silence.
Newboldt regarded him absently. “What’s the address of the shipper?”
“The crate labeling only has the company name and the country of origin. No address for Integrity Transfer.” Plainly agitated, the curator checked his pocket watch. “I must make a phone call.” He turned and started for the doors.
Berger looked at the coffin, then at Nelson, and said, “I’ll, uh, help you, Mr. Newboldt.”
“Nelson,” Newboldt added, without bothering to turn around. “Whatever you do, don’t open it!”
Right, Nelson thought as Newboldt and Berger were disappearing through the doors. Like I’d open the thing.
Favoring his right foot, he shuffled back to his desk and propped himself on the stool, turning his back to Genghis Khan’s coffin. Glancing at a newspaper, he began to sing softly to himself.
“Come on along and listen to, the lullaby—”
A strange, clicking sound interrupted him, but he was unable to locate the source. Shrugging, he went on with his reading and his song. ‘The lullaby of—”
Again the sound interrupted him. But all at once it seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the coffin. Rats, he decided, a common enough freeloader in packing crates.
“The lullaby of Broadway—”
The sound returned, loud enough to startle him. “Uh, Professor Newboldt, sir?” he called, in a weak voice.
When, after only ten seconds, Newboldt hadn’t answered, Nelson slipped from the stool, drawing his revolver. The coffin’s uppermost latch sprung open as he approached.
Holding the gun in one hand, he reached over his head and palmed the latch shut—only to see the lowermost of the five snap open. When he stooped to close that one, the top latch opened once more. And when he slammed his hand against that, the third undid itself, then the fourth, then the fifth, snapping open and closed, faster than he could attend to them, ultimately with such fury that the coffin started trembling and bucking.
Nelson backed away, his revolver raised, and gradually the latches’ deafening tattoo subsided. But now he could hear a kind of thudding emanating from inside the coffin, and as he watched the unlatched doors parted, with a pneumatic hiss and an issue of what could have been smoke or a cloud produced by rapidly evaporating dry ice.
Inside the coffin, encased by moiré padding, stood the figure of a man. Powerful-looking though of medium height, the figure was panoplied head to foot in antique green silk that was studded with bronze disks and Chinese coins. It wore an elaborate, conical headpiece, whose quilted sides draped the figure’s ears; a short cape emblazoned with flame and dragon motifs; and a black lacquer mask.
The figure raised its right hand and removed the mask, revealing a fierce, dark-complected Asian face, trimmed with a short, black beard. It inhaled deeply and let go of the mask, which shattered on the cement floor.
“I don’t know how you got in there, buddy,” Nelson managed, “but the museum’s closed. N-next time, do like everybody else and pay your admission at the front door.”
The Asian regarded him and stepped from the closet-size interior of the coffin. “Join me or die,” he intoned in accented English.
“Say again?”
The man took another step in Nelson’s direction. “Join me . . . or die.”
Nelson tried to avoid looking at the man’s eyes but found himself transfixed, unable to turn his head, let alone to triggger the revolver. He swayed, holding the gun in front of him. “You’re trespassing on private property.”
The Asian showed him a look of utter contempt. “Your mind is weak. You aren’t worthy of my presence.”
Nelson swallowed and found his voice. “Don’t come any . . . any . . .”
The Asian continued to close in on him, lifting his right hand and giving it a curious twist. “Fall to your knees and kowtow to me.” Nelson dropped to his knees. Suddenly the Asian’s hand assumed the profile of a gun. “Now, place the gun
Newboldt regarded him absently. “What’s the address of the shipper?”
“The crate labeling only has the company name and the country of origin. No address for Integrity Transfer.” Plainly agitated, the curator checked his pocket watch. “I must make a phone call.” He turned and started for the doors.
Berger looked at the coffin, then at Nelson, and said, “I’ll, uh, help you, Mr. Newboldt.”
“Nelson,” Newboldt added, without bothering to turn around. “Whatever you do, don’t open it!”
Right, Nelson thought as Newboldt and Berger were disappearing through the doors. Like I’d open the thing.
Favoring his right foot, he shuffled back to his desk and propped himself on the stool, turning his back to Genghis Khan’s coffin. Glancing at a newspaper, he began to sing softly to himself.
“Come on along and listen to, the lullaby—”
A strange, clicking sound interrupted him, but he was unable to locate the source. Shrugging, he went on with his reading and his song. ‘The lullaby of—”
Again the sound interrupted him. But all at once it seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the coffin. Rats, he decided, a common enough freeloader in packing crates.
“The lullaby of Broadway—”
The sound returned, loud enough to startle him. “Uh, Professor Newboldt, sir?” he called, in a weak voice.
When, after only ten seconds, Newboldt hadn’t answered, Nelson slipped from the stool, drawing his revolver. The coffin’s uppermost latch sprung open as he approached.
Holding the gun in one hand, he reached over his head and palmed the latch shut—only to see the lowermost of the five snap open. When he stooped to close that one, the top latch opened once more. And when he slammed his hand against that, the third undid itself, then the fourth, then the fifth, snapping open and closed, faster than he could attend to them, ultimately with such fury that the coffin started trembling and bucking.
Nelson backed away, his revolver raised, and gradually the latches’ deafening tattoo subsided. But now he could hear a kind of thudding emanating from inside the coffin, and as he watched the unlatched doors parted, with a pneumatic hiss and an issue of what could have been smoke or a cloud produced by rapidly evaporating dry ice.
Inside the coffin, encased by moiré padding, stood the figure of a man. Powerful-looking though of medium height, the figure was panoplied head to foot in antique green silk that was studded with bronze disks and Chinese coins. It wore an elaborate, conical headpiece, whose quilted sides draped the figure’s ears; a short cape emblazoned with flame and dragon motifs; and a black lacquer mask.
The figure raised its right hand and removed the mask, revealing a fierce, dark-complected Asian face, trimmed with a short, black beard. It inhaled deeply and let go of the mask, which shattered on the cement floor.
“I don’t know how you got in there, buddy,” Nelson managed, “but the museum’s closed. N-next time, do like everybody else and pay your admission at the front door.”
The Asian regarded him and stepped from the closet-size interior of the coffin. “Join me or die,” he intoned in accented English.
“Say again?”
The man took another step in Nelson’s direction. “Join me . . . or die.”
Nelson tried to avoid looking at the man’s eyes but found himself transfixed, unable to turn his head, let alone to triggger the revolver. He swayed, holding the gun in front of him. “You’re trespassing on private property.”
The Asian showed him a look of utter contempt. “Your mind is weak. You aren’t worthy of my presence.”
Nelson swallowed and found his voice. “Don’t come any . . . any . . .”
The Asian continued to close in on him, lifting his right hand and giving it a curious twist. “Fall to your knees and kowtow to me.” Nelson dropped to his knees. Suddenly the Asian’s hand assumed the profile of a gun. “Now, place the gun
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