The Deeds of the Disturber Read Free Page B

euphemisms," Emerson replied austerely. "And anyone who knows the young man and his set could conjecture correctly."
    "So that is the extent of the mummy's baneful influence? A hunting accident, a case of—er—disease, and a natural death from heart failure?"
    "The usual number of weak-minded ladies have felt faint in its presence," Emerson replied caustically. "And the usual psychic investigators have received messages from the Beyond. Humph. I suppose one can hardly blame the gullible public, when our distinguished Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities feeds their folly."
    "Wallis Budge? Oh, come, Emerson, not even Budge would—"
    "He would. He has. That fellow will stop at nothing to get his name in print. How such a ranting imbecile could attain that position . . . DAMNATION!"
    No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring soubriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub.
    The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled—cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.
    The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.
    "I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches ..."
    "The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault."
    "It was mine, I suppose," Emerson said mildly.
    "Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?"
    "No," said Emerson.
    He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)
    Studying my husband as he sat on the bathroom floor in a puddle of water, carefully separating the soaking pages of the newspaper, I was overcome by renewed admiration and affection. How cruelly was that man maligned by those who did not share the intimacy of his acquaintance! His explosions of temper were as brief as they were noisy; afterward he immediately reverted to his customary affability, and I believe few men could appear so cool and dignified in such a position. Bastet's considerable bulk had struck him full in the chest. His wet shirt molded the splendid musculature of that area of his body; and though the water in which he sat was slowly darkening the fabric of his trousers, producing a considerable degree of discomfort, he remained unperturbed.
    At last he cleared his throat. "Here it is. I beg, Amelia, that you will refrain from commenting until I have finished reading.
    "Hem. 'Stop press. Startling new developments in British Museum mystery. Your correspondent has learned that within a few weeks a team of expert investigators will attempt to solve the case of the malignant mummy. Professor Radcliffe Emerson and his spouse, Amelia Peabody Emerson, whose daring exploits are well known to readers of the Daily Yell— "
    It was impossible for flesh and blood to remain unmoved. Rising impetuously to