He hurried along through the winding honeycomb streets of Arab Cairo, towards the house of his cousin Zaki, a man he disliked dealing with but one who would give him exactly what he wanted more easily and efficiently than anyone else. And who knew how long Ramses must hide in Cairo? Who knew how these murders would be solved?
When he reached the mummy factory of his cousin--surely one of the most distasteful places in the entire known world--he entered by the side gate. A load of freshly wrapped bodies baked in the harsh afternoon sunshine. Inside, no doubt, others were being stewed in the pot.
A lone worker dug a trench now into which these fresh mummies would be laid for a few days, "browning" as it were in damp earth.
It disgusted Samir completely, though he had come to this little factory as a boy long before he had known there were real mummies, the bodies of the ancient ancestors to be studied, to be saved from theft and mutilation, and preserved.
"Look at it this way," his cousin Zaki once argued. "We are better than the thieves who sell our ancient rulers bit by bit to the foreigners. What we sell isn't sacred. It's fake."
Good old Zaki. Samir was about to signal to one of the men inside the place, a man who was in fact engaged in wrapping a body. But then Zaki himself emerged from the reeking little house.
"Eh, Samir! So good to see you always, cousin. Come have a coffee with me, cousin."
"Not now, Zaki, I need your assistance."
"Of course, you would not be here if you did not."
Samir accepted the rebuke with a humble little smile.
"Zaki, I need a safe place, a little house with a heavy door and a back entrance. Secret. For a few days, maybe longer. I don't know."
Zaki laughed good-naturedly, but a little smugly.
"Ah, so, the educated one, the one whom all respect, and he comes to me for a hiding place?"
"Don't question me, Zaki." Samir produced a roll of bills from under his robe. He held this out to his cousin. "A safe house. I can pay."
"All right, I know just the thing," said Zaki. "Come into the house and take coffee with me. One whiff, and you get used to the smell."
For decades Zaki had been saying that. Samir never got used to the smell. But he felt compelled now to do what his cousin wanted, and he followed him into the "embalming room," a miserable place where a vat of bitumen and other chemicals was always simmering, waiting for a new body to be thrown in.
As he passed, Samir saw that the pot had a new victim. It sickened him. He looked away, but not before he had glimpsed the poor devil's black hair billowing free on the surface as his face floated just beneath it.
"How about a nice fresh mummy?" Zaki teased him. "Straight from the Valley of the Kings. Name a dynasty, I give it to you! Male, female, whatever you wish!"
"The hiding place, cousin."
"Yes, yes. I have several such houses vacant. Coffee first and I send you off with a key. Tell me what you know of this robbery in the museum! The mummy which was stolen! Was it genuine, do you think?"
In a daze, Elliott walked into the lobby of Shepheard's. He knew that he was dishevelled, that dirt and sand clung to his trousers and even his coat. His left leg ached, but he no longer truly felt it. He did not care that beneath his rumpled shirt and suit coat he was drenched in sweat. He knew that he should be relieved to be here--safe and away from all the horrors he'd witnessed, the horrors in which he had shared. But it seemed unreal to him; he had not escaped the atmosphere of the little house.
All the way back from old Cairo, as the cab jolted him through the insufferable traffic, he had thought, Malenka is dead because I brought the woman there. Henry he could not grieve for. But Malenka would be forever on his soul. And the murderer, his monstrous resurrected Queen. What would he do with her if he could not find Ramsey? When would she turn on him?
The thing to do now was to find Samir, for he would know where Ramsey was.
He was quite unprepared for Alex rushing to him, and embracing him and trying to stop his progress to the desk.
"Father, thank God you're here."
"Where's Ramsey? I have to talk to him at once."
"Father, don't you know what's happened? They're searching for him all over Cairo. He's wanted for murder, Father, both here and in London. Julie's beside herself. We've been going out of our minds. And Henry, we cannot find Henry! Father, where have you been!"
"You stay with Julie, you take care of her," he said. "Let your American Miss Barrington wait." He tried to move on to the desk.
"Miss Barrington's gone," Alex said with a dismissive gesture. "Whole family changed their plans this morning, after the police came to question them about Ramsey and about us."
"I'm sorry, son," he murmured. "But you must leave me now, I have to find Samir."
"Then you're in luck. He's just come in."
Alex gestured to the cashier. Samir had apparently just written a bank draft for some money. He was counting it and putting it away. He had a bundle under his arm. He seemed to be in a hurry.
"Let me alone now, my boy," Elliott said as he hurried towards him. Samir looked up just as Elliott reached the marble desk. He drew Samir aside.
"I have to see him," Elliott whispered. "If you know where he is, I must see him."
"My Lord, please." Samir glanced around, slowly and casually taking in the entire lobby. "The authorities are searching for him. People are watching us now."
"But you know where he is. Or how to get a message to him. You know all about him, you have from the beginning."
Samir's eyes became unreadable. It was as if a door closed firmly in his soul.
"You give him this message for me."
Samir started to walk away.
"Tell him I have her."
Samir hesitated. "But who?" he whispered. "What do you mean?"
Elliott took his arm roughly again.
"He knows. And she knows who she is as well! Tell him I took her from the museum. And I have her in a safe place. I've been with her all day."
"I don't understand you."
"Ah, but he will. Now listen carefully. Tell him that the sun helped her. It healed her, and so did the ... the medicine in the vial."
The Earl drew out the empty vial now and put it in Samir's hand. Samir stared down at it as if he were afraid of it; as if he did not want it to touch him and did not know what in the world he would do now that it had.
"She needs more of it!" Elliott said. "She's damaged, inside and outside. She's mad." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alex moving towards him, but he gestured for patience, drawing even closer to Samir. "Tell him he's to contact me at seven this evening. At the French cafe called the Babylon in the Arab quarter. I shall talk to no one but him."
"But wait, you must explain--"
"I told you. He will understand. And under no circumstances is he to contact me here. It's too dangerous. I won't have my son mixed up in this. The Babylon at seven. And tell him this also. She has killed three times. And she will kill again."
He left Samir abruptly, turning to his son and reaching out for Alex's helping hand.
"Come, take me upstairs," he said. "I have to rest. I'm near fainting."
"Good Lord, Father, what is going on!"
"Ah, that you have to tell me now. What's happened since I left? Oh, and the desk. Tell the desk I will speak to no one. They are not to ring the room. No one is to be allowed up."
Only a few steps more, he thought as the elevator doors opened. If he could only make it to a clean bed. He was dizzy now; and close to nausea. He was grateful for his son, who held him firmly around the shoulders, and would not let him fall.
As soon as he reached his room, he lost his balance altogether. But Walter was there, and Walter and Alex together helped him onto the bed.
"I want to sit up," he said crankily like an old invalid.
"I'll run you a bath, my lord, a good hot restful bath."
"Do that, Walter, but you'll bring me a drink first. Scotch, and
set the bottle beside the glass."
"Father, I've never seen you like this. I'm going to ring the house doctor."
"You are not!" Elliott said. His tone startled Alex, which was all well and good. "Would Lady Macbeth have benefited from a doctor? I don't think a doctor would have helped her."
"Father, what is all this about?" Alex's voice had dropped to a whisper, as it always did when he was truly upset. He watched as Walter put the glass in Elliott's hand.
Elliott drank a swallow of the whisky. "Ah, that's good," he sighed. In that horrid little house, that house of death and madness, there had been a dozen bottles of Henry's liquor, yet he could not bring himself to touch them; could not bring himself to drink from a glass that had been Henry's, or to eat a morsel of Henry's food. He had given it to her, but he could not himself touch it. And now he luxuriated in the sweet warmth of the Scotch, so utterly different from the burning in his chest.
"Now, Alex, you must listen," he said, taking another swallow. "You are to leave Cairo immediately. You're to pack your bags now and be on the five o'clock train to Port Said. I'm taking you to the train myself."
How utterly defenseless his son looked suddenly. Just a boy, a sweet young boy. And this is my dream of immortality, he thought; and it has always been there. My Alex, who must go home now to England where he will be safe.
"That's out of the question, Father," Alex said with the same gentleness. "I can't leave Julie here."
"I don't want you to leave Julie. You're taking Julie with you. You're to go to her now. Tell her to get ready! Do as I say."
"Father, you don't understand. She won't leave until Ramsey's been cleared. And no one can find Ramsey. And no one can find Henry, either. Father, until this matter's settled, I don't think the authorities would let any of us leave."
"Dear God."
Alex took out his handkerchief; he folded it carefully and blotted Elliott's forehead. He folded it again and offered it to Elliott. Elliott took it and wiped his mouth.
"Father, you don't think Ramsey really did these dreadful things, do you? I mean, I was rather fond of Ramsey!"
Walter came to the door. "Your bath's ready, my lord."
"Poor Alex," Elliott whispered. "Poor decent and honorable Alex."
"Father, tell me what's the matter. I've never seen you like this. You're not yourself."
"Oh, yes, I am myself. My true self. Desperate and cunning and full of mad dreams as always. Too much myself. You know, my son, when you inherit the title, you will probably be the only decent and honorable Earl of Rutherford in our whole history."
"You're being the philosopher again. And I'm not all that decent and honorable. I'm merely well bred, which I hope is a tolerable substitute. Now, get into the bath. You'll feel much better. And don't drink any more Scotch, please." He called out to Walter to come and give him a hand.
Miles Winthrop stared at the telegram placed in his hand by the man standing before him.
"Arrest her? Julie Stratford! For the theft of a priceless mummy in London? But this is madness, all of it. Alex Savarell and I went to school together! I'm contacting the British Museum myself."
"Very well, but do it promptly," said the other. "The governor's furious. The Department of Antiquities is up in arms. And find Henry Stratford. Track down that mistress of his, that dancing girl, Malenka. Stratford's somewhere in Cairo, and pretty well besotted, you can be sure of it. In the meantime arrest somebody or the old man will blow his top."
"The hell I will," Miles whispered as he picked up the phone.
Ah, such a bazaar. Everything was for sale here--rich fabrics, perfumes, spices, and strange ticking devices with Roman numbers on them; jewelry and pottery; and food! But she had no money to buy the food! The first peddler had told her in English and with age-old indisputable gestures that the money she had was no good.
She walked on. She was listening to the voices on all sides of her, picking out the English, trying to understand.
"I won't pay that much. That's too dear, the man's trying to rob us...."
"Just a little drink, come on now. It's burning hot."
"Oh, and these necklaces, how pretty."
Laughter, horrid noises; loud grating noises! She had heard these before. She put her hands over her ears under the broad floppy headdress. She walked on, trying to shut out what hurt her and still hear what she needed in order to learn.
Suddenly a monstrous sound--an inconceivable sound--shook her and she looked up, on the verge of screaming. Her hands would not shut it out. She stumbled forward, realizing in her panic that those around her were not frightened! Those around her were scarcely paying any attention at all.
She had to fathom this mystery! And though the tears were welling in her eyes, she moved on.
What she beheld suddenly filled her with a nameless dread. She had no words in any tongue to describe it. Immense, black, it moved forward, on wheels made of metal, a chimney atop it belching smoke. The sound was so loud all other sounds vanished. Great wooden wagons following, coupled to it by huge hooks of black iron. The whole monstrous caravan thundering along a thin strip of metal that ran along the ground. And the noise grew even louder as the thing rolled past her and entered a great yawning tunnel in which hundreds crowded as if trying to get near to it.
She sobbed aloud, staring at it. Oh, why had she left her hideaway? Why had she left Lord Rutherford, who would have protected her? But just when it seemed she could see nothing worse than this awful chain of wagons rattling past her, the last one entered the tunnel and she beheld, beyond the metal pathway, a great granite statue of the Pharaoh Ramses, standing with arms folded, his scepters in his crossed hands.
In dizzying shock she looked at this colossus. Ripped from the land she had known, the land she had ruled, this thing stood here, grotesque, abandoned, ludicrous.
She backed away. Another one of the demonic chariots was coming. She heard a great searing screech from it, and then it roared by, obliterating the statue.
She felt herself turning, inward, away from all of it, back into the darkness, into the dark water whence she'd come.
When she opened her eyes a young Englishman stood over her. He had his arm around her and was lifting her and telling others to get away. She understood that he was asking after her and what he might do.
"Coffee," she whispered. "I should like some sugar in my coffee." Words from the talking machine Lord Rutherford had revealed to her. "I should like a bit of lemon in my tea."
His face brightened. "Well, yes, of course. I shall get you some coffee. I shall take you there, into the British cafe!"
He lifted her to her feet. What a fine muscular youth he was. And blue eyes he had, so rich in color, almost like the other....
She glanced back over her shoulder. It had not been a dream. The statue stood there towering over the iron pathways; she could hear the roar of the chariots, though none was in sight.
She was weak again for a moment, stumbling; he caught her. He helped her right along.
She listened keenly to the words he spoke.
"It's a nice place; you can sit, rest. You know, you gave me quite a scare there a moment ago. Why, you fell just as if you'd been struck over the head."
The cafe. The voice on the gramophone had said, "I shall meet you in the cafe." A place for drinking coffee, obviously, for meeting, talking. And full of women in these dresses, and young men clothed like Lord Rutherford and this fine creature, with the powerfully built arms and legs.
She sat down at the small marble-top table. Voices everywhere. "Why, I frankly think everything here is super, but you know Mother, the way she carries on." And "Gruesome, isn't it? They say her neck was broken." And "Oh, this tea is cold. Call that waiter."
She watched the man at the next table peel off slips of printed paper for the servant. Was this money? The servant was giving him coins in return.
A tray of hot coffee had been set down before her. She was so hungry now she could have drunk
the pot entirely, but she knew it was proper to let him pour it in the cups. Lord Rutherford had showed her that much. And yes, the young man did it. Pretty smile he had. How to tell him that she wanted to bed him immediately? They should find a small inn. Surely these people had inns.
Across from her a young woman spoke rapidly:
"Well, I don't even like opera. I wouldn't go if I were in New York at all. But since we're in Cairo, we're all supposed to go to the opera and love it. It's ridiculous."
"But darling, it's Aida."
Aida. "Celeste Aida." She began to hum it, then sing it softly, too low for these people to hear. But her companion heard her. He smiled at her, positively beamed. Getting him into bed would be nothing. Finding the bed, that might be hard. Of course she could take him back to the little house, but that was too far away. She stopped singing.
"Oh, no, you mustn't stop," he said. "Go on singing."
Go on singing, go on singing. Waiting just a moment was the secret, then the meaning came surprisingly clear.
Ramses had taught her that. In the beginning, each tongue sounds impenetrable. You speak it; you listen; and gradually it comes clear.
Ramses; Ramses, whose statue stood among the iron chariots! She turned, craning her neck to see through the window--why, the window was covered over with a giant piece of very clear glass. She could see the dirt on it. However did they make such a thing? "Modern times," as Lord Rutherford said. Well, if they could make those monstrous chariots, they could make such glass.
"You've a lovely voice, positively lovely. Are you by any chance going to the opera? Everyone in Cairo is going, or so it seems."
"The ball will last till dawn," said the woman opposite to her female companion.
"Well, I think it's super. We're just too far from civilization to complain."
He laughed. He had overheard the women too.
"The ball's supposed to be the event of the season here. They hold it at Shepheard's." He drank a swallow of his coffee. That was the signal she'd been waiting for. She downed her entire cup.
He smiled. He poured her another from the little pot.
"Thank you," she said, carefully mimicking the record.
"Oh, but didn't you want sugar?"
"I think I prefer cream, if you don't mind."
"Of course not." He poured a dollop of milk in her cup. Was that cream? Yes, Lord Rutherford had given her the last of it that the slave woman had in the house.