The Voice of Káli/Chapter 3

OR a while there was silence in the big library. The sound of a lawnmower could now be heard in the garden. Joyce was the first to speak.

“Is what you have told us the reason why the Government has sent Paul Harley down?” she asked.

Van Dean slowly nodded his head.

“Yes. No white man, myself may be excepted, knows so much of this secret danger to us and all other civilized countries as Paul Harley of the British Foreign Office.”

“I'm beginning to grasp the idea of the barbed wire in the moat,” announced Jim, “and the case of small arms and the burglar alarms, and what not.”

“I assure you,” said Van Dean, “that they are necessary.” He turned and advanced in the direction of the study stair. Before the French windows he paused for a moment, looking out. “Were in for a storm,” he murmured. “I wonder if Wu Chang has locked up the cheetah. He will have to be moved, tonight, as we are expecting visitors. He is always uneasy during a storm.”

Three pairs of eyes watched him as he he hesitated and finally went out by way of the door flanked by bookcases.

No one noticed that the sound of the lawnmower had ceased, and no one observed the approach of a bearded, surly looking man wearing a battered straw hat, who slowly crossed the terrace and stood looking into the room.

Finally, Mrs. Moody, heaving a great sigh, turned in his direction.

“You wanted me, Madam,” said the bearded man.

“Oh, yes, Parker,” she replied. “I wanted to speak to you about some peaches for tonight. Joyce, dear—” she turned to her stepdaughter—“will you see about it?”

“Certainly, Mumsie. Get a basket, Parker,” she instructed. “I'll join you in a moment.”

Parker nodded and retired as Joyce dropped down again on the arm of Mrs. Moody's chair.

“Dear old Mumsie isn't really worried, is she, about all this bogey stuff?” she asked affectionately.

“Well, dear,” confessed Mrs. Moody, “it is rather disturbing.”

There was a rap at the door and Mohammed Khán came in.

“Pardon, Memsahib,” he said to Joyce, “there is no key on your desk.” He turned to Mrs. Moody. “There will be, tonight, how many guests?”

Mrs. Moody, whose expression had now settled into one of bewilderment, replied, “Let me see: Mrs. and Miss Westbury, Captain Latham and—oh, Jim, you will never have time to dress!”

“Eh!” said Jim, who had been staring intently at the image of Káli. “Just time to buzz back to the Warren and change.”

“Oh!” replied Mrs. Moody doubtfully. “Four besides ourselves, Mohammed.”

The Oriental bowed and retired.

“Uncanny chappie, that,” muttered Jim. “This place is full of funny people, funny noises, threats of sudden death and what not.”

“I quite agree,” murmured Mrs. Moody, “but I think—at least I hope—that Mr. Van Dean exaggerates.”

“I don't know, Mumsie,” said Joyce. “The Foreign Office would never have sent such a big sahib as Paul Harley down if there hadn't been something important doing. I should say”

Suddenly, from somewhere in the house came the sound of a loud crash, followed by that of a whining which died away in a manner curiously horrible. Mrs. Moody clutched at Joyce convulsively.

“Good Lord!” said Jim. “What's that?”

Mrs. Moody stood up.

“I'm almost certain it was in the dining room,” she said. “Joyce, do come with me!”

The old lady hurried out, calling for Mohammed. But Joyce hesitated, looking at Jim.

“Jim,” she said, “that was in the study!”

“The dog!” muttered Jim guiltily. “I'd clean forgotten him!”

“So had I. I'll go and look for the key myself.”

She ran out. Jim was standing peering awkwardly in the direction of the locked study door when Paul Harley strode briskly across the terrace in the growing dusk, and into the library. Jim turned with a start.

“Hello, Harley!” he cried. “Anything wrong?”

One quick glance Harley gave him.

“Yes!” he snapped, and ran up the stairs to the study door.

He tried the door and snapped his fingers irritably when he found it to be locked.

“Westbury!” he ordered. “Run 'round the garden to the study window. Quick, man!”

Jim stared for a moment and then, turning, ran out of the library, crossed the terrace and disappeared. His footsteps could be heard upon the stone stairs as Joyce came hurrying back. On seeing Harley standing on the landing, she paused in confusion.

“Oh, Mr. Harley,” she cried, “I can't find the key!”

“What key?” snapped Harley grimly.

“The key of the study. Rex, Captain Latham's dog is locked in there!”

“Ah,” muttered Harley. “Is that so? How long had you been in the library?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Anyone been up these stairs?”

“Not a soul.”

“Positive, Mr. Harley.”

A door was flung open and Van Dean came in.

“Quick!” said Harley to him, before he could speak. “The key of your study, Van Dean!”

Van Dean ran up the stairs, fumbling for and producing his keys.

“What's wrong, Harley?” he asked. “What's all the disturbance?”

“I don't know,” was the reply, “yet.” Paul Harley took the key handed him and fitted it into the lock of the study door. “You haven't been in your study during the past ten minutes?”

“Why, no,” returned Van Dean; “I never use the other door. It's kept locked. You don't think”

“No time,” interrupted Harley, “to think.” He opened the door cautiously and entered, Van Dean following him.

“Good God!” muttered the latter as he recoiled.

Joyce had been following up the stairs.

“Oh, what is it?” she cried. “Mr. Van Dean, tell me!”

Van Dean turned, holding up his hands. The expression upon his face terrified her.

“I'll tell you in a moment,” he said. “Stay there.”

“Oh!” whispered Joyce. “Is it Rex?”

Paul Harley came out on the landing and closed the door behind him.

“It is Rex, Miss Gayford. An accident.”

“Dead?” whispered Joyce.

“Yes,” said Harley. “I wonder if you would send Mohammed Khán to me, here.”

“Yes, Mr. Harley,” the girl replied. “But what does it mean? Who could have” “Later, Miss Gayford!” interrupted Harley sharply. “All in good time.”

Joyce, dimly recognizing that there was more in this than either man had declared, turned and walked slowly out. As the door closed behind her, Van Dean clutched Harley's arm in a vise-like grip.

“Merciful God!” Van Dean whispered. “He is here!”

Harley rested his hand upon Van Dean's shoulder. They came down together into the library. `

“Keep a grip on your nerves, Van Dean,” Harley said firmly. “There is more to come. Someone, never mind names at the moment, entered your study a while ago.”

“But,” whispered Van Dean, “the doors were locked!”

“There's the window,” retorted Harley; “and the north wing is covered in ivy. Oh, there's no room for doubt! I saw something moving up there as I crossed the lawn below. He found Latham's dog in the room. The poor brute went for him, and”

He ceased speaking as Jim Westbury, looking rather sheepish, came in by the French window.

“I say,” he inquired, “can I dismiss? Not a soul about.”

“Of course,” repied [sic] Harley in preoccupied fashion. “Sorry. I was afraid you would be too late to see anything.” He turned to Van Dean. “If you have no objection, I should like a word with Mohammed Khán and Wu Chang, I have satisfied myself about the other servants.”

“As you like, Harley,” replied the American, “It's up to you. God knows I'd trust them both. But all the same I”

There came a rap on the library door and Mohammed Khán entered.

“Mohammed,” said Van Dean, “Harley Sahib wishes to speak to you.”

The Oriental bowed. Paul Harley crossed and stood just in front of him, looking him up and down with his penetrating gray eyes.

“You have seen military service,” Harley said. “When and where?”

At that, a trace of uneasiness disturbed the serenity of the Oriental's countenance.

“I serve under the Gaekwar of Baroda, Sahib,” he replied in his musical voice, “from the time I am twenty, for five years.”

“Why do you claim to be Rajputanan?”

“I was born in Rajputana, Sahib.”

“What town?”

“Shahabad.”

“And after Baroda?”

“I go to the Madras Presidency in the service of Colonel Forrester.”

“As what?”

“As butler.”

“Next?”

“He comes to England; I come also. He meets with misfortune, but the Colonel Sahib gives me a good name at the agency and I am engaged here.”

A little longer the steel gray eyes challenged the glance of the dark brown ones.

“Very good, Mohammed. You may go. Send Wu Chang to me in Mr. Van Dean's study.”

Harley's glance followed Mohammed's departure across the library. Then, with not a word to Van Dean or Westbury, he turned, mounted the stairs and disappeared into the study.

“Good Lord, Van Dean!” Westbury burst out. “What's it all about? I always thought you brought Mohammed Khán from India and all that.”

“No, Westbury,” replied Van Dean. “When I was forming my household here, I advertised for an Indian butler. He came from the Anglo-Indian Association in London. His references were above suspicion.”

“Then” began Jim, and paused.

Unheralded by any knock, a little, stooping Chinaman entered the library, silent in his padded shoes. He glanced neither to right nor left, but shuffled across to the study stairs, mounted them, rapped on the door and went in, closing it behind him.