‘Black fools’ cried Harry ‘Do you think you can detain a white man in this way lead me and my friend to the entrance of this place at once, or, by Heaven, I will have everyone of you lashed for daring to disobey the white Sahib.’ So saying he gazed fiercely upon the circle of faces around him, but his heart sank within him for instead of cowering, cringing, natives that generally met his gaze when he spoke thus, he saw they showed calm indifference and an ominous smile played about the mouth of some of them.
But he was determined to keep up his bold front so he again spoke to them, but, seeing they took no notice he grew more and more angry, and struck the nearest Hindu across the face. Immediately a couple of them siezed him from behind, when the man who appeared to be the chief stepped forward and holding up his hand said ‘Stay let us bind the white Sahibs and deliver them up to the vengeance of the great God Kharzee for I who am his prophet decree they shall die at sunrise.’
At once they seized Harry and bound him and carried him away down long passages and corridors to which there seemed no end. At last they came to a room and thrust him in, soon after the unconscious body of Fred followed. They then slammed the great door and bolted and locked it and left the place guarded by one of the men who walked up and down outside so as to cut off any possible chance of escape. Harry sat down to think and plan a way of escape for them when Fred should come round. He did not seem to care about the threat of the chief to sacrifice them at sunrise. He remained thus in a sort of stupor for hours as it seemed to him until he awoke to hear his name being called by Fred who had just returned to consciousness. Dragging himself to his feet Fred walked across to Harry and at once untied his bonds and rubbed his chafed limbs.
‘I say Harry old chap’ cried Fred ‘What has happened where are we’, ‘Well’ said Harry ‘I am afraid we are in for it, it appears that when we fell through the floor we fell in with a lot of cursed Hindus, who, because I insulted their old idol, bound us and brought us to this wretched place, and have threatened to sacrifice us at sunrise,
‘What! Kill us in cold blood they dar’ent the British Government would hang every one of them’ exclaimed Fred. ‘You may be right’ said Harry, for he did not like to crush the hope that lay in his friend’s heart, yet he knew that the natives would do anything for their gods, and as for the Government finding them out he knew that was impossible.
‘I say Harry come here’ cried Fred ‘do you think there is any chance of escape, I have my revolver on me you governor gave me’. Feeling in his hip pocket Harry exclaimed ‘Why so have I, what a bit of luck I wonder those brutes did not spot it, they may come in handy.’
Fred, who had begun to feel rather uncomfortable exclaimed ‘I wonder how we are going to get out of this awful hole, at any rate we will make a fight for it, shush! I can hear someone coming let us tackle him when he goes out, its probably a guard coming with some food, for I should not think they would starve us what do you say, but wait here he comes, you throw your coat over his head and I will seize him round the legs.’
At that moment a man entered carrying some coarse rice cakes and a little water in a stone jug and placed it down before them, motioning them to eat but as he turned to go he was sized by the legs, the coat was flung over his head and he fell to the stone floor like a log.
‘Well done’ cried Harry still holding the coat over the man’s head. ‘Hi old fellow do not suffocate him he has been stunned by his fall so he won’t cry leave go of him now’ Harry released his hold and rose to his feet but the moment he let go, the native gave a yell which echoed throughout the empty corridors. In vain Harry flung himself upon him but too late, for they already heard the rush of feet upon the corridor and turning they rushed through the door to find a mob of natives yelling and brandishing knives, dashing down towards them, the boys backed down the corridor drawing their revolvers and Harry cried ‘The man who passes that door dies, move and I fire.’
CHAPTER III
THE ALTAR OF KHARZEE
The priests who appeared to be the leaders rushed on brandishing their knives and laughing at Harry’s challenge, but there was a sharp crack a spit of fire and the foremost priest fell dead. Crack! Crack! Crack! three shots rang out in succession, and two more priests fell, but the rest dashed on heedlessly, their long scimitars glistening and flashing in the light of the torches which some carried.
‘Quick Fred we cannot hold much longer we must make a dash for it, come on our legs are our lives, keep up old chap.’ They dashed through the maze of corridors with the mob at their heels. At last coming to a larger corridor they saw straight ahead a flickering light, and rushed towards it with the priests almost up to them. On they dashed through the great door and found themselves in a vast gallery, below them was a wonderful altar carved in gold and silver and on the top resting on its coils was a huge cobra of solid gold, traced with magnificent Indian designs and in the flat head their glistened two eyes which sparkled like huge diamonds. Around this edifice at the distance of about twenty feet, was a bank of fire about 6 feet deep, so that no one could approach the altar without passing through this awful furnace.
‘I say old chap now were done with a vengeance’ said Harry ‘We are evidently in their temple, By Jove! it’s a wonderful place, but I wonder if there is another entrance if not we are done’. They rushed round the other side but no good the temple was circular and there was but one entrance.
‘Good God we are trapped’ cried Fred ‘Here come those beastly natives, what shall we do’? They had just reached the opposite side of the temple, meanwhile the natives were rushing round both sides to close in upon them. ‘I think we are pretty near the end of our tether’ said Harry, ‘Still we can show them, that we will die like Englishmen, and what’s more we can sting if we like too. Good-bye old fellow’.
As they gripped hands and stood side by side with their backs to the arena, the priests seeing the revolvers in their hands, stopped and held a consultation for some minutes, but at last decided on their attack, on they came, brandishing their sabres and yelling like fiends. Crack! Crack! went the revolvers, Crack! Crack! they went again and each time a man fell, but now they were at too close quarters to do any good with their revolvers, Fred’s was knocked out of his hand and he found himself wrestling with a huge hindu. A man rushed at Harry, brandishing his knife and calling on Kharzee to avenge the insult brought on his temple, Harry’s fist shot out and down went the man like a stone, a second man rushed at him but Harry fired point blank in his face, as he did so he caught a glimpse of Fred still swaying backwards and forwards, trying to trip the Hindu. Then a little man with a long curved knife rushed to the Hindu’s aid his knife descended, Harry was in terror for his comrade but Fred just swerved aside so that instead of entering his back it only gashed his shoulder, but before he could recover his balance the Hindu struck him in the face, and down he went unconscious.
Harry sprang to his friend’s rescue, and hit out right and left, everyone fell before him till he reached his comrade’s side. The enraged natives closed upon them once more, it was fifty to one, he had no chance against so many. In the midst of his despair an idea flashed across his mind, it might do it’s a chance of life anyhow, he thought, and seizing Fred in his arms he sprang right over the gallery and landed exhausted in the arena at the altar steps. He lay still without attempting to get up, his mind seemed to blurr, he remembered hearing someone giving order in English, and knew no more.
CHAPTER IV
HOME AGAIN
‘WHERE am I’ Harry murmured faintly. ‘It’s alright old chap, drink some of this cordial, you will soon recover now.’ Harry looked up to find himself at home, in bed with Fred bending over him. ‘You have been raving and ill for weeks old chap, do not you remember our fight in the temple, but wait here comes your governor.’
At that moment the Colonel entered. ‘He has recovered consciousness Colonel’ The Colonel walked straight to the bed. ‘Good Harry my lad, I thought you were never coming round agai
n’ he said, ‘You have been down with fever old chap, after your little adventure in that temple, but I say we only just came in time.’
Harry who was beginning to recover himself said ‘Why what happened Governor, how did you discover us’. The Colonel taking a seat preceded to explain how it was that he arrived in the nick of time. ‘Why when I told you,’ he began ‘not to stray from the main track of the jungle, Julawar heard me, so when you did, he left the game, and followed you. He saw you go down the stone steps, and was standing at the bottom when you fell through the floor. Luckily he had been a snake worshipper, and knew the temple and all its passages quite well, so seeing you fall through he knew that the native would capture you, and sacrifice you at dawn. He at once returned to me, so I at once took a company of men, and arrived to find you unconscuous on the steps of the altar. At first we did not know what to do, but fortunately Julawar knew of a secret passage used by the priest to perform sacrifices to their God. We were guided by Julawar to the passage and came and took you away. And now I come to think of it the adventure was worth the trouble for the two eyes in the snake idol were about the two finest diamonds I have ever set eyes on, and you will be pleased to hear that they have been sold in Amsterdam for £10,000 each, so you are both rich men.
. . . . .
Harry soon recovered, but he was very weak, owing to his six weeks raging fever. However his strength came back to him and in due course he joined the army, and later on was appointed to a good post in India, where he often met Fred Manners, who entered Secret Service out there, and when the two old friends stay with each other, and sometimes talk over their different adventures, they quite agree that none have been quite as exciting as the first.
THE END
DENNIS WHEATLEY,
April 1911.
STORY IX
AFTER the Snake with the Diamond Eyes I thought it would be amusing for such readers as may be interested in the development of a thriller writer to see a specimen from the next stage in my career.
The following yarn dates from the early months of my first marriage in 1923. To have a home of my own was grand fun, but proving unexpectedly expensive, and in those days, as my father was still alive, I was not yet burdened with the responsibilities of a business. In consequence my thoughts turned to writing as a way of augmenting my income.
However, in the gay twenties there were so many good parties to go to and little dinners to give in my new home that thinking about writing on an odd Sunday afternoon or one evening in six was pretty well as far as I got. As I was not really hard up I soon dropped the project altogether, and The Secret Sign is the only souvenir I have of that spontaneous but short-lived attempt to earn wealth and fame by the pushing of a pencil.
The scene is Cairo; but I fear it lacks the authentic touch that I was able to give years later, after having spent a February in the Egyptian capital, to those many chapters of my long thriller, The Quest of Julian Day, which were set in the same city. The plot, too, is a little thin, but at least this story has the merit that by the time I wrote it I had realised the desirability of some sort of twist to bring about the happy dénouement of such a tale.
THE SECRET SIGN
IF YOU have ever doubted that red-headed people possess a temper, you should have seen Wobbles stalk out through the lounge of Sheppards’ Hotel; his big chin jutting out like the prow of a battleship, and his blue eyes positively blazing with rage.
Of course he had asked for it—he knew that. If you are nothing more distinguished than a flight-lieutenant in the Air Force, and choose to spend your time and much more money than you’ve actually got, dashing round Cairo with a bewilderingly lovely girl who also happens to be heiress to several million dollars, you cannot really be surprised if her mother sends for you one evening, and gently but firmly intimates that your attentions should cease forthwith.
Wobbles paused on the steps of the hotel, he glowered fiercely into the darkness of the still, hot night. That Veronica’s mother would turn him down he had known all along—but that did not console him; angrily he thought of her fat, kind smile.
‘It’s not that I don’t like you, Mr. Wobbles, but your being around so much is spoiling Veronica’s chances, if you know what I mean.’
What utter rot! Veronica was only twenty and with eyes like hers she could get any man she chose. ‘Chances’ indeed! She’d have thousands—and the old woman hadn’t even the brains to remember his proper name. Wobbles drew fiercely at the Punch Corona which Mrs. Van Hoode had thrust upon him as a sort of consolation prize. Then, in a fit of angry abstraction, as he stamped down the steps, he threw it, three parts unsmoked, away.
One of the many loungers who linger near the hotel entrance stooped quickly, and picked it up. Wobbles glared—he liked a good cigar. It added still further to his rage that he should have wasted it.
A coal-black negro had secured the prize—he favoured Wobbles with a wide-lipped smile. ‘Dis way, sar,’ he said, as he made a quick salaam, ‘yo jest folla me.’
Wobbles stared angrily. What did the fellow mean?—he had got a darned good cigar, and that was that. He turned gloomily away, but the negro was insistent.
‘Dis way, sar,’ he repeated. ‘Ah know what you want—yo jus’ folla me.’
Now Wobbles knew his Cairo as well as any English officer can know a native city in which he has been stationed for eighteen months. He realised with little interest that the negro must be one of the touts for houses of dubious entertainment that infest the city; and there the matter would have ended had not the negro flourished the discarded cigar and closed one eye.
‘Ah know what yo want, sar—I’se sent to meet de gentlemens like yo,’ with which cryptic remark he turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Now what does all this mean?’ thought Wobbles. ‘He can’t be an ordinary tout or he wouldn’t clear off like that.’ The thought flashed through his mind that the night was young—the gramophone in the Mess would be intolerable—and that in his present state of mind he would never be able to sleep. Wobbles was always an impulsive person—the negro’s invitation proffered distraction of some kind, and that was what he wanted above all things.
The red fez, set at a jaunty angle on the black’s curly hair, was already some twenty paces away. Without a thought as to the possible trouble in which he might be landing himself, Wobbles set off after it, down the street.
At a brisk pace, Fate, in the person of the white-robed guide, shouldered his way through the jostling crowd. Soon he turned away from the lighted streets into a labyrinth of crooked, narrow ways. Wobbles knew that he was being led into the heart of the native quarter. A fetid odour of decaying garbage and unwashed humanity came to his nostrils—he had half a mind to turn back. The man would probably only lead him to some sordid den, where drink-sodden women made the night hideous with their raucous laughter—and yet—it did seem that the fellow had been waiting there especially for him; he might, after all, lead him to some place of interest which he had not yet seen.
Glancing from time to time over his shoulder to see that Wobbles followed, the negro strode on—plunging even deeper into a maze of evil-smelling streets—jostled by black men and by brown—Copts, Armenians, Greeks, and Jews. Now and then by the flickering light of an occasional lamp a veiled woman flitted past, silent and intent on some mysterious errand of her own.
At last the negro paused before a heavy door—beside it lay a heap of refuse making the night air foul—he knocked, and Wobbles, who had caught him up, was conscious of being carefully scrutinised by a pair of almond-shaped eyes, peering at him from behind an iron grill.
The inspection seemed satisfactory, for the door was opened by the owner of the eyes—a yellow-skinned Celestial. The negro produced the partially smoked cigar which Wobbles had thrown away, and showed it to the yellow man. Wobbles looked on with interest. Unconsciously, it seemed, he had given a secret sign, and so provoked the negro’s interest. He wondered what was going to happen now, as wit
h some misgiving he followed his guide up a flight of rickety carpetless stairs which creaked abominably.
At the top the negro pulled aside a curtain, and bowed him into a room, the magnificence of which was in striking contrast to the entrance of the house. The walls were hung with rich satin embroidered in many colours, huge golden dragons—butterflies—strange flowers, and birds, rioted and twisted in Oriental splendour; claws, teeth, and eyes were richly inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and gold set with uncut gems. One end of the room was devoted to an altar—upon it, benign and impassive, sat a golden idol, one hand upraised in the conventional attitude, ‘listening to prayer’.
He knew it to be an image of the Chinese Mother Goddess ‘Quan Yin’; before her burnt many joss-sticks and a little lamp of perfumed oil.
In the centre of this beautiful room sat three Chinamen; two were clad in wide-sleeved, blue silk blouses, the third in a gorgeous robe of crimson satin. On the breast of the robe a peacock had been embroidered in many coloured silks and gold thread. All three wore little black skull-caps, and were engaged in a game of Fan-tan.
The man in the Mandarin robe looked up for one brief second, then he placidly continued his game. Yet in that swift glance from those heavily lidded eyes, Wobbles felt that he had been weighed up, analysed and docketed in the Oriental’s brain.
The negro went over to the old man and once more held out the Punch Corona. The Chinaman nodded, ran his yellow hand down his long drooping moustaches which dangled to his chest, and said in a low voice: ‘Engleesh man—plenty money—come smoke pipe.’
‘So that’s the game,’ thought Wobbles. To discard a cigar was to evince a desire for the pipe. Such was evidently the signal that the wealthy devotees of the poppy gave, who were staying at Sheppards’, to the waiting negro outside. Well—after all, why not? He had never smoked opium before, chance had brought him to the place; it was said that under the influence of the drug all dreams came true—perhaps he would turn into a bankrupt earl—or some rotten little dago prince—just the sort of bird Mrs. Van Hoode would favour for his divine Veronica. He drew out his wallet.
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