'Ner… ner… no.' Again she jerked up her hand, but this time to smother a hysterical laugh. 'No; my marriage is a mockery. He married me to get possession of my fortune, and because he knew that he could make a good medium out of me. He came to India when I was a child and got my poor father into his toils. I was very young. Too young to be a wife, but he made me his slave. Then he brought me to Europe. It was only later I realised…'
She broke off, suddenly shaken by a fit of sobs. Then, dashing the tears from her eyes, she began to babble semi-hysterically about her life with Malderini. Roger was shocked and amazed, but her voice had risen to so high a pitch that he feared someone would hear her and come running to see what was the matter. Grasping her by the arms, he gave her a quick shake and said:
'Quiet! For God's sake lower your voice or someone will think I am maltreating you. What you say is terrible; but it all fits in with what I heard in Bahna.'
After a moment she got control of herself and said in a more nearly normal voice, 'Bahna! What were you doing in Bahna? And what led you to come in pursuit of Malderini?'
It took him several minutes to tell her, and having to give an account of Clarissa's end re-aroused his hatred of her killer to fever pitch. She listened, her great brown eyes swimming in tears; but she made no comment until he had finished, then she said:
'I understand now why you are set on killing Malderini. The lovely young lady who became your wife I remember well. That she should have died of a chill caught in such a way is especially terrible. I have suffered the same thing at his hands. Five times he has killed cats, and three times human infants, on my body. The first time I thought I should go mad, but he threw me into a trance afterwards which dulled my memory of it; and at least I am still alive.'
'Would you swear to that in front of a magistrate?' Roger asked quickly. 'If so, we'll break out together now. I've a pistol so could hold off the servants. We'll get a warrant and return with the municipals to search the palace. Somewhere in it there is bound to be corroborative evidence: an altar to the Devil, perhaps, books on Satanism, robes with…,'
'No! No! No!' She shrank away from him in terror. 'I dare not! Even to attempt it would be useless. His familiar spirits would warn him of what we were about to do. He would strike me dumb from afar.'
'I cannot believe that he has the power to do that.'
'He has! He has! The evil gods give it to him in return for those blood sacrifices he makes to them. You believe him to be a charlatan because you caught him out in a trick. He is greedy for money and has used it successfully several times to win wagers. Yet he can levitate me. He has done so several times. He learnt how from the fakirs in Bahna. But to perform the feat requires weeks of patient preparation.'
Roger shook his head. 'He only made you believe solely by his will-power that he raised you from the ground. That he has extraordinarily strong hypnotic powers I admit. I have had personal experience of them. But all this Black Magic hocus-pocus, and the abominable rites he practises, do no more than give him immense confidence that, by one means or another, he will achieve his ends.'
'You are wrong!' she cried. 'Wrong! He can overlook people from a distance. Of that I am certain. He is the Devil incarnate, the very embodiment of evil, and has become the recipient of many strange powers. He may be overlooking us at this very moment, and listening to us conspiring against him.'
As though to confirm her terrified apprehensions, the tall, gilded double doors of the apartment were thrown open, and Malderini stood framed between them.
Chapter 23
Patriot or Spy?
Immediately behind Malderini, and towering above him, stood the lank-haired Pietro. Farther back there was a group of half a dozen menservants,
Malderini advanced a few paces into the room. His malevolent glance fixed itself on Roger, who had instinctively looked straight at him. Then, without shifting his gaze, he said, presumably to Pietro:
'You were right. He is the Englishman.'
Again Roger felt the impact of those terrible soulless eyes which fastened on his own, seemed to dissolve his will and bear him down. But he had come prepared for the possibility that Malderini might return earlier than he had on the past two days and catch him in the palace. Swiftly his left hand went inside his robe, fastened on a small packet and drew it out. Tearing his eyes from Malderini's riveting stare, he shook the contents of the packet out into the palm of his right hand, then springing forward, he flung it into his enemy's face.
It was red pepper. Malderini's grey eyes blinked for a second then he shut them with an agonised cry. Next moment he was sneezing violently. His big fleshy face distorted by pain and rage, he staggered forward blindly. With his hands clutching like talons at the empty air, he cried in his thin, high voice:
Seize him! Seize him! Pietro! Stefano! Bimbo! A hundred sequins to the man who brings him down."
They needed no bidding. Barely a second after Roger had flung the pepper, Pietro dodged out from behind his master, and the other men started forward after him. Roger had barely time to pull out his pistol, and not enough to cock it and hold them up as he had hoped. The weapon was dashed from his hand by Pietro's onslaught.
Swivelling round, Roger overturned a small table. The long-legged valet tripped over it and went crashing onto the parquet floor. The Princess screamed, but got in the way of the next man to make a grab at Roger. He threw a quick glance at the double doors. There were five men between him and them. Even having rendered Malderini hors de combat, without a sword he knew he could not possibly fight his way out. Driving his right fist into the stomach of a fat bald man, with his left he fended off a blow from another. A third man dived for his legs, seized his ankles and, with a jerk, threw him over backwards. His bottom hit the floor with an awful bump, but his head was saved by coming down on the cushioned seat of a chair some feet behind him. He kicked out savagely, freeing his legs; then, by a lucky stroke, he landed a kick on the chin of the man who had thrown him.,
Imprecations and wailing filled the air. Malderini still had his clenched fists pressed against his eyes. He reeled about, sneezing, choking, and getting in the way of the others. Sirisha, with the shrill fluency natural to Eastern ladies when wrought up to a high pitch of distress, continued to scream as though she was being beaten. The fat man who had been winded made awful noises as he strove to draw in breath, and the fellow who had been kicked under the chin emitted long heart-rending groans. But Pietro was up again. Followed by the three still uninjured men, he flung himself at Roger.
His dive missed only by inches. Just in time Roger threw his body sideways and rolled over and over across the polished floor. He was brought to rest by a wrought-iron jardinire containing half a dozen pots of flowers. Squirming round it, he got to his knees, seized it by its slender legs and, as he rose, brought them up with him to chest level. As Pietro and the other men came charging across the floor at him, he used all his strength to hurl it at them.
Pietro, his eyes distended by sudden fear, went over backwards. The end of the jardinière caught the man beside him on the arm and threw him off his balance. But the other two continued to come on.
By that time, Roger was through the open window and out on the balcony. Without looking over he knew that the drop to the canal was a good thirty feet; but if he let himself be captured in the Palace he knew that he would never come out of it alive. Without a second's hesitation he flung one leg across the stone balustrade. But the two men ran at him and seized him.
Up till then he had not had a second to draw the knife that he carried on the belt beneath his robe. As they grabbed his shoulders, he wrenched it out and jabbed it into the ribs of the nearest. The man gave a piercing cry and, as he doubled up, thrust automatically with his arms at Roger. The violence of the push overbalanced him. The other man had grasped his robe at the back of the neck. As he fell backwards over the stone balustrade the man hung on. For a moment he swung, his legs kicking frantically in the air, suspended by his robe. Suddenly there came a sharp rending sound. The stitching round the collar of the robe gave and it ripped. A ragged remnant of the collar was left dangling from the clutching hand. Roger fell, feet first, like a plummet, into the canal below.