Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Recklow lighted his pipe. He said: “In the Government’s campaign against these eight foreigners who have begun a psychic campaign against the unsuspicious people of this decent Republic, with the purpose of surprising, overpowering and enslaving the minds of mankind by a misuse of psychic power, we agents of the Secret Service are slowly gaining the upper hand.

  “In this battle of minds we are gaining a victory. But we are winning solely and alone through the psychic ability and the loyalty and courage of a young girl who, through tragedy of circumstances, spent the years of her girlhood in the infamous Yezidee temple at Yian, and who learned from the devil-worshipers themselves not only this so-called magic of the Mongol sorcerers, but also how to meet its psychic menace and defeat it.”

  He looked at Benton, shrugged:

  “If you and if Cleves really feel the slightest repugnance toward the strange psychic ability of this brave and generous girl, I for one do not share it.”

  Benton reddened: “It isn’t exactly repugnance — —” But Recklow interrupted sharply:

  “Do you realise, Benton, what she’s already accomplished for us in our secret battle against Bolshevism? — against the very powers of hell itself, led by these Mongol sorcerers?

  “Of the Eight Assassins — or Sheiks-el-Djebel — who came to the United States to wield the dreadful weapon of psychic power against the minds of our people, and to pervert them and destroy all civilisation, — of the Eight Chief Assassins of the Eight Towers, this girl already has discovered and identified four, — Sanang, Gutchlug, Albert Feke, and Yarghouz; and she has destroyed the last three.”

  He sat calmly enjoying his pipe for a few moments’ silence, then:

  “Five of this sect of Assassins remain — five sly, murderous, psychic adepts who call themselves sorcerers. Except for Prince Sanang, I do not know who these other four men may be. I haven’t a notion. Nor have you. Nor do I believe that with all the resources of the United States Secret Service we ever should be able to discover these four Sheiks-el-Djebel except for the astounding spiritual courage and psychic experience of the young wife of Victor Cleves.”

  After a moment Selden nodded. “That is quite true,” he said simply. “We are utterly helpless against unknown psychic forces. And I, for one, feel no repugnance toward what Mrs. Cleves has done for all mankind and in the name of God.”

  “She’s a brave girl,” muttered Benton, “but it’s terrible to possess such knowledge and horrible to use it.”

  Recklow said: “The horror of it nearly killed the girl herself. Have you any idea how she must suffer by being forced to employ such terrific knowledge? by being driven to use it to combat this menace of hell? Can you imagine what this charming, sensitive, tragic young creature must feel when, with powers natural to her but unfamiliar to us, she destroys with her own mind and will-power demons in human shape who are about to destroy her?

  “Talk of nerve! Talk of abnegation! Talk of perfect loyalty and courage! There is more than these in Tressa Cleves. There is that dauntless bravery which faces worse than physical death. Because the child still believes that her soul is damned for whatever happened to her in the Yezidee temple; and that when these Yezidees succeed in killing her body, Erlik will surely seize the soul that leaves it.”

  There was a knocking at the door. Benton got up and opened it. Victor Cleves came in with his young wife.

  Tressa Cleves seemed to have grown since she had been away. Taller, a trifle paler, yet without even the subtlest hint of that charming maturity which the young and happily married woman invariably wears, her virginal allure now verged vaguely on the delicate edges of austerity.

  Cleves, sunburnt and vigorous, looked older, somehow — far less boyish — and he seemed more silent than when, nearly seven months before, he had been assigned to the case of Tressa Norne.

  Recklow, Selden and Benton greeted them warmly; to each in turn Tressa gave her narrow, sun-tanned hand. Recklow led her to a seat. A servant came with iced fruit juice and little cakes and cigarettes.

  Conversation, aimless and general, fulfilling formalities, gradually ceased.

  A full June moon stared through the open windows — searching for the traditional bride, perhaps — and its light silvered a pale and lovely figure that might possibly have passed for the pretty ghost of a bride, but not for any girl who had married because she was loved.

  Recklow broke the momentary silence, bluntly:

  “Have you anything to report, Cleves?”

  The young fellow hesitated:

  “My wife has, I believe.”

  The others turned to her. She seemed, for a moment, to shrink back in her chair, and, as her eyes involuntarily sought her husband, there was in them a vague and troubled appeal.

  Cleves said in a sombre voice: “I need scarcely remind you how deeply distasteful this entire and accursed business is to my wife. But she is going to see it through, whatever the cost. And we four men understand something of what it has cost her — is costing her — in violence to her every instinct.”

  “We honour her the more,” said Recklow quietly.

  “We couldn’t honour her too much,” said Cleves.

  A slight colour came into Tressa’s face; she bent her head, but Recklow saw her eyes steal sideways toward her husband.

  Still bowed a little in her chair, she seemed to reflect for a while concerning what she had to say; then, looking up at John Recklow:

  “I saw Sanang.”

  “Good heavens! Where?” he demanded.

  “I — don’t — know.”

  Cleves, flushing with embarrassment, explained: “She saw him clairvoyantly. She was lying in the hammock. You remember I had a trained nurse for her after — what happened in Orchid Lodge.”

  Tressa looked miserably at Recklow, — dumbly, for a moment. Then her lips unclosed.

  “I saw Prince Sanang,” she repeated. “He was near the sea. There were rocks — cottages on cliffs — and very brilliant flowers in tiny, pocket-like gardens.

  “Sanang was walking on the cliffs with another man. There were forests, inland.”

  “Do you know who the other man was?” asked Recklow gently.

  “Yes. He was one of the Eight. I recognised him. When I was a girl he came once to the Temple of Yian, all alone, and spread his shroud on the pink marble steps. And we temple girls mocked him and threw stemless roses on the shroud, telling him they were human heads with which to grease his toug.”

  She became excited and sat up straighter in her chair, and her strange little laughter rippled like a rill among pebbles.

  “I threw a big rose without a stem upon the shroud,” she exclaimed, “and I cried out, ‘Niaz!’ which means, ‘Courage,’ and I mocked him, saying, ‘Djamouk Khagan,’ when he was only a Khan, of course; and I laughed and rubbed one finger against the other, crying out, ‘Toug ia glachakho!’ which means, ‘The toug is anointed.’ And which was very impudent of me, because Djamouk was a Sheik-el-Djebel and Khan of the Fifth Tower, and entitled to a toug and to eight men and a Toughtchi. And it is a grave offence to mock at the anointing of a toug.”

  She paused, breathless, her splendid azure eyes sparkling with the memory of that girlish mischief. Then their brilliancy faded; she bit her lip and stole an uncertain glance at her husband.

  And after a pause she explained in a very subdued voice that the “Iagla michi,” or action of “greasing the toug,” or standard, was done when a severed human head taken in battle was cast at the foot of the lance shaft stuck upright in the ground.

  “You see,” she said sadly, “we temple girls, being already damned, cared little what we said, even to such a terrible man as Djamouk Khan. And even had the ghost of old Tchinguiz Khagan himself come to the temple and looked at us out of his tawny eyes, I think we might have done something saucy.”

  Tressa’s pretty face was spiritless, now; she leaned back in her armchair and they heard an unconscious sigh escape her.

  “Ai-ya! Ai-ya!
” she murmured to herself, “what crazy things we did on the rose-marble steps, Yulun and I, so long — so long ago.”

  Cleves got up and went over to stand beside his wife’s chair.

  “What happened is this,” he said heavily. “During my wife’s convalescence after that Yarghouz affair, she found herself, at a certain moment, clairvoyant. And she thought she saw — she did see — Sanang, and an Asiatic she recognised as being one of the chiefs of the Assassins sect, whose name is Djamouk.

  “But, except that it was somewhere near the sea — some summer colony probably on the Atlantic coast — she does not know where this pair of jailbirds roost. And this is what we have come here to report.”

  Benton, politely appalled, tried not to look incredulous. But it was evident that Selden and Recklow had no doubts.

  “Of course,” said Recklow calmly, “the thing to do is for you and your wife to try to find this place she saw.”

  “Make a tour of all such ocean-side resorts until Mrs. Cleves recognises the place she saw,” added Selden. And to Recklow he added: “I believe there are several perfectly genuine cases on record where clairvoyants have aided the police.”

  “Several authentic cases,” said Recklow quietly. But Benton’s face was a study.

  Tressa looked up at her husband. He dropped his hand reassuringly on her shoulder and nodded with a slight smile.

  “There — there was something else,” she said with considerable hesitation— “something not quite in line of duty — perhaps — —”

  “It seems to concern Benton,” added Cleves, smiling.

  “What is it?” inquired Selden, smiling also as Benton’s features froze to a mask.

  “Let me tell you, first,” interrupted Cleves, “that my wife’s psychic ability and skill can make me visualise and actually see scenes and people which, God knows, I never before laid eyes upon, but which she has both seen and known.

  “And one morning, in Florida, I asked her to do something strange — something of that sort to amuse me — and we were sitting on the steps of our cottage — you know, the old club-house at Orchid! — and the first I knew I saw, in the mist on the St. Johns, a Chinese bridge humped up over that very commonplace stream, and thousands of people passing over it, — and a city beyond — the town of Yian, Tressa tells me, — and I heard the Buddhist bells and the big temple gong and the noises in streets and on the water — —”

  He was becoming considerably excited at the memory, and his lean face reddened and he gesticulated as he spoke:

  “It was astounding, Recklow! There was that bridge, and all those people moving over it; and the city beyond, and the boats and shipping, and the vast murmur of multitudes.... And then, there on the bridge crossing toward Yian, I saw a young girl, who turned and looked back at my wife and laughed.”

  “And I told him it was Yulun,” said Tressa, simply.

  “A playfellow of my wife’s in Yian,” explained Cleves. “But if she were really Chinese she didn’t look like what are my own notions of a Chinese girl.”

  “Yulun came from Black China,” said Mrs. Cleves. “I taught her English. I loved her dearly. I was her most intimate friend in Yian.”

  There ensued a silence, broken presently by Benton; and:

  “Where do I appear in this?” he asked stiffly.

  Tressa’s smile was odd; she looked at Selden and said:

  “When I was convalescent I was lonely.... I made the effort one evening. And I found Yulun. And again she was on a bridge. But she was dressed as I am. And the bridge was one of those great, horrible steel monsters that sprawl across the East River. And I was astonished, and I said, ‘Yulun, darling, are you really here in America and in New York, or has a demon tangled the threads of thought to mock my mind in illness?’

  “Then Yulun looked very sorrowfully at me and wrote in Arabic characters, in the air, the name of our enemy who once came to the Lake of Ghosts for love of her — Yaddin-ed-Din, Tougtchi to Djamouk the Fox.... And who went his way again amid our scornful laughter.... He is a demon. And he was tangling my thread of thought!”

  Tressa became exceedingly animated once more. She rose and came swiftly to where Benton was standing.

  “And what do you think!” she said eagerly. “I said to her, ‘Yulun! Yulun! Will you make the effort and come to me if I make the effort? Will you come to me, beloved?’ And Yulun made ‘Yes,’ with her lips.”

  After a silence: “But — where do I come in?” inquired Benton, stiffly fearful of such matters.

  “You came in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You came in the door while Yulun and I were talking.”

  “When?”

  “When you came to see me after I was better, and you and Mr. Selden were going North with Mr. Recklow. Don’t you remember; I was lying in the hammock in the moonlight, and Victor told you I was asleep?”

  “Yes, of course — —”

  “I was not asleep. I had made the effort and I was with Yulun.... I did not know you were standing beside my hammock in the moonlight until Yulun told me.... And that is what I am to tell you; Yulun saw you.... And Yulun has written it in Chinese, in Eighur characters and in Arabic, — tracing them with her forefinger in the air — that Yulun, loveliest in Yian, flame-slender and very white, has seen her heart, like a pink pearl afire, burning between your august hands.”

  “My hands!” exclaimed Benton, very red.

  There fell an odd silence. Nobody laughed.

  Tressa came nearer to Benton, wistful, uncertain, shy.

  “Would you care to see Yulun?” she asked.

  “Well — no,” he said, startled. “I — I shall not deny that such things worry me a lot, Mrs. Cleves. I’m a — an Episcopalian.”

  The tension released, Selden was the first to laugh.

  “There’s no use blinking the truth,” he said; “we’re up against something absolutely new. Of course, it isn’t magic. It can, of course, be explained by natural laws about which we happen to know nothing at present.”

  Recklow nodded. “What do we know about the human mind? It has been proven that no thought can originate within that mass of convoluted physical matter called the brain. It has been proven that something outside the brain originates thought and uses the brain as a vehicle to incubate it. What do we know about thought?”

  Selden, much interested, sat cogitating and looking at Mrs. Cleves. But Benton, still flushed and evidently nervous, sat staring out of the window at the full moon, and twisting an unlighted cigarette to shreds.

  “Why didn’t you tell Benton when the thing occurred down there at Orchid Lodge, the night we called to say good-bye?” asked Selden, curiously.

  Tressa gave him a distressed smile: “I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me. And I was afraid that you and Mr. Recklow, even if you believed it, might not like — like me any the better for — for being clairvoyant.”

  Recklow came over, bent his handsome grey head, and kissed her hand.

  “I never liked any woman better, nor respected any woman as deeply,” he said. And, lifting his head, he saw tears sparkling in her eyes.

  “My dear,” he said in a low voice, and his firm hand closed over the slim fingers he had kissed.

  Benton got up from his chair, went to the window, turned shortly and came over to Tressa.

  “You’re braver than I ever could learn to be,” he said shortly. “I ask your pardon if I seem sceptical. I’m more worried than incredulous. There’s something born in me — part of me — that shrinks from anything that upsets my orthodox belief in the future life. But — if you wish me to see this — this girl — Yulun — it’s quite all right.”

  She said softly, and with gentle wonder: “I know of nothing that could upset your belief, Mr. Benton. There is only one God. And if Mahomet be His prophet, or if he be Lord Buddha, or if your Lord Christ be vice-regent to the Most High, I do not know. All I know is that God is God, and that He prevailed over Satan who was
stoned. And that in Paradise is eternal life, and in hell demons hide where dwells Erlik, Prince of Darkness.”

  Benton, silent and secretly aghast at her theology, said nothing. Recklow pleasantly but seriously denied that Satan and his demons were actual and concrete creatures.

  Again Cleves’s hand fell lightly on his wife’s shoulder, in a careless gesture of reassurance. And, to Benton, “No soul is ever lost,” he said, calmly. “I don’t exactly know how that agrees with your orthodoxy, Benton. But it is surely so.”

  “I don’t know myself,” said Benton. “I hope it’s so.” He looked at Tressa a moment and then blurted out: “Anyway, if ever there was a soul in God’s keeping and guarded by His angels, it’s your wife’s!”

  “That also is true,” said Cleves quietly.

  “By the way,” remarked Recklow carelessly, “I’ve arranged to have you stop at the Ritz while you’re in town, Mrs. Cleves. You and your husband are to occupy the apartment adjoining this. Where is your luggage, Victor?”

  “In our apartment.”

  “That won’t do,” said Recklow decisively. “Telephone for it.”

  Cleves went to the telephone, but Recklow took the instrument out of his hand and called the number. The voice of one of his own agents answered.

  Cleves was standing alone by the open window when Recklow hung up the telephone. Tressa, on the sofa, had been whispering with Benton. Selden, looking over the evening paper by the rose-shaded lamp, glanced up as Recklow went over to Cleves.

  “Victor,” he said, “your man has been murdered. His throat was cut; his head was severed completely. Your luggage has been ransacked and so has your apartment. Three of my men are in possession, and the local police seem to comprehend the necessity of keeping the matter out of the newspapers. What was in your baggage?”

  “Nothing,” said Cleves, ghastly pale.

  “All right. We’ll have your effects packed up again and brought over here. Are you going to tell your wife?”

  Cleves, still deathly pale, cast a swift glance toward her. She sat on the sofa in animated conversation with Benton. She laughed once, and Benton smiled at what she was saying.