the pavement. But nothing seemed to shimmer quite like this tall, commanding figure before him.

"What can I do for you, sire?" Samir asked. "What service can I render?"

"I want to come in, honest one," Ramses said. "If you will permit, I would like to see the relics of my ancestors and of my children."

A lovely tremor passed through Samir at these words. He felt tears springing to his eyes. He could not have explained this bittersweet happiness to anyone.

"Gladly, sire," he said. "Let me be your guide. It is a great privilege."

* * *

Elliott saw the lights in Randolph's library. He parked his car at the curb, right beside the old mews, climbed out and somehow managed to get up the steps and ring the bell. Randolph himself, in shirt-sleeves and with the stale smell of wine on his breath, came to answer.

"Good Lord, do you know what time it is?" he asked. He turned and allowed Elliott to follow him back into the library. What a grand affair it was, chock full of all the accoutrements money could buy for such a room, including prints of dogs and horses, and maps which no one ever looked at.

"I'll tell you the truth right off. I'm too tired for anything else," Randolph said. "You've come at a very good time to answer a very important question.'

"And what is that?' Elliott said. He watched Randolph settle at his desk, a great monstrous thing of mahogany with heavy carving. There were papers and account books all over the top of it. There were bills in heaps. And a great huge ugly telephone, and leather containers for clips, pens, paper.

"The ancient Romans," Randolph said, sitting back and drinking his wine without a thought to offering Elliott any. "What did they do when they were dishonored, Elliott? They slit their wrists, did they not? And bled to death gracefully."

Elliott eyed the man, his red eyes, the slight palsy of his hand. Then he put his walking stick to use as he climbed to his feet again. He went to the desk and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter. He refilled Randolph's glass, and then retreated to his chair again.

Randolph watched all this but appeared to attach no significance to it whatsoever. He rested his elbows on the desk before him, and ran his heavy wrinkled fingers through his gray hair as he stared at the heap of papers.

"If memory serves me right," Elliott said, "Brutus fell on his sword. Mark Antony later tried the same trick, and made a mess of it. He then climbed a rope to Cleopatra's bedchamber. And there managed somehow to kill himself again, or to die finally. She chose the poison of a snake. But yes, to answer your question, Romans did from time to time slit their wrists, that's true. But will you allow me to observe that no amount of money is worth a man's life. And you must stop thinking of this."

Randolph smiled. Elliott tasted the wine. Very good. The Stratfords always drank good wine. Day in and day out, they drank vintages that others saved for momentous occasions.

"Is that so?" Randolph said. "No amount of money. And where am I going to get the amount of money I need to prevent my niece from understanding the full extent of my perfidy?"

The Earl shook his head. "If you take your life, she will undoubtedly find out everything."

"Yes, and I shall not be there to answer her questions."

"A small point, and not worth the price of your remaining years. You're talking nonsense."

"Am I? She isn't going to marry Alex. You know she isn't. And she wouldn't turn her back on Stratford Shipping even if she did. There's nothing standing between me and the final disaster. ''

"Oh, yes, there is."

"And what is that?"

"Give it a few days and see if I'm not right. Your niece has herself a new distraction. Her guest from Cairo, Mr. Reginald Ramsey. Alex is miserable about it, of course, but Alex will recover. And this Reginald Ramsey may very well sweep Julie away from Stratford Shipping as well as from my son. And your problems may find a very simple solution. She may forgive you everything."

"I saw that fellow!" Randolph said. "Saw him this morning when Henry made that asinine scene. You don't mean to tell me . . ."

"I have a hunch, as Americans say. Julie and this man . . ."

"Henry ought to be in that house!"

"Forget it. What you're saying doesn't matter."

"Well, you sound downright cheerful about this! I should have thought you'd be more upset than I am."

"It's unimportant."

"Since when?"

"Since I began to think, really think, about what our lives consist of. Old age and death await us all. And we cannot face that simple truth, so we look for endless distractions."

"Good God, Elliott! You're not talking to Lawrence, you're talking to Randolph. I wish I could share your grand perspective. At the moment I'd sell my soul for one hundred thousand pounds. And so would a lot of other men."

"I wouldn't," Elliott said. "And I don't have one hundred thousand pounds and I never will. If I had it, I'd give it to you."

"You would?"

"Yes, I believe so. But let me take this conversation in another direction. Julie may not wish to be questioned about her friend Mr. Ramsey. She may want some time alone, some real independence. And you might find everything in your hands again."

"You mean this?"

"Yes, and now I'm going home. I'm tired, Randolph. Don't slit your wrists. Drink all you want, but don't do anything so dreadful to all of us. Tomorrow night, come to my house for dinner. I've invited Julie and this mysterious man. Don't fail me. And when it's all over, perhaps we'll have a better idea as to where things stand. You may get everything you want. And I may have the solution to a mystery. Can I count on you for tomorrow night?"

"Dinner, tomorrow night?" Randolph said. "You came here at one in the morning to ask me this?''

Elliott laughed. He set down the glass and stood up.

"No," he said. "I came to save your life. Believe me, it's not worth it, one hundred thousand pounds. Just being alive . . . not being in pain ... but then why try to explain?"

"Yes, don't put yourself out."

"Good night, my friend. Don't forget. Tomorrow night. I'll see myself to the door. Now go to bed like a good man, will you?"

* * *

With an electric torch, Samir had led Ramses rapidly through the entire collection. Whatever the King felt, the King did not confess. He studied each large object-mummy, sarcophagus, statue-in turn, barely observing the multitude of tiny relics that filled cases galore.

Their footsteps echoed carelessly on the stone floor. The lone guard, long used to Samir's nocturnal wanderings, left them alone.

"In Egypt are the real treasures," Samir said. "The bodies of the Kings. This is but a fraction of what has been saved from pillage and from time."

Ramses had paused. He was examining a Ptolemaic mummy case, one of those curious hybrid creations which consisted of an Egyptian coffin with a realistic Greek face painted upon it, rather than the stylized mask of earlier centuries. This was the coffin of a woman.

"Egypt," Ramses whispered. "Suddenly I cannot see the present for the past. I can't embrace this age until I have said my farewells to those years completely."

Samir found himself shivering in the dark. The sweet sadness gave way to fear again, a deep silent terror of this unnatural thing which he knew now to be true. There could be no error.

The King turned his back on the Egyptian rooms. "Lead me out, my friend," he said. "I am lost in this maze. I do not like the concept of a museum.''

Samir walked quickly at his side, the beam shining on the floor directly before them.

"Sire, if you desire to go to Egypt, do it now. That is my advice to you, though I know you do not ask it. Take Julie Stratford if you will. But leave England."

"Why do you say this?"

"The authorities know that coins have been stolen from the collection! They want to reclaim the mummy of Ramses the Great. There is much talk and suspicion."

Samir could see the menace hi Ramses' face. "The accursed Henry Stratford," he said under his breath, quickening his pace ever so slightly. ' 'He poisoned his uncle, a man of learning and wisdom. His own flesh and blood. And stole from mat man a golden coin as the body lay dying."

Samir stopped. The shock was more than he could bear. Instantly he knew it was true. He had known when he saw the body of his friend that something was terribly wrong. It had not been a natural death. But he had believed Henry Stratford a coward. Slowly he caught his breath. He looked at the tall shadowy figure standing beside him.

"You tried to tell me this earlier tonight," he whispered. "I didn't want to believe it."

"I saw it, my beloved servant," the King said. "With my own eyes. Just as I saw you come to the body of your friend Lawrence and begin to weep. These things were mixed with my waking dreams; but I remember them most clearly.''

"Ah, but this cannot go unavenged." Samir was trembling.

Ramses placed a hand on his shoulder. They proceeded slowly.

"And this Henry Stratford knows my secret," Ramses said. ' 'The tale he told was true. For when he tried by the same means to take the life of his cousin, I came out of the coffin to prevent it. Oh, if only I had had my full strength, I would have finished it, there and then. I should have embalmed him myself and wrapped him up and put him in the painted coffin for all the world to see as Ramses."

Samir smiled bitterly. "A just reward," he said under his breath. He felt the tears on his face, but there was none of the relief that tears should bring. "And what will you do now, sire?"

"Kill him, of course. For Julie's sake and for my sake. There is no other possibility."

"You wait for the opportunity?"

"I wait for permission. Julie Stratford has the delicate conscience of one unused to bloodshed. She loves her uncle; she shrinks from violence. And I understand her reasoning, but I grow impatient. And angry. I want this Henry to threaten us no more."

"And what of me? I too know your secret now, sire. Will you kill me to protect it?"

Ramses stopped in his tracks. "I don't ask kindnesses of those I mean to harm. But tell me. On your honor, who else knows the truth?"

"Lord Rutherford, the cither of the young man who courts Julie. ..."

"Ah, the one called Alex, with the gentle eyes."

"Yes, sire. The father is a man to be reckoned with. He suspects. More significantly, he may believe, more earnestly even than young Stratford."

"This knowledge is poison! As deadly as the poisons in my tomb. First there will be fascination, then greed, and finally desperation."

They had reached the side door. The rain was coming down. Samir could see it through the thick glass, though he could not hear it.

"Tell me why this knowledge isn't poison to you," Ramses asked.

"I don't wish to live forever, sire."

Silence.

"I know. I can see this. But in my heart of hearts, I don't understand it."

"Strange, sire, that I must give you explanations. You who must know things I shall never know."

"I shall be grateful for the explanation."

"I have found it hard enough to live this long as it is. I loved my friend. I fear for his daughter. I fear for you. I fear to acquire knowledge which I cannot use to any moral purpose."

Again there was a pause.

"You're a wise man," Ramses said. "But don't fear for Julie. I will protect Julie, even from myself."

"Take my advice and leave here. There are wild rumors. And the empty coffin, it will be discovered. But if you are gone, all this will die away. It has to die away. The rational mind cannot have it otherwise."

"Yes. I will go. 1 must see Egypt again. I must see the modern city of Alexandria covering the palaces and streets I knew. I must see Egypt again merely to be done with it, and go on to the modern world. But when, that is the question."

"You'll need papers to travel, sire. In this age, one cannot be a man without an identity. I can obtain those papers for you.'

Ramses considered. Then: "Tell me where I can find Henry Stratford."

"I don't know that, sire. I might kill him myself now, if I did. He lodges with his father when he chooses. He keeps a mistress as well. I urge you to leave England now, and let this revenge wait for a proper moment. Let me get you the documents you need."

Ramses nodded, but this was not a nod of agreement. He was merely acknowledging the generosity of the advice, Samir knew that.

"How do I reward your loyalty, Samir?" he asked. "What do you want that I can give?"

"To be near you, sire. To know you. To hear now and then the smallest part of your wisdom. You have eclipsed the mysteries I loved. You are the mystery now. But I ask nothing, really, except that for your own safety you go. And that you protect Julie Stratford."

Ramses smiled approvingly.

"Get the travel documents for me," he said.

He reached into his pocket and produced a shining gold coin which Samir recognized immediately. He did not need to study the engraving.

"No, sire, I cannot. This is not a coin any longer. It is more. ..."

"Use it, my friend. There are many, many more where it came from. In Egypt I have riches hidden which I myself can no longer measure."

Samir took the coin, though what he would do with it he was not certain.

"I can get what you want."

' 'And for yourself? Whatever is required that you might travel with us?"

Samir felt his pulse quicken. He stared at the King's face, only partially revealed by the gray light through the door.

"Yes, sire, if that's what you wish. I will gladly go with you."

Ramses made a small polite gesture; Samir at once opened the door; Ramses gave him a little bow and passed out into the rain silently.

For a long time, Samir stood there, feeling the cold spray from outside, yet not moving. Then he closed and locked the door. He walked through the dark corridors of the museum until he had reached the front foyer.

A great statue of Ramses the Great stood there as it had for many years, greeting all those who entered the museum.

It had brought only a passing smile from the King. But Samir stared at it, aware that his attitude was one of silent worship.

* * *

Inspector Trent sat at his desk at Scotland Yard pondering. It was past two. Sergeant Gallon had long ago gone home. And he himself was tired. Yet he could not stop thinking of all the aspects of this strange case, which now encompassed a murder.

He had never become accustomed to examining corpses. Yet he'd gone to the morgue to see the body of Tommy Sharpies for one very important reason. A rare Greek coin had been found in Sharples's pocket, a coin identical with the "Cleopatra coins'' in the Stratford collection. And there had been a small address book on Sharples's person as well, which contained the name and addresses of Henry Stratford.

Henry Stratford, who had run out of his cousin's house in Mayfair this morning, crying that a mummy had climbed out of its coffin.

Yes, a puzzle.

That Henry Stratford possessed a rare Cleopatra coin would not have surprised anyone. He had tried to sell such a coin only two days ago, that was now almost certain. But why would he have tried to pay his debts with such a valuable piece of gold, and why did me thief who murdered Sharpies not steal it?

Trent would call the British Museum about the coin first thing in the morning. That is, after he hauled Stratford out of bed and questioned him about the murder of Sharpies.

But the whole thing didn't make sense. And then there was the question of the murder itself. Surely Henry Stratford hadn't done it. A gentleman like that could hold off his creditors for months. Beside, he just wasn't the sort to sink a knife into a man's chest, at least Trent didn't think so.

But he wasn't the sort to run screaming from his cousin's house that a mummy had tried to strangle him either.

And then there was another thing. A most disturbing thing. It was the manner in which Miss Stratford had responded when told of her cousin's mad story. She hadn't seemed shocked so much as coldly indignant. Why, the story itself didn't surprise her at all. And then there was that strange gentleman staying at her house and the way that Stratford had stared at him. The young woman had been hiding something, that was clear. Perhaps he should stop by and just have a look about the house, and talk with the guard for a little while.

After all, he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight anyway.