The Voice of Káli/Chapter 6

MMEDIATELY after dinner, Paul Harley slipped away to his room. An unpleasant tension had characterized the gathering. There were several things that puzzled Harley, particularly the acute nervousness of Phil Westbury. Over and over again he had caught her exchanging mysterious glances with Latham and had intercepted silent looks of reassurance from the latter. It might be, of course, that she knew of the menace which overhung the Abbey and its occupants. But this explanation did not entirely satisfy him. He determined to take an early opportunity of questioning Latham respecting the telegram which had detained Mrs. Westbury.

On entering his room, he did not turn up the light. But, groping his way to the window, he raised the blind and looked out. As is the fashion with such midsummer disturbances, the storm which had been threatening all the evening now hovered to the west, blackly. Distant peals of thunder there had been during dinner, and two short but intense showers of rain, but no lightning; and now, although angry banks of clouds were visible in the distance, the sky was cloudless immediately overhead.

He softly opened the window, inhaling the fragrance of moist loam and newly wetted leaves. Away on the right he had a view of a corner of the terrace; directly before him the ground dropped steeply to a belt of trees bordering the former moat; beyond, it rose again, and two miles away, upstanding weirdly beyond the distant park, showed a ruined tower, one of the local landmarks and a relic of Norman' days. It actually stood on part of the Westbury property, although it was half a mile or more from the Warren.

At first his survey of the prospect was general and vague; indeed, he had opened the window more to enjoy the coolness of the evening air than for any other reason. He had wanted to reflect; but now, suddenly, his entire interest became focussed upon the ruined tower rising ghostly above surrounding trees.

Clearly visible against the stormy backing, a little point of light high up in the tower appeared and disappeared like a winking eye!

Paul Harley clenched his teeth, craning out and watching intensely. A code message was being transmitted from the tower! For a while he watched it, a sense of triumph hot within him, only to realize, to his mortification, that it was in some code unknown to him. Instantly upon recognizing this, he acted.



The geography of the neighborhood, which he had made it his business to memorize, told him that this message could only be intended for someone at the Abbey. Neglectful of the fact that the leaves were drenched with rain, he quickly got astride of the ledge and began to climb down the ivy to the shrubbery beneath. He had used this route before and was moderately familiar with it.

He dropped into the wet bushes without other mishap than the saturating of his evening clothes and, keeping well within the shadow of the building, he began to work his way round in the direction of the terrace. He passed the dining-room, glancing up at the rooms above it, and proceeding, noted that the library was illuminated. Below the terrace he paused, looking again toward the distant tower.

The top remained just visible above the trees; and there, still coming and going, was the signal light! He stepped out further from the building, cautiously, looking upward and to the left.

“Ah!” he muttered and, dropping down upon the sloping lawn, the grass wet from a recent downpour, he crept further northward, until he could obtain a clear view of the study window.

The study was in darkness, but the curtains were not drawn. A light, probably that of an electric pocket torch, was coming and going, dot and dash, in Van Dean's study!

Harley came to the end of the terrace, and taking advantage of a bank of rhododendrons, crept yet further away from the house, until he could see not merely the reflection, but the actual light being operated in the room.

Faintly, as it glowed in the darkness, he could detect the figure of the one who held it. And at first he was loath to credit what he saw, believing that certain words of Inspector Gorleston, which he had considered curious, must be influencing his imagination. But one thing he could not doubt, nor ascribe to his drenched garments nor to the comparative cool of the evening. This was the premonitory chill, the awakening of his sixth sense. Intently, he watched, crouched behind the bushes, until the unintelligible dots and dashes ceased.

The man signalling to that other on the distant tower, for a man he assumed the signaller to be, was wrapped in a sort of cowl, his head so enveloped in the huge hood that in the dim reflection of the torch it was quite impossible to detect his features!

“Good God!” muttered Harley. “What does this mean!”

Stooping below the level of the bushes, he turned and regained the shelter of the terrace, and ran for twenty paces. Then, leaping into the shrubbery, he located the thick branch of ivy which was a ladder to his window and began to climb up to his room again, his heart beating very fast and his thoughts racing far ahead of his physical effort. So that ere he drew himself back over the ledge and regained his bedroom, he was, in spirit, in Van Dean's study confronting the cowled man.

His room regained, he was about to run out into the corridor, when long habits of prudence came to his aid. He paused, turned, lowered the blind and, opening the wardrobe, contemplated the garments there, wondering what explanation he could give for changing from evening dress into tweeds at that time of the evening, for he had no other dress clothes with him. But he fully recognized the folly of giving his unknown enemy a clue to his recent movements.

He finally decided that a change of shoes, the service of a hard clothes brush and a hasty wash would render him sufficiently presentable to pass muster. Two minutes later he walked into the library. Latham was there with Phil Westbury, but no one else.

“Where is Mr. Van Dean?” asked Harley sharply.

“In the drawing room,” replied Latham. “At least, I left him there.”

Harley nodded and ran up the stairs to the study. He rapped, and as there was no answer, opened, and looked in. The room was in darkness. He quickly depressed the switch and glanced around. The study was empty. He tried the further door, but as usual, it was locked, then turning, he came down again, into the library.

“How long have you been in here, Latham?” he asked.

“About ten minutes, I should say.”

“So long as that? Are you sure?”

“Why, I should think for quite ten minutes,” answered Phil Westbury, that unaccountable expression of fear coming again into her eyes. “But why do you ask, Mr. Harley?”

“If you have been in here for ten minutes, you can tell me if anyone else has entered or left the room during that time.”

“No one,” replied Latham blankly. “Not a soul.”

Harley stood irresolute, looking about him; then, turning, he went out and crossed to the drawing room, but contented himself with looking in at the open doorway.

Van Dean was there, talking to Joyce Gayford. Mrs. Moody was knitting and Jim Westbury was turning over some music, by the piano. Hearing footsteps behind him in the darkened corridor, Harley turned. Mohammed Khán, carrying a tray bearing coffee and liqueurs, passed him and entered the drawing room.

Harley proceeded in the opposite direction, finally opening a door communicating with the covered way. As he did so, the sound of a reed pipe came to his ears. He paused again, but finally went forward. He came to the outbuilding which was the home of the miniature menagerie, walked around it and looked in through the barred window.



The cheetah was in its cage; the monkeys were huddled close together in theirs, fast asleep. Seated on a mat, in a corner remote from the window through which Harley was peering, was Wu Chang, the Chinaman, with expressionless slanting eyes which stared straight before him. His wrinkled, yellow fingers rising and falling rhythmically, he played upon a Chinese pipe, a plaintive wailing melody, monotonous and unpleasantly weird. For a while, Harley watched him. Then, turning, he retraced his steps; and as he came again into the main building and closed the door the sound of piping became inaudible. In its place, from the direction of the drawing room, came the strains of a very modern fox trot. He returned along the corridor and met Mohammed Kan coming out of the drawing room.

“Mohammed,” he said.

Mohammed Khán paused and inclined his head gracefully.

“Is the outer gate locked?”

“It has been locked for an hour, Sahib.”

“Good,” said Harley shortly. “That is all.”

Mohammed Khán bowed and departed.