Adventures Read online

  He looked so unhappy that I finally agreed to let him tag along, and off we went in pursuit of his lost love and my lost money. Gradually the alley turned into a minor street and then a major thoroughfare, but it remained just as empty, probably because when people got a gander at Friday they just naturally remembered that they had urgent business elsewhere.

  We finally came to one house that was all lit up like a Christmas tree, and since no one answered when we knocked at the door, we moseyed around back and found ourselves in the midst of a garden party. I could see that Friday was likely to prove a considerable social hazard, because the second he rounded the corner of the house everyone lit out for the hills except for two bearded men who immediately fell to arguing amongst themselves as to whether he was from the Ninth or the Eleventh Dynasty. When Friday helpfully put in that he was Amenophis III, they both turned on him and told him not to interrupt in matters that he knew nothing about.

  “But I am Amenophis!” he protested.

  “What the hell do you know about it?” demanded the smaller of the two men. “That would date you much too late. From the style of your leg bandages, you're much more likely to be Userkaf or perhaps Sahura.”

  “No,” said Friday firmly. “I'm confused about a lot of things, but if there is one thing I know with absolute certainty, it's that I'm Amenophis III.”

  “You are, are you?” said the taller one nastily. “Then how come you don't know that Amenophis is merely an Anglicization of Amen-hetep?”

  “That's what I said,” interjected Friday hastily. “I'm Amen-hetep III. I just used Amenophis to make it easier for you gentlemen.”

  “So you think the Colossi were set up in your honor, do you?” snarled the smaller man. “You think you're the guy who's credited with building the Temple of Amen-Ra at Karnak?”

  “How do I know what I've been credited with?” said Friday. “I've been away.”

  “Piffle!” snapped the larger of the two men. “Do you hear me? I say piffle! You're Ninth Dynasty, and that's all there is to it!”

  “Eleventh!” protested the smaller man. “Look at the eyeholes!”

  “Age could do that,” said his companion. “After all, he's at least four thousand years old.”

  “Three thousand,” said Friday petulantly.

  “Keep out of this!” they snapped in unison.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, stepping forward, “but may I interrupt you for just a moment?”

  “Are you with the mummy?” asked the smaller man suspiciously.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I replied.

  “Is he Ninth or Eleventh Dynasty?” he asked me.

  “Brother, I never discuss politics, religion, or Egyptian dynasties,” I said firmly.

  “My God!” said the taller man in shocked amazement. “What else is there?”

  “Well, for one thing, there's naked white women,” I said.

  “He's right,” nodded the smaller man thoughtfully. “There is that.”

  “Have you happened to see any this evening?” I persisted.

  “Any what?”

  “Any naked white women.”

  “I'm afraid not,” said the taller man.

  “Damn!” muttered Friday.

  “I'm terribly sorry,” continued the taller man, “but it's really not the sort of thing one might expect to see at a cocktail party for Egyptologists.”

  “More's the pity,” added the smaller man. “But why do you ask?”

  “We seem to have misplaced one,” I said.

  “l didn't know they were that easy to misplace,” remarked the taller one thoughtfully.

  “She was my beloved,” said Friday mournfully.

  “Ah!” said the smaller man. “That would be Thi, daughter of Kallimma-Sin.”

  “Only if you accept his cock-and-bull story about being Amen-hetep,” pointed out the taller one. “Otherwise, she's probably Nitaqert.”

  “Nitaqert!” screamed his colleague. “Impossible! You've got the wrong dynasty, the wrong wife, and the wrong color!”

  Well, their tempers got to flaring up then, so Friday and I just kind of walked back around to the street and continued on our quest. Friday was about as happy as a lovelorn mummy can be, since he had finally found out his lost love's name, but I was getting more depressed with every passing minute, because the longer it took to hunt Rosepetal down, the more likely it was that she'd be able to find some clothing—and if we couldn't find a naked white woman on the streets of Cairo, our chances of finding a particular clothed one didn't seem all that promising.

  “Think, Friday!” I said as we walked up and down the avenues. “Where would she be likely to go?”

  “I have no idea,” he replied, “and I'll thank you to call me Amen-hetep or else risk bringing my godly wrath down upon yourself.”

  And then it came to me in a flash: If I were in Rosepetal's britches (figuratively speaking, you understand) and I had as much dishonestly-come-by money as she did, the first thing I'd want to do would be to leave the country. And, being a white woman, it made sense that she'd wait for the next ship out of here where all the white folks did: at Shepheard's Hotel.

  I conveyed this line of insightful reasoning to Friday, who, having nothing better to offer by way of suggestions, decided to accompany me. We reached Shepheard's, which had become a jumping-off place for no end of wealthy tourists, just as the sun was starting to rise, and walked up to the registration desk.

  “I don't mean to unduly alarm you, sir,” said the concierge, “but are you aware of the fact that there is a rather large mummy following you?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “I wonder if I might see your guest register?”

  “It doesn't bother you?” he asked.

  “What doesn't?” I asked.

  “The mummy.”

  “Not a bit,” I said. “If it disturbs you, I'll have it wait outside.”

  “That won't be necessary,” he said in a resigned tone of voice. “When you've worked this desk as long as I have, a mummy can be a pretty trivial thing, if you know what I mean.”

  I assured him that I knew exactly what he meant, and began reading the guest book. “I don't find the name I'm looking for here,” I said at last, “but the party in question may very well have been traveling incognito. Has anyone checked in during the past two or three hours?”

  “Would you have in mind a young lady who gave every appearance of having dressed in rather a hurry?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “The very person!” I exclaimed.

  “I must say, she has a peculiar notion of incognito,” he remarked.

  “I'd sort of like to surprise her,” I said with a knowing smile. “What room is she in?”

  “I'm afraid that releasing room numbers is against the rules of the hotel,” he replied stiffly.

  “That's a pity,” I said, stepping aside as Friday walked forward and grabbed him around the neck. “It seems that strangling concierges isn't against any particular rules that govern the behavior of mummies.”

  “207!” he gurgled. Friday released him and he slid to the floor behind the counter as we raced to the stairs. A moment later we were standing in front of the door to Room 207. I knocked twice, and heard a familiar voice ask who was there.

  “Room service,” I said.

  Rosepetal opened the door, and I stepped in.

  “Why, Lucifer!” she exclaimed, startled. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  She was wearing a sporty brown suit with matching shoes, all of which looked mighty expensive. I let out a curse the second I saw them.

  “Just how the hell much did those duds cost you?” I demanded.

  “Not that much,” she said, backing away and shoving a small table between us. “I still had enough left to buy a suitcase and to book passage out of this stupid country.”

  “You spent it all?” I screamed. “All of it?”

  “Well, I am fleeing for my life, you know,” she said. “I have no inten
tion of being here when—” She let out a little shriek as Friday entered the room. “Oh my God!” she cried. “He's back!”

  “My beloved Thi!” he intoned, extending his arms and walking slowly toward her. “I shall take you to wife and together we shall rule my kingdom, bring order out of chaos, and produce many heirs.”

  “He still thinks he's Amenophis!” she wailed.

  “Oh, no, my love,” said Friday. “I know now that I am Amen-hetep.”

  “Your name is Friday!” she said, practically crying. “Now leave me alone or I'll miss my boat!”

  “But my beloved Thi!” he said, confused. “Can it be that the passing of the eons has dimmed your memory? I am the Pharaoh of all Egypt!”

  “You're not even an Egyptian!” she said desperately. “You're a ... a Nubian!”

  “Impossible!” he scoffed.

  “You think not?” she said, walking up to him and avoiding his hand. “Let me try to bring you back to your senses once and for all!”

  I positioned myself behind him, ready to race out the door if he got violent, while Rosepetal grabbed the end of a bandage that was coming loose at Friday's waist and began unraveling it. Pretty soon she got the most curious expression on her face, and by the time she had unwrapped the tape down to his thighbones she just quit altogether, staring kind of strangely at what she had uncovered thus far.

  “Amen-hetep, dear,” she sort of crooned, “can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”

  “It is forgotten,” he intoned graciously. “And you are still my beloved Thi?”

  She took one last look and nodded vigorously.

  He reached out and embraced her.

  “Lucifer,” she said, “you'll find my ticket lying on the nightstand. Take it and leave.”

  “I'll do no such thing!” I said.

  “Lucifer,” she said sweetly but firmly, “if you're still in this room in ten seconds I shall ask Amen-hetep, Pharaoh of all Egypt, to execute you as slowly and painfully as possible.”

  I was on my way down the hall in eight seconds flat, and I heard the door to Room 207 slam shut just as I reached the stairway.

  That was the last I ever saw of Rosepetal Schultz or Friday, though she did write me after I had finally established my tabernacle to assure me that there were no hard feelings and that Amen-hetep had certain virtues that were well worth waiting a mere three thousand years for.

  As for me, I wound up in Morocco, which was as far as Rosepetal could afford a ticket for, and within a mere fortnight I was holding one of the world's rarest and most valuable treasures in my hand.

  It was not, as you shall see, quite as simple as it sounds.

  Chapter 6

  A RED-LETTER SCHEME

  Casablanca wasn't real popular with tourists and sightseers back in the old days, and I was the only passenger to climb down the gangplank when we docked there. It was so hot and dirty and grubby-looking that I could tell right off why it didn't rank way up there with the Riviera and New Orleans and other places of worldwide renown.

  There was a very worried-looking little man waiting on the pier, pacing up and down and working himself into a nervous frenzy. I nodded pleasantly and walked past him, but a minute later he raced after me and grabbed me by the shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” he said apologetically, “but was there not perhaps a lovely young lady on the ship with you who also planned to disembark at Casablanca?”

  “None that I know of, brother,” I replied.

  “But this is terrible!” he cried.

  I shared his sentiments, especially since I could have used a little company during the voyage, but I merely smiled at him and kept walking.

  He was back beside me a moment later.

  “Her name was Mademoiselle Rosepetal Schultz,” he said. “Are you sure you did not meet her on the boat?”

  “Rosepetal?” I repeated. “Why didn't you say so in the first place, brother?”

  “Then she is on the ship after all?” he asked, looking mighty relieved.

  “No,” I told him. “As a matter of fact, I used her ticket to get here.”

  “But this is dreadful!” he wailed. “She wired me yesterday that she would be arriving this afternoon!”

  “Something came up very unexpectedly,” I told him truthfully. “These things happen.”

  “But why must they always happen to me?” he moaned.

  “Try reading a couple of chapters from the Book of David,” I said soothingly. “I find it usually settles me down when I've had some bad news.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You know a lot about the Bible?” he asked.

  “The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Would I be correct in assuming that you have no place to stay?” he asked.

  “I've temporarily fallen upon hard times, brother,” I admitted. “But I've never lost my faith in the Good Lord, Who I know will provide for me.” I stared at him curiously. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Room, board, and fifty francs a week,” he said.

  “Done, brother!” I cried. “By the way, how much is that in real money?”

  Well, it came to about ten dollars, which isn't a hell of a lot unless the economy happens to be in the midst of a depression—and since that was exactly the state my personal economy was in, I decided to take it unless and until something better turned up.

  My employer's name was Andre Peugeot, and in all my born days I never saw a man with more nervous tics and gestures. All he would tell me about his place of business was that it was called Bousbir, and he seemed absolutely flabbergasted when I told him I'd never heard of it.

  When we arrived, I was pretty flabbergasted myself to find that something like the Bousbir had escaped my attention, because what it was was the biggest whorehouse in the whole wide world. At least, that's what Andre told me. All I knew for sure is that it was the biggest one I had ever seen, and took up about twice as much space as the Banque de Casablanca, which was right across the street from it.

  We walked through a series of lobbies and lounges, each covered with plush carpets and velvet wallpaper and containing as tasty an assortment of fine-looking ladies as ever I did see, until we finally reached a small room with a single bed and a sink and toilet in the corner.

  “Your room,” said Andre.

  “Brother Andre,” I said, “we'd better get a couple of things straight right off the bat. I'm pretty liberal as men of the cloth go...”

  “So I noticed,” he said dryly.

  “Neverthegoddamless,” I continued, “there are some things that are specifically frowned upon by the Good Book, the law, and various other official governing bodies, most of them pertaining to your male customers, that I am not prepared to do even for money, and especially not for a lousy fifty francs a week.”

  “I quite understand,” said Andre. “It is for your unique qualities as a man of God that I have hired you.”

  “I reckon you could use one around here, at that,” I allowed.

  “Indeed,” he agreed. “It has been one of our greatest needs up to now.”

  “Well, Brother Andre,” I said, “I'll certainly be glad to bring such comfort as I can to your poor wayward girls in any way that I think will help and uplift them the most.”

  “I appreciate your offer,” he replied, “but I think you misunderstand me. It is not my girls who need your spiritual expertise. Rather, it is my customers.”

  “Your customers?” I repeated. “Why don't they just go to church?”

  “We sell many things here, my friend,” said Andre. “But perhaps our most precious commodity is fantasy. Do you begin to understand?”

  “Not really,” I answered.

  “Some of our little pageants need—how shall I put it? —a technical adviser.”

  “Brother Andre, the light is beginning to dawn,” I said, shooting him a great big grin.

  “Can you do it?”
r />   “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” I assured him. “After all. you're asking me to combine my two favorite vocations. Just leave everything to me and the Good Lord, and I'm sure we'll manage to work things out betwixt us.”

  Which we did, at least for a few days. But within a week the customers and even the girls were getting a little jaded and began demanding new material, and I took to wandering through the bazaars during the afternoons, searching for ideas that had nothing to do with cardinals and nuns, or black masses, or maniacal rabbis, or secret Chinese fertility ceremonies, or any of the other similarly pedestrian productions I had been directing and coaching.

  It was during one such sojourn through the marketplace that I saw a white man who looked vaguely familiar. He had his back to me, and was browsing at a table about fifty feet away, but I couldn't get the thought out of my mind that I knew him from somewhere. I stayed right where I was, pretending to examine some old pottery, until at last he paid for the dates he was munching on and I finally got a look at his face.

  It was Erich Von Horst!

  Not wishing to cause a scene in public, especially since I didn't speak French or Arabic and I had the feeling that no one around there spoke anything else, I continued to browse until he left the bazaar. Then, being careful to keep out of sight, I followed him for almost a mile until he entered an old, dusty, run-down hotel.

  I waited five minutes, then entered it. There was no desk clerk on duty, so I reached over the counter, grabbed hold of the registration book, and began looking at it. There was no Von Horst listed, nor even a Captain Peter Clarke, but it didn't matter: a gentleman named Fritz Wallensack was the only guest currently in residence. I tiptoed up to his room, threw the door open, and walked in.

  “Von Horst!” I bellowed. “You owe me two thousand and forty English pounds!”

  “Why, Doctor Jones,” he said, looking up from his bed, where he was lying with his head propped up against the moldy wall. “How very nice to see you again. Have you been in Casablanca long?”

  “Don't give me that crap, Von Horst!” I snapped. “I want my money!”

  “I don't doubt it,” he chuckled.