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 gum. 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 outside?” 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, unticlass="underline"
“Look!” said Nayland Smith . . .
CHAPTER 10
THE MARK OF KALI
“Shall l lock the door?” Inspector Gallaho inquired, jangling the keys.
Nayland Smith had been last to leave the tomb of the Demurases. That great fog which with brief intervals was destined to prevail for many days, already had claimed this city of the dead. They were a phantom company enveloped in a mist which might have been smoke of the Ultimate Valley. Alan Sterling was restraining an intense excitement.
Mr. Roberts, the Home Office representative, loomed up out of darkness.
“I understand that the shell was empty, Sir Denis?”
Nayland Smith came down the three steps.
“Not empty” he replied. “It was weighted with a head-stone stolen from near by!”
The old guardian of sepulchres stood by the open door. Bewilderment had lent that grey and sorrowful face a haunted expression, which might have belonged to the spirit of some early Demuras disturbed in the mausoleum.
Thereupon, Nayland Smith did a very odd thing. He stooped and began to remove his shoes!
“I say, Sir Denis——”
An upraised hand checked Alan Sterling at those first few words.
“Shut up, Sterling!” Sir Denis snapped., “Listen, everybody.” He discarded his leather coat. “I am going back down there.”
“Alone?” Gallaho asked.
“Yes.”
“Good God!”
“As soon as I’ve slipped in, partly close the door. Sing out in a loud voice, ‘Here are the keys, Sir Denis’, or anything you like to convey the idea that I am with you. Understand?”
“Yes,” Gallaho answered gruffly. “But if you suspect there’s anybody hidden there, it’s rather a mad move, isn’t it, sir?”
“I can think of no other. Don’t really lock the door,” said Nayland Smith in a low voice. “Turn the key, but leave the door slightly ajar——”
“Very good, sir.”
Soft-footed, Nayland Smith re-entered the tomb, turned and signalled with his hand. Gallaho began to close the heavy teak door.
“This is ghastly,” Mr. Roberts muttered. “What does he expect to find?”
Gallaho rettled the keys, and:
“Shall I lock up, Sir Denis?” he said in his deep, gruff voice, paused a moment, and then: “Very good, sir. You go ahead; I’ll follow.”
He shot the lock noisily. The door was not more than an inch ajar.
“Silence!” he whispered. “Everybody stand by.”
Beyond that ghostly door, guarded by sentinel cypresses, Nayland Smith was creeping down the stone steps, silently, stealthily. Gallaho had played his part well. All too familiar with red tape, Smith knew that short of sand-bagging the man from the Home Office, to have attempted to disturb the repose of another Demuras would have resulted in an adjournment of the investigation. Alone, and uninterrupted, he must convince himself that that queer impression of something which lived and moved in an ancient shell in a stone niche, must be confirmed or disproved by himself alone.
He reached the vault without having made a sound. His feet were chilled by the stone paving. Imagination charged the fog-laden atmosphere with odours of mortal decay. The darkness was intense. Looking up the steps down which he had come, no more than a vague blur indicated the presence of the stained glass windows. On hands and knees he moved cautiously, right, and then crouched down against the wall and directly beneath the niche which contained the mortal remains of Isobel Demuras—or so the inscription stated.
Complete silence prevailed for fully a minute. He could detect no repetition of that furtive movement which he had heard, or imagined he had heard. Turning slowly and cautiously, he looked up ...
He saw a thing which for a moment touched him with awe.
The stone recess above had become vaguely illuminated, as if some spiritual light were thrown out from the shell of Isobel Demuras!
There came a vague shuffling—the same which he had detected when, last to leave, he had paused for a moment at the foot of the steps. Then ... a ray of light shot across the vault, touching the further wall, where it rested upon a brass plate. The inscription upon this he remembered to have read:
here lay Tristan Demuras, founder of the English branch of the family.
The noise above became louder. To it was added a squeaking sound. The ray disappeared from the opposite wall, but the niche above became more brightly illuminated. Nayland Smith on hands and knees crept to the corner of the vault. He had not vacated his former position more than three seconds when light poured down upon the pavement. He was just outside its radius.
The light disappeared; complete darkness fell. There came a renewed and a louder creaking, then a soft thud upon the floor beside him.
In that instant Nayland Smith sprang. . . .
“Gallaho!” he shouted. “Sterling!”
The teak door was opened with a crash. Gallaho shining his torch ahead of him came cluttering down the steps, Sterling close behind.
“The light. . . here, Gallaho—quick!” Nayland Smith spoke hoarsely. “Get his knife!”
“My God!”
Sterling sprang forward.
A lithe yellow man, his eyes on fire with venomous hatred, was struggling in Nayland Smith’s grasp! Sir Denis had him by the throat, but with his left hand he clutched the man’s lean, muscular wrist. A knife, having a short, curved blade, was grasped in the sinewy fingers. For all Nayland Smith’s efforts, its point was creeping nearer and nearer, driven by the maniacal strength which animated the tigerish body. The left arm of the yellow man was thrown around his captor, seeking to drag him down upon the quivering blade . . .