The Crime Cult

CHAPTER XIII THE TEMPLE OF SILENCE

THE next night, Flash Donegan left his apartment and walked around the corner to the parking space where he kept his car. He was cautious, for he was bound on a very definite errand.

It was nearly midnight when he left the apartment, and once Flash was in his car, he sped rapidly northward. Nearing his destination, he parked on a side street and alighted. He sauntered through the darkness until he reached the man-made canyon that ran between the two warehouses.

Flash was alert. He was watching and listening, eager to detect any sign that might denote the presence of the watching men. But all was silent. Flash smiled to himself. This invisible lookout was to his liking.

Flash entered the narrow opening and walked slowly onward. He was listening for any sound. This narrow passageway, with its outlets on parallel streets, formed a perfect trap.

The watchers had their instructions. Any one could enter here; but leaving the snare was a different matter. Harry Vincent had learned that fact. Flash smiled at the thought.

Halfway along the paved alleyway, Flash stopped. His hand came from his coat pocket. A tiny green light glimmered with three distinct twinkles.

This was a signal that Harry Vincent had not seen Larkin give. Flash Donegan turned to his left and pressed against the wall. A door swung inward.

The racketeer entered the pitch-dark passage.

The door swung silently behind him. It blotted out the faintest trace of light that remained — the dim whiteness of the warehouse across the alleyway. Flash advanced and went through the second door into the lighted corridor.

He stopped after he had gone a few steps. He had the peculiar sensation that he was not alone. He glanced back toward the door through which he had come. There was only gloom at the end of the corridor, punctuated by small lights in the center of the passage.

Flash stared into the black shadows that obscured the end of the wall. For a moment he felt impelled to go back and probe that patch of gloom. Then he laughed at his folly. His dull mirth sounded hollow in the stone-walled corridor.

Flash turned and went ahead, his footsteps echoing as he walked. He moved into the darkness of the side passage. There he waited for a moment. There was no sound.

Flash moved along. He was satisfied now that no person was lurking in the outer corridor. He reached the elevator and entered.

An instant later, there were two clicks, and the door closed, while the light came on. Flash was staring at the walls of the shaft as the lift crept toward the roof.

The racketeer was a trifle impatient at the slow progress. He looked upward and gave no thought to the little compartment in which he was riding.

So close that a mere motion of the racketeer’s arm would have warned him of another presence, stood a tall form clad in black. Silently, gliding in like a ghost, the man had entered the elevator in the darkness, simultaneously with Flash Donegan!

The being in black might have been Donegan’s shadow, for his entire shape was of that sable hue. Donegan was wearing a soft hat. His coat was open, and a scarf hung over his shoulders.

The solid shadow behind him was almost a replica of his contour. The large hat, the edges of the cloak, the black-gloved hands — all these were a fantastic representation. But this shadow was a living one. It was — The Shadow!

THE elevator stopped at the top of the shaft. It reached an opening. Flash Donegan stepped out and walked along the dim corridor ahead. Softly, noiseless as any shadow, the man in black followed.

Flash turned into a dark entrance at the side of the corridor. The Shadow kept on and sidled against the wall.

His action was a timely one. The racketeer, acting upon some sudden impulse, leaned back from the opening which he had entered, and threw a suspicious glance back along the corridor to the elevator.

He saw nothing, and the light in the little lift assured him that all was well. With a grunt of satisfaction, Flash moved on to the spiral stairway.

His footsteps clanked upon the metal as he descended the twisting way. Again The Shadow was behind the racketeer, keeping pace with him. But The Shadow’s feet made no sound whatever.

Had Flash decided to look up, he would have seen no one. For the sharp curve to the staircase kept The Shadow entirely out of view.

At the foot of the stairway, Flash came to the sliding door. It opened. The racketeer went in. The door closed behind him. Flash looked about the oddly papered room while it was moving upward.

He was actually alone now. The Shadow had not followed here.

Soon Flash Donegan was standing before the carved door that bore the lion’s head. He saw the greenish glow of peering eyes. He passed inspection. The door slid aside, and Flash entered the reception hall.

He went no farther. It was evidently unnecessary for Flash to see the man who lived here. Chandra, the Burmese, approached, and Flash pulled a crinkling envelope from his pocket.

“Wait,” said the servant.

He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, he carried a large slate. Upon it, inscribed in closely written words, was a message which Flash perused. It was the answer to the note which the racketeer had sent in to Henri Zayata.

“The master cannot see you now,” informed Chandra. “He is busy. This is his reply.”

Flash nodded and chuckled. He gave the slate back to the Burmese, and turned toward the oaken door. Zayata’s reply was sufficient.

Chandra opened the door, and Flash returned to the moving room. The oak-paneled door closed. Flash descended and alighted at the foot of the spiral stairway.

He saw no one here. It was very dark behind the curving base of the iron staircase. Flash did not give any attention to the narrow space that existed there. He started his upward trip. His footsteps clanked less noticeably as he reached the top.

Then a form emerged from the space at the base of the stairs. It grew from nothingness — a black shape that took on the semblance of a human being. The Shadow, tall and mysterious, stood alone.

He advanced to the sliding door in front of the staircase. Here, black-clad hands began to probe. A thin, pliable instrument of steel gleamed dully in the dim light.

A secret spring clicked; the sliding door moved back. The Shadow entered the room with the curious wall paper. There, he remained, silent and unmoving.

Upstairs, Henri Zayata reclined upon the gorgeous divan. Beside him sat Margaret Glendenning. The girl was attired in a sweeping gown — a luxurious garment that she had found in the closet of the guest room.

She had enjoyed her stay at Henri Zayata’s mysterious and magnificent abode. She sighed as she realized that some time she must leave these delightful surroundings.

ZAYATA heard the sigh. He turned to the girl, a look of grave concern upon his face. His eyes were questioning and sympathetic. Margaret smiled.

“I was just thinking,” she said. “Thinking how wonderful it is here. Thinking how much I shall dislike leaving.”

“Leaving?” questioned Zayata gently.

“Of course,” declared Margaret. “I really should not have stayed at all. I could not leave after I heard the truth about my uncle. But now — well, Henri, it would be a mistake for me to stay longer.”

“My dear girl,” said Zayata soothingly, “it would be impossible for you to leave at present! Surely you must like it here—”

“Of course I like it!” exclaimed Margaret. “It is wonderful — living in those beautiful rooms that you have given me. The hours we have talked together — they are wonderful, too.

“But — I have been wondering, Henri. Perhaps it would be best for me to go back — back with my uncle—”

“You cannot go back, at present,” said Zayata firmly. “There is no way—”

“But when Larkin comes—”

“Larkin will not be here for a long time.”

“Why?”

“I shall tell you,” began Zayata; then he paused as Chandra entered. The Burmese was carrying the slate that he had shown to Flash Donegan.

Margaret watched curiously as Zayata took the slate and carefully wiped off the message with a small sponge that the servant gave him. She had seen Zayata write that message — after he had read a note which Chandra had brought.

But Zayata had kept the slate turned so that Margaret had not seen the message. It all seemed curious, but Zayata had volunteered no explanation, so Margaret did not ask for one.

“Chandra,” said Zayata, “bring me those newspapers.”

The servant bowed and went to a table in the corner of the room. He lifted its toplike lid and brought out some newspapers. He carried them to Zayata, who kept the front pages toward himself.

Then, Zayata selected one of the journals and gave it to Margaret. The girl gasped when she read the headlines.

The newspaper told of the arrest of her uncle. It spoke of him as a fiend. Clinton Glendenning was branded as the slayer of two men — Charles Blefken and Don Hasbrouck.

Wildly, the girl’s eyes ran down the columns. A paragraph caught her attention. It said:

Margaret dropped the newspaper. She buried her face in her hands, and began to weep convulsively. Zayata, consoling, put his arm about her, and the girl leaned on the man’s shoulder while she cried.

At last, her weeping ended, she looked at her new-found friend with tear-dimmed eyes. Zayata’s kindliness was encouraging. The girl tried to smile. Then she closed her eyes and rested her head snugly upon the comforting arm.

DURING the silence that followed, Chandra approached and asked a question in a foreign tongue.

“No one else is coming,” said Zayata. “close the lift, and raise it, Chandra.”

Chandra went out into the hallway. Zayata spoke softly to Margaret:

“You are unhappy,” he said soothingly. “Unhappy, aren’t you — Margaret?”

“Yes,” answered the girl dreamily. “But, somehow, unhappiness cannot last long — here.”

“You will remain?”

“I must remain for a while — but then—”

“What then?” Zayata asked.

“I must go, although—”

“Why should you ever leave?” The girl did not reply.

“Why should you ever leave here, Margaret?” persisted the man. “Why should you ever leave the one — who loves you?”

The girl’s eyes opened wide.

“Yes, Margaret, I love you,” came Zayata’s voice. “I want you to remain here always here with me—”

The girl’s lips tightened. Despite the alluring sound of Henri Zayata’s voice, the man’s words worried her. The recollection of Robert Buchanan seemed to govern her.

“Do you love me, Margaret?” was Zayata’s question.

“I cannot tell,” gasped the girl. “Please, Henri — please let me consider. I shall stay here — for a little while — but then—”

“Then you will answer me?”

“Yes.”

“How soon?” Zayata insisted.

The girl pondered. She had detected an eagerness in the man’s voice, and it made her feel a sudden lack of security.

“In three days,” said Margaret. “Three nights from now, Henri. Then I shall tell you — whether I choose to leave, or to stay here, always—”

“You promise to have your answer then?”

“I promise!”

The girl raised her head and gently pressed back Zayata’s arm. The man smiled, and waved his hand toward the door that led to the hallway.

“You have seen only part of this place,” he declared. “Why not see more of it — since it may be yours — three days from now?

“Chandra!” The man clapped his hands. “Show Miss Glendenning the temple. I am sorry, Margaret” — his voice was rueful — “that I cannot accompany you.”

The man’s reference to his crippled condition excited the girl’s sympathy. She was about to make a kindly reply when she noticed that Zayata was reclining with his eyes closed. Evidently he was tired. Chandra bowed. Margaret arose and followed the Burmese.

He led her into the hallway. He crossed and began to bow before a brazen door that glowed between crimson curtains. It must be a ceremony, Margaret thought.

The door made her think of that entrance at the end of the hall — the carved oaken barrier that bore the lion’s head. She looked in that direction. To her amazement, she saw the door sliding shut!

Could it have been fancy — the door moving of its own accord? The girl noticed a shadowy blackness beside the door, near a huge, dark vase. Then she heard Chandra speak.

She looked ahead and forgot the closing door when she saw the sight before her.

The brass gate was open, and beyond was a most magnificent room — a tiny temple of most fantastic appearance. All the other gorgeous apartments of Henri Zayata’s home faded into insignificance when compared to this one.

Softly, the girl stole forward. Chandra was beside her as she found her way between piles of cushions and approached a thronelike chair at the far end of the room.

“It is the throne of Charn,” said the Burmese, in a whisper. “Do not touch it.”

MARGARET looked at the golden carvings of the throne. Then she noticed a huge upright box at the right of the room. It looked like a mummy case. Upon it was the carved representation of a woman’s face — a solemn face with staring eyes.

“The home of Kali,” whispered the Burmese in an awed tone. Margaret noted that the huge case was girded with bands of a silver metal; these were solid bars.

“It shall not be opened,” said Chandra solemnly. “Never — until — ” His voice became a succession of low words in his native tongue.

“Come,” said Chandra, as Margaret still stared at the marvelous furnishings of the sanctuary. “Come! The master does not wish us to stay here long.”

The girl followed the Burmese toward the door. Suddenly she stopped. Just within the door, standing beside an Oriental tapestry, the girl’s eyes saw a human figure.

It was the form of a man in black — a tall shape garbed in a flowing cloak. The head was covered by a soft hat that turned down to hide the eyes.

Was it a strange statue or a living being?

“Come!” Chandra was speaking from the hall.

Margaret stepped between the curtains. She turned to see the brass door sliding down into the opening. Chandra conducted her back to Henri Zayata’s living room.

“You have seen the temple?” asked Zayata, with a thin smile.

“Yes,” Margaret replied. “It is wonderful.”

“It is called the Temple of Silence,” replied Zayata.

The Temple of Silence! The name was graphically descriptive. How well it suited! — Margaret thought.

“Those who enter it must remain silent,” smiled Zayata.

“Those who enter it!” The phrase burned itself in Margaret’s brain. She had entered it — so had Chandra. But there was another there; one who had remained after they had left!

Vividly, Margaret recalled that strange form clad in black. A silent figure in the Temple of Silence! Who could the man have been?

Henri Zayata was chatting now. His talk was of other matters. Margaret sat on the cushions beside the divan. She still thought of that strange being whom she had seen in the silent temple. But she said nothing to Henri Zayata.