by Sax Rohmer
“Good-bye,” said Dr. Cairn, and pressed the bell which summoned Marston to usher out the caller, and usher in the next patient.
In Half-Moon Street, Robert Cairn stood irresolute; for he was one of those whose mental moods are physically reflected. He might call upon Myra Duquesne, in which event he would almost certainly be asked to stay to lunch; or he might call upon Antony Ferrara. He determined upon the latter, though less pleasant course.
Turning his steps in the direction of Piccadilly, he reflected that this grim and uncanny secret which he shared with his father was like to prove prejudicial to his success in journalism. It was eternally uprising, demoniac, between himself and his work. The feeling of fierce resentment towards Antony Ferrara which he cherished grew stronger at every step. He was the spider governing the web, the web that clammily touched Dr. Cairn, himself, Robert Cairn, and — Myra Duquesne. Others there had been who had felt its touch, who had been drawn to the heart of the unclean labyrinth — and devoured. In the mind of Cairn, the figure of Antony Ferrara assumed the shape of a monster, a ghoul, an elemental spirit of evil.
And now he was ascending the marble steps. Before the gates of the lift he stood and pressed the bell.
Ferrara’s proved to be a first-floor suite, and the doors were opened by an Eastern servant dressed in white.
“His beastly theatrical affectation again!” muttered Cairn. “The man should have been a music-hall illusionist!”
The visitor was salaamed into a small reception room. Of this apartment the walls and ceiling were entirely covered by a fretwork in sandalwood, evidently Oriental in workmanship. In niches, or doorless cup-boards; stood curious-looking vases and pots. Heavy curtains of rich fabric draped the doors. The floor was of mosaic, and a small fountain played in the centre. A cushioned divan occupied one side of the place, from which natural light was entirely excluded and which was illuminated only by an ornate lantern swung from the ceiling. This lantern had panes of blue glass, producing a singular effect. A silver mibkharah, or incense-burner, stood near to one corner of the divan and emitted a subtle perfume. As the servant withdrew:
“Good heavens!” muttered Cairn, disgustedly; “poor Sir Michael’s fortune won’t last long at this rate!” He glanced at the smoking mibkharah. “Phew! effeminate beast! Ambergris!”
No more singular anomaly could well be pictured than that afforded by the lean, neatly-groomed Scotsman, with his fresh, clean-shaven face and typically British air, in this setting of Eastern voluptuousness.
The dusky servitor drew back a curtain and waved him to enter, bowing low as the visitor passed. Cairn found himself in Antony Ferrara’s study. A huge fire was blazing in the grate, rendering the heat of the study almost insufferable.
It was, he perceived, an elaborated copy of Ferrara’s room at Oxford; infinitely more spacious, of course, and by reason of the rugs, cushions and carpets with which its floor was strewn, suggestive of great opulence. But the littered table was there, with its nameless instruments and its extraordinary silver lamp; the mummies were there; the antique volumes, rolls of papyrus, preserved snakes and cats and ibises, statuettes of Isis, Osiris and other Nile deities were there; the many photographs of women, too (Cairn had dubbed it at Oxford “the zenana”); above all, there was Antony Ferrara.
He wore the silver-grey dressing-gown trimmed with white swansdown in which Cairn had seen him before. His statuesque ivory face was set in a smile, which yet was no smile of welcome; the over-red lips smiled alone; the long, glittering dark eyes were joyless; almost, beneath the straightly-pencilled brows, sinister. Save for the short, lustreless hair it was the face of a handsome, evil woman.
“My dear Cairn — what a welcome interruption. How good of you!”
There was strange music in his husky tones. He spoke unemotionally, falsely, but Cairn could not deny the charm of that unique voice. It was possible to understand how women — some women — would be as clay in the hands of the man who had such a voice as that.
His visitor nodded shortly. Cairn was a poor actor; already his rôle was oppressing him. Whilst Ferrara was speaking one found a sort of fascination in listening, but when he was silent he repelled. Ferrara may have been conscious of this, for he spoke much, and well.
“You have made yourself jolly comfortable,” said Cairn.
“Why not, my dear Cairn? Every man has within him something of the Sybarite. Why crush a propensity so delightful? The Spartan philosophy is palpably absurd; it is that of one who finds himself in a garden filled with roses and who holds his nostrils; who perceives there shady bowers, but chooses to burn in the sun; who, ignoring the choice fruits which tempt his hand and court his palate, stoops to pluck bitter herbs from the wayside!”
“I see!” snapped Cairn. “Aren’t you thinking of doing any more work, then?”
“Work!” Antony Ferrara smiled and sank upon a heap of cushions. “Forgive me, Cairn, but I leave it, gladly and confidently, to more robust characters such as your own.”
He proffered a silver box of cigarettes, but Cairn shook his head, balancing himself on a corner of the table.
“No; thanks. I have smoked too much already; my tongue is parched.”
“My dear fellow!” Ferrara rose. “I have a wine which, I declare, you will never have tasted but which you will pronounce to be nectar. It is made in Cyprus—”
Cairn raised his hand in a way that might have reminded a nice observer of his father.
“Thank you, nevertheless. Some other time, Ferrara; I am no wine man.”
“A whisky and soda, or a burly British B. and S., even a sporty ‘Scotch and Polly’?”
There was a suggestion of laughter in the husky voice, now, of a sort of contemptuous banter. But Cairn stolidly shook his head and forced a smile.
“Many thanks; but it’s too early.”
He stood up and began to walk about the room, inspecting the numberless oddities which it contained. The photographs he examined with supercilious curiosity. Then, passing to a huge cabinet, he began to peer in at the rows of amulets, statuettes and other, unclassifiable, objects with which it was laden. Ferrara’s voice came.
“That head of a priestess on the left, Cairn, is of great interest. The brain had not been removed, and quite a colony of Dermestes Beetles had propagated in the cavity. Those creatures never saw the light, Cairn. Yet I assure you that they had eyes. I have nearly forty of them in the small glass case on the table there. You might like to examine them.”
Cairn shuddered, but felt impelled to turn and look at these gruesome relics. In a square, glass case he saw the creatures. They lay in rows on a bed of moss; one might almost have supposed that unclean life yet survived in the little black insects. They were an unfamiliar species to Cairn, being covered with unusually long, black hair, except upon the root of the wing-cases where they were of brilliant orange.
“The perfect pupæ of this insect are extremely rare,” added Ferrara informatively.
“Indeed?” replied Cairn.
He found something physically revolting in that group of beetles whose history had begun and ended in the skull of a mummy.
“Filthy things!” he said. “Why do you keep them?”
Ferrara shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows?” he answered enigmatically. “They might prove useful, some day.”
A bell rang; and from Ferrara’s attitude it occurred to Cairn that he was expecting a visitor.
“I must be off,” he said accordingly.
And indeed he was conscious of a craving for the cool and comparatively clean air of Piccadilly. He knew something of the great evil which dwelt within this man whom he was compelled, by singular circumstances, to tolerate. But the duty began to irk.
“If you must,” was the reply. “Of course, your press work no doubt is very exacting.”
The note of badinage was discernible again, but Cairn passed out into the mandarah without replying, where the fountain plashed coolly and the silver
mibkharah sent up its pencils of vapour. The outer door was opened by the Oriental servant, and Ferrara stood and bowed to his departing visitor. He did not proffer his hand.
“Until our next meeting. Cairn, es-selâm aleykûm!” (peace be with you) he murmured, “as the Moslems say. But indeed I shall be with you in spirit, dear Cairn.”
There was something in the tone wherein he spoke those last words that brought Cairn up short. He turned, but the doors closed silently. A faint breath of ambergris was borne to his nostrils.
CHAPTER V
THE RUSTLING SHADOWS
Cairn stepped out of the lift, crossed the hall, and was about to walk out on to Piccadilly, when he stopped, staring hard at a taxi-cab which had slowed down upon the opposite side whilst the driver awaited a suitable opportunity to pull across.
The occupant of the cab was invisible now, but a moment before Cairn had had a glimpse of her as she glanced out, apparently towards the very doorway in which he stood. Perhaps his imagination was playing him tricks. He stood and waited, until at last the cab drew up within a few yards of him.
Myra Duquesne got out.
Having paid the cabman, she crossed the pavement and entered the hall-way. Cairn stepped forward so that she almost ran into his arms.
“Mr. Cairn!” she cried. “Why! have you been to see Antony?”
“I have,” he replied, and paused, at a loss for words.
It had suddenly occurred to him that Antony Ferrara and Myra Duquesne had known one another from childhood; that the girl probably regarded Ferrara in the light of a brother.
“There are so many things I want to talk to him about,” she said. “He seems to know everything, and I am afraid I know very little.”
Cairn noted with dismay the shadows under her eyes — the grey eyes that he would have wished to see ever full of light and laughter. She was pale, too, or seemed unusually so in her black dress; but the tragic death of her guardian, Sir Michael Ferrara, had been a dreadful blow to this convent-bred girl who had no other kin in the world. A longing swept into Cairn’s heart and set it ablaze; a longing to take all her sorrows, all her cares, upon his own broad shoulders, to take her and hold her, shielded from whatever of trouble or menace the future might bring.
“Have you seen his rooms here?” he asked, trying to speak casually; but his soul was up in arms against the bare idea of this girl’s entering that perfumed place where abominable and vile things were, and none of them so vile as the man she trusted, whom she counted a brother.
“Not yet,” she answered, with a sort of childish glee momentarily lighting her eyes. “Are they very splendid?”
“Very,” he answered her, grimly.
“Can’t you come in with me for awhile? Only just a little while, then you can come home to lunch — you and Antony.” Her eyes sparkled now. “Oh, do say yes!”
Knowing what he did know of the man upstairs, he longed to accompany her; yet, contradictorily, knowing what he did he could not face him again, could not submit himself to the test of being civil to Antony Ferrara in the presence of Myra Duquesne.
“Please don’t tempt me,” he begged, and forced a smile. “I shall find myself enrolled amongst the seekers of soup-tickets if I completely ignore the claims of my employer upon my time!”
“Oh, what a shame!” she cried.
Their eyes met, and something — something unspoken but cogent — passed between them; so that for the first time a pretty colour tinted the girl’s cheeks. She suddenly grew embarrassed.
“Good-bye, then,” she said, holding out her hand. “Will you lunch with us to-morrow?”
“Thanks awfully,” replied Cairn. “Rather — if it’s humanly possible. I’ll ring you up.”
He released her hand, and stood watching her as she entered the lift. When it ascended, he turned and went out to swell the human tide of Piccadilly. He wondered what his father would think of the girl’s visiting Ferrara. Would he approve? Decidedly the situation was a delicate one; the wrong kind of interference — the tactless kind — might merely render it worse. It would be awfully difficult, if not impossible, to explain to Myra. If an open rupture were to be avoided (and he had profound faith in his father’s acumen), then Myra must remain in ignorance. But was she to be allowed to continue these visits?
Should he have permitted her to enter Ferrara’s rooms?
He reflected that he had no right to question her movements. But, at least, he might have accompanied her.
“Oh, heavens!” he muttered— “what a horrible tangle. It will drive me mad!”
There could be no peace for him until he knew her to be safely home again, and his work suffered accordingly; until, at about midday, he rang up Myra Duquesne, on the pretence of accepting her invitation to lunch on the morrow, and heard, with inexpressible relief, her voice replying to him.
In the afternoon he was suddenly called upon to do a big “royal” matinée, and this necessitated a run to his chambers in order to change from Harris tweed into vicuna and cashmere. The usual stream of lawyers’ clerks and others poured under the archway leading to the court; but in the far corner shaded by the tall plane tree, where the ascending steps and worn iron railing, the small panes of glass in the solicitor’s window on the ground floor and the general air of Dickens-like aloofness prevailed, one entered a sort of backwater. In the narrow hall-way, quiet reigned — a quiet profound as though motor ‘buses were not.
Cairn ran up the stairs to the second landing, and began to fumble for his key. Although he knew it to be impossible, he was aware of a queer impression that someone was waiting for him, inside his chambers. The sufficiently palpable fact — that such a thing was impossible — did not really strike him until he had opened the door and entered. Up to that time, in a sort of subconscious way, he had anticipated finding a visitor there.
“What an ass I am!” he muttered; then, “Phew! there’s a disgusting smell!”
He threw open all the windows, and entering his bedroom, also opening both the windows there. The current of air thus established began to disperse the odour — a fusty one as of something decaying — and by the time that he had changed, it was scarcely perceptible. He had little time to waste in speculation, but when, as he ran out to the door, glancing at his watch, the nauseous odour suddenly rose again to his nostrils, he stopped with his hand on the latch.
“What the deuce is it!” he said loudly.
Quite mechanically he turned and looked back. As one might have anticipated, there was nothing visible to account for the odour.
The emotion of fear is a strange and complex one. In this breath of decay rising to his nostril, Cairn found something fearsome. He opened the door, stepped out on to the landing, and closed the door behind him.
At an hour close upon midnight, Dr. Bruce Cairn, who was about to retire, received a wholly unexpected visit from his son. Robert Cairn followed his father into the library and sat down in the big, red leathern easy-chair. The doctor tilted the lamp shade, directing the light upon Robert’s face. It proved to be slightly pale, and in the clear eyes was an odd expression — almost a hunted look.
“What’s the trouble, Rob? Have a whisky and soda.”
Robert Cairn helped himself quietly.
“Now take a cigar and tell me what has frightened you.”
“Frightened me!” He started, and paused in the act of reaching for a match. “Yes — you’re right, sir. I am frightened!”
“Not at the moment. You have been.”
“Right again.” He lighted his cigar. “I want to begin by saying that — well, how can I put it? When I took up newspaper work, we thought it would be better if I lived in chambers—”
“Certainly.”
“Well, at that time—” he examined the lighted end of his cigar— “there was no reason — why I should not live alone. But now—”
“Well?”
“Now I feel, sir, that I have need of more or less constant companionship. Especially I fe
el that it would be desirable to have a friend handy at — er — at night time!”
Dr. Cairn leant forward in his chair. His face was very stern.
“Hold out your fingers,” he said, “extended; left hand.”
His son obeyed, smiling slightly. The open hand showed in the lamplight steady as a carven hand.
“Nerves quite in order, sir.”
Dr. Cairn inhaled a deep breath.
“Tell me,” he said.
“It’s a queer tale,” his son began, “and if I told it to Craig Fenton, or Madderley round in Harley Street I know what they would say. But you will understand. It started this afternoon, when the sun was pouring in through the windows. I had to go to my chambers to change; and the rooms were filled with a most disgusting smell.”
His father started.
“What kind of smell?” he asked. “Not — incense?”
“No,” replied Robert, looking hard at him— “I thought you would ask that. It was a smell of something putrid — something rotten, rotten with the rottenness of ages.”
“Did you trace where it came from?”
“I opened all the windows, and that seemed to disperse it for a time. Then, just as I was going out, it returned; it seemed to envelop me like a filthy miasma. You know, sir, it’s hard to explain just the way I felt about it — but it all amounts to this: I was glad to get outside!”
Dr. Cairn stood up and began to pace about the room, his hands locked behind him.
“To-night,” he rapped suddenly, “what occurred to-night?”
“To-night,” continued his son, “I got in at about half-past nine. I had had such a rush, in one way and another, that the incident had quite lost its hold on my imagination; I hadn’t forgotten it, of course, but I was not thinking of it when I unlocked the door. In fact I didn’t begin to think of it again until, in slippers and dressing-gown, I had settled down for a comfortable read. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to influence my imagination — in that way. The book was an old favourite, Mark Twain’s Up the Mississippi, and I sat in the armchair with a large bottle of lager beer at my elbow and my pipe going strong.”