The Mammoth Book of the Mummy

by Paula Guran

  Still, Amun, Ra, Osiris, Isis, Sekhmet, Hathor, and all the rest held some sway over popular imagination. The pseudo-Egyptian-style portion of the Memorial Museum—torn down in 1929—had been rebuilt to house a permanent collection of ancient Egyptian artifacts, replicas, exhibits, papyrus, coffins, and, of course, mummies—both human and animal. Among the latter there was even an enormous mummified Nile crocodile. Cynics had noted, though, that since Queen Tera’s show-stopping return performance no more ancient royalty had been revivified and there’d been precious few miraculous displays. The deities of the Two Lands were apparently unwilling to intervene on the behalf of those who were now devoted to their rituals, wore their amulets, and burned boatloads of incense in their worship.

  Or maybe these gods just didn’t make public spectacles of their divine works.

  At any rate, Mrs Kolchak finally nodded and said, “Perhaps you’re just what I need. No conflicting beliefs.”

  “I haven’t said I’ll take your case yet,” I pointed out. She just looked smug.

  “It’s not even a case as such—more like simple information gathering.”

  Experience had taught me to mistrust the word “simple,” but I managed not to blurt that out. I tilted my head: Go on.

  “I’m a . . . collector. Mr Kolchak made a lot of money before he married me and I made a lot of money when he died. I do miss him, but the affluence helps me cope.” She gave a girls-know-how-it-is grin. “But when you’re so very prosperous everyone wants to take you for a ride—and I don’t care to distribute my wealth unless I get what I want in return, Miss Donnelly.”

  “I can understand that,” I replied, noticing that she’d not sat down since she’d arrived. I could have taken offense: I’d forked out more than I could afford to make sure the canary-yellow mohair-upholstered Danish modern lounge chairs were welcoming. But she stayed by the window, drinking in the lunchtime light, looking all Grace Kelly—if Grace Kelly had started out as a showgirl and clawed her way up. I didn’t know how Izolda Kolchak began her rise but I was willing to bet dollars to donuts it had involved high kicks in a pair of heels and sequined underwear. “So, how do you think I can help you?”

  I thought I knew the answer: I’d worked before with antiquarians. It always cost them a lot and sometimes I didn’t look too closely at the details of what they were doing and why. Even two-legged bloodhounds had bills to pay.

  “There is a small, exclusive auction house that deals with some very interesting arcane pieces. A specific lot that was sold two days ago to an anonymous buyer.”

  “And you’d like me to . . . ?”

  “Get me the buyer’s name.”

  “You don’t have a secretary? It’s a matter of a phone call, Mrs Kolchak.” I didn’t usually talk myself out of business, but this seemed like an absolute waste of my time.

  “As I said, Miss Donnelly, I’m a collector of note, a woman of considerable means—when my name is mentioned, the cost of something goes up in astronomical increments. My employees are also known in such circles, and I certainly don’t want them using subterfuge in the course of their employment. That would send the wrong message.”

  “But hiring me doesn’t?”

  “Oh, Miss Donnelly, I think it’s been a long time since the needle of your moral compass had a spin.” Touché. “You’re a contractor, my dear, your actions are your own.”

  “What did they buy?” I asked, examining my nails and preparing to refuse, because no matter what she thought, I did have some standards.

  “That’s irrelevant. All I need you to know is the lot number—twenty-two, by the way—and all you need to do is get me the buyer’s name. Then other intermediaries will begin negotiations.”

  “Well, Mrs Kolchak, tempting though busywork might be to some—”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “Pardon? It sounded like you said—”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” She opened her handbag—creamy Chanel with the distinctive gold double-chain straps (okay, so I do know something about fashion, but my means don’t stretch far enough to afford what I’d like) and pulled out a thick bundle of notes. “That’s all of it, up front—don’t look so surprised. You’ll be earning your fee. The auction house won’t give up information easily—do whatever you need to.”

  And I knew, then, that something was rotten in the state of California—no one’s ever said Evie Donnelly was dumb—but I also knew that ten Gs could buy my sister Mamie time to get back on her feet, it could buy my niece Betty clothes that weren’t secondhand, and it could take care of my rent for a quite a while, so I didn’t have to worry whether work was going to materialize when needed.

  It was a job. It was ten grand. It was a lifeline of sorts.

  “Do you have a time limit, Mrs Kolchak?”

  “The sooner the better, Miss Donnelly.” She handed over that bundle of hundreds, every single one, and I realized it meant Izolda Kolchak owned a slice of me until I delivered. She’d judged me well enough to know that I regarded a contract as a bond, and my bills would ensure my sense of obligation kicked in. She knew what she was doing, and I knew too. But I took it anyway.

  “I’ll call as soon as I’ve got what you want,” I said, carefully placing the cash on the desk in front of me.

  “I’m counting on it.” She passed me a single sheet of paper, inscribed with emphatic handwriting. “These are the details for Conville-Iredale. My number’s on the bottom. And Miss Donnelly? Don’t let me down.”

  After she’d gone I stood by the window where she’d been, and stared out.

  Usually what I do involves a lot of shoe leather, a lot of sitting outside places with a concealed camera, a lot of asking questions, and a helluva lot of being charming to men to whom I normally wouldn’t give the time of day. But what Mrs Kolchak wanted was relatively easy; I just needed to be sneaky.

  I checked my reflection in the glass; despite sleepless nights worrying about Mamie and Betty I looked okay. Better than okay—not in Izolda Kolchak’s class, of course, but no one was going to kick me out of bed for eating crackers. As I reapplied lipstick and tidied my dark hair, a movement in the street caught my attention: a spick-and-span cherry-colored Chevy with a white roof pulled up outside the building across the way. Out jumped a tall figure in a gray suit. Even from my fifth-floor office I could see Detective Liam Murphy’s bright red hair gleaming in the sun. He moved gracefully as he strode toward the entrance, and it was times like this I regretted walking away from him.

  I made sure the seams of my stockings were straight, gave my shoes a little spit polish, shrugged on a jacket, hoisted my handbag, and locked Kolchak’s cash in the wall safe. Her business could wait while I paid a quick visit to the crime scene; just because I’d left him didn’t mean Detective Murphy hadn’t remained of abiding interest to me. It didn’t mean my heart didn’t skip a beat every time I saw him.

  Plus, I was nosy—there’s no denying that.

  I crossed Sutter Street and the patrol cops let me through like they always did, grinning, and saying “Fourth floor, apartment seven.”

  I paused at the top of the stairs to catch my breath, then made my way along the hallway until I found the open door. I darted in, smack bang into the back of Liam Murphy, who was standing just inside the threshold.

  “Jesus, Evie!” Detective Murphy remained firmly on the side of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit and nothing was going to change that. Whether it affected his chances of advancement or not, he’d have no truck with newfangled old gods. “What are you doing here?

  And all of sudden I lost every ounce of confidence that, no matter what, he’d be glad to see me. Maybe he didn’t cling to these moments the way I did. Maybe he wasn’t interested in snatching at the crumbs. Maybe Liam Murphy wanted to move on without the shadow of his ex-girlfriend dogging his heels.

  Maybe he saw that uncertainty in my face and his expression softened.

  “Ah, Evie. Don’t sneak up on me like that, makes me squawk.�
� He grinned and lifted a hand to my cheek, oh so briefly. I felt his touch burning long after he’d turned away. “Here to see what happened right across the street from your office? What do you think?”

  The corpse lay on a rug in the middle of the sitting room. The smell hit hard then, blood and death, and I covered my nose, coughing a little.

  “I think someone’s gonna need a new rug.”

  “C’mon, Evie, focus.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “Well, maybe one day you’ll learn better than to invite yourself to crime scenes.” We crouched beside the body on the blood-soaked rug, which could only be identified as a man by its suit and tie. The dermis was dry and wrinkled as if all the moisture had been drawn from it, and the face was little more than a skull with a skin canvas stretched tightly over it. This guy’s own mother couldn’t have recognized him. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think I gotta stop following you to crime scenes.” I pointed to where the top of the head had been sliced off, neat as a boiled egg, a crop of thick iron-gray hair clinging on tenaciously to the skin-hinged skullcap. “But look at this: where’s his brain gone?”

  Detective Murphy shrugged. He hated with a passion the things he couldn’t understand, they made him nervous. Give him a gruesome domestic murder, a Mafia massacre, a bloody bank robbery, and he was as happy as a clam. Give him something that smacked of the occult and he developed a rash. And this murder looked like it had “weird” in spades.

  “And see here?” Murphy said. At some juncture the victim’s shirt and pants had been torn open to expose the torso, which was slit from gullet to groin, the desiccated flesh and subcutaneous tissue peeled back like he was an orange. “Stomach’s gone, intestines, too. And the lungs. But hey, the heart’s still there.”

  “That’s . . . odd.” It was several steps beyond “odd,” but no need to further agitate Liam’s dislike for the uncanny.

  “It’s all odd.” He paused, then changed the subject. “How’s your sister doing?”

  A month ago, Liam had taken Mamie’s husband in for questioning on a racketeering charge while I got her and Betty out of the house and on to a train to a tiny town upstate where a former client who owed me a favor owned a farm.

  “Still in hiding. When are you going to find something that’ll stick to Louie the Louse?”

  “I’m working on it.” We both rose.

  “I appreciate it, Liam,” I said softly, hating that his name still tasted like honey on my tongue. I touched his arm, couldn’t help myself, tilted my head back and watched him lean toward me, whether he wanted to or not. I pulled away.

  “Dammit, Evie.” His voice was raw. “This is stupid.”

  “I’m sorry. I am, truly.” I glanced at the silver watch on my wrist; it had been a gift from him.

  “Got somewhere better to be?”

  “Not better, no. But somewhere to be. Goodbye, Detective.” I felt him watch me as I walked away, but I didn’t look back.

  The building in which Conville-Iredale took up the ground floor was on Jessie Street between Market and Mission—an easy walk. I turned right on Montgomery and took another right on Market. I was trying to forget what I’d seen in the apartment with Liam. I had to concentrate hard, take deep breaths, and calm my stomach with a Tums. Pinching the inside of my upper arm helped a little.

  The auction house looked like it had seen better days, but wasn’t prepared to admit it. According to Kolchak’s note, the original principals, Augustus Conville and Enoch Iredale, were long dead and the business had devolved by winding and mysterious paths of marriage and reproduction to one Adlai Constantine, who was great-grandnephew to both men.

  As I was about to enter, the brass and glass double doors pushed open and a short, fat, very angry man stood there, yelling over his shoulder. His black suit was so shiny it looked green. “And get those goddamned letters fixed before I get back. Get the goddamned filing up to date. And make sure my goddamned lunch is on my goddamned desk.”

  He charged past me; if I’d been a few seconds earlier he’d have knocked me down, but I doubt he’d have noticed. I watched him power toward a bar across the street, and felt something stir that might, in dim light, be mistaken for a plan.

  Inside, the reception area was filled with antique sofas and chairs with legs that looked too thin to bear the weight of anyone but a small child. The oriental rug was threadbare and I wondered at Kolchak’s description of the outfit as “exclusive”—maybe it was exclusiving itself out of clients. The front desk was a curved affair in mahogany with a black marble top, and the girl sitting behind it wore a cabaret troupe’s worth of make-up. Though she must have been the target of the fat man’s tirade, it didn’t seem to have bothered her at all; I figured the Kleenexes in my handbag were unnecessary. No tears for Barbara Dain, which is what her desk plate dubbed her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked anyway and she gave a combined nod-shrug.

  “He’ll calm down. Coupla shots of whiskey and he’ll be a lamb by two o’clock, snoozing under his desk by three.”

  No wonder the business was sliding. “I’m hoping you could help me?”

  “You buying or selling?” she said, sounding bored.

  “Neither. Well, I guess buying: I’ll give you twenty bucks and the chance to put one over that asshole.”

  She didn’t say “no,” or even look slightly suspicious. “That’s a lot of money. You must want something bad.” Babs gave a slow, sly smile. “Fifty bucks or nothing.”

  I paused as if considering, then nodded, just soon enough to let her know she’d bid too low. “Deal.”

  Resigned, she said, “What do you need?”

  “The name of whoever bought Lot Twenty-two on Tuesday last.”

  “Mr Constantine hasn’t given me those files yet.” She tapped a pen against her teeth. “He’ll be at the bar for at least another twenty minutes and I’ve got to step out to get his lunch, which might just give you time to find what you’re looking for?”

  I grinned and handed over the bill. It was a lot of money, but today I could afford to be generous.

  The secretary stood, smoothed her pale pink dress, and jerked her chin toward the inner office. “You get caught and I never saw you before in my life. All the paperwork’s in the top desk tray.” She grabbed an Enid Collins purse—decorated with beads in the shape of tropical fruit—from under the table, then headed off, full skirts swinging.

  The doorknob, shadowy silver shaped like a bird’s head, took a couple of turns; I guessed it was one of those quirks an owner got used to, but drove anyone else nuts. Constantine’s office seemed a little more upmarket than the room I’d just left: the seats were green leather button-back Chesterfields, and the Turkish rug on the floor was in a much better state than the reception carpet; I felt kind of bad walking on it. Behind the wide maple desk with its banker’s lamp, big cut-glass ashtray, and fancy penholder was a series of windows, festooned with red velvet drapes that looked onto a narrow alley.

  I found what I was after, third down in a disordered stack of about forty sand-colored manilas, the lot numbers written in an untidy red script in the upper right-hand corner. The first sheet had a range of details including items sold: four canopic jars; the seller: Estate of Audrey Schliemann, late of Vienna, Austria; and the name and address of the buyer: one Abel Mannheim of (the very wealthy) Hillsborough Heights. All of which I copied into my notebook then, out of sheer nosiness, flicked through the rest of the papers in the file.

  There wasn’t much there except a brief history of the artifacts (found in a Ptolemaic period tomb in the old city of Shedet, capital of The Land of the Lakes, in Egypt), a proof of provenance certificate, which probably wasn’t worth the letterhead it was written on, and a bunch of photographs that were not what I was expecting. Though the top one was just an image of the alabaster and gold jars—each lid a unique head: baboon, jackal, human, falcon—the photos beneath it were something entirely different.


  And horribly familiar: shriveled bodies with the tops of their heads missing. But the images were old, I could tell by the victims’ clothing, maybe fifty years out of fashion.

  My stomach got unhappy again.

  That’s when I heard shouting from the reception area—Mr Constantine had returned early and was presumably yelling because no one was at the front desk to hear him.

  I slid the file back into place and made for the windows, none of which wanted to open—if they had I’d have been gone like a greased otter down a slippery slide.

  Nothing to do but brazen it out. I’d just got my backside in one of the visitors’ seats when I heard the door being thrown open behind me.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Oh, hello! Are you Mr Conville or Mr Iredale? I’m ever so pleased to meet you, sir!” The chirpiness set my teeth on edge, but I threw some serious wattage into the smile and widened my eyes, all corn-fed innocence.

  It confused him enough to make his stride slow. “I’m Constantine, Adlai Constantine. And you are?”

  “Oh, how rude of me! I’m Minnie Smith. I’m here about my grandmother’s diamonds—”

  “Did my secretary let you in?” He took up his seat on the other side of the desk and I hoped he didn’t twig that it had been warmed by a considerably smaller set of buttocks.

  “Oh no, Mr Constantine. She went to get your lunch, sir, and I just thought to myself, why, Minnie-girl, surely no one would object to you waiting in the office! Things will move so much faster if you’re all ready to do business!”

  “Now look here, Miss Smith—”

  “Oh, please. Minnie.”

  “Now look here, Minnie—”

  “I’m here about Grandmamma’s diamonds, you see. She left them to me and I, well, I just don’t wear diamonds—I’m too young, obviously—but then I got to thinking that Grandmamma wouldn’t mind at all if I sold them, would she? And they’re just so elegant, why I—”