Curse of the Pharaoh: A Brock Stone Adventure

1 News at the Newspaper

Trinity Paige stared out across the crowded bullpen of the Washington Scribe and contemplated murder. The incessant clacking of typewriter keys and loud chatter among her colleagues filled her ears with a monotonous drone. She swatted at a trail of cigarette smoke that drifted past and glared at the sheet of paper in front of her. Crossed off were all her best ideas for her next investigative report. Written beneath them were her editor’s suggestions, all related to fashion, cooking, or gardening.

Trinity rolled her eyes. Her editor didn’t seem to understand this was 1932, not 1732. At the far end of the room, something caught her eye. A shock of red hair, coming toward her, was just visible above the men that filled the room. She knew who was coming before the tall, skinny form of Alex English broke through the throng of reporters. A mechanical wiz and an inventor, Alex was the best friend of Trinity’s longtime gentleman friend, Brock Stone.

“I was in the city. Thought I’d drop by.” Alex pulled up a chair, took a seat, and propped his feet on the corner of Trinity’s desk. His pant legs rode up, revealing mismatched argyle socks.

“Do you mind?” Trinity’s sharp reproval was all it took to make Alex sit up straight and mind his manners.

“So, what’s buzzing?” Alex asked.

“My new editor has rejected all of my latest pitches, except for those he took and handed off to his toadies.” She held up her notepad. “He suggested I do a piece on fashionable hats.”

“Give me a boater any day. Keeps the sunbeams off your beak.” Alex tapped his nose with the tip of the hook that had taken the place of his missing left hand and grinned knowingly.

“I’ll be sure to include that in my column.” Trinity thrust a pencil into the sharpener and cranked furiously, imagining the pencil was her editor’s finger, or some other body part. “Everyone keeps telling me how fortunate I am to even have this job, as if I don’t have the same qualifications as my male colleagues, and I have seen more of the world than any of them.” A few months earlier, Trinity and her friends had uncovered a secret lab where the Illuminati and their Nazi cohorts conducted horrible human experiments.

“You might want to try a pen,” Alex said.

Trinity looked down to see that she had ground the pencil to a nub. She held it up, stared at it for a moment, then tossed it into the wastebasket.

“It’s unfair. Just when I had earned the respect of my previous editor, he went and had himself a massive heart attack.”

“The nerve of the man.” Alex took a newspaper from inside his coat, unfolded it, and began to read.

“And now, my new editor thinks I’m only good for puff pieces.”

Alex didn’t reply. He turned the page and let out a low whistle. “If you want to write a story about hats, I suggest you begin at the Natural History Museum. Magda Fischer has arranged for a private viewing of the Orion Crowley exhibit. Well, her rich boyfriend arranged it.”

“Spoiled celebrities,” Trinity muttered. Magdalena “Magda” Fischer was a popular actress from Austria. With her golden tresses and big blue eyes, she was regarded by many as the most beautiful woman in the world. Trinity couldn’t see it. “And what does that have to do with hats?”

“Look at this.” Alex flipped the newspaper around.

Beneath the headline SCREEN QUEEN GETS PRIVATE AUDIENCE WITH THE DEAD was a photograph of Fischer in an indecently tight dress. She was walking arm-in-arm with a tall, distinguished-looking man. The pair were surrounded by security guards, thick-necked brunos who bore more than a passing resemblance to albino gorillas.

“You have to admit, that’s a very nice hat.” Alex’s eyes twinkled.

“I doubt it was the hat that caught your eye. And the Washington Warbler? Who said you could bring a competitor’s paper in here? Not that that rag is worthy of the name.”

She snatched the paper away from Alex and scanned the article. Alfred Orion Crowley, known to his friends as Orion, was the eccentric scion of a wealthy English family. A self-described archaeologist, he made several trips up the Nile, though he claimed to have discovered nothing of any importance. According to rumors, something happened on his final expedition that frightened him so much that he never returned to Egypt again.

Orion moved to northern Virginia, where he lived a quiet life. He was an active member of the Freemasons, and his sponsorship of archaeological expeditions and donations to museums earned him a reputation as a philanthropist. The few who knew him well described him as a kind but troubled man. After his death, investigators discovered a hidden door in his library. On the other side was a private study filled with Egyptian artifacts.

In his will, Orion had left all his belongings to the Smithsonian Institution. The items had been cataloged and studied and would be on exhibit beginning tomorrow. The exhibit included a reconstruction of Orion’s secret study, using his actual furniture and possessions. In exchange for a sizeable donation to the Smithsonian, Magda Fischer and a handful of invited guests would get an early peek at his collection.

“You know how Orion died, don’t you?” Alex grasped the top of the newspaper with his hook and pulled it down so he could peer over at Trinity. “The Curse of the Pharaoh!”

“For the last time, Alex, Egyptian curses aren’t real. Mediterranean food simply disagrees with you.”

“I’m serious! Egyptian artifacts are cursed. Bad things happen to people who take them. And what did he uncover on his last expedition that convinced him to put an entire ocean between himself and Egypt?”

“That sounds like one of your pulp novels,” Trinity said. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why you waste your time with those ridiculous adventure stories. It’s no wonder you read the Warbler.” Her eyes drifted back to the photograph of Magda Fischer and to the slightly blurred image of her gentleman friend. She gasped. “I can’t believe it! How did I not recognize him immediately?”

“Recognize who?” Alex asked.

Trinity ignored him. She picked up her telephone and aggressively dialed Stone’s number. Moses Gibbs, the caretaker of Stone’s property and one of his oldest friends, answered. Stone was not home so Moses took a message. Trinity thanked him and ended the call. She sprang to her feet, grabbed her handbag, and stuffed a notepad and several pencils inside. Fischer’s viewing of the exhibit was scheduled for 3:00. It would be a tight window to get there in time.

“Come with me. Hurry!” She turned and rushed out of the office.

“What’s going on?” Alex asked. His long strides quickly closed the gap between them.

“We have got to get into that viewing!”

“You really liked that hat.” Alex grinned.

“No, you twit. Magda Fischer’s gentleman friend is John Kane.” John Kane was a powerful New York businessman with ties to the Illuminati. He had his fingers in all sorts of illicit plots. Trinity had been trying for two years to delve into the man’s life and business, but his secrets were locked up tight as a drum.

“What does that matter?” Alex asked.

“Connect the dots. Orion was a Freemason who died under unusual circumstances. We know Kane has been working with both the Illuminati and the Nazis.”

“You think Kane wanted something from Orion’s secret collection?” Alex scratched his head with the tip of his hook.

“I think it merits investigation.” Trinity’s heart raced. Her reporter’s instincts told her she was on the right track.

“Shouldn’t we wait until we hear from Stone?” Alex asked.

“There’s no time. We have to get a look at that exhibit before Kane does. You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to.”

“I’m coming.” Alex heaved a tired sigh. “Stone would kill me if I let you go alone.”