“Mark this well: Central Asia is a vortex and a reservoir of power. There was in the old days, and there is today, a fountain of energy which at irregular intervals surges forth and sweeps the world with fire and devastating slaughter.”
* * * *
Pierre sipped from the glass which Jake had filled. I followed suit, but scarcely noted that Jake had poured wine instead of another cocktail. The history that d’Artois had summarized was familiar territory to me; but the voice with which he had recited his epitome gave it a terrible significance that had heretofore escaped me.
“Central Asia is a vortex and a reservoir of power!”
That, and his previous remark about the impending appearance of another invasion which he, Pierre d’Artois, was to halt, left me dazed.
Then he produced a sheaf of papers from his inside coat pocket. They were official documents. Two bore the seals of European powers; and one, I noted, had the spread eagle of the United States to give it authority. I saw how Pierre was accredited, and wondered at the eminence he had attained. And if I had any doubts as to his sanity or sobriety, they were dispelled by the evidence he presented. I knew then that Pierre was actually in New Orleans to halt the impending apparition of some terrific menace, for those whose signatures followed the embossed seals would scarcely accredit one suffering from hallucinations, or delusions of grandeur.
“As you know,” he resumed, “before you made my acquaintance in Bayonne, I spent a number of years in High Asia, and in Kurdistan, the land where they worship Satan as Malik Tawus, the Lord Peacock; and in the mighty ruins of Bora Bador, in Java; and in Ankor Wat. I was admitted to the secret circles of adepts in thaumaturgy and occultism of a nature that makes the astonishing feats of Hindoo magic and telepathy seem puerile. And in Tibet I saw things of which I do not care to speak in detail, except to mention that I know that men have the means of becoming gods. Literally, not figuratively.
“Yet beneath this diversity I sensed a unity of effort and purpose: the opening of the Gateway through which the Lord of the Fourth Axis can march to our plane of existence.”
“What do you mean, Fourth Axis?” I ventured, as he paused to light another cigarette. “That suggests fourth dimension, and the like.”
“You are not entirely out of order,” admitted Pierre. “But more of that, shortly. Now, as I hinted, there was an underlying oneness of purpose in all the obscure places I visited, and the rituals I witnessed. And once, I took part in them.”
He shuddered just perceptibly as he paused to re-vision the scene that he had mentioned in passing. And then he continued.
“As a result of those studies, I unearthed certain evidence to show that the superhuman power of Genghis Khan arose from his having reached across the Border and made contact with the Fourth Plane. He tapped a reservoir of forces that enabled him to overrun the world, overthrow the finest armies of Europe, not by force of numbers as is commonly supposed, but by a terrific genius that valor and steel could not resist. In their terror, Europeans—your ancestors and mine—called him the Scourge of God, but they were wrong. He was the neophyte, the insignificant servant of Him who is beyond the scope of our God who rules a universe of three dimensions.”
“Good Lord, Pierre, that’s almost blasphemy!” I protested.
“Blasphemy lies in intent, not in expression,” retorted Pierre, solemnly. “If I could explain the thing as a whole, you would see that there is nothing irreverent in that statement.
“But Genghis Khan did not make complete contact, else the very features of the earth would have been everlastingly altered. And his successors retained but a fraction of his inspiration from across the Border. Yet they were gigantic in their way. Consider Tamerlane, sitting at chess while his troops hacked to pieces the army of Bajazet, reputed the greatest captain of his time. Is that the doing of any man? I mean, man in the sense that other commanders were men.
“The credentials that you examined show that I am not the only one who holds that opinion. A certain Captain Rankin, of the British Secret Service, years ago, rendered a report of his investigations in High Asia, and among the Yezidees of Kurdistan. Captain Rankin was politely but firmly placed in a sanitarium for observation and treatment. But the successors of his short-sighted superiors were wiser. They know, now, that if the impending disturbance is not halted, all Asia will burst into a mad flame of destruction which will end by sweeping an empire from its already unsteady feet.”
“But where does New Orleans come into this picture?” I demanded.
“You suggested, a moment ago, that I had hinted at something mathematical in my expression, Lord of the Fourth Axis. There was more truth in that than you realized. There is a mathematical relation of this earth to our space, and to the ultra-space of more than three dimensions. That relation demands that the Enemy start his operations in the neighborhood of New Orleans.
“New Orleans is but a mathematical point in this colossal scheme. Point d’appui, if you comprehend my idiom; taking-off point, I might say…occult, rather than geographical.
“And thus you see the reason for the documents which I carry. And finally, the credentials from those United States, they are but the courtesy rendered to other governments. With all respect to your government, they are strangely blind. Their doubts as to our sanity are concealed more politely than effectively.
“‘Most obscure, Mr. d’Artois,’ said that one whose signature you see here. ‘How can the ghost of Genghis Khan, and forty or fifty Chinese spiritualists, upset the world?’ he remarked as he set his hand opposite the seal with its eagle. And vainly I explained that it was not the ghost of the Mighty Manslayer that we fought, and that those were not the Chinese laundrymen he knew, but Mongol adepts from High Asia that we were to thwart—not by force of arms, but by weapons like their own. À bas! That one, I fancy, thinks Genghis Khan a cousin of Otto Kahn!”
D’Artois paused, drew a farewell draft of his foul fuming cigarette, and extinguished it against the side of the ashtray.
“Specifically, we will combat them by gaining possession of a certain piece of ritual equipment they require; or failing that, by upsetting the vibration-resonance they must develop in order to break down the barriers, and establish contact with super-space. And this is what I propose to do in order to thwart the successor of Genghis Khan! And now may I look at your telephone directory?”
I handed him the book, which he consulted.
“Ah, here she is,” he remarked, after a moment’s glance down the page. “Mademoiselle Louise Marigny. Note the address, and drive me there at once, if you please. Immediately, in fact!”
* * * *
“But how does this Miss Marigny come into your plans?” I wondered, as we drove up St. Charles Avenue.
“She has unwittingly come into possession of a unit of that ritual equipment I mentioned,” he replied, “a rug of unique design. It is one of three which first appeared in Central Asia. Panopoulos, a Greek, brought the first one into the country. As a courtesy to one of the governments to which I am accredited, he was detained for questioning, but not for long. He was stabbed, and the rug was quite inexplicably stolen from the officials who held it pending further investigation, made at the instigation, let us say, of other governments. Nazar Shekerjian, an Armenian, bringing into the United States what was reputed to be the second of the three rugs, met a like fate when detained for questioning. The officials in whose custody the rug was were placed in an embarrassing position, I assure you. And thus, finally, I was detailed to trace the third rug, which secret agents of a power interested in Asiatic tranquility knew was on its way to Stamboul, and thence to the United States.”
“That accounts for your unexpected arrival, ahead of schedule?” I suggested. “To get ahead of those who are seeking to take the rug?”
“Precisely,” admitted Pierre, as we turned down one of the cross-streets not far from Lee Circle, an
d drew up at one of those old-fashioned houses with tall white pillars that supported a broad gallery on the second story.
The Marigny’s were an old Creole family; vieille noblesse, you might say. I had never met the Miss Marigny we sought, but I remembered her as queen of the Mardi Gras several years previous.
An old negro servant took our cards and ushered us into a high-ceiled living-room to await Miss Marigny.
“How do you do, Mr. d’Artois? And you, Mr. Landon? This is an unexpected pleasure.”
Her manner was cordial, albeit reserved. But she contrived to convey, in spite of her gracious air, that she was at a loss to know just why she was thus favored.
“I am sure,” began d’Artois, with that inimitable bow which always assures him of a favorable reception, “that you will pardon the liberty we take in calling uninvited. Would you be kind enough to show us that rug which you bought in Stamboul, in the course of that Mediterranean cruise from which you have just returned?”
“Why, certainly,” assented Louise Marigny. “But how did you know—”
“That I will explain presently,” replied d’Artois. “In the meanwhile, I would appreciate your great kindness.” And then, a few moments later, as a servant unrolled the rug and spread its lustrous folds across a table: “Regardez donc! It is magnificent, yes?”
It was more than magnificent. It was utterly outlandish. Those rich colors had not come from the dye-pots of Persia or Turkistan; and its pattern was as unique as its dyes. The interlaced and interwoven curves of Moorish architectural adornment were expressed in a textile, giving an effect utterly different from the floral richness of Persian, or the straight-line geometric motifs of Caucasian weaves. The longer I looked at it, the more compelling it became; and in spite of the closeness of the design, there was an effect of sweeping curves of inexpressible breadth and vigor.
The rug was about four feet wide, and hardly more than seven feet in length. Its upper corners had been clipped, giving it a form similar to the inner panel of a Turkish prayer rug; but the cut had run along the line of a corner piece, so that the unity of the remaining pattern was unmarred.
“Look at it!” Pierre repeated. “It is vibrant and alive, like a beast of prey lying asleep and dreaming of stalking resistlessly to its next slaying.”
There was something breath-taking about these incredible arabesques, with their dynamic, fluent curves; and something ominous. I glanced at Louise Marigny, and saw that she was regarding d’Artois curiously as he made his comments on that satanically lovely piece of weaving.
“It seems that we agree on its personality,” she said, “except that you perceived its sinister beauty at a glance, whereas it took me several days to get the effect.”
“For once, mademoiselle,” replied d’Artois, “advance knowledge is superior to feminine intuition. You sensed, in a few days, what I know as the result of years of study, and a definite warning.”
“Why, Mr. d’Artois!” she exclaimed. “That sounds alarming! It did make me uneasy, the longer I looked at it, but I didn’t suspect that there is anything dangerous about it.”
During their exchange of remarks, I noted that it had not been mutilated, as I had at first thought. The remaining vestiges of finishing web and fringe, such as Oriental rugs have at their ends, were present. This added to the utter oddity of the piece, for in my several years of dabbling in rugs, I had never encountered one in the form of a rectangle with the upper corners shaped by the weaver as though they had been clipped.
“It is a sinister thing,” I remarked. “It looks as though some master weaver went mad, and played monstrous tricks with all known color schemes, yet achieved beauty in the end.”
“But how in the world did you know I had this rug?” wondered Louise Marigny.
Pierre offered her the document with the seal of the United States.
“This will introduce me, although I am not permitted to go into detail,” he replied. “Secret agents of various powers learned that it came from an obscure spot in Central Asia, and found its way to Stamboul. And while I do not know, I have my suspicions as to how you acquired it. Did the person who sold it to you know that you were bound for New Orleans?”
“You’re nothing less than a mind-reader, Mr. d’Artois! Or else you are very well informed,” she answered. “I was shopping in the bazaars of Stamboul, with the intention of selecting something as a souvenir of my cruise. The merchant, an old, white-bearded fellow with unusually keen eyes, was asking the most exorbitant prices for perfectly wretched rugs. But I sat there, drinking tiny cups of coffee, which they serve prospective customers. And in the course of the bargaining, I mentioned being on my way to New Orleans. He then and there dug into a pile, and brought out this rug. At a glance, I knew I couldn’t possibly afford such a magnificent thing. It fascinated me at once. But to my great surprise he offered it at a perfectly ridiculous price. I naturally took it at once.
“But on the remainder of the trip I had a feeling of being followed, kept under close surveillance; though to be truthful about it, I can’t even remember any one’s actually spying on me, or even staring obviously. And when I landed in New Orleans, and had the rug unpacked, it began to grate on my nerves. I hung it on the wall of my room, and in the early morning light the sweeping bands of color in the pattern seemed to writhe, and twist, and change in hue. I knew it must be the illusion caused by the angle of the light striking the rug, but I couldn’t stand seeing it when I awoke in the morning; so I put it on the floor.
“But that was no better. To use your own words, it suggested a beast of prey, sleeping, but ready to awaken and leap.”
She shuddered; but before she could continue her remarks, d’Artois began, “That rug was given to you for a purpose, Miss Marigny. You were the unwitting means of getting it into this country. And I venture to state that you will not keep it long.”
“Why, what do you mean?” she demanded, arching her brows in amazement.
“I am not permitted to go into detail,” replied Pierre. “But glance at this report.”
He handed her the report I had seen.
“You will note,” he remarked, as she regarded the paper intently, her alarmed expression becoming more intense as she read further, “that Panopoulos, a Greek, and Shekerjian, an Armenian, both encountered serious difficulties. Fatal, as you observe.”
“But they were detained at the customs. I passed this rug lawfully,” she protested.
“So did they. They were detained for other reasons. And they died because some one did not want them to answer what they would have been asked. The reason that you were allowed to pass the customs without questioning is that after two failures, those I represent decided upon different tactics. I am here to pay any price you care to name. And to assure you that this is bona fide, you may confer with the Federal officials in New Orleans. They do not yet know that I am here, but they will recognize my credentials.”
Louise Marigny reflected for a moment before replying. She glanced at the sinister, satanic beauty before us, and shivered.
“Mr. d’Artois, I’ll take your offer. That rug has worried me ever since I unpacked it.”
Pierre took from his pocket a thick roll of bills.
“Tell me when to stop,” he remarked, as he stripped them off, one by one, laying them fan wise on the rug. “It is your property by purchase. I do not want you to feel that I am forcing a deal.”
“Oh, Mr. d’Artois!” she gasped, as she noted the denomination of the bills. “One of them would more than pay what it cost me.”
“Tenez! Never let it be said that Pierre d’Artois drove a sharp bargain,” he said as he added another bill to the pile. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Marigny.”
We then took leave of Louise Marigny, who, despite her more than moderate circumstances, had reason to feel that it was a fortunate stroke of business to have her casual purchase
in Stamboul pay several times over for the entire cruise. And Pierre on his part had made progress in his mysterious mission.
“They planned to relieve her of this rug at their convenience,” said d’Artois. “But now they have me to rob, which will not be so simple. But from now on, you and I are in danger of assassination and robbery. This is a dangerous article.
“But now, let us get to work on this devilish rug; although first I must call the excellent Father Martin, of the Society of Jesuits.”
“Help yourself,” I said, handing him the directory. “And by the way, what has this priest to do with your mission? I would hardly think him to be an adept at the devil-mongering you suggest.”
“Father Martin,” replied d’Artois, as he thumbed the directory, “is an outstanding mathematician, and a prominent member of that most learned society. I met him in France, where he served as a chaplain with an artillery regiment during the late war. While our problem is occult, there are mathematical relations to consider. Modern science is finally realizing that chemistry, physics, and the meta-physical sciences are interlinked, and that every manifestation of matter is finally re-solved into ultimate force, which has a mathematical expression. We are reverting to alchemy, devoid of its trickery and charlatanism, in a way. But more later. I must ask Father Martin to call on us, at once.”
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 16