Mr Ramoulian's expression didn't change in the slightest degree. He merely shrugged.
"Your artistic conscience is dead, Mr Barton. But I am not accustomed to commercial haggling. May I use your desk?"
"Sure, with pleasure."
Bram jumped up, placed a chair. Mr Ramoulian took out his cheque book and pen and drew a cheque on a Manhattan bank for $2,000, payable to Bramwell Barton. Then, on a sheet of Bram's notepaper, he wrote a brief form of receipt and stood up.
"Will you be good enough to sign this, Mr Barton? As you don't know me, no doubt you will want to make inquiries through your own bank. If I call here at, say eleven in the morning, to remove the lamp — which I wish to do personally — will that be convenient?" Bram nodded, and Mr Ramoulian took his leave.
"It's hard to believe, Bram, that it all happened a year ago."
It was hard to believe, on that sunny afternoon, as Bram and Lorna crossed Fifth Avenue, she holding his hand as she had always done at street crossings. Yet ten months had passed since the strange sale of the Prophet's lamp to Mr Ra-moulian.
They had been ten eventful and happy months. Bram had invested their $2,000 windfall in the business, as originally planned, and the publisher had promoted him.
"I have a sort of hunch," Bram declared as they went through revolving doors into one of Manhattan's more expensive stores, "that we're going to buy another lamp!"
"We're not!" Loma laughed at him. "We're only going to look at one. I'm quite glad about the one we have. But the advertisements for the Magus lamps intrigue me. You know how interested I am in lighting effects."
Bram knew. He said no more.
The demonstration which Loma was set on attending took place on the ninth floor. When they got there, they found themselves in a small room fitted up as a typical living-room. It had neutral walls, modem light wood furniture, a few books and non-classic ornaments. A demonstrator welcomed them. Ten or more inquirers were there already.
"Magus lamps," she explained, "operate on an entirely new principle of lighting. The one I am using is a medium-price lamp — $100 — but it has the full range. By adjusting panels, 21 changes can be made."
Lorna drew closer. She saw a graceful silver lamp on a silver pedestal, standing on a table. It had panels of varicoloured glass.
The demonstrator moved a knob on top of the lamp. A murmur of almost incredulous surprise swept around the audience. The walls had become olive-green. The furniture looked like Spanish mahogany. Every book had changed colour. A white vase was black. And the shapely demonstrator appeared now to be sheathed in scarlet!
"But you will notice," the modulated voice went on, "that no change has taken place in our faces." People began looking at one another. "The special bulb supplied by Magus prevents distortion. Suppose we make another change. You are tired of a green-walled room. Very well."
She moved the knob. The walls became russet-brown, the furniture silver-grey, the vase rose-pink — and the demonstrator was revealed in deep violet. Loma looked at Bram. He had been wearing a light-coloured suit. It was brown. Lorna laughed. So did Bram. Lorna's blue dress was red!
The musical voice followed them as Lorna grabbed Bram's hand and led him into an adjoining room: "Sales department next door. There you can see the many attractive models."
"Have a heart, honey! You're not planning to buy one of these crazy things? We don't want to turn our apartment into—"
"I just want to look, Bram. I get ideas sometimes."
A smart young salesman who prided himself on recognising possible buyers attached himself to Lorna.
"If you're interested in acquiring a Magus lamp, I shall be glad to advise you. Those large models — I sold one recently to Mrs Partington Perkins for her Park Avenue apartment — are more suited to ballrooms, restaurants and so on, than to the ordinary home. The model you have seen demonstrated — it comes in three styles — is the most popular for… "
But Lorna lost the rest of the sales talk. Her gaze was fixed, hypnotically, upon one lamp which hung in a comer of that lamp-laden room. The salesman noted her look.
"You are surprised to see such a commonplace model in our collection?" he suggested.
Bram looked where Lorna was looking. Bram, also, became rigid.
"It isn't for sale, of course. It's our special museum piece. The original lamp which Dr Fechter, inventor of the Magus process, used in his experiments… I'll be right back. Pardon me."
He moved away, intercepting another pair of potential buyers.
Loma clutched Bram's hand. "Bram, it's our lamp!" "Was our lamp, honey."
The salesma-n dashed back. "Interesting, isn't it, when you consider what it developed into? A common brass lamp, of eastern design, but perfectly suited to Dr Fechter's purpose. He had completed his experiments at the time of his sudden death. The results were contained in this lamp. His widow auctioned all the property and returned to Europe.
"Dr Fechter's financial partner was abroad. The news took some time to reach him. He hurried back — to find the vital lamp sold. He traced it, though, bought it from the other buyer, who had no idea of its importance, and so recovered the secret. Quite a drama, isn't it?"
"Quite." Lorna spoke like a sleepwalker. "What was this financial partner's name? Do you remember?"
"Of course. Mr Ramoulian, president of the Magus Lamp Corp… "
Out on Fifth Avenue Bram let himself go. "The Prophet's tomb! The Shenf of Mecca!" He spoke between clenched teeth. "What an inspired liar! The man's a swindler!"
Loma held his arm lightly. "Don't be cross, Bram. Just think calmly. We might have had the lamp for years if Mr Ramoulian hadn't traced it, and never even guessed it was anything more than just an old lamp. It meant a lot to him. But I don't know what you'd have said if he'd told you the truth about it—"
"He didn't have to tell such a big, bad lie!" Bram grumbled. He hailed a taxi. They got in.
"I don't think I blame him altogether, Bram. Don't forget he paid us $2,000. He could have told a smaller lie and got it cheaper. That $2,000 put us on our feet," Loma reminded him.
Bram slipped his arm around Loma. "Maybe you're right, honey."
"So it was really Aladdin's Lamp, after all."
A Date at Shepheard's
the streets of cairo looked dirty, shadow-haunted, vaguely sinister, as Cartaret walked back from the garage where he had parked his Buick. Dusk had fallen, and he thought, as he came to the steps of Shepheard's Hotel, that once the terrace would have been crowded at this hour. Now it was almost deserted. He had heard no sunset gun boom out from the Citadel, and he wondered if the custom had been abandoned.
He walked through to the reception desk to ask for messages.
The hotel register lay open, and he saw that only one name had been added below his own: "Mrs Parradine — Alexandria."
A woman was writing a radiogram, and a boy stood behind her guarding some baggage. Presumably the lady was Mrs Parradine. She wore a smart, tailored suit, a beret crushed down on well-groomed hair. She had not removed her sun-glasses. Something in the profile struck Cartaret as familiar; but he was sure he had never met Mrs Parradine.
There were no messages, and Cartaret walked into the bar.
As a once familiar figure in Shepheard's, old Abdul, the bartender, greeted him, and the greeting was returned.
"It is good to see you in Cairo again, bimbdshi."
Abdul was mistaken in addressing him as bimbdshi, a rank he had never held, but Cartaret didn't trouble to correct him. Abdul was nearly as old as the sphinx, and even his fabulous memory couldn't last forever.
"Six years since I was here last, Abdul."
Abdul set a tall glass before him.