The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

2

THIS HAD been a Mameluke house, a little palace of sorts, and Henry liked it well enough though he wasn't entirely sure what a Mameluke was except they had once been rulers of Egypt.

Well, they could have it, as far as he was concerned. But for the moment he was enjoying himself and had been for days, and in this little house crammed with Eastern exotica and big comfortable old pieces of Victorian furniture, he had just about everything he wanted.

Malenka kept him fed on delicious spiced dishes that for some reason he craved when he was sick from drink, and which enticed him even when he was very drunk and all other food tasted like gruel to him.

And she kept him in booze, taking his winnings into British Cairo and coming back with his favorite gin, Scotch, and brandy.

And his winnings had been good for a straight ten days, as he kept the card game going from noon until late into the evening. So easy to bluff these Americans who thought all British were sissies. The Frenchman he had to watch; that son of a bitch was mean. But he didn't cheat. And he paid his debts in full, though where such a disreputable man got the money Henry couldn't imagine.

At night, he and Malenka made love in the big Victorian bed, which she loved; she thought that was very high class, that bed, with its mahogany headboard and yards of mosquito netting. So let her have her little dreams. For the moment, he loved her. He didn't care if he never laid eyes on Daisy Banker again. In fact, he had more or less made up his mind that he wasn't going back to England.

As soon as Julie and her escorts arrived, he was heading on to America. It had even occurred to him that his father might go for that idea, might settle an income on him with the understanding mat he stay over there, in New York, or even in California.

San Francisco, now that was a city that had an allure for him. They'd almost completely rebuilt it since the earthquake. And he had a feeling he might do well out there, away from all that he had come to loathe in England. If he could take Malenka with him, mat wouldn't be half-bad either. And out there in California, who would give a damn that her skin was darker than his?

Her skin. He loved Malenka's skin. Smoky, hot Malenka. A few times he'd ventured out of this cluttered little house and gone to see her dance at the European club. He liked it. Who knows? Maybe she might be a celebrity in California, with him managing her, of course. That might bring in a little money, and what woman wouldn't want to leave this filthy hellhole of a city for America? She was already learning English from the gramophone, playing records she had bought in the British sector on her own.

It made him laugh to hear her repeating the inane phrases: "May I offer you some sugar? May I offer you some cream?" She spoke well enough as it was. And she was clever about money, that was obvious. Or she wouldn't have managed to keep this house, after her half-breed brother left it to her.

Trouble was his father had to be handled carefully. That was why he hadn't left Cairo already. Because his father had to believe he was still with Julie, and looking after her, and all that utter rot. He'd cabled his father for more money days ago, with some silly message that Julie was quite all right. But surely he did not have to follow her back to London. That was preposterous. He had to work something out.

Of course there was no rush to leave here, really. The game was going splendidly for the eleventh day.

And it had been some time since he'd set foot out of doors, except of course to take his breakfast in the courtyard. He liked the courtyard. He liked the world being completely shut out. He liked the little pond, and the tile, and even that screeching parrot of Malenka's, that African gray-the ugliest bird he'd ever seen- wasn't entirely uninteresting.

The whole place had a lush, overblown quality that appealed to him. Late at night he'd wake up dying of thirst, find his bottle and sit in the front room, amid all the tapestried pillows, listening to the gramophone play the records of Afda. He'd blur his eyes and all the colors around him would run together.

This was exactly what he wanted life to be. The game; the drink; the utter seclusion. And a warm, voluptuous woman who'd strip off her clothes when he snapped his fingers.

He made her dress in her costumes about the house. He liked to see her shining flat belly and her mounded breasts over the gaudy purple satin. He liked the big cheap earrings she wore, and her fine hair, oh, very fine, he liked to see that down her back so that he could grab a handful of it, and tug her gently towards him.

Ah, she was the perfect woman for him. She had his shirts done, and his clothes pressed, and saw to it his tobacco never ran out. She brought him magazines and papers when he asked for them.

But he didn't care much for that anymore. The outside world didn't exist. Except for dreams of San Francisco.

That's why he was so annoyed when they brought a telegram to the door. He never should have left this address at Shepheard's. But then he had no choice. How else could he have gotten the money his father telegraphed? Or the other telegrams his father had sent? Important not to make his father angry until some sort of deal had been struck.

With a cold, nasty expression the Frenchman waited as he tore open the yellow envelope and saw that this message wasn't from his father. Rather, it had come from Elliott.

"Damn," he whispered. "They're on their way here." He handed it to Malenka. "Get my suit pressed. I have to go back to the hotel."

"You can't quit now," said the Frenchman.

The German took a long drag on his smelly cigar. He was even more stupid than the Frenchman.

"Who said I was going to quit?" Henry said. He upped the ante; then bluffed them out one by one.

He'd go to Shepheard's later and see to their rooms. But he wasn't sleeping there. They shouldn't expect that of him.

"That's quite enough for me," said the German, flashing his yellowed teeth.

The Frenchman would stay there until ten or eleven easily.

* * *

Cairo. This had been desert in Ramses' time, though somewhere to the south lay Saqqara, where he had come on a pilgrimage once to worship at the pyramid of Egypt's first King. And of course he had gone on to visit the great pyramids of the great ancestors.

And so now it was a metropolis, bigger even than Alexandria. And this the British sector looked for all the world like a part of London, except that it was too warm. Paved streets; neatly clipped trees. Motor cars in profusion, their engines and horns scaring the camels, the donkeys, the natives. Shepheard's Hotel-another "tropical" palace with broad porches, replete with wicker, slatted blinds, and vague Egyptian artifacts thrown in among the English furnishings, the whole crowded with the same rich tourists he'd seen everywhere.

A great advertisement for the opera stood in front of the two ironwork lifts. Alda. And such a lurid, vulgar picture of ancient Egyptians entwined in each other's arms amid palms and pyramids. And in the foreground in an oval yet another sketch of a modern man and woman dancing.

OPERA BALL-OPENING NIGHT-SHEPHEARD'S HOTEL

Well, if this was what Julie wanted. He had to confess he wanted to see a large theater, and hear an orchestra of great power. Oh, so many things to see! He had heard talk of motion pictures.

But he must endure these last few days on his native soil without complaint. There was a good library here, Elliott had said. He'd load up with science textbooks and study, and then slip out at night to stand before the Sphinx and speak to the spirits of his ancestors.

Not that he believed they were really there. No. He did not. Even in ancient times he had not really believed in the gods, perhaps because men called him a god; and so much of his stamina had been sapped by ritual. He had known he was no god.

Would a god have struck down the priestess with one great blow of his bronze sword, after drinking the elixir? But he was not the man who had done that thing. Oh, no, if life had taught him nothing else, it had taught him the meaning of cruelty.

It was the spirit of modern science that he worshipped now. He dreamed of a laboratory in some safe and isolated place, where he could break down the chemical components of the elixir. The ingredients he knew, of course. And he knew as well that he could find them today as easily as he had found them centuries ago. He had seen the very fish in the markets at Luxor. He had seen the very frogs hopping in the marshes along the Nile. The plants grew wild still in those marshes.

Ah, to think that such a chemical action came from such simple things. But who would have combined them but some ancient magician throwing things in a pot like an old woman making a stew?

But the laboratory would have to wait. He and Julie must travel first. And before this could begin, she must say her painful farewells. And when he thought of her saying farewell to her rich and beautiful world, it sent a coldness through him. Yet whatever his fears, he wanted her too much to do anything about them.

And then there was Henry, Henry who had not dared to show his face since their return-Henry who had made a gambling den in old Cairo of a belly dancer's house.

The clerks had been most forthcoming with that information. Seems that young Mr. Stratford had paid them very little not to talk of his excesses.

But what was Ramses to do with the information, if Julie would not let him act? Surely they could not leave the man alive when they departed. But how was it to be accomplished so that Julie did not suffer any more pain?

* * *

Elliott sat on his bed, his back to the ornate wooden headboard, the veils of mosquito netting pinned back on either side of him. It felt good to be settled into a suite at Shepheard's.

The pain in his hip was almost unbearable. The long walks at Luxor and Abu Simbel had left him utterly exhausted. There was a slight congestion in his lungs, and for days his heart had been beating just a little too fast.

He watched Henry in his rumpled linen suit pace the little Tunisian carpet in the quaint "Colonial" bedroom with its old-fashioned chunky Victorian pieces and Egyptian wall hangings, and the inevitable wicker chairs.

Henry now had the look of a round-the-clock drinker, skin waxy as well as florid, hands steady because he was now thoroughly fueled with Scotch.

As a matter of fact, his glass was empty and Elliott had not the slightest inclination to ask Walter to refill it. Elliott's antipathy for Henry had reached its zenith. The man's mumbling, half-incoherent speech left Elliott utterly repelled.

". . .no reason in the world why I should make that voyage back with her, she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And I don't intend to stay here at Shepheard's, either. . . ."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Elliott asked finally. "Write to your father."

"Well, I have. It's only you'd be advised not to tell him that I stayed here in Cairo while you went on that inane voyage south. You'd be advised to back me up."

"And why is that?"

"Because I know what you're up to." Henry wheeled around suddenly, eyes glittering with drunken drama. "I know why you came here. It's got nothing to do with Julie! You know that thing's a monster. You realized it during the voyage. You know what I said was true about its climbing out of the coffin. ..."

"Your stupidity is beyond belief."

"What are you saying?" Henry leaned over the footboard, as if he meant to frighten Elliott.

' 'You saw an immortal man rise from his grave, you worthless fool. Why do you run from it with your tail between your legs?''

"You're the fool, Elliott. It's unnatural. It's . . . monstrous. And if it tries to come near me, I shall tell what I know. About it and about you."

"You're losing your memory as well as your mind. You have already told. You were the laughingstock of London for twenty-four hours, probably the only real recognition you will ever enjoy."

"You think you're so clever, you filthy aristocratic beggar. You dare to put on airs with me. Have you forgotten our little weekend in Paris?" He gave a twisted smile as he lifted the empty glass, then saw there was nothing in it. "You peddled your title for an American fortune. You've peddled your son's title for the Stratford money. And now you're chasing after that filthy thing! You believe in this mad, stupid idea of the elixir."

"And you don't?"

"Of course I don't."

"Then how do you explain what you saw?"

Henry paused, eyes working again in that feverish manner which had become shifty. "There's some trick to it, some twist. But there's no damned chemical that makes people live forever. That's insane."

Elliott laughed under his breath. "Maybe it was done with mirrors."

"What?"

"The thing coming out of the coffin and trying to strangle you," Elliott said.

The contempt in Henry's eyes hardened to hate.

"Maybe I should tell my cousin that you're spying on her, that you want the elixir. Maybe I should tell that thing."

"She knows. So does he."

Utterly stymied, Henry looked down into the empty glass.

"Get out of here," Elliott said. "Go where you please."

"If my father should contact you, leave a message for me at the desk."

"Oh? Am I not supposed to know that you're living with that dancer, Malenka? Everyone else knows it. It's the scandal of the moment, Henry in old Cairo with his card game and his dancing girl."

Henry sneered.

Elliott looked towards the windows. Soft bright sunshine. He did not look back until he'd heard the door close. He waited a few moments, then picked up the telephone and asked for the front desk.

"You have an address for Henry Stratford?"

"He asked that we not give it out, sir."

"Well, this is the Earl of Rutherford, and I am a friend of the family. Please do give it to me."

He memorized it quickly, thanked the clerk and put down the receiver. He knew the street in old Cairo. It was only steps from the Babylon, the French night club where the dancing girl, Malenka, worked. He and Lawrence used to sit and argue in that club by the hour, when there had been dancing boys.

He reaffirmed his vow: whatever else happened, he would find out what he could from Ramsey before they parted as to what had really happened to Lawrence in that tomb.

Nothing would deter him from that, not cowardice, nor dreams of the elixir. He had to know what, if anything, Henry had done.

The door opened quietly. It had to be his man, Walter, the only one who would enter without a knock.

"Nice rooms, my lord?" Too solicitous. He had overheard the argument. He puttered about, wiping the bedside table, adjusting the shade of the lamp.

"Oh, yes, they're fine, Walter. They'll do. And my son, where is he?"

"Downstairs, my lord, and may I tell you a little secret?"

Walter leaned over the bed, hand up to his mouth as if they were in the midst of a crowd rather than in a large empty bedroom with nothing but an empty sitting room opening onto it.

"He's met a pretty girl, downstairs, an American. Name's Banington, my lord. Rich family from New York. Father in the railroads."

Elliott smiled. "Now, how do you know all that already?"

Walter laughed. He emptied Elliott's ashtray of the cheroot, which had gone out because it burned Elliott's lungs so badly he couldn't smoke it.

' 'Rita told me, my lord. Saw him not an hour after we checked in. And he's with Miss Barrington now, taking a little walk about in the hotel gardens."

"Well, wouldn't that be interesting, Walter," Elliott said, shaking his head, ' 'if our dear Alex married an American heiress. ''

"Yes, my lord, it certainly would be interesting," Walter said. "As for the other, do you want the same arrangements as before?" Again Walter assumed a highly confidential air. "Someone to follow him?"

He meant Ramses, of course. He referred to the shameful matter of the boy whom Elliott had hired in Alexandria.

"If you can do it quietly," Elliott said. "They're to watch him night and day, to report to me where he goes and what he does."

He gave Walter a wad of bills, which Walter tucked in his pocket immediately and then went out, closing the door behind him.

Elliott tried to take a deep breath, but the pain in his chest wouldn't allow it; very quietly he took one shallow breath after another. He stared at the white curtains ballooning over the open windows. He could hear the bustle and noise of British Cairo outside. He thought about the futility of all of this-following Ramses in the hope of discovering something, anything, about the elixir.

Absurd, really. A little bit of cloak-and-dagger that did no more than fuel Elliott's obsession. There was no doubt now as to what Ramses was; and if he had the elixir with him, undoubtedly he carried it on his person.

Elliott felt ashamed. But that was a small matter. The larger matter was the mystery from which he was utterly shut out. Might as well go to the man and beg for the gift. He had a good mind to call Walter back, to tell him it was all foolishness. But in his heart of hearts he knew he would try one more time to search Ramses' room; and the boy following Ramses might give him some clue as to the man's habits.

It was something to do, wasn't it, other than think about the pain in his chest and in his hip. He closed his eyes; he saw the colossal statues of Abu Simbel again. It seemed to him suddenly that this was the last great adventure of his life, and he realized that he had no regrets, that this excitement had been in itself a priceless gift to him.

And who knows, he laughed softly to himself. Perhaps Alex will find an American heiress.

* * *

Ah, she was lovely, and he so liked her voice and the divine sparkle in her eye, for that's just what it was; and how she'd push him lightly with her finger when she laughed. And what a pretty name she had, Miss Charlotte Whitney Banington.

"And then we thought we'd go to London, but they say it's frightfully cold this time of year, and so gloomy, with the Tower of London and all, where they chopped off Anne Boleyn's head.''

"Oh, it wouldn't be if I showed it to you!" he said.

"Well, when are you going home? You're staying for the opera, aren't you? Seems everybody in this place talks of nothing else. It's very funny, you know, to come all the way to Egypt to see an opera."

"But it's Aida, my dear."

"I know, I know. . . ."

"And yes, we are going, as a matter of fact, it's all been arranged. And you'll be there, of course. Ah, what about the ball afterwards?"

What an adorable smile. "Well, I didn't know about the ball, you see. I didn't really want to go with Mummy and Daddy and-"

"Well, perhaps you'd go with me."

Oh, what lovely white teeth.

"Why, Lord Rutherford, I'd simply love it."

"Please call me Alex, Miss Barrington. Lord Rutherford's my father."

"But you're a Viscount yourself," she said with stunning American frankness and the same ingratiating smile. "That's what they told me."

"Yes, I guess that's true. Viscount Summerfield, actually ..."

"What is a Viscount?" she asked.

Such lovely eyes, and the way she laughed as she looked at him. Suddenly he was no longer angry with Henry for being holed up. with that dancer, Malenka. Better that Henry should be altogether out of sight with his drinking and gambling, rather than hanging about the public rooms of the hotel.

Oh, what would Julie think of Miss Barrington? Well, he knew what he thought!

* * *

High noon. The dining room. Ramses sat back laughing.

"Now, I insist you do it. Pick up the fork and the knife," Julie said. "Just try."

"Julie, it's not that I can't do it! It's that it seems absolutely barbaric to thrust food in one's mouth with pieces of silver!"

' 'Your trouble is, you know how perfectly handsome you are, and how you charm everyone."

"I learned a little tact over the centuries." He picked up the fork, deliberately gripping the handle in his fist.

"Stop that," she said under her breath.

He laughed. He laid down the fork, and took a morsel of chicken with his fingers again. She grabbed his hand.

"Ramses, eat properly."

"Darling dear," he said, "I'm eating in the manner of Adam and Eve, Osiris and Isis, Moses, Aristotle and Alexander."

She dissolved with laughter. He stole a kiss from her quickly. Then his face darkened.

"What about your cousin?" he whispered.

It caught her completely off guard.' 'Must we speak of him?''

"Are we to leave him here in Cairo? Are we to leave the murder of your father unavenged?''

Tears sprang to her eyes. Angrily, she searched in her bag for her handkerchief. She had not seen Henry since their return, and she didn't want to see him. In her letter to Randolph she had not mentioned him. And it was the thought of her uncle as much as anything else that made her cry now.

"Pass the burden to me," Ramses whispered. "I shall bear it easily. Let justice be done."

She put her hand up suddenly to his lips.

"No more," she said. "Not now."

He looked up, over her shoulder. He gave a little sigh, and squeezed her hand. "The museum party is here, it seems," he said. "And we mustn't keep Elliott standing about."

Alex swooped down suddenly to give her a little peck on the cheek. How chaste. She wiped at her nose quickly, and turned so that he wouldn't see the colour in her face.

"Well, are we all set?" Alex said. "We have our private guide meeting us at the museum in fifteen minutes. Oh, and before I forget, the opera has been completely arranged. Box seats and of course tickets to the ball afterwards. And Ramsey, old man, if you'll allow me to say so, I shan't compete with you that night for Julie's attentions."

Julie nodded. "Fallen in love already," she said with a mock whisper. She allowed Alex to help her to her feet. "A Miss Barrington."

"Please, darling, do give me your opinion. She's coming to the museum with us."

"Let's hurry," Ramses said. "Your father is not well. I'm surprised he doesn't remain behind."

"Good Lord, do you know what the Cairo Museum means to people?" said Alex. "And it's the dirtiest, dustiest place I've ever-"

"Alex, please, we are about to see the greatest collection of Egyptian treasures in existence."

"The last ordeal," Ramses said, taking Julie's arm. "And all the Kings are in one room? This is what you have been telling me?"

"My word, I should think you'd been there before," Alex said. "You are such a puzzle, old man. . . ."

"Give up on it," Ramses whispered.

But Alex scarcely heard. He was whispering to Julie that she must give him a candid opinion of Miss Barrington. And Miss Barrington was the rosy-cheeked blond woman standing in the lobby with Elliott and Samir. A pretty thing, obviously.

"To think," said Julie, "you need my approval!" "Shhhh, there she is. With Father. They're getting along famously."

"Alex, she's perfectly lovely."

* * *

Through the broad dusty rooms of the first floor they trekked, listening to the guide, who spoke rapidly despite his thick Egyptian accent. Ah, treasures galore, there was no doubt of it. All the loot of the tombs; things he had never even dreamed of in his time. And here it was for all the world to see, under soiled glass and weak lights, yet nevertheless preserved from time and ruin.

He stared at the statue of the happy scribe-the little cross-legged figure with his papyrus on his lap, looking up eagerly. It should have moved him to tears. But all he felt was a vague joy that he had come, he had visited it all as he should, and now he would be leaving.

At last they proceeded up the grand stairway. The room of the Kings, the ordeal he was dreading. He felt Samir at his side.

"Why not forgo this gruesome pleasure, sire? For they are all horrors."

"No, Samir, let me see it through to the finish."

He almost laughed when he understood what it was-a great chamber of glass cases like the cases in the department stores where goods were displayed safe from prying fingers.

Nevertheless the blackened grinning bodies gave him a dull shock. It seemed he could scarcely hear the guide, and yet the words were coming clear:

' 'The Ramses the Damned mummy in England is still a controversial discovery. Very controversial. This is the true Ramses the Second, right before you, known as Ramses the Great."

Edging closer, he stared down at the gaunt horrid thing that bore his name.

". . . Ramses the Second, greatest of all Egypt's Pharaohs."

He almost smiled as he studied the dried limbs, and then the obvious truth hit him, like something physical pressing on his chest, that if he had not gone into that cave with the wicked old priestess, he would indeed be lying in this case. Or what was left of him. And all the world since faded; it was no more suddenly than those years. And to think he would have died without knowing so much; without ever realizing. . . .

Noise. Julie had said something, but he couldn't hear her.

There was a dull roaring in his head. Suddenly he saw them all, these ghastly corpses, like burnt things out of the oven. He saw the filthy glass; he saw the tourists pushing this way and that.

He heard Cleopatra's voice. When you let him die, you let me die! I want to be with him now. Take it away, I won't drink it.

Were they moving again? Had Samir said it was time to go? He looked up slowly from the awful sunken face and saw Elliott gazing at him, with the strangest expression. What was it? Understanding.

Oh, but how can you understand? I myself can scarcely understand.

"Let's go, sire."

He let Samir take his arm and lead him towards the doorway. It seemed Miss Barrington laughed at something Alex had whispered in her ear. And the din of the French tourists nearby was positively frightful. Such a harsh tongue.

He turned, staring back at the glass cases. Yes, leave this place. Why are we going down the corridor to the very back of the building? Surely we have seen it all; the dreams and fervor of a nation come to this; a great and dusty mausoleum where young girls laugh and rightly so.

The guide had stopped at the end of the hall. What was it now? Another body in a case, and how could anyone see it in the shadows? Only weak shafts of dusty light cut through the dirty window above.

"This unknown woman ... a curious example of natural preservation."

"We cannot smoke, can we?" he whispered to Samir.

"No, sire, but we can slip away, surely. We can wait for the others outside, if you wish. . . ."

"... combined to naturally mummify the body of this anonymous woman."

"Let's go," he said. He placed his hand on Samir's shoulder. But then he must tell Julie lest she be alarmed. He stepped forward and gave her sleeve a little tug, and glanced down at the body in the case as he did so.

His heart stopped.

"... though most of the wrappings were long ago torn away-in the search for valuables, no doubt-the woman's body was perfectly preserved by the delta mud, much as bodies found in northern bogs. ..."

The rippling hair, the long slender neck, the gently sloping shoulders! And the face, the very face! For a moment he did not believe his eyes!

The voice pounded in his head: "... unknown woman . . . Ptolemaic period . . . Graeco-Roman. But see the Egyptian profile. The well-molded lips ..."

Miss Barrington's high-pitched laugh went through his temples.

He blundered forward. He had brushed Miss Barrington's arm. Alex was saying something to him, calling him sharply by name. The guide was staring up.

He looked down through the glass. Her face! It was she-the soft cerements molded into her flesh, her naked hands gently curved, her feet bare, the wrappings loose around her ankles. All black, black as the delta mud which had surrounded her, preserved her, hardened her!

"Ramses, what is it!"

"Sir, are you ill!"

They were speaking to him from all sides; they were surrounding him. Suddenly someone pulled him away, and he turned back furiously. "No, let me go."

He heard the glass shatter beside him. An alarm had gone off, shrieking like a woman in terror.

Look at her closed eyes. It's she! It's she. He needed no rings, no ornaments, no names to tell him. It's she.

The armed men had come. Julie pleaded. Miss Barrington was afraid. Alex was trying to make him listen.

"I cannot hear you now. I can hear nothing. It is she. Anonymous woman." She, the last Queen of Egypt.

Again, he jerked free of the hand on his arm. He hovered over the filthy glass. He wanted to shatter it. Her legs no more than bones; the fingers of her right hand dried almost to a skeleton. But that face, that beautiful face. My Cleopatra.

* * *

Finally he had allowed himself to be led away. Julie had questioned him. He had not answered. She had paid for the damage to the case, a small display of jewelry upset. He wanted to say that he was sorry.

He could not remember anything else. Except her face, and the whole picture she made-a thing created from the black earth and lifted up and placed on the bare polished wood of the case, linen wrappings still wrinkled as if by lapping water. And her hair, her thick rippling hair; why, the whole form had almost glistened in the dim light.

Julie spoke words. The lights were soft in the room at Shepheard's Hotel. He wanted to answer, but he couldn't. And then there was that other memory; that strange moment when he had turned in the confusion and the blur, and seen Elliott with those sad gray eyes watching him.

* * *

Oscar hurried after Mr. Hancock and the two chaps from Scotland Yard as they marched right through the drawing rooms and into the Egyptian room. Oh, he never should have let them into the house. They had no right to come into this house. And now they were marching right up to the mummy case.

"But Miss Julie will be so angry, sir. This is her house, sir. And you mustn't touch that, sir, why, it's Mr. Lawrence's discovery. ''

Hancock stared at the five gold Cleopatra coins in their case.

"But the coins could have been stolen in Cairo, sir. Before the collection was cataloged."

"Yes, of course, you're absolutely right," Hancock said. He turned and glared at the mummy case.

* * *

Julie poured the wine in his glass. He merely looked at it.

"Won't you try to explain?" she whispered. "You recognized it. You knew it. That has to be it."

For hours he'd sat there in silence. The late afternoon sun burned through the sheer curtains. The overhead fan churned slowly, monotonously, giving off a dull groan.

She didn't want to cry again.

"But it couldn't be . . ." No. She couldn't bring herself even to suggest it. Yet she thought of the woman again; of the gold tiara in her hair, now black and glossy as all the rest of her. "It's not possible that it's she. ..."

Slowly Ramses turned and looked at her. Hard and brilliant his blue eyes were.

"Not possible!" His voice was low, hoarse, no more than an agonized whisper. "Not possible! You've dug up thousands of the Egyptian dead. You've raided their pyramids, their desert tombs, their catacombs. What is not possible!"

"Oh, my God." The tears flowed down her cheeks.

"Mummies stolen, traded, sold," he said. "Was there any man, woman or child ever buried in this land whose body has not been defiled, if not displayed, or dismembered? What is not possible!"

For a moment it seemed he'd lose control altogether; but then he was quiet, merely staring at her again. And then his eyes went dim as if he had not seen her. He sat back in the little chair.

"We don't have to stay in Cairo any longer if you don't want. ..."

Again he turned slowly and looked at her. It was as if he were waking from a daze, that he had not just spoken to her.

"No!" he said, "We cannot leave. Not now. I don't want to leave. . . ."

And then his voice trailed off as if he'd just realized what he was saying. He rose and walked slowly out of the room, not even glancing back at her.

She saw the door close; she heard his tread in the hall; and then her tears flowed again.

What was she to do? What would comfort him? If she used all her influence, could she possibly have the body in the museum removed from public view and given proper burial? Not likely. The request would seem whimsical and foolish. Why, countless royal mummies were on display!

But even if she could accomplish such a thing, she feared it would not help now. It was the mere sight of the thing, not its desecration, which had crushed him.

* * *

The two officers from Scotland Yard watched the man from the British Museum uneasily.

"We should go now, sir. We don't have a court order to be disturbing the mummy's coffin. We came to check the coins, and we've done it."

"Nonsense," Hancock said. "We should check everything now while we have the court order. We came to see that the collection is intact. I want to see that the mummy's unharmed before I leave here."

"But, sir," Oscar intervened.

"Don't say another word, my good man. Your mistress ran off to Cairo and left a priceless treasure here. She did not have our permission." He turned to the two officers of the law. "Open the thing," he said sharply.

"Well, I don't like this, sir, I really don't," Trent said.

Hancock pushed past him and hefted the lid himself before the two men could stop him. Gallon tried to catch it before the bottom struck the floor. Oscar gave a little gasp.

Inside stood the mummy, shrunken, blackened.

"What the hell is going on here!" Hancock raged.

"And what exactly do you mean, sir?" Trent asked.

"Everything goes back to the museum now."

"But, sir."

"That's not the same mummy, you fool. That's from a peddler's shop in London! I saw it myself. It was offered to me for sale. Damn that woman! She's stolen the find of the century!"

* * *

It was long past midnight. No more music came from the public rooms. Cairo slept.

Elliott walked alone in the dark courtyard between the two wings of Shepheard's Hotel. His left leg was going numb; but he paid no heed to it. Now and then he glanced up at the figure pacing in the suite above; a shadow moving back and forth across the slatted blinds. Ramsey.

Samir's room was dark. Julie's light had gone out an hour ago. Alex was long gone to bed, worried about Ramsey, and thoroughly confused as to whether Julie had fallen in love with a madman.

The figure stopped. It moved to the blinds. Elliott stood stock-still in the chilly darkness. He watched Ramsey peer out at the sky, and perhaps at the great web of stars flung out over the rooftops.

Then the figure disappeared altogether.

Elliott turned and hobbled awkwardly towards the doors to the lobby. He had just reached the shadowy foyer beyond the front desk when he saw Ramsey come down the grand staircase and make for the doors, his loose mane of brown hair in unkempt tangles.

I am mad, Elliott thought. I am madder than he has ever been.

Firmly gripping his cane, he made to follow. When he emerged from the front doors, he saw the dark figure ahead of him, walking fast across the square. The pain in his leg was now so bad he had to grit his teeth, but he pressed on.

Within a few minutes, Ramsey had reached the museum. Elliott watched him turn from the main entrance, and walk slowly to the far right side of the building, towards a light burning behind a barred window.

The yellow light spilled out of the small rear alcove. The guard was slumped in the chair, snoring blissfully. The rear door was open.

Elliott slowly entered the museum. He passed quickly through the empty chambers of the ground floor, past towering gods and goddesses. At last he reached the grand stairs and, clutching the railing, moved up step by step, hoisting his weight off his painful leg, trying not to make a sound in the thinning darkness.

A gray murky light filled the corridor. The window at the far end was paling visibly. And there stood Ramsey beside the low shallow display case, in which the mass of the dead woman in her petrified rags gleamed like black coal. Ramsey bowed his head in the gray light, like a man praying.

It seemed he whispered something in the dark. Or was he weeping? His profile was sharply clear, and so was the movement of his hand as he reached into his coat and drew out something that sparkled in the shadows. A glass vial full of luminescent liquid. Dear God, he cannot mean to do this. What is this potion that he would even attempt it? Elliott almost cried out. He almost went to Ramsey and tried to stay his hand. But when Ramsey opened the vial, when Elliott heard the faint grinding of the metal cap, he shrank to the far side of the corridor, and concealed himself from view behind a tall glass cabinet.

How eloquent of suffering the distant figure was, poised there over the case, the open vial in his hand, the other hand rising to wipe his hair out of his forehead.

Then Ramsey turned as if to go and came down the corridor towards Elliott without seeing him.

Something changed in the light. It was the first palpable glow of the sun, a dull steel-gray radiance; a soft gray shimmer firing all the glass cases and cabinets of the long corridor.

Ramsey turned. Elliott could hear him sigh. He could feel his torment. Ah, but this is madness; this is unspeakable.

Helplessly, he watched as Ramsey approached the case again and broke loose the light wood-framed glass lid, and folded it silently backwards and away like the cover of a book, so that he might touch the dead thing inside.

With sudden speed, he produced the vial again. The gleaming white liquid flowed in droplets down on the corpse as Ramsey passed the vial back and forth above it.

"It's vain, it cannot possibly work," Elliott whispered half-aloud. He found himself shrinking even closer to the wall, peering now through the glass sides of the cabinet.

In horror and fascination, he watched Ramsey smooth the fluid over the dead woman's limbs. He saw him bend tenderly, as if placing the glittering vial to her mouth.

A hiss echoed through the darkness. Elliott let out a silent gasp. Ramsey stumbled back, pressing himself to the wall. The vial fell from his hand and rolled on the stone floor, a tiny bit of fluid still shimmering inside it. Ramsey stared down at the thing in front of him.

Movement of the dark mass in the low shallow bed of the case. Elliott saw it. He heard a low raw sound like breath.

Dear God, man, what have you done! What have you awakened!

The wood of the case gave a violent creak; the thin wooden legs appeared to shudder. The thing inside the case was stirring, rising.

Ramsey backed away into the corridor. A muffled cry escaped his lips. Beyond him, Elliott saw the figure sit up. The wooden case shattered and then collapsed, the noise echoing loudly throughout the museum. The thing stood square on its feet! Its great head of shaggy black hair poured down like thick smoke over its shoulders. The blackened skin was lightening, changing. A ghastly moan came out of the being. It raised its skeletal hands.

Ramsey moved backward away from it. A desperate prayer escaped him, full of the old Egyptian names of the gods. Elliott clamped a hand over his mouth.

Moving forward, its bare feet scratching the stones with the rough, dry sound of rats in the walls, the figure lowered its arms and reached out towards Ramsey.

The light shone in its huge staring eyes, the eyelids eaten away, the hair thickening and writhing as it grew sleeker and blacker and tumbled down longer over the bony shoulders.

But dear God, what were the patches of white all over it? They were the bones of the thing, the bare bones where the flesh had been torn away, perhaps centuries ago! Bare bone showing in the left leg, bare bone in the right foot, bare bones in the fingers struggling to reach Ramsey.

It's not whole. You've raised a thing which is not whole.

The light brightened in the window above. The first distinct rays pierced the ashen gloom. As Ramsey backed away again, passing Elliott, half stumbling towards the far railing of the stair, the thing came on, gaining speed until it reached the sunlight.

And there it reached up as if trying to catch the rays, its moaning breaths coming rapid and desperate and full of panic.

The shriveled flesh of the hands was now bronze. The face was bronze, and growing lighter and paler and more truly human as the sun struck it.

It turned and rocked on its feet, as if drinking up the light, and the blood began to ooze from the torn wounds that everywhere exposed the skeleton.

Elliott closed his eyes. For one moment he almost lost consciousness. He was aware of noise below. A door slamming far to the back of the huge building.

He opened his eyes to see the thing drawing nearer. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Ramses plastered to the rail of the stairs, staring in undisguised horror.

God in heaven, drive it back. Elliott felt the burning in his chest, the familiar tightening. The pain shot down his left arm, and with all his strength he clutched the silver cane. He willed himself to breathe, to remain standing.

The skeletal thing was filling out. Its flesh was now the color of Elliott's own flesh; and the hair a great wavy mop veiling its shoulders completely. And its clothing-even its clothing had changed. Its clothing was once again white linen where the elixir had splashed. The creature bared its white teeth to the roots as it moaned. Its breasts heaved and the ragged linen fell loose from the womanly shape, tangling in the legs that trudged doggedly forward.

Its eyes were fixed on the man at the end of the hall. Its breath came in heaves. Its mouth became a grimace.

Noises from below. The shrill sound of a whistle. A man shouting in Arabic.

Ramses reeled. They were coming up the staircase. Their shouts could only mean that they had seen him.

In panic, he turned back to the female figure drawing ever closer.

A rasping cry escaped her lips.

"Ramses!"

The Earl closed his eyes. Then he opened them again and stared at the skeletal hands outstretched as the woman passed him.

There was a cry of "Halt!" and then a shot. The creature screamed and clamped her fingers over her ears. She staggered backwards. Ramses had been struck by the bullet, and pivoted to face the men coming up the stairs. Desperately he turned back to the female. Another volley of shots! The deafening roar resounded through the corridor. Ramses fell back against the marble rail.

The female shuddered, hands still covering her ears. She appeared to lose her balance, staggering between the stone sarcophagi on the opposite side of the hall. When the whistle shrieked again, she roared in terror.

"Ramses!" It was the cry of a wounded animal.