“_If we met, he and I--we alone--we two--_
_Would I give him one moment’s grace to pray?_”
On the plateau behind Duke Town, where several official bungalows
were situated, only one showed any sign of habitation. From there a
blaze of light flared out, cutting like a gigantic knife into the
darkness.
In this one lighted room silence reigned, a silence broken by the ping
of the ever-present mosquito and the occasional clink of ice on glass.
The latter sound came from a table where three men sat playing cards
to an accompaniment of whiskey and soda.
Through the open door leading to the balcony came the lash of driving
rain and the steady pour of the torrent rushing down from the
corrugated iron roof.
Between the deals Harding looked across at his guests.
“You two will have to spend the night here,” he remarked.
With the readiness of bachelor freedom, Fletcher and Atherley agreed.
For the next half-hour the game went on without a break. One o’clock
chimed as Fletcher rose to fetch a further supply of soda-water from
the sideboard.
As he stood there a slight noise out on the balcony made him glance
towards the door.
“Good Heavens! What is that?” he cried, darting in that direction.
His voice made the other men look round, and what they saw brought
them to their feet.
A girl stood in the doorway, a little thing of mud and blood and long
loose wet hair where golden stars flashed.
She stood for a moment gazing at them. Then she laughed, a wild, sweet
sound, and ran toward Fletcher, collapsing just as he reached her.
“What is it, child? What has happened?” he asked hoarsely, as he
caught her.
Only meaningless laughter answered him.
Over Leslie’s dripping head, he looked at Harding and Atherley.
“My God, if he has injured her! My God, if he has injured her!” he
said in cold, merciless reiteration.
By now the Major’s arm was about Leslie.
“It’s all right, little girl,” he said soothingly. “You’re quite safe
now. You’re in my bungalow. Don’t you remember? You had dinner here
last night.”
But the wild sobbing laughter went on, the result of a brain that had
given way under some dreadful strain.
Over Leslie’s sobbing mirth Atherley’s voice came.
“Let me have a look at her. Bring her in here, Fletcher,” he said,
leading the way to one of the bedrooms.
He turned toward Harding.
“Go round and rouse the cook and tell him to send one of his women
here at once.”
In a dazed way Harding obeyed the doctor’s orders.
Fletcher went back to the sitting-room and stood there until Harding
returned. When the Major came in, he crossed to a sideboard and,
opening one of the drawers, took out a couple of revolvers. One he
handed to Fletcher.
“We can’t do any good here,” he said tensely. “So we’ll get along to
Cooper’s place and hear what he has to say about Miss Graham’s
plight.”
Presently, with storm-proof lanterns, the two officers started across
the black, rain-washed plain.
Cooper’s bungalow lay about a mile away. As they neared the place,
Harding stumbled over an unnoticed heap lying huddled on the ground.
At once Fletcher switched his lantern on to it.
“Something ghastly has been happening here,” he said. “Look at this.”
Harding gave an exclamation of horror.
What he had stumbled over was the corpse of a negro servant, hacked
and mutilated out of all human semblance.
“What fiend’s work is this?” he asked hoarsely.
As if the sight were no new one, Fletcher gazed at the corpse.
“Let’s get on to the house,” he said in a brooding manner, “and see
how much more of this there is.”
They went up the dripping, leafy alley, passing two similar heaps
within the next hundred yards.
“It looks as though there had been a general massacre here,” Harding
commented as the third heap was passed, “and that these poor wretches
had been flying for their lives.”
Fletcher said nothing, but each corpse they came to made his face more
tense and thoughtful.
The house was reached at last.
Strangely large and haunted it loomed up out of the pouring rain. A
sense of dire tragedy had gripped the two Englishmen. This increased
as they mounted the balcony steps and went toward the one lighted
room, which lay eerie and lifeless, in spite of the gay flare of
rose-colored lamps. There was no vestige of the human sounds that
should have accompanied those gay lights; nothing but the ceaseless
drip of rain, the mournful sough of the wind through wet trees, the
echo of their own footsteps, and the soft tapping of sodden roses on
the balcony rail.
On reaching the open door, abruptly they halted, aghast at the scene
of desolation and destruction that lay before them.
The pink carpet was muddy and blood-stained, and covered with the
marks of great, naked feet. The mirrors were smashed to atoms. The
furniture broken into splinters. The whole place looked as though an
army of maniacs had held riot there. There were four corpses in the
room, but one lay white and peaceful among the pale pink cushions of a
lounge, her white lace dress blood-stained, her shoes in a thick red
pool that oozed from a dismembered, mangled corpse at her feet.
In awed silence Harding and Fletcher crossed to the lounge. They gazed
down at the dead girl, noting a little wet red patch in her golden
hair. Then Fletcher stooped and turned over one of the two naked
bodies lying face downwards on the carpet beside the mangled remains
that had once been Cooper.
As he turned the corpse over, a savage, bestial face crudely scarred
and marked met his view.
“I thought so,” he said grimly.
“What?” Harding asked quickly.
“This is some of the Hyena’s work. I’ve been on his trail too often
not to recognize the signs. I suspected it when we saw that first
mutilated corpse outside. Now I’m sure. I should know these
dog-toothed devils of his anywhere,” he said, glancing again at the
savage figure at his feet.
“This rather explodes your theory about Lebrassa,” Harding commented.
“Explodes it!” Fletcher echoed. “Not unless I find his corpse hacked
up in a similar manner,” he finished grimly.
Then his gaze went to Molly, lying quiet and still among the pillows
so peaceful-looking that she might have been asleep. And from her his
eyes wandered down to a revolver still clenched in one of the hands of
the mangled heap at her feet.
“Cooper shot her, poor little woman, rather than let her fall into the
clutches of these fiends. And thank heaven he did!”
Going from the drawing-room, the two officers went around to the back
premises where the servants’ quarters were situated. The whole place
was like a slaughter-house, not a soul left alive. Every room was
trampled, mud-splashed and red-stained, as though a horde of wild
beasts had burst in searching for what they could kill.
But nowhere did Fletcher find what he was looking for--some trace of
Lebrassa.
“I wonder how that little girl escaped,” he remarked, taking a long
shred of muslin, that matched the tattered remains of Leslie’s frock,
from among the splinters of a wooden table, “for she was here, right
enough.”
“I should say Lebrassa got her away and was killed in doing so,”
Harding replied.
In a harsh, mirthless manner Fletcher laughed.
“Let’s go on to his factory and see if he’s there,” was all he said.
They left the bungalow and pressed on through the deserted night. No
sound reached them as they went along, except the steady pour of the
rain, the constant drip of the trees and the sobbing moan of the wind.
On reaching the factory all was silence and darkness. No light showed
in the upper rooms, nor was there a sign of life anywhere about.
With the idea of making an examination of the lower storey, they
started walking round the place.
By the open door of one of the back storerooms, Fletcher came to a
sharp halt.
“Some one has been here,” he remarked. “The same little crew who were
up above.”
Holding up his lantern, he showed his companion great, red marks on
the white paint, where bloody paws pushed the door along on its
rollers.
“And look at this,” he added on entering.
A whole litter of stores lay about, covered with ominous red marks and
mud, as if a crowd had searched around hastily for certain articles,
casting aside everything except just what they desired.
Fletcher surveyed the débris--scattered hammocks, waterproof rugs,
silk shawls, and cases of edibles.
“It looks to me as if some one had arranged a very hurried departure
up-country. And he had not intended to go alone, either. A man of
Lebrassa’s type doesn’t take this sort of junk on a forced journey.”
Fletcher’s foot touched a wooden case marked “Chicken in aspic,” which
had been crudely pried open and a dozen or so tins snatched out.
“If Lebrassa isn’t upstairs, then he’s at the bottom of this, and he
_is_ the Hyena.”
Harding made no comment. In silence they left the storeroom and went
toward the balcony. Noiselessly Fletcher went up the stairs with his
lantern well down against the wooden steps. They showed clean and
white, with none of the muddy marks that had been on Cooper’s veranda,
but it was quite possible the pouring rain might have washed off all
traces of the marauders.
But when the covered part of the balcony was reached, he suddenly
grasped Harding’s arm.
“Not so quick,” he whispered. “There’s a little matter here we’d
better investigate before going any further. What do you think of
this?”
He pointed to a track of muddy feet, shod ones, a solitary pair, that
went along the spotless boards to the accompaniment of a trail of
water, telling plainly that some drenched person had passed that way
not so very long before.
“It looks like Lebrassa’s trail,” Harding whispered. “I’m anxious to
hear what he has to say about to-night’s business.”
“Not as anxious as I am,” Fletcher responded grimly. “But I doubt if
we shall be given an opportunity.”
With screened lanterns, stealthily the two continued their journey.
Presently they turned the corner of the side where Lebrassa’s
living-rooms were situated. On reaching the first of the dark windows
they paused, listening for any sound that might come from the rooms
beyond.
All was silent. Out from the black night came the mournful swish of
sodden palm trees and the constant roar of the downpour.
“It doesn’t look as if any one’s at home,” Harding whispered.
“Exactly. But for all that we’ll be wise to announce ourselves with
caution.”
Drawing their revolvers, they took a few stealthy steps forward and
then halted.
In front of them the living-room door stood wide open. Into it the
trail of muddy feet went. But there was no sign of their returning.
Looking and listening they peered into the darkness, but they saw and
heard nothing.
“Are you there, Lebrassa?” Harding called sharply.
All was silent.
They waited for a few moments, then entered, flashing their lanterns
quickly around the room. It was deserted, but all was straight and
orderly.
The trail of the shod, muddy feet and stream of dripping water went
across the white matting into a room beyond.
The two visitors followed the trail into a plainly furnished bedroom.
There was no sign of life there either. But in one corner lay a heap
of dripping, muddy clothes.
“What does that mean?” Harding asked, gazing at the pile.
“Possibly that we must look for Lebrassa in a very different guise
from any Calabar knows.”
They turned to make a survey of a third chamber.
This proved to be a study, sparsely but suitably furnished. There were
choice engravings on the walls and cases of classical books; and on
the writing desk, a solitary white rose in a crystal vase.
English, French, German and Italian reviews and papers were scattered
on the tables and couches; there was every sign of education and
culture.
All this Fletcher noticed. But most of all he noticed the half-blown
white rose that reminded him of Leslie, as it stood there fresh and
sweet and pure, and so lonely.
As if he hated to see the blossom in the mulatto’s possession, he
crossed to the desk, and taking it from the vase, held it tenderly.
“I wonder who and what Lebrassa really is,” he said. “He can be the
devil incarnate, yet this room shows quite another side of him.”
In some surprise Harding was gazing about the study.
“I know nothing at all about him,” he confessed. “During my time in
Calabar, he has gone his own way, ignoring both black and white,
holding occasional mad orgies in that slaughter-house on the hill,
which has given him an unsavory reputation throughout the Bight. I’d
never noticed him much until this voyage out. And I must say his good
manners and correct behavior surprised me, considering the reputation
he held.”
Fletcher made no immediate reply. Thoughtfully he looked at the white
rosebud he was caressing.
“I always have thought, and shall think,” he volunteered presently,
“that he knows more of Miss Graham’s history and who and what her
father was than the girl herself does. And I’m certain he was at the
bottom of her coming out here. To-night the climax arrived. Whether
Cooper endeavoring to spoke his wheel brought about the tragedy up
there I don’t know. But one thing I do know--whether he wants Miss
Graham for motives known only to himself, or because he’s infatuated
with her, he’ll stop at nothing to get her back again.”
“That’s rather apart from your Hyena theory,” Harding remarked.
“The whole business is beyond me,” Fletcher confessed.
“Well, we’d better push on, and see what his employees have to say.”
Retracing their steps, they went along a narrow forest track which led
to a cluster of native huts lying some quarter of a mile away. There,
everything was in order, and no clue to the night’s happenings could
be culled from the sleepy inhabitants.
Leaving the tiny hamlet, they went along the river bank, choosing a
different route for the homeward journey. Presently they turned into a
little, tree-lined path leading up to the plateau. For some minutes
they pushed on through the driving rain, the wind full in their faces.
All at once a sound reached them of some one coming swiftly down the
narrow way. Quickly the two officers came to a halt and veiled their
lanterns.
By now the rain had ceased, and a fitful moon gave a silver tinge to
the night.
As the two officers waited, peering intently ahead through the vague
gray of mist and moonlight, out of a side track a few yards ahead a
figure loomed, rendered very big and shadowy by the fog.
Coming toward them was what appeared to be a coal-black negro, naked
but for a loin cloth. Over his shoulder what seemed to be a thick,
folded rug was slung.
On seeing the two Englishmen, he turned abruptly into the thick growth
lining the track, and went swiftly through the screening forest.
As he turned Fletcher caught a glimpse of his face. In an instant his
revolver rang out, but a hand jogged his elbow, spoiling his aim.
“What are you thinking about, man?” Harding cried angrily. “You can’t
go about shooting at every nigger you see.”
Fletcher, however, rushed after the negro, firing as he ran. One shot
reached home, for the man’s right arm fell limp.
Facing round savagely, the negro dropped to his knees, slid his
shrouded burden to the ground, and crouched over it as if to screen
the contents from the pepper of bullets.
His hand went to his loin cloth. He drew out a revolver, and started
firing at Fletcher. Although the shots were left-handed two whizzed
uncomfortably close to the latter’s head, and a third found a home in
the big muscle of his right arm.
Without waiting to load his own weapon, Fletcher dashed on, to be
felled by a thunderous blow that changed his reckless fury to
blackness and dancing stars. But although he was half-stunned, he
clutched and held on to the bundle the negro was protecting.
“By hell! You shall pay for this,” a mad voice bellowed in English.
Through the stars and blackness Fletcher heard it, and it made him
cling desperately to the blanket the dark hands tried to snatch from
him.
Relief came from behind.
Before the negro could wrest his shrouded burden from Fletcher’s
stunned grip, Harding’s revolver rang out.
The shot would have been fatal but for the deceptive fog. As it was,
it brought the blood streaming down the negro’s face from a scalp
wound. Dashing the blood from his eyes, the massive black figure broke
away, leaving the bundle in Fletcher’s hold.
Harding flew after the negro. But the sounds of his progress drifted
farther and farther off, until they were lost in the night.
Pausing, he listened, but no echo came from the surrounding darkness.
Then, quickly, he retraced his steps to where Fletcher was kneeling,
the blood streaming from his arm, beside the bundle the negro had
dropped and fought over.
As if petrified Harding stopped, surprised beyond speech at the sight
the lantern showed.
In the blanket Leslie lay, dead asleep--in the deep unconsciousness of
drugged slumber.
His presence roused Fletcher.
“You infernal idiot! That was the Hyena. Lebrassa. The devil
incarnate! And but for your damned interference I should have killed
him.”
Harding said nothing. By now he had realized that what Fletcher said
was true. Getting out his handkerchief he bound up his companion’s
wounded arm. Then he picked up the sleeping girl.
The two continued their journey in silence. Nothing more could be done
until headquarters were reached.
On arriving at the major’s bungalow all was chaos. Half a dozen sleepy
servants wandered about aimlessly, unable to tell them anything except
that Atherley had gone to rouse the other officers.
Presently, all wet and dishevelled, the doctor came in. His story was
very simple--so much so, that when he saw Leslie still asleep among
the pillows from which she had been snatched barely half an hour
before, he felt like doubting the truth of his own statements.
After Leslie’s sleeping draught had taken effect, he had left her in
charge of the cook’s wife while he went back to the dining-room to put
away his drugs. A few minutes later he had returned to the bedroom to
find the negress bound and gagged and her charge gone.
As Atherley probed about in the fleshy part of Fletcher’s arm on the
track of Lebrassa’s bullet, the events of the night were told to him.
“It’s a queer affair altogether,” he said. “And the whole of this
night’s work we shan’t know until Miss Graham recovers. But this final
act shows how much Lebrassa will risk. He came here knowing this would
be the sanctuary she would make for, and hung about outside awaiting
his opportunity, relying on his disguise. What Miss Graham has said
about her father proves he was a hunted man. And, in the face of the
little we know, this goes to prove that Lebrassa was his enemy.”
Turning towards a side table, Atherley picked up a heavy gold armlet.
Its plain surface was embossed with stars, the clasp a hyena’s head,
the whole slightly twisted, as if the soft metal had been bent into
some desired shape.
“You have told me that Miss Graham said when her father was ill he
used to rave about a place called Kallu, which he said was not in
Africa. This proves the contrary, and shows Lebrassa as something more
than the Hyena.”
Atherley held the armlet towards the two officers.
“This thing,” he continued, “was round Miss Graham’s head, evidently
put there by its owner. Read what’s inside.”
Fletcher took the jewel and glanced at an Arabic inscription engraved
on the inner surface.
This ran:
“Essel, Sultan of Kallu, Lord of Doomana, Ruler of the Night, Heir of
all Darkness.”
The captain read the words aloud.
“There’s an all-powerful sound about it,” Harding remarked. “Yet I
don’t know of any such place as Kallu.”
“Nor I,” Atherley chimed in, “until Fletcher told me about it in
connection with Miss Graham. Now it occurs to me to wonder if her
father found the place and that was why he was hunted and I should
say, finally, trapped, considering his mysterious disappearance. Now
the mantle of vengeance has descended against the daughter.”
“But if Lebrassa wanted to kill her he’s had every opportunity,”
Harding pointed out.
“But he may have wanted to do it in some special place and at the
appointed season, after the manner of negro rites,” Atherley replied.
So far Fletcher had said nothing. He just held the armlet looking at
it thoughtfully.
Now he chimed in.
“Blood feud and vengeance may have been at the bottom of it all
originally,” he said, “but in my opinion Lebrassa reckoned without
himself, without the white side which we know can be very dominant. A
man may be as big a brute as the Hyena yet to the end there’s
generally one thing that will bring any good that may be in him to the
fore. And that is love.”
Pausing, Fletcher laid the armlet down on the table.
“I’ve studied Lebrassa and I know Miss Graham,” he continued. “She’s
so frank and innocent and high-minded, without a thought or idea of
evil in her head that she would attract him apart from the added charm
of her _spirituelle_ appearance. On the voyage it was obvious that his
only idea when with her was to make a good impression. He may have
started with the idea of working off some blood feud, but it ended in
his own complete infatuation.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Harding put in.
“I’m sure of it,” Fletcher said emphatically. “Such a love as his, the
wild passion of a blood-stained, half-caste African sultan, would only
fill a well-bred English girl with horror. Miss Graham had no idea
what she was dealing with. The mere fact of her being civil to him
would fan the spark into flame. I tried to warn her, but he was always
too clever for me. Any doubts I raised he speedily lulled. To-night’s
work may be the outcome of his rejected suit.”
Picking up the armlet again, Fletcher eyed it in a contemplative
manner.
“It’s impossible to say how far Lebrassa’s influence extends, for this
thing seems to point to his being not only sultan, but priest. In
these capacities I know nothing of him. But I know him as that
mysterious raider, the Hyena. What he’ll do from sheer daring and
deviltry will be nothing compared to the lengths passion and
infatuation will carry him. It would be better for Miss Graham had he
kept to his original intention and killed her. Knowing the man as I
know him, I fear he’ll get her into his possession again, in spite of
all we may do.”
“What’s your suggestion then?” Harding asked. “Lebrassa’s not going to
have her if I can help it.”
“We must get her out of the country the moment she’s able to travel.
And in such a way that nobody except ourselves knows where she is.”
“If Lebrassa is as all-powerful as this leads us to believe, that will
be difficult. He’ll have spies all around the place, watching our
every movement,” Atherley commented.
Fletcher made no reply. He was looking at the armlet speculatively, as
if measuring his strength against that of Lebrassa.