“You mean some creature,” Smith suggested.
“Yes.” The last few strands of nearly half an ounce of tobacco had disappeared into the mighty bowl. “Some odd things live here, you know. And owing to the fact that Haiti is not yet fully developed, I imagine that there are others which have not yet been classified.”
Smith began to pace up and down; then: “Just glance at this map,” he jerked suddenly.
He opened on the cane table a large-scale map of Haiti. Barton’s blue eyes danced with curiosity; he, too, stood up as the priest bent over the map.
“Yes,” said Father Ambrose,“it is a good map. I know most of the routes.”
“You observe a red ring drawn around an area in the north.”
“I had noted it. Unfortunately, it is a part of Haiti with which I am imperfectly acquainted. My confrere. Father Lucien, looks after that area.”
“Nevertheless,” said Smith, “You certainly know it better than I do. I am going to ask you. Father, if you have ever heard of a legend, or tradition, of a large cave along that coast?”
“There are many,” the priest returned, puffing out great curls of tobacco smoke. “That rugged coast is honeycombed with caves. Perhaps you are referring to Christophe’s Cave, which so many people have tried to find, but which I am .disposed to think is certainly a legend.”
“Ah!” growled Barton.
“It has been suggested to me,” Father Ambrose smiled, “that the object of your present visit. Sir Lionel, is to look for Christophe’s treasure. I remember you were here a year or two ago, although I did not meet you then. But I may give you a warning. What information you have it is not my business to inquire, but much gold and some human lives have been wasted during the past century in that quest. Christophe’s Cavern has a history nearly as bad as that of Cocos Island.”
“You surprise me,” murmured Smith, laying the tip of his forefinger upon a point within the red circle upon the map. “But here, I am informed, there is a ruined chapel dating back to French days. Am I right?”
“You would have been a week ago.”
“What!”
Barton and Smith were staring eagerly at the speaker.
“The chapel was either struck by a thunderbolt or blown up by human hands at some time during last Thursday night. Scarcely one stone was left standing upon another. I had a full report in a letter of this mysterious occurrence from Father Lucien.”
Smith and Barton exchanged glances.
“Perhaps you realize now. Barton,” said Smith, “that Dr. Fu Manchu—one morning in New York, if I am not mistaken—took steps to check the chart in his possession from the original which you held . . . . ”
The ruined chapel, now demolished, had marked the entrance to Christophe’s Cavern!
* * *
“Queen Mamaloi,” said Father Ambrose in a low tone. “Yes, unfortunately, there is such a person.”
“She is not a myth?”
“Not at all—I wish she were. Who or what she is I cannot tell you. Only selected devotees of Voodoo have ever seen her.”
“Has there always been a Queen Mamaloi?” I asked.
The priest shook his head.
“Not to my knowledge.One never heard of her in Haiti until about”—he considered— “about 1938, I suppose. She is some very special sorceress, perhaps imported from Africa.”
“I thought,” said Barton in his coarsely jovial way, “that the Jesuits knew everything.”
Father Ambrose smiled.
“We know many things,” he replied, “but no man knows everything.”
“Are you acquainted”—Smith spoke slowly and emphatically—”with anyone who has seen this woman?”
“I am.” Father Ambrose indicated the little amulet on the cane table. “This penitent has seen her. Hence my putting the fear of hell into him and confiscating his charm.”
“Did he describe her?”
“He was too excited at the time,—I gather these meetings are orgiastic, you know—to be a credible witness. But one point I established quite firmly. She is not black.”
‘‘What!” Smith’s eyes glinted with sudden excitement. “You are sure of that?”
“Perfectly sure.”
“A white woman?” Father Ambrose extended his stout palms.
“Probably negro blood. Some of them, you know, are as white as you or I. I suppose that a European woman could have obtained this hold over the coloured people: it extends, mark you, beyond the boundaries of Haiti. At the great ceremony of the Full Moon—”
“Tomorrow night!” snapped Smith.
“Yes, there is to be a meeting tomorrow night, and many will come over the borders, nor”—he spoke sadly—”will they all be black. We fight phantoms here. Sir Denis, but we shall win in the end.”
Smith was pacing up and down again, furiously loading his cracked old briar. Suddenly he turned to Barton.
“You hear. Barton?” he said. “You hear? Two moves are open to us. In one, I fancy, we have been anticipated by Dr. Fu Manchu. I consider it at least equally important that we should see this woman.”
“And I assure you,” Father Ambrose interrupted, “that it is quite impossible you should see her, whatever your reason may be. Haiti is highly civilized, as you know—” he smiled; “but for any white man ignorant of Voodoo ritual to attempt to penetrate to that place, would be”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—”shall we say as dangerous as for one to walk into Mecca?”
“You say ‘that place’,” Smith remarked.
“Yes.”
“Does this mean (hat you know where it is?”
The priest hesitated, and then: “Yes, I know,” he replied. “But it is contrary to the dictates of my conscience to tell you. Voodoo is undoubtedly the work of Satan. I would encourage no man to touch it. It is, as you yourself have suggested, a survival of pagan creeds older than Christianity. It is the worship of the hidden side of the Moon.”
There was a brief silence during which Nayland Smith paced restlessly up and down, and the bowl of the priest’s pipe bubbled unmusically.
“I don’t presume. Father, to interfere with your conscience. But let me make our position a little more clear. For your private information I am not treasure-hunting, although it is true that I hope to find Christophe’s Cave. I am acting for the United States Government and for my own. There are two movements taking place in Haiti: one mechanical, the other psychological. It is my business to investigate both. You say yourself that Voodoo has great power. You evidently know a lot about it, more than you have told us. But one thing you do not know. A Secret Society and a very old one, the Si-Fan—”
“The Si-Fan!” interjected Father Ambrose. “But what has the Si-Fan to do with Haiti? You see”—he smiled apologetically « “I was in Tibet for four years before I came here. Nearly as many of my converts there were members of the Si-Fan as here they are devotees of Voodoo.”
‘“No doubt!” said Smith. “The roots of the Si-Fan may not go as deep as those of Voodoo, but nevertheless it is an ancient organization, and a very powerful one. It is controlled by a Chinese genius. It includes all races and creeds—all shades of colour. Personally I cannot say for how long it has included Voodoo.”
“What!”
“The Si-Fan is almost purely political. I need not emphasize the underground influence which could be set in motion by control of Voodoo. But those influences are already at work. There is a concrete danger to the United States Government growing hour by hour and day by day in the Caribbean. Several agents who have been sent to investigate have died or have never returned.”