Read Online The Avenger 6 - The Blood Ring by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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tugged at the lid anyhow. Sometimes lids seem to be tightly nailed or screwed down and the nailheads are dummies that lift with the lid.
That was not true in this case. The lid was screwed down.
Benson examined the glass in the metal frame. It was heavy plate. It was sealed all around the frame by a dark waxy stuff, firm as rock. His microscopic sight told him that there were hair-fine cracks in the stout sealer. But none of the cracks went all the way through the stuff. They couldn’t mean anything where actually getting into the case was concerned.
No one had opened that cabinet for days. There was no doubt about it. Anything outside getting in or anything inside getting out would have had to pass through oak or glass without leaving a trace.
“It t-talked, I tell you,” insisted the watchman, who had plenty of common sense and was following Benson in his conclusions.
The Avenger tipped the case back a little, easily, though it weighed several hundred pounds.
There were no wires under the thing, or around it. So no tricks could have been done that way.
“The words came from that cabinet, Mr. Benson!”
The Avenger nodded, eyes glacial.
“I believe you,” he said.
No wires, no trick screwheads to allow the secret opening of the lid, clear glass revealing that there was nothing inside the cabinet but the mummy and mummy case—yet Benson’s flaming genius acknowledged truth in the man’s fantastic statement.
Acknowledged, apparently, that the mummy had talked.
That night at a little after nine o’clock, Anna Lees left the big apartment building and her tiny one-room apartment, and walked toward a quiet residential section nearby.
Anna was dressed in a modish, trim suit. She wore a last-minute hat and looked as modern as day after tomorrow. Save for the attractively exotic cast of her pretty face, she looked no more like a servant in an ancient Egyptian temple than one of the typewriters in the government office where she worked.
She climbed the steps to a door set in an old but well-kept brick house, and rang a bell under the small letters:
DOCTOR CORNELIUS MARLOWE
OFFICE HOURS
10 TO 12 A.M AND 8 TO 10 P.M.
The door was opened, and she stepped into a small anteroom. There were two women there. Anna waited till they had gone into the doctor’s office and then left the house. Finally, alone, she went in herself. The doctor smiled at her from his desk.
Marlowe was a slender man of thirty-five or so, with hair prematurely grizzled at the temples. He had a low, broad forehead and cheekbones a bit higher than most. His eyes, wide-set, were greenish
“Hello!” he said pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for some time, Anna. Don’t tell me you’re ill. You look too healthy.”
Anna shook hands with the man she knew personally as well as professionally.
“I’m healthy enough, I guess,” she said. “Except for headaches I’ve been having at night, lately.”
Not a muscle of Doctor Marlowe’s face moved. It still had the pleasant smile on it. Yet suddenly the man seemed very tense.
“I’ve never had headaches much before. Certainly none like these. They worry me.”
“Describe them,” said Marlowe, smile still frozen on his face.
“Why, I feel as if my brain had been set on fire inside my head. Then I feel myself falling into a deep sleep. And as I fall, I feel as if I were being emptied; as if I were no longer me; as if something else were creeping into my head and body. Am I going insane, do you suppose?”
“Hardly,” said Marlowe. His voice was hearty, but the smile on his lips did not reflect in his eyes. “Here—take these powders every night for a while. They ought to take care of the headaches.”
But long after Anna Lees had left his office, Doctor Marlowe sat at his desk.
He had prescribed for the queer headaches Anna had described. And that was pretty ironical, for Doctor Marlowe had recently had precisely such headaches, himself. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing
That was not true in this case. The lid was screwed down.
Benson examined the glass in the metal frame. It was heavy plate. It was sealed all around the frame by a dark waxy stuff, firm as rock. His microscopic sight told him that there were hair-fine cracks in the stout sealer. But none of the cracks went all the way through the stuff. They couldn’t mean anything where actually getting into the case was concerned.
No one had opened that cabinet for days. There was no doubt about it. Anything outside getting in or anything inside getting out would have had to pass through oak or glass without leaving a trace.
“It t-talked, I tell you,” insisted the watchman, who had plenty of common sense and was following Benson in his conclusions.
The Avenger tipped the case back a little, easily, though it weighed several hundred pounds.
There were no wires under the thing, or around it. So no tricks could have been done that way.
“The words came from that cabinet, Mr. Benson!”
The Avenger nodded, eyes glacial.
“I believe you,” he said.
No wires, no trick screwheads to allow the secret opening of the lid, clear glass revealing that there was nothing inside the cabinet but the mummy and mummy case—yet Benson’s flaming genius acknowledged truth in the man’s fantastic statement.
Acknowledged, apparently, that the mummy had talked.
That night at a little after nine o’clock, Anna Lees left the big apartment building and her tiny one-room apartment, and walked toward a quiet residential section nearby.
Anna was dressed in a modish, trim suit. She wore a last-minute hat and looked as modern as day after tomorrow. Save for the attractively exotic cast of her pretty face, she looked no more like a servant in an ancient Egyptian temple than one of the typewriters in the government office where she worked.
She climbed the steps to a door set in an old but well-kept brick house, and rang a bell under the small letters:
DOCTOR CORNELIUS MARLOWE
OFFICE HOURS
10 TO 12 A.M AND 8 TO 10 P.M.
The door was opened, and she stepped into a small anteroom. There were two women there. Anna waited till they had gone into the doctor’s office and then left the house. Finally, alone, she went in herself. The doctor smiled at her from his desk.
Marlowe was a slender man of thirty-five or so, with hair prematurely grizzled at the temples. He had a low, broad forehead and cheekbones a bit higher than most. His eyes, wide-set, were greenish
“Hello!” he said pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for some time, Anna. Don’t tell me you’re ill. You look too healthy.”
Anna shook hands with the man she knew personally as well as professionally.
“I’m healthy enough, I guess,” she said. “Except for headaches I’ve been having at night, lately.”
Not a muscle of Doctor Marlowe’s face moved. It still had the pleasant smile on it. Yet suddenly the man seemed very tense.
“I’ve never had headaches much before. Certainly none like these. They worry me.”
“Describe them,” said Marlowe, smile still frozen on his face.
“Why, I feel as if my brain had been set on fire inside my head. Then I feel myself falling into a deep sleep. And as I fall, I feel as if I were being emptied; as if I were no longer me; as if something else were creeping into my head and body. Am I going insane, do you suppose?”
“Hardly,” said Marlowe. His voice was hearty, but the smile on his lips did not reflect in his eyes. “Here—take these powders every night for a while. They ought to take care of the headaches.”
But long after Anna Lees had left his office, Doctor Marlowe sat at his desk.
He had prescribed for the queer headaches Anna had described. And that was pretty ironical, for Doctor Marlowe had recently had precisely such headaches, himself. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing
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