The Vandemark Mummy (24 page)

“You're lying!” Althea cried. “He is, Dad. I did go to his house—and I told him what I knew—and he asked did I want a cup of tea—and did I want to see the darkroom—and he didn't deny anything. I don't even like him, why would I want to—” Her voice choked up. “Then he twisted my arm—and tied me up—and I didn't even know how to fight.”

“Why should
I
lie?” Ken asked.

“Because of the poem!” Althea said. “Because you wanted to be the one to find the Sappho poem!”

Ken raised his eyebrows and looked at Detective Arsenault, as if he was too confused to make any sense out of all this. “I'm afraid I have no idea . . . ,” he said, holding his hands out in a helpless gesture.

“Well,” the detective answered, “we're searching your luggage, so there should be proof one way or another.”

“And you think you'll find a three thousand-year-old manuscript there? I do hope that if that's what you think, you'll handle my things delicately.”

“It was on the mummy wrappings!” Althea was practically shrieking. “And you know perfectly well it was! On the feet! Where you told me there weren't any Greek letters!”

“Ah,” Ken said, super calm, super patient, hatefully grown up. “Now I begin to understand. So I'm supposed to have unwrapped the feet—and done what? Tucked the scraps into a plastic bag, to reassemble like a jigsaw
puzzle? Give me a break, Althea. Nobody likes to be shown wrong about things, but this is carrying a grudge too far, isn't it? I can understand your desire to make yourself important, and I do feel sorry for you. I do understand the stress you're under, since your mother left home, left your father, left you—”

O'Meara put a hand onto Phineas's arm. He didn't know if that was supposed to soothe him or to make sure he didn't climb up to crawl down the table before anyone could stop him and slam his fist into Ken's lying mouth. But he didn't try to shake her hand off. He was pretty sure his father wouldn't let Ken get away with it, and he was pretty sure his father knew what was going on. His father sat quiet, thoughtful. Phineas tried to relax in his chair.

A patrolman in a blue uniform, but without the hat, knocked on the door. He came in, put a file folder down in front of Detective Arsenault, and left without saying anything. The detective opened the folder and took out two eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs.

Phineas strained to see. It looked like pictures of maggots, squirming in a pile, or a pile of bandages with dirt marks on them.

The detective passed the photographs to Mr. Fletcher, who looked at them and passed them to Ken. Ken didn't even bother to look at them. He smiled, with white teeth and bright blue eyes. “Am I to assume that all of you know the difference between glyphs and Greek?”

The detective leaned forward. He didn't lean on his elbows, he just leaned his head forward, like a bear on its hind legs taking a closer look at a barking dog. “Don't
assume anything about what I do or don't know, Dr. Simard. I'm sure Mr. Hall, and Althea too, can tell us if this is Greek.”

“Of course it is,” Mr. Fletcher said impatiently. He faced Ken. “Is there an explanation for this, young man?”

Ken looked at the pictures. “Oh, you mean these? I'd entirely forgotten them. Is this what all the brouhaha is about? If I'd known that, I'd have explained at Heathrow and saved myself a lot of time, and inconvenience too. You might have asked me there, instead of dragging me back, Detective.”

Detective Arsenault didn't say anything.

“I had these in my attaché case,” Ken said.

“We know,” the detective said.

“Or you could have asked Sam. Sam knew I had them. He told me I could take the photographs.”

Phineas saw his father out of the corner of his eye, his face growing red, and his eyes bulging a little. For a second, Phineas thought his father was going to blow up. But instead, Mr. Hall started to laugh. When he could speak, he said, “Outrageous. It's an outright lie. How can you hope to get away with this, Ken?”

Ken looked angry, and flustered too. “Because it's true. You knew I was taking pictures. I asked permission and you gave it. What are you trying to do to me, Sam?”

“But they're not feet,” Mr. Hall pointed out. “Those are photographs of the wrappings. These pictures show the wrappings after they've been taken off of the mummy's feet.”

“Lies,” Ken said, his voice rounding like a bell. “All
lies. I don't know what you're after, Sam, but if you think they're going to believe a newcomer over the word of someone they've known for years—It's your word against mine, and I think I've earned the right to be trusted. Whereas you—who knows anything about you? Except that nothing like this ever happened at the college until you arrived. I have my reputation to speak for me.” Ken's voice rang out.

“But Dr. Simard,” O'Meara said, looking up from the pad she was writing on. “You're a liar. You're famous for it. Everyone knows. You do it whenever anyone stands up to you in an argument. Why do you think you only have lecture courses? The students complained because you lie like a rug when you're backed into a corner. You can ask anyone,” she said to Detective Arsenault. “He's the Rugman, that's what we called him.”

Phineas almost laughed out loud—and then he thought he could kick himself. Hard. He could have known that all along. He'd known all along about Ken.

Ken stared at O'Meara for a minute and then deflated like a balloon. He looked to the detective. “You're going to take their word over mine? It's only their word.”

“I'm inclined to,” Detective Arsenault answered. “But I suspect that if we look, we'll find proof. These pictures. The kind of tape that was used on Althea's mouth, the rope, a search of your darkroom—”

Ken hunched in his chair, glaring at all of them. Mr. Hall had his arm around Althea, who had covered her eyes with her hand.

“How could you do that to Althea?” Phineas demanded.

“She gave me no choice. The Sappho poem would make my career,” Ken told him.

“It's just an old poem,” Phineas said. He wished there was some way to tell Ken how—some words that, when he said them, Ken would just crumple up, destroyed.

“No, Phineas,” Ken corrected him. “It's a treasure. A treasure for all the ages.”

Althea took her hand down and moved back from her father's arm. “So was the mummy.”

“It wasn't even a first-rank mummy. Fourth-rank, maybe, and we all know that. She was just some pretty girl of the Roman era, with terrific eyes—”

“How could you risk killing someone,” Phineas demanded. “And she might have died.” He saw the expression in Ken's eyes, which was anger, as if Ken was angry because he'd failed. They weren't even on the same planet, he and Ken. “Over a poem? Over words?”

“Art, Phineas. Art supersedes the individual.”

“For your career,” Phineas said.

“I'm a scholar. I could do first-class work in the right circumstances.”

“You're a shithead,” Althea announced. Nobody blinked at her language. “And a liar. And not even a real scholar.” She sounded calm now, sure, like herself again. “A real scholar would never have destroyed the text. Or damaged the mummy.”

“Who has proved that I did?” Ken asked. He turned to Mr. Fletcher. “You're my lawyer, do something.”

Mr. Fletcher shook his head. “I told you, I am here at your request but my first loyalty is to the family. I'm the Vandemark lawyer. I warned you, young man, that if you were guilty, you didn't have to answer any questions. You told me you weren't afraid of questions. I warned you that if you were guilty, you'd be wise to confess. I expect that whatever criminal lawyer you find will give you the same advice.”

“Well,” Ken said. He studied his clenched-together hands. “Thanks a lot, Sam. You've scotched my career and I hope you're pleased. In case you care, you've also scotched my marriage. If she didn't like a nonentity for a husband, imagine how she'll feel about a jailbird. It's enough to make you laugh, isn't it?”

Phineas didn't feel a bit like laughing. He almost liked it better when Ken was lying. All he wanted now was for it to be over. And that, as if someone were reading Phineas's mind, was just what happened next. It happened rather quickly, just like on television shows, with the warning, and the policeman coming in to take Ken out of the room, into another part of the station. The only difference was, Detective Arsenault never said, “Book him.”

It wasn't ten minutes later that they stood outside, in clear sunny air, watching Mr. Fletcher walk away. O'Meara was still with them.

“That wasn't fun,” Mr. Hall said. “Does anyone else feel like a treat?”

“I should get to work,” O'Meara said, but she didn't move away.

“Do we drive or walk?” Mr. Hall asked. He was trying to lighten the mood, Phineas could tell.

“Drive,” Phineas said, trying to help.

“Walk,” Althea said.

“Can we get ice cream?” Phineas asked.

“I want pastries,” Althea said.

“O'Meara?” Mr. Hall asked. She shrugged; she didn't care which. “Then let's take the car and go down to the shore, and have ourselves a lobster dinner. We have to be back in time to call your mother, but—how about it, O'Meara, do you like lobster?”

“Yes, but—”

“You can stay up all night writing your story. You're young, staying up all night won't slow you down. I haven't had a chance yet to thank you for coming to keep Phineas company last night,” he said. “Or,” he added, grinning, “for talking with my wife.”

“About that,” O'Meara said. “I already told you. I can explain.”

All Saturday morning the phone rang, because various members of the college community wanted to talk to Mr. Hall, for various reasons. Mrs. Batchelor, for example, wanted him to tell Phineas that she didn't blame him for breaking into the library and stealing her keys—she thought he was resourceful. Phineas wasn't sure he believed any of it, but he was relieved that that was what she said. President Blight wanted all three of them to come to a dinner, the next night. Other people just wanted to find out from an insider's view what had gone on, what Ken had really done. They wanted to know more than what was in the newspaper.

VANDEMARK PROFESSOR CHARGED IN KIDNAPPING
, that was one of the headlines,
PROF'S DAUGHTER DISCOVERS
TREASURE
, that was another, with a photograph of Althea beneath it.
MUMMY'S CURSE GOES TO COLLEGE
: That one Phineas would have bet money O'Meara had written herself.

Anybody who could think up any excuse to do so, called. Between calls, the three Halls exchanged information and opinions, trying to remember just what they were thinking and doing when one thing or another had happened. By afternoon, the calls had subsided and the Halls were talked out, but they couldn't seem to settle down.

Phineas knew what it was. It was the Letdown. He always felt it after a big game or a tennis match, win or lose, and he'd learned to anticipate the curiously flat feeling, the feeling that something should be going on and wasn't. But his father and sister didn't have any experience of it, so it was Phineas who suggested that they go to the movies Saturday night.

He hadn't expected the recognition Althea got, the way strangers stared at her as they stood in line to see
Batman.
Althea didn't mind it a bit. The movie was just what he had expected, a distraction. Phineas thought it was funny, and he thought the special effects were terrific. Seriously terrific. Especially the car. The other two didn't like the movie one bit. His father kept carrying on about the malice of the Joker—painting over great art, or gassing a crowd of people under a shower of money. “Worse than anarchy, somehow,” he said. “It's like, malice in a vacuum.”

“It's only a movie, Dad,” Phineas reassured his father. “It's a joke.” But his father didn't see any humor in it,
and Althea was practically frothing at the mouth. “She's supposed to be a news photographer, who has reported on war, and all she does is scream. Because she's in the woman's role.”

“It's only a movie,” Phineas argued, but they weren't listening to him. He guessed that if he wanted to see it again, and he did, he was going to have to find someone else to go with. He wondered if Casey would be interested.

At least his plan had succeeded. They weren't even thinking about the mummy, or Ken, or Sappho.

By Sunday they were all settled down again. Phineas and his father were in the kitchen after a late breakfast. A slow rain drizzled down outside the windows. Mr. Hall was clipping newspaper articles to send to his wife. Piled up on the table he had the Portland paper and two Boston papers, as well as scissors and a stapler. Phineas had rescued the comics and the sports section, but he had to lie on the floor to read, because his father had the whole table filled. Althea came in to run water into the kettle.