“I’m delighted to meet you,” said Schuyler, eyeing Viola with interest through his thick lenses, then transferring that interest to Nora and back again, highly approving. “Marvelous talk you gave, Ms. Maskelene, especially that part about weighing the heart after death. I’m dreadfully afraid my heart has gotten rather heavy these last few years, thanks to New York City politics.” He laughed merrily and Nora and Viola dutifully laughed along with him, joined by Menzies. Schuyler was known for his huge appreciation of his own wit, an appreciation not shared by many of his acquaintances. Tonight he seemed in high good humor. Funny how, just six weeks ago, he’d been calling for Collopy’s resignation. So it was in big-city politics.
“Nora,” said Menzies, “the mayor and his wife would love to have you and Dr. Maskelene accompany them in the tomb.”
“Delighted,” said Viola, smiling.
Nora nodded. “It would be our pleasure.” It was standard museum practice, she knew, for VIP guests at openings to get museum staff as private tour guides. And while Mayor Schuyler was not the highest-ranking politician at the opening, he was the most important, holder of the museum’s purse strings, who had been loudest in decrying the destruction of the diamonds.
“Yes, how lovely,” said his wife, who seemed less than enthusiastic about being escorted by two such attractive guides.
Menzies bustled off. Nora watched as he paired up the governor with the museum’s associate director, a New York senator with George Ashton, and various VIPs with other staff to ensure that everyone felt special.
“That fellow’s a regular matchmaker,” said the mayor, following him with his eyes, chuckling. “I could use him on my staff.” The hall’s warm overhead lighting shone off his bald pate, illuminating it like a billiard ball.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention!” came the rich, aristocratic voice of Frederick Watson Collopy, the museum’s director, who had positioned himself in front of the tomb doors, wielding the same tiresome pair of gigantic scissors that were trotted out at every opening. With a little help from an assistant, he got them positioned and ready to cut.
The tympanist in the small orchestra let fly a tolerable drumroll.
“I hereby officially reopen, after more than half a century of darkness, the Grand Tomb of Senef!”
With a mighty heave, Collopy shut the scissors, and the two ends of the cut ribbon fluttered to the floor. With a rumble, the faux stone doors slid open. The orchestra immediately sounded the famous theme of Aïda once again and those in the crowd with passes to the first of the two shows surged toward the dimly lit rectangle of darkness.
The mayor’s wife shivered. “I don’t like tombs. Is it really three thousand years old?”
“Three thousand three hundred and eighty,” said Viola.
“My goodness, you know so much!” said Mrs. Schuyler, turning to her.
“We Egyptologists are veritable founts of useless knowledge.”
The mayor chuckled at this.
“Is it true what they say, that it’s cursed?” Mrs. Schuyler went on.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Viola. “Many Egyptian tombs had inscriptions that threatened harm to those who disturbed them. This one has a stronger curse than most—but that’s probably because Senef wasn’t a pharaoh.”
“Oh, dear, I hope nothing happens to us. Who was this Senef?”
“They don’t really know—probably the uncle of Thutmosis IV. Thutmosis became pharaoh at age six, and Senef acted as regent while Thutmosis grew up.”
“Thutmosis? You mean King Tut?”
“Oh, no,” said Viola. “Tut was Tutankhamen, another pharaoh—far less important than Thutmosis.”
“I get so confused,” said the wife.
They passed through the doors, into the sloping corridor.
“Watch your step, dear,” said the mayor.
“This is the God’s First Passage,” said Viola, and launched into a brief description of the tomb’s layout. As she listened, Nora recalled the enthusiastic tour Wicherly had given only a few weeks before. Despite the warmth, she shivered.
They moved forward slowly toward the first stop on the sound-and-light show, hemmed in on all sides by the crowd. In a few minutes, the three hundred guests were all inside and she heard the rumble as the tomb doors closed, ending with a hollow clang. A sudden silence fell on the crowd and the lights dimmed even further.
Out of the darkness came the faint sound of a shovel digging in sand. Then another—and then a chorus of picks, all striking the soil. Then came the furtive voices of the tomb robbers, speaking in tense, muffled tones. Nora glanced over and saw, in the far corner, the PBS camera crew filming.