Читать книгу Trail of Fu Manchu - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTHE TOMB OF THE DEMURASES
“You are sure there is no other means of access to the cemetery?”
“Quite, sir.”
The quavering voice of the old attendant was in harmony with his venerable but wretched appearance. He seemed to belong to the clammy mist; to the phantom monuments which peered through it. He might have been an exhalation from one of the ancient tombs. His straggling grey beard, his watery, nearly sightless eyes, his rusty black garb. A mental vision of Fleurette appeared before Alan Sterling—young, tall, divinely vigorous, an exquisite figure of health and beauty; yet perhaps she lay here, stricken down inscrutably in the bloom and fullness of spring, whilst such shadowy, unhappy beings as this old mortuary keeper survived, sadly watching each fallen bud returning to earth, our common mother, who gives us life, in whose arms we sleep.
“I’ve got men at both gates, sir,” Gallaho growled, “and two more patrolling. Anybody suspicious, they have orders to hold. A rather queer thing has been reported: may have no bearing on the case, but——”
“What?” Nayland Smith asked.
“A small head-stone has been stolen!”
“A small head-stone?”
“Yes, Sir Denis. From a child’s grave. Seems a useless sort of theft, doesn’t it?”
“Possibly not!” he snapped. “I’m glad you mentioned this, Inspector.”
He nodded to the old man.
A dim light shone out from the door of the lodge. It was difficult to imagine the domestic life of this strange creature whose home was amongst sepulchres; all but impossible to believe that he knew anything of human happiness; that joy had ever visited that ghastly habitation.
“Mr. Roberts?”
A young man wearing a dark, waisted overcoat and a muffler conceived in Eton colours, stepped languidly forward out of veiling mists. He wore a soft black hat of most fashionable shape; his small, aristocratic features registered intense boredom. From a pocket of his overcoat he produced a number of documents, and handed them to the old man, gingerly, as if offering a fish to a seal.
“Everything is in order,” he said; “you need not trouble to look them over.”
“There’s no need to waste time,” growled Gallaho. “Let’s have the key.” He raised his voice. “Dorchester!” he shouted.
A uniformed constable appeared, carrying a leather bag, as:
“I suppose it’s all right,” quivered the old mortuary keeper, looking down blindly at the papers in his hand. “But I shall have to enter it all up, you know.”
“You can do that while we’re on the job,” said Gallaho. “The keys.”
When, presently, led by a constable carrying a red lantern they proceeded in silence along a narrow path around which ghostly monuments clustered, it might have been noted, save that the light was poor, that Mr. Roberts, Sir Harold Sims’ representative, looked unusually pale. To the left they turned, along another avenue of tombs, and then to the right again, presently penetrating to the oldest part of the cemetery. Grey and awesome, fronted by sentinel cypress trees, ill-nourished and drooping, a building resembling a small chapel loomed out of the fog. There was a little grassy forecourt fronted by iron railings, and a stained glass window right and left of a massive teak door intricately studded with iron nails. A constable in plain clothes was standing there.
“This is the Demuras vault, sir,” he reported.
The company pulled up and stood for a moment looking at the building. Despite the chill of the night, Alan Sterling became aware of the fact that perspiration was trickling down his ribs. He glanced at Gallaho who held a bunch of keys in his hand, one separated from the others. The pugnacious face of the detective registered no emotion whatever. Nayland Smith turned to the plain clothes officer, and:
“There may be someone hiding among the monuments,” he said, sharply. “You have seen nothing?”
“No, sir.”
“If you see or hear anything, while we are inside—sing out, and do your best to make a capture.”
“Very good, sir; you can leave it to me.”
“Go ahead, Gallaho.”
Gallaho opened the little gate, which was not locked, and advanced up three steps to the massive teak door. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it. It was very stiff; it creaked dismally, but responded—and the detective pushed the door open....
When at last the party stood in the vault of the Demuras, dimly lighted by two police lamps and a red lantern, the fog had entered behind them, touching every man with phantom fingers. The dweller amongst the tombs arrived, belated, coming down the stone steps pantingly, and seeming a fitting occupant of this ghastly place.
“I understand,” snapped Nayland Smith, “that this is the one we want.” He pointed, then turned to Mr. Roberts. “Is it quite in accordance with the wishes of the Home Office that I should open this shell?”
Mr. Roberts drew a handkerchief from an inner pocket and delicately wiped his forehead. He had removed his black hat.
“Quite all right, Sir Denis. This is really rather distressing.”
“I am sorry, but much is at stake.”
Constable Dorchester came forward. He had discarded his helmet, revealing a closely cropped head of brilliantly red and vigorously upstanding hair. His hazel eyes glittered excitedly.
“Shall I start, sir?”
“Yes, carry on ...”
Inspector Gallaho, twirling his wide-brimmed bowler in stubby muscular hands, chewed phantom gun. The old sexton stood at the foot of the steps in an attitude which might have been that of prayer. Alan Sterling turned aside, looking anywhere but at the new and brightly polished sarcophagus which had been removed from its niche and which might contain ...
A cracked bell in the mortuary chapel dimly chimed the hour.
“Do you mind if I wait outsider” said Mr. Roberts. “The fog seems to be settling in this place. It’s following us in—look—it’s coming down the steps in waves.”
“Quite alright,” growled Gallaho; “everything is in order, sir.”
Mr. Roberts ascended the steps, brushing almost hastily past the ancient warden who stood head bowed, at their foot.
The squeak of the screws was harrowing. Long trailers of mist wavered fantastically in the dim opening. Generations of Demurases seemed to stir in their happy vineyards and to look down upon the intruders. It was a desecration of their peace—Nayland Smith knew it. By what means, he was unable to guess, but by some means, Dr. Fu Manchu had secured access to this mausoleum.
“Do you mind lending me a hand, sir?”
Constable Dorchester, the handyman of the party, addressed Alan Sterling. The latter turned, clenched his teeth, and:
“O.K.,” he replied. “How can I help?”
“Just get hold of that end, sir, and ease it a bit. I’ll get hold of this.”
“Right.”
Nayland Smith seemed to be listening for sounds from above. The watcher of the dead, hands clasped, was apparently praying. Chief-inspector Gallaho, from time to time, jerked out words of advice, and then resumed his phantom chewing.
The lid was removed. Sterling dropped back, raising his arms to his eyes.
“Steady!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Keep your grip, Sterling.”
“May God forgive them, whoever they were,” came the sepulchral voice of the old sexton.
The leaden shell had been sawn open and its top removed....
“Who lies there?” Sterling whispered: “Who is it?”
None answered. Complete silence claimed the tomb of the Demurases, until:
“Look!” said Nayland Smith ...
