The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (49 page)

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 time 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 marvellous 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 the 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 colour!” 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 hiccuping 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.