Ron Goulart - The Curse of the Obelisk

28 RON GOULART
"Hounds are no problem," the magician assured him. "In my vanished youth I toured the States
in the company of, among others, Professor Swaim and his Educated Canines. He imparted to me
the tricks of the . . . Ah, this must be the butler."
A huge black man in a frock coat and striped trousers was walking methodically down a grey
gravel path toward them. He carried no umbrella and appeared to be oblivious of the rain.
Halting a few yards from the locked gate, he gave Jennie an inquiring stare. "What is the
meaning of this, missy?"
"I was told to come here," she answered. "Today. At three."
"Alone," the butler said.
"Well, I intended to be, but these gentlemen approached me at the museum last evening and
insisted on tagging along. They claim to have a proposition."
"It is?"
"We are in a position to sell your employer the Osiris Obelisk," said the Great Lorenzo.
"Assuming that he, whoever he may be, is interested."
"Who," asked the black man in his deep rumbling voice, "might you be, sir?"
Tugging impatiently at his beard, the magician said, "Ah, but of course, my fame does not
extend to foreign climes such as this. I am, my good man, Mohammed Ali Pasha." He bowed. "My
young associate is Cherif Pasha. We both represent the Khedive of Egypt and come equipped with
papers proving the obelisk in question is rightfully ours."
"It is," added Harry, "our wish to sell it to the highest bidder."
Stepping forward, the butler unlocked the heavy gate. "Please to enter."
"To hear is to obey." The Great Lorenzo bowed once more before stepping through the open
gateway.
The black man waited until all three of them were on the villa grounds and then relocked the
gate. From beneath his frock coat he brought forth a .45 revolver. "If you'll step inside the house,
Mr. Challenge, Mr. Lorenzo and Miss Barr," he suggested, "I'm certain Mr. Orchardson will be
quite pleased to see you all."
The living room was on the top floor of the villa. Vast, high-ceilinged, with peach-colored
walls. There was little furniture and all of it was huddled in the room's center around a white
potbellied stove. Except for a worn Oriental carpet on which rested a divan, two mauve armchairs,
a claw-footed table and a bust of Voltaire, the hardwood floors were bare.
"Come in, come in, you three," invited Max Orchardson. "Like most recluses I simply can't
stand to be alone."
He was lounging on the maroon divan, a three-hundred-pound man who seemed to be made of
partially risen bread dough. His face was puffy and dead white, his close-cropped hair the color of
driven snow. An enormous silken smoking jacket was wrapped around him, a pattern of exploding
orchids decorating the taut silk.