The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

6

THE FRONT lounge at Shepheard's. Good gin from the bar, with plenty of ice and just a little lemon. He was grateful mat they had allowed him that. What a drunkard he had become. A lovely realization came over him. When he got back to England, he was going to drink himself to death.

But would they never stop? Surely they had realized he would tell them nothing. They looked like mannequins to him, their mouths jerking as if worked by wires. Every gesture seemed artificial. Even the handsome little boy who came in and out with the ice and the gin appeared to be acting. All of it false. Grotesque the figures moving past in the lobby; and the music drifting from the bars and the ballroom, why, it sounded like what they might be playing tonight in hell.

Sometimes the words they said made no sense. He knew the definition of each word, but what was the meaning? Dead men with their necks broken. Had she done it in the short tune that he had absented himself?

"I'm tired, gentlemen," he said finally. "The heat here does not agree with me. I took a bad fall today. I need my rest now. You must allow me to go to my room.''

The two men looked at each other. Mock frustration. Nothing was real here. What was real? Cleopatra's hands closing on his throat; the white-draped figure behind her, catching hold of her?

' 'Lord Rutherford, we are now dealing with several murders!

Clearly, the stabbing in London was only the beginning. Now we must ask for your full cooperation. These two young men murdered this afternoon. ..."

' 'I have told you. I know nothing about it! What is it you want from me, young man, that I spin fancies for you? This is absurd."

"Henry Stratford. Do you know where we can find him? He

was here at Shepheard's to see you two days ago."

"Henry Stratford frequents the worst parts of Cairo. He walks

dark streets alone at night. I don't know where he is, God help him. Now, I really must go."

He rose from his chair. Where was that damned walking stick now?

"Do not attempt to leave Cairo, sir," said the young one, the arrogant one, the one with the pinched nose. "We have your passport."

"You what! That's outrageous," Elliott whispered.

"I'm afraid the same applies to your son. And to Miss Stratford. I've already collected their passports from the desk as well. Lord Rutherford, we must get to the bottom of this.''

"You idiot," Elliott said. "I'm a British citizen! You dare do this to me!"

The other man stepped in.

"My lord, let me speak to you candidly! I know of your close relationship with the Stratford family, but do you think Henry Stratford could be connected to these killings? He knew this man in London, the one who was stabbed. As for the American found out at the pyramids, the fellow had been robbed of quite a good deal of money. Now we know Stratford had his ups and downs with regard to money."

Elliott held his gaze without speaking. Pinning it on Henry. That had not occurred to him. Oh, but it was obvious! Pinning it all on Henry, of course. And Henry knew the fellow in London. What luck. What supremely marvelous luck. He eyed the two gentlemen who stood now before him, awkwardly. What if this could work!

"My lord, there's even more to it than that. We have two mysterious thefts as well. Not only the mummy stolen from the Cairo museum; but it seems the mummy's been stolen from Miss Stratford's house in Mayfair too."

"Really."

"And a bit of priceless Egyptian jewelry was found in the possession of Henry Stratford's mistress, a Daisy Banker, a music hall singer. ..."

"Yes. . . ." Elliott eased back down into his chair.

"Well, what I'm driving at, my lord, is perhaps Stratford was involved in something, you know, some sort of smuggling arrangement . . . the jewelry and the coins and the mummies. ..."

"Mummies . . . Henry and mummies . . ." Oh, it was too beautiful, and Henry, poor Henry, who had murdered Lawrence, was floating in the bitumen right now. He would begin to laugh, thinly, hysterically, if he weighed it all too deeply.

"You see, Lord Rutherford, we might be looking for the wrong man."

"But then what was Ramsey doing at the museum?" said the younger official a bit impatiently.

"Trying to stop Henry," Elliott murmured. "He must have followed him. He was desperate to talk to Henry, for Julie's sake. Of course."

"But how do we explain the coins!" asked the young man, getting a little steamed now. "We found seven gold Cleopatra coins in Ramsey's room."

"But that's obvious," said Elliott, looking up, the light just dawning. "He must have taken them away from Henry when they quarreled. He knew what Henry was up to. He must have been trying to stop it. Of course."

"But none of this makes sense!" said the younger man.

"Well, it makes a hell of a lot more sense now than it did before," Elliott said. "Poor Henry, poor mad, doomed Henry."

"Yes, I'm beginning to see a pattern," said the old man.

"You are?" Elliott said. "But of course you are. Now, if you'll allow me, I want to consult a lawyer. I want my passport back! I presume I may still consult a lawyer? That privilege of British citizenship has not been revoked?"

"By all means, Lord Rutherford," said the older man. "What could make young Stratford run amok like that?"

"Gambling, old man. Gambling. It's an addiction. It destroyed his life."

* * *

Whole, alive, and a madwoman! Madder than she'd been before he gave it to her. That is what his elixir had accomplished. Ah, the fruits of his genius. And how could this nightmare conceivably end?

Back and forth through the honeycombed streets of old Cairo he searched. She had vanished. How could he hope to find her until she gave him some sign?

Had he never gone into the dark shadowy corridors of the Cairo Museum, he would never have gazed on her neglected remains; a different path would have been taken into the future. With Julie Stratford at his side, all the world might have been his.

But he was linked now forever to the monster he'd created, dragging through time with her die suffering he'd sought to put to rest; the mad creature who could remember only the hatred she'd once known for him, and none of the love. Ah, but what then had he expected? That in this new and shining age, a great spiritual transformation would be worked upon her ancient soul?

What if Julie was right, and that soul was not even the soul of Cleopatra! What if the thing was a horrid twin!

The fact was, he didn't know. When he'd held her in his arms, he'd known only that this was the flesh he had once cherished; this was the voice that had spoken to him both in anger and in love; this was the woman who had broken him finally; and taken her own life rather than the elixir-who now taunted him with a fragment of memory, that she'd cried out to him in her dying moments centuries ago; or tried to; and he had not heard her last plea. He loved her, just as he loved Julie Stratford. He loved them both!

On he walked, faster and faster, out of the strange eerie quiet of old Cairo and back towards the bustle of the new city. All he could do was continue to search. And what clue would she give him finally? Another senseless killing; and that murder too would be blamed on the man known as Reginald Ramsey and it would drive another sword through Julie's heart.

But there was little chance that Julie would ever forgive him now. He had hopelessly compounded his folly, and she had expected greater wisdom from him, greater courage. And he had been a man standing in that little house, a man staring at the suffering image of his lost love.

And so he had sacrificed a finer, stronger love for a passion that had enslaved him centuries ago. He no longer deserved that finer lover, and he knew it. Yet he wanted it, lusted for it; just as he lusted for the doomed one whom he must somehow control or somehow destroy.

All consolation was now quite beyond his reach.

* * *

Now there were gorgeous garments, dresses she could love, for they had the old softness to them and the old simplicity, and they were threaded through and through with silver and gold.

She came up to the brightly lighted window, and placed her hand on it. She read the sign in English:

ONLY THE FINEST FOR THE OPERA BALL

Yes, she required the finest. And there was plenty of money in this bag. She needed shoes like that, high shoes with daggers for heels. And jewels as well.

She went to the door and tapped. A tall woman with silver hair came to answer.

"We're about to close, my dear. I'm sorry, if you come back ..."

"Please, that dress!" she said. She opened the bag and withdrew a great handful of the money. A few pieces of it fluttered out and down to the ground.

"My dear, you mustn't display that much money at this time of night," the woman said to her. She bent down and gathered up the loose pieces. "Come inside. Are you all alone?"

Oh, but it was quite lovely in here; she touched the rich fabric of the small gilded chair. And behold, more of the statues she'd seen in the window, and these were decked not only with rich flowing silks, but furs as well. The long strip of white fur in particular attracted her.

"I want this," she said.

"Of course, my dear, of course," said the proprietress.

She flashed her sweetest smile at the baffled woman. ' 'Is this ... is this . . . for the opera ball?" she asked.

"Oh, it would be perfectly lovely! I shall wrap it for you."

"Ah, but I need a gown, you see, and those slippers, and I need pearls and rubies, if you have them, for you see, I have lost all my finery, I have lost my jewels.''

"We shall take care of you! Please be seated. Now, what would you like to see in your size?"

* * *

It was going to work. It was an absurd story: Henry breaking into the Museum of Antiquities to steal a mummy in order to pay his debts. But the simple fact was-and he must remember this-the truth was even more absurd! No one would believe the truth at all.

He rang his old friend Pitfield as soon as he reached the suite.

"Tell him it's Elliott Rutherford, I'll hold on for him. Ah, Gerald. I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner. It seems I'm in a bit of legal trouble here. I think Henry Stratford's mixed up in it. Yes. Yes, this evening if you could. I'm at Shepheard's, of course. Ah, wonderful, Gerald. I knew I could count on you. Twenty minutes from now. In the bar."

He looked up to see Alex coming through the door as he put down the phone.

"Father, thank God you're back. They've confiscated our passports! Julie is frantic. And Miles has just been at her with another wild story. Some poor American murdered at the pyramids, and an English fellow killed outside the International Cafe."

"Alex, pack your trunk," he said. "I've already heard that whole story. Gerald Pitfield's on his way over. He'll have your passports back for you before morning, I promise, and then you and Julie are to be on the train."

"You'll have to tell her that, Father."

"I will, but right now I have to see Pitfield. Give me your arm, and help me to the lift."

"But, Father, who is responsible . . . ?"

"Son, I don't want to be the one to tell you. And certainly not the one to tell Julie. But it looks as if Henry may be deeply involved."

* * *

Quiet up here. One could scarcely hear the music from the lighted windows below. She had crept up the stairs all alone, wanting only to see the stars, and be away from the unwelcome knocks and the unwelcome jangling of the phone.

And there was Samir, standing there at the edge of the roof, looking out over the minarets and the domes, and the myriad little rooftops of Cairo. Samir, looking up at the heavens as if he were in prayer.

He slipped his arm around her as she approached.

"Samir, where is he?" she whispered.

"He will send word to us, Julie. He will not break his promise."

* * *

This had been an exquisite choice: pale green "satin" with rows of pearl "buttons" and layers of "Brussels lace." And the loose fur wrap looked quite becoming, said the woman, and the woman should know, should she not?

"Your hair, so beautiful, it seems quite a sin to tie it up, but my dear, you really should, you know. It looks rather . . . Perhaps tomorrow I can make an appointment for you with a hairdresser."

Of course she was right. The other women all had hair upswept, off the neck, not unlike the manner in which she'd worn hers always before this, except their coifs were shaped in a different way, more like a great heart with fancy curls. Yes, she would like this hairdresser.

"Especially for the opera ball!" Indeed. And the gown for the opera ball was a lovely creation, too, now hidden safely in a bundle of stiff and shining paper. And so were all the other things-the pretty lace "knickers" and the flimsy "underskirts" and the countless dresses, and shoes and hats, and various trifles she could no longer now remember. Lace handkerchiefs, scarves, and a white parasol for carrying in the sun! What delightful nonsense. It had been like walking into a great dressing closet. What were modern times that such things were everywhere ready made for the body?

The proprietress had almost finished her sums, as she called them. She had counted out many "bills" from the money. And now she opened the drawer of a big bronze machine, the "cash register," and there was much more money, more money by far than Cleopatra possessed.

"I must say you look stunning in that color!" said the woman. "It makes your eyes change from blue to green."

Cleopatra laughed. Heaps of money.

She rose from the chair, and walked delicately towards the woman, rather liking the clicking sound of these high heels on the marble floor.

She took hold of the woman's throat before the poor creature so much as looked up. She tightened her grip, pressing her thumb right on the tender bone in the middle. The woman appeared astonished. She gave a little hiccupping noise. Then Cleopatra lifted her right hand and carefully twisted the woman's head hard to the left. Snap. Dead.

No need now to reflect upon it, to ponder the great gulf that existed between her and this poor sad being who lay now on the floor behind her little table, staring up at the gilded ceiling. All of these beings were for killing when it was wanted, and what could they possibly do to her?

She scooped the money into the new satin evening bag she had found here. What would not fit she put into the old canvas bag. She took also all the jewels left in the case beneath the "cash register.'' Then she piled the boxes one atop another until she had a mountainous stack of them; and she carried them out and heaved them into the rear seat of the car.

Off now, to the next adventure. Throwing the long thick tails of the white fur over her shoulders, she fired up the beast again.

And headed fast for the place where ' 'all the best people stay, the British and the Americans, that's Shepheard's, the hotel, if you know what I mean."

She gave a deep laugh when she thought of the American and his strange way of talking to her, as if she were an idiot; and the merchant woman had been the same. Maybe at Shepheard's she would meet someone of charm and graceful manners, someone infinitely more interesting than all these miserable souls whom she had sent into the dark waters whence she'd come.

* * *

"What in God's name has happened here!" whispered the older of the two officials. He stood in the doorway of Malenka's house, reluctant to enter without a warrant or permission. No answer to his knock; no answer when he had called Henry Stratford's name.

He could see broken glass over the dressing table in the lighted bedroom. And that looked like blood on the floor.

The younger man, as ever impatient and strong-willed, had ventured into the courtyard with his electric torch. Chairs overturned. Broken china.

"Good Lord, Davis. There's a woman dead out here!"

The older man didn't move for a moment. He was staring at the dead parrot on the floor of its cage. And at all the empty bottles ranged from one end of the bar to the other. And the suit coat hanging on the corner rack.

Then he forced himself to go out into the dark little garden and see this corpse for himself.

"That's the woman," he said. "That's Malenka from the Babylon."

"Well, I don't think we need a warrant under these circumstances."

The older man came back into the sitting room. He moved cautiously into the bedroom.

He stared at the torn dress lying on the floor, and at the curious rags pushed in a pile against the wall. He paid little heed to the young man passing him; the young man who moved about, vaguely exhilarated by these obvious signs of disaster, searching and scribbling in his little book.

Those rags-why, they looked like mummy wrappings, yet some of the linen appeared to be new. He looked up as the young man held a passport before him.

"Stratford's," said the young man. "All of his identification is in there, in his coat."

* * *

Elliott leaned on Alex's arm as they stepped out of the glass lift.

' 'But what if Pitfield can't straighten all this out?'' Alex asked.

"We will continue to conduct ourselves like civilized people as long as we must remain here," Elliott said. "You'll take Julie to the opera as planned tomorrow night. You will accompany her to the ball afterwards. And you will be ready to leave as soon as your passport is released."

"She's in no mood for it, Father. And she'd rather have Samir accompany her, if you want the truth. Since all this started, it's Samir she confides in. He's always at her side."

"Nevertheless, you are to stay close to her. We are going to be seen together tomorrow. Everything right and proper. Now why don't you go out on the veranda and have a nightcap and leave the legal business to me?"

* * *

Yes, she liked Shepheard's, she knew it already. She had liked it this afternoon when she had seen the long chain of motor cars before it, with exquisitely dressed men and women climbing out of them and walking up the steps.

Now there were very few cars. She managed to stop right before the entrance; and a charming young male servant came to open her door. Carrying her canvas bag and satin purse, she walked serenely up the carpeted stairs as other servants scrambled to retrieve her many packages.

The lobby delighted her at once. Oh, she had no idea the rooms of this palatial building would be so grand. And the crowds moving to and fro-shapely women and handsomely clad men-excited her. This was an elegant world-"modern times." One had to see such a place as this to grasp the possibilities.

"May I help you, miss? Another servile male approached; how strange was his clothing, especially his hat. If there was one thing about "modern times" she did not like, it was these hats!

"Oh, would you be so kind!" she said carefully. "I would like to have lodgings here. This is Shepheard's Hotel? The hotel?"

"Yes, indeed, miss. Let me take you to the desk."

"Wait," she whispered. Some feet away from her, she spied Lord Rutherford! No mistake. It was he. And an exquisite young man was with him, a tall, slender creature of fine porcelain features who made her earlier companions seem quite crude.

She narrowed her eyes, concentrating, trying to hear what this young man was saying. But there was too great a distance. And the two were moving in and out of sight, beyond a row of high potted palms. Then the young one clasped Lord Rutherford's hand and left him, moving towards the front doors. And Lord Rutherford moved into a large shadowy room.

"That's Lord Rutherford, miss," said the helpful young man beside her.

"Yes, I know," she said. "But the beautiful one. Who is he?"

"Ah, that's his son, Alex, miss, the young Viscount Summerfield. They're frequent guests of Shepheard's. Friends of the Stratfords, miss."

She looked at him quizzically.

"Lawrence Stratford, miss," he explained as he took her arm and gently guided her forward. "The great archaeologist, the one who just made the discovery of the Ramses tomb.''

"What did you say!" she whispered. "Speak slowly."

"The one that dug up the mummy, miss, of Ramses the Damned."

' 'Ramses the Damned!''

"Yes, miss, quite a story, miss." He pointed now to a long ornate table in front of her, which in fact looked like an altar. "There's the desk, miss. Anything else I can do for you?" ^ She gave a little laugh of pure amazement. "No," she said. "You have been simply super. Very okay!"

He gave her a sweet indulgent look, the look all these men gave her. And then he gestured for her to step up to the ' 'desk.'

* * *

Elliott went right to it as Pitfield sat down across from him. He was aware that he was talking too fast, and likely to say strange things, but he could not break his momentum. Get Alex out of here. Get Julie out if at all possible. Those were the only thoughts in his mind, and worry about Randolph later.

"None of us has the slightest connection to any of it," he said. "They must all be allowed to go home. I can stay here, if it's absolutely necessary, but my son must be allowed to leave."

Gerald, ten years his senior, white-haired and heavy about the middle, listened keenly. He was a man not given to strong drink, who tended to work round the clock so that his family might enjoy every pleasurable aspect of colonial existence.

"Of course not," he said now, with complete sympathy. "But wait, there's Winthrop in the doors. He has two men with him.''

"I can't talk to him!" Elliott said. "Not now, for the love of heaven."

"You leave it to me completely."

* * *

How astonished they were when she paid them in advance with piles and piles of the strange money they called "pound notes," though they weighed nothing. The young servants would take her many bundles to her suite, they said. And indeed, there were kitchens working now to produce whatever food she desired; there lay the dining room to the right; and she could banquet in her room if that was her wish. As for the hairdresser which she clearly required to tie up her hair, that lady would not be available until tomorrow. Very well. Thank you!

She dropped the key into her satin bag. She would find suite number 201 later. She hurried to the door of the dark room into which Lord Rutherford had gone, and spied him drinking there alone. He did not see her.

Out on the broad front terrace, she could see his son, Alex, leaning against the white pillar-such a comely youth-in fast conversation with a dark-skinned Egyptian. The Egyptian came back into the hotel. The young one seemed at a loss.

She went to him immediately. She crept up and stood beside him and studied his delicate face-yes, a beauty. Of course Lord Rutherford was a man of considerable charm; but this one was so young that his skin was still petal soft, and yet he was tall and his shoulders were strong and straight, and he had a clear, confident look in his brown eyes when he turned to her.

"The young Viscount Summerfield," she said. "Son of Lord Rutherford, I am told?"

A great flash of a smile. "I'm Alex Savarell, yes. Forgive me, I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"I'm hungry, Viscount Summerfield. Won't you show me to the banquet room of the hotel? I should like to eat something."

"I'd be delighted! What an unexpected pleasure."

He hooked his arm for her to take it. Oh, she liked him very much; there was no reticence in him at all. He escorted her back into the crowded main room, past the dark tavern where his father drank, and on towards a great open place under a high gilded ceiling.

Tables draped in linen filled the sides of the immense room. In the centre men and women danced, the women's skirts like great softly ruffled flowers. And the music, oh, so lovely, though it almost hurt her ears. It was far more shrill than that of the music box. And it was sweetly sad!

At once he asked an imperious old man to show them to a "table." What an ugly person was this imperious man who appeared as finely dressed as anyone present. But he said, "Yes, Lord Summerfield" with great respect. And the table was fine indeed, set with gorgeous plate, and sweet-scented flowers.

"What is this music?" she asked.

"From America," he said. "From Sigmund Romberg."

She began rocking back and forth a little.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"That would be super!"

Oh, such a warm hand he had as he clasped hers and led her out on the floor. How peculiar that each couple should be dancing as if entirely alone and engaged in a private ritual. At once the melancholy rhythm swept her up. And this adorable young man, how lovingly he looked at her. This really was a lovely young man, this Alex, Lord Summerfield.

"How enchanting it is here," she said. "A true palace. And the music, so piercing, but beautiful. It hurts my ears, but then I do not like loud noises-screeching birds, guns!"

"Of course you don't," he said with surprise. "You're such a fragile creature. And your hair, may I tell that your hair is lovely? It's a rare thing to see a woman who wears her hair free, and natural. It makes you look like a goddess."

"Yes, that is very okay. Thank you."

He had a sweet laugh. So honest. No fear in his eyes, no shrinking. He was like a prince who had been reared with kind nurses in a palace. Altogether too gentle for the real world.

"Would you mind terribly telling me your name?" he asked. "I know we've not been properly introduced, so we must introduce ourselves, it seems."

"My name is Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt." How she loved this dancing, being carried along, turned about; the floor shimmered like water beneath her.

"Oh, I could almost believe you," he said. "You look like a Queen. May I call you Your Highness?"

She laughed. "Your High-ness. Is that the proper address for a Queen! Yes, you may call me Your High-ness. And I shall call you Lord Summerfield. These men here, are they all. . .lords?"

* * *

Through the dark mirror on the paneled wall, Elliott saw Winthrop and his cohorts withdraw. Pitfield came directly back and took his chair opposite. He signaled for another drink.

"More mayhem," he said. "What in God's name has happened to young Stratford!" "Tell me."

"Astonishing! Some belly dancer, Henry Stratford's mistress. They found her dead, neck broken, in the garden of the house she was sharing with Henry. All Henry's things were there. Passport, money, everything."

Elliott swallowed. He needed another drink badly. It occurred to him that he ought to take some supper just so that he could go on drinking without passing out.

"Same thing that happened to the Oxford student this afternoon, neck broken, and the American kid out at the pyramids, and the maid at the museum. Wonder why he bothered to use a knife on Sharpies! You'd better tell me everything you know about this."

The waiter set down the fresh glasses of Scotch and gin. Elliott took his drink and sipped it thoughtfully.

"Just what I was afraid of, the whole thing. He was going out of his mind with guilt."

"Over the gambling."

"No. Over Lawrence. It was Henry, you see, and the poisons in the tomb."

"Good Lord, man, are you serious?"

' 'Gerald, that's how it all started. He had papers for Lawrence to sign. He probably forged them. But that's not the point. He admitted the killing."

"To you."

"No, to someone else." He broke off, had to think this through, but there was no time. "To Ramsey."

"Ramsey, the one they're searching for."

"Yes, Ramsey tried to talk to him, early this morning, before Henry went on the rampage and broke into the museum. By the way . . • you said they'd been to the belly dancer's house. Did they find any evidence of a mummy there, any wrappings? That would certainly tie it up and then they'd stop persecuting poor Ramsey. Ramsey is entirely innocent, you see. He went to the museum to reason with Henry."

"You know this for a fact?"

"It was all my fault. I can't sleep of late, pain in my joints is too severe. Five o'clock this morning I was just coming in from my walk. I'd seen Henry, roaring drunk, near the museum, as I told you. I thought he was pub crawling. And I made the mistake of telling Ramsey, who had just come down for his morning coffee. Ramsey had tried to reason with Henry earlier. And off he went to find him again, for Julie's sake."

"Julie and this Ramsey, they're . . ."

"Yes. The engagement's off with Alex. It's all quite amicable; Alex and Ramsey are friends. And the whole thing must be straightened out."

"Of course, of course."

"Ramsey was trying to stop the robbery when the police apprehended him. He's a strange man. He panicked. But surely you can get this cleared up."

"Well, I can do my damnedest. But why in the world would Stratford break into the museum to steal a mummy?"

"That part I can't quite figure." Understatement of the year, he thought. "All I know is that the mummy of Ramses the Damned in London is missing too and apparently he stole some coins and jewelry as well. I believe somebody may have put him up to it. Steal a pair of valuable relics, get some ready cash, that sort of thing."

"So he goes blundering into the most famous museum in the entire world?''

"Egyptian security isn't very good, old boy. And you haven't seen Henry in the last few months, have you? He's quite deteriorated, my friend. This may be a case of pure insanity. The thing is, I can't have Alex and Julie detained in Cairo. And they won't leave until Ramsey's cleared, and Ramsey has not done anything."

He finished off the gin.

"Gerald, get us off the hook, all of us. I'11 make a statement, if you advise it. I'll try to reach Ramsey. If he's granted immunity, then surely he'll back me up. You can handle it, Gerald, you know these colonial idiots! You've put up with them for years."

"Yes, I certainly have. This has to be handled delicately, but immediately. And the fact is, they're on to Stratford. It's merely a question of exonerating Ramsey."

"Yes, and protocol and propriety and paperwork and all the other colonial rot. Go to it, Gerald. I don't care what you do, I have to get my son home. I've used my son badly in all this. . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing. Can you work it out?"

"Yes, but Henry himself . . . Have you any idea where he could be?"

In the vat of bitumen. Elliott shuddered. "No," he said. "No idea at all. But he has many enemies out there, people whom he owes money. I need another drink. Get the attention of the pretty little nitwit, will you?"

* * *

"Young Lord Summerfield," she said, gazing at his beautiful mouth, "let us banquet in my rooms. And leave this place to be alone there."

"If you wish." The inevitable flame in the cheeks. Oh, what would the rest of the young body look like? Pray there was a priapic organ there worthy of all the other charms!

' 'Indeed, but do you wish?'' she asked him. She ran the backs of her fingers along his cheek. Then slid her fingers under the stiff cloth of his garment.

"Yes, I do," he whispered.

She led him off the dance floor, collecting her handbags as they went out of the swimming music and lights, back into the crowded grand room.

"Suite two-oh-one," she said, producing the key. "How do we find it?"

"Well, we'll just take the lift to the second floor," he said, beaming at her. "And walk to the very front of the building."

The lift? He led her towards a pair of brass gates. He pressed a small button in the wall-

A huge drawing stood between these gates: Aida, the opera. And there were the same Egyptian figures she'd seen before. "Ah, the opera," she said.

"Yes, quite an event," he said. The brass gate had opened, and a man inside the small chamber appeared to be waiting for them. She stepped inside. It was like a cage. And it frightened her suddenly. The doors clanged shut. Some sort of trap, and the room began to rise.

"Lord Summerfield," she cried.

"It's quite all right, Your Highness," he said. He threw his arms around her, and turning, she bowed her head against his chest. Oh, he was so much sweeter than all the others, and when a strong man is sweet, even goddesses look down from Mount Olympus.

At last the doors opened. He led her out and into a silent passageway. They walked towards a distant window.

"What frightened you so?" he asked. But his intonation had no mockery or disapproval. It was almost soothing. He took the key from her, and put it in the lock.

"The room moved," she sighed. "Are those not the right English words?"

"Yes, they are," he said. He paused as they entered the long sitting room, with rich hangings and chairs that looked for all the world like giant cushions. "Why, you are die strangest creature. So out of this world."

She reached out and caressed his face, and slowly kissed him. His brown eyes were troubled, suddenly. But then he kissed her back, and the sudden fire surprised her and thrilled her.

"For this night, Lord Summerfield," she said, "this is my palace; and now we must go and seek the royal bedchamber."

* * *

Elliott walked to the door of the bar with Pitfield. ' 'I can't thank you enough for coming immediately."

"Have every confidence, old boy, and do see if you can get some word to your friend. Of course, I can't advise you to-''

"I know, I know. Let me handle that." Elliott went back into the bar, settled down into the leather chair and picked up the gin. Yes, definitely he would slowly drink himself to death when this was over.

He would go out to the country, stock the finest sherry and port and Scotch and gin, and just drink day in and day out until he was dead. It would be very simply wonderful. He saw himself there, by the great log fire, one foot on the leather ottoman. The image shimmered; then faded. The sickness rose in his throat, and he was near to breaking down completely.

"Get Alex home; get him home and safe," he whispered, and then he began to tremble almost uncontrollably. He saw her again, moving through the museum with her arms out. And then in the bed looking up at him: he felt her caress, and the bare bones in her side as she'd pressed against him. He remembered the crazed look in Ramsey's eyes when he'd fought her.

The trembling got worse. Much worse.

No one noticed in the dark bar; a pianist had come in-a young man, who began to play a slow ragtime.

* * *

He had helped her with her fine dress of green satin. He laid it over the chair; and when the lights went out, she saw the city through the pale curtains. She saw the river.

"The Nile," she whispered. She wanted to say how beautiful, this gleaming strip of water winding through the built-up city; but a shadow fell over her soul. An image came to her like all the rest; descending complete and entire and then vanishing; only this one had been so quick. A catacomb, a priest walking before her.

"What is it, Your Highness?"

She lifted her head slowly. She'd moaned; that's what had frightened him.

"You're so tender with me, young Lord Summerfield," she said. Where was the inevitable unkindness in this boy? The inevitable need to hurt which all men evinced sooner or later?

She looked up and saw that he was now naked as well, and the sight of his strong, youthful body pleased her intensely. She placed her hand on his flat belly, and then gently on his chest. It was always the hardness of men all over that excited her; even the hardness of their mouths, that they tensed their mouths when they kissed; she liked even to feel their teeth behind their lips.

She kissed him roughly and pressed her breasts against him. He could hardly control himself; he wanted to carry her to the bed; he tried to be gentle.

"Such an unearthly thing," he whispered. "Wherever did you come from?"

"From darkness and coldness. Kiss me. I am only warm again when I'm kissed. Make a fire, Lord Summerfield, to burn both of us."

She went back against the pillows, tugging him down on top of her. Her hand plunged, grasped his sex and stroked it, pinching the tip. When he moaned, she opened his lips with her own, licking at his tongue and his teeth.

"Now," she said. "Into me. The second time is for the slow song."

* * *

Julie's suite. Samir set the newspapers down on the table. Julie drank a second cup of the sweet Egyptian coffee.

"You mustn't leave me tonight, Samir. Not till we hear from him," she said. She stood up. "I'm going to change into my robe. Promise me you won't leave me."

"I'll be here, Julie," he said, "but perhaps you should sleep. I'll wake you as soon as I hear anything."

"No, I can't do that. I want only to get out of these tired clothes. I won't be but a minute."

She went into the bedroom. She had sent Rita off an hour ago to her own room, and thank God for that; she wanted only to be with Samir. Her nerves were worn thin. She knew Elliott was in the hotel, but she could not bring herself to ring him. She did not want to see him or talk to him. Not until she knew what Ramses had done, and she could not break the feeling of foreboding.

Slowly she took the pins out of her hair, gazing absently in the mirror. For a moment, she noticed nothing amiss, and then suddenly she realized that a tall Arab in white robes was standing in the corner of the room, still as the shadows, merely watching her. Her Arab, Ramses.

She spun around, her hair tumbling down all at once over her shoulders. Her heart was about to burst.

She might have fainted again for the second time in her life, if he hadn't caught her. Then she saw the deep bloodstain on his robe and again she felt weak; blackness rising all around her.

Silently he embraced her, pressing her to himself. "My Julie," he said, his voice heartbroken. "How long have you been here?"

"Only a little while," he said. "Let me be silent now; let me hold you."

"Where is she?"

He let her go, backing off. "I don't know," he said in a defeated voice. "I have lost her."

Julie watched him as he paced, turned and looked at her from a distance. She was keenly aware that she loved him, and would go on loving him no matter what had happened. But she could not say such a thing to him, not until she knew. . . .

"Let me call Samir," she said. "He's there, in the sitting room."

"I want to be alone with you for a moment," he said. And for the first time, he appeared just slightly afraid of her. It was a subtle thing, but she felt it.

"You must tell me what's happened."

He remained impassive, looking at her, the sheikh robes doing their damnedest to make him irresistible. And then suddenly his expression broke her heart; no use denying it.

In a tremulous voice, she said, "You gave her more of it."

"You haven't seen her," he said quietly, his voice unhurried, his eyes full of undisguised sorrow. "You have not heard the sound of her voice! You have not heard her weeping. Don't judge me. She is as alive as I am! I brought her back. Let me judge myself."

She clasped her hands tightly, hurting the fingers of her right hand with the fingers of the other.

"What do you mean, you don't know where she is?"

"I mean she escaped from me. She attacked me; she tried to kill me. And she is mad. Lord Rutherford was right. Absolutely mad. She would have killed him if I hadn't stopped her. The elixir hasn't changed that. It merely healed her body."

He took a step towards her, and before she could stop herself she turned her back. She was going to cry again; oh, so many tears. And she didn't want to.

"Pray to your gods," she said, looking at him through the mirror. "Ask them what to do. My God would only condemn you. But whatever happens with this creature, one thing is certain." She turned and looked him in the eye. "You must never, never brew the elixir again. Whatever remains, consume it. Do it now in my presence. And men erase the formula from your mind."

No response. Slowly he removed the headdress, and ran his hand back through his hair. For some reason this only made him look all the more gallant and seductive. A biblical figure now with flowing hair and flowing robes. It maddened her slightly, and made the threat of tears all the more sharp.

"Do you realize what you're saying?"

"If it's too dangerous to consume it, then find someplace far out in the desert sands, and make a deep shaft into which to pour it! But get rid of it."

"Let me put a question to you."

"No." She turned her back again. She covered her ears. When she looked up she saw in the mirror that he was right at her shoulder. There was that awareness again of her own world destroyed, of a brilliant light having thrown all else into hopeless shadow.

Gently, he took her hands, and lowered them from her ears. He looked into her eyes through the mirror, his body warm and close to her.

"Julie, last night. If instead of taking the elixir with me to the museum, if instead of pouring it over Cleopatra's remains- if instead, I'd offered it to you, wouldn't you have taken it?"

She refused to answer. Roughly he grabbed her wrist and turned her around.

"Answer me! If I had never seen her lying there in that glass case ..."

"But you did."

She meant to hold firm, but he surprised her with his kiss, with the roughness and the desperation of his embrace, with his hands moving over her face and her cheek almost cruelly. He was saying her name like a prayer. He murmured something in the ancient Egyptian tongue, she didn't know what it was. And then he said softly in Latin that he loved her. He loved her. It seemed both explanation and apology, somehow, the reason for all this suffering. He loved her. He said it as if he were just realizing it, and now her tears were coming again, stupidly. It infuriated her.

She pulled back; then kissed him and let him kiss her again, and sank against his chest, merely letting him hold her.

Then softly she said:

"What does she look like?"

He sighed.

"Is she beautiful?"

"She always was. She is now. She is the woman who seduced Caesar, and Mark Antony, and the whole world."

She stiffened, drawing away from him.

"She is as beautiful as you are," he said. "But you are right. She is not Cleopatra. She is a stranger in Cleopatra's body. A monster looking through Cleopatra's eyes. And struggling to use Cleopatra's wits to her own purposeless advantage."

What more was there to say? What could she do? It was in his hands, it had been since the beginning. She forced him to release her and then she sat down and leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her forehead in her hand.

"I'll find her," he said. "And I will undo this awful error. I will put her back into the darkness from which I took her. And she will suffer only a litde while. And then she will sleep."

' 'Oh, but it's too awful! There must be some other way. ..." She broke into sobs.

"What have I done to you, Julie Stratford?" he said. "What have I done to your life, all your tender dreams and ambitions?''

She took her handkerchief out of her pocket and pressed it to her mouth. She forced herself to stop this foolish crying. She wiped her nose, then looked up at him, the great handsome dreamy figure he was standing there with that tragic expression. A man, only a man. Immortal, yes, a ruler once, a teacher always, perhaps, but human as we all are. Fallible as we all are. Lovable as we all are.

"I cannot live without you, Ramses," she said. "Well, I could. But I don't want to." Ah, tears from him now. If she didn't look away, she'd be weeping again. "Reason has nothing to do with it anymore," she went on, "But it's this creature you've wronged. It's this thing you've resurrected that will be hurt. You speak of burying her alive. I cannot ... 1 cannot ..."

"Trust in me that I shall find a painless way," he whispered.

She couldn't speak. She couldn't look at him.

"And know this, for what it's worth. Know it now because later it may bring contusion. Your cousin Henry is dead. Cleopatra killed him."

"What!"

"It was to Henry's abode in the old Cairo that Elliott took her. He did follow me to the museum. And when the soldiers took me away, Elliott gave shelter to the creature I 'd resurrected. He took her there, and there she killed both Henry and the woman, Malenka."

She shook her head, and once again her hands went up to her ears. All the things she knew of Henry, of her father's death, of his attempt on her life, somehow could not help her now; they could not touch her. She heard only the horror.

"Trust in me when I say that I shall find a painless way. For that I must do before more innocent blood is shed. I cannot turn my back until it's finished."

* * *

"My son left no message?" Elliott had not forsaken the leather chair, or the gin, and had no intention of doing so. But he knew he had to call Alex before he got any drunker. And so he'd sent for the telephone. "But he wouldn't go out without telling me. All right. Samir Ibrahaim, where is he? Can you ring his room for me?"

"He's in Miss Stratford's suite, sir. Two-oh-three. He requests that any messages be sent there. Shall I ring? It is eleven of the clock, sir."

"No, I'll go up, thank you."

* * *

She leaned over the marble lavatory. She slapped the cold water on her face. She didn't want to look into the mirror. Then slowly she wiped her eyes with the towel. When she turned around, she saw him standing in the sitting room. She could hear Samir's low, comforting voice.

"Of course I will help you, sire, but where do we begin?"

There was a sharp rap on the hall door.

Ramses stepped back into the bedroom. Samir went to answer. It was Elliott. Their eyes met for only a moment, and then she looked away, unable to judge him and unable to face him. She thought only, He has had a hand in this. He knows it all; he knows more than I know. And suddenly her revulsion for the whole nightmare was insupportable.

She went into the sitting room, and took the chair in the far corner.

"I shall come right to the point," Elliott said, looking directly at Ramses. "I have a plan and I need your cooperation. But before I begin, let me remind you that it isn't safe here for you."

"They find me, I escape again," Ramses said with a shrug. "What is this plan?"

"A plan to get Julie and my son out of here," Elliott said. "But what happened after I left? You want to tell me?"

"She is as you described her. Mad, incalculably strong, and dangerous. Only she is whole now. No longer disfigured. And her eyes are die color of the blue sky, just as mine are.''

"Ah."

Elliott fell silent, as if he'd felt a sharp pain inside and had to hold his breath to let it pass. Julie realized suddenly he was drunk, really drunk. It was perhaps the first time she'd seen him this way. He was dignified, restrained, but drunk. He reached out for Samir's glass, still half-full of brandy, and drank it almost absently.

Quietly Samir went to the small rattan drinks cupboard in the corner and got a bottle for him.

"You saved my life," Elliott said to Ramses. "I thank you for that."

Ramses shrugged. But the tone of all this struck Julie as curious. It was intimate, as though these two men knew each other quite well. There was no animosity.

"What is this plan?" Ramses said.

"You must cooperate. You must tell lies. You must do that effectively. And the end result will be that you are cleared of the crimes of which you're suspected, and Julie and Alex will be free to leave here, Samir also will no longer be under suspicion. Then other matters can be attended to. ..."

"I'm not going anywhere, Elliott," Julie said wearily. "But Alex must be allowed to go home as soon as possible."

Samir poured another drink of brandy for Elliott, and Elliott took it mechanically and drank it. "Any gin, Samir? I prefer gin for getting drunk," he said.

"Come to the point, my lord," said Ramses. "I must be taking my leave. The last Queen of Egypt roams this city alone, with a penchant for killing; I must find her."

"This will take a strong stomach," Elliott said, "but there's a way that all of this can be pinned on Henry. He laid the ground himself. But Ramsey, you have to lie as I told you. ..."

* * *

The quiet of the night. Alex Savarell lay naked and asleep on the snow-white sheets of the soft feather bed, the thin wool blanket covering him only to the waist, his face smooth and waxen in the moonlight.

In the sweet stillness, she had undone her many parcels quietly, examining the fine robes, gowns, slippers. She had laid out the little rectangular stolen opera papers which said "Admit One" on the dressing table.

The moon shone on the rich silks. It sparkled in the rope of pearls, coiled like a snake on the table. And beyond the sheer fine spun curtains on the window, it shone upon the Nile flowing into the soft tangle of rounded roofs and towers that was Cairo.

Cleopatra stood at the window, her back to die soft bed and the godlike young man who lay there. Divinely he had pleasured her; divinely she had pleasured him. His innocence and simple male power were treasures to her; her mystery and skill had overwhelmed him. Never had he placed himself in the hands of a woman thus, he had said. Never had he given vent to all his whims with such abandon.

And now he slept the sleep that children sleep, safe in the bed, as she stood at the window. . . .

... As dreams came to her, pretending to be memories. It occurred to her that she had not known the night since she'd been awakened. She had not known the cool mystery of the night, when thoughts tend naturally to deepen. And what came to her now were images of other nights, of real palaces, resplendent with marble floors and pillars, and tables laden with fruit and roasted meat and wine in silver pitchers. Of Ramses speaking to her, as they lay together in the dark.

"I love you, as I've loved no other woman. To live without you ... it would not be life."

"My King, my only King," she had said. "What are the others, but toys on a child's battlefield? Little wooden emperors moved by chance from place to place."

It dimmed; it moved away from her. She lost it as she had lost the other memories. And what was real was the voice of Alex stirring in his sleep.

"Your Highness, where are you?"

Misery like a spell had descended upon her, and he could not pierce the veil. It was too heavy; too dark. She sang to herself, that song, mat sweet song from the music box, "Celeste Aida." And men when she turned and saw his face in the moonlight, his eyes closed, his hand open on the sheet, she felt a deep and soulful longing. She hummed the song, her lips closed as she approached the bed and looked down at him.

Tenderly she stroked his hair. Tenderly her fingertips touched his eyelids. Ah, sleeping god, my sweet Endymion. Her hand moved down, lazily, and touched his throat, touched the tender bones she had broken in the others.

Frail and mortal thing for all your strength, your finely muscled arms, your smooth flat chest, powerful hands that pleasure me.

She didn't want him to know death! She didn't want him to suffer. A great protectiveness rose in her. She lifted the white blanket and snuggled down into the warm bed beside him. She would never harm this one, never, that she knew. And suddenly death itself seemed a frightful and unjust thing.

But why am I immortal when he is not? Ye gods. For one second it seemed a great portal opened on a vast place of light and all answers were revealed; her past, who she was, what had happened, all those things were clear. But it was dark and quiet in this room. There was no such illumination.

"My love, my pretty young love," she said, kissing him again. At once he stirred; responded. He opened his arms to her.

"Your Highness."

She felt the hardness again between his legs; she wanted it to fill her again, to bruise her. She smiled to herself. If one cannot be immortal, one should at least be young, she thought ruefully.

* * *

Ramses had listened silently for a long time before he spoke.

"So what you are saying is that we must tell this elaborate tale to the authorities, that I argued with him, followed him inside, saw him take the mummy from the case, and then the soldiers apprehended me."

"You lied for Egypt when you were King, did you not? You lied to your people when you told them you were the living god."

"But, Elliott," Julie broke in. "What if these crimes continue?"

"And they very well might," said Ramses impatiently, "if I don't get out of here and find her.''

"There is no proof that Henry's dead," Elliott said, "and no one is going to find any. It's perfectly plausible that Henry's roaming around Cairo. And what is plausible is what they'll accept. Pitfield leapt at this nonsense. So will they. And they can hunt for Henry as you hunt for her. But Alex and Julie will be safely out of it by then.''

"No, I told you," Julie said, "I'll persuade Alex logo. . . ."

"Julie, I can come to you later in London," Ramses said. "Lord Rutherford's a clever man. He would have made a good King, or a King's wily adviser."

Elliott gave a bitter smile and drank down his third glass of straight gin.

"I shall make this poetry of lies as convincing as I can. What else must we discuss?" Ramses said.

"It's settled. Ten A.M. you must call me. By then I'll have a guarantee of immunity for you from the governor himself. Then you must come to the governor's palace and make your statement. And we do not leave without the passports."

"Very well," Ramses said. "I leave you now. Wish me good fortune."

"But where will you begin to search?" Julie asked. "And when will you sleep?''

"You forget, my beauty. I don't need to sleep. I'll search for her until we meet here again before ten o'clock. Lord Rutherford, if this fails to work ..."

"It will work. And we shall go to the opera tomorrow night precisely as planned and to the ball afterwards."

"That's absurd!" Julie said.

"No, my child. Do it for me. It's the last demand I shall ever make on you. I want the social fabric restored. I want my son to be seen with his father, and his friends; with Ramsey, whose name shall be cleared. I want us all to be seen together. I want no shadows over Alex's future. And whatever the future holds for you, don't shut the gate on the life you once lived. It's worth the price of one night's pomp and ceremony to keep that gate open."

"Ah, Lord Rutherford, how you always amuse me and satisfy me," Ramses said. "In another world and another life, I used to say such inane things myself to those around me. It's palaces and titles which do such things to us. But IVe remained here long enough. Samir, come with me if you will. Otherwise I'm going alone now."

"I'm with you, sire," Samir said. He rose and made a ceremonial little bow to Elliott. "Until tomorrow, my lord."

Ramses went out first; then Samir. For a moment Julie couldn't move; then she rose out of the chair and went running out of the door after Ramses. She caught him in the dark stairwell at the rear of the wing, and once again, they held each other.

"Please love me, Julie Stratford," he whispered. "I am not always such a fool, I swear it." He held her face in his hands.

"You'll go to London where you are safe, and you shall see me when this horror is finished."

She went to protest.

"I do not He to you. J love you too much for that. I have told you everything."

She watched him slip down the stairs. He put the headdress on again and became the sheikh before he went out into the darkness, one hand raised in a graceful farewell.

She didn't want to return to her rooms. She didn't want to see Elliott.

She knew now why he had made this journey; she had sensed it all along, but now she knew for certain. Following Ramses to the museum, that he had ever gone to such an extreme, astonished her.

On second thought, why should it astonish her? After all, he had believed; he had been the only one, other than Samir, perhaps, who believed. And so the mystery and the promise had lured him.

As she walked back to her rooms, she prayed he understood the full evil that had unfolded. And when she thought of any creature-no matter how evil or dangerous or cruel-being shut up in the dark, unable to wake, she shuddered and began to cry again.

He was there still, drinking the last of the gin as he sat in the overstuffed chair, so self-contained and elegant even in his drunkenness, hands curved around the cane.

He did not look up when she came in. He did not gather his strength to leave. She shut the door and faced him.

Her words came swiftly, without thought. But she made no accusations. She told him only all that Ramses had said. She told the tale of the food that could not be eaten, and the cattle that could not be slaughtered, the tale of the insatiable hunger and craving of the flesh; she told the tale of loneliness, of isolation; it all came in a rush, as she paced back and forth, not looking at him, not meeting his eyes.

And finally it was done and the room was still.

"When we were young," he said, "your father and I, we spent many months in Egypt. We pored over our books; we studied the ancient tombs; we translated the texts; we roamed the sands by day and by night. Ancient Egypt; it became our muse, our religion. We dreamed of some secret knowledge here that would transport us from all the things that seemed to lead to boredom and finally hopelessness.

"Did the pyramids really contain some secret yet undiscovered? Did the Egyptians know a magic language to which the gods themselves listen? What undiscovered tombs lay within these hills? What philosophy remained to be revealed? What alchemy?

"Or did this culture produce a mere semblance of high learning; a semblance of true mystery? We wondered now and then if they had been not wise, and mystical, but a simple, literal, brutal people.

"We never knew. I don't know now. I see now it was the quest that was the passion! The quest, you understand?"

She didn't answer. When she looked at him, he looked very old. His eyes were leaden. He climbed out of the chair, and came towards her, and kissed her cheek. He did this as gracefully as he did all things. That strange thought came to her again which had come so often in the past. She could have loved him and married him, had there been no Alex and no Edith.

And no Ramses,

"I fear for you, my dear," he said. And then he left her.

The night, the silent empty night, with only the thinnest echo of the music below, lay before her. And all her past countless nights of good and dreamless sleep seemed like the lost comforts and delusions of childhood.