“Strong stuff for the thirties, I should say.”
“Yes. The family and the museum were desperate to cover it up-for different reasons, of course-and it seems they managed quite nicely.”
“I imagine the press was a bit more cooperative in those days. Not the muckraking chaps we have today.”
Nora wondered if Wicherly knew her husband was a reporter. “Anyway, the investigation into Cavendish’s murder was still ongoing when it happened again. This time the mutilated body belonged to Mongomery Bolt, apparently a collateral descendant of John Jacob Astor, a remittance man and a sort of black sheep in the family. The tomb was now being guarded at night, but the murderer sapped the guard before dumping Bolt’s body in the sarcophagus. A note was found on the body. There’s a copy of it in this file.”
She pulled out a yellowed sheet. On it was an Eye of Horus and several other hieroglyphs. Wicherly looked at it in bemusement.
“‘The Curse of Ammut Strikes All Who Enter,’” he intoned. “Whoever wrote this was ignorant. The chap barely knew his hieroglyphs. They aren’t even drawn properly. A crude fake.”
“Yes. They realized that right away.” She turned over some more papers. “Here’s the police report on that crime.”
“The plot thickens.” Wicherly winked, edged his seat closer.
“The police took notice of the link to John Jacob Astor. He’d helped finance the installation of the Tomb of Senef. The police began to wonder if someone wasn’t taking revenge on those responsible for bringing the tomb to the museum. Naturally, their suspicions fell on the Bey of Bolbassa.”
“The fellow who claimed the tomb was cursed.”
“Right. He’d gotten the newspapers all stirred up against the museum. Turns out he wasn’t even a real bey- whatever that is. There’s a report here on his background.”
Wicherly picked it up, sniffed. “Former carpet merchant, made a lot of money.”
“Again, the museum, along with the Astor family, was able to successfully quash any publicity-except it was impossible to stop the rumors circulating inside the museum itself. In time, the authorities established that the Bey of Bolbassa had returned to Egypt just before the killings, but they suspected he had hired operatives in New York. If he did, though, they were too clever to get caught. And when the third killing occurred-”
“Another?”
“This time it was an elderly lady who lived in the neighborhood. It took them a while to figure out the connection-turns out she was distantly descended from Cahors, the man who originally found the tomb. By now, the museum was boiling with rumors, and they were spreading to the general populace. Every crank spiritualist, medium, and tarot-card reader was converging on the museum, and New Yorkers were only too eager to believe the tomb was really cursed.”
“Credulous fools.”
“Perhaps. In any case, it just about emptied the museum. The police investigation wasn’t going anywhere, and so the museum decided to take preemptive action. Using the pretext of the construction of the 81st Street station pedestrian tunnel, they closed the tomb and sealed it up. The killings stopped, the rumors gradually died down, and the Tomb of Senef was mostly forgotten.”
“And the murder cases?”
“Never solved. Although they were convinced the bey was behind them, they couldn’t get proof.”
Wicherly rose from his chair. “That’s quite a story, Nora.”
“It certainly is.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“On the one hand, it might make an interesting sidebar to the history of the tomb. But I have a sense the museum wouldn’t be too keen on publicizing it, and I’m not sure I’d like to, either. I’d rather focus on the archaeology, on teaching people about ancient Egypt.”
“I agree with you, Nora.”
“There’s another reason, maybe even more important. This new murder in the museum-it has some resemblances to the old ones. People will talk, rumors will start.”
“Rumors have already started.”
“Well, yes. I’ve been hearing quite a few myself. At any rate, we don’t want anything derailing this opening.”
“Very true.”
“Good. I’ll write Menzies a report, with our recommendation that none of this is relevant and that it shouldn’t be publicized.” She closed the folder. “That settles it, then.”
There was a silence. Wicherly had risen from his seat and was once again standing behind her, glancing down at the scattered papers of the file. He reached over and picked one up, perused it, put it back down. She felt his hand on her shoulder and stiffened.
A moment later, she felt his lips on the nape of her neck, barely touching her skin, caressing her as lightly as a butterfly.
She rose abruptly and turned. He stood close to her, blue eyes flashing. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” He smiled, displaying his porcelain rack. “I couldn’t help myself. I find you devastatingly attractive, Nora.”
He continued smiling at her, radiating self-confidence and charm, elegant and more handsome than any man deserved to be.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m married,” she said.
“We’ll have a grand time and nobody need ever know.”
“I will know.”
He smiled, put a caressing hand on her shoulder. “I want to make love to you, Nora.”
She took a deep breath. “Adrian, you’re a charming and intelligent man. I’m sure that many women would like to make love to you, too.”
She could see his smile broadening.
“But I’m not one of them.”
“But, my lovely Nora-”
“Wasn’t that plain enough for you? I haven’t the slightest interest in making love to you, Adrian-even if I weren’t married.”
Wicherly stood there, dumbfounded, his face struggling to comprehend the sudden reversal of his expectations.
“I don’t mean to be insulting, just unambiguous, since my earlier efforts to telegraph my lack of interest don’t seem to have penetrated. Please don’t make me be any more hurtful than necessary.”
She saw the blood drain from his face. His easy self-possession vanished for a moment, exposing what Nora had begun to suspect: a spoiled child blessed with good looks and brilliance, who had developed the firm belief that whatever he wanted, he should get.
He began to stammer something that might have been intended as an apology, and Nora let her voice soften. “Look, Adrian, let’s just forget it, okay? This never happened. We’ll never mention it again.”
“Quite right, yes. Very decent of you, thank you, Nora.”
His face was now flaming with embarrassment, and he looked crushed. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She wondered if she was perhaps the first woman ever to turn him down.
“I’ve got a report to write for Menzies,” she said as gently and lightly as possible. “And I believe you need a bit of fresh air. Why not take a brisk turn around the museum?”
“Yes, good suggestion, thank you.”
“I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Yes.”
And, moving as stiffly as a machine, Wicherly went to the intercom and pressed the button to be released. When the vault door opened, he vanished without another word, and Nora was once again left in peace to take notes and make her report.
Chapter 25
