“Yes! Yes! Yes! I’m here—under the ground,” the faint voice responded fervently. “Thank God! Thank God! I never thought it would happen. I never thought you’d find me—never! I was at the end of my tether, Al.”
Well, incredible as it may appear, it really and truly was Madge Clerisy—I immediately recognized her voice—and she really and truly was beneath the earth. Naturally, I assumed at first that she had died somewhere and was now an astral communicant, but this was far from the case, as I shall explain.
Her cries came from the north side of the room, where the floor consisted of a single slab of granite, rectangular in shape and as large as the top of a kitchen table. I had noticed this mammoth slab for the first time on the day that I’d moved the old headstones from it—that distant day when Madge had insisted on reading all the epitaphs. It had impressed me with its bulk, since it was so much bigger than the other paving stones, but I’d given it no further thought. Now I regarded it with new eyes.
Dropping to my knees, I began brushing away with my hands the spider webs, leaves, chestnut husks and pine cones that littered its surface. In the hard soil, a few inches from one corner of the thing, I then discovered a small, almost circular hole. When Madge next spoke, it was from this hole—which was somewhat larger than a half dollar—that her voice issued. A funny little aperture it was, for it entered the ground at an angle. I guessed that it was the work of a mole or similar creature. Putting my eye to it, I saw a wan, fuzzy light, but that was all.
During the time that I made these investigations, the woman kept up a steady stream of talk. I couldn’t apprehend her remarks, however. She babbled on about light and darkness, about silence, about the passage of the days, about solitude, about hope, and about a variety of other abstractions.
“Are you listening to me, Al?” she asked, at length.
“Yes,” I said.
“Shout, Al—shout. It’s far. It’s quite a distance. Please shout. You can’t know how wonderful it is for me to hear your voice.”
“All right,” I bellowed into the opening. “But tell me what has happened, and where you have got to.”
She gave a giddy sort of laugh and said, “I’ve been here for more than a month. I’m not sure exactly how long. I tried to keep track of the days by the light in that hole, but I became muddled. It’s been so terrible.”
“More than a month?” I asked, mystified. “You’ve been buried more than a month, Madge? How is it possible?”
“Yes, yes. It was a trap, you see—a trap. Everything came down. What you will have to do is this, Al—hire a man with a crane, and have him lift that granite block. Do you understand?”
I shook my head—then, realizing she couldn’t see the gesture, said, “No, not really.”
“The walls muffle the sound,” she said, thinking that her words hadn’t reached me. “I’ll speak louder, and you listen closely. Telephone a construction-equipment rental company—there’ll be several in the Yellow Pages—and have them send a small power crane immediately. Tell them how urgent it is. Say that you need it to lift a heavy stone—that someone has fallen into a hole and that the stone is blocking the entrance. Once they’ve removed it, you can lower a knotted rope and I can climb the hell out of here.”
“But how did you get into such a predicament in the first place, Madge? I can’t make head or tail of what you’re saying. What’s down there—an abandoned well?”
Again she laughed, and again it sounded slightly delirious. “No, no, no, no! What’s down here is A. Edward Pendleton’s tomb! Yes, his tomb! I found it, Al. It’s an underground apartment. There are four little rooms, and in one of them is his body, in a stone coffin. You’ll hear all about it soon enough, though. Hurry now and make that call.”
“Great-grampy’s tomb? Welladay! Great-grampy’s tomb? Really? Down there? Who would believe it!”
“You’ll see it all shortly. Now get a move-on, Al.”
My mind grappled with this amazing news. The old man’s grave had been beneath the charnel house right along.
“Have you gone?” she called, rousing me from my contemplations.
“Oh, no. I’ve been thinking,” I replied. “Wouldn’t it be better to get the fire department? They have ladders . . .”
“Absolutely not! I don’t want any damn officials in on this. They’ll ask too many questions. Do you follow what I mean? This is my discovery, and I want it kept a strict secret for the time being. Stop making silly suggestions. Hurry off to the telephone. The crane operator need only know what I’ve instructed you to tell him.”
She spoke with characteristic condescension, which irked me. “But why won’t you tell me how it all happened, Madge?” I asked.
“Why? Why do you suppose? I want to get the hell out of this dungeon! I’ve been here an eternity—buried alive, you ninny! Can’t you realize what it’s been like?”
“No reason to be rude,” I said, further offended. “I would think that since you’ve been there so long, another few minutes wouldn’t matter too much.”
I put my eye to the hole again, hoping I could catch a glimpse of her, but the wan glow was all that was visible. Accidentally my knee sent a pebble tumbling down the opening.
“Be careful, for God’s sake!” she shouted instantly. “Don’t try to move it by yourself; The whole thing might collapse. Get the machine! Get the crane!”
Sitting on my haunches, I considered the problem. How could I do what she asked? It was mad. The situation was fantastic—unreal.
“A crane would never fit through the lich gate,” I said. “Besides, it would have to run over some of the graves to get here. And the police are sure to ask questions. I’ll have to give them a reasonable explanation.”
She yelled an oath up to me. The word she used was one that I’d always found abhorrent, even from the lips of men. “Stop chattering, and make the call,” she said venomously. “If you have to knock the gate down, then knock it down—you damn boobie!”
I could feel my temper struggling to wrest control from my reason; I could feel my cheeks flush with warm blood; and I could hear the buzzing inside my head grow to a surflike roar. Yet at all costs I was determined to maintain my self-possession.
“You haven’t convinced me, Madge,” I answered coldly. “I’m going back to the house and mull things over.”
The briefest pause ensued, during which the lady archaeologist speedily reappraised our relative positions. “Don’t go!” she exclaimed then in alarm. “Don’t go, Al! I didn’t mean what I said. I apologize. I never meant to insult you, Al—it’s only that I’m overwrought, that I’m half out of my senses from all this being alone. I’m really very sorry that I spoke that way to you.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “But tell me the story, won’t you?”
“Very well. Very well, I will. And after I do, you’ll make the telephone call. Okay, Al?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise?” she asked, attempting to sound playful, though the result was a bit grotesque.
“Yes,” I repeated.
36
THE NETHER PLACE
For a moment she was silent. Outside in the Burying Ground, a cicada drummed vigorously. It’s late in the season for a cicada, I thought.
“The day you drove off to Philadelphia, I happened to wander into the charnel house, and that huge granite slab caught my eye,” she said, commencing her narrative. “It reminded me of granite blocks I’d seen in Egypt, at the Temple of Khafra. What struck me was that this one was not only larger than the other paving stones, it was far more precisely cut.”
Inspecting the slab myself, I saw at once what she meant. The edges had been tailored with a fine accuracy.
She went on. “I started to poke around it with an old iron paling. It didn’t take me long to discover that the stone was hinged on a thick steel rod, and that the ends of it were fixed in adjacent pieces of granite. When I jumped up and down on it, it wobbled slightly. I concluded from
this that it was counterweighted. Using the paling, I tried to prize it open, and to my amazement found that the task was relatively easy. It came up inch by inch; as it did, I shoved logs into the gap to act as supports. Eventually the counterweight assumed most of the load, so that when I gave a good hard push, the enormous rock swung back as smoothly as an overhead garage door.
“I was excited, needless to say. Before me was a flight of nearly vertical stone steps leading into total darkness. I switched on my flashlight, and down I went. It was a long descent—I counted more than forty steps—but at last I reached the bottom. There I trod on yet another slab—one that was square, like a platform. As I did so, it lurched beneath my feet. I tried to keep my balance by leaning on my cane; the ferrule slipped on the hard surface, however, and I fell forward. I then heard an ominous, crackling noise, even as I was hurling wildly through the air. Though I landed all in a heap, somehow the flashlight remained in my hand. Instinctively I directed its beam up the shaft and saw the huge granite door fall back into place, sealing the entrance. Simultaneously another heavy stone—the one that had served as the counterweight—broke loose and dropped on the topmost step of the long flight. The next thing I knew, the entire stairway came tumbling down like an avalanche.
“Do you see, Al? It was a trap. My weight on the platform had triggered the hellish thing. It was intended to crush intruders. Fortunately, however, my fall had pitched me a couple of yards to the side, and I had time to roll even farther away. But you can’t imgaine what it was like. It was worse than an earthquake. The noise was thunderous, and the dust blinding. Everything vibrated. Four or five of the massive steps—each one must weigh a hundred pounds—bounced in my direction. How they failed to land on me I’ll never know! I was uninjured, but I was damn shaken up. It was a good while before I dared move from where I lay huddled.”
Madge here left off speaking. I could hear her take a deep breath and release it in an exaggerated sigh.
“Absolutely fantastic!” I exclaimed into the aperture. “It’s like one of those old tales about the pyramids. You know the kind—secret passages, deadfalls, and the Pharaoh’s curse. But then what happened? What happened next, Madge?”
Coughing a couple of times, she complained about having to shout such a long story over so great a distance. Nevertheless, I was able to persuade her to continue.
“When the dust settled, I saw that I was in a cubicle. It was like an oubliette I’d seen once in an Italian castle. The only exit seemed to be the shaft, which was—in addition to being closed—far too steep to climb. I was unwilling to accept that this elaborate arrangement led only to a cul-de-sac, and I started to scrutinize the walls. After fifteen minutes or so, I came to the conclusion that they were as solid as the walls of the Grand Canyon.
“Panic suddenly took hold of me. I imagined that the air was bad, that I was already on the brink of asphyxiation. It wasn’t true, of course, but I believed it. I stood there, panting and sweating, for I don’t know how long. Then, as swiftly as the terror had come, so too did it leave me. My confidence and my reason returned. Calmly and methodically, I began an examination of the floor. Almost at once my probing fingers detected a crevice in the mortar, which I traced around a quadrangular stone. Though it was only half the size of the block above, I knew for certain that it was another door. When I located the hinge, I nearly danced for joy. Quickly I piled chunks of the broken staircase on the short end of the slab, until the weight was such that it swung open. The chunks of rock slid noisily into the space below.
“Shining the light in the hole I saw an iron ladder, and around it stacks and stacks of boxes. It was a second cubicle. Very warily I climbed down into it. The air was stale and dry. Through an alley between rows of cartons, I was able to make out a stone doorway, and I walked toward it cautiously. As I drew near, I was astonished to see a light switch fastened to the side of this arch. I glanced up and there in the low ceiling was a bulb and fixture. Standing well back and using the tip of my cane, I flicked the switch. The place was instantly filled with bright light.
“A most fantastic scene appeared before me. A short hall ran from the doorway to a third room. From this room, which was bigger than the others, a glistening basalt lion glared out at me with gold-and-turquoise eyes. At his side was an alabaster sphinx, fully three feet high and marvelously made. Beyond them, I saw a gilded couch, a beaten-gold screen, and a superb bronze statue of the jackal-headed god, Anubis.
“I rushed down the passage and found myself in the burial chamber of A. Edward Pendleton. Occupying the center of the floor was an Egyptian pink-granite sarcophagus—a Pharaoh’s, though which Pharaoh’s I haven’t been able to figure out because the cartouche is not one I’m familiar with. Surrounding it were incredible things—a fabulous harp, a magnificent diorite falcon, a perfectly preserved sunboat, a sheath of gold-headed arrows. There were several ebony trays, beautifully set with nacre; there was a bronze woman, inlaid with silver, gold and gems. In one corner I discovered an ivory-and-cedarwood chest. In it were drinking cups of gold, gold rings and bracelets, gold pectorals, gold buckles, gold fibulae, and jewelry and beads of every description. In the opposite corner lay a dismantled chariot, all plated with hammered gold. But, Al, until you see these wonders yourself, you can’t possibly appreciate how breathtaking, how absolutely astounding they really are.”
Throughout Madge’s recitation, I crouched motionless with my ear glued to the little hole in the hard earth, so utterly entranced was I. Yet I could scarcely believe what I heard.
“A Pharaoh’s tomb!” I said now. “A Pharaoh’s tomb, right here in the Burying Ground! Just imagine! Why, it’s staggering! Still, it’s exactly the sort of thing Great-grampy would do. Yes, exactly the sort of thing, Madge. And it explains the Italian stonecutters that Mr. Piero hired. I recall now a particular spring vacation from school. The yard was so cluttered with stones that it looked like a quarry, and my mother told me to keep out of the way and not go near the charnel house. But Great-grampy said he was making the place into a temple. Well, by God, I guess he was—in a sense.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t mention that to me earlier,” said the archaeologist a trifle caustically.
“Didn’t I? Oh, I guess not. Think of all that gold, though. Poor, poor Mahir. He was right, wasn’t he?” I said. “But what else is down there?”
“You’ll see soon enough, Al. There’s a fourth room—a chapel, and very tiny. It’s crowded with figurines of Horus and Isis and the rest of the deities. According to my calculations, the apartment is almost fifty feet under the ground. It was quite a project, all right. You can’t hear anything going on above. The only noise comes from the electric motor.”
“Yes. The light switch also turned on a blower. I didn’t notice it at first, but afterward I felt the current and heard the hum. There’s an open pipe in the garage up there that used to puzzle me. I believe now that the air is sucked in through that.”
“Oh. But why would a dead man want fresh air?”
“You mean you don’t understand it yet?” she asked, again sounding irritable. “Why did he want any of this stuff? He thought he was going to come back to life, that’s why. Like a true Pharaoh, he provided himself with everything he’d need in this world or the next. A good thing, too, or I’d have died of suffocation the first day.” She laughed shortly. “Well, I’ve told you the whole tale. Run now and make the telephone call.”
My legs were awfully cramped from squatting all this time, but I’d been so intrigued that I hadn’t dared stand up and stretch them for fear of missing something. I peeked into the hole once more. The disc of dim light was all that could be discerned. Something about the woman’s story didn’t jibe with reality, and my mind had been struggling with this inconsistency. Suddenly, I realized what it was.
“Madge,” I called. “How could you have survived? It’s almost six weeks since I went to Philadelphia—and you’ve had no nourishment!”
“Ah, but I’ve had
plenty,” she said, chuckling. “That room filled with cartons was the old bird’s storeroom. Do you remember telling me that he liked buying food by the carton? That food is down here. Canned soup, canned vegetables, sardines, fruit salad, bully beef, baked beans, tuna fish—they’ve kept me alive. My one complaint is that he didn’t think to put in a hot plate; I’ve had to eat everything cold.”
“Amazing! And the food was good after all this time?”
“Except for some hash that tasted a little strange, and which I didn’t use, yes. The old dungeon is remarkably dry. Yes, Al—your Great-grampy took good care of me. He provided linens, blankets, soap and towels, books to read (he liked Edgar Wallace, didn’t he?), a wind-up phonograph and albums of opera records—even several cases of French wine. I didn’t drink much of it, though. I stuck to water. There’s a small sink here, with a single tap. It handled my thirst and my washing-up needs very nicely. By the way, haven’t you heard me banging on the pipes? I’m sure they must connect with the house. I beat them until I thought they’d burst.”
“Yes, yes—I did hear a lot of knocking,” I admitted, “but I assumed it was only the usual racket that old plumbing often makes. Imagine, that was you signaling! My brain’s in a whirl. I really can’t comprehend it all. The gold and the statues, for example—did he buy these things from that Ahmed fellow?”
“That’s right. I found a couple of more notebooks in the burial chamber, and in them he tells the whole story. He got the lot for a trunkful of English sovereigns. Ahmed was foolish to sell so much for so little, but I guess he needed ready cash. I think too, that A. Edward—who learned about the secret from a Luxor whore—threatened the Arab with exposure. When you consider that the prize item was a rishi coffin of Ramses the Second, it’s clear that the price he paid was very low. The rishi coffin is the innermost one. Your great-grandfather is lying in it right now. We’ll see it after we open the sarcophagus. It’s a casket made of solid gold and encrusted with precious stones, and alone worth a fortune.”
The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton Page 18