THE WHITE BEAM
That night the deviltry began. Mr. Mostyn found himself wholly unable
to sleep. Many relics have curious histories, and the experienced
archaeologist becomes callous to that uncanniness which seems to attach
to some gruesome curios. But the slipper of the Prophet was different.
No mere ghostly menace threatened its holders; an avenging scimitar
followed those who came in contact with it; gruesome tragedies,
mutilations, murders, had marked its progress throughout.
The night was still—as still as a London night can be; for there is
always a vague murmuring in the metropolis as though the sleeping 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 the
small safe at his bed-head the Museum keys and a loaded revolver. A
somewhat dishevelled figure, pale and wild-eyed, he made his way
through the private door and into the ghostly precincts of the Museum.
He did not hesitate, but ascended the stairs and unlocked the door of
the Assyrian gallery.
Along its ghostly aisles he passed, and before the door which gave
admittance to the Burton Room paused, fumbling a moment for the key.
Inside the room something was moving!
Mostyn was keenly alarmed; he knew that he must enter at once or never.
He inserted the key in the lock, swung open the heavy door, stepped
through and closed it behind him. He was a man of tremendous moral
courage, for now,—alone in the apartment which harboured the uncanny
relic, alone in the discharge of his duty, he stood with his back to
the door trembling slightly, but with the idea of retreat finding no
place in his mind.
One side of the room lay in blackest darkness; through the furthermost
window of the other a faint yellowed luminance (the moonlight through
the blind) spread upon the polished parquet flooring. But that which
held the curator spell-bound—that which momentarily quickened into life
the latent superstition, common to all mankind, was a beam of cold
light which poured its effulgence fully upon the case containing the
Prophet’s slipper! Where the other exhibits lay either in utter
darkness or semi-darkness this one it seemed was supernaturally picked
out by this lunar searchlight!
It was ghostly-unnerving; but, the first dread of it passed, Mostyn
recalled how during the day a hole inexplicably had been cut in that
blind; he recalled that it had not been mended, but that the damaged
blind had merely been rolled up again.
And as a dawning perception of the truth came to him, as falteringly he
advanced a step toward the mystic beam, he saw that one side of the
case had been shattered—he saw the broken glass upon the floor; and in
the dense shadow behind and under the beam of light, vaguely he saw a
dull red object.
It moved—it seemed to live! It moved away from the case and in the
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 he had
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 the east windows;
he heard the crash of broken glass.
He leapt to the switch and flooded the room with light. A fear of what
it might hold possessed him, and he turned instantly.
Hard by the fragments of broken glass upon the floor and midway between
the case and the first easterly window lay the slipper. A bell was
ringing somewhere. His shot probably had aroused the attention of the
policeman. Someone was clamouring upon the door of the Museum, too.
Mostyn raced forward and raised the blind—that toward which the slipper
had seemed to move.
The lower pane of the window was smashed. Blood was trickling down upon
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 footsteps
came from below; but Mostyn stood staring at the broken window and at
the solid iron bars which protected it without, which were intact,
substantial—which showed him that nothing human could possibly have
entered.
Yet the case was shattered, the holy slipper lay close beside him upon
the floor, and from the broken window-pane blood was
falling—drip-drip-drip...
That was the story as I heard it half an hour later. For Inspector
Bristol, apprised of the happening, was promptly on the scene; and
knowing how keen was my interest in the matter, he rang me up
immediately. I arrived soon after Bristol and found a perplexed group
surrounding the uncanny slipper of the Prophet. No one had dared to
touch it; the dread vengeance of Hassan of Aleppo would visit any
unbeliever who ventured to lay hand upon the holy, bloody thing. Well
we knew it, and as though it had been a venomous scorpion we, a company
of up-to-date, prosaic men of affairs, stood around 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 at the
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 those around
me. We were all looking at the slipper, I think.
“Do you understand, fully,” the curator continued, “the risk you run?”
“I think so, sir,” answered the constable; “but I’m prepared to chance
it.”
“The hands,” resumed Mostyn slowly, “of those who hitherto have
ventured 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 your
duty,” 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 Bristol swore
frankly. But it was all of no avail.
A sort of chill seemed to claim my very soul when I saw the constable
stoop, unconcernedly pick up the slipper, and replace it in 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 the thing’s
done.”
I anticipate in mentioning it here; but since Constable Hughes has no
further place in these records I may perhaps be excused for dismissing
him at this point.
He was picked up outside the section house on the following evening
with his right hand severed just above the wrist.