The Djinn (13 page)

“This is very
important.”

It was
important, and it was also very long. Anna and Marjorie whispered together for
almost ten minutes, and by the time they had finished, I was growing edgy and
impatient. From the expression on Professor Qualt’s face, Marjorie was saying
something more than alarming. He was biting at his pipe stem like a big, black,
hairy mastiff chewing through its leash. Eventually, Marjorie began to wander.
Her voice grew blurrier, and she stopped jerking and twitching and fell off to
sleep. Dr. Jarvis checked her pulse again and said, “She seems to be better
now. I think she could do with a few hours rest. If you want to leave her here,
I assure you she’ll be quite all right”

I nodded my
thanks. Dr. Jarvis pulled a blanket over Marjorie’s small sleeping form, then
ushered us quietly into the drawing room.

The French
doors that led to the garden were open and a breeze wafted through the room.
Dr.

Jarvis drew up
three small antique armchairs and bade us sit down. He went over to a dark oak
cabinet and took out four glasses. “After that,” he said, “I think we could all
do with some Dutch courage. I have some excellent Scotch here that my brother
brought back from his vacation.”

While he poured
them out, we looked around the room. It was traditionally but tastefully
decorated with floral French wallpaper, elegant little antique side tables, and
a carved-wood fireplace. There were several old oil paintings of English
landscapes on the walls, and a collection of eighteenth-century miniatures. It
obviously pays to be a family doctor in the wealthier parts of Massachusetts.

Dr
..
Jarvis handed out the Scotch,
then
sat down himself. We drank the pungent malt whiskey without a word,
then
Anna said uneasily, “I suppose you want to know what
Marjorie said.”

“I caught some
of it,” said Professor Qualt. “It was a dialect, wasn’t it?
One
of the old Persian hill dialects?”

Anna nodded.
“It was a very old and very obscure language that was used by an isolated group
of wise men who were said to have lived in exile in the Persian mountains. I
only know it because I once had to translate some old pharmacological documents
that had originated with this group, and I almost had to learn parts of their
grammar and syntax by heart”

“What are the
chances of Marjorie knowing it?” I said coldly. “I mean, fluently enough to
speak it like that?”

“It’s
impossible to say without asking her when she’s conscious,” said Anna. “She may
have learned it to help her husband with his work. But it does seem strange.
There can’t be more than ten people in the whole world who could speak it like
that I can understand it – most of it – but I couldn’t put together more than
two or three sentences.”

I took a small
sip of Scotch. “Marjorie told us that she wasn’t interested in Max’s
antiquities. If she wasn’t interested” why would she take the trouble to learn
a ridiculous language like that?”

“Maybe she
didn’t learn it,” said Professor Qualt crossing his big, plaid-trousered legs.
“Maybe she was speaking by hypnosis or suggestion of some kind.
Speaking in tongues.
It has been known.”

“It is those
who are possessed by evil spirits that are supposed to speak in tongues,’ said
Dr.

Jarvis quietly.
“It is one of the tests of demonic
presence.”

I took a
cigarette out of my breast pocket and lit it “I think we’d better take one
thing at a time,”

I said. “First
of all, Anna, what did she say?”

Anna brushed
her dark hair away from her face.

In the
lamplight of Dr. Jarvis’ drawing room, she looked more foxy-eyed and beautiful
than ever. She licked her lips before she started speaking, which made them
glisten as she told us what Marjorie Greaves had whispered to her in the
consulting room.

“It’s difficult
to translate everything exactly,” she said. “The wise men who spoke this
dialect had completely different concepts of life than those we have today, and
so some of the ideas have no modern parallel. But as far as I could understand
it, she was telling a kind of story. Professor Qualt might be able to correct
me if I’ve got any of it wrong.

“It was a story
about a beautiful young girl who was her father’s favorite. She was going to be
married to a wealthy young man and spend all the rest of her years in luxury
and happiness. Even though the marriage had been arranged by their parents, the
two young people were deeply in love with each other, and they were both
looking forward to the lavish wedding ceremony and the wedding night.

“Then, one
evening just before the wedding, a powerful wizard entered the beautiful young
girl’s house in the guise of a beggar and abducted her. She was to be taken
away and given as a gift to a group of strange men, or wild men-I’m not sure of
the translation there.”

“Fanatical
men,” said Professor Qualt. “That’s the nearest interpretation. The word is
often used in other dialects to describe religious cranks.”

“Anyway, the
girl was going to be tortured slowly and eventually killed. But she had a plain
and unbecoming sister who discovered what had happened to her and followed the
wizard back to his house. When this girl learned what was going to befall her
beautiful sister, she somehow managed to make a pact with the wizard’s most
powerful demon or jinni. The pact was that if the beautiful young bride-to-be
was allowed to go free, the plain sister would become the jinni’s whore for as
long as she lived and would marry no other man. Is that how you understood it,
Professor Qualt?”

Professor Qualt
nodded. “So far, so good,” he said. “It’s the next bit that confused me.”

“It’s difficult
to understand; it was spoken in difficult language. But as far as I can make
out, the plain sister made a promise to herself that one day she would return
from the dead and seek her revenge on the wizard and his jinni for their evil
and their treachery. Evidently, even though the plain sister became the jinni’s
whore and was forced to have sexual relations with him in many different and
appalling forms and guises, the beautiful sister was still sacrificed to the
fanatical men, and died a slow and terrible death. One of the things they did
was
slice
her open and sew a huge live snake into her
womb, and there were other tortures and rituals too atrocious even to mention.”

We sat silently
when Anna had finished. I took a large swallow of Scotch and enjoyed the
mellifluous burning of neat spirit in my throat. Dr. Jarvis stood rigid and
silent, looking out over his dusky lawns, and Professor Qualt was sitting
hunched forward with his head buried in his hands. After a while, Professor
Qualt sat up straight

“Well,” he
said. “I know what we’re all thinking. The question is-do we take it seriously
or not?”

Anna put down
her drink. “I don’t see how we can fail to take it seriously,” she said. “What
Marjorie has just told us, in this ancient and peculiar language, is exactly
what you were saying about the way in which Ali Babah acquired his Forty
Thieves. The girl sacrifices to the N’zwaa. It all ties up.”

Qualt stroked
his chin thoughtfully and stared at Anna with his pained, James Mason eyes.

“That’s true,
Anna, that’s true. But anyone who knows anything about ancient Middle Eastern
sorcery will know that story. There must be books about it at your godmother’s
house, Mr.

Erskine. And if
she knew the language, well, she was likely to know the legends and myths of
that language, too.”

I ground out my
cigarette. “The only flaw in that perfectly plausible explanation, Professor
Qualt, is that Marjorie was a poor linguist and took no interest in Middle
Eastern antiquities at all. She told me that Max used to send them back from
his tours of duty, and she didn’t even bother to unwrap them. You can’t get
more disinterested than that.”

Dr. Jarvis
turned around, his hands thrust into the coat pockets of his elegant tweeds.
“In that case,” he said, “how did she come to know this ancient language so
fluently? Is she possessed?

Or hypnotized?
Or are we all imagining things?”

“I think it’s
impossible,” said Anna quietly.

“You think
what’s impossible?” asked Professor Qualt.

“I think it’s
impossible for Marjorie Greaves to know that ancient language. It just doesn’t
make sense.”

“Executives and
politicians have been known to learn Russian almost overnight by certain
methods,” put in Professor Qualt. I got the feeling he was testing the strength
of Anna’s belief rather than criticizing her.

Anna shook her
head. “This dialect can’t be learned like that. It’s like learning kung-fu without
discovering the inner meaning and disciplines of Oriental culture. You can go
through the motions of fighting in a kung-fu style, but you can never be what
kung-fu is all about, not unless you have all the inner peace and discipline
that is necessary. And you can’t learn inner peace and discipline in one night,
not even if you’re an executive or a politician.
Especially
not if you’re an executive or a politician.”

Professor Qualt
sucked his pipe approvingly. “All right, then,” he said. “What alternatives
does that leave us with?”

There was a
silence. Then Dr. Jarvis said, “As far as I can perceive, we are left with just
two.

Either Mrs.
Greaves was possessed by a demon which spoke through her lips in its own
tongue, or else she was hypnotized by someone and given these words to speak,
even though she didn’t know what they meant.”

“Which
possibility do you think is more likely?” asked Professor Qualt. He was
speaking to us like a patient university lecturer prodding his students into
constructive thought, but none of us minded. It was refreshing to have someone
around who could strain your analytical faculties.

Usually, my
logic consisted of leaping to a series of rather bizarre conclusions.

“It’s more
likely that she was hypnotized,” I said. “I’m not saying I don’t believe in
demons, but there are far more authenticated cases of hypnotism than there are
authenticated cases of demonic possession. Apart from that, demons give me the
creeps.”

Professor Qualt
smiled. “Okay.
Supposing she was hypnotized.
Who did
it and why?”

“Well, as far
as we know,” said Anna, “there are only two other people at Winter Sails.
Miss Johnson and this strange hooded figure.”

“The hooded
figure we don’t know anything about,” said Professor Qualt. “But we do know a
little about Miss Johnson. Have you any idea why she might hypnotize Mrs.
Greaves, even supposing she could?”

We were just
thinking about that one when there was a rap at the drawing room door. Dr.
Jarvis said, “Come in,” and Mrs. Jarvis appeared. She was a small, bright-faced
woman with a flowery print dress and a halo of white hair.

“I hope I’m not
interrupting,” she said, “but the door’s stuck.”

“What door?”
said Dr.
Jarvis.
“Not the cellar door again?”

“No, dear, the consulting room door.
I was going in to take
Marjorie’s pulse and temperature, but I can’t get it open.”

“It isn’t
locked,” said Dr. Jarvis. “I never lock it, except at night.”

“Well, I wish
you’d come and have a look,” said Mrs. Jarvis. “I’ve tried pulling it, and I’ve
tried pushing it, but nothing works.”

Anna smiled.
“You’re a strong guy, Harry. Perhaps you can budge it.”

“Strong?”
I said. “They used to call me
Before
at school, because I looked like the Before guy in the Charles Atlas ads. When
I want to tear a telephone directory in half, I have to do it page by page.”

Nonetheless, I
followed Mrs. Jarvis into the corridor and up to the white consulting room
door.

I tried the
handle, and she was right. It was jammed. I pushed my shoulder against it, but
still it wouldn’t budge. It was set so firm and hard, it seemed to be
double-locked. I rattled the handle and called, “Marjorie! Are you in there?”

We waited, but
there was no reply. I called again, “Marjorie, did you lock this door? Wake up,

“Marjorie!”

Again, there
was nothing but silence. Mrs. Jarvis said, “The windows are all shut, too, or
you could have climbed in that way.”

“You can see
in, though, can’t you?” I asked her.

She shook her
head. “The windows are painted cream halfway up. It’s to keep passersby from
looking in.”

“Do you have a
key?”

She held it up.
“I’ve tried it. It doesn’t seem to work.”

I took the key
and fiddled around with it for a while. While I was fiddling with it, I was
sure that I heard slight noises inside the consulting room. I stopped twisting
the key and pressed my ear to the door, but the noises had stopped. I fiddled
some more, and when I did, I was sure I could hear the noises again.

They were soft,
flapping noises, like the beating of dry wings.

I listened
again, but there was silence. I said to Mrs., Jarvis, “It looks as if we’re
going to have to force this door open. Do you mind?”

“Well, if you
have to, you have to. There should be a crowbar under the stairs.”

She opened the
cupboard under the stairs for me, and I rummaged around amid old golf trophies
and broken picture frames until I found a rusty crowbar at the back. I dusted
it off and took it to the consulting room. Just in case, I tried the handle and
the key once more, but they still didn’t work.

I jammed the
crowbar into the side of the door and heaved. The soft old wood splintered
easily, and soon the door began to give way. There was a final crackling, and
it swung open.