The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (50 page)

“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 dearly 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 panelled 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 Sharples! 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.”