Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 9

“It is purely and simply a scientific formula for preparing a certain kind of light,” said Rorke.

“Sci-scientific,” echoed Stefanson, engaged in pouring wine from the third bottle.

“I said ‘scientific.’ It contains signs unfamiliar to any student of Egyptian hieroglyphics, but the text which I have translated makes it clear that these are really diagrams. I have assembled them imperfectly. Here is the result.” The casual voice could not conceal his enthusiasm. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, this is a figure of a complete lamp, similar to that of which there is a fragment in the Metropolitan Museum. And the text—” he brought his muscular hand down upon the papyrus—“describes the making of such a lamp!”

Stefanson, glass in hand, came to the big table, almost pushing Rorke aside, as he bent, peering, at the written notes.

“You see what I mean, Lincoln,” Rorke went on: “I realized that this wasn’t just an archæological treasure—it was a practical discovery which might revolutionize the lighting systems of the world.”

Stefanson was in the chair now, busily scribbling on a writing block.

There came a rap on the door. Lurgan entered.

“I got through to Mohammed Bey’s apartment at the hotel, sir,” he reported, “and a lady—his secretary, I presume—requested me to offer the Bey’s apologies, but he was summoned to a vital conference. He will call you, sir, directly he is disengaged, to apologize in person.”

The “secretary” Lincoln Hayes mused, was probably the girl of the flame-colored hair. He permitted her bewitching image to dominate his mind for a moment, then:

“Good,” he said.

The butler went out.

“The man from whom I got the thing—he wanted the money to escape from Egypt—was hauled out of the Nile the same night.”

“Goo-good God!” muttered Stefanson, without looking up from his task.

“I temporarily abandoned the other job,” Rorke went on in his cool, rather tired voice. “I worked on the papyrus—it was not an easy matter. I should have loved another opinion, but, of course, I dared not take one. I cabled you about this time, Lincoln. I don’t know if some leakage occurred there, but the next thing of interest cropped up a few nights later....

“It was my custom to lock the papyrus in that steel dispatch box—” he pointed—“which I had bought for the purpose, and to lodge it in the hotel safe. But my notes and translation, upon which I sometimes worked until very late at night, usually lay upon a writing table near the window. I had one of the old rooms with a wooden balcony overlooking the gardens. And on the night in question, I suddenly woke up——”

“G-g-good God!” Stefanson exclaimed, “this is rev-revolutionary!”

Both men stared at him sharply. He was absorbed in his work, penciling at feverish speed.

“—A man wearing a half mask was bending over the writing table and was reading, as far as I could make out, my notes which lay there, by the light of a torch which was dimmed in some way!

“I suppose I awoke with a start—at any rate, I disturbed him. He came around in a flash, and just before the light went out I saw that he held a pistol in his hand. I couldn’t reach my own gun in time. The shutters were ajar. He went through and out over the balcony, dropping into the garden below. He hadn’t touched the notes: they were intact.”

“You mean,” said Lincoln Hayes slowly, “the man was not an Arab; he wore European clothes?”

“Exactly. That’s the queer feature. Naturally, I didn’t report the matter—I didn’t want to draw attention to what I was doing. The thing was beginning to develop. I saw where it was leading me. The second attempt was more curious than the first.”

“Gr-gr-great Scott!” Stefanson exclaimed, moved across, and poured out the last glass of wine from the third bottle in the bucket, immediately returning to the writing table.

Lincoln Hayes smiled his slow smile.

“Go ahead, Paddy,” he directed.

“Sometimes, when I worked very late, I would lock the box in the bathroom and draw my bed up in front of the door. There was no other way of getting in. One night I dreamed that I moved the bed, opened the door, and took out the box. I unlocked it and placed it on the desk near the shuttered window. A curiously slender brown hand reached out of the shadows—when a shot sounded—another—another. I woke up.”

He paused, staring across at Lincoln Hayes.

“As I afterwards discovered, a spot of trouble had broken out in the native quarter on the other side of the Square. It saved me ... because I had really got the dispatch box out, unlocked it—and taken out the papyrus. It was lying on the desk ... and my shutters were open again!”

“This is an amazing story,” said Hayes.

“I was on the balcony in a jiff. Somebody—clearly an Egyptian this time—was slinking away around an angle of the building. Attempt Number Two. Attempt Number Three was even more——”

A cry rang through the house—the scream of a terrified woman!

Stefanson sprang to his feet. Lincoln Hayes turned and exchanged glances with Rorke. In three strides Rorke was at the door.

“It was Ann!” he said.

From beyond the door came a sound of running footsteps, a dull groan—a thud ... Rorke’s hand grasped the doorknob. Stefanson, stoop discarded, stood bolt upright by the big table ...

There came a blinding flash—and complete darkness.

“Who turned the light out?”

The voice was Stefanson’s.

“I can’t open this door!” cried Rorke; “someone’s holding it.”

Lincoln Hayes, in the blackness of the library, began to grope his way towards another door. He bumped into someone. He grabbed—but touched nothing.

“Who’s that?” he cried sharply. “You, Stefanson?”

Stefanson’s voice came from the other end of the room.

“I haven’t moved—I da-daren’t.”

“Paddy?”

“Still at the door. There’s a dead weight behind it.”

Sounds of movement ceased. Hayes reached the other door, but the corridor beyond was in complete darkness. He groped for the switch—found it ... and discovered that it was depressed!

“Main fuse or blow-out at power station,” he commented. “The switch is on. But someone else is in the library!”

“There’s a dead weight behind this door,” said Rorke, his voice less casual than usual.

Then the stutter of Stefanson came:

“I’ve got a t-torch in my p-pocket.” A moment of silence, and: “Da-damn! the thing won’t f-function!”

Nothing relieved that Stygian darkness.

“D’you mean to say,” cried Rorke angrily, “that you can’t switch your light on, Stefanson?”

“S-simply can’t.”

“Uncanny.” Lincoln Hayes’ tones were quite even. “Going to grope my way out to the lobby. Can’t imagine what has become of Lurgan and others....”

“Get around back of this door,” said Rorke. “I’m afraid to shove. There’s—something inert there....”

Familiar with the way—he had been born in this home—Lincoln Hayes went blindly along the corridor which led to the Venetian lobby. When he knew, by instinct, that he had come to the end, he pulled up.

Movement.

“Who’s that?”

He grabbed—and caught a man!

“Only me, sir!” Lurgan’s voice was hysterical: Hayes’ hold was like that of a bear. He released it. “There’s something very funny going on. Who screamed out, sir? All the staff are upstairs in their rooms.”

“Been to the main switchboard?”

“It’s in my room. But I can get no light. I’ve burned my fingers with matches—but got no flame I could see! I’m terrified, Mr. Hayes! I believe I’ve gone blind!”

“Brace up!” Lincoln Hayes’ cool voice was a sedative. “All in the same boat.”

“Do you mean you can see nothing, sir?”

“Absolutely. If you’re blind, we’re all blind. Where’s Miss Wayland?”

“I don’t know, sir ... by heaven! I’m beginning to see again!”

“Keep cool. Light’s coming on. Stay where you are.”

As through a mist the distinctive features of the Venetian lobby began to manifest themselves to Lincoln Hayes. He saw Lurgan—more pale than usual, rubbing his eyes and glancing about him. Hayes set out.

In twenty seconds he was at the door of the library. Lighting now was nearly normal.

Ann Wayland lay on the polished floor—still, and deathly white.

Hayes stooped, gathered her up in his arms, and stepped back.

“Paddy!” he called.

The library door opened—and Stefanson stood there.

“M-my God!” he exclaimed, staring wildly. “R-Rorke r-ran out when the l-light came up. But the pap-papyrus has gone!”

Came a sound of racing footsteps across the lobby. Rorke ran up, pale under his sunburn.

“Ann!”

“Stand clear, Paddy.”

Lincoln Hayes carried Ann Wayland across the lobby and laid her gently upon the divan set between the silver candelabra of Benvenuto Cellini. Lights now were perfectly normal.

“Lincoln—she’s dead!”

Lurgan stood, pallid, watching. Stefanson came out. There were hushed voices on the higher staircases.

“Lurgan,” said Hayes, “get Dr. Brodrick. If away, Dr. Muller. Then get police headquarters. Have them call District Attorney Maguire.”