by Sax Rohmer
No sound disturbed the silence.
I advanced cautiously in the direction of the staircase. The widely open door of Rima’s room was on my left. Moonlight poured in upon the polished uncarpeted floor. Her shutters were open.
Pausing for a moment, puzzled, I suddenly remembered that she had opened them when that cry in the night had disturbed her.
Personally, I kept mine religiously closed against the incursions of nocturnal insects, since we were near the bank of the river and no great distance from a fruit market. I had switched off my torch, the reflected light through the high window being sufficient for my purpose. I passed Rima’s door—then pulled up short, my nerves jangling.
From somewhere, outside the house, and high up, came a singular sound.
It was a sort of whistle in a minor key, resembling nothing so much as a human imitation of a police whistle. It changed, passing from a moan to an indescribable wail... and dying away.
“Shan, did you hear it? That’s the sound!” Rima’s voice reached me in a quavering whisper, and:
“I heard it,” I answered in a low voice. “For God’s sake, stay where you are.”
The chief’s door was ahead of me, in comparative shadow there at the end of the passage. I could see that it was closed: a teak door, ornamented with iron scrollwork. Sir Lionel was a heavy sleeper. A narrow stair opened on the right and led down to the lobby. No sound reached me from beneath. Evidently Ali Mahmoud had not been aroused.
On my left was a stair to the floor above. I crept up.
My nerves were badly jangled, and creaking of the ancient woodwork sounded in my ears like pistol shots. I gained the top corridor. Two windows faced west, commanding a view of low, flat roofs stretching away to a distant prospect of the river. The moonlight was dazzling. In contrast to the passage below it was like stepping from midnight into high noon.
I paused again for a moment, listening intently.
A sound of scurrying movement reached my ears from beyond Van Berg’s closed door. I took a step forward and paused again. Then, my hand on the clumsy native latch:
“Van Berg!” I said softly.
The only reply was a queer soft, plaintive howl.
Let me confess that this nearly unnerved me. A vague but unmistakable menace had been overhanging us from the hour of our momentous discovery in Khorassan. Now, awakened as I had been, my memory repeating over and over again that weird, wailing sound, I recognized that I was by no means at my best.
Clenching my teeth, I raised the latch...
I peered along the narrow room. It extended from the corridor to the opposite side of the house. I saw that the shutters were open in the deep, recessed window. Moonlight reflected from the wall of the mosque afforded scanty illumination.
A sickly sweet perfume hung in the air, strongly resembling that of mimosa, but having a pungency which gripped me by the throat. I pressed the button of my torch.
Some vague thing, indeterminate, streaky, leapt towards me. I shrank back, pistol levelled… And for the second time I heard the sound.
Perhaps I have never been nearer to true panic in my life. That moaning wail seemed to come from outside the house—and from high above. It seemed to vibrate throughout my entire nervous system. It was the most utterly damnable sound to which I had ever listened.
Only my sudden recognition of one of the facts saved me. The Caspian kittens were in the room! I remembered, and gasped in my relief, that the doctor was extremely fond of them. The little creatures, who were very tame, crouched at my feel, looking up at me with their big eyes, appealingly, as it seemed.
A vague stirring came from the depths of the house. The smell of mimosa was overpowering... Probably Rima had run down and aroused Ali Mahmoud.
These ideas, chaotically, with others too numerous to record, flashed through my mind at the same moment that, stricken motionless with horror, I stood staring down upon Dr. Van Berg, where he lay under the light of my torch.
His heavy body was huddled in so strange a position that, what with anger, regret, fear and other unnameable emotions, I could not at first realise what had happened. He was clothed in silk pajamas of an extravagant pattern which he affected, and his fair hair, which he wore long, hung down over his forehead so that it touched the floor.
He was lying across the green box.
He lay in such a way that his big body almost obscured the box from my view. But now I saw that his powerful arms were outstretched, and that his fingers were locked in a death grip upon the handles at either end.
That long moment of horrified inertia passed.
I sprang forward and dropped upon one knee. I tried to speak, but only a husky murmur came. There was blood on the lid of the box, and a pool was gathering upon the floor beside it. I put my hand under Van Berg’s chin and lifted his face. Then I stood upright, feeling very ill.
What I had seen had wiped the slate of consciousness clear of all but one thing. My fingers quivered on the Colt repeater. I wanted the life of the cowardly assassin who had done Van Berg to death— big, gentle, fearless Van Berg. For here was murder—cold-blooded murder!
A sort of buzzing in my ears died away and left me perfectly cool, with just that one desire for retribution burning in my brain. I heard footsteps—muffled voices. I didn’t heed them.
I was staring about the room. Staring at the open window trying to recall details of Van Berg’s story of what had happened on the Thursday night. In the room there was no hiding place, and the window was thirty feet above street level. The mystery of the thing was taking hold of me.
“Greville Effendim,” I heard.
I glanced back over by shoulder. Ali Mahmoud stood in the open doorway—and I saw Rima’s pale face behind him.
“Don’t come in, Rima!” I said hastily. “For God’s sake, don’t come in. Go down and wake the chief.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE GREEN BOX
Upon the horror of that murder in the night, I prefer not to dwell. The mystery of Van Berg’s death defied solution. As I recall the tragic event, I can recapture a sharp picture of Sir Lionel Barton arrayed in neutral-coloured pyjamas and an old dressing gown, his mane of gray hair disordered, his deep-set eyes two danger signals, standing massive, stricken, over the dead man.
The bed had been slept in—so much was evident; and about it the strange odour of mimosa clung more persistently than elsewhere.
There was no stranger on the premises. Of this we had assured ourselves. And for a thirty-foot ladder to have been reared against the window of the room and removed without our knowledge, was a sheer impossibility.
Yet Van Berg had been stabbed to the heart from behind— palpably in an attempt to defend the green box: an attempt which had been successful. But, except that his shutters were open, there was no clue to the identity of his assassin, nor to the means of the latter’s entrance and exit.
“I didn’t hear a sound!” I remember the chief murmuring, looking at me haggard eyed. “I didn’t hear that damnable wailing— it might have told me something. Anyhow, Greville, he died doing his job, and so he’s gone wherever good men go. His death is on my conscience.”
“Why, Chief?”
But he had turned away…
We conformed to the requirements of the fussy local authorities, but got no help from them; and shortly after noon, Mr. Stratton Jean, of the American Legation at Teheran, arrived by air, accompanied by Captain Woodville, a British intelligence officer.
I reflected, when they came in from the alighting ground just outside the ancient city, that the caravan route is nearly two hundred and forty miles long, and that in former days a week was allowed for the journey.
It was a strange interview, being in part an inquest upon the dead man. It took place in poor Van Berg’s room, which had always served as a sort of office during the time that we had occupied this house in Ispahan.
There was a big table in the corner near the window laden with indescribable fragments,
ranging from Davidian armour to portfolios of photographs and fossilised skulls. There was a rather fine scent bottle, too, of blue glass dating from the reign of Haroun-er-Raschid, and a number of good glazed tiles. A fine illuminated manuscript, very early, of part of the Diwan of Hafiz, one of Sir Lionel’s more recently acquired treasures, lay still open upon the table, for Van Berg had been busy making notes upon the text up to within a few hours of his death.
The doctor’s kit, his riding boots, and other intimate reminders of his genial presence lay littered about the floor; for, apart from the removal of the body, nothing had been disturbed.
That fatal green box, upon which the bloodstains had dried, stood upon the spot where I had found it. The floor was still stained…
Mr. Stratton Jean was a lean Bostonian, gray haired, sallow complexioned, and as expressionless as a Sioux Indian. Captain Woodville was a pretty typical British army officer of thirty-five or so, except for a disconcerting side-glance which I detected once or twice, and which alone revealed—to me, at least, for he had the traditional bored manner—that he was a man of very keen mind.
Mr. Stratton Jean quite definitely adopted the attitude of a coroner, and under his treatment the chief grew notably restive, striding up and down the long, narrow room in a manner reminiscent of a caged polar bear.
Rima, who sat beside me, squeezed my hand nervously, glancing alternately at the two Persian officials who were present, and at her famous uncle. She knew that a storm was brewing, and so did Captain Woodville, for twice I detected him hiding a smile. At last, in reply to some question:
“One moment, Mr. Jean,” said Sir Lionel, turning and facing his interrogator. “If Van Berg was a fellow citizen of yours, he was a friend and colleague of mine. You are doing your duty, and I honour you for it. But I don’t like the way you do it.”
“I just want the facts,” said Stratton Jean, dryly.
I saw the colour welling up into Sir Lionel’s face and feared an outburst. It was avoided by the intervention of Captain Woodville.
“Thing is, Jean,” he drawled lazily, “Sir Lionel isn’t used to being court-martialed. He’s rather outside your province. But apart from a distinguished military career, he happens to be the greatest Orientalist in Europe.”
I waited with some anxiety for the American official’s reaction to this rebuke, for it was nothing less than a rebuke. It took the form of a smile, but a very sad smile, breaking through the mask-like immobility of those sallow features.
“You mean, Woodville,” he said, “I’m being too darned official for words?”
“Perhaps a trifle stiff, Jean, for a man of Sir Lionel’s temperament.”
Mr. Stratton Jean nodded, and I saw a new expression in his eyes, yellowed from long residence in the East. He looked at the chief.
“If I’ve ruffled you, Sir Lionel,” he said, “please excuse me. This inquiry is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to undertake. You see, Van Berg and I were at Harvard together. It’s been a bad shock.”
That was straight talking, and in two seconds the chief had Jean’s hand in his bear-like grip and had hauled him out of the chair.
“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “We worked together for only two months, but I’d sell my last chance of salvation to get the swine who murdered him.”
The air was cleared, and Rima’s nervous grip upon my hand relaxed. And that which had begun so formally, was now carried on in a spirit of friendship. But when every possible witness had been called and examined, we remained at a deadlock.
It was Captain Woodville who broached the subject which I knew, sooner or later, must be brought up.
“It is quite clear. Sir Lionel,” he said in his drawling way, “that your friend died in endeavouring to protect this iron box.
He pointed to the long green chest upon which the white initials L.B. were painted. Sir Lionel ground his teeth audibly together and began to pace up and down the room.
“I know,” he said. That’s why I told you, Greville”—turning to me—“that I was responsible for his death.”
“I can’t agree with you,” Stratton Jean interrupted. “So far as my information goes (Captain Woodville, I believe, is better informed), you were engaged with the late Dr. Van Berg in an attempt to discover the burial place of El Mokanna, sometimes called the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.”
“Veiled Prophet,” Woodville interjected, “is rather a misnomer. Actually, Mokanna wore a mask. Isn’t that so. Sir Lionel?”
The chief turned and stared at the last speaker.
“That is so,” he agreed. They exchanged a glance of understanding. “You know all the facts. Don’t deny it!”
Captain Woodville smiled slightly, glancing aside at Stratton Jean; then:
“I know most of them,” he admitted, “but the details can only be known to you. As a matter of fact, I’m here today because some tragedy of this kind had been rather foreseen. Quite frankly, although I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything that you don’t know already, you have stirred up a lot of trouble.”
Rima squeezed my hand furtively. It was nothing new for her distinguished uncle to stir up trouble. His singular investigations had more than once imperiled international amity.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE VEILED PROPHET
“You have said, Mr. Jean,” said Sir Lionel, “that my particular studies are outside your province, but my interests were shared by Dr. Van Berg. Already he occupied a chair of Oriental literature, but, if he had lived, his name would have ranked high as any. Very well.”
He paced up and down in silence for a while, hands locked behind him. The two Persian officials had gone. Those queer discords characteristic of an Eastern city rose to us through the open window: cries of street hawkers, of carriage drivers; even the jangle of camel bells. And there were flies, myriads of flies…
“It was Van Berg who got the clue which set us off upon this expedition—the expedition which was to be his last. Down on the borders of Arabia he picked up a man, an Afghan, as a matter of fact, named Amir Khan. This man told him the story of the spot known locally as the Place of the Great Magician. It’s in the No Man’s Land between Khorassan and Afghanistan.
“Van Berg, with whom I had been in correspondence for some years, although we had never met, learned that I was in Iraq. He was a Persian scholar, and he knew parts of the country well. But of Khorassan and Afghanistan he knew nothing. He got into communication with me. He asked me to share the enterprise. I accepted—as you know, Greville—“he darted one of his quick glances in my direction—”and we moved down and joined Van Berg, who was waiting for us on the Persian border.
“I interviewed the man Amir Khan. I could talk his lingo and so get nearer to the truth than Van Berg had succeeded in doing—”
“I never trusted Amir Khan!” I broke in. “His story was true, and he did his job, but—”
“Amir Khan was a thug,” the chief continued quietly; “I always knew it. But servants of Kali have no respect for Mohammed; therefore I was prepared to trust him with regard to the matter in hand. He advanced arguments strong enough to induce me, in conjunction with Van Berg, to proceed with a party, who had been in my employ for more than a year, northeast of Persia. In brief, gentlemen, we went to look for the burial place of El Mokanna, the Hidden One, sometimes called the Veiled Prophet, but, as Captain Woodville has pointed out, more properly the Masked Prophet…”
This was “shop” and overfamiliar. I turned my head and stared from the open window towards a corresponding, ruinous, window of the mosque opposite. The deserted building certainly had a sinister reputation, being known locally as the Ghost Mosque. If this circumstance, together with that eerie sound which had heralded poor Van Berg’s death, were responsible, I cannot say. But I became the victim of a queer delusion…
“Mokanna, Mr. Jean,” the chief was saying, “about 770 A.D., set himself up as an incarnation of God, and drew to his new sect many thousands
of followers. He revised the Koran. His power became so great that the Caliph Al Mahdi was forced to move against him with a considerable army. Mokanna was a hideous creature. His features were so mutilated as to be horrible to see…”
Brilliant green eyes were fixed upon me from the shadow of the ruined window!...
“But he was a man. He and the whole of his staff poisoned themselves in the hour of defeat. From that day to this, no one has known where he was buried. His sword, which he wore on ceremonial occasions, and which he called the Sword of God, forged to conquer the world, his New Creed graved upon golden plates, and the mask of gold with which he concealed his mutilated features, disappeared at the time of his death and were supposed to be lost.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair. The startling apparition had vanished as suddenly as it had come. Above all things I wanted to avoid alarming Rima. Already I suspected sleepless nights; I realised that she could know no peace in the shadow of the Ghost Mosque with its unholy reputation.
The apparition did not reappear, however; and I turned, looking swiftly at Rima.
She was watching the chief. Clearly, she had seen nothing.
Walking up and down while speaking, in that manner of a caged bear, Sir Lionel had paused now and was staring at the ominous green box.
“Amir Khan did not lie,” he went on. “The tomb-mosque that contained the ashes of the prophet is a mere mound of dust today; what it concealed was never more than a legend. Its site, though, is strictly avoided—supposed to be haunted by djinns and known as the Place of the Great Magician. We camped there, and our excavations were carried out secretly. Few pass that desolate place on the edge of the desert. We found—what we had come to find.”
