CHAPTER XIII
THE WHITE BEAM
That night the deviltry began. Mr. Mostyn found himself whollyunable to sleep. Many relics have curious histories, and theexperienced archaeologist becomes callous to that uncanniness whichseems to attach to some gruesome curios. But the slipper of theProphet was different. No mere ghostly menace threatened itsholders; an avenging scimitar followed those who came in contactwith it; gruesome tragedies, mutilations, murders, had marked itsprogress throughout.
The night was still--as still as a London night can be; for thereis always a vague murmuring in the metropolis as though thesleeping city breathed gently and sometimes stirred in its sleep.
Then, distinct amid these usual nocturnal noises, rose another,unaccountable sound, a muffled crash followed by a musical tinkling.
Mostyn sprang up in bed, drew on a dressing-gown, and took from thesmall safe at his bed-head the Museum keys and a loaded revolver.A somewhat dishevelled figure, pale and wild-eyed, he made his waythrough the private door and into the ghostly precincts of theMuseum. He did not hesitate, but ascended the stairs and unlockedthe door of the Assyrian gallery.
Along its ghostly aisles he passed, and before the door which gaveadmittance to the Burton Room paused, fumbling a moment for thekey.
Inside the room something was moving!
Mostyn was keenly alarmed; he knew that he must enter at once ornever. He inserted the key in the lock, swung open the heavy door,stepped through and closed it behind him. He was a man oftremendous moral courage, for now,--alone in the apartment whichharboured the uncanny relic, alone in the discharge of his duty,he stood with his back to the door trembling slightly, but withthe idea of retreat finding no place in his mind.
One side of the room lay in blackest darkness; through thefurthermost window of the other a faint yellowed luminance (themoonlight through the blind) spread upon the polished parquetflooring. But that which held the curator spell-bound--that whichmomentarily quickened into life the latent superstition, common toall mankind, was a beam of cold light which poured its effulgencefully upon the case containing the Prophet's slipper! Where theother exhibits lay either in utter darkness or semi-darkness thisone it seemed was supernaturally picked out by this lunarsearchlight!
It was ghostly-unnerving; but, the first dread of it passed, Mostynrecalled how during the day a hole inexplicably had been cut inthat blind; he recalled that it had not been mended, but that thedamaged blind had merely been rolled up again.
And as a dawning perception of the truth came to him, as falteringlyhe advanced a step toward the mystic beam, he saw that one side ofthe case had been shattered--he saw the broken glass upon the floor;and in the dense shadow behind and under the beam of light, vaguelyhe saw a dull red object.
It moved--it seemed to live! It moved away from the case and inthe direction of the eastern windows.
"My God!" whispered Mostyn; "it's the Prophet's slipper!"
And wildly, blindly, he fired down the room. Later he knew that hehad fired in panic, for nothing human was or could be in the place;yet his shot was not without effect. In the instant of its flash,something struck sharply against the dimly seen blind of one of theeast windows; he heard the crash of broken glass.
He leapt to the switch and flooded the room with light. A fear ofwhat it might hold possessed him, and he turned instantly.
Hard by the fragments of broken glass upon the floor and midwaybetween the case and the first easterly window lay the slipper. Abell was ringing somewhere. His shot probably had aroused theattention of the policeman. Someone was clamouring upon the doorof the Museum, too. Mostyn raced forward and raised the blind--thattoward which the slipper had seemed to move.
The lower pane of the window was smashed. Blood was trickling downupon the floor from the jagged edges of the glass.
"Hullo there! Open the door! Open the door!"
Bells were going all over the place now; sounds of running footstepscame from below; but Mostyn stood staring at the broken window andat the solid iron bars which protected it without, which were intact,substantial--which showed him that nothing human could possiblyhave entered.
Yet the case was shattered, the holy slipper lay close beside himupon the floor, and from the broken window-pane blood wasfalling--drip-drip-drip...
That was the story as I heard it half an hour later. For InspectorBristol, apprised of the happening, was promptly on the scene; andknowing how keen was my interest in the matter, he rang me upimmediately. I arrived soon after Bristol and found a perplexedgroup surrounding the uncanny slipper of the Prophet. No one haddared to touch it; the dread vengeance of Hassan of Aleppo wouldvisit any unbeliever who ventured to lay hand upon the holy, bloodything. Well we knew it, and as though it had been a venomousscorpion we, a company of up-to-date, prosaic men of affairs, stoodaround that dilapidated markoob, and kept a respectful distance.
Mostyn, an odd figure in pyjamas and dressing-gown, turned his pale,intellectual face to me as I entered.
"It will have to be put back ... secretly," he said.
His voice was very unsteady. Bristol nodded grimly and glanced atthe two constables, who, with a plain-clothes man unknown to me,made up that midnight company.
"I'll do it, sir," said one of the constables suddenly.
"One moment"--Mostyn raised his hand!
In the ensuing silence I could hear the heavy breathing of thosearound me. We were all looking at the slipper, I think.
"Do you understand, fully," the curator continued, "the risk yourun?"
"I think so, sir," answered the constable; "but I'm prepared tochance it."
"The hands," resumed Mostyn slowly, "of those who hitherto haveventured to touch it have been"--he hesitated--"cut off."
"Your career in the Force would be finished if it happened to you,my lad," said Bristol shortly.
"I suppose they'd look after me," said the man, with grim humour.
"They would if you met with--an accident, in the discharge of yourduty," replied the inspector; "but I haven't ordered you to do it,and I'm not going to."
"All right, sir," said the man, with a sort of studied truculence,"I'll take my chance."
I tried to stop him; Mostyn, too, stepped forward, and Bristolswore frankly. But it was all of no avail.
A sort of chill seemed to claim my very soul when I saw theconstable stoop, unconcernedly pick up the slipper, and replace itin the broken case.
It was out of a silence cathedral-like, awesome, that he spoke.
"All you want is a new pane of glass, sir," he said--"and thething's done."
I anticipate in mentioning it here; but since Constable Hugheshas no further place in these records I may perhaps be excused fordismissing him at this point.
He was picked up outside the section house on the following eveningwith his right hand severed just above the wrist.