“Probably negro blood. Some of them, you know, are as white as you or I. I suppose that a European woman could have obtained this hold over the coloured people: it extends, mark you, beyond the boundaries of Haiti. At the great ceremony of the Full Moon—”
“Tomorrow night!” snapped Smith.
“Yes, there is to be a meeting tomorrow night, and many will come over the borders, nor”—he spoke sadly —”will they all be black. We fight phantoms here. Sir Denis, but we shall win in the end.”
Smith was pacing up and
“You hear. Barton?” he said. “You hear? Two moves are open to us. In one, I fancy, we have been anticipated by Dr. Fu Manchu. I consider it at least equally important that we should see this woman.”
“And I assure you,” Father Ambrose interrupted, “that it is quite impossible you should see her, whatever your reason may be. Haiti is highly civilized, as you know—” he smiled; “but for any white man ignorant of Voodoo ritual to attempt to penetrate to that place, would be”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—”shall we say as dangerous as for one to walk into Mecca?”
“You say ‘that place’,” Smith remarked.
“Yes.”
“Does this mean (hat you know where it is?”
The priest hesitated, and then: “Yes, I know,” he replied. “But it is contrary to the dictates of my conscience to tell you. Voodoo is undoubtedly the work of Satan. I would encourage no man to touch it. It is, as you yourself have suggested, a survival of pagan creeds older than Christianity. It is the worship of the hidden side of the Moon.”
There was a brief silence during which Nayland Smith paced restlessly up and down, and the bowl of the priest’s pipe bubbled unmusically.
“I don’t presume. Father, to interfere with your conscience. But let me make our position a little more clear. For your private information I am not treasure-hunting, although it is true that I hope to find Christophe’s Cave. I am acting for the United States Government and for my own. There are two movements taking place in Haiti: one mechanical, the other psychological. It is my business to investigate both. You say yourself that Voodoo has great power. You evidently know a lot about it, more than you have told us. But one thing you do not know. A Secret Society and a very old one, the Si-Fan—”
“The Si-Fan!” interjected Father Ambrose. “But what has the Si-Fan to do with Haiti? You see”—he smiled apologetically « “I was in Tibet for four years before I came here. Nearly as many of my converts there were members of the Si-Fan as here they are devotees of Voodoo.”
‘“No doubt!” said Smith. “The roots of the Si-Fan may not go as deep as those of Voodoo, but nevertheless it is an ancient organization, and a very powerful one. It is controlled by a Chinese genius. It includes all races and creeds—all shades of colour. Personally I cannot say for how long it has included Voodoo.”
“What!”
“The Si-Fan is almost purely political. I need not emphasize the underground influence which could be set in motion by control of Voodoo. But those influences are already at work. There is a concrete danger to the United States Government growing hour by hour and day by day in the Caribbean. Several agents who have been sent to investigate have died or have never returned.”
“I confess,95 murmured the priest, “at I know of one, myself.”
“There have been many. And this woman, the Queen Mamaloi, is undoubtedly an agent of the Si-Fan. I am urged by no idle curiosity. It is my plain duty to see this woman, to establish her identity—to check her activities. Now, I have been making some inquiries myself.”
He turned again to the map and rested the point of a pencil upon a spot which appeared to be the peak of a mountain close to the Dominican border. He glanced interrogatively at the priest.
Father Ambrose nodded.
“Yes, that is the headquarters of Voodoo in Haiti,” he admitted. “Mome la Selle, the Magic Mountain. I cannot deny it; I can see it from my own windows at Kenscoff: but I would point out that if you go with a considerable armed party, you will find no one there; and that if you go alone, you will certainly never return.”
Smith relighted his pipe.
“You do more than your duty. Father,” he said. “We have heard your warning and we do not take it lightly. But I have a duty as well as you, and I am going to be present at this meeting.” He took up the little snake amulet. “Is it consistent with your convictions that I should borrow this?”
The priest’s pipe bubbled, great rings of smoke rose from the steaming bowl. At last: “You place the matter in a new light. Sir Denis,” he said. “I believe I shall be justified in withdrawing my opposition.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
DRUMS IN THE NIGHT
“We know roughly what we have to expect,” said Nayland Smith; “and I think our plans cover all the possibilities we can foresee.”
“I regret every moment lost in getting to work on the cave,” cried Barton. “There’s a party of United States marines ready to land. Even with their help it may take some time to clear the debris of the old chapel. In the present state of the war over there, Fu Manchu’s chance might come tomorrow!”
“And tomorrow we set to work,” snapped Smith. “Tonight I might have another job to do—”
“Which may iron you out altogether!”
“Barton,” said Smith, “I regret to have to remind you that I am in charge of this party. Be good enough to listen. Near the top of Mome la Selle, our destination, there is a perfectly flat plateau. As the place is a Voodoo holy-of-holies, the American authorities have contented themselves with aerial survey. But it’s a good landing ground. Three Army planes are standing by. They are our rearguard. Barton, and you’re in command. I am not prepared to trust a soul in Haiti now that I know the Si-Fan is here. Nobody but you knows when those planes start, or where they are going.”
“Right,” growled Barton. “You know you can count on me.”
“One thing is important: I
It was afternoon before Smith and I set out for the house of Father Ambrose in Kenscoff. We went in the car of the American consul—and saloons are rare in Port au Prince. The consul’s chauffeur drove us. Smith’s plans were peculiarly complete, as I was presently to learn; but at the outset he was very silent, filling the interior of the car with clouds of tobacco smoke. I realized as the journey proceeded what he had meant when he had said, “This
Although this was a modem road, the dwellings which bordered it might have had their being in Timbuctoo. An all but unbroken file of Haitian women, each with a burden of vegetables, fruit or other produce upon her head wound its way ant-like down to the market place; a returning stream marched upwards. I saw no white faces from the time that we left the borders of the town. But below, a wonderful prospect was unfolded.
From above. Port au Prince, nestling in a cup between two mountains, reminded me momentarily of Damascus seen from the Lebanon hills. Beyond, seemingly floating on a blue sea. La Gonave, the mystery island, alone disturbed the blue expanse of ocean to the horizon. Little curiosity was displayed by the hundreds of natives we passed. Exceptions were a fierce-eyed old woman riding a donkey, and a tall, distinguished-looking mulatto who carried a staff. The interest of this pair, I thought, although they were a mile or more apart, was definitely hostile. As the car passed the tall mulatto and his fierce glance sought us out in passing: “We are covered, Kerrigan,” said Smith. “Did you note that man?”
“Yes.”
“One of the Voodoo doctors, beyond doubt. Drums will beat feverishly tonight.”
He said no more right up to the moment that we reached the priest’s house, a long, low, creeper-clad building, flowers climbing above a verandah which overlooked a tropical garden where humming birds hovered and butterflies of incredible colours flitted from flower to flower. As we descended from the car: “The Father has comfortable quarters,” murmured Smith.
