Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

The curator was a trifle disconcerted. He had placed the Luxor remains on exhibition that very morning, but he had not as yet arranged them to his satisfaction, and he would have preferred that his distinguished guest should view them at a later date. But he very clearly perceived that Sir Richard was so intensely interested that nothing that he could say would induce him to wait, and he was proud of the remains and flattered that England’s ablest Egyptologist should have come to the city expressly to see them. So he nodded amiably and confessed that the bones were on exhibition, and he added that he would be delighted and honored if Sir Richard would view them.

“They are truly marvelous,” he explained. “The pure Egyptian type — dolichocephalic, with relatively primitive features. And they date — Sir Richard, they date from at least 8,000 B. C.”

“Are the bones tinted?”

“I should say so, Sir Richard! They are wonderfully tinted, and the original colors have scarcely faded at all. Blue and red, Sir Richard, with red predominating.”

“Hm. A most absurd custom,” murmured Sir Richard.

Mr. Buzzby smiled. “I have always considered it pathetic, Sir Richard. Infinitely amusing, but pathetic. They thought that by painting the bones they could preserve the vitality of the corruptible body. Corruption putting on incorruption, as it were.”

“It was blasphemous!” Sir Richard had arisen from his chair. His face, above the muffler, was curiously white, and there was a hard, metallic glitter in his small dark eyes. “They sought to cheat Osiris! They had no conception of hyperphysical realities!”

The curator stared curiously. “Precisely what do you mean, Sir Richard?”

Sir Richard started a trifle at the question, as though he were awakening from some strange nightmare, and his emotion ebbed as rapidly as it had arisen. The glitter died out of his eyes and he sank listlessly back in his chair. “I... I was merely amused by your comment. As though by merely painting their mummies they could restore the circulation of the blood!”

“But that, as you know, Sir Richard, would occur in the other world. It was one of the most distinctive prerogatives of Osiris. He alone could restore the dead.”

“Yes, I know,” murmured Sir Richard. “They counted a good deal on Osiris. It is curious that it never occurred to them that the god might be offended by their presumptions.”

“You are forgetting the Book of the Dead, Sir Richard. The promises in that are very definite. And it is an inconceivably ancient book. I am strongly convinced that it was in existence in 10,000 B. C. You have read my brochure on the subject?”

Sir Richard nodded. “A very scholarly work. But I believe that the Book of the Dead as we know it was a forgery!”

“Sir Richard!”

“Parts of it are undoubtedly predynastic, but I believe that the Judgment of the Dead, which defines the judicial prerogatives of Osiris, was inserted by some meddling priest as late as the historical period. It is a deliberate attempt to modify the relentless character of Egypt’s supreme deity. Osiris does not judge, he takes.”

“He takes, Sir Richard?”

“Precisely. Do you imagine any one can ever cheat death? Do you imagine that, Mr. Buzzby? Do you imagine for one moment that Osiris would restore to life the fools that returned to him?”

Mr. Buzzby colored. It was difficult to believe that Sir Richard was really in earnest. “Then you honestly believe that the character of Osiris as we know it is—”

“A myth, yes. A deliberate and childish evasion. No man can ever comprehend the character of Osiris. He is the Dark God. But he treasures his own.”

“Eh?” Mr. Buzzby was genuinely startled by the tone of ferocity in which the last remark was uttered. “What did you say, Sir Richard?”

“Nothing.” Sir Richard had risen and was standing before a small revolving bookcase in the center of the room. “Nothing, Mr. Buzzby. But your taste in fiction interests me extremely. I had no idea you read young Finchley!”

Mr. Buzzby blushed and looked genuinely distressed. “I don’t ordinarily,” he said. “I despise fiction ordinarily. And young Finchley’s romances are unutterably silly. He isn’t even a passable scholar. But that book has — well, there are a few good things in it. I was reading it this morning on the train and put it with the other books temporarily because I had no other place to put it. You understand, Sir Richard? We all have our little foibles, eh? A work of fiction now and then is sometimes... er... well, suggestive. And H. E. Finchley is rather suggestive occasionally.”

“He is, indeed. His Egyptian redactions are imaginative masterpieces!”

“You amaze me, Sir Richard. Imagination in a scholar is to be deplored. But of course, as I said, H. E. Finchley is not a scholar and his work is occasionally illuminating if one doesn’t take it too seriously.”

“He knows his Egypt.”

“Sir Richard, I can’t believe you really approve of him. A mere fictionist—”