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Bunker Bean

<h2>V</h2> The latest Napoleonic dynasty was tottering. The more Bean read of that possible former self, the less he admired its manifestations. A Corsican upstart, an assassin, no gentleman! It was all too true. Very well, for that vaunted force of will, but to what base ends had it been applied! He was merciless to himself, an egotist and a vulgarian. How it would shock that woman, as yet unidentified, who was one day to be the mother of the world's greatest left-handed pitcher. Take the flapper—impossible, of course, but just as an example—suppose she ever came to know about the Polish woman and the actress, and the others! How she would loathe him! And you couldn't tell what minute it might become known. People were taking an interest in such matters. He wished he had cautioned the Countess Casanova to keep the thing quiet. Probably she had talked. He must go further into that past of his. Doubtless there were lessons to be drawn from the Napoleonic episode, but just now, when he was all confused, the thing—he put it bluntly—was "pretty raw." "With Napoleon, to think was to act." So he had read in one chronicle. Very well, he would act. Again he would stand, with fearless eyes, at the portal of the vaulted past. At eight o'clock that night he once more rang the third bell. He had feared that the Countess Casanova might have returned to European triumphs, but the solicitations of the scientific world were still prevailing. He stood in the little parlour and again the Countess appeared from behind the heavy curtains, a plump white hand at the throat of her scarlet gown. He was obliged to recall himself to her, for the Countess began to tell him that his aura was clouded with evil curnts. "You told me what I was—last time, don't you remember? You know, you said, it was written on the slate what I was—" He could not bring himself to utter the name. But the Countess remembered. "Sure; perfectly! And what was you wishing to know now?" She surveyed him with heavy-lidded eyes, a figure of mystery, of secret knowledge. "I want you to tell me who I was before that—before him." The Countess blinked her eyes rapidly, as if it hurried calculation. "And I don't mean just before. I want to go 'way back, thousands of years—what I was first." He looked helplessly around the room, then glanced appealingly at the Countess. The flushed and friendly face was troubled. "Well, I dunno." She pondered, eying her sitter closely. "Of course all things is possible to us, but sometimes the conditions ain't jest right and y'r c'ntrol can't git into rapport with them that has been gone more'n a few years. Now this thing you're after—I don't say it can't be done—f'r money." "If I learned something good, I wouldn't care anything about the money," he ventured. The Countess glanced up interestedly. "That's the way to look at it, friend, but how much you got on you?" "Twenty-two dollars," confessed Bean succinctly. "Would you part from twenty, if you was told what you want to know?" "Yes; I can't stand that other thing any longer." The Countess narrowed her eyes briefly, then became animated. "Say, listen here, friend! That's a little more delikit work than I been doin', but they's a party near here—lemme see—" She passed one of the plump white hands over her brow in the throes of recollection. "I think his name is Professor Balthasar. I ain't ever met him, understand what I mean? but they say he's a genuine wonder an' no mistake; tell you anything right off the reel. You set right there and lemme go see if I can't call him up by telephone." She withdrew between the curtains, behind which she carefully pulled sliding doors. Bean heard the murmur of her voice. He waited anxiously. His Napoleon self was already fading. If only they would tell him something "good." Little he cared for the twenty dollars. He could get along by borrowing seventeen-seventy-nine from Metzeger. The voice still murmured. Only the well-fitting doors prevented Bean from hearing something that would have been of interest to him. "That you, Ed?" the Countess was saying. "Listen here. 'Member th' one I told you about, thinks he's the original N.B.—you know who—well he's a repeater; here now wantin' t' know who he was before then, who he was first y'understand. An' say, I ain't got the right dope for that an' I want you to get over here quick's you can an' give him about a ten-minute spiel. Wha's that? Well, they's twenty, an' I split with you. But listen here, Ed, I get the idee this party's worth nursin' along. I dunno, something about him. That's why I'm tellin' you. I want it done right. Course, I could do enough stallin' muself t' cop the twenty; tell him Julius Caesar or the King of China or somebody, but I ain't got the follow-up, an' you can't tell how much he might be good for later. Take my tip: he's a natural born believer. Sure, twenty! All right!" The doors slid back and the Countess reappeared between the curtains. "I'm 'fraid I'll have to disappoint you," she began. "The Professer was called out t' give some advice to one the Vandabilts. But I got his private secatary on the wire an' he's gone out to chase him up. We'll haf to wait an' see." Bean was sorry to be causing this trouble. "Perhaps I better come another night." "No, you don't! You set right there!" She seemed to listen to unspoken words, looking far off. "There! My control says he's comin'; he's on the way." Bean was aghast before this power. "'Nother thing," pursued the Countess in her normal manner, "keep perfec'ly still when he comes. Don't tip him off what you want. Let him do the talkin'. If he's the real thing he'll know what you want. They say he's a wonder, but what do we know about it? Let him prove it!" Bean felt that he and the Countess were a pair of shrewd skeptics. The third bell rang and a heavy tread was heard on the stairs. The mere sound of its mounting was impressive. The Countess laid a reminding finger on her lips, as she moved toward the door. There appeared an elderly man, in a black frockcoat, loose-fitting and not too garishly new, a student's coat rather than a fop's. "Is this Perfesser Balthasar?" inquired the Countess in her best manner. "At your service, Madam!" He permitted himself a courtly inclination, conferred upon the Countess a glistening tall hat, and then covered his expansive baldness with a skullcap of silk which he drew from an inner pocket. "I feared we was discommoding you," ventured the Countess, elegantly apologetic; "your secatary said you was out advisin' one the Vandabilts—" "A mere trifle in the day's work, Madam!" He brushed it aside with an eloquent hand. "My mission is to serve. You wished to consult me?" "Not me; but this young gentaman here—" "Ah!" He turned to face Bean, who had risen, regarding him with serious eyes and twirling a curled moustache meditatively. "I see, I see! An imprisoned soul seeking the light!" He came nearer to Bean, staring intently, then started with dramatic suddenness as if at an electric shock from concealed wires. "What is this—what is this—what is this?" Bean backed away defensively. The professor seemed with difficulty to withdraw his fascinated gaze, and turned apologetically to the Countess. "You will pardon me, Madam, but I must ask you to leave us. My control warns me that I am in the presence of an individuality stronger than my own. His powerful mind is projecting the most vital queries. I shall be compelled to disclose to him matters he would perhaps not wish a third person to overhear. I see a line of mighty rulers, ruthless, red-handed—the past of his soul." The Countess murmurously withdrew. The two males faced each other. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/092_thumb.jpg" width-obs="630" height-obs="450" alt=""I feared he was discommoding you," ventured the Countess, elegantly apologetic." title="" /> "I feared he was discommoding you," ventured the Countess, elegantly apologetic.</div> The professor was a mere sketch of a man, random, rakish, with head aslant and shifty eyes forever dropping away from a questioner's face. He abounded in inhuman angles and impossible lines. It seemed that he must have been rather dashingly done in the first place, then half obliterated and badly mended with fumbling, indecisive touches. His restless hands unceasingly wrung each other as if he had that moment made his own acquaintance and was trying to infuse a false geniality into the meeting. When he spoke he had a trick of opening his mouth for a word and holding it so, a not over-clean forefinger poised above an outheld palm. It seemed to the listener that the word when it came would mean much. His white moustache alone had a well-finished look, curving jauntily upward. "Sit there!" An authoritative finger pointed Bean to the chair he had lately occupied. He sat nervously, suffering that peculiar apprehension which physicians and dentists had always inspired. "Most amazing! Most astounding!" muttered the professor as if to his own ear alone. He sat in a chair facing Bean and regarded him long and intently. At brief intervals his face twitched, his body stiffened, he seemed to writhe in some malign grasp. Bean gripped the arms of his chair. His tingling nerves were accurately defining his spine. He waited, breathless. "I see it all," breathed the professor in low, solemn tones, his eyes fixed above Bean's head. "First the pomp and glitter of a throne. You wrench it from a people whose weakness you play upon with a devilish cunning, you ascend to it over the bodies of countless men slain in battle. Power through blood! You are cruel, insatiable, a predatory monster. But retribution comes. You are hurled from your throne. Again you ascend it, but only for a brief time. You fight your last battle; you lose! You are captured and taken to a lonely island somewhere far to the south, there to be imprisoned until your death. Afterward I see your body returned to the city that was once your capital. It now lies in a heavy stone coffin. It is in a European city. I can almost hear the name, but not plainly. I cannot get the name under which you ruled. I look into the abyss and the cries of your victims drown it. Horror piles upon horror!" Bean was leaning forward, tense with excitement, his mouth open. "Yes, that's just the way I felt about it," he murmured. "But this was only a few paltry years ago, perhaps a hundred. It passes from my view. I am led back, away from it—far back—the cries of those you slaughtered echo but faintly—the scene changes—" The professor paused. Bean had cowered in his chair, wincing under each blow. He wiped his face and crumpled the moist handkerchief tightly in one hand. "Perhaps the name may come to me now," continued the professor. "But your superior personality overwhelmed me at first; you are so self-willed, so dominant, so ruthless. The name, the name!" He cried the last words commandingly and snapped his fingers at the delinquent control. "There! I seem to hear—" "Never mind that name," broke in Bean hastily. "Let it go! I—I don't want to know it. Go on back farther!" Again the professor's look became trancelike. "Ah! What a relief to be free from that blood-lust!" He breathed deeply and his eyes rolled far up under their lids. "What is this? A statesman, still crafty, still the lines of cunning cruelty about the mouth. The city is Venice in the fourteenth century. He is dressed in a richly bejewelled robe and toys with an inlaid dagger. He is plotting the assassination of a Doge—" "Please get still farther back, can't you?" pleaded Bean. The seer struggled once more with his control. "I next see you at the head of a Roman legion, going forth to battle. You are a tyrant, ruling by fear alone, and with your own sword I see you cut off the heads of—" "Farther back," beseeched the sitter. "I—I've had enough of all that battle and killing. I—I don't like it. Go on back to the very first." Patiently the adept redirected his forces. "I see a poet. He sings his deathless lay by a roadside in ancient Greece. He is an old man, feeble, blind—" "Something else," broke in the persistent sitter, resolving not to pay twenty dollars for having been a blind poet. The professor glanced sharply at him. Perhaps his control did not relish these interruptions. He seemed to suppress words of impatience and began anew. "Ah! Now I see your very first appearance on this planet. You were born from another as yet unknown to our astronomers. You are now"—he lowered his eyes to the sitter's face—"an Egyptian king." Detecting no sign of displeasure at this, he continued with refreshed enthusiasm. "It is thousands of years ago. You are the last king of the pre-dynastic era—" "What kind of a king—one of those fighters?" "You are a wise and good king. I see a peaceful realm peopled by contented subjects." "That's what I want to know. Go on; tell me more. Married?" "Your wife is a princess of rare beauty from—from Mesopotamia. You have three lovely children, two boys and a girl, and your palace on the banks of the Nile is one of the most beautiful and grand palaces ever erected by the hand of man. You are ministered to by slaves, and your councillors of state come to you with their reports. You are tall, handsome and of a most kingly presence. Your personal bravery is unquestioned, you are an adept in all manly sports, but you will not go to war as you very properly detest all violence. For this reason there is little to relate of your reign. It was uneventful and distinguished only by your wise and humane statesmanship—" "What name?" asked Bean, in low, reverent tones. "The name—er—the name is—oh, yes, I get it—the name is Ram-tah." "Can I find him in the histories?" "You cannot," answered the seer emphatically. "I am probably the only living man that can tell you very much about him." "When did he—pass on?" "At the age of eighty-two years. He was deeply mourned by all his people. He had been a king of great strength of character, stern at moments, but ever just. His remains received the treatment customary in those times, and the mummy was interred in the royal sepulchre which is now covered by the sands of the centuries. Anything else?" Bean was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes lost in that far, glorious past. "Nothing else, now, I think. If I could see you again some time, I'd like to ask—" "My mission is to serve," answered the other, caressing the moustache with a deft hand. "Anything I can do for you, any time, command me." The Countess appeared from between the curtains. "Was the conditions right?" she asked. "They have been, at least so far," replied the professor crisply, with a side-glance at Bean who seemed on the point of leaving. "Say, friend, I guess you're forgetting something, ain't you?" demanded the Countess archly. And Bean perceived that he had indeed forgotten something. He rectified the oversight with blushing apologies, while the professor inspected the mantel ornaments with an absent air. What was twenty dollars to a king and a sire of kings? He bowed himself from the room. They listened until the hall door closed. "There's yours, Ed. You earned it all right, I'll say that. My! don't I wish I was up on that dope." "You were the wise lady to send for me, Lizzie. You'd have killed him off right here. As it is, he'll come back. He's a clerk somewhere, drawing twenty-five a week or so. He ought to give up at least five of it every week; cigarette money, anyway. Anything loose in the house?" "They's a couple bottles beer in the icebox. Gee! ain't he good, though! If he only had the roll some has!" <hr style='width: 45%;' /> In his little room far up under the hunched shoulders of the house, Bunker Bean sat reviewing his Karmic past. Over parts of it he shuddered. That crafty Venetian plotting to kill, trifling wickedly with the inlaid dagger; the brutal Roman, ruling by fear, cutting off heads! And the blind poet! He would rather be Napoleon than a blind poet, if you came down to that. But the king, wise, humane, handsome, masterly, with a princess of rare beauty from Mesopotamia to be the mother of his three lovely children. That was a dazzling vision to behold, a life sane and proper, abounding in majesty both moral and material. He sought to live over his long and peaceful but brilliant reign. Then he dwelt on his death and burial. They had made a mummy of him, of course. Somewhere that very night, at that very instant, his lifeless form reposed beneath the desert sands. Perhaps the face had changed but little during the centuries. He, Bunker Bean, lay there in royal robes, hands folded upon his breast, as lamenting subjects had left him. And what did it mean to him now? He thought he saw. As King Ram-tah he had been too peaceful. For all his stern and kingly bearing might he not have been a little timid—afraid of people now and then? And the Karmic law had swept him on and on into lives that demanded violence, the Roman warrior, the Venetian plotter, the Corsican usurper! He saw that he must have completed one of those vast Karmic cycles. What he had supposed to be timidity was a natural reaction from Napoleonic bravado. Now he had finished the circle and was ready to become again his kingly self, his Ram-tah self—able, reliant, fearless. He expanded his chest, erected his shoulders and studied himself in the glass: there was undoubted majesty in the glance. He vibrated with some fresh, strange power. Yes; but what about to-morrow—out in the world? in daylight, passing the policeman on the corner, down at the office? Would he remain a king in the presence of Breede, even in the lesser presence of Bulger, or of old Metzeger from whom he purposed to borrow seventeen dollars and seventy-nine cents? All right about being a king, but how were other people to know it? Well, he would have to make them feel it. He must know it himself, first; then impress it upon them. But a sense of unreality was creeping back. It was almost better to remember the Napoleon past. There were books about that. He pictured again the dead Ram-tah in trappings of royalty. If he could only see himself, and be sure. But that was out of the question. It was no good wishing. After all, he was Bunker Bean, a poor thing who had to fly when Breede growled "Wantcha." He sat at his table, staring moodily into vacancy. He idly speculated about Breede's ragged moustache; he thought it had been blasted and killed by the words Breede spoke. A moment later he was conscious that he stared at an unopened letter on the table before him. He took it up without interest, perceiving that it came from his Aunt Clara in Chicago. She would ask if he had yet joined the Y.M.C.A., and warn him to be careful about changing his flannels. "Dear Bunker" [it began], "my own dear husband passed to his final rest last Thursday at 5 p.m. He was cheerful to the last and did not seem to suffer much. The funeral was on Saturday and was very beautiful and impressive. I did not notify you at the time as I was afraid the shock would affect you injuriously and that you might be tempted to make the long trip here to be with me. Now that you know it is all over, you can take it peacefully, as I am already doing. The life-insurance people were very nice about it and paid the claim promptly. I enclose the money which wipes out all but—" He opened the double sheet. There were many more of the closely written lines, but he read no farther, for a check was folded there. His trembling fingers pulled the ends apart and his astounded eyes rested on its ornate face. It was for ten thousand dollars. <hr style='width: 45%;' /> At six minutes after eight the following evening the Countess Casanova, moved from her professional calm, hurriedly closed the sliding doors between the two rooms of her apartment and sprang to the telephone where she frantically demanded a number. The delay seemed interminable to her, but at last she began to speak. "That you, Ed? F'r God's sake, beat it over here quick. That boob las' night is back here an' he's got it. I dunno—but something big, I tell you. He's actin' like a crazy man. Listen here! He wants t' know can you locate it—see it lyin' there underground. Why, the mummy; yes. M-u-m-m-i-e. Yes, sure! He's afraid mebbe they already dug him up an' got him in a musée somewheres, but if it's still there he wants it. Yes, sure thing, dontchu un'stand? Wants it! How in—how can I tell? That's up to you. Git here! Sure—fifty-fifty!" Bean glanced up feverishly as the Countess reappeared. She was smoothing her hair and readjusting the set of the scarlet wrapper. Her own excitement was apparent. "It's all right. I think he'll come, but it was a close call. He was jes' packin' his grip f'r Wash'n'ton. Got a telegraph from the Pres'dent to-day t' come at once. Of course he'll miss a big fee. The Pres'dent don't care f'r money when it's a question of gittin' th' right advice—" "Oh, money!" murmured Bean, and waved a contemptuous hand. His manner was not lost upon his hearer. "Lots of money made in a hurry, these days," she suggested, "or got hold of some way—gits left to parties—thousand dollars, mebbe—two, three, four thousand?" Again he performed the pushing gesture, as if he were discommoded by money. He scarcely heard her voice. The Countess did not venture another effort to appraise his wealth. She fell silent, watching him. Bean gazed at a clean square on the wall-paper where a picture had once hung. Then the authoritative tread was again heard on the stairway, and again the Countess Casanova welcomed Professor Balthasar to her apartment. She expressed a polite regret for having annoyed him. Professor Balthasar bestowed his shiny hat upon her, enveloped his equally shiny skull with the silken cap and assured her that his mission was to serve. Bean had not risen. He still stared at the wall. "I'll jes' leave you alone with our friend here," said the Countess charmingly. The professor questioned her with a glance and she shook her head in response, yet her gesture as she vanished through the curtains was one of large encouragement. The professor faced Bean and coughed slightly. Bean diverted his stare to the professor and seemed about to speak, but the other silenced him with a commanding forefinger. "Not a word! I see it all. You impose your tremendous will upon me." He took the chair facing Bean and began swiftly: "I see the path over the desert. I stop beside a temple. Sand is all about. Beneath that temple is a stone sarcophagus. Within it lies the body of King Tam-rah—" "Ram-tah!" corrected Bean gently. "Did I not say Ram-tah?" pursued the seer. "There it has lain sealed for centuries, while all about it the tombs of other kings have been despoiled by curiosity hunters looking for objects of interest to place in their cabinets. But Ram-tah, last king of the pre-dynastic period, though others will tell you differently, but that's because he never got into history much, by reason of his uniformly gentlemanly conduct. He rests there to-day precisely as he was put. I see it all; I penetrate the heaped sands. At this moment the moon shines upon the spot, and a night bird is calling to its mate in the mulberry tree near the northeast corner of the temple. I see it all. I am there! What is this? What is this I get from you, my young friend?" The professor seemed to cock a psychic ear toward Bean. "You want—ah, yes, I see what you want, but that, of course, humanly, would be impossible. Oh, quite impossible, quite, quite!" "Why, if you're sure it's there?" "My dear sir, you descend to the material world. I will talk to you now as one practical man to another. Simply because it would take more money than you can afford. The thing is practicable but too expensive." "How do you know?" "It is true, I do not know. My control warned me when I came here that your circumstances had been suddenly bettered. I withdraw the words. I do not know, but—you will pardon the bluntness—can you afford it?" "What'd it cost? That's what I want to know." "Hum!" said the professor. He was unable to achieve more for a little time. He hum'd again. "There's the labour and the risk," he ventured at last. "Of course my agents at Cairo—I have secret agents in every city on the globe—could proceed to the spot from my carefully worded directions. They could do the work of excavating. So far, so good! But they would have to work quietly and would be punished if discovered. Of course here and there they could bribe. Naturally, they would have to bribe, and that, as you are doubtless aware, requires money. Again, entering this port the custom-house officials would have to be bribed, and they've gone up in price the last few years. My control tells me that this mummy is one they've been looking hard for. It's about the only one they haven't found. The loss will be discovered and my men might be traced. It requires an enormous sum. Now, for instance, a thousand dollars"—he regarded Bean closely and was reassured—"a thousand dollars wouldn't any more than start the work. Two thousand"—his eyes were steadily upon Bean now—"would further it some. Three thousand might see it pretty well advanced. Four thousand, of course, would help still farther and five thousand"—he had seen the shadow of dismay creep over the face of his sitter—"five thousand, I think, might put the thing through." Bean drew a long breath. The professor had correctly read the change in his face at "five thousand," but it had been a sudden fear that his whole ten thousand was not going to suffice for this prodigious operation. "I can afford that," said Bean shortly. He hardly dared trust himself to say more. His emotion threatened to overcome him. The professor suffered from the same danger. He, too, dared trust himself to say no more than the few necessary words. "There must be a payment down," he said with forced coldness. "How much?" "A thousand wouldn't be any too much." "Enough?" "Well, perhaps not enough," the professor nerved himself to admit. "I'll give you two, now. Give you the rest when you get—when you get It here." "You move me, I confess," conceded the professor. "I will undertake it." "How long will it be, do you think?" "I shall give orders by cable. A month, possibly, if all goes well." "I'll give you check." He gulped at that. It was the first time he had ever used the words. The Countess parted the curtains. Curiously enough she carried a pen and ink, though no one remarked upon the circumstance. Bean had that morning left a carefully written signature at the bank where his draft had been deposited. He later wondered how the scrawl he achieved now could ever be identified as by the same hand. And he was conscious, even as he wrote, that the Countess Casanova and Professor Balthasar were labouring under an excitement equal to his own. It was a big feat to attempt. As before, they waited until he had closed the lower door. "Oh, Ed!" breathed the Countess emotionally. "Anything loose in the house?" asked the professor. "They's a couple bottles beer in the icebox, but Oh, Ed!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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