The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor Read Online Free PDF Page A

Evelyn O’Connell’s adventurous romances were the rare novels enjoyed equally by both sexes. The covers of those books may have indicated why: artwork suitable for American pulp magazines depicted a young blonde heroine being menaced by a shambling mummy while a young blond hero, square of jaw and blazing of gun, moved in to save her.
    Each of the novels— The Mummy and The Mummy Returns —had its own pyramidal stacked display on either side of a lectern where the lovely author stood, reading. Her dustjacket photos, as glamorous as any movie star’s, may have been another reason the male audience responded so well . . .
    But today in attendance were primarily women, who could identify with the slender, brown-eyed beauty before them, although unlike the heroine on her covers, the authoress was brunette. Her cream-color hat at a rakish angle, her gray-and-white suit as stylish as it was tasteful, she was as dignified as the covers of her novel were not.
    And her audience hung on her every word.
    “ ‘Now safely aboard the airship,’ ” Evelyn O’Connell said, “ ‘Scarlet and Dash marveled as the pyramid was swallowed into the swirling sandstorm. With the mummy finally vanquished, Dash swept Scarlet into his arms. “Oh God, Scarlet. I thought I’d lost you.” She returned his tender gaze and offered a whispered reply: “For a moment there, you had.” Bathed in the rays of golden sunlight, the adventurer took the librarian into his strong, tired arms, and they shared a long, hard, passionate kiss worthy of a Knight Templar and an Egyptian Princess, their love deeper and truer than ever.’ ” She closed the cover. “ ‘The end.’ ”
    She lifted her eyes to the crowd, smiling as they applauded, though one who knew her well might have detected a melancholy tinge to her expression. Reading aloud from her novels was always a bittersweet experience, because it took her back to a vital time in her life, and Rick’s . . . but a time that was ever receding into the past . . .
    A young woman up front raised her hand and Evelyn nodded.
    “Mrs. O’Connell,” she said, standing, clearly nervous and starstruck. “We’re all aware, of course, of your background as an Egyptologist, and that your husband, Richard, is a noted explorer.”
    Evelyn’s smile widened. “He might prefer ‘soldier of fortune.’ ”
    That elicited rather more laughter than it deserved, Evelyn thought.
    “What we’re all dying to know,” the woman said, “is whether the character of Scarlet O’Keefe is really you? Based on you?”
    She paused and considered, as if she hadn’t been asked this question scores of times. “Every writer of a novel is writing a hidden autobiography, it has been said. But I hate to disappoint you—honestly, I can say she’s a completely different person.” She cocked her head and turned on the practiced charm. “I mean, honestly—do you really believe my husband and I actually went around chasing, and being chased by, reanimated mummies?”
    Laughter and applause followed this response, and she answered more of the standard questions (“Did you like Hollywood’s version of your novel?”) with her standard responses (“Very much . . . but you know, the book is always better”). Most of the women already had the first novel, and had brought it along for her signature, and every single one bought the new book, the sequel.
    All in all, a very satisfying event.
    Why, she wondered, don’t I feel happier about it?
    The grand O’Connell estate, by midevening, appeared from the road almost asleep, with only the kitchen and dining-room lights on.
    Casual in a light blue blouse and dark trousers, Evelyn, waiting for dinner to be served, sat going through a small stack of mail from a silver tray. Rick entered, in a tie but no jacket, and she offered him her cheek to peck. He did so, if rather dutifully. He went over to a sideboard and poured himself a drink—single malt (Oban thirty-year) and poured her