13
Christmas Party
2 weeks later, Christmas Eve 1937
Barnett College, New York
As a steady snow silently fell outside the window Indiana Jones struggled with the wrapping paper and tape. It wasn't easy wrapping a Christmas present with one arm. In fact he'd discovered over the past couple of weeks just how difficult most every ordinary daily task could be when limited to one wing.
Jones gripped at the tape with the tips of the fingers of his left hand which stuck out of the end of the cast. The cast went from his hand, clear up to his shoulder, bent in a right angle at the elbow. It was suspended with a sling that hung from the archaeologist's neck to support its weight. It was damned inconvenient, but it effectively immobilized his broken humorous bone so that it could properly heal.
He'd returned from the Andes just in time to administer final exams, and his students had wasted no time in decorating the plaster cast that encased their favorite professor's arm. The length of the cast was covered in all manner of Egyptian Ankh symbols, Celtic spirals, and Sanskrit scribbling. Not to mention the many colorful signatures.
He pointed to where the paper needed to be folded and held down, "Marcus could you...?"
"Oh, certainly Indy, I'm sorry" Marcus Brody answered, and then kneeled down on the carpet of Jones' on-campus bungalow floor and neatly folded the wrapping paper so Jones could tape it.
As usual, museum curator Marcus Brody was impeccably dressed in a smart grey suit with Oxford shoes. His salt and pepper hair was combed neatly back, and the natural twinkle in his eye was like a window into the youthful spirit that still beat strongly in his sixty-odd year old heart.
Jones smoothed out the tape with the fingers of his working hand and smiled with satisfaction, "There!" He said in triumph at the accomplishment.
Marcus observed the package and smiled, "Yes, there indeed. I'm sure Irene will be more than thrilled with her gift." He said, in reference to Irene, the Departmental Secretary and destined recipient of the Christmas present.
He sat back down and looked again at Indy, "And so, what happened next?"
Jones got up off of the floor and sat back down in his armchair where he continued to relate his recent experiences to his best friend and mentor.
"Where was I?"
"You were about to throw the mask across the river to your fine Peruvian friend." Marcus said in his light British accent. His many years in America had somewhat faded and obscured the origins of the flavor of English he spoke, but enough came through to lend it a 'distinguished' tone.
"Oh yeah," Jones said sarcastically, "my Amigo." He shrugged, "Well, when I tossed the mask. I guess I just didn't manage to throw it quite far enough. My Amigo dove to catch it. I grabbed my whip and reeled in the bag. And that was it."
"But what of your...Amigo?" Marcus asked as he raised one eyebrow.
"He didn't make it." Jones deadpanned.
Marcus threw Indy a curious look.
The archaeologist shrugged, "Like so many men before him, his greed for gold and treasure cost him his life."
After Indy said that he couldn't help a nervous, wry, half smile. He wondered if some day someone might say the same thing of him; the thought somewhat unsettled him.
"He went in to the river?" Marcus asked, though it sounded more like a statement.
"Yes," Indy answered, "and so did the mask."
"But you saved the map." Marcus said, turning his attention to Jones' coffee table.
Its tortured trip across centuries and continents, from the grasp of a dying, 16th century conquistador to the 20th century archaeologist's coffee table where it now lay, had left the map worse for wear. The dunking in the river had caused some damage to parts of it, and Jones was glad that he'd had so much time to study it before, in the death pit. Then again maybe he wasn't so glad to have had those moments, recalling his eerie 'campfire' in the tomb with a slight shudder.
Jones looked down at it, "About eighty percent of it anyway. The water damage has destroyed about twenty percent."
"But you say you remember the missing parts?"
"Yeah, I had plenty of time to study it."
"So what's the plan as to what you're going to do with it?" Marcus asked. "You know Marcy Delhomme?" Indy said.
"Why of course I know the beautiful Marcy," Marcus answered, "Barnett's Professor of Modern Art. One of the shining stars of your department."
"Yes well she's also a magnificent calligrapher," Jones said, "she's going to copy the map, detail for detail, leaving the obscured parts blank. Then when she's done we'll get together and... I'll fill in her blanks."
Marcus thought for a moment, and then cleared his throat, "Yes, well, and then what of the original?"
"It's yours Marcus, for the museum."
This brought a smile to the face of the Antiquities Curator of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, "And truly a fine addition it will be," he said.
Jones glanced at his watch, and then straightened his bow tie," but we'd better get going, we're already late for the party."
A few minutes later, armed with galoshes, gloves, and greatcoats the two men went out into the snowy evening and made their way across campus to the Arts and Humanities department faculty building. Like Santa Claus himself, Jones carried a small sack of gifts slung over his shoulder.
As they entered the faculty lounge the warm greetings and the cozy fire crackling in the fireplace quickly dispelled the cold.
"Indy! Marcus! So glad you could both make it." Randy Brewster, Professor of Modern History greeted them, "Please, have some eggnog."
"Hello Indy ...Marcus," Irene nodded to them in turn and smiled. Always efficient, she already carried two glasses of the spiked holiday beverage over to them.
"Why thank you Irene." Marcus said as he took the glass from her, "You look quite lovely this evening."
"Thank you Marcus," Irene smiled more broadly.
Then she turned to Indiana Jones. A 'knowing' look flashed like a silent lightning bolt between their eyes for just a fraction of a second. It always did. Indy and the departmental secretary had had a brief fling together when he'd first come to teach at Barnett. But both had quickly realized that it was better to call it off before it could get too hot. Since then they'd developed a very close and warm professional relationship. But there was always that ember that threatened to re-flash.
"And how is my wounded warrior?" Irene asked him.
Jones looked down at his plaster encased arm, "Oh, it's getting better."
"When does the cast come off?"
"Some time in January." Indy answered, and then he reached into his sack of presents to give Irene hers.
"Thanks so much Indy," she said as she accepted the gift, "I'll go put it under the tree with the others. I've got to go and refresh the eggnog bowl as well. Excuse me gentlemen."
As Irene walked away Marcus waved in recognition to someone across the other side of the room, and then repeated the gesture to someone over near the eggnog bowl. He turned to Indy, "Well then, if you don't mind Indy, I do believe that I will throw myself into the fray and ...mingle."
Indy smiled and gestured with his good arm, "at your peril."
Jones gazed around the room and recognized the figure of Matt Lowell, Professor of Art History and part time Archaeology Professor. On so many occasions Matt had stood in for Henry Jones Jr.'s classes when the latter was ...'unavailable'.
"Matt!" Indy walked over to him, "I know that I told you already but I'll say it again, thanks so much for taking my classes for that week after Thanksgiving break. I...thought I'd be back, I really did, but ...well there were complications," Jones motioned towards his cast.
Matt was a good natured man. He was a couple years Indy's junior, and had an eye for the ladies. Rather than be put out by standing in for the Archaeology professor's classes, he actually enjoyed it.
"Oh don't worry about it Indy, it was my pleasure. Your classes always seem to have a good...ratio." He winked, "besides, I like a change of pace now and then."
"Well I appreciate it Matt."
Just then another of the faculty approached. Professor Robert Manning was without a doubt Indiana Jones' least favorite colleague at Barnett.
He was several inches shorter than Jones. His shock of dark hair was combed to one side. It stuck way too far out from his head like a wing, in defiance of any code of fashion known to man. His nostrils were too wide for his nose and his mouth hung on his pasty face in what looked like a perpetual scowl. The man had obviously had a few too many cups of eggnog as well, and he staggered slightly as he approached. "This won't be good," Indy said quietly to Matt.
"So!" Manning nearly shouted. The alcohol amplified the volume of his voice. "Henry!" he looked disdainfully at Indy's cast with his bloodshot eyes, "How nice of you to come back," he spoke sarcastically.
Jones searched the room with his eyes, doing his best to ignore the lout.
"Professor Lowell!" the man turned to Matt, "you more than anyone should be glad to see the return of our...adventurous Professor Jones; the Professor Jones who dumps his classes on you while he goes gallivanting around the world...or wherever it is that he really goes."
Manning slurred his speech, having particular trouble with 'gallivanting', stumbling badly over the multi-syllabic word.
Matt politely spoke to him, "Look Rob, why don't we talk some other time, I really ...."
Manning ignored him and turned to Jones again, "So Henry, which red-light district in which slum in what corner of the world were you whoring in this time?"
Jones continued to ignore the man, and waved and smiled at an attractive young female graduate student who was smiling at him from behind the punchbowl. Manning turned his head to look. When he made eye contact with the girl she involuntarily grimaced and then turned away. Manning turned back to Jones with renewed fury.
"Face it Jones!" his eyes narrowed, "You're a nothing. You've accomplished nothing. You're a middle aged college professor who's never been published. You're not getting any younger. Stop pretending that you're something else, something you're not!"
Jones finally had enough.
He stared down at the annoying little aggressor, "Nice speech Rob. But when you practiced it in the bathroom mirror this morning are you sure you were practicing?"
Leaving him to ponder that riddle through his alcoholic fog, Jones brushed past the irritating man and went in search of the pretty graduate student who'd disappeared into the gathering of party-goers. But he didn't get far before Manning grabbed his shoulder from behind.
Jones spun around with fire in his eyes, "Don't you ever touch me!"
He kept his voice down not wanting to cause a scene, but conveyed his words in no uncertain terms. The look he gave Manning caused the man to take a step back and he almost stumbled.
Jones held the steely look, "Whatever else you might think of me Manning one fact remains. Even with one arm I can still kick your ass anytime I want to."
Manning threw him a petulant look, "are you threatening me Jones?"
Indy ignored him and turned again to walk away.
Manning called after him, "Just remember Jones, I'm doing everything in my power to get you fired from this college, and I won't quit until you're gone, for good. You don't belong here!"
Indy made his way over towards the fireplace where Mrs. Wilma Leary, Professor of English Literature, stood. The elderly Professor Leary was one of the most popular Professors on campus, and was the epitome of the 'sweet old lady'.
"Henry!" she looked at his cast "Oh Henry! You poor dear what ever happened to your arm?"
"I broke it." Jones answered simply.
"How did it happen dear?"
"It's kind of a long story," Indy said.
"Well that's my specialty Henry...long stories." Then she giggled, leaned forward and gave Jones big wet 'old lady' kiss on the cheek that left a trail of red lipstick and rouge, "well dear, we're just happy to have you back," she said, and then gazed around the room, "don't you just love these faculty parties? They seem to always bring out the best in everyone."
Jones glanced over at Manning, who still stood glaring at him, "Oh yeah," He said, "brings out the best in everybody."
"Jones."
The sound of the voice that now spoke to him from behind sent a slight chill up his spine. It was an unconscious reaction that he always seemed to experience whenever Professor L.P. Davis, the Arts and Humanities Department Head spoke to him. There was no rational reason for it; the man just gave him the creeps. Part of the reason might be because Professor Davis looked a bit like the personification of the 'undead'.
Indy turned around, "Yes sir?" He said. Professor Davis could best be described as 'cadaver-like'. He was thin, with the skin of his face stretched tightly over the bones. He covered his balding head with an impossible comb-over of a few wispy strands of grey hair. Jones believed that if you looked the word 'stodgy' up in a dictionary, it most certainly should have a picture of Professor Davis there. He often ruled over the department like some kind of ultra- conservative despot. But Indy also suspected sometimes that the man might be senile.
He looked Jones straight in the eye and spoke to him in a monotone, "One arm is all you need for me. Call me Susan."
Indy was now convinced of the man's senility, "um, er, ex... excuse me sir?"
The man kept staring into Jones' eyes, "Your cast," he said, and tapped on the plaster that encased Indy's left arm.
Jones looked down and read one of the student signings on his cast that Davis now tapped on with his bony finger.
One arm is all you need for me
Call me
Susan
"Oh, that," Indy said.
"Yes ...that," Davis said. "What kind of nonsense is that? And what's the idea with the rest of this...artwork all over it? And what in the devil have you been doing lately Jones?"
"Well sir, um, you see some of my students wanted to sign my cast and, well, I guess maybe some of them may have gotten a little carried away."
"Well don't you get carried away Jones. And before you go off on any more unexpected ...sabbaticals, you need to clear it through my office. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
Indy breathed a sigh of relief when Davis moved on and left him alone; to continue his pursuit of the elusive graduate student he'd seen at the punchbowl. He needed another cup of eggnog too.
After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching and mingling, Jones gave up on the girl. He met up with Marcus by the fireplace where Marcus was about to conduct a holiday toast to good friends, good luck, and good fortunes. Mrs. Leary smiled at him, flashing bedroom eyes that she'd left in the closet too long. Fortunately for her, Marcus didn't notice anyway.
"Mr. Brody. Mr. Brody!" a voice called from the doorway.
It was Irene. She was standing in the doorway with a young man dressed in the uniform of the Western Union Company.
"Mr. Brody there's a telegram for you."
Marcus stopped in mid toast. He looked over at Irene and nodded his head, then completed the toast, "Here's to good friends, good luck, and good fortunes!"
All that were gathered in the circle before the fire touched their cups and then downed their drinks, followed by a spontaneous round of applause.
Marcus then made his way over towards the Western Union delivery boy. Indiana Jones followed, his curiosity piqued.
"Why are they delivering a telegram to you here Marcus? And how did they find you?" he asked.
"I've no idea Indy," Marcus said, his own curiosity evident in his voice.
"Mr. Marcus Brody?" The delivery boy asked.
"Yes, I'm Marcus Brody."
"Telegram Sir." The boy said, and thrust the piece of paper into his hand.
"It comes 'ultra-urgent same day delivery'," the young man said, "the sender paid extra to make sure it got delivered today."
Marcus looked at him, "yes well, thank you very much."
"Took me two hours to track you down," the delivery boy said.
Indiana Jones reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He withdrew a dollar bill and gave it to the young man.
"Thank YOU sir!" the boy said, and walked back out into the winter night.
Marcus unfolded the telegram and started to read. His facial expressions registered concern, confusion, and then dismay, as he read through the printed yellow document.
"What is it Marcus? Who's it from?"
Marcus paused and then answered Indy's question, "It's from Scotland Yard." Jones brow furrowed.
Marcus continued, "Apparently Lord Malboury has disappeared."
Indy thought for a moment, and then said, "Lord Malboury? The most noted Egyptologist on the staff of the British Museum. I've read his books, I've studied his papers. He's probably the world's foremost authority on the New Kingdom and the Eighteenth Dynasty."
"Apparently he's disappeared without a trace," Marcus said. He looked down at the yellow telegram and then up again, "well maybe not entirely without a trace. Scotland Yard is holding someone who they think is involved with the disappearance."
"They have a suspect?" Jones asked.
"Yes." Marcus answered, "But it is rather a curious suspect that they have." He said.
"Who is it?"
Marcus paused and raised his eyebrows, "Well, apparently it's none other than Queen Nefertiti herself."
Jones wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly, "Did you say Queen Nefertiti?"
"Yes I did," Marcus said, staring down at the yellow paper.
"Did anyone tell them that Queen Nefertiti has been dead for more than three thousand years?"
Marcus read it again, "Queen Nefertiti. That's what it says."
With a perplexed look Marcus Brody passed the telegram to Indiana Jones.
Christmas Party
2 weeks later, Christmas Eve 1937
Barnett College, New York
As a steady snow silently fell outside the window Indiana Jones struggled with the wrapping paper and tape. It wasn't easy wrapping a Christmas present with one arm. In fact he'd discovered over the past couple of weeks just how difficult most every ordinary daily task could be when limited to one wing.
Jones gripped at the tape with the tips of the fingers of his left hand which stuck out of the end of the cast. The cast went from his hand, clear up to his shoulder, bent in a right angle at the elbow. It was suspended with a sling that hung from the archaeologist's neck to support its weight. It was damned inconvenient, but it effectively immobilized his broken humorous bone so that it could properly heal.
He'd returned from the Andes just in time to administer final exams, and his students had wasted no time in decorating the plaster cast that encased their favorite professor's arm. The length of the cast was covered in all manner of Egyptian Ankh symbols, Celtic spirals, and Sanskrit scribbling. Not to mention the many colorful signatures.
He pointed to where the paper needed to be folded and held down, "Marcus could you...?"
"Oh, certainly Indy, I'm sorry" Marcus Brody answered, and then kneeled down on the carpet of Jones' on-campus bungalow floor and neatly folded the wrapping paper so Jones could tape it.
As usual, museum curator Marcus Brody was impeccably dressed in a smart grey suit with Oxford shoes. His salt and pepper hair was combed neatly back, and the natural twinkle in his eye was like a window into the youthful spirit that still beat strongly in his sixty-odd year old heart.
Jones smoothed out the tape with the fingers of his working hand and smiled with satisfaction, "There!" He said in triumph at the accomplishment.
Marcus observed the package and smiled, "Yes, there indeed. I'm sure Irene will be more than thrilled with her gift." He said, in reference to Irene, the Departmental Secretary and destined recipient of the Christmas present.
He sat back down and looked again at Indy, "And so, what happened next?"
Jones got up off of the floor and sat back down in his armchair where he continued to relate his recent experiences to his best friend and mentor.
"Where was I?"
"You were about to throw the mask across the river to your fine Peruvian friend." Marcus said in his light British accent. His many years in America had somewhat faded and obscured the origins of the flavor of English he spoke, but enough came through to lend it a 'distinguished' tone.
"Oh yeah," Jones said sarcastically, "my Amigo." He shrugged, "Well, when I tossed the mask. I guess I just didn't manage to throw it quite far enough. My Amigo dove to catch it. I grabbed my whip and reeled in the bag. And that was it."
"But what of your...Amigo?" Marcus asked as he raised one eyebrow.
"He didn't make it." Jones deadpanned.
Marcus threw Indy a curious look.
The archaeologist shrugged, "Like so many men before him, his greed for gold and treasure cost him his life."
After Indy said that he couldn't help a nervous, wry, half smile. He wondered if some day someone might say the same thing of him; the thought somewhat unsettled him.
"He went in to the river?" Marcus asked, though it sounded more like a statement.
"Yes," Indy answered, "and so did the mask."
"But you saved the map." Marcus said, turning his attention to Jones' coffee table.
Its tortured trip across centuries and continents, from the grasp of a dying, 16th century conquistador to the 20th century archaeologist's coffee table where it now lay, had left the map worse for wear. The dunking in the river had caused some damage to parts of it, and Jones was glad that he'd had so much time to study it before, in the death pit. Then again maybe he wasn't so glad to have had those moments, recalling his eerie 'campfire' in the tomb with a slight shudder.
Jones looked down at it, "About eighty percent of it anyway. The water damage has destroyed about twenty percent."
"But you say you remember the missing parts?"
"Yeah, I had plenty of time to study it."
"So what's the plan as to what you're going to do with it?" Marcus asked. "You know Marcy Delhomme?" Indy said.
"Why of course I know the beautiful Marcy," Marcus answered, "Barnett's Professor of Modern Art. One of the shining stars of your department."
"Yes well she's also a magnificent calligrapher," Jones said, "she's going to copy the map, detail for detail, leaving the obscured parts blank. Then when she's done we'll get together and... I'll fill in her blanks."
Marcus thought for a moment, and then cleared his throat, "Yes, well, and then what of the original?"
"It's yours Marcus, for the museum."
This brought a smile to the face of the Antiquities Curator of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, "And truly a fine addition it will be," he said.
Jones glanced at his watch, and then straightened his bow tie," but we'd better get going, we're already late for the party."
A few minutes later, armed with galoshes, gloves, and greatcoats the two men went out into the snowy evening and made their way across campus to the Arts and Humanities department faculty building. Like Santa Claus himself, Jones carried a small sack of gifts slung over his shoulder.
As they entered the faculty lounge the warm greetings and the cozy fire crackling in the fireplace quickly dispelled the cold.
"Indy! Marcus! So glad you could both make it." Randy Brewster, Professor of Modern History greeted them, "Please, have some eggnog."
"Hello Indy ...Marcus," Irene nodded to them in turn and smiled. Always efficient, she already carried two glasses of the spiked holiday beverage over to them.
"Why thank you Irene." Marcus said as he took the glass from her, "You look quite lovely this evening."
"Thank you Marcus," Irene smiled more broadly.
Then she turned to Indiana Jones. A 'knowing' look flashed like a silent lightning bolt between their eyes for just a fraction of a second. It always did. Indy and the departmental secretary had had a brief fling together when he'd first come to teach at Barnett. But both had quickly realized that it was better to call it off before it could get too hot. Since then they'd developed a very close and warm professional relationship. But there was always that ember that threatened to re-flash.
"And how is my wounded warrior?" Irene asked him.
Jones looked down at his plaster encased arm, "Oh, it's getting better."
"When does the cast come off?"
"Some time in January." Indy answered, and then he reached into his sack of presents to give Irene hers.
"Thanks so much Indy," she said as she accepted the gift, "I'll go put it under the tree with the others. I've got to go and refresh the eggnog bowl as well. Excuse me gentlemen."
As Irene walked away Marcus waved in recognition to someone across the other side of the room, and then repeated the gesture to someone over near the eggnog bowl. He turned to Indy, "Well then, if you don't mind Indy, I do believe that I will throw myself into the fray and ...mingle."
Indy smiled and gestured with his good arm, "at your peril."
Jones gazed around the room and recognized the figure of Matt Lowell, Professor of Art History and part time Archaeology Professor. On so many occasions Matt had stood in for Henry Jones Jr.'s classes when the latter was ...'unavailable'.
"Matt!" Indy walked over to him, "I know that I told you already but I'll say it again, thanks so much for taking my classes for that week after Thanksgiving break. I...thought I'd be back, I really did, but ...well there were complications," Jones motioned towards his cast.
Matt was a good natured man. He was a couple years Indy's junior, and had an eye for the ladies. Rather than be put out by standing in for the Archaeology professor's classes, he actually enjoyed it.
"Oh don't worry about it Indy, it was my pleasure. Your classes always seem to have a good...ratio." He winked, "besides, I like a change of pace now and then."
"Well I appreciate it Matt."
Just then another of the faculty approached. Professor Robert Manning was without a doubt Indiana Jones' least favorite colleague at Barnett.
He was several inches shorter than Jones. His shock of dark hair was combed to one side. It stuck way too far out from his head like a wing, in defiance of any code of fashion known to man. His nostrils were too wide for his nose and his mouth hung on his pasty face in what looked like a perpetual scowl. The man had obviously had a few too many cups of eggnog as well, and he staggered slightly as he approached. "This won't be good," Indy said quietly to Matt.
"So!" Manning nearly shouted. The alcohol amplified the volume of his voice. "Henry!" he looked disdainfully at Indy's cast with his bloodshot eyes, "How nice of you to come back," he spoke sarcastically.
Jones searched the room with his eyes, doing his best to ignore the lout.
"Professor Lowell!" the man turned to Matt, "you more than anyone should be glad to see the return of our...adventurous Professor Jones; the Professor Jones who dumps his classes on you while he goes gallivanting around the world...or wherever it is that he really goes."
Manning slurred his speech, having particular trouble with 'gallivanting', stumbling badly over the multi-syllabic word.
Matt politely spoke to him, "Look Rob, why don't we talk some other time, I really ...."
Manning ignored him and turned to Jones again, "So Henry, which red-light district in which slum in what corner of the world were you whoring in this time?"
Jones continued to ignore the man, and waved and smiled at an attractive young female graduate student who was smiling at him from behind the punchbowl. Manning turned his head to look. When he made eye contact with the girl she involuntarily grimaced and then turned away. Manning turned back to Jones with renewed fury.
"Face it Jones!" his eyes narrowed, "You're a nothing. You've accomplished nothing. You're a middle aged college professor who's never been published. You're not getting any younger. Stop pretending that you're something else, something you're not!"
Jones finally had enough.
He stared down at the annoying little aggressor, "Nice speech Rob. But when you practiced it in the bathroom mirror this morning are you sure you were practicing?"
Leaving him to ponder that riddle through his alcoholic fog, Jones brushed past the irritating man and went in search of the pretty graduate student who'd disappeared into the gathering of party-goers. But he didn't get far before Manning grabbed his shoulder from behind.
Jones spun around with fire in his eyes, "Don't you ever touch me!"
He kept his voice down not wanting to cause a scene, but conveyed his words in no uncertain terms. The look he gave Manning caused the man to take a step back and he almost stumbled.
Jones held the steely look, "Whatever else you might think of me Manning one fact remains. Even with one arm I can still kick your ass anytime I want to."
Manning threw him a petulant look, "are you threatening me Jones?"
Indy ignored him and turned again to walk away.
Manning called after him, "Just remember Jones, I'm doing everything in my power to get you fired from this college, and I won't quit until you're gone, for good. You don't belong here!"
Indy made his way over towards the fireplace where Mrs. Wilma Leary, Professor of English Literature, stood. The elderly Professor Leary was one of the most popular Professors on campus, and was the epitome of the 'sweet old lady'.
"Henry!" she looked at his cast "Oh Henry! You poor dear what ever happened to your arm?"
"I broke it." Jones answered simply.
"How did it happen dear?"
"It's kind of a long story," Indy said.
"Well that's my specialty Henry...long stories." Then she giggled, leaned forward and gave Jones big wet 'old lady' kiss on the cheek that left a trail of red lipstick and rouge, "well dear, we're just happy to have you back," she said, and then gazed around the room, "don't you just love these faculty parties? They seem to always bring out the best in everyone."
Jones glanced over at Manning, who still stood glaring at him, "Oh yeah," He said, "brings out the best in everybody."
"Jones."
The sound of the voice that now spoke to him from behind sent a slight chill up his spine. It was an unconscious reaction that he always seemed to experience whenever Professor L.P. Davis, the Arts and Humanities Department Head spoke to him. There was no rational reason for it; the man just gave him the creeps. Part of the reason might be because Professor Davis looked a bit like the personification of the 'undead'.
Indy turned around, "Yes sir?" He said. Professor Davis could best be described as 'cadaver-like'. He was thin, with the skin of his face stretched tightly over the bones. He covered his balding head with an impossible comb-over of a few wispy strands of grey hair. Jones believed that if you looked the word 'stodgy' up in a dictionary, it most certainly should have a picture of Professor Davis there. He often ruled over the department like some kind of ultra- conservative despot. But Indy also suspected sometimes that the man might be senile.
He looked Jones straight in the eye and spoke to him in a monotone, "One arm is all you need for me. Call me Susan."
Indy was now convinced of the man's senility, "um, er, ex... excuse me sir?"
The man kept staring into Jones' eyes, "Your cast," he said, and tapped on the plaster that encased Indy's left arm.
Jones looked down and read one of the student signings on his cast that Davis now tapped on with his bony finger.
One arm is all you need for me
Call me
Susan
"Oh, that," Indy said.
"Yes ...that," Davis said. "What kind of nonsense is that? And what's the idea with the rest of this...artwork all over it? And what in the devil have you been doing lately Jones?"
"Well sir, um, you see some of my students wanted to sign my cast and, well, I guess maybe some of them may have gotten a little carried away."
"Well don't you get carried away Jones. And before you go off on any more unexpected ...sabbaticals, you need to clear it through my office. Understood?"
"Yes sir."
Indy breathed a sigh of relief when Davis moved on and left him alone; to continue his pursuit of the elusive graduate student he'd seen at the punchbowl. He needed another cup of eggnog too.
After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching and mingling, Jones gave up on the girl. He met up with Marcus by the fireplace where Marcus was about to conduct a holiday toast to good friends, good luck, and good fortunes. Mrs. Leary smiled at him, flashing bedroom eyes that she'd left in the closet too long. Fortunately for her, Marcus didn't notice anyway.
"Mr. Brody. Mr. Brody!" a voice called from the doorway.
It was Irene. She was standing in the doorway with a young man dressed in the uniform of the Western Union Company.
"Mr. Brody there's a telegram for you."
Marcus stopped in mid toast. He looked over at Irene and nodded his head, then completed the toast, "Here's to good friends, good luck, and good fortunes!"
All that were gathered in the circle before the fire touched their cups and then downed their drinks, followed by a spontaneous round of applause.
Marcus then made his way over towards the Western Union delivery boy. Indiana Jones followed, his curiosity piqued.
"Why are they delivering a telegram to you here Marcus? And how did they find you?" he asked.
"I've no idea Indy," Marcus said, his own curiosity evident in his voice.
"Mr. Marcus Brody?" The delivery boy asked.
"Yes, I'm Marcus Brody."
"Telegram Sir." The boy said, and thrust the piece of paper into his hand.
"It comes 'ultra-urgent same day delivery'," the young man said, "the sender paid extra to make sure it got delivered today."
Marcus looked at him, "yes well, thank you very much."
"Took me two hours to track you down," the delivery boy said.
Indiana Jones reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He withdrew a dollar bill and gave it to the young man.
"Thank YOU sir!" the boy said, and walked back out into the winter night.
Marcus unfolded the telegram and started to read. His facial expressions registered concern, confusion, and then dismay, as he read through the printed yellow document.
"What is it Marcus? Who's it from?"
Marcus paused and then answered Indy's question, "It's from Scotland Yard." Jones brow furrowed.
Marcus continued, "Apparently Lord Malboury has disappeared."
Indy thought for a moment, and then said, "Lord Malboury? The most noted Egyptologist on the staff of the British Museum. I've read his books, I've studied his papers. He's probably the world's foremost authority on the New Kingdom and the Eighteenth Dynasty."
"Apparently he's disappeared without a trace," Marcus said. He looked down at the yellow telegram and then up again, "well maybe not entirely without a trace. Scotland Yard is holding someone who they think is involved with the disappearance."
"They have a suspect?" Jones asked.
"Yes." Marcus answered, "But it is rather a curious suspect that they have." He said.
"Who is it?"
Marcus paused and raised his eyebrows, "Well, apparently it's none other than Queen Nefertiti herself."
Jones wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly, "Did you say Queen Nefertiti?"
"Yes I did," Marcus said, staring down at the yellow paper.
"Did anyone tell them that Queen Nefertiti has been dead for more than three thousand years?"
Marcus read it again, "Queen Nefertiti. That's what it says."
With a perplexed look Marcus Brody passed the telegram to Indiana Jones.