Array Sapper - The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile Sapper

He dug me playfully in the ribs.

"That ought not to be an unpleasant task, my boy," he chuckled. "And now, off you go, and let me study this book of ritual. Time is all too short as it is."

And with that I had to be content. I heard him lock his door behind me, and then I joined Molly on deck. Night, had come down, and the faint scent of the orange trees filled the air. Briefly I told her what her uncle had said, and when' I had finished she slipped her hand into mine.

"Don't let's worry, Dick," she whispered. "Let him go to his old crocodile, while we sit and watch the sun rise over the desert."

And after a while I forgot my fear, I forgot Jim's warning, I forgot everything except—

However, there is no prize for the correct answer.

And now I come to the thing that happened that night at the Pool of the Sacred Crocodile.

It was just as Molly and I were beginning to think about dinner, and had decided to go and forage for ourselves, that Abdullah, the steward, suddenly appeared in front of us and announced that it was ready.

"Where the devil have you been?" I cried angrily. "I searched all over the place for you an hour or so ago."

He was profuse in his apologies and explanations, and though I was far from satisfied there was nothing to be done about it. Dinner was ready and we sat down to it.

"What about Uncle John?" said Molly.

It appeared that he had given strict orders not to be disturbed, and so we waited no longer. The cook, Abdullah's brother, was a good cook, and in spite of his absence earlier in the evening he had prepared a good dinner. In fact, by the time we had reached the Turkish coffee stage I was feeling quite at peace with the world. Turkish coffee was our cook's speciality, and on that particular night he excelled himself. Even Molly remarked on it as Abdullah refilled her cup.

Of course it was in my coffee—the particular drug they used. What it was I don't know, though it must have been practically tasteless. Whatever it was they put it in my coffee, and not in Molly's. And as long as I live I shall never forget the supreme mental agony of those few seconds after the realisation of what had happened came to me.

Molly was staring out of the open doors into the wonderful desert night. I could see her sweet profile; I could see a sudden little tender smile hover round her lips. And then I made a desperate effort to stand up. I stood there for a second or two clutching the table, making inarticulate attempts to speak. And then I crashed back in my chair, dragging the table-cloth with me.

"Dick, Dick! What's the matter?"

I heard her voice crying from a great distance, and I made another futile effort to speak. But it was useless; she was getting hazier and hazier, though I could still see her like a badly focused photograph. And then suddenly she gave a little scream, and shrank back against the side of the saloon. She was no longer looking at me but into the darkness outside.

"Uncle John!" she screamed. "Uncle John! Save me!"

And then she rushed to me and clung to my chair. Oh God! the agony of that moment, when I realised I couldn't protect her—that I was just a useless drugged log. Hazily, through the fumes of the dope, I realised what was coming: I knew whom she had seen coming to her out of the night. And I was right—only there were three of them this time. They stood on the other side of the table—the man who had been in Cairo in the centre, the man who had met us on the landing-stage on his right, and one I had not seen on his left. They were all three dressed in similar gorgeous robes to that which the leader had worn that afternoon when we had seen him for a few seconds on the other side of the sacred pool, and they all three stood motionless staring at Molly.

I heard her terrified whisper—"Dick! Help me, Dick," and I lay there sprawling, helpless. And still they stood there—staring at my adored girl. Hypnotism, of course—I realised that after. They were hypnotising her in front of my eyes, and, poor child, it didn't take long. Even though time is jumbled in my mind, just as it is in a dream, it cannot have been more than a minute before I saw her—my Molly—walking towards them round the table with little, short, jerky steps. I could see her hands clenched rigidly at her sides; I could see her dear eyes fixed on the central man with a dreadful glassy stare.

As she advanced they backed away—step by step—till they passed out of the range of vision. A moment or two later she, too, vanished. I heard her footsteps on the deck—then silence. She had gone— without anyone to help her—gone to that devilish house. And even as wave after wave of the drug surged over me it seemed to me that I gave one desperate shout.

"Jim—save her! Save Molly!"

Maybe I did; maybe it was only mental. But my last coherent thought was a prayer to the man who had never failed me yet. And then I slept.

The lamp was smoking and guttering in its final gasp when I opened my eyes again. For a moment or two I remembered nothing; I felt as if I had just woken from some awful nightmare. And then the table-cloth, which still covered me, the broken coffee-cups, the debris on the floor brought me to my feet with a dreadful terror clutching at my heart. I pulled out my watch; it showed a quarter-past twelve. And we had sat down to dinner at half-past eight. For more than three hours Molly had been in the hands of those devils.

I slipped my hand into my pocket and cursed foolishly. Someone had taken my revolver, and at that moment with a final splutter the lamp went out. But there was no time to look for any weapon; there was no time for anything except to get to Molly at once.

And was there even time for that? As I raced through the orange grove towards the house the thought hammered at my brain. Was I too late?

I had made no plan. I had no clear idea of anything except getting to Molly. What would happen when I got there—how I, unarmed and alone, was going to help her was beside the point.

A man sprang at me as I reached the door, and I hit him on the point of the jaw with all my weight behind the blow. He went straight down like a log, and I felt a little better. Then I flung open the door and dashed into the passage, to pause for a moment in sheer amazement at the spectacle.

The braziers still poured forth their choking clouds of incense; the innumerable lamps were lit as they had been that afternoon. But now the passage was not empty, it was crowded with natives. And one and all were bleeding from self-inflicted wounds.

They lay about on the floor in varying degrees of consciousness. Some were in a state of coma; others writhed in a condition of frenzied madness. And suddenly quivering in the air came the deep note of a drum, It was the signal for a wild outburst. They became as maniacs—stabbing themselves in the legs and arms, tearing out handfuls of hair till they ran with blood and looked like devils. And once again the deep note came quivering through the stifling air and died away.

Drum madness: that strange phenomenon of Africa. A sickening, horrible scene—and in my mind the sickening, horrible thought that for three hours my Molly had been in this ghastly house—alone.

Dodging between the writhing men, I rushed to the second door. It opened without difficulty—so that I stumbled forward on my face. And the next moment half a dozen men had hurled themselves on top of me. I fought wildly with the strength of despair; I even bit—but it was no good. They got me up and they held me—two of them to each arm, and what I saw almost snapped my reason.

Facing me were the three natives who had come to the dahabeah that night. They were on the other side of the pool—clad now in robes even more gorgeous than before. Behind them was the drum beater, rocking to and fro in a sort of ecstasy, and ranged on each side of them were other natives intoning a monotonous dirge. It rose and fell in a strange cadence, culminating each time with the beat of the drum. And at each beat I could feel the men holding me shiver in their excitement.