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Even in her final days, however, Cleopatra had been victorious in her own way. Octavian wanted to take her to Rome as a royal prisoner. She had cheated him. She had tried out dozens of poisons on condemned prisoners, and then chosen the bite of a snake to end her life. The Roman guards had not prevented her suicide. And so Octavian took possession of Egypt. But Cleopatra he could not have.
Julie closed the book almost reverently. She looked at the long row of alabaster jars. Could these really be those very poisons?
She fell into a strange reverie as she gazed at the magnificent coffin. A hundred like it she had seen here and in Cairo. A hundred like it she had examined ever since she could remember. Only this one contained a man who claimed to be immortal. Who claimed to be entering not death when he was buried, but "a dream-filled sleep."
What was the secret of that slumber? Of being awakened from it? And the elixir!
"Ramses the Damned," she whispered. "Would you wake for me as you did for Cleopatra? Would you wake for a new century of indescribable marvels even though your Queen is dead?"
No answer but silence; and the large soft eyes of the golden King staring at her, graven hands folded over his chest.
"That's robbery!" Henry said, barely able to contain his anger. "The thing's priceless." He glared at the little man behind the desk in the back office of the coin shop. Miserable little thief in his stuffy world of dirty glass cases and bits and pieces of money displayed as if they were jewels.
"If it's genuine, yes," the man answered slowly. "And if it's genuine, where did it come from? A coin like this with a perfect image of Cleopatra? That's what they will want to know, you see, where did it come from? And you have not told me your name."
"No, I haven't." Exasperated, he snatched the coin back from the dealer, slipped it into his pocket and turned to go. He stopped long enough to put on his gloves. What did he have left? Fifty pounds? He was in a fury. He let the door slam behind him as he walked into the biting wind.
The dealer sat quite still for a long moment. He could still feel the coin that he had let slip literally from his hand. Never in all these long years had he seen anything quite like it. He knew it was genuine, and suddenly he felt the fool as never before in his life.
He should have bought it! He should have taken the risk. But he knew it was stolen, and not even for the Queen of the Nile could he become a thief.
He rose from the desk, and passed through the dusty serge curtains that separated his shop from a tiny drawing room where he spent much of his time, even during business hours, quite alone. His newspaper lay beside the wing chair where he'd left it. He opened now to the headline:
STRATFORD MUMMY AND HIS CURSE
COME TO LONDON
The ink drawing beneath showed a slender young man disembarking from the P&O H.M.S. Melpomine along with the mummy of the famed Ramses the Damned. Henry Stratford, nephew of the dead archaeologist, said the caption. Yes, that was the man who had just left his shop. Had he stolen the coin from the tomb where his uncle died so suddenly? And how many more like it had he taken? The dealer was confused; relieved on the one hand, and full of regret on the other. He stared at the telephone.
Noon. The club dining room was quiet, the few scattered members eating their lunch alone on white-draped tables in silence. Just the way Randolph liked it, a true retreat from the noisy streets outside, and the endless pressure and confusion of his office.
He was not happy when he saw his son standing in the door some fifty feet away. Hasn't slept all night, more than likely. Yet Henry was shaven, neatly dressed, Randolph gave him that much. The little things were never out of Henry's control. It was the great disaster with which he couldn't cope--that he had no real life any longer. That he was a gambler and a drinker with no soul.
Randolph went back to his soup.
He didn't look up as his son took the chair opposite, and called to the waiter for a Scotch and water "at once."
"I told you to stay at your cousin's last night," Randolph said gloomily. There was no point to this conversation. "I left the key for you."
"I picked up the key, thank you. And my cousin is no doubt doing quite well without me. She has her mummy to keep her company."
The waiter set down the glass and Henry drained it at once.
Randolph took another slow spoon of the hot soup.
"Why the hell do you dine in a place like this? It's been out of fashion for a decade. It's positively funereal."
"Keep your voice down."
"Why should I? All the members are deaf."
Randolph sat back in the chair. He gave a small nod to the waiter, who moved in to take the soup plate. "It's my club and I like it," he said dully. Meaningless. All conversation with his son was meaningless. He would weep if he thought of it. He would weep if he lingered too long on the fact that Henry's hands trembled, that his face was pale and drawn, and that his eyes fixed on nothing--eyes of an addict, a drunk.
"Bring the bottle," Henry said to the waiter, without looking up. And to his father, "I'm down to twenty pounds."
"I can't advance you anything!" Randolph said wearily. "As long as she's in control, the situation is very simply desperate. You don't understand."
"You're lying to me. I know she signed papers yesterday...."
