The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories (27 page)

A man’s voice—a light baritone, possessing in a marked degree the wild, yearning note peculiar to oriental vocalists—rose upon the night’s silence. The song was a ghazal of that sweet-voiced singer of old Shiraz whom men called Chagarlab, “the sugar-lipped.”

“If a cup of wine is spilled and I have spilled it, what of that? If ripe, tender lips be crushed and mine have crushed them, be it so!”

Transfixed by something compelling and magnetic in the vibrant tones, Desmond stood, tightly clasping
madame’s
jewelled fingers. The final syllable of the verse died away, to ever diminishing beats of the dram and a softly sustained wailing note of the reed.

“You have Persians among your crew?” he said, and drew his lovely companion closer to him.

“But why?” she whispered, looking up into his eyes. “Do you recognise the words of Hafiz?”

“Perfectly! May I translate?”

Her reply was barely audible.

“If you wish!”

Desmond stooped and kissed her upon the lips.

* * *

Desmond always began working the temple at an early hour. His enthusiasm ran higher than ever, but his ideas had taken a strange twist. He began to study his men, to listen to their conversations with a new interest, and to interpret what he saw and what he heard from a different angle.

His excavators laboured with skill and good will; and, once having penetrated the six or eight feet of tightly packed stone which closed the top of the opening, Desmond’s task became a mere job of shovelling. Clearly enough, he had blundered upon a shaft opened in very early times, the lower part of which had apparently been filled up with sand. His only fear was that it might prove to be the work of early tomb robbers, and not of those who had hidden the sacred ornaments.

Medinet Habu affords a lively enough scene in the daytime during the Egyptian season, being visited by hundreds of tourists from Luxor. Hence Desmond’s early starting of operations. There were many visitors to the temple during the day, and not a few penetrated to the barrier and read the notice posted there. None of them, however, had the necessary official permit to enter the closed Treasure Room of Rameses, and work proceeded without interruption.

Evening came, the labourers departed, and Desmond was left alone—save for the headman, Ali Mahmoud—in the wonder of Egypt’s dusk. He watched the pale blue merge into exquisite pink, and the two colours, by some magical transmutation, form that profound violet which defies palette and brush. He became lost in reverie.

Not a sound came to disturb him, save a faint clatter of kitchen utensils from the tent under the ruins, where Ali Mahmoud was preparing dinner. A dog began to howl in the nearby village, but presently ceased. From the Nile, borne upon a slight breeze, came the plaintive note of a boatman’s pipe. Presently the breeze died away, and silence claimed the great temple for its own.

Desmond bathed in the extemporised bath which the headman had filled. Then he shaved, changed into his best linen outfit, and dispatched his dinner.

“Ali Mahmoud!” he called, stepping to the tent door.

Out of deepening shadows the tall Egyptian appeared.

“I shall be away for some hours,” said Desmond. “Keep a sharp lookout!”

“But you will return before morning?”

There was an odd note of anxiety—almost of reproach—in the man’s voice. Desmond felt his cheeks flush.

“Of course I shall return before morning,” he answered sharply. “‘For some hours,’ I said. The temple ghafir will keep you company.”

Ali Mahmoud shook his head.

“That Coptic robber has departed,” he replied simply.

“What?” Desmond cried. “Since when?”

“Since the opening to the passage was made, he has departed each night at dusk.”

“Then you have been here alone?”

“It is so.”

“He had orders to remain!”

“It is true; but he is an unclean insect and an eater of pork.”

“Has he been bribed?”

“How can I say, Desmond Effendi? But I will keep a sharp lookout, as you direct.”

Ali Mahmoud saluted with graceful dignity, turned, and walked away.

For a long time Desmond stood looking after the headman, his mind filled with misgivings. From what he had overheard of the men’s conversation he had been forced to conclude that superstition was working among them like a virus. The source of the strange rumours passing from man to man he had been unable to trace. He wondered if definite human enmity might not be at the bottom of the trouble. The desertion of the official watchman of the temple was significant.

Clearly, in the circumstances, it was unfair to leave Ali Mahmoud alone on guard. Desmond hesitated. A mental picture uprose before him, and he seemed to hear a soft voice whispering his name:

“Brian!”

“Damn!” he exclaimed.

Then, lighting his pipe, he set off briskly in the direction of the river, where he knew that a small boat awaited him. He would explain the position to
madame
and return immediately—so he determined.

Yet such is the way of things that more than four hours had elapsed when the boat brought Desmond back again to the bank of the Nile. He thought of Ali Mahmoud, and was remorseful. Furthermore, he despised himself.

He set out for the camp at a smart pace, wondering what had taken possession of the village dogs. From near and far came sounds of dismal howling.

Then, as he passed the village, and came at last in sight of the great ruin, he heard the sharp crack of a rifle.

“Ali Mahmoud!” he exclaimed.

Plunging his hand into his pocket, where latterly he had carried a pistol, he set out running.

“Good God!” he muttered, but never checked his steps. The pistol was missing!

Familiar with every foot of the way, he raced on through ebony shadows, making for the excavation. Out of the darkness he ran into the dazzling moonlight that bathed one side of the Treasure Room.

“Ali Mahmoud!” he shouted.

From a cavernous doorway, framed in deep-hewn hieroglyphics, the tall figure stepped out.

“Thank God!” Desmond panted. “I thought—”

He paused, staring at the headman, who carried his rifle, and whose strong, brown face betrayed some suppressed emotion.

“I am here, effendi!”

“I heard a shot.”

“I fired that shot.”

“Why? What did you see?”

Ali Mahmoud extended one of his small brown hands in a characteristic and eloquent gesture.

“Perhaps—hyena,” he replied; “but it looked too big.”

“It was some animal, then? I mean, it walked on four legs?”

Ali Mahmoud shook his head doubtfully.

“I thought,” he answered slowly, “not
always
on four legs. I thought,
sometimes
on two. So I challenged. When
it
did not answer. I fired.”

“Well?”

Ali Mahmoud repeated the gesture.

“Nothing,” he explained simply. “All the men say they have seen this unknown thing. I am glad you have returned, Desmond Effendi!”

* * *

In the morning Desmond awakened early. The vague horror of the night, the mystery of the “thing” seen in the temple ruins, had fled.

Egyptian sunlight flooded the prospect, and he thought that moderate diligence on the part of the gang today should bring him within sight of his goal.

Ali Mahmoud, having performed his duty of awakening his chief, did not retire at once, but stood in the door of the tent, a tall, imposing figure, regarding Desmond strangely.

“Well?” Desmond asked.

“There is more trouble,” the Egyptian answered simply. “Follow me, effendi, and you shall see!”

Desmond leaped out of bed immediately and followed the man to the excavation. The site was deserted. Not a labourer was there.

“Where are the men—?” he began.

Ali Mahmoud extended his palms.

“Deserted!” he replied. “Those Coptic mongrels, those shames of their mothers who foraged with their shoes on, have abandoned the work!”

Desmond clenched his fists, and for many moments was silent.

“You and I, Ali Mahmoud,” he said at length, “will do the work ourselves!”

“It is agreed,” the Egyptian replied; “but upon the condition, Desmond Effendi, that neither you nor I shall remain here tonight.”

“What?”

Desmond glared angrily, but Ali remained unmoved.

“I am a man of few words,” he said, in his simple, direct fashion; “but that which I saw last night was no fit thing for a man to see. Tonight I go. You, too, effendi, will leave the temple.”

Brian Desmond was on fire, but he knew his man too well to show it. Moreover, he respected him.

“Be it so,” he said, turned, and went back to his tent.

They laboured, those two, with pick and shovel and basket, from early morning until dusk. They worked as of old the slaves of Pharaoh worked. Not even under the merciless midday sun did they stay or slacken their herculean toils; and when, at coming of welcome evening, they threw down their tools in utter exhaustion, the narrow portals of the secret chamber were uncovered. Standing at the bottom of the shaft, sweat-begrimed, aching in every limb, the brown man and the white solemnly shook hands.

“Ali Mahmoud,” said Desmond, “you are real British!”

“Desmond Effendi,” the Egyptian answered, “you are a true Moslem!”

The desert toilet completed and the evening meal dispatched, Brian Desmond lit his pipe and stood staring out across the violet landscape toward the Valley of the Queens.

That day he had actually cleared the debris from before a door wrought of the red sandstone of Silsilis, which almost certainly was the portal of the secret Treasure Room. Despite the superstitious character of the natives, the spot was altogether too near to Luxor for the excavation to be left unguarded. Some predatory agent of a thieving dealer, or of an ambitious rival—for it had been well said that there is no honour among excavators—armed with suitable implements, might filch the treasure-trove destined to establish definitely the reputation of Brian Desmond.

Ali Mahmoud refused to remain—and Mme. de Medicis was waiting in the perfumed cabin of the dahabeah, where an incense burner sent up its smoke pencils of ambergris; and her golden eyes would be soft as the eyes of the gazelles.

But whosoever would retain the mastery of Moslems must first learn to retain the mastery of himself. Once let the idea that a place is haunted take root in the Arab mind, and, short of employing shackles, nothing could persuade a native to remain in that spot after sunset. Thus, at Karnak, the Bab el Abid, or Gate of the Slaves, a supposed secret apartment in the Temple of Mentu, is said to be watched over by a gigantic black afreet. No Egyptian would willingly remain alone in the vicinity of that gate by night.

Desmond entered his tent, trimmed and lighted the lamp, and wrote a note excusing himself and explaining his reasons. Sadi, the Persian poet, sings that love can conquer all; but Sadi lacked the opportunity of meeting a British archaeologist. Though every houri of Mohammed’s paradise had beckoned him, Brian Desmond would not have been guilty of leaving the treasure of Taia unguarded.

Clapping his hands—a signal which Ali Mahmoud promptly answered—he handed the letter to the tall Egyptian.

“Give this personally to Mme. de Medicis,” he said, “on the dahabeah
Nitocris
. Then do as you please.”

“And you, effendi?”

“I agreed with you to leave the temple,” Desmond answered. “I shall do so; but I did not agree not to return.”

The fine face of Ali Mahmoud afforded a psychological study. Verbal subtlety is dear to the Arab mind. Desmond Effendi had tricked him, but tricked him legitimately.

“It is true,” he answered; “but my heart misgives me.”

He saluted Desmond gravely, and departed, his slippered feet making no noise upon the sandy ground. Like a shadow he glided from the tent door and was gone.

Desmond stood looking after the headman, and thinking of many things. The fires of his anger were by no means extinct; but Ali Mahmoud was staunch, and had laboured well. The night would pass, and the morrow held golden promise.

A faint, cool breeze fanned his brow, and about him lay that great peace which comes to Egypt with the touch of night. Vague sounds proceeded, for a time, from the direction of the Arab village, and once a pariah dog set up his dismal howling upon a mound not twenty yards away. Desmond could see the beast, painted in violet shadows against the sand; and, picking up a stone, he hurled it well and truly. With it went the last vapours of his rekindled wrath. The beautiful silence had become complete.

For long he stood there, smoking his pipe, and watching the eager velvet darkness claiming the land, until the perfect night of Egypt ruled the Thebaid, and the heavens opened their million windows that the angels might look upon the picture below.

Half regretfully, he turned and entered the tent. In the sandy floor his bottle of whisky was buried; in a bucket of water were the “baby Polly” bottles. These latter he might reveal; but for Ali Mahmoud to detect him using strong liquor would be the signal for the headman’s departure. That he so indulged was understood, but that he should keep his vice decently secret from every good Moslem was a
sine qua non
.

He helped himself to a peg, concealed the “vice” again, and set out to walk to the river, there to taunt himself with a sight of the twinkling lights of
madame’s
dahabeah—and to carry out his pledge to Ali Mahmoud.

No more than ten paces had he gone when he became aware of a curious, cold tingling of his skin. The sensation was novel, but highly unpleasant. It gradually rose to his scalp—a sort of horrific chill quite unaccountable.

Remotely, sweetly, he heard, or thought he heard, a woman’s voice calling his name:

“Brian! Brian!”

He stopped short. He felt his heart leap in his bosom. The voice had seemed to come from westward—from beyond the temple.

“Who’s there?” he cried.

No one answered. A bat circled erratically overhead, as if blindly seeking some lost haven; then it swooped and was gone into some cranny of the great pylon.