The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories (7 page)

“You see anyone suspicious?” he muttered through a mouthful of cheese.

“Other than the congressman stealing that guy’s wallet? No. They look pretty normal to me.” I looked around the crowd. It was just a lot of rich people gabbing and eating free food. Me, I’d rather be at Plunkey’s Bar knocking back a beer and eating pretzels. I glanced over at Maura. A little shiver went down my spine. Something was definitely wrong. She was standing stock-still. Her eyes darted back and forth. The tip of her nose quivered a bit as if she was sniffing the air.

“What’s up, babe?” I whispered to her.

“There’s a real bad vibe in here,” she murmured. “Someone’s running some old magic, and I mean really old magic.”

“Old like your mother?”

She kicked me in the ankle. “Centuries old. Nasty stuff.”

I usually don’t get worried, but she was starting to worry me. The director of the museum stepped up to a podium near the stairs, and things started happening.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Mister Mayor, Ambassador Draganov, and honored guests. Thank you for coming tonight to this most special occasion. The Museum of Natural History welcomes you, one and all, and is made all the brighter, all the richer, by your presence. A great many illustrious items in our collections have come to us through the munificence of our donors. The false teeth of Catherine the Great from the Silas and Agnes P. Moonhead Foundation, Leonardo da Vinci’s cuckoo clock gifted by the heirs of Professor Manolo Schwartz and, of course, the pickled liver of Attila the Hun given to the museum by the very generous estate of Mrs. Ethel Stoltfuz. All wonderful, all marvelous, all enjoyed by countless visitors and schoolchildren. But tonight—tonight brings an even more wondrous gift to our walls. A gift we have been waiting for with bated breath. And, to introduce our donor, I am pleased to bring up our own Mayor Willie Vernor. Mister Mayor, if you will?”

The mayor bounded up to the podium and seized the microphone.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “Thank you very much! I’m Mayor Willie Vernor, and you’re wonderful people. You’re all beautiful. Beautiful! Like me, you’re wonderful, beautiful people who want nothing but the best for this museum, nothing but the best for our city. That’s why I’ll be running again for mayor next year. I’m beautiful, you’re beautiful. Thank you. Thank you for your votes! Vote for Willie!”

There was a spattering of uncertain applause. The museum director quivered, as if he were contemplating grabbing back the microphone.

“You’re all spectacular, that’s what you are,” said the mayor, edging away from the director. “But now I’d like to introduce to you the man of the hour, the bee’s knees, the reason we’re here. He’s a world-famous explorer, a plunderer of ancient Egyptian tombs, inventor of Backus’ Scalp Tonic, and innovative croquet player. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for zillionaire Burnham Backus! Burnham Backus!”

Thunderous applause. Cheering and whistling. Even the Bulgarian ambassador looked faintly interested. The applause went on and on. The mayor glanced around.

“Burnham Backus, ladies and gentlemen! Burnham Backus! Is he in the house? Yes? No? Apparently not. Well, ladies and gentlemen, while we’re waiting, let me take this opportunity to say a few words about donating to my—”

“Excuse me,” said Burnham Backus.

“Pardon me, my good fellow,” said the mayor, somewhat irritated. “Don’t interrupt your betters while—”

“I’m Backus.” He took off his floppy hat.

“Oh,” said the mayor.

Backus took the microphone from his hands.

“I’m Backus,” he repeated, the microphone booming his words out into the crowd. The whole place erupted into wild applause. Backus looked uncomfortable. “The reason I’m here is to donate an old necklace to the museum. I found the thing last year when I was doing excavations in the southern Nile valley. Found it in a tomb. It’s a pearl necklace. It was wrapped around the neck of one of the royal mummies. The last queen of the Neflureti Dynasty. Wrapped tight, like it was strangling the old lady. I’m convinced the damned thing is cursed, so I’m happy to hand it over to the museum. Have fun fending off the zombies when they start showing up. Chainsaws work well. So, without any further babbling—”

That was as far as he got. I had a pretty good view of him from where I stood. My hand was in my coat, holding my Glock ready. Maura was poised, tensed like a cheetah ready to pounce. But neither of us was ready for what happened next.

The Bulgarian ambassador had been standing right in the front row, his wife next to him. Both of them were pretty scrawny specimens, evidence for either a shortage of food in Bulgaria or an epidemic of tapeworms. The ambassador sort of shook himself. Shook himself like a dog. His skin fell off him in big swaths.

“Uh oh,” said Maura.

Something else emerged out of that Bulgarian chrysalis. A big, huge, dark, hairy thing. The gorilla. He looked bad-tempered, which I suppose made sense, having been cooped up in that tight-fitting Bulgarian skin. The gorilla roared and pounced on Backus. Only he didn’t get Backus. The little zillionaire dodged and the gorilla plowed right into the mayor and the curator. They went over like rag dolls. All three crashed into the aquarium wall behind them. The glass shook. The gorilla bounced up with another roar.

I was hotfooting it forward, my Glock out. The room was in pandemonium. Women shrieking their fool heads off. Men screaming as well. There was a concerted effort to get out of the place as fast as possible, but, in general, people don’t do well in emergencies. Most of them seemed to have forgotten where the front doors were. The string quartet in the corner kept their heads, however, and launched into an energetic rendition of Flight of the Bumblebees. Maura grabbed my arm.

“Wait!” she hissed. “Look!”

Backus had disappeared. The gorilla dove into the crowd. Bodies were flying like ripe bananas. But that wasn’t what Maura was looking at. It was the Bulgarian ambassador’s wife. She was a skinny little thing with too much hair, too many diamonds, and enough lipstick to outfit a whole squad of cheerleaders. And that lipsticked mouth was muttering away a mile a minute. She wasn’t talking to anyone. She was just muttering into the air.

“It’s her!” Maura’s fingers closed on my arm like a vise. “Let’s get out of here!”

“An excellent idea!” snapped Backus, popping up out of the crowd. “Now!”

The air abruptly thickened. The lights flickered and dimmed. The front doors slammed shut with an ominous bang. The string quartet seemed to be playing at supersonic speed. With a throaty growl, the stuffed tiger guarding the entrance to the main wing came alive. It jumped off its perch and fell on a fat congressman from New Jersey. A line of short, freeze-dried pygmies, complete with spears and grass skirts, came marching past the tiger. On the other side of the room, from the darkness of the Special Exhibits wing, something stirred in the shadows. Something wrapped in crumbling linen shrouds. A mummy. It staggered forward. Another one followed it. And another.

“Mummies,” said Backus sourly. “I should’ve never gone to Egypt.”

The crowd screamed and ran in circles. Pandemonium was complete. The Bulgarian ambassador’s wife seemed to be growing taller and thickening in all the right places. Her eyes glittered. She wriggled and squirmed as if she were shedding her skin. And then the transformation was complete. Flavia Badawi.

“Give me my pearls!” she shouted. “Give them to me! My lovely, lovely pearls!”

She raised her hands and rattled off a few lines in some foreign lingo. It sounded bad. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard from a taxicab driver. It was much worse. The room darkened. The mummies staggered forward. The pygmies were chanting something that didn’t sound encouraging. They waved their spears. The room darkened even more. And the pearls around Maura’s neck began to shine. Flavia’s head swiveled toward us. Her teeth flashed, sharp and white.

“Mike!” screamed Maura, sounding pretty concerned. “Do something!”

I raised my Glock and fired off the whole clip. The glass wall of the aquarium was thick, but it wasn’t thick enough to withstand thirteen rounds. The wall shattered. With a roar, about four hundred thousand gallons of seawater cascaded into the room. Along with a lot of fish, some electric eels, a couple of delighted sharks, and one massive, angry octopus. The octopus grabbed onto the first thing it saw. And that was Flavia. I would’ve gladly given the octopus a hand, but it had eight and, besides, I was trying not to drown. Someone grabbed me by the collar and hoisted me up onto the base of a pillar. Maura. Several pygmies went careening by on the tidal wash with a shark fin in pursuit. The octopus was thrashing around in the water. Waterlogged mummies latched onto its arms, one by one. Flavia emerged from the torrent.

“Give me my pearls!” she shrieked.

“Take ‘em, you freaky witch!” yelled Maura. And she whipped those pearls through the air. They caught Flavia right around the neck.

“My pearls!” she screamed. “My lovely, lovely pearls!”

But the octopus had one free arm left. It grabbed the necklace and yanked Flavia off her feet. Even from across that enormous room and with all the screaming and yelling and pygmy chanting, I could hear her neck crack.

“Mummies,” said Backus, floating by on one of the refreshment tables. “They’re pretty fragile, especially when they get soggy. I should’ve never taken those blasted pearls off her neck in the first place.”

And to the octopus’ astonishment and irritation, the body of Flavia Badawi crumpled and shrank into the linen-wrapped corpse of the last queen of the Neflureti Dynasty, complete with her pearl necklace wrapped tightly around her neck.

Of course, as I expected, the Captain refused to pay me the rest of my money.

“You’re a menace, Murphy!” he shouted. I was sitting in his office the following morning, helping myself to a chocolate éclair. “You’re a natural disaster! Do you know how much damage you did last night? Do you know how much a four-hundred-thousand-gallon aquarium costs? Not to mention all those priceless, freeze-dried pygmies. Look at the headlines here. Museum Mayhem! Mayor Mortified! Dozens Dead in Devastating Destruction! Dastardly Deed Done by Detective! Pygmies Pulverized! I’m not paying you a cent!”

“But I solved the case,” I said. “No more zombies.”

“Get out of my office!” he shouted.

“What about my expenses?”

“Get out!”

Maura was waiting for me outside.

“How’d it go?” she said.

“About as expected. He got a little emotional about the pygmies.”

“Oh well,” she said, tucking her hand into my arm. We strolled down the sidewalk. “At least Backus paid you. So, how about buying me lunch? I’m in the mood for octopus.”

THE INHERITANCE OF POLLY INCH

“With the exception of the gift of a moldy, shrunken head from the Nanomani Tribe generously bequeathed to the Explorers Society (which I trust will remind them of the quality of their own heads), the remainder of my estate goes to my niece, Polly Inch.”

Here, the lawyer, old Mr. Fleming, stopped reading the will and looked at Polly.

“I have here, Miss Inch,” said Mr. Fleming, “a list of your uncle’s assets. I won’t bother reading the entire thing. It’s excessive and—ah—rather peculiar.”

“Uncle did like to travel,” said Polly. “I accompanied him on several of his trips, and I must say he was not fond of the beaten path.”

“We require a copy of that list.”

Polly turned to glare at the man from the IRS. Actually, there were three of them, but they looked drearily the same. Dark blue suits, pasty white skin, briefcases clutched on their laps.

“Must you be here?” she said. “I’ve already forgotten your names. You’re ruining the ambiance.”

“I’m Mr. Brown,” said the one who had spoken. “And these are my colleagues, Mr. Black and Mr. White. Seeing that the IRS has a lien on your late uncle’s estate, Ms. Inch, quite a considerable lien, not to mention the death taxes you will owe, we have every right to be here.”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Fleming hurriedly, before Polly could say anything else. “I’ve got another copy right here. Always do things in triplicate, that’s what lawyers do. You’re a lawyer yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Brown?”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Brown, snatching the thick sheaf of papers. “Now, Miss Inch, I demand that we pay a visit to the warehouse referenced here. Is this the only place Professor Inch had? Surely a man of his stature would own a residence? Did he live in this warehouse?”

“Professor Inch,” said Mr. Fleming somewhat coldly, “was a traveling man. I doubt he spent more than several weeks a year back in the States. He lived in a hotel whenever he returned to this city. Here, Miss Inch, are the keys to the warehouse. If you don’t mind, my dear, I will accompany you in order to, ah, keep an eye on things.”

It was raining from a cold, grey sky when they exited Mr. Fleming’s office. The old lawyer unfurled his umbrella and trotted along next to Polly, shielding her from the rain. He ushered her into his elderly Mercedes. The engine turned over with a cough.

“I’m afraid your uncle was not wise with money,” said Mr. Fleming. He eased the car out into traffic. “The IRS was after him for years. Why, I remember the time he smuggled himself back into the country inside a sarcophagus. The postman delivered it to my house. My wife was quite startled when she opened it.”