The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (38 page)

Quickly he closed the door of the room behind him. The noise startled her. She wheeled about, hands poised again for the attack. For a moment, he was paralyzed by the full horror of what he now beheld. The light from the ceiling bulb was merciless. Her eyes bulged from their half-eaten sockets. White rib bones gleamed through a huge wound in her side. Half of her mouth was gone, and a bare stretch of clavicle was drenched in oozing blood.

Dear God, what must her suffering be! Poor, tragic being!

Giving a low growl, she advanced on him. But Elliott spoke quickly in Greek:

“Friend,” he said. “I am a friend and offer you shelter.” And as his mind went blank on the ancient tongue, he switched to the Latin: “Trust in me. I shall not let you come to harm.”

Not taking his eyes off her for a second, he groped for one of
several black cloaks hanging on the wall. Yes, what he wanted—one of those shapeless robes worn by Moslem women in public. It was easily large enough to drape her from head to toe.

Fearlessly, he approached her, throwing the cloak over her head and winding it over her shoulders, and at once her hands went up to assist, closing it over her face save for her frightened eyes.

He ushered her out into the corridor, closing the door behind him to conceal the dead body. Noises and shouts were coming from the floor above. He could hear voices coming from a room at the far end of the hall. Spotting the service door to his right, he opened it, and led her out into the alleyway, where the bright sun came down upon them both.

Within moments, he was clear of the building. And they had entered the great endless crowd of Moslems, Arabs and Westerners one saw everywhere in Cairo, thousands of pedestrians moving in all directions, despite the blast of motor-car horns and the progress of donkey-drawn carts.

The woman stiffened when she heard the motor horns. At the sight of a motor car rocking past her, she drew back, crying through clenched teeth. Again, Elliott spoke to her in Latin, reassuring her that he would take care of her, he would find her shelter.

What she understood he could not possibly guess. Then the Latin word for food came from her in a low, tortured voice. “Food and drink,” she whispered. She murmured something else, but he did not understand. It sounded like a prayer or a curse.

“Yes,” he said in her ear, the Latin words coming easily now that he knew she understood them. “I shall provide all you require. I shall take care of you. Trust in me.”

But where could he take her? Only one place came to mind. He had to reach old Cairo. But did he dare put the creature into a motor taxi? Seeing a horse-drawn cab passing, he hailed it. She climbed willingly up to the leather seat. Now, how was he to do it, when he could scarce breathe and his left leg was almost useless? He planted his right foot firmly on the step and swung himself up with his right arm. And then, near to collapse as ever he’d been in his life, he slumped down beside the hunched figure and told the driver where he must go with his last breath.

The cab shot forward, the driver shouting at the pedestrians
and cracking his whip. The poor creature beside him cried brokenheartedly, drawing the veil completely over her face.

He embraced her; he ignored the cold hard bone he could feel through the thin black cloth. He held tight to her and, gradually catching his breath, told her again in Latin that he would care for her, that he was her friend.

As the cab sped out of the British district, he tried to think. But shocked and in pain, he could achieve no rational explanation for himself for what he’d witnessed or what he’d done. He only knew on some inchoate level that he’d seen a miracle and a murder; and that the former meant infinitely more to him than the latter; and he was set now upon an irrevocable course.

Julie was only half-awake. Surely she was misunderstanding the British official who stood in the door.

“Arrested? For breaking into the museum? I don’t believe it.”

“Miss Stratford, he’s been wounded, badly. There seems to be some confusion.”

“What confusion?”

The doctor was furious. If the man was badly wounded, he should be in hospital, not in the back of the jail.

“Make way,” he shouted to the uniformed men in front of him. “What in God’s name is this, a firing squad?”

No less than twenty rifles were pointed at the tall blue-eyed man standing against the wall. Dried blood covered the man’s shirt. The shoulder had been blown away from his coat. There was dried blood there as well. Panic-stricken, he stared at the doctor.

“Come no closer!” he cried. “You will not examine me. You will not touch me with your medical instruments. I am unharmed and I want to leave this place.”

“Five bullets,” whispered the officer in the doctor’s ear. “I saw the wounds, I tell you. He can’t possibly have withstood such a—”

“Let me have a look at you!” The doctor attempted to move in.

Instantly the man’s fist shot towards him, knocking the black bag to the ceiling. One of the rifles went off as the man charged the policemen, slamming several of them backwards, against the wall. The doctor fell to his knees. His glasses fell on the
ground before him. He felt the heel of a boot come down on his hand as the soldiers stampeded into the hall.

Again the rifle cracked. Shouts and curses in Egyptian. Where were his glasses! He must find his glasses.

Suddenly someone was helping him to his feet. The glasses were in his hand and quickly he put them on.

A civilized English face came into focus.

“Are you all right?”

“What the devil’s happened? Where is he? Did they shoot him again?”

“The man’s as strong as a bull. He broke the back door out, bars and all. He’s escaped.”

Thank God, Alex was with her. No one could find Elliott. Samir had gone on to the police station to find out what he could. As she and Alex were ushered into the office, she saw with relief that it was the governor’s assistant, Miles Winthrop, and not the governor himself. Miles had gone to school with Alex. Julie had known him since he was a little boy.

“Miles, this is a misunderstanding,” Alex said. “It has to be.”

“Miles,” she said. “Do you think you can get him released?”

“Julie, the situation is more complicated than we realized. First off, the Egyptians aren’t too fond of those who break into their world-famous museum. But now there’s a theft and a murder to be considered as well.”

“What are you talking about!” Julie whispered.

“Miles, Ramsey couldn’t murder anybody,” Alex said. “That’s patently absurd.”

“I hope you’re right, Alex. But there’s a maid dead in the museum with her neck broken. And a mummy’s been stolen from a display case on the second floor. And your friend has escaped the jail. Now, tell me, both of you. How well do you really know this man?”

Running at full sprint across the roof, he took the alleyway before him in one leap. Within seconds, he covered another roof, and dropped down to another, and then cut across another narrow street.

Only then did he look back. His pursuers had lost him. He
could hear the faint, very distant crack of the rifle. Perhaps they were shooting at each other. He did not care.

He dropped down into the street and ran. Within a short distance, the street became an alley. The houses hemming him in had high windows covered over with wooden screens. He saw no more British shops or English signs. Only Egyptians passed him, and for the most part they were old women in pairs, with veils over their faces and their hair. They averted their eyes at once from his bloodstained shirt and torn clothes.

Finally he stepped into a doorway and rested, and then slowly slipped his hand into his coat. The wound was healed on the outside, though he could still feel the throbbing inside. He felt the broad strip of the moneybelt. The vials were intact.

The cursed vials! Would that he had never taken the elixir from its hiding place in London! Or that he had sealed the powder into a clay vessel and sunk the vessel into the sea!

What would the soldiers have done with the liquid if they had got their hands on it? He could not bear to dwell on how close he had come to that possibility.

But the thing now was to return to the museum! He must find her! And to dwell on what had befallen her in the interim was more than he could bear.

Never in all his existence had he experienced the regret which he was feeling now. But it was done! He had succumbed to the temptation. He had awakened the half-rotted body lying in that case.

And he must find the results of his folly. He must learn whether a spark of intellect existed inside it!

Ah, but whom was he deceiving!
She had called his name!

He turned and hurried down the alley. A disguise, that’s what he needed. And he had no time to purchase it. He must take it where he could. Laundry, he had seen ropes of laundry. He rushed on, until he saw another such rope sagging across a narrow passageway to his left.

Bedouin garments—the long-sleeved robe and the headdress. He tore these down at once. Discarding his jacket, he put them on, and then cut a bit of the rope itself to tie around his head.

Now he looked like an Arab except for the blue eyes. But then he knew where he might get a pair of dark glasses. He’d seen them in the bazaar. And that was on the way back to the museum. He headed out at a dead run.

* * *

Henry had been almost dead drunk since he’d come from Shepheard’s the day before. The brief talk with Elliott had had a peculiar effect on him somehow; it had sapped his nerve.

He tried to remind himself that he loathed Elliott Savarell and that he himself was pressing on to America, where he’d never see Elliott or anyone like him again.

Yet the meeting haunted him. Every time he sobered up just a little he saw Elliott again, staring at him with absolute contempt. He heard the cold hatred in Elliott’s voice.

A lot of nerve Elliott had, turning on him like this. Years ago, after a brief and stupid affair, Henry had had it in his power to destroy Elliott, but he had not done so for no other reason than it would have been a cruel thing to do. He had always presumed that Elliott was grateful for that; that Elliott’s patience and politeness signaled that gratitude. For Elliott had been unfailingly courteous to him over the years.

Not so yesterday. And the awful thing about it was that the hatred Elliott evinced had been a mirror image of the hatred Henry felt for everyone he knew. It had soured Henry and embittered him.

And it had also frightened him.

Have to get away from them, all of them, he reasoned. They do nothing but criticize me and misjudge me when they are not worth a tinker’s damn themselves.

When they had left Cairo, he would clean himself up, stop drinking, go back to Shepheard’s and sleep in peace for a few days. Then he’d strike the bargain with his father and head out to America with the considerable little fortune he’d saved.

But for the moment, he had no intention of curtailing the party. There would be no card game today; he would take it easy, and enjoy the Scotch without distraction; merely dozing in his rattan chair, and eating the food Malenka prepared for him if and when he chose.

Malenka herself had become a bit of a nag. She had just cooked an English breakfast for him and wanted him to come to the table. He had slapped her with the back of his hand, and told her to leave him alone.

Nevertheless she went on with her preparations. He could hear the kettle whistling. She had set china out on the small rattan table in the courtyard.

Well, to hell with her. He had three bottles of Scotch, which was plenty. Maybe he would lock her out later if there was a
chance. He loved the idea of being all alone here. Of drinking and smoking and dreaming. And maybe listening to the gramophone. He was even getting used to that damned parrot.

As he dozed off now, the parrot was screeching and clucking and walking back and forth, upside down, on the ceiling of its cage. African greys liked to do things like that. In truth the thing looked like a giant bug to him. Maybe he should kill it when Malenka wasn’t here.

He felt himself drifting, dozing, on the edge of dream. He took one more sip of Scotch, so smooth, and let his head roll to the side. Julie’s house; the library; that thing at his shoulder; the scream curled at the back of his throat.

“God!” He shot forward out of the chair, and the glass fell out of his hands. If only that dream would stop.…

Elliott had to stop to catch his breath. The two bulbous eyes stared at him over the black serge. It seemed they tried to squint in the sunlight, but the half-eaten lids would not fully close. The woman’s hand pulled the veil tighter as if she wanted to hide herself from his gaze.

Whispering softly in Latin, he begged for patience. The carriage had been unable to get very close to the house to which they were going. It was only a few paces more.

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. But wait a moment. The hand. The hand which was holding the black serge over her mouth. He looked at it again. It was changing in the burning sun. The wound exposing the knucklebone had almost closed.

He stared at it for a moment; then he looked at her eyes again. Yes, the eyelids had filled in somewhat and long beautiful black lashes were now curving upwards, hiding the leprouslike ruin of the flesh.

He put his arm about her again: at once she cleaved to him, a soft and trembling thing. A soft sigh escaped her.

He was aware suddenly of a perfume rising from her, a rich, sweet and altogether lovely perfume. There was the smell of dust, of mud, actually, of the deep river silt—but that was very faint. The perfume was strong and musky. He could feel her warmth coming through the black serge.

Dear God, what is this potion! What is it capable of!

“There, there, my dear,” he said in English. “We’re very close. That door at the end.”

He felt her arm slip around him. With a powerful grip she lifted him slightly, taking the pressure off his numb left foot. The pain in his left hip slackened. He gave a little laugh of relief. In fact, he almost broke into outright laughter. But he didn’t. He simply moved on, allowing her to assist him, until he reached the door.