The Voice of Káli/Chapter 10

IM WESTBURY and Joyce Gayford began to dance, as if impelled by some higher power. The shadow which overlay the Abbey temporarily was forgotten. For these two were dance fiends. Latham and Phil Westbury did not respond immediately, whereupon Jim bumped genially into Latham.

“Show a leg!” he cried.

He was dancing badly, as his partner had commented in her most acid fashion.

“What's wrong with you, Jim?” asked Latham.

“My shoe's come undone!” he called back.

“You seem to have engine trouble!” murmured Latham.

At that, Jim kicked his shoe off entirely, and, “That's that!” he exclaimed. And, ignoring his partner's frigid stare, he continued to dance.

Phil and Latham, standing up, were about to fall to the lure of the band record when Harley came out from the study, descended the stair and, crossing to the gramophone, raised the needle.

There came sudden silence. In the far distance sounded a rumbling of thunder. Then, short and sharp, the crack of a pistol shot.

“My God!” cried Latham. “What's that?”

Phil clung to him and Mrs. Moody clutched at Joyce, who had halted beside her chair.

“Harry,” said Phil, in a hushed voice, “it was in the house!”

The agitated face of Burton van Dean now appeared. at the study door. There was a moment of tense silence, then, a sound of hurrying footsteps, and into the library burst Wu Chang, a revolver in his hand!



In a trice Harley had confronted the Chinaman. There came a rapid interchange of questions and answers in Chinese, unintelligible to everyone in the library except Van Dean.

“Let no one leave the room,” said Harley sternly. And followed by Wu Chang, he ran out.

“Oh, whatever has happened!” moaned Phil. “I'm frightened!”

“Wherever have they gone?” said Joyce, some of her self-possession deserting her.

“I'm going to see!” exclaimed Jim. “Its all very well, but”

“No, no, don't go, Jim!” Mrs. Moody implored.

“No!” said his sister, clutching his arm. “I'm afraid. Stay here with us.”

“But I mean to see,” persisted Westbury.

So far had he proceeded when Paul Harley reentered the library and closed the door behind him.

“I should like to reassure everybody, especially the ladies,” he began, but his face was very stern. “You all heard the sound of a shot. It was fired by Wu Chang. I won't insult anyone's intelligence,” he continued, “by endeavoring to hide the facts. Someone passed the window of Wu Chang's room. Wu Chang, whom I'm pleased to say I trust absolutely, challenged him; and being aware, as everyone in the house is aware, that there is a stranger amongst us, he, failing to get any reply, fired through the window.”

“I didn't know,” broke in the hoarse voice of Van Dean, “that Wu Chang had a revolver.”

“Possibly not,” returned Harley grimly. “But in the circumstances, I cannot blame him. The point is, that he missed his man.”

“Someone in the grounds!” cried Jim Westbury. “I vote we arm ourselves and go out and hunt him!”

“On, the contrary,” replied Harley, quietly, “I am in charge here, Westbury. We four men are going to investigate this matter, thoroughly once and for all.”

“Oh, Mr. Harley!” Joyce interrupted. “Don't say you want us to go to our rooms, because”

“Nevertheless,” Harley answered, “through no fault of your own, you are going to be sent to bed!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Phil. “Stay with me, Joyce! I simply refuse to be left alone, tonight!”

She looked despairingly at Latham.

“You will both stay with me, girls!” announced Mrs. Moody with an air of finality.

Latham glanced reassuringly at Phil Westbury and, although she had been about to speak again, she remained silent.

“With you, Mrs. Moody,” said Harley, “I know they will be quite safe.”

Van Dean, descending the stairs with the step of a weary man, now spoke.

“Miss Westbury,” he said, “I haven't words to say how sorry I am for this.”

“Its not your fault, Mr. Van Dean,” the girl replied. “Please don't worry about it.”

“But,” cried Joyce, “can't we be of some use? It's awful to be locked up with things happening!”

“It's the passive part, Miss Gayford,” Harley agreed, “and the harder, I admit; but you can help best by doing just as I ask.”

“Oh, Lor'! exclaimed Jim Westbury. “Well, well. By-by, Joyce! Good night, Aunt. Don't worry about mother, Phil. We've both had nights out before. That is, I mean to say”

“Good night, Jim,” interrupted Joyce. “Auntie won't expect you in a storm like this. Cheerio everybody. If I hear a shindy, may I come down?”

“On no account,” snapped Harley.

As the ladies passed out of the library, Latham crossed and took Phil's hand.

“Good night,” he said. “Don't be afraid. Just do as you're told.” As the door closed, “Harley!” he said, lowering his voice, “is the Chinaman straight?”

“Yes!” replied Harley. “It's the other we have to count with—the one who was fired at.”

“In heaven's name, how did he get into the grounds of the Abbey?” Latham asked blankly.

“So much for my defenses, so much for my barbed wire and my alarms!” groaned Van Dean.

“It isn't credible, Harley!” declared Latham. “This S. Group is admittedly clever, dangerously clever, but they're only men, after all! Are the alarms set?”

“I tested them quite recently,” replied Harley.

“Then only a spirit could have entered these grounds, tonight, without setting the bells ringing!”

“Yet,” retorted Harley dryly, “we have the evidence of Miss Westbury, and now that of Wu Chang, that there is a stranger amongst us. Let's face the facts.” He began to fill his pipe. “A member of the most dangerous fanatical organization in the world, the S. Group, is here in Norfolk, here in the grounds of the Abbey—in this house.”

“I'd give all I possess,” muttered Latham, “to have the women out of the place.”

“Its impossible,” said Harley. “Also, this man's purpose is undivided. He is here to remove Van Dean, or myself, or both of us! We have the doubtful honor to stand between this present civilization and a great uprising of other races. Some superstitions have a basis of truth. Now, throughout the Far East, the anger of the S. Group is associated with the Indian goddess Káli. Am I right, Latham?”

“Absolutely,” was the reply.

“The natives believe that the Listening Death is directed by the voice of Káli. Is that so, Van Dean?”

“It is,” replied Van Dean in a low voice.

“Whatever produces the so-called Listening Death,” went on Harley, “it is beyond doubt used by the S. Group. It was used recently here, as we know, Van Dean, I have explained to Latham about Denby.”

“You haven't explained to me!” objected Jim Westbury.:

“No; but we are counting on you, Westbury,” Harley replied.

Burton van Dean dropped down upon a settee.

“I am past cool reflection,” he confessed in a voice that shook pathetically. “Maybe that's understood and forgiven.”

Paul Harley crossed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“We all understand,” he assured him.

“A most dangerous fanatic,” Van Dean continued, “a criminal genius—unique, maybe, in the whole world—is right here at my heels. I know it, I feel it. What is your plan, Harley?”



“I'm following inspiration rather than plan,” was the reply. “Without attaching too much importance to the presence of an image of Káli in this room, I am convinced that this library is the center, the focus, of the enemy's activities. By the way, Van Dean, you are sure that this figure did come from your agent in Rangoon?”

“Harley!” exclaimed Van Dean. “Whatever do you mean? It was accompanied by a letter.”

“Handwritten?”

“Typed. But the signature”

“Hm!” muttered Harley. “I should like a glimpse of it. But tomorrow will do. And now I am, going to post my guards. Westbury, you are armed, I know. Your post is in the dining room.”

“What!” exclaimed Jim.

“Off you go. No lights, no smoking. If you hear a shot, be in the library under the speed record. Otherwise, wait for the word.” Harley grimly pointed to the door.

“Right-o!” said Jim, gloomily. “Count on me. But honestly, I can't cope with it.”

“Are all the servants in their rooms, Van Dean?” asked Harley, as Jim went out.

“Yes,” replied the other in a weak voice. “Mohammed Khán reported to me, you remember.”

“And then retired?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, get along to your room—and lock your door!”

Van Dean stood up.

“A poor part,” he said, “for me!”

“We all have our breaking point, Van Dean. You are perilously near yours. Remember! Don't open your door unless I come for you. Understand?”

Van Dean nodded wearily and walked out of the library. At the door he turned.

“May the gods be with you tonight, Harley,” he said.