It was the ape-man who saw them. Perhaps it was that his eyes were more accustomed to darkness, perhaps some keen sense of smell enabled him to detect the presence of others.
He uttered a shrill sound sequence which seemed to be like words, sounded startlingly like the dialect in which Murasingh had been talking.
The men who crouched in the darkness of the passageway could not understand the words, but there could be no mistaking the sudden shrill tone in which they were uttered.
Phil Nickers raised his foot, swung it as swift and true as a football player punting the ball down a muddy field. He aimed his toe for a point above the flashlight, and connected with the wrist of Murasingh.
The light snapped out, clattered against the stones of the passageway. And all became struggle, noise, confusion. The ape-man gave short, shrill screams of rage, perhaps mingled with terror. Murasingh, not knowing the numbers nor identity of those who opposed him, fought wildly in the darkness.
Phil swung his fist chin high, in a long, pivoting swing, had the satisfaction of feeling a tingle of pain run up his forearm as the blow connected.
There was the sound of a falling body, and then a hairy arm shot out through the darkness, grazed his own body. Fingers that were as steel gripped the shoulder of his coat.
Phil flung himself forward and down, swung a futile blow with his left. The mighty arm did not so much as quiver when Phil’s weight hurled against it. But the cloth gave way and Nickers sprawled free on the floor of the passageway.
But he sensed that other great arm was busy, not concerning itself with him, but reaching for his companion. There was the swish of rapid motion above, the sound of feet dragging over the flags. Something slid over Phil’s sprawling figure. He flung up his hands and encountered the shod feet of Arthur Forbes. The man was being dragged as though he was a sack of meal, the feet trailing behind.
Phil rolled to hands and knees, braced himself for a tackle, and then his hands closed upon something cool and metallic. In an instant he realized that he had the flashlight he had kicked from Murasingh’s hand. Would it work?
He grasped it, pressed the button. A reassuring beam of light stabbed the darkness. And Phil thrust that stabbing beam directly into the face of the ape.
Man or animal, enough of the animal remained in the ape to give him a fear of that sudden light. Phil had a picture stamped indelibly upon his memory of a hairy ape, the face almost devoid of hair, pale and thin of skin, lips twisted back from glittering fangs, nostrils that were merely two dark, quivering holes, eyes that were wide, dark-pupilled, moist with fright.
And in that swift stab of light he saw also Arthur Forbes’s white face, drained of color, lifeless, with that hairy hand reaching at his throat, ready to tear out the flesh.
The light made the ape recoil, jump back. His hairy arms flashed up, using his hands as shields to keep the blinding light from his eyes. And Arthur Forbes, released from the grasp of the man-beast, thudded to the stone flags.
As the ape-man recoiled, Phil pushed the light ahead, taking every inch he could gain, keeping his advantage pressed home. A huddled something on the stones moved, tripped Phil, sent him sprawling. Hands clutched at his arm, pulled the flashlight down.
Phil had a brief glimpse of Murasingh, lying upon the stones, his face white with pain but grim with determination. Then there was the flash of a steel blade, and a knife bit through the cloth of his coat, razored the skin apart, sent a warm trickle of blood flowing down his arm.
Phil felt himself tottering forward, and doubled his left fist, sent it crashing down ahead of him, a stiff-armed jolt with all the impetus of his falling body behind it.
The fist grazed the countenance of the man below. The flashlight was tom from Phil’s grasp, and the two locked on the floor in a hand-to-hand struggle. The ape-man, terrified by the cold fire that had been plunged in his face, was running awkwardly back, down the passage, toward the room from which Phil and his companion had escaped.
Forbes was still unconscious. The struggle was hand to knife, finger to throat, between the fanatic and Phil Nickers. Murasingh seemed intent upon plunging the knife to a vital spot. But he was underneath, fighting against the crushing weight of the man above. And Phil pressed that advantage to the limit, keeping on top, groping for the hand with the knife, smashing home vicious short-arm jabs with his fist.
At length his questing fingers caught the lean wrist that was wielding the knife. Phil’s fingers tightened, gave a twist, and the knife slithered along the dark stone.
Murasingh sought his throat. Phil’s fingers were first to their goal. He tightened his grip. The struggles of the man below grew less violent, suddenly subsided. Fearing a trap, Phil continued the pressure for a moment or two more, then released his grip. Murasingh lay still.
Phil turned to Forbes, found that there was a pulse, and pulled his companion to a semi-upright position against the side of the passageway. Then he returned to Murasingh, a recollection of the automatic with which the fanatic had been armed, sending his fingers questing through the man’s clothing.
And he found it, gripped the precious metal in his damp hand with a strange sense of power. He groped about until his hands once more closed upon the flashlight. Now he was willing to meet the foe in any numbers, under any conditions.
A rustle of motion apprised him of Forbes’s motions. He swung the flashlight, encountered dazed eyes.
“It’s all right, old man. How d’you feel?”
“Like a chunk of meat that’s been through the sausage grinder. I’m groggy, but guess I’m all right aside from that. What happened?”
“I frightened the ape with the flashlight. He wasn’t the one that acted as judge, but another. Guess he’s the one that was to be the bridegroom. He’s gone for help. Murasingh is out, but he gave us a flashlight and automatic before he went. Feel up to walking? We’ve got to stop that wedding, you know.”
For answer, Forbes staggered to his feet.
“I’m just shaken up a bit. We’re going to stop that wedding, even if we have to walk in and fight the outfit.”
They ascended the stairs, trapped between two flanking dangers. Up the passage lay the menace of being trapped within cramped quarters. Down the passage lay the menace of the hideous ape-man. From up the stairs came the booming of the great drums. As they pounded, the rhythmic chant of throbbing sound which entered the pulsations of the blood, seemed to stir the very soul with monotonous repetition of sound.
The light grew stronger as they ascended. From a corridor ahead came a mellow glow. There seemed to be no particular light source. It was merely that there was light. The hallway glowed with a soft radiance that was almost phosphorescence. So might the interior of a rotting log seem to a tiny grub.
Phil stopped, surprised at the lighting effect. And, as he stood there — dimly conscious of the weird surroundings, the boom of drums, and the shuffle of many feet upon stone floors — the scream of a woman knifed the night.
There was a wild terror in that scream, a blood-curdling horror that stabbed the eardrums. Forbes straightened, turned toward the source of that sound. Phil gripped the automatic, and there sounded the flutter of filmy draperies. A woman rushed out from a side corridor, saw the men, paused in terror, and turned wide eyes back over her shoulder.
From behind her came the sound of a low laugh, demoniacal, triumphant. The woman turned again and her terror-darkened eyes surveyed the two men.