Sheba’s Curse

A Marmalade and Sam Adventure

Without a doubt, the strangest case Sam and me ever worked on together was when the Metropolitan Museum of Art and History got burgled. It happened just a couple of weeks after he found me in a trash bin behind his place and adopted me, and we partnered up.

The call came in a quarter to eight, right at the start of day-shift. We had just gotten to the Precinct House, and Sam never even had a chance to get himself sorted out for the day.

He was just sipping his first cup of Joe, and I was nosing around on top of his desk. There was always something good to play with, in all the clutter he had there. I love chewing on the rubber bands, see? And batting the paperclips around, too. Sometimes he’d even leave a few out for me, on purpose, like.

I was being quiet, because Sam already had his nose out of joint to begin with that morning. But then the Captain handed him our first call slip of the day, and when he saw it was the Met Museum, he flipped his lid. I sighed. Another day, another dollar.

“That ain’t even in this Precinct,” he fumed at Captain Shaughnessy. “It’s in Midtown, down on East Ferry. Why can’t them bums do their own dirty laundry, Cap?”

“On account of the Museum guy asked for you by name, Sam,” The Captain said indifferently. “It ain’t my fault you’re getting’ a rep, so quit givin’ me the business over it. He called Deputy Chief Mahoney, and Mahoney told me, and I’m tellin’ you. I don’t see nothin’ so special about ya’s, myself, but that’s how the cookie crumbles.”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud!” Sam muttered, setting his cracked old mug back down and reaching for his battered fedora. “Just once, I’d like to…”

“Just get on it,” the Captain broke in. “I’ll send O’Malley and Goldblume to help, soon as they get back. And take ‘Strawberry Jam’ there, with ya’s,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “Last time ya’s left him here, he got into the sack-lunch my wife packed for me.”

I glared and hissed at him when he said that. He was way out of line. It ain’t polite to point at people, and besides, I hadn’t done any such thing, see? It was insulting.

“His name is Marmalade,” Sam grated, as he jammed his hat back down on his head and reached for me. “I told ya’s that a hundred times already, Brian! Marmalade!

“And I never leave him, see? It was a rat that ate your graham crackers!”

The Captain had already turned his back by then, and didn’t hear the part about the rat, but it didn’t matter; my kind don’t forget, and I’d get my payback later.

At ten weeks of age, I was getting almost too big to fit in the pocket of Sam’s overcoat. I let him stuff me in there anyway, though, because I didn’t want to walk through the puddles to the car on my own four paws.

It was a wet, blustery day in February of 1934, and the wind off the river was colder than a loan shark’s heart. I just counted myself lucky that smelly old trench coat had such big pockets.

I work for Sam, see? The name’s “Marmalade,” just like Sam said, on account of my orange fur. I’m his backup man, and I go with him on all of his cases. Just so ya’s know, I’m from the Clan of Cat. We’ve got our own syndicate, see?

Anyway, no wisecracks about the name. Me and Sam are tight, and he can call me anything he likes. Anybody else tries it is liable to lose some skin.

His full moniker is Detective Lieutenant Sam McConnell, and it didn’t surprise me any, that the Museum curator had made a point of asking for him. Sam is the best detective on the Metro PD, or any other force in this state. Anybody who says different is full of beans, see?

We didn’t head straight downtown anyway, no matter what Shaughnessy had said. Sam parked his baby blue, 1932 Ford V8 coupe in front of a joint on South Cleveland named the “Bluebird Diner.” The management there knew us, and wouldn’t flap about me sitting on the counter in front of him.

The owner was Diane de ’Salvo, an OK dame that Sam had known for a long time. Diane spotted Sam’s thundercloud face when we came through the door, and didn’t even say hello. She just set his coffee and a clean ashtray in front of him, gave me a piece of bacon, and turned in his order of scrambled eggs and hash-browns.

Breakfast used up three quarters of an hour, but it left him in a whole lot better mood. By the time he finished eating, he was about as close to smiling as he was ever gonna get. Without cracking anything, that is. They don’t call Sam “Granite Face” for nothin’.

A burglary or “B&E” ain’t exactly no crying rush, anyhow. There was plenty of time for us to have a civilized meal. For a homicide or an armed robbery, Sam would’ve gotten his keester in gear, and gone on over there. When it comes to his job, Sam is all business, see?

By the time we got back into the Ford, it was raining and sleeting again, the kind of half-frozen mess that makes everybody (and every cat) want to hide and sleep the day away.

I didn’t mind too much though, because Sam had just had a new heater installed in the coupe. Its little radiator hung down under the dash, and blew right at my spot on the seat. I just sat there with the warm air ruffling my fur, half-dozing, until we pulled up in front of the museum. Then I let Sam put me back into his pocket.

The Met Museum was big, a sullen old pile of sandstone blocks, built back when there was a lot more dough floating around. It had tall stone columns, lots of steps to get up to the doors, ivy growing up the walls, the whole deal.

The cold drizzle was coming down even harder by then, but that’s the breaks. There was no way around getting out again.

Sam grumbled and held an unfolded newspaper over his head, and I got as deep in his pocket as I could. He almost ran up the steps, with me bouncing up and down like the last peanut in a can. I was just hoping he wouldn’t slip in the slush and fall, because if he did, I’d most likely get mashed flat, see?

As soon as we’d made it inside, he dumped the soggy paper into a trash can, got out his handkerchief, and dried off my face. Sam knows how I hate to have water on my whiskers.

The museum guard was waiting on us in his fancy uniform, but Sam made him stand there until he’d finished with me, and then dug out a Lucky and lit up.

“Well, what’re we waitin’ for?” he said, flipping his match away.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” the guard said in a high, squeaky voice that made me think of rodents. “Smoking isn’t allowed inside the museum. Pets aren’t either, for that matter.” He pointed to me, with my orange head and one paw sticking out of Sam’s pocket.

I gave him a soft hiss; I ain’t no pet, and I don’t like bein’ pointed at, see? It ain’t good manners.

“Is that right?” Sam said mildly. He took a drag on his cigarette and just looked at the guy. “Do ya’s know where the burglars got in at? Show me that first.”

Taking note of Sam’s vinegar glare, the guard said, “If you’ll follow me Sir, it’s down these stairs,” and started walking. I guess he was smarter than he looked.

Down in the basement, the place had a bunch of storerooms for all the stuff they didn’t have room to show the public. There was also a room with tools and work tables, where they cleaned off old pottery and bones, and got them ready to put in the glass cases upstairs.

There was a little squinty guy in a flannel suit waitin’ for us. Not flashy, like a mob wise-guy’s threads, but with shiny elbows, and a little bagged out at the seat. He had the kind of pinched-in face you see on some small dogs, and a pair of them little wire glasses that just sit on your nose, with nothing else to hold them.

“Lieutenant McConnell, this is our Curator, Doctor Finkel,” the guard said, and the suit stuck out his hand. Sam nodded, and took it the way you would if somebody handed you a dead fish.

The guard took off like he was afraid of us. Maybe he was. Sam on a bad day is nobody to fool around with, see? Finkel never even noticed me, but started just talking. He was in a real lather.

“I am Erwin Finkel, Lieutenant,” he said. “I cannot emphasize too strongly the importance of what has happened here. There seems to have been only one artifact taken, but it is irreplaceable and priceless. It must be recovered immediately!”

“Slow down!” Sam said, with a bit of irritation in his voice. “One thing at a time. First show me where they got in, if ya’s know. Then we’ll get to whatever was stolen.”

“There’s a broken window back here, Detective,” Finkel said, and pointed.

The basement was one of those that had high little windows for light, up by the ceiling. From the outside, they were right at ground level. One of those’d had the glass knocked out, and most of it had fallen on a table under it. The frame was rusty metal, swinging open on its hinges. Sam looked it over, but he didn’t touch anything.

“Use your telephone to call Fifth Precinct,” he told Finkel. “Tell them Sam McConnell says to send a lab team for prints.” The pinch-faced little Curator hurried to comply, and Sam got down to business.

He set me on the table so I could stretch my legs a little, and turned back to the window. Sort of to himself, he said, “They broke out enough glass to reach the latch, and then just opened it.”

I started sniffing at the broken shards. There was a funny scent there, nothing like a cat, or a human, or even a dog. It itched at my memory, but I couldn’t quite place it. Like something I had known a long time ago, in one of my other lives, see?

Just so ya’s know, my kind don’t just live one time, like you humans do. The Spirit Above counts the Clan of Cat as special, and gave us nine.

Nine paths to walk, and nine lives to live, upon the earth and under the sun; so goes the old verse. So it is remembered, and so it has been sung.

Our lives don’t always come one right after the other like beads on a string, either. Sometimes a long, long time can pass before one of us returns to live again, see? My first couple of lives were so many summers ago, that I have trouble remembering much about them.

The scent on those broken bits of glass awakened something long forgotten in me, but what it was wouldn’t come. I just sat there with my eyes half closed, trying to put it together.

“That opening ain’t big enough for a man to get through,” Sam mused. “Maybe a kid, to let somebody else in through a back door.” I could tell by his tone that he didn’t really buy it, though. There was something else going on here.

Then I spotted a little wet track, or a print of some kind, half hidden by the glass on the table top. At first I thought it was mud from outside, but it wasn’t. It was blood.

It wasn’t the track of any creature I’d ever met in this life, either. Not a dog, and certainly not a cat. It looked like a tiny little hand, with a thumb and fingers like a human’s, but not much bigger than a cat’s paw.

And it smelled wrong, see? Just plain wrong. It was all wrong, for here and now.

It was a scent from someplace in my long past. Something that happened in my very first life, a long time ago, in a place far away.

Then a strange word popped into my mind: “Quirdan!” And suddenly I knew! It was no human kid that busted in here. No, not a human at all!

Quirdan – monkey! “Rajul al’Saghir,” the Little Man! The words were those of a forgotten desert tongue, the speech of my very first human companion, the little girl who was Queen in the land of Sabaya.

Sheba! The child who became Queen of the seven green oases of Sabaya, wealthiest of all the kingdoms, when she was but ten summers old.

Beyond the deserts of Arabia it had been, across the narrow sea in Cush, where gold was as common as stones, and ivory adorned every wall. Sheba, my beloved friend in my first life, dead these thousands of summers! Sheba!

I had been given to Sheba by her father when I was just a kitten, and she had been my friend and companion. She had loved me, and I in my turn had loved her. So very long ago!

When Sheba crossed the salty sea and the burning lands to visit Solomon, King of Jerusalem, I had gone with her. His riches were said by some to be even greater than hers, and her jealousy had burned. She had gone to see Solomon and his glory for herself.

There, in that faroff land, the King had given my companion many rich gifts, precious jewels, spices, costly garments. And he had given her a tiny monkey, a “quirdan,” in her tongue. She had named it “Rajul al’Saghir,” – Little Man. That was the smell I had detected.

Not a human child, but a monkey had broken out this window and come in! Or more likely, a human criminal had broken the glass, opened the window, and put a monkey through the narrow opening!

The wicked creature had cut its tiny, human-like hand on the broken glass, before doing the will of its master!

I hissed and spat at the memories, as I sat looking at that little handprint, and smelling the odd blood. Rajul had been an evil little demon, and caused me no end of trouble. I had hated him.

Sam whirled around when he heard me pitchin’ a fit, and grabbed me. That snapped me out of it.

“Marmalade? What’s eatin’ you, little buddy?” Then he followed my gaze and saw what I’d been looking at, and his eyes widened.

He set me back down gently, and bent over the shards of glass. Then he took the stub of a pencil from his pocket, and used it to clear them away from the blood print.

“Nice going, kid,” he said, nodding, and gave me a wink. “Not much gets by you.” He picked me up again, but didn’t stuff me back into his pocket.

The two uniforms Captain Shaughnessy had sent over came through the door then, and Sam waved them to him. “Tell the lab boys I want prints off all this glass, and get a sample of this blood analyzed at Mercy Medical Center. My buddy here says there’s something wrong with it.”

The look on Sam’s face told them it’d be a bad idea to laugh, so they just nodded. “Sure thing, Lieutenant,” one of them said. “What’re we looking for?”

“It ain’t human,” he said. “That’s a monkey’s handprint. While they’re doin’ that, you two go over this place real good. See what the ground looks like from outside the window, too.”

Then he turned back to the Curator, who had just reappeared. “Now you can tell me all about what was taken,” he told him. The little suit had been hopping from one foot to the other, waiting to get his two bits in.

“If you’ll step this way, Lieutenant, I’ll be happy to show you,” he said. He indicated another table, at the far end of the room, and scurried to it. Sam followed, carrying me in his big hands.

This table had a couple of wooden boxes on it, with foreign writing on them, all curlicues and pothooks. The biggest one’d had the lid pried off it. There was excelsior and sawdust on the table around it, and another tiny, bloody handprint. Alerted now, Sam saw it about as quick as I did.

“Did the burglar take the lid off this?” Sam asked.

“No, my people opened it yesterday evening,” Finkel told him. “We were going to catalogue the artifact and begin preparing it for display, this morning. When I arrived, it was gone. The object cannot be left in inexperienced hands, Lieutenant McConnell! It must be recovered forthwith!”

“We’ll do what we can,” Sam said, and set me down in front of the open box. I started sniffing around; the odd monkey scent was strong here, on the box and the excelsior. “Now, exactly what was it they took?”

Finkel seemed to notice me for the first time, and sort of squeaked. “Lieutenant, you cannot have your pet here! I must ask you to…”

“Marmalade ain’t no pet,” Sam snapped. “If you ever want to get your artifact gizmo back, you gotta cooperate. Now describe it for me, as exactly as you can.”

Finkel simmered down a bit, but I could tell he wasn’t happy about me being there. I didn’t like him much either, so that made us even. I glared at him, but I didn’t quite spit. Not yet, anyway.

“The missing artifact is a sacred Scarab, made from an ancient ceramic called ‘Egyptian Faience.’ ” Sam raised his eyebrow at the unfamiliar words, so Finkel went on quickly, “A sort of ceramic beetle figurine, you might say. About this big.” He held his hands a few inches apart. “It is glazed a bright, iridescent blue, and has jeweled eyes.

“It is exquisite, priceless, and utterly irreplaceable. But it is accursed!

“For four thousand years, it has brought death, whenever handled without the proper precautions. It is called ‘Sheba’s Curse.’ It must be brought back here, immediately!”

“Accursed, ya say.” Sam sounded skeptical. “A big blue bug with a curse.” He didn’t laugh, but I could tell he thought he was listening to fairytales. “What do ya’s mean by that, exactly?”

“It kills, Lieutenant. It kills. Anyone who puts his hand to it without the ancient prayers being read, dies. Anyone who takes it from its rightful master, without that person’s consent, dies. Only when it is passed from the hand of one true owner to the next, with the proper ritual, is it safe.”

The little pinch-faced curator, with his wrinkled suit and wire glasses, was as pale as a bedsheet. He seemed to shrink into himself, and a shadow passed over his face. He was genuinely terrified, scared nearly out of his wits.

I was afraid too, as my memories started coming back to me. They were memories from my first life, long ago, in a very different world. We were in trouble, I suddenly realized. Not just Sam and me, but everyone.

“Settle down, Doc,” Sam told Finkel. “You’re lettin’ this stuff get to ya’s. Just tell me what ya know about this Scarab thing. Looks like they went straight to it, and never touched anything else in your whole place. I want to know why.”

“It would have to be someone within the archaeological community, Lieutenant,” Finkel told him. I could see he wasn’t proud of that fact, but he went on, “To desire this particular artifact badly enough to steal it, one would have to know of it, what it is, and what it is capable of.”

“Just give me the facts, Doctor. Fairy tales won’t get it back for you.”

The curator nodded, and calmed down a bit. He went on, “The object is first mentioned in the Thebes Tablet, which was discovered in the late nineteenth century. It states that Kaphre, Pharaoh of Egypt’s Old kingdom, ordered a Sacred Scarab made and dedicated by his chief Priest and Scientist, Semerkhet.

“It was to be the exclusive possession of the King, to be passed down for the protection of his children, never to be touched by those not of royal blood.

“As such, it was both blessed and accursed, by means of incantations and spells known only to the priesthood of the dark god, Set. It would bring health and long life to the King’s children, and to their descendants, but swift and terrible death to any outsider who took it for himself.

“Thus the Scarab could be passed down, or given willingly, but never stolen. Even when inherited within the Royal Dynasty, the sacred prayers had to be read, precisely and with no errors.

“If they were not, as happened on several notable occasions during the next few centuries, disaster inevitably followed. Finally, after one particularly hideous incident, the Scarab was deemed too dangerous to remain in the possession of Egypt’s Pharaohs and their families.

“It was therefore given, with all necessary ceremony and precautions, to another royal family, that of the neighboring kingdom of Sabaya. Several years later, with all of the essential prayers and ritual, its King passed the Scarab to his daughter, as his deathbed gift to her.

“That daughter, ten year old newly crowned Queen of Sabaya, had it attached to a large golden necklace, which she apparently wore at all times. Her name was ‘Sheba,’ and she was thought to be the wealthiest woman on earth.”

Finkel paused then, like he was unsure how to go on, or maybe just to get his breath.

I remembered the story, of course; I had lived it. It happened in my very first life, far back in the mist of my memory. Sheba had named me “Layla” then, which means “Night.” I was a she-cat in those days, sleek and sharp-clawed, as black as the night I was named for.

I knew the Scarab. Yeah. I knew it had returned, the moment Sam set me down in front of that empty box. I knew the ill-starred thing, and I feared it. Anybody who didn’t was a fool, that’s all.

Then the terrified Doctor Finkel started talking again, and I came back once more from my memories, to that cold, rainy day in 1934.

“And now I must tell you things which are not established fact. Not history, but legend, Lieutenant McConnell,” he said.

“Go ahead,” Sam answered, narrowing his eyes.

“The Bible states in the Book of First Kings: ‘And when the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon concerning the name of the LORD, she came to prove him with hard questions. And she came to Jerusalem with a very great train, with camels that bore spices, and very much gold, and precious stones.’

“But there was more behind her journey to Jerusalem than a desire to test Solomon’s wisdom and knowledge, Lieutenant. Much more. Fragments of the legend have been passed down. Bits and pieces of it have survived to this day.

“Sheba also heard rumors of Solomon’s great wealth, and that it even surpassed her own. Being after all, an immature young girl, she was consumed with jealousy. She burned with the desire to see the King’s possessions for herself.”

Yeah. All of it had come back to me by the time Finkel got that far. The truth was, I knew the story a lot better than he did.

Sheba was good to me, and a kind protector. I loved her more than anything, but she was just a kid, see? Nowhere near grown up enough to run a country.

She was fourteen summers old when, in a fit of temper, she set out to see for herself the King who dared to be wealthier and more powerful than she was. I went with her, of course. Like I said, I loved the girl who had named me “Layla” – The Night. I would have given my life for her.

From Sabaya’s main oasis to Jerusalem is a thirty day trek, from new moon to new moon. First across the choppy Narrow Sea by barge, and then through the burning lands, on the back of a camel with a worse temper than Sheba had. It didn’t help her mood one bit. She was fuming by the second day out.

North through the Arabian Desert we marched to Aqaba, then across the territory of Edom to the wells of Beersheba, where we rested for three welcome days.

Here all of the humans bathed, repaired their gear, and changed into their best clothing. Our Queen wanted to make the grandest entrance into Jerusalem she could.

If there was any way to do it, Sheba wanted to show Solomon up, see? She meant to put this upstart into her shadow from the moment we got there.

I have to admit we put on a grand show, parading in through the city gate, and straight up to the old hilltop fort of Zion. The people of Jerusalem came out of all the houses and buildings to watch us with open mouths, and dozens of street urchins ran alongside our camels, chattering and pointing.

We were carrying a couple of tons of gold, and Sheba had distributed a lot of it up and down the length of the caravan, as jewelry for the humans and decorations on the camels’ trappings.

As a member of the Clan of Cat, I felt that my appearance was grand enough for anyone, and I rode in front of Sheba, high on the burnished peak of her saddle, but she fastened a necklace of gold and lapis lazuli about my neck anyway.

Then, as we approached the Palace, King Solomon himself came out into the sun, under a high marble portico, with all his court functionaries trailing behind him. And the light blazed forth from him like the stars in the sky!

The King’s robes glittered with so much gold it was a wonder he could hold them up. Pearls glowed from their hem and sleeves. His high crown was encrusted with rubies and emeralds that reflected the sun in iridescent rainbows.

And the least of his attendants was as richly dressed as my young protector, the Queen of our entire land. We were wearing a lot of our kingdom’s wealth that day, but Solomon’s Court outshone us, as the sun outshines the moon.

It was absolutely the worst thing the King could have done. I felt Sheba’s jealousy and anger begin to burn, and I knew that no good could come of this visit.

Sheba tried to one-up Solomon by gifting him with all the rich things we had brought. All the gold, lapis lazuli, turquoise, and amethyst we had carried across the desert were laid at his feet, day after day. All the tons of cinnamon, peppercorns, sweet cardamom and other exotic spices, all the priceless aromatic resins, until his palace smelled like the gardens of Babylon.

And for fourteen days, from the new moon until it was full again, the King topped every gift she presented to him by one of his own, until it became obvious that we would begin our return journey more heavily laden than we had been on our arrival.

Finally, on the last day, as we were about to begin our long trip home, Solomon gave Sheba one final, parting gift: the tiny, human-like monkey, Rajul.

I knew that Sheba had already been humiliated almost beyond her ability to bear it. She was perilously near bursting into tears or a violent tantrum, either of which could be deadly in a ruler who exercised so much power over her subjects. Those of us who knew her best cringed, and prepared for the inevitable storm.

But then she did something I had never expected: with a gleam of malice in her eyes, she detached the blessed and accursed Scarab of Kaphre from her necklace and handed it to one of Solomon’s eunuchs, as her own parting gift to the King.

I was appalled! Without any sort of preparation, with none of the prayers and ritual necessary for the safe passing of the deadly thing to a new master, she gave to Solomon an object that was quite capable of extinguishing his life, perhaps ending his entire dynasty.

I loved my young friend, as only the Clan of Cat can love, with all my heart and being. I would have laid down my life for her in an instant of time. None of that prevented me from recognizing Sheba for what she was: a petulant teenager with all of the flaws that humans are prey to. She could be loving and gentle, but she could also be vengeful.

All of us near the head of the caravan, who knew full well the meaning of what she had just done, fell into horrified silence.

It was unthinkable, and inexcusable. I wondered if the Scarab would instantly destroy the poor wretched Court functionary Sheba had passed it to, or wait for the King himself to accept it.

Looking back now, from the modern world of 1934, and speaking of booby-trapped gifts, I consoled myself that she hadn’t really done any worse to Solomon than what he had done to her, and to me.

His farewell gift, the evil little monkey Rajul, began by springing up onto Sheba’s saddle and pushing me out of my place in front of her. I hissed and spat at him, but before I could unsheathe my claws, she said, “Be still, Layla. There is room for both of you.”

I out-weighed the little monster, and knew I could take him in a fight, but I also knew Sheba would be angry if I eliminated him right now. I could afford to bide my time. No one is as patient as an offended cat.

As it turned out, I never did get to do away with the nasty creature; he was just too cunning to let himself be caught near me when Sheba wasn’t present. But how I hated him! His thievery and cruel pranks made us enemies from the start, and he stank abominably, because he never groomed himself.

Rajul was still stealing shiny objects, breaking things, and making messes, when I finally reached the end of my first Life, upon the earth and under the sun. I don’t know how long monkeys live, but the little demon had contrived to outlast me.

Our journey home was a miserable one; Sheba was in the foulest of tempers, and no one dared approach her. She had been bested, and had her nose rubbed in the fact. Solomon had actually given her more gifts that she’d brought for him, so that we’d had to buy a dozen more camels, just to carry it all back to Sabaya.

Her wealth wasn’t even close to matching that of Jerusalem’s King, and her ego would never recover from the blow.

We heard a year later that shrewd old Solomon had managed to avoid Sheba’s adder-strike with the Scarab. He never touched it with his own hands, but had immediately ordered it buried beneath the gates of his deity’s Temple in Jerusalem.

I wondered how many slaves that operation had cost him! After that I had forgotten about it, never expecting to encounter the deadly thing again.

The nervous little Curator was still talking as I once more drifted back from my memories of a world that had long ago crumbled into the dust.

“And that is all that is known or can be guessed, Detective McConnell,” he was saying. “It is not mentioned again, by any of the ancient sources. It simply vanished from sight.

“Until two years ago, that is. In 1932 it was found by the famed archaeologist Montana Jackson, in the possession of three Syrian tomb robbers. They did not survive; all three perished from various causes, within a very short time.

“Jackson had enough familiarity with such things not to touch it with his bare hands, and had it shipped directly here. It has been kept safely packaged ever since, until last night.

No one in this city, save me and my colleagues at this institution, has any notion of how to handle the Scarab safely. It must be recovered before it can kill again!”

Sam had been listening with the poker-face he usually reserves for alibis. Now he said, “Let me get this straight, Doc. You want me to believe this thing, this Scarab gizmo, is gonna kill anybody that touches it. Is that right?”

“Yes, Detective. That is the essence of what I have been saying. It may happen immediately, or the Scarab may wait, but whoever takes it in his hands without the proper prayers and rituals, will die.”

“Okay. Right. Well, I’m gonna leave that alone for now, on account of I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m more used to facts. Evidence that I can lay my hands on.

“It ain’t really germane, anyways. The fact is you’ve been robbed. Something valuable was taken, and I’m gonna try and get it back for ya’s. I think I already know where to start lookin’, but I can’t guarantee nothin’ just yet.”

“Then take these, Lieutenant.” He took a pair of rubber gloves from the table, like the ones doctors use, and handed them to Sam. “Never let the artifact touch any part of your body.”

Sam tucked the gloves into an inside pocket, and motioned to me. I went to him, and he lifted me into my usual riding place.

Then we were back out in the cold again, getting into the Ford. I sat shivering on the seat until the heater caught up, while Sam drove in silence.

Finally he turned to me, with one of his crooked, almost-smiles. “Little guy, we’re gonna treat this case like that whole bedtime story was the Gospel.”

I admit I was relieved to hear that. Sam had no idea how close Finkel’s story was to the unvarnished truth. I knew more of it than the squinty little curator did, only because I was there, see? That’s all.

“It don’t matter much,” Sam went on. “I already know who put the arm on the whatchamacallit, the Scarab, or whatever it is. Maybe I know who hired him too. We’ll just have to see.”

We pulled up at the Precinct House about a quarter to eleven, just as the drizzle was ending. It looked like the sun might come out soon, and I sure hoped so. I’d had enough of cold and wet for one day.

Sam didn’t go to his desk, but straight to the front counter, so I knew I wasn’t gonna get out of his pocket to stretch my legs this time. He waved to Sergeant Flaherty, the grizzled old cop who commanded the uniforms. “I want ya’s should have a guy brought in for me, Patrick,” he said. “He goes by Jimmy Donatello, but he might have a street moniker too. Hangs out around Swede’s Bar, a hundred twelfth and Dekker.”

“Jimmy the Nose?” Flaherty said. “What’s the little creep into now? Muggin’ little old ladies?”

“Burglary and grand theft,” Sam said. “You knew he was the monkey handler in that dime-a-ticket circus that broke up last year, didn’t ya?”

The Sergeant nodded.

“Well, Donatello kept one of the circus monkeys, when the show went belly-up. One of the tiny little kind, y’know. It was sort of his pet.

“I always thought he was using it to pick pockets and snatch purses, but never could prove anything. He’s that kind of nickel and dime thief, anyway. I think he did the break-in at the Met Museum last night. He put the monkey in at a busted window, and had it bring him a valuable artifact.”

“Did ya figure that out for yourself, or did your little buddy there tell ya’s?” The Captain had come up behind him, and Sam whirled around angrily.

Shaughnessy knew better than to pull that stuff. Sam hates it when people do that, see? Lucky for him, he wasn’t pointing at me this time, or he mighta lost a finger.

“He might’ve,” Sam growled. “What’s it to ya’s, as long as we get the guy that done it?”

“Not a thing, Sam! Just sayin’, is all.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder and went on about his business, but my boss was already back to his thundercloud face.

Some humans oughta keep their clammy hands to themselves, see? If Shaughnessy had put his paw on me like that, I’d have bit him.

“Just pull Donatello in for me,” he growled at the Sergeant. “Throw him in holding until I get back. I got some lookin’ around to do, north of the river.”

I didn’t know yet who we were going to see, but I knew just what Sam was thinking, right off the bat. Yeah, it fit right in.

For about the past week, we’d been gettin’ a rash of “historical objects,” showing up with local fences who got busted for other reasons.

That’s old antique junk you don’t ordinarily find around here, see? Pots and crumbly old scrolls, and even nasty stuff like pieces of mummies. Just like what goes under the glass in places like the Met Museum. Yeah.

Fences ain’t in the racket for their health, see? They won’t deal in anything they can’t turn real quick. That means buyers, and not just the usual bunch, either. Somebody else was buying the stolen artifacts, and spreading a lot of dough around doin’ it.

None of the fences had cracked yet, about who they were bearding for, but it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later one of them would cop, in exchange for a couple years off his sentence.

I’d heard Sam tellin’ some of the guys at the Precinct that he thought the end buyer had to be somebody really loaded, and with an education. The kind of rich guy who’d pay serious dough for stuff he could keep for himself and look at, but never dare show off to anyone else. Somebody with money, brains, and an ego the size of the Chrysler Building.

That ain’t exactly a picture of a man who’d dirty his own hands hiring Jimmy Donatello to steal it for him. No, it might’ve been Jimmy the Nose who actually pulled the caper, but there was a middleman mixed up in it, too. Not a regular fence, but somebody who knew what this artifact stuff was all about.

By the time we got back in the Ford, the clouds had broken up, and the sun was shining through. It was flashing off the ice and slushy puddles bright enough to hurt my eyes. It was just a sham, though. The wind was still blowing bitter cold off the river. Too cold, for anybody who didn’t have a big pocket to burrow into. I didn’t bother getting out of the one I was riding in, as Sam drove us across the Jefferson Avenue Bridge.

North of the river was where civilization ended and the jungle began, see? Various mob outfits took turns running that district back during Prohibition. In those days there was plenty of payola comin’ outa there to keep their speak-easies, warehouses, and breweries from being raided too often.

Now it was just the city’s armpit, full of sneak-thieves, shylocks, streetwalkers, and bums. Up there, the first job of the Police every morning was to sweep up the bodies of the ones who hadn’t made it through the night. Life could get cheap, real quick.

As we drove further north along Jefferson, away from the river, the scenery began to change. Now we were in a neighborhood that had once been fairly well off, but had got kinda down at the heels, what with the Depression. As things got worse, its crumbling old houses had become strictly low rent.

Sam made several turns down side streets, and finally pulled onto the gravel drive of one of them. Like the others on its block, it had been a nice home in its day, but that day was definitely just a fading memory.

I knew the place: it belonged to a washed-up old guy the break-in artists and thieves called the Professor. I doubt he ever actually earned the title, but he was smart, and knew his way around on any number of subjects.

Rumor had it he’d pulled off a couple of bank jobs and a jewelry store robbery back in the twenties. Nobody ever pinned anything that big on him, though.

Sam had finally busted the Prof for fencing stolen goods, strictly smalltime, and he’d spent a deuce upstate for it. When he came back out, he was just a sad old shadow of what he’d been, tryin’ to make it through the Depression like everybody else.

The word on the street was that the Professor had gone strictly legit. What little dough he had came from a small antique store he ran on North Cleveland.

He and Sam were on friendly terms now, and even got together once in a while for beers. I liked him well enough; he always smiled at me, and used to give me little treats.

We got out of the Ford, and Sam slammed the door hard enough to alert anyone inside we were coming. I knew what he was thinking, as we came up the cobblestone walk and he wiped his shoes on the mat.

Really old stuff like the Scarab was Prof’s first love, and if anybody could shed any light on the case, he could. He might not be involved, but he either knew who paid Jimmy Donatello to pull off the burglary, or could find out, with a little friendly encouragement. You never completely give up all your old ways. Your past is always right there beneath the surface, just waiting to bite you the first time you’re careless.

Sam rapped on the door three or four times, and when there was no answer knocked again. Still nothin’.

He tried looking in the porch window, but there were heavy curtains, and we couldn’t see much of anything. Finally he shoved on the door, and it just came open.

Sam slipped his .38 from his shoulder holster just in case, and we went on in, being real careful. We didn’t have no warrant, but it didn’t matter, see? Sam and the Prof were friends these days, and he could truthfully say he was just checking to make sure the old guy was okay.

It was dark in there, what with the thick curtains, but my kind have eyes for the dark. I didn’t have no trouble at all seeing what had happened, and I hissed and spat!

Sam set me down on a coffee table in a hurry, and found the light switch. There sat the Professor, as dead as a mackerel, and there was Sheba’s Curse, shining in his lap. Yeah.

Sam slowly holstered his piece, and just stared, for nearly a minute, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

It was a comfortable old room, filled with books and antiques, a lifetime’s worth of knick-knacks and dust. All the furniture dated from the last century, and the thick carpet had holes worn through it.

The Professor was sitting in his threadbare old armchair as if he was only sleeping, with the Sacred Scarab of Kaphre gleaming in his lap.

Sam felt for a pulse in his throat, but I already knew he was dead. Something goes away when a person dies, see? Some living spark that you never knew was there until it was gone. The eyes of Cat can see things your kind just can’t. And sometimes I wish they couldn’t.

The Scarab was just as I remembered it: utterly beautiful, with its glowing blue glazed body, and eyes of flawless sapphires. And it was still as deadly as a striking cobra.

Sam picked up a candlestick telephone that sat on a little table at Prof’s elbow, and rang up the Precinct House. “McConnell,” he said. “I need a Coroner for a suspicious death at five oh five East Taft. Yeah, I found the body, and I’ll identify him. And tell Shaughnessy the Met Museum case is solved.”

“It’s a real shame, Marmalade,” he said to me. “You didn’t know Prof long, but the truth is he was a nice old guy. He just made a couple of mistakes a long time ago, see? He never would’a done nothin’ like this, if somebody hadn’t offered him a hefty pile of dough for the job.”

Then, without even thinking about what Finkel had told him, Sam reached for the Scarab with his bare hand, where it still lay shining in Prof’s lap. He was an inch away from death, and I did the only thing I could do to stop him.

I leaped through the air and bit his wrist, so hard his blood dripped on the floor. He was the best friend I ever had, and I bit him, just like that. Yeah.

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let my partner touch that cursed thing and die. Not even if it made him hate me.

The memory of the look he gave me is painful to this day. It was a look full of hurt, on a face that hardly ever showed anything.

Sam McConnell don’t trust nobody, see? Not even himself, most of the time. That way nobody has any power to hurt him. I don’t know what happened back in his past to make him that way, but that’s how he was. Nobody ever got past his thick crust.

Then just once, in no telling how long, he let himself love and trust another living creature. Me.

And I had turned on him. I saw all of that in his eyes, during that one unguarded moment. I couldn’t even say “I’m sorry,” in any language Sam could understand. I wanted to die.

Then it dawned on him what had just happened, and it was like the sun comin’ outa the clouds. He stooped down and grabbed me from where I had landed on the floor, and hugged me so hard I thought I was gonna suffocate.

And that’s when I saw something nobody else on the good green earth ever saw, before or since. I saw Sam McConnell cry. Old “Granite Face” himself, with tears running down into his five o’clock shadow. Yeah.

Then he pulled himself together, and set me gently, oh so gently, back on the table. He got Finkel’s rubber gloves from his pocket and stretched them over his big, rough hands.

Then he got a pair of iron tongs out of the cold fireplace and gingerly picked up Sheba’s Curse with them. I followed him as he carried the evil thing back out to the car and dropped it into one of the paper evidence bags he always kept under the seat.

Sam and me got back in the car then, and he just sat there without sayin’ anything. I could tell Prof’s death had hit him hard. Finally he dug a pack of smokes out of the glove compartment and lit up. I got into his lap, as we waited for the Coroner and the lab boys to arrive. Captain Shaughnessy was with them when they pulled up, twenty minutes later.

The Captain walked up beside the coupe, as the others filed into the house. Sam rolled down the window. “Is it the Professor?” Shaughnessy asked, and Sam nodded. “What took him out?”

“I don’t know, Brian. No visible wounds. I know he had a bad ticker. He was no spring chicken.”

“Did he have the goods? The museum’s gadget?”

Sam nodded again and handed him the paper bag with the Scarab inside. “Don’t touch it with your bare hands, Captain. Not for nothin’. Tell everybody. And get it back to the Met Museum, soon as you can. They know what to do with it.”

Shaughnessy looked at him kind of funny for a few seconds, then nodded. “So ya’s figure this artifact thing had something to do with the Prof snuffin’ it? Like it was poison or somethin’?

“Yeah. Call me a screwball, but that’s how I read it. They’ll probably say he had a coronary, or busted a vessel or something, but I know better. It never would’a happened without that Scarab thing.”

The Captain said, “I don’t know nothin’ about that, but you got it back, and that’s all that matters. Case closed, that’s all. And just so ya’s know, they ain’t gonna be bringin’ Jimmy the Nose in, either. He’s layin’ on a slab at the County Morgue. Mulcahy is investigatin’ it.”

Me and Sam both looked up when he said that, and Shaughnessy went on, “Somebody put a .32 in Jimmy’s brisket early this morning. His monkey got away. The little stinker jumped right over the uniforms when they kicked in the door. Bertie McMahon had to go home and change his shorts.”

“The Professor never killed nobody, Brian. He never done anything like that. He didn’t even own a gun.”

“I know it, Sam, the Captain said. “There’s more left to this story that ain’t been told yet, that’s for sure. We may never know who hired the Prof to set it all up, either. He wasn’t the type to write stuff like that down. But it’ll be investigated as a separate case. This one stays closed, and the Scarab goes back where it belongs.”

Then he pointed at me. I hate that, see? It ain’t good manners. But he smiled and said, “Suppose you, and Marmalade there, meet me at Mulligan’s. Da both of ya’s look like you could use a stiff drink.”

It was the first time Captain Shaughnessy ever called me by my right name, and I could almost forgive him for pointin’ his finger at me all the time. Almost. I gave him a grudging little purr.

I never saw Sheba’s curse again, and I don’t miss it one bit. That thing is best forgotten.

I do like to think about Sheba though. My memories of my very first human companion are mostly good ones. That little girl who became Queen of the land of Sabaya loved me, and I loved her, too.

Not everything she did was right, see? Sheba had her failings, sure. But show me somebody who don’t! The important thing is to remember the good about people. Let the bad stuff blow away in the wind, and disappear. It ain’t worth your time. Case closed.

END