Read Online The Mummy by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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“You’ve been there. You can point the way.”
O’Connell nodded. “I can take you there.”
“How?”
“Well, you might start by, oh, I don’t know, maybe by . . .”
She leaned closer. “Yes? Yes?”
“Getting me the hell out of here!”
Evelyn reared back. “Well, you needn’t be rude, Mr. O’Connell.”
“Forgive me. A man loses all sense of propriety in a place like this. Would you really like to know the way?”
“Oh yes.”
He nodded to her, to come closer, his eyes indicating he didn’t want the guard to hear. She leaned in to him and he kissed her full on the lips.
Then he grinned at her, rakishly, and winked. “Get me the hell outa here, honey, and we’ll both go on an adventure.”
The guard had witnessed this forbidden physical familiarity with a visitor, and as O’Connell was speaking to Evelyn, the scruffy fellow was stepping forward to throttle the prisoner again.
But this time O’Connell was ready: He grabbed the man and yanked him head first into the bars and let the guard’s face slam into steel for a change. In an instant, other guards were hustling into the pen, grabbing O’Connell and dragging him out.
O’Connell shouted out, “Nice meeting you!”
Then he was gone, disappearing around the corner, into the fetid darkness of the prison, hauled away by angry Arab guards.
Suddenly the warden was back at her side.
“Oh dear,” Evelyn said. “Will they beat him?”
“No, no, Miss Carnahan,” the warden said pleasantly. “There’s no time for that.”
“No time?”
“Yes, he’s being taken to be hanged.”
“Hanged?”
“He’s a deserter from the Foreign Legion, as I told you. That’s a hanging offense.”
Jonathan said, “But the French Foreign Legion have no jurisdiction here. This isn’t Algeria, for heaven’s sake . . .”
“We’ve civilized people, Mr. Carnahan, Miss Carnahan—we have . . . what is the word? A reciprocal arrangement with the legion—for fifty of your pounds, we waive them the trouble of extradition. And now, I’m afraid, my presence is required at the execution—a formality, but I am so a stickler for doing things right.”
“Let me go with you,” Evelyn said.
Groaning, Jonathan said, “Oh, sis, why?”
The warden said, “That’s out of the question. No women are allowed at hangings in my country.”
Her chin up again, she said, “In your country, women wear veils. Do you see a veil on my face? I’m an Englishwoman, after all.”
Hassan shrugged. “So be it. Unlike your face, hanging is not pretty, my dear.”
Soon Jonathan, Evelyn, and the warden were stepping out onto a balcony overlooking another courtyard, where from barred windows all around, inmates could look down at the gallows that had been erected. These gallows had no lower apronlike enclosure to keep onlookers from seeing the struggling and kicking of a hanging man. The warden was no sadist: he obviously felt the need to provide his prisoners with a little entertainment.
And Evelyn’s presence was providing entertainment, as well: From every barred window, bulging eyes in horrible faces took in the presence of Jonathan’s lovely sister. There were no catcalls or wolf whistles: These sorry countenances—displaying a remarkable collection of scars, scraggly beards, missing eyes, and rotten teeth—had gone dead silent at the sight of her, starving jackals staring at fresh meat.
“A woman without a veil,” the warden said, lifting an eyebrow in an I-told-you-so manner, “might as well be sitting here unclothed.”
Evelyn ignored the remark, her eyes on the prisoner being ushered into the courtyard.
O’Connell was led up onto the gallows by the same guards who’d manhandled him in the visitor’s pen, and positioned on the trapdoor. A hangman in a mask, with a bare chest and loose-fitting pants, draped the noose around the prisoner’s neck, then cinched it tight. O’Connell noticed Evelyn and Jonathan seated in the balcony nearby, and
O’Connell nodded. “I can take you there.”
“How?”
“Well, you might start by, oh, I don’t know, maybe by . . .”
She leaned closer. “Yes? Yes?”
“Getting me the hell out of here!”
Evelyn reared back. “Well, you needn’t be rude, Mr. O’Connell.”
“Forgive me. A man loses all sense of propriety in a place like this. Would you really like to know the way?”
“Oh yes.”
He nodded to her, to come closer, his eyes indicating he didn’t want the guard to hear. She leaned in to him and he kissed her full on the lips.
Then he grinned at her, rakishly, and winked. “Get me the hell outa here, honey, and we’ll both go on an adventure.”
The guard had witnessed this forbidden physical familiarity with a visitor, and as O’Connell was speaking to Evelyn, the scruffy fellow was stepping forward to throttle the prisoner again.
But this time O’Connell was ready: He grabbed the man and yanked him head first into the bars and let the guard’s face slam into steel for a change. In an instant, other guards were hustling into the pen, grabbing O’Connell and dragging him out.
O’Connell shouted out, “Nice meeting you!”
Then he was gone, disappearing around the corner, into the fetid darkness of the prison, hauled away by angry Arab guards.
Suddenly the warden was back at her side.
“Oh dear,” Evelyn said. “Will they beat him?”
“No, no, Miss Carnahan,” the warden said pleasantly. “There’s no time for that.”
“No time?”
“Yes, he’s being taken to be hanged.”
“Hanged?”
“He’s a deserter from the Foreign Legion, as I told you. That’s a hanging offense.”
Jonathan said, “But the French Foreign Legion have no jurisdiction here. This isn’t Algeria, for heaven’s sake . . .”
“We’ve civilized people, Mr. Carnahan, Miss Carnahan—we have . . . what is the word? A reciprocal arrangement with the legion—for fifty of your pounds, we waive them the trouble of extradition. And now, I’m afraid, my presence is required at the execution—a formality, but I am so a stickler for doing things right.”
“Let me go with you,” Evelyn said.
Groaning, Jonathan said, “Oh, sis, why?”
The warden said, “That’s out of the question. No women are allowed at hangings in my country.”
Her chin up again, she said, “In your country, women wear veils. Do you see a veil on my face? I’m an Englishwoman, after all.”
Hassan shrugged. “So be it. Unlike your face, hanging is not pretty, my dear.”
Soon Jonathan, Evelyn, and the warden were stepping out onto a balcony overlooking another courtyard, where from barred windows all around, inmates could look down at the gallows that had been erected. These gallows had no lower apronlike enclosure to keep onlookers from seeing the struggling and kicking of a hanging man. The warden was no sadist: he obviously felt the need to provide his prisoners with a little entertainment.
And Evelyn’s presence was providing entertainment, as well: From every barred window, bulging eyes in horrible faces took in the presence of Jonathan’s lovely sister. There were no catcalls or wolf whistles: These sorry countenances—displaying a remarkable collection of scars, scraggly beards, missing eyes, and rotten teeth—had gone dead silent at the sight of her, starving jackals staring at fresh meat.
“A woman without a veil,” the warden said, lifting an eyebrow in an I-told-you-so manner, “might as well be sitting here unclothed.”
Evelyn ignored the remark, her eyes on the prisoner being ushered into the courtyard.
O’Connell was led up onto the gallows by the same guards who’d manhandled him in the visitor’s pen, and positioned on the trapdoor. A hangman in a mask, with a bare chest and loose-fitting pants, draped the noose around the prisoner’s neck, then cinched it tight. O’Connell noticed Evelyn and Jonathan seated in the balcony nearby, and
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