The Crime Cult

CHAPTER XVI THE CRIME CULT

IT was the following night. Margaret Glendenning sat in the living room of her new abode — the glorious guest apartment of Henri Zayata’s home.

The girl was restless and ill at ease. She appeared worried. There was a reason. Tonight, Zayata expected her answer.

Margaret arose and opened the door. She stepped into Henri Zayata’s own reception room. The place was empty. Margaret knew that Zayata must be in a wheel chair pushed by Chandra, the Burmese.

Zayata had spoken of an upper room — a study where he sometimes went, by means of the chair and a little elevator. But Margaret had never been there.

The problem on the girl’s mind was a great one. She liked Zayata, and trusted him. But she could not make herself believe she loved him. She knew so little of his history.

He had been a traveler. He had spent many years of his life in India. Chandra had been his servant there. Outside of those few facts, her knowledge of Zayata’s past was vague.

Margaret sat on the cushions beside the couch. She looked up suddenly. She fancied that she had seen a shadow flit across the floor.

She looked suspiciously at the curtains beside the door that led into the splendid hallway. But she saw no one.

Again, the girl was lost in thought. This place which had once delighted her was becoming too fantastic.

She glanced toward the door between the curtains, and fancied that she had seen it closed. She went over and tried to slide the barrier. It would not move.

Looking about her, Margaret spied Zayata’s table — the one with the hinged top. She went there. Curiosity impelled her to raise the lid.

After all, she thought, it was right for her to investigate these surroundings. She might find something to help her in her decision.

Within the table was a black book. Margaret stared at the gold title on the thick, leather cover:

She opened the book. She turned a few blank pages. Then she stared in wonderment. The book was not printed. Its pages bore beautifully embossed inscriptions. On one page, Margaret saw the name “Robert Buchanan” was the title.

The girl gasped. She was about to read the words that appeared beneath, when she heard a low sound beside her. There, in his wheel chair, with Chandra in back, sat Henri Zayata.

“Let me have the book,” said Zayata.

Margaret held the volume close in her arms. Zayata’s eyes sparkled. They were no longer kindly. Frightened, the girl gave him the book, Zayata smiled.

“It is not mine,” he said, in a gentle tone. “Otherwise I could let you read it.”

“Why,” demanded Margaret suddenly, “is Robert’s name in that book?”

“It is a book of friendship,” said Zayata simply.

In response to a signal from his master, Chandra rolled the wheel chair to the far corner. It stopped by the divan, but Zayata did not leave it. The chair was turned so its occupant faced Margaret.

The girl approached and sat on the cushions. Zayata appeared kindly now, and the girl felt no resentment. She realized that she had been at fault.

“Tonight,” said Zayata softly, “is the night for your answer, Margaret.”

The girl nodded.

“You are ready to tell me?” asked Zayata.

Again, Margaret nodded.

ZAYATA was studying her closely. He seemed to read her thoughts. He knew that when the question came, the girl’s reply would be negative.

He did not ask the question. He called Chandra, who appeared with a tea table. Zayata offered Margaret some delicious pastries; then he tendered her a glass filled with a thick, white liquid.

“Drink,” he said, raising his own glass. “It is a nectar. You will enjoy it.”

The girl had never tasted so delicious a fluid. After the first sips, she drank deeply. She placed the glass upon the tea table and watched Zayata.

Time seemed strangely new. Each moment was prolonged. The girl could not understand this mental reaction. She did not know that it was the effect of hashish — the drug which Zayata had placed in the liquid.

Long, glowing minutes passed. Zayata extended his hands and gently lifted the girl’s wrists.

“Margaret,” he said softly. “Now is the time for your answer.”

Margaret’s reply was on her lips. All doubts had left her. She felt that she loved this man. But before she spoke the word, the girl had a sudden recollection of that page in the Book of Death.

She could not understand it, but a grim thought swept through her brain. She looked squarely into Zayata’s eyes. Now, for the first time, she detected a glow that filled her with horror.

“My answer?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Zayata.

“It is ‘No!’” declared the girl. “I understand now. You have been deceiving me — trying to hide your evil nature!”

The glaring eyes of the man proved that the girl’s words were true. Margaret, inspired by a sudden fury, reached forward and struck Zayata full in the face. She arose and tried to go toward the door. But her steps faltered. She fell exhausted on the floor.

“I give you one more opportunity,” came Zayata’s cold tones. “Time is short. You must answer now. Will you marry me?”

“No!” screamed the girl. “Never! I hate you! I understand it now. You were no friend of Robert’s. You were his enemy—”

“Your answer?” came the cold voice.

“No!” cried Margaret. “No!”

“Then,” replied Zayata, “you shall soon know your destiny.”

He clapped his hands. Chandra approached and moved the wheel chair not toward the usual entrance, but toward the end of the room. The Burmese touched the wall. A panel opened. He wheeled the chair through, and the wall closed. Margaret was alone.

The girl had no sense of the passage of time. The very walls of the room seemed alive. Tapestried snakes were writhing. Smoke was flowing from painted incense vases. A fantastic dragon blinked its eyes at her. She was powerless to move. Then Chandra appeared.

Aided by Chandra, Margaret rose. She walked slowly, each step an effort, to the end of the room, through the space where Zayata had gone. Another panel opened. She stood in the temple.

Chandra was urging her toward the golden throne. Upon it sat a weird, uncanny being — what appeared to be a living idol. The eyes of the creature shone green; Margaret tried to cry aloud, but her voice was gone.

The eyes were the eyes of Zayata, glowing under the light that shone directly from above.

“I am Charn,” came a voice, strangely unlike Zayata’s. “You have come to learn your fate. Look!”

FOR the first time, Margaret Glendenning fully sensed her surroundings. All the light in the silent temple was centered about the throne. The rest of the room was gloomy and dim; but the girl could see vague figures seated there. Her eyes distinguished them as motionless human beings.

But what impressed her most was the object toward which Charn was pointing. He was indicating the huge mummy case, with the silver bands.

“The home of Kali,” said the strange voice. “The temple within the temple. The tomb that has never been opened. It awaits a soul.”

The eyes of the strange monster stared at the girl. She followed his gaze in a new direction and a light seemed to go with it. The soft illumination showed the bound form of a man, lying upon the floor.

“The victim of the sacrifice,” said the creature on the throne. “The victim of the sacrifice to Kali. He shall die — by the hands of Charn, with the threadlike noose—”

The arms unfolded and Charn held a thin red cord between them.

“But before he dies” — and the voice was Zayata’s now — “we shall have a living Kali. A soul for the tomb — to remain there, always!”

The arms were folded. Two vague forms arose from the background. They approached the girl and urged her toward the silver-bound case. Margaret was unable to resist. She was going to her doom — helpless.

Chandra was unclasping the bands. The Burmese was performing the duty as though it were a sacred office. With the grotesque monster silently surveying the scene, Chandra prepared to open the mummy case. The bands were loose. He but awaited the final word.

“The home of Kali,” came the measured, solemn words of doom. “It shall be your home. Now and forever. Once it opens, it shall close, with a living being in its fold. Then we shall have the sacrifice — while the occupant of the tomb still lives.”

There was a pause; then came the order.

“Open the home of Kali!”

Chandra stepped forward to obey.