“The
Undoubtedly. The thing has been practised here in quite recent times—may be practised now.” A shadow crossed the speaker’s face. “Many of my flock, a large and scattered one, are, I regret to say, both professed Roman Catholics and also secret devotees of Voodoo.” He shook his head. “I can do nothing to stop it.”
“It is the cult of the serpent,” growled Barton. “This knowledge of unfamiliar drugs and of hypnotic suggestion has come down from West Africa, but it reached West Africa from Ancient Egypt. The recurrence of the Ra symbol and the importance of the snake prove my point, I think.”
“I quite agree with you,” Father Ambrose replied. “That point has not actually been established, but I hope to establish it before I die.”He fumbled for a moment in his pocket, and: “I recovered this from a penitent recently,” he added, and handed something to Smith.
Smith held it in the palm of his hand, staring down at it curiously. Gaily-plumaged birds flew from branch to branch outside the open window; there were strange movements in the crests of the coconut palms; the drums of the night were silent. I stood up to obtain a closer view of the object which the priest had produced.It was the figure of a snake, crudely carved in some soft wood and coloured green.
“Does any special significance attach to this?” Smith asked.
“Yes.” The priest nodded gloomily. “You see, this abominable cult, which in my opinion today has its head centre in Haiti, is divided up into sects; actually it is a kind of heathen religion. Each of these sects has a distinguishing mark or badge; the green serpent is that of a group or lodge to which my penitent belongs, or did belong. I made him swear that he would never attend again.”
“But how are the things used?” asked Smith.
“As passports!” said Barton. “They are used as a means of recognition. The analogy may be blasphemous. Father, but the Sign of the Cross was employed in a similar way amongst the early Christians. Other lodges have other symbols, of course, several of which I possess. In fact, I have a selection with me: thought they might be useful.”
“I see,” muttered Smith. He laid the little amulet thoughtfully on the table before him. “In your experience, are all these people pure Africans?”
“Not at all.” The priest shook his head. “Many people who have very little Negro blood are followers of Voodoo; some—who have none at all.”
“You amaze me!” I exclaimed.
He gave me a glance of his mild eyes.
“There is undoubtedly power in Voodoo,” he said sadly. “And to grasp power, unscrupulous men will follow strange paths. who could control this movement would have much power.”
“I quite agree,” said Smith. “I think I know one who has already done so. Another question. Father.Do you recall recent deaths due to The Snapping Fingers?”
“I recall them very well.”
“Would you ascribe them to Voodoo?”
The priest hesitated. He had produced a huge, curved calabash pipe, and as Smith passed his pouch: “I have warned you,” he said, indicating the enormous bowl, “and I hope you have plenty of tobacco in reserve. Now you have posed me a difficult question. Sir Denis. By the coloured population those deaths were universally accepted as the works of Voodoo. In the matter of their direction they may have been. Myself, I always thought they were due to some natural cause.”
“You mean some creature,” Smith suggested.
“Yes.” The last few strands of nearly half an ounce of tobacco had disappeared into the mighty bowl. “Some odd things live here, you know. And owing to the fact that Haiti is not yet fully developed, I imagine that there are others which have not yet been classified.”
Smith began to pace up and down; then: “Just glance at this map,” he jerked suddenly.
He opened on the cane table a large-scale map of Haiti. Barton’s blue eyes danced with curiosity; he, too, stood up as the priest bent over the map.
“Yes,” said Father Ambrose,“it is a good map. I know most of the routes.”
“You observe a red ring drawn around an area in the north.”
“I had noted it. Unfortunately, it is a part of Haiti with which I am imperfectly acquainted. My confrere. Father Lucien, looks after that area.”
“Nevertheless,” said Smith, “You certainly know it better than I do. I am going to ask you. Father, if you have ever heard of a legend, or tradition, of a large cave along that coast?”
“There are many,” the priest returned, puffing out great curls of tobacco smoke. “That rugged coast is honeycombed with caves. Perhaps you are referring to Christophe’s Cave, which so many people have tried to find, but which I am .disposed to think is certainly a legend.”
“Ah!” growled Barton.
“It has been suggested to me,” Father Ambrose smiled, “that the object of your present visit. Sir Lionel, is to look for Christophe’s treasure. I remember you were here a year or two ago, although I did not meet you then. But I may give you a warning. What information you have it is not my business to inquire, but much gold and some human lives have been wasted during the past century in that quest. Christophe’s Cavern has a history nearly as bad as that of Cocos Island.”
“You surprise me,” murmured Smith, laying the tip of his forefinger upon a point within the red circle upon the map. “But here, I am informed, there is a ruined chapel dating back to French days. Am I right?”
“You would have been a week ago.”
“What!”
Barton and Smith were staring eagerly at the speaker.
“The chapel was either struck by a thunderbolt or blown up by human hands at some time during last Thursday night. Scarcely one stone was left standing upon another. I had a full report in a letter of this mysterious occurrence from Father Lucien.”
Smith and Barton exchanged glances.
“Perhaps you realize now. Barton,” said Smith, “that Dr. Fu Manchu—one morning in New York, if I am not mistaken—took steps to check the chart in his possession from the original which you held . . . . ”
The ruined chapel, now demolished, had marked the entrance to Christophe’s Cavern!
* * *
“Queen Mamaloi,” said Father Ambrose in a low tone. “Yes, unfortunately, there
“She is not a myth?”
“Not at all—I wish she were. Who or what she is I cannot tell you. Only selected devotees of Voodoo have ever seen her.”
“Has there always been a Queen Mamaloi?” I asked.
The priest shook his head.
“Not to my knowledge.One never heard of her in Haiti until about”—he considered— “about 1938, I suppose. She is some very special sorceress, perhaps imported from Africa.”
“I thought,” said Barton in his coarsely jovial way, “that the Jesuits knew everything.”
Father Ambrose smiled.
“We know many things,” he replied, “but no man knows everything.”
“Are you acquainted”—Smith spoke slowly and emphatically—”with anyone who has seen this woman?”
“I am.” Father Ambrose indicated the little amulet on the cane table. “This penitent has seen her. Hence my putting the fear of hell into him and confiscating his charm.”
“Did he describe her?”
“He was too excited at the time,—I gather these meetings are orgiastic, you know—to be a credible witness. But one point I established quite firmly. She is not black.”
‘‘What!” Smith’s eyes glinted with sudden excitement. “You are sure of that?”
“Perfectly sure.”
“A white woman?” Father Ambrose extended his stout palms.
