At last she gave a little laugh and moved away.
“Thank you, Mr. Kirkham,” she said tranquilly. “You make always a most dependable audience.”
“Miss Demerest,” I told her bluntly, “I’m done with fencing. You’re panic-stricken. You know why—and so do I.”
“Why should I be frightened?” she asked.
“At the destiny Satan promised you,” I answered. “You know what it is. If you have any doubts at all about it, let me tell you that he left me with none after you had gone from the room last night.”
There was a silence, and then out of the darkness came her voice, small and despairing.
“He means to—take me! He will—take me! No matter what I do! I’d kill myself—but I can’t! I can’t! Oh, God, what can I do? Oh, God, who can help me!”
“I can make a damned good try at it,” I told her, “if you’ll only let me.”
She did not answer immediately, sitting silently, fighting for self-control. Suddenly she snapped on the light and leaned toward me, tear-washed eyes searching mine, and voice firm as though she had come to some momentous decision.
“Tell me, Mr. Kirkham, what made you stop after the second footprint? You wanted to go on. Satan was urging you on. Why did you stop?”
“Because,” I said, “I heard your voice telling me to go no farther.”
She drew a sharp breath that was like a sob.
“Is that the truth, Mr. Kirkham?”
“It is God’s own truth. It was as though you stood beside me, touching my shoulder and whispered to me to stop where I was. To climb no higher. Those devilish jewels on the crown and scepter were calling me out of a thousand mouths. But when I heard you—or thought I did—I heard them no longer.”
“Oh!” Eve’s eyes were rapt, her cheeks no longer pale, her exclamation a song.
“You did call!” I whispered.
“I watched you from back there beyond the light, with the—others,” she said. “And when the second foot shone out on Satan’s side I tried with all my strength of will to send my thought out to you, tried so desperately to warn you. Over and over I prayed as you stood there hesitating—‘Oh, kind God, wherever you are, let him hear me! Please let him hear me, dear God!’ and you did hear—”
She stopped and stared at me with widening eyes and swiftly the color deepened in her cheeks.
“And you knew it was my voice!” whispered Eve. “But you would not have heard, or, hearing, would not have heeded, unless—unless—”
“Unless?” I prompted.
“Unless there were something outside our two selves ready to help us,” said Eve, a bit breathlessly.
She was blushing now up to her eyes; and I was quite sure that the reason she had given was not exactly that which caused the blush, not the one that had been on the tip of her tongue a moment before.
My own theory of what had happened was more materialistic. Something within me had sensitized my mind, not something without. I’ve never run across any particularly convincing evidence of disembodied energies acting as spiritual springs to soften the bumps in a bad piece of road on this earthly tour of ours. I much preferred a good tangible Providence like the little cockney burglar with his knowledge of Satan’s trick walls. However, such things may be; and if it gave Eve any comfort to believe it, then let her. So I nodded solemnly and assured her it must be true.
“But,” I asked, “is there no one among all Satan’s people with whom you have come in contact who might be persuaded to work against him?”
“Not one,” she said. “Consardine likes me—I think he would go far to protect me. But he is tied to Satan. So are all of them. Not only by fear—you saw what happened to Cartright—but by other reasons as well. Satan does pay highly, Mr. Kirkham. Not only in money, but in other things—he has dreadful power…unholy power. Oh, it’s not just money that people want! Nor all that he gives them! You can’t even dream as yet…”
“Drugs?” I suggested, unimaginatively.
“You’re being stupid—deliberately,” she said. “You know very well what Lucifer was supposed to be able to give. And he can…and he does…and even those who have lost to him still have the hope that they may do something that will give them another chance—or that his caprice will.”
“Has such a thing ever happened?”
“Yes,” she replied, “it has. But don’t think it was because he was capable of mercy.”
“You mean it was simply a play to hold them tighter by dangling the hope of freedom under their noses?”
“Yes,” she said. “So their usefulness would not be weakened by despair.”
“Miss Demerest,” I asked her bluntly, “why should you think I am any different from these others?”
“You did not come to him of your own will,” she said. “And you are no slave to his seven shining prints.”
“I came pretty close to being so last night,” I said, somewhat ruefully.
“They haven’t—got you,” she whispered. “Not like the others. And they won’t. They mustn’t get you, Mr. Kirkham.”
“I don’t intend to let them,” I told her, grimly. She gave me her other hand at that. I glanced at my watch and jumped. “There’s only a little more than ten minutes left to us,” I said. “We’ve not even spoken of any plan. We’ve got to meet again—quickly. And we’ve got to keep right on hoodwinking Satan.”
“That will be the great difficulty, of course,” she nodded. “But I’ll take care of that. And you understand now, don’t you, that it was that necessity that made me treat you so outrageously?”
“Even before Satan’s confession to me, I suspected something of the sort,” I grinned. “And of course you understand that my equally outrageously sounding proposition to him to turn you over to me was just a following of your lead.”
“Better than that,” she answered softly. “I knew what you really did mean.”
Again I shot a glance at my watch. Six minutes—just about time.
“Look here,” I said abruptly. “Answer me truly. When did it first occur to you that I might be the one to get you out of this trap?”
“Wh-when you kissed me,” she whispered.
“And when did you get the idea of camouflaging what you thought about me?”
“R-right after you began kissing me.”
“Eve,” I said, “do you see any necessity for camouflage at this moment?”
“No,” answered Eve, ingenuously. “Why?”
“This is why!” I dropped her hands, drew her to me and kissed her. And Eve put her arms around my neck tightly and kissed me quite as whole-heartedly. And that was that uniquely satisfactory that.
“It’s a coincidence,” I murmured against her ear a moment or two later, “but the exact second you had that idea was the precise second I decided to stick the game out.”
“Oh—Jim!” sighed Eve. This time she kissed me.
The car was going more slowly. I cursed helplessly Satan’s inflexible schedule.
“Eve,” I said swiftly, and thrust the necklace of Senusert in her hands, “do you know a little Englishman named Barker? The electrician? He seems to know you.”
“Yes,” she answered, eyes wide with wonder. “I know him. But how—”
“Get in touch with him as soon as you can,” I bade her, “I haven’t time to explain. But Barker’s to be trusted. Tell him he must get to me in my room the first night I return. By hook or crook, he’s got to. You understand?”
She nodded, eyes wider.
“Arrange it,” I said, “so that you’ll be there that night, too.”
“All right—Jim,” said Eve.
I looked at my watch. I had one and three-quarters minutes more. We put it to excellent use.
The car stopped.
“Remember Barker,” I whispered.
I opened the door and stepped out. It closed behind me and the car rolled off. The obelisk was near by. I walked around it obediently. As I started for Fifth Avenue I sa
w a man on another path about a hundred feet from me. His overcoat and hat were the same as mine. He swung a Malacca cane. A vast curiosity struck me? Was it my double? I started toward him, and halted. If I followed him I was disobeying Satan’s instructions. Less than at any time did I want to do that. Reluctantly I turned and let him go.
I hailed a taxi and started to the Club. There was a rosy light outside the windows; I felt like singing; the walkers on the Avenue seemed to skip gaily. Eve had gone a bit to my head.
Suddenly the rosiness dimmed, the song died. Reason began to function. No doubt the absence of the necklace had been soon discovered. The doors of the museum would have been closed, and none allowed to depart without being searched. Perhaps the alarm had been sounded even as I had gone down the steps. It might be that I had been the only one who had gotten out.
If that were so, then, obviously, I must be suspected. I had deliberately drawn the attention of the guards to me, not only in the corridor, but in the treasure room. They would remember me. Why had I slipped away, ignoring the disturbances, if I had not had some strong reason? What reason could I have had except making away with the necklace?
Or supposing the theft had not been discovered until after the museum had been emptied. Still, I would find it difficult to explain why I had so rapidly made my exit; been the only one to take no interest in the happenings.
Had Satan missed a move in his complicated game, made an error in his deliberate calculations? Or had he coldly planned to have suspicion rest upon me? Whether he had or not, it must.
In no easy frame of mind I dismissed the taxi and entered the Club.
“Back early, Mr. Kirkham,” smiled the clerk at the desk as he handed me my keys. Quite evidently he had no suspicion that the Kirkham who had gone out a few hours before and the one who had just returned were two distinct persons. My double, I reflected, must be good indeed.
“I’m going to be almighty busy for the next few hours,” I told him. “I’ve some writing to do that will demand my entire concentration. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, of sufficient importance to break in on me. It’s very likely that there will be telephone calls and visitors. Tell everybody that I’m out. If it’s reporters, tell them I’ll see them at eight o’clock. Slip copies of all the afternoon papers up to me at seven o’clock. Not before. Get me the latest editions. And no matter who calls, don’t let me be bothered.”
“I’ll put an extra key in your box,” he said. “It always looks better.”
I went to my room. Locking the door, I made a minute inspection. On my desk was my three-day accumulation of mail. There were not many letters, none was important; all had been opened. Two were invitations to speak at dinners. Carbon copies of notes of regret were attached to them. My signature upon them was perfect. My double’s powers of imitation were clearly not limited to voice and appearance. My reason for declining, I was much interested in learning, was that I would not be in the city on the dates of the dinners. So? Where the devil, I wondered, was I to be?
Beside my typewriter was a bulky document. Riffling its pages I discovered that it was a report upon the possibilities of certain mineralized lands in China. It was addressed to that same brilliant attorney who had toasted the “near-damned” at Satan’s feast of the night before. It was corrected and annotated in my own handwriting. I had, of course, no knowledge of its purpose, but I was sure that the lawyer would be able to discuss it with easy familiarity if circumstances forced it to his attention. My confidence in Satan revived. I felt much more comfortable.
I looked through the pockets of my clothes, hanging in the closet. There was not even a scrap of paper.
Seven o’clock came, and with it a discreet knock at my door. It was Robert, the night clerk, with a bundle of the evening papers. His eyes were rather wide, and I could see questions sticking out all over him. Well, he couldn’t be more curious about what I had to say regarding what was in those papers than I was to know what was in them. Nor would it do to let him suspect the extent of my ignorance.
So I took them from him with a discouragingly faraway air, and absent-mindedly closed the door in his face.
The headlines leaped out at me from the first I opened:
TRIPLE TRAGEDY AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM; PRICELESS RELIC MISSING
WOMAN MURDERED BEFORE EYES OF GUARDS AND VISITORS, HER SLAYER KILLED BY ANOTHER WHO COMMITS SUICIDE WHEN HE IS CAPTURED
EXPLORER KIRKHAM BALKS THIEVES, GIVES THE ALARM THAT CLOSES DOORS WHEN MYSTERIOUS SERIES OF FATAL STABBINGS THROWS TREASURE HOUSE INTO CHAOS
ROBBER HIDES OLD EGYPTIAN PRINCESS’S NECKLACE AND MAKES ESCAPE—METROPOLITAN TO BE CLOSED UNTIL SEARCH REVEALS IT
In different words, all the rest of the headlines said about the same thing. I read the stories. Now and then I had the feeling that somebody was shooting a fine spray of ice-water between my shoulder blades. I quote from the most complete account.
An unknown woman was stabbed to death this afternoon in the Metropolitan Museum of Art before the eyes of half a dozen guards and some twenty or more visitors.
Her murderer tried to escape, but before he could get far was attacked by the companion of the woman, tripped, and a knife thrust through his heart.
The second slayer was caught after a chase. As he was being taken to the Curator’s office to await the police, he collapsed. He died within a few seconds, the victim, apparently, of some swift poison which he had managed to slip into his mouth.
Both the murders and the suicide occurred close to the Egyptian room where are kept some of the choicest treasures of the museum. Taking advantage of the confusion, some one forced open the case containing the ancient necklace given to his daughter by the Pharaoh Senusert II. The necklace, a priceless relic of the past, and long the admiration of thousands of visitors, was taken. Its removal from the building was frustrated, however, by the alertness of Mr. James Kirkham, the noted explorer, who caused the doors to be locked before any one could leave the museum.
Search of everyone within the walls failed to reveal the stolen treasure. It is supposed that the thief became panic-stricken when he found that no one could get out, and tucked the necklace away in some hidden corner. Whether he did it thinking to return and recover it, or merely to get rid of it cannot, of course, be known. The museum will be closed to visitors until it is found, which, thanks to Mr. Kirkham’s quick thinking, is only a matter of time.
Neither the museum authorities nor the police believe that there is any connection between the tragedy and the theft, the latter having obviously been a sudden temptation born from the opportunity-giving confusion.
Well, I reflected, I could tell them better than that. And if the museum remained closed until they found the necklace there, the door hinges would have a chance to become rusty.
But three lives the price of the bauble! I resumed the reading with cold horror at my heart.
It was shortly after two o’clock when one of the guards in the Egyptian wing first took special notice of the woman and the two men. They were talking together earnestly, discussing seemingly an exhibit of ushabtiu figures, toy-like wooden models from a tomb. The woman was about thirty, attractive, blonde and apparently English. The men were older and the guard took them to be Syrians. What had particularly drawn his attention to them was the curious pallor of their faces and the out-of-the-ordinary largeness of their eyes.
“Looked like dopes,” he says, “and then again they didn’t. Their faces weren’t a sick white, more of a transparent. They didn’t behave like dopes, either. They seemed to be talking sensible enough. Dressed top-notch, too.”
He put them down finally as foreigners, and relaxed his attention. In a few minutes he noticed one of the men walking by him. It was later ascertained that this man had accompanied the woman when she entered the museum about 1:30. The cloak room attendant’s attention had also been attracted by their pallor and their curious eyes. This man passed the entrance to the small room where the Senusert necklace was on
display with other ancient jewels. He turned into the next corridor and disappeared.
The woman had continued talking to the second man, who, it appears, came into the museum a little before two o’clock.
Suddenly the guard heard a scream. He swung around and saw the two struggling together, the woman trying to ward off blows from a long knife with which the man was stabbing at her. The guard, William Barton, shouted and ran for them. At the same time, visitors came running in from all directions, drawn by the cries.
They got in Barton’s way, and he could not shoot for fear of hitting the woman or some of the excited spectators.
The whole affair was a matter of seconds. The knife plunged into the woman’s throat!
The murderer, brandishing his red blade, burst through the horror-stricken onlookers and ran in the direction the first man had gone. As he was close to the door of the necklace room the people who had been in it came rushing out. With them was one of the two guards who keep watch there. They piled back, falling over each other in their haste to get out of reach of the knife. There was a panic-stricken scramble, which the second guard tried to quiet. In the meantime, the murderer had come face to face with the woman’s companion at the turn of the next corridor. He struck at the latter and missed, and fled into the armor room with the other close behind him, a knife now in his own hand.
The pair gripped and fell, rolling over the tiled floor, and each striving to plunge his dagger into the other. Guards and visitors were piling in from every side, and the place was in pandemonium.
Then they saw the hand of the pursuer flash up and down. The under man shrieked—and the knife was buried in his heart!
The killer leaped to his feet, and began to run blindly. With the guards and others after him he darted out into the Egyptian wing corridor.
There they cornered him and brought him down.
He was beaten half into insensibility. As he was being carried to the Curator’s office, his body went limp, and heavy. They put him down.
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 98