anner.themummy-第34节

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　Once　again　he　looked　at　her　beautiful　face；　rendered　there　in　marble；　more　truly　Cleopatra　than　that　wax　horror。　And　something　deep　inside　threatened　the　strange　quiet　of　his　mind。　He　saw　images　without　meaning。　He　put　his　hands　to　his　head　and　sighed。
　
　Of　course　if　he　thought　of　Julie　Stratford　in　her　bed　above　him；　his　mind　and　heart　would　be　instantly　united。　He　laughed　softly　as　he　picked　up　one　of　the　pastries…sticky　and　sweet。　He　devoured　it。　He　wanted　to　devour　Julie　Stratford。　Ah；　this　woman；　this　splendid　woman；　this　delicate…boned　modern　Queen　who　needed　no　land　to　rule　to　make　her　regal。　So　wondrously　clever　and　surprisingly　strong。　But　then　he　had　better　not　dwell　on　it；　or　he　would　go　up　and　knock　down　her　door。
　
　Picture　it：　crashing　into　her　bedchamber。　The　poor　servant　wakes　in　the　attic　and　starts　screaming…　So　what？　And　Julie　Stratford　rises　in　that　lace　bower　of　hers；　which　he　glimpsed　earlier　from　the　hallway；　and　he　covers　her；　ripping　off　her　scant　gown；　caressing　her　hot　little　limbs　and　taking　her　before　she　can　protest。
　
　No。　You　cannot　do　that。　Do　that　and　you　destroy　the　thing　you　desire。　Julie　Stratford　was　worth　humility　and　patience；　a　great　deal　of　it。　He　had　known　that　when　he　had　watched　her　from　that　strange　numb　half…awakened　state；　moving　about　this　library；　speaking　to　him　in　his　coffin；　never　guessing　that　he　could　hear。
　
　Julie　Stratford　had　bee　a　great　mystery　of　body　and　soul　and　will。
　
　He　took　another　deep　drink　of　the　brandy。　Delicious。　Another　long　draw　on　the　cigar。　He　sliced　through　the　orange　with　the　knife　and　picked　it　up　and　ate　the　sweet；　wet　meat　of　it。
　
　The　cigar　filled　the　room　with　a　perfume　finer　than　any　incense。　Turkish　tobacco；　Julie　had　told　him。　He　had　not　known　what　that　meant　then；　but　he　knew　now。　Ripping　through　a　little　book　called　History　of　the　World；　he　had　read　all　about　the　Turks　and　their　conquests。　That　was　how　he　should　start；　really；　with　the　little　books　full　of　generalities　and　summations：〃　Within　a　century　and　a　half　all　of　Europe　had　fallen　to　the　barbarian　hordes。〃　　The　fine　distinctions　would　e　later；　as　he　sought　out　the　great　wealth　of　printed　material　in　all　languages。　Just　thinking　of　it　made　him　smile。
　
　The　gramophone　stopped。　He　rose；　went　to　the　machine　and　found　another　black　disk　for　it　to　play。　This　one　had　the　curious　title〃　Only　a　Bird　in　a　Gilded　Cage。〃　　For　some　reason　that　made　him　think　of　Julie　again　and　wanting　to　crush　her　with　kisses。　He　set　the　disk　on　the　turntable　and　cranked　the　handle。　A　small　fragile　woman's　voice　began　to　warble。　He　laughed。　He　refilled　his　brandy　and　moved　a　little　with　the　music；　a　slow　dance　without　lifting　his　feet。
　
　But　it　was　time　to　do　some　work。　The　darkness　was　dissolving　outside　the　windows。　The　first　faint　grey　light　of　the　dawn　was　ing。　He　could　hear；　even　over　the　dull　roar　of　the　city　around　him；　the　faraway　song　of　birds。
　
　He　went　into　the　dark　cold　kitchen　of　the　house；　found〃　a　glass；〃　　as　they　called　them；　these　beautiful　objects；　and　filled　it　with　water　from　the　miraculous　little　copper　tap。
　
　Then　he　went　back　into　the　library　and　studied　the　long　row　of　alabaster　jars　under　the　mirror。　All　appeared　unharmed。　No　cracks　anywhere。　Nothing　missing。　And　there　was　his　little　burner；　all　ready　for　him；　and　the　empty　glass　vials。　All　he　needed　was　a　little　oil。　Or　one　of　these　candles；　burnt　down　now　to　a　convenient　stub。
　
　Moving　aside　his　scrolls　rather　carelessly；　he　set　up　the　little　burner　properly。　He　slipped　the　candle　into　place；　and　blew　out　the　flame。
　
　Then　he　studied　the　jars　again。　His　hand　chose　before　his　mind　chose。　And　when　he　studied　the　crushed　white　powder　he　knew　that　his　hand　had　been　right。
　
　Oh；　if　only　Henry　Stratford　had　dipped　his　spoon　into　this　instead　of　the　other！　What　a　great　shock　he　would　have　had。　His　uncle；　a　roaring　lion；　might　have　torn　off　his　head。
　
　It　occurred　to　him　suddenly　that　though　the　poisons　might　have　frightened　the　people　of　his　time；　they　would　be　no　deterrent　to　the　scientists　of　his　age。　A　person　with　a　spark　of　belief　could　easily　have　taken　all　these　jars　out　of　here；　fed　their　contents　slowly　to　animal　victims；　until　he　discovered　the　elixir。　It　would　be　simple　enough。
　
　As　it　stood　now；　of　course；　only　Samir　Ibrahaim　and　Julie　Stratford　knew　of　the　elixir。　And　they　would　never　divulge　the　secret　to　anyone。　But　Lawrence　Stratford　had　partially　translated　the　story。　And　his　notebook　was　lying　about　somewhere…　Ramses　had　been　unable　to　find　it…for　anyone　to　read。　Then　of　course　there　were　the　scrolls。
　
　Whatever　the　case；　this　situation　could　not　continue　forever。　He　must　carry　the　elixir　on　his　person。　And　of　course　there　was　always　the　chance　that　the　batch　had　lost　its　potency。　Two　thousand　years　almost；　the　powder　had　lain　in　the　jar。
　
　In　that　time；　wine　would　have　turned　to　vinegar；　or　some　utterly　undrinkable　fluid。　Flour　would　have　turned　into　something　no　more　edible　than　sand。
　
　His　hand　trembled　now　as　he　poured　all　of　the　coarse　granules　into　the　metal　dish　of　the　burner。　He　tapped　the　jar　to　make　sure　that　not　so　much　as　a　speck　remained。　Then　he　mixed　it　in　the　dish　gently　with　his　finger；　and　added　a　liberal　amount　of　water　from　the　glass。
　
　Now　he　relighted　the　candle。　As　it　bubbled；　he　gathered　the　glass　vials　and　laid　them　out…the　ones　that　had　been　on　display　here　on　the　table；　and　two　others　that　had　remained　concealed　or　overlooked　in　an　ebony　box。
　
　Four　large　vials　with　silver　caps。
　
　Within　seconds　the　change　had　taken　place。　The　raw　ingredients；　already　quite　potent　in　their　own　right；　had　been　changed　into　a　bubbling　liquid；　full　of　vague　phosphorescent　light。　How　ominous　it　looked；　like　something　that　might　bum　the　skin　off　the　mouth　of　anyone　who　tried　to　drink　it！　But　it　did　not　do　that。　It　had　not　done　it　when　eons　ago；　he　had　drunk　down　the　full　cup　without　hesitation；　ready　to　suffer　to　be　immortal！　There　had　been　no　pain　at　all。　He　smiled。　No　pain　at　all。
　
　Carefully　he　lifted　the　dish。　He　poured　the　steaming　elixir　into　one　vial　after　another　until　all　four　glass　containers　were　full。　Then　he　waited　until　the　dish　was　cooled　and　he　licked　it　clean；　for　that　was　the　only　safe　thing　to　do。　Then　he　capped　the
　
　vials。　And　he　took　the　candle　and　made　the　wax　drip　around　these　caps　to　seal　them；　all　save　one。
　
　Three　of　the　vials；　he　placed　in　the　pocket　of　his　robe。　The　fourth　vial；　the　one　which　he　had　failed　to　seal；　he　carried　with　him　into　the　conservatory。　He　stood　there　in　the　darkness；　holding　it；　peering　at　the　ferns　and　vines　that　crowded　the　room。
　
　The　glass　walls　were　losing　their　dark　opacity。　He　could　still　see　his　own　reflection　clearly；　a　tall　figure　in　a　wine…dark　garment；　with　a　warm　room　behind　him…but　the　pale　objects　of　the　outside　world　were　ing　visible　too。
　
　He　approached　the　potted　fern　nearest　him；　a　thing　of　great　airy　dark…green　fronds。　He　poured　a　bit　of　the　elixir　into　the　moist　soil。　Then　he　turned　to　the　bougainvillea；　whose　fragile　red　blossoms　were　few　and　far　between　amid　the　dark　foliage。　He　poured　many　droplets　of　the　elixir　into　this　pot　as　well。
　
　There　was　a　faint　stirring；　a　crackling　sound。　To　use　any　more　would　be　madness。　Yet　he　moved　from　pot　to　pot；　pouring　but　a　few　drops　in　each。　Finally　half　the　vial　remained。　And　he　had　done　enough　harm；　had　he　not？　If　the　magic　no　longer　worked；　he　would　know　within　a　few　moments。　He　looked　to　the　glass　ceiling。　The　first　blush　of　the　sun　was　there。　The　god　Ra　sending　the　first　warm　rays。
　
　The　leaves　of　the　ferns　rustled；　lengthened；　tender　shoots　unfurled。　The　bougainvillea　swelled　and　trembled　on　its　trellis；　tiny　tendrils　shooting　up　along　the　wrought…iron　grillwork；　little　blossoms　opening　suddenly；　blood　red　as　wounds。　The　entire　glass　room　was　alive　with　accelerated　growth。　He　closed　his　eyes；　listening　to　that　sound。　A　dark　deep　shudder　passed　through　him。
　
　How　could　he　have　ever　believed　that　the　elixir　had　lost　its　effectiveness？　It　was　as　strong　as　ever　it　had　been。　One　powerful　draught　had　rendered　him　immortal　forever。　Why　did　he　think　the　substance　itself；　once　created；　would　be　any　less　immortal　than　he？
　
　He　put　the　vial　in　his　pocket。　He　unlatched　the　rear　door　of　the　house　and　went　out　into　the　murky　wet　dawn。
　
　The　pain　in　Henry's　head　was　so　bad　he　could　not　even　see　the　two　detectives　clearly。　He　had　been　dreaming　of　that　thing；　that　mummy；　when　they　awakened　him。　In　cold　terror；　he　had　taken　his　gun；　cocked　it；　slipped　it　into　his　pocket　and　gone　to　the　door。　Now　if　they　meant　to　search　him　。。。
　
　〃Everyone　knew　Tommy　Sharpies！〃　　he　said；　fury　masking　his　fear。〃　Everyone　owed　him　money。　For　this　you　wake　me　at　the　crack　of　dawn？〃
　
　He　squinted　stupidly　at　the　one　called　Gallon；　who　now　held　up　that　damned　Cleopatra　coin！　How　the　hell　could　he　have　been　so　stupid？　To　go　off　and　leave　that　coin　in　Sharples's　pocket。　But　for　the　love　of　hell；　he　had　not　planned　to　cut　down　Sharpies！　How　could　he　be　expected　to　think　of　things　like　this！
　
　〃Ever　see　this　before；　sir？〃
　
　Be　calm。　There　is　not　a　scintilla　of　evidence　to　connect　you　to