The Mummy by Max Allan Collins Page A

burning.
    On the curator’s desk lay the golden map, stretched out as if the trio were planning a trip. Dr. Bey lifted it nearer the candlelight for a better look.
    “This map is almost three thousand years old, Doctor,” she told him. “And the hieratics over here indicate exactly what is being charted . . .”
    Dr. Bey looked up at her.
    With a nervous grin and a little shrug, she ventured into dangerous waters. “It shows the way to Hamanaptra.”
    The map trembled, or rather Dr. Bey’s hands holding it did; he seemed rather shaken by her statement, but only for a moment. Then he smiled and laughed, shaking his head.
    “My dear girl, don’t be ridiculous,” Bey said. “I’m surprised at you, a scholar of your qualities, of your seriousness. That’s a myth, Hamanaptra—told by ancient Arabs to amuse Greek and Roman tourists.”
    “Let’s not confuse the myth of Hamanaptra, Doctor,” she said, “with the very real possibility that the temple, and its necropolis, may have existed. Of course, I don’t take that silly blather seriously—a mummy’s curse, a place of evil—pure nonsense, obviously.”
    “Hold on, there,” Jonathan said, candlelight flickering on his suddenly keenly interested face, “you’re not talking about the Hamanaptra? City of the Dead sort of thing? Hiding place for the wealth of the early pharaohs?”
    Evelyn was amused. “Amazing how your Egyptology has improved.”
    “Where treasure is concerned, dear girl, I’m a bloody expert. Anyway, every schoolchild knows of Hamanaptra and its wonderful big underground treasure chamber. You suppose it’s true that the pharaohs had it rigged so the whole place could disappear under the dunes, flick o’ the switch?”
    “None of it’s true,” Bey said, chuckling, but still examining the map, holding it closer to the light. “As the Americans would say, it’s bunk . . . hooey . . . hokum.”
    “Are you sure that’s English, old man? Say! Watch it!”
    The corner of the map had touched the candle’s flame . . . and now the map was on fire! Bey bolted to his feet and tossed the burning papyrus off the desk, onto the floor, where Jonathan dropped to his knees and patted it quickly out with his hands. Then Jonathan held the smoldering papyrus up and the left third of the map was gone.
    “Oh dear,” Evelyn said, fingers touching her lips.
    Jonathan’s frown was more like a pout. “You burned it! You bloody fool, you burned off the best part!”
    “I am sorry.” Bey bowed. “It was an accident.”
    “Rameses destroying Syria,” Evelyn said coldly, “that was an accident.”
    “Perhaps it’s for the best.” Bey sat back down, shrugging. “We are scholars, not treasure hunters, after all. Many men have wasted their lives in pursuit of foolishness like this. No one has ever found Hamanaptra, and many who’ve tried failed even to return.”
    Evelyn arched an eyebrow. “My research indicates the temple city may have existed.”
    Jonathan was holding up the map, staring at its charred edge with the expression of a child who has just broken his first toy, Christmas morning. “You burned off the lost city,” he said accusingly to the curator, who merely shrugged again.
    “I’m sure it was a forgery, a fake. Really, Miss Carnahan, I thought better of you than to be fooled so easily . . . However, as for this box . . .”
    And the curator reached toward the golden octagonal artifact on his desk.
    “. . . I may be able to offer a modest sum.”
    Jonathan’s expression perked up, but Evelyn snatched the box from Dr. Bey’s grasp and glared at him.
    “No thank you, Doctor,” she said. “Suddenly, it is not for sale.”
    And she quickly exited, with Jonathan—scorched map in hand—trailing bemusedly after.

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    Gallows Humor
    J onathan Carnahan may have been a bit of a dilettante where Egyptology was concerned, and an utter fraud as an archaeologist, but one thing he did know: every watering hole in Cairo. From the