He could have been killed. The bitch had shot at him, not once but several times. It was pure luck that he hadn’t been hit.
Eugene Fenwick’s hand was shaking so badly it took him a couple of tries to raise the whiskey bottle to his mouth. When he finally did manage to reach his target, the glass rattled against his teeth.
He took a couple of fortifying swallows and lowered the bottle. For a moment he just stood there, breathing hard and staring at the cot with its sagging springs and stained mattress.
Amalie Vaughn was a cheap circus whore. What was she doing with a gun?
When his heart stopped pounding, he put the bottle down and crossed the room to his battered grip. He opened the old suitcase and looked down at the bundles of newspaper clippings and circus posters. On top of each neatly tied package there was an envelope with a name written on it. Inside each envelope was a long wire necklace strung with shiny black glass beads.
The envelope on top of the fourth bundle—the one marked Amalie Vaughn—was empty.
Eugene reached into his jacket and took out the black necklace that he had intended to leave in front of Amalie Vaughn’s bedroom door.
There would be another opportunity, he vowed. She could not be allowed to defeat him. He would avenge Marcus. When her turn finally came, he would make her pay for the fright she had given him tonight. He would toy with her longer than he and Marcus had toyed with the others. Make her think that he would let her live if she did exactly as he told her. Make her beg for her life.
Fury rose up inside him, threatening to choke him. Leaving the grip open, he went to the cot, sat down, and picked up the whiskey bottle again.
Everything had gone wrong tonight. In the old days Marcus had been the one who worked out the plan. He had been good at that kind of thing. Marcus had been real smart. He’d always said that it was important to make certain that things were under control before he made a girl fly. The goal was to enjoy the final performance, after all, and you couldn’t do that if you had to worry about an interruption.
Eugene still couldn’t believe what he’d seen that night in the tent. Marcus had gone down so hard and so fast he hadn’t even been able to scream. The sound of his body hitting the floor had stunned Eugene. It wasn’t supposed to end that way.
He swallowed some whiskey, lowered the bottle, and contemplated how the Flying Princess would pay. She was going to beg, all right, the way Marcus had made the others beg.
The problem tonight, Eugene decided, was that he hadn’t expected the older woman to hear him. Who knew she would do something stupid like rush out into the hall and start screaming? He’d silenced her with a handy vase but by then it was too late. Vaughn had come up the stairs shouting that she had a gun. He’d barely managed to escape.
She had made him look stupid.
The knock on the door of the cabin startled him so badly he almost dropped the bottle. He realized that although the shades were pulled, whoever was outside could see that there was a light on inside.
“Go away,” he said. “I paid a week in advance for this place.”
“I would like to talk to you. I believe we have a few things in common.”
The voice was unexpectedly familiar. Whoever was outside the door sounded like an actor in one of those movies about rich people in London or New York. Cary Grant, maybe. But there was something off. The voice was muffled and indistinct.
“You’ve got the wrong cabin,” Eugene said.
“My calling card,” the muffled voice said.
Eugene sat, frozen in panic, and watched two twenty-dollar bills slide under the bottom edge of the door.
Bewildered, he rose from the bed, the whiskey bottle clutched in one fist. Forty bucks. It was a small fortune for a guy like him.
He reached down and grabbed the bills.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted.
Another twenty appeared.
Eugene snatched up the bill. He shoved all three into the pocket of his trousers. Gripping the whiskey bottle in one fist, preparing to use it as a weapon, he unlocked the door and opened it.
There was no one on the front step.
“What the hell?” Eugene started to close the door.
A figure moved in the shadows on the right-hand side of the door. The light spilling through the doorway gleamed on a pistol.
Dumbstruck, Eugene edged back into the cabin. The stranger followed, moving into the light. He was dressed in a classy-looking jacket and trousers and a crisp white shirt. There was something terribly wrong with his face. From the neck up he was swathed in bandages. There were holes in the wrappings where the eyes and nose and mouth should be.
The man with the gun was wearing a mask that made him look like Boris Karloff in the movie The Mummy.
Eugene told himself it should be funny, but he had never been so scared in his life. He retreated into the cabin.
Mummy Mask followed and closed the door.
“You can call me Smith,” he said in his muffled Cary Grant voice.