The Empty Coffins Read Free Page B

presence of the seer—after they had paid their money to the pseudo-Oriental. The sanc­tum of Singh was blue with incense fumes and light­ed only dimly by candles. Their indifferent flames cast upon strange carvings and fantastic shapes. Rawnee Singh himself sat cross-legged before a low table, his slender hands over a softly illumined globe. A turban with satiny sheen graced his head and his close-fitting suit had the appearance of cloth-of-gold.
    â€œGood evening, gentlemen,” he greeted, his voice bass and musical. “Please be seated and state your pleasure. Is it the past you wish to recover, or perchance do you prefer to gaze into the future?”
    â€œI’m concerned only with the present—or rather last night,” Peter retorted, remaining standing with Meadows beside him. “You’ve almost scared my fiancée to death with your damned tosh!”
    Singh raised his head. His face was dark brown, his eyes oblique in shape and brightly gleaming. It was a satanic face, with its downwardly curved mouth and vulture’s nose.
    â€œTake care how you speak,” he whispered. “The spirits show no mercy to the infidel.”
    â€œYou didn’t show any to my fiancée,” Peter re­torted. “Maybe you remember her? Elsie Timperley by name. You told her she had only eight months to live— What the devil did you mean by it?”
    Rawnee Singh meditated, his eyes on the glowing ball in his hands. Then he seemed to remember.
    â€œAh yes—the blonde young lady. She came last night— Yes, of course, I remember. But, Mr. Mal­den, I spoke truth.”
    â€œHow do you know my name?” Peter asked suspic­iously.
    â€œI am psychic. Do I need to say more?”
    â€œDefinitely you do! Why did you scare Mrs. Timperley?”
    â€œIt was unavoidable. She asked for the future, and I revealed it to her—just as I revealed her past. Naturally she cannot feel happy over the revelation that she has only eight months—maybe less—to live.”
    â€œDamned lies!” Peter shouted, leaning across and gripping Singh by the front of his costume. “For two pins I’d—”
    He paused. Magically, from the shadows, two enormous Nubians had appeared, their mighty arms folded. They stood like black statues, as str­aight as the columns of hell, and probably just as diabolical if they chose. Peter relaxed and stood up straight again.
    â€œI regret your recourse to violence, Mr. Mal­den,” Singh said, straightening his costume. “I can only repeat: I gave Mrs. Timperley the facts.”
    â€œBut you couldn’t have meant it!”
    â€˜The gods do not lie, Mr. Malden.”
    Peter gave a desperate look about him. The smoky tent, the Oriental setting, the giant Nub­ians with folded arms, and this immovable mystic with his glowing globe. The whole business smelled either of rank faking or else profound sorcery. Peter could not tell which. Finally he asked a question.
    â€œ How will she die? Did you work that one out?”
    Singh gave the slightest of shrugs. “There was no purpose in doing so, my friend. All I could see ahead of her, after the passage of eight mon­ths, was a blank. That, interpreted, means death. How it will come about I do not know: I made no effort to probe. I can discover that if the lady cares to come again and—”
    â€œNot on your life! You’ve frightened her en­ough already.”
    â€œMr. Singh,” Meadows said quietly, “I have read of your reputation. I am not as impetuous as my young friend here. I would like to ask: is there not the possibility of you having made a mistake?”
    â€œI perhaps, yes,” the mystic admitted. “I am but the poor mortal tool for the forces that move around me. I am, shall I say, only an interpreter of past and future. I could have made a mistake, but the forces themselves would not. So you may take it for