by Sax Rohmer
Robert Cairn smiled slightly.
“Ah!” said the doctor, with an answering smile in which there was little mirth, “we are accustomed to laugh at this mediæval terminology; but by what other can we speak of the activities of Ferrara?”
“Sometimes I think that we are the victims of a common madness,” said his son, raising his hand to his head in a manner almost pathetic.
“We are the victims of a common enemy,” replied his father sternly. “He employs weapons which, often enough, in this enlightened age of ours, have condemned poor souls, as sane as you or I, to the madhouse! Why, in God’s name,” he cried with a sudden excitement, “does science persistently ignore all those laws which cannot be examined in the laboratory! Will the day never come when some true man of science shall endeavour to explain the movements of a table upon which a ring of hands has been placed? Will no exact scientist condescend to examine the properties of a planchette? Will no one do for the phenomena termed thought-forms, what Newton did for that of the falling apple? Ah! Rob, in some respects, this is a darker age than those which bear the stigma of darkness.”
Silence fell for a few moments between them; then:
“One thing is certain,” said Robert Cairn, deliberately, “we are in danger!”
“In the greatest danger!”
“Antony Ferrara, realising that we are bent upon his destruction, is making a final, stupendous effort to compass ours. I know that you have placed certain seals upon the windows of this house, and that after dusk these windows are never opened. I know that imprints, strangely like the imprints of fiery hands, may be seen at this moment upon the casements of Myra’s room, your room, my room, and elsewhere. I know that Myra’s dreams are not ordinary, meaningless dreams. I have had other evidence. I don’t want to analyse these things; I confess that my mind is not capable of the task. I do not even want to know the meaning of it all; at the present moment, I only want to know one thing: Who is Antony Ferrara?”
Dr. Cairn stood up, and turning, faced his son.
“The time has come,” he said, “when that question, which you have asked me so many times before, shall be answered. I will tell you all I know, and leave you to form your own opinion. For ere we go any further, I assure you that I do not know for certain who he is!”
“You have said so before, sir. Will you explain what you mean?”
“When his adoptive father, Sir Michael Ferrara,” resumed the doctor, beginning to pace up and down the library— “when Sir Michael and I were in Egypt, in the winter of 1893, we conducted certain inquiries in the Fayûm. We camped for over three months beside the Méydûm Pyramid. The object of our inquiries was to discover the tomb of a certain queen. I will not trouble you with the details, which could be of no interest to anyone but an Egyptologist, I will merely say that apart from the name and titles by which she is known to the ordinary student, this queen is also known to certain inquirers as the Witch-Queen. She was not an Egyptian, but an Asiatic. In short, she was the last high priestess of a cult which became extinct at her death. Her secret mark — I am not referring to a cartouche or anything of that kind — was a spider; it was the mark of the religion or cult which she practised. The high priest of the principal Temple of Ra, during the reign of the Pharaoh who was this queen’s husband, was one Hortotef. This was his official position, but secretly he was also the high-priest of the sinister creed to which I have referred. The temple of this religion — a religion allied to Black Magic — was the Pyramid of Méydûm.
“So much we knew — or Ferrara knew, and imparted to me — but for any corroborative evidence of this cult’s existence we searched in vain. We explored the interior of the pyramid foot by foot, inch by inch — and found nothing. We knew that there was some other apartment in the pyramid, but in spite of our soundings, measurements and laborious excavations, we did not come upon the entrance to it. The tomb of the queen we failed to discover, also, and therefore concluded that her mummy was buried in the secret chamber of the pyramid. We had abandoned our quest in despair, when, excavating in one of the neighbouring mounds, we made a discovery.”
He opened a box of cigars, selected one, and pushed the box towards his son. Robert shook his head, almost impatiently, but Dr. Cairn lighted the cigar ere resuming:
“Directed, as I now believe, by a malignant will, we blundered upon the tomb of the high priest—”
“You found his mummy?”
“We found his mummy — yes. But owing to the carelessness — and the fear — of the native labourers it was exposed to the sun and crumpled — was lost. I would a similar fate had attended the other one which we found!”
“What, another mummy?”
“We discovered” — Dr. Cairn spoke very deliberately— “a certain papyrus. The translation of this is contained” — he rested the point of his finger upon the writing-table— “in the unpublished book of Sir Michael Ferrara, which lies here. That book, Rob, will never be published now! Furthermore, we discovered the mummy of a child—”
“A child.”
“A boy. Not daring to trust the natives, we removed it secretly at night to our own tent. Before we commenced the task of unwrapping it, Sir Michael — the most brilliant scholar of his age — had proceeded so far in deciphering the papyrus, that he determined to complete his reading before we proceeded further. It contained directions for performing a certain process. This process had reference to the mummy of the child.”
“Do I understand — ?”
“Already, you are discrediting the story! Ah! I can see it! but let me finish. Unaided, we performed this process upon the embalmed body of the child. Then, in accordance with the directions of that dead magician — that accursed, malignant being, who thus had sought to secure for himself a new tenure of evil life — we laid the mummy, treated in a certain fashion, in the King’s Chamber of the Méydûm Pyramid. It remained there for thirty days; from moon to moon—”
“You guarded the entrance?”
“You may assume what you like, Rob; but I could swear before any jury, that no one entered the pyramid throughout that time. Yet since we were only human, we may have been deceived in this. I have only to add, that when at the rising of the new moon in the ancient Sothic month of Panoi, we again entered the chamber, a living baby, some six months old, perfectly healthy, solemnly blinked up at the lights which we held in our trembling hands!”
Dr. Cairn reseated himself at the table, and turned the chair so that he faced his son. With the smouldering cigar between his teeth, he sat, a slight smile upon his lips.
Now it was Robert’s turn to rise and begin feverishly to pace the floor.
“You mean, sir, that this infant — which lay in the pyramid — was — adopted by Sir Michael?”
“Was adopted, yes. Sir Michael engaged nurses for him, reared him here in England, educating him as an Englishman, sent him to a public school, sent him to—”
“To Oxford! Antony Ferrara! What! Do you seriously tell me that this is the history of Antony Ferrara?”
“On my word of honour, boy, that is all I know of Antony Ferrara. Is it not enough?”
“Merciful God! it is incredible,” groaned Robert Cairn.
“From the time that he attained to manhood,” said Dr. Cairn evenly, “this adopted son of my poor old friend has passed from crime to crime. By means which are beyond my comprehension, and which alone serve to confirm his supernatural origin, he has acquired — knowledge. According to the Ancient Egyptian beliefs the Khu (or magical powers) of a fully-equipped Adept, at the death of the body, could enter into anything prepared for its reception. According to these ancient beliefs, then, the Khu of the high priest Hortotef entered into the body of this infant who was his son, and whose mother was the Witch-Queen; and to-day in this modern London, a wizard of Ancient Egypt, armed with the lost lore of that magical land, walks amongst us! What that lore is worth, it would be profitless for us to discuss, but that he possesses it — all of it — I know, b
eyond doubt. The most ancient and most powerful magical book which has ever existed was the Book of Thoth.”
He walked across to a distant shelf, selected a volume, opened it at a particular page, and placed it on his son’s knees.
“Read there!” he said, pointing.
The words seemed to dance before the younger man’s eyes, and this is what he read:
“To read two pages, enables you to enchant the heavens, the earth, the abyss, the mountains, and the sea; you shall know what the birds of the sky and the crawling things are saying ... and when the second page is read, if you are in the world of ghosts, you will grow again in the shape you were on earth....”
“Heavens!” whispered Robert Cairn, “is this the writing of a madman? or can such things possibly be!” He read on:
“This book is in the middle of the river at Koptos, in an iron box—”
“An iron box,” he muttered— “an iron box.”
“So you recognise the iron box?” jerked Dr. Cairn.
His son read on:
“In the iron box, is a bronze box; in the bronze box, is a sycamore box; in the sycamore box, is an ivory and ebony box; in the ivory and ebony box, is a silver box; in the silver box, is a golden box; and in that is the book. It is twisted all round with snakes, and scorpions, and all the other crawling things....”
“The man who holds the Book of Thoth,” said Dr. Cairn, breaking the silence, “holds a power which should only belong to God. The creature who is known to the world as Antony Ferrara, holds that book — do you doubt it? — therefore you know now, as I have known long enough, with what manner of enemy we are fighting. You know that, this time, it is a fight to the death—”
He stopped abruptly, staring out of the window.
A man with a large photographic camera, standing upon the opposite pavement, was busily engaged in focussing the house!
“What is this?” muttered Robert Cairn, also stepping to the window.
“It is a link between sorcery and science!” replied the doctor. “You remember Ferrara’s photographic gallery at Oxford? — the Zenana, you used to call it! — You remember having seen in his collection photographs of persons who afterwards came to violent ends?”
“I begin to understand!”
“Thus far, his endeavours to concentrate the whole of the evil forces at his command upon this house have had but poor results: having merely caused Myra to dream strange dreams — clairvoyant dreams, instructive dreams, more useful to us than to the enemy; and having resulted in certain marks upon the outside of the house adjoining the windows — windows which I have sealed in a particular manner. You understand?”
“By means of photographs he — concentrates, in some way, malignant forces upon certain points—”
“He focusses his will — yes! The man who can really control his will, Rob, is supreme, below the Godhead. Ferrara can almost do this now. Before he has become wholly proficient—”
“I understand, sir,” snapped his son grimly.
“He is barely of age, boy,” Dr. Cairn said, almost in a whisper. “In another year, he would menace the world. Where are you going?”
He grasped his son’s arm as Robert started for the door.
“That man yonder—”
“Diplomacy, Rob! — Guile against guile. Let the man do his work, which he does in all innocence; then follow him. Learn where his studio is situated, and, from that point, proceed to learn—”
“The situation of Ferrara’s hiding-place?” cried his son, excitedly. “I understand! Of course; you are right, sir.”
“I will leave the inquiry in your hands, Rob. Unfortunately other duties call me.”
CHAPTER XXIX
THE WIZARD’S DEN
Robert Cairn entered a photographer’s shop in Baker Street.
“You recently arranged to do views of some houses in the West End for a gentleman?” he said to the girl in charge.
“That is so,” she replied, after a moment’s hesitation. “We did pictures of the house of some celebrated specialist — for a magazine article they were intended. Do you wish us to do something similar?”
“Not at the moment,” replied Robert Cairn, smiling slightly. “I merely want the address of your client.”
“I do not know that I can give you that,” replied the girl doubtfully, “but he will be here about eleven o’clock for proofs, if you wish to see him.”
“I wonder if I can confide in you,” said Robert Cairn, looking the girl frankly in the eyes.
She seemed rather confused.
“I hope there is nothing wrong,” she murmured.
“You have nothing to fear,” he replied, “but unfortunately there is something wrong, which, however, I cannot explain. Will you promise me not to tell your client — I do not ask his name — that I have been here, or have been making any inquiries respecting him?”
“I think I can promise that,” she replied.
“I am much indebted to you.”
Robert Cairn hastily left the shop, and began to look about him for a likely hiding-place from whence, unobserved, he might watch the photographer’s. An antique furniture dealer’s, some little distance along on the opposite side, attracted his attention. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past ten.
If, upon the pretence of examining some of the stock, he could linger in the furniture shop for half-an-hour, he would be enabled to get upon the track of Ferrara!
His mind made up, he walked along and entered the shop. For the next half-an-hour, he passed from item to item of the collection displayed there, surveying each in the leisurely manner of a connoisseur; but always he kept a watch, through the window, upon the photographer’s establishment beyond.
Promptly at eleven o’clock a taxi cab drew up at the door, and from it a slim man alighted. He wore, despite the heat of the morning, an overcoat of some woolly material; and in his gait, as he crossed the pavement to enter the shop, there was something revoltingly effeminate; a sort of cat-like grace which had been noticeable in a woman, but which in a man was unnatural, and for some obscure reason, sinister.
It was Antony Ferrara!
Even at that distance and in that brief time, Robert Cairn could see the ivory face, the abnormal, red lips, and the long black eyes of this arch fiend, this monster masquerading as a man. He had much ado to restrain his rising passion; but, knowing that all depended upon his cool action, he waited until Ferrara had entered the photographer’s. With a word of apology to the furniture dealer, he passed quickly into Baker Street. Everything rested, now, upon his securing a cab before Ferrara came out again. Ferrara’s cabman, evidently, was waiting for him.
A taxi driver fortunately hailed Cairn at the very moment that he gained the pavement; and Cairn, concealing himself behind the vehicle, gave the man rapid instructions:
“You see that taxi outside the photographer’s?” he said.
The man nodded.
“Wait until someone comes out of the shop and is driven off in it; then follow. Do not lose sight of the cab for a moment. When it draws up, and wherever it draws up, drive right past it. Don’t attract attention by stopping. You understand?”
“Quite, sir,” said the man, smiling slightly. And Cairn entered the cab.
The cabman drew up at a point some little distance beyond, from whence he could watch. Two minutes later Ferrara came out and was driven off. The pursuit commenced.
His cab, ahead, proceeded to Westminster Bridge, across to the south side of the river, and by way of that commercial thoroughfare at the back of St. Thomas’ Hospital, emerged at Vauxhall. Thence the pursuit led to Stockwell, Herne Hill, and yet onward towards Dulwich.
It suddenly occurred to Robert Cairn that Ferrara was making in the direction of Mr. Saunderson’s house at Dulwich Common; the house in which Myra had had her mysterious illness, in which she had remained until it had become evident that her safety depended upon her never being left alone for one moment.
“What
can be his object?” muttered Cairn.
He wondered if Ferrara, for some inscrutable reason, was about to call upon Mr. Saunderson. But when the cab ahead, having passed the park, continued on past the lane in which the house was situated, he began to search for some other solution to the problem of Ferrara’s destination.
Suddenly he saw that the cab ahead had stopped. The driver of his own cab without slackening speed, pursued his way. Cairn crouched down upon the floor, fearful of being observed. No house was visible to right nor left, merely open fields; and he knew that it would be impossible for him to delay in such a spot without attracting attention.
Ferrara’s cab passed:
“Keep on till I tell you to stop!” cried Cairn.
He dropped the speaking-tube, and, turning, looked out through the little window at the back.
Ferrara had dismissed his cab; he saw him entering a gate and crossing a field on the right of the road. Cairn turned again and took up the tube.
“Stop at the first house we come to!” he directed. “Hurry!”
Presently a deserted-looking building was reached, a large straggling house which obviously had no tenant. Here the man pulled up and Cairn leapt out. As he did so, he heard Ferrara’s cab driving back by the way it had come.
“Here,” he said, and gave the man half a sovereign, “wait for me.”
He started back along the road at a run. Even had he suspected that he was followed, Ferrara could not have seen him. But when Cairn came up level with the gate through which Ferrara had gone, he slowed down and crept cautiously forward.
Ferrara, who by this time had reached the other side of the field, was in the act of entering a barn-like building which evidently at some time had formed a portion of a farm. As the distant figure, opening one of the big doors, disappeared within:
“The place of which Myra has been dreaming!” muttered Cairn.
Certainly, viewed from that point, it seemed to answer, externally, to the girl’s description. The roof was of moss-grown red tiles, and Cairn could imagine how the moonlight would readily find access through the chinks which beyond doubt existed in the weather-worn structure. He had little doubt that this was the place dreamt of, or seen clairvoyantly, by Myra, that this was the place to which Ferrara had retreated in order to conduct his nefarious operations.
