by Sax Rohmer
“Greville,” he said, “the hand of destiny may clearly be seen in all this. Where is Barton?”
“I expected him back by now,” I replied. “Rima is with him. Do you know what’s happened, Sir Denis? Is that why you’re here?”
“I know that Dr. Van Berg has been murdered,” he returned grimly. “But that isn’t why I’m here.”
He lighted his pipe absent-mindedly, three matches being used before he was satisfied; then:
“I am here,” he went on, “because there is a dangerous movement on the Afghan border and creeping south day by day. Definite orders reached me at Basra. That’s why I’m here, Greville. Heaven knows we had enough trouble before, but now that the tribes are rising in response to a mad rumour that El Mokanna, the Masked Prophet, has come out of his tomb to lead them, I don’t know where my duty lies.”
He had picked up his glass, but he set it down again and fixed me with a steady glance of his steel-gray eyes.
“I suspect that it lies herel” he snapped. “Some madness of Barton’s is at the bottom of this superstitious rumour, which by now has swept all over the East—Near and Far.”
I sustained that stare with great difficulty, and presently:
“You are right, Sir Denis,” I admitted. “The truth of the matter I don’t know, and I don’t think the chief knows it—but I have every reason to believe that poor Van Berg met his death at the hands of some fanatic inspired by this rumour. He died in this room. And the manner of his death remains a mystery to this present hour.”
“Barton is mad,” said Nayland Smith definitely. “His investigations have caused nearly as much trouble as the zeal of the most earnest missionaries.”
He stood up and began to pace the long, narrow room in his restless fashion. In this trick, which betrayed the intense pent-up vitality of the man, he reminded me of the chief. Together, the pair of them emitted almost visible sparks of force.
“Be as brief as you can,” he directed. “The clue to the trouble lies here—obscured by now, probably. I have Captain Woodville’s report—but it omits almost every essential point. Give me your own story of the death of Van Berg.” He stared at me intently. “The peace of the world, Greville, may rest upon your accuracy.”
CHAPTER SIXTH
PERFUME
OF MIMOSA
“Poor Van Berg,” I explained, “slept in this room, which throughout the time that we have been in Ispahan we have used as an office. All the records are kept here, and up to the time of the tragedy the most valuable record of all: a strong iron box, which the chief almost invariably carried with him, and in which it was his custom to deposit valuable finds.”
“At the time of Van Berg’s death,” Nayland Smith said sharply, “what did this box contain?”
“It contained,” I replied, “to the best of my knowledge, fifteen plates of thin gold, upon which were engraved the articles of the New Creed; the ‘Sword of God,’ a very beautiful piece; and a grotesque golden mask—all that remained of El Mokanna, the prophet of Khorassan.”
Nayland Smith nodded.
“Van Berg was definitely uneasy from the time that we entered into occupancy of this house. It belongs to a Persian friend of Sir Lionel’s—for the chief has friends everywhere;
and he arranged in some way that it should be our headquarters in Ispahan. In certain respects it suited us well enough. But, as you can see, it’s in a queer district and it lies actually in the shadow of the so-called Ghost Mosque.”
“Ghost Mosque!” Nayland Smith echoed. “I don’t want to interrupt—but explain more fully what you mean.”
“I will do my best. It appears that years ago—I am rather shaky as to dates—an imam of the mosque opposite, who happened to be related to the Grand Sherif of Ispahan, conceived a passion for the favourite wife of the then heir apparent, who formerly had a house near by. They were detected together— so the story goes—inside the gallery of the minaret. The exact details of their fate at the hands of the eunuchs are more lurid than pleasant. But the guilty pair were finally thrown from the gallery to the street below. The mosque has never been used since that day; and the death cries of the victims are supposed to be heard from time to time…“
Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his ear irritably, but made no comment; and:
“This circumstance, no doubt,” I added, “accounts for the ease with which Sir Lionel obtained possession of so large a house at such short notice. It was shut up on our arrival, and musty from long disuse. I give these details, Sir Denis, first, because you asked for them, and, second, because they have a curious bearing on the death of Van Berg.”
“I quite understand.”
“The chief related this story with tremendous gusto when we took up our residence here. You know his bloodthirsty sense of humour? But the effect on Rima was dreadful. She’s as fit as any man to cope with actual danger and hardship, but the bogey business got completely on her nerves. Personally, I treated it as what it really is—a piece of native superstition. I was altogether more worried about the real purpose of our long delay in Ispahan. I don’t know to this present hour, why Sir Lionel hung on here. But my scepticism about the Ghost Mosque got rather a jar.”
“In what way?”
“Last Thursday night—that is, two nights before his death—Van Berg aroused me. He said that he had been awakened by a sound which resembled that of a huge bird alighting upon the balcony outside his window.”
“This window?” Nayland Smith interrupted, and pointed.
“This window. The shutters were closed, but not latched, and this sound, so he told me, aroused him. He sprang out of bed, switched on the electric torch which lay beside him, and ran across to the shutters. As he did so, he heard a low moaning sound which rose to a wail and then died away. When he threw the shutters open and looked out into the street, there was nobody there.”
“Did he examine the woodwork?”
“He didn’t say so.”
Nayland Smith snapped his fingers and nodded to me to go on.
“Imagine my feelings. Sir Denis, when Rima awakened me on Saturday night saying that she had heard a cry from Van Berg’s room, almost immediately above her own (that is, the room, in which we are now), followed, as she crept out of her door to awaken me, by a moaning sound outside the house, and high up in the air!”
“Where is your room?”
“At the farther end of the same corridor below.”
“I must inspect this corridor. Go on.”
“Rima woke me up—I had been fast asleep. I won’t disguise, Sir Denis, the fact that our possession of these relics had become somewhat of a nightmare. When I learned of the disturbance in Van Berg’s room above, followed by that strange cry, which I could only suppose to be the same that he himself had heard, I feared the worst…and I was right.”
“Did Rima more particularly describe this cry?” Nayland Smith asked impatiently.
“No. But I can do so.”
“What?”
“I heard it later myself as I went along the corridor past her room.”
“Was the moon up?”
“Yes.”
“Was her door open?”
“Wide open.”
“Was there any light in her room?”
“Yes—she had opened her shutters and was listening, so I understand, for further sounds from Van Berg’s room above.”
“Was that when she heard the sound?”
“No. She heard it as she opened her door and came along to me.”
“Is there a window facing the door of her room?”
“Yes, almost immediately opposite; in fact, just below where I am standing.”
“Good!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Go on.”
I stared at him for a moment. I detected something like a glint of satisfaction in the steely gray eyes and began to wonder if he had already seen light where all around was darkness to the rest of us.
“I had just reached Rima’s door,” I went o
n, “when I myself heard the extraordinary sound for the first time.”
“It was not the cry of a dacoit?”
“It was not.”
“Give me some idea of it. Can you imitate it?”
“I fear that’s impossible.”
“Was it a sound made by a human being? By an animal— by some kind of musical instrument?”
“Frankly, I dare not venture to say. It began with a sort of whistling note, which rose to a shriek and died away in a kind of wail.”
Nayland Smith, who had been pacing up and down throughout the whole time that I had been speaking, accelerated his step and began tugging at the lobe of his left ear, in a state of furious irritation or deep reflection—I could not determine which. Until, since I had paused:
“Go on!” he snapped.
“Quite frankly, I was scared out of my life. I called very softly to Rima to go down to the lobby and wake Ali Mahmoud, and I went on upstairs to the corridor outside this door.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Yes; a vague, scuffling sound. I stepped forward to the door and called Van Berg. The scuffling continued, but there was no reply. I opened the door.”
“It was not locked, then?”
“No. Van Berg had no occasion to lock his door, since his room, so far as we knew, was inaccessible except by means of the street entrance—and Ali Mahmoud slept in the lobby. I saw that the shutters—those before you—were half open. Two Caspian kittens, pets of the chief, which are now locked in an adjoining room, were in here. Van Berg was very fond of animals, and I imagine that they had been sleeping at the foot of his bed at the time he was aroused.”
“You need not tell me where he lay,” said Nayland Smith grimly; “the stain is still on the floor. Where was the iron box?”
“He lay across it,” I said, and my voice was rather shaky, “clutching the two handles. He had been stabbed from behind with a long, narrow blade, which had pierced right through to his heart. But there was not a soul in the room, and the street below was deserted. Apart from which this window is thirty feet above the ground.”
“Did you examine the ledge and the shutters?”
“No.”
“Has anyone examined them?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Sir Denis stood with his back to me for several moments;
then, turning:
“Go on!” he cried. “You must have derived some other
impressions. Had the bed definitely been slept in, for instance?”
“Yes, undoubtedly.”
“Was Van Berg armed?”
“No. His revolver—a heavy service type—was on a table beside his bed. His flash lamp was still under his pillow.”
“Was he a heavy drinker?”
I stared uncomprehendingly.
“On the contrary.”
Nayland Smith gave me a steely glance.
“H’m!” he snapped—”amazing! A man, already apprehensive of attack, a man of some experience, wakes to the certain knowledge that there’s an intruder in his room—and what does he do? He springs out of bed, unarmed, in semidarkness—although a flash lamp and a revolver lie under his hand—and throws himself across the iron box. Really, Greville! Reconstruct the scene for yourself. Was Van Berg’s behaviour, as you indicate it, normal?”
“No, sir Denis,” I admitted. “Now that you draw my attention to the curious points, it wasn’t. But—good heavens!” I raised my hand to my forehead. “Ah!” said he— “forgotten something else?” “Yes—I had. The perfume.” “Perfume?”
“There was a strange perfume in the room. It resembled mimosa….”
“Mimosa?” “Extraordinarily like it.”
“Where was this smell most noticeable?” “About the bed.”
He snapped his fingers and began to walk up and down again.
“Naturally,” he murmured. “One small point cleared up…but—mimosa…”
I watched him in silence, overcome by unhappy recollections.
“Where is the iron box now?” he suddenly demanded.
“It’s in my room!” roared a great voice—”and I’m waiting for the swine who murdered Van Berg to come and fetch it!”
Sir Denis, in his restless promenade, had reached the window—had been staring out of it, as if considering my statement that it was thirty feet above street level. He turned in a flash—so did I….
Sir Lionel Barton stood in the doorway, and Rima was beside him, a neat, delightful figure in her drill riding kit and tan boots.
If Rima was surprised to leam the identity of the tall man in shabby gray flannels who now turned and confronted her, I can only describe the chief’s reaction as that of one half stunned. He fell back a pace—his deep-set eyes positively glaring; then:
“Smith!” he said huskily—Nayland Smith! Am I dreaming?”
The grim face of Sir Denis relaxed in that ingenous smile which stripped him of twenty years.
“By God!” roared the chief, and literally pounced upon him. “If I were anything like a decent Christian I should say that my prayers had been answered!”
CHAPTER SEVENTH
RIMA AND I
Down in the little garden of the house I had a few moments alone with Rima. At some time this garden had been a charming, secluded spot. Indeed, except for a latticed window above, it was overlooked from only one point: the gallery of the minaret. But neglect had played havoc with the place.
The orange trees flourished—indeed, were in full blossom— and a perfect cloak of bougainvillea overhung the balcony below the latticed window. But the flower borders were thickets of weeds and a stone cistern in which a little fountain had long ceased to play was coated with slime and no more than a breeding place for mosquitoes.
“I don’t know what it is about Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” said Rima. “But I have never experienced such a sense of relief in my life as when I came into that room to-day and found him there.”
“I know,” I replied, squeezing her reassuringly: “it’s the sterling quality of the man. All the same, darling, I shan’t feel happy until we’re clear of Ispahan.”
“Nor shall I, Shan. If only uncle weren’t so infernally mysterious. What on earth are we staying on here for?”
“I know no more than you do, Rima. What was the object of this afternoon’s expedition? I’m quite in the dark about it!”
“I’m nearly as bad,” she confessed. “But at least I can tell you where we went. We went to Solomon Ishak. You know— the funny old jeweller?”
“Solomon Ishak is one of the greatest mysteries of Ispahan. But I understand he gets hold of some very rare antique pieces. Probably the chief is negotiating a deal.”
“I don’t think so. I had to take along the negatives of about forty photographs, and uncle left me wandering about that indescribable, stuffy shop for more than an hour while he remained locked in an inner room with old Solomon.”
“And what became of the photographs?”
“He had them with him but brought them out at the end of the interview. They are back here now.”
“That may explain the mystery,” I said reflectively. “The photographs were of the relics of the Prophet, I take it?”
Rima nodded.
“The workmanship on the hilt of the sword has defied even the chief’s knowledge,” I added. “He probably wanted Solomon Ishak’s opinion but didn’t care to risk taking the sword itself.”
Rima slipped a slender bare arm about my neck and snuggled her head down against my shoulder.
“Oh, Shan!” she whispered. “I have never felt so homesick in my life.”
I stooped and kissed her curly hair, squeezing her very tightly; then:
“Rima, darling,” I whispered, my lips very close to one half-hidden ear, “when we get to some place a little nearer civilisation, will you come and see the consul with me?”
She made no reply but hid her face more closely against me.
“If the chief stil
l insists on a spectacular wedding, that can come later. But…”
Rima suddenly raised her face, looking up at me.
“Next time you ask me, I’m going to say. Yes, Shan. But please don’t ask me again until we’re out of Ispahan.”
“Why?” I asked blankly. “Is there any special reason for this?”
“No,” she replied, kissed me on the chin, and nestled down against me again. “But I’ve promised. And if you are good you’ll be satisfied.”
I stooped and nearly smothered her with kisses. I suppose my early training was to blame, and I didn’t know, or even seek to find out, Rima’s views upon the subject. As for the chief, I had known for a long time past that he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.
Had Rima and I openly become lovers, I am convinced he wouldn’t have turned a hair. He was a wonderful old pagan, and his profound disrespect for ritual in any form had led to some awkward moments—awkward, that is, for me, but apparently enjoyed by Sir Lionel.
And at the moment that these thoughts were crossing my mind his great voice came from the window above:
“Break away. there!” he roared. “There’s more serious work afoot than making love to my staff photographer!”
I jumped up—my blood was tingling—and turned angrily. But in the very act I met Rima’s upcast glance. My mood changed. She was convulsed with laughter; and:
“The old ruffian!” she whispered.
“Come hither, my puritan friend,” Sir Lionel continued. “Two cavaliers would have speech with thee!”
CHAPTER EIGHTH
“EL
MOKANNA!”
A conference took place in the chief’s room at the end of the long corridor on the first floor of that queer old house.
The place was untidy as only Sir Lionel could make it. There were riding boots on the bed, and strewn about on the floor were such diverse objects as a battered sun helmet, a camera case, odd items of underwear, a pair of very ancient red leather slippers, a number of books—many of them valuable; the whole rising in a sort of mound towards an old cabin trunk, from which one would assume as by an eruption they had been cast forth.
