The Mummy Case (34 page)

I now believe the tales of those who claim to have relived their entire lives in the space of a few seconds, for those thoughts and others that do not merit description flashed through my mind in the moments that elapsed before I reached the bottom of the pit. To my astonishment I found it was covered with water. Under the water was mud and under the mud was stone. The presence of the water and the mud broke my fall, though it was hard enough to bruise me and knock the breath clean out of me. Not until I made instinctive swimming motions did I realize that my limbs had been freed. Swimming was unnecessary; the water and underlying slime were scarcely three feet deep. After I had gained my feet my first act was to pluck the gag from my mouth. It was saturated with water and tasted foul, but it had prevented me from swallowing the revolting liquid.

Scarcely had I gained an upright position when I was thrown back into the water by the impact of a heavy object that narrowly missed me and sent a fountain of spray high in the air. Without an instant's hesitation I dropped to my hands and knees and began feeling about. My groping hands encountered a substance that felt like the fur of a drowned animal, slippery with slime and water, but I knew the feel of it, wet or dry, muddy or slimy; and thanking heaven for Emerson's thick, healthy head of hair, I twisted both hands in it and dragged his head up from under the water. The angelic choir will sound no sweeter to me than
the sputtering and cursing that told me Emerson was alive and conscious. Presumably the water on his face had brought him around.

His first act, after spitting out the mud that had filled his mouth, was to aim a blow at my jaw. I had expected this, so I was able to avoid it, while announcing my identity in the loudest possible voice.

"Peabody!" Emerson gurgled. "Is it you? Thank God! But where the devil are we?"

"Inside the Black Pyramid, Emerson. Or rather, under it; for though overcome by bat effluvium and other physical inconveniences, I am certain the general direction of the passageway was—"

During my reply Emerson had located my face by feeling around; he put an end to the speech by placing his mouth firmly over mine. He tasted quite nasty, but I did not mind.

Eventually Emerson stopped kissing me and remarked, "Well, Peabody, we are in a pretty fix. The last thing I remember is an explosion somewhere around the base of my skull. I take it you did not have the same experience; or are you merely producing one of your imaginative hypotheses when you claim we are inside the pyramid? I have never been in one that was as wet as this."

"I was gagged and bound, but not unconscious. Emerson, they have found the entrance! It is not on the north side, where de Morgan looked, but at ground level near the southwest corner. No wonder he could not find it." A critical clearing of the throat from the darkness beside me reminded me that I was wandering off the subject, so I went on, "I suspect we are in the burial chamber itself. This pyramid is quite near the cultivation, if you recall; the recent inundation must have flooded the lower sections."

"I don't understand the point of this," Emerson said, in almost his normal voice. "Why did they not murder us? You can, I presume, find the way out."

"I hope so, Emerson. But this is a very confusing pyramid—a maze, one might say. And I was not at my best. The kidnapper dragged me most of the way and my—er—my body kept bumping on the stones, and—"

"Grrr," said Emerson fiercely. "Dragged you, you say? The villain! I will have his liver for that when I catch up with him. Never mind, Peabody; I would back you against any pyramid ever built."

"Thank you, my dear Emerson," I replied with considerable emotion. "First, though, we must have a look at our surroundings."

"I don't see how we are going to manage that, Peabody. Unless you can see in the dark, like the cat Bastet."

"According to Ramses, that is a folktale. Even cats require a small amount of light in order to see, and this darkness is almost palpable. Wait, Emerson, don't go splashing about; I will strike a light."

"All this banging on the posterior has weakened my poor darling's wits," Emerson muttered to himself. "Peabody, you cannot—"

The tiny flame of the match reflected in twin images in his wide eyes. "Hold the box," I instructed. "I need both hands for the candle. There. That is better, is it not?"

Standing in muddy water up to his hips, a purpling bruise disfiguring his brow and another, presumably, rising on the back of his head, Emerson nevertheless managed a broad and cheerful smile. "Never again will I sneer at your beltful of tools, Peabody."

"I am happy to find that the manufacturer's claim of the waterproof quality of the tin box was not exaggerated. We must not take chances with our precious matches; close the box carefully, if you please, and put it in your shirt pocket."

Emerson did so. Then at last we had leisure to look about us.

Our poor little candle flame was almost overcome by the vast gloom of the chamber. It illuminated only our drawn faces and dank, dripping locks. At the farthest edge of the bright circle a
dim-looming object could be made out, rising like an island from the watery surface. Toward this we made our way.

"It is the royal sarcophagus," said Emerson unnecessarily. "And it is open. Curse it; we are not the first to find the pharaoh's final resting place, Peabody."

"The lid must be on the—oh dear—yes, it is. I have just stubbed my toe on it."

The red granite sides of the sarcophagus were as high as Emerson's head. Seizing me by the waist, he lifted me so I could perch on the ledgelike rim; it was fully a foot thick and made a commodious if uncomfortable seat.

"Let me have the candle," he said. "I will make a circuit of the walls."

He splashed through the water to the nearer side of the chamber. The walls shone in the candlelight as smoothly as if they had been cut from a single block of stone. My heart sank at the sight of the unbroken surface, but I summoned up a firm voice as I called to Emerson, "Hold the candle higher, my dear; I fell some considerable distance before striking the water."

"No doubt it seemed farther than it was," Emerson replied, but he complied with the suggestion. He had gone around two of the walls and was midway down the third before a darker shadow was visible high above the glow of the light. Emerson held the candle above his head.

He stood still as a statue, which in the dim light he rather resembled. His wet garments molded his muscular body and the candlelight brought the muscles and tendons of his upraised arm into shaded outline. The sight was one that will remain printed on my brain—the solemn grandeur of his pose, the funereal gloom of the surroundings—and the knowledge that the opening of the shaft which was our only hope of escape was far out of reach. Emerson is six feet tall; I am five feet and a bit. The hole was a good sixteen feet from the floor.

Emerson knew the truth as well as I. It was several moments before he lowered his arm and returned to my side. "I make it sixteen feet," he said calmly.

"It is nearer seventeen, surely."

"Five feet one inch and six feet—add the length of your arms—"

"And subtract the distance from the top of my head to my shoulders—" In spite of the gravity of the situation I burst out laughing, the calculations sounded so absurd.

Emerson joined in, the echoes of his hearty mirth rebounding ghostily around the chamber. "We may as well try it, Peabody."

We had neglected to deduct the distance from the top of his head to his shoulders. When I stood upon the latter, my fingertips were a good three feet below the lip of the opening. I reported this to Emerson. "Humph," he said thoughtfully. "Supposing you stood on top of my head?"

"That would only give us another twelve or thirteen inches, Emerson. Not nearly enough."

His hands closed over my ankles. "I will lift you at arms' length, Peabody. Can you keep your knees rigid and maintain your balance by leaning toward the wall?"

"Certainly, my dear. When I was a child my highest ambition was to be an acrobat in a fair. Are you sure you can do it?"

"You are a mere feather, my dear Peabody. And if you can be an acrobat, I can aspire to the position of circus strongman. Who knows, if we ever tire of archaeology we can turn to another profession."

"Slowly, please, my dear."

"But of course, Peabody."

I believe I have had occasion to mention Emerson's impressive muscular development, but never before had I realized the full extent of his strength. A gasp escaped my lips when I felt nothing but empty air under the soles of my boots, but my initial trepidation was quickly succeeded by a thrill of pure excitement. I heard Emerson's breath catch and fancied I could almost hear his muscles crack. Slowly I rose higher. It was like flying— one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had.

I was afraid to tilt my head back in order to look up; the slightest movement might have destroyed the precarious balance Emerson and I were maintaining between us. When the upward movement finally ceased, there was nothing under my outstretched hands but the same cold, smooth stone. Emerson let out an inquiring grunt. I looked up.

"Three inches, Emerson. Can you—"

"Ugh," Emerson said decidedly.

"Lower me, then. We shall have to think of something else."

Going down was considerably less pleasant than going up. It was not only the consciousness of failure that weakened my knees, it was the ominous quivering of the arms that supported me. When my feet once more found secure footing on the brawny shoulders of my heroic spouse I leaned against the wall and let out a deep breath. It was as well I did so, for one of Emerson's hands lost its grip and I feared we were both going to topple over backwards.

"Sorry, Peabody," he said, taking a firmer hold. "Cramp."

"Small wonder, my dear Emerson. Don't bother to lower me, I will just let myself down bit by bit."

Somehow he found strength enough to laugh. "I will play Saint Christopher and carry you back to the sarcophagus. Sit on my shoulders."

After he had returned me to my seat he hoisted himself up beside me. We sat side by side, our feet dangling till Emerson got his breath back. "Have you still got the matchbox, Emerson?" I asked.

"You may be sure I have, Peabody. That little tin box is more precious to us now than gold."

"Let me have it, then, and I will button it into my shirt pocket. Then, if you agree, I will blow out the candle. I only have the one, you see."

He nodded, his face somber. The dark closed in upon us, but I did not mind; Emerson's arm was around me and my head rested on his shoulder. For some time we did not speak. Then a sepulchral voice remarked, "We will die in one another's arms, Peabody."

He seemed to find this thought consoling. "Nonsense, my dear Emerson," I said briskly. "Do not abandon hope. We have not yet begun to fight, as one of our heroes said."

"I believe it was an American hero who said it, Peabody."

"Irrelevant, my dear Emerson. It is the spirit of pluck I mean to conjure up."

"But when I die, Peabody, I would like the condition I mentioned to prevail."

"And I, my dearest Emerson. But I have no intention of dying for a long time. Let us turn our brains to the problem and see if we can't think of a way out."

"There is always the possibility of rescue," Emerson said.

"You need not attempt to raise my spirits by false hopes, Emerson. To be sure, I did wonder why our kidnappers would carry us here instead of murdering us outright; but they knew our chance of escape was almost nil. They won't come back. As for rescue from anyone else—to the best of my knowledge, no archaeologist has succeeded in locating the entrance. The villains will have filled in the hole they dug; do you suppose de Morgan can find it? He has no reason to look, for even after our disappearance is discovered, no one will think of searching for us here."

"De Morgan is certainly the least likely person to find an entrance to a pyramid," Emerson agreed. He added, "Peabody, I adore you and I meant it when I said I would not be averse to dying in your arms, but you do have a habit of running on and on, which is particularly trying at a time like this."

My dear Emerson was trying to cheer me with that teasing comment; I gave him an affectionate squeeze to show I understood. "Be that as it may," I said, "we had better not depend on outside help. What we need is something to stand on. A mere three inches shall not defeat us, Emerson."

"We can't move the sarcophagus. It must weigh half a ton."

"More, I fancy. And the cover is probably several hundred pounds in weight. But there may be other objects in the chamber, hidden under the mud. An alabaster canopic chest or cosmetic box—anything made of stone. Wooden objects would be rotted by time and immersion."

"We will have a look," Emerson agreed. "But first let us ascertain whether there are any other possibilities."

"Another entrance, for instance? That is certainly something we must investigate. A pity the ceiling is so high. It will be hard to see a crack or crevice, with only a candle for light."

"At any rate, we know there is no opening at floor level. Had that been the case, the water would have drained out."

Silence followed, as we bent our mind to the problem. Then Emerson chuckled. "This will do Petrie one in the eye," he said vulgarly. "He ran into something of the same sort at Hawara, if you remember. You know how he brags endlessly of how he cleared the chamber of the pyramid by sloshing around underwater and shoving things onto a hoe with his bare toes."

"He found a number of fine objects," I said. "The alabaster altar of Princess Ptahneferu—"

"Something of that nature would make an admirable box on which to stand."

"Alabaster dishes and bowls— Only think, Emerson, what we might find here."

"Don't let archaeological fever get the better of you, Peabody. Even if... Even when we get out of here, we will not have the right to excavate. It is de Morgan's pyramid, not ours."

"He can't object if we make a few discoveries while seeking a means of escape. That is our main purpose, is it not—escape?"