“But why for the love of heaven?” Peter asked blankly. “What on earth is the meaning of this long series of shocks, the vampires, the murders, and now this poison dart in me? What is Singh getting at?”
“I don’t know,” Meadows answered, “but it’s certainly time we found out. I never did trust him from the first moment he came into the picture.”
“The Yard could probably make him talk. They’ll be coming over now those two constables have been killed.”
Meadows shook his head. “I don’t think the Yard will get any further with Singh than they have with anybody else. If we want the facts we’ll have to get them for ourselves.”
Peter gave a grim nod. “All right by me. Let’s be on our way. Soon as we’ve dealt with him I’m going back to that ruined chapel to try and find Elsie. I’m sure she’s hidden there somewhere, probably by men working for Singh. There are dozens of old catacombs under that cemetery.”
“It might be better,” Meadows said, thinking, “if we finished off Singh without asking him anything.”
Peter gave a start. “Murder him, do you mean?”
“I am a doctor, Peter. When I come across something loathsome that can endanger innocent lives I think nothing of destroying it instantly. We know Singh attacked you, so it is a reasonable assumption that he has been back of everything else. Yes—I think he ought to be wiped out.”
“And how do we explain that to Scotland Yard? And how far does it get us towards the answer of this whole damnable mystery?”
“Singh must have plenty of men working for him—”
“He had at the fair,” Peter interrupted. “You recall those Nubians? And that other dark-skinned devil who was a sort of receptionist.... Yes, I daresay quite a few are under his orders.”
“And they are the ones who can be made to talk,” Meadows answered. “If we give Singh any quarter, or the opportunity to talk, he might wipe us out first. I don’t think we should take that risk. I’m prepared to put a bullet through him, and admit as much to Scotland Yard when the full inquiry is complete. I don’t think the law will be very hard on a man who has killed such an undesirable. Anyway, I’m willing to risk it.”
Peter hesitated, debating the wisdom of the idea. Then he realized the issue was being settled for him when he saw Meadows taking a .32 automatic from the desk drawer.
“Licensed,” Meadows said, seeing Peter’s look of inquiry. “As a country doctor I’m entitled to one. Never know what I might come up against....” He hesitated, then his grim face relaxed a little. “If you have any qualms about this business, son, stay out of it,” he advised. “I can handle it by myself. As far as that goes I’m not even sure I shall find Singh. He said he was staying with a friend just outside the village. The only person I can think of who fills that role is Henry Chalmers. He’s an eccentric and deeply interested in the occult, which seems to tie up with Rawnee Singh’s mysticism. Anyhow I propose to try there first.”
“I still believe it’s wrong to commit murder,” Peter said worriedly. “I think, in spite of what we think he has done, Singh should be given a chance to speak.”
“One does not argue with a man-eater,” Meadows replied, his eyes hard. “You’re a lot younger than I am, son, and because of it inclined to be tolerant. I have no such emotions. If I find Singh I shall kill him with about as much compassion as
t would a mad dog. Better make up your mind. Are you coming with me or going back home?”
“If I go anywhere it will be to the chapel to try and find Elsie. You don’t suppose I can rest after having seen her walking and alive, do you? Heaven knows what is happening to her while she’s unprotected.”
“If you try and find Elsie single-handed you’ll be asking for it, Peter.”
“But what about those men who were on guard? They’re still there, aren’t they?”
“No. After they’d sent for me I told them to go home. They were pretty well worn out, and it’s such a ghastly night. I didn’t of course know about Elsie, otherwise I’d have thought twice. My idea was to leave things until tomorrow night.”
“Oh...I see. In that case I’d better come with you on your hunt for Singh, but I refuse to have any part in killing him. It’s your responsibility entirely.”
“I think,” Meadows said quietly, getting into his overcoat, “that the best thing you can do, Peter, is go home to bed. You’re none too fit after that attack. Though the antidote has cured you it doesn’t mean you have unlimited strength. Do too much and you might suddenly collapse. How about going to bed for the rest of tonight then tomorrow morning—by which time I trust I shall have attended to Singh and got the Yard men over here, we can sake an investigation in full strength?”
“I shan’t sleep,” Peter said. “All I can do is think of her, and whatever may be happening to her—but I also realize that I might ruin things by precipitating matters. All right, I’ll go home—and in the daylight we’ll take action. Can’t see very well what we’re doing at night, anyway, and with torches we’ll give ourselves away.”
“Sound judgment,” Meadows said. “Get into your coat and I’ll drive you home: then I’ll return and see what I can do about Singh.”
Peter nodded, dragged on the overcoat Meadows held for him, and realized as he did so how much his arm pained him. Then Meadows led the way to the door, switched off the light, and so both he and Peter passed to the outdoors where Meadows’ car stood in the lonely road.
The rain had ceased now and a freshening wind was driving ragged clouds over the nearly-full moon. Meadows glanced up at it briefly.
“Make driving a bit easier,” he said. “Hop in.”
Peter did so and relaxed into silent preoccupation in the bucket seat. He had no further words he could find until he was alighting outside the front door of his home.
“Try not to worry too much, Peter,” Meadows said earnestly. “I’m sure I’m right in the way I’m handling this—”
Peter did not answer. Meadows saw him look aside and give a sudden start. The next thing Meadows realized was that the dark, inscrutable face of Rawnee Singh was looking at him through the open car window, the moonlight shining on his oblique eyes.
“I think you had better get out of your car, Doctor,” he said, a gun glinting in his hand.
Peter stepped back, keeping his hands raised. Singh motioned deliberately.
“Quickly, Doctor! In case you are wondering how I got here, I managed to open the boot of your car and hide inside. Fortunately for me you did not drive very rapidly. I knew you must eventually come out to your car so—”
Singh stopped, the noise of Meadows’ automatic briefly splitting the quietness of the night. Peter saw the flash of the gun, then Singh rocked on his feet. His own weapon fell out of his hand and he collapsed motionless at the side of the front wheel.
Meadows clambered out and examined the mystic quickly. Then he straightened up.
“Dead,” he announced briefly, his face hard in the moonlight. “I’m sorry if you don’t like the swift retribution, Peter, but it had to be done.”
Peter did not say anything. He was looking at the red stain marking Singh’s oriental costume above the heart. His mackintosh was thrown open around him, looking oddly like wings. After a moment or two Peter came forward and took hold of the mystic’s wrist. There was no pulse beat.
“Saved me the job of trying to find him,” Meadows commented. “I’ll take him back to my surgery and the police can see him when they turn up in the morning. You might give me a hand to get him into the car.”
Peter did so, but not with any enthusiasm. At last the slumped body of the mystic, his mackintosh drawn roughly around him, was in the bucket-seat next to Meadows as he returned to the wheel.
“Try and get some rest,” he said earnestly. “You need it after that attack tonight. I’ll be around in the morning in readiness for an investigation of the old chapel.”
With that, as Peter nodded slowly, Meadows wound up
the oar window, reversed, and drove away towards the gates. Peter stood thinking, and frowning, then with a sigh he pulled out his key ring and let himself into the house. All was silent. His housekeeper had presumably retired long ago.
He thought briefly of making himself a drink and a sandwich, then dismissed it from his mind. He was in no mood for eating. In fact his mind was concentrated solely upon two things—Elsie, and the murder of Rawnee Singh. He was still convinced it would have been better to question him first. Of course, he had had his gun ready and—
Peter shook his head confusedly to himself, went up the dark staircase, and presently gained his bedroom. For a little while he debated whether or not he should undress, get into bed and try and sleep properly—then, knowing only too well that he would never succeed, he lighted a cigarette and settled down in the armchair by the window.
Almost immediately he found his mind going back over the baffling things that had happened to him. He sat gazing into the still moonlight, seeing the entreating face of Elsie in the midst of those few imploring words she had spoken; then he saw Rawnee Singh, lips tight, revolver in hand. And across the whole crazy picture drifted a vision of Elsie’s empty coffin. In the dead silence Peter could hear again the queer, terrifying thud his shovel had made when it had struck the lid of her coffin.
He stirred impatiently and crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. Again he heard a thud and for the moment thought it was his imagination; then he gave a start as he realized there really had been a sound, and apparently it had come from somewhere outside. Instantly all his senses were alert. He hurried to the window, flung back the half drawn drapes to their fullest extent, and peered into the night. There did not appear to be anything except the tranquillity of the countryside, an impalpable mist lying over it in the moonlight.
He was on the verge of throwing the window open wide and looking outside; then changed his mind. If there was something there, determined to get at him, the most sensible course was for him to wait and see what happened. It would give him the opportunity to defend himself if that were necessary. So he moved back from the window and took up a position in the deep shadow by the wardrobe. Never had he regretted more that he had no gun.
After what seemed an interminable time he caught his first glimpse of something. It was fluffy and silvery in the moonlight, just above the edge of the windowsill. Peter watched it in fascination, trying to decide if it were some kind of animal—then as it came higher and changed position he realized it was blonde hair flowing free, and that Elsie’s face was outside the window, her hands clawing gently at the glass as though she were in a prison from which she could not escape.
Instantly Peter hurtled from his hiding place and opened the window. He caught at her cold, trembling body and pulled her by main strength into the room. She swayed dizzily, her eyes closed. Peter stared in horror for a moment at the red smears glistening about her lips and on her even teeth; then he whirled her up bodily and laid her on the bed.
She began to move uneasily, like one in troubled slumber. Her slender arms seemed to be trying to grasp round something; her legs moved gently up and down as though, in her dreams, she fancied she were running.
“Elsie,” Peter whispered, close beside her ear. “Elsie, it’s I—Peter. Say something to me—Elsie, beloved!”
She moaned a little and tossed her head from side to side. Peter switched on the table lamp and studied her more intently. Her shroud was dry now, he noticed, which seemed to suggest she had made her journey since the rain had ceased. But the bottom of it, and her naked feet, were splashed with still wet mud.
Peter frowned a little to himself. If she had come all the way from the cemetery across fields, and maybe part of the lane, her feet would have been cut to ribbons—yet they were not. Dirty, yes, but uninjured.
“Elsie!” he insisted, gripping her icy cold flesh where it protruded from the shoulders of her sleeveless shroud. “For God’s sake wake up!”
His insistence seemed to have some effect for she stirred and threw up her arms, her eyes still closed. Before Peter quite grasped what had happened her hands had locked at the back of his neck and he was being dragged down towards her face.
He made no immediate resistance, quite confident that he could break free if necessary. But he found that he was coming nearer those defiled lips with every second. He strained backwards, but to his amazement found the girl’s apparently limp arms had supernormal strength. Though he resisted, he was powerless to prevent his lips meeting hers. It was the one thing he wished—had Elsie been his wife; but this was a ghoulish nightmare, this sudden lascivious craving on her part for his kisses. Time and again, even though he struggled, his lips were crushed on hers and from them he could detect the deadening, crippling odour of the grave itself. She was foul, unclean—something dead yet still alive.
Savagely he made to tear free but she still clung, her hands locking into his hair so that he could hardly move his head with her dead weight hanging on to it. He seized her shoulder and tried to push her away: instead she rose with him, her eyes closed, a look of speechless suffering depicted upon her features as though, deep within her brain, some desperate struggle were taking place.
Then, suddenly, all her lassitude vanished. She tugged violently and Peter found himself flung on his back on the bed. Almost immediately her slender body was on top of him, her legs locked round his, her teeth striving to reach his throat. If ever he had needed proof of a vampire he had it now.
He flung up his hands and pressed hard against her shoulders, keeping her face away. She strained with all her power so that he saw the veins start to swell in her neck. Her eyes opened abruptly and stared at him. They were blue, as they had always been, but there was a blank, dead stare in them that made his stomach turn over.
Abruptly she got the mastery. As he sank back Peter realized it was not so much that she was superhumanly strong as that he was weak—probably from the poison in his system. It was a condition of which Dr. Meadows had warned him.
“Elsie!” he implored frantically, as her expressionless face with the bared teeth came down to him again. “Elsie, it is Peter! For God’s sake—!” he shrieked, as he felt her strong teeth bite into his neck.
What happened then he was not quite sure, but there came a sudden thunderous pounding on the bedroom door.
“Mr. Malden, is anything wrong?” called the voice of his housekeeper. “Mr. Malden! Did you cry out just now—?”
The effect of the hammering and voice on Elsie was extraordinary. Her teeth grip on Peter’s neck relaxed and she sprawled in a dead weight upon him, hardly breathing. Peter managed to get words out.
“I—I was dreaming, Mrs. Dawlish.... Sorry to alarm you.”
“Oh, then that’s all right. I expect you will have many bad nights with so much worry on your mind.”
He heard her feet go back along the landing and a door closed distantly. Perspiring heavily, aware of a warm trickle of blood down his throat, Peter forced Elsie’s weight from him and reeled off the bed. Lurching to the dressing table he peered at himself in the mirror. He had received nothing worse than a skin bite, dangerously near the jugular had Elsie carried out her apparent intention. Whipping out a handkerchief he dabbed at the wound then turned back to the bed where Elsie lay limp end hardly breathing, moisture from her efforts gleaming across her forehead.
A thought was beating through Peter’s mind. Her attack had ceased the instant Mrs. Dawlish had broken into the proceedings. That seemed to suggest that she had not been acting of her own volition; that some kind of mental link had snapped at the interruption. But if Rawnee Singh were the controlling medium, and he had been shot dead—? Peter pressed finger and thumb into his eyes in weariness; then he remembered that Singh had men who probably worked for him.
The puzzle was altogether too profound for immediate solution. The uppermost thought in his mind was at this moment Elsie was with him—alive, after a fashion. It wa
s, to him, the only thing in the world that really mattered. To keep her safe was the thing and, regardless of the danger, try and trace the spot where it seemed the villainy was centered—in the vicinity of the old chapel.
His mind made up, Peter raced from the bedroom, and down the stairs to the telephone. Whipping it up he rang Dr. Meadows.
There was a long pause and then Meadows answered, his voice sounding as though he had only just awakened from sleep.
“Yes? Who is it? Dr. Meadows here.”
“It’s Peter, Doc. Look, in the face of what’s just happened I’m not waiting for a party to go and search the chapel ruins; I’m going tonight. I want your help—and your gun. Elsie has tried to attack me, and from the way she failed I think hypnotism is the explanation of her behaviour.”
“Hypnotism? Elsie?” Meadows repeated hazily. “What’s happened exactly?”
Peter gave the details, and by the time he had finished Meadows seemed to have become thoroughly awake. His voice sounded crisp and matter-of-fact again.
“I’ll pick up two men from the village on my way over, and they can keep an eye on Elsie,” he said. “Then we’ll head for the cemetery. As you say, maybe we’d better act. I can’t understand Elsie operating under hypnotism when Singh is lying dead in my surgery. However, we’ll work that one out later. Better let your housekeeper have the facts then she’ll know what’s going on. I’ll come right away.”
“Okay.” Peter put the telephone back on its cradle and then returned upstairs to the bedroom. To his relief Elsie was lying exactly as he had left her. He had feared during every minute he had been absent from her that she might disappear again.
For a moment he contemplated her and then went to the window and looked outside. In the moonlight he beheld the most material of things—a ladder propped up against the side of the house, which Elsie had evidently used. He recalled now the bump it had made when she must have pushed it into place.
The Empty Coffins Page 9
