“I confess,95 murmured the priest, “at I know of one, myself.”
“There have been many. And this woman, the Queen Mamaloi, is undoubtedly an agent of the Si-Fan. I am urged by no idle curiosity. It is my plain duty to see this woman, to establish her identity—to check her activities. Now, I have been making some inquiries myself.”
He turned again to the map and rested the point of a pencil upon a spot which appeared to be the peak of a mountain close to the Dominican border. He glanced interrogatively at the priest.
Father Ambrose nodded.
“Yes, that is the headquarters of Voodoo in Haiti,” he admitted. “Mome la Selle, the Magic Mountain. I cannot deny it; I can see it from my own windows at Kenscoff: but I would point out that if you go with a considerable armed party, you will find no one there; and that if you go alone, you will certainly never return.”
Smith relighted his pipe.
“You do more than your duty. Father,” he said. “We have heard your warning and we do not take it lightly. But I have a duty as well as you, and I am going to be present at this meeting.” He took up the little snake amulet. “Is it consistent with your convictions that I should borrow this?”
The priest’s pipe bubbled, great rings of smoke rose from the steaming bowl. At last: “You place the matter in a new light. Sir Denis,” he said. “I believe I shall be justified in withdrawing my opposition.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
DRUMS IN THE NIGHT
“We know roughly what we have to expect,” said Nayland Smith; “and I think our plans cover all the possibilities we can foresee.”
“I regret every moment lost in getting to work on the cave,” cried Barton. “There’s a party of United States marines ready to land. Even with their help it may take some time to clear the debris of the old chapel. In the present state of the war over there, Fu Manchu’s chance might come tomorrow!”
“And tomorrow we set to work,” snapped Smith. “Tonight I might have another job to do—”
“Which may iron you out altogether!”
“Barton,” said Smith, “I regret to have to remind you that I am in charge of this party. Be good enough to listen. Near the top of Mome la Selle, our destination, there is a perfectly flat plateau. As the place is a Voodoo holy-of-holies, the American authorities have contented themselves with aerial survey. But it’s a good landing ground. Three Army planes are standing by. They are our rearguard. Barton, and you’re in command. I am not prepared to trust a soul in Haiti now that I know the Si-Fan is here. Nobody but you knows when those planes start, or where they are going.”
“Right,” growled Barton. “You know you can count on me.”
“One thing is important: I must see the Queen Mamaloi; and the time of departure I have given you allows for the starting of the ceremony. Don’t start a moment earlier.”
It was afternoon before Smith and I set out for the house of Father Ambrose in Kenscoff. We went in the car of the American consul—and saloons are rare in Port au Prince. The consul’s chauffeur drove us. Smith’s plans were peculiarly complete, as I was presently to learn; but at the outset he was very silent, filling the interior of the car with clouds of tobacco smoke. I realized as the journey proceeded what he had meant when he had said, “This is Africa.” The route betrayed a vista of wild, unspoiled beauty. There were magnificent trees, banks of flowers, and, once clear of the town, absence of any evidence to show that we were not indeed in tropical Africa.
Although this was a modem road, the dwellings which bordered it might have had their being in Timbuctoo. An all but unbroken file of Haitian women, each with a burden of vegetables, fruit or other produce upon her head wound its way ant-like down to the market place; a returning stream marched upwards. I saw no white faces from the time that we left the borders of the town. But below, a wonderful prospect was unfolded.
From above. Port au Prince, nestling in a cup between two mountains, reminded me momentarily of Damascus seen from the Lebanon hills. Beyond, seemingly floating on a blue sea. La Gonave, the mystery island, alone disturbed the blue expanse of ocean to the horizon. Little curiosity was displayed by the hundreds of natives we passed. Exceptions were a fierce-eyed old woman riding a donkey, and a tall, distinguished-looking mulatto who carried a staff. The interest of this pair, I thought, although they were a mile or more apart, was definitely hostile. As the car passed the tall mulatto and his fierce glance sought us out in passing: “We are covered, Kerrigan,” said Smith. “Did you note that man?”
“Yes.”
“One of the Voodoo doctors, beyond doubt. Drums will beat feverishly tonight.”
He said no more right up to the moment that we reached the priest’s house, a long, low, creeper-clad building, flowers climbing above a verandah which overlooked a tropical garden where humming birds hovered and butterflies of incredible colours flitted from flower to flower. As we descended from the car: “The Father has comfortable quarters,” murmured Smith.
We were met by the genial priest and shown into a cool and spacious study. I thought, looking about me at the plain un-painted shelves laden with works in many languages, at the littered working-desk, a typewriter on a side table and a large crucifix upon a white wall, that here, probably, was the headquarters of Rome in its battle against African superstition, an advance post of Christianity all but hemmed in by the forces of ancient and evil gods.
* * *
When dusk fell Smith andI, with Father Ambrose, were in the garden. I looked into the crimson sunset and wondered what the new dawn would bring. With dramatic suddenness, the sky became a mirror of glorious colour—light jade, deep purple and a shell-like pink—all merging as I watched into an inverted casket of blue velvet, holding a million diamonds. A queenly moon rode in that serene heaven.
“It is time we went in,” said Father Ambrose.
Back in the study, now electrically lighted, for there was a small Kohler engine installed in the garage, I stood staring at Smith and he stared at me. We were heavily sun-burned, yet, except in the dusk, no man, I think, could have been deceived by our substitutes, two trustworthy lads selected by the priest who, wearing our clothes, had gone back in the consul’s car and would sleep in his compound that night. It was hoped, in this way, to lead spies to believe that we had returned to Port au Prince.
Smith wore an ill-fitting drill suit and a straw hat. I was similarly attired, except that I boasted a scarlet pullover beneath my jacket. My own headgear was a pith helmet of sorts.
“How many spare rounds in your belt?” Smith snapped.
“Twelve.”
He nodded grimly.
“More would be useless.”
As he began to load his pipe. Father Ambrose closed gauze shutters before the windows.
“The light attracts many nocturnal insects,” he explained; “some are beautiful, but others are unpleasant.”
Smith lighted his pipe and standing by the desk took from his pocket two objects. One was the green snake lent to us by the priest: the other was a jewel in the form of a seven-pointed star.
“This is the amulet from Barton’s collection,” he said, “to which I referred. Father.”
Father Ambrose changed his glasses and sitting down carefully examined the glittering jewel. Presently he looked up.
“The snake emblem, as I have told you,” he said, “denotes a shepherd, papaloi, or—shall we say?—a lodge master. But this”—he touched it gingerly—”is the badge of a high adept, or grand master. Strange how the significance of 7 haunts the pagan mysteries. I cannot imgaine where Sir Lionel obtained it.”