Read Online The Avenger 6 - The Blood Ring by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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while ago. Now it was undeniably not gone!
Next instant he had something even worse to worry about.
From that dried and shriveled thing, wrapped in centuries-old fabric and leaning in an airtight glass case, came words.
“Our brother priest is held by the man with the white hair.”
The watchman went as white as milk. He knew the words were coming from the case, that the mummy was talking. Yet he knew that it was incredible.
“Our brother priest must be released.”
The man stood there, wanting to run, unable to move. And more words came, cracked and tinny but understandable.
“My father’s charms against evil must be retrieved, but not by violence. They must be exchanged for all that which he hath.”
The watchman fled then, finally getting his feet to work. He didn’t punch his clock there, or in any other room. He was leaving this place in the morning, and not coming back. He’d stay by the door to guard it, but that was all his conscience dictated.
There had been reference to a man with white hair. The watchman had seen such a man talking to Mr. Caine, the curator. A man with white hair over a body you knew was quite young and powerful, and with a face as dead as last year’s leaves, and with eyes like little pieces of ice.
That must be the man.
At seven o’clock in the morning the watchman pressed the doorbell of the Sixteenth Street home where The Avenger was staying.
Benson, eyes pale, intent holes in his immoble face, was with the fellow who had reeled into the house last night under Mac’s guidance. The one whose cards proclaimed him as being manager of the Washington branch of a rug and carpet company, and whose name was Snead.
The man was still in a coma, breathing shallowly. Benson, one of the world’s finest doctors, knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He might snap out of this, or he might die with never another word from him, save the cabalistic ones already uttered.
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.” It sounded like part of a child’s poem. The next line being, of course: “Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.” But the man had not mentioned that sequel. Only the first part.
Mac showed the agitated watchman in. And the dour Scot, as well as Smitty and the others, looked pretty skeptical while he told his tale.
A mummy walking out of its case and then returning! A mummy talking!
But Benson’s countenance framed eyes more icily glittering than usual. And in those pale and awesome orbs was no skepticism. The Avenger seemed to take the trembling man’s mad yarn very seriously.
He went back to the museum with him.
“This is the case?” he said, standing in front of the cabinet housing the son of Taros.
“Y-yes, Mr. Benson,” stammered the watchman. He didn’t like to be near the case even in broad daylight.
“Tell me again the words that seemed to come from the mummy.”
“They did come from the thing. There was no seeming about it. Something about ‘our brother priest is held by the white-haired man.’ ”
That, it seemed to The Avenger, would be Snead, the carpet salesman with the queerly Egyptian cast of countenance.
“And,” the watchman went on, “something about, ‘my father’s charms against evil are gone. They’ll have to be returned without violence, in exchange for everything that he has.’ I don’t know what the gibberish means, or anything about it. But those words I heard!”
Benson inspected the cabinet.
It was made of oak, sound and strong, enameled black. The big box was clamped by iron angles on the inside, so it could not have been opened from the outside without a wrecking bar. And there were no marks of violence to indicate that.
The lid was of heavy glass in a steel frame. The frame was tightly screwed to the edges of the box. There was a faint film of rust already in the screw slots. This had not been marred in the slightest, proving conclusively that none of the screws had been recently removed.
Benson experimentally
Next instant he had something even worse to worry about.
From that dried and shriveled thing, wrapped in centuries-old fabric and leaning in an airtight glass case, came words.
“Our brother priest is held by the man with the white hair.”
The watchman went as white as milk. He knew the words were coming from the case, that the mummy was talking. Yet he knew that it was incredible.
“Our brother priest must be released.”
The man stood there, wanting to run, unable to move. And more words came, cracked and tinny but understandable.
“My father’s charms against evil must be retrieved, but not by violence. They must be exchanged for all that which he hath.”
The watchman fled then, finally getting his feet to work. He didn’t punch his clock there, or in any other room. He was leaving this place in the morning, and not coming back. He’d stay by the door to guard it, but that was all his conscience dictated.
There had been reference to a man with white hair. The watchman had seen such a man talking to Mr. Caine, the curator. A man with white hair over a body you knew was quite young and powerful, and with a face as dead as last year’s leaves, and with eyes like little pieces of ice.
That must be the man.
At seven o’clock in the morning the watchman pressed the doorbell of the Sixteenth Street home where The Avenger was staying.
Benson, eyes pale, intent holes in his immoble face, was with the fellow who had reeled into the house last night under Mac’s guidance. The one whose cards proclaimed him as being manager of the Washington branch of a rug and carpet company, and whose name was Snead.
The man was still in a coma, breathing shallowly. Benson, one of the world’s finest doctors, knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He might snap out of this, or he might die with never another word from him, save the cabalistic ones already uttered.
“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.” It sounded like part of a child’s poem. The next line being, of course: “Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.” But the man had not mentioned that sequel. Only the first part.
Mac showed the agitated watchman in. And the dour Scot, as well as Smitty and the others, looked pretty skeptical while he told his tale.
A mummy walking out of its case and then returning! A mummy talking!
But Benson’s countenance framed eyes more icily glittering than usual. And in those pale and awesome orbs was no skepticism. The Avenger seemed to take the trembling man’s mad yarn very seriously.
He went back to the museum with him.
“This is the case?” he said, standing in front of the cabinet housing the son of Taros.
“Y-yes, Mr. Benson,” stammered the watchman. He didn’t like to be near the case even in broad daylight.
“Tell me again the words that seemed to come from the mummy.”
“They did come from the thing. There was no seeming about it. Something about ‘our brother priest is held by the white-haired man.’ ”
That, it seemed to The Avenger, would be Snead, the carpet salesman with the queerly Egyptian cast of countenance.
“And,” the watchman went on, “something about, ‘my father’s charms against evil are gone. They’ll have to be returned without violence, in exchange for everything that he has.’ I don’t know what the gibberish means, or anything about it. But those words I heard!”
Benson inspected the cabinet.
It was made of oak, sound and strong, enameled black. The big box was clamped by iron angles on the inside, so it could not have been opened from the outside without a wrecking bar. And there were no marks of violence to indicate that.
The lid was of heavy glass in a steel frame. The frame was tightly screwed to the edges of the box. There was a faint film of rust already in the screw slots. This had not been marred in the slightest, proving conclusively that none of the screws had been recently removed.
Benson experimentally
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