* * * *
While d’Artois was at the telephone, I turned again to the oddly shaped rug. The workmanship was exquisite, and the knotting was exceptionally close, surpassing that of any museum piece from the looms of Ispahan.
“Pierre,” I said, as he returned from the telephone, “how does this thing fit into the picture? It is all scrambled to me.
“Listen, and let me make the un-scramblement, so to speak,” he replied. “It is thus. Watch!”
He took three slips of paper from a pocket memorandum, clipped the upper corners with a pair of shears, and then set the cut edges together, so that a three-branched figure was formed by the slips of paper, with an equilateral triangle in the center.
“Very much like three prayer rugs placed so as to get their upper edges as close as possible to a common central point,” I remarked.
“Precisely. And as I said, there are two similarly shaped rugs,” he replied. “They are to be arranged as I have indicated. Then three adepts will take their posts. The figure at the center, formed by the junction of the rugs, is what they call the Triangle of Power, and in that space will be the Gateway that opens into the Marches beyond the Border.”
“Interesting, but obscure,” I remarked, more puzzled than ever. “What is the point of this ceremony, and what has it to do with the successor to Genghis Khan, whom, by the way, you are to stop in his tracks?”
“Concealed in the intricate arabesques of this rug,” explained d’Artois, “are curves which represent mathematical equations relating to ultra-dimensional space. This rug and its companion pieces contain the key to a complex system of vibration harmonies, psychic and physical, which if set in motion will open the Gateway.”
The door-bell interrupted his further remarks. Pierre accompanied me to the door.
“Good evening, Father Martin,” he said, after I had greeted the priest and invited him in. “My good friend here finds my explanations somewhat difficult. Be pleased to join us, and cast light on the matter.”
I led the way to the living-room.
“And this is the rug concerning which you and I have corresponded for some time,” said d’Artois, as the priest seated himself at the table. “You doubted its existence, n’est-ce pas, mon père? But there she is. And where my elementary mathematics leave off, your learning shall pick up the trail.”
“And so this is what you have called Satan’s Prayer Rug, eh, Pierre?” remarked Father Martin, as he scrutinized the exquisite border. Then he frowned, and indicated a certain figure in the design.
“This,” he said, as he glanced up at d’Artois, “leads me to believe that there is something in what you hinted. Our missionaries have encountered Asiatic cults that make that symbol the object of mysteries whose outward manifestations—”
Father Martin stopped short, apparently unwilling to start any discussion of that ominous device.
“Suppose,” he resumed, “that you let me hear your views. Just to refresh my memory concerning your letters, and to add any new features you have discovered.”
I hitched my chair up closer to the table.
D’Artois began by repeating his earlier remarks about the vortex of power that existed in Central Asia, and its historical manifestations in the unbelievable conquests of Genghis Khan and his successors.
“The assault,” he concluded, “will probably begin by the enemy’s establishing contact with the Fourth Plane. The first move will be made as soon as this one of the three rugs falls into their hands.”
“Well, why not destroy it, here and now?” I asked.
“Because until we have studied the rug, we can not be certain whether its presence is vitally necessary, or whether the space equations represented by its curves would suffice the enemy. In a word, we must be prepared to fight them with their own weapons. Thus we delay in order to study. Perhaps its destruction will suffice; perhaps we must in the end track them to their rendezvous and use our knowledge to overthrow them. We know only that they are here, in New Orleans, to make a permanent connection with the Fourth Plane.
“And now, Father Martin, let us get to work on our calculations,” said d’Artois as he turned to my desk and took from it paper, pencils, and colored crayons. “And you, mon ami, stand guard while we study this accursed thing. We have no right to invite the fate that overtook Panopoulos and Shekerjian.”
I loaded my Colt automatic, slipped it into my pocket, and made the rounds of the house, locking doors and windows. Then I posted myself where I could watch both the street, and, from an inside window, the courtyard of the house.
Sitting there and listening to the muttered remarks and occasional exclamations of d’Artois as he and Father Martin paused in their calculations to confer on some intricate bit of integration would have been the height of monotony: but this was no dry discussion of theory. The room was a battlefield. It was pervaded with the tension of actual physical combat. The priest’s strong features were set grimly as he hunched over the table; and d’Artois peered fiercely from beneath his shaggy brows at the many sheets of cross-ruled paper before him. They were fighting the master from High Asia: and that magnificent silken rug was mocking them as they sought to tear from its intricate mazes the secret of the Fourth Plane.
I glanced at my watch. Scarcely three hours had passed since we had left the Marigny house. Then I realized that the tense atmosphere of the room had made the time seem much longer.
* * * *
The crackle of the radio at the farther end of the room startled me. I leaped to my feet to cut off the power. Then I remembered that I had last set it to tune in on the local police calls, and paused.
“Attention all cars,” it began, after the station call. “Three men impersonating Federal Revenue Agents. Driving Packard, Louisiana License number 43376.” The number was twice repeated, then: “Number one: six feet, weight about 180. Very white skin. Brown eyes. Scar on forehead. Black hair. Age about 40. Broad features. Eyes slightly slanted.
“Number two: at wheel. No description.
“Number three: sat beside driver. No description.
“Last seen in 1400 block Louisiana Avenue heading toward Saint Charles. Wanted at headquarters for questioning. Detain at all costs. Report at once. McGowan.”
“Ha! We were just in time!” exclaimed d’Artois as he leaped to his feet. “They were trying to get the rug from la Marigny! And she reported them to the police. The slanted eyes betrayed him!”
“Shall I phone her for particulars?” I asked.
“Mordieu! Of all things, not that!” exclaimed d’Artois. “Imbécile! Will they not be watching her? Tapping her telephone? Tracing calls?”
He glanced at the dial setting of the short wave set, then continued, “Leave it as it is. Its occasional chatter will not disturb us. We know now that they will be making their next move. Eh bien, back to your post, and keep that siege-gun ready for visitors!”
Pierre and Father Martin resumed their calculations. Time and again I forced myself to relax from the unconscious tension of my muscles as I watched them in their desperate struggle with the mystery from High Asia. The enemy’s setback at the Marigny house had revealed our hand in the counter-attack: and the master would not remain idle. It was urgent that we solve the riddle, and destroy that satanic rug. A doom was even now seeking us. Two men armed with pencils, and one with a .45, striving to halt the march of the Golden Horde! Fantastic, and terrible.
It was dark now. I had drawn the shades. We had moved the table into a corner not commanded by any of the windows. We dared not chance a shot from the outside. We remembered Shekerjian and Panopoulos. The courtyard was a dangerously weak point in our defense. The enemy could approach from the roofs of the buildings whose walls enclosed the patio, and advance through the shadows.
Our hope was that Pierre’s movements had been so swift and secret that the enemy would not be abl
e to track him down in time. And once d’Artois succeeded in closing for ever the Gateway that they sought to open wide, that fierce old soldier would take the attack and hunt them down to the last man. The Master, if he but knew it, was himself in peril.
The outcome depended upon strokes of a pencil. Had it but been sword thrusts!
Midnight was approaching.
* * * *
Father Martin sighed wearily as he pushed his chair away from the table. Pierre shook his head, and ground a cigarette butt into the floor with his heel. I did not wonder at the gesture of disgust and baffled rage. For the past hour the room had been vibrant with intense concentration. I had begun glancing nervously about me, at times sensing a personal opposition to d’Artois and the priest. I had dismissed it as the result of a highly keyed imagination, until Pierre spoke.
“Mon père,” said d’Artois, “did you notice it also?”
The priest started and regarded d’Artois intently for a moment.
“Yes,” he admitted. “For the past half-hour something—I would almost say, some one, has been fighting me.” He stabbed with a red crayon at the paper before him. “And it was not that equation, either. A personal presence in the room has been opposing my efforts to reason this thing out.”
“Mordieu!” growled Pierre. “Then it was not my imagination. We outwitted them, and they do not know where we are. That is, their physical bodies do not know,” he amended. “So they are projecting themselves, or their mental force, into this very room. For the past hour my mind has been all awry. While the enemy is seeking the rug, and us, he is striving to prevent our learning the secret. Just how much have you deduced? Before this projected force addled our brains?”
“I was very close to the solution,” replied Father Martin. He then explained very briefly the mathematical relations he had deduced from the curves. His voice was hurried. He sensed that it would not be long before we would be overwhelmed either in body or mind.
“Magnifique!” exclaimed d’Artois. “Then with what I have done, we are almost through. Forward! Let us hurry before they completely paralyze us!”
His voice rang like a bugle sounding a charge.
They hunched forward once more over the table to renew the fight.
The fate of the world depended upon pencil strokes and integration symbols, and on the significance of strangely spiraling curves that marched across the sheets of paper.
The priest’s high forehead was now beaded with sweat. Pierre’s lean dark features were drawn. He muttered to himself as he calculated. The tension was heightening. At first I thought that it was the suppressed excitement of realizing that victory was around the corner. I sat clutching the arms of my chair, just as one watching men heaving at a heavy weight will contract his muscles in sympathy. Then I saw my error, and realized that it was not impending victory but the redoubled efforts of the Master that made the room vibrant with energy.
A mist was gathering and thickening the air. It swirled in eddies, and wraithlike wisps emerged from the corners. They were closing slowly in on the table. The lights were dimming. I could now look at the hundred-watt bulb and see its filament very clearly, so much was its incandescence obscured by the density of the air. Along the walls and in the shadows were shapes of spectral gray: vague blots whose quivering and twitching suggested monstrous forms seeking to assume substance.
We were walled in. The table was now an island in a fog-shrouded sea. The forms that lurked in the shadows were becoming more distinct. I could distinguish tall, bearded men with solemn faces. They regarded us menacingly, and rhythmically gestured toward us.
D’Artois, despairing but grim, thrust his chair aside as he rose.
“Look at them!” he cried, as with a sweep of his arm he indicated the ever-shifting, weaving fog wisps and the silent presences that they but half obscured. “They have projected their selves into space to seek us, and their thought-force to beat us! We know all but the ultimate secret. And that we can not get. We are lost, unless—”
“Light the gas grate!” he yelled. “Quickly! Destroy this accursed rug. We have waited too long!”
The one-hundred-watt globe over the table was now a sickly, half-hearted glow. The air was so dense that the features of d’Artois and Father Martin seemed to peer at me through veils. I struck a match and could barely see its wan flicker.
“Quick! The grate!” shouted d’Artois. “When their selves return to their bodies, they will know and will come to overpower us!”
But where was the gas grate with its imitation logs heaped on andirons? The mist had grown immeasurably denser even during those few moments of dismay. The mist about us was viscous as oil. A writhing impenetrable grayness walled us in.
I seized the rug and turned to plunge into the gray horror that surrounded us. But d’Artois seized me by the shoulder.
“Tenez!” he cried. “They may be in the shadows waiting for it. They may be materialized enough to grasp it!”
The filament of the bulb was now a dull reddish ember. Breathing was difficult. The density of the atmosphere hampered our movements even as waist-deep water impedes one’s wading ashore through the surf.
D’Artois cursed fiercely in a low voice as he paced back and forth, clenching his fists, striving to grasp at some thought that would save us. Father Martin’s lips moved soundlessly.
Then we became aware of something that was imperiously demanding our attention. As I glanced up, I saw that both Pierre and Father Martin were staring at the grayness that encircled us.
The presences that hemmed us in were slowly fading into their background. As they lost their identities a vortex of spiraling mist was momentarily becoming more and more dense.
“Mordieu!” exclaimed d’Artois. His lean, tanned features had become paper-white. “Did you see the center of that whirlpool?”
The priest nodded, and shuddered.
The vast sweeping spiral was dizzying. Its involute curve extended immeasurably beyond the confines of the room. My senses reeled, and I saw d’Artois and Father Martin clutching the edge of the table for support.
“Good God, Pierre, what is it?” I whispered.
“The bottom of that whirlpool extends beyond space as we know it,” replied d’Artois. “It is just as our calculations led us to expect. It is sucking the light out of this room as a centrifugal pump would empty it of water. We are marooned in space.”
He shivered. I noted that it was becoming colder in the room.
“Regardez,” he continued, “we are now in an island of dimness surrounded by a sea of absolute cold blackness. The rug is safe. We can not destroy it. The master has indeed found us.”
“Well, let’s try to get out!” I yelled. And before d’Artois could restrain me, I leaped toward the encircling grayness, but in vain. That twitching vibrant mistiness was an adamantine wall, I dropped half senseless to the floor, bruised by the shock as though I had dashed myself against the door of a safe.
“The master has found us, and we must await his pleasure,” said d’Artois resignedly, as I picked myself from the floor. “There is no power—”
“There is indeed a power!” declared Father Martin solemnly, with a gesture of invocation.
D’Artois nodded, and bowed his head.
“I beg your pardon, Father,” he muttered. But I saw that his reply testified to his unfailing courtesy rather than to his faith. I recalled his remarks about the three-dimensional god of a three-dimensional universe, and wondered how that calm priest could still hold to his belief.
The vortex was reversing its spiraling. Even as we watched, it became a vast evolute curve. We instinctively shrank, for its appearance was now as if a waterspout were to emerge from what had been a maelstrom in space. But the mists instead of jetting forth were coalescing. They became denser. We heard a whirring and humming as of monstrous flies buzzing and droning.<
br />
Then we saw him.
He was there, the Master.
His head and shoulders filled the room: a solemn presence, but shrouded with mists so that we could get only the impression of awful majesty and brooding omniscience that mortal eyes could not bear to scrutinize without a protecting veil.
“Pierre d’Artois,” said the Presence, “you might have thwarted us had you denied your childish curiosity and destroyed the rug. But now that you know, your knowledge will avail you nothing. Neither you nor your two acolytes may use that forbidden knowledge.
“An occultist, a scientist, and a soldier: we will use all three if you will serve us. If not, we will utterly destroy you and your assistants. We remember you from old times when you sought us in High Asia. Now that we have found you, you may profit by your knowledge as no man has ever before, or else you will be annihilated as no mortal has ever been reduced to non-existence.”
The voice paused. The mists shrouded the awful features and almost hid them. The room still reverberated with the surging thunder of that declaration, that threat combined with a promise.
D’Artois stared full into the shadows that marked where those all-seeing eyes had burned. His face was strangely exalted: and I knew that he shared with me the compelling charm of that mighty voice and that august, mist-shrouded face.
“Beware, my son,” said the priest at his side, “the spoiler and the outlaw is tempting you. The Rebel himself is speaking.”
That quiet voice cracked the spell. My exaltation at being included as one of the servants of such a Master was dispelled, and I trembled with fear.
“I will go,” said d’Artois. “But my acolytes are not suited—” The veiling mists thinned, and the features of the Presence became more sharply limned than before. The prodigious voice thundered again, “Your acolytes will go or we will destroy them. You have no present choice. You will choose when you are in our holy of holies, where you will see in full that which we have tonight hinted. We do not request. We command.”
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 17
