The Living Mummy

by Ambrose Pratt

Navarro evidently belonged to the highest and most ingenious order of charlatanry. He had no assistant, no machinery, no accomplice. It was almost impossible to suspect any of the audience. There were only Lady Helen, Miss Ottley, Mrs. Greaves (wife of a Parliamentary Undersecretary), the Countess von Oeltzen (the Austrian Ambassador's wife), Weldon, Hubbard, the Count von Oeltzen and myself present. And the medium scouted the idea of turning down the lights. He left such devices to impostors, he remarked. He was a tall, thin fellow, with big, black eyes and a thick-lipped mouth. He had the most beautiful hands and feet. His fingers were covered with valuable diamond rings. He had a big bulbous nose and he wore a tire-boucheau moustache and beard consisting of about sixteen coarse stiff black hairs; four on each side of his upper lip and eight on his chin. He plucked at the latter continually in order to display his hands and his rings. It would have been a difficult matter to find his match in vulgarity, in ugliness, and impudence. But he was certainly impressive. He talked of himself in a booming baritone, like a Barnum praising an elephant. He adored himself and expected to be adored. He spoke with a strong Irish-Spanish accent. Probably he was an Irishman who had lived in Spain. But he posed as a full-blooded Castilian who had learned English from a Cork philomath.

After he had exhausted his vocabulary in describing some of his clairvoyant achievements he needlessly directed us to be silent. He had permitted none of us a chance to speak thitherto. We were to wait, he said, till he began to breathe in a peculiar heavy manner, and then who so wished to experiment, must take his hands and hold them firmly for a little while, thinking of the matter next the experimenter's heart; and then we should see what we should see. With a smile of lordly self-confidence he reposed his limbs upon a couch and sank back on the cushions. I glanced around the throng and saw they were all staring at Navarro—Miss Ottley with parted lips and rapt intentness. Her expression irritated me. Soon afterwards I met Hubbard's eyes. He gave me a scowl. I looked at Weldon. He turned and frowned at me. I directed my attention to Lady Helen. She grew restless and, presently moving in her chair, glanced rapidly about. She started when our eyes encountered and impulsively placed a finger on her lips. I hadn't thought of speaking. I was disgusted. Mrs. Greaves, the Countess and the Ambassador all in turn gave me scowling glances. It was as if everybody recognised and resented my secret scepticism. It appeared I was the only sane person in the room. Oh! no, there was Navarro. He was sane enough undoubtedly; the rogue. He was making his living. It was his business to make fools of people. I returned to contemplating him with a sense of positive relief. At least I could hope to be amused. He had closed his eyes and was therefore uglier than ever. His whole body was tense with silent effort. I wondered if some of his audience were unconsciously imitating him. They all were, except myself. I felt inclined to get up and shake them for a pack of self-delivered dupes, lambs self-abandoned to the sacrificial rites of this High Priest of Thomas-rot. Soon, friend Navarro began to breathe stertorously. So did his audience, for a minute or two. Then they turned and looked at one another and at me; and I rejoice to say my calm smile disconcerted them. But I refrained from glancing at Miss Ottley. I could not bear to see her look foolish. Perhaps she did not. They pointed at one another. They feared, it seemed, to speak. Who would be the first? And who would dare the oracle? The Count von Oeltzen arose. Brave, noble man! He approached the couch and took Navarro's hand in his own. The medium was now in a trance. His body was quite limp. A breathless silence fell upon the gathering. It lasted about four minutes. Then Navarro began to speak, not in his ordinary booming baritone, but in a high falsetto—his spirit organ, no doubt. The language employed was German.

"I see," said he, "a short fat man in the uniform of an Austrian courier. He is seated in a railway train. He is smoking a cheroot. He has on his knees a small, flat iron box. It is a despatch box. It contains letters and despatches. He is coming to England——"

"Ah!" sighed the Count.

"Ah! Ah!" sighed the Countess.

"He is on his way to you," went on Navarro. "The despatches are for you. One of them is in a cipher. It relates to your recall. It——"

But the Count on that instant dropped Navarro's hands as if they had burnt him and abruptly rose up, the picture of agitation. He turned and looked at the Countess. She stood up, most agitated, too. "My friends," he began. But the Countess said "Hush!" He bowed to her, bowed to Lady Helen and offered his wife a shaking arm. They forthwith left the room. It was most dramatic. For a little while everybody sat under a sort of spell. I was glad, because I felt disinclined to break up the party by expressing my views on Navarro's revelation, and if any one had said a word I should have been compelled to speak, I was so angry that sensible people could allow themselves to be imposed upon so easily. Moreover, I wished to learn what Miss Ottley's object was. When, therefore, Mrs. Greaves quietly arose and moved to the couch, I said a little prayer of thankfulness.

Presently the high falsetto squeaked forth in Irish-Spanish-English. "I see—a large building, square, very tall. It is made of steel and stone. It is in America—in New York. It is a hotel. I see in it a room. There are tables and chairs. Then one—two—three—four—five—six are there. They play cards. The game is poker. One loses. He is young. He is English. He has a little cast in his left eye. His name is Julian Greaves. The floor is littered with cards. Julian Greaves is annoyed because he loses. He——"

The voice ceased.

Mrs. Greaves was returning to us. She was smiling. She said to Lady Helen in her calm, slow way, "I believe, my dear, that my naughty son is at present occupied exactly as you have heard described. Signor Navarro has a great gift. Good-night, my dear—No, I cannot stay—I promised the Bexleys. Do not trouble——"