He raised his voice. "Isis! Isis!"
Out into the light of the fluttering gas-lamp, out from that nightmare abode, stepped Isis Klaw – looking more grotesque than a French fashion-plate in an ironmonger's catalogue. She wore a costume of lettuce-green silk, absolutely plain and unrelieved by any ornament, which rendered it the more remarkable. It was cut low at the neck, and at the point of the V, suspended upon a thin gold chain, hung a big emerald. Her darkly beautiful face was one to inspire a painter seeking a model for the Queen of Sheba, but an ultra modern note was struck by a hat of some black, gauzy material which loudly proclaimed its Paris origin. She greeted me with her wonderful smile.
"What, then," I said. "Were you about to go out?"
"When I hear who it is," rumbled Moris Klaw, "I know that we are about to go out; and behold we are ready!"
He placed the quaint bowler on his head and passed through to the front of the shop.
"William," he admonished the ripe-nosed salesman, "there is here a smell of fourpenny ale. It will be your ruin, William. You will close at half-past nine, and be sure you do not let the cat in the cupboard with the white mice. See that the goat does not get at the Dutch bulbs. They will kill him, that goat – those bulbs; he has for them a passion."
The three of us entered the waiting cab; and within half-an-hour we arrived at the famous auction rooms. The doors were closed and barred, but a constable who was on duty there evidently had orders to admit us.
The thing we had come to see lay upon the table with an electric lamp burning directly over it. The effect was indescribably weird. All about in the shadows fantastic "lots" seemed to leer at us. A famous private collection was to be sold in the morning and a rank of mummies lined one wall, whilst from another, stony Pharaohs, gods and goddesses, scorned us through the gloom. We were a living group in a place of long-dead things. And yellow on the table beneath the white light, with partially unwrapt coils of discolored linen hanging gruesomely from it, lay a headless mummy!
I heard the spurt of Moris Klaw's scent-spray behind me, and a faint breath of verbena stole to my nostrils.
"Pah!" came the rumbling voice; "this air is full of deadness!"
"Good-evening, Mr. Klaw," said Grimsby, appearing from somewhere out of the gloom, "I'm glad you have come." He bowed to Isis. "How do you do, Miss Klaw?"
The bright green figure moved forward into the pool of light. I think I had never seen a more singular picture than that of Isis Klaw bending over the decapitated mummy. Indeed the whole scene had delighted Rembrandt.
"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Klaw," said a middle-aged gentleman, stepping up to the curio dealer; "the Inspector has been telling me about you."
Moris Klaw bowed, and his daughter turned to him with a little nod of the head.
"It is the same period," she said, "as Mr. Pettigrew's mummy. Possibly this was a priest of the same temple. Certainly both are of the same dynasty."
"It is instructive," rumbled Moris Klaw, "but so confusing."
"It's amazing, Mr. Klaw," said Grimsby. "If I understand Miss Klaw rightly, this is the mummy of someone who lived at the same period as the priestess whose mummy is in Mr. Pettigrew's possession?"
"I do not trouble to look," rumbled Moris Klaw, who, in fact, was staring all about the room. "If Isis has said so, it is so."
"If I happened to be superstitious," said Grimsby, "I should think this was a sort of curse being fulfilled, or some fantastic thing of that sort."
"You should call a curse fantastic, eh, my friend?" said Moris Klaw. "Yet here in your own country you have seen a whole family that was cursed to be wiped out mysteriously. Am I with you?"
Grimsby looked very perplexed,
"There's nothing very mysterious about how the thing was done," he said. "Some madman got in here with a knife early in the evening. It's always pretty dark even during the daytime. But the mystery is his object."
"His object is a mystery, yes," agreed Klaw. "I would sleep here in order to procure a mental negative of what he hoped or what he feared, this lunatic headsman, only that I know he is a man possessed."
"Possessed!" I cried; and even Isis looked surprised.
"I said possessed," continued Klaw, impressively.
"He is some madman with a one idea. His mad brain will have charged the ether" – he waved his long arms right and left – "with mad thoughts. The room of Mr. Pettigrew also will be filled with these grotesque thought-forms. Certainly he is insane, this butcher of mummies. In this case I shall rely, not upon the odic photography, not upon that great science the Cycle of Crime, but upon my library."
None of us, I am sure, entirely understood his meaning; and following a brief silence during which in a curiously muffled way the sounds of the traffic in Wellington Street came to us as we stood there around that modern bier with its 4000-year-old burden. Grimsby asked with hesitancy:
"Don't you want to make any investigations, Mr. Klaw?"
Then Moris Klaw startled us all.
"I have a thought!" he cried, loudly. "Name of a dog! I have a thought!"
Grabbing his brown bowler, which he had laid on the table beside the headless mummy, "Come, Isis!" he cried, and grasped the girl by the arm. "I have yet another thought, most disturbing. Mr. Searles, would you be so good as also to come?"
Wondering greatly whence we were bound and upon what errand, I hastened down the room after them, leaving Inspector Grimsby staring blankly. I think he was rather disappointed with the result of Moris Klaw's inquiry – if inquiry this hasty visit may be termed. He was disappointed, too, at having spent so short a time in the company of the charming Isis.
The middle-aged gentleman came running to let us out.
"Good-night, Inspector Grimsby!" called Moris Klaw.
"Good-night! Good-night, Miss Klaw."
"Good-night, Mr. Some One who has not been introduced!" said Klaw.
"My name is Welby," smiled the other.
"Good-night, Mr. Welby!" said Moris Klaw.
III.
During the whole of the journey back to Wapping, Moris Klaw regaled me with anecdotes of travels in the Yucatan Peninsula. I had never met a man before who had ventured fully to explore those deadly swamps; but Moris Klaw chatted about the Izarnal temples as unconcernedly as another man might chat about the Paris boulevards. Isis took no part in the conversation, from which I gathered that, although she seemed to accompany her father everywhere, she had not accompanied him into the jungles of Yucatan.
"In the heart of those forests, Mr. Searles," he whispered, "are stranger things than these headless mummies. Do you know that the secret of those great temples buried in the swamps and the jungles and guarded only by serpents and slimy, crawling things, is a door which science has yet to unlock? What people built them, and what god was worshipped in them? Suppose-" he bent to my ear "-I hold the key to that riddle; am I assured to be immortal? Yes? No?"
His conversation, although it often seemed to be studiously eccentric, was always that of a man of powerful and unusual mind, a man of vast and unique experience. I was rather sorry when we arrived at our destination.
As the cab drew up at the head of the court, I saw that the shop of Moris Klaw was in darkness; but again telling the man to wait, we walked down past the warehouse, beyond whose bulk tided muddy Thames, and, my eccentric companion producing a key from one of the bulging pockets of his caped coat, he inserted it into the lock of a door which looked less like a door than a section of a dilapidated hoarding.
The door swung open.
"Ah!" he hissed. "It was not locked!" Klaw struck a match and peered into the odorous darkness.
"William!" he rumbled. "William!" But there was no reply. Isis suddenly laid her hand upon my arm, and it occurred to me that for once her wonderful composure was shaken.