His words fell on inattentive ears; for Simpkins was sitting stunnedunder the revelation of the letter. Now that he had his story, he knewthat he had not wanted it.
But he roused himself when he became conscious that the professor waspeering at him curiously over the top of his glasses, and said:
"Pretty warm stuff, eh! Good josh! Great girl! Ought to know her. She'sdaft on this Egyptian business."
"Her letter is perhaps a trifle er--impulsive," the professor answered."But she combines the ancient and the modern charmingly. I congratulateyou."
"Thanks, Professor," Simpkins answered awkwardly, and took his leave.
Once in the street, he plunged along, head down. It was worse than hehad suspected. He had felt all along that the boy's surmises aboutBrander were correct; now he knew that his suspicions of Mrs. Athelstonewere well founded. But he would keep her from that hypocrite, that hawk,that--murderer! Simpkins stopped short at the intrusion of that word.It had come without logic or reason, but he knew now that it had beenshaping in his head for two days past. And once spoken, it began tojustify itself. There was the motive, clear, distinct and proven; therewere the means and the man.
Next morning Simpkins was earlier than usual at the Oriental Building,where he found the youth waiting for Brander to come and open up theinner office.
"Parson's late, eh?" he threw out by way of greeting.
"Always is," was the surly answer. "He's de 'rig'nal seven sleepers."
"Puts you behind with your cleaning, eh?"
"Naw; youse ought to know I don't do no cleanin'."
"You don't? I thought you tended to Mrs. Athelstone's rooms and--Mr.Brander's storeroom."
"Aw, go wan. I'm no second girl, an' de storeroom's never cleaned.Dere's nothin' to clean but a lot of stones an' bum mummies an' such."
"Brander can't sell much stuff; I never see anything being shipped."
"Oh! I don't know! We sent a couple of embammed dooks to Chicago lastweek."
"And last month?"
"Search me; I only copped out me job here last mont'; but seems as ifhis whiskers did say dere was somethin' doin'." And just then Mr.Brander came along.
Simpkins had found out what he wanted to know, and he decided that hemust bring his plans to a head at once. Mrs. Athelstone was expectedback the next day; he must search the storeroom that very night.If--well, he thought he could spoil one scoundrel.
He worked to good advantage during the day, and at nine o'clock thatnight, when he was back outside the Oriental Building, there were threenew keys in his pocket.
He unlocked the door noiselessly, tiptoed up the staircase, and gainedthe friendly blackness of the ante-chamber quite unobserved. Thewatchman was half a block away, sitting by the only street entrance keptopen at night.
Simpkins took off his shoes and found his sandals without striking alight, and then felt his way to the door leading into the hall. The knobrattled a little under his hand. All that evening he had been nervinghimself to go in there alone and in the dark, but now he could haveturned and run like a country boy passing a graveyard at night.
The hall was not utterly black, as he had expected. Light from theelectric lamps without flickered through the stained-glass windows.Ghastly rays of yellow played over the painted faces on the walls andlit up the gilded features of the mummy by Mrs. Athelstone's desk. Therewere crimson spots, like blotches of blood, on the veil of Isis. And allabout were moving shadows, creeping forward stealthily, falling backslowly, as the light without flared up or died down.
Step by step Simpkins advanced on the black altar, his muscles rigid,his nerves quivering, his eyes staring straight ahead, as a child staresinto the dark for some awful shape which it fears to see, yet dares notleave unseen. Once past that altar he would be safe at the door of thestoreroom.
How his heart was beating! He was almost at it. Steady! A few steps nowand he would gain the storeroom. Good God! What was that!
In the blackness behind the altar two eyes flamed.
Simpkins stopped; he was helpless to turn or to advance. Perhaps if hedid not move, it would not. A moment he stood there, tense with terror,then--straight from the altar the thing flew at his throat. But quick asit was: the involuntary jerk of his arm upward was quicker, and itreceived the blow. Snarling, the thing fell to the floor, and leapedback into the darkness. It was Mrs. Athelstone's cat.
So strong was Simpkins' revulsion of feeling, so great his relief, thathe forgot the real cause of his terror, and sank down on the very stepsof the altar, weakly exclaiming over and over again: "Only the cat! Onlythe cat! Great Scott! how it frightened me!"
He had been sitting there for a few minutes when he heard a soft click,click, just to his right. Some one was turning a key in the door leadingfrom Mrs. Athelstone's apartments. As he jumped to his feet, he heard ahand grasp the doorknob. He looked around for a hiding-place, ran a fewsteps from the altar, doubled like a baited rat, and dove into theblackness behind the veil of Isis. There had been no time to choose; forhardly was he safe under cover and peeping out from between the folds ofthe veil than the door swung open slowly.
VI
It was Mrs. Athelstone who came through the doorway. She was all inwhite, a soft, silken white, which floated about her like a cloud,drifting back from her bare arms and throat, and suggesting the roundedoutlines of her limbs. Her black hair, braided, hung below her waist,and from her forehead the golden asp bound back the curls. Her arms werefull of roses--yellow, white and red.
For an uncertain moment she stood just within the hall, bathed in thelight that shone through from her apartments. Then she closed the doorand walked toward the veil. As she came through the shafts of light fromthe windows, her gown was stained with crimson spots. She was at thealtar now, and Simpkins could no longer see her without changing hisposition. Stealthily he edged along, careless of the statue just behindhim. As he parted the folds of the veil he saw that the altar was heapedwith flowers. Just beyond, the light playing fantastically on herupturned face, stood Mrs. Athelstone.
Simpkins closed the veil abruptly. There came to him the remembranceof the time when the boy had pulled the cat's tail, her anger and hercurious exclamation; and again, the repetition of it in his case, whenhe had handled the mummy of Amosis roughly; and her affectation ofEgyptian symbols as ornaments. "She's the simon-pure Blavatsky, allright," he concluded, as he pieced these things into what he had justseen. "All others are base imitations."
The reporter had gathered from his little reading that behind thesemonstrous gods and this complex symbolism there was something near akinto Christianity in a few great essentials, and he understood how a womanof Mrs. Athelstone's temperament, engrossed in the study of these thingsand living in these surroundings, might be affected by them. Even he,shrewd, hard Yankee that he was, had felt the influence of the place,and there was that behind him then which made his heart beat quicker atthe thought.
When he looked out again Mrs. Athelstone was gone. He was impatient toget to his work in the storeroom; but first he peeped out again to makesure that she had returned to her room. She was still in the hall,walking about in the corner where she ordinarily worked. There wassomething methodical in her movements now that woke a new interest inSimpkins. "What the dickens can she be up to?" he thought.
She had lit a lamp, and had shaded it, so that its rays were contractedin a circle on the floor. From a cupboard let into the wall she wastaking bottles and brushes, a roll of linen bandages and some boxes ofpigments. After laying these on the floor, she walked over to the bigblack mummy case by her table, and pushed until she had turned it aroundwith its face to the wall.
What heathen game was this? Simpkins' interest increased, and he pokedhis head out boldly from the sheltering veil.
Mrs. Athelstone was standing directly in front of the case now, pullingand tugging in an effort to bring it down on her shoulders. Finally, shemanaged to tilt it toward her, and then, straining, she lowered it untilit rested flat on the floor
.
"Sorry I couldn't have lent a hand," thought the gallant Simpkins; "theold buck must weigh a ton. Now what's she bothering around that passe,three-thousand-years-dead sport for?"
Her back was toward him; so, cautious and catlike, he stole from behindthe veil and glided to the shelter of a post not ten feet from her.He peered around it eagerly. Still panting from her efforts, she was onher knees beside the case, fumbling a key in the Yale lock, a curiousanachronism which Simpkins, in his cleaning, had found on all the morevaluable mummy cases.
The lid was of sycamore wood, comparatively light, and she lifted itwithout trouble. Then the rays of the lamp shone full into the opencase, and Simpkins looked over the shoulders of the kneeling woman atthe mummy of a man who had stood full six feet in life. He stared longat the face, seeking in those shriveled features a reason for the horrorwhich grew in him as he gazed, trying to build back into life again thatthing which once had been a man. For there was something about it whichseemed different from those Egyptians of whom he had read. Slowly thevaguely-familiar features filled out, until Simpkins saw--not theswarthy, low-browed face of an Egyptian king, but the ruddy, handsomeface of an Englishman, and--at last he was sure, a face like that of aphotograph in his pocket. And in that same moment there went through hismind a sentence from the curious picture letter: "_That thing that Ihave to do is about done._"
Already, in his absorption, he had started out from the shelter ofthe pillar, and now he crept forward. He was almost on her, and shehad heard nothing, seen nothing, but suddenly she felt him coming,and turned. And as her eyes, full of fear in the first startledconsciousness of discovery, met his, he sprang at her, and pinioned herarms to her side. But only for a moment. Fear fought with her, and by amighty effort she half shook herself free.
"Suddenly she felt him coming, and turned."]
Simpkins found himself struggling desperately now to regain hisadvantage. Already his greater strength was telling, when the lampcrashed over, leaving them in darkness, and he felt the blow of a heavybody striking his back. Claws dug through his clothes, deep into hisflesh. Something was at his head now, biting and tearing, and the warmblood was trickling down into his eyes. A stealthy paw reached roundfor his throat. He could feel its silken surface passing over his bareflesh, the unsheathing of its steel to strike, and, as it sank intohis throat, he seized it, loosening, to do this, his hold on Mrs.Athelstone, quite careless of her in the pain and menace of that moment.
Still clutching the great black cat, though it bit and tore at hishands, he gained his feet. In the darkness he could see nothing but twoblazing eyes, and not until the last spark died in them did his fingersrelax. Then, with a savage joy, he threw the limp body against the altarof Isis, and turned to see what had become of Mrs. Athelstone. She layquite still where he had left her, a huddled heap of white upon thefloor.
Simpkins righted and lit the overturned lamp and lifted the unconsciouswoman into a chair. There he bound her, wrapping her about with thelinen bandages, until she was quite helpless to move. The obsidian eyesof the mummy seemed to follow him as he went about his task. Annoyed bytheir steady regard, he threw a cloth over the face and sat down to waitfor the woman to come back to life.
VII
Though her gown was torn and spotted with his blood, Mrs. Athelstone hadnever looked more lovely. But Simpkins was quite unmoved by the sight ofher beauty. His infatuation for her, his personal interest in her even,had puffed out in that moment when he had discovered in the mummied facea likeness to Doctor Athelstone. He was regarding her now simply as"material," and fixing in his mind each detail of her appearance, thathe might the more effectively describe her in his story. And what asplendid one it was! The Blavatsky "spread," with the opportunity whichit afforded to ridicule two rather well-known women--that was goodstuff; the scandal which had unfolded as he worked--that was betterstill; but this "mysterious murder," with its novel features--this wasthe superlative of excellence in Yellow Journalism. "Talk about Teddy'sluck," thought the reporter; "how about the luck of Simp., old boy?"
He looked at his watch anxiously. He had plenty of time--the paper didnot go to press until two. Relieved, he glanced toward Mrs. Athelstoneagain. How still she was! She was taking an unreasonably long time aboutcoming to! The shadows in the room began to creep in on him again, andto oppress him with a vague fear, now that he was sitting inactive. Hegot up, but just then the woman stirred, and he settled down again.
Slowly she recovered consciousness and looked about her. Her eyes soughtout Simpkins last, and as they rested on him a flash of anger lit themup. Simpkins returned their stare unflinchingly. They had quite losttheir power over him.
"So you're a thief, Simpkins--and I thought you looked so honest," shebegan at last, contempt in her voice.
"Not at all," Simpkins answered, relieved and grateful that she had onlysuspected him of being a thief, that there had been no tears, nopleadings, no hysterics; "I'm nothing of the sort. I'm just your clerk."
"Then, what are you doing here at this time of night? And why did youattack me? Why have you bound me?"
"I'll be perfectly frank, Mrs. Athelstone." (Simpkins always prefaceda piece of duplicity by asseverating his innocence of guile.) "I'veblundered on something in there," and he motioned vaguely toward thecoffin, "that is reason enough for binding you and turning you overto the police, sorry as I should be to take such a step."
"And that something?"
"The body of your husband."
"You beastly little cad," began Mrs. Athelstone, anger flaming in herface again. Then she stopped short, and her expression went to one ofterror.
The change was not lost on Simpkins. "That's better," he said. "If afellow has to condone murder to meet your standards of what's a perfectlittle gentleman, you can count me out. Now, just you make up your mindthat repartee won't take us anywhere, and let's get down to cases. Theremay be, I believe there are, extenuating circumstances. Tell him thewhole truth and you'll find Simp. your friend, cad or no cad."
As he talked, Mrs. Athelstone regained her composure, and when he wasthrough she asked calmly enough: "And because you've blundered onsomething you don't understand, something that has aroused your sillysuspicions, you would turn me over to the police?"
"It's not a silly suspicion, Mrs. Athelstone, but a cinch. I know yourhusband was murdered there," and he pointed to the altar. "And you'renot innocent, though how guilty morally I'm not ready to say. There maybe something behind it all to change my present determination; thatdepends on whether you care to talk to me, or would rather wait and takethe third degree at headquarters."
"But you really have made a frightful mistake," she protested, notangrily now, but rather soothingly.
"Then I'll have to call an officer; perhaps he can set us straight." Andhe stood up.
"Sit down," she implored. "Let me explain."
"That's the way to talk; you'll find it'll do you good to loosen up,"and Simpkins sat down, exulting that he was not to miss the moststriking feature of his story. Until it was on the wire for Boston, andthe New York papers had gone to press, he had as little use for officersas Mrs. Athelstone. "Remember," he added, as he leaned back to listen,"that I know enough now to pick out any fancy work."
"It's really absurdly simple. The cemented surface of this mummy hadbeen damaged, as you can see"----Mrs. Athelstone began, but Simpkinsbroke in roughly:
"Come, come, there's no use doping out any more of that stuff to me. Iwant the facts. Tell me how Doctor Athelstone was killed or the Tombsfor yours." He was on his feet now, shaking his fist at the woman, andhe noticed with satisfaction that she had shrunk back in her chair tillthe linen bandages hung loosely across her breast.
"Yes--yes--I'll tell," was the trembling answer; "only do sit down," andthen after a moment's pause, in which she seemed to be striving tocompose herself, she began:
"I, sir, was a queen, Nefruari, whom they called the good and gloriouswoman." And she threw back her head proudly and paused
.
This was better than he had dared hope. Yet it was what he hadhalf-believed; she was quite mad. He felt relieved at this final proofof it. After all, it would have hurt him to send this woman to "thechair"; but there would be no condemned cell for her; only the madhouse.It might be harder for her; but it made it easier for him. He nodded agrave encouragement for her to continue.
"This is my mummy," she went on, nodding toward the gilded case, "theshell from which my soul fled three thousand years ago. Since then ithas been upon its wanderings, living in birds and beasts, that the willof Osiris might be done."
Again she paused, pleased, apparently, with the respectful interestwhich Simpkins showed. And, indeed, he was interested; for his readingon early Egyptian beliefs enabled him to follow the current of hermadness and to trace it back to its sources. So he nodded again, and shecontinued:
"Through all these weary centuries, Amosis, my husband, has been withme, first as king--ah! those days in hundred-gated Thebes--and when atlast my soul lodged in this body he found me out again. As boy and girlwe loved, as man and woman we were married. And the days that followedwere as happy as those old days when we ruled an empire. Not that weremembered then. The memory of it all but just came back to me twomonths ago."
The False Gods Page 3
