Chapter VIII
HIDDEN EARS AND STRANGE SOUNDS
A FEW moments later, Latham came into the library, To all appearances, it was empty, yet at the moment of entrance he stood stock still, looking around him and wondering why he could see no one. For some unaccountable reason he had expected to find another in the room. Now, recognizing its emptiness, he wondered whom he had expected to find there and why he should experience surprise at finding no one.
He was conscious of growing uneasiness. The death of his dog had hit him harder than he had allowed to appear. It had served, too, to bring home to him the reality of the danger which overhung Burton van Dean. He wondered what secret the American possessed which could account for the extraordinary happenings disturbing the Abbey; and he wondered if Harley knew the explanation.
Following his brief pause he crossed to the table, took a cigarette from a box and lighted it. He went over to the fireplace, seating himself upon the arm of the big rest chair and staring down at the empty hearth. Suddenly the study door opened and Paul Harley came down, smoking a pipe.
“Hullo, old man!” he called on seeing Latham. “Thinking?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“What about?”
“Old Rex. I loved that hairy ruffian.”
Harley clapped him on the shoulder and leaned on the mantel, facing him.
“The fortunes of war, Latham,” he said. “I don't think the enemy got off quite scot free.”
Latham looked up interestedly, noting the grim expression on the face of the speaker.
“What do you mean?”
“All in good time, Latham. Listen!” Harley looked about him suspiciously. He, too, was vaguely conscious of being watched, whenever he found himself apparently alone in the library. “For some reason,” he went on, “I have found myself thinking, today, more than once of the late Dr. Ulric Ernst.”
“You have mentioned this before,” said Latham, “but the connection escapes me. Why Ernst?”
“Because,” replied Harley, “I am moderately certain that Ernst was the first victim of the Voice of Káli! Do you recall the circumstances of his death?”
Latham paused a moment before answering. He was listening to a distant rumbling sound; the storm was moving again in the direction of the Abbey.
“Frankly, I'm afraid I don't,” he confessed. “I was in India at the time. He died in Cairo, if I remember rightly?”
Harley nodded.
“Yes. His health failed. He settled in Egypt and was on the point of giving to the world a new and deadly weapon of war, more deadly even than the Ernst Torpedo. He died suddenly.”
“Yes,” mused Latham. “Ernst's Trajector; the papers were full of it. We were told it was going to supplant artillery and revolutionize warfare.”
Silence fell for a moment.
“He died, before giving any demonstration,” said Harley.
Latham knocked the ash from his cigarette, slowly nodding his head.
“His secret died with him,” he murmured. “Perhaps this is all for the best.”
Harley took his pipe from between his teeth and stared down hard at the speaker.
“If he died of a Listening Death,” he said, speaking deliberately, “and I am more than half-convinced that he did, then the S. Group murdered him! This being so, did his secret die with him?”
“Eh!” cried Latham. “You don't mean”
“Can you imagine a war in which the enemy is armed with such a weapon?” interrupted Harley.
“The Ernst Trajector?”
“Certainly! If half we heard was true, this deadly thing makes trench warfare obsolete. It can strike through the earth! It can strike through the earth! It can strike through armor plating of battleships. It can strike through water and reach the hidden submarine!”
“You mean to suggest”
Harley lowered his voice and his expression grew even more stern.
“I mean to suggest,” he said, an icy note in his voice, his expression more stern, “that the S. Group may today be in possession of the secret of Ernst's Trajector!”
“Then God help us all!” muttered Latham.
“If I fail, tonight, God help us all, indeed!”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight!” Harley repeated grimly. “You are Indian Army, old man, and I can tell you nothing about the unrest in the East that you don't know already. India is not to blame. India as we know it is loyal to the core. China is our friend. Japan showed her policy in the last war. Coming nearer home, Egypt, the older Egypt of Kitchener, is all for us. Yet there”
He stopped, looking about him again in that oddly suspicious fashion.
“I know, Harley,” Latham said softly.
“Do you? Ordinary European fanatics can be handled, but the horrible fanatics of mystical Asia”
“The S. Group!” said Latham, almost in a whisper. “With its roots penetrating into all Asia's remotest confines!”
“You know?”
Latham nodded his head.
“Every man whose job of work takes him east of Suez, knows.”
Paul Harley relighted his pipe.
“The Foreign Office, here, gave me the task of tracing the men behind the movement,” he went on. “Perhaps in the midst of your regimental duties you don't just realize what this organization means.”
“I can hazard a guess!” Latham declared.
Harley touched the match end into the grate.
“It means the probable end of every white civilization!” he snapped. “First, that of our own country. But the turn of the others will come soon—a fight for life which may end one way or the other.”
He stopped, staring hard at a framed photograph set in a recess of the overmantel. He was not studying the photograph, however, but in it he could see reflected a tall lacquer cabinet which stood near the foot of the study stair. Suddenly he went on again.
“The S. Group, which dares to plan the horrible things it does plan, revolves around one man.”
“You know him?” asked Latham with suppressed excitement.
“He is known as the Mandarin K. Forget his nationality; he is an international genius. If I could trap that one man, that great man, I might retire from the service knowing that I had earned at least a few years of peace for this poor old scarred world.”
Again he stared intently at the photograph, unnoticed by Latham.
“You speak of tonight?” said Latham.
Harley, his glance fixed on the reflection of the cabinet by the foot of the stair, replied slowly.
“When I had almost despaired of a bag, a decoy duck took the water. Burton van Dean, America's greatest living Orientalist, blundered right into the headquarters of the S. Group.”
“Its a miracle that he escaped with his life!” exclaimed Latham.
“A miracle indeed,” Harley agreed. “But here he is, in Norfolk; and here am I.”
“Then the Mandarin K”
Harley glanced aside from the framed photograph for a moment, staring hard at Latham. “The Mandarin K has followed him!” Suddenly he raised his voice. “Tonight,” he added, “I am going to perform an experiment.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You notice the shape of the chair upon the arm of which you are sitting at the present moment.”
Latham glanced down at the deep rest chair in puzzled fashion.
“Yes,” he replied “it seems a very comfortable piece of furniture.”
“I'm not thinking of its comfort,” snapped Harley. He looked about him with an air of suspicion which seemed almost exaggerated. “But it is going to be my base of operations, tonight! Placed as it is now, anyone seated in it will be invisible from practically every other point of the library, only excepting the door leading into the conservatory, and the hearth rug, of course, where I am standing now.”
“But what leads you to suppose that anything will happen tonight?” asked Latham.
“I am sure something will happen tonight!” snapped Harley in reply, his glance again seeking the framed photograph. “Come up to the study with me for a moment and Į will explain my plan in greater detail.”
There was something unnatural in Harley's method of speech, which Latham had not failed to notice; and with a very puzzled expression upon his face he left the library with the investigator. Side by side they mounted the stairs to the study. When they had entered, Paul Harley closed the door carefully.
“Did you notice the position of that armchair, Latham?” he jerked abruptly. “The one you were sitting on?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
“Do you remember that I moved it earlier in the evening?”
“I remember that distinctly. Though what for, neither Westbury nor I could imagine.”
“At any rate, you remember that I moved it. Well, someone has replaced it in its original position. Unless you moved it again. Did you?”
“No,” said Latham blankly. “What's the significance?”
“Possibly none,” was the reply; “but possibly a very deep one. Did you observe that I moved it once more before we left the library?”
“I am afraid I didn't,” confessed Latham, laughing shortly. “I should never make a detective, Harley. One thing, however, I did notice.”
“What was that?' asked the other eagerly.
“The way in which you raised your voice during the latter part of our conversation.”
Harley nodded.
“I had a definite reason for doing so,” he said. “You may have observed a very handsome old lacquer cabinet or cupboard that stands just at the foot of the stairs, outside.” He had lowered his voice, now, to a mere whisper. Latham, watching him intently, merely nodded in reply. “Well, someone was hiding in that cabinet, listening to every word I said!”
There followed a short silence. Then:
“Why in heaven's name didn't you trap him?” cried Latham.
Paul Harley raised his hand in protest.
“Softly, softly. If I had done that, what should I have learned? Assuming, for the sake of argument, that the eavesdropper had proved to be Wu Chang”
“Do you suspect Wu Chang?”
“I have not said so,” Harley answered. “I am merely endeavoring to illustrate my point. Assuming that the eavesdropper had been, shall we say, Parker, the gardener, would his presence in the cabinet have constituted definite evidence that he was a member of the S. Group? I can only see, as the result of making such a discovery, the dismissal of the culprit, and nothing gained.”
“But suppose,” suggested Latham slowly, “that the eavesdropper had proved to be not a servant.”
“Not a servant?” echoed Harley. “Mrs. Moody, for instance?”
Latham laughed, but there was very little merriment in his laugh.
“What's worrying me,” he declared, “is the fact that there's some cold-blooded Eastern murderer concealed about the place. Remember, Harley, that there are women in the house. By the way, I am still unable to fathom your reasons for allowing the hidden enemy to overhear your plans for this evening.”
“Simple enough,” was the reply. “I wanted him, or her, to overhear them!”
“Good heavens, Harley! I can't understand.”
“Listen!” Harley dropped into an armchair facing the other. “I have two tasks; or rather, my task has two aspects. Let me explain what I mean. Some considerable time ago, Burton van Dean, having leased this house, applied to the local police for protection. I was not in England, at the time, and the local authorities failed to recognize the importance of the case. Van Dean, who had installed all sorts of burglar alarms and other devices, stated that, in spite of these, someone had gained access on more than one occasion to the Abbey and had even gone so far as to ransack his private papers. A special constable was put on duty, but apparently this mysterious interference continued in spite of him. Thereupon Van Dean went over the heads of the police and wrote to Scotland Yard.
“Wessex of the Special Branch, a very promising officer, jumped to the truth of the matter. He came down and interviewed Van Dean, recognized that he had to deal with the S. Group, and had himself put personally in charge of the case. Sergeant Denby came down immediately and, cleverly working from a neighboring village, seems, poor fellow, to have penetrated fairly deeply into the mystery.”
“But!” exclaimed Latham, “what was Wessex doing?”
“Wessex was also on the spot,” said Harley with a smile; “but he had to deal with extraordinarily clever people and, at the time of my return to England, he had made comparatively little progress.”
“Do you think they knew of his presence?”
“I don't,” replied Harley, “but of this, of course, I cannot be sure. He was handicapped to a certain extent, as you will realize when you know the full facts. Accordingly, last Tuesday night”
“That was the night the man died in the shrubbery!” interjected Latham excitedly.
Harley nodded.
“On that night, Wessex made arrangements for Denby to be admitted to the house.”
“Admitted to the house!” echoed Latham. “How could he do that? Did he obtain Van Dean's consent?”
“Not at all!” Harley assured him. “Van Dean was unaware of the care which was being taken of him, Oh, believe me, Latham, Scotland Yard is not effete, yet! Detective Sergeant Denby was admitted, then, to this very room, last Tuesday night.”
“But he was found in the shrubbery?”
“I know!” snapped Harley. “But he didn't die in the shrubbery. He died down there in the library. I am practically certain of it! All this is theory, however, I admit, but I am hoping to put it to the test, tonight. The evidence of Wessex from this point onward is of no value, for the reason that, having arranged for Denby to come into the house, he was unable to remain, himself. The next piece of evidence, therefore, comes from Mrs. Moody, whose room is directly above the library. She was awakened by a strange sound.”
“What kind of sound?”
“The very point that we have been unable to establish,” was the reply. “In brief, Mrs. Moody is quite unable to describe this sound; she can only say that it was utterly unlike any sound that she had ever heard in her life before!”
“I don't follow. What does she mean?”
Harley shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“I can only suppose,” he said, “that she had heard the Voice of Káli!”
“The Voice of Káli? But what is the Voice of Káli? Surely no more than a figure of speech?”
“I don't think so,” snapped Harley. “I think that it is a sound, but probably one that is difficult to describe. There is simply not another scrap of evidence to show what happened here on the night that Denby met his death. He was found by Parker in the early morning, lying in the shrubbery below the terrace.”
“Yes,” muttered Latham, “with that awful expression of listening upon his face. Was there any sign of a struggle, any footprints?”
“There could be no footprints!” cried Harley irritably; “the ground was baked hard by weeks of tropical heat.”
“Was there any sign of a struggle?”
“No, nothing was disturbed, either in this room or the library.”
“Yet you think his death took place in the library?”
“I am practically certain of it.”
“Then how did he get into the shrubbery?”
“His body was dragged out through the French windows and dropped there.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“By a close examination, secretly conducted, on the library carpet, the steps and the terrace, I obtained evidence, slender certainly, but evidence that went to confirm this theory. You see, the death of Denby brought me upon the scene; and the first step was to hush up the identity of the murdered man. Perhaps you will begin to realize the two aspects of the case. First, I have to apprehend the agent of the S. Group, to whom bolts, bars and barbed wire offer no obstacle; secondly I have to solve the mystery of the Listening Death. It is some mysterious agency employed by these people to remove their enemies. I must know what it is!”
Latham shuddered involuntarily,
“Brrr!” he said. “Got the shivers! What does that mean? Someone walking over my grave, isn't it?”
“Yes,” replied Harley absently; “or an enemy thinking about you.”
“Did you really mean what you said to Phil a while ago,” continued Latham, “that the figure of the cowled man was not an image of her imagination?”
“I did,” said Harley. “I have learned from Van Dean that the Mandarin K used the monkish robe and hood of a lama, as a means of disguising himself. Probably other members of the group do likewise.”
He became silent again, puffing reflectively at his pipe, and Latham watched him a while in silence.
“Harley,” Latham said suddenly, “I recognize, of course, that in the circumstances, no one must leave the Abbey, tonight; but naturally I am anxious for the safety of Phil. We are dealing with people who know everybody's movements. You think, don't you, that the telegram that came to the Warren, tonight, was a forgery?”
“I do,” replied Harley promptly. “They thought the presence of visitors here might interfere with their plans.”
“Also,” continued Latham, watching him closely, “you have a theory respecting the identity of this agent of the S. Group who gains access to the Abbey in spite of all Van Dean's devices.”
“Why do you suggest this?” asked Harley.
“Suggest it!” cried the other. “Because I think it is true. And if you are hesitating to apprehend this awful criminal in our midst because you want to solve the mystery of the Listening Death, I feel called upon to remark that you are exposing women to a quite unnecessary risk!”
Harley stood up and glared down grimly at the speaker.
“Latham!” he snapped, “we have known one another for a long time. I have to deal with events as I find them. I could not foresee the position that would arise tonight. But as I find it, so I must deal with it. This is not merely a question of apprehending an isolated criminal. If it were, I should not hesitate for a moment. You speak of exposing women to danger? Surely you realize that if I fail in my campaign against this dreadful agency, it may mean the sacrifice, not of two or three, but of millions of women, to the rapacity of a great, ruthless, fanatical, colored tide, now stemmed and held back, but only awaiting something, something which I can dimly imagine, to be loosed upon the white races. Do you understand?”
Latham stood up and faced the speaker.
“Forgive me. I understand, Harley,” he said quietly. “I spoke hastily, perhaps selfishly. You are right, of course. But as to the nature of your real plan, I haven't the faintest glimmering.”
“My plan,” replied Harley, “is that which I allowed the eavesdropper in the cabinet to overhear. I am going to get everyone to bed and then return alone to the library, where I shall wait for the Voice of Káli!”