The Curse of Phari by Edmund Snell

Book Details

Mystery, weird and romantic, gripping and sinister, is linked with the ancient tombs of Egypt. The desecration of a Pharaoh’s burying place in real life has been blamed for more mysterious deaths than one, and in the same way, the looting of the treasure of a mummified ruler of a long dead Egypt, brought strange and dramatic adventures to a certain young man and others in modern London.

The Curse of Phari (1930)

Chapter 1. The Severed Hand.
Chapter 2. The Man Who Was Killed.
Chapter 3. The Knife.
Chapter 4. Armed Servants.
Chapter 5. The House Of Horror.
Chapter 6. Uncanny!
Chapter 7. Scared To Death.
Chapter 8. A Warning.
Chapter 9. Blown Up!
Chapter 10. The Seven Stars.
Chapter 11. The Trap.
Chapter 12. Fatal Facts.
Chapter 13. The Dramatic End.

Edmund Snell (1889-1972) was a British author, prolific between the Wars, specializing in thrillers (often with Oriental villains) and mysteries. He was born in London on 5 September 1889 and died in Worthing, Sussex in September 1972.

The Curse of Phari has 11 illustrations.

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Excerpt: The Curse of Phari

Chapter 1.

The Severed Hand.

THE grey walls of the Hotel Mexico, Russell Square, loomed up in the darkness as Dick Royland paid off the taxi. It was between nine and ten on a chill November night. In the faint mist that enveloped the metropolis the few wayfarers in the quiet square moved like pallid ghosts. As he crossed the pavement, a slip of a woman, all furs and scent, hurried down the flight of stone steps, tripped at the bottom, and stumbled into his arms. Royland steadied her.

For a matter of moments their eyes met— the startled dark eyes of the girl, the keen, grey eyes of the man—and the effect of this sudden encounter was somewhat curious.

The lean man in the broad-brimmed felt hat found himself staring at a fantastic black veil that curtained the upper half of a beautiful white face and at the red, heavily-painted lips that pouted beneath.

To his knowledge, he had never seen her before; and yet, unless his powers of deduction had momentarily deserted him, the woman whose elbows he still held had recognised him and was mortally and mysteriously afraid.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “It was my ankle. It turned somehow. Stupid, wasn’t it? I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Royland gave her that odd, wrinkled smile of his.

“Not in the least,” he answered. “I’m only too glad to be of service. It’s all right now?”

“Oh, perfectly!”

“Taxi, miss?” insinuated the hoarse voice of the driver Royland had just left.

“Yes, yes; I’m just coming. Please wait.” She turned to Royland. “It’s strange we should have met like this. I’d always wanted to know you.”

He surveyed her with a puzzled expression.

“Why?”

“She fumbled with a miniature umbrella and the crocodile-skin bag that hung on her wrist.

“Oh, I don’t know. Mainly, I suppose, because you’re the one person in the world I’ve always been told to avoid.” She shot a nervous glance behind her and handed him a card. “Don’t look at it now. He may be watching. You are Mr. Royland, aren’t you? I’m Nelda Simonis. You’ll see it there. Ring me up in the morning and I’ll meet you somewhere. Don’t try to call; it would be fatal. I’m sure you can help me. Perhaps I can help you! Good-night!”

And she was gone, walking with little, quick steps, leaving Royland staring after her in astonishment. He saw the taxi-door close and the square-nosed car stealing off into the mist. At the corner a gloved hand waved to him.

The toe of his shoe kicked against a small parcel lying there on the paving. He picked it up and looked at it—it was long and slender and neatly tied. It might have been a pair of evening shoes. He waited some minutes, thinking she might remember it and turn back. Presently he thrust it into a side pocket of his overcoat and pushed through the swing doors in search of the man he had come there to see.

“Dr. Chafaroux? Certainly, sir.”

The hall-porter’s outstretched hand indicated a broad, bearded man, sallow-complexioned and bespectacled, pacing amid the leather chairs and palms in tubs of an otherwise deserted vestibule. As Royland approached, he snicked open the lid of a gold watch, closed it again, and blinked at the newcomer.

“Mr. Royland?”

The other nodded.

“That is my name. You ‘phoned me, I think, this afternoon.”

Chafaroux moistened his lips.

“Er—yes. You were out when I rang, but I left a message. I have been expecting you for the last quarter of an hour.”

“I must apologise for keeping you in suspense. As a matter of fact, I was unexpectedly delayed at the last moment.”

Dr. Chafaroux waved a large hand in the air.

“In that case, of course, I must excuse you. You will pardon my impatience when I tell you I am returning to Egypt in the morning. I had hoped to spend another month in England, but difficulties have arisen during my absence which require my personal attention.” He nodded towards the stairs. “I have a private sitting-room on the first floor. Perhaps we had better talk there.”

Royland followed him upstairs and into a room of average size. They sat down in club chairs before a blazing coal fire which reflected in the mellow polish of the Chippendale table that supported a decanter and glasses, and a box of expensive cigars. Chafaroux had turned out the light. He sat, hunched up, staring into the fire. Royland observed him curiously, noting the unhealthy pallor of his skin, the queer, claw-like fingers that were bent over his knees. In the course of an adventurous career Royland had encountered many famous people. He was glad to add to that list the name of Dr. Eugene Chafaroux, probably the best-known Egyptologist of his day.

The other picked up the poker and gave a huge lump of smoking coal a vicious stab.

“You are wondering why I sent for you?”

Royland inclined his head.

“I gathered that it was a matter of extreme urgency,” he said.

Chafaroux crossed his legs, and lay back in his chair, stroking his beard:

“The difficulty is to know where to begin. Normally, I suppose, I should have gone to the police. But then, you see, I was in a hurry—and I fancy the police have the affair in hand already.” He dug a selection of news-cuttings from his pocket-book and placed them in a small heap on the table. “I will ask you to glance through these presently. They refer, as you will notice, to a series of extraordinary crimes that has come to light recently. In some you will find them described as ‘The Severed Hand Mysteries‘; in others as ‘The Yellow Scarab Crimes.‘ “

Royland nodded and bent forward. Inspector Duke, of Scotland Yard, had discussed the affair with him only that morning.

“You believe you can supply useful information?” he began, but a gesture from his host cut him short.

“I am merely about to relate one or two curious incidents connected with my recent excavation of the tomb of King Amen-Hotep and of his queen, Phari, which appear to have a direct bearing on the atrocities that are now exercising the minds of our detectives. Phari, as you will know if you have read my articles in ‘The Times,’ was a celebrated sorceress, reputed to have considerable occult powers.”

“When the lid of the sarcophagus was removed, we found inside a life-size representation of the queen herself formed, not in copper or brass, but in some metal of extraordinary weight and solidity, to which a mask and head-dress of beaten gold had been cunningly affixed. The hands were cupped at her waist, with the fingers outspread and the thumbs pointing upwards. Clearly visible through the hollow thus formed was a single metal knob. From writings which we discovered in the tomb we gathered that the mummy had been secreted elsewhere, and that this metal case contained treasures of inestimable value— presents made by Amen-Hotep to his queen during her lifetime.”

He paused to blow his nose, and Dick Royland yawned.

“All this is particularly interesting, Dr. Chafaroux,” he protested; “but I hardly see—” He broke off, conscious that Chafaroux was talking again.

“Also among these writings was a prophecy to the effect that the spirit of the sorceress would wreak terrible vengeance upon persons violating the tomb in search of the treasure. Now, Mr. Royland, we are coming to our point. Two skeletons lay in that chamber, each with the right hand completely severed, and each with a yellow scarab ring on the first finger of the severed hand! Doesn’t that strike you as being curious?”

Excerpt From: Edmund Snell. “The Curse of Phari.”