The caskets were empty. Sethomana and Tolatha were gone.
I examined the room. The mummy wrappings were there, empty. Some wine and fruit were gone. I raised the wine glasses to the light, illuminating the purple dregs and, yes, the cloudy imprints of human lips! I went to the door. It had been unlocked from the inside, the catch turned. I locked it again and sat down to think.
Although I had missed the awful spectacle, the evidence indicated that the experiment had been a success. Sethomana and Tolatha must be living again, somewhere outside, somewhere in the night. And in the wisdom that the ages had given their souls, I thought, they would know how to acquire protective coloration, to disappear into our modern civilization, to present the semblance of ordinary human beings. Undoubtedly, I speculated, others of the long-dead had done the same in the past. I had little hope of ever finding them.
This was disappointment. I had no proof to present to the world, to science, to my doubting colleagues, I had seen nothing, but at least — I knew.
But did I know? Was there another explanation possible?
To my knowledge, I have never sleep-walked.
But suppose this time I had, in wish-fulfillment? Suppose I had removed the mummies myself and destroyed them? Suppose it was I who had turned the lock, I who had eaten the fruit and drunk wine from two glasses?
I considered this possibility, then chose to dismiss it. It clashed with every instinct of mine, with that intangible conviction that comes to human beings to resolve their doubts. Proof or not, I felt that I knew. I had found a way to immortality.
Abruptly, I became aware of my danger. The bodies of the Pummerlys—. I ceased my musings and grew coldly practical. If the bodies were discovered, I would be convicted of murder. If it could be avoided, I had no wish to die just yet. Bodies were difficult objects to dispose of, but—
I knew exactly what to do. There were still some hours before daybreak, still time before the Pummerlys would be missed.
I had with me, as I have said, the means of changing ordinary cadavers into mummies in a matter of hours.
I mummified the Pummerlys.
As their bodies dried and their skins shriveled and blackened it was also possible for me to alter somewhat the cast of their features. Arranging with utmost care the mummy wrappings, I stowed the Pummerlys in the caskets in place of Sethomana and Tolatha. Their ancient dignity was splendid.
Even an expert could not have told them from Egyptian mummies thousands of years old. And who would think of suspecting mummies?
I was arrested, naturally. The servants contributed much unkind testimony. But none of them, not even Weed, recognized the mummies as their employers, nor even glanced at them, nor had desire to approach them.
As for the police, as I had expected, they were incapable of thinking the unthinkable. Other evidence was not wanting, bloodstains, garments, fingerprints, but no bodies. Their drawn out, painstaking, methodical searches amused me. I was greatly diverted on the occasion when a crack detective, leaning on the mummy casket that held Mr. Pummerly, eyes sliding blankly over the mummy, growled at me, “Come on, come on, we know you did it. We’ll find them sooner or later so you might as well tell us. Where’d you hide the bodies?”
“What bodies?” I said innocently.
Yes, a hundred times the police must have by-passed the mummies without a spark of suspicion.
They gave up grilling me. I could not be convicted — no corpus delicti. I was released.
I should not be in the death house now, waiting to pay the supreme penalty for murder — but we all makes mistakes.
Needing money after my release, stripped of assets, having again lost what little remained at the races, I sold the mummies. I sold them to an amateur collector. I felt perfectly safe, entirely convinced that he could not detect the imposture.
However, it seems that I overlooked one small detail. When the buyer curiously inspected his purchase later, he found on Mr. Pummerly’s finger the ring that I had in my haste neglected to remove. There were certain symbols on the ring which the man recognized. He called the police because he could not understand how a mummy thousands of years old could have belonged to Mr. Pummerly’s lodge.
So, sooner than I expected, I shall die. Regrettable, but there is no despair in me. I have now hope and faith that I shall live again. I have given certain instructions. My body shall be mummified, entombed in a crypt that waits for me in my home town, with a message to those who will live in the future. Though no one may believe, I at least have new pride in myself; I know that I have accomplished a greater thing than any of my colleagues; I have learned that death need not be final.
Ah, death that cruelly takes those we love from us, that often comes too early, too suddenly! It was when death took her from me after her illness, years ago, that I first embarked upon these experiments. My Freda, you were made for life and light, not for dark disintegration! But now — we who love so much shall be together again, we shall walk the earth again, we shall laugh together and once more hold each other tenderly.
It is for this I have worked.
It is for this that my mummy shall be placed in the same crypt where there has been awaiting me these past years, in lonely patience, the sweet and precious mummy of my dear wife, Freda.
The Pulque Vendor
by Hal Ellson
Lord Acton so gently reminded us, “Power tends to corrupt. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” The logical continuum seems to be, “The tyrant must die”. Frightening, isn’t it?
The great bronze bell in the old Cathedral was tolling the hour. Luis Mendoza, the pulque-vendor, lifted his head, counted eleven strokes and felt the stillness move in on the deserted plaza. Time for the deadly appointment.
He arose from the bench, half-expecting to feel the wooden yoke on his neck and the weight of the two huge jars of pulque which he carried through the streets of the city from sun-up till the hungry shadows of night struck from the desert. Across the plaza he moved, striding rapidly through the shadows cast by sour orange trees heavy with fruit, past the fountain, then directly across the gutter toward the Municipal Building, dark and mute in its crumbling splendor. A half-dozen police motorcycles stood at the curb in front of Police Headquarters. Inside, a ragged beggar stood bare-headed at a desk, pleading with the officer on duty. Another beggar lay curled on a bench behind the wooden bars of a tiny cell. Mendoza frowned and moved on, rounding the corner into a narrow street where the shadows swallowed him. He emerged on a large plaza, more desolate than its counterpart, crossed it and vanished into another narrow street much like the one where he lived. Its houses were crumbling and silent, windows dark and barred, with not a single light to indicate the existence of tenants.
Halfway down the street, he stopped abruptly and glanced back. The walk was shadowed and empty. No one had tracked him, and none but the three inside the house where he stood knew of the meeting. For the moment he hesitated wondering if he could go through with the task. The odds were against him. Other, had failed dismally and lay in there graves, shot down by the General’s gunmen.
Suddenly he made tip his and entered the house. Three men awaited him in a small patio barely lit by the pale yellow light of an oil lamp. Greetings were exchanged. Mendoza remained standing and looked from one to the other of the three men. One was old, with white hair and a pale gaunt face. The other two were younger, dark like himself, with the same soft eyes that belied the anger smoldering in them.
The old man was Don Gonzalo Aponte, professor without students, aristocrat without funds. Indirectly, General Macia had deprived him of his post at the university, relieved him of the family hacienda, a proud but crumbling ruin, and appropriated the land surrounding it. The order had signed by the Governor, who no more than a puppet. The intent of the General was clear, to break the spirit of Don Gonzalo Aponte.