Ron Goulart - The Curse of the Obelisk

THE CURSE OF THE OBELISK 13
"Maybe you were rattled. You assumed the mummy was going to attack me and—"
"C'mon, I don't rattle under pressure. You know darn well I can keep my nerve under just about
any circumstances," she said. "If I could stand being locked up for a week on Blackwell's Island for
a story or face an escaped lunatic in the wilds of—"
"Okay, I was just trying to suggest a reason."
"I don't have one," Jennie said. "I was as anxious as you were to get him to talk. An exclusive
interview with a mummy, even a fake one, would've been marvelous for my newspaper story. All
of a sudden, though, I had this overwhelming impulse to gun him down."
Harry rested a hip on the arm of her tufted chair and touched her shoulder. "Like a cup of
coffee?"
"Hemlock would be more—"
An exuberant knocking had begun on the street door of the museum.
Standing, Harry said, "Can't be the police."
"What ho within!" boomed a deep voice.
Jennie brightened. "That sounds like—"
"The Great Lorenzo." Harry sprinted across the thick Oriental carpeting, unlocked the heavy
oaken door and yanked it open.
The portly magician stepped in out of the night. He was clad in a suit of evening clothes, a
jauntily tilted top hat and a flowing, scarlet-lined cloak. The buttons of his silky waistcoat glittered
almost as brightly as real diamonds. "Ah, you're not dead, my boy." He chuckled with relief and
gave his greying muttonchop whiskers a fluff.
"Was I supposed to be?"
The Great Lorenzo noticed Jennie, who was standing beside the maroon armchair. Doffing his
hat, he bowed in her direction. "Good evening, young lady," he said. "You don't look as pert as
when last we met in Orlandia."
Harry shut the door. "You were supposed to be en route to Urbania by now, you and your entire
magic show."
"Indeed I was." He placed his topper on a claw-footed table. "You and I, Harry, have been
chums for lo! these many years. I, modestly, tend to think of myself as a second father to—"
"I like you better than that."
"Ah, yes, I forgot for the moment that your dear papa lacks many of the warm and lovable traits
that I am blessed with." He fluffed his ample sideburns once again. "As I was saying, dear lad, I
have never professed to be anything more than a humble stage illusionist— the best professional
magician in the world if one believes the critics and an idolatrous and adoring public— simply a
man with nary a true supernatural gift. And yet . . ."
"You had one of your visions?"
He was gazing across the foyer at Jennie. "You're extremely peaked, my child," he observed.
"What was I saying, Harry?"