“Did you get their conversation?”
“I’ve got a record of the gibberish. It requires an interpreter, of course.”
“I suppose so. I’ll take the records east with me to-morrow, and by the same token I’d better notify New York that I’m leaving.”
He went, half-undressed, to the telephone, got the telegraph office, and sent the following message:
“Recklow, New York:
“Leaving to-morrow for N. Y. with samples. Retain expert in Oriental fabrics.
“Victor Cleves.”
“Report for me, too,” said the dark young man, who was still enjoying his cigar on his pillows.
So Cleves sent another telegram, directed also to
“Recklow, New York:
“Benton and I are watching the market. Chinese importations fluctuate. Recent consignment per Nan-yang Maru will be carefully inspected and details forwarded.
“Alek Selden.”
In the next room Gutchlug could hear the voice of Cleves at the telephone, but he merely shrugged his heavy shoulders in contempt. For he had other things to do beside eavesdropping.
Also, for the last hour — in fact, ever since Sanang’s departure — something had been happening to him — something that happens to a Hassani only once in a lifetime. And now this unique thing had happened to him — to him, Gutchlug Khan — to him before whose Khiounnou ancestors eighty-one thousand nations had bowed the knee.
It had come to him at last, this dread thing, unheralded, totally unexpected, a few minutes after Sanang had departed.
And he suddenly knew he was going to die.
And, when, presently, he comprehended it, he bent his grizzled head and listened seriously. And, after a little silence, he heard his soul bidding him farewell.
So the chatter of white men at a telephone in the next apartment had no longer any significance for him. Whether or not they had been spying on him; whether they were plotting, made no difference to him now.
He tested his knife’s edge with his thumb and listened gravely to his soul bidding him farewell.
But, for a Yezidee, there was still a little detail to attend to before his soul departed; — two matters to regulate. One was to select his shroud. The other was to cut the white throat of this young snow-leopardess called Keuke Mongol, the Yezidee temple girl.
And he could steal down to her bedroom and finish that matter in five minutes.
But first he must choose his shroud, as is the custom of the Yezidee.
That office, however, was quickly accomplished in a country where fine white sheets of linen are to be found on every hotel bed.
So, on his way to the door, his naked knife in his right hand, he paused to fumble under the bed-covers and draw out a white linen sheet.
Something hurt his hand like a needle. He moved it, felt the thing squirm under his fingers and pierce his palm again and again. With a shriek, he tore the bedclothes from the bed.
A little yellow snake lay coiled there.
He got as far as the telephone, but could not use it. And there he fell heavily, shaking the room and dragging the instrument down with him.
There was some excitement. Cleves and Selden in their bathrobes went in to look at the body. The hotel physician diagnosed it as heart-trouble. Or, possibly, poison. Some gazed significantly at the naked knife still clutched in the dead man’s hands.
Around the wrist of the other hand was twisted a pliable gold bracelet representing a little snake. It had real emeralds for eyes.
It had not been there when Gutchlug died.
But nobody except Sanang could know that. And later when Sanang came back and found Gutchlug very dead on the bed and a policeman sitting outside, he offered no information concerning the new bracelet shaped like a snake with real emeralds for eyes, which adorned the dead man’s left wrist.
Toward evening, however, after an autopsy had confirmed the house physician’s diagnosis that heart-disease had finished Gutchlug, Sanang mustered enough courage to go to the desk in the lobby and send up his card to Miss Norne.
It appeared, however, that Miss Norne had left for Chicago about noon.
CHAPTER III
GREY MAGIC
To Victor Cleves came the following telegram in code:
“Washington “April 14th, 1919.”
“Investigation ordered by the State Department as the result of frequent mention in despatches of Chinese troops operating with the Russian Bolsheviki forces has disclosed that the Bolsheviki are actually raising a Chinese division of 30,000 men recruited in Central Asia. This division has been guilty of the greatest cruelties. A strange rumour prevails among the Allied forces at Archangel that this Chinese division is led by Yezidee and Hassani officers belonging to the sect of devil-worshipers and that they employ black arts and magic in battle.
“From information so far gathered by the several branches of the United States Secret Service operating throughout the world, it appears possible that the various revolutionary forces of disorder, in Europe and Asia, which now are violently threatening the peace and security, of all established civilisation on earth, may have had a common origin. This origin, it is now suspected, may date back to a very remote epoch; the wide-spread forces of violence and merciless destruction may have had their beginning among some ancient and predatory race whose existence was maintained solely by robbery and murder.
“Anarchists, terrorists, Bolshevists, Reds of all shades and degrees, are now believed to represent in modern times what perhaps once was a tribe of Assassins — a sect whose religion was founded upon a common predilection for crimes of violence.
“On this theory then, for the present, the United States Government will proceed with this investigation of Bolshevism; and the Secret Service will continue to pay particular attention to all Orientals in the United States and other countries. You personally are formally instructed to keep in touch with XLY-371 (Alek Selden) and ZB-303 (James Benton), and to employ every possible means to become friendly with the girl Tressa Norne, win her confidence, and, if possible, enlist her actively in the Government Service as your particular aid and comrade.
“It is equally important that the movements of the Oriental, called Sanang, be carefully observed in order to discover the identity and whereabouts of his companions. However, until further instructions he is not to be taken into custody. M. H. 2479.
“(Signed) “(John Recklow.)”
The long despatch from John Recklow made Cleves’s duty plain enough.
For months, now, Selden and Benton had been watching Tressa Norne. And they had learned practically nothing about her.
And now the girl had come within Cleves’s sphere of operation. She had been in New York for two weeks. Telegrams from Benton in Chicago, and from Selden in Buffalo, had prepared him for her arrival.
He had his men watching her boarding-house on West Twenty-eighth Street, men to follow her, men to keep their eyes on her at the theatre, where every evening, at 10:45, her entr’ acte was staged. He knew where to get her. But he, himself, had been on the watch for the man Sanang; and had failed to find the slightest trace of him in New York, although warned that he had arrived.
So, for that evening, he left the hunt for Sanang to others, put on his evening clothes, and dined with fashionable friends at the Patroons’ Club, who never for an instant suspected that young Victor Cleves was in the Service of the United States Government. About half-past nine he strolled around to the theatre, desiring to miss as much as possible of the popular show without being too late to see the curious little entr’ acte in which this girl, Tressa Norne, appeared alone.
He had secured an aisle seat near the stage at an outrageous price; the main show was still thundering and fizzing and glittering as he entered the theatre; so he stood in the rear behind the orchestra until the descending curtain extinguished the outrageous glare and din.
Then he went down the aisle, and as he seated himself Tressa Norne stepped from the wings
and stood before the lowered curtain facing an expectant but oddly undemonstrative audience.
The girl worked rapidly, seriously, and in silence. She seemed a mere child there behind the footlights, not more than sixteen anyway — her winsome eyes and wistful lips unspoiled by the world’s wisdom.
Yet once or twice the mouth drooped for a second and the winning eyes darkened to a remoter blue — the brooding iris hue of far horizons.
She wore the characteristic tabard of stiff golden tissue and the gold pagoda-shaped headpiece of a Yezidee temple girl. Her flat, slipper-shaped foot-gear was of stiff gold, too, and curled upward at the toes.
All this accentuated her apparent youth. For in face and throat no firmer contours had as yet modified the soft fullness of immaturity; her limbs were boyish and frail, and her bosom more undecided still, so that the embroidered breadth of gold fell flat and straight from her chest to a few inches above the ankles.
She seemed to have no stock of paraphernalia with which to aid the performance; no assistant, no orchestral diversion, nor did she serve herself with any magician’s patter. She did her work close to the footlights.
Behind her loomed a black curtain; the strip of stage in front was bare even of carpet; the orchestra remained mute.
But when she needed anything — a little table, for example — well, it was suddenly there where she required it — a tripod, for instance, evidently fitted to hold the big iridescent bubble of glass in which swarmed little tropical fishes — and which arrived neatly from nowhere. She merely placed her hands before her as though ready to support something weighty which she expected and — suddenly, the huge crystal bubble was visible, resting between her hands. And when she tired of holding it, she set it upon the empty air and let go of it; and instead of crashing to the stage with its finny rainbow swarm of swimmers, out of thin air appeared a tripod to support it.
Applause followed, not very enthusiastic, for the sort of audience which sustains the shows of which her performance was merely an entr’ acte is an audience responsive only to the obvious.
Nobody ever before had seen that sort of magic in America. People scarcely knew whether or not they quite liked it. The lightning of innovation stupefies the dull; ignorance is always suspicious of innovation — always afraid to put itself on record until its mind is made up by somebody else.
So in this typical New York audience approbation was cautious, but every fascinated eye remained focused on this young girl who continued to do incredible things, which seemed to resemble “putting something over” on them; a thing which no uneducated American conglomeration ever quite forgives.
The girl’s silence, too, perplexed them; they were accustomed to gabble, to noise, to jazz, vocal and instrumental, to that incessant metropolitan clamour which fills every second with sound in a city whose only distinction is its din. Stage, press, art, letters, social existence unless noisy mean nothing in Gotham; reticence, leisure, repose are the three lost arts. The megaphone is the city’s symbol; its chiefest crime, silence.
The girl having finished with the big glass bubble full of tiny fish, picked it up and tossed it aside. For a moment it apparently floated there in space like a soap-bubble. Changing rainbow tints waxed and waned on the surface, growing deeper and more gorgeous until the floating globe glowed scarlet, then suddenly burst into flame and vanished. And only a strange, sweet perfume lingered in the air.
But she gave her perplexed audience no time to wonder; she had seated herself on the stage and was already swiftly busy unfolding a white veil with which she presently covered herself, draping it over her like a tent.
The veil seemed to be translucent; she was apparently visible seated beneath it. But the veil turned into smoke, rising into the air in a thin white cloud; and there, where she had been seated, was a statue of white stone the image of herself! — in all the frail springtide of early adolescence — a white statue, cold, opaque, exquisite in its sculptured immobility.
There came, the next moment, a sound of distant thunder; flashes lighted the blank curtain; and suddenly a vein of lightning and a sharper peal shattered the statue to fragments.
There they lay, broken bits of her own sculptured body, glistening in a heap behind the footlights. Then each fragment began to shimmer with a rosy internal light of its own, until the pile of broken marble glowed like living coals under thickening and reddening vapours. And, presently, dimly perceptible, there she was in the flesh again, seated in the fiery centre of the conflagration, stretching her arms luxuriously, yawning, seemingly awakening from refreshing slumber, her eyes unclosing to rest with a sort of confused apology upon her astounded audience.
As she rose to her feet nothing except herself remained on the stage — no débris, not a shred of smoke, not a spark.
She came down, then, across an inclined plank into the orchestra among the audience.
In the aisle seat nearest her sat Victor Cleves. His business was to be there that evening. But she didn’t know that, knew nothing about him — had never before set eyes on him.
At her gesture of invitation he made a cup of both his hands. Into these she poured a double handful of unset diamonds — or what appeared to be diamonds — pressed her own hands above his for a second — and the diamonds in his palms had become pearls.
These were passed around to people in the vicinity, and finally returned to Mr. Cleves, who, at her request, covered the heap of pearls with both his hands, hiding them entirely from view.
At her nod he uncovered them. The pearls had become emeralds. Again, while he held them, and without even touching him, she changed them into rubies. Then she turned away from him, apparently forgetting that he still held the gems, and he sat very still, one cupped hand over the other, while she poured silver coins into a woman’s gloved hands, turned them into gold coins, then flung each coin into the air, where it changed to a living, fragrant rose and fell among the audience.
Presently she seemed to remember Cleve, came back down the aisle, and under his close and intent gaze drew from his cupped hands, one by one, a score of brilliant little living birds, which continually flew about her and finally perched, twittering, on her golden headdress — a rainbow-crest of living jewels.
As she drew the last warm, breathing little feathered miracle from Cleves’s hands and released it, he said rapidly under his breath: “I want a word with you later. Where?”
She let her clear eyes rest on him for a moment, then with a shrug so slight that it was perceptible, perhaps, only to him, she moved on along the inclined way, stepped daintily over the footlights, caught fire, apparently, nodded to a badly rattled audience, and sauntered off, burning from head to foot.
What applause there was became merged in a dissonant instrumental outburst from the orchestra; the great god Jazz resumed direction, the mindless audience breathed freely again as the curtain rose upon a familiar, yelling turbulence, including all that Gotham really understands and cares for — legs and noise.
Victor Cleves glanced up at the stage, then continued to study the name of the girl on the programme. It was featured in rather pathetic solitude under “Entr’ acte.” And he read further: “During the entr’ acte Miss Tressa Norne will entertain you with several phases of Black Magic. This strange knowledge was acquired by Miss Norne from the Yezidees, among which almost unknown people still remain descendants of that notorious and formidable historic personage known in the twelfth century as The Old Man of the Mountain — or The Old Man of Mount Alamout.
“The pleasant profession of this historic individual was assassination; and some historians now believe that genuine occult power played a part in his dreadful record — a record which terminated only when the infantry of Genghis Khan took Mount Alamout by storm and hanged the Old Man of the Mountain and burned his body under a boulder of You-Stone.
“For Miss Norne’s performance there appears to be no plausible, practical or scientific explanation.
“During her performance the c
urtain will remain lowered for fifteen minutes and will then rise on the last act of ‘You Betcha Life.’”
The noisy show continued while Cleves, paying it scant attention, brooded over the programme. And ever his keen, grey eyes reverted to her name, Tressa Norne.
Then, for a little while, he settled back and let his absent gaze wander over the galloping battalions of painted girls and the slapstick principals whose perpetual motion evoked screams of approbation from the audience amid the din of the great god Jazz.
He had an aisle seat; he disturbed nobody when he went out and around to the stage door.
The aged man on duty took his card, called a boy and sent it off. The boy returned with the card, saying that Miss Norne had already dressed and departed.
Cleves tipped him and then tipped the doorman heavily.
“Where does she live?” he asked.
“Say,” said the old man, “I dunno, and that’s straight. But them ladies mostly goes up to the roof for a look in at the ‘Moonlight Masque’ and a dance afterward. Was you ever up there?”
“Yes.”
“Seen the new show?”
“No.”
“Well, g’wan up while you can get a table. And I bet the little girl will be somewheres around.”
“The little girl” was “somewheres around.” He secured a table, turned and looked about at the vast cabaret into which only a few people had yet filtered, and saw her at a distance in the carpeted corridor buying violets from one of the flower-girls.
A waiter placed a reserve card on his table; he continued on around the outer edge of the auditorium.
Miss Norne had already seated herself at a small table in the rear, and a waiter was serving her with iced orange juice and little French cakes.
When the waiter returned Cleves went up and took off his hat.
“May I talk with you for a moment, Miss Norne?” he said.
The girl looked up, the wheat-straw still between her scarlet lips. Then, apparently recognising in him the young man in the audience who had spoken to her, she resumed her business of imbibing orange juice.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 951
