by Sax Rohmer
The light increased. I recognized it as the ray of an electric lamp. And in some strange way this discovery was a relief. I suppose, without recognizing the fact, I had been in the grip of superstitious fear. God knows what I had expected! But the approaching threat became less horrible at the moment I realized the presence of modern science in its equipment.
Weymouth’s breathing had ceased to be audible.
A figure appeared in the opening… a fan of white light spread itself across the floor.
The figure stooped and entered… I saw an Arab woman robed in shapeless black, her pose furtive. She held a flash-lamp, casting its ray all about the burial chamber. This was anomaly enough. But I was less concerned with it than with the hand that held the torch…
A delicately slender hand it was, nurtured in indolence—an unforgettable hand, delicious yet repellant, with pointed, varnished nails: a cultured hand possessing the long, square-jointed thumb of domination; a hand cruel for all its softness as the velvet paw of a tigress.
My breath came sharply. Weymouth’s fingers gripped my shoulder.
Had he seen what I had seen? Did he understand?
The woman crossed in the direction of the sarcophagus. I saw that she wore loose slippers—that her ankles were of that same dull ivory as the chaste, voluptuous hand.
She disappeared. Only by those shadows which the torchlight cast could I judge of her movements. She went all but silently in those soft slippers, but I thought that she had stooped to examine the sarcophagus. Apparently she made no attempt to raise its wooden lid. The light grew brighter—ever brighter.
She was approaching the low entrance to that antechamber in which we crouched!
At the very threshold she paused.
The light of her lamp painted a white fan which extended to within a few inches of my knees, touching nothing but rugged floor. By sheer chance—as I thought, then—no one of us came within its radius.
It moved, shining now directly upon the triangular opening beside the portcullis. I could see the woman’s body as a dim outline. She stooped and went out. I listened to the rubble moving beneath her slippered feet as she mounted the sloping passage. Weymouth’s breathing became audible again close to my ear. The sound receded… receded… and ceased; then:
“Quiet!” Weymouth whispered. “Don’t move until I give the word.”
My legs were aching because of the discomfort of my position, but I stuck to it, still listening intently.
Absolute silence…
“Ali,” Weymouth directed. “Uncover the light.”
Ali Mahmoud dragging his robe from the lantern, dim yellow light showed us the low-roofed, rough-hewn chamber in which we crouched.
“Effendim!” Ali exclaimed, in quivering tones. “I saw him when first we came in. Look!”
Face downwards upon a mound of rubbish in an angle farthest from the entrance, was a brown man naked except for his loincloth and dark turban knotted tightly about his head!
“He is cold,” Ali continued; “and as I knelt in the darkness I had to support my weight upon his dead body…”
On hands and knees I crawled out into the passage. I contrived to make no sound.
I looked to my left.
Ali’s lantern was just visible at the bend. Standing upright, I headed for it, stepping warily. At the corner I dropped to my knees again and stared up the slope. She was not in sight: I could trace the path beyond the wall to the next bend.
I proceeded…
In view of the ladders I pulled up. A vague light, moon rays on black velvet, broke the darkness. I thought perhaps it came down the shaft… but it began to fade.
I hurried forward. I reached our excavation and looked up. No one was on the ladders.
Hopelessly puzzled I stood, listening.
And in that complete stillness I heard it again… the sound of footsteps softly receding…
She had gone up the steep slope which led to the former entrance—but which now ended in an impassable mass of rock!
I had her!
Weymouth’s instructions were forgotten. I meant to make a capture! This woman was the clue to the mystery… It was she who had stolen the chief’s body—and even without the clue provided by Rima’s camera, I should have known her in spite of disguise.
Madame Ingomar!
Scrambling over irregular masses of stone, I had not gone five paces, I suppose, before a definite fact intruded itself. Whereas the air in the lower passage was fetid, almost unbreathable, here it was comparatively fresh.
I came to the angle, rounded it, and stopped… I shot the ray of a torch ahead, expecting a wall of rock.
An irregular opening, some five feet high, yawned, cavernesque, right of the passage!
Running forward, I climbed through, throwing the ray of my torch before me. This opening had been completed at some earlier time, closed up and camouflaged.
I stood in a shallow pit. A ladder rested beside me, rearing its length into the darkness above. All this I saw as I stared upward, intently.
Light in hand, I mounted the ladder… I found myself in a low tunnel. I stood still, listening, but could detect no sound. I pushed on, cautiously, the air growing ever fresher, until suddenly recognition came.
Switching off the light, I stared up to an opening where one pale star hung like a diamond pendant.
The passage ahead of me was empty. But I knew, now, where I stood, and I knew how the woman had escaped…
This was Lafleur’s Shaft!
Weymouth nodded, looking very grim.
“We are dealing with a she-devil,” he said, “and I suppose she came to look for her servant.”
He shone a light upon the upturned face of the man we had found in that chamber. It was a lined, leering face, hideous now by reason of the fact that the man had died from strangulation. Between the brows was a peculiar, colored mark—how produced I could not imagine. But it appeared to have been seared in the yellow flesh, and then enamelled in some way.
“A Burman,” Weymouth went on, “and a religious Dacoit.”
He touched the mark with his finger, then stood still, listening. We all three listened, breathlessly—yet I dare swear no one of us knew what he expected to hear.
I thought as I looked down at those distorted features that if the slanting eyes were opened, this might well be a twin brother of the malignant creature who had followed me to Cairo.
“What does it all mean?” I asked.
“It means that our worst suspicions were correct,” Weymouth replied. “If ever I saw one, this is a servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu! This carries me back, Greville, to a scene in Sir Lionel’s house late in 1913—the death of the Chinaman, Kwee. It may be a coincidence but it’s an odd one. Because Kwee met his death when he was engaged on the same duty which I presume brought this yellow demon here.”
“The murder of Barton?”
Weymouth nodded.
“Precisely. It’s more than strange, and it’s very horrible.”
“Yet surely there’s hope in it,” I exclaimed excitedly. “This man belonged to the enemy. He has been strangled. It is just possible…”
“By heavens! It is!” he took me up. “After all he didn’t die at the hands of his own friends.”
“One thing is fairly certain,” I said; “he came by the same route as the woman—by Lafleur’s Shaft. What isn’t certain is when a way was forced through.”
“Nor why a way was forced through,” Weymouth added. “What in heaven’s name were they after? Is it possible”—he lowered his voice, staring at the procession of hideous, giant apes which marched eternally round the walls of the chamber—“that there was something in this tomb beyond…” He nodded in the direction of the sarcophagus.
“Quite possible,” I replied, “but lacking special information to the contrary the first thing any excavator would do would be to open the mummy case.”
“This seems to have been done.”
“What!” I cried. “Wha
t!”
“Look for yourself,” Weymouth invited, a curious expression in his voice.
He directed a ray on one end of the sarcophagus; whereupon:
“Good God!” I cried.
The wooden rivets had been removed, the lid raised and then replaced! Two wedges prevented its falling into its original position, leaving a gap of an inch or more all around…
I stared in utter stupefaction, until:
“Have you any idea why that should be done?” Weymouth asked.
I shook my head. “Unless to make it easier to lift again,” I suggested.
“If that was the idea,” Weymouth went on quickly, “we will take advantage of it.” He turned to Ali. “Hold the light—so. Now, Greville, get a grip with me, here. Don’t move to any other part of the lid if you can avoid it—there may be fingerprints. And now… see if we can raise it.”
In a state of such excitement as I cannot describe, I obeyed. Simultaneously we lifted, steadily. It responded to our efforts, being lighter than I had supposed…
I fixed a half-fearful gaze upon its shadowy interior.
It appeared to contain a dull, gray mass, irregular in contour, provokingly familiar yet impossible to identify in that first dramatic moment. The very unexpectedness of its appearance destroyed my reasoning powers, temporarily defeating recognition.
When we had the lid at an angle of about forty-five:
“Hold it!” I called. “I’ll take the other end.”
“Right!” Weymouth agreed.
“Now!”
We lifted the lid bodily and laid it on the floor.
I could not have believed that that night of mystery and horror had one more thrill for my jaded nerves. Yet it was so, and it came to me then—an emotion topping all the others; such a thing as no sane man could have conjured up in his wildest imaginings…
Amazed beyond reasonable articulation, I uttered a sort of strangled cry, staring—staring—down into the sarcophagus.
Overstrain and the insufferable atmosphere of the place may have played their parts. But I must confess that the procession of apes began to move about me, the walls of the tomb to sway.
I became aware of a deadly sickness, as I stared and stared at the gray-white face of Sir Lionel Barton, lying in that ancient coffin wrapped in his army blanket!
PART TWO
CHAPTER FOUR
FAH LO SUEE
“Better turn in, Greville,” said Dr. Petrie rapidly. “Lie down at any rate. Can’t expect you to sleep. But you’ve had enough for one night. Your job is finished for the moment. Mine begins.”
How the others had reacted to our astounding discovery I am quite unable to relate. I was in no fit condition to judge.
Petrie half supported me along the sloping passage, and administered a fairly stiff peg from his flask which enabled me with Ali’s aid to mount the ladders. I was furious with myself. To have to retire when the most amazing operation ever attempted by a surgeon was about to be performed—the restoring of a dead man to life!… But when at last I dropped down on my bed in the tent, I experienced a moment of horrible doubt—a moment during which I questioned my own sanity.
Ali Mahmoud’s expression, as he stood watching me anxiously, held a certain reassurance, however. That imperturbable man was shaken to the depths of his being.
“Effendim,” he whispered, “it is Black Magic! It is Forbidden this tomb!” He grasped an iron ring which he wore upon his right hand, and pronounced the takbîr, being a devout Moslem. “Everyone has told me so. And it is true!”
“It would seem to be,” I whispered. “Go back. You will be wanted.”
I had always loved the chief, and that last glimpse of his gray-white face, under the astounding circumstances of our discovery, had utterly bowled me out. The things I had heard of Dr. Fu-Manchu formed a sort of dizzy background—a moving panorama behind this incredible phantasy. There was no sanity in it all—no stable point upon which one could grasp.
Was Sir Lionel dead, or did he live? Dead or alive, who had stolen his body, and why? Most unanswerable query of all—with what possible object had he been concealed in the sarcophagus?
A thousand other questions, equally insane, presented themselves in a gibbering horde. I clutched my head and groaned. I heard a light footstep, looked up, and there was Rima standing in the opening of the tent.
“Shan, dear!” she cried, “you look awful! I don’t wonder. I have heard what happened. And truly I can’t believe it even now! Oh, Shan, do you really, really think—”
She fell on her knees beside me and grasped my hand.
“I don’t know,” I said, and scarcely knew my own voice. “I have had rather a thick time, dear, and I, well… I nearly passed out. But I saw him.”
“Do you think I could help?”
“I don’t know,” I replied wearily. “If so, Petrie will send for you. After all, we’re quite in his hands. I don’t want you to hope for too much, darling. This mysterious ‘antidote’ seems like sheer lunacy to me. Such things are clean outside the scope of ordinary human knowledge.”
“Poor, old boy,” said Rima, and smoothed my hair caressingly.
Her touch was thrilling, yet soothing; and I resigned myself very gladly to those gentle fingers. There is nothing so healing as the magnetism of human sympathy. And after a while:
“I think a cigarette might be a good idea, Rima,” I said. “I’m beginning to recover consciousness!”
She offered me one from a little enamelled case which I had bought in Cairo on the occasion of her last birthday—the only present I had ever given her. And we smoked for a while in that silence which is better than speech; then:
“I saw something queer,” said Rima suddenly, “while you were away with Mr. Weymouth. Are you too weary—or do you want me to tell you?”
Her tone was peculiar, and:
“Yes—tell me what you saw,” I replied, looking into her eyes.
“Well,” she went on, “Captain Hunter came along after you had gone. Naturally, he was as restless as any of us. And after a while— leaving the hut door open, of course—I went and stood outside to see if there was any sign of your return…”
She spoke with unwonted rapidity and I could see that in some way she had grown more agitated. Of course I had to allow for the dreadful suspense she was suffering.
“You know the path, at the back of the small hut,” she continued, “which leads up to the plateau.”
“The path to Lafleur’s Shaft?”
Rima nodded.
“Well, I saw a woman—at least, it looked like a woman—walking very quickly across the top! She was just an outline against the sky, and I’m not positive about it at all. Besides, I only saw her for a moment. But I can’t possibly have been dreaming, can I? What I wondered, and what I’ve been wondering ever since is: What native woman—she looked like a native woman—would be up there at this time of night?”
She was sitting at my feet now, her arm resting on my knees. She looked up at me appealingly.
“What are you really thinking?” I asked.
“I’m thinking about that photograph!” she confessed. “I believe it was—Madame Ingomar! And, Shan, that woman terrifies me! I begged Uncle not to allow her to come here—and he just laughed at me! I don’t know why he couldn’t see it… but she is dreadfully evil! I have caught her watching you, when you didn’t know, in a way…”
I bent down and rested my head against her tangled curls.
“Well?” I said, my arm about her shoulders.
“I thought you… found her attractive. Don’t get mad. But I knew, I knew, Shan, that she was dangerous. She affects me in the same way as a snake. She has some uncanny power…”
“Irish colleens are superstitious,” I whispered.
“They may be. But they are often wise as well. Some women, Shan—bad women—are witches.”
“You’re right, darling. And it was almost certainly Madame Ingomar that you saw!”
Then I told her what had happened in the tomb, and, when I had finished:
“Just as she disappeared,” Rima said, “I heard footsteps—quick, padding footsteps—on the other side of the wâdi. I called out to Dr. Petrie, but the sound had died away… I’d had one glimpse of him, though—a man running.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Yes.”
Rima looked up at me reflectively, and:
“Do you remember an Arab who came into camp some days ago and insisted that he must see Uncle?”
I nodded.
“I think I know the man you mean—the chief asked me to find out what he wanted?”
“Yes.”
“A gaunt-faced fellow—steely piercing eyes? Spoke very queer Arabic and denied all knowledge of English. Told me quite bluntly he had nothing whatever to say to me, but must see Sir Lionel. I finally told him to go to the devil. Why, good heavens, Rima… that was the evening before the tragedy!”
“Well,” said Rima in a very low voice, “this was the man I saw running along the ridge tonight!”
“I don’t like the sound of it,” I admitted. “We have trouble enough already. Did he see you?”
“He couldn’t have done. Besides, he was running at tremendous speed.”
Even as she spoke the words, my heart seemed to miss a beat. I sprang up. Rima clutched me, her beautiful eyes widely opened.
Racing footsteps were approaching the tent!
I didn’t know what to expect. My imagination was numb. But when the flap was dragged aside and Ali Mahmoud unceremoniously burst in, I was past reprimand, past any comment whatever.
“Effendim! Effendim! Quick, please. They tell me not to disturb Forester Effendim and Captain Hunter… His camp bed!”
“What! The chief’s?”
“I am ordered to carry it up to the mouth of the old shaft!”
“Ali Mahmoud!”
Rima sprang forward and grasped the headman’s shoulders.
“Yes! Yes!” His eyes were gleaming madly. “It is true, lady! It is Black Magic, but it is true.”