by Sax Rohmer
He paused, laid his cigarette down, and:
“Good God!” he exclaimed.
An envelope had appeared upon the table beside his plate. No waiter was near. The next occupied table—for Smith had recognized the presence of a number of agents in the hotel—was well removed from ours.
“It came from the garden path there,” spluttered Barton. “I positively saw it blow up.”
I had merely seen it drop beside the plate. I remained silent, dumbfounded. Smith’s jaw muscles became very prominent, but he hesitated only a moment, and then with a table knife he split the envelope. He read aloud in a perfectly toneless voice:
SECOND NOTICE.
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan point out that no reply has been received to its First Notice. Two Powers have opened negotiations with the Council relative to a readjustment of naval forces in the Caribbean and Panama waters. A copy of this Second Notice has been sent to Washington. You have three days.
President of the Council.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FATHER AMBROSE
Father Ambrose, S.J., arrived immediately after breakfast. Father Ambrose had been recommended to Smith by Colonel Kennard Wood as one who knew more about Haiti than any other white resident. He was a stout, amiable-looking cleric, wearing glasses and carrying a heavy blackthorne. He had a notably musical voice; and his rather sleepy eyes held a profound knowledge of men and their affairs.
The meeting took place in Smith’s room—as this was the largest; and he, having cordially welcomed the priest, broached the real business of the interview with a strange question:
“Are you acquainted. Father Ambrose, with the superstition of the Zombie? Dead men who are dug up and restored to a sort of life?”
“Certainly,” the priest replied, in that rich, easy voice. “It is no superstition—it is a fact”
“You mean that?” Barton challenged.
“I mean it. You see, these dead are not really dead; they are buried alive. These people, I mean the exponents of Voodoo, are acquainted with some kind of poison, or so I read it, which produces catalepsy. In this condition the victims are buried and their identities lost. They are then secretly dug up again and restored in the form of that dreadful creature—a Zombie. Personality has gone; in fact one would say that the soul had gone. They are entirely under the control of the Voodoo doctor.”
“You see, Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “Dr. Fu-Manchu is not the only man who knows this strange secret.”
“I have heard of Dr. Fu-Manchu,” said the priest, “but to my knowledge he has never been in Haiti.”
“That,” said Barton, “we shall make it our business to find out.”
“The Zombie, then, in your view,” Smith went on rapidly, “is not just a Negro variety of the vampire tradition, but a scientific fact?”
“Undoubtedly. The thing has been practised here in quite recent times—may be practised now.” A shadow crossed the speaker’s face. “Many of my flock, a large and scattered one, are, I regret to say, both professed Roman Catholics and also secret devotees of Voodoo.” He shook his head. “I can do nothing to stop it.”
“It is the cult of the serpent,” growled Barton. “This knowledge of unfamiliar drugs and of hypnotic suggestion has come down from West Africa, but it reached West Africa from Ancient Egypt. The recurrence of the Ra symbol and the importance of the snake prove my point, I think.”
“I quite agree with you,” Father Ambrose replied. “That point has not actually been established, but I hope to establish it before I die.” He fumbled for a moment in his pocket, and: “I recovered this from a penitent recently,” he added, and handed something to Smith.
Smith held it in the palm of his hand, staring down at it curiously. Gaily-plumaged birds flew from branch to branch outside the open window; there were strange movements in the crests of the coconut palms; the drums of the night were silent. I stood up to obtain a closer view of the object which the priest had produced. It was the figure of a snake, crudely carved in some soft wood and coloured green.
“Does any special significance attach to this?” Smith asked.
“Yes.” The priest nodded gloomily. “You see, this abominable cult, which in my opinion today has its head centre in Haiti, is divided up into sects; actually it is a kind of heathen religion. Each of these sects has a distinguishing mark or badge; the green serpent is that of a group or lodge to which my penitent belongs, or did belong. I made him swear that he would never attend again.”
“But how are the things used?” asked Smith.
“As passports!” said Barton. “They are used as a means of recognition. The analogy may be blasphemous, Father, but the Sign of the Cross was employed in a similar way amongst the early Christians. Other lodges have other symbols, of course, several of which I possess. In fact, I have a selection with me; thought they might be useful.”
“I see,” muttered Smith. He laid the little amulet thoughtfully on the table before him. “In your experience, are all these people pure Africans?”
“Not at all.” The priest shook his head. “Many people who have very little Negro blood are followers of Voodoo; some—who have none at all.”
“You amaze me!” I exclaimed.
He gave me a glance of his mild eyes.
“There is undoubtedly power in Voodoo,” he said sadly. “And to grasp power, unscrupulous men will follow strange paths. One who could control this movement would have much power.”
“I quite agree,” said Smith. “I think I know one who has already done so. Another question, Father. Do you recall recent deaths due to The Snapping Fingers?”
“I recall them very well.”
“Would you ascribe them to Voodoo?”
The priest hesitated. He had produced a huge, curved calabash pipe, and as Smith passed his pouch:
“I have warned you,” he said, indicating the enormous bowl, “and I hope you have plenty of tobacco in reserve. Now you have posed me a difficult question, Sir Denis. By the coloured population those deaths were universally accepted as the works of Voodoo. In the matter of their direction they may have been. Myself, I always thought they were due to some natural cause.”
“You mean some creature,” Smith suggested,
“Yes.” The last few strands of nearly half an ounce of tobacco had disappeared into the mighty bowl. “Some odd things live here, you know. And owing to the fact that Haiti is not yet fully developed, I imagine that there are others which have not yet been classified.”
Smith began to pace up and down; then:
“Just glance at this map,” he jerked suddenly.
He opened on the cane table a large-scale map of Haiti. Barton’s blue eyes danced with curiosity; he, too, stood up as the priest bent over the map.
“Yes,” said Father Ambrose, “it is a good map. I know most of the routes.”
“You observe a red ring drawn around an area in the north.”
“I had noted it. Unfortunately, it is a part of Haiti with which I am imperfectly acquainted. My confrère, Father Lucien, looks after that area.”
“Nevertheless,” said Smith, “You certainly know it better than I do. I am going to ask you, Father, if you have ever heard of a legend, or tradition, of a large cave along that coast?”
“There are many,” the priest returned, puffing out great curls of tobacco smoke. “That rugged coast is honeycombed with caves. Perhaps you are referring to Christophe’s Cave, which so many people have tried to find, but which I am disposed to think is certainly a legend.”
“Ah!” growled Barton.
“It has been suggested to me,” Father Ambrose smiled, “that the object of your present visit. Sir Lionel, is to look for Christophe’s treasure. I remember you were here a year or two ago, although I did not meet you then. But I may give you a warning. What information you have it is not my business to inquire, but much gold and some human lives have been wasted during the past century in that quest. Christophe’s Cavern
has a history nearly as bad as that of Cocos Island.”
“You surprise me,” murmured Smith, laying the tip of his forefinger upon a point within the red circle upon the map. “But here, I am informed, there is a ruined chapel dating back to French days. Am I right?”
“You would have been a week ago.”
“What!”
Barton and Smith were staring eagerly at the speaker.
“The chapel was either struck by a thunderbolt or blown up by human hands at some time during last Thursday night. Scarcely one stone was left standing upon another. I had a full report in a letter of this mysterious occurrence from Father Lucien.”
Smith and Barton exchanged glances.
“Perhaps you realize now, Barton,” said Smith, “that Dr. Fu-Manchu—one morning in New York, if I am not mistaken—took steps to check the chart in his possession from the original which you held…”
The ruined chapel, now demolished, had marked the entrance to Christophe’s Cavern!
* * *
“Queen Mamaloi,” said Father Ambrose in a low tone. “Yes, unfortunately, there is such a person.”
“She is not a myth?”
“Not at all—I wish she were. Who or what she is I cannot tell you. Only selected devotees of Voodoo have ever seen her.”
“Has there always been a Queen Mamaloi?” I asked.
The priest shook his head.
“Not to my knowledge. One never heard of her in Haiti until about”—he considered—“about 1938, I suppose. She is some very special sorceress, perhaps imported from Africa.”
“I thought,” said Barton in his coarsely jovial way, “that the Jesuits knew everything.”
Father Ambrose smiled.
“We know many things,” he replied, “but no man knows everything.”
“Are you acquainted”—Smith spoke slowly and emphatically—“with anyone who has seen this woman?”
“I am.” Father Ambrose indicated the little amulet on the cane table. “This penitent has seen her. Hence my putting the fear of hell into him and confiscating his charm.”
“Did he describe her?”
“He was too excited at the time,—I gather these meetings are orgiastic, you know—to be a credible witness. But one point I established quite firmly. She is not black.”
“What!” Smith’s eyes glinted with sudden excitement. “You are sure of that?”
“Perfectly sure.”
“A white woman?”
Father Ambrose extended his stout palms.
“Probably negro blood. Some of them, you know, are as white as you or I. I suppose that a European woman could have obtained this hold over the coloured people: it extends, mark you, beyond the boundaries of Haiti. At the great ceremony of the Full Moon—”
“Tomorrow night!” snapped Smith.
“Yes, there is to be a meeting tomorrow night, and many will come over the borders; nor”—he spoke sadly—“will they all be black. We fight phantoms here, Sir Denis, but we shall win in the end”
Smith was pacing up and down again, furiously loading his cracked old briar. Suddenly he turned to Barton.
“You hear, Barton?” he said. “You hear? Two moves are open to us. In one, I fancy, we have been anticipated by Dr. Fu-Manchu. I consider it at least equally important that we should see this woman.”
“And I assure you,” Father Ambrose interrupted, “that it is quite impossible you should see her, whatever your reason may be. Haiti is highly civilized, as you know—” he smiled; “but for any white man ignorant of Voodoo ritual to attempt to penetrate to that place, would be”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—“shall we say as dangerous as for one to walk into Mecca?”
“You say ‘that place’,” Smith remarked.
“Yes.”
“Does this mean that you know where it is?”
The priest hesitated, and then:
“Yes, I know,” he replied. “But it is contrary to the dictates of my conscience to tell you. Voodoo is undoubtedly the work of Satan. I would encourage no man to touch it. It is, as you yourself have suggested, a survival of pagan creeds older than Christianity. It is the worship of the hidden side of the Moon.”
There was a brief silence during which Nayland Smith paced restlessly up and down, and the bowl of the priest’s pipe bubbled unmusically.
“I don’t presume. Father, to interfere with your conscience. But let me make our position a little more clear. For your private information I am not treasure-hunting, although it is true that I hope to find Christophe’s Cave. I am acting for the United States Government and for my own. There are two movements taking place in Haiti: one mechanical, the other psychological. It is my business to investigate both. You say yourself that Voodoo has great power. You evidently know a lot about it, more than you have told us. But one thing you do not know. A Secret Society and a very old one, the Si-Fan—”
“The Si-Fan!” interjected Father Ambrose. “But what has the Si-Fan to do with Haiti? You see”—he smiled apologetically—“I was in Tibet for four years before I came here. Nearly as many of my converts there were members of the Si-Fan as here they are devotees of Voodoo.”
“No doubt!” said Smith. “The roots of the Si-Fan may not go as deep as those of Voodoo, but nevertheless it is an ancient organization, and a very powerful one. It is controlled by a Chinese genius. It includes all races and creeds—all shades of colour. Personally I cannot say for how long it has included Voodoo.”
“What!”
“The Si-Fan Is almost purely political. I need not emphasize the underground influence which could be set in motion by control of Voodoo. But those influences are already at work. There is a concrete danger to the United States Government growing hour by hour and day by day in the Caribbean. Several agents who have been sent to investigate have died or have never returned.”
“I confess,” murmured the priest, “that I know of one, myself.”
“There have been many. And this woman, the Queen Mamaloi, is undoubtedly an agent of the Si-Fan. I am urged by no idle curiosity. It is my plain duty to see this woman, to establish her identity—to check her activities. Now, I have been making some inquiries myself.”
He turned again to the map and rested the point of a pencil upon a spot which appeared to be the peak of a maintain close to the Dominican border. He glanced interrogatively at the priest.
Father Ambrose nodded.
“Yes, that is the headquarters of Voodoo in Haiti,” he admitted. “Morne la Selle, the Magic Mountain. I cannot deny it; I can see it from my own windows at Kenscoff: but I would point out that if you go with a considerable armed party, you will find no one there; and that if you go along you will certainly never return.”
Smith relighted his pipe.
“You do more than your duty, Father,” he said. “We have heard your warning and we do not take it lightly. But I have a duty as well as you, and I am going to be present at this meeting.” He took up the little snake amulet. “Is it consistent with your convictions that I should borrow this?”
The priest’s pipe bubbled, great rings of smoke rose from the steaming bowl. At last;
“You place the matter in a new light, Sir Denis,” he said. “I believe I shall be justified in withdrawing my opposition.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DRUMS IN THE NIGHT
“We know roughly what we have to expect,” said Nayland Smith; “and I think our plans cover all the possibilities we can foresee.”
“I regret every moment lost in getting to work on the cave,” cried Barton. “There’s a party of United States marines ready to land. Even with their help it may take some time to clear the débris of the old chapel. In the present state of the war over there, Fu-Manchu’s chance might come tomorrow!”
“And tomorrow we set to work,” snapped Smith. “Tonight I might have another job to do—”
“Which may iron you out altogether!”
“Barton,” said Smith, ‘I regret to
have to remind you that I am in charge of this party. Be good enough to listen. Near the top of Morne la Selle, our destination, there is a perfectly flat plateau. As the place is a Voodoo holy-of-holies, the American authorities have contented themselves with aerial survey. But it’s a good landing ground. Three Army planes are standing by. They are our rearguard, Barton, and you’re in command. I am not prepared to trust a soul in Haiti now that I know the Si-Fan is here. Nobody but you knows when those planes start, or where they are going.”
“Right,” growled Barton. “You know you can count on me.”
“One thing is important: I must see the Queen Mamaloi; and the time of departure I have given you allows for the starting of the ceremony. Don’t start a moment earlier.”
It was afternoon before Smith and I set out for the house of Father Ambrose in Kenscoff. We went in the car of the American consul—and saloons are rare in Port au Prince. The consul’s chauffeur drove us. Smith’s plans were peculiarly complete, as I was presently to learn; but at the outset he was very silent, filling the interior of the car with clouds of tobacco smoke. I realized as the journey proceeded what he had meant when he had said, “This is Africa.” The route betrayed a vista of wild, unspoiled beauty. There were magnificent trees, banks of flowers, and, once clear of the town, absence of any evidence to show that we were not indeed in tropical Africa.
Although this was a modern road, the dwellings which bordered it might have had their being in Timbuctoo. An all but unbroken file of Haitian women, each with a burden of vegetables, fruit or other produce upon her head wound its way ant-like down to the market place; a returning stream marched upwards. I saw no white faces from the time that we left the borders of the town. But below, a wonderful prospect was unfolded.
From above, Port au Prince, nestling in a cup between two mountains, reminded me momentarily of Damascus seen from the Lebanon hills. Beyond, seemingly floating on a blue sea, La Gonave, the mystery island, alone disturbed the blue expanse of ocean to the horizon. Little curiosity was displayed by the hundreds of natives we passed. Exceptions were a fierce-eyed old woman, riding a donkey, and a tall, distinguished-looking mulatto who carried a staff. The interest of this pair, I thought, although they were a mile or more apart, was definitely hostile. As the car passed the tall mulatto and his fierce glance sought us out in passing: