THE ASSASSINS
On the wall hung a map of Mongolia, that indefinite region a million
and a half square miles in area, vast sections of which have never been
explored.
Turkestan and China border it on the south, and Tibet almost touches
it, not quite.
Even in the twelfth century, when the wild Mongols broke loose and
nearly overran the world, the Tibet infantry under Genghis, the
Tchortcha horsemen drafted out of Black China, and a great cloud of
Mongol cavalry under the Prince of the Vanguard commanding half a
hundred Hezars, never penetrated that grisly and unknown waste. The
“Eight Towers of the Assassins” guarded it—still guard it, possibly.
The vice-regent of Erlik, Prince of Darkness, dwelt within this unknown
land. And dwells there still, perhaps.
In front of this wall-map stood Tressa Norne.
Behind her, facing the map, four men were seated—three of them under
thirty.
These three were volunteers in the service of the United States
Government—men of independent means, of position, who had volunteered
for military duty at the outbreak of the great war. However, they had
been assigned by the Government to a very different sort of duty no
less exciting than service on the fighting line, but far less
conspicuous, for they had been drafted into the United States
Department of Justice.
The names of these three were Victor Cleves, a professor of ornithology
at Harvard University before the war; Alexander Selden, junior partner
in the banking firm of Milwyn, Selden, and Co., and James Benton, a New
York architect.
The fourth man’s name was John Recklow. He might have been over fifty,
or under. He was well-built, in a square, athletic way, clear-skinned
and ruddy, grey-eyed, quiet in voice and manner. His hair and moustache
had turned silvery. He had been employed by the Government for many
years. He seemed to be enormously interested in what Miss Norne was
saying.
Also he was the only man who interrupted her narrative to ask
questions. And his questions revealed a knowledge which was making the
girl more sensitive and uneasy every moment.
Finally, when she spoke of the Scarlet Desert, he asked if the Scarlet
Lake were there and if the Xin was still supposed to inhabit its
vermilion depths. And at that she turned and looked at him, her
forefinger still resting on the map.
“Where have you ever heard of the Scarlet Lake and the Xin?” she asked
as though frightened.
Recklow said quietly that as a boy he had served under Gordon and Sir
Robert.
“If, as a boy, you served under Chinese Gordon, you already know much
of what I have told you, Mr. Recklow. Is it not true?” she demanded
nervously.
“That makes no difference,” he replied with a smile. “It is all very
new to these three young gentlemen. And as for myself, I am checking up
what you say and comparing it with what I heard many, many years ago
when my comrade Barres and I were in Yian.”
“Did you really know Sir Robert Hart?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you not explain to these gentlemen?”
“Dear child,” he interrupted gently, “what did Chinese Gordon or Sir
Robert Hart, or even my comrade Barres, or I myself know about occult
Asia in comparison to what you know?—a girl who has actually served the
mysteries of Erlik for four amazing years!”
She paled a trifle, came slowly across the room to where Recklow was
seated, laid a timid hand on his sleeve.
“Do you believe there are sorcerers in Asia?” she asked with that
child-like directness which her wonderful blue eyes corroborated.
Recklow remained silent.
“Because,” she went on, “if, in your heart, you do not believe this to
be an accursed fact, then what I have to say will mean nothing to any
of you.”
Recklow touched his short, silvery moustache, hesitating. Then:
“The worship of Erlik is devil worship,” he said. “Also I am entirely
prepared to believe that there are, among the Yezidees, adepts who
employ scientific weapons against civilisation—who have probably
obtained a rather terrifying knowledge of psychic laws which they use
scientifically, and which to ordinary, God-fearing folk appear to be
the black magic of sorcerers.”
Cleves said: “The employment by the huns of poison gases and long-range
cannon is a parallel case. Before the war we could not believe in the
possibility of a cannon that threw shells a distance of seventy miles.”
The girl still addressed herself to Recklow: “Then you do not believe
there are real sorcerers in Asia, Mr. Recklow?”
“Not sorcerers with supernatural powers for evil. Only degenerate human
beings who, somehow, have managed to tap invisible psychic currents,
and have learned how to use terrific forces about which, so far, we
know practically nothing.”
She spoke again in the same uneasy voice: “Then you do not believe that
either God or Satan is involved?”
“No,” he replied smilingly, “and you must not so believe.”
“Nor the—the destruction of human souls,” she persisted; “you do not
believe it is being accomplished to-day?”
“Not in the slightest, dear young lady,” he said cheerfully.
“Do you not believe that to have been instructed in such unlawful
knowledge is damning? Do you not believe that ability to employ unknown
forces is forbidden of God, and that to disobey His law means death to
the soul?”
“No!”
“That it is the price one pays to Satan for occult power over people’s
minds?” she insisted.
“Hypnotic suggestion is not one of the cardinal sins,” explained
Recklow, still smiling—“unless wickedly employed. The Yezidee
priesthood is a band of so-called sorcerers only because of their
wicked employment of whatever hypnotic and psychic knowledge they may
have obtained.
“There was nothing intrinsically wicked in the huns’ discovery of
phosgene. But the use they made of it made devils out of them. My
ability to manufacture phosgene gas is no crime. But if I manufacture
it and use it to poison innocent human beings, then, in that sense, I
am, perhaps, a sort of modern sorcerer.”
Tressa Norne turned paler:
“I had better tell you that I _have_ used—forbidden knowledge—which the
Yezidees taught me in the temple of Erlik.”
“Used it how?” demanded Cleves.
“To—to earn a living.... And once or twice to defend myself.”
There was the slightest scepticism in Recklow’s bland smile. “You did
quite right, Miss Norne.”
She had become very white now. She stood beside Recklow, her back
toward the suspended map, and looked in a scared sort of way from one
to the other of the men seated before her, turning finally to Cleves,
and coming toward him.
“I—I once killed a man,” she said with a catch in her breath.
Cleves reddened with astonishment. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
“He was already on his way to kill me in bed.”
“You were perfectly right,” remarked Recklow coolly.
“I don’t know ... I was in bed.... And then, on the edge of sleep, I
felt his mind groping to get hold of mine—feeling about in the darkness
to get hold of my brain and seize it and paralyse it.”
All colour had left her face. Cleves gripped the arm of his chair and
watched her intently.
“I—I had only a moment’s mental freedom,” she went on in a ghost of a
voice. “I was just able to rouse myself, fight off those murderous
brain-fingers—let loose a clear mental ray.... And then, O God! I saw
him in his room with his Kalmuck knife—saw him already on his way to
murder me—Gutchlug Khan, the Yezidee—looking about in his bedroom for a
shroud.... And when—when he reached for the bed to draw forth a fine,
white sheet for the shroud without which no Yezidee dares journey
deathward—then—_then_ I became frightened.... And I killed him—I slew
him there in his hotel bedroom on the floor above mine!”
Selden moistened his lips: “That Oriental, Gutchlug, died from
heart-failure in a San Francisco hotel,” he said. “I was there at the
time.”
“He died by the fangs of a little yellow snake,” whispered the girl.
“There was no snake in his room,” retorted Cleves.
“And no wound on his body,” added Selden. “I attended the autopsy.”
She said, faintly: “There was no snake, and no wound, as you say....
Yet Gutchlug died of both there in his bedroom.... And before he died
he heard his soul bidding him farewell; and he saw the death-adder
coiled in the sheet he clutched—saw the thing strike him again and
again—saw and felt the tiny wounds on his left hand; felt the fangs
pricking deep, deep into the veins; died of it there within the
minute—died of the swiftest poison known. And yet——”
She turned her dead-white face to Cleves—“And yet _there was no snake
there_!... And never had been.... And so I—I ask you, gentlemen, if
souls do not die when minds learn to fight death with death—and deal it
so swiftly, so silently, while one’s body lies, unstirring on a bed—in
a locked room on the floor below——”
She swayed a little, put out one hand rather blindly.
Recklow rose and passed a muscular arm around her; Cleves, beside her,
held her left hand, crushing it, without intention, until she opened
her eyes with a cry of pain.
“Are you all right?” asked Recklow bluntly.
“Yes.” She turned and looked at Cleves and he caressed her bruised hand
as though dazed.
“Tell me,” she said to Cleves—“you who know—know more about my mind
than anybody living——” a painful colour surged into her face—but she
went on steadily, forcing herself to meet his gaze: “tell me, Mr.
Cleves—do you still believe that nothing can really destroy my soul?
And that it shall yet win through to safety?”
He said: “Your soul is in God’s keeping, and always shall be.... And if
the Yezidees have made you believe otherwise, they lie.”
Recklow added in a slow, perplexed way: “I have no personal knowledge
of psychic power. I am not psychic, not susceptible. But if you
actually possess such ability, Miss Norne, and if you have employed
such knowledge to defend your life, then you have done absolutely
right.”
“No guilt touches you,” added Selden with an involuntary shiver, “if by
hypnosis or psychic ability you really did put an end to that would-be
murderer, Gutchlug.”
Selden said: “If Gutchlug died by the fangs of a yellow death-adder
which existed only in his own mind, and if you actually had anything to
do with it you acted purely in self-defence.”
“You did your full duty,” added Benton—“but—good God!—it seems
incredible to me, that such power can actually be available in the
world!”
Recklow spoke again in his pleasant, undisturbed voice: “Go back to the
map, Miss Norne, and tell us a little more about this rather terrifying
thing which you believe menaces the civilised world with destruction.”
Tressa Norne laid a slim finger on the map. Her voice had become
steady. She said:
“The devil-worship, of which one of the modern developments is
Bolshevism, and another the terrorism of the hun, began in Asia long
before Christ’s advent: At least so it was taught us in the temple of
Erlik.
“It has always existed, its aim always has been the annihilation of
good and the elevation of evil; the subjection of right by might, and
the worldwide triumph of wrong.
“Perhaps it is as old as the first battle between God and Satan. I have
wondered about it, sometimes. There in the dusk of the temple when the
Eight Assassins came—the eight Sheiks-el-Djebel, all in white—chanting
the Yakase of Sabbah—always that dirge when they came and spread their
eight white shrouds on the temple steps——”
Her voice caught; she waited to recover her composure. Then went on:
“The ambition of Genghis was to conquer the world by force of arms. It
was merely of physical subjection that he dreamed. But the Slayer of
Souls——”
“Who?” asked Recklow sharply.
“The Slayer of Souls—Erlik’s vice-regent on earth—Hassan Sabbah. The
Old Man of the Mountain. It is of him I am speaking,” exclaimed Tressa
Norne—with quiet resolution. “Genghis sought only physical conquest of
man; the Yezidee’s ambition is more awful, _for he is attempting to
surprise and seize the very minds of men_!”
There was a dead silence. Tressa looked palely upon the four.
“The Yezidees—who you tell me are not sorcerers—are using power—which
you tell me is not magic accursed by God—to waylay, capture, enslave,
and destroy _the minds and souls of mankind_.
“It may be that what they employ is hypnotic ability and psychic power
and can be, some day, explained on a scientific basis when we learn
more about the occult laws which govern these phenomena.
“But could anything render the threat less awful? For there have
existed for centuries—perhaps always—a sect of Satanists determined
upon the destruction of everything that is pure and holy and good on
earth; and they are resolved to substitute for righteousness the
dreadful reign of hell.
“In the beginning there were comparatively few of these human demons.
Gradually, through the eras, they have increased. In the twelfth
century there were fifty thousand of the Sect of Assassins.
“Beside the castle of the Slayer of Souls on Mount Alamout——” she laid
her finger on the map—“eight other towers were erected for the Eight
Chief Assassins, called Sheiks-el-Djebel.
“In the temple we were taught where these eight towers stood.” She
picked up a pencil, and on eight blank spaces of unexplored and
unmapped Mongolia she made eight crosses. Then she turned to the men
behind her.
“It was taught to us in the temple that from these eight _foci_ of
infection the disease of evil has been spreading throughout the world;
from these eight towers have gone forth every year the emissaries of
evil—perverted missionaries—to spread the poisonous propaganda, to
teach it, to tamper stealthily with the minds of men, dominate them,
pervert them, instruct them in the creed of the Assassin of Souls.
“All over the world are people, already contaminated, whose minds are
already enslaved and poisoned, and who are infecting the still healthy
brains of others—stealthily possessing themselves of the minds of
mankind—teaching them evil, inviting them to mock the precepts of
Christ.
“Of such lost minds are the degraded brains of the Germans—the pastors
and philosophers who teach that might is right.
“Of such crippled minds are the Bolsheviki, poisoned long, long ago by
close contact with Asia which, before that, had infected and enslaved
the minds of the ruling classes with ferocious philosophy.
“Of such minds are all anarchists of every shade and stripe—all
terrorists, all disciples of violence,—the murderously envious, the
slothful slinking brotherhood which prowls through the world taking
every opportunity to set it afire; those mentally dulled by reason of
excesses; those weak intellects become unsound through futile
gabble,—parlour socialists, amateur revolutionists, theoretical
incapables excited by discussion fit only for healthy minds.”
She left the map and came over to where the four men were seated
terribly intent upon her every word.
“In the temple of Erlik, where my girlhood was passed after the murder
of my parents, I learned what I am repeating to you,” she said.
“I learned this, also, that the Eight Towers still exist—still stand
to-day,—at least theoretically—and that from the Eight Towers pours
forth across the world a stream of poison.
“I was told that, to every country, eight Yezidees were allotted—eight
sorcerers—or adepts in scientific psychology if you prefer it—whose
mission is to teach the gospel of hell and gradually but surely to win
the minds of men to the service of the Slayer of Souls.
“That is what was taught us in the temple. We were educated in the
development of occult powers—for it seems all human beings possess this
psychic power latent within them—only few, even when instructed,
acquire any ability to control and use this force....
“I—I learned—rapidly. I even thought, sometimes, that the Yezidees were
beginning to be a little afraid of me,—even the Hassani priests.... And
the Sheiks-el-Djebel, spreading their shrouds on the temple steps,
looked at me with unquiet eyes, where I stood like a corpse amid the
incense clouds——”
She passed her fingers over her eyelids, then framed her face between
both hands for a moment’s thought lost in tragic retrospection.
“Kai!” she whispered dreamily as though to herself—“what Erlik awoke
within my body that was asleep, God knows, but it was as though a twin
comrade arose within me and looked out through my eyes upon a world
which never before had been visible.”
Utter silence reigned in the room: Cleves’s breathing seemed almost
painful to him so intently was he listening and watching this girl;
Benton’s hands whitened with his grip on the chair-arms; Selden, tense,
absorbed, kept his keen gaze of a business man fastened on her face.
Recklow slowly caressed the cold bowl of his pipe with both thumbs.
Tressa Norne’s strange and remote eyes subtly altered, and she lifted
her head and looked calmly at the men before her.
“I think that there is nothing more for me to add,” she said. “The Red
Spectre of Anarchy, called Bolshevism at present, threatens our
country. Our Government is now awake to this menace and the Secret
Service is moving everywhere.
“Great damage already has been done to the minds of many people in this
Republic; poison has spread; is spreading. The Eight Towers still
stand. The Eight Assassins are in America.
“But these eight Assassins know me to be their enemy.... They will
surely attempt to kill me.... I don’t believe I can avoid—death—very
long.... But I want to serve my country and—and mankind.”
“They’ll have to get me first,” said Cleves, bluntly. “I shall not
permit you out of my sight.”
Recklow said in a musing voice: “And these eight gentlemen, who are
very likely to hurt us, also, are the first people we ought to hunt.”
“To get them,” added Selden, “we ought to choke the stream at its
source.”
“To find out who they are is what is going to worry us,” added Benton.
Cleves had stood holding a chair for Tressa Norne. Finally she noticed
it and seated herself as though tired.
“Is Sanang one of these eight?” he asked her. The girl turned and
looked up at him, and he saw the flush mounting in her face.
“Sometimes,” she said steadily, “I have almost believed he was Erlik’s
own vice-regent on earth—the Slayer of Souls himself.”
Benton and Selden had gone. Recklow left a little later. Cleves
accompanied him out to the landing.
“Are you going to keep Miss Norne here with you for the present?”
inquired the older man.
“Yes. I dare not let her out of my sight, Recklow. What else can I do?”
“I don’t know. Is she prepared for the consequences?”
“Gossip? Slander?”
“Of course.”
“I can get a housekeeper.”
“That only makes it look worse.”
Cleves reddened. “Well, do you want to find her in some hotel or
apartment with her throat cut?”
“No,” replied Recklow, gently, “I do not.”
“Then what else is there to do but keep her here in my own apartment
and never let her out of my sight until we can find and lock up the
eight gentlemen who are undoubtedly bent on murdering her?”
“Isn’t there some woman in the Service who could help out? I could
mention several.”
“I tell you I can’t trust Tressa Norne to anybody except myself,”
insisted Cleves. “I got her into this; I am responsible if she is
murdered; I dare not entrust her safety to anybody else. And, Recklow,
it’s a ghastly responsibility for a man to induce a young girl to face
death, even in the service of her country.”
“If she remains here alone with you she’ll face social destruction,”
remarked Recklow.
Cleves was silent for a moment, then he burst out: “Well, what am I to
do? What is there left for me to do except to watch over her and see
her through this devilish business? What other way have I to protect
her, Recklow?”
“You could offer her the protection of your name,” suggested the other,
carelessly.
“What? You mean—marry her?”
“Well, nobody else would be inclined to, Cleves, if it ever becomes
known she has lived here quite alone with you.”
Cleves stared at the elder man.
“This is nonsense,” he said in a harsh voice. “That young girl doesn’t
want to marry anybody. Neither do I. She doesn’t wish to have her
throat cut, that’s all. And I’m determined she shan’t.”
“There are stealthier assassins, Cleves,—the slayers of reputations. It
goes badly with their victim. It does indeed.”
“Well, hang it, what do you think I ought to do?”
“I think you ought to marry her if you’re going to keep her here.”
“Suppose she doesn’t mind the unconventionality of it?”
“All women mind. No woman, at heart, is unconventional, Cleves.”
“She—she seems to agree with me that she ought to stay here....
Besides, she has no money, no relatives, no friends in America——”
“All the more tragic. If you really believe it to be your duty to keep
her here where you can look after her bodily safety, then the other
obligation is still heavier. And there may come a day when Miss Norne
will wish that you had been less conscientious concerning the safety of
her pretty throat.... For the knife of the Yezidee is swifter and less
cruel than the tongue that slays with a smile.... And this young girl
has many years to live, after this business of Bolshevism is dead and
forgotten in our Republic.”
“Recklow!”
“Yes?”
“You think I might dare try to find a room somewhere else for her and
let her take her chances? _Do_ you?”
“It’s your affair.”
“I know—hang it! I know it’s my affair. I’ve unintentionally made it
so. But can’t you tell me what I ought to do?”
“I can’t.”
“What would _you_ do?”
“Don’t ask me,” returned Recklow, sharply. “If you’re not man enough to
come to a decision you may turn her over to me.”
Cleves flushed brightly. “Do you think _you_ are old enough to take my
job and avoid scandal?”
Recklow’s cold eyes rested on him: “If you like,” he said, “I’ll assume
your various kinds of personal responsibility toward Miss Norne.”
Cleve’s visage burned. “I’ll shoulder my own burdens,” he retorted.
“Sure. I knew you would.” And Recklow smiled and held out his hand.
Cleves took it without cordiality. Standing so, Recklow, still smiling,
said: “What a rotten deal that child has had—is having. Her father and
mother were fine people. Did you ever hear of Dr. Norne?”
“She mentioned him once.”
“They were up-State people of most excellent antecedents and no money.
“Dr. Norne was our Vice-Consul at Yarkand in the province of Sin Kiang.
All he had was his salary, and he lost that and his post when the
administration changed. Then he went into the spice trade.
“Some Jew syndicate here sent him up the Yarkand River to see what
could be done about jade and gold concessions. He was on that business
when the tragedy happened. The Kalmuks and Khirghiz were responsible,
under Yezidee instigation. And there you are:—and here is his child,
Cleves—back, by some miracle, from that flowering hell called Yian,
believing in her heart that she really lost her soul there in the
temple. And now, here in her own native land, she is exposed to actual
and hourly danger of assassination.... Poor kid!... Did you ever hear
of a rottener deal, Cleves?”
Their hands had remained clasped while Recklow was speaking. He spoke
again, clearly, amiably:
“To lay down one’s life for a friend is fine. I’m not sure that it’s
finer to offer one’s honour in behalf of a girl whose honour is at
stake.”
After a moment Cleves’s grip tightened.
“All right,” he said.
Recklow went downstairs.