"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'll 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 the 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."
Sh
e 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 then 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 little 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 ... I 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 confusion. 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 d
oing 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 the colour 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.