"Get the travel documents for me," he said.
He reached into his pocket and produced a shining gold coin which Samir recognized immediately. He did not need to study the engraving.
"No, sire, I cannot. This is not a coin any longer. It is more...."
"Use it, my friend. There are many, many more where it came from. In Egypt I have riches hidden which I myself can no longer measure."
Samir took the co
in, though what he would do with it he was not certain.
"I can get what you want."
"And for yourself? Whatever is required that you might travel with us?"
Samir felt his pulse quicken. He stared at the King's face, only partially revealed by the grey light through the door.
"Yes, sire, if that's what you wish. I will gladly go with you."
Ramses made a small polite gesture; Samir at once opened the door; Ramses gave him a little bow and passed out into the rain silently.
For a long time, Samir stood there, feeling the cold spray from outside, yet not moving. Then he closed and locked the door. He walked through the dark corridors of the museum until he had reached the front foyer.
A great statue of Ramses the Great stood there as it had for many years, greeting all those who entered the museum.
It had brought only a passing smile from the King. But Samir stared at it, aware that his attitude was one of silent worship.
Inspector Trent sat at his desk at Scotland Yard pondering. It was past two. Sergeant Galton had long ago gone home. And he himself was tired. Yet he could not stop thinking of all the aspects of this strange case, which now encompassed a murder.
He had never become accustomed to examining corpses. Yet he'd gone to the morgue to see the body of Tommy Sharples for one very important reason. A rare Greek coin had been found in Sharples's pocket, a coin identical with the "Cleopatra coins" in the Stratford collection. And there had been a small address book on Sharples's person as well, which contained the name and addresses of Henry Stratford.
Henry Stratford, who had run out of his cousin's house in Mayfair this morning, crying that a mummy had climbed out of its coffin.
Yes, a puzzle.
That Henry Stratford possessed a rare Cleopatra coin would not have surprised anyone. He had tried to sell such a coin only two days ago, that was now almost certain. But why would he have tried to pay his debts with such a valuable piece of gold, and why did the thief who murdered Sharples not steal it?
Trent would call the British Museum about the coin first thing in the morning. That is, after he hauled Stratford out of bed and questioned him about the murder of Sharples.
But the whole thing didn't make sense. And then there was the question of the murder itself. Surely Henry Stratford hadn't done it. A gentleman like that could hold off his creditors for months. Beside, he just wasn't the sort to sink a knife into a man's chest, at least Trent didn't think so.
But he wasn't the sort to run screaming from his cousin's house that a mummy had tried to strangle him either.
And then there was another thing. A most disturbing thing. It was the manner in which Miss Stratford had responded when told of her cousin's mad story. She hadn't seemed shocked so much as coldly indignant. Why, the story itself didn't surprise her at all. And then there was that strange gentleman staying at her house and the way that Stratford had stared at him. The young woman had been hiding something, that was clear. Perhaps he should stop by and just have a look about the house, and talk with the guard for a little while.
After all, he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight anyway.
HE SMALL hours. Ramses stood in the hallway of Julie's palatial house, observing the intricately carved hands of the grandfather clock move into place. At last the big hand bisected the Roman numeral twelve, and the small hand bisected the Roman numeral four, and the clock began its deep, melodious chime.
Roman numerals. Everywhere he looked he saw them; on cornerstones, in the pages of books; on the facades of buildings. In fact, the art, the language, the spirit of Rome ran through this entire culture, hooking it firmly to the past. Even the concept of justice which so strongly influenced Julie Stratford had come down not from the barbarians who once ruled this place with their crude ideas of revealed law and tribal vengeance, but from the courts and judges of Rome where reason had reigned.
The great banks of the money changers were fashioned like Roman temples. Great marble statues of figures in Roman dress stood in public places. The curiously graceless houses that crowded this street had small Roman columns and even peri-styles over the doors.
He turned around and went back into the library of Lawrence Stratford and sat down again in the man's comfortable leather chair. He had placed lighted candles all about this room for his own pleasure, and now it had the very pitch of light he so loved. Of course the little maidservant would faint dead away in the morning when she saw the dripping wax everywhere, but never mind. She would certainly clean it away.
He loved this room of Lawrence Stratford--Lawrence Stratford's books and his desk. Lawrence Stratford's gramophone playing "Beethoven," a medley of squeaky little horns that sounded oddly like a chorus of cats.
How curious that he had taken possession of so much that had belonged to this white-haired Englishman who had broken down the door of his tomb.