Ron Goulart - The Curse of the Obelisk

54 RON GOULART
The morning was a pale, overcast one. Jennie'd determined that soon after awakening nearly an
hour ago.
She bit on the end of her stubby pencil, glancing up at the slot of a window.
When she began writing again, she put down Is Harry alive?
She'd written that line before, several times since she'd been a prisoner of Anwar Zaytoon, and
she hadn't meant to put it on paper again.
"He must be alive and he'll find me sooner or later," she said to herself. "But if he doesn't, I've
got to keep working on a way to get myself—"
The thick metal door of her room rattled, made its usual rasping sound and swung open inward.
"Top of the morning, old girl." Bertie Pennoyer came briskly in, a tray in one hand. "One
hopes, don't you know, that your appetite's improved. You keep up this ruddy fasting and you'll—"
"I want to see Zaytoon."
Pennoyer kicked the heavy door shut with his heel. "Quite out of the question, as I've been
telling you." He set the tray on the stone floor next to her cot.
"He's holding me prisoner and I want to—"
"You're a guest." Pennoyer was wearing a double-breasted navy blue blazer and white trousers.
Leaning back against the wall, he popped his monocle and commenced polishing it against his
sleeve. "You'll remain our guest, don't you see, until you decide to be talkative."
"I'll talk only to Zaytoon."
"Stubborn, ain't you?" He held the monocle toward the lone window, squinting. "Our jovial
host, the guv as I call him, is a bit under the weather still. Only to be expected with a gent as far
along in years as the guv is. What strength he's got, he has to reserve for the many business
affairs—"
"How old is he exactly?" asked Jennie. "When I dug into his background once, I couldn't find
any evidence of when or where he'd been born."
"The guv's quite long in the tooth, but I've never had a gander at his birth certificate." Pennoyer
covered his mouth with the hand holding his monocle and chuckled. "Afraid, old girl, I can't give
you any facts to scribble in your memory book."
She said, "I came across a rumor once that Zaytoon wasn't born in the nineteenth century at all.
They said that by some magical means he's—"
Pennoyer's monocle dropped to the stones and cracked down the middle. "Bally old wives' tale
and nothing more." Bending from the waist, he gathered up the pieces. "One hears far too much
ridiculous nonsense being nattered about. A reporter of your reputation, one would think, is above
believing such poppycock."
"If he is, say, a few hundred years old," persisted Jennie, "then he has a darn good reason for
wanting the obelisk and the secret of eternal life. Could be the methods he's been using aren't
working any—"