The Mummy

1 I Am Called In I was sitting at breakfast one February morning, about nine o’clock, two years ago, with Mudge, my servant, ex-sergeant of Marines, at my back telling some yarn about what he said he had done at Ladysmith. Though I live in the West End, it is only in a little flat over a grocer’s shop, in a small side-street off Piccadilly, where my patients are principally the servants (and principally the men-servants—butlers, coachmen and such-like) from the big houses and clubs. A couple of news-boys began yelling something through the morning fog, about exclusive information and special edition of the Daily Tale. I knew nothing would satisfy Mudge till he got a copy. So I sent him out. Presently the outer door was pushed open, and a man’s voice asked loudly whether the doctor was in. “Second door right-hand side of lobby,” I shouted, and the man was in before I could swallow another mouthful. He was a well-set-up young fellow, and well dressed. But I noticed he had no gloves on, and he was looking considerably upset. “Sorry to come in on you like this,” he said, “but there has been a sudden death in Albany—a man I know—and I want you to come round at once.” “Poor fellow,” I said, leaving the paper-knife to mark my place in the magazine. “Are you sure he’s dead?” “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.” “Poor fellow,” I said again. “If he’s dead, I may as well finish my breakfast,” and I took another mouthful. “You damned cold-blooded cormorant,” said the young fellow very angrily. “Will you come or won’t you?” “Not unless you want me,” I assured him, “but I’m ready if you are,” and I turned into the lobby for a hat, munching the last of my breakfast. Of course I didn’t mind his remarks, for though my comment was quite logical and reasonable, his sentiment was natural enough. I took a fancy to the young fellow at once. I made for the door, patting my hip-pocket, to make sure that my hypodermic case was there. It is an old servant, and reminds me of a good many queer things if I sit down to overhaul it. But the queerest had not happened when I felt it in my hip-pocket that raw February morning. A taxi-cab was at the street door, and there was hardly time to ask any questions as we went. Maxwell, as he told me his name was, said that he and another man had gone round to breakfast at the Albany, and had found their host lying on the ground. “Poor Scrymgeour’s man Seymour,” he said, “knew you and gave me your address.” It seemed futile to ask questions when I was about to see for myself, and Maxwell did not appear to be a talkative man. We sat quiet, and in a few minutes went up a stair of the Albany and knocked at A 14. If you know the Albany you may remember that at the foot of this stair there is a very badly-lighted corner. Just as we turned that we almost ran against a woman who had either just come down, or had come along the corridor beyond. These Albany suites consist mostly of dining-room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, and a pigeon-hole for a servant. The three first are en suite, and also each opens into the hall or lobby. Seymour took us straight to the bedroom from the outer door. Entering, one faced a high carved mantelpiece over the fire; and above the mantelpiece was the half-length portrait of a man in the dress of Charles the Second’s time. On the ground lay wooden steps, of the sort one uses to reach high book- shelves. One side was twisted and broken. On the hearth a big, heavy man lay, his head turned a little over his shoulder, his face half-hidden. It was easy to see before handling him, that his neck must be broken, and when I touched him I found he was not only dead, but cold. He was in evening-dress, and his face, the face of a man about thirty, was strikingly like that over the mantelpiece. The resemblance was increased by a small pointed beard, and by the dead man’s hair being just a little longer than most men wear their hair in town nowadays. A young fellow, whom I judged to be Maxwell’s companion to this projected breakfast, joined us through another door than that by which we had entered, and bowed rather ceremoniously to me, without saying anything. “Your friend is, of course, dead,” I said, rising from my knees, “and he has been dead several hours.” “And will you be so good as to tell us the cause of death?” asked the young fellow who had just joined us. His voice was pleasant, though high-pitched, his manner was polite almost to affectation. “A broken neck,” I said, “vulgarly speaking. More accurately, there is a separation of the cervical vertebrae, and probably complete rupture of the spinal cord.” “But would you kindly oblige us with your opinion as to the cause of the broken neck? I hope I am not asking too much.” I looked at the young man, at the body, the steps, and the portrait. “I cannot take the place of the coroner’s jury, you know,” I said. “The general appearance of things suggests that your friend was using the steps—perhaps examining that portrait—and that the steps broke, and the consequent fall did the mischief.” “Quite so. That is what we thought. I am greatly obliged to you for your opinion,” said the young man. “But my opinion,” I went on, looking at them both with some curiosity, “isn’t of the slightest value, except as to the injury. The police must be told at once, and things had better be left exactly as they are until the police come. There will be an inquest.” “Is that absolutely necessary?” the man called Maxwell asked. “Absolutely, I should think. But the police will tell you,” and I turned to leave the room. Now as I turned I was thinking about the poor fellow on the floor, whose face was, I dare say, a good deal more grave and dignified then than it had been while he was alive; and I was wondering whether I could do anything to make matters easier for his friends, who both seemed a good deal concerned, though they made no fuss. While thinking, I made absent-mindedly for the nearest door. I heard the two friends say simultaneously, “Not that door!” but they were too late. I had pushed it open, and my attention was immediately caught by a queerly- shaped something, half-hidden under a settee. “Thanks,” I said, “but if I write a note for the police—I know the inspector— it may save you trouble. I can write it here, I suppose?” and I walked in, and sat down at the table directly facing the thing that puzzled me. Then I wrote a note, very deliberately, and the composition took me some time, and between the sentences I stared hard at the peculiar object under the settee. Upon my word, the more I looked at it, the more it seemed as though a coffin had been provided before I was called in. “What’s that?” I asked at last, pointing to that thing with the pen. “That?” It was Maxwell who answered. “That’s a mummy case, with a mummy inside. Poor Scrymgeour was interested in such things.” It was my first introduction to the Mummy. I wish it had been my last.