The Yellow Claw
by Sax Rohmer
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE LADY OF THE CIVET FURS
II MIDNIGHT--AND MR. KING
III INSPECTOR DUNBAR TAKES CHARGE
IV A WINDOW IS OPENED
V DOCTORS DIFFER
VI AT SCOTLAND YARD
VII THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE
VIII CABMEN TWO
IX THE MAN IN BLACK
X THE GREAT UNDERSTANDING
XI PRESENTING M. GASTON MAX
XII MR. GIANAPOLIS
XIII THE DRAFT ON PARIS
XIV EAST 18642
XV CAVE OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON
XVI HO-PIN'S CATACOMBS
XVII KAN-SUH CONCESSIONS
XVIII THE WORLD ABOVE
XIX THE LIVING DEAD
XX ABRAHAM LEVINSKY BUTTS IN
XXI THE STUDIO IN SOHO
XXII M. MAX MOUNTS CAGLIOSTRO'S STAIRCASE
XXIII RAID IN THE RUE ST.-CLAUDE
XXIV OPIUM
XXV FATE'S SHUTTLECOCK
XXVI "OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES"
XXVII GROVE OF A MILLION APES
XXVIII THE OPIUM AGENT
XXIX M. MAX OF LONDON AND M. MAX OF PARIS
XXX MAHARA
XXXI MUSK AND ROSES
XXXII BLUE BLINDS
XXXIII LOGIC VS. INTUITION
XXXIV M. MAX REPORTS PROGRESS
XXXV TRACKER TRACKED
XXXVI IN DUNBAR'S ROOM
XXXVII THE WHISTLE
XXXVIII THE SECRET TRAPS
XXXIX THE LABYRINTH
XL DAWN AT THE NORE
XLI WESTMINSTER--MIDNIGHT
THE YELLOW CLAW
I
THE LADY OF THE CIVET FURS
Henry Leroux wrote busily on. The light of the table-lamp,
softened and enriched by its mosaic shade, gave an appearance of
added opulence to the already handsome appointments of the room.
The little table-clock ticked merrily from half-past eleven to a
quarter to twelve.
Into the cozy, bookish atmosphere of the novelist's study
penetrated the muffled chime of Big Ben; it chimed the three-
quarters. But, with his mind centered upon his work, Leroux wrote
on ceaselessly.
An odd figure of a man was this popular novelist, with patchy and
untidy hair which lessened the otherwise striking contour of his
brow. A neglected and unpicturesque figure, in a baggy, neutral-
colored dressing-gown; a figure more fitted to a garret than to
this spacious, luxurious workroom, with the soft light playing upon
rank after rank of rare and costly editions, deepening the tones in
the Persian carpet, making red morocco more red, purifying the
vellum and regilding the gold of the choice bindings, caressing
lovingly the busts and statuettes surmounting the book-shelves, and
twinkling upon the scantily-covered crown of Henry Leroux. The
door bell rang.
Leroux, heedless of external matters, pursued his work. But the
door bell rang again and continued to ring.
"Soames! Soames!" Leroux raised his voice irascibly, continuing
to write the while. "Where the devil are you! Can't you hear the
door bell?"
Soames did not reveal himself; and to the ringing of the bell was
added the unmistakable rattling of a letter-box.
"Soames!" Leroux put down his pen and stood up. "Damn it! he's
out! I have no memory!"
He retied the girdle of his dressing-gown, which had become
unfastened, and opened the study door. Opposite, across the
entrance lobby, was the outer door; and in the light from the lobby
lamp he perceived two laughing eyes peering in under the upraised
flap of the letter-box. The ringing ceased.
"Are you VERY angry with me for interrupting you?" cried a girl's
voice.
"My dear Miss Cumberly!" said Leroux without irritation; "on the
contrary--er--I am delighted to see you--or rather to hear you.
There is nobody at home, you know." . . .
"I DO know," replied the girl firmly, "and I know something else,
also. Father assures me that you simply STARVE yourself when Mrs.
Leroux is away! So I have brought down an omelette!"
"Omelette!" muttered Leroux, advancing toward the door; "you have--
er--brought an omelette! I understand--yes; you have brought an
omelette? Er--that is very good of you."
He hesitated when about to open the outer door, raising his hands
to his dishevelled hair and unshaven chin. The flap of the letter-
box dropped; and the girl outside could be heard stifling her
laughter.
"You must think me--er--very rude," began Leroux; "I mean--not to
open the door. But" . . .
"I quite understand," concluded the voice of the unseen one. "You
are a most untidy object! And I shall tell Mira DIRECTLY she
returns that she has no right to leave you alone like this! Now I
am going to hurry back upstairs; so you may appear safely. Don't
let the omelette get cold. Good night!"
"No, certainly I shall not!" cried Leroux. "So good of you--I--er--
do like omelette. . . . Good night!"
Calmly he returned to his writing-table, where, in the pursuit of
the elusive character whose exploits he was chronicling and who had
brought him fame and wealth, he forgot in the same moment Helen
Cumberly and the omelette.
The table-clock ticked merrily on; SCRATCH--SCRATCH--SPLUTTER--
SCRATCH--went Henry Leroux's pen; for this up-to-date litterateur,
essayist by inclination, creator of "Martin Zeda, Criminal
Scientist" by popular clamor, was yet old-fashioned enough, and
sufficient of an enthusiast, to pen his work, while lesser men
dictated.
So, amidst that classic company, smiling or frowning upon him from
the oaken shelves, where Petronius Arbiter, exquisite, rubbed
shoulders with Balzac, plebeian; where Omar Khayyam leaned
confidentially toward Philostratus; where Mark Twain, standing
squarely beside Thomas Carlyle, glared across the room at George
Meredith, Henry Leroux pursued the amazing career of "Martin Zeda."
It wanted but five minutes to the hour of midnight, when again the
door bell clamored in the silence.
Leroux wrote steadily on. The bell continued to ring, and,
furthermore, the ringer could be heard beating upon the outer door.
"Soames!" cried Leroux irritably, "Soames! Why the hell don't you
go to the door!"
Leroux stood up, dashing his pen upon the table.
"I shall have to sack that damned man!" he cried; "he takes too
many liberties--stopping out until this hour of the night!"
He pulled open the study door, crossed the hallway, and opened the
door beyond.
In, out of the darkness--for the stair lights had been
extinguished--staggered a woman; a woman whose pale face exhibited,
despite the ravages of sorrow or illness, signs of quite unusual
beauty. Her eyes were wide opened, and terror-stricken, the pupils
contracted almost to vanishing point. She wore a magnificent cloak
of civet fur wrapped tightly about her, and, as Leroux opened the
door, she tottered past him into the lobby, glancing back over her
shoulder.
With his upraised hands plunged pathetically into the mop of his
hair, Leroux turned and stared at the intruder. She groped as if a
darkness had descended, clutched at the sides of the study doorway,
and then, unsteadily, entered--and sank down upon the big
chesterfield in utter exhaustion.
Leroux, rubbing his chin, perplexedly, walked in after her. He
scarcely had his foot upon the study carpet, ere the woman started
up, tremulously, and shot out from the enveloping furs a bare arm
and a pointing, quivering finger.
"Close the door!" she cried hoarsely--"close the door! . . . He
has . . . followed me!" . . .
The disturbed novelist, as a man in a dream, turned, retraced his
steps, and closed the outer door of the flat. Then, rubbing his
chin more vigorously than ever and only desisting from this
exercise to fumble in his dishevelled hair, he walked back into the
study, whose Athenean calm had thus mysteriously been violated.
Two minutes to midnight; the most respectable flat in respectable
Westminster; a lonely and very abstracted novelist--and a pale-
faced, beautiful woman, enveloped in costly furs, sitting staring
with fearful eyes straight before her. This was such a scene as
his sense of the proprieties and of the probabilities could never
have permitted Henry Leroux to create.
His visitor kept moistening her dry lips and swallowing,
emotionally.
Standing at a discreet distance from her:--
"Madam," began Leroux, nervously.
She waved her hand, enjoining him to silence, and at the same time
intimating that she would explain herself directly speech became
possible. Whilst she sought to recover her composure, Leroux,
gradually forcing himself out of the dreamlike state, studied her
with a sort of anxious curiosity.
It now became apparent to him that his visitor was no more than
twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, but illness or trouble, or
both together, had seared and marred her beauty. Amid the auburn
masses of her hair, gleamed streaks, not of gray, but of purest
white. The low brow was faintly wrinkled, and the big--unnaturally
big--eyes were purple shaded; whilst two heavy lines traced their
way from the corner of the nostrils to the corner of the mouth--of
the drooping mouth with the bloodless lips.
Her pallor became more strange and interesting the longer he
studied it; for, underlying the skin was a yellow tinge which he
found inexplicable, but which he linked in his mind with the
contracted pupils of her eyes, seeking vainly for a common cause.
He had a hazy impression that his visitor, beneath her furs, was
most inadequately clothed; and seeking confirmation of this, his
gaze strayed downward to where one little slippered foot peeped out
from the civet furs.
Leroux suppressed a gasp. He had caught a glimpse of a bare ankle!
He crossed to his writing-table, and seated himself, glancing
sideways at this living mystery. Suddenly she began, in a voice
tremulous and scarcely audible:--
"Mr. Leroux, at a great--at a very great personal risk, I have come
to-night. What I have to ask of you--to entreat of you, will . . .
will" . . .
Two bare arms emerged from the fur, and she began clutching at her
throat and bosom as though choking--dying.
Leroux leapt up and would have run to her; but forcing a ghastly
smile, she waved him away again.
"It is all right," she muttered, swallowing noisily. But frightful
spasms of pain convulsed her, contorting her pale face.
"Some brandy--!" cried Leroux, anxiously.
"If you please," whispered the visitor.
She dropped her arms and fell back upon the chesterfield,
insensible.
II
MIDNIGHT AND MR. KING
Leroux clutched at the corner of the writing-table to steady
himself and stood there looking at the deathly face. Under the
most favorable circumstances, he was no man of action, although in
common with the rest of his kind he prided himself upon the
possession of that presence of mind which he lacked. It was a
situation which could not have alarmed "Martin Zeda," but it
alarmed, immeasurably, nay, struck inert with horror, Martin Zeda's
creator.
Then, in upon Leroux's mental turmoil, a sensible idea intruded
itself.
"Dr. Cumberly!" he muttered. "I hope to God he is in!"
Without touching the recumbent form upon the chesterfield, without
seeking to learn, without daring to learn, if she lived or had
died, Leroux, the tempo of his life changed to a breathless gallop,
rushed out of the study, across the entrance hail, and, throwing
wide the flat door, leapt up the stair to the flat above--that of
his old friend, Dr. Cumberly.
The patter of the slippered feet grew faint upon the stair; then,
as Leroux reached the landing above, became inaudible altogether.
In Leroux's study, the table-clock ticked merrily on, seeming to
hasten its ticking as the hand crept around closer and closer to
midnight. The mosaic shade of the lamp mingled reds and blues and
greens upon the white ceiling above and poured golden light upon
the pages of manuscript strewn about beneath it. This was a
typical work-room of a literary man having the ear of the public--
typical in every respect, save for the fur-clad figure outstretched
upon the settee.
And now the peeping light indiscreetly penetrated to the hem of a
silken garment revealed by some disarrangement of the civet fur.
To the eye of an experienced observer, had such an observer been
present in Henry Leroux's study, this billow of silk and lace
behind the sheltering fur must have proclaimed itself the edge of a
night-robe, just as the ankle beneath had proclaimed itself to
Henry Leroux's shocked susceptibilities to be innocent of stocking.
Thirty seconds were wanted to complete the cycle of the day, when
one of the listless hands thrown across the back of the
chesterfield opened and closed spasmodically. The fur at the bosom
of the midnight visitor began rapidly to rise and fall.
Then, with a choking cry, the woman struggled upright; her hair,
hastily dressed, burst free of its bindings and poured in gleaming
cascade down about her shoulders.
Clutching with one hand at her cloak in order to keep it wrapped
about her, and holding the other blindly before her, she rose, and
with that same odd, groping movement, began to approach the
writing-table. The pupils of her eyes were mere pin-points flow;
she shuddered convulsively, and her skin was dewed with
perspiration. Her breath came in agonized gasps.
"God!--I . . . am dying . . . and I cannot--tell him!" she
breathed.
Feverishly, weakly, she took up a pen, and upon a quarto page,
already half filled with Leroux's small, neat, illegible writing,
began to scrawl a message, bending down, one hand upon the table,
and with her whole body shaking.
Some three or four wavering lines she had written, when intimately,
for the flat of Henry Leroux in Palace Mansions lay within sight of
the clock-face--Big Ben began to chime midnight.
The writer started back and dropped a great blot of ink upon the
paper; then, realizing the cause of the disturbance, forced herself
to continue her task.
The chime being completed: ONE! boomed the clock; TWO! . . . THREE!
. . . FOUR! . . .
The light in the entrance-hall went out!
FIVE! boomed Big Ben;--SIX! . . . SEVEN! . . .
A hand, of old ivory hue, a long, yellow, clawish hand, with part
of a sinewy forearm, crept in from the black lobby through the
study doorway and touched the electric switch!
EIGHT! . . .
The study was plunged in darkness!
Uttering a sob--a cry of agony and horror that came from her very
soul--the woman stood upright and turned to face toward the door,
clutching the sheet of paper in one rigid hand.
Through the leaded panes of the window above the writing-table
swept a silvern beam of moonlight. It poured, searchingly, upon
the fur-clad figure swaying by the table; cutting through the
darkness of the room like some huge scimitar, to end in a pallid
pool about the woman's shadow on the center of the Persian carpet.
Coincident with her sobbing cry--NINE! boomed Big Ben; TEN! . . .
Two hands--with outstretched, crooked, clutching fingers--leapt
from the darkness into the light of the moonbeam.
"God! Oh, God!" came a frenzied, rasping shriek--"MR. KING!"
Straight at the bare throat leapt the yellow hands; a gurgling cry
rose--fell--and died away.
Gently, noiselessly, the lady of the civet fur sank upon the carpet
by the table; as she fell, a dim black figure bent over her. The
tearing of paper told of the note being snatched from her frozen
grip; but never for a moment did the face or the form of her
assailant encroach upon the moonbeam.
Batlike, this second and terrible visitant avoided the light.
The deed had occupied so brief a time that but one note of the
great bell had accompanied it.
TWELVE! rang out the final stroke from the clock-tower. A low,
eerie whistle, minor, rising in three irregular notes and falling
in weird, unusual cadence to silence again, came from somewhere
outside the room.
Then darkness--stillness--with the moon a witness of one more
ghastly crime.
Presently, confused and intermingled voices from above proclaimed
the return of Leroux with the doctor. They were talking in an
excited key, the voice of Leroux, especially, sounding almost
hysterical. They created such a disturbance that they attracted
the attention of Mr. John Exel, M. P., occupant of the flat below,
who at that very moment had returned from the House and was about
to insert the key in the lock of his door. He looked up the
stairway, but, all being in darkness, was unable to detect
anything. Therefore he called out:--
"Is that you, Leroux? Is anything the matter?"
"Matter, Exel!" cried Leroux; "there's a devil of a business! For
mercy's sake, come up!"
His curiosity greatly excited, Mr. Exel mounted the stairs,
entering the lobby of Leroux's flat immediately behind the owner
and Dr. Cumberly--who, like Leroux, was arrayed in a dressing-gown;
for he had been in bed when summoned by his friend.
"You are all in the dark, here," muttered Dr. Cumberly, fumbling
for the switch.
"Some one has turned the light out!" whispered Leroux, nervously;
"I left it on."
Dr. Cumberly pressed the switch, turning up the lobby light as Exel
entered from the landing. Then Leroux, entering the study first of
the three, switched on the light there, also.
One glance he threw about the room, then started back like a man
physically stricken.
"Cumberly!" he gasped, "Cumberly"--and he pointed to the furry heap
by the writing-table.
"You said she lay on the chesterfield," muttered Cumberly.
"I left her there." . . .
Dr. Cumberly crossed the room and dropped upon his knees. He
turned the white face toward the light, gently parted the civet
fur, and pressed his ear to the silken covering of the breast. He
started slightly and looked into the glazing eyes.
Replacing the fur which he had disarranged, the physician stood up
and fixed a keen gaze upon the face of Henry Leroux. The latter
swallowed noisily, moistening his parched lips.
"Is she" . . . he muttered; "is she" . . .
"God's mercy, Leroux!" whispered Mr. Exel--"what does this mean?"
"The woman is dead," said Dr. Cumberly.
In common with all medical men, Dr. Cumberly was a physiognomist;
he was a great physician and a proportionately great physiognomist.
Therefore, when he looked into Henry Leroux's eyes, he saw there,
and recognized, horror and consternation. With no further evidence
than that furnished by his own powers of perception, he knew that
the mystery of this woman's death was as inexplicable to Henry
Leroux as it was inexplicable to himself.
He was a masterful man, with the gray eyes of a diplomat, and he
knew Leroux as did few men. He laid both hands upon the novelist's
shoulders.
"Brace up, old chap!" he said; "you will want all your wits about
you."
"I left her," began Leroux, hesitatingly--"I left" . . .
"We know all about where you left her, Leroux," interrupted
Cumberly; "but what we want to get at is this: what occurred
between the time you left her, and the time of our return?"
Exel, who had walked across to the table, and with a horror-
stricken face was gingerly examining the victim, now exclaimed:--
"Why! Leroux! she is--she is . . . UNDRESSED!"
Leroux clutched at his dishevelled hair with both hands.
"My dear Exel!" he cried--"my dear, good man! Why do you use that
tone? You say 'she is undressed!' as though I were responsible for
the poor soul's condition!"
"On the contrary, Leroux!" retorted Exel, standing very upright,
and staring through his monocle; "on the contrary, YOU misconstrue
ME! I did not intend to imply--to insinuate--"
"My dear Exel!" broke in Dr. Cumberly--"Leroux is perfectly well
aware that you intended nothing unkindly. But the poor chap, quite
naturally, is distraught at the moment. You MUST understand that,
man!"
"I understand; and I am sorry," said Exel, casting a sidelong
glance at the body. "Of course, it is a delicate subject. No
doubt Leroux can explain." . . .
"Damn your explanation!" shrieked Leroux hysterically. "I CANNOT
explain! If I could explain, I" . . .
"Leroux!" said Cumberly, placing his arm paternally about the
shaking man--"you are such a nervous subject. DO make an effort,
old fellow. Pull yourself together. Exel does not know the
circumstances--"
"I am curious to learn them," said the M. P. icily.
Leroux was about to launch some angry retort, but Cumberly forced
him into the chesterfield, and crossing to a bureau, poured out a
stiff peg of brandy from a decanter which stood there. Leroux sank
upon the chesterfield, rubbing his fingers up and down his palms
with a curious nervous movement and glancing at the dead woman, and
at Exel, alternately, in a mechanical, regular fashion, pathetic to
behold.
Mr. Exel, tapping his boot with the head of his inverted cane, was
staring fixedly at the doctor.
"Here you are, Leroux," said Cumberly; "drink this up, and let us
arrange our facts in decent order before we--"
"Phone for the police?" concluded Exel, his gaze upon the last
speaker.
Leroux drank the brandy at a gulp and put down the glass upon a
little persian coffee table with a hand which he had somehow
contrived to steady.
"You are keen on the official forms, Exel?" he said, with a wry
smile. "Please accept my apology for my recent--er--outburst, but
picture this thing happening in your place!"
"I cannot," declared Exel, bluntly.
"You lack imagination," said Cumberly. "Take a whisky and soda,
and help me to search the flat."
"Search the flat!"
The physician raised a forefinger, forensically.
"Since you, Exel, if not actually in the building, must certainly
have been within sight of the street entrance at the moment of the
crime, and since Leroux and I descended the stair and met you on
the landing, it is reasonable to suppose that the assassin can only
be in one place: HERE!"
"HERE!" cried Exel and Leroux, together.
"Did you see anyone leave the lower hall as you entered?"
"No one; emphatically, there was no one there!"
"Then I am right."
"Good God!" whispered Exel, glancing about him, with a new, and
keen apprehensiveness.
"Take your drink," concluded Cumberly, "and join me in my search."
"Thanks," replied Exel, nervously proffering a cigar-case; "but I
won't drink."
"As you wish," said the doctor, who thus, in his masterful way,
acted the host; "and I won't smoke. But do you light up."
"Later," muttered Exel; "later. Let us search, first."
Leroux stood up; Cumberly forced him back.
"Stay where you are, Leroux; it is elementary strategy to operate
from a fixed base. This study shall be the base. Ready, Exel?"
Exel nodded, and the search commenced. Leroux sat rigidly upon the
settee, his hands resting upon his knees, watching and listening.
Save for the merry ticking of the table-clock, and the movements of
the searchers from room to room, nothing disturbed the silence.
From the table, and that which lay near to it, he kept his gaze
obstinately averted.
Five or six minutes passed in this fashion, Leroux expecting each
to bring a sudden outcry. He was disappointed. The searchers
returned, Exel noticeably holding himself aloof and Cumberly very
stern.
Exel, a cigar between his teeth, walked to the writing-table,
carefully circling around the dreadful obstacle which lay in his
path, to help himself to a match. As he stooped to do so, he
perceived that in the closed right hand of the dead woman was a
torn scrap of paper.
"Leroux! Cumberly!" he exclaimed; "come here!"
He pointed with the match as Cumberly hurriedly crossed to his
side. Leroux, inert, remained where he sat, but watched with
haggard eyes. Dr. Cumberly bent down and sought to detach the
paper from the grip of the poor cold fingers, without tearing it.
Finally he contrived to release the fragment, and, perceiving it to
bear some written words, he spread it out beneath the lamp, on the
table, and eagerly scanned it, lowering his massive gray head close
to the writing.
He inhaled, sibilantly.
"Do you see, Exel?" he jerked--for Exel was bending over his
shoulder.
"I do--but I don't understand."
"What is it?" came hollowly from Leroux.
"It is the bottom part of an unfinished note," said Cumberly,
slowly. "It is written shakily in a woman's hand, and it reads:--
'Your wife'" . . .
Leroux sprang to his feet and crossed the room in three strides.
"Wife!" he muttered. His voice seemed to be choked in his throat;
"my wife! It says something about my wife?"
"It says," resumed the doctor, quietly, "'your wife.' Then there's
a piece torn out, and the two words 'Mr. King.' No stop follows,
and the line is evidently incomplete."
"My wife!" mumbled Leroux, staring unseeingly at the fragment of
paper. "MY WIFE! MR. KING! Oh! God! I shall go mad!"
"Sit down!" snapped Dr. Cumberly, turning to him; "damn it, Leroux,
you are worse than a woman!"
In a manner almost childlike, the novelist obeyed the will of the
stronger man, throwing himself into an armchair, and burying his
face in his hands.
"My wife!" he kept muttering--"my wife!" . . .
Exel and the doctor stood staring at one another; when suddenly,
from outside the flat, came a metallic clattering, followed by a
little suppressed cry. Helen Cumberly, in daintiest deshabille,
appeared in the lobby, carrying, in one hand, a chafing-dish, and,
in the other, the lid. As she advanced toward the study, from
whence she had heard her father's voice:--
"Why, Mr. Leroux!" she cried, "I shall CERTAINLY report you to
Mira, now! You have not even touched the omelette!"
"Good God! Cumberly! stop her!" muttered Exel, uneasily. "The
door was not latched!" . . .
But it was too late. Even as the physician turned to intercept his
daughter, she crossed the threshold of the study. She stopped
short at perceiving Exel; then, with a woman's unerring intuition,
divined a tragedy, and, in the instant of divination, sought for,
and found, the hub of the tragic wheel.
One swift glance she cast at the fur-clad form, prostrate.
The chafing-dish fell from her hand, and the omelette rolled, a
grotesque mass, upon the carpet. She swayed, dizzily, raising one
hand to her brow, but had recovered herself even as Leroux sprang
forward to support her.
"All right, Leroux!" cried Cumberly; "I will take her upstairs
again. Wait for me, Exel."
Exel nodded, lighted his cigar, and sat down in a chair, remote
from the writing-table.
"Mira--my wife!" muttered Leroux, standing, looking after Dr.
Cumberly and his daughter as they crossed the lobby. "She will
report to--my wife." . . .
In the outer doorway, Helen Cumberly looked back over her shoulder,
and her glance met that of Leroux. Hers was a healing glance and a
strengthening glance; it braced him up as nothing else could have
done. He turned to Exel.
"For Heaven's sake, Exel!" he said, evenly, "give me your advice--
give me your help; I am going to 'phone for the police."
Exel looked up with an odd expression.
"I am entirely at your service, Leroux," he said. "I can quite
understand how this ghastly affair has shaken you up."
"It was so sudden," said the other, plaintively. "It is incredible
that so much emotion can be crowded into so short a period of a
man's life." . . .
Big Ben chimed the quarter after midnight. Leroux, eyes averted,
walked to the writing-table, and took up the telephone.
III
INSPECTOR DUNBAR TAKES CHARGE
Detective-Inspector Dunbar was admitted by Dr. Cumberly. He was a
man of notable height, large-boned, and built gauntly and squarely.
His clothes fitted him ill, and through them one seemed to perceive
the massive scaffolding of his frame. He had gray hair retiring
above a high brow, but worn long and untidily at the back; a wire-
like straight-cut mustache, also streaked with gray, which served
to accentuate the grimness of his mouth and slightly undershot jaw.
A massive head, with tawny, leonine eyes; indeed, altogether a
leonine face, and a frame indicative of tremendous nervous energy.
In the entrance lobby he stood for a moment.
"My name is Cumberly," said the doctor, glancing at the card which
the Scotland Yard man had proffered. "I occupy the flat above."
"Glad to know you, Dr. Cumberly," replied the detective in a light
and not unpleasant voice--and the fierce eyes momentarily grew
kindly.
"This--" continued Cumberly, drawing Dunbar forward into the study,
"is my friend, Leroux--Henry Leroux, whose name you will know?"
"I have not that pleasure," replied Dunbar.
"Well," added Cumberly, "he is a famous novelist, and his flat,
unfortunately, has been made the scene of a crime. This is
Detective-Inspector Dunbar, who has come to solve our difficulties,
Leroux." He turned to where Exel stood upon the hearth-rug--toying
with his monocle. "Mr. John Exel, M. P."
"Glad to know you, gentlemen," said Dunbar.
Leroux rose from the armchair in which he had been sitting and
stared, drearily, at the newcomer. Exel screwed the monocle into
his right eye, and likewise surveyed the detective. Cumberly,
taking a tumbler from the bureau, said:--
"A scotch-and-soda, Inspector?"
"It is a suggestion," said Dunbar, "that, coming from a medical
man, appeals."
Whilst the doctor poured out the whisky and squirted the soda into
the glass, Inspector Dunbar, standing squarely in the middle of the
room, fixed his eyes upon the still form lying in the shadow of the
writing-table.
"You will have been called in, doctor," he said, taking the
proffered tumbler, "at the time of the crime?"
"Exactly!" replied Cumberly. "Mr. Leroux ran up to my fiat and
summoned me to see the woman."
"What time would that be?"
"Big Ben had just struck the final stroke of twelve when I came out
on to the landing."
"Mr. Leroux would be waiting there for you?"
"He stood in my entrance-lobby whilst I slipped on my dressing-
gown, and we came down together."
"I was entering from the street," interrupted Exel, "as they were
descending from above" . . .
"You can enter from the street, sir, in a moment," said Dunbar,
holding up his hand. "One witness at a time, if you please."
Exel shrugged his shoulders and turned slightly, leaning his elbow
upon the mantelpiece and flicking off the ash from his cigar.
"I take it you were in bed?" questioned Dunbar, turning again to
the doctor.
"I had been in bed about a quarter of an hour when I was aroused by
the ringing of the door-bell. This ringing struck me as so urgent
that I ran out in my pajamas, and found there Mr. Leroux, in a very
disturbed state--"
"What did he say? Give his own words as nearly as you remember
them."
Leroux, who had been standing, sank slowly back into the armchair,
with his eyes upon Dr. Cumberly as the latter replied:--
"He said 'Cumberly! Cumberly! For God's sake, come down at once;
there is a strange woman in my flat, apparently in a dying
condition!'"
"What did you do?"
"I ran into my bedroom and slipped on my dressing-gown, leaving Mr.
Leroux in the entrance-hall. Then, with the clock chiming the last
stroke of midnight, we came out together and I closed my door
behind me. There was no light on the stair; but our conversation--
Mr. Leroux was speaking in a very high-pitched voice" . . .
"What was he saying?"
"He was explaining to me how some woman, unknown to him, had
interrupted his work a few minutes before by ringing his door-
bell." . . .
Inspector Dunbar held up his hand.
"I won't ask you to repeat what he said, doctor; Mr. Leroux,
presently, can give me his own words."
"We had descended to this floor, then," resumed Cumberly, "when Mr.
Exel, entering below, called up to us, asking if anything was the
matter. Leroux replied, 'Matter, Exel! There's a devil of a
business! For mercy's sake, come up!'"
"Well?"
"Mr. Exel thereupon joined us at the door of this flat."
"Was it open?"
"Yes. Mr. Leroux had rushed up to me, leaving the door open behind
him. The light was out, both in the lobby and in the study, a fact
upon which I commented at the time. It was all the more curious as
Mr. Leroux had left both lights on!" . . .
"Did he say so?"
"He did. The circumstances surprised him to a marked degree. We
came in and I turned up the light in the lobby. Then Leroux,
entering the study, turned up the light there, too. I entered
next, followed by Mr. Exel--and we saw the body lying where you see
it now."
"Who saw it first?"
"Mr. Leroux; he drew my attention to it, saying that he had left
her lying on the chesterfield and NOT upon the floor."
"You examined her?"
"I did. She was dead, but still warm. She exhibited signs of
recent illness, and of being addicted to some drug habit; probably
morphine. This, beyond doubt, contributed to her death, but the
direct cause was asphyxiation. She had been strangled!"
"My God!" groaned Leroux, dropping his face into his hands.
"You found marks on her throat?"
"The marks were very slight. No great pressure was required in her
weak condition."
"You did not move the body?"
"Certainly not; a more complete examination must be made, of
course. But I extracted a piece of torn paper from her clenched
right hand."
Inspector Dunbar lowered his tufted brows.
"I'm not glad to know you did that," he said. "It should have been
left."
"It was done on the spur of the moment, but without altering the
position of the hand or arm. The paper lies upon the table,
yonder."
Inspector Dunbar took a long drink. Thus far he had made no
attempt to examine the victim. Pulling out a bulging note-case
from the inside pocket of his blue serge coat, he unscrewed a
fountain-pen, carefully tested the nib upon his thumb nail, and
made three or four brief entries. Then, stretching out one long
arm, he laid the wallet and the pen beside his glass upon the top
of a bookcase, without otherwise changing his position, and
glancing aside at Exel, said:--
"Now, Mr. Exel, what help can you give us?"
"I have little to add to Dr. Cumberly's account," answered Exel,
offhandedly. "The whole thing seemed to me" . . .
"What it seemed," interrupted Dunbar, " does not interest Scotland
Yard, Mr. Exel, and won't interest the jury."
Leroux glanced up for a moment, then set his teeth hard, so that
his jaw muscles stood out prominently under the pallid skin.
"What do you want to know, then?" asked Exel.
"I will be wanting to know," said Dunbar, "where you were coming
from, to-night?"
"From the House of Commons."
"You came direct?"
"I left Sir Brian Malpas at the corner of Victoria Street at four
minutes to twelve by Big Ben, and walked straight home, actually
entering here, from the street, as the clock was chiming the last
stroke of midnight."
"Then you would have walked up the street from an easterly
direction?"
"Certainly."
"Did you meet any one or anything?"
"A taxi-cab, empty--for the hood was lowered--passed me as I turned
the corner. There was no other vehicle in the street, and no
person."
"You don't know from which door the cab came?"
"As I turned the corner," replied Exel, "I heard the man starting
his engine, although when I actually saw the cab, it was in motion;
but judging by the sound to which I refer, the cab had been
stationary, if not at the door of Palace Mansions, certainly at
that of the next block--St. Andrew's Mansions."
"Did you hear, or see anything else?"
"I saw nothing whatever. But just as I approached the street door,
I heard a peculiar whistle, apparently proceeding from the gardens
in the center of the square. I attached no importance to it at the
time."
"What kind of whistle?"
"I have forgotten the actual notes, but the effect was very odd in
some way."
"In what way?"
"An impression of this sort is not entirely reliable, Inspector;
but it struck me as Oriental."
"Ah!" said Dunbar, and reached out the long arm for his notebook.
"Can I be of any further assistance?" said Exel, glancing at his
watch.
"You had entered the hall-way and were about to enter your own flat
when the voices of Dr. Cumberly and Mr. Leroux attracted your
attention?"
"I actually had the key in my hand," replied Exel.
"Did you actually have the key in the lock?"
"Let me think," mused Exel, and he took out a bunch of keys and
dangled them, reflectively, before his eyes. "No! I was fumbling
for the right key when I heard the voices above me."
"But were you facing your door?"
"No," averred Exel, perceiving the drift of the inspector's
inquiries; "I was facing the stairway the whole time, and although
it was in darkness, there is a street lamp immediately outside on
the pavement, and I can swear, positively, that no one descended;
that there was no one in the hall nor on the stair, except Mr.
Leroux and Dr. Cumberly."
"Ah!" said Dunbar again, and made further entries in his book.
"I need not trouble you further, sir. Good night!"
Exel, despite his earlier attitude of boredom, now ignored this
official dismissal, and, tossing the stump of his cigar into the
grate, lighted a cigarette, and with both hands thrust deep in his
pockets, stood leaning back against the mantlepiece. The detective
turned to Leroux.
"Have a brandy-and-soda?" suggested Dr. Cumberly, his eyes turned
upon the pathetic face of the novelist.
But Leroux shook his head, wearily.
"Go ahead, Inspector!" he said. "I am anxious to tell you all I
know. God knows I am anxious to tell you."
A sound was heard of a key being inserted in the lock of a door.
Four pairs of curious eyes were turned toward the entrance lobby,
when the door opened, and a sleek man of medium height, clean
shaven, but with his hair cut low upon the cheek bones, so as to
give the impression of short side-whiskers, entered in a manner at
once furtive and servile.
He wore a black overcoat and a bowler hat. Reclosing the door, he
turned, perceived the group in the study, and fell back as though
someone had struck him a fierce blow.
Abject terror was written upon his features, and, for a moment, the
idea of flight appeared to suggest itself urgently to him; but
finally, he took a step forward toward the study.
"Who's this?" snapped Dunbar, without removing his leonine eyes
from the newcomer.
"It is Soames," came the weary voice of Leroux.
"Butler?"
"Yes."
"Where's he been?"
"I don't know. He remained out without my permission."
"He did, eh?"
Inspector Dunbar thrust forth a long finger at the shrinking form
in the doorway.
"Mr. Soames," he said, "you will be going to your own room and
waiting there until I ring for you."
"Yes, sir," said Soames, holding his hat in both bands, and
speaking huskily. "Yes, sir: certainly, sir."
He crossed the lobby and disappeared.
"There is no other way out, is there?" inquired the detective,
glancing at Dr. Cumberly.
"There is no other way," was the reply; "but surely you don't
suspect" . . .
"I would suspect the Archbishop of Westminster," snapped Dunbar,
"if he came in like that! Now, sir,"--he turned to Leroux--"you
were alone, here, to-night?"
"Quite alone, Inspector. The truth is, I fear, that my servants
take liberties in the absence of my wife."
"In the absence of your wife? Where is your wife?"
"She is in Paris."
"Is she a Frenchwoman?"
"No! oh, no! But my wife is a painter, you understand, and--er--I
met her in Paris--er--. . . Must you insist upon these--domestic
particulars, Inspector?"
"If Mr. Exel is anxious to turn in," replied the inspector, "after
his no doubt exhausting duties at the House, and if Dr. Cumberly--"
"I have no secrets from Cumberly!" interjected Leroux. "The doctor
has known me almost from boyhood, but--er--" turning to the
politician--"don't you know, Exel--no offense, no offense" . . .
"My dear Leroux," responded Exel hastily, "I am the offender!
Permit me to wish you all good night."
He crossed the study, and, at the door, paused and turned.
"Rely upon me, Leroux," he said, "to help in any way within my
power."
He crossed the lobby, opened the outer door, and departed.
"Now, Mr. Leroux," resumed Dunbar, "about this matter of your
wife's absence."
IV
A WINDOW IS OPENED
Whilst Henry Leroux collected his thoughts, Dr. Cumberly glanced
across at the writing-table where lay the fragment of paper which
had been clutched in the dead woman's hand, then turned his head
again toward the inspector, staring at him curiously. Since Dunbar
had not yet attempted even to glance at the strange message, he
wondered what had prompted the present line of inquiry.
"My wife," began Leroux, "shared a studio in Paris, at the time
that I met her, with an American lady a very talented portrait
painter--er--a Miss Denise Ryland. You may know her name?--but of
course, you don't, no! Well, my wife is, herself, quite clever
with her brush; in fact she has exhibited more than once at the
Paris Salon. We agreed at--er--the time of our--of our--
engagement, that she should be free to visit her old artistic
friends in Paris at any time. You understand? There was to be no
let or hindrance. . . . Is this really necessary, Inspector?"
"Pray go on, Mr. Leroux."
"Well, you understand, it was a give-and-take arrangement; because
I am afraid that I, myself, demand certain--sacrifices from my
wife--and--er--I did not feel entitled to--interfere" . . .
"You see, Inspector," interrupted Dr. Cumberly, "they are a
Bohemian pair, and Bohemians, inevitably, bore one another at
times! This little arrangement was intended as a safety-valve.
Whenever ennui attacked Mrs. Leroux, she was at liberty to depart
for a week to her own friends in Paris, leaving Leroux to the
bachelor's existence which is really his proper state; to go
unshaven and unshorn, to dine upon bread and cheese and onions, to
work until all hours of the morning, and generally to enjoy
himself!"
"Does she usually stay long?" inquired Dunbar.
"Not more than a week, as a rule," answered Leroux.
"You must excuse me," continued the detective, "if I seem to pry
into intimate matters; but on these occasions, how does Mrs. Leroux
get on for money?"
"I have opened a credit for her," explained the novelist, wearily,
"at the Credit Lyonnais, in Paris."
Dunbar scribbled busily in his notebook.
"Does she take her maid with her?" he jerked, suddenly.
"She has no maid at the moment," replied Leroux; "she has been
without one for twelve months or more, now."
"When did you last hear from her?"
"Three days ago."
"Did you answer the letter?"
"Yes; my answer was amongst the mail which Soames took to the post,
to-night."
"You said, though, if I remember rightly, that he was out without
permission?"
Leroux ran his fingers through his hair.
"I meant that he should only have been absent five minutes or so;
whilst he remained out for more than an hour."
Inspector Dunbar nodded, comprehendingly, tapping his teeth with
the head of the fountain-pen.
"And the other servants?"
"There are only two: a cook and a maid. I released them for the
evening--glad to get rid of them--wanted to work."
"They are late?"
"They take liberties, damnable liberties, because I am easy-going."
"I see," said Dunbar. "So that you were quite alone this evening,
when"--he nodded in the direction of the writing-table--"your
visitor came?"
"Quite alone."
"Was her arrival the first interruption?"
"No--er--not exactly. Miss Cumberly . . ."
"My daughter," explained Dr. Cumberly, knowing that Mr. Leroux, at
these times, was very neglectful in regard to meals, prepared him
an omelette, and brought it down in a chafing-dish."
"How long did she remain?" asked the inspector of Leroux.
"I--er--did not exactly open the door. We chatted, through--er--
through the letter-box, and she left the omelette outside on the
landing."
"What time would that be?"
"It was a quarter to twelve," declared Cumberly. "I had been
supping with some friends, and returned to find Helen, my daughter,
engaged in preparing the omelette. I congratulated her upon the
happy thought, knowing that Leroux was probably starving himself."
"I see. The omelette, though, seems to be upset here on the
floor?" said the inspector.
Cumberly briefly explained how it came to be there, Leroux
punctuating his friend's story with affirmative nods.
"Then the door of the flat was open all the time?" cried Dunbar.
"Yes," replied Cumberly; "but whilst Exel and I searched the other
rooms--and our search was exhaustive--Mr. Leroux remained here in
the study, and in full view of the lobby--as you see for yourself."
"No living thing," said Leroux, monotonously, "left this flat from
the time that the three of us, Exel, Cumberly, and I, entered, up
to the time that Miss Cumberly came, and, with the doctor, went out
again."
"H'm!" said the inspector, making notes; "it appears so, certainly.
I will ask you then, for your own account, Mr. Leroux, of the
arrival of the woman in the civet furs. Pay special attention"--he
pointed with his fountain-pen--"to the TIME at which the various
incidents occurred."
Leroux, growing calmer as he proceeded with the strange story,
complied with the inspector's request. He had practically
completed his account when the door-bell rang.
"It's the servants," said Dr. Cumberly. "Soames will open the
door."
But Soames did not appear.
The ringing being repeated:--
"I told him to remain in his room," said Dunbar, "until I rang for
him, I remember--"
"I will open the door," said Cumberly.
"And tell the servants to stay in the kitchen," snapped Dunbar.
Dr. Cumberly opened the door, admitting the cook and housemaid.
"There has been an unfortunate accident," he said--"but not to your
master; you need not be afraid. But be good enough to remain in
the kitchen for the present."
Peeping in furtively as they passed, the two women crossed the
lobby and went to their own quarters.
"Mr. Soames next," muttered Dunbar, and, glancing at Cumberly as he
returned from the lobby:--"Will you ring for him?" he requested.
Dr. Cumberly nodded, and pressed a bell beside the mantelpiece. An
interval followed, in which the inspector made notes and Cumberly
stood looking at Leroux, who was beating his palms upon his knees,
and staring unseeingly before him.
Cumberly rang again; and in response to the second ring, the
housemaid appeared at the door.
"I rang for Soames," said Dr. Cumberly.
"He is not in, sir," answered the girl.
Inspector Dunbar started as though he had been bitten.
"What!" he cried; "not in?"
"No, sir," said the girl, with wide-open, frightened eyes.
Dunbar turned to Cumberly.
"You said there was no other way out!"
"There IS no other way, to my knowledge."
"Where's his room?"
Cumberly led the way to a room at the end of a short corridor, and
Inspector Dunbar, entering, and turning up the light, glanced about
the little apartment. It was a very neat servants' bedroom; with
comfortable, quite simple, furniture; but the chest-of-drawers had
been hastily ransacked, and the contents of a trunk--or some of its
contents--lay strewn about the floor.
"He has packed his grip!" came Leroux's voice from the doorway.
"It's gone!"
The window was wide open. Dunbar sprang forward and leaned out
over the ledge, looking to right and left, above and below.
A sort of square courtyard was beneath, and for the convenience of
tradesmen, a hand-lift was constructed outside the kitchens of the
three flats comprising the house; i. e.:--Mr. Exel's, ground floor,
Henry Leroux's second floor, and Dr. Cumberly's, top. It worked in
a skeleton shaft which passed close to the left of Soames' window.
For an active man, this was a good enough ladder, and the inspector
withdrew his head shrugging his square shoulders, irritably.
"My fault entirely!" he muttered, biting his wiry mustache. "I
should have come and seen for myself if there was another way out."
Leroux, in a new flutter of excitement, now craned from the window.
"It might be possible to climb down the shaft," he cried, after a
brief survey "but not if one were carrying a heavy grip, such as
that which he has taken!"
"H'm!" said Dunbar. "You are a writing gentleman, I understand,
and yet it does not occur to you that he could have lowered the bag
on a cord, if he wanted to avoid the noise of dropping it!"
"Yes--er--of course!" muttered Leroux. "But really--but really--
oh, good God! I am bewildered! What in Heaven's name does it all
mean!"
"It means trouble," replied Dunbar, grimly; "bad trouble."
They returned to the study, and Inspector Dunbar, for the first
time since his arrival, walked across and examined the fragmentary
message, raising his eyebrows when he discovered that it was
written upon the same paper as Leroux's MSS. He glanced, too, at
the pen lying on a page of "Martin Zeda" near the lamp and at the
inky splash which told how hastily the pen had been dropped.
Then--his brows drawn together--he stooped to the body of the
murdered woman. Partially raising the fur cloak, he suppressed a
gasp of astonishment.
"Why! she only wears a silk night-dress, and a pair of suede
slippers!"
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"I had noted that," said Cumberly. "The whole business is utterly
extraordinary."
"Extraordinary is no word for it!" growled the inspector, pursuing
his examination. . . . "Marks of pressure at the throat--yes; and
generally unhealthy appearance."
"Due to the drug habit," interjected Dr. Cumberly.
"What drug?"
"I should not like to say out of hand; possibly morphine."
"No jewelry," continued the detective, musingly; "wedding ring--not
a new one. Finger nails well cared for, but recently neglected.
Hair dyed to hide gray patches; dye wanted renewing. Shoes,
French. Night-robe, silk; good lace; probably French, also. Faint
perfume--don't know what it is--apparently proceeding from civet
fur. Furs, magnificent; very costly." . . .
He slightly moved the table-lamp in order to direct its light upon
the white face. The bloodless lips were parted and the detective
bent, closely peering at the teeth thus revealed.
"Her teeth were oddly discolored, doctor," he said, taking out a
magnifying glass and examining them closely. "They had been
recently scaled, too; so that she was not in the habit of
neglecting them."
Dr. Cumberly nodded.
"The drug habit, again," he said guardedly; "a proper examination
will establish the full facts."
The inspector added brief notes to those already made, ere he rose
from beside the body. Then:--
"You are absolutely certain," he said, deliberately, facing Leroux,
"that you had never set eyes on this woman prior to her coming
here, to-night?"
"I can swear it!" said Leroux.
"Good!" replied the detective, and closed his notebook with a snap.
"Usual formalities will have to be gone through, but I don't think
I need trouble you, gentlemen, any further, to-night."
V
DOCTORS DIFFER
Dr. Cumberly walked slowly upstairs to his own flat, a picture
etched indelibly upon his mind, of Henry Leroux, with a face of
despair, sitting below in his dining-room and listening to the
ominous sounds proceeding from the study, where the police were now
busily engaged. In the lobby he met his daughter Helen, who was
waiting for him in a state of nervous suspense.
"Father!" she began, whilst rebuke died upon the doctor's lips--
"tell me quickly what has happened."
Perceiving that an explanation was unavoidable, Dr. Cumberly
outlined the story of the night's gruesome happenings, whilst Big
Ben began to chime the hour of one.
Helen, eager-eyed, and with her charming face rather pale, hung
upon every word of the narrative.
"And now," concluded her father, "you must go to bed. I insist."
"But father!" cried the girl--"there is some thing" . . .
She hesitated, uneasily.
"Well, Helen, go on," said the doctor.
"I am afraid you will refuse."
"At least give me the opportunity."
"Well--in the glimpse, the half-glimpse, which I had of her, I
seemed" . . .
Dr. Cumberly rested his hands upon his daughter's shoulders
characteristically, looking into the troubled gray eyes.
"You don't mean," he began . . .
"I thought I recognized her!" whispered the girl.
"Good God! can it be possible?"
"I have been trying, ever since, to recall where we had met, but
without result. It might mean so much" . . .
Dr. Cumberly regarded her, fixedly.
"It might mean so much to--Mr. Leroux. But I suppose you will say
it is impossible?"
"It IS impossible," said Dr. Cumberly firmly; "dismiss the idea,
Helen."
"But father," pleaded the girl, placing her hands over his own,
"consider what is at stake" . . .
"I am anxious that you should not become involved in this morbid
business."
"But you surely know me better than to expect me to faint or become
hysterical, or anything silly like that! I was certainly shocked
when I came down to-night, because--well, it was all so frightfully
unexpected" . . .
Dr. Cumberly shook his head. Helen put her arms about his neck and
raised her eyes to his.
"You have no right to refuse," she said, softly: "don't you see
that?"
Dr. Cumberly frowned. Then:--
"You are right, Helen," he agreed. "I should know your pluck well
enough. But if Inspector Dunbar is gone, the police may refuse to
admit us" . . .
"Then let us hurry!" cried Helen. "I am afraid they will take
away" . . .
Side by side they descended to Henry Leroux's flat, ringing the
bell, which, an hour earlier, the lady of the civet furs had rung.
A sergeant in uniform opened the door.
"Is Detective-Inspector Dunbar here?" inquired the physician.
"Yes, sir."
"Say that Dr. Cumberly wishes to speak to him. And"--as the man
was about to depart--"request him not to arouse Mr. Leroux."
Almost immediately the inspector appeared, a look of surprise upon
his face, which increased on perceiving the girl beside her father.
"This is my daughter, Inspector," explained Cumberly; "she is a
contributor to the Planet, and to various magazines, and in this
journalistic capacity, meets many people in many walks of life.
She thinks she may be of use to you in preparing your case."
Dunbar bowed rather awkwardly.
"Glad to meet you, Miss Cumberly," came the inevitable formula.
"Entirely at your service."
"I had an idea, Inspector," said the girl, laying her hand
confidentially upon Dunbar's arm, "that I recognized, when I
entered Mr. Leroux's study, tonight"--Dunbar nodded--"that I
recognized--the--the victim!"
"Good!" said the inspector, rubbing his palms briskly together.
His tawny eyes sparkled. "And you would wish to see her again
before we take her away. Very plucky of you, Miss Cumberly! But
then, you are a doctor's daughter."
They entered, and the inspector closed the door behind them.
"Don't arouse poor Leroux," whispered Cumberly to the detective.
"I left him on a couch in the dining-room." . . .
"He is still there," replied Dunbar; "poor chap! It is" . . .
He met Helen's glance, and broke off shortly.
In the study two uniformed constables, and an officer in plain
clothes, were apparently engaged in making an inventory--or such
was the impression conveyed. The clock ticked merrily on; its
ticking a desecration, where all else was hushed in deference to
the grim visitor. The body of the murdered woman had been laid
upon the chesterfield, and a little, dark, bearded man was
conducting an elaborate examination; when, seeing the trio enter,
he hastily threw the coat of civet fur over the body, and stood up,
facing the intruders.
"It's all right, doctor," said the inspector; "and we shan't detain
you a moment." He glanced over his shoulder. "Mr. Hilton, M. R.
C. S." he said, indicating the dark man--"Dr. Cumberly and Miss
Cumberly."
The divisional surgeon bowed to Helen and eagerly grasped the hand
of the celebrated physician.
"I am fortunate in being able to ask your opinion," he began. . . .
Dr. Cumberly nodded shortly, and with upraised hand, cut him short.
"I shall willingly give you any assistance in my power," he said;
"but my daughter has voluntarily committed herself to a rather
painful ordeal, and I am anxious to get it over."
He stooped and raised the fur from the ghastly face.
Helen, her hand resting upon her father's shoulder, ventured one
rapid glance and then looked away, shuddering slightly. Dr.
Cumberly replaced the coat and gazed anxiously at his daughter.
But Helen, with admirable courage, having closed her eyes for a
moment, reopened them, and smiled at her father's anxiety. She was
pale, but perfectly composed.
"Well, Miss Cumberly?" inquired the inspector, eagerly; whilst all
in the room watched this slim girl in her charming deshabille, this
dainty figure so utterly out of place in that scene of morbid
crime.
She raised her gray eyes to the detective.
"I still believe that I have seen the face, somewhere, before. But
I shall have to reflect a while--I meet so many folks, you know, in
a casual way--before I can commit myself to any statement."
In the leonine eyes looking into hers gleamed the light of
admiration and approval. The canny Scotsman admired this girl for
her beauty, as a matter of course, for her courage, because courage
was a quality standing high in his estimation, but, above all, for
her admirable discretion.
"Very proper, Miss Cumberly," he said; "very proper and wise on
your part. I don't wish to hurry you in any way, but"--he
hesitated, glancing at the man in plain clothes, who had now
resumed a careful perusal of a newspaper--"but her name doesn't
happen to be Vernon--"
"Vernon!" cried the girl, her eyes lighting up at sound of the
name. "Mrs. Vernon! it is! it is! She was pointed out to me at
the last Arts Ball--where she appeared in a most monstrous Chinese
costume--"
"Chinese?" inquired Dunbar, producing the bulky notebook.
"Yes. Oh! poor, poor soul!"
"You know nothing further about her, Miss Cumberly?"
"Nothing, Inspector. She was merely pointed out to me as one of
the strangest figures in the hall. Her husband, I understand, is
an art expert--"
"He WAS!" said Dunbar, closing the book sharply. "He died this
afternoon; and a paragraph announcing his death appears in the
newspaper which we found in the victim's fur coat!"
"But how--"
"It was the only paragraph on the half-page folded outwards which
was in any sense PERSONAL. I am greatly indebted to you, Miss
Cumberly; every hour wasted on a case like this means a fresh plait
in the rope around the neck of the wrong man!"
Helen Cumberly grew slowly quite pallid.
"Good night," she said; and bowing to the detective and to the
surgeon, she prepared to depart.
Mr. Hilton touched Dr. Cumberly's arm, as he, too, was about to
retire.
"May I hope," he whispered, "that you will return and give me the
benefit of your opinion in making out my report?"
Dr. Cumberly glanced at his daughter; and seeing her to be
perfectly composed:--"For the moment, I have formed no opinion,
Mr. Hilton," he said, quietly, "not having had an opportunity to
conduct a proper examination."
Hilton bent and whispered, confidentially, in the other's ear:--
"She was drugged!"
The innuendo underlying the words struck Dr. Cumberly forcibly, and
he started back with his brows drawn together in a frown.
"Do you mean that she was addicted to the use of drugs?" he asked,
sharply; "or that the drugging took place to-night."
"The drugging DID take place to-night!" whispered the other. "An
injection was made in the left shoulder with a hypodermic syringe;
the mark is quite fresh."
Dr. Cumberly glared at his fellow practitioner, angrily.
"Are there no other marks of injection?" he asked.
"On the left forearm, yes. Obviously self-administered. Oh, I
don't deny the habit! But my point is this: the injection in the
shoulder was NOT self-administered."
"Come, Helen," said Cumberly, taking his daughter's arm; for she
had drawn near, during the colloquy--"you must get to bed."
His face was very stern when he turned again to Mr. Hilton.
"I shall return in a few minutes," he said, and escorted his
daughter from the room.
VI
AT SCOTLAND YARD
Matters of vital importance to some people whom already we have
met, and to others whom thus far we have not met, were transacted
in a lofty and rather bleak looking room at Scotland Yard between
the hours of nine and ten A. M.; that is, later in the morning of
the fateful day whose advent we have heard acclaimed from the Tower
of Westminster.
The room, which was lighted by a large French window opening upon a
balcony, commanded an excellent view of the Thames Embankment. The
floor was polished to a degree of brightness, almost painful. The
distempered walls, save for a severe and solitary etching of a
former Commissioner, were nude in all their unloveliness. A heavy
deal table (upon which rested a blotting-pad, a pewter ink-pot,
several newspapers and two pens) together with three deal chairs,
built rather as monuments of durability than as examples of art,
constituted the only furniture, if we except an electric lamp with
a green glass shade, above the table.
This was the room of Detective-Inspector Dunbar; and Detective-
Inspector Dunbar, at the hour of our entrance, will be found seated
in the chair, placed behind the table, his elbows resting upon the
blotting-pad.
At ten minutes past nine, exactly, the door opened, and a thick-
set, florid man, buttoned up in a fawn colored raincoat and wearing
a bowler hat of obsolete build, entered. He possessed a black
mustache, a breezy, bustling manner, and humorous blue eyes;
furthermore, when he took off his hat, he revealed the possession
of a head of very bristly, upstanding, black hair. This was
Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, and the same who was engaged in
examining a newspaper in the study of Henry Leroux when Dr.
Cumberly and his daughter had paid their second visit to that scene
of an unhappy soul's dismissal.
"Well?" said Dunbar, glancing up at his subordinate, inquiringly.
"I have done all the cab depots," reported Sergeant Sowerby, "and a
good many of the private owners; but so far the man seen by Mr.
Exel has not turned up."
"The word will be passed round now, though," said Dunbar, "and we
shall probably have him here during the day."
"I hope so," said the other good-humoredly, seating himself upon
one of the two chairs ranged beside the wall. "If he doesn't show
up." . . .
"Well?" jerked Dunbar--"if he doesn't?"
"It will look very black against Leroux."
Dunbar drummed upon the blotting-pad with the fingers of his left
hand.
"It beats anything of the kind that has ever come my way," he
confessed. "You get pretty cautious at weighing people up, in this
business; but I certainly don't think--mind you, I go no further--
but I certainly don't think Mr. Henry Leroux would willingly kill a
fly; yet there is circumstantial evidence enough to hang him."
Sergeant Sowerby nodded, gazing speculatively at the floor.
"I wonder," he said, slowly, "why the girl--Miss Cumberly--
hesitated about telling us the woman's name?"
"I am not wondering about that at all," replied Dunbar, bluntly.
"She must meet thousands in the same way. The wonder to me is that
she remembered at all. I am open to bet half-a-crown that YOU
couldn't remember the name of every woman you happened to have
pointed out to you at an Arts Ball?"
"Maybe not," agreed Sowerby; "she's a smart girl, I'll allow. I
see you have last night's papers there?"
"I have," replied Dunbar; "and I'm wondering" . . .
"If there's any connection?"
"Well," continued the inspector, "it looks on the face of it as
though the news of her husband's death had something to do with
Mrs. Vernon's presence at Leroux's flat. It's not a natural thing
for a woman, on the evening of her husband's death, to rush
straight away to another man's place" . . .
"It's strange we couldn't find her clothes" . . .
"It's not strange at all! You're simply obsessed with the idea
that this was a love intrigue! Think, man! the most abandoned
woman wouldn't run to keep an appointment with a lover at a time
like that! And remember she had the news in her pocket! She came
to that flat dressed--or undressed--just as we found her; I'm sure
of it. And a point like that sometimes means the difference
between hanging and acquittal."
Sergeant Sowerby digested these words, composing his jovial
countenance in an expression of unnatural profundity. Then:--
"THE point to my mind," he said, "is the one raised by Mr. Hilton.
By gum! didn't Dr. Cumberly tell him off!"
"Dr. Cumberly," replied Dunbar, "is entitled to his opinion, that
the injection in the woman's shoulder was at least eight hours old;
whilst Mr. Hilton is equally entitled to maintain that it was less
than ONE hour old. Neither of them can hope to prove his case."
"If either of them could?" . . .
"It might make a difference to the evidence--but I'm not sure."
"What time is your appointment?"
"Ten o'clock," replied Dunbar. "I am meeting Mr. Debnam--the late
Mr. Vernon's solicitor. There is something in it. Damme! I am
sure of it!"
"Something in what?"
"The fact that Mr. Vernon died yesterday evening, and that his wife
was murdered at midnight."
"What have you told the press?"
"As little as possible, but you will see that the early editions
will all be screaming for the arrest of Soames."
"I shouldn't wonder. He would be a useful man to have; but he's
probably out of London now."
"I think not. He's more likely to wait for instructions from his
principal."
"His principal?"
"Certainly. You don't think Soames did the murder, do you?"
"No; but he's obviously an accessory."
"I'm not so sure even of that."
"Then why did he bolt?"
"Because he had a guilty conscience."
"Yes," agreed Sowerby; "it does turn out that way sometimes. At
any rate, Stringer is after him, but he's got next to nothing to go
upon. Has any reply been received from Mrs. Leroux in Paris?"
"No," answered Dunbar, frowning thoughtfully. "Her husband's wire
would reach her first thing this morning; I am expecting to hear of
a reply at any moment."
"They're a funny couple, altogether," said Sowerby. "I can't
imagine myself standing for Mrs. Sowerby spending her week-ends in
Paris. Asking for trouble, I call it!"
"It does seem a daft arrangement," agreed Dunbar; "but then, as you
say, they're a funny couple."
"I never saw such a bundle of nerves in all my life!" . . .
"Leroux?"
Sowerby nodded.
"I suppose," he said, "it's the artistic temperament! If Mrs.
Leroux has got it, too, I don't wonder that they get fed up with
one another's company."
"That's about the secret of it. And now, I shall be glad, Sowerby,
if you will be after that taxi-man again. Report at one o'clock.
I shall be here."
With his hand on the door-knob: "By the way," said Sowerby, "who
the blazes is Mr. King?"
Inspector Dunbar looked up.
"Mr. King," he replied slowly, "is the solution of the mystery."
VII
THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE
The house of the late Horace Vernon was a modern villa of
prosperous appearance; but, on this sunny September morning, a
palpable atmosphere of gloom seemed to overlie it. This made
itself perceptible even to the toughened and unimpressionable
nerves of Inspector Dunbar. As he mounted the five steps leading
up to the door, glancing meanwhile at the lowered blinds at the
windows, he wondered if, failing these evidences and his own
private knowledge of the facts, he should have recognized that the
hand of tragedy had placed its mark upon this house. But when the
door was opened by a white-faced servant, he told himself that he
should, for a veritable miasma of death seemed to come out to meet
him, to envelop him.
Within, proceeded a subdued activity: somber figures moved upon the
staircase; and Inspector Dunbar, having presented his card,
presently found himself in a well-appointed library.
At the table, whereon were spread a number of documents, sat a
lean, clean-shaven, sallow-faced man, wearing gold-rimmed pince-
nez; a man whose demeanor of business-like gloom was most admirably
adapted to that place and occasion. This was Mr. Debnam, the
solicitor. He gravely waved the detective to an armchair, adjusted
his pince-nez, and coughed, introductorily.
"Your communication, Inspector," he began (he had the kind of voice
which seems to be buried in sawdust packing), "was brought to me
this morning, and has disturbed me immeasurably, unspeakably."
"You have been to view the body, sir?"
"One of my clerks, who knew Mrs. Vernon, has just returned to this
house to report that he has identified her."
"I should have preferred you to have gone yourself, sir," began
Dunbar, taking out his notebook.
"My state of health, Inspector," said the solicitor, "renders it
undesirable that I should submit myself to an ordeal so
unnecessary--so wholly unnecessary."
"Very good!" muttered Dunbar, making an entry in his book; "your
clerk, then, whom I can see in a moment, identifies the murdered
woman as Mrs. Vernon. What was her Christian name?"
"Iris--Iris Mary Vernon."
Inspector Dunbar made a note of the fact.
"And now," he said, "you will have read the copy of that portion of
my report which I submitted to you this morning--acting upon
information supplied by Miss Helen Cumberly?"
"Yes, yes, Inspector, I have read it--but, by the way, I do not
know Miss Cumberly."
"Miss Cumberly," explained the detective, "is the daughter of Dr.
Cumberly, the Harley Street physician. She lives with her father
in the flat above that of Mr. Leroux. She saw the body by
accident--and recognized it as that of a lady who had been named to
her at the last Arts Ball."
"Ah!" said Debnam, "yes--I see--at the Arts Ball, Inspector. This
is a mysterious and a very ghastly case."
"It is indeed, sir," agreed Dunbar. "Can you throw any light upon
the presence of Mrs. Vernon at Mr. Leroux's flat on the very night
of her husband's death?"
"I can--and I cannot," answered the solicitor, leaning back in the
chair and again adjusting his pince-nez, in the manner of a man
having important matters--and gloomy, very gloomy, matters--to
communicate.
"Good!" said the inspector, and prepared to listen.
"You see," continued Debnam, "the late Mrs. Vernon was not actually
residing with her husband at the date of his death."
"Indeed!"
"Ostensibly"--the solicitor shook a lean forefinger at his vis-a-
vis--"ostensibly, Inspector, she was visiting her sister in
Scotland."
Inspector Dunbar sat up very straight, his brows drawn down over
the tawny eyes.
"These visits were of frequent occurrence, and usually of about a
week's duration. Mr. Vernon, my late client, a man--I'll not deny
it--of inconstant affections (you understand me, Inspector?), did
not greatly concern himself with his wife's movements. She
belonged to a smart Bohemian set, and--to use a popular figure of
speech--burnt the candle at both ends; late dances, night clubs,
bridge parties, and other feverish pursuits, possibly taken up as a
result of the--shall I say cooling?--of her husband's affections" . . .
"There was another woman in the case?"
"I fear so, Inspector; in fact, I am sure of it: but to return to
Mrs. Vernon. My client provided her with ample funds; and I,
myself, have expressed to him astonishment respecting her
expenditures in Scotland. I understand that her sister was in
comparatively poor circumstances, and I went so far as to point out
to Mr. Vernon that one hundred pounds was--shall I say an
excessive?--outlay upon a week's sojourn in Auchterander, Perth."
"A hundred pounds!"
"One hundred pounds!"
"Was it queried by Mr. Vernon?"
"Not at all."
"Was Mr. Vernon personally acquainted with this sister in Perth?"
"He was not, Inspector. Mrs. Vernon, at the time of her marriage,
did not enjoy that social status to which my late client elevated
her. For many years she held no open communication with any member
of her family, but latterly, as I have explained, she acquired the
habit of recuperating--recuperating from the effects of her febrile
pleasures--at this obscure place in Scotland. And Mr. Vernon, his
interest in her movements having considerably--shall I say abated?--
offered no objection: even suffered it gladly, counting the cost
but little against" . . .
"Freedom?" suggested Dunbar, scribbling in his notebook.
"Rather crudely expressed, perhaps," said the solicitor, peering
over the top of his glasses, "but you have the idea. I come now to
my client's awakening. Four days ago, he learned the truth; he
learned that he was being deceived!"
"Deceived!"
"Mrs. Vernon, thoroughly exhausted with irregular living, announced
that she was about to resort once more to the healing breezes of
the heather-land"--Mr. Debnam was thoroughly warming to his
discourse and thoroughly enjoying his own dusty phrases.
"Interrupting you for a moment," said the inspector, "at what
intervals did these visits take place?"
"At remarkably regular intervals, Inspector: something like six
times a year."
"For how long had Mrs. Vernon made a custom of these visits?"
"Roughly, for two years."
"Thank you. Will you go on, sir?"
"She requested Mr. Vernon, then, on the last occasion to give her a
check for eighty pounds; and this he did, unquestioningly. On
Thursday, the second of September, she left for Scotland" . . .
"Did she take her maid?"
"Her maid always received a holiday on these occasions; Mrs. Vernon
wired her respecting the date of her return."
"Did any one actually see her off?"
"No, not that I am aware of, Inspector."
"To put the whole thing quite bluntly, Mr. Debnam," said Dunbar,
fixing his tawny eyes upon the solicitor, "Mr. Vernon was
thoroughly glad to get rid of her for a week?"
Mr. Debnam shifted uneasily in his chair; the truculent directness
of the detective was unpleasing to his tortuous mind. However:--
"I fear you have hit upon the truth," he confessed, "and I must
admit that we have no legal evidence of her leaving for Scotland on
this, or on any other occasion. Letters were received from Perth,
and letters sent to Auchterander from London were answered. But
the truth, the painful truth came to light, unexpectedly,
dramatically, on Monday last" . . .
"Four days ago?"
"Exactly; three days before the death of my client." Mr. Debnam
wagged his finger at the inspector again. "I maintain," he said,
"that this painful discovery, which I am about to mention,
precipitated my client's end; although it is a fact that there was--
hereditary heart trouble. But I admit that his neglect of his
wife (to give it no harsher name) contributed to the catastrophe."
He paused to give dramatic point to the revelation.
"Walking homeward at a late hour on Monday evening from a flat in
Victoria Street--the flat of--shall I employ the term a particular
friend?--Mr. Vernon was horrified--horrified beyond measure, to
perceive, in a large and well-appointed car--a limousine--his
wife!" . . .
"The inside lights of the car were on, then?"
"No; but the light from a street lamp shone directly into the car.
A temporary block in the traffic compelled the driver of the car,
whom my client described to me as an Asiatic--to pull up for a
moment. There, within a few yards of her husband, Mrs. Vernon
reclined in the car--or rather in the arms of a male companion!"
"What!"
"Positively!" Mr. Debnam was sedately enjoying himself. "Positively,
my dear Inspector, in the arms of a man of extremely dark
complexion. Mr. Vernon was unable to perceive more than this,
for the man had his back toward him. But the light shone fully
upon the face of Mrs. Vernon, who appeared pale and exhausted. She
wore a conspicuous motor-coat of civet fur, and it was this which
first attracted Mr. Vernon' s attention. The blow was a very
severe one to a man in my client's state of health; and although I
cannot claim that his own conscience was clear, this open violation
of the marriage vows outraged the husband--outraged him. In fact
he was so perturbed, that he stood there shaking, quivering, unable
to speak or act, and the car drove away before he had recovered
sufficient presence of mind to note the number."
"In which direction did the car proceed?"
"Toward Victoria Station."
"Any other particulars?"
"Not regarding the car, its driver, or its occupants; but early on
the following morning, Mr. Vernon, very much shaken, called upon me
and instructed me to despatch an agent to Perth immediately. My
agent's report reached me at practically the same time as the news
of my client's death" . . .
"And his report was?" . . .
"His report, Inspector, telegraphic, of course, was this: that no
sister of Mrs. Vernon resided at the address; that the place was a
cottage occupied by a certain Mrs. Fry and her husband; that the
husband was of no occupation, and had no visible means of support"--
he ticked off the points on the long forefinger--"that the Frys
lived better than any of their neighbors; and--most important of
all--that Mrs. Fry's maiden name, which my agent discovered by
recourse to the parish register of marriages--was Ann Fairchild."
"What of that?"
"Ann Fairchild was a former maid of Mrs. Vernon!"
"In short, it amounts to this, then: Mrs. Vernon, during these
various absences, never went to Scotland at all? It was a
conspiracy?"
"Exactly--exactly, Inspector! I wired instructing my agent to
extort from the woman, Fry, the address to which she forwarded
letters received by her for Mrs. Vernon. The lady's death, news of
which will now have reached him, will no doubt be a lever, enabling
my representative to obtain the desired information."
"When do you expect to hear from him?"
"At any moment. Failing a full confession by the Frys, you will of
course know how to act, Inspector?"
"Damme!" cried Dunbar, "can your man be relied upon to watch them?
They mustn't slip away! Shall I instruct Perth to arrest the
couple?"
"I wired my agent this morning, Inspector, to communicate with the
local police respecting the Frys."
Inspector Dunbar tapped his small, widely-separated teeth with the
end of his fountain-pen.
"I have had one priceless witness slip through my fingers," he
muttered. "I'll hand in my resignation if the Frys go!"
"To whom do you refer?"
Inspector Dunbar rose.
"It is a point with which I need not trouble you, sir," he said.
"It was not included in the extract of report sent to you. This is
going to be the biggest case of my professional career, or my name
is not Robert Dunbar!"
Closing his notebook, he thrust it into his pocket, and replaced
his fountain-pen in the little leather wallet.
"Of course," said the solicitor, rising in turn, and adjusting the
troublesome pince-nez, "there was some intrigue with Leroux? So
much is evident."
"You will be thinking that, eh?"
"My dear Inspector"--Mr. Debnam, the wily, was seeking information--
"my dear Inspector, Leroux's own wife was absent in Paris--quite a
safe distance; and Mrs. Vernon (now proven to be a woman conducting
a love intrigue) is found dead under most compromising
circumstances--MOST compromising circumstances--in his flat! His
servants, even, are got safely out of the way for the evening" . . .
"Quite so," said Dunbar, shortly, "quite so, Mr. Debnam." He
opened the door. "Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon's maid?"
"She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs. Vernon habitually
released her for the period of these absences."
The notebook reappeared.
"The young woman's address?"
"You can get it from the housekeeper. Is there anything else you
wish to know?"
"Nothing beyond that, thank you."
Three minutes later, Inspector Dunbar had written in his book:--
Clarice Goodstone, c/o Mrs. Herne, 134a Robert Street, Hampstead
Road, N. W.
He departed from the house whereat Death the Gleaner had twice
knocked with his Scythe.
VIII
CABMAN TWO
Returning to Scotland Yard, Inspector Dunbar walked straight up to
his own room. There he found Sowerby, very red faced and humid,
and a taximan who sat stolidly surveying the Embankment from the
window.
"Hullo!" cried Dunbar; "he's turned up, then?"
"No, he hasn't," replied Sowerby with a mild irritation. "But we
know where to find him, and he ought to lose his license."
The taximan turned hurriedly. He wore a muffler so tightly packed
between his neck and the collar of his uniform jacket, that it
appeared materially to impair his respiration. His face possessed
a bluish tinge, suggestive of asphyxia, and his watery eyes
protruded remarkably; his breathing was noisily audible.
"No, chuck it, mister!" he exclaimed. "I'm only tellin' you 'cause
it ain't my line to play tricks on the police. You'll find my name
in the books downstairs more'n any other driver in London! I
reckon I've brought enough umbrellas, cameras, walkin' sticks,
hopera cloaks, watches and sicklike in 'ere, to set up a blarsted
pawnbroker's!"
"That's all right, my lad!" said Dunbar, holding up his hand to
silence the voluble speaker. "There's going to be no license-
losing. You did not hear that you were wanted before?"
The watery eyes of the cabman protruded painfully; he respired like
a horse.
"ME, guv'nor!" he exclaimed. "Gor'blime! I ain't the bloke! I
was drivin' back from takin' the Honorable 'Erbert 'Arding 'ome--
same as I does almost every night, when the 'ouse is a-sittin'--
when I see old Tom Brian drawin' away from the door o' Palace Man--"
Again Dunbar held up his hand.
"No doubt you mean well," he said; "but damme! begin at the
beginning! Who are you, and what have you come to tell us?"
"'Oo are I?--'Ere's 'oo I ham!" Wheezed the cabman, proffering a
greasy license. "Richard 'Amper, number 3 Breams Mews, Dulwich
Village" . . .
"That's all right," said Dunbar, thrusting back the proffered
document; "and last night you had taken Mr. Harding the member of
Parliament, to his residence in?"--
"In Peers' Chambers, Westminister--that's it, guv'nor! Comin'
back, I 'ave to pass along the north side o' the Square, an' just
a'ead o' me, I see old Tom Brian a-pullin' round the Johnny
'Orner,--'im comin' from Palace Mansions."
"Mr. Exel only mentioned seeing ONE cab," muttered Dunbar, glancing
keenly aside at Sowerby.
"Wotcher say, guv'nor?" asked the cabman.
"I say--did you see a gentleman approaching from the corner?" asked
Dunbar.
"Yus," declared the man; "I see 'im, but 'e 'adn't got as far as
the Johnny 'Orner. As I passed outside old Tom Brian, wot's
changin' 'is gear, I see a bloke blowin' along on the pavement--a
bloke in a high 'at, an' wearin' a heye-glass."
"At this time, then," pursued Dunbar, "you had actually passed the
other cab, and the gentleman on the pavement had not come up with
it?"
"'E couldn't see it, guv'nor! I'm tellin' you 'e 'adn't got to the
Johnny 'Orner!"
"I see," muttered Sowerby. "It's possible that Mr. Exel took no
notice of the first cab--especially as it did not come out of the
Square."
"Wotcher say, guv'nor?" queried the cabman again, turning his
bleared eyes upon Sergeant Sowerby.
"He said," interrupted Dunbar, "was Brian's cab empty?"
"'Course it was," rapped Mr. Hamper, "'e 'd just dropped 'is fare
at Palace Mansions." . . .
"How do you know?" snapped Dunbar, suddenly, fixing his fierce eyes
upon the face of the speaker.
The cabman glared in beery truculence.
"I got me blarsted senses, ain't I?" he inquired. "There's only two
lots o' flats on that side o' the Square--Palace Mansions, an' St.
Andrew's Mansions."
"Well?"
"St. Andrew's Mansions," continued Hamper, "is all away!"
"All away?"
"All away! I know, 'cause I used to have a reg'lar fare there.
'E's in Egyp'; flat shut up. Top floor's to let. Bottom floor's
two old unmarried maiden ladies what always travels by 'bus. So
does all their blarsted friends an' relations. Where can old Tom
Brian 'ave been comin' from, if it wasn't Palace Mansions?"
"H'm!" said Dunbar, "you are a loss to the detective service, my
lad! And how do you account for the fact that Brian has not got to
hear of the inquiry?"
Hamper bent to Dunbar and whispered, beerily, in his ear: "P'r'aps
'e don't want to 'ear, guv'nor!"
"Oh! Why not?"
"Well, 'e knows there's something up there!"
"Therefore it's his plain duty to assist the police."
"Same as what I does?" cried Hamper, raising his eyebrows. "Course
it is! but 'ow d'you know 'e ain't been got at?"
"Our friend, here, evidently has one up against Mr. Tom Brian!"
muttered Dunbar aside to Sowerby.
"Wotcher say, guv'nor?" inquired the cabman, looking from one to
the other.
"I say, no doubt you can save us the trouble of looking out Brian's
license, and give us his private address?" replied Dunbar.
"Course I can. 'E lives hat num'er 36 Forth Street, Brixton, and
'e's out o' the big Brixton depot."
"Oh!" said Dunbar, dryly. "Does he owe you anything?"
"Wotcher say, guv'nor?"
"I say, it's very good of you to take all this trouble and whatever
it has cost you in time, we shall be pleased to put right."
Mr. Hamper spat in his right palm, and rubbed his hands together,
appreciatively.
"Make it five bob!" he said.
"Wait downstairs," directed Dunbar, pressing a bell-push beside the
door. "I'll get it put through for you."
"Right 'o!" rumbled the cabman, and went lurching from the room as
a constable in uniform appeared at the door. "Good mornin',
guv'nor. Good mornin'!"
The cabman having departed, leaving in his wake a fragrant odor of
fourpenny ale:--
"Here you are, Sowerby!" cried Dunbar. "We are moving at last!
This is the address of the late Mrs. Vernon's maid. See her; feel
your ground, carefully, of course; get to know what clothes Mrs.
Vernon took with her on her periodical visits to Scotland."
"What clothes?"
"That's the idea; it is important. I don't think the girl was in
her mistress's confidence, but I leave it to you to find out. If
circumstances point to my surmise being inaccurate--you know how to
act."
"Just let me glance over your notes, bearing on the matter," said
Sowerby, "and I'll be off."
Dunbar handed him the bulging notebook, and Sergeant Sowerby
lowered his inadequate eyebrows, thoughtfully, whilst he scanned
the evidence of Mr. Debnam. Then, returning the book to his
superior, and adjusting the peculiar bowler firmly upon his head,
he set out.
Dunbar glanced through some papers--apparently reports--which lay
upon the table, penciled comments upon two of them, and then,
consulting his notebook once more in order to refresh his memory,
started off for Forth Street, Brixton.
Forth Street, Brixton, is a depressing thoroughfare. It contains
small, cheap flats, and a number of frowsy looking houses which
give one the impression of having run to seed. A hostelry of sad
aspect occupies a commanding position midway along the street, but
inspires the traveler not with cheer, but with lugubrious
reflections upon the horrors of inebriety. The odors, unpleasantly
mingled, of fried bacon and paraffin oil, are wafted to the
wayfarer from the porches of these family residences.
Number 36 proved to be such a villa, and Inspector Dunbar
contemplated it from a distance, thoughtfully. As he stood by the
door of the public house, gazing across the street, a tired looking
woman, lean and anxious-eyed, a poor, dried up bean-pod of a woman,
appeared from the door of number 36, carrying a basket. She walked
along in the direction of the neighboring highroad, and Dunbar
casually followed her.
For some ten minutes he studied her activities, noting that she
went from shop to shop until her basket was laden with provisions
of all sorts. When she entered a wine-and-spirit merchant's, the
detective entered close behind her, for the place was also a post-
office. Whilst he purchased a penny stamp and fumbled in his
pocket for an imaginary letter, he observed, with interest, that
the woman had purchased, and was loading into the hospitable
basket, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of rum, and a bottle of gin.
He left the shop ahead of her, sure, now, of his ground, always
provided that the woman proved to be Mrs. Brian. Dunbar walked
along Forth Street slowly enough to enable the woman to overtake
him. At the door of number 36, he glanced up at the number,
questioningly, and turned in the gate as she was about to enter.
He raised his hat.
"Have I the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Brian?"
Momentarily, a hard look came into the tired eyes, but Dunbar's
gentleness of manner and voice, together with the kindly expression
upon his face, turned the scales favorably.
"I am Mrs. Brian," she said; "yes. Did you want to see me?"
"On a matter of some importance. May I come in?"
She nodded and led the way into the house; the door was not closed.
In a living-room whereon was written a pathetic history--a history
of decline from easy circumstance and respectability to poverty and
utter disregard of appearances--she confronted him, setting down
her basket on a table from which the remains of a fish breakfast
were not yet removed.
"Is your husband in?" inquired Dunbar with a subtle change of
manner.
"He's lying down."
The hard look was creeping again into the woman's eyes.
"Will you please awake him, and tell him that I have called in
regard to his license?"
He thrust a card into her hand:--
DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR DUNBAR,
C. I. D.
NEW SCOTLAND YARD. S. W.
IX
THE MAN IN BLACK
Mrs. Brian started back, with a wild look, a trapped look, in her
eyes.
"What's he done?" she inquired. "What's he done? Tom's not done
anything!"
"Be good enough to waken him," persisted the inspector. "I wish to
speak to him."
Mrs. Brian walked slowly from the room and could be heard entering
one further along the passage. An angry snarling, suggesting that
of a wild animal disturbed in its lair, proclaimed the arousing of
Taximan Thomas Brian. A thick voice inquired, brutally, why the
sanguinary hell he (Mr. Brian) had had his bloodstained slumbers
disturbed in this gory manner and who was the vermilion blighter
responsible.
Then Mrs. Brian's voice mingled with that of her husband, and both
became subdued. Finally, a slim man, who wore a short beard, or
had omitted to shave for some days, appeared at the door of the
living-room. His face was another history upon the same subject as
that which might be studied from the walls, the floor, and the
appointments of the room. Inspector Dunbar perceived that the
shadow of the neighboring hostelry overlay this home.
"What's up?" inquired the new arrival.
The tone of his voice, thickened by excess, was yet eloquent of the
gentleman. The barriers passed, your pariah gentleman can be the
completest blackguard of them all. He spoke coarsely, and the
infectious Cockney accent showed itself in his vowels; but Dunbar,
a trained observer, summed up his man in a moment and acted
accordingly.
"Come in and shut the door!" he directed. "No"--as Mrs. Brian
sought to enter behind her husband--"I wish to speak with you,
privately."
"Hop it!" instructed Brian, jerking his thumb over his shoulder--
and Mrs. Brian obediently disappeared, closing the door.
"Now," said Dunbar, looking the man up and down, "have you been
into the depot, to-day?"
"No."
"But you have heard that there's an inquiry?"
"I've heard nothing. I've been in bed."
"We won't argue about that. I'll simply put a question to you:
Where did you pick up the fare that you dropped at Palace Mansions
at twelve o'clock last night?"
"Palace Mansions!" muttered Brian, shifting uneasily beneath the
unflinching stare of the tawny eyes. "What d'you mean? What
Palace Mansions?"
"Don't quibble!" warned Dunbar, thrusting out a finger at him.
"This is not a matter of a loss of license; it's a life job!"
"Life job!" whispered the man, and his weak face suddenly relaxed,
so that, oddly, the old refinement shone out through the new,
vulgar veneer.
"Answer my questions straight and square and I'll take your word
that you have not seen the inquiry!" said Dunbar.
"Dick Hamper's done this for me!" muttered Brian. "He's a dirty,
low swine! Somebody'll do for him one night!"
"Leave Hamper out of the question," snapped Dunbar. "You put down
a fare at Palace Mansions at twelve o'clock last night?"
For one tremendous moment, Brian hesitated, but the good that was
in him, or the evil--a consciousness of wrongdoing, or of
retribution pending--respect for the law, or fear of its might--
decided his course.
"I did."
"It was a man?"
Again Brian, with furtive glance, sought to test his opponent; but
his opponent was too strong for him. With Dunbar's eyes upon his
face, he chose not to lie.
"It was a woman."
"How was she dressed?"
"In a fur motor-coat--civet fur."
The man of culture spoke in those two words, "civet fur"; and
Dunbar nodded quickly, his eyes ablaze at the importance of the
evidence.
"Was she alone?"
"She was."
"What fare did she pay you?"
"The meter only registered eightpence, but she gave me half-a-
crown."
"Did she appear to be ill?"
"Very ill. She wore no hat, and I supposed her to be in evening
dress. She almost fell as she got out of the cab, but managed to
get into the hall of Palace Mansions quickly enough, looking behind
her all the time."
Inspector Dunbar shot out the hypnotic finger again.
"She told you to wait!" he asserted, positively. Brian looked to
right and left, up and down, thrusting his hands into his coat
pockets, and taking them out again to stroke his collarless neck.
Then:--
"She did--yes," he admitted.
"But you were bribed to drive away? Don't deny it! Don't dare to
trifle with me, or by God! you'll spend the night in Brixton Jail!"
"It was made worth my while," muttered Brian, his voice beginning
to break, "to hop it."
"Who paid you to do it?"
"A man who had followed all the way in a big car."
"That's it! Describe him!"
"I can't! No, no! you can threaten as much as you like, but I
can't describe him. I never saw his face. He stood behind me on
the near side of the cab, and just reached forward and pushed a
flyer under my nose."
Inspector Dunbar searched the speaker's face closely--and concluded
that he was respecting the verity.
"How was he dressed?"
"In black, and that's all I can tell you about him."
"You took the money?"
"I took the money, yes" . . .
"What did he say to you?"
"Simply: 'Drive off.'"
"Did you take him to be an Englishman from his speech?"
"No; he was not an Englishman. He had a foreign accent."
"French? German?"
"No," said Brian, looking up and meeting the glance of the fierce
eyes. "Asiatic!"
Inspector Dunbar, closely as he held himself in hand, started
slightly.
"Are you sure?"
"Certainly. Before I--when I was younger--I traveled in the East,
and I know the voice and intonation of the cultured Oriental."
"Can you place him any closer than that?"
"No, I can't venture to do so." Brian's manner was becoming,
momentarily, more nearly that of a gentleman. "I might be leading
you astray if I ventured a guess, but if you asked me to do so, I
should say he was a Chinaman."
"A CHINAMAN?" Dunbar's voice rose excitedly.
"I think so."
"What occurred next?"
"I turned my cab and drove off out of the Square."
"Did you see where the man went?"
"I didn't. I saw nothing of him beyond his hand."
"And his hand?"
"He wore a glove."
"And now," said Dunbar, speaking very slowly, "where did you pick
up your fare?"
"In Gillingham Street, near Victoria Station."
"From a house?"
"Yes, from Nurse Proctor's."
"Nurse Proctor's! Who is Nurse Proctor?"
Brian shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner, which
obviously belonged to an earlier phase of existence.
"She keeps a nursing home," he said--"for ladies."
"Do you mean a maternity home?"
"Not exactly; at least I don't think so. Most of her clients are
society ladies, who stay there periodically."
"What are you driving at?" demanded Dunbar. "I have asked you if
it is a maternity home."
"And I have replied that it isn't. I am only giving you facts; you
don't want my surmises."
"Who hailed you?"
"The woman did--the woman in the fur coat. I was just passing the
door very slowly when it was flung open with a bang, and she rushed
out as though hell were after her. Before I had time to pull up,
she threw herself into my cab and screamed: 'Palace Mansions!
Westminster!' I reached back and shut the door, and drove right
away."
"When did you see that you were followed?"
"We were held up just outside the music hall, and looking back, I
saw that my fare was dreadfully excited. It didn't take me long to
find out that the cause of her excitement was a big limousine,
three or four back in the block of traffic. The driver was some
kind of an Oriental, too, although I couldn't make him out very
clearly."
"Good!" snapped Dunbar; "that's important! But you saw nothing
more of this car?" . . .
"I saw it follow me into the Square."
"Then where did it wait?"
"I don't know; I didn't see it again."
Inspector Dunbar nodded rapidly.
"Have you ever driven women to or from this Nurse Proctor's
before?"
"On two other occasions, I have driven ladies who came from there.
I knew they came from there, because it got about amongst us that
the tall woman in nurse's uniform who accompanied them was Nurse
Proctor."
"You mean that you didn't take these women actually from the door
of the house in Gillingham Street, but from somewhere adjacent?"
"Yes; they never take a cab from the door. They always walk to the
corner of the street with a nurse, and a porter belonging to the
house brings their luggage along."
"The idea is secrecy?"
"No doubt. But as I have said, the word was passed round."
"Did you know either of these other women?"
"No; but they were obviously members of good society."
"And you drove them?"
"One to St. Pancras, and one to Waterloo," said Brian, dropping
back somewhat into his coarser style, and permitting a slow grin to
overspread his countenance.
"To catch trains, no doubt?"
"Not a bit of it! To MEET trains!"
"You mean?"
"I mean that their own private cars were waiting for them at the
ARRIVAL platform as I drove 'em up to the DEPARTURE platform, and
that they simply marched through the station and pretended to have
arrived by train!"
Inspector Dunbar took out his notebook and fountain-pen, and began
to tap his teeth with the latter, nodding his head at the same
time.
"You are sure of the accuracy of your last statement?" he said,
raising his eyes to the other.
"I followed one of them," was the reply, "and saw her footman
gravely take charge of the luggage which I had just brought from
Victoria; and a pal of mine followed the other--the Waterloo one,
that was."
Inspector Dunbar scribbled busily. Then:--
"You have done well to make a clean breast of it," he said. "Take
a straight tip from me. Keep off the drink!"
X
THE GREAT UNDERSTANDING
It was in the afternoon of this same day--a day so momentous in the
lives of more than one of London's millions--that two travelers
might have been seen to descend from a first-class compartment of
the Dover boat-train at Charing Cross.
They had been the sole occupants of the compartment, and, despite
the wide dissimilarity of character to be read upon their
countenances, seemed to have struck up an acquaintance based upon
mutual amiability and worldly common sense. The traveler first to
descend and gallantly to offer his hand to his companion in order
to assist her to the platform, was the one whom a casual observer
would first have noted.
He was a man built largely, but on good lines; a man past his
youth, and somewhat too fleshy; but for all his bulk, there was
nothing unwieldy, and nothing ungraceful in his bearing or
carriage. He wore a French traveling-coat, conceived in a style
violently Parisian, and composed of a wonderful check calculated to
have blinded any cutter in Savile Row. From beneath its gorgeous
folds protruded the extremities of severely creased cashmere
trousers, turned up over white spats which nestled coyly about a
pair of glossy black boots. The traveler's hat was of velour,
silver gray and boasting a partridge feather thrust in its silken
band. One glimpse of the outfit must have brought the entire staff
of the Tailor and Cutter to an untimely grave.
But if ever man was born who could carry such a make-up, this
traveler was he. The face was cut on massive lines, on fleshy
lines, clean-shaven, and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue
tinge about the jaw and lips helped to accentuate the virile
strength of the long, flexible mouth, which could be humorous,
which could be sorrowful, which could be grim. In the dark eyes of
the man lay a wealth of experience, acquired in a lifelong
pilgrimage among many peoples, and to many lands. His dark brows
were heavily marked, and his close-cut hair was splashed with gray.
Let us glance at the lady who accepted his white-gloved hand, and
who sprang alertly onto the platform beside him.
She was a woman bordering on the forties, with a face of masculine
vigor, redeemed and effeminized, by splendid hazel eyes, the
kindliest imaginable. Obviously, the lady was one who had never
married, who despised, or affected to despise, members of the other
sex, but who had never learned to hate them; who had never grown
soured, but who found the world a garden of heedless children--of
children who called for mothering. Her athletic figure was clothed
in a "sensible" tweed traveling dress, and she wore a tweed hat
pressed well on to her head, and brown boots with the flattest
heels conceivable. Add to this a Scotch woolen muffler, and a pair
of woolen gloves, and you have a mental picture of the second
traveler--a truly incongruous companion for the first.
Joining the crowd pouring in the direction of the exit gates, the
two chatted together animatedly, both speaking English, and the man
employing that language with a perfect ease and command of words
which nevertheless failed to disguise his French nationality. He
spoke with an American accent; a phenomenon sometimes observable in
one who has learned his English in Paris.
The irritating formalities which beset the returning traveler--and
the lady distinctly was of the readily irritated type--were
smoothed away by the magic personality of her companion. Porters
came at the beck of his gloved hand; guards, catching his eye,
saluted and were completely his servants; ticket inspectors yielded
to him the deference ordinarily reserved for directors of the line.
Outside the station, then, her luggage having been stacked upon a
cab, the lady parted from her companion with assurances, which were
returned, that she should hope to improve the acquaintance.
The address to which the French gentleman politely requested the
cabman to drive, was that of a sound and old-established hotel in
the neighborhood of the Strand, and at no great distance from the
station.
Then, having stood bareheaded until the cab turned out into the
traffic stream of that busy thoroughfare, the first traveler, whose
baggage consisted of a large suitcase, hailed a second cab and
drove to the Hotel Astoria--the usual objective of Americans.
Taking leave of him for the moment, let us follow the lady.
Her arrangements were very soon made at the hotel, and having
removed some of the travel-stains from her person and partaken of
one cup of China tea, respecting the quality whereof she delivered
herself of some caustic comments, she walked down into the Strand
and mounted to the top of a Victoria bound 'bus.
That she was not intimately acquainted with London, was a fact
readily observable by her fellow passengers; for as the 'bus went
rolling westward, from the large pocket of her Norfolk jacket she
took out a guide-book provided with numerous maps, and began
composedly to consult its complexities.
When the conductor came to collect her fare, she had made up her
mind, and was replacing the guidebook in her pocket.
"Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor," she
directed, and handed him a penny--the correct fare.
It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the
American lady's leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the
harbingers of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her
cozy work-room, Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh. She
stood up, mechanically rearranging her hair as she did so, and
crossed the corridor to her bedroom, the window whereof overlooked
the Square.
She peered down into the central garden. A common-looking man sat
upon a bench, apparently watching the labors of the gardener, which
consisted at the moment of the spiking of scraps of paper which
disfigured the green carpet of the lawn.
Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself. Kindly
twilight veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the
window-ledge pretended that he had not noticed two tears which
trembled, quivering, upon the girl's lashes. Almost unconsciously,
for it was an established custom, she sprinkled crumbs from the
tea-tray beside her upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a
written page and two more appeared in turn upon her lashes.
The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by
two talkative companions. As the last fragments dropped from the
girl's white fingers, she withdrew her hand, and slowly--very
slowly--her head sank down, pillowed upon her arms.
For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded,
bade her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the
Square. Then, very resolutely, as if inspired by a settled
purpose, she stood up and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.
She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed
the traces of her tears, contemplating in dismay a redness of her
pretty nose which did not prove entirely amenable to treatment with
the powder-puff. Finally, however, she switched off the light,
and, going out on to the landing, descended to the door of Henry
Leroux's flat.
In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door. She wore
her hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.
"Why, Ferris!" cried Helen--"are you leaving?"
"I am indeed, miss!" said the girl, independently.
"But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?"
"He'll have to do the best he can. Cook's goin' too!"
"What! cook is going?"
"I am!" announced a deep, female voice.
And the cook appeared beside the maid.
"But whatever--" began Helen; then, realizing that she could
achieve no good end by such an attitude: "Tell Mr. Leroux," she
instructed the maid, quietly, "that I wish to see him."
Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the
landing, to inquire in an abysmal tone, if "them boxes was ready to
be took?" Helen Cumberly forestalled an insolent refusal which the
cook, by furtive wink, counseled to the housemaid.
"Don't trouble," she said, with an easy dignity reminiscent of her
father. "I will announce myself."
She passed the servants, crossed the lobby, and rapped upon the
study door.
"Come in," said the voice of Henry Leroux.
Helen opened the door. The place was in semidarkness, objects
being but dimly discernible. Leroux sat in his usual seat at the
writing-table. The room was in the utmost disorder, evidently
having received no attention since its overhauling by the police.
Helen pressed the switch, lighting the two lamps.
Leroux, at last, seemed in his proper element: he exhibited an
unhealthy pallor, and it was obvious that no razor had touched his
chin for at least three days. His dark blue eyes the eyes of a
dreamer--were heavy and dull, with shadows pooled below them. A
biscuit-jar, a decanter and a syphon stood half buried in papers on
the table.
"Why, Mr. Leroux!" said Helen, with a deep note of sympathy in her
voice--"you don't mean to say" . . .
Leroux rose, forcing a smile to his haggard face.
"You see--much too good," he said. "Altogether--too good." . . .
"I thought I should find you here," continued the girl, firmly;
"but I did not anticipate--"she indicated the chaos about--"this!
The insolence, the disgraceful, ungrateful insolence, of those
women!"
"Dear, dear, dear!" murmured Leroux, waving his hand vaguely;
"never mind--never mind! They--er--they . . . I don't want them to
stop . . . and, believe me, I am--er--perfectly comfortable!"
"You should not be in--THIS room, at all. In fact, you should go
right away." . . .
"I cannot . . . my wife may--return--at any moment." His voice
shook. "I--am expecting her return--hourly." . . .
His gaze sought the table-clock; and he drew his lips very tightly
together when the pitiless hands forced upon his mind the fact that
the day was marching to its end.
Helen turned her head aside, inhaling deeply, and striving for
composure.
"Garnham shall come down and tidy up for you," she said, quietly;
"and you must dine with us."
The outer door was noisily closed by the departing servants.
"You are much too good," whispered Leroux, again; and the weary
eyes glistened with a sudden moisture. "Thank you! Thank you!
But--er--I could not dream of disturbing" . . .
"Mr. Leroux," said Helen, with all her old firmness--"Garnham is
coming down IMMEDIATELY to put the place in order! And, whilst he
is doing so, you are going to prepare yourself for a decent,
Christian dinner!"
Henry Leroux rested one hand upon the table, looking down at the
carpet. He had known for a long time, in a vague fashion, that he
lacked something; that his success--a wholly inartistic one--had
yielded him little gratification; that the comfort of his home was
a purely monetary product and not in any sense atmospheric. He had
schooled himself to believe that he liked loneliness--loneliness
physical and mental, and that in marrying a pretty, but pleasure-
loving girl, he had insured an ideal menage. Furthermore, he
honestly believed that he worshiped his wife; and with his present
grief at her unaccountable silence was mingled no atom of reproach.
But latterly he had begun to wonder--in his peculiarly indefinite
way he had begun to doubt his own philosophy. Was the void in his
soul a product of thwarted ambition?--for, whilst he slaved,
scrupulously, upon "Martin Zeda," he loathed every deed and every
word of that Old Man of the Sea. Or could it be that his own
being--his nature of Adam--lacked something which wealth, social
position, and Mira, his wife, could not yield to him?
Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly--a tone different
from that compound of good-fellowship and raillery, which he knew--
a tone which had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon the
state of the room--set his poor, anxious heart thrumming like a
lute. He felt a hot flush creeping upon him; his forehead grew
damp. He feared to raise his eyes.
"Is that a bargain?" asked Helen, sweetly.
Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted his untidy
head and took the hand which the girl had extended to him. She
smiled a bit unnaturally; then every tinge of color faded from her
cheeks, and Henry Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand in a
vice-like grip, looked hungrily into the eyes grown suddenly tragic
whilst into his own came the light of a great and sorrowful
understanding.
"God bless you," he said. "I will do anything you wish."
Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the study. Not until
she was on the landing did she dare to speak. Then:--
"Garnham shall come down immediately. Don't be late for dinner!"
she called--and there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her
voice, of the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious
womanhood.
XI
PRESENTING M. GASTON MAX
Not venturing to turn on the light, not daring to look upon her own
face in the mirror, Helen Cumberly sat before her dressing-table,
trembling wildly. She wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry; but the
daughter of Seton Cumberly knew what those symptoms meant and knew
how to deal with them. At the end of an interval of some four or
five minutes, she rang.
The maid opened the door.
"Don't light up, Merton," she said, composedly. "I want you to
tell Garnham to go down to Mr. Leroux's and put the place in order.
Mr. Leroux is dining with us."
The girl withdrew; and Helen, as the door closed, pressed the
electric switch. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as if
it were the face of an enemy, then, turning her head aside, sat
deep in reflection, biting her lip and toying with the edge of the
white doily.
"You little traitor!" she whispered, through clenched teeth. "You
little traitor--and hypocrite"--sobs began to rise in her throat--
"and fool!"
Five more minutes passed in a silent conflict. A knock announced
the return of the maid; and the girl reentered, placing upon the
table a visiting-card:--
DENISE RYLAND
ATELIER 4, RUE DU COQ D'OR,
MONTMARTRE,
PARIS.
Helen Cumberly started to her feet with a stifled exclamation and
turned to the maid; her face, to which the color slowly had been
returning, suddenly blanched anew.
"Denise Ryland!" she muttered, still holding the card in her hand,
"why--that's Mrs. Leroux's friend, with whom she had been staying
in Paris! Whatever can it mean?"
"Shall I show her in here, please?" asked the maid.
"Yes, in here," replied Helen, absently; and, scarcely aware that
she had given instructions to that effect, she presently found
herself confronted by the lady of the boat-train!
"Miss Cumberly?" said the new arrival in a pleasant American voice.
"Yes--I am Helen Cumberly. Oh! I am so glad to know you at last!
I have often pictured you; for Mira--Mrs. Leroux--is always talking
about you, and about the glorious times you have together! I have
sometimes longed to join you in beautiful Paris. How good of you
to come back with her!"
Miss Ryland unrolled the Scotch muffler from her throat, swinging
her head from side to side in a sort of spuriously truculent
manner, quite peculiarly her own. Her keen hazel eyes were fixed
upon the face of the girl before her. Instinctively and
immediately she liked Helen Cumberly; and Helen felt that this
strong-looking, vaguely masculine woman, was an old, intimate
friend, although she had never before set eyes upon her.
"H'm!" said Miss Ryland. "I have come from Paris"--she punctuated
many of her sentences with wags of the head as if carefully
weighing her words--"especially" (pause) "to see you" (pause and
wag of head) "I am glad . . . to find that . . . you are the
thoroughly sensible . . . kind of girl that I . . . had imagined,
from the accounts which . . . I have had of you." . . .
She seated herself in an armchair.
"Had of me from Mira?" asked Helen.
"Yes . . . from Mrs. Leroux."
"How delightful it must be for you to have her with you so often!
Marriage, as a rule, puts an end to that particular sort of good-
time, doesn't it?"
"It does . . . very properly . . . too. No MAN . . . no MAN in his
. . . right senses . . . would permit . . . his wife . . . to gad
about in Paris with another . . . girl" (she presumably referred to
herself) whom HE had only met . . . casually . . . and did not
like" . . .
"What! do you mean that Mr. Leroux doesn't like you? I can't
believe that!"
"Then the sooner . . . you believe it . . . the better."
"It can only be that he does not know you, properly?"
"He has no wish . . . to know me . . . properly; and I have no
desire . . . to cultivate . . . the . . . friendship of such . . .
a silly being."
Helen Cumberly was conscious that a flush was rising from her face
to her brow, and tingling in the very roots of her hair. She was
indignant with herself and turned, aside, bending over her table in
order to conceal this ill-timed embarrassment from her visitor.
"Poor Mr. Leroux!" she said, speaking very rapidly; "I think it
awfully good of him, and sporty, to allow his wife so much
liberty."
"Sporty!" said Miss Ryland, head wagging and nostrils distended in
scorn. "Idi-otic . . . I should call it."
"Why?"
Helen Cumberly, perfectly composed again, raised her clear eyes to
her visitor.
"You seem so . . . thoroughly sensible, except in regard to . . .
Harry Leroux;--and ALL women, with a few . . . exceptions, are
FOOLS where the true . . . character of a MAN is concerned--that I
will take you right into my confidence."
Her speech lost its quality of syncopation; the whole expression of
her face changed; and in the hazel eyes a deep concern might be
read.
"My dear," she stood up, crossed to Helen's side, and rested her
artistic looking hands upon the girl's shoulder. "Harry Leroux
stands upon the brink of a great tragedy--a life's tragedy!"
Helen was trembling slightly again.
"Oh, I know!" she whispered--"I know--"
"You know?"
There was surprise in Miss Ryland's voice.
"Yes, I have seen them--watched them--and I know that the police
think" . . .
"Police! What are you talking about--the police?"
Helen looked up with a troubled face.
"The murder!" she began . . .
Miss Ryland dropped into a chair which, fortunately, stood close
behind her, with a face suddenly set in an expression of horror.
She began to understand, now, a certain restraint, a certain
ominous shadow, which she had perceived, or thought she had
perceived, in the atmosphere of this home, and in the manner of its
occupants.
"My dear girl," she began, and the old nervous, jerky manner showed
itself again, momentarily,--"remember that . . . I left Paris by
. . . the first train, this morning, and have simply been . . .
traveling right up to the present moment." . . .
"Then you have not heard? You don't know that a--murder--has been
committed?"
"MURDER! Not--not" . . .
"Not any one connected with Mr. Leroux; no, thank God! but it was
done in his flat." . . .
Miss Ryland brushed a whisk of straight hair back from her brow
with a rough and ungraceful movement.
"My dear," she began, taking a French telegraphic form from her
pocket, "you see this message? It's one which reached me at an
unearthly hour this morning from Harry Leroux. It was addressed to
his wife at my studio; therefore, as her friend, I opened it. Mira
Leroux has actually visited me there twice since her marriage--"
"Twice!" Helen rose slowly to her feet, with horrified eyes fixed
upon the speaker.
"Twice I said! I have not seen her, and have rarely heard from
her, for nearly twelve months, now! Therefore I packed up post-
haste and here I am! I came to you, because, from what little I
have heard of you, and of your father, I judged you to be the right
kind of friends to consult." . . .
"You have not seen her for twelve months?"
Helen's voice was almost inaudible, and she was trembling
dreadfully.
"That's a fact, my dear. And now, what are we going to tell Harry
Leroux?"
It was a question, the answer to which was by no means evident at a
glance; and leaving Helen Cumberly face to face with this new and
horrible truth which had brought Denise Ryland hotfoot from Paris
to London, let us glance, for a moment, into the now familiar room
of Detective-Inspector Dunbar at Scotland Yard.
He had returned from his interrogation of Brian; and he received
the report of Sowerby, respecting the late Mrs. Vernon's maid. The
girl, Sergeant Sowerby declared, was innocent of complicity, and
could only depose to the fact that her late mistress took very
little luggage with her on the occasions of her trips to Scotland.
With his notebook open before him upon the table, Dunbar was adding
this slight item to his notes upon the case, when the door opened,
and the uniformed constable entered, saluted, and placed an
envelope in the Inspector's hand.
"From the commissioner!" said Sowerby, significantly.
With puzzled face, Dunbar opened the envelope and withdrew the
commissioner's note. It was very brief:--
"M. Gaston Max, of the Paris Police, is joining you in the Palace
Mansions murder case. You will cooperate with him from date
above."
"MAX!" said Dunbar, gazing astoundedly at his subordinate.
Certainly it was a name which might well account for the amazement
written upon the inspector's face; for it was the name of
admittedly the greatest criminal investigator in Europe!
"What the devil has the case to do with the French police?"
muttered Sowerby, his ruddy countenance exhibiting a whole history
of wonderment.
The constable, who had withdrawn, now reappeared, knocking
deferentially upon the door, throwing it open, and announcing:
"Mr. Gaston Max, to see Detective-Inspector Dunbar."
Bowing courteously upon the threshold, appeared a figure in a
dazzling check traveling-coat--a figure very novel, and wholly
unforgettable.
"I am honored to meet a distinguished London colleague," he said in
perfect English, with a faint American accent.
Dunbar stepped across the room with outstretched hand, and
cordially shook that of the famous Frenchman.
"I am the more honored," he declared, gallantly playing up to the
other's courtesy. "This is Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, who is
acting with me in the case."
M. Gaston Max bowed low in acknowledgment of the introduction.
"It is a pleasure to meet Detective-Sergeant Sowerby," he declared.
These polite overtures being concluded then, and the door being
closed, the three detectives stood looking at one another in
momentary silence. Then Dunbar spoke with blunt directness:
"I am very pleased to have you with us, Mr. Max," he said; "but
might I ask what your presence in London means?"
M. Gaston Max shrugged in true Gallic fashion.
"It means, monsieur," he said, "--murder--and MR. KING!"
XII
MR. GIANAPOLIS
It will prove of interest at this place to avail ourselves of an
opportunity denied to the police, and to inquire into the
activities of Mr. Soames, whilom employee of Henry Leroux.
Luke Soames was a man of unpleasant character; a man ever seeking
advancement--advancement to what he believed to be an ideal state,
viz.: the possession of a competency; and to this ambition he
subjugated all conflicting interests--especially the interests of
others. From narrow but honest beginnings, he had developed along
lines ever growing narrower until gradually honesty became squeezed
out. He formed the opinion that wealth was unobtainable by dint of
hard work; and indeed in a man of his limited intellectual
attainments, this was no more than true.
At the period when he becomes of interest, he had just discovered
himself a gentleman-at-large by reason of his dismissal from the
services of a wealthy bachelor, to whose establishment in
Piccadilly he had been attached in the capacity of valet. There
was nothing definite against his character at this time, save that
he had never remained for long in any one situation.
His experience was varied, if his references were limited; he had
served not only as valet, but also as chauffeur, as steward on an
ocean liner, and, for a limited period, as temporary butler in an
American household at Nice.
Soames' banking account had increased steadily, but not at a rate
commensurate with his ambitions; therefore, when entering his name
and qualifications in the books of a certain exclusive employment
agency in Mayfair he determined to avail himself, upon this
occasion, of his comparative independence by waiting until kindly
Fate should cast something really satisfactory in his path.
Such an opening occurred very shortly after his first visit to the
agent. He received a card instructing him to call at the office in
order to meet a certain Mr. Gianapolis. Quitting his rooms in
Kennington, Mr. Soames, attired in discreet black, set out to make
the acquaintance of his hypothetical employer.
He found Mr. Gianapolis to be a little and very swarthy man, who
held his head so low as to convey the impression of having a
pronounced stoop; a man whose well-cut clothes and immaculate linen
could not redeem his appearance from a constitutional dirtiness. A
jet black mustache, small, aquiline features, an engaging smile,
and very dark brown eyes, viciously crossed, made up a personality
incongruous with his sheltering silk hat, and calling aloud for a
tarboosh and a linen suit, a shop in a bazaar, or a part in the
campaign of commercial brigandage which, based in the Levant,
spreads its ramifications throughout the Orient, Near and Far.
Mr. Gianapolis had the suave speech and smiling manner. He greeted
Soames not as one greets a prospective servant, but as one welcomes
an esteemed acquaintance. Following a brief chat, he proposed an
adjournment to a neighboring saloon bar; and there, over cocktails,
he conversed with Mr. Soames as one crook with another.
Soames was charmed, fascinated, yet vaguely horrified; for this man
smilingly threw off the cloak of hypocrisy from his companion's
shoulders, and pretended, with the skill of his race, equally to
nudify his own villainy.
"My dear Mr. Soames!" he said, speaking almost perfect English, but
with the sing-song intonation of the Greek, and giving all his
syllables an equal value--"you are the man I am looking for; and I
can make your fortune."
This was entirely in accordance with Mr. Soames' own views, and he
nodded, respectfully.
"I know," continued Gianapolis, proffering an excellent Egyptian
cigarette, "that you were cramped in your last situation--that you
were misunderstood" . . .
Soames, cigarette in hand, suppressed a start, and wondered if he
were turning pale. He selected a match with nervous care.
"The little matter of the silver spoons," continued Gianapolis,
smiling fraternally, "was perhaps an error of judgment. Although"--
patting the startled Soames upon the shoulder--"they were a
legitimate perquisite; I am not blaming you. But it takes so long
to accumulate a really useful balance in that petty way. Now"--he
glanced cautiously about him--"I can offer you a post under
conditions which will place you above the consideration of silver
spoons!"
Soames, hastily finishing his cocktail, sought for words; but
Gianapolis, finishing his own, blandly ordered two more, and,
tapping Soames upon the knee, continued:
"Then that matter of the petty cash, and those trifling
irregularities in the wine-bill, you remember?--when you were with
Colonel Hewett in Nice?" . . .
Soames gripped the counter hard, staring at the newly arrived
cocktail as though it were hypnotizing him.
"These little matters," added Gianapolis, appreciatively sipping
from his own glass, "which would weigh heavily against your other
references, in the event of their being mentioned to any
prospective employer" . . .
Soames knew beyond doubt that his face was very pale indeed.
"These little matters, then," pursued Gianapolis, "all go to prove
to ME that you are a man of enterprise and spirit--that you are the
very man I require. Now I can offer you a post in the
establishment of Mr. Henry Leroux, the novelist. The service will
be easy. You will be required to attend to callers and to wait at
table upon special occasions. There will be no valeting, and you
will have undisputed charge of the pantry and wine-cellar. In
short, you will enjoy unusual liberty. The salary, you would say?
It will be the same as that which you received from Mr. Mapleson" . . .
Soames raised his head drearily; he felt himself in the toils; he
felt himself a mined man.
"It isn't a salary," he began, "which" . . .
"My dear Mr. Soames," said Gianapolis, tapping him confidentially
upon the knee again--"my dear Soames, it isn't the salary, I admit,
which you enjoyed whilst in the services of Colonel Hewett in a
similar capacity. But this is not a large establishment, and the
duties are light. Furthermore, there will be--extras."
"Extras?"
Mr. Soames' eye brightened, and under the benignant influence of
the cocktails his courage began to return.
"I do not refer," smiled Mr. Gianapolis, "to perquisites! The
extras will be monetary. Another two pounds per week" . . .
"Two pounds!"
"Bringing your salary up to a nice round figure; the additional
amount will be paid to you from another source. You will receive
the latter payment quarterly" . . .
"From--from" . . .
"From me!" said Mr. Gianapolis, smiling radiantly. "Now, I know
you are going to accept; that is understood between us. I will
give you the address--Palace Mansions, Westminster--at which you
must apply; and I will tell you what little services will be
required from you in return for this additional emolument."
Mr. Soames hurriedly finished his second cocktail. Mr. Gianapolis,
in true sporting fashion, kept pace with him and repeated the
order.
"You will take charge of the mail!" he whispered softly, one
irregular eye following the movements of the barmaid, and the other
fixed almost fiercely upon the face of Soames. "At certain times--
of which you will be notified in advance--Mrs. Leroux will pay
visits to Paris. At such times, all letters addressed to her, or
re-addressed to her, will not be posted! You will ring me up when
such letters come into your possession--they must ALL come into
your possession!--and I will arrange to meet you, say at the corner
of Victoria Street, to receive them. You understand?"
Mr. Soames understood, and thus far found his plastic conscience
marching in step with his inclinations.
"Then," resumed Gianapolis, "prior to her departure on these
occasions, Mrs. Leroux will hand you a parcel. This also you will
bring to me at the place arranged. Do you find anything onerous in
these conditions?"
"Not at all," muttered Soames, a trifle unsteadily; "it seems all
right"--the cocktails were beginning to speak now, and his voice
was a duet--"simply perfectly all right--all square."
"Good!" said Mr. Gianapolis with his radiant smile; and the gaze of
his left eye, crossing that of its neighbor, observed the entrance
of a stranger into the bar. He drew his stool closer and lowered
his voice:
"Mrs. Leroux," he continued, "will be in your confidence. Mr.
Leroux and every one else--EVERY ONE else--must not suspect the
arrangement" . . .
"Certainly--I quite understand" . . .
"Mrs. Leroux will engage you this afternoon--her husband is a mere
cipher in the household--and you will commence your duties on
Monday. Later in the week, Wednesday or Thursday, we will meet by
appointment, and discuss further details."
"Where can I see you?"
"Ring up this number: 18642 East, and ask for Mr. King. No! don't
write it down; remember it! I will come to the telephone, and
arrange a meeting."
Shortly after this, then, the interview concluded; and later in the
afternoon of that day Mr. Soames presented himself at Palace
Mansions.
He was received by Mrs. Leroux--a pretty woman with a pathetically
weak mouth. She had fair hair, not very abundant, and large eyes;
which, since they exhibited the unusual phenomenon, in a blonde, of
long dark lashes (Mr. Soames judged their blackness to be natural),
would have been beautiful had they not been of too light a color,
too small in the pupils, and utterly expressionless. Indeed, her
whole face lacked color, as did her personality, and the exquisite
tea-gown which she wore conveyed that odd impression of
slovenliness, which is often an indication of secret vice. She was
quite young and indisputably pretty, but this malproprete, together
with a certain aimlessness of manner, struck an incongruous note;
for essentially she was of a type which for its complement needs
vivacity.
Mr. Soames, a man of experience, scented an intrigue and a
neglectful husband. Since he was engaged on the spot without
reference to the invisible Leroux, he was immediately confirmed in
the latter part of his surmise. He departed well satisfied with
his affairs, and with the promise of the future, over which Mr.
Gianapolis, the cherubic, radiantly presided.
XIII
THE DRAFT ON PARIS
For close upon a month Soames performed the duties imposed upon him
in the household of Henry Leroux. He was unable to discover,
despite a careful course of inquiry from the cook and the
housemaid, that Mrs. Leroux frequently absented herself. But the
servants were newly engaged, for the flat in Palace Mansions had
only recently been leased by the Leroux. He gathered that they had
formerly lived much abroad, and that their marriage had taken place
in Paris. Mrs. Leroux had been to visit a friend in the French
capital once, he understood, since the housemaid had been in her
employ.
The mistress (said the housemaid) did not care twopence-ha'penny
for her husband; she had married him for his money, and for nothing
else. She had had an earlier love (declared the cook) and was
pining away to a mere shadow because of her painful memories.
During the last six months (the period of the cook's service) Mrs.
Leroux had altered out of all recognition. The cook was of opinion
that she drank secretly.
Of Mr. Leroux, Soames formed the poorest opinion. He counted him a
spiritless being, whose world was bounded by his book-shelves, and
whose wife would be a fool if she did not avail herself of the
liberty which his neglect invited her to enjoy. Soames felt
himself, not a snake in the grass, but a benefactor--a friend in
need--a champion come to the defense of an unhappy and persecuted
woman.
He wondered when an opportunity should arise which would enable him
to commence his chivalrous operations; almost daily he anticipated
instructions to the effect that Mrs. Leroux would be leaving for
Paris immediately. But the days glided by and the weeks glided by,
without anything occurring to break the monotony of the Leroux
household.
Mr. Soames sought an opportunity to express his respectful
readiness to Mrs. Leroux; but the lady was rarely visible outside
her own apartments until late in the day, when she would be engaged
in preparing for the serious business of the evening: one night a
dance, another, a bridge-party; so it went. Mr. Leroux rarely
joined her upon these festive expeditions, but clung to his study
like Diogenes to his tub.
Great was Mr. Soames' contempt; bitter were the reproaches of the
cook; dark were the predictions of the housemaid.
At last, however, Soames, feeling himself neglected, seized an
opportunity which offered to cement the secret bond (the TOO secret
bond) existing between himself and the mistress of the house.
Meeting her one afternoon in the lobby, which she was crossing on
the way from her bedroom to the drawing-room, he stood aside to let
her pass, whispering:
"At your service, whenever you are ready, madam!"
It was a non-committal remark, which, if she chose to keep up the
comedy, he could explain away by claiming it to refer to the
summoning of the car from the garage--for Mrs. Leroux was driving
out that afternoon.
She did not endeavor to evade the occult meaning of the words,
however. In the wearily dreamy manner which, when first he had
seen her, had aroused Soames' respectful interest, she raised her
thin hand to her hair, slowly pressing it back from her brow, and
directed her big eyes vacantly upon him.
"Yes, Soames," she said (her voice had a faraway quality in keeping
with the rest of her personality), "Mr. King speaks well of you.
But please do not refer again to"--she glanced in a manner at once
furtive and sorrowful, in the direction of the study-door--"to the
. . . little arrangement of" . . .
She passed on, with the slow, gliding gait, which, together with
her fragility, sometimes lent her an almost phantomesque
appearance.
This was comforting, in its degree; since it proved that the
smiling Gianapolis had in no way misled him (Soames). But as a man
of business, Mr. Soames was not fully satisfied. He selected an
evening when Mrs. Leroux was absent--and indeed she was absent
almost every evening, for Leroux entertained but little. The cook
and the housemaid were absent, also; therefore, to all intents and
purposes, Soames had the flat to himself; since Henry Leroux
counted in that establishment, not as an entity, but rather as a
necessary, if unornamental, portion of the fittings.
Standing in the lobby, Soames raised the telephone receiver, and
having paused with closed eyes preparing the exact form of words in
which he should address his invisible employer, he gave the number:
East 18642.
Following a brief delay:--
"Yes," came a nasal voice, "who is it?"
"Soames! I want to speak to Mr. King!"
The words apparently surprised the man at the other end of the
wire, for he hesitated ere inquiring:--
"What did you say your name was?"
"Soames--Luke Soames."
"Hold on!"
Soames, with closed eyes, and holding the receiver to his ear,
silently rehearsed again the exact wording of his speech. Then:--
"Hullo!" came another voice--"is that Mr. Soames?"
"Yes! Is that Mr. Gianapolis speaking?"
"It is, my dear Soames!" replied the sing-song voice; and Soames,
closing his eyes again, had before him a mental picture of the
radiantly smiling Greek.
"Yes, my dear Soames," continued Gianapolis; "here I am. I hope
you are quite well--perfectly well?"
"I am perfectly well, thank you; but as a man of business, it has
occurred to me that failing a proper agreement--which in this case
I know would be impossible--a trifling advance on the first
quarter's" . . .
"On your salary, my dear Soames! On your salary? Payment for the
first quarter shall be made to you to-morrow, my dear Soames! Why
ever did you not express the wish before? Certainly, certainly!" . . .
"Will it be sent to me?"
"My dear fellow! How absurd you are! Can you get out to-morrow
evening about nine o'clock?"
"Yes, easily."
"Then I will meet you at the corner of Victoria Street, by the
hotel, and hand you your first quarter's salary. Will that be
satisfactory?"
"Perfectly," said Soames, his small eyes sparkling with avarice.
"Most decidedly, Mr. Gianapolis. Many thanks." . . .
"And by the way," continued the other, "it is rather fortunate that
you rang me up this evening, because it has saved me the trouble of
ringing you up."
"What?"--Soames' eyes half closed, from the bottom lids upwards:--
"there is something" . . .
"There is a trifling service which I require of you--yes, my dear
Soames."
"Is it?" . . .
"We will discuss the matter to-morrow evening. Oh! it is a mere
trifle. So good-by for the present."
Soames, with the fingers of his two hands interlocked before him,
and his thumbs twirling rapidly around one another, stood in the
lobby, gazing reflectively at the rug-strewn floor. He was working
out in his mind how handsomely this first payment would show up on
the welcome side of his passbook. Truly, he was fortunate in
having met the generous Gianapolis. . . .
He thought of a trifling indiscretion committed at the expense of
one Mr. Mapleson, and of the wine-bill of Colonel Hewett; and he
thought of the apparently clairvoyant knowledge of the Greek. A
cloud momentarily came between his perceptive and the rosy horizon.
But nearer to the foreground of the mental picture, uprose a left-
hand page of his pass book; and its tidings of great joy, written
in clerkly hand, served to dispel the cloud.
Soames sighed in gentle rapture, and, soft-footed, passed into his
own room.
Certainly his duties were neither difficult nor unpleasant. The
mistress of the house lived apparently in a hazy dream-world of her
own, and Mr. Leroux was the ultimate expression of the non-
commercial. Mr. Soames could have robbed him every day had he
desired to do so; but he had refrained from availing himself even
of those perquisites which he considered justly his; for it was
evident, to his limited intelligence, that greater profit was to be
gained by establishing himself in this household than by weeding-
out five shillings here, and half-a-sovereign there, at the risk of
untimely dismissal.
Yet--it was a struggle! All Mr. Soames' commercial instincts were
up in arms against this voice of a greater avarice which counseled
abstention. For instance: he could have added half-a-sovereign a
week to his earnings by means of a simple arrangement with the
local wine merchant. Leroux's cigars he could have sold by the
hundreds; for Leroux, when a friend called, would absently open a
new box, entirely forgetful of the fact that a box from which but
two--or at most three--cigars had been taken, lay already on the
bureau.
Mr. Soames, in order to put his theories to the test, had
temporarily abstracted half-a-dozen such boxes from the study and
the dining-room and had hidden them. Leroux, finding, as he
supposed, that he was out of cigars, had simply ordered Soames to
get him some more.
"Er--about a dozen boxes--er--Soames," he had said; "of the same
sort!"
Was ever a man of business submitted to such an ordeal? After
receiving those instructions, Soames had sat for close upon an hour
in his own room, contemplating the six broken boxes, containing in
all some five hundred and ninety cigars; but the voice within
prevailed; he must court no chance of losing his situation;
therefore, he "discovered" these six boxes in a cupboard--much to
Henry Leroux's surprise!
Then, Leroux regularly sent him to the Charing Cross branch of the
London County and Suburban Bank with open checks! Sometimes, he
would be sent to pay in, at other times to withdraw; the amounts
involved varying from one guinea to 150 pounds! But, as he told
himself, on almost every occasion that he went to Leroux's bank, he
was deliberately throwing money away, deliberately closing his eyes
to the good fortune which this careless and gullible man cast in
his path. He observed a scrupulous honesty in all these dealings,
with the result that the bank manager came to regard him as a
valuable and trustworthy servant, and said as much to the assistant
manager, expressing his wonder that Leroux--whose account
occasioned the bank more anxiety, and gave it more work, than that
of any other two depositors--had at last engaged a man who would
keep his business affairs in order!
And these were but a few of the golden apples which Mr. Soames
permitted to slip through his fingers, so steadfast was he in his
belief that Gianapolis would be as good as his word, and make his
fortune.
Leroux employed no secretary; and his MSS. were typed at his
agent's office. A most slovenly man in all things, and in business
matters especially, he was the despair, not only of his banker, but
of his broker; he was a man who, in professional parlance,
"deserved to be robbed." It is improbable that he had any but the
haziest ideas, at any particular time, respecting the state of his
bank balance and investments. He detested the writing of business
letters, and was always at great pains to avoid anything in the
nature of a commercial rendezvous. He would sign any document
which his lawyer or his broker cared to send him, with simple,
unquestioned faith.
His bank he never visited, and his appearance was entirely
unfamiliar to the staff. True, the manager knew him slightly,
having had two interviews with him: one when the account was
opened, and the second when Leroux introduced his solicitor and
broker--in order that in the future he might not be troubled in any
way with business affairs.
Mr. Soames perceived more and more clearly that the mild deception
projected was unlikely to be discovered by its victim; and, at the
appointed time, he hastened to the corner of Victoria Street, to
his appointment with Gianapolis. The latter was prompt, for Soames
perceived his radiant smile afar off.
The saloon bar of the Red Lion was affably proposed by Mr.
Gianapolis as a suitable spot to discuss the business. Soames
agreed, not without certain inward qualms; for the proximity of the
hostelry to New Scotland Yard was a disquieting circumstance.
However, since Gianapolis affected to treat their negotiations in
the light of perfectly legitimate business, he put up no protest,
and presently found himself seated in a very cozy corner of the
saloon bar, with a glass of whisky-and-soda on a little table
before him, bubbling in a manner which rendered it an agreeable and
refreshing sight in the eyes of Mr. Soames.
"You know," said Gianapolis, the gaze of his left eye bisecting
that of his right in a most bewildering manner, "they call this
'the 'tec's tabernacle!'"
"Indeed," said Soames, without enthusiasm; "I suppose some of the
Scotland Yard men do drop in now and then?"
"Beyond doubt, my dear Soames."
Soames responded to his companion's radiant smile with a smile of
his own by no means so pleasant to look upon. Soames had the type
of face which, in repose, might be the face of an honest man; but
his smile would have led to his instant arrest on any racecourse in
Europe: it was the smile of a pick-pocket.
"Now," continued Gianapolis, "here is a quarter's salary in
advance."
From a pocket-book, he took a little brown paper envelope and from
the brown paper envelope counted out four five-pound notes, five
golden sovereigns, one half-sovereign, and ten shillings' worth of
silver. Soames' eyes glittered, delightedly.
"A little informal receipt?" smiled Gianapolis, raising his
eyebrows, satanically. "Here on this page of my notebook I have
written: 'Received from Mr. King for service rendered, 26 pounds,
being payment, in advance, of amount due on 31st October 19--' I
have attached a stamp to the page, as you will see," continued
Gianapolis, "and here is a fountain-pen. Just sign across the
stamp, adding to-day's date."
Soames complied with willing alacrity; and Gianapolis having
carefully blotted the signature, replaced the notebook in his
pocket, and politely acknowledged the return of the fountain-pen.
Soames, glancing furtively about him, replaced the money in the
envelope, and thrust the latter carefully into a trouser pocket.
"Now," resumed Gianapolis, "we must not permit our affairs of
business to interfere with our amusements."
He stepped up to the bar and ordered two more whiskies with soda.
These being sampled, business was resumed.
"To-morrow," said Gianapolis, leaning forward across the table so
that his face almost touched that of his companion, "you will be
entrusted by Mr. Leroux with a commission." . . .
Soames nodded eagerly, his eyes upon the speaker's face.
"You will accompany Mrs. Leroux to the bank," continued Gianapolis,
"in order that she may write a specimen signature, in the presence
of the manager, for transmission to the Credit Lyonnais in
Paris." . . .
Soames nearly closed his little eyes in his effort to comprehend.
"A draft in her favor," continued the Greek, "has been purchased by
Mr. Leroux's bank from the Paris bank, and, on presentation of
this, a checkbook will be issued to Mrs. Leroux by the Credit
Lyonnais in Paris to enable her to draw at her convenience upon
that establishment against the said order. Do you follow me?"
Soames nodded rapidly, eager to exhibit an intelligent grasp of the
situation.
"Now"--Gianapolis lowered his voice impressively--"no one at the
Charing Cross branch of the London County and Suburban Bank has
ever seen Mrs. Leroux!--Oh! we have been careful of that, and we
shall be careful in the future. You are known already as an
accredited agent of Leroux; therefore"--he bent yet closer to
Soames' ear--"you will direct the chauffeur to drop you, not at the
Strand entrance, but at the side entrance. You follow?"
Soames, almost holding his breath, nodded again.
"At the end of the court, in which the latter entrance is situated,
a lady dressed in the same manner as Mrs. Leroux (this is arranged)
will be waiting. Mrs. Leroux will walk straight up the court, into
the corridor of Bank Chambers by the back entrance, and from thence
out into the Strand. YOU will escort the second lady into the
manager's office, and she will sign 'Mira Leroux' instead of the
real Mira Leroux." . . .
Soames became aware that he was changing color. This was a
superior felony, and as such it awed his little mind. It was
tantamount to burning his boats. Missing silver spoons and cooked
petty cash were trivialities usually expiable at the price of a
boot-assisted dismissal; but this--!
"You understand?" Gianapolis was not smiling, now. "There is not
the slightest danger. The signature of the lady whom you will meet
will be an exact duplicate of the real one; that is, exact enough
to deceive a man who is not looking for a forgery. But it would
not be exact enough to deceive the French banker--he WILL be
looking for a forgery. You follow me? The signature on the checks
drawn against the Credit Lyonnais will be the SAME as the specimen
forwarded by the London County and Suburban, since they will be
written by the same lady--the duplicate Mrs. Leroux. Therefore,
the French bank will have no means of detecting the harmless little
deception practised upon them, and the English bank, if it should
ever see those checks, will raise no question, since the checks
will have been honored by the Credit Lyonnais."
Soames finished his whisky-and-soda at a gulp.
"Finally," concluded Gianapolis, "you will escort the lady out by
the front entrance to the Strand. She will leave you and walk in
an easterly direction--making some suitable excuse if the manager
should insist upon seeing her to the door; and the real Mrs. Leroux
will come out by the Strand end of Bank Chambers' corridor, and
walk back with you around the corner to where the car will be
waiting. Perfect?"
"Quite," said Soames, huskily. . . .
But when, some twenty minutes later, he returned to Palace
Mansions, he was a man lost in thought; and he did not entirely
regain his wonted composure, and did not entirely shake off the
incubus, Doubt, until in his own room he had re-counted the
contents of the brown paper envelope. Then:--
"It's safe enough," he muttered; "and it's worth it!"
Thus it came about that, on the following morning, Leroux called
him into the study and gave him just such instructions as
Gianapolis had outlined the evening before.
"I am--er--too busy to go myself, Soames," said Leroux, "and--er--
Mrs. Leroux will shortly be paying a visit to friends in--er--in
Paris. So that I am opening a credit there for her. Save so much
trouble--and--such a lot of--correspondence--international money
orders--and such worrying things. Mr. Smith, the manager, knows
you and you will take this letter of authority. The draft I
understand has already been purchased."
Mr. Soames was bursting with anxiety to learn the amount of this
draft, but could find no suitable opportunity to inquire. The
astonishing deception, then, was carried out without anything
resembling a hitch. Mrs. Leroux went through with her part in the
comedy, in the dreamy manner of a somnambulist; and the duplicate
Mrs. Leroux, who waited at the appointed spot, had achieved so
startling a resemblance to her prototype, that Mr. Soames became
conscious of a craving for a peg of brandy at the moment of setting
eyes upon her. However, he braced himself up and saw the business
through.
As was to be expected, no questions were raised and no doubts
entertained. The bank manager was very courteous and very
reserved, and the fictitious Mrs. Leroux equally reserved, indeed,
cold. She avoided raising her motor veil, and, immediately the
business was concluded, took her departure, Mr. Smith escorting her
as far as the door.
She walked away toward Fleet Street, and the respectful attendant,
Soames, toward Charing Cross; he rejoined Mrs. Leroux at the door
of Bank Chambers, and the two turned the corner and entered the
waiting car. Soames was rather nervous; Mrs. Leroux quite
apathetic.
Shortly after this event, Soames learnt that the date of Mrs.
Leroux's departure to Paris was definitely fixed. He received from
her hands a large envelope.
"For Mr. King," she said, in her dreamy fashion; and he noticed
that she seemed to be in poorer health than usual. Her mouth
twitched strangely; she was a nervous wreck.
Then came her departure, attended by a certain bustle, an
appointment with Mr. Gianapolis; and the delivery of the parcel
into that gentleman's keeping.
Mrs. Leroux was away for six days on this occasion. Leroux sent
her three postcards during that time, and re-addressed some ten or
twelve letters which arrived for her. The address in all cases
was:
c/o Miss Denise Ryland,
Atelier 4, Rue du Coq d'Or,
Montmartre,
Paris.
East 18642 was much in demand that week; and there were numerous
meetings between Soames and Gianapolis at the corner of Victoria
Street, and numerous whiskies-and-sodas in the Red Lion; for
Gianapolis persisted in his patronage of that establishment,
apparently for no other reason than because it was dangerously near
to Scotland Yard, and an occasional house of call for members of
the Criminal Investigation Department.
Thus did Mr. Soames commence his career of duplicity at the flat of
Henry Leroux; and for some twelve months before the events which so
dramatically interfered with the delightful scheme, he drew his
double salary and performed his perfidious work with great
efficiency and contentment. Mrs. Leroux paid four other visits to
Paris during that time, and always returned in much better spirits,
although pale and somewhat haggard looking. It fell to the lot of
Soames always to meet her at Charing Cross; but never once, by look
or by word, did she proffer, or invite, the slightest exchange of
confidence. She apathetically accepted his aid in conducting this
intrigue as she would have accepted his aid in putting on her
opera-cloak.
The curious Soames had read right through the telephone directory
from A to Z in quest of East 18642--only to learn that no such
number was published. His ingenuity not being great, he could
think of no means to learn the address of the mysterious Mr. King.
So keenly had he been impressed with the omniscience of that
shadowy being who knew all his past, that he feared to inquire of
the Eastern Exchange. His banking account was growing handsomely,
and, above all things, he dreaded to kill the goose that laid the
golden eggs.
Then came the night which shattered all. Having rung up East 18642
and made an appointment with Gianapolis in regard to some letters
for Mrs. Leroux, he had been surprised, on reaching the corner of
Victoria Street, to find that Gianapolis was not there! He glanced
up at the face of Big Ben. Yes--for the first time during their
business acquaintance, Mr. Gianapolis was late!
For close upon twenty minutes, Soames waited, walking slowly up and
down. When, at last, coming from the direction of Westminster, he
saw the familiar spruce figure.
Eagerly he hurried forward to meet the Greek; but Gianapolis--to
the horror and amazement of Soames--affected not to know him! He
stepped aside to avoid the stupefied butler, and passed. But, in
passing, he hissed these words at Soames:--
"Follow to Victoria Street Post Office! Pretend to post letters at
next box to me and put them in my hand!"
He was gone!
Soames, dazed at this new state of affairs, followed him at a
discreet distance. Gianapolis ran up the Post Office steps
briskly, and Soames, immediately afterwards, ascended also--
furtively. Gianapolis was taking out a number of letters from his
pocket.
Soames walked across to the "Country" box on his right, and
affected to scrutinize the addresses on the envelopes of Mrs.
Leroux's correspondence.
Gianapolis, on the pretense of posting a country letter, reached
out and snatched the correspondence from Soames' hand. The gaze of
his left eye crookedly sought the face of the butler.
"Go home!" whispered Gianapolis; "be cautious!"
XIV
EAST 18642
In a pitiable state of mind, Soames walked away from the Post
Office. Gianapolis had hurried off in the direction of Victoria
Station. Something was wrong! Some part of the machine, of the
dimly divined machine whereof he formed a cog, was out of gear.
Since the very nature of this machine--its construction and
purpose, alike--was unknown to Soames, he had no basis upon which
to erect surmises for good or ill.
His timid inquiries into the identity of East 18642 had begun and
terminated with his labored perusal of the telephone book, a
profitless task which had occupied him for the greater part of an
evening.
The name, Gianapolis, did not appear at all; whereas there proved
to be some two hundred and ninety Kings. But, oddly, only four of
these were on the Eastern Exchange; one was a veterinary surgeon;
one a boat-builder; and a third a teacher of dancing. The fourth,
an engineer, seemed a "possible" to Soames, although his published
number was not 18642; but a brief--a very brief--conversation,
convinced the butler that this was not his man.
He had been away from the flat for over an hour, and he doubted if
even the lax sense of discipline possessed by Mr. Leroux would
enable that gentleman to overlook this irregularity. Soames had a
key of the outer door, and he built his hopes upon the possibility
that Leroux had not noticed his absence and would not hear his
return.
He opened the door very quietly, but had scarcely set his foot in
the lobby ere the dreadful, unforgettable scene met his gaze.
For more years than he could remember, he had lived in dread of the
law; and, in Luke Soames' philosophy, the words Satan and Detective
were interchangeable. Now, before his eyes, was a palpable,
unmistakable police officer; and on the floor . . .
Just one glimpse he permitted himself--and, in a voice that seemed
to reach him from a vast distance, the detective was addressing
HIM! . . .
Slinking to his room, with his craven heart missing every fourth
beat, and his mind in chaos, Soames sank down upon the bed, locked
his hands together and hugged them, convulsively, between his
knees.
It was come! He had overstepped that almost invisible boundary-
line which divides indiscretion from crime. He knew now that the
voice within him, the voice which had warned him against Gianapolis
and against becoming involved in what dimly he had perceived to be
an elaborate scheme, had been, not the voice of cowardice (as he
had supposed) but that of prudence.
And it was too late. The dead woman, he told himself--he had been
unable to see her very clearly--undoubtedly was Mrs. Leroux. What
in God's name had happened! Probably her husband had killed her . . .
which meant? It meant that proofs--PROOFS--were come into his
possession; and who should be involved, entangled in the meshes of
this fallen conspiracy, but himself, Luke Soames!
As must be abundantly evident, Soames was not a criminal of the
daring type; he did not believe in reaching out for anything until
he was well assured that he could, if necessary, draw back his
hand. This last venture, this regrettable venture--this ruinous
venture--had been a mistake. He had entered into it under the
glamour of Gianapolis' personality. Of what use, now, to him was
his swelling bank balance?
But in justice to the mental capacity of Soames, it must be
admitted that he had not entirely overlooked such a possibility as
this; he had simply refrained, for the good of his health, from
contemplating it.
Long before, he had observed, with interest, that, should an
emergency arise (such as a fire), a means of egress had been placed
by the kindly architect adjacent to his bedroom window. Thus, his
departure on the night of the murder was not the fruit of a sudden
scheme, but of one well matured.
Closing and locking his bedroom door, Soames threw out upon the bed
the entire contents of his trunk; selected those things which he
considered indispensable, and those which might constitute clues.
He hastily packed his grip, and, with a last glance about the room
and some seconds of breathless listening at the door, he attached
to the handle a long piece of cord, which at some time had been
tied about his trunk, and, gently opening the window, lowered the
grip into the courtyard beneath. The light he had already
extinguished, and with the conviction dwelling in his bosom that in
some way he was become accessory to a murder--that he was a man
shortly to be pursued by the police of the civilized world--he
descended the skeleton lift-shaft, picked up his grip, and passed
out under the archway into the lane at the back of Palace Mansions
and St. Andrew's Mansions.
He did not proceed in the direction which would have brought him
out into the Square, but elected to emerge through the other end.
At exactly the moment that Inspector Dunbar rushed into his vacated
room, Mr. Soames, grip in hand, was mounting to the top of a
southward bound 'bus at the corner of Parliament Street!
He was conscious of a need for reflection. He longed to sit in
some secluded spot in order to think. At present, his brain was a
mere whirligig, and all things about him seemingly danced to the
same tune. Stationary objects were become unstable in the eyes of
Soames, and the solid earth, burst free of its moorings, no longer
afforded him a safe foothold. There was a humming in his ears; and
a mist floated before his eyes. By the time that the motor-'bus
was come to the south side of the bridge, Soames had succeeded in
slowing down his mental roundabout in some degree; and now he began
grasping at the flying ideas which the diminishing violence of his
brain storm enabled him, vaguely, to perceive.
The first fruits of his reflections were bitter. He viewed the
events of the night in truer focus; he saw that by his flight he
had sealed his fate--had voluntarily outlawed himself. It became
frightfully evident to him that he dared not seek to draw from his
bank, that he dared not touch even his modest Post Office account.
With the exception of some twenty-five shillings in his pocket, he
was penniless!
How could he hope to fly the country, or even to hide himself,
without money?
He glanced suspiciously about the 'bus; for he perceived that an
old instinct had prompted him to mount one which passed the Oval--a
former point of debarkation when he lived in rooms near Kennington
Park. Someone might recognize him!
Furtively, he scanned his fellow passengers, but perceived no
acquaintance.
What should he do--where should he go? It was a desperate
situation.
The inspector who had cared to study that furtive, isolated figure,
could not have failed to mark it for that of a hunted man.
At Kennington Gate the 'bus made a halt. Soames glanced at the
clock on the corner. It was close upon one A. M. Where in
heaven's name should he go? What a fool he had been to come to
this district where he was known!
Stay! There was one man in London, surely, who must be almost as
keenly interested in the fate of Luke Soames as Luke Soames himself
. . . Gianapolis!
Soames sprang up and hurried off the 'bus. No public telephone box
would be available at that hour, but dire need spurred his slow
mind and also lent him assurance. He entered the office of the
taxicab depot on the next corner, and, from the man whom he found
in charge, solicited and obtained the favor of using the telephone.
Lifting the receiver, he asked for East 18642.
The seconds that elapsed, now, were as hours of deathly suspense to
the man at the telephone. If the number should be engaged! . . .
If the exchange could get no reply! . . .
"Hullo!" said a nasal voice--"who is it?"
"It is Soames--and I want to speak to Mr. King!"
He lowered his tone as much as possible, almost whispering his own
name. He knew the voice which had answered him; it was the same
that he always heard when ringing up East 18642. But would
Gianapolis come to the telephone? Suddenly--
"Is that Soames?" spoke the sing-song voice of the Greek.
"Yes, yes!"
"Where are you?"
"At Kennington."
"Are they following you?"
"No--I don't think so, at least; what am I to do? Where am I to
go?"
"Get to Globe Road--near Stratford Bridge, East, without delay.
But whatever you do, see that you are not followed! Globe Road is
the turning immediately beyond the Railway Station. It is not too
late, perhaps, to get a 'bus or tram, for some part of the way, at
any rate. But even if the last is gone, don't take a cab; walk.
When you get to Globe Road, pass down on the left-hand side, and,
if necessary, right to the end. Make sure you are not followed,
then walk back again. You will receive a signal from an open door.
Come right in. Good-by."
Soames replaced the receiver on the hook, uttering a long-drawn
sigh of relief. The arbiter of his fortunes had not failed him!
"Thank you very much!" he said to the man in charge of the office,
who had been bending over his books and apparently taking not the
slightest interest in the telephone conversation. Soames placed
twopence, the price of the call, on the desk. "Good night."
"Good night."
He hastened out of the gate and across the road. An electric
tramcar which would bear him as far as the Elephant-and-Castle was
on the point of starting from the corner. Grip in hand, Soames
boarded the car and mounted to the top deck. He was in some doubt
respecting his mode of travel from the next point onward, but the
night was fine, even if he had to walk, and his reviving spirits
would cheer him with visions of a golden future!
His money!--That indeed was a bitter draught: the loss of his
hardly earned savings! But he was now established--linked by a
common secret--in partnership with Gianapolis; he was one of that
mysterious, obviously wealthy group which arranged drafts on Paris--
which could afford to pay him some hundreds of pounds per annum
for such a trifling service as juggling the mail!
Mr. King!--If Gianapolis were only the servant, what a magnificent
man of business must be hidden beneath the cognomen, Mr. King! And
he was about to meet that lord of mystery. Fear and curiosity were
oddly blended in the anticipation.
By great good fortune, Soames arrived at the Elephant-and-Castle in
time to catch an eastward bound motor-'bus, a 'bus which would
actually carry him to the end of Globe Road. He took his seat on
top, and with greater composure than he had known since his
dramatic meeting with Gianapolis in Victoria Street, lighted one of
Mr. Leroux's cabanas (with which he invariably kept his case
filled) and settled down to think about the future.
His reflections served apparently to shorten the journey; and
Soames found himself proceeding along Globe Road--a dark and
uninviting highway--almost before he realized that London Bridge
had been traversed. It was now long past one o'clock; and that
part of the east-end showed dreary and deserted. Public houses had
long since ejected their late guests, and even those argumentative
groups, which, after closing-time, linger on the pavements, within
the odor Bacchanalian, were dispersed. The jauntiness was gone,
now, from Soames' manner, and aware of a marked internal
depression, he passed furtively along the pavement with its long
shadowy reaches between the islands of light formed by the street
lamps. From patch to patch he passed, and each successive lamp
that looked down upon him found him more furtive, more bent in his
carriage.
Not a shop nor a house exhibited any light. Sleeping Globe Road,
East, served to extinguish the last poor spark of courage within
Soames' bosom. He came to the extreme end of the road without
having perceived a beckoning hand, without having detected a sound
to reveal that his advent was observed. In the shadow of a wall he
stopped, resting his grip upon the pavement and looking back upon
his tracks.
No living thing moved from end to end of Globe Road.
Shivering slightly, Soames picked up the bag and began to walk
back. Less than half-way along, an icy chill entered into his
veins, and his nerves quivered like piano wires, for a soft crying
of his name came, eerie, through the silence, and terrified the
hearer.
"SOAMES! . . . SOAMES!" . . .
Soames stopped dead, breathing very rapidly, and looking about him
right and left. He could hear the muted pulse of sleeping London.
Then, in the dark doorway of the house before which he stood, he
perceived, dimly, a motionless figure. His first sensation was not
of relief, but of fear. The figure raised a beckoning hand.
Soames, conscious that his course was set and that he must navigate
it accordingly, opened the iron gate, passed up the path and
entered the house to which he thus had been summoned. . . .
He found himself surrounded by absolute darkness, and the door was
closed behind him.
"Straight ahead, Soames!" said the familiar voice of Gianapolis out
of the darkness.
Soames, with a gasp of relief, staggered on. A hand rested upon
his shoulder, and he was guided into a room on the right of the
passage. Then an electric lamp was lighted, and he found himself
confronting the Greek.
But Gianapolis was no longer radiant; all the innate evil of the
man shone out through the smirking mask.
"Sit down, Soames!" he directed.
Soames, placing his bag upon the floor, seated himself in a cane
armchair. The room was cheaply furnished as an office, with a
roll-top desk, a revolving chair, and a filing cabinet. On a side-
table stood a typewriter, and about the room were several other
chairs, whilst the floor was covered with cheap linoleum.
Gianapolis sat in the revolving chair, staring at the lowered
blinds of the window, and brushing up the points of his black
mustache.
With a fine white silk handkerchief Soames gently wiped the
perspiration from his forehead and from the lining of his hat-band.
Gianapolis began abruptly:--
"There has been an--accident" (he continued to brush his mustache,
with increasing rapidity). "Tell me all that took place after you
left the Post Office."
Soames nervously related his painful experiences of the evening,
whilst Gianapolis drilled his mustache to a satanic angle. The
story being concluded:
"Whatever has happened?" groaned Soames; "and what am I to do?"
"What you are to do," replied Gianapolis, "will be arranged, my
dear Soames, by--Mr. King. Where you are to go, is a problem
shortly settled: you are to go nowhere; you are to stay here." . . .
"Here!"
Soames gazed drearily about the room.
"Not exactly here--this is merely the office; but at our
establishment proper in Limehouse." . . .
"Limehouse!"
"Certainly. Although you seem to be unaware of the fact, Soames,
there are some charming resorts in Limehouse; and your duties, for
the present, will confine you to one of them."
"But--but," hesitated Soames, "the police" . . .
"Unless my information is at fault," said Gianapolis, "the police
have no greater chance of paying us a visit, now, than they had
formerly." . . .
"But Mrs. Leroux" . . .
"Mrs. Leroux!"
Gianapolis twirled around in the chair, his eyes squinting
demoniacally:--"Mrs. Leroux!"
"She--she" . . .
"What about Mrs. Leroux?"
"Isn't she dead?"
"Dead! Mrs. Leroux! You are laboring under a strange delusion,
Soames. The lady whom you saw was not Mrs. Leroux."
Soames' brain began to fail him again.
"Then who," he began. . . .
"That doesn't concern you in the least, Soames. But what does
concern you is this: your connection, and my connection, with the
matter cannot possibly be established by the police. The incident
is regrettable, but the emergency was dealt with--in time. It
represents a serious deficit, unfortunately, and your own
usefulness, for the moment, becomes nil; but we shall have to look
after you, I suppose, and hope for better things in the future."
He took up the telephone.
"East 39951," he said, whilst Soames listened, attentively. Then:--
"Is that Kan-Suh Concessions?" he asked. "Yes--good! Tell Said to
bring the car past the end of the road at a quarter-to-two. That's
all."
He hung up the receiver.
"Now, my dear Soames," he said, with a faint return to his old
manner, "you are about to enter upon new duties. I will make your
position clear to you. Whilst you do your work, and keep yourself
to yourself, you are in no danger; but one indiscretion--just one--
apart from what it may mean for others, will mean, for YOU,
immediate arrest as accessory to a murder!"
Soames shuddered, coldly.
"You can rely upon me, Mr. Gianapolis," he protested, "to do
absolutely what you wish--absolutely. I am a ruined man, and I
know it--I know it. My only hope is that you will give me a
chance." . . .
"You shall have every chance, Soames," replied Gianapolis--"every
chance."
XV
CAVE OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON
When the car stopped at the end of a short drive, Soames had not
the slightest idea of his whereabouts. The blinds at the window of
the limousine had been lowered during the whole journey, and now he
descended from the step of the car on to the step of a doorway. He
was in some kind of roofed-in courtyard, only illuminated by the
headlamps of the car. Mr. Gianapolis pushed him forward, and, as
the door was closed, he heard the gear of the car reversed; then--
silence fell.
"My grip!" he began, nervously.
"It will be placed in your room, Soames."
The voice of the Greek answered him from the darkness.
Guided by the hand of Gianapolis, he passed on and descended a
flight of stone steps. Ahead of him a light shone out beneath a
door, and, as he stumbled on the steps, the door was thrown
suddenly open.
He found himself looking into a long, narrow apartment. . . . He
pulled up short with a smothered, gasping cry.
It was a cavern!--but a cavern the like of which he had never seen,
never imagined. The walls had the appearance of being rough-hewn
from virgin rock--from black rock--from rock black as the rocks of
Shellal--black as the gates of Erebus.
Placed at regular intervals along the frowning walls, to right and
left, were spiral, slender pillars, gilded and gleaming. They
supported an archwork of fancifully carven wood, which curved
gently outward to the center of the ceiling, forming, by
conjunction with a similar, opposite curve, a pointed arch.
In niches of the wall were a number of grotesque Chinese idols.
The floor was jet black and polished like ebony. Several tiger-
skin rugs were strewn about it. But, dominating the strange place,
in the center of the floor stood an ivory pedestal, supporting a
golden dragon of exquisite workmanship; and before it, as before a
shrine, an enormous Chinese vase was placed, of the hue, at its
base, of deepest violet, fading, upward, through all the shades of
rose pink seen in an Egyptian sunset, to a tint more elusive than a
maiden's blush. It contained a mass of exotic poppies of every
shade conceivable, from purple so dark as to seem black, to poppies
of the whiteness of snow.
Just within the door, and immediately in front of Soames, stood a
slim man of about his own height, dressed with great nicety in a
perfectly fitting morning-coat, his well-cut cashmere trousers
falling accurately over glossy boots having gray suede uppers. His
linen was immaculate, and he wore a fine pearl in his black poplin
cravat. Between two yellow fingers smoldered a cigarette.
Soames, unconsciously, clenched his fists: this slim man embodied
the very spirit of the outre. The fantastic surroundings melted
from the ken of Soames, and he seemed to stand in a shadow-world,
alone with an incarnate shadow.
For this was a Chinaman! His jet black lusterless hair was not
shaven in the national manner, but worn long, and brushed back from
his slanting brow with no parting, so that it fell about his white
collar behind, lankly. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, which
magnified his oblique eyes and lent him a terrifying beetle-like
appearance. His mephistophelean eyebrows were raised
interrogatively, and he was smiling so as to exhibit a row of
uneven yellow teeth.
Soames, his amazement giving place to reasonless terror, fell back
a step--into the arms of Gianapolis.
"This is our friend from Palace Mansions," said the Greek. He
squeezed Soames' arm, reassuringly. "Your new principal, Soames,
Mr. Ho-Pin, from whom you will take your instructions."
"I have these instructions for Mr. Soames," said Ho-Pin, in a
metallic, monotonous voice. (He gave to r half the value of w,
with a hint of the presence of l.) 'He will wremain here as valet
until the search fowr him becomes less wrigowrous."
Soames, scarce believing that he was awake, made no reply. He
found himself unable to meet the glittering eyes of the Chinaman;
he glanced furtively about the room, prepared at any moment to wake
up from what seemed to him an absurd, a ghostly dream.
"Said will change his appeawrance," continued Ho-Pin, smoothly, "so
that he will not wreadily be wrecognized. Said will come now."
Ho-Pin clapped his hands three times.
The door at the end of the room immediately opened, and a thick-set
man of a pronounced Arabian type, entered. He wore a chauffeur's
livery of dark blue; and Soames recognized him for the man who had
driven the car.
"Said," said Ho-Pin very deliberately, turning to face the new
arrival, "ahu hina--Lucas Effendi--Mr. Lucas. Waddi el--shenta ila
beta oda. Fehimt?"
Said bowed his head.
"Fahim, effendi," he muttered rapidly.
"Ma fihsh." . . .
Again Said bowed his head, then, glancing at Soames:--
"Ta'ala wayyaya!" he said.
Soames, looking helplessly at Gianapolis--who merely pointed to the
door--followed Said from the room.
He was conducted along a wide passage, thickly carpeted and having
its walls covered with a kind of matting kept in place by strips of
bamboo. Its roof was similarly concealed. A door near to the end,
and on the right, proved to open into a square room quite simply
furnished in the manner of a bed-sitting room. A little bathroom
opened out of it in one corner. The walls were distempered white,
and there was no window. Light was furnished by an electric lamp,
hanging from the center of the ceiling.
Soames, glancing at his bag, which Said had just placed beside the
white-enameled bedstead, turned to his impassive guide.
"This is a funny go!" he began, with forced geniality. "Am I to
live here?"
"Ma'lesh!" muttered Said--"ma'lesh!"
He indicated, by gestures, that Soames should remove his collar; he
was markedly unemotional. He crossed to the bathroom, and could be
heard filling the hand-basin with water.
"Kursi!" he called from within.
Soames, seriously doubting his own sanity, and so obsessed with a
sense of the unreal that his senses were benumbed, began to take
off his collar; he could not feel the contact of his fingers
with his neck in the act. Collarless, he entered the little
bathroom. . . .
"Kursi!" repeated Said; then: "Ah! ana nesit! ma'lesh!"
Said--whilst Soames, docile in his stupor, watched him--went back,
picked up the solitary cane chair which the apartment boasted, and
brought it into the bathroom. Soames perceived that he was to be
treated to something in the nature of a shampoo; for Said had
ranged a number of bottles, a cake of soap, and several towels,
along a shelf over the bath.
In a curious state of passivity, Soames submitted to the operation.
His hair was vigorously toweled, then fanned in the most approved
fashion; but this was no more than the beginning of the operation.
As he leaned back in the chair:
"Am I dreaming?" he said aloud. "What's all this about?"
"Uskut!" muttered Said--"Uskut!"
Soames, at no time an aggressive character, resigned himself to the
incredible.
Some lotion, which tingled slightly upon the scalp, was next
applied by Said from a long-necked bottle. Then, fresh water
having been poured into the basin, a dark purple liquid was added,
and Soames' head dipped therein by the operating Eastern. This
time no rubbing followed, but after some minutes of vigorous
fanning, he was thrust back into the chair, and a dry towel tucked
firmly into his collar-band. He anticipated that he was about to
be shaved, and in this was not disappointed.
Said, filling a shaving-mug from the hot-water tap, lathered
Soames' chin and the abbreviated whiskers upon which he had prided
himself. Then the razor was skilfully handled, and Soames' face
shaved until his chin was as smooth as satin.
Next, a dark brown solution was rubbed over the skin, and even upon
his forehead and right into the roots of the hair; upon his throat,
his ears, and the back of his neck. He was now past the putting of
questions or the raising of protest; he was as clay in the hands of
the silent Oriental. Having fanned his wet face again for some
time, Said, breaking the long silence, muttered:
"Ikfil'iyyun!"
Soames stared. Said indicated, by pantomime, that he desired him
to close his eyes, and Soames obeyed mechanically. Thereupon the
Oriental busied himself with the ex-butler's not very abundant
lashes for five minutes or more. Then the busy fingers were at
work with his inadequate eyebrows: finally:--
"Khalas!" muttered Said, tapping him on the shoulder.
Soames wearily opened his eyes, wondering if his strange martyrdom
were nearly at its end. He discovered his hair to be still rather
damp, but, since it was sparse, it was rapidly drying. His eyes
smarted painfully.
Removing all trace of his operations, Said, with no word of
farewell, took up his towels, bottles and other paraphernalia and
departed.
Soames watched the retreating figure crossing the outer room, but
did not rise from the chair until the door had closed behind Said.
Then, feeling strangely like a man who has drunk too heavily, he
stood up and walked into the bedroom. There was a small shaving-
glass upon the chest-of-drawers, and to this he advanced, filled
with the wildest apprehensions.
One glance he ventured, and started back with a groan.
His apprehensions had fallen short of the reality. With one hand
clutching the bedrail, he stood there swaying from side to side,
and striving to screw up his courage to the point whereat he might
venture upon a second glance in the mirror. At last he succeeded,
looking long and pitifully.
"Oh, Lord!" he groaned, "what a guy!"
Beyond doubt he was strangely changed. By nature, Luke Soames had
hair of a sandy color; now it was of so dark a brown as to seem
black in the lamplight. His thin eyebrows and scanty lashes were
naturally almost colorless; but they were become those of a
pronounced brunette. He was of pale complexion, but to-night had
the face of a mulatto, or of one long in tropical regions. In
short, he was another man--a man whom he detested at first sight!
This was the price, or perhaps only part of the price, of his
indiscretion. Mr. Soames was become Mr. Lucas. Clutching the top
of the chest-of-drawers with both hands, he glared at his own
reflection, dazedly.
In that pose, he was interrupted. Said, silently opening the door
behind him, muttered:
"Ta'ala wayyaya!"
Soames whirled around in a sudden panic, his heart leaping madly.
The immobile brown face peered in at the door.
"Ta'ala wayyaya!" repeated Said, his face expressionless as a mask.
He pointed along the corridor. "Ho-Pin Effendi!" he explained.
Soames, raising his hands to his collarless neck, made a swallowing
noise, and would have spoken; but:
"Ta'ala wayyaya!" reiterated the Oriental.
Soames hesitated no more. Reentering the corridor, with its straw-
matting walls, he made a curious discovery. Away to the left it
terminated in a blank, matting-covered wall. There was no
indication of the door by which he had entered it. Glancing
hurriedly to the right, he failed also to perceive any door there.
The bespectacled Ho-Pin stood halfway along the passage, awaiting
him. Following Said in that direction, Soames was greeted with the
announcement:
"Mr. King will see you."
The words taught Soames that his capacity for emotion was by no
means exhausted. His endless conjectures respecting the mysterious
Mr. King were at last to be replaced by facts; he was to see him,
to speak with him. He knew now that it was a fearful privilege
which gladly he would have denied himself.
Ho-Pin opened a door almost immediately behind him, a door the
existence of which had not hitherto been evident to Soames.
Beyond, was a dark passage.
"You will follow me, closely," said Ho-Pin with one of his piercing
glances.
Soames, finding his legs none too steady, entered the passage
behind Ho-Pin. As he did so, the door was closed by Said, and he
found himself in absolute darkness.
"Keep close behind me," directed the metallic voice.
Soames could not see the speaker, since no ray of light penetrated
into the passage. He stretched out a groping hand, and, although
he was conscious of an odd revulsion, touched the shoulder of the
man in front of him and maintained that unpleasant contact whilst
they walked on and on through apparently endless passages,
extensive as a catacomb. Many corners they turned; they turned to
the right, they turned to the left. Soames was hopelessly
bewildered. Then, suddenly, Ho-Pin stopped.
"Stand still," he said.
Soames became vaguely aware that a door was being closed somewhere
near to him. A lamp lighted up directly over his head . . . he
found himself in a small library!
Its four walls were covered with book-shelves from floor to
ceiling, and the shelves were packed to overflowing with books in
most unusual and bizarre bindings. A red carpet was on the floor
and a red-shaded lamp hung from the ceiling, which was
conventionally white-washed. Although there was no fireplace, the
room was immoderately hot, and heavy with the perfume of roses. On
three little tables were great bowls filled with roses, and there
were other bowls containing roses in gaps between the books on the
open shelves.
A tall screen of beautifully carved sandalwood masked one corner of
the room, but beyond it protruded the end of a heavy writing-table
upon which lay some loose papers, and, standing amid them, an
enormous silver rose-bowl, brimming with sulphur-colored blooms.
Soames, obeying a primary instinct, turned, as the light leaped
into being, to seek the door by which he had entered. As he did
so, the former doubts of his own sanity returned with renewed
vigor.
The book-lined wall behind him was unbroken by any opening.
Slowly, as a man awaking from a stupor, Soames gazed around the
library.
It contained no door.
He rested his hand upon one of the shelves and closed his eyes.
Beyond doubt he was going mad! The tragic events of that night had
proved too much for him; he had never disguised from himself the
fact that his mental capacity was not of the greatest. He was
assured, now, that his brain had lost its balance shortly after his
flight from Palace Mansions, and that the events of the past two
hours had been phantasmal. He would presently return to sanity
(or, blasphemously, he dared to petition heaven that he would) and
find himself . . . ? Perhaps in the hands of the police!
"Oh, God!" he groaned--"Oh, God!"
He opened his eyes . . .
A woman stood before the sandalwood screen! She had the pallidly
dusky skin of a Eurasian, but, by virtue of nature or artifice, her
cheeks wore a peachlike bloom. Her features were flawless in their
chiseling, save for the slightly distended nostrils, and her black
eyes were magnificent.
She was divinely petite, slender and girlish; but there was that in
the lines of her figure, so seductively defined by her clinging
Chinese dress, in the poise of her small head, with the blush rose
nestling amid the black hair--above all in the smile of her full
red lips--which discounted the youth of her body; which whispered
"Mine is a soul old in strange sins--a soul for whom dead
Alexandria had no secrets, that learnt nothing of Athenean Thais
and might have tutored Messalina" . . .
In her fanciful robe of old gold, with her tiny feet shod in
ridiculously small, gilt slippers, she stood by the screen watching
the stupefied man--an exquisite, fragrantly youthful casket of
ancient, unnameable evils.
"Good evening, Soames!" she said, stumbling quaintly with her
English, but speaking in a voice musical as a silver bell. "You
will here be known as Lucas. Mr. King he wishing me to say that
you to receive two pounds, at each week." . . .
Soames, glassy-eyed, stood watching her. A horror, the horror of
insanity, had descended upon him--a clammy, rose-scented mantle.
The room, the incredible, book-lined room, was a red blur,
surrounding the black, taunting eyes of the Eurasian. Everything
was out of focus; past, present, and future were merged into a red,
rose-haunted nothingness . . .
"You will attend to Block A," resumed the girl, pointing at him
with a little fan. "You will also attend to the gentlemen." . . .
She laughed softly, revealing tiny white teeth; then paused, head
tilted coquettishly, and appeared to be listening to someone's
conversation--to the words of some person seated behind the screen.
This fact broke in upon Soames' disordered mind and confirmed him
in his opinion that he was a man demented. For only one slight
sound broke the silence of the room. The red carpet below the
little tables was littered with rose petals, and, in the super-
heated atmosphere, other petals kept falling--softly, with a gentle
rustling. Just that sound there was . . . and no other. Then:
"Mr. King he wishing to point out to you," said the girl, "that he
hold receipts of you, which bind you to him. So you will be free
man, and have liberty to go out sometimes for your own business.
Mr. King he wishing to hear you say you thinking to agree with the
conditions and be satisfied."
She ceased speaking, but continued to smile; and so complete was
the stillness, that Soames, whose sense of hearing had become
nervously stimulated, heard a solitary rose petal fall upon the
corner of the writing-table.
"I . . . agree," he whispered huskily; "and . . . I am . . .
satisfied."
He looked at the carven screen as a lost soul might look at the
gate of Hades; he felt now that if a sound should come from beyond
it he would shriek out, he would stop up his ears; that if the
figure of the Unseen should become visible, he must die at the
first glimpse of it.
The little brown girl was repeating the uncanny business of
listening to that voice of silence; and Soames knew that he could
not sustain his part in this eerie comedy for another half-minute
without breaking out into hysterical laughter. Then:
"Mr. King he releasing you for to-night," announced the silver bell
voice.
The light went out.
Soames uttered a groan of terror, followed by a short, bubbling
laugh, but was seized firmly by the arm and led on into the
blackness--on through the solid, book-laden walls, presumably; and
on--on--on, along those interminable passages by which he had come.
Here the air was cooler, and the odor of roses no longer
perceptible, no longer stifling him, no longer assailing his
nostrils, not as an odor of sweetness, but as a perfume utterly
damnable and unholy.
With his knees trembling at every step, he marched on, firmly
supported by his unseen companion.
"Stop!" directed a metallic, guttural voice.
Soames pulled up, and leaned weakly against the wall. He heard the
clap of hands close behind him; and a door opened within twelve
inches of the spot whereat he stood.
He tottered out into the matting-lined corridor from which he had
started upon that nightmare journey; Ho-Pin appeared at his elbow,
but no door appeared behind Ho-Pin!
"This is your wroom," said the Chinaman, revealing his yellow teeth
in a mirthless smile.
He walked across the corridor, threw open a door--a real, palpable
door . . . and there was Soames' little white room!
Soames staggered across, for it seemed a veritable haven of refuge--
entered, and dropped upon the bed. He seemed to see the rose-
petals fall--fall--falling in that red room in the labyrinth--the
room that had no door; he seemed to see the laughing eyes of the
beautiful Eurasian.
"Good night!" came the metallic voice of Ho-Pin.
The light in the corridor went out.
XVI
HO-PIN'S CATACOMBS
The newly-created Mr. Lucas entered upon a sort of cave-man
existence in this fantastic abode where night was day and day was
night; where the sun never shone.
He was awakened on the first morning of his sojourn in the
establishment of Ho-Pin by the loud ringing of an electric bell
immediately beside his bed. He sprang upright with a catching of
the breath, peering about him at the unfamiliar surroundings and
wondering, in the hazy manner of a sleeper newly awakened, where he
was, and how come there. He was fully dressed, and his strapped-up
grip lay beside him on the floor; for he had not dared to remove
his clothes, had not dared to seek slumber after that terrifying
interview with Mr. King. But outraged nature had prevailed, and
sleep had come unbeckoned, unbidden.
The electric light was still burning in the room, as he had left
it, and as he sat up, looking about him, a purring whistle drew his
attention to a speaking-tube which protruded below the bell.
Soames rolled from the bed, head throbbing, and an acrid taste in
his mouth, and spoke into the tube:
"Hullo!"
"You will pwrepare for youwr duties," came the metallic gutturals
of Ho-Pin. "Bwreakfast will be bwrought to you in a quawrter-of-
an-hour."
He made no reply, but stood looking about him dully. It had not
been a dream, then, nor was he mad. It was a horrible reality;
here, in London, in modern, civilized London, he was actually
buried in some incredible catacomb; somewhere near to him, very
near to him, was the cave of the golden dragon, and, also adjacent--
terrifying thought--was the doorless library, the rose-scented
haunt where the beautiful Eurasian spoke, oracularly, the responses
of Mr. King!
Soames could not understand it all; he felt that such things could
not be; that there must exist an explanation of those seeming
impossibilities other than that they actually existed. But the
instructions were veritable enough, and would not be denied.
Rapidly he began to unpack his grip. His watch had stopped, since
he had neglected to wind it, and he hurried with his toilet,
fearful of incurring the anger of Ho-Pin--of Ho-Pin, the
beetlesque.
He observed, with passive interest, that the operation of shaving
did not appreciably lighten the stain upon his skin, and, by the
time that he was shaved, he had begun to know the dark-haired,
yellow-faced man grimacing in the mirror for himself; but he was
far from being reconciled to his new appearance.
Said peeped in at the door. He no longer wore his chauffeur's
livery, but was arrayed in a white linen robe, red-sashed, and wore
loose, red slippers; a tarboosh perched upon his shaven skull.
Pushing the door widely open, he entered with a tray upon which was
spread a substantial breakfast.
"Hurryup!" he muttered, as one word; wherewith he departed again.
Soames seated himself at the little table upon which the tray
rested, and endeavored to eat. His usual appetite had departed
with his identity; Mr. Lucas was a poor, twitching being of raw
nerves and internal qualms. He emptied the coffee-pot, however,
and smoked a cigarette which he found in his case.
Said reappeared.
"Ta'ala!" he directed.
Soames having learnt that that term was evidently intended as an
invitation to follow Said, rose and followed, dumbly.
He was conducted along the matting-lined corridor to the left; and
now, where formerly he had seen a blank wall, he saw an open door!
Passing this, he discovered himself in the cave of the golden
dragon. Ho-Pin, dressed in a perfectly fitting morning coat and
its usual accompaniments, received him with a mirthless smile.
"Good mowrning!" he said; "I twrust your bwreakfast was
satisfactowry?"
"Quite, sir," replied Soames, mechanically, and as he might have
replied to Mr. Leroux.
"Said will show you to a wroom," continued Ho-Pin, "where you will
find a gentleman awaiting you. You will valet him and perfowrm any
other services which he may wrequire of you. When he departs, you
will clean the wroom and adjoining bath-wroom, and put it into
thowrough order for an incoming tenant. In short, your duties in
this wrespect will be identical to those which formerly you
perfowrmed at sea. There is one important diffewrence: your name
is Lucas, and you will answer no questions."
The metallic voice seemed to reach Soames' comprehension from some
place other than the room of the golden dragon--from a great
distance, or as though he were fastened up in a box and were being
addressed by someone outside it.
"Yes, sir," he replied.
Said opened the yellow door upon the right of the room, and Soames
followed him into another of the matting-lined corridors, this one
running right and left and parallel with the wall of the apartment
which he had just quitted. Six doors opened out of this corridor;
four of them upon the side opposite to that by which he had
entered, and one at either end.
These doors were not readily to be detected; and the wall, at first
glance, presented an unbroken appearance. But from experience, he
had learned that where the strips of bamboo which overlay the straw
matting formed a rectangular panel, there was a door, and by the
light of the electric lamp hung in the center of the corridor, he
counted six of these.
Said, selecting a key from a bunch which he carried, opened one of
the doors, held it ajar for Soames to enter, and permitted it to
reclose behind him.
Soames entered nervously. He found himself in a room identical in
size with his own private apartment; a bathroom, etc., opened out
of it in one corner after the same fashion. But there similarity
ended.
The bed in this apartment was constructed more on the lines of a
modern steamer bunk; that is, it was surrounded by a rail, and was
raised no more than a foot from the floor. The latter was covered
with a rich carpet, worked in many colors, and the wall was hung
with such paper as Soames had never seen hitherto in his life. The
scheme of this mural decoration was distinctly Chinese, and
consisted in an intricate design of human and animal figures,
bewilderingly mingled; its coloring was brilliant, and the scheme
extended, unbroken, over the entire ceiling. Cushions, most
fancifully embroidered, were strewn about the floor, and the bed
coverlet was a piece of heavy Chinese tapestry. A lamp, shaded
with silk of a dull purple, swung in the center of the apartment,
and an ebony table, inlaid with ivory, stood on one side of the
bed; on the other was a cushioned armchair figured with the
eternal, chaotic Chinese design, and being littered, at the moment,
with the garments of the man in the bed. The air of the room was
disgusting, unbreathable; it caught Soames by the throat and
sickened him. It was laden with some kind of fumes, entirely
unfamiliar to his nostrils. A dainty Chinese tea-service stood
upon the ebony table.
For fully thirty seconds Soames, with his back to the door, gazed
at the man in the bed, and fought down the nausea which the air of
the place had induced in him.
This sleeper was a man of middle age, thin to emaciation and having
lank, dark hair. His face was ghastly white, and he lay with his
head thrown back and with his arms hanging out upon either side of
the bunk, so that his listless hands rested upon the carpet. It
was a tragic face; a high, intellectual brow and finely chiseled
features; but it presented an indescribable aspect of decay; it was
as the face of some classic statue which has long lain buried in
humid ruins.
Soames shook himself into activity, and ventured to approach the
bed. He moistened his dry lips and spoke:
"Good morning, sir"--the words sounded wildly, fantastically out of
place. "Shall I prepare your bath?"
The sleeper showed no signs of awakening.
Soames forced himself to touch one of the thrown-back shoulders.
He shook it gently.
The man on the bed raised his arms and dropped them back again into
their original position, without opening his eyes.
"They . . . are hiding," he murmured thickly . . . "in the . . .
orange grove. . . . If the felucca sails . . . closer . . . they
will" . . .
Soames, finding something very horrifying in the broken words,
shook the sleeper more urgently.
"Wake up, sir!" he cried; "I am going to prepare your bath."
"Don't let them . . . escape," murmured the man, slowly opening his
eyes--"I have not" . . .
He struggled upright, glaring madly at the intruder. His light
gray eyes had a glassiness as of long sickness, and his pupils,
which were unnaturally dilated, began rapidly to contract; became
almost invisible. Then they expanded again--and again contracted.
"Who--the deuce are you?" he murmured, passing his hand across his
unshaven face.
"My name is--Lucas, sir," said Soames, conscious that if he
remained much longer in the place he should be physically sick.
"At your service--shall I prepare the bath?"
"The bath?" said the man, sitting up more straightly--"certainly,
yes--of course" . . .
He looked at Soames, with a light of growing sanity creeping into
his eyes; a faint flush tinged the pallid face, and his loose mouth
twitched sensitively.
"Then, Said," he began, looking Soames up and down . . . "let me
see, whom did you say you were?"
"Lucas, sir--at your service."
"Ah," muttered the man, lowering his eyes in unmistakable shame--
"yes, yes, of course. You are new here?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I prepare your bath?"
"Yes, please. This is Wednesday morning?"
"Wednesday morning, sir; yes."
"Of course--it is Wednesday. You said your name was?"
"Lucas, sir," reiterated Soames, and, crossing the fantastic
apartment, he entered the bathroom beyond.
This contained the most modern appointments and was on an
altogether more luxurious scale than that attached to his own
quarters. He noted, without drawing any deduction from the
circumstance, that the fittings were of American manufacture.
Here, as in the outer room, there was no window; an electric light
hung from the center of the ceiling. Soames busied himself in
filling the bath, and laying out the towels upon the rack.
"Fairly warm, sir?" he asked.
"Not too warm, thank you," replied the other, now stumbling out of
bed and falling into the armchair--"not too warm."
"If you will take your bath, sir," said Soames, returning to the
outer room, "I will brush your clothes and be ready to shave you."
"Yes, yes," said the man, rubbing his hands over his face wearily.
"You are new here?"
Soames, who was becoming used to answering this question, answered
it once more without irritation.
"Yes, sir, will you take your bath now? It is nearly full, I
think."
The man stood up unsteadily and passed into the bathroom, closing
the door behind him. Soames, seeking to forget his surroundings,
took out from a small hand-bag which he found beneath the bed, a
razor-case and a shaving stick. The clothes-brush he had
discovered in the bathroom; and now he set to work to brush the
creased garments stacked in the armchair. He noted that they were
of excellent make, and that the linen was of the highest quality.
He was thus employed when the outer door silently opened and the
face of Said looked in.
"Gazm," said the Oriental; and he placed inside, upon the carpet, a
pair of highly polished boots.
The door was reclosed.
Soames had all the garments in readiness by the time that the man
emerged from the bathroom, looking slightly less ill, and not quite
so pallid. He wore a yellow silk kimono; and, with greater
composure than he had yet revealed, he seated himself in the
armchair that Soames might shave him.
This operation Soames accomplished, and the subject, having
partially dressed, returned to the bathroom to brush his hair.
When his toilet was practically completed:
"Shall I pack the rest of the things in the bag, sir?" asked
Soames.
The man nodded affirmatively.
Five minutes later he was ready to depart, and stood before the ex-
butler a well-dressed, intellectual, but very debauched-looking
gentleman. Being evidently well acquainted with the regime of the
establishment, he pressed an electric bell beside the door,
presented Soames with half-a-sovereign, and, as Said reappeared,
took his departure, leaving Soames more reconciled to his lot than
he could ever have supposed possible.
The task of cleaning the room was now commenced by Soames. Said
returned, bringing him the necessary utensils; and for fifteen
minutes or so he busied himself between the outer apartment and the
bathroom. During this time he found leisure to study the
extraordinary mural decorations; and, as he looked at them, he
learned that they possessed a singular property.
If one gazed continuously at any portion of the wall, the
intertwined figures thereon took shape--nay, took life; the
intricate, elaborate design ceased to be a design, and became a
procession, a saturnalia; became a sinister comedy, which, when
first visualized, shocked Soames immoderately. The horrors
presented by these devices of evil cunning, crowding the walls,
appalled the narrow mind of the beholder, revolted him in an even
greater degree than they must have revolted a man of broader and
cleaner mind. He became conscious of a quality of evil which
pervaded the room; the entire place seemed to lie beneath a spell,
beneath the spell of an invisible, immeasurably wicked
intelligence.
His reflections began to terrify him, and he hastened to complete
his duties. The stench of the place was sickening him anew, and
when at last Said opened the door, Soames came out as a man
escaping from some imminent harm.
"Di," muttered Said.
He pointed to the opened door of a second room, identical in every
respect with the first; and Soames started back with a smothered
groan. Had his education been classical he might have likened
himself to Hercules laboring for Augeus; but his mind tending
scripturally, he wondered if he had sold his soul to Satan in the
person of the invisible Mr. King!
XVII
KAN-SUH CONCESSIONS
Soames' character was of a pliable sort, and ere many days had
passed he had grown accustomed to this unnatural existence among
the living corpses in the catacombs of Ho-Pin.
He rarely saw Ho-Pin, and desired not to see him at all; as for Mr.
King, he even endeavored to banish from his memory the name of that
shadowy being. The memory of the Eurasian he could not banish, and
was ever listening for the silvery voice, but in vain. He had no
particular duties, apart from the care of the six rooms known as
Block A, and situated in the corridor to the left of the cave of
the golden dragon; this, and the valeting of departing occupants.
But the hours at which he was called upon to perform these duties
varied very greatly. Sometimes he would attend to four human
wrecks in the same morning; whilst, perhaps on the following day,
he would not be called upon to officiate until late in the evening.
One fact early became evident to him. There was a ceaseless stream
of these living dead men pouring into the catacombs of Ho-Pin,
coming he knew not whence, and issuing forth again, he knew not
whither.
Twice in the first week of his new and strange service he
recognized the occupants of the rooms as men whom he had seen in
the upper world. On entering the room of one of these (at ten
o'clock at night) he almost cried out in his surprise; for the
limp, sallow-faced creature extended upon the bed before him was
none other than Sir Brian Malpas--the brilliant politician whom his
leaders had earmarked for office in the next Cabinet!
As Soames stood contemplating him stretched there in his stupor, he
found it hard to credit the fact that this was the same man whom
political rivals feared for his hard brilliance, whom society
courted, and whose engagement to the daughter of a peer had been
announced only a few months before.
Throughout this time, Soames had made no attempt to seek the light
of day: he had not seen a newspaper; he knew nothing of the hue and
cry raised throughout England, of the hunt for the murderer of Mrs.
Vernon. He suffered principally from lack of companionship. The
only human being with whom he ever came in contact was Said, the
Egyptian; and Said, at best, was uncommunicative. A man of very
limited intellect, Luke Soames had been at a loss for many days to
reconcile Block A and its temporary occupants with any
comprehensible scheme of things. Whereas some of the rooms would
be laden with nauseating fumes, others would be free of these; the
occupants, again, exhibited various symptoms.
That he was a servant of an opium-den de luxe did not for some time
become apparent to him; then, when first the theory presented
itself, he was staggered by a discovery so momentous.
But it satisfied his mind only partially. Some men whom he valeted
might have been doped with opium, certainly, but all did not
exhibit those indications which, from hearsay, he associated with
the resin of the white poppy.
Knowing nothing of the numerous and exotic vices which have sprung
from the soil of the Orient, he was at a loss for a full
explanation of the facts as he saw them.
Finding himself unmolested, and noting, in the privacy of his own
apartment, how handsomely his tips were accumulating, Soames was
rapidly becoming reconciled to his underground existence, more
especially as it spelt safety to a man wanted by the police. His
duties thus far had never taken him beyond the corridor known as
Block A; what might lie on the other side of the cave of the golden
dragon he knew not. He never saw any of the habitues arrive, or
actually leave; he did not know whether the staff of the place
consisted of himself, Said, Ho-Pin, the Eurasian girl--and . . .
the other, or if there were more servants of this unseen master.
But never a day passed by that the clearance of at least one
apartment did not fall to his lot, and never an occupant quitted
those cells without placing a golden gratuity in the valet's palm.
His appetite returned, and he slept soundly enough in his clean
white bedroom, content to lose the upper world, temporarily, and to
become a dweller in the catacombs--where tips were large and
plentiful. His was the mind of a domestic animal, neither learning
from the past nor questioning the future; but dwelling only in the
well-fed present.
No other type of European, however lowly, could have supported
existence in such a place.
Thus the days passed, and the nights passed, the one merged
imperceptibly in the other. At the end of the first week, two
sovereigns appeared upon the breakfast tray which Said brought to
Soames' room; and, some little time later, Said reappeared with his
bottles and paraphernalia to renew the ex-butler's make-up. As he
was leaving the room:
"Ahu hina--G'nap'lis effendi!" he muttered, and went out as Mr.
Gianapolis entered.
At sight of the Greek, Soames realized, in one emotional moment,
how really lonely he had been and how in his inmost heart he longed
for a sight of the sun, for a breath of unpolluted air, for a
glimpse of gray, homely London.
All the old radiance had returned to Gianapolis; his eyes were
crossed in an amiable smile.
"My dear Soames!" he cried, greeting the really delighted man.
"How well your new complexion suits you! Sit down, Soames, sit
down, and let us talk."
Soames placed a chair for Gianapolis, and seated himself upon the
bed, twirling his thumbs in the manner which was his when under the
influence of excitement.
"Now, Soames," continued Gianapolis--"I mean Lucas!--my
anticipations, which I mentioned to you on the night of--the
accident . . . you remember?"
"Yes," said Soames rapidly, "yes."
"Well, they have been realized. Our establishment, here, continues
to flourish as of yore. Nothing has come to light in the press
calculated to prejudice us in the eyes of our patrons, and although
your own name, Soames" . . .
Soames started and clutched at the bedcover.
"Although your own name has been freely mentioned on all sides, it
is not generally accepted that you perpetrated the deed."
Soames discovered his hair to be bristling; his skin tingled with a
nervous apprehension.
"That I," he began dryly, paused and swallowed--"that I
perpetrated. . . . Has it been" . . .
"It has been hinted at by one or two Fleet Street theorists--yes,
Soames! But the post-mortem examination of--the victim, revealed
the fact that she was addicted to drugs" . . .
"Opium?" asked Soames, eagerly.
Gianapolis smiled.
"What an observant mind you have, Soames!" he said. "So you have
perceived that these groves are sacred to our Lady of the Poppies?
Well, in part that is true. Here, under the auspices of Mr. Ho-
Pin, fretful society seeks the solace of the brass pipe; yes,
Soames, that is true. Have you ever tried opium?"
"Never!" declared Soames, with emphasis, "never!"
"Well, it is a delight in store for you! But the reason of our
existence as an institution, Soames, is not far to seek. Once the
joys of Chandu become perceptible to the neophyte, a great need is
felt--a crying need. One may drink opium or inject morphine;
these, and other crude measures, may satisfy temporarily, but if
one would enjoy the delights of that fairyland, of that enchanted
realm which bountiful nature has concealed in the heart of the
poppy, one must retire from the ken of goths and vandals who do not
appreciate such exquisite delights; one must dedicate, not an hour
snatched from grasping society, but successive days and nights to
the goddess" . . .
Soames, barely understanding this discourse, listened eagerly to
every word of it, whilst Gianapolis, waxing eloquent upon his
strange thesis, seemed to be addressing, not his solitary auditor,
but an invisible concourse.
"In common with the lesser deities," he continued, "our Lady of the
Poppies is exacting. After a protracted sojourn at her shrine, so
keen are the delights which she opens up to her worshipers, that a
period of lassitude, of exhaustion, inevitably ensues. This
precludes the proper worship of the goddess in the home, and
necessitates--I say NECESSITATES the presence, in such a capital as
London, of a suitable Temple. You have the honor, Soames, to be a
minor priest of that Temple!"
Soames brushed his dyed hair with his fingers and endeavored to
look intelligent.
"A branch establishment--merely a sacred caravanserai where
votaries might repose ere reentering the ruder world," continued
Gianapolis--"has unfortunately been raided by the police!"
With that word, POLICE, he seemed to come to earth again.
"Our arrangements, I am happy to say, were such that not one of the
staff was found on the premises and no visible link existed between
that establishment and this. But now let us talk about yourself.
You may safely take an evening off, I think" . . .
He scrutinized Soames attentively.
"You will be discreet as a matter of course, and I should not
recommend your visiting any of your former haunts. I make this
proposal, of course, with the full sanction of Mr. King."
The muscles of Soames' jaw tightened at sound of the name, and he
avoided the gaze of the crossed eyes.
"And the real purpose of my visit here this morning is to acquaint
you with the little contrivance by which we ensure our privacy
here. Once you are acquainted with it, you can take the air every
evening at suitable hours, on application to Mr. Ho-Pin."
Soames coughed dryly.
"Very good," he said in a strained voice; "I am glad of that."
"I knew you would be glad, Soames," declared the smiling
Gianapolis; "and now, if you will step this way, I will show you
the door by which you must come and go." He stood up, then bent
confidentially to Soames' ear. "Mr. King, very wisely," he
whispered, "has retained you on the premises hitherto, because some
doubt, some little doubt, remained respecting the information which
had come into the possession of the police."
Again that ominous word! But ere Soames had time to reflect,
Gianapolis led the way out of the room and along the matting-lined
corridor into the apartment of the golden dragon. Soames observed,
with a nervous tremor, that Mr. Ho-Pin sat upon one of the lounges,
smoking a cigarette, and arrayed in his usual faultless manner. He
did not attempt to rise, however, as the pair entered, but merely
nodded to Gianapolis and smiled mirthlessly at Soames.
They quitted the room by the door opening on the stone steps--the
door by which Soames had first entered into that evil Aladdin's
cave. Gianapolis went ahead, and Soames, following him, presently
emerged through a low doorway into a concrete-paved apartment,
having walls of Portland stone and a white-washed ceiling. One end
consisted solely of a folding gate, evidently designed to admit the
limousine.
Gianapolis turned, as Soames stepped up beside him.
"If you will glance back," he said, "you will see exactly where the
door is situated."
Soames did as directed, and suppressed a cry of surprise. Four of
the stone blocks were fictitious--were, in verity, a heavy wooden
door, faced in some way with real, or imitation granite--a door
communicating with the steps of the catacombs.
"Observe!" said Gianapolis.
He closed the door, which opened outward, and there remained
nothing to show the keenest observer--unless he had resorted to
sounding--that these four blocks differed in any way from their
fellows.
"Ingenious, is it not?" said Gianapolis, genially. "And now, my
dear Soames, observe again!"
He rolled back the folding gates; and beyond was a garage, wherein
stood the big limousine.
"I keep my car here, Soames, for the sake of--convenience! And
now, my dear Soames, when you go out this evening, Said will close
this entrance after you. When you return, which, I understand, you
must do at ten o'clock, you will enter the garage by the side door
yonder, which will not be locked, and you will press the electric
button at the back of the petrol cans here--look! you can see it!--
the inner door will then be opened for you. Step this way."
He passed between the car and the wall of the garage, opened the
door at the left of the entrance gates, and, Soames following, came
out into a narrow lane. For the first time in many days Soames
scented the cleaner air of the upper world, and with it he filled
his lungs gratefully.
Behind him was the garage, before him the high wall of a yard, and,
on his right, for a considerable distance, extended a similar wall;
in the latter case evidently that of a wharf--for beyond it flowed
the Thames.
Proceeding along beside this wall, the two came to the gates of a
warehouse. They passed these, however, and entered a small office.
Crossing the office, they gained the interior of the warehouse,
where chests bearing Chinese labels were stacked in great
profusion.
"Then this place," began Soames . . .
"Is a ginger warehouse, Soames! There is a very small office
staff, but sufficiently large to cope with the limited business
done--in the import and export of ginger! The firm is known as
Kan-Suh Concessions and imports preserved Chinese ginger from its
own plantations in that province of the Celestial Empire. There is
a small wharf attached, as you may have noted. Oh! it is a going
concern and perfectly respectable!"
Soames looked about him with wide-opened eyes.
"The ginger staff," said Gianapolis, "is not yet arrived. Mr. Ho-
Pin is the manager. The lane, in which the establishment is
situated, communicates with Limehouse Causeway, and, being a cul-
de-sac, is little frequented. Only this one firm has premises
actually opening into it and I have converted the small corner
building at the extremity of the wharf into a garage for my car.
There are no means of communication between the premises of Kan-Suh
Concessions and those of the more important enterprise below--and
I, myself, am not officially associated with the ginger trade. It
is a precaution which we all adopt, however, never to enter or
leave the garage if anyone is in sight." . . .
Soames became conscious of a new security. He set about his duties
that morning with a greater alacrity than usual, valeting one of
the living dead men--a promising young painter whom he chanced to
know by sight--with a return to the old affable manner which had
rendered him so popular during his career as cabin steward.
He felt that he was now part and parcel of Kan-Suh Concessions;
that Kan-Suh Concessions and he were at one. He had yet to learn
that his sense of security was premature, and that his added
knowledge might be an added danger.
When Said brought his lunch into his room, he delivered also a slip
of paper bearing the brief message:
"Go out 6.30--return 10."
Mr. Soames uncorked his daily bottle of Bass almost gaily, and
attacked his lunch with avidity.
XVIII
THE WORLD ABOVE
The night had set in grayly, and a drizzle of fine rain was
falling. West India Dock Road presented a prospect so uninviting
that it must have damped the spirits of anyone but a cave-dweller.
Soames, buttoned up in a raincoat kindly lent by Mr. Gianapolis,
and of a somewhat refined fit, with a little lagoon of rainwater
forming within the reef of his hat-brim, trudged briskly along.
The necessary ingredients for the manufacture of mud are always
present (if invisible during dry weather) in the streets of East-
end London, and already Soames' neat black boots were liberally
bedaubed with it. But what cared Soames? He inhaled the soot-
laden air rapturously; he was glad to feel the rain beating upon
his face, and took a childish pleasure in ducking his head suddenly
and seeing the little stream of water spouting from his hat-brim.
How healthy they looked, these East-end workers, these Italian
dock-hands, these Jewish tailors, these nondescript, greasy beings
who sometimes saw the sun. Many of them, he knew well, labored in
cellars; but he had learnt that there are cellars and cellars. Ah!
it was glorious, this gray, murky London!
Yet, now that temporarily he was free of it, he realized that there
was that within him which responded to the call of the catacombs;
there was a fascination in the fume-laden air of those underground
passages; there was a charm, a mysterious charm, in the cave of the
golden dragon, in that unforgettable place which he assumed to mark
the center of the labyrinth; in the wicked, black eyes of the
Eurasian. He realized that between the abstraction of silver
spoons and deliberate, organized money-making at the expense of
society, a great chasm yawned; that there may be romance even in
felony.
Soames at last felt himself to be a traveler on the highroad to
fortune; he had become almost reconciled to the loss of his bank
balance, to the loss of his place in the upper world. His was the
constitution of a born criminal, and, had he been capable of subtle
self-analysis, he must have known now that fear, and fear only,
hitherto had held him back, had confined him to the ranks of the
amateurs. Well, the plunge was taken.
Deep in such reflections, he trudged along through the rain, scarce
noting where his steps were leading him, for all roads were alike
to-night. His natural inclinations presently dictated a halt at a
brilliantly lighted public house; and, taking off his hat to shake
some of the moisture from it, he replaced it on his head and
entered the saloon lounge.
The place proved to be fairly crowded, principally with local
tradesmen whose forefathers had toiled for Pharaoh; and conveying
his glass of whisky to a marble-topped table in a corner
comparatively secluded, Soames sat down for a consideration of
past, present, and future; an unusual mental exercise. Curiously
enough, he had lost something of his old furtiveness; he no longer
examined, suspiciously, every stranger who approached his
neighborhood; for as the worshipers of old came by the gate of Fear
into the invisible presence of Moloch, so he--of equally untutored
mind--had entered the presence of Mr. King! And no devotee of the
Ammonite god had had greater faith in his potent protection than
Soames had in that of his unseen master. What should a servant of
Mr. King fear from the officers of the law? How puny a thing was
the law in comparison with the director of that secret, powerful,
invulnerable organization whereof to-day he (Soames) formed an
unit!
Then, oddly, the old dormant cowardice of the man received a sudden
spurring, and leaped into quickness. An evening paper lay upon the
marble top of the table, and carelessly taking it up, Soames,
hitherto lost in imaginings, was now reminded that for more than a
week he had lain in ignorance of the world's doings. Good Heavens!
how forgetful he had been! It was the nepenthe of the catacombs.
He must make up for lost time and get in touch again with passing
events: especially he must post himself up on the subject of . . .
the murder. . . .
The paper dropped from his hands, and, feeling himself blanch
beneath his artificial tan, Soames, in his old furtive manner,
glanced around the saloon to learn if he were watched. Apparently
no one was taking the slightest notice of him, and, with an
unsteady hand, he raised his glass and drained its contents.
There, at the bottom of the page before him, was the cause of this
sudden panic; a short paragraph conceived as follows:--
REPORTED ARREST OF SOAMES
It is reported that a man answering to the description of Soames,
the butler wanted in connection with the Palace Mansions outrage,
has been arrested in Birmingham. He was found sleeping in an
outhouse belonging to Major Jennings, of Olton, and as he refused
to give any account of himself, was handed over, by the gentleman's
gardener, to the local police. His resemblance to the published
photograph being observed, he was closely questioned, and although
he denies being Luke Soames, he is being held for further inquiry.
Soames laid down the paper, and, walking across to the bar, ordered
a second glass of whisky. With this he returned to the table and
began more calmly to re-read the paragraph. From it he passed to
the other news. He noted that little publicity was given to the
Palace Mansions affair, from which he judged that public interest
in the matter was already growing cold. A short summary appeared
on the front page, and this he eagerly devoured. It read as
follows:--
PALACE MANSIONS MYSTERY
The police are following up an important clue to the murderer of
Mrs. Vernon, and it is significant in this connection that a man
answering to the description of Soames was apprehended at Olton
(Birmingham) late last night. (See Page 6). The police are very
reticent in regard to the new information which they hold, but it
is evident that at last they are confident of establishing a case.
Mr. Henry Leroux, the famous novelist, in whose flat the mysterious
outrage took place, is suffering from a nervous breakdown, but is
reported to be progressing favorably by Dr. Cumberly, who is
attending him. Dr. Cumberly, it will be remembered, was with Mr.
Leroux, and Mr. John Exel, M. P., at the time that the murder was
discovered. The executors of the late Mr. Horace Vernon are faced
with extraordinary difficulties in administering the will of the
deceased, owing to the tragic coincidence of his wife's murder
within twenty-four hours of his own demise.
Public curiosity respecting the nursing home in Gillingham Street,
with its electric baths and other modern appliances, has by no
means diminished, and groups of curious spectators regularly gather
outside the former establishment of Nurse Proctor, and apparently
derive some form of entertainment from staring at the windows and
questioning the constable on duty. The fact that Mrs. Vernon
undoubtedly came from this establishment on the night of the crime,
and that the proprietors of the nursing home fled immediately,
leaving absolutely no clue behind them, complicates the mystery
which Scotland Yard is engaged in unraveling.
It is generally believed that the woman, Proctor, and her
associates had actually no connection with the crime, and that
realizing that the inquiry might turn in their direction, they
decamped. The obvious inference, of course, is that the nursing
home was conducted on lines which would not bear official scrutiny.
The flight of the butler, Soames, presents a totally different
aspect, and in this direction the police are very active.
Soames searched the remainder of the paper scrupulously, but failed
to find any further reference to the case. The second Scottish
stimulant had served somewhat to restore his failing courage; he
congratulated himself upon taking the only move which could have
saved him from arrest; he perceived that he owed his immunity
entirely to the protective wings of Mr. King. He trembled to think
that his fate might indeed have been that of the man arrested at
Olton; for, without money and without friends, he would have
become, ere this, just such an outcast and natural object of
suspicion.
He noted, as a curious circumstance, that throughout the report
there was no reference to the absence of Mrs. Leroux; therefore--a
primitive reasoner--he assumed that she was back again at Palace
Mansions. He was mentally incapable of fitting Mrs. Leroux into
the secret machine engineered by Mr. King through the visible
agency of Ho-Pin. On the whole, he was disposed to believe that
her several absences--ostensibly on visits to Paris--had nothing to
do with the catacombs of Ho-Pin, but were to be traced to the
amours of the radiant Gianapolis. Taking into consideration his
reception by the Chinaman in the cave of the golden dragon, he
determined, to his own satisfaction, that this had been dictated by
prudence, and by Mr. Gianapolis. In short he believed that the
untimely murder of Mrs. Vernon had threatened to direct attention
to the commercial enterprise of the Greek, and that he, Soames, had
become incorporated in the latter in this accidental fashion. He
believed himself to have been employed in a private intrigue during
the time that he was at Palace Mansions, and counted it a freak of
fate that Mr. Gianapolis' affairs of the pocket had intruded upon
his affairs of the heart.
It was all very confusing, and entirely beyond Soames' mental
capacity to unravel.
He treated himself to a third scotch whisky, and sallied out into
the rain. A brilliantly lighted music hall upon the opposite side
of the road attracted his attention. The novelty of freedom having
worn off, he felt no disposition to spend the remainder of the
evening in the street, for the rain was now falling heavily, but
determined to sample the remainder of the program offered by the
"first house," and presently was reclining in a plush-covered, tip-
up seat in the back row of the stalls.
The program was not of sufficient interest wholly to distract his
mind, and during the performance of a very tragic comedian, Soames
found his thoughts wandering far from the stage. His seat was at
the extreme end of the back row, and, quite unintentionally, he
began to listen to the conversation of two men, who, standing just
inside the entrance door and immediately behind him to the right,
were talking in subdued voices.
"There are thousands of Kings in London," said one . . .
Soames slowly lowered his hands to the chair-arms on either side of
him and clutched them tightly. Every nerve in his body seemed to
be strung up to the ultimate pitch of tensity. He was listening,
now, as a man arraigned might listen for the pronouncement of a
judgment.
"That's the trouble," replied a second voice; "but you know Max's
ideas on the subject? He has his own way of going to work; but my
idea, Sowerby, is that if we can find the one Mr. Soames--and I am
open to bet he hasn't left London--we shall find the right Mr.
King."
The comedian finished, and the orchestra noisily chorded him off.
Soames, his forehead wet with perspiration, began to turn his head,
inch by inch. The lights in the auditorium were partially lowered,
and he prayed, devoutly, that they would remain so; for now,
glancing out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the speakers.
The taller of the two, a man wearing a glistening brown overall and
rain-drenched tweed cap, was the detective who had been in Leroux's
study and who had ordered him to his room on the night of the
murder!
Then commenced for Soames such an ordeal as all his previous life
had not offered him; an ordeal beside which even the interview with
Mr. King sank into insignificance. His one hope was in the cunning
of Said's disguise; but he knew that Scotland Yard men judged
likenesses, not by complexions, which are alterable, not by the
color of the hair, which can be dyed, but by certain features which
are measurable, and which may be memorized because nature has
fashioned them immutable.
What should he do?--What should he do? In the silence:
"No good stopping any longer," came the whispered voice of the
shorter detective; "I have had a good look around the house, and
there is nobody here." . . .
Soames literally held his breath.
"We'll get along down to the Dock Gate," was the almost inaudible
reply; "I am meeting Stringer there at nine o'clock."
Walking softly, the Scotland Yard men passed out of the theater.
XIX
THE LIVING DEAD
The night held yet another adventure in store for Soames. His
encounter with the two Scotland Yard men had finally expelled all
thoughts of pleasure from his mind. The upper world, the free
world, was beset with pitfalls; he realized that for the present,
at any rate, there could be no security for him, save in the
catacombs of Ho-Pin. He came out of the music-hall and stood for a
moment just outside the foyer, glancing fearfully up and down the
rain-swept street. Then, resuming the drenched raincoat which he
had taken off in the theater, and turning up its collar about his
ears, he set out to return to the garage adjoining the warehouse of
Kan-Suh Concessions.
He had fully another hour of leave if he cared to avail himself of
it, but, whilst every pedestrian assumed, in his eyes, the form of
a detective, whilst every dark corner seemed to conceal an ambush,
whilst every passing instant he anticipated feeling a heavy hand
upon his shoulder, and almost heard the words:--"Luke Soames, I
arrest you" . . . Whilst this was his case, freedom had no joys
for him.
No light guided him to the garage door, and he was forced to seek
for the handle by groping along the wall. Presently, his hand came
in contact with it, he turned it--and the way was open before him.
Being far from familiar with the geography of the place, he took
out a box of matches, and struck one to light him to the shelf
above which the bell-push was concealed.
Its feeble light revealed, not only the big limousine near which he
was standing and the usual fixtures of a garage, but, dimly
penetrating beyond into the black places, it also revealed
something else. . . .
The door in the false granite blocks was open!
Soames, who had advanced to seek the bell-push, stopped short. The
match burnt down almost to his fingers, whereupon he blew it out
and carefully crushed it under his foot. A faint reflected light
rendered perceptible the stone steps below. At the top, Soames
stood looking down. Nothing stirred above, below, or around him.
What did it mean? Dimly to his ears came the hooting of some siren
from the river--evidently that of a large vessel. Still he
hesitated; why he did so, he scarce knew, save that he was afraid--
vaguely afraid.
Then, he asked himself what he had to fear, and conjuring up a
mental picture of his white bedroom below, he planted his foot
firmly upon the first step, and from thence, descended to the
bottom, guided by the faint light which shone out from the doorway
beneath.
But the door proved to be only partly opened, and Soames knocked
deferentially. No response came to his knocking, and he so greatly
ventured as to push the door fully open.
The cave of the golden dragon was empty. Half frightfully, Soames
glanced about the singular apartment, in amid the mountainous
cushions of the leewans, behind the pedestal of the dragon; to the
right and to the left of the doorway wherein he stood.
There was no one there; but the door on the right--the door inlaid
with ebony and green stone, which he had never yet seen open was
open now, widely opened. He glided across the floor, his wet boots
creaking unmusically, and peeped through. He saw a matting-lined
corridor identical with that known as Block A. The door of one
apartment, that on the extreme left, was opened. Sickly fumes were
wafted out to him, and these mingled with the incense-like odor
which characterized the temple of the dragon.
A moment he stood so, then started back, appalled.
An outcry--the outcry of a woman, of a woman whose very soul is
assailed--split the stillness. Not from the passageway before him,
but from somewhere behind him--from the direction of Block A--it
came.
"For God's sake--oh! for God's sake, have mercy! Let me go! . . .
let me go!" Higher, shriller, more fearful and urgent, grew the
voice--"LET ME GO!" . . .
Soames' knees began to tremble beneath him; he clutched at the
black wall for support; then turned, and with unsteady footsteps
crossed to the door communicating with the corridor which contained
his room. It had a lever handle of the Continental pattern, and,
trembling with apprehension that it might prove to be locked,
Soames pressed down this handle.
The door opened . . .
"Hina, effendi!--hina!"
The voice sounded like that of Said. . . .
"Oh! God in Heaven help me! . . . Help!--help!" . . .
"Imsik!" . . .
Footsteps were pattering upon the stone stairs; someone was
descending from the warehouse! The frenzied shrieks of the woman
continued. Soames broke into a cold perspiration; his heart, which
had leaped wildly, seemed now to have changed to a cold stone in
his breast. Just at the entrance to the corridor he stood, frozen
with horror at those cries.
"Ikfil el-bab!" came now, in the voice of Ho-Pin,--and nearer.
"Let me go! . . . only let me go, and I will never breathe a word.
. . . Ah! Ah! Oh! God of mercy! not the needle again! You are
killing me! . . . not the needle!" . . .
Soames staggered on to his own room and literally fell within--as
across the cave of the golden dragon, behind him, SOMEONE--one whom
he did not see but only heard, one whom with all his soul he hoped
had not seen HIM--passed rapidly.
Another shriek, more frightful than any which had preceded it,
struck the trembling man as an arrow might have struck him. He
dropped upon his knees at the side of the bed and thrust his
fingers firmly into his ears. He had never swooned in his life,
and was unfamiliar with the symptoms, but now he experienced a
sensation of overpowering nausea; a blood-red mist floated before
his eyes, and the floor seemed to rock beneath him like the deck of
a ship. . . .
That soul-appalling outcry died away, merged into a sobbing,
moaning sound which defied Soames' efforts to exclude it. . . . He
rose to his feet, feeling physically ill, and turned to close his
door. . . .
They were dragging someone--someone who sighed, shudderingly, and
whose sighs sank to moans, and sometimes rose to sobs,--across the
apartment of the dragon. In a faint, dying voice, the woman spoke
again:--
"Not Mr. King! . . . NOT MR. KING! . . . Is there no God in
Heaven! . . . AH! spare me . . . spare" . . .
Soames closed the door and stood propped up against it, striving to
fight down the deathly sickness which assailed him. His clothes
were sticking to his clammy body, and a cold perspiration was
trickling down his forehead and into his eyes. The sensation at
his heart was unlike anything that he had ever known; he thought
that he must be dying.
The awful sounds died away . . . then a muffled disturbance drew
his attention to a sort of square trap which existed high up on one
wall of the room, but which admitted no light, and which hitherto
had never admitted any sound. Now, in the utter darkness, he found
himself listening--listening . . .
He had learnt, during his duties in Block A, that each of the
minute suites was rendered sound-proof in some way, so that what
took place in one would be inaudible to the occupant of the next,
provided that both doors were closed. He perceived, now, that some
precaution hitherto exercised continuously had been omitted to-
night, and that the sounds which he could hear came from the room
next to his own--the room which opened upon the corridor that he
had never entered, and which now he classified, mentally, as Block B.
What did it mean?
Obviously there had been some mishap in the usually smooth conduct
of Ho-Pin's catacombs. There had been a hurried outgoing in
several directions . . . a search?
And by the accident of his returning an hour earlier than he was
expected, he was become a witness of this incident, or of its
dreadful, concluding phases. He had begun to move away from the
door, but now he returned, and stood leaning against it.
That stifling room where roses shed their petals, had been opened
to-night; a chill touched the very center of his being and told him
so. The occupant of that room--the Minotaur of this hideous
labyrinth--was at large to-night, was roaming the passages about
him, was perhaps outside his very door. . . .
Dull moaning sounds reached him through the trap. He realized that
if he had the courage to cross the room, stand upon a chair and
place his ear to the wall, he might be able to detect more of what
was passing in the next apartment. But craven fear held him in its
grip, and in vain he strove to shake it off. Trembling wildly, he
stood with his back to the door, whilst muttered words, and moans,
ever growing fainter, reached him from beyond. A voice, a harsh,
guttural voice--surely not that of Ho-Pin--was audible, above the
moaning.
For two minutes--three minutes--four minutes--he stood there,
tottering on the brink of insensibility, then . . . a faint sound--
a new sound,--drew his gaze across the room, and up to the corner
where the trap was situated.
A very dim light was dawning there; he could just detect the
outline of an opening--a half-light breaking the otherwise
impenetrable darkness.
He felt that his capacity for fear was strained to its utmost; that
he could support nothing more, yet a new horror was in store for
him; for, as he watched that gray patch, in it, as in a frame, a
black silhouette appeared--the silhouette of a human head . . . a
woman's head!
Soames convulsively clenched his jaws, for his teeth were beginning
to chatter.
A whistle, an eerie, minor whistle, subscribed the ultimate touch
of terror to the night. The silhouette disappeared, and, shortly
afterwards, the gray luminance. A faint click told of some shutter
being fastened; complete silence reigned.
Soames groped his way to the bed and fell weakly upon it, half
lying down and burying his face in the pillow. For how long, he
had no idea, but for some considerable time, he remained so,
fighting to regain sufficient self-possession to lie to Ho-Pin, who
sooner or later must learn of his return.
At last he managed to sit up. He was not trembling quite so
wildly, but he still suffered from a deathly sickness. A faint
streak of light from the corridor outside shone under his door. As
he noted it, it was joined by a second streak, forming a triangle.
There was a very soft rasping of metal. Someone was opening the
door!
Soames lay back upon the bed. This time he was past further panic
and come to a stage of sickly apathy. He lay, now, because he
could not sit upright, because stark horror had robbed him of
physical strength, and had drained the well of his emotions dry.
Gradually--so that the operation seemed to occupy an interminable
time, the door opened, and in the opening a figure appeared.
The switch clicked, and the room was flooded with electric light.
Ho-Pin stood watching him.
Soames--in his eyes that indescribable expression seen in the eyes
of a bird placed in a cobra's den--met the Chinaman's gaze. This
gaze was no different from that which habitually he directed upon
the people of the catacombs. His yellow face was set in the same
mirthless smile, and his eyebrows were raised interrogatively. For
the space of ten seconds, he stood watching the man on the bed.
Then:--
"You wreturn vewry soon, Mr. Soames?" he said, softly.
Soames groaned like a dying man, whispering:
"I was . . . taken ill--very ill." . . .
"So you wreturn befowre the time awranged for you?"
His metallic voice was sunk in a soothing hiss. He smiled
steadily: he betrayed no emotion.
"Yes . . . sir," whispered Soames, his hair clammily adhering to his
brow and beads of perspiration trickling slowly down his nose.
"And when you wreturn, you see and you hear--stwrange things, Mr.
Soames?"
Soames, who was in imminent danger of becoming physically ill,
gulped noisily.
"No, sir," he whispered,--tremulously, "I've been--in here all the
time."
Ho-Pin nodded, slowly and sympathetically, but never removed the
glittering eyes from the face of the man on the bed.
"So you hear nothing, and see nothing?"
The words were spoken even more softly than he had spoken hitherto.
"Nothing," protested Soames. He suddenly began to tremble anew,
and his trembling rattled the bed. "I have been--very ill indeed,
sir."
Ho-Pin nodded again slowly, and with deep sympathy.
"Some medicine shall be sent to you, Mr. Soames," he said.
He turned and went out slowly, closing the door behind him.
XX
ABRAHAM LEVINSKY BUTTS IN
At about the time that this conversation was taking place in Ho-
Pin's catacombs, Detective-Inspector Dunbar and Detective-Sergeant
Sowerby were joined by a third representative of New Scotland Yard
at the appointed spot by the dock gates. This was Stringer, the
detective to whom was assigned the tracing of the missing Soames;
and he loomed up through the rain-mist, a glistening but dejected
figure.
"Any luck?" inquired Sowerby, sepulchrally.
Stringer, a dark and morose looking man, shook his head.
"I've beaten up every 'Chink' in Wapping and Limehouse, I should
reckon," he said, plaintively. "They're all as innocent as babes
unborn. You can take it from me: Chinatown hasn't got a murder on
its conscience at present. BRR! it's a beastly night. Suppose we
have one?"
Dunbar nodded, and the three wet investigators walked back for some
little distance in silence, presently emerging via a narrow, dark,
uninviting alleyway into West India Dock Road. A brilliantly
lighted hostelry proved to be their objective, and there, in a
quiet corner of the deserted billiard room, over their glasses,
they discussed this mysterious case, which at first had looked so
simple of solution if only because it offered so many unusual
features, but which, the deeper they probed, merely revealed fresh
complications.
"The business of those Fry people, in Scotland, was a rotten
disappointment," said Dunbar, suddenly. "They were merely paid by
the late Mrs. Vernon to re-address letters to a little newspaper
shop in Knightsbridge, where an untraceable boy used to call for
them! Martin has just reported this evening. Perth wires for
instructions, but it's a dead-end, I'm afraid."
"You know," said Sowerby, fishing a piece of cork from the brown
froth of a fine example by Guinness, "to my mind our hope's in
Soames; and if we want to find Soames, to my mind we want to look,
not east, but west."
"Hear, hear!" concorded Stringer, gloomily sipping hot rum.
"It seems to me," continued Sowerby, "that Limehouse is about the
last place in the world a man like Soames would think of hiding
in."
"It isn't where he'll be THINKING of hiding," snapped Dunbar,
turning his fierce eyes upon the last speaker. "You can't seem to
get the idea out of your head, Sowerby, that Soames is an
independent agent. He ISN'T an independent agent. He's only the
servant; and through the servant we hope to find the master."
"But why in the east-end?" came the plaintive voice of Stringer;
"for only one reason, that I can see--because Max says that there's
a Chinaman in the case."
"There's opium in the case, isn't there?" said Dunbar, adding more
water to his whisky, "and where there's opium there is pretty
frequently a Chinaman."
"But to my mind," persisted Sowerby, his eyebrows drawn together in
a frown of concentration, "the place where Mrs. Vernon used to get
the opium was the place we raided in Gillingham Street."
"Nurse Proctor's!" cried Stringer, banging his fist on the table.
"Exactly my idea! There may have been a Chinaman concerned in the
management of the Gillingham Street stunt, or there may not, but
I'll swear that was where the opium was supplied. In fact I don't
think that there's any doubt about it. Medical evidence (opinions
differed a bit, certainly) went to show that she had been addicted
to opium for some years. Other evidence--you got it yourself,
Inspector--went to show that she came from Gillingham Street on the
night of the murder. Gillingham Street crowd vanished like a
beautiful dream before we had time to nab them! What more do you
want? What are we up to, messing about in Limehouse and Wapping?"
Sowerby partook of a long drink and turned his eyes upon Dunbar,
awaiting the inspector's reply.
"You both have the wrong idea!" said Dunbar, deliberately; "you are
all wrong! You seem to be under the impression that if we could
lay our hands upon the missing staff of the so-called Nursing Home,
we should find the assassin to be one of the crowd. It doesn't
follow at all. For a long time, you, Sowerby,"--he turned his
tawny eyes upon the sergeant--"had the idea that Soames was the
murderer, and I'm not sure that you have got rid of it yet! You,
Stringer, appear to think that Nurse Proctor is responsible. Upon
my word, you are a hopeless pair! Suppose Soames had nothing
whatever to do with the matter, but merely realized that he could
not prove an alibi? Wouldn't YOU bolt? I put it to you."
Sowerby stared hard, and Stringer scratched his chin, reflectively.
"The same reasoning applies to the Gillingham Street people,"
continued Dunbar. "We haven't the slightest idea of THEIR
whereabouts because we don't even know who they were; but we do
know something about Soames, and we're looking for him, not because
we think he did the murder, but because we think he can tell us who
did."
"Which brings us back to the old point," interrupted Stringer,
softly beating his fist upon the table at every word; "why are we
looking for Soames in the east-end?"
"Because," replied Dunbar, "we're working on the theory that
Soames, though actually not accessory to the crime, was in the pay
of those who were" . . .
"Well?"--Stringer spoke the word eagerly, his eyes upon the
inspector's face.
"And those who WERE accessory,"--continued Dunbar, "were servants
of Mr. King."
"Ah!" Stringer brought his fist down with a bang--"Mr. King!
That's where I am in the dark, and where Sowerby, here, is in the
dark." He bent forward over the table. "Who the devil is Mr.
King?"
Dunbar twirled his whisky glass between his fingers.
"We don't know," he replied quietly, "but Soames does, in all
probability; and that's why we're looking for Soames."
"Is it why we're looking in Limehouse?" persisted Stringer, the
argumentative.
"It is," snapped Dunbar. "We have only got one Chinatown worthy of
the name, in London, and that's not ten minutes' walk from here."
"Chinatown--yes," said Sowerby, his red face glistening with
excitement; "but why look for Mr. King in Chinatown?"
"Because," replied Dunbar, lowering his voice, "Mr. King in all
probability is a Chinaman."
"Who says so?" demanded Stringer.
"Max says so . . ."
"MAX!"--again Stringer beat his fist upon the table. "Now we have
got to it! We're working, then, not on our own theories, but on
those of Max?"
Dunbar's sallow face flushed slightly, and his eyes seemed to grow
brighter.
"Mr. Gaston Max obtained information in Paris," he said, "which he
placed, unreservedly, at my disposal. We went into the matter
thoroughly, with the result that our conclusions were identical. A
certain Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery, and, in all
probability, Mr. King is a Chinaman. Do I make myself clear?"
Sowerby and Stringer looked at one another, perplexedly. Each man
finished his drink in silence. Then:
"What took place in Paris?" began Sowerby.
There was an interruption. A stooping figure in a shabby, black
frock-coat, the figure of a man who wore a dilapidated bowler
pressed down upon his ears, who had a greasy, Semitic countenance,
with a scrubby, curling, sandy colored beard, sparse as the
vegetation of a desert, appeared at Sowerby's elbow.
He carried a brimming pewter pot. This he set down upon a corner
of the table, depositing himself in a convenient chair and pulling
out a very dirty looking letter from an inside pocket. He smoothed
it carefully. He peered, little-eyed, from the frowning face of
Dunbar to the surprised countenance of Sowerby, and smiled with
native amiability at the dangerous-looking Stringer.
"Excuthe me," he said, and his propitiatory smile was expansive and
dazzling, "excuthe me buttin' in like thith. It theemth rude, I
know--it doth theem rude; but the fact of the matter ith I'm a
tailor--thath's my pithneth, a tailor. When I thay a tailor, I
really mean a breecheth-maker--tha'th what I mean, a breecheth-
maker. Now thethe timeth ith very hard timeth for breecheth-
makerth." . . .
Dunbar finished his whisky, and quietly replaced the glass upon the
table, looking from Sowerby to Stringer with unmistakable
significance. Stringer emptied his glass of rum, and Sowerby
disposed of his stout.
"I got thith letter lath night," continued the breeches-maker,
bending forward confidentially over the table. (The document
looked at least twelve months old.) "I got thith letter latht
night with thethe three fiverth in it; and not havin' no friendth
in London--I'm an American thitithen, by birth,--Levinthky, my name
ith--Abraham Levinthky--I'm a Noo Englander. Well, not havin' no
friendth in London, and theein' you three gentlemen thittin' here,
I took the liberty" . . .
Dunbar stood up, glared at Levinsky, and stalked out of the
billiard-room, followed by his equally indignant satellites.
Having gained the outer door:
"Of all the blasted impudence!" he said, turning to Sowerby and
Stringer; but there was a glint of merriment in the fierce eyes.
"Can you beat that? Did you tumble to his game?"
Sowerby stared at Stringer, and Stringer stared at Sowerby.
"Except," began the latter in a voice hushed with amazement, "that
he's got the coolest cheek of any mortal being I ever met." . . .
Dunbar's grim face relaxed, and he laughed boyishly, his square
shoulders shaking.
"He was leading up to the confidence trick!" he said, between
laughs. "Damn it all, man, it was the old confidence trick! The
idea of a confidence-merchant spreading out his wares before three
C. I. D. men!"
He was choking with laughter again; and now, Sowerby and Stringer
having looked at one another for a moment, the surprised pair
joined him in his merriment. They turned up their collars and went
out into the rain, still laughing.
"That man," said Sowerby, as they walked across to the stopping
place of the electric trains, "is capable of calling on the
Commissioner and asking him to 'find the lady'!"
XXI
THE STUDIO IN SOHO
Certainly, such impudence as that of Mr. Levinsky is rare even in
east-end London, and it may be worth while to return to the corner
of the billiard-room and to study more closely this remarkable man.
He was sitting where the detectives had left him, and although
their departure might have been supposed to have depressed him,
actually it had had a contrary effect; he was chuckling with
amusement, and, between his chuckles, addressing himself to the
contents of the pewter with every mark of appreciation. Three
gleaming golden teeth on the lower row, and one glittering canine,
made a dazzling show every time that he smiled; he was a very
greasy and a very mirthful Hebrew.
Finishing his tankard of ale, he shuffled out into the street, the
line of his bent shoulders running parallel with that of his hat-
brim. His hat appeared to be several sizes too large for his head,
and his skull was only prevented from disappearing into the
capacious crown by the intervention of his ears, which, acting as
brackets, supported the whole weight of the rain-sodden structure.
He mounted a tram proceeding in the same direction as that which
had borne off the Scotland Yard men. Quitting this at Bow Road, he
shuffled into the railway station, and from Bow Road proceeded to
Liverpool Street. Emerging from the station at Liverpool Street,
he entered a motor-'bus bound westward.
His neighbors, inside, readily afforded him ample elbow room; and,
smiling agreeably at every one, including the conductor (who
resented his good-humor) and a pretty girl in the corner seat (who
found it embarrassing) he proceeded to Charing Cross. Descending
from the 'bus, he passed out into Leicester Square and plunged into
the network of streets which complicates the map of Soho. It will
be of interest to follow him.
In a narrow turning off Greek Street, and within hail of the
popular Bohemian restaurants, he paused before a doorway sandwiched
between a Continental newsagent's and a tiny French cafe; and,
having fumbled in his greasy raiment he presently produced a key,
opened the door, carefully closed it behind him, and mounted the
dark stair.
On the top floor he entered a studio, boasting a skylight upon
which the rain was drumming steadily and drearily. Lighting a gas
burner in one corner of the place which bore no evidence of being
used for its legitimate purpose--he entered a little adjoining
dressing-room. Hot and cold water were laid on there, and a large
zinc bath stood upon the floor. With the aid of an enamel bucket,
Mr. Abraham Levinsky filled the bath.
Leaving him to his ablutions, let us glance around the dressing-
room. Although there was no easel in the studio, and no indication
of artistic activity, the dressing-room was well stocked with
costumes. Two huge dress-baskets were piled in one corner, and
their contents hung upon hooks around the three available walls. A
dressing table, with a triplicate mirror and a suitably shaded
light, presented a spectacle reminiscent less of a model's
dressing-room than of an actor's.
At the expiration of some twenty-five minutes, the door of this
dressing-room opened; and although Abraham Levinsky had gone in,
Abraham Levinsky did not come out!
Carefully flicking a particle of ash from a fold of his elegant,
silk-lined cloak, a most distinguished looking gentleman stepped
out onto the bleak and dirty studio. He wore, in addition to a
graceful cloak, which was lined with silk of cardinal red, a soft
black hat, rather wide brimmed and dented in a highly artistic
manner, and irreproachable evening clothes; his linen was
immaculate; and no valet in London could have surpassed the perfect
knotting of his tie. His pearl studs were elegant and valuable;
and a single eyeglass was swung about his neck by a thin, gold
chain. The white gloves, which fitted perfectly, were new; and if
the glossy boots were rather long in the toe-cap from an English
point of view, the gold-headed malacca cane which the newcomer
carried was quite de rigeur.
The strong clean-shaven face calls for no description here; it was
the face of M. Gaston Max.
M. Max, having locked the study door, and carefully tried it to
make certain of its security, descended the stairs. He peeped out
cautiously into the street ere setting foot upon the pavement; but
no one was in sight at the moment, and he emerged quickly, closing
the door behind him, and taking shelter under the newsagent's
awning. The rain continued its steady downpour, but M. Max stood
there softly humming a little French melody until a taxi-cab
crawled into view around the Greek Street corner.
He whistled shrilly through his teeth--the whistle of a gamin; and
the cabman, glancing up and perceiving him, pulled around into the
turning, and drew up by the awning.
M. Max entered the cab.
"To Frascati's," he directed.
The cabman backed out into Greek Street and drove off. This was
the hour when the theaters were beginning to eject their throngs,
and outside one of them, where a popular comedy had celebrated its
three-hundred-and-fiftieth performance, the press of cabs and
private cars was so great that M. Max found himself delayed within
sight of the theater foyer.
Those patrons of the comedy who had omitted to order vehicles or
who did not possess private conveyances, found themselves in a
quandary tonight, and amongst those thus unfortunately situated, M.
Max, watching the scene with interest, detected a lady whom he
knew--none other than the delightful American whose conversation
had enlivened his recent journey from Paris--Miss Denise Ryland.
She was accompanied by a charming companion, who, although she was
wrapped up in a warm theater cloak, seemed to be shivering
disconsolately as she and her friend watched the interminable
stream of vehicles filing up before the theater, and cutting them
off from any chance of obtaining a cab for themselves.
M. Max acted promptly.
"Drive into that side turning!" he directed the cabman, leaning out
of the window. The cabman followed his directions, and M. Max,
heedless of the inclement weather, descended from the cab, dodged
actively between the head lamps of a big Mercedes and the tail-
light of a taxi, and stood bowing before the two ladies, his hat
pressed to his bosom with one gloved hand, the other, ungloved,
resting upon the gold knob of the malacca.
"Why!" cried Miss Ryland, "if it isn't . . . M. Gaston! My dear
. . . M. Gaston! Come under the awning, or"--her head was wagging
furiously--"you will be . . . simply drowned."
M. Max smilingly complied.
"This is M. Gaston," said Denise Ryland, turning to her companion,
"the French gentleman . . . whom I met . . . in the train from . . .
Paris. This is Miss Helen Cumberly, and I know you two will get
on . . . famously."
M. Max acknowledged the presentation with a few simple words which
served to place the oddly met trio upon a mutually easy footing.
He was, par excellence, the polished cosmopolitan man of the world.
"Fortunately I saw your dilemma," he explained. "I have a cab on
the corner yonder, and it is entirely at your service."
"Now that . . . is real good of you," declared Denise Ryland. "I
think you're . . . a brick." . . .
"But, my dear Miss Ryland!" cried Helen, "we cannot possibly
deprive M. Gaston of his cab on a night like this!"
"I had hoped," said the Frenchman, bowing gallantly, "that this
most happy reunion might not be allowed to pass uncelebrated. Tell
me if I intrude upon other plans, because I am speaking selfishly;
but I was on my way to a lonely supper, and apart from the great
pleasure which your company would afford me, you would be such very
good Samaritans if you would join me."
Helen Cumberly, although she was succumbing rapidly to the singular
fascination of M. Max, exhibited a certain hesitancy. She was no
stranger to Bohemian customs, and if the distinguished Frenchman
had been an old friend of her companion's, she should have accepted
without demur; but she knew that the acquaintance had commenced in
a Continental railway train, and her natural prudence instinctively
took up a brief for the prosecution. But Denise Ryland had other
views.
"My dear girl," she said, "you are not going to be so . . . crack-
brained . . . as to stand here . . . arguing and contracting . . .
rheumatism, lumbago . . . and other absurd complaints . . . when
you know PERFECTLY well that we had already arranged to go . . . to
supper!" She turned to the smiling Max. "This girl needs . . .
DRAGGING out of . . . her morbid self . . . M. Gaston! We'll
accept . . . your cab, on the distinct . . . understanding that YOU
are to accept OUR invitation . . . to supper."
M. Max bowed agreeably.
"By all means let MY cab take us to YOUR supper," he said,
laughing.
XXII
M. MAX MOUNTS CAGLIOSTRO'S STAIRCASE
At a few minutes before midnight, Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland,
escorted by the attentive Frenchman, arrived at Palace Mansions.
Any distrust which Helen had experienced at first was replaced now
by the esteem which every one of discrimination (criminals
excluded) formed of M. Max. She perceived in him a very exquisite
gentleman, and although the acquaintance was but one hour old,
counted him a friend. Denise Ryland was already quite at home in
the Cumberly household, and she insisted that Dr. Cumberly would be
deeply mortified should M. Gaston take his departure without making
his acquaintance. Thus it came about that M. Gaston Max was
presented (as "M. Gaston") to Dr. Cumberly.
Cumberly, who had learned to accept men and women upon his
daughter's estimate, welcomed the resplendent Parisian hospitably;
the warm, shaded lights made convivial play in the amber deeps of
the decanters, and the cigars had a fire-side fragrance which M.
Max found wholly irresistible.
The ladies being momentarily out of ear-shot, M. Gaston glancing
rapidly about him, said: "May I beg a favor, Dr. Cumberly?"
"Certainly, M. Gaston," replied the physician--he was officiating
at the syphon. "Say when."
"When!" said Max. "I should like to see you in Harley Street to-
morrow morning."
Cumberly glanced up oddly. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Oh, not professionally," smiled Max; "or perhaps I should say only
semi-professionally. Can you spare me ten minutes?"
"My book is rather full in the morning, I believe," said Cumberly,
frowning thoughtfully, "and without consulting it--which, since it
is in Harley Street, is impossible--I scarcely know when I shall be
at liberty. Could we not lunch together?"
Max blew a ring of smoke from his lips and watched it slowly
dispersing.
"For certain reasons," he replied, and his odd American accent
became momentarily more perceptible, "I should prefer that my visit
had the appearance of being a professional one."
Cumberly was unable to conceal his surprise, but assuming that his
visitor had good reason for the request, he replied after a
moment's reflection:
"I should propose, then, that you come to Harley Street at, shall
we say, 9.30? My earliest professional appointment is at 10. Will
that inconvenience you?"
"Not at all," Max assured him; "it will suit me admirably."
With that the matter dropped for the time, since Helen and her new
friend now reentered; and although Helen's manner was markedly
depressed, Miss Ryland energetically turned the conversation upon
the subject of the play which they had witnessed that evening.
M. Max, when he took his departure, found that the rain had ceased,
and accordingly he walked up Whitehall, interesting himself in
those details of midnight London life so absorbing to the visitor,
though usually overlooked by the resident.
Punctually at half-past nine, a claret-colored figure appeared in
sedate Harley Street. M. Gaston Max pressed the bell above which
appeared:
DR. BRUCE CUMBERLY.
He was admitted by Garnham, who attended there daily during the
hours when Dr. Cumberly was visible to patients, and presently
found himself in the consulting room of the physician.
"Good morning, M. Gaston!" said Cumberly, rising and shaking his
visitor by the hand. "Pray sit down, and let us get to business.
I can give you a clear half-hour."
Max, by way of reply, selected a card from one of the several
divisions of his card-case, and placed it on the table. Cumberly
glanced at it and started slightly, turning and surveying his
visitor with a new interest.
"You are M. Gaston Max!" he said, fixing his gray eyes upon the
face of the man before him. "I understood my daughter to say" . . .
Max waved his hands, deprecatingly.
"It is in the first place to apologize," he explained, "that I am
here. I was presented to your daughter in the name of Gaston--
which is at least part of my own name--and because other interests
were involved I found myself in the painful position of being
presented to you under the same false colors" . . .
"Oh, dear, dear!" began Cumberly. "But--"
"Ah! I protest, it is true," continued Max with an inimitable
movement of the shoulder; "and I regret it; but in my profession" . . .
"Which you adorn, monsieur," injected Cumberly.
"Many thanks--but in my profession these little annoyances
sometimes occur. At the earliest suitable occasion, I shall reveal
myself to Miss Cumberly and Miss Ryland, but at present,"--he
spread his palms eloquently, and raised his eyebrows--"morbleu! it
is impossible."
"Certainly; I quite understand that. Your visit to London is a
professional one? I am more than delighted to have met you, M.
Max; your work on criminal anthroposcopy has an honored place on my
shelves."
Again M. Max delivered himself of the deprecatory wave.
"You cover me with confusion," he protested; "for I fear in that
book I have intruded upon sciences of which I know nothing, and of
which you know much."
"On the contrary, you have contributed to those sciences, M. max,"
declared the physician; "and now, do I understand that the object
of your call this morning?" . . .
"In the first place it was to excuse myself--but in the second
place, I come to ask your help."
He seated himself in a deep armchair--bending forward, and fixing
his dark, penetrating eyes upon the physician. Cumberly, turning
his own chair slightly, evinced the greatest interest in M. Max's
disclosures.
"If you have been in Paris lately," continued the detective, "you
will possibly have availed yourself of the opportunity--since
another may not occur--of visiting the house of the famous
magician, Cagliostro, on the corner of Rue St. Claude, and
Boulevard Beaumarchais" . . .
"I have not been in Paris for over two years," said Cumberly, "nor
was I aware that a house of that celebrated charlatan remained
extant."
"Ah! Dr. Cumberly, your judgment of Cagliostro is a harsh one. We
have no time for such discussion now, but I should like to debate
with you this question: was Cagliostro a charlatan? However, the
point is this: Owing to alterations taking place in the Boulevard
Beaumarchais, some of the end houses in Rue St. Claude are being
pulled down, among them Number 1, formerly occupied by the Comte de
Cagliostro. At the time that the work commenced, I availed myself
of a little leisure to visit that house, once so famous. I was
very much interested, and found it fascinating to walk up the
Grande Staircase where so many historical personages once walked to
consult the seer. But great as was my interest in the apartments
of Cagliostro, I was even more interested in one of the apartments
in a neighboring house, into which--quite accidentally, you
understand--I found myself looking."
XXIII
RAID IN THE RUE ST. CLAUDE
"I perceived," said M. Gaston Max, "that owing to the progress of
the work of demolition, and owing to the carelessness of the people
in charge--nom d'un nom! they were careless, those!--I was able,
from a certain point, to look into a small room fitted up in a way
very curious. There was a sort of bunk somewhat similar to that in
a steamer berth, and the walls were covered with paper of a Chinese
pattern most bizarre. No one was in the room when I first
perceived it, but I had not been looking in for many moments before
a Chinaman entered and closed the shutters. He was hasty, this
one.
"Eh bien! I had seen enough. I perceived that my visit to the
house of Cagliostro had been dictated by a good little angel. It
happened that for many months I had been in quest of the
headquarters of a certain group which I knew, beyond any tiny
doubt, to have its claws deep in Parisian society. I refer to an
opium syndicate" . . .
Dr. Cumberly started and seemed about to speak; but he restrained
himself, bending forward and awaiting the detective's next words
with even keener interest than hitherto.
"I had been trying--all vainly--to trace the source from which the
opium was obtained, and the place where it was used. I have
devoted much attention to the subject, and have spent some twelve
months in the opium provinces of China, you understand. I know how
insidious a thing it is, this opium, and how dreadful a curse it
may become when it gets a hold upon a community. I was formerly
engaged upon a most sensational case in San Francisco; and the
horrors of the discoveries which we made there--the American police
and myself--have remained with me ever since. Pardieu! I cannot
forget them! Therefore when I learnt that an organized attempt was
being made to establish elaborate opium dens upon a most up-to-date
plan, in Paris, I exerted myself to the utmost to break up this
scheme in its infancy" . . .
Dr. Cumberly was hanging upon every word.
"Apart from the physical and moral ruin attendant upon the vice,"
continued Max, "the methods of this particular organization have
brought financial ruin to many." He shook his finger at Dr.
Cumberly as if to emphasize his certainty upon this point. "I will
not go into particulars now, but there is a system of wholesale
robbery--sapristi! of most ingenious brigandage--being practised by
this group. Therefore I congratulated myself upon the inspiration
which had led me to mount Cagliostro's staircase. The way in which
these people had conducted their sinister trade from so public a
spot as this was really wonderful, but I had already learned to
respect the ingenuity of the group, or of the man at the head of
it. I wasted no time; not I! We raided the house that evening" . . .
"And what did you find?" asked Dr. Cumberly, eagerly.
"We found this establishment elaborately fitted, and the whole of
the fittings were American. Eh bien! This confirmed me in my
belief that the establishment was a branch of the wealthy concern I
have mentioned in San Francisco. There was also a branch in New
York, apparently. We found six or eight people in the place in
various stages of coma; and I cannot tell you their names because--
among them, were some well-known in the best society" . . .
"Good Heavens, M. Max, you surprise and shock me!"
"What I tell you is but the truth. We apprehended two low fellows
who acted as servants sometimes in the place. We had records of
both of them at the Bureau. And there was also a woman belonging
to the same class. None of these seemed to me very important, but
we were fortunate enough to capture, in addition, a Chinaman--Sen--
and a certain Madame Jean--the latter the principal of the
establishment!"
"What! a woman?"
"Morbleu! a woman--exactly! You are surprised? Yes; and I was
surprised, but full inquiry convinced me that Madame Jean was the
chief of staff. We had conducted the raid at night, of course, and
because of the big names, we hushed it up. We can do these things
in Paris so much more easily than is possible here in London." He
illustrated, delivering a kick upon the person of an imaginary
malefactor. "Cochon! Va!" he shrugged. "It is finished!
"The place was arranged with Oriental magnificence. The reception-
room--if I can so term that apartment--was like the scene of Rimsky
Korsakov's Sheherezade; I could see that very heavy charges were
made at this establishment. I will not bore you with further
particulars, but I will tell you of my disappointment."
"Your disappointment?"
"Yes, I was disappointed. True, I had brought about the closing of
that house, but of the huge sums of money fraudulently obtained
from victims, I could find no trace in the accounts of Madame Jean.
She defied me with silence, simply declining to give any account of
herself beyond admitting that she conducted an hotel at which opium
might be smoked if desired. Blagueur! Sen, the Chinaman, who
professed to speak nothing but Chinese--ah! cochon!--was equally a
difficult case, Nom d'un nom! I was in despair, for apart from
frauds connected with the concern, I had more than small suspicions
that at least one death--that of a wealthy banker--could be laid at
the doors of the establishment in Rue St. Claude." . . .
Dr. Cumberly bent yet lower, watching the speaker's face.
"A murder!" he whispered.
"I do not say so," replied Max, "but it certainly might have been.
The case then must, indeed, have ended miserably, as far as I was
concerned, if I had not chanced upon a letter which the otherwise
prudent Madame Jean had forgotten to destroy. Triomphe! It was a
letter of instruction, and definitely it proved that she was no
more than a kind of glorified concierge, and that the chief of the
opium group was in London."
"Undoubtedly in London. There was no address on the letter, and no
date, and it was curiously signed: Mr. King."
"Mr. King!"
Dr. Cumberly rose slowly from his chair, and took a step toward M.
Max.
"You are interested?" said the detective, and shrugged his
shoulders, whilst his mobile mouth shaped itself in a grim smile.
"Pardieu! I knew you would be! Acting upon another clue which the
letter--priceless letter--contained, I visited the Credit Lyonnais.
I discovered that an account had been opened there by Mr. Henry
Leroux of London on behalf of his wife, Mira Leroux, to the amount
of a thousand pounds."
"A thousand pounds--really!" cried Dr. Cumberly, drawing his heavy
brows together--"as much as that?"
"Certainly. It was for a thousand pounds," repeated Max, "and the
whole of that amount had been drawn out."
"The whole thousand?"
"The whole thousand; nom d'un p'tit bonhomme! The whole thousand!
Acting, as I have said, upon the information in this always
priceless letter, I confronted Madame Jean and the manager of the
bank with each other. Morbleu! 'This,' he said, 'is Mira Leroux
of London!'" . . .
"What!" cried Cumberly, seemingly quite stupefied by this last
revelation.
Max spread wide his palms, and the flexible lips expressed sympathy
with the doctor's stupefaction.
"It is as I tell you," he continued. "This Madame Jean had been
posing as Mrs. Leroux, and in some way, which I was unable to
understand, her signature had been accepted by the Credit Lyonnais.
I examined the specimen signature which had been forwarded to them
by the London County and Suburban Bank, and I perceived, at once,
that it was not a case of common forgery. The signatures were
identical" . . .
"Therefore," said Cumberly, and he was thinking of Henry Leroux,
whom Fate delighted in buffeting--"therefore, the Credit Lyonnais
is not responsible?"
"Most decidedly not responsible," agreed Max. "So you see I now
have two reasons for coming to London: one, to visit the London
County and Suburban Bank, and the other to find . . . Mr. King.
The first part of my mission I have performed successfully; but the
second" . . . again he shrugged, and the lines of his mouth were
humorous.
Dr. Cumberly began to walk up and down the carpet.
"Poor Leroux!" he muttered--"poor Leroux."
"Ah! poor Leroux, indeed," said Max. "He is so typical a victim of
this most infernal group!"
"What!" Dr. Cumberly turned in his promenade and stared at the
detective--"he's not the only one?"
"My dear sir," said Max, gently, "the victims of Mr. King are truly
as the sands of Arabia."
"Good heavens!" muttered Dr. Cumberly; "good heavens!"
"I came immediately to London," continued Max, "and presented
myself at New Scotland Yard. There I discovered that my inquiry
was complicated by a ghastly crime which had been committed in the
flat of Mr. Leroux; but I learned, also, that Mr. King was
concerned in this crime--his name had been found upon a scrap of
paper clenched in the murdered woman's hand!"
"I was present when it was found," said Dr. Cumberly.
"I know you were," replied Max. "In short, I discovered that the
Palace Mansions murder case was my case, and that my case was the
Palace Mansions case. Eh bien! the mystery of the Paris draft did
not detain me long. A call upon the manager of the London County
and Suburban Bank at Charing Cross revealed to me the whole plot.
The real Mrs. Leroux had never visited that bank; it was Madame
Jean, posing as Mrs. Leroux, who went there and wrote the specimen
signature, accompanied by a certain Soames, a butler" . . .
"I know him!" said Dr. Cumberly, grimly, "the blackguard!"
"Truly a blackguard, truly a big, dirty blackguard! But it is such
canaille as this that Mr. King discovers and uses for his own ends.
Paris society, I know for a fact; has many such a cankerworm in its
heart. Oh! it is a big case, a very big case. Poor Mr. Leroux
being confined to his bed--ah! I pity him--I took the opportunity
to visit his flat in Palace Mansions with Inspector Dunbar, and I
obtained further evidence showing how the conspiracy had been
conducted; yes. For instance, Dunbar's notebook showed me that Mr.
Leroux was accustomed to receive letters from Mrs. Leroux whilst
she was supposed to be in Paris. I actually discovered some of
those letters, and they bore no dates. This, if they came from a
woman, was not remarkable, but, upon one of them I found something
that WAS remarkable. It was still in its envelope, you must
understand, this letter, its envelope bearing the Paris post-mark.
But impressed upon the paper I discovered a second post-mark,
which, by means of a simple process, and the use of a magnifying
glass, I made out to be Bow, East!"
"What!"
"Do you understand? This letter, and others doubtless, had been
enclosed in an envelope and despatched to Paris from Bow, East? In
short, Mrs. Leroux wrote those letters before she left London;
Soames never posted them, but handed them over to some
representative of Mr. King; this other, in turn, posted them to
Madame Jean in Paris! Morbleu! these are clever rogues! This
which I was fortunate enough to discover had been on top, you
understand, this billet, and the outer envelope being very heavily
stamped, that below retained the impress of the post-mark."
"Poor Leroux!" said Cumberly again, with suppressed emotion. "That
unsuspecting, kindly soul has been drawn into the meshes of this
conspiracy. How they have been wound around him, until." . . .
"He knows the truth about his wife?" asked Max, suddenly glancing
up at the physician, "that she is not in Paris?"
"I, myself, broke the painful news to him," replied Cumberly--
"after a consultation with Miss Ryland and my daughter. I
considered it my duty to tell him, but I cannot disguise from
myself that it hastened, if it did not directly occasion, his
breakdown."
"Yes, yes," said Max; "we have been very fortunate however in
diverting the attention of the press from the absence of Mrs.
Leroux throughout this time. Nom d'un nom! Had they got to know
about the scrap of paper found in the dead woman's hand, I fear
that this would have been impossible."
"I do not doubt that it would have been impossible, knowing the
London press," replied Dr. Cumberly, "but I, too, am glad that it
has been achieved; for in the light of your Paris discoveries, I
begin at last to understand."
"You were not Mrs. Leroux's medical adviser?"
"I was not," replied Cumberly, glancing sharply at Max. "Good
heavens, to think that I had never realized the truth!"
"It is not so wonderful at all. Of course, as I have seen from the
evidence which you gave to the police, you knew that Mrs. Vernon
was addicted to the use of opium?"
"It was perfectly evident," replied Cumberly; "painfully evident.
I will not go into particulars, but her entire constitution was
undermined by the habit. I may add, however, that I did not
associate the vice with her violent end, except" . . .
"Ah!" interrupted Max, shaking his finger at the physician, "you
are coming to the point upon which you disagreed with the
divisional surgeon! Now, it is an important point. You are of
opinion that the injection in Mrs. Vernon's shoulder--which could
not have been self-administered" . . .
"She was not addicted to the use of the needle," interrupted
Cumberly; "she was an opium SMOKER."
"Quite so, quite so," said Max: "it makes the point all the more
clear. You are of opinion that this injection was made at least
eight hours before the woman's death?"
"At least eight hours--yes."
"Eh bien!" said Max; "and have you had extensive experience of such
injections?"
Dr. Cumberly stared at him in some surprise.
"In a general way," he said, "a fair number of such cases have come
under my notice; but it chances that one of my patients, a regular
patient--is addicted to the vice."
"Injections?"
"Only as a makeshift. He has periodical bouts of opium smoking--
what I may term deliberate debauches."
"Ah!" Max was keenly interested. "This patient is a member of
good society?"
"He's a member of Parliament," replied Cumberly, a faint, humorous
glint creeping into his gray eyes; "but, of course, that is not an
answer to your question! Yes, he is of an old family, and is
engaged to the daughter of a peer."
"Dr. Cumberly," said Max, "in a case like the present--apart from
the fact that the happiness--pardieu! the life--of one of your own
friends is involved . . . should you count it a breach of
professional etiquette to divulge the name of that patient?"
It was a disturbing question; a momentous question for a
fashionable physician to be called upon to answer thus suddenly.
Dr. Cumberly, who had resumed his promenade of the carpet, stopped
with his back to M. Max, and stared out of the window into Harley
Street.
M. Max, a man of refined susceptibilities, came to his aid,
diplomatically.
"It is perhaps overmuch to ask you," he said. "I can settle the
problem in a more simple manner. Inspector Dunbar will ask you for
this gentleman's name, and you, as witness in the case, cannot
refuse to give it."
"I can refuse until I stand in the witness-box!" replied Cumberly,
turning, a wry smile upon his face.
"With the result," interposed Max, "that the ends of justice might
be defeated, and the wrong man hanged!"
"True," said Cumberly; "I am splitting hairs. It is distinctly a
breach of professional etiquette, nevertheless, and I cannot
disguise the fact from myself. However, since the knowledge will
never go any further, and since tremendous issues are at stake, I
will give you the name of my opium patient. It is Sir Brian
Malpas!"
"I am much indebted to you, Dr. Cumberly," said Max; "a thousand
thanks;" but in his eyes there was a far-away look. "Malpas--
Malpas! Where in this case have I met with the name of Malpas?"
"Inspector Dunbar may possibly have mentioned it to you in
reference to the evidence of Mr. John Exel, M. P. Mr. Exel, you
may remember" . . .
"I have it!" cried Max; "Nom d'un nom! I have it! It was from Sir
Brian Malpas that he had parted at the corner of Victoria Street on
the night of the murder, is it not so?"
"Your memory is very good, M. Max!"
"Then Mr. Exel is a personal friend of Sir Brian Malpas?
"Excellent! Kismet aids me still! I come to you hoping that you
may be acquainted with the constitution of Mrs. Leroux, but no!
behold me disappointed in this. Then--morbleu! among your patients
I find a possible client of the opium syndicate!"
"What! Malpas? Good God! I had not thought of that! Of course,
he must retire somewhere from the ken of society to indulge in
these opium orgies" . . .
"Quite so. I have hopes. Since it would never do for Sir Brian
Malpas to know who I am and what I seek, a roundabout introduction
is provided by kindly Providence--Ah! that good little angel of
mine!--in the person of Mr. John Exel, M. P."
"I will introduce you to Mr. Exel with pleasure."
"Eh bien! Let it be arranged as soon as possible," said M. Max.
"To Mr. John Exel I will be, as to Miss Ryland (morbleu! I hate
me!) and Miss Cumberly (pardieu! I loathe myself!), M. Gaston! It
is ten o'clock, and already I hear your first patient ringing at
the front-door bell. Good morning, Dr. Cumberly."
Dr. Cumberly grasped his hand cordially.
"Good morning, M. Max!"
The famous detective was indeed retiring, when:
"M. Max!"
He turned--and looked into the troubled gray eyes of Dr. Cumberly.
"You would ask me where is she--Mrs. Leroux?" he said. "My friend--
I may call you my friend, may I not?--I cannot say if she is
living or is dead. Some little I know of the Chinese, quite a
little; nom de dieu! . . . I hope she is dead!" . . .
XXIV
OPIUM
Denise Ryland was lunching that day with Dr. Cumberly and his
daughter at Palace Mansions; and as was usually the case when this
trio met, the conversation turned upon the mystery.
"I have just seen Leroux," said the physician, as he took his seat,
"and I have told him that he must go for a drive to-morrow. I have
released him from his room, and given him the run of the place
again, but until he can get right away, complete recovery is
impossible. A little cheerful company might be useful, though.
You might look in and see him for a while, Helen?"
Helen met her father's eyes, gravely, and replied, with perfect
composure, "I will do so with pleasure. Miss Ryland will come with
me."
"Suppose," said Denise Ryland, assuming her most truculent air,
"you leave off . . . talking in that . . . frigid manner . . . my
dear. Considering that Mira . . . Leroux and I were . . . old
friends, and that you . . . are old friends of hers, too, and
considering that I spend . . . my life amongst . . . people who
very sensibly call . . . one another . . . by their Christian
names, forget that my name is Ryland, and call me . . . Denise!"
"I should love to!" cried Helen Cumberly; "in fact, I wanted to do
so the very first time I saw you; perhaps because Mira Leroux
always referred to you as Denise" . . .
"May I also avail myself of the privilege?" inquired Dr. Cumberly
with gravity, "and may I hope that you will return the compliment?"
"I cannot . . . do it!" declared Denise Ryland, firmly. "A doctor
. . . should never be known by any other name than . . . Doctor.
If I heard any one refer to my own . . . physician as Jack or . . .
Bill, or Dick . . . I should lose ALL faith in him at once!"
As the lunch proceeded, Dr. Cumberly gradually grew more silent,
seeming to be employed with his own thoughts; and although his
daughter and Denise Ryland were discussing the very matter that
engaged his own attention, he took no part in the conversation for
some time. Then:
"I agree with you!" he said, suddenly, interrupting Helen; "the
greatest blow of all to Leroux was the knowledge that his wife had
been deceiving him."
"He invited . . . deceit!" proclaimed Denise Ryland, "by his . . .
criminal neglect."
"Oh! how can you say so!" cried Helen, turning her gray eyes upon
the speaker reproachfully; "he deserves--"
"He certainly deserves to know the real truth," concluded Dr.
Cumberly; "but would it relieve his mind or otherwise?"
Denise Ryland and Helen looked at him in silent surprise.
"The truth?" began the latter--"Do you mean that you know--where
she is" . . .
"If I knew that," replied Dr. Cumberly, "I should know everything;
the mystery of the Palace Mansions murder would be a mystery no
longer. But I know one thing: Mrs. Leroux's absence has nothing to
do with any love affair."
"What!" exclaimed Denise Ryland. "There isn't another man . . . in
the case? You can't tell me" . . .
"But I DO tell you!" said Dr. Cumberly; "I ASSURE you."
"And you have not told--Mr. Leroux?" said Helen incredulously.
"You have NOT told him--although you know that the thought--of THAT
is?" . . .
"Is practically killing him? No, I have not told him yet. For--
would my news act as a palliative or as an irritant?"
"That depends," pronounced Denise Ryland, "on the nature of . . .
your news."
"I suppose I have no right to conceal it from him. Therefore, we
will tell him to-day. But although, beyond doubt, his mind will be
relieved upon one point, the real facts are almost, if not quite,
as bad."
"I learnt, this morning," he continued, lighting a cigarette,
"certain facts which, had I been half as clever as I supposed
myself, I should have deduced from the data already in my
possession. I was aware, of course, that the unhappy victim--Mrs.
Vernon--was addicted to the use of opium, and if a tangible link
were necessary, it existed in the form of the written fragment
which I myself took from the dead woman's hand." . . .
"A link!" said Denise Ryland.
"A link between Mrs. Vernon and Mrs. Leroux," explained the
physician. "You see, it had never occurred to me that they knew
one another." . . .
"And did they?" questioned his daughter, eagerly.
"It is almost certain that they were acquainted, at any rate; and
in view of certain symptoms, which, without giving them much
consideration, I nevertheless had detected in Mrs. Leroux, I am
disposed to think that the bond of sympathy which existed between
them was" . . .
He seemed to hesitate, looking at his daughter, whose gray eyes
were fixed upon him intently, and then at Denise Ryland, who, with
her chin resting upon her hands, and her elbows propped upon the
table, was literally glaring at him.
"Opium!" he said.
A look of horror began slowly to steal over Helen Cumberly's face;
Denise Ryland's head commenced to sway from side to side. But
neither women spoke.
"By the courtesy of Inspector Dunbar," continued Dr. Cumberly, "I
have been enabled to keep in touch with the developments of the
case, as you know; and he had noted as a significant fact that the
late Mrs. Vernon's periodical visits to Scotland corresponded,
curiously, with those of Mrs. Leroux to Paris. I don't mean in
regard to date; although in one or two instances (notably Mrs.
Vernon's last journey to Scotland, and that of Mrs. Leroux to
Paris), there was similarity even in this particular. A certain
Mr. Debnam--the late Horace Vernon's solicitor--placed an absurd
construction upon this" . . .
"Do you mean," interrupted Helen in a strained voice, "that he
insinuated that Mrs. Vernon" . . .
"He had an idea that she visited Leroux--yes," replied her father
hastily. "It was one of those absurd and irritating theories,
which, instinctively, we know to be wrong, but which, if asked for
evidence, we cannot hope to PROVE to be wrong."
"It is outrageous!" cried Helen, her eyes flashing indignantly;
"Mr. Debnam should be ashamed of himself!"
Dr. Cumberly smiled rather sadly.
"In this world," he said, "we have to count with the Debnams.
One's own private knowledge of a man's character is not worth a
brass farthing as legal evidence. But I am happy to say that
Dunbar completely pooh-poohed the idea."
"I like Inspector Dunbar!" declared Helen; "he is so strong--a
splendid man!"
Denise Ryland stared at her cynically, but made no remark.
"The inspector and myself," continued Dr. Cumberly, "attached
altogether a different significance to the circumstances. I am
pleased to tell you that Debnam's unpleasant theories are already
proved fallacious; the case goes deeper, far deeper, than a mere
intrigue of that kind. In short, I am now assured--I cannot,
unfortunately, name the source of my new information--but I am
assured, that Mrs. Leroux, as well as Mrs. Vernon, was addicted to
the opium vice." . . .
"Oh, my God! how horrible!" whispered Helen.
"A certain notorious character," resumed Dr. Cumberly . . .
"Soames!" snapped Denise Ryland. "Since I heard . . . that man's
name I knew him for . . . a villain . . . of the worst possible . . .
description . . . imaginable."
"Soames," replied Dr. Cumberly, smiling slightly, "was one of the
group, beyond doubt--for I may as well explain that we are dealing
with an elaborate organization; but the chief member, to whom I
have referred, is a greater one than Soames. He is a certain
shadowy being, known as Mr. King."
"The name on the paper!" said Helen, quickly. "But of course the
police have been looking for Mr. King all along?"
"In a general way--yes; but as we have thousands of Kings in London
alone, the task is a stupendous one. The information which I
received this morning narrows down the search immensely; for it
points to Mr. King being the chief, or president, of a sort of
opium syndicate, and, furthermore, it points to his being a
Chinaman."
"A Chinaman!" cried Denise and Helen together.
"It is not absolutely certain, but it is more than probable. The
point is that Mrs. Leroux has not eloped with some unknown lover;
she is in one of the opium establishments of Mr. King."
"Do you mean that she is detained there?" asked Helen.
"It appears to me, now, to be certain that she is. My hypothesis
is that she was an habitue of this place, as also was Mrs. Vernon.
These unhappy women, by means of elaborate plans, made on their
behalf by the syndicate, indulged in periodical opium orgies. It
was a game well worth the candle, as the saying goes, from the
syndicates standpoint; for Mrs. Leroux, alone, has paid no less
than a thousand pounds to the opium group!"
"A thousand pounds!" cried Denise Ryland. "You don't mean to tell
me that that . . . silly fool . . . of a man, Harry Leroux . . .
has allowed himself to be swindled of . . . all that money?"
"There is not the slightest doubt about it," Dr. Cumberly assured
her; "he opened a credit to that amount in Paris, and the entire
sum has been absorbed by Mr. King!"
"It's almost incredible! " said Helen.
"I quite agree with you," replied her father. "Of course, most
people know that there are opium dens in London, as in almost every
other big city, but the existence of these palatial establishments,
conducted by Mr. King, although undoubtedly a fact, is a fact
difficult to accept. It doesn't seem possible that such a place
can be conducted secretly; whereas I am assured that all the
efforts of Scotland Yard thus far have failed to locate the site of
the London branch."
"But surely," cried Denise Ryland, nostrils dilated indignantly,
"some of the . . . customers of this . . . disgusting place . . .
can be followed?" . . .
"The difficulty is to identify them," explained Cumberly. "Opium
smoking is essentially a secret vice; a man does not visit an opium
den openly as he would visit his club; and the elaborate
precautions adopted by the women are illustrated in the case of
Mrs. Vernon, and in the case of Mrs. Leroux. It is a pathetic fact
almost daily brought home to me, that women who acquire a drug
habit become more rapidly and more entirely enslaved by it than
does a man. It becomes the center of the woman's existence; it
becomes her god: all other claims, social and domestic, are
disregarded. Upon this knowledge, Mr. King has established his
undoubtedly extensive enterprise." . . .
Dr. Cumberly stood up.
"I will go down and see Leroux," he announced quietly. "His sorrow
hitherto has been secondary to his indignation. Possibly ignorance
in this case is preferable to the truth, but nevertheless I am
determined to tell him what I know. Give me ten minutes or so, and
then join me. Are you agreeable?"
"Quite," said Helen.
Dr. Cumberly departed upon his self-imposed mission.
XXV
FATE'S SHUTTLECOCK
Some ten minutes later, Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland were in
turn admitted to Henry Leroux's flat. They found him seated on a
couch in his dining-room, wearing the inevitable dressing-gown.
Dr. Cumberly, his hands clasped behind him, stood looking out of
the window.
Leroux's pallor now was most remarkable; his complexion had assumed
an ivory whiteness which lent his face a sort of statuesque beauty.
He was cleanly shaven (somewhat of a novelty), and his hair was
brushed back from his brow. But the dark blue eyes were very
tragic.
He rose at sight of his new visitors, and a faint color momentarily
tinged his cheeks. Helen Cumberly grasped his outstretched hand,
then looked away quickly to where her father was standing.
"I almost thought," said Leroux, "that you had deserted me."
"No," said Helen, seeming to speak with an effort--"we--my father,
thought--that you needed quiet."
Denise Ryland nodded grimly.
"But now," she said, in her most truculent manner, "we are going to
. . . drag you out of . . . your morbid . . . self . . . for a
change . . . which you need . . . if ever a man . . . needed it."
"I have just prescribed a drive," said Dr. Cumberly, turning to
them, "for to-morrow morning; with lunch at Richmond and a walk
across the park, rejoining the car at the Bushey Gate, and so home
to tea."
Henry Leroux looked eagerly at Helen in silent appeal. He seemed
to fear that she would refuse.
"Do you mean that you have included us in the prescription,
father?" she asked.
"Certainly; you are an essential part of it."
"It will be fine," said the girl quietly; "I shall enjoy it."
"Ah!" said Leroux, with a faint note of contentment in his voice;
and he reseated himself.
There was an interval of somewhat awkward silence, to be broken by
Denise Ryland.
"Dr. Cumberly has told you the news?" she asked, dropping for the
moment her syncopated and pugnacious manner.
Leroux closed his eyes and leant back upon the couch.
"Yes," he replied. "And to think that I am a useless wreck--a poor
parody of a man--whilst--Mira is . . . Oh, God! help me!--God help
HER!"
He was visibly contending with his emotions; and Helen Cumberly
found herself forced to turn her head aside.
"I have been blind," continued Leroux, in a forced, monotonous
voice. "That Mira has not--deceived me, in the worst sense of the
word, is in no way due to my care of her. I recognize that, and I
accept my punishment; for I deserved it. But what now overwhelms
me is the knowledge, the frightful knowledge, that in a sense I
have misjudged her, that I have remained here inert, making no
effort, thinking her absence voluntary, whilst--God help her!--she
has been" . . .
"Once again, Leroux," interrupted Dr. Cumberly, "I must ask you not
to take too black a view. I blame myself more than I blame you,
for having failed to perceive what as an intimate friend I had
every opportunity to perceive; that your wife was acquiring the
opium habit. You have told me that you count her as dead"--he
stood beside Leroux, resting both hands upon the bowed shoulders--
"I have not encouraged you to change that view. One who has
cultivated--the--vice, to a point where protracted absences become
necessary--you understand me?--is, so far as my experience goes" . . .
"Incurable! I quite understand," jerked Leroux. "A thousand times
better dead, indeed."
"The facts as I see them," resumed the physician, "as I see them,
are these: by some fatality, at present inexplicable, a victim of
the opium syndicate met her death in this flat. Realizing that the
inquiries brought to bear would inevitably lead to the cross-
examination of Mrs. Leroux, the opium syndicate has detained her;
was forced to detain her."
"Where is the place," began Leroux, in a voice rising higher with
every syllable--"where is the infamous den to which--to which" . . .
Dr. Cumberly pressed his hands firmly upon the speaker's shoulders.
"It is only a question of time, Leroux," he said, "and you will
have the satisfaction of knowing that--though at a great cost to
yourself--this dreadful evil has been stamped out, that this yellow
peril has been torn from the heart of society. Now, I must leave
you for the present; but rest assured that everything possible is
being done to close the nets about Mr. King."
"Ah!" whispered Leroux, "MR. KING!"
"The circle is narrowing," continued the physician. "I may not
divulge confidences; but a very clever man--the greatest practical
criminologist in Europe--is devoting the whole of his time, night
and day, to this object."
Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland exhibited a keen interest in the
words, but Leroux, with closed eyes, merely nodded in a dull way.
Shortly, Dr. Cumberly took his departure, and, Helen looking at her
companion interrogatively:--
"I think," said Denise Ryland, addressing Leroux, "that you should
not over-tax your strength at present." She walked across to where
he sat, and examined some proofslips lying upon the little table
beside the couch. "'Martin Zeda,'" she said, with a certain high
disdain. "Leave 'Martin Zeda' alone for once, and read a really
cheerful book!"
Leroux forced a smile to his lips.
"The correction of these proofs," he said diffidently, "exacts no
great mental strain, but is sufficient to--distract my mind. Work,
after all, is nature's own sedative."
"I rather agree with Mr. Leroux, Denise," said Helen;--"and really
you must allow him to know best."
"Thank you," said Leroux, meeting her eyes momentarily. "I feared
that I was about to be sent to bed like a naughty boy!"
"I hope it's fine to-morrow," said Helen rapidly. "A drive to
Richmond will be quite delightful."
"I think, myself," agreed Leroux, "that it will hasten my recovery
to breathe the fresh air once again."
Knowing how eagerly he longed for health and strength, and to what
purpose, the girl found something very pathetic in the words.
"I wish you were well enough to come out this afternoon," she said;
"I am going to a private view at Olaf van Noord's studio. It is
sure to be an extraordinary afternoon. He is the god of the Soho
futurists, you know. And his pictures are the weirdest nightmares
imaginable. One always meets such singular people there, too, and
I am honored in receiving an invitation to represent the Planet!"
"I consider," said Denise Ryland, head wagging furiously again,
"that the man is . . . mad. He had an exhibition . . . in Paris
. . . and everybody . . . laughed at him . . . simply LAUGHED at
him."
"But financially, he is very successful," added Helen.
"Financially!" exclaimed Denise Ryland, "FINANCIALLY! To criticize
a man's work . . . financially, is about as . . . sensible as . . .
to judge the Venus . . . de Milo . . . by weight!--or to sell the
works . . . of Leonardo . . . da Vinci by the . . . yard! Olaf van
Noord is nothing but . . . a fool . . . of the worst possible . . .
description . . . imaginable."
"He is at least an entertaining fool!" protested Helen, laughingly.
"A mountebank!" cried Denise Ryland; "a clown . . . a pantaloon . . .
a whole family of . . . idiots . . . rolled into one!"
"It seems unkind to run away and leave you here--in your
loneliness," said Helen to Leroux; "but really I must be off to the
wilds of Soho." . . .
"To-morrow," said Leroux, standing up and fixing his eyes upon her
lingeringly, "will be a red-letter day. I have no right to
complain, whilst such good friends remain to me--such true
friends." . . .
XXVI
"OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES"
A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord's large
and dirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those
weird and nondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal
Montmartre in the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals,
representing the Press, leavened the throng, but the entire
gathering--"advanced" and unenlightened alike--seemed to be drawn
to a common focus: a large canvas placed advantageously in the
southeast corner of the studio, where it enjoyed all the benefit of
a pure and equably suffused light.
Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching stool, and
handling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder with much grace,
was Olaf van Noord. He had hair of so light a yellow as sometimes
to appear white, worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut
squarely all around behind, lending him a medieval appearance. He
wore a slight mustache carefully pointed; and his scanty vandyke
beard could not entirely conceal the weakness of his chin. His
complexion had the color and general appearance of drawing-paper,
and in his large blue eyes was an eerie hint of sightlessness. He
was attired in a light tweed suit cut in an American pattern, and
out from his low collar flowed a black French knot.
Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland,
advancing across the floor with the measured gait of a tragic
actor. He greeted them aloofly, and a little negro boy proffered
tiny cups of China tea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as
her gaze swept the picture-covered walls; but she seemed to approve
of the tea.
The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing little
yellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly smilingly refused, but
Denise Ryland took one of the cigarettes, sniffed at it
superciliously--and then replaced it in the box.
"It has a most . . . egregiously horrible . . . odor," she
commented.
"They are a special brand," explained Olaf van Noord, distractedly,
"which I have imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a small
percentage of opium."
"Opium!" exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring at the speaker and then
at Helen Cumberly, as though the latter were responsible in some
way for the vices of the painter.
"Yes," he said, reclosing the box, and pacing somberly to the door
to greet a new arrival.
"Did you ever in all your life," said Denise Ryland, glancing about
her, "see such an exhibition . . . of nightmares?"
Certainly, the criticism was not without justification; the dauby-
looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible water-colors, and riotous
charcoal sketches which formed the mural decoration of the studio
were distinctly "advanced." But, since the center of interest
seemed to be the large canvas on the easel, the two moved to the
edges of the group of spectators and began to examine this
masterpiece. A very puzzled newspaperman joined them, bending and
whispering to Helen Cumberly:
"Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am
writing it up as a practical joke! We are giving him half a
column--Lord knows what for!--but I can't see how to handle it
except as funny stuff."
"But, for heaven's sake . . . what does he . . . CALL it?" muttered
Denise Ryland, holding a pair of gold rimmed pince-nez before her
eyes, and shifting them to and fro in an endeavor to focus the
canvas.
"'Our Lady of the Poppies,'" replied the journalist. "Do you think
it's intended to mean anything in particular?"
The question was no light one; it embodied a problem not readily
solved. The scene depicted, and depicted with a skill, with a
technical mastery of the bizarre that had in it something horrible--
was a long narrow room--or, properly, cavern. The walls
apparently were hewn from black rock, and at regular intervals,
placed some three feet from these gleaming walls, uprose slender
golden pillars supporting a kind of fretwork arch which entirely
masked the ceiling. The point of sight adopted by the painter was
peculiar. One apparently looked down into this apartment from some
spot elevated fourteen feet or more above the floor level. The
floor, which was black and polished, was strewn with tiger skins;
and little, inlaid tables and garishly colored cushions were spread
about in confusion, whilst cushioned divans occupied the visible
corners of the place. The lighting was very "advanced": a lamp,
having a kaleidoscopic shade, swung from the center of the roof low
into the room and furnished all the illumination.
Three doors were visible; one, directly in line at the further end
of the place, apparently of carved ebony inlaid with ivory;
another, on the right, of lemon wood or something allied to it, and
inlaid with a design in some emerald hued material; with a third,
corresponding door, on the left, just barely visible to the
spectator.
Two figures appeared. One was that of a Chinaman in a green robe
scarcely distinguishable from the cushions surrounding him, who
crouched upon the divan to the left of the central door, smoking a
long bamboo pipe. His face was the leering face of a yellow satyr.
But, dominating the composition, and so conceived in form, in
color, and in lighting, as to claim the attention centrally, so
that the other extravagant details became but a setting for it, was
another figure.
Upon a slender ivory pedestal crouched a golden dragon, and before
the pedestal was placed a huge Chinese vase of the indeterminate
pink seen in the heart of a rose, and so skilfully colored as to
suggest an internal luminousness. The vase was loaded with a mass
of exotic poppies, a riotous splash of color; whilst beside this
vase, and slightly in front of the pedestal, stood the figure
presumably intended to represent the Lady of the Poppies who gave
title to the picture.
The figure was that of an Eastern girl, slight and supple, and
possessing a devilish and forbidding grace. Her short hair formed
a black smudge upon the canvas, and cast a dense shadow upon her
face. The composition was infinitely daring; for out of this
shadow shone the great black eyes, their diablerie most cunningly
insinuated; whilst with a brilliant exclusion of detail--by means
of two strokes of the brush steeped in brightest vermilion, and one
seemingly haphazard splash of dead white--an evil and abandoned
smile was made to greet the spectator.
To the waist, the figure was a study in satin nudity, whence, from
a jeweled girdle, light draperies swept downward, covering the feet
and swinging, a shimmering curve out into the foreground of the
canvas, the curve being cut off in its apogee by the gold frame.
Above her head, this girl of demoniacal beauty held a bunch of
poppies seemingly torn from the vase: this, with her left hand;
with her right she pointed, tauntingly, at her beholder.
In comparison with the effected futurism of the other pictures in
the studio, "Our Lady of the Poppies," beyond question was a great
painting. From a point where the entire composition might be taken
in by the eye, the uncanny scene glowed with highly colored detail;
but, exclude the scheme of the composition, and focus the eye upon
any one item--the golden dragon--the seated Chinaman--the ebony
door--the silk-shaded lamp; it had no detail whatever: one beheld a
meaningless mass of colors. Individually, no one section of the
canvas had life, had meaning; but, as a whole, it glowed, it lived--
it was genius. Above all, it was uncanny.
This, Denise Ryland fully realized, but critics had grown so used
to treating the work of Olaf van Noord as a joke, that "Our Lady of
the Poppies" in all probability would never be judged seriously.
"What does it mean, Mr. van Noord?" asked Helen Cumberly, leaving
the group of worshipers standing hushed in rapture before the
canvas and approaching the painter. "Is there some occult
significance in the title?"
"It is a priestess," replied the artist, in his dreamy fashion. . . .
"A priestess?"
"A priestess of the temple." . . .
Helen Cumberly glanced again at the astonishing picture.
"Do you mean," she began, "that there is a living original?"
Olaf van Noord bowed absently, and left her side to greet one who
at that moment entered the studio. Something magnetic in the
personality of the newcomer drew all eyes from the canvas to the
figure on the threshold. The artist was removing garish tiger skin
furs from the shoulders of the girl--for the new arrival was a
girl, a Eurasian girl.
She wore a tiger skin motor-coat, and a little, close-fitting,
turban-like cap of the same. The coat removed, she stood revealed
in a clinging gown of silk; and her feet were shod in little amber
colored slippers with green buckles. The bodice of her dress
opened in a surprising V, displaying the satin texture of her neck
and shoulders, and enhancing the barbaric character of her
appearance. Her jet black hair was confined by no band or comb,
but protruded Bishareen-like around the shapely head. Without
doubt, this was the Lady of the Poppies--the original of the
picture.
"Dear friends," said Olaf van Noord, taking the girl's hand, and
walking into the studio, "permit me to present my model!"
Following, came a slightly built man who carried himself with a
stoop; an olive faced man, who squinted frightfully, and who
dressed immaculately.
"What a most . . . EXTRAORDINARY-looking creature!" whispered
Denise Ryland to Helen. "She has undoubted attractions of . . . a
hellish sort . . . if I may use . . . the term."
"She is the strangest looking girl I have ever seen in my life,"
replied Helen, who found herself unable to turn her eyes away from
Olaf van Noord's model. "Surely she is not a professional model!"
The chatty reporter (his name was Crockett) confided to Helen
Cumberly:
"She is not exactly a professional model, I think, Miss Cumberly,
but she is one of the van Noord set, and is often to be seen in the
more exclusive restaurants, and sometimes in the Cafe Royal."
"She is possibly a member of the theatrical profession?"
"I think not. She is the only really strange figure (if we exclude
Olaf) in this group of poseurs. She is half Burmese, I believe,
and a native of Moulmein."
"Most EXTRAORDINARY creature!" muttered Denise Ryland, focussing
upon the Eurasian her gold rimmed glasses--"MOST extraordinary."
She glanced around at the company in general. "I really begin to
feel . . . more and more as though I were . . . in a private
lunatic . . . asylum. That picture . . . beyond doubt is the work
. . . of a madman . . . a perfect . . . madman!"
"I, also, begin to be conscious of an uncomfortable sensation,"
said Helen, glancing about her almost apprehensively. "Am I
dreaming, or did SOME ONE ELSE enter the studio, immediately behind
that girl?"
"A squinting man . . . yes!"
"But a THIRD person?"
"No, my dear . . . look for yourself. As you say . . . you are
. . . dreaming. It's not to be wondered . . . at!"
Helen laughed, but very uneasily. Evidently it had been an
illusion, but an unpleasant illusion; for she should have been
prepared to swear that not two, but THREE people had entered!
Moreover, although she was unable to detect the presence of any
third stranger in the studio, the persuasion that this third person
actually was present remained with her, unaccountably, and
uncannily.
The lady of the tiger skins was surrounded by an admiring group of
unusuals, and Helen, who had turned again to the big canvas,
suddenly became aware that the little cross-eyed man was bowing and
beaming radiantly before her.
"May I be allowed," said Olaf van Noord who stood beside him, "to
present my friend Mr. Gianapolis, my dear Miss Cumberly?" . . .
Helen Cumberly found herself compelled to acknowledge the
introduction, although she formed an immediate, instinctive
distaste for Mr. Gianapolis. But he made such obvious attempts to
please, and was so really entertaining a talker, that she unbent
towards him a little. His admiration, too, was unconcealed; and no
pretty woman, however great her common sense, is entirely
admiration-proof.
"Do you not think 'Our Lady of the Poppies' remarkable?" said
Gianapolis, pleasantly.
"I think," replied Denise Ryland,--to whom, also, the Greek had
been presented by Olaf van Noord, "that it indicates . . . a
disordered . . . imagination on the part of . . . its creator."
"It is a technical masterpiece," replied the Greek, smiling, "but
hardly a work of imagination; for you have seen the original of the
principal figure, and"--he turned to Helen Cumberly--"one need not
go very far East for such an interior as that depicted."
"What!" Helen knitted her brows, prettily--"you do not suggest that
such an apartment actually exists either East or West?"
Gianapolis beamed radiantly.
"You would, perhaps, like to see such an apartment?" he suggested.
"I should, certainly," replied Helen Cumberly. "Not even in a
stage setting have I seen anything like it."
"You have never been to the East?"
"Never, unfortunately. I have desired to go for years, and hope to
go some day."
"In Smyrna you may see such rooms; possibly in Port Said--certainly
in Cairo. In Constantinople--yes! But perhaps in Paris; and--who
knows?--Sir Richard Burton explored Mecca, but who has explored
London?"
Helen Cumberly watched him curiously.
"You excite my curiosity," she said. "Don't you think"--turning to
Denise Ryland--"he is most tantalizing?"
Denise Ryland distended her nostrils scornfully.
"He is telling . . . fairy tales," she declared. "He thinks . . .
we are . . . silly!"
"On the contrary," declared Gianapolis; "I flatter myself that I am
too good a judge of character to make that mistake."
Helen Cumberly absorbed his entire attention; in everything he
sought to claim her interest; and when, ere taking their departure,
the girl and her friend walked around the studio to view the other
pictures, Gianapolis was the attendant cavalier, and so well as one
might judge, in his case, his glance rarely strayed from the
piquant beauty of Helen.
When they departed, it was Gianapolis, and not Olaf van Noord, who
escorted them to the door and downstairs to the street. The red
lips of the Eurasian smiled upon her circle of adulators, but her
eyes--her unfathomable eyes--followed every movement of the Greek.
XXVII
GROVE OF A MILLION APES
Four men sauntered up the grand staircase and entered the huge
smoking-room of the Radical Club as Big Ben was chiming the hour of
eleven o'clock. Any curious observer who had cared to consult the
visitor's book in the hall, wherein the two lines last written were
not yet dry, would have found the following entries:
VISITOR RESIDENCE INTROD'ING
MEMBER
Dr. Bruce Cumberly London John Exel
M. Gaston Paris Brian Malpas
The smoking-room was fairly full, but a corner near the big open
grate had just been vacated, and here, about a round table, the
four disposed themselves. Our French acquaintance being in evening
dress had perforce confined himself in his sartorial eccentricities
to a flowing silk knot in place of the more conventional, neat bow.
He was already upon delightfully friendly terms with the frigid
Exel and the aristocratic Sir Brian Malpas. Few natures were proof
against the geniality of the brilliant Frenchman.
Conversation drifted, derelict, from one topic to another, now
seized by this current of thought, now by that; and M. Gaston Max
made no perceptible attempt to steer it in any given direction.
But presently:
"I was reading a very entertaining article," said Exel, turning his
monocle upon the physician, "in the Planet to-day, from the pen of
Miss Cumberly; Ah! dealing with Olaf van Noord."
Sir Brian Malpas suddenly became keenly interested.
"You mean in reference to his new picture, 'Our Lady of the
Poppies'?" he said.
"Yes," replied Exel, "but I was unaware that you knew van Noord?"
"I do not know him," said Sir Brian, "I should very much like to
meet him. But directly the picture is on view to the public I
shall certainly subscribe my half-crown."
"My own idea," drawled Exel, "was that Miss Cumberly's article
probably was more interesting than the picture or the painter. Her
description of the canvas was certainly most vivid; and I, myself,
for a moment, experienced an inclination to see the thing. I feel
sure, however, that I should be disappointed."
"I think you are wrong," interposed Cumberly. "Helen is
enthusiastic about the picture, and even Miss Ryland, whom you have
met and who is a somewhat severe critic, admits that it is out of
the ordinary."
Max, who covertly had been watching the face of Sir Brian Malpas,
said at this point:
"I would not miss it for anything, after reading Miss Cumberly's
account of it. When are you thinking of going to see it, Sir
Brian? I might arrange to join you."
"Directly the exhibition is opened," replied the baronet, lapsing
again into his dreamy manner. "Ring me up when you are going, and
I will join you."
"But you might be otherwise engaged?"
"I never permit business," said Sir Brian, "to interfere with
pleasure."
The words sounded absurd, but, singularly, the statement was true.
Sir Brian had won his political position by sheer brilliancy. He
was utterly unreliable and totally indifferent to that code of
social obligations which ordinarily binds his class. He held his
place by force of intellect, and it was said of him that had he
possessed the faintest conception of his duties toward his fellow
men, nothing could have prevented him from becoming Prime Minister.
He was a puzzle to all who knew him. Following a most brilliant
speech in the House, which would win admiration and applause from
end to end of the Empire, he would, perhaps on the following day,
exhibit something very like stupidity in debate. He would rise to
address the House and take his seat again without having uttered a
word. He was eccentric, said his admirers, but there were others
who looked deeper for an explanation, yet failed to find one, and
were thrown back upon theories.
M. Max, by strategy, masterful because it was simple, so arranged
matters that at about twelve o'clock he found himself strolling
with Sir Brian Malpas toward the latter's chambers in Piccadilly.
A man who wore a raincoat with the collar turned up and buttoned
tightly about his throat, and whose peculiar bowler hat seemed to
be so tightly pressed upon his head that it might have been glued
there, detached himself from the shadows of the neighboring cab
rank as M. Gaston Max and Sir Brian Malpas quitted the Club, and
followed them at a discreet distance.
It was a clear, fine night, and both gentlemen formed conspicuous
figures, Sir Brian because of his unusual height and upright
military bearing, and the Frenchman by reason of his picturesque
cloak and hat. Up Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square
and so on up to Piccadilly Circus went the two, deep in
conversation; with the tireless man in the raincoat always dogging
their footsteps. So the procession proceeded on, along Piccadilly.
Then Sir Brian and M. Max turned into the door of a block of
chambers, and a constable, who chanced to be passing at the moment,
touched his helmet to the baronet.
As the two were entering the lift, the follower came up level with
the doorway and abreast of the constable; the top portion of a very
red face showed between the collar of the raincoat and the brim of
the hat, together with a pair of inquiring blue eyes.
"Reeves!" said the follower, addressing the constable.
The latter turned and stared for a moment at the speaker; then
saluted hurriedly.
"Don't do that!" snapped the proprietor of the bowler; "you should
know better! Who was that gentleman?"
"Sir Brian Malpas, sir."
"Sir Brian Malpas?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the other?"
"I don't know, sir. I have never seen him before."
"H'm!" grunted Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, walking across the road
toward the Park with his hands thrust deep in his pockets; "I have!
What the deuce is Max up to? I wonder if Dunbar knows about this
move?"
He propped himself up against the railings, scarcely knowing what
he expected to gain by remaining there, but finding the place as
well suited to reflection as any other. He shared with Dunbar a
dread that the famous Frenchman would bring the case to a
successful conclusion unaided by Scotland Yard, thus casting
professional discredit upon Dunbar and himself.
His presence at that spot was largely due to accident. He had
chanced to be passing the Club when Sir Brian and M. Max had come
out, and, fearful that the presence of the tall stranger portended
some new move on the Frenchman's part, Sowerby had followed, hoping
to glean something by persistency when clues were unobtainable by
other means. He had had no time to make inquiries of the porter of
the Club respecting the identity of M. Max's companion, and thus,
as has appeared, he did not obtain the desired information until
his arrival in Piccadilly.
Turning over these matters in his mind, Sowerby stood watching the
block of buildings across the road. He saw a light spring into
being in a room overlooking Piccadilly, a room boasting a handsome
balcony. This took place some two minutes after the departure of
the lift bearing Sir Brian and his guest upward; so that Sowerby
permitted himself to conclude that the room with the balcony
belonged to Sir Brian Malpas.
He watched the lighted window aimlessly and speculated upon the
nature of the conversation then taking place up there above him.
Had he possessed the attributes of a sparrow, he thought, he might
have flown up to that balcony and have "got level" with this
infernally clever Frenchman who was almost certainly going to pull
off the case under the very nose of Scotland Yard.
In short, his reflections were becoming somewhat bitter; and
persuaded that he had nothing to gain by remaining there any longer
he was about to walk off, when his really remarkable persistency
received a trivial reward.
One of the windows communicating with the balcony was suddenly
thrown open, so that Sowerby had a distant view of the corner of a
picture, of the extreme top of a book-case, and of a patch of white
ceiling in the room above; furthermore he had a clear sight of the
man who had opened the window, and who now turned and reentered the
room. The man was Sir Brian Malpas.
Heedless of the roaring traffic stream, upon the brink of which he
stood, heedless of all who passed him by, Sowerby gazed aloft,
seeking to project himself, as it were, into that lighted room.
Not being an accomplished clairvoyant, he remained in all his
component parts upon the pavement of Piccadilly; but ours is the
privilege to succeed where Sowerby failed, and the comedy being
enacted in the room above should prove well deserving of study.
To the tactful diplomacy of M. Gaston Max, the task of securing
from Sir Brian an invitation to step up into his chambers in order
to smoke a final cigar was no heavy one. He seated himself in a
deep armchair, at the baronet's invitation, and accepted a very
fine cigar, contentedly, sniffing at the old cognac with the
appreciation of a connoisseur, ere holding it under the syphon.
He glanced around the room, noting the character of the ornaments,
and looked up at the big bookshelf which was near to him; these
rapid inquiries dictated the following remark: "You have lived in
China, Sir Brian?"
Sir Brian surveyed him with mild surprise.
"Yes," he replied; "I was for some time at the Embassy in Pekin."
His guest nodded, blowing a ring of smoke from his lips and tracing
its hazy outline with the lighted end of his cigar.
"I, too, have been in China," he said slowly.
"What, really! I had no idea."
"Yes--I have been in China . . . I" . . .
M. Gaston grew suddenly deathly pale and his fingers began to
twitch alarmingly. He stared before him with wide-opened eyes and
began to cough and to choke as if suffocating--dying.
Sir Brian Malpas leapt to his feet with an exclamation of concern.
His visitor weakly waved him away, gasping: "It is nothing . . . it
will . . . pass off. Oh! mon dieu!" . . .
Sir Brian ran and opened one of the windows to admit more air to
the apartment. He turned and looked back anxiously at the man in
the armchair.
M. Gaston, twitching in a pitiful manner and still frightfully
pale, was clutching the chair-arms and glaring straight in front of
him. Sir Brian started slightly and advanced again to his
visitor's side.
The burning cigar lay upon the carpet beside the chair, and Sir
Brian took it up and tossed it into the grate. As he did so he
looked searchingly into the eyes of M. Gaston. The pupils were
extraordinary dilated. . . .
"Do you feel better?" asked Sir Brian.
"Much better," muttered M. Gaston, his face twitching nervously--
"much better."
"Are you subject to these attacks?"
"Since--I was in China--yes, unfortunately."
Sir Brian tugged at his fair mustache and seemed about to speak,
then turned aside, and, walking to the table, poured out a peg of
brandy and offered it to his guest.
"Thanks," said M. Gaston; "many thanks indeed, but already I
recover. There is only one thing that would hasten my recovery,
and that, I fear, is not available."
"What is that?"
He looked again at M. Gaston's eyes with their very dilated pupils.
"Opium!" whispered M. Gaston.
"What! you . . . you" . . .
"I acquired the custom in China," replied the Frenchman, his voice
gradually growing stronger; "and for many years, now, I have
regarded opium, as essential to my well-being. Unfortunately
business has detained me in London, and I have been forced to fast
for an unusually long time. My outraged constitution is
protesting--that is all."
He shrugged his shoulders and glanced up at his host with an odd
smile.
"You have my sympathy," said Sir Brian. . . .
"In Paris," continued the visitor, "I am a member of a select and
cozy little club; near the Boulevard Beaumarchais. . . ."
"I have heard of it," interjected Malpas--"on the Rue St. Claude?"
"That indeed is its situation," replied the other with surprise.
"You know someone who is a member?"
Sir Brian Malpas hesitated for ten seconds or more; then, crossing
the room and reclosing the window, he turned, facing his visitor
across the large room.
"I was a member, myself, during the time that I lived in Paris," he
said, in a hurried manner which did not entirely serve to cover his
confusion.
"My dear Sir Brian! We have at least one taste in common!"
Sir Brian Malpas passed his hand across his brow with a weary
gesture well-known to fellow Members of Parliament, for it often
presaged the abrupt termination of a promising speech.
"I curse the day that I was appointed to Pekin," he said; "for it
was in Pekin that I acquired the opium habit. I thought to make it
my servant; it has made me" . . .
"What! you would give it up?"
Sir Brian surveyed the speaker with surprise again.
"Do you doubt it?"
"My dear Sir Brian!" cried the Frenchman, now completely restored,
"my real life is lived in the land of the poppies; my other life is
but a shadow! Morbleu! to be an outcast from that garden of bliss
is to me torture excruciating. For the past three months I have
regularly met in my trances." . . .
Sir Brian shuddered coldly.
"In my explorations of that wonderland," continued the Frenchman,
"a most fascinating Eastern girl. Ah! I cannot describe her; for
when, at a time like this, I seek to conjure up her image,--nom
d'um nom! do you know, I can think of nothing but a serpent!"
"A serpent!"
"A serpent, exactly. Yet, when I actually meet her in the land of
the poppies, she is a dusky Cleopatra in whose arms I forget the
world--even the world of the poppy. We float down the stream
together, always in an Indian bark canoe, and this stream runs
through orange groves. Numberless apes--millions of apes, inhabit
these groves, and as we two float along, they hurl orange blossoms--
orange blossoms, you understand--until the canoe is filled with
them. I assure you, monsieur, that I perform these delightful
journeys regularly, and to be deprived of the key which opens the
gate of this wonderland, is to me like being exiled from a loved
one. Pardieu! that grove of the apes! Morbleu! my witch of the
dusky eyes! Yet, as I have told you, owing to some trick of my
brain, whilst I can experience an intense longing for that
companion of my dreams, my waking attempts to visualize her provide
nothing but the image" . . .
"Of a serpent," concluded Sir Brian, smiling pathetically. "You
are indeed an enthusiast, M. Gaston, and to me a new type. I had
supposed that every slave of the drug cursed his servitude and
loathed and despised himself." . . .
"Ah, monsieur! to ME those words sound almost like a sacrilege!"
"But," continued Sir Brian, "your remarks interest me strangely;
for two reasons. First, they confirm your assertion that you are,
or were, an habitue of the Rue St. Claude, and secondly, they
revive in my mind an old fancy--a superstition."
"What is that, Sir Brian?" inquired M. Max, whose opium vision was
a faithful imitation of one related to him by an actual frequenter
of the establishment near the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
"Only once before, M. Gaston, have I compared notes with a fellow
opium-smoker, and he, also, was a patron of Madame Jean; he, also,
met in his dreams that Eastern Circe, in the grove of apes, just as
I" . . .
"Morbleu! Yes?"
"As I meet her!"
"But this is astounding!" cried Max, who actually thought it so.
"Your fancy--your superstition--was this: that only habitues of Rue
St. Claude met, in poppyland, this vision? And in your fancy you
are now confirmed?"
"It is singular, at least."
"It is more than that, Sir Brian! Can it be that some intelligence
presides over that establishment and exercises--shall I call it a
hypnotic influence upon the inmates?"
M. Max put the question with sincere interest.
"One does not ALWAYS meet her," murmured Sir Brian. "But--yes, it
is possible. For I have since renewed those experiences in
London."
"What! in London?"
"Are you remaining for some time longer in London?"
"Alas! for several weeks yet."
"Then I will introduce you to a gentleman who can secure you
admission to an establishment in London--where you may even hope
sometimes to find the orange grove--to meet your dream-bride!"
"What!" cried M. Gaston, rising to his feet, his eyes bright with
gratitude, "you will do that?"
"With pleasure," said Sir Brian Malpas, wearily; "nor am I jealous!
But--no! do not thank me, for I do not share your views upon the
subject, monsieur. You are a devout worshiper; I, an unhappy
slave!"
XXVIII
THE OPIUM AGENT
Into the Palm Court of the Hotel Astoria, Mr. Gianapolis came,
radiant and bowing. M. Gaston rose to greet his visitor. M.
Gaston was arrayed in a light gray suit and wore a violet tie of
very chaste design; his complexion had assumed a quality of
sallowness, and the pupils of his eyes had acquired (as on the
occasion of his visit to the chambers of Sir Brian Malpas) a
chatoyant quality; they alternately dilated and contracted in a
most remarkable manner--in a manner which attracted the immediate
attention of Mr. Gianapolis.
"My dear sir," he said, speaking in French, "you suffer. I
perceive how grievously you suffer; and you have been denied that
panacea which beneficent nature designed for the service of
mankind. A certain gentleman known to both of us (we brethren of
the poppy are all nameless) has advised me of your requirements--
and here I am."
"You are welcome," declared M. Gaston.
He rose and grasped eagerly the hand of the Greek, at the same time
looking about the Palm Court suspiciously. "You can relieve my
sufferings?"
Mr. Gianapolis seated himself beside the Frenchman.
"I perceive," he said, "that you are of those who abjure the
heresies of De Quincey. How little he knew, that De Quincey, of
the true ritual of the poppy! He regarded it as the German regards
his lager, whereas we know--you and I--that it is an Eleusinian
mystery; that true communicants must retreat to the temple of the
goddess if they would partake of Paradise with her."
"It is perhaps a question of temperament," said M. Gaston, speaking
in a singularly tremulous voice. "De Quincey apparently possessed
the type of constitution which is cerebrally stimulated by opium.
To such a being the golden gates are closed; and the Easterners,
whom he despised for what he termed their beastly lethargies, have
taught me the real secret of the poppy. I do not employ opium as
an aid to my social activities; I regard it as nepenthe from them
and as a key to a brighter realm. It has been my custom, M.
Gianapolis, for many years, periodically to visit that fairyland.
In Paris I regularly arranged my affairs in such a manner that I
found myself occasionally at liberty to spend two or three days, as
the case might be, in the company of my bright friends who haunted
the Boulevard Beaumarchais."
"Ah! Our acquaintance has mentioned something of this to me,
Monsieur. You knew Madame Jean?"
"The dear Madame Jean! Name of a name! She was the hierophant of
my Paris Temple" . . .
"And Sen?"
"Our excellent Sen! Splendid man! It was from the hands of the
worthy Sen, the incomparable Sen, that I received the key to the
gate! Ah! how I have suffered since the accursed business has
exiled me from the" . . .
"I feel for you," declared Gianapolis, warmly; "I, too, have
worshiped at the shrine; and although I cannot promise that the
London establishment to which I shall introduce you is comparable
with that over which Madame Jean formerly presided" . . .
"Formerly?" exclaimed M. Gaston, with lifted eyebrows. "You do not
tell me" . . .
"My friend," said Gianapolis, "in Europe we are less enlightened
upon certain matters than in Smyrna, in Constantinople--in Cairo.
The impertinent police have closed the establishment in the Rue St.
Claude!"
"Ah!" exclaimed M. Gaston, striking his brow, "misery! I shall
return to Paris, then, only to die?"
"I would suggest, monsieur," said Gianapolis, tapping him
confidentially upon the breast, "that you periodically visit London
in future. The journey is a short one, and already, I am happy to
say, the London establishment (conducted by Mr. Ho-Pin of Canton--a
most accomplished gentleman, and a graduate of London)--enjoys the
patronage of several distinguished citizens of Paris, of Brussels,
of Vienna, and elsewhere."
"You offer me life!" declared M. Gaston, gratefully. "The commoner
establishments, for the convenience of sailors and others of that
class, at Dieppe, Calais,"--he shrugged his shoulders,
comprehensively--"are impossible as resorts. In catering for the
true devotees--for those who, unlike De Quincey, plunge and do not
dabble--for those who seek to explore the ultimate regions of
poppyland, for those who have learnt the mystery from the real
masters in Asia and not in Europe--the enterprise conducted by
Madame Jean supplied a want long and bitterly experienced. I
rejoice to know that London has not been neglected" . . .
"My dear friend!" cried Gianapolis enthusiastically, "no important
city has been neglected! A high priest of the cult has arisen, and
from a parent lodge in Pekin he has extended his offices to kindred
lodges in most of the capitals of Europe and Asia; he has not
neglected the Near East, and America owes him a national debt of
gratitude."
"Ah! the great man!" murmured M. Gaston, with closed eyes. "As an
old habitue of the Rue St. Claude, I divine that you refer to Mr.
King?"
"Beyond doubt," whispered Gianapolis, imparting a quality of awe to
his voice. "From you, my friend, I will have no secrets; but"--he
glanced about him crookedly, and lowered his voice to an impressive
whisper--"the police, as you are aware" . . .
"Curse their interference!" said M. Gaston.
"Curse it indeed; but the police persist in believing, or in
pretending to believe, that any establishment patronized by lovers
of the magic resin must necessarily be a resort of criminals."
"Pah!"
"Whilst this absurd state of affairs prevails, it is advisable, it
is more than advisable, it is imperative, that all of us should be
secret. The . . . raid--unpleasant word!--upon the establishment
in Paris--was so unexpected that there was no time to advise
patrons; but the admirable tact of the French authorities ensured
the suppression of all names. Since--always as a protective
measure--no business relationship exists between any two of Mr.
King's establishments (each one being entirely self-governed) some
difficulty is being experienced, I believe, in obtaining the names
of those who patronized Madame Jean. But I am doubly glad to have
met you, M. Gaston, for not only can I put you in touch with the
London establishment, but I can impress upon you the necessity of
preserving absolute silence" . . .
M. Gaston extended his palms eloquently.
"To me," he declared, "the name of Mr. King is a sacred symbol."
"It is to all of us!" responded the Greek, devoutly.
M. Gaston in turn became confidential, bending toward Gianapolis so
that, as the shadow of the Greek fell upon his face, his pupils
contracted catlike.
"How often have I prayed," he whispered, "for a sight of that
remarkable man!"
A look of horror, real or simulated, appeared upon the countenance
of Gianapolis.
"To see--Mr. King!" he breathed. "My clear friend, I declare to
you by all that I hold sacred that I--though one of the earliest
patrons of the first establishment, that in Pekin--have never seen
Mr. King!"
"He is so cautious and so clever as that?"
"Even as cautious and even as clever--yes! Though every branch of
the enterprise in the world were destroyed, no man would ever see
Mr. King; he would remain but a NAME!"
"You will arrange for me to visit the house of--Ho-Pin, did you
say?--immediately?"
"To-day, if you wish," said Gianapolis, brightly.
"My funds," continued M. Gaston, shrugging his shoulders, "are not
limitless at the moment; and until I receive a remittance from
Paris" . . .
The brow of Mr. Gianapolis darkened slightly.
"Our clientele here," he replied, "is a very wealthy one, and the
fees are slightly higher than in Paris. An entrance fee of fifty
guineas is charged, and an annual subscription of the same
amount" . . .
"But," exclaimed M. Gaston, "I shall not be in London for so long
as a year! In a week or a fortnight from now, I shall be on my way
to America!"
"You will receive an introduction to the New York representative,
and your membership will be available for any of the United States
establishments."
"But I am going to South America."
"At Buenos Aires is one of the largest branches."
"But I am not going to Buenos Aires! I am going with a prospecting
party to Yucatan."
"You must be well aware, monsieur, that to go to Yucatan is to
exile yourself from all that life holds for you."
"I can take a supply" . . .
"You will die, monsieur! Already you suffer abominably" . . .
"I do not suffer because of any lack of the specific," said M.
Gaston wearily; "for if I were entirely unable to obtain possession
of it, I should most certainly die. But I suffer because, living
as I do at present in a public hotel, I am unable to embark upon a
protracted voyage into those realms which hold so much for me" . . .
"I offer you the means" . . .
"But to charge me one hundred guineas, since I cannot possibly
avail myself of the full privileges, is to rob me--is to trade upon
my condition!" M. Gaston was feebly indignant.
"Let it be twenty-five guineas, monsieur," said the Greek,
reflectively, "entitling you to two visits."
"Good! good!" cried M. Gaston. "Shall I write you a check?"
"You mistake me," said Gianapolis. "I am in no way connected with
the management of the establishment. You will settle this business
matter with Mr. Ho-Pin" . . .
"Yes, yes!"
"To whom I will introduce you this evening. Checks, as you must be
aware, are unacceptable. I will meet you at Piccadilly Circus,
outside the entrance to the London Pavilion, at nine o'clock this
evening, and you will bring with you the twenty-five guineas in
cash. You will arrange to absent yourself during the following
day?"
"Of course, of course! At nine o'clock at Piccadilly Circus?"
"Exactly."
M. Gaston, this business satisfactorily completed, made his way to
his own room by a somewhat devious route, not wishing to encounter
anyone of his numerous acquaintances whilst in an apparent state of
ill-health so calculated to excite compassion. He avoided the lift
and ascended the many stairs to his small apartment.
Here he rectified the sallowness of his complexion, which was due,
not to outraged nature, but to the arts of make-up. His dilated
pupils (a phenomenon traceable to drops of belladonna) he was
compelled to suffer for the present; but since their condition
tended temporarily to impair his sight, he determined to remain in
his room until the time for the appointment with Gianapolis.
"So!" he muttered--"we have branches in Europe, Asia, Africa and
America! Eh, bien! to find all those would occupy five hundred
detectives for a whole year. I have a better plan: crush the
spider and the winds of heaven will disperse his web!"
XXIX
M. MAX OF LONDON AND M. MAX OF PARIS
He seated himself in a cane armchair and, whilst the facts were
fresh in his memory, made elaborate notes upon the recent
conversation with the Greek. He had achieved almost more than he
could have hoped for; but, knowing something of the elaborate
organization of the opium group, he recognized that he owed some
part of his information to the sense of security which this
admirably conducted machine inspired in its mechanics. The
introduction from Sir Brian Malpas had worked wonders, without
doubt; and his own intimate knowledge of the establishment
adjoining the Boulevard Beaumarchais, far from arousing the
suspicions of Gianapolis, had evidently strengthened the latter's
conviction that he had to deal with a confirmed opium slave.
The French detective congratulated himself upon the completeness of
his Paris operation. It was evident that the French police had
succeeded in suppressing all communication between the detained
members of the Rue St. Claude den and the head office--which he
shrewdly suspected to be situated in London. So confident were the
group in the self-contained properties of each of their branches
that the raid of any one establishment meant for them nothing more
than a temporary financial loss. Failing the clue supplied by the
draft on Paris, the case, so far as he was concerned, indeed, must
have terminated with the raiding of the opium house. He reflected
that he owed that precious discovery primarily to the promptness
with which he had conducted the raid--to the finding of the letter
(the ONE incriminating letter) from Mr. King.
Evidently the group remained in ignorance of the fact that the
little arrangement at the Credit Lyonnais had been discovered. He
surveyed--and his eyes twinkled humorously--a small photograph
which was contained in his writing-case.
It represented a very typical Parisian gentleman, with a carefully
trimmed square beard and well brushed mustache, wearing pince-nez
and a white silk knot at his neck. The photograph was cut from a
French magazine, and beneath it appeared the legend:
"M. Gaston Max, Service de Surete."
There was marked genius in the conspicuous dressing of M. Gaston
Max, who, as M. Gaston, was now patronizing the Hotel Astoria. For
whilst there was nothing furtive, nothing secret, about this
gentleman, the closest scrutiny (and because he invited it, he was
never subjected to it) must have failed to detect any resemblance
between M. Gaston of the Hotel Astoria and M. Gaston Max of the
Service de Surete.
And which was the original M. Gaston Max? Was the M. Max of the
magazine photograph a disguised M. Max? or was that the veritable
M. Max, and was the patron of the Astoria a disguised M. Max? It
is quite possible that M. Gaston Max, himself, could not have
answered that question, so true an artist was he; and it is quite
certain that had the occasion arisen he would have refused to do
so.
He partook of a light dinner in his own room, and having changed
into evening dress, went out to meet Mr. Gianapolis. The latter
was on the spot punctually at nine o'clock, and taking the
Frenchman familiarly by the arm, he hailed a taxi-cab, giving the
man the directions, "To Victoria-Suburban." Then, turning to his
companion, he whispered: "Evening dress? And you must return in
daylight."
M. Max felt himself to be flushing like a girl. It was an error of
artistry that he had committed; a heinous crime! "So silly of me!"
he muttered.
"No matter," replied the Greek, genially.
The cab started. M. Max, though silently reproaching himself, made
mental notes of the destination. He had not renewed his sallow
complexion, for reasons of his own, and his dilated pupils were
beginning to contract again, facts which were not very evident,
however, in the poor light. He was very twitchy, nevertheless, and
the face of the man beside him was that of a sympathetic vulture,
if such a creature can be imagined. He inquired casually if the
new patron had brought his money with him, but for the most part
his conversation turned upon China, with which country he seemed to
be well acquainted. Arrived at Victoria, Mr. Gianapolis discharged
the cab, and again taking the Frenchman by the arm, walked with him
some twenty paces away from the station. A car suddenly pulled up
almost beside them.
Ere M. Max had time to note those details in which he was most
interested, Gianapolis had opened the door of the limousine, and
the Frenchman found himself within, beside Gianapolis, and behind
drawn blinds, speeding he knew not in what direction!
"I suppose I should apologize, my dear M. Gaston," said the Greek;
and, although unable to see him, for there was little light in the
car, M. Max seemed to FEEL him smiling--"but this little device has
proved so useful hitherto. In the event of any of those troubles--
wretched police interferences--arising, and of officious people
obtaining possession of a patron's name, he is spared the necessity
of perjuring himself in any way" . . .
"Perhaps I do not entirely understand you, monsieur?" said M. Max.
"It is so simple. The police are determined to raid one of our
establishments: they adopt the course of tracking an habitue. This
is not impossible. They question him; they ask, 'Do you know a Mr.
King?' He replies that he knows no such person, has never seen,
has never spoken with him! I assure you that official inquiries
have gone thus far already, in New York, for example; but to what
end? They say, 'Where is the establishment of a Mr. King to which
you have gone on such and such an occasion?' He replies with
perfect truth, 'I do not know.' Believe me this little device is
quite in your own interest, M. Gaston."
"But when again I feel myself compelled to resort to the solace of
the pipe, how then?"
"So simple! You will step to the telephone and ask for this
number: East 18642. You will then ask for Mr. King, and an
appointment will be made; I will meet you as I met you this
evening--and all will be well."
M. Max began to perceive that he had to deal with a scheme even
more elaborate than hitherto he had conjectured. These were very
clever people, and through the whole complicated network, as
through the petal of a poppy one may trace the veins, he traced the
guiding will--the power of a tortuous Eastern mind. The system was
truly Chinese in its elaborate, uncanny mystifications.
In some covered place that was very dark, the car stopped, and
Gianapolis, leaping out with agility, assisted M. Max to descend.
This was a covered courtyard, only lighted by the head-lamps of the
limousine.
"Take my hand," directed the Greek.
M. Max complied, and was conducted through a low doorway and on to
descending steps.
Dimly, he heard the gear of the car reversed, and knew that the
limousine was backing out from the courtyard. The door behind him
was closed, and he heard no more. A dim light shone out below.
He descended, walking more confidently now that the way was
visible. A moment later he stood upon the threshold of an
apartment which calls for no further description at this place; he
stood in the doorway of the incredible, unforgettable cave of the
golden dragon; he looked into the beetle eyes of Ho-Pin!
Ho-Pin bowed before him, smiling his mirthless smile. In his left
hand he held an amber cigarette tube in which a cigarette smoldered
gently, sending up a gray pencil of smoke into the breathless,
perfumed air.
"Mr. Ho-Pin," said Gianapolis, indicating the Chinaman, "who will
attend to your requirements. This is our new friend from Paris,
introduced by Sir B. M---- , M. Gaston."
"You are vewry welcome," said the Chinaman in his monotonous,
metallic voice. "I understand that a fee of twenty-five guineas"--
he bowed again, still smiling.
The visitor took out his pocket-book and laid five notes, one
sovereign, and two half-crowns upon a little ebony table beside
him. Ho-Pin bowed again and waved his hand toward the lemon-
colored door on the left.
"Good night, M. Gaston!" said Gianapolis, in radiant benediction.
"Au revoir, monsieur!"
M. Max followed Ho-Pin to Block A and was conducted to a room at
the extreme right of the matting-lined corridor. He glanced about
it curiously.
"If you will pwrepare for your flight into the subliminal," said
Ho-Pin, bowing in the doorway, "I shall pwresently wreturn with
your wings."
In the cave of the golden dragon, Gianapolis sat smoking upon one
of the divans. The silence of the place was extraordinary;
unnatural, in the very heart of busy commercial London. Ho-Pin
reappeared and standing in the open doorway of Block A sharply
clapped his hands three times.
Said, the Egyptian, came out of the door at the further end of the
place, bearing a brass tray upon which were a little brass lamp of
Oriental manufacture wherein burned a blue spirituous flame, a
Japanese, lacquered box not much larger than a snuff-box, and a
long and most curiously carved pipe of wood inlaid with metal and
having a metal bowl. Bearing this, he crossed the room, passed Ho-
Pin, and entered the corridor beyond.
"You have, of course, put him in the observation room?" said
Gianapolis.
Ho-Pin regarded the speaker unemotionally.
"Assuwredly," he replied; "for since he visits us for the first
time, Mr. King will wish to see him" . . .
A faint shadow momentarily crossed the swarthy face of the Greek at
mention of that name--MR. KING. The servants of Mr. King, from the
highest to the lowest, served him for gain . . . and from fear.
XXX
MAHARA
Utter silence had claimed again the cave of the golden dragon.
Gianapolis sat alone in the place, smoking a cigarette, and gazing
crookedly at the image on the ivory pedestal. Then, glancing at
his wrist-watch, he stood up, and, stepping to the entrance door,
was about to open it . . .
"Ah, so! You go--already?"--
Gianapolis started back as though he had put his foot upon a viper,
and turned.
The Eurasian, wearing her yellow, Chinese dress, and with a red
poppy in her hair, stood watching him through half-shut eyes,
slowly waving her little fan before her face. Gianapolis attempted
the radiant smile, but its brilliancy was somewhat forced tonight.
"Yes, I must be off," he said hurriedly; "I have to see someone--a
future client, I think!"
"A future client--yes!"--the long black eyes were closed almost
entirely now. "Who is it--this future client, that you have to
see?"
"My dear Mahara! How odd of you to ask that" . . .
"It is odd of me?--so! . . . It is odd of me that I thinking to
wonder why you alway running away from me now?"
"Run away from you! My dear little Mahara!"--He approached the
dusky beauty with a certain timidity as one might seek to caress a
tiger-cat--"Surely you know" . . .
She struck down his hand with a sharp blow of her closed fan,
darting at him a look from the brilliant eyes which was a living
flame.
Resting one hand upon her hip, she stood with her right foot thrust
forward from beneath the yellow robe and pivoting upon the heel of
its little slipper. Her head tilted, she watched him through
lowered lashes.
"It was not so with you in Moulmein," she said, her silvery voice
lowered caressingly. "Do you remember with me a night beside the
Irawaddi?--where was that I wonder? Was it in Prome?--Perhaps,
yes? . . . you threatened me to leap in, if . . . and I think to
believe you!--I believing you!"
"Mahara!" cried Gianapolis, and sought to seize her in his arms.
Again she struck down his hand with the little fan, watching him
continuously and with no change of expression. But the smoldering
fire in those eyes told of a greater flame which consumed her
slender body and was potent enough to consume many a victim upon
its altar. Gianapolis' yellow skin assumed a faintly mottled
appearance.
"Whatever is the matter?" he inquired plaintively.
"So you must be off--yes? I hear you say it; I asking you who to
meet?"
"Why do you speak in English?" said Gianapolis with a faint
irritation. "Let us talk . . ."
She struck him lightly on the face with her fan; but he clenched
his teeth and suppressed an ugly exclamation.
"Who was it?" she asked, musically, "that say to me, 'to hear you
speaking English--like rippling water'?"
"You are mad!" muttered Gianapolis, beginning to drill the points
of his mustache as was his manner in moments of agitation. His
crooked eyes were fixed upon the face of the girl. "You go too
far."
"Be watching, my friend, that you also go not too far."
The tones were silvery as ever, but the menace unmistakable.
Gianapolis forced a harsh laugh and brushed up his mustache
furiously.
"What are you driving at?" he demanded, with some return of self-
confidence. "Am I to be treated to another exhibition of your
insane jealousies?" . . .
"AH!" The girl's eyes opened widely; she darted another venomous
glance at him. "I am sure now, I am SURE!"
"My dear Mahara, you talk nonsense!"
"Ah!"
She glided sinuously toward him, still with one hand resting upon
her hip, stood almost touching his shoulder and raised her
beautiful wicked face to his, peering at him through half-closed
eyes, and resting the hand which grasped the fan lightly upon his
arm.
"You think I do not see? You think I do not watch?"--softer and
softer grew the silvery voice--"at Olaf van Noord's studio you
think I do not hear? Perhaps you not thinking to care if I see and
hear--for it seem you not seeing nor hearing ME. I watch and I
see. Is it her so soft brown hair? That color of hair is so more
prettier than ugly black! Is it her English eyes? Eyes that born
in the dark forests of Burma so hideous and so like the eyes of the
apes! Is it her white skin and her red cheeks? A brown skin--
though someone, there was, that say it is satin of heaven--is so
tiresome; when no more it is a new toy it does not interest" . . .
"Really," muttered Gianapolis, uneasily, "I think you must be mad!
I don't know what you are talking about."
"LIAR!"
One lithe step forward the Eurasian sprang, and, at the word,
brought down the fan with all her strength across Gianapolis' eyes!
He staggered away from her, uttering a hoarse cry and instinctively
raising his arms to guard himself from further attack; but the girl
stood poised again, her hand upon her hip; and swinging her right
toe to and fro. Gianapolis, applying his handkerchief to his eyes,
squinted at her furiously.
"Liar!" she repeated, and her voice had something of a soothing
whisper. "I say to you, be so careful that you go not too far--
with me! I do what I do, not because I am a poor fool" . . .
"It's funny," declared Gianapolis, an emotional catch in his voice--
"it's damn funny for you--for YOU--to adopt these airs with me!
Why, you went to Olaf van" . . .
"Stop!" cried the girl furiously, and sprang at him panther-like so
that he fell back again in confusion, stumbled and collapsed upon a
divan, with upraised, warding arms. "You Greek rat! you skinny
Greek rat! Be careful what you think to say to me--to ME! to ME!
Olaf van Noord--the poor, white-faced corpse-man! He is only one
of Said's mummies! Be careful what you think to say to me . . .
Oh! be careful--be very careful! It is dangerous of any friend of--
MR. KING" . . .
Gianapolis glanced at her furtively.
"It is dangerous of anyone in a house of--MR. KING to think to make
attachments,"--she hissed the words beneath her breath--"outside of
ourselves. MR. KING would not be glad to hear of it . . . I do not
like to tell it to MR. KING" . . .
Gianapolis rose to his feet, unsteadily, and stretched out his arms
in supplication.
"Mahara!" he said, "don't treat me like this! dear little Mahara!
what have I done to you? Tell me!--only tell me!"
"Shall I tell it in English?" asked the Eurasian softly. Her eyes
now were nearly closed; "or does it worry you that I speak so
ugly" . . .
"Mahara!" . . .
"I only say, be so very careful."
He made a final, bold attempt to throw his arms about her, but she
slipped from his grasp and ran lightly across the room.
"Go! hurry off!" she said, bending forward and pointing at him with
her fan, her eyes widely opened and blazing--"but remember--there
is danger! There is Said, who creeps silently, like the jackal" . . .
She opened the ebony door and darted into the corridor beyond,
closing the door behind her.
Gianapolis looked about him in a dazed manner, and yet again
applied his handkerchief to his stinging eyes. Whoever could have
seen him now must have failed to recognize the radiant Gianapolis
so well-known in Bohemian society, the Gianapolis about whom
floated a halo of mystery, but who at all times was such a good
fellow and so debonair. He took up his hat and gloves, turned, and
resolutely strode to the door. Once he glanced back over his
shoulder, but shrugged with a sort of self-contempt, and ascended
to the top of the steps.
With a key which he selected from a large bunch in his pocket, he
opened the door, and stepped out into the garage, carefully closing
the door behind him. An electric pocket-lamp served him with
sufficient light to find his way out into the lane, and very
shortly he was proceeding along Limehouse Causeway. At the moment,
indignation was the major emotion ruling his mind; he resented the
form which his anger assumed, for it was a passion of rebellion,
and rebellion is only possible in servants. It is the part of a
slave resenting the lash. He was an unscrupulous, unmoral man, not
lacking in courage of a sort; and upon the conquest of Mahara, the
visible mouthpiece of Mr. King, he had entered in much the same
spirit as that actuating a Kanaka who dives for pearls in a shark-
infested lagoon. He had sought a slave, and lo! the slave was
become the master! Otherwise whence this spirit of rebellion . . .
this fear?
He occupied himself with such profitless reflections up to the time
that he came to the electric trains; but, from thence onward, his
mind became otherwise engaged. On his way to Piccadilly Circus
that same evening, he had chanced to find himself upon a crowded
pavement walking immediately behind Denise Ryland and Helen
Cumberly. His esthetic, Greek soul had been fired at first sight
of the beauty of the latter; and now, his heart had leaped
ecstatically. His first impulse, of course, had been to join the
two ladies; but Gianapolis had trained himself to suspect all
impulses.
Therefore he had drawn near--near enough to overhear their
conversation without proclaiming himself. What he had learned by
this eavesdropping he counted of peculiar value.
Helen Cumberly was arranging to dine with her friend at the
latter's hotel that evening. "But I want to be home early," he had
heard the girl say, "so if I leave you at about ten o'clock I can
walk to Palace Mansions. No! you need not come with me; I enjoy a
lonely walk through the streets of London in the evening" . . .
Gianapolis registered a mental vow that Helen's walk should not be
a lonely one. He did not flatter himself upon the possession of a
pleasing exterior, but, from experience, he knew that with women he
had a winning way.
Now, his mind aglow with roseate possibilities, he stepped from the
tram in the neighborhood of Shoreditch, and chartered a taxi-cab.
From this he descended at the corner of Arundel Street and strolled
along westward in the direction of the hotel patronized by Miss
Ryland. At a corner from which he could command a view of the
entrance, he paused and consulted his watch.
It was nearly twenty minutes past ten. Mentally, he cursed Mahara,
who perhaps had caused him to let slip this golden opportunity.
But his was not a character easily discouraged; he lighted a
cigarette and prepared himself to wait, in the hope that the girl
had not yet left her friend.
Gianapolis was a man capable of the uttermost sacrifices upon
either of two shrines; that of Mammon, or that of Eros. His was a
temperament (truly characteristic of his race) which can build up a
structure painfully, year by year, suffering unutterable privations
in the cause of its growth, only to shatter it at a blow for a
woman's smile. He was a true member of that brotherhood,
represented throughout the bazaars of the East, of those singular
shopkeepers who live by commercial rapine, who, demanding a hundred
piastres for an embroidered shawl from a plain woman, will exchange
it with a pretty one for a perfumed handkerchief. Externally of
London, he was internally of the Levant.
His vigil lasted but a quarter of an hour. At twenty-five minutes
to eleven, Helen Cumberly came running down the steps of the hotel
and hurried toward the Strand. Like a shadow, Gianapolis, throwing
away a half-smoked cigarette, glided around the corner, paused and
so timed his return that he literally ran into the girl as she
entered the main thoroughfare.
He started back.
"Why!" he cried, "Miss Cumberly!"
Helen checked a frown, and hastily substituted a smile.
"How odd that I should meet you here, Mr. Gianapolis," she said.
"Most extraordinary! I was on my way to visit a friend in Victoria
Street upon a rather urgent matter. May I venture to hope that
your path lies in a similar direction?"
Helen Cumberly, deceived by his suave manner (for how was she to
know that the Greek had learnt her address from Crockett, the
reporter?), found herself at a loss for an excuse. Her remarkably
pretty mouth was drawn down to one corner, inducing a dimple of
perplexity in her left cheek. She had that breadth between the
eyes which, whilst not an attribute of perfect beauty, indicates an
active mind, and is often found in Scotch women; now, by the slight
raising of her eyebrows, this space was accentuated. But Helen's
rapid thinking availed her not at all.
"Had you proposed to walk?" inquired Gianapolis, bending
deferentially and taking his place beside her with a confidence
which showed that her opportunity for repelling his attentions was
past.
"Yes," she said, hesitatingly; "but--I fear I am detaining you" . . .
Of two evils she was choosing the lesser; the idea of being
confined in a cab with this ever-smiling Greek was unthinkable.
"Oh, my dear Miss Cumberly!" cried Gianapolis, beaming radiantly,
"it is a greater pleasure than I can express to you, and then for
two friends who are proceeding in the same direction to walk apart
would be quite absurd, would it not?"
The term "friend" was not pleasing to Helen's ears; Mr. Gianapolis
went far too fast. But she recognized her helplessness, and
accepted this cavalier with as good a grace as possible.
He immediately began to talk of Olaf van Noord and his pictures,
whilst Helen hurried along as though her life depended upon her
speed. Sometimes, on the pretense of piloting her at crossings,
Gianapolis would take her arm; and this contact she found most
disagreeable; but on the whole his conduct was respectful to the
point of servility.
A pretty woman who is not wholly obsessed by her personal charms,
learns more of the ways of mankind than it is vouchsafed to her
plainer sister ever to know; and in the crooked eyes of Gianapolis,
Helen Cumberly read a world of unuttered things, and drew her own
conclusions. These several conclusions dictated a single course;
avoidance of Gianapolis in future.
Fortunately, Helen Cumberly's self-chosen path in life had taught
her how to handle the nascent and undesirable lover. She chatted
upon the subject of art, and fenced adroitly whenever the Greek
sought to introduce the slightest personal element into the
conversation. Nevertheless, she was relieved when at last she
found herself in the familiar Square with her foot upon the steps
of Palace Mansions.
"Good night, Mr. Gianapolis!" she said, and frankly offered her
hand.
The Greek raised it to his lips with exaggerated courtesy, and
retained it, looking into her eyes in his crooked fashion.
"We both move in the world of art and letters; may I hope that this
meeting will not be our last?"
"I am always wandering about between Fleet Street and Soho,"
laughed Helen. "It is quite certain we shall run into each other
again before long. Good night, and thank you so much!"
She darted into the hallway, and ran lightly up the stairs.
Opening the flat door with her key, she entered and closed it
behind her, sighing with relief to be free of the over-attentive
Greek. Some impulse prompted her to enter her own room, and,
without turning up the light, to peer down into the Square.
Gianapolis was descending the steps. On the pavement he stood and
looked up at the windows, lingeringly; then he turned and walked
away.
Helen Cumberly stifled an exclamation.
As the Greek gained the corner of the Square and was lost from
view, a lithe figure--kin of the shadows which had masked it--
became detached from the other shadows beneath the trees of the
central garden and stood, a vague silhouette seemingly looking up
at her window as Gianapolis had looked.
Helen leaned her hands upon the ledge and peered intently down.
The figure was a vague blur in the darkness, but it was moving away
along by the rails . . . following Gianapolis. No clear glimpse
she had of it, for bat-like, it avoided the light, this sinister
shape--and was gone.
XXXI
MUSK AND ROSES
It is time to rejoin M. Gaston Max in the catacombs of Ho-Pin.
Having prepared himself for drugged repose in the small but
luxurious apartment to which he had been conducted by the Chinaman,
he awaited with interest the next development. This took the form
of the arrival of an Egyptian attendant, white-robed, red-
slippered, and wearing the inevitable tarboosh. Upon the brass
tray which he carried were arranged the necessities of the opium
smoker. Placing the tray upon a little table beside the bed, he
extracted from the lacquered box a piece of gummy substance upon
the end of a long needle. This he twisted around, skilfully, in
the lamp flame until it acquired a blue spirituous flame of its
own. He dropped it into the bowl of the carven pipe and silently
placed the pipe in M. Max's hand.
Max, with simulated eagerness, rested the mouthpiece between his
lips and EXHALED rapturously.
Said stood watching him, without the slightest expression of
interest being perceptible upon his immobile face. For some time
the Frenchman made pretense of inhaling, gently, the potent vapor,
lying propped upon one elbow; then, allowing his head gradually to
droop, he closed his eyes and lay back upon the silken pillow.
Once more he exhaled feebly ere permitting the pipe to drop from
his listless grasp. The mouthpiece yet rested between his lips,
but the lower lip was beginning to drop. Finally, the pipe slipped
through his fingers on to the rich carpet, and he lay inert, head
thrown back, and revealing his lower teeth. The nauseating fumes
of opium loaded the atmosphere.
Said silently picked up the pipe, placed it upon the tray and
retired, closing the door in the same noiseless manner that
characterized all his movements.
For a time, M. Max lay inert, glancing about the place through the
veil of his lashes. He perceived no evidence of surveillance,
therefore he ventured fully to open his eyes; but he did not move
his head.
With the skill in summarizing detail at a glance which contributed
largely to make him the great criminal investigator that he was, he
noted those particulars which at an earlier time had occasioned the
astonishment of Soames.
M. Max was too deeply versed in his art to attempt any further
investigations, yet; he contented himself with learning as much as
was possible without moving in any way; and whilst he lay there
awaiting whatever might come, the door opened noiselessly--to admit
Ho-Pin.
He was about to be submitted to a supreme test, for which, however,
he was not unprepared. He lay with closed eyes, breathing nasally.
Ho-Pin, his face a smiling, mirthless mask, bent over the bed.
Adeptly, he seized the right eyelid of M. Max, and rolled it back
over his forefinger, disclosing the eyeball. M. Max, anticipating
this test of the genuineness of his coma, had rolled up his eyes at
the moment of Ho-Pin's approach, so that now only the white of the
sclerotic showed. His trained nerves did not betray him. He lay
like a dead man, never flinching.
Ho-Pin, releasing the eyelid, muttered something gutturally, and
stole away from the bed as silently as he had approached it. Very
methodically he commenced to search through M. Max's effects,
commencing with the discarded garments. He examined the maker's
marks upon these, and scrutinized the buttons closely. He turned
out all the pockets, counted the contents of the purse, and of the
notecase, examined the name inside M. Max's hat, and explored the
lining in a manner which aroused the detective's professional
admiration. Watch and pocket-knife, Ho-Pin inspected with
interest. The little hand-bag which M. Max had brought with him,
containing a few toilet necessaries, was overhauled religiously.
So much the detective observed through his lowered lashes.
Then Ho-Pin again approached the bed and M. Max became again a dead
man.
The silken pyjamas which the detective wore were subjected to
gentle examination by the sensitive fingers of the Chinaman, and
those same fingers crept beetle-like beneath the pillow.
Silently, Ho-Pin stole from the room and silently closed the door.
M. Max permitted himself a long breath of relief. It was an ordeal
through which few men could have passed triumphant.
The SILENCE of the place next attracted the inquirer's attention.
He had noted this silence at the moment that he entered the cave of
the golden dragon, but here it was even more marked; so that he
divined, even before he had examined the walls, that the apartment
was rendered sound-proof in the manner of a public telephone
cabinet. It was a significant circumstance to which he allotted
its full value.
But the question uppermost in his mind at the moment was this: Was
the time come yet to commence his explorations?
Patience was included in his complement, and, knowing that he had
the night before him, he preferred to wait. In this he did well.
Considerable time elapsed, possibly half-an-hour . . . and again
the door opened.
M. Max was conscious of a momentary nervous tremor; for now a WOMAN
stood regarding him. She wore a Chinese costume; a huge red poppy
was in her hair. Her beauty was magnificently evil; she had the
grace of a gazelle and the eyes of a sorceress. He had deceived
Ho-Pin, but could he deceive this Eurasian with the witch-eyes
wherein burnt ancient wisdom?
He felt rather than saw her approach; for now he ventured to peep
no more. She touched him lightly upon the mouth with her fingers
and laughed a little low, rippling laugh, the sound of which seemed
to trickle along his sensory nerves, icily. She bent over him--
lower--lower--and lower yet; until, above the nauseating odor of
the place he could smell the musk perfume of her hair. Yet lower
she bent; with every nerve in his body he could feel her nearing
presence. . . .
She kissed him on the lips.
Again she laughed, in that wicked, eerie glee.
M. Max was conscious of the most singular, the maddest impulses; it
was one of the supreme moments of his life. He knew that all
depended upon his absolute immobility; yet something in his brain
was prompting him--prompting him--to gather the witch to his
breast; to return that poisonous, that vampirish kiss, and then to
crush out life from the small lithe body.
Sternly he fought down these strange promptings, which he knew to
emanate hypnotically from the brain of the creature bending over
him.
"Oh, my beautiful dead-baby," she said, softly, and her voice was
low, and weirdly sweet. "Oh, my new baby, how I love you, my dead
one!" Again she laughed, a musical peal. "I will creep to you in
the poppyland where you go . . . and you shall twine your fingers
in my hair and pull my red mouth down to you, kissing me . . .
kissing me, until you stifle and you die of my love. . . . Oh! my
beautiful mummy-baby . . . my baby." . . .
The witch-crooning died away into a murmur; and the Frenchman
became conscious of the withdrawal of that presence from the room.
No sound came to tell of the reclosing of the door; but the
obsession was removed, the spell raised.
Again he inhaled deeply the tainted air, and again he opened his
eyes.
He had no warranty to suppose that he should remain unmolested
during the remainder of the night. The strange words of the
Eurasian he did not construe literally; yet could he be certain
that he was secure? . . . Nay! he could be certain that he was
NOT!
The shaded lamp was swung in such a position that most of the light
was directed upon him where he lay, whilst the walls of the room
were bathed in a purple shadow. Behind him and above him, directly
over the head of the bunk, a faint sound--a sound inaudible except
in such a dead silence as that prevailing--told of some shutter
being raised or opened. He had trained himself to watch beneath
lowered lids without betraying that he was doing so by the
slightest nervous twitching. Now, as he watched the purple shaded
lamp above him, he observed that it was swaying and moving very
gently, whereas hitherto it had floated motionless in the still air.
No other sound came to guide him, and to have glanced upward would
have been to betray all.
For the second time that night he became aware of one who watched
him, became conscious of observation without the guaranty of his
physical senses. And beneath this new surveillance, there grew up
such a revulsion of his inner being as he had rarely experienced.
The perfume of ROSES became perceptible; and for some occult
reason, its fragrance DISGUSTED.
It was as though a faint draught from the opened shutter poured
into the apartment an impalpable cloud of evil; the very soul of
the Eurasian, had it taken vapory form and enveloped him, could not
have created a greater turmoil of his senses than this!
Some sinister and definitely malignant intelligence was focussed
upon him; or was this a chimera of his imagination? Could it be
that now he was become en rapport with the thought-forms created in
that chamber by its successive occupants?
Scores, perhaps hundreds of brains had there partaken of the unholy
sacrament of opium; thousands, millions of evil carnivals had
trailed in impish procession about that bed. He knew enough of the
creative power of thought to be aware that a sensitive mind coming
into contact with such an atmosphere could not fail to respond in
some degree to the suggestions, to the elemental hypnosis, of the
place.
Was he, owing to his self-induced receptivity of mind, redreaming
the evil dreams of those who had occupied that bed before him?
It might be so, but, whatever the explanation, he found himself
unable to shake off that uncanny sensation of being watched,
studied, by a powerful and inimical intelligence.
Mr. King! . . . Mr. King was watching him!
The director of that group, whose structure was founded upon the
wreckage of human souls, was watching him! Because of a certain
sympathy which existed between his present emotions and those which
had threatened to obsess him whilst the Eurasian was in the room,
he half believed that it was she who peered down at him, now . . .
or she, and another.
The lamp swung gently to and fro, turning slowly to the right and
then revolving again to the left, giving life in its gyrations to
the intermingled figures on the walls. The atmosphere of the room
was nauseating; it was beginning to overpower him. . . .
Creative power of thought . . . what startling possibilities it
opened up. Almost it seemed, if Sir Brian Malpas were to be
credited, that the collective mind-force of a group of opium
smokers had created the "glamor" of a woman--an Oriental woman--who
visited them regularly in their trances. Or had that vision a
prototype in the flesh--whom he had seen? . . .
Creative power of thought . . . MR. KING! He was pursuing Mr.
King; whilst Mr. King might be nothing more than a thought-form--a
creation of cumulative thought--an elemental spirit which became
visible to his subjects, his victims, which had power over them;
which could slay them as the "shell" slew Frankenstein, his
creator; which could materialize: . . . Mr. King might be the
Spirit of Opium. . . .
The faint clicking sound was repeated.
Beads of perspiration stood upon M. Max's forehead; his imagination
had been running away with him. God! this was a house of fear! He
controlled himself, but only by dint of a tremendous effort of
will.
Stealthily watching the lamp, he saw that the arc described by its
gyrations was diminishing with each successive swing, and, as he
watched, its movements grew slighter and slighter, until finally it
became quite stationary again, floating, purple and motionless,
upon the stagnant air.
Very slowly, he ventured to change his position, for his long
ordeal was beginning to induce cramp. The faint creaking of the
metal bunk seemed, in the dead stillness and to his highly-tensed
senses, like the rattling of castanets.
For ten minutes he lay in his new position; then moved slightly
again and waited for fully three-quarters of an hour. Nothing
happened, and he now determined to proceed with his inquiries.
Sitting upon the edge of the bunk, he looked about him, first
directing his attention to that portion of the wall immediately
above. So cunningly was the trap contrived that he could find no
trace of its existence. Carefully balancing himself upon the rails
on either side of the bunk, he stood up, and peered closely about
that part of the wall from which the sound had seemed to come. He
even ran his fingers lightly over the paper, up as high as he could
reach; but not the slightest crevice was perceptible. He began to
doubt the evidence of his own senses.
Unless his accursed imagination had been playing him tricks, a trap
of some kind had been opened above his head and someone had looked
in at him; yet--and his fingers were trained to such work--he was
prepared to swear that the surface of the Chinese paper covering
the wall was perfectly continuous. He drummed upon it lightly with
his finger-tips, here and there over the surface above the bed.
And in this fashion he became enlightened.
A portion, roughly a foot in height and two feet long, yielded a
slightly different note to his drumming; whereby he knew that that
part of the paper was not ATTACHED to the wall. He perceived the
truth. The trap, when closed, fitted flush with the back of the
wall-paper, and this paper (although when pasted upon the walls it
showed no evidence of the fact) must be TRANSPARENT.
From some dark place beyond, it was possible to peer in THROUGH the
rectangular patch of paper as through a window, at the occupant of
the bunk below, upon whom the shaded lamp directly poured its rays!
He examined more closely a lower part of the wall, which did not
fall within the shadow of the purple lamp-shade; for he was
thinking of the draught which had followed the opening of the trap.
By this examination he learnt two things: The explanation of the
draught, and that of a peculiar property possessed by the mural
decorations. These (as Soames had observed before him) assumed a
new form if one stared at them closely; other figures, figures
human and animal, seemed to take shape and to peer out from BEHIND
the more obvious designs which were perceptible at a glance. The
longer and the closer one studied these singular walls, the more
evident the UNDER design became, until it usurped the field of
vision entirely. It was a bewildering delusion; but M. Max had
solved the mystery.
There were TWO designs; the first, an intricate Chinese pattern,
was painted or printed upon material like the finest gauze. This
was attached over a second and vividly colored pattern upon thick
parchment-like paper--as he learnt by the application of the point
of his pocket-knife.
The observation trap was covered with this paper, and fitted so
nicely in the opening that his fingers had failed to detect,
through the superimposed gauze, the slightest irregularity there.
But, the trap opened, a perfectly clear view of the room could be
obtained through the gauze, which, by reason of its texture, also
admitted a current of air.
This matter settled, M. Max proceeded carefully to examine the
entire room foot by foot. Opening the door in one corner, he
entered the bathroom, in which, as in the outer apartment, an
electric light was burning. No window was discoverable, and not
even an opening for ventilation purposes. The latter fact he might
have deduced from the stagnation of the atmosphere.
Half an hour or more he spent in this fashion, without having
discovered anything beyond the secret of the observation trap.
Again he took out his pocket-knife, which was a large one with a
handsome mother-o'-pearl handle. Although Mr. Ho-Pin had examined
this carefully, he had solved only half of its secrets. M. Max
extracted a little pair of tweezers from the slot in which they
were lodged--as Ho-Pin had not neglected to do; but Ho-Pin, having
looked at the tweezers, had returned them to their place: M. Max
did not do so. He opened the entire knife as though it had been a
box, and revealed within it a tiny set of appliances designed
principally for the desecration of locks!
Selecting one of these, he took up his watch from the table upon
which it lay, and approached the door. It possessed a lever handle
of the Continental pattern, and M. Max silently prayed that this
might not be a snare and a delusion, but that the lock below might
be of the same manufacture.
In order to settle the point, he held the face of his watch close
to the keyhole, wound its knob in the wrong direction, and lo! it
became an electric lamp!
One glance he cast into the tiny cavity, then dropped back upon the
bunk, twisting his mobile mouth in that half smile at once humorous
and despairful.
"Nom d'un p'tit bonhomme!--a Yale!" he muttered. "To open that
without noise is impossible! Damn!"
M. Max threw himself back upon the pillow, and for an hour
afterward lay deep in silent reflection.
He had cigarettes in his case and should have liked to smoke, but
feared to take the risk of scenting the air with a perfume so
unorthodox.
He had gained something by his exploit, but not all that he had
hoped for; clearly his part now was to await what the morning
should bring.
XXXII
BLUE BLINDS
Morning brought the silent opening of the door, and the entrance of
Said, the Egyptian, bearing a tiny Chinese tea service upon a
lacquered tray.
But M. Max lay in a seemingly deathly stupor, and from this the
impassive Oriental had great difficulty in arousing him. Said,
having shaken some symptoms of life into the limp form of M. Max,
filled the little cup with fragrant China tea, and, supporting the
dazed man, held the beverage to his lips. With his eyes but
slightly opened, and with all his weight resting upon the arm of
the Egyptian, he gulped the hot tea, and noted that it was of
exquisite quality.
THEINE is an antidote to opium, and M. Max accordingly became
somewhat restored, and lay staring at the Oriental, and blinking
his eyes foolishly.
Said, leaving the tea service upon the little table, glided from
the room. Something else the Egyptian had left upon the tray in
addition to the dainty vessels of porcelain; it was a steel ring
containing a dozen or more keys. Most of these keys lay fanwise
and bunched together, but one lay isolated and pointing in an
opposite direction. It was a Yale key--the key of the door!
Silently as a shadow, M. Max glided into the bathroom, and
silently, swiftly, returned, carrying a cake of soap. Three clear,
sharp impressions, he secured of the Yale, the soap leaving no
trace of the operation upon the metal. He dropped the precious
soap tablet into his open bag.
In a state of semi-torpor, M. Max sprawled upon the bed for ten
minutes or more, during which time, as he noted, the door remained
ajar. Then there entered a figure which seemed wildly out of place
in the establishment of Ho-Pin. It was that of a butler, most
accurately dressed and most deferential in all his highly-trained
movements. His dark hair was neatly brushed, and his face, which
had a pinched appearance, was composed in that "if-it-is-entirely-
agreeable-to-you-Sir" expression, typical of his class.
The unhealthy, yellow skin of the new arrival, which harmonized so
ill with the clear whites of his little furtive eyes, interested M.
Max extraordinarily. M. Max was blinking like a week-old kitten,
and one could have sworn that he was but hazily conscious of his
surroundings; whereas in reality he was memorizing the cranial
peculiarities of the new arrival, the shape of his nose, the
disposition of his ears; the exact hue of his eyes; the presence of
a discolored tooth in his lower jaw, which a fish-like, nervous
trick of opening and closing the mouth periodically revealed.
"Good morning, sir!" said the valet, gently rubbing his palms
together and bending over the bed.
M. Max inhaled deeply, stared in glassy fashion, but in no way
indicated that he had heard the words.
The valet shook him gently by the shoulder.
"Good morning, sir. Shall I prepare your bath?"
"She is a serpent!" muttered M. Max, tossing one arm weakly above
his head . . . "all yellow. . . . But roses are growing in the mud
. . . of the river!"
"If you will take your bath, sir," insisted the man in black, "I
shall be ready to shave you when you return."
"Bath . . . shave me!"
M. Max began to rub his eyes and to stare uncomprehendingly at the
speaker.
"Yes, sir; good morning, sir,"--there was another bow and more
rubbing of palms.
"Ah!"--of course! Morbleu! This is Paris. . . ."
"No, sir, excuse me, sir, London. Bath hot or cold, sir?"
"Cold," replied M. Max, struggling upright with apparent
difficulty; "yes,--cold."
"Very good, sir. Have you brought your own razor, sir?"
"Yes, yes," muttered Max--"in the bag--in that bag."
"I will fill the bath, sir."
The bath being duly filled, M. Max, throwing about his shoulders a
magnificent silk kimono which he found upon the armchair, steered a
zigzag course to the bathroom. His tooth-brush had been put in
place by the attentive valet; there was an abundance of clean
towels, soaps, bath salts, with other necessities and luxuries of
the toilet. M. Max, following his bath, saw fit to evidence a
return to mental clarity; and whilst he was being shaved he sought
to enter into conversation with the valet. But the latter was
singularly reticent, and again M. Max changed his tactics. He
perceived here a golden opportunity which he must not allow to slip
through his fingers.
"Would you like to earn a hundred pounds?" he demanded abruptly,
gazing into the beady eyes of the man bending over him.
Soames almost dropped the razor. His state of alarm was truly
pitiable; he glanced to the right, he glanced to the left, he
glanced over his shoulder, up at the ceiling and down at the floor.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, nervously; "I don't think I quite
understand you, sir?"
"It is quite simple," replied M. Max. "I asked you if you had some
use for a hundred pounds. Because if you have, I will meet you at
any place you like to mention and bring with me cash to that
amount!"
"Hush, sir!--for God's sake, hush, sir!" whispered Soames.
A dew of perspiration was glistening upon his forehead, and it was
fortunate that he had finished shaving M. Max, for his hand was
trembling furiously. He made a pretense of hurrying with towels,
bay rum, and powder spray, but the beady eyes were ever glancing to
right and left and all about.
M. Max, who throughout this time had been reflecting, made a second
move.
"Another fifty, or possibly another hundred, could be earned as
easily," he said, with assumed carelessness. "I may add that this
will not be offered again, and . . . that you will shortly be out
of employment, with worse to follow."
Soames began to exhibit signs of collapse.
"Oh, my God!" he muttered, "what shall I do? I can't promise--I
can't promise; but I might--I MIGHT look in at the 'Three Nuns' on
Friday evening about nine o'clock." . . .
He hastily scooped up M. Max's belongings, thrust them into the
handbag and closed it. M. Max was now fully dressed and ready to
depart. He placed a sovereign in the valet's ready palm.
"That's an appointment," he said softly.
Said entered and stood bowing in the doorway.
"Good morning, sir, good morning," muttered Soames, and covertly he
wiped the perspiration from his brow with the corner of a towel--
"good morning, and thank you very much."
M. Max, buttoning his light overcoat in order to conceal the fact
that he wore evening dress, entered the corridor, and followed the
Egyptian into the cave of the golden dragon. Ho-Pin, sleek and
smiling, received him there. Ho-Pin was smoking the inevitable
cigarette in the long tube, and, opening the door, he silently led
the way up the steps into the covered courtyard, Said following
with the hand bag. The limousine stood there, dimly visible in the
darkness. Said placed the handbag upon the seat inside, and Ho-Pin
assisted M. Max to enter, closing the door upon him, but leaning
through the open window to shake his hand. The Chinaman's hand was
icily cold and limp.
"Au wrevoir, my dear fwriend," he said in his metallic voice. "I
hope to have the pleasure of gwreeting you again vewry shortly."
With that he pulled up the window from the outside, and the
occupant of the limousine found himself in impenetrable darkness;
for dark blue blinds covered all the windows. He lay back,
endeavoring to determine what should be his next move. The car
started with a perfect action, and without the slightest jolt or
jar. By reason of the light which suddenly shone in through the
chinks of the blinds, he knew that he was outside the covered
courtyard; then he became aware that a sharp turning had been taken
to the left, followed almost immediately, by one to the right.
He directed his attention to the blinds.
"Ah! nom d'un nom! they are clever--these!"
The blinds worked in little vertical grooves and had each a tiny
lock. The blinds covering the glass doors on either side were
attached to the adjustable windows; so that when Ho-Pin had raised
the window, he had also closed the blind! And these windows
operated automatically, and defied all M. Max's efforts to open
them!
He was effectively boxed in and unable to form the slightest
impression of his surroundings. He threw himself back upon the
soft cushions with a muttered curse of vexation; but the mobile
mouth was twisted into that wryly humorous smile. Always, M. Max
was a philosopher.
At the end of a drive of some twenty-five minutes or less, the car
stopped--the door was opened, and the radiant Gianapolis extended
both hands to the occupant.
"My dear M. Gaston!" he cried, "how glad I am to see you looking so
well! Hand me your bag, I beg of you!"
M. Max placed the bag in the extended hand of Gianapolis, and leapt
out upon the pavement.
"This way, my dear friend!" cried the Greek, grasping him warmly by
the arm.
The Frenchman found himself being led along toward the head of the
car; and, at the same moment, Said reversed the gear and backed
away. M. Max was foiled in his hopes of learning the number of the
limousine.
He glanced about him wonderingly.
"You are in Temple Gardens, M. Gaston," explained the Greek, "and
here, unless I am greatly mistaken, comes a disengaged taxi-cab.
You will drive to your hotel?"
"Yes, to my hotel," replied M. Max.
"And whenever you wish to avail yourself of your privilege, and pay
a second visit to the establishment presided over by Mr. Ho-Pin,
you remember the number?"
"I remember the number," replied M. Max.
The cab hailed by Gianapolis drew up beside the two, and M. Max
entered it.
"Good morning, M. Gaston."
"Good morning, Mr. Gianapolis."
XXXIII
LOGIC VS. INTUITION
And now, Henry Leroux, Denise Ryland and Helen Cumberly were
speeding along the Richmond Road beneath a sky which smiled upon
Leroux's convalescence; for this was a perfect autumn morning which
ordinarily had gladdened him, but which saddened him to-day.
The sun shone and the sky was blue; a pleasant breeze played upon
his cheeks; whilst Mira, his wife, was . . .
He knew that he had come perilously near to the borderland beyond
which are gibbering, mowing things: that he had stood upon the
frontier of insanity; and realizing the futility of such
reflections, he struggled to banish them from his mind, for his
mind was not yet healed--and he must be whole, be sane, if he would
take part in the work, which, now, strangers were doing, whilst he--
whilst he was a useless hulk.
Denise Ryland had been very voluble at the commencement of the
drive, but, as it progressed, had grown gradually silent, and now
sat with her brows working up and down and with a little network of
wrinkles alternately appearing and disappearing above the bridge of
her nose. A self-reliant woman, it was irksome to her to know
herself outside the circle of activity revolving around the
mysterious Mr. King. She had had one interview with Inspector
Dunbar, merely in order that she might give personal testimony to
the fact that Mira Leroux had not visited her that year in Paris.
Of the shrewd Scotsman she had formed the poorest opinion; and
indeed she never had been known to express admiration for, or even
the slightest confidence in, any man breathing. The amiable M.
Gaston possessed virtues which appealed to her, but whilst she
admitted that his conversation was entertaining and his general
behavior good, she always spoke with the utmost contempt of his
sartorial splendor.
Now, with the days and the weeks slipping by, and with the
spectacle before her of poor Leroux, a mere shadow of his former
self, with the case, so far as she could perceive, at a standstill,
and with the police (she firmly believed) doing "absolutely . . .
nothing . . . whatever"--Denise Ryland recognized that what was
lacking in the investigation was that intuition and wit which only
a clever woman could bring to bear upon it, and of which she, in
particular, possessed an unlimited reserve.
The car sped on toward the purer atmosphere of the riverside, and
even the clouds of dust, which periodically enveloped them, with
the passing of each motor-'bus, and which at the commencement of
the drive had inspired her to several notable and syncopated
outbursts, now left her unmoved.
She thought that at last she perceived the secret working of that
Providence which ever dances attendance at the elbow of
accomplished womankind. Following the lead set by "H. C." in the
Planet ("H. C." was Helen Cumberly's nom de plume) and by Crocket
in the Daily Monitor, the London Press had taken Olaf van Noord to
its bosom; and his exhibition in the Little Gallery was an
established financial success, whilst "Our Lady of the Poppies"
(which had, of course, been rejected by the Royal Academy) promised
to be the picture of the year.
Mentally, Denise Ryland was again surveying that remarkable
composition; mentally she was surveying Olaf van Noord's model,
also. Into the scheme slowly forming in her brain, the yellow-
wrapped cigarette containing "a small percentage of opium" fitted
likewise. Finally, but not last in importance, the Greek
gentleman, Mr. Gianapolis, formed a unit of the whole.
Denise Ryland had always despised those detective creations which
abound in French literature; perceiving in their marvelous
deductions a tortured logic incompatible with the classic models.
She prided herself upon her logic, possibly because it was a
quality which she lacked, and probably because she confused it with
intuition, of which, to do her justice, she possessed an unusual
share. Now, this intuition was at work, at work well and truly;
and the result which this mental contortionist ascribed to pure
reason was nearer to the truth than a real logician could well have
hoped to attain by confining himself to legitimate data. In short,
she had determined to her own satisfaction that Mr. Gianapolis was
the clue to the mystery; that Mr. Gianapolis was not (as she had
once supposed) enacting the part of an amiable liar when he
declared that there were, in London, such apartments as that
represented by Olaf van Noord; that Mr. Gianapolis was acquainted
with the present whereabouts of Mrs. Leroux; that Mr. Gianapolis
knew who murdered Iris Vernon; and that Scotland Yard was a
benevolent institution for the support of those of enfeebled
intellect.
These results achieved, she broke her long silence at the moment
that the car was turning into Richmond High Street.
"My dear!" she exclaimed, clutching Helen's arm, "I see it all!"
"Oh!" cried the girl, "how you startled me! I thought you were ill
or that you had seen something frightful." . . .
"I HAVE . . . seen something . . . frightful," declared Denise
Ryland. She glared across at the haggard Leroux. "Harry . . .
Leroux," she continued, "it is very fortunate . . . that I came to
London . . . very fortunate."
"I am sincerely glad that you did," answered the novelist, with one
of his kindly, weary smiles.
"My dear," said Denise Ryland, turning again to Helen Cumberly,
"you say you met that . . . cross-eyed . . . being . . .
Gianapolis, again?"
"Good Heavens!" cried Helen; "I thought I should never get rid of
him; a most loathsome man!"
"My dear . . . child"--Denise squeezed her tightly by the arm, and
peered into her face, intently--"cul-tivate . . . DELIBERATELY cul-
tivate that man's acquaintance!"
Helen stared at her friend as though she suspected the latter's
sanity.
"I am afraid I do not understand at all," she said, breathlessly.
"I am positive that I do not," declared Leroux, who was as much
surprised as Helen. "In the first place I am not acquainted with
this cross-eyed being."
"You are . . . out of this!" cried Denise Ryland with a sweeping
movement of the left hand; "entirely . . . out of it! This is no
MAN'S . . . business." . . .
"But my dear Denise!" exclaimed Helen. . . .
"I beseech you; I entreat you; . . . I ORDER . . . you to cul-
tivate . . . that . . . execrable . . . being."
"Perhaps," said Helen, with eyes widely opened, "you will
condescend to give me some slight reason why I should do anything
so extraordinary and undesirable?"
"Undesirable!" cried Denise. "On the contrary; . . . it is MOST
. . . desirable! It is essential. The wretched . . . cross-eyed
. . . creature has presumed to fall in love . . . with you." . . .
"Oh!" cried Helen, flushing, and glancing rapidly at Leroux, who
now was thoroughly interested, "please do not talk nonsense!"
"It is no . . . nonsense. It is the finger . . . of Providence.
Do you know where you can find . . . him?"
"Not exactly; but I have a shrewd suspicion," again she glanced in
an embarrassed way at Leroux, "that he will know where to find ME."
"Who is this presumptuous person?" inquired the novelist, leaning
forward, his dark blue eyes aglow with interest.
"Never mind," replied Denise Ryland, "you will know . . . soon
enough. In the meantime . . . as I am simply . . . starving,
suppose we see about . . . lunch?"
Moved by some unaccountable impulse, Helen extended her hand to
Leroux, who took it quietly in his own and held it, looking down at
the slim fingers as though he derived strength and healing from
their touch.
"Poor boy," she said softly.
XXXIV
M. MAX REPORTS PROGRESS
Detective-Sergeant Sowerby was seated in Dunbar's room at New
Scotland Yard. Some days had elapsed since that critical moment
when, all unaware of the fact, they had stood within three yards of
the much-wanted Soames, in the fauteuils of the east-end music-
hall. Every clue thus far investigated had proved a cul-de-sac.
Dunbar, who had literally been working night and day, now began to
show evidence of his giant toils. The tawny eyes were as keen as
ever, and the whole man as forceful as of old, but in the intervals
of conversation, his lids would droop wearily; he would only arouse
himself by a perceptible effort.
Sowerby, whose bowler hat lay upon Dunbar's table, was clad in the
familiar raincoat, and his ruddy cheerfulness had abated not one
whit.
"Have you ever read 'The Adventures of Martin Zeda'?" he asked
suddenly, breaking a silence of some minutes' duration.
Dunbar looked up with a start, as . . .
"Never!" he replied; "I'm not wasting my time with magazine trash."
"It's not trash," said Sowerby, assuming that unnatural air of
reflection which sat upon him so ill. "I've looked up the volumes
of the Ludgate Magazine in our local library, and I've read all the
series with much interest."
Dunbar leaned forward, watching him frowningly.
"I should have thought," he replied, "that you had enough to do
without wasting your time in that way!"
"IS it a waste of time?" inquired Sowerby, raising his eyebrows in
a manner which lent him a marked resemblance to a famous comedian.
"I tell you that the man who can work out plots like those might be
a second Jack-the-Ripper and not a soul the wiser!" . . .
"Ah!"
"I've never met a more innocent LOOKING man, I'll allow; but if
you'll read the 'Adventures of Martin Zeda,' you'll know that" . . .
"Tosh!" snapped Dunbar, irritably; "your ideas of psychology would
make a Manx cat laugh! I suppose, on the same analogy, you think
the leader-writers of the dailies could run the Government better
than the Cabinet does it?"
"I think it very likely" . . .
"Tosh! Is there anybody in London knows more about the inside
workings of crime than the Commissioner? You will admit there
isn't; very good. Accordingly to your ideas, the Commissioner must
be the biggest blackguard in the Metropolis! I have said it twice
before, and I'll be saying it again, Sowerby: TOSH!"
"Well," said Sowerby with an offended air, "has anybody ever seen
Mr. King?"
"What are you driving at?"
"I am driving at this: somebody known in certain circles as Mr.
King is at the bottom of this mystery. It is highly probable that
Mr. King himself murdered Mrs. Vernon. On the evidence of your own
notes, nobody left Palace Mansions between the time of the crime
and the arrival of witnesses. Therefore, ONE of your witnesses
must be a liar; and the liar is Mr. King!"
Inspector Dunbar glared at his subordinate. But the latter
continued undaunted:--
"You won't believe it's Leroux; therefore it must be either Mr.
Exel, Dr. Cumberly, or Miss Cumberly." . . .
Inspector Dunbar stood up very suddenly, thrusting his chair from
him with much violence.
"Do you recollect the matter of Soames leaving Palace Mansions?" he
snapped.
Sowerby's air of serio-comic defiance began to leave him. He
scratched his head reflectively.
"Soames got away like that because no one was expecting him to do
it. In the same way, neither Leroux, Exel, nor Dr. Cumberly knew
that there was any one else IN the flat at the very time when the
murderer was making his escape. The cases are identical. They
were not looking for a fugitive. He had gone before the search
commenced. A clever man could have slipped out in a hundred
different ways unobserved. Sowerby, you are . . ."
What Sowerby was, did not come to light at the moment; for, the
door quietly opened and in walked M. Gaston Max arrayed in his
inimitable traveling coat, and holding his hat of velour in his
gloved hand. He bowed politely.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said.
"Good morning," said Dunbar and Sowerby together.
Sowerby hastened to place a chair for the distinguished visitor.
M. Max, thanking him with a bow, took his seat, and from an inside
pocket extracted a notebook.
"There are some little points," he said with a deprecating wave of
the hand, "which I should like to confirm." He opened the book,
sought the wanted page, and continued: "Do either of you know a
person answering to the following description: Height, about four
feet eight-and-a-half inches, medium build and carries himself with
a nervous stoop. Has a habit of rubbing his palms together when
addressing anyone. Has plump hands with rather tapering fingers,
and a growth of reddish down upon the backs thereof, indicating
that he has red or reddish hair. His chin recedes slightly and is
pointed, with a slight cleft parallel with the mouth and situated
equidistant from the base of the chin and the lower lip. A nervous
mannerism of the latter periodically reveals the lower teeth, one
of which, that immediately below the left canine, is much
discolored. He is clean-shaven, but may at some time have worn
whiskers. His eyes are small and ferret-like, set very closely
together and of a ruddy brown color. His nose is wide at the
bridge, but narrows to an unusual point at the end. In profile it
is irregular, or may have been broken at some time. He has scanty
eyebrows set very high, and a low forehead with two faint, vertical
wrinkles starting from the inner points of the eyebrows. His
natural complexion is probably sallow, and his hair (as hitherto
mentioned) either red or of sandy color. His ears are set far
back, and the lobes are thin and pointed. His hair is perfectly
straight and sparse, and there is a depression of the cheeks where
one would expect to find a prominence: that is--at the cheekbone.
The cranial development is unusual. The skull slopes back from the
crown at a remarkable angle, there being no protuberance at the
back, but instead a straight slope to the spine, sometimes seen in
the Teutonic races, and in this case much exaggerated. Viewed from
the front the skull is narrow, the temples depressed, and the crown
bulging over the ears, and receding to a ridge on top. In profile
the forehead is almost apelike in size and contour. . . ."
"SOAMES!" exclaimed Inspector Dunbar, leaping to his feet, and
bringing both his palms with a simultaneous bang upon the table
before him--"Soames, by God!"
M. Max, shrugging and smiling slightly, returned his notebook to
his pocket, and, taking out a cigar-case, placed it, open, upon the
table, inviting both his confreres, with a gesture, to avail
themselves of its contents.
"I thought so," he said simply. "I am glad."
Sowerby selected a cigar in a dazed manner, but Dunbar, ignoring
the presence of the cigar-case, leant forward across the table, his
eyes blazing, and his small, even, lower teeth revealed in a sort
of grim smile.
"M. Max," he said tensely--"you are a clever man! Where have you
got him?"
"I have not got him," replied the Frenchman, selecting and lighting
one of his own cigars. "He is much too useful to be locked up" . . .
"But" . . .
"But yes, my dear Inspector--he is safe; oh! he is quite safe. And
on Tuesday night he is going to introduce us to Mr. King!"
"MR. KING!" roared Dunbar; and in three strides of the long legs he
was around the table and standing before the Frenchman.
In passing he swept Sowerby's hat on to the floor, and Sowerby,
picking it up, began mechanically to brush it with his left sleeve,
smoking furiously the while.
"Soames," continued M. Max, quietly--"he is now known as Lucas, by
the way--is a man of very remarkable character; a fact indicated by
his quite unusual skull. He has no more will than this cigar"--he
held the cigar up between his fingers, illustratively--"but of
stupid pig obstinacy, that canaille--saligaud!--has enough for all
the cattle in Europe! He is like a man who knows that he stands
upon a sinking ship, yet, who whilst promising to take the plunge
every moment, hesitates and will continue to hesitate until someone
pushes him in. Pardieu! I push! Because of his pig obstinacy I
am compelled to take risks most unnecessary. He will not consent,
that Soames, to open the door for us . . ."
"What door?" snapped Dunbar.
"The door of the establishment of Mr. King," explained Max,
blandly.
"But where is it?"
"It is somewhere between Limehouse Causeway--is it not called so?--
and the riverside. But although I have been there, myself, I can
tell you no more. . . ."
"What! you have been there yourself?"
"But yes--most decidedly. I was there some nights ago. But they
are ingenious, ah! they are so ingenious!--so Chinese! I should
not have known even the little I do know if it were not for the
inquiries which I made last week. I knew that the letters to Mr.
Leroux which were supposed to come from Paris were handed by Soames
to some one who posted them to Paris from Bow, East. You remember
how I found the impression of the postmark?"
Dunbar nodded, his eyes glistening; for that discovery of the
Frenchman's had filled him with a sort of envious admiration.
"Well, then," continued Max, "I knew that the inquiry would lead me
to your east-end, and I suspected that I was dealing with Chinamen;
therefore, suitably attired, of course, I wandered about in those
interesting slums on more than one occasion; and I concluded that
the only district in which a Chinaman could live without exciting
curiosity was that which lies off the West India Dock Road." . . .
Dunbar nodded significantly at Sowerby, as who should say: "What
did I tell you about this man?"
"On one of these visits," continued the Frenchman, and a smile
struggled for expression upon his mobile lips, "I met you two
gentlemen with a Mr.--I think he is called Stringer--" . . .
"You met US!" exclaimed Sowerby.
"My sense of humor quite overcoming me," replied M. Max, "I even
tried to swindle you. I think I did the trick very badly!"
Dunbar and Sowerby were staring at one another amazedly.
"It was in the corner of a public house billiard-room," added the
Frenchman, with twinkling eyes; "I adopted the ill-used name of
Levinsky on that occasion." . . .
Dunbar began to punch his left palm and to stride up and down the
floor; whilst Sowerby, his blue eyes opened quite roundly, watched
M. Max as a schoolboy watches an illusionist.
"Therefore," continued M. Max, "I shall ask you to have a party
ready on Tuesday night in Limehouse Causeway--suitably concealed,
of course; and as I am almost sure that the haunt of Mr. King is
actually upon the riverside (I heard one little river sound as I
was coming away) a launch party might cooperate with you in
affecting the raid."
"The raid!" said Dunbar, turning from a point by the window, and
looking back at the Frenchman. "Do you seriously tell me that we
are going to raid Mr. King's on Tuesday night?"
"Most certainly," was the confident reply. "I had hoped to form
one of the raiding party; but nom d'un nom!"--he shrugged, in his
graceful fashion--"I must be one of the rescued!"
"Of the rescued!"
"You see I visited that establishment as a smoker of opium" . . .
"You took that risk?"
"It was no greater risk than is run by quite a number of people
socially well known in London, my dear Inspector Dunbar! I was
introduced by an habitue and a member of the best society; and
since nobody knows that Gaston Max is in London--that Gaston Max
has any business in hand likely to bring him to London--pardieu,
what danger did I incur? But, excepting the lobby--the cave of the
dragon (a stranger apartment even than that in the Rue St. Claude)
and the Chinese cubiculum where I spent the night--mon dieu! what a
night!--I saw nothing of the establishment" . . .
"But you must know where it is!" cried Dunbar.
"I was driven there in a closed limousine, and driven away in the
same vehicle" . . .
"You got the number?"
"It was impossible. These are clever people! But it must be a
simple matter, Inspector, to trace a fine car like that which
regularly appears in those east-end streets?"
"Every constable in the division must be acquainted with it,"
replied Dunbar, confidently. "I'll know all about that car inside
the next hour!"
"If on Tuesday night you could arrange to have it followed,"
continued M. Max, "it would simplify matters. What I have done is
this: I have bought the man, Soames--up to a point. But so deadly
is his fear of the mysterious Mr. King that although he has agreed
to assist me in my plans, he will not consent to divulge an atom of
information until the raid is successfully performed."
"Then for heaven's sake what IS he going to do?"
"Visitors to the establishment (it is managed by a certain Mr. Ho-
Pin; make a note of him, that Ho-Pin) having received the necessary
dose of opium are locked in for the night. On Tuesday, Soames, who
acts as valet to poor fools using the place, has agreed--for a
price--to unlock the door of the room in which I shall be" . . .
"What!" cried Dunbar, "you are going to risk yourself alone in that
place AGAIN?"
"I have paid a very heavy fee," replied the Frenchman with his odd
smile, "and it entitles me to a second visit; I shall pay that
second visit on Tuesday night, and my danger will be no greater
than on the first occasion."
"But Soames may betray you!"
"Fear nothing; I have measured my Soames, not only anthropologically,
but otherwise. I fear only his folly, not his knavery. He will
not betray me. Morbleu! he is too much a frightened man. I do
not know what has taken place; but I could see that, assured of
escaping the police for complicity in the murder, he would turn
King's evidence immediately" . . .
"And you gave him that assurance?"
"At first I did not reveal myself. I weighed up my man very
carefully; I measured that Soames-pig. I had several stories in
readiness, but his character indicated which I should use.
Therefore, suddenly I arrested him!"
"Arrested him?"
"Pardieu! I arrested him very quietly in a corner of the bar of
'Three Nuns' public house. My course was justified. He saw that
the reign of his mysterious Mr. King was nearing its close, and
that I was his only hope" . . .
"But still he refused" . . .
"His refusal to reveal anything whatever under those circumstances
impressed me more than all. It showed me that in Mr. King I had to
deal with a really wonderful and powerful man; a man who ruled by
means of FEAR; a man of gigantic force. I had taken the pattern of
the key fitting the Yale lock of the door of my room, and I secured
a duplicate immediately. Soames has not access to the keys, you
understand. I must rely upon my diplomacy to secure the same room
again--all turns upon that; and at an hour after midnight, or later
if advisable, Soames has agreed to let me out. Beyond this, I
could induce him to do nothing--nothing whatever. Cochon!
Therefore, having got out of the locked room, I must rely upon my
own wits--and the Browning pistol which I have presented to Soames
together with the duplicate key" . . .
"Why not go armed?" asked Dunbar.
"One's clothes are searched, my dear Inspector, by an expert! I
have given the key, the pistol, and the implements of the house-
breaker (a very neat set which fits easily into the breast-pocket)
to Soames, to conceal in his private room at the establishment
until Tuesday night. All turns upon my securing the same
apartment. If I am unable to do so, the arrangements for the raid
will have to be postponed. Opium smokers are faddists essentially,
however, and I think I can manage to pretend that I have formed a
strange penchant for this particular cubiculum" . . .
"By whom were you introduced to the place?" asked Dunbar, leaning
back against the table and facing the Frenchman.
"That I cannot in honor divulge," was the reply; "but the
representative of Mr. King who actually admitted me to the
establishment is one Gianapolis; address unknown, but telephone
number 18642 East. Make a note of him, that Gianapolis."
"I'll arrest him in the morning," said Sowerby, writing furiously
in his notebook.
"Nom d'un p'tit bonhomme! M. Sowerby, you will do nothing of that
foolish description, my dear friend," said Max; and Dunbar glared
at the unfortunate sergeant. "Nothing whatever must be done to
arouse suspicion between now and the moment of the raid. You must
be circumspect--ah, morbleu! so circumspect. By all means trace
this Mr. Gianapolis; yes. But do not let him SUSPECT that he is
being traced" . . .
XXXV
TRACKER TRACKED
Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland peered from the window of the
former's room into the dusk of the Square, until their eyes ached
with the strain of an exercise so unnatural.
"I tell you," said Denise with emphasis, "that . . . sooner or
later . . . he will come prowling . . . around. The mere fact that
he did not appear . . . last night . . . counts for nothing. His
own crooked . . . plans no doubt detain him . . . very often . . .
at night."
Helen sighed wearily. Denise Ryland's scheme was extremely
distasteful to her, but whenever she thought of the pathetic eyes
of Leroux she found new determination. Several times she had
essayed to analyze the motives which actuated her; always she
feared to pursue such inquiries beyond a certain point. Now that
she was beginning to share her friend's views upon the matter, all
social plans sank into insignificance, and she lived only in the
hope of again meeting Gianapolis, of tracing out the opium group,
and of finding Mrs. Leroux. In what state did she hope and expect
to find her? This was a double question which kept her wakeful
through the dreary watches of the night. . . .
"Look!"
Denise Ryland grasped her by the arm, pointing out into the
darkened Square. A furtive figure crossed from the northeast
corner into the shade of some trees and might be vaguely detected
coming nearer and nearer.
"There he is!" whispered Denise Ryland, excitedly; "I told you he
couldn't . . . keep away. I know that kind of brute. There is
nobody at home, so listen: I will watch . . . from the drawing-
room, and you . . . light up here and move about . . . as if
preparing to go out."
Helen, aware that she was flushed with excitement, fell in with the
proposal readily; and having switched on the lights in her room and
put on her hat so that her moving shadow was thrown upon the
casement curtain, she turned out the light again and ran to rejoin
her friend. She found the latter peering eagerly from the window
of the drawing-room.
"He thinks you are coming out!" gasped Denise. "He has slipped . . .
around the corner. He will pretend to be . . . passing . . .
this way . . . the cross-eyed . . . hypocrite. Do you feel capable
. . . of the task?"
"Quite," Helen declared, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.
"You will follow us as arranged; for heaven's sake, don't lose us!"
"If the doctor knew of this," breathed Denise, "he would never . . .
forgive me. But no woman . . . no true woman . . . could refuse
to undertake . . . so palpable . . . a duty" . . .
Helen Cumberly, wearing a warm, golfing jersey over her dress, with
a woolen cap to match, ran lightly down the stairs and out into the
Square, carrying a letter. She walked along to the pillar-box, and
having examined the address upon the envelope with great care, by
the light of an adjacent lamp, posted the letter, turned--and
there, radiant and bowing, stood Mr. Gianapolis!
"Kismet is really most kind to me!" he cried. "My friend, who
lives, as I think I mentioned once before, in Peer's Chambers,
evidently radiates good luck. I last had the good fortune to meet
you when on my way to see him, and I now meet you again within five
minutes of leaving him! My dear Miss Cumberly, I trust you are
quite well?"
"Quite," said Helen, holding out her hand. "I am awfully glad to
see you again, Mr. Gianapolis!"
He was distinctly encouraged by her tone. He bent forward
confidentially.
"The night is young," he said; and his smile was radiant. "May I
hope that your expedition does not terminate at this post-box?"
Helen glanced at him doubtfully, and then down at her jersey.
Gianapolis was unfeignedly delighted with her naivete.
"Surely you don't want to be seen with me in this extraordinary
costume!" she challenged.
"My dear Miss Cumberly, it is simply enchanting! A girl with such
a figure as yours never looks better than when she dresses
sportily!"
The latent vulgarity of the man was escaping from the bondage in
which ordinarily he confined it. A real passion had him in its
grip, and the real Gianapolis was speaking. Helen hesitated for
one fateful moment; it was going to be even worse than she had
anticipated. She glanced up at Palace Mansions.
Across a curtained window moved a shadow, that of a man wearing a
long gown and having his hands clasped behind him, whose head
showed as an indistinct blur because the hair was wildly
disordered. This shadow passed from side to side of the window and
was lost from view. It was the shadow of Henry Leroux.
"I am afraid I have a lot of work to do," said Helen, with a little
catch in her voice.
"My dear Miss Cumberly," cried Gianapolis, eagerly, placing his
hand upon her arm, "it is precisely of your work that I wish to
speak to you! Your work is familiar to me--I never miss a line of
it; and knowing how you delight in the outre and how inimitably you
can describe scenes of Bohemian life, I had hoped, since it was my
privilege to meet you, that you would accept my services as
cicerone to some of the lesser-known resorts of Bohemian London.
Your article, 'Dinner in Soho,' was a delightful piece of
observation, and the third--I think it was the third--of the same
series: 'Curiosities of the Cafe Royal,' was equally good. But
your powers of observation would be given greater play in any one
of the three establishments to which I should be honored to escort
you."
Helen Cumberly, though perfectly self-reliant, as only the modern
girl journalist can be, was fully aware that, not being of the
flat-haired, bespectacled type, she was called upon to exercise
rather more care in her selection of companions for copy-hunting
expeditions than was necessary in the case of certain fellow-
members of the Scribes' Club. No power on earth could have induced
her to accept such an invitation from such a man, under ordinary
circumstances; even now, with so definite and important an object
in view, she hesitated. The scheme might lead to nothing; Denise
Ryland (horrible thought!) might lose the track; the track might
lead to no place of importance, so far as her real inquiry was
concerned.
In this hour of emergency, new and wiser ideas were flooding her
brain. For instance, they might have admitted Inspector Dunbar to
the plot. With Inspector Dunbar dogging her steps, she should have
felt perfectly safe; but Denise--she had every respect for Denise's
reasoning powers, and force of character--yet Denise nevertheless
might fail her.
She glanced into the crooked eyes of Gianapolis, then up again at
Palace Mansions.
The shadow of Henry Leroux recrossed the cream-curtained window.
"So early in the evening," pursued the Greek, rapidly, "the more
interesting types will hardly have arrived; nevertheless, at the
Memphis Cafe" . . .
"Memphis Cafe!" muttered Helen, glancing at him rapidly; "what an
odd name."
"Ah! my dear Miss Cumberly!" cried Gianapolis, with triumph--"I
knew that you had never heard of the true haunts of Bohemia! The
Memphis Cafe--it is actually a club--was founded by Olaf van Noord
two years ago, and at present has a membership including some of
the most famous artistic folk of London; not only painters, but
authors, composers, actors, actresses. I may add that the peerage,
male and female, is represented."
"It is actually a gaming-house, I suppose?" said Helen, shrewdly.
"A gaming-house? Not at all! If what you wish to see is play for
high stakes, it is not to the Memphis Cafe you must go. I can show
you Society losing its money in thousands, if the spectacle would
amuse you. I only await your orders" . . .
"You certainly interest me," said Helen; and indeed this half-
glimpse into phases of London life hidden from the world--even from
the greater part of the ever-peering journalistic world--was not
lacking in fascination.
The planning of a scheme in its entirety constitutes a mental effort which not
infrequently blinds us to the shortcomings of certain essential details.
Denise's plan, a good one in many respects, had the fault of being over-
elaborate. Now, when it was too late to advise her friend of any
amendment, Helen perceived that there was no occasion for her to
suffer the society of Gianapolis.
To bid him good evening, and then to follow him, herself, was a
plan much superior to that of keeping him company whilst Denise
followed both!
Moreover, he would then be much more likely to go home, or to some
address which it would be useful to know. What a VERY womanish
scheme theirs had been, after all; Helen told herself that the most
stupid man imaginable could have placed his finger upon its weak
spot immediately.
But her mind was made up. If it were possible, she would warn
Denise of the change of plan; if it were not, then she must rely
upon her friend to see through the ruse which she was about to
practise upon the Greek.
"Good night, Mr. Gianapolis!" she said abruptly, and held out her
hand to the smiling man. His smile faded. "I should love to join
you, but really you must know that it's impossible. I will arrange
to make up a party, with pleasure, if you will let me know where I
can 'phone you?"
"But," he began . . .
"Many thanks, it's really impossible; there are limits even to the
escapades allowed under the cloak of 'Copy'! Where can I
communicate with you?"
"Oh! how disappointed I am! But I must permit you to know your own
wishes better than I can hope to know them, Miss Cumberly.
Therefore"--Helen was persistently holding out her hand--"good
night! Might I venture to telephone to YOU in the morning? We
could then come to some arrangement, no doubt" . . .
"You might not find me at home" . . .
"But at nine o'clock!"
"It allows me no time to make up my party!"
"But such a party must not exceed three: yourself and two others" . . .
"Nevertheless, it has to be arranged."
"I shall ring up to-morrow evening, and if you are not at home,
your maid will tell me when you are expected to return."
Helen quite clearly perceived that no address and no telephone
number were forthcoming.
"You are committing yourself to endless and unnecessary trouble,
Mr. Gianapolis, but if you really wish to do as you suggest, let it
be so. Good night!"
She barely touched his extended hand, turned, and ran fleetly back
toward the door of Palace Mansions. Ere reaching the entrance,
however, she dropped a handkerchief, stooped to recover it, and
glanced back rapidly.
Gianapolis was just turning the corner.
Helen perceived the unmistakable form of Denise Ryland lurking in
the Palace Mansions doorway, and, waving frantically to her friend,
who was nonplussed at this change of tactics, she hurried back
again to the corner and peeped cautiously after the retreating
Greek.
There was a cab rank some fifty paces beyond, with three taxis
stationed there. If Gianapolis chartered a cab, and she were
compelled to follow in another, would Denise come upon the scene in
time to take up the prearranged role of sleuth-hound?
Gianapolis hesitated only for a few seconds; then, shrugging his
shoulders, he stepped out into the road and into the first cab on
the rank. The man cranked his engine, leapt into his seat and
drove off. Helen Cumberly, ignoring the curious stares of the two
remaining taxi-men, ran out from the shelter of the corner and
jumped into the next cab, crying breathlessly:
"Follow that cab! Don't let the man in it suspect, but follow, and
don't lose sight of it!"
They were off!
Helen glanced ahead quickly, and was just in time to see
Gianapolis' cab disappear; then, leaning out of the window, she
indulged in an extravagant pantomime for the benefit of Denise
Ryland, who was hurrying after her.
"Take the next cab and follow ME!" she cried, whilst her friend
raised her hand to her ear the better to detect the words. "I
cannot wait for you or the track will be lost" . . .
Helen's cab swung around the corner--and she was not by any means
certain that Denise Ryland had understood her; but to have delayed
would have been fatal, and she must rely upon her friend's powers
of penetration to form a third in this singular procession.
Whilst these thoughts were passing in the pursuer's mind,
Gianapolis, lighting a cigarette, had thrown himself back in a
corner of the cab and was mentally reviewing the events of the
evening--that is, those events which were associated with Helen
Cumberly. He was disappointed but hopeful: at any rate he had
suffered no definite repulse. Without doubt, his reflections had
been less roseate had he known that he was followed, not only by
two, but by THREE trackers.
He had suspected for some time now, and the suspicion had made him
uneasy, that his movements were being watched. Police surveillance
he did not fear; his arrangements were too complete, he believed,
to occasion him any ground for anxiety even though half the
Criminal Investigation Department were engaged in dogging his every
movement. He understood police methods very thoroughly, and all
his experience told him that this elusive shadow which latterly had
joined him unbidden, and of whose presence he was specially
conscious whenever his steps led toward Palace Mansions, was no
police officer.
He had two theories respecting the shadow--or, more properly, one
theory which was divisible into two parts; and neither part was
conducive to peace of mind. Many years, crowded with many
happenings, some of which he would fain forget, had passed since
the day when he had entered the service of Mr. King, in Pekin. The
enterprises of Mr. King were always of a secret nature, and he well
remembered the fate of a certain Burmese gentleman of Rangoon who
had attempted to throw the light of publicity into the dark places
of these affairs.
From a confidant of the doomed man, Gianapolias had learned, fully
a month before a mysterious end had come to the Burman, how the
latter (by profession a money-lender) had complained of being
shadowed night and day by someone or something, of whom or of which
he could never succeed in obtaining so much as a glimpse.
Gianapolis shuddered. These were morbid reflections, for, since he
had no thought of betraying Mr. King, he had no occasion to
apprehend a fate similar to that of the unfortunate money-lender of
Rangoon. It was a very profitable service, that of Mr. King, yet
there were times when the fear of his employer struck a chill to
his heart; there were times when almost he wished to be done with
it all . . .
By Whitechapel Station he discharged the cab, and, standing on the
pavement, lighted a new cigarette from the glowing stump of the old
one. A fair amount of traffic passed along the Whitechapel Road,
for the night was yet young; therefore Gianapolis attached no
importance to the fact that almost at the moment when his own cab
turned and was driven away, a second cab swung around the corner of
Mount Street and disappeared.
But, could he have seen the big limousine drawn up to the pavement
some fifty yards west of London Hospital, his reflections must have
been terrible, indeed.
Fate willed that he should know nothing of this matter, and, his
thoughts automatically reverting again to Helen Cumberly, he
enjoyed that imaginary companionship throughout the remainder of
his walk, which led him along Cambridge Road, and from thence, by a
devious route, to the northern end of Globe Road.
It may be enlightening to leave Gianapolis for a moment and to
return to Mount Street.
Helen Cumberly's cabman, seeing the cab ahead pull up outside the
railway station, turned around the nearest corner on the right (as
has already appeared), and there stopped. Helen, who also had
observed the maneuver of the taxi ahead, hastily descended, and
giving the man half-a-sovereign, said rapidly:
"I must follow on foot now, I am afraid! but as I don't know this
district at all, could you bring the cab along without attracting
attention, and manage to keep me in sight?"
"I'll try, miss," replied the man, with alacrity; "but it won't be
an easy job."
"Do your best," cried Helen, and ran off rapidly around the corner,
and into Whitechapel Road.
She was just in time to see Gianapolis throw away the stump of his
first cigarette and stroll off, smoking a second. She rejoiced
that she was inconspicuously dressed, but, simple as was her
attire, it did not fail to attract coarse comment from some whom
she jostled on her way. She ignored all this, however, and, at a
discreet distance followed the Greek, never losing sight of him for
more than a moment.
When, leaving Cambridge Road--a considerable thoroughfare--he
plunged into a turning, crooked and uninviting, which ran roughly
at right angles with the former, she hesitated, but only for an
instant. Not another pedestrian was visible in the street, which
was very narrow and ill-lighted, but she plainly saw Gianapolis
passing under a street-lamp some thirty yards along. Glancing back
in quest of the cabman, but failing to perceive him, she resumed
the pursuit.
She was nearly come to the end of the street (Gianapolis already
had disappeared into an even narrower turning on the left) when a
bright light suddenly swept from behind and cast her shadow far out
in front of her upon the muddy road. She heard the faint thudding
of a motor, but did not look back, for she was confident that this
was the taxi-man following. She crept to the corner and peered
around it; Gianapolis had disappeared.
The light grew brighter--brighter yet; and, with the engine running
very silently, the car came up almost beside her. She considered
this unwise on the man's part, yet welcomed his presence, for in
this place not a soul was visible, and for the first time she began
to feel afraid . . .
A shawl, or some kind of silken wrap, was suddenly thrown over her
head!
She shrieked frenziedly, but the arm of her captor was now clasped
tightly about her mouth and head. She felt herself to be
suffocating. The silken thing which enveloped her was redolent of
the perfume of roses; it was stifling her. She fought furiously,
but her arms were now seized in an irresistible grasp, and she felt
herself lifted--and placed upon a cushioned seat.
Instantly there was a forward movement of the vehicle which she had
mistaken for a taxi-cab, and she knew that she was speeding through
those unknown east-end streets--God! to what destination?
She could not cry out, for she was fighting for air--she seemed to
be encircled by a swirling cloud of purplish mist. On--and on--and
on, she was borne; she knew that she must have been drugged in some
way, for consciousness was slipping--slipping . . .
Helpless as a child in that embrace which never faltered, she was
lifted again and carried down many steps. Insensibility was very
near now, but with all the will that was hers she struggled to fend
it off. She felt herself laid down upon soft cushions . . .
A guttural voice was speaking, from a vast distance away:
"What is this that you bwring us, Mahara?"
Answered a sweet, silvery voice:
"Does it matter to you what I bringing? It is one I hate--hate--
HATE! There will be TWO cases of 'ginger' to go away some day
instead of ONE--that is all! Said, yalla!"
"Your pwrimitive passions will wruin us" . . .
The silvery voice grew even more silvery:
"Do you quarrel with me, Ho-Pin, my friend?"
"This is England, not Burma! Gianapolis" . . .
"Ah! Whisper--WHISPER it to HIM, and" . . .
Oblivion closed in upon Helen Cumberly; she seemed to be sinking
into the heart of a giant rose.
XXXVI
IN DUNBAR'S ROOM
Dr. Cumberly, his face unusually pale, stood over by the window of
Inspector Dunbar's room, his hands locked behind him. In the chair
nearest to the window sat Henry Leroux, so muffled up in a fur-
collared motor-coat that little of his face was visible; but his
eyes were tragic as he leant forward resting his elbows upon his
knees and twirling his cap between his thin fingers. He was
watching Inspector Dunbar intently; only glancing from the gaunt
face of the detective occasionally to look at Denise Ryland, who
sat close to the table. At such times his gaze was pathetically
reproachful, but always rather sorrowful than angry.
As for Miss Ryland, her habitual self-confidence seemed somewhat to
have deserted her, and it was almost with respectful interest that
she followed Dunbar's examination of a cabman who, standing cap in
hand, completed the party so strangely come together at that late
hour.
"This is what you have said," declared Dunbar, taking up an
official form, and, with a movement of his hand warning the taxi-
man to pay attention: "'I, Frederick Dean, motor-cab driver, was
standing on the rank in Little Abbey Street to-night at about a
quarter to nine. My cab was the second on the rank. A young lady
who wore, I remember, a woolen cap and jersey, with a blue serge
skirt, ran out from the corner of the Square and directed me to
follow the cab in front of me, which had just been chartered by a
dark man wearing a black overcoat and silk hat. She ordered me to
keep him in sight; and as I drove off I heard her calling from the
window of my cab to another lady who seemed to be following her. I
was unable to see this other lady, but my fare addressed her as
"Denise." I followed the first cab to Whitechapel Station; and as
I saw it stop there, I swung into Mount Street. The lady gave me
half-a-sovereign, and told me that she proposed to follow the man
on foot. She asked me if I could manage to keep her in sight,
without letting my cab be seen by the man she was following. I
said I would try, and I crept along at some distance behind her,
going as slowly as possible until she went into a turning branching
off to the right of Cambridge Road; I don't know the name of this
street. She was some distance ahead of me, for I had had trouble
in crossing Whitechapel Road.
"'A big limousine had passed me a moment before, but as an electric
tram was just going by on my off-side, between me and the
limousine, I don't know where the limousine went. When I was clear
of the tram I could not see it, and it may have gone down Cambridge
Road and then down the same turning as the lady. I pulled up at
the end of this turning, and could not see a sign of any one. It
was quite deserted right to the end, and although I drove down,
bore around to the right and finally came out near the top of Globe
Road, I did not pass anyone. I waited about the district for over
a quarter-of-an-hour and then drove straight to the police station,
and they sent me on here to Scotland Yard to report what had
occurred.'
"Have you anything to add to that?" said Dunbar, fixing his tawny
eyes upon the cabman.
"Nothing at all," replied the man--a very spruce and intelligent
specimen of his class and one who, although he had moved with the
times, yet retained a slightly horsey appearance, which indicated
that he had not always been a mechanical Jehu.
"It is quite satisfactory as far as it goes," muttered Dunbar.
"I'll get you to sign it now and we need not detain you any
longer."
"There is not the slightest doubt," said Dr. Cumberly, stepping
forward and speaking in an unusually harsh voice, "that Helen
endeavored to track this man Gianapolis, and was abducted by him or
his associates. The limousine was the car of which we have heard
so much" . . .
"If my cabman had not been such a . . . fool," broke in Denise
Ryland, clasping her hands, "we should have had a different . . .
tale to tell."
"I have no wish to reproach anybody," said Dunbar, sternly; "but I
feel called upon to remark, madam, that you ought to have known
better than to interfere in a case like this; a case in which we
are dealing with a desperate and clever gang."
For once in her life Denise Ryland found herself unable to retort
suitably. The mildly reproachful gaze of Leroux she could not
meet; and although Dr. Cumberly had spoken no word of complaint
against her, from his pale face she persistently turned away her
eyes.
The cabman having departed, the door almost immediately reopened,
and Sergeant Sowerby came in.
"Ah! there you are, Sowerby!" cried Dunbar, standing up and leaning
eagerly across the table. "You have the particulars respecting the
limousine?"
Sergeant Sowerby, removing his hat and carefully placing it upon
the only vacant chair in the room, extracted a bulging notebook
from a pocket concealed beneath his raincoat, cleared his throat,
and reported as follows:
"There is only one car known to members of that division which
answers to the description of the one wanted. This is a high-
power, French car which seems to have been registered first in
Paris, where it was made, then in Cairo, and lastly in London. It
is the property of the gentleman whose telephone number is 18642
East--Mr. I. Gianapolis; and the reason of its frequent presence in
the neighborhood of the West India Dock Road, is this: it is kept
in a garage in Wharf-End Lane, off Limehouse Causeway. I have
interviewed two constables at present on that beat, and they tell
me that there is nothing mysterious about the car except that the
chauffeur is a foreigner who speaks no English. He is often to be
seen cleaning the car in the garage, and both the men are in the
habit of exchanging good evening with him when passing the end of
the lane. They rarely go that far, however, as it leads nowhere."
"But if you have the telephone number of this man, Gianapolis,"
cried Dr. Cumberly, "you must also have his address" . . .
"We obtained both from the Eastern Exchange," interrupted Inspector
Dunbar. "The instrument, number 18642 East, is installed in an
office in Globe Road. The office, which is situated in a converted
private dwelling, bears a brass plate simply inscribed, 'I.
Gianapolis, London and Smyrna.'"
"What is the man's reputed business?" jerked Cumberly.
"We have not quite got to the bottom of that, yet," replied
Sowerby; "but he is an agent of some kind, and evidently in a large
way of business, as he runs a very fine car, and seems to live
principally in different hotels. I am told that he is an importer
of Turkish cigarettes and" . . .
"He is an importer and exporter of hashish!" snapped Dunbar
irritably. "If I could clap my eyes upon him I should know him at
once! I tell you, Sowerby, he is the man who was convicted last
year of exporting hashish to Egypt in faked packing cases which
contained pottery ware, ostensibly, but had false bottoms filled
with cakes of hashish" . . .
"But," began Dr. Cumberly . . .
"But because he came before a silly bench," snapped Dunbar, his
eyes flashing angrily, "he got off with a fine--a heavy one,
certainly, but he could well afford to pay it. It is that kind of
judicial folly which ties the hands of Scotland Yard!"
"What makes you so confident that this is the man?" asked the
physician.
"He was convicted under the name of G. Ionagis," replied the
detective; "which I believe to be either his real name or his real
name transposed. Do you follow me? I. Gianapolis is Ionagis
Gianapolis, and G. Ionagis is Gianapolis Ionagis. I was not
associated with the hashish case; he stored the stuff in a china
warehouse within the city precincts, and at that time he did not
come within my sphere. But I looked into it privately, and I could
see that the prosecution was merely skimming the surface; we are
only beginning to get down to the depths NOW."
Dr. Cumberly raised his hand to his head in a distracted manner.
"Surely," he said, and he was evidently exercising a great
restraint upon himself--"surely we're wasting time. The office in
Globe Road should be raided without delay. No stone should be left
unturned to effect the immediate arrest of this man Gianapolis or
Ionagis. Why, God almighty! while we are talking here, my
daughter" . . .
"Morbleu! who talks of arresting Gianapolis?" inquired the voice of
a man who silently had entered the room.
All turned their heads; and there in the doorway stood M. Gaston
Max.
"Thank God you've come!" said Dunbar with sincerity. He dropped
back into his chair, a strong man exhausted. "This case is getting
beyond me!"
Denise Ryland was staring at the Frenchman as if fascinated. He,
for his part, having glanced around the room, seemed called upon to
give her some explanation of his presence.
"Madame," he said, bowing in his courtly way, "only because of very
great interests did I dare to conceal my true identity. My name is
Gaston, that is true, but only so far as it goes. My real name is
Gaston Max, and you who live in Paris will perhaps have heard it."
"Gaston Max!" cried Denise Ryland, springing upright as though
galvanized; "you are M. Gaston Max! But you are not the least bit
in the world like" . . .
"Myself?" said the Frenchman, smiling. "Madame, it is only a man
fortunate enough to possess no enemies who can dare to be like
himself."
He bowed to her in an oddly conclusive manner, and turned again to
Inspector Dunbar.
"I am summoned in haste," he said; "tell me quickly of this new
development."
Sowerby snatched his hat from the vacant chair, and politely placed
the chair for M. Max to sit upon. The Frenchman, always courteous,
gently forced Sergeant Sowerby himself to occupy the chair,
silencing his muttered protests with upraised hand. The matter
settled, he lowered his hand, and, resting it fraternally upon the
sergeant's shoulder, listened to Inspector Dunbar's account of what
had occurred that night. No one interrupted the Inspector until he
was come to the end of his narrative.
"Mille tonnerres!" then exclaimed M. Max; and, holding a finger of
his glove between his teeth, he tugged so sharply that a long rent
appeared in the suede.
His eyes were on fire; the whole man quivered with electric force.
In silence that group watched the celebrated Frenchman;
instinctively they looked to him for aid. It is at such times that
personality proclaims itself. Here was the last court of appeal,
to which came Dr. Cumberly and Inspector Dunbar alike; whose
pronouncement they awaited, not questioning that it would be final.
"To-morrow night," began Max, speaking in a very low voice, "we
raid the headquarters of Ho-Pin. This disappearance of your
daughter, Dr. Cumberly, is frightful; it could not have been
foreseen or it should have been prevented. But the least mistake
now, and"--he looked at Dr. Cumberly as if apologizing for his
barbed words--"she may never return!"
"My God!" groaned the physician, and momentarily dropped his face
into his hands.
But almost immediately he recovered himself and with his mouth
drawn into a grim straight line, looked again at M. Max, who
continued:
"I do not think that this abduction was planned by the group; I
think it was an accident and that they were forced, in self-
protection, to detain your daughter, who unwisely--morbleu! how
unwisely!--forced herself into their secrets. To arrest Gianapolis
(even if that were possible) would be to close their doors to us
permanently; and as we do not even know the situation of those
doors, that would be to ruin everything. Whether Miss Cumberly is
confined in the establishment of Ho-Pin or somewhere else, I cannot
say; whether she is a captive of Gianapolis or of Mr. King, I do
not know. But I know that the usual conduct of the establishment
is not being interrupted at present; for only half-an-hour ago I
telephoned to Mr. Gianapolis!"
"At Globe Road?" snapped Dunbar, with a flash of the tawny eyes.
"At Globe Road--yes (oh! they would not detain her there!). Mr.
Gianapolis was present to speak to me. He met me very agreeably in
the matter of occupying my old room in the delightful Chinese hotel
of Mr. Ho-Pin. Therefore"--he swept his left hand around
forensically, as if to include the whole of the company--"to-morrow
night at eleven o'clock I shall be meeting Mr. Gianapolis at
Piccadilly Circus, and later we shall join the limousine and be
driven to the establishment of Ho-Pin." He turned to Inspector
Dunbar. "Your arrangements for watching all the approaches to the
suspected area are no doubt complete?"
"Not a stray cat," said Dunbar with emphasis, "can approach
Limehouse Causeway or Pennyfields, or any of the environs of the
place, to-morrow night after ten o'clock, without the fact being
reported to me! You will know at the moment that you step from the
limousine that a cyclist scout, carefully concealed, is close at
your heels with a whole troup to follow; and if, as you suspect,
the den adjoins the river bank, a police cutter will be lying at
the nearest available point."
"Eh bien!" said M. Max; then, turning to Denise Ryland and Dr.
Cumberly, and shrugging his shoulders: "you see, frightful as your
suspense must be, to make any foolish arrests to-night, to move in
this matter at all to-night--would be a case of more haste and less
speed" . . .
"But," groaned Cumberly, "is Helen to lie in that foul, unspeakable
den until the small hours of to-morrow morning? Good God! they
may" . . .
"There is one little point," interrupted M. Max with upraised hand,
"which makes it impossible that we should move to-night--quite
apart from the advisability of such a movement. We do not know
exactly where this place is situated. What can we do?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and, with raised eyebrows, stared at Dr.
Cumberly.
"It is fairly evident," replied the other slowly, and with a
repetition of the weary upraising of his hand to his head, "it is
fairly evident that the garage used by the man Gianapolis must be
very near to--most probably adjoining--the entrance to this place
of which you speak."
"Quite true," agreed the Frenchman. "But these are clever, these
people of Mr. King. They are Chinese, remember, and the Chinese--
ah, I know it!--are the most mysterious and most cunning people in
the world. The entrance to the cave of black and gold will not be
as wide as a cathedral door. A thousand men might search this
garage, which, as Detective Sowerby" (he clapped the latter on the
shoulder) "informed me this afternoon, is situated in Wharf-End
Lane--all day and all night, and become none the wiser. To-morrow
evening"--he lowered his voice--"I myself, shall be not outside,
but inside that secret place; I shall be the concierge for one
night--Eh bien, that concierge will admit the policeman!"
A groan issued from Dr. Cumberly's lips; and M. Max, with ready
sympathy, crossed the room and placed his hands upon the
physician's shoulders, looking steadfastly into his eyes.
"I understand, Dr. Cumberly," he said, and his voice was caressing
as a woman's. "Pardieu! I understand. To wait is agony; but you,
who are a physician, know that to wait sometimes is necessary.
Have courage, my friend, have courage!"
XXXVII
THE WHISTLE
Luke Soames, buttoning up his black coat, stood in the darkness,
listening.
His constitutional distaste for leaping blindfolded had been over-
ridden by circumstance. He felt himself to be a puppet of Fate,
and he drifted with the tide because he lacked the strength to swim
against it. That will-o'-the-wisp sense of security which had
cheered him when first he had realized how much he owed to the
protective wings of Mr. King had been rudely extinguished upon the
very day of its birth; he had learnt that Mr. King was a sinister
protector; and almost hourly he lived again through the events of
that night when, all unwittingly, he had become a witness of
strange happenings in the catacombs.
Soames had counted himself a lost man that night; the only point
which he had considered debatable was whether he should be
strangled or poisoned. That his employers were determined upon his
death, he was assured; yet he had lived through the night, had
learnt from his watch that the morning was arrived . . . and had
seen the flecks at the roots of his dyed hair, blanched by the
terrors of that vigil--of that watching, from moment to moment, for
the second coming of Ho-Pin.
Yes, the morning had dawned, and with it a faint courage. He had
shaved and prepared himself for his singular duties, and Said had
brought him his breakfast as usual. The day had passed
uneventfully, and once, meeting Ho-Pin, he had found himself
greeted with the same mirthless smile but with no menace. Perhaps
they had believed his story, or had disbelieved it but realized
that he was too closely bound to them to be dangerous.
Then his mind had reverted to the conversation overheard in the
music-hall. Should he seek to curry favor with his employers by
acquainting them with the fact that, contrary to Gianapolis'
assertion, an important clue had fallen into the hands of the
police? Did they know this already? So profound was his belief in
the omniscience of the invisible Mr. King that he could not believe
that Power ignorant of anything appertaining to himself.
Yet it was possible that those in the catacombs were unaware how
Scotland Yard, night and day, quested for Mr. King. The papers
made no mention of it; but then the papers made no mention of
another fact--the absence of Mrs. Leroux. Now that he was no
longer panic-ridden, he could mentally reconstruct that scene of
horror, could hear again, imaginatively, the shrieks of the
maltreated woman. Perhaps this same active imagination of his was
playing him tricks, but, her voice . . . Always he preferred to
dismiss these ideas.
He feared Ho-Pin in the same way that an average man fears a
tarantula, and he was only too happy to avoid the ever smiling
Chinaman; so that the days passed on, and, finding himself
unmolested and the affairs of the catacombs proceeding apparently
as usual, he kept his information to himself, uncertain if he
shared it with his employers or otherwise, but hesitating to put
the matter to the test--always fearful to approach Ho-Pin, the
beetlesque.
But this could not continue indefinitely; at least he must speak to
Ho-Pin in order to obtain leave of absence. For, since that
unforgettable night, he had lived the life of a cave-man indeed,
and now began to pine for the wider vault of heaven. Meeting the
impassive Chinaman in the corridor one morning, on his way to valet
one of the living dead, Soames ventured to stop him.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, confusedly, "but would there be any
objection to my going out on Friday evening for an hour?"
"Not at all, Soames," replied Ho-Pin, with his mirthless smile:
"you may go at six, wreturn at ten."
Ho-Pin passed on.
Soames heaved a gentle sigh of relief. The painful incident was
forgotten, then. He hurried into the room, the door of which Said
was holding open, quite eager for his unsavory work.
In crossing its threshold, he crossed out of his new peace into a
mental turmoil greater in its complexities than any he yet had
known; he met M. Gaston Max, and his vague doubts respecting the
omniscience of Mr. King were suddenly reinforced.
Soames' perturbation was so great on that occasion that he feared
it must unfailingly be noticed. He realized that now he was
definitely in communication with the enemies of Mr. King! Ah; but
Mr. King did not know how formidable was the armament of those
enemies! He (Soames) had overrated Mr. King; and because that
invisible being could inspire Fear in an inconceivable degree, he
had thought him all-powerful. Now, he realized that Mr. King was
unaware of the existence of at least one clue held by the police;
was unaware that his name was associated with the Palace Mansions
murder.
The catacombs of Ho-Pin were a sinking ship, and Soames was first
of the rats to leave.
He kept his appointment at the "Three Nuns" as has appeared; he
accepted the blood-money that was offered him, and he returned to
the garage adjoining Kan-Suh Concessions, that night, hugging in
his bosom a leather case containing implements by means whereof his
new accomplice designed to admit the police to the cave of the
golden dragon.
Also, in the pocket of his overcoat, he had a neat Browning pistol;
and when the door at the back of the garage was opened for him by
Said, he found that the touch of this little weapon sent a thrill
of assurance through him, and he began to conceive a sentiment for
the unknown investigator to whom he was bound, akin to that which
formerly he had cherished for Mr. King!
Now the time was come.
The people of the catacombs acquired a super-sensitive power of
hearing, and Soames was able at this time to detect, as he sat or
lay in his own room, the movements of persons in the corridor
outside and even in the cave of the golden dragon. That mysterious
trap in the wall gave him many qualms, and to-night he had glanced
at it a thousand times. He held the pistol in his hand, and
buttoned up within his coat was the leather case. Only remained
the opening of his door in order to learn if the lights were
extinguished in the corridor.
He did not anticipate any serious difficulty, provided he could
overcome his constitutional nervousness. In his waistcoat pocket
was a brand new Yale key which, his latest employer had assured
him, fitted the lock of the end door of Block A. The door between
the cave of the dragon and Block A was never locked, so far as
Soames was aware, nor was that opening from the corridor in which
his own room was situated. Therefore, only a few moments--fearful
moments, certainly--need intervene, ere he should have a companion;
and within a few minutes of that time, the police--his friends!--
would be there to protect him! He recognized that the law, after
all, was omnipotent, and of all masters was the master to be
served.
There was no light in the corridor. Leaving his door ajar, he
tiptoed cautiously along toward the cave. Assuring himself once
again that the pistol lay in his pocket, he fumbled for the lever
which opened the door, found it, depressed it, and stepped quietly
forward in his slippered feet.
The unmistakable odor of the place assailed his nostrils. All was
in darkness, and absolute silence prevailed. He had a rough idea
of the positions of the various little tables, and he stepped
cautiously in order to skirt them; but evidently he had made a
miscalculation. Something caught his foot, and with a muffled thud
he sprawled upon the floor, barely missing one of the tables which
he had been at such pains to avoid.
Trembling like a man with an ague, he lay there, breathing in
short, staccato breaths, and clutching the pistol in his pocket.
Certainly he had made no great noise, but. . .
Nothing stirred.
Soames summoned up courage to rise and to approach again the door
of Block A. Without further mishap he reached it, opened it, and
entered the blackness of the corridor. He could make no mistake in
regard to the door, for it was the end one. He stole quietly
along, his fingers touching the matting, until he came in contact
with the corner angle; then, feeling along from the wall until he
touched the strip of bamboo which marked the end of the door, he
probed about gently with the key; for he knew to within an inch or
so where the keyhole was situated.
Ah! he had it! His hand trembling slightly, he sought to insert
the key in the lock. It defied his efforts. He felt it gently
with the fingers of his left hand, thinking that he might have been
endeavoring to insert the key with the irregular edge downward, and
not uppermost; but no--such was not the case.
Again he tried, and with no better result. His nerves were
threatening to overcome him, now; he had not counted upon any such
hitch as this: but fear sharpened his wits. He recollected the
fall which he had sustained, and how he had been precipitated upon
the polished floor, outside.
Could he have mistaken his direction? Was it not possible that
owing to his momentary panic, he had arisen, facing not the door at
the foot of the steps, as he had supposed, but that by which a
moment earlier he had entered the cave of the golden dragon?
Desperation was with him now; he was gone too far to draw back.
Trailing his fingers along the matting covering of the wall, he
retraced his steps, came to the open door, and reentered the
apartment of the dragon. He complimented himself, fearfully, upon
his own address, for he was inspired with an idea whereby he might
determine his position. Picking his way among the little tables
and the silken ottomans, he groped about with his hands in the
impenetrable darkness for the pedestal supporting the dragon. At
last his fingers touched the ivory. He slid them downward, feeling
for the great vase of poppies which always stood before the golden
image. . . .
The vase was on the LEFT and not on the RIGHT of the pedestal. His
theory was correct; he had been groping in the mysterious precincts
of that Block B which he had never entered, which he had never seen
any one else enter, and from whence he had never known any one to
emerge! It was the fall that had confused him; now, he took his
bearings anew, bent down to feel for any tables that might lie in
his path, and crept across the apartment toward the door which he
sought.
Ah! this time there could be no mistake! He depressed the lever
handle, and, as the door swung open before him, crept furtively
into the corridor.
Repeating the process whereby he had determined the position of the
end door, he fumbled once again for the keyhole. He found it with
even less difficulty than he had experienced in the wrong corridor,
inserted the key in the lock, and with intense satisfaction felt it
slip into place.
He inhaled a long breath of the lifeless air, turned the key, and
threw the door open. One step forward he took . . .
A whistle (God! he knew it!) a low, minor whistle, wavered through
the stillness. He was enveloped, mantled, choked, by the perfume
of ROSES!
The door, which, although it had opened easily, had seemed to be a
remarkably heavy one, swung to behind him; he heard the click of
the lock. Like a trapped animal, he turned, leaped back, and found
his quivering hands in contact with books--books--books . . .
A lamp lighted up in the center of the room.
Soames turned and stood pressed closely against the book-shelves,
against the book-shelves which magically had grown up in front of
the door by which he had entered. He was in the place of books and
roses--in the haunt of MR. KING!
A great clarity of mind came to him, as it comes to a drowning man;
he knew that those endless passages, through which once he had been
led in darkness, did not exist, that he had been deceived, had been
guided along the same corridor again and again; he knew that this
room of roses did not lie at the heart of a labyrinth, but almost
adjoined the cave of the golden dragon.
He knew that he was a poor, blind fool; that his plotting had been
known to those whom he had thought to betray; that the new key
which had opened a way into this place of dread was not the key
which his accomplice had given him. He knew that that upon which
he had tripped at the outset of his journey had been set in his
path by cunning design, in order that the fall might confuse his
sense of direction. He knew that the great vase of poppies had
been moved, that night. . . .
God! his brain became a seething furnace.
There, before him, upstood the sandalwood screen, with one corner
of the table projecting beyond it. Nothing of life was visible in
the perfumed place, where deathly silence prevailed. . . .
No lion has greater courage than a cornered rat. Soames plucked
the pistol from his pocket and fired at the screen--ONCE!--TWICE!
He heard the muffled report, saw the flash of the little weapon,
saw the two holes in the carven woodwork, and gained a greater,
hysterical courage--the courage of a coward's desperation.
Immediately before him was a little ebony table, bearing a silver
bowl, laden to the brim with sulphur-colored roses. He overturned
the table with his foot, laughing wildly. In three strides he
leapt across the room, grasped the sandalwood screen, and hurled it
to the floor. . . .
In the instant of its fall, he became as Lot's wife. The pistol
dropped from his nerveless grasp, thudding gently on the carpet,
and, with his fingers crooked paralytically, he stood swaying . . .
and looking into the face of MR. KING!
Soames' body already was as rigid as it would be in death; his mind
was numbed--useless. But his outraged soul forced utterance from
the lips of the man.
A scream, a scream to have made the angels shudder, to have
inspired pity in the devils of Hell, burst from him. Two yellow
hands leaped at his throat. . . .
XXXVIII
THE SECRET TRAPS
Gaston Max, from his silken bed in the catacombs of Ho-Pin, watched
the hand of his watch which lay upon the little table beside him.
Already it was past two o'clock, and no sign had come from Soames;
a hundred times his imagination had almost tricked him into
believing that the door was opening; but always the idea had been
illusory and due to the purple shadow of the lamp-shade which
overcast that side of the room and the door.
He had experienced no difficulty in arranging with Gianapolis to
occupy the same room as formerly; and, close student of human
nature though he was, he had been unable to detect in the Greek's
manner, when they had met that night, the slightest restraint, the
slightest evidence of uneasiness. His reception by Ho-Pin had
varied scarce one iota from that accorded him on his first visit to
the cave of the golden dragon. The immobile Egyptian had brought
him the opium, and had departed silently as before. On this
occasion, the trap above the bed had not been opened. But hour
after hour had passed, uneventfully, silently, in that still,
suffocating room. . . .
A key in the lock!--yes, a key was being inserted in the lock! He
must take no unnecessary risks; it might be another than Soames.
He waited--the faint sound of fumbling ceased. Still, he waited,
listening intently.
Half-past-two. If it had been Soames, why had he withdrawn? M.
Max arose noiselessly and looked about him. He was undecided what
to do, when . . .
Two shots, followed by a most appalling shriek--the more frightful
because it was muffled; the shriek of a man in extremis, of one who
stands upon the brink of Eternity, brought him up rigid, tense,
with fists clenched, with eyes glaring; wrought within this
fearless investigator an emotion akin to terror.
Just that one gruesome cry there was and silence again.
What did it mean?
M. Max began hastily to dress. He discovered, in endeavoring to
fasten his collar, that his skin was wet with cold perspiration.
"Pardieu!" he said, twisting his mouth into that wry smile, "I
know, now, the meaning of fright!"
He was ever glancing toward the door, not hopefully as hitherto,
but apprehensively, fearfully.
That shriek in the night might portend merely the delirium of some
other occupant of the catacombs; but the shots . . .
"It was SOAMES!" he whispered aloud; "I have risked too much; I am
fast in the rat-trap!"
He looked about him for a possible weapon. The time for inactivity
was past. It would be horrible to die in that reeking place,
whilst outside, it might be, immediately above his head, Dunbar and
the others waited and watched.
The construction of the metal bunk attracted his attention. As in
the case of steamer bunks one of the rails--that nearer to the
door--was detachable in order to facilitate the making of the bed.
Rapidly, nervously, he unscrewed it; but the hinges were riveted to
the main structure, and after a brief examination he shrugged his
shoulders despairingly. Then, he recollected that in the adjoining
bathroom there was a metal towel rail, nickeled, and with a heavy
knock at either end, attached by two brackets to the wall.
He ran into the inner room and eagerly examined these fastenings.
They were attached by small steel screws. In an instant he was at
work with the blade of his pocket-knife. Six screws in all there
were to be dealt with, three at either end. The fifth snapped the
blade and he uttered an exclamation of dismay. But the shortened
implement proved to be an even better screw-driver than the
original blade, and half a minute later he found himself in
possession of a club such as would have delighted the soul of
Hercules.
He managed to unscrew one of the knobs, and thus to slide off from
the bar the bracket attachments; then, replacing the knob, he
weighed the bar in his hand, appreciatively. His mind now was
wholly composed, and his course determined. He crossed the little
room and rapped loudly upon the door.
The rapping sounded muffled and dim in that sound-proof place.
Nothing happened, and thrice he repeated the rapping with like
negative results. But he had learnt something: the door was a very
heavy one.
He made a note of the circumstance, although it did not interfere
with the plan which he had in mind. Wheeling the armchair up
beside the bed, he mounted upon its two arms and, ONCE--TWICE--
THRICE--crashed the knob of the iron bar against that part of the
wall which concealed the trap.
Here the result was immediate. At every blow of the bar the trap
behind yielded. A fourth blow sent the knob crashing through the
gauze material, and far out into some dark place beyond. There was
a sound as of a number of books falling.
He had burst the trap.
Up on the back of the chair he mounted, resting his bar against the
wall, and began in feverish haste to tear away the gauze concealing
the rectangular opening.
An almost overpowering perfume of roses was wafted into his face.
In front of him was blackness.
Having torn away all the gauze, he learned that the opening was
some two feet long by one foot high. Resting the bar across the
ledge he extended his head and shoulders forward through this
opening into the rose-scented place beyond, and without any great
effort drew himself up with his hands, so that, provided he could
find some support upon the other side, it would be a simple matter
to draw himself through entirely.
He felt about with his fingers, right and left, and in doing so
disturbed another row of books, which fell upon the floor beneath
him. He had apparently come out in the middle of a large book-
shelf. To the left of him projected the paper-covered door of the
trap, at right angles; above and below were book-laden shelves, and
on the right there had been other books, until his questing fingers
had disturbed them.
M. Max, despite his weight, was an agile man. Clutching the shelf
beneath, he worked his way along to the right, gradually creeping
further and further into the darkened room, until at last he could
draw his feet through the opening and crouch sideways upon the
shelf.
He lowered his left foot, sought for and found another shelf
beneath, and descended as by a ladder to the thickly carpeted
floor. Grasping the end of the bar, he pulled that weapon down;
then he twisted the button which converted his timepiece into an
electric lantern, and, holding the bar in one tensely quivering
hand, looked rapidly about him.
This was a library; a small library, with bowls of roses set upon
tables, shelves, in gaps between the books, and one lying
overturned upon the floor. Although it was almost drowned by their
overpowering perfume, he detected a faint smell of powder. In one
corner stood a large writing-table with papers strewn carelessly
upon it. Its appointments were markedly Chinese in character, from
the singular, gold inkwell to the jade paperweight; markedly
Chinese--and--FEMININE. A very handsome screen lay upon the floor
in front of this table, and the rich carpet he noted to be
disordered as if a struggle had taken place upon it. But, most
singular circumstance of all, and most disturbing . . . there was
no door to this room!
For a moment he failed to appreciate the entire significance of
this. A secret room difficult to enter he could comprehend, but a
secret room difficult to QUIT passed his comprehension completely.
Moreover, he was no better off for his exploit.
Three minutes sufficed him in which to examine the shelves covering
the four walls of the room from floor to ceiling. None of the
books were dummies, and slowly the fact began to dawn upon his mind
that what at first he had assumed to be a rather simple device,
was, in truth, almost incomprehensible.
For how, in the name of Sanity, did the occupant of this room--and
obviously it was occupied at times--enter and leave it?
"Ah!" he muttered, shining the light upon a row of yellow-bound
volumes from which he had commenced his tour of inspection and to
which that tour had now led him back, "it is uncanny--this!"
He glanced back at the rectangular patch of light which marked the
trap whereby he had entered this supernormal room. It was situated
close to one corner of the library, and, acting upon an idea which
came to him (any idea was better than none) he proceeded to throw
down the books occupying the corresponding position at the other
end of the shelf.
A second trap was revealed, identical with that through which he
had entered!
It was fastened with a neat brass bolt; and, standing upon one of
the little Persian tables--from which he removed a silver bowl of
roses--he opened this trap and looked into the lighted room beyond.
He saw an apartment almost identical with that which he himself
recently had quitted; but in one particular it differed. It was
occupied . . . AND BY A WOMAN!
Arrayed in a gossamer nightrobe she lay in the bed, beneath the
trap, her sunken face matching the silken whiteness. Her thin arms
drooped listlessly over the rails of the bunk, and upon her left
hand M. Max perceived a wedding ring. Her hair, flaxen in the
electric light, was spread about in wildest disorder upon the
pillow, and a breath of fetid air assailed his nostrils as he
pressed his face close to the gauze masking the opening in order to
peer closely at this victim of the catacombs.
He watched the silken covering of her bosom, intently, but failed
to detect the slightest movement.
"Morbleu!" he muttered, "is she dead?"
He rent the gauze with a sweep of his left hand, and standing upon
the bottom shelf of the case, craned forward into the room, looking
all about him. A purple shaded lamp burnt above the bed as in the
adjoining apartment which he himself had occupied. There were
dainty feminine trifles littered in the big armchair, and a motor-
coat hung upon the hook of the bathroom door. A small cabin-trunk
in one corner of the room bore the initials: "M. L."
Max dropped back into the incredible library with a stifled gasp.
"Pardieu!" he said. "It is Mrs. Leroux that I have found!"
A moment he stood looking from trap to trap; then turned and
surveyed again the impassable walls, the rows of works, few of
which were European, some of them bound in vellum, some in pigskin,
and one row of huge volumes, ten in number, on the bottom shelf, in
crocodile hide.
"It is weird, this!" he muttered, "nightmare!"--turning the light
from row to row. "How is this lamp lighted that swings here?"
He began to search for the switch, and, even before he found it,
had made up his mind that, once discovered, it would not only
enable him more fully to illuminate the library, but would
constitute a valuable clue.
At last he found it, situated at the back of one of the shelves,
and set above a row of four small books, so that it could readily
be reached by inserting the hand.
He flooded the place with light; and perceived at a glance that a
length of white flex crossing the ceiling enabled anyone seated at
the table to ignite the lamp from there also. Then, replacing his
torch in his pocket, and assuring himself that the iron bar lay
within easy reach, he began deliberately to remove all of the books
from the shelves covering that side of the room upon which the
switch was situated. His theory was a sound one; he argued that
the natural and proper place for such a switch in such a room would
be immediately inside the door, so that one entering could ignite
the lamp without having to grope in the darkness. He was
encouraged, furthermore, by the fact that at a point some four feet
to the left of this switch there was a gap in the bookcases,
running from floor to ceiling; a gap no more than four inches
across.
Having removed every book from its position, save three, which
occupied a shelf on a level with his shoulder and adjoining the
gap, he desisted wearily, for many of the volumes were weighty, and
the heat of the room was almost insufferable. He dropped with a
sigh upon a silk ottoman close beside him. . . .
A short, staccato, muffled report split the heavy silence . . . and
a little round hole appeared in the woodwork of the book-shelf
before which, an instant earlier, M. Max had been standing--in the
woodwork of that shelf, which had been upon a level with his head.
In one giant leap he hurled himself across the room--. . . as a
second bullet pierced the yellow silk of the ottoman.
Close under the trap he crouched, staring up, fearful-eyed. . . .
A yellow hand and arm--a hand and arm of great nervous strength and
of the hue of old ivory, directed a pistol through the opening
above him. As he leaped, the hand was depressed with a lightning
movement, but, lunging suddenly upward, Max seized the barrel of
the pistol, and with a powerful wrench, twisted it from the grasp
of the yellow hand. It was his own Browning!
At the time--in that moment of intense nervous excitement--he
ascribed his sensations to his swift bout with Death--with Death
who almost had conquered; but later, even now, as he wrenched the
weapon into his grasp, he wondered if physical fear could wholly
account for the sickening revulsion which held him back from that
rectangular opening in the bookcase. He thought that he recognized
in this a kindred horror--as distinct from terror--to that which
had come to him with the odor of roses through this very trap, upon
the night of his first visit to the catacombs of Ho-Pin.
It was not as the fear which one has of a dangerous wild beast, but
as the loathing which is inspired by a thing diseased, leprous,
contagious. . . .
A mighty effort of will was called for, but he managed to achieve
it. He drew himself upright, breathing very rapidly, and looked
through into the room--the room which he had occupied, and from
which a moment ago the murderous yellow hand had protruded.
That room was empty . . . empty as he had left it!
"Mille tonneres! he has escaped me!" he cried aloud, and the words
did not seem of his own choosing.
WHO had escaped? Someone--man or woman; rather some THING, which,
yellow handed, had sought to murder him!
Max ran across to the second trap and looked down at the woman whom
he knew, beyond doubt, to be Mrs. Leroux. She lay in her death-
like trance, unmoved.
Strung up to uttermost tension, he looked down at her and listened--
listened, intently.
Above the fumes of the apartment in which the woman lay, a stifling
odor of roses was clearly perceptible. The whole place was
tropically hot. Not a sound, save the creaking of the shelf
beneath him, broke the heavy stillness.
XXXIX
THE LABYRINTH
Feverishly, Max clutched at the last three books upon the shelf
adjoining the gap. Of these, the center volume, a work bound in
yellow calf and bearing no title, proved to be irremovable; right
and left it could be inclined, but not moved outward. It masked
the lever handle of the door!
But that door was locked.
Max, with upraised arms, swept the perspiration from his brows and
eyes; he leant dizzily up against the door which defied him; his
mind was working with febrile rapidity. He placed the pistol in
his pocket, and, recrossing the room, mounted up again upon the
shelves, and crept through into the apartment beyond, from which
the yellow hand had protruded. He dropped, panting, upon the bed,
then, eagerly leaping to the door, grasped the handle.
"Pardieu!" he muttered, "it is unlocked!"
Though the light was still burning in this room, the corridor
outside was in darkness. He pressed the button of the ingenious
lamp which was also a watch, and made for the door communicating
with the cave of the dragon. It was readily to be detected by
reason of its visible handle; the other doors being externally
indistinguishable from the rest of the matting-covered wall.
The cave of the dragon proved to be empty, and in darkness. He ran
across its polished floor and opened at random the door immediately
facing him. A corridor similar to the one which he had just
quitted was revealed. Another door was visible at one end, and to
this he ran, pulled it open, stepped through the opening, and found
himself back in the cave of the dragon!
"Morbleu!" he muttered, "it is bewildering--this!"
Yet another door, this time one of ebony, he opened; and yet
another matting-lined corridor presented itself to his gaze. He
swept it with the ray of the little lamp, detected a door, opened
it, and entered a similar suite to those with which he already was
familiar. It was empty, but, unlike the one which he himself had
tenanted, this suite possessed two doors, the second opening out of
the bathroom. To this he ran; it was unlocked; he opened it,
stepped ahead . . . and was back again in the cave of the dragon.
"Mon dieu!" he cried, "this is Chinese--quite Chinese!"
He stood looking about him, flashing the ray of light upon doors
which were opened and upon openings in the walls where properly
there should have been no doors.
"I am too late!" he muttered; "they had information of this and
they have 'unloaded.' That they intend to fly the country is
proven by their leaving Mrs. Leroux behind. Ah, nom d'un nom, the
good God grant that they have left also." . . .
Coincident with his thoughts of her, the voice of Helen Cumberly
reached his ears! He stood there quivering in every nerve, as:
"Help! Help!" followed by a choking, inarticulate cry, came,
muffled, from somewhere--he could not determine where.
But the voice was the voice of Helen Cumberly. He raised his left
fist and beat his brow as if to urge his brain to super-activity.
Then, leaping, he was off.
Door after door he threw open, crying, "Miss Cumberly! Miss
Cumberly! Where are you? Have courage! Help is here!"
But the silence remained unbroken--and always his wild search
brought him back to the accursed cave of the golden dragon. He
began to grow dizzy; he felt that his brain was bursting. For
somewhere--somewhere but a few yards removed from him--a woman was
in extreme peril!
Clutching dizzily at the pedestal of the dragon, he cried at the
top of his voice:--
"Miss Cumberly! For the good God's sake answer me! Where are
you?"
"Here, M. Max!" he was answered; "the door on your right . . . and
then to your right again--quick! QUICK! Saints! she has killed
me!"
It was Gianapolis who spoke!
Max hurled himself through the doorway indicated, falling up
against the matting wall by reason of the impetus of his leap. He
turned, leaped on, and one of the panels was slightly ajar; it was
a masked door. Within was darkness out of which came the sounds of
a great turmoil, as of wild beasts in conflict.
Max kicked the door fully open and flashed the ray of the torch
into the room. It poured its cold light upon a group which, like
some masterpiece of classic statuary, was to remain etched
indelibly upon his mind.
Helen Cumberly lay, her head and shoulders pressed back upon the
silken pillows of the bed, with both hands clutching the wrist of
the Eurasian and striving to wrench the latter's fingers from her
throat, in the white skin of which they were bloodily embedded.
With his left arm about the face and head of the devilish half-
caste, and grasping with his right hand her slender right wrist--
putting forth all his strength to hold it back--was Gianapolis!
His face was of a grayish pallor and clammy with sweat; his crooked
eyes had the glare of madness. The lithe body of the Eurasian
writhing in his grasp seemed to possess the strength of two strong
men; for palpably the Greek was weakening. His left sleeve was
torn to shreds--to bloody shreds beneath the teeth of the wild
thing with which he fought; and lower, lower, always nearer to the
throat of the victim, the slender, yellow arm forced itself, forced
the tiny hand clutching a poniard no larger than a hatpin but sharp
as an adder's tooth.
"Hold her!" whispered Gianapolis in a voice barely audible, as Max
burst into the room. "She came back for this and . . . I followed
her. She has the strength of . . . a tigress!"
Max hurled himself into the melee, grasping the wrist of the
Eurasian below where it was clutched by Gianapolis. Nodding to the
Greek to release his hold, he twisted it smartly upward.
The dagger fell upon the floor, and with an animal shriek of rage,
the Eurasian tottered back. Max caught her about the waist and
tossed her unceremoniously into a corner of the room.
Helen Cumberly slipped from the bed, and lay very white and still
upon the garish carpet, with four tiny red streams trickling from
the nail punctures in her throat. Max stooped and raised her
shoulders; he glanced at the Greek, who, quivering in all his
limbs, and on the verge of collapse, only kept himself upright by
dint of clutching at the side of the doorway. Max realized that
Gianapolis was past aiding him; his own resources were nearly
exhausted, but, stooping, he managed to lift the girl and to carry
her out into the corridor.
"Follow me!" he gasped, glancing back at Gianapolis; "Morbleu, make
an effort! The keys--the keys!"
Laying Helen Cumberly upon one of the raised divans, with her head
resting upon a silken cushion, Max, teeth tightly clenched and
dreadfully conscious that his strength was failing him, waited for
Gianapolis. Out from the corridor the Greek came staggering, and
Max now perceived that he was bleeding profusely from a wound in
the breast.
"She came back," whispered Gianapolis, clutching at the Frenchman
for support. . . "the hellcat! . . . I did not know . . . that . . .
Miss Cumberly was here. As God is my witness I did not know!
But I followed . . . HER--Mahara . . . thank God I did! She has
finished me, I think, but"--he lowered the crooked eyes to the form
of Helen Cumberly--"never mind . . . Saints!"
He reeled and sank upon his knees. He clutched at the edge of his
coat and raised it to his lips, wherefrom blood was gushing forth.
Max stooped eagerly, for as the Greek had collapsed upon the floor,
he had heard the rattle of keys.
"She had . . . the keys," whispered Gianapolis. "They have . . .
tabs . . . upon them . . . Mrs. Leroux . . . number 3 B. The door
to the stair"--very, very slowly, he inclined his head toward the
ebony door near which Max was standing--"is marked X. The door . . .
at the top--into garage . . . B."
"Tell me," said Max, his arm about the dying man's shoulders--"try
to tell me: who killed Mrs. Vernon and why?"
"MR. KING!" came in a rattling voice. "Because of the . . .
carelessness of someone . . . Mrs. Vernon wandered into the room
. . . of Mrs. Leroux. She seems to have had a fit of remorse . . .
or something like it. She begged Mrs. Leroux to pull up . . .
before . . . too late. Ho-Pin arrived just as she was crying to
. . . Mrs. Leroux . . . and asking if she could ever forgive her
. . . for bringing her here. . . . It was Mrs. Vernon who . . .
introduced Mrs. . . . Leroux. Ho-Pin heard her . . . say that she
. . . would tell . . . Leroux the truth . . . as the only
means" . . .
"Yes, yes, morbleu! I understand! And then?"
"Ho-Pin knows . . . women . . . like a book. He thought Mrs.
Vernon would . . . shirk the scandal. We used to send our women
. . . to Nurse Proctor's, then. . . to steady up a bit . . . We let
Mrs. Vernon go . . . as usual. The scene with . . . Mrs. Leroux
had shaken . . . her and she fainted . . . in the car . . .
Victoria Street. . . . I was with her. Nurse Proctor had . . .
God! I am dying! . . . a time with her; . . . she got so hysterical
that they had to . . . detain her . . . and three days later . . .
her husband died; Proctor, the . . . fool . . . somehow left a
paper containing the news in Mrs. Vernon's room. . . . They had
had to administer an injection that afternoon . . . and they
thought she was . . . sleeping." . . .
"Morbleu! Yes, yes!--a supreme effort, my friend!"
"Directly Ho-Pin heard of Vernon's death, he knew that his hold
. . . on Mrs. Vernon . . . was lost. . . . He . . . and Mahara . . .
and . . . MR. KING . . . drove straight to . . . Gillingham . . .
Street . . . to . . . arrange. . . . Ah! . . . she rushed like a
mad woman into the street, a moment before . . . they arrived. A
cab was passing, and" . . .
"I know this! I know this! What happened at Palace Mansions?"
The Greek's voice grew fainter.
"Mr. King followed . . . her . . . upstairs. Too late; . . . but
whilst Leroux was in . . . Cumberly's flat . . . leaving door open
. . . Mr. King went . . . in . . . Mahara . . . was watching . . .
gave signal . . . whistle . . . of someone's approach. It was
thought . . . Mr. King . . . had secured ALL the message . . . Mrs.
Vernon . . . was . . . writing. . . . Mr. King opened the door of
. . . the lift-shaft . . . lift not working . . . climbed down that
way . . . and out by door on . . . ground floor . . . when Mr. . . .
the Member of Parliament . . . went upstairs." . . .
"Ah! pardieu! one last word! WHO IS MR. KING?"
Gianapolis lurched forward, his eyes glazing, half raised his arm--
pointing back into the cave of the dragon--and dropped, face
downward, on the floor, with a crimson pool forming slowly about
his head.
An unfamiliar sound had begun to disturb the silence of the
catacombs. Max glanced at the white face of Helen Cumberly, then
directed the ray of the little lamp toward the further end of the
apartment. A steady stream of dirty water was pouring into the
cave of the dragon through the open door ahead of him.
Into the disc of light, leaped, fantastic, the witch figure of the
Eurasian. She turned and faced him, threw up both her arms, and
laughed shrilly, insanely. Then she turned and ran like a hare,
her yellow silk dress gleaming in the moving ray. Inhaling
sibilantly, Max leaped after her. In three strides he found his
foot splashing in water. An instant he hesitated. Through the
corridor ahead of him sped the yellow figure, and right to the end.
The seemingly solid wall opened before her; it was another masked
door.
Max crossed the threshold hard upon her heels. Three descending
steps were ahead of him, and then a long brick tunnel in which
swirled fully three feet of water, which, slowly rising, was
gradually flooding the cave of the dragon.
On went the Eurasian, up to her waist in the flood, with Max
gaining upon her, now, at every stride. There was a damp freshness
in the air of the passage, and a sort of mist seemed to float above
the water. This mist had a familiar smell. . . .
They were approaching the river, and there was a fog to-night!
Even as he realized the fact, the quarry vanished, and the ray of
light from Max's lamp impinged upon the opening in an iron sluice
gate. The Eurasian had passed it, but Max realized that he must
lower his head if he would follow. He ducked rapidly, almost
touching the muddy water with his face. A bank of yellow fog
instantly enveloped him, and he pulled up short, for,
instinctively, he knew that another step might precipitate him into
the Thames.
He strove to peer about him, but the feeble ray of the lamp was
incapable of penetrating the fog. He groped with his fingers,
right and left, and presently found slimy wooden steps. He drew
himself closely to these, and directed the light upon them. They
led upward. He mounted cautiously, and was clear of the oily
water, now, and upon a sort of gangway above which lowered a green
and rotting wooden roof.
Obviously, the tide was rising; and, after seeking vainly to peer
through the fog ahead, he turned and descended the steps again,
finding himself now nearly up to his armpits in water. He just
managed to get in under the sluice gate without actually submerging
his head, and to regain the brick tunnel.
He paused for a moment, hoping to be able to lower the gate, but
the apparatus was out of his reach, and he had nothing to stand
upon to aid him in manipulating it.
Three or four inches of water now flooded the cave of the golden
dragon. Max pulled the keys from his pocket, and unlocked the door
at the foot of the steps. He turned, resting the electric lamp
upon one of the little ebony tables, and lifting Helen Cumberly,
carried her half-way up the steps, depositing her there with her
back to the wall. He staggered down again; his remarkable physical
resources were at an end; it must be another's work to rescue Mrs.
Leroux. He stooped over Gianapolis, and turned his head. The
crooked eyes glared up at him deathly.
"May the good God forgive you," he whispered. "You tried to make
your peace with Him."
The sound of muffled blows began to be audible from the head of the
steps. Max staggered out of the cave of the golden dragon. A
slight freshness and dampness was visible in its atmosphere, and
the gentle gurgling of water broke its heavy stillness. There was
a new quality come into it, and, strangely, an old quality gone out
from it. As he lifted the lamp from the table--now standing in
slowly moving water--the place seemed no longer to be the cave of
the golden dragon he had known. . . .
He mounted the steps again, with difficulty, resting his shaking
hands upon the walls. Shattering blows were being delivered upon
the door, above.
"Dunbar!" he cried feebly, stepping aside to avoid Helen Cumberly,
where she lay. "Dunbar!" . . .
XL
DAWN AT THE NORE
The river police seemed to be floating, suspended in the fog, which
now was so dense that the water beneath was invisible. Inspector
Rogers, who was in charge, fastened up his coat collar about his
neck and turned to Stringer, the Scotland Yard man, who sat beside
him in the stern of the cutter gloomily silent.
"Time's wearing on," said Rogers, and his voice was muffled by the
fog as though he were speaking from inside a box. "There must be
some hitch."
"Work it out for yourself," said the C. I. D. man gruffly. "We
know that the office in Globe Road belongs to Gianapolis, and
according to the Eastern Exchange he was constantly ringing up East
39951; that's the warehouse of Kan-Suh Concessions. He garages his
car next door to the said warehouse, and to-night our scouts follow
Gianapolis and Max from Piccadilly Circus to Waterloo Station,
where they discharge the taxi and pick up Gianapolis' limousine.
Still followed, they drive--where? Straight to the garage at the
back of that wharf yonder! Neither Gianapolis, Max, nor the
chauffeur come out of the garage. I said, and I still say, that we
should have broken in at once, but Dunbar was always pigheaded, and
he thinks Max is a tin god." . . .
"Well, there's no sign from Max," said Rogers; "and as we aren't ten
yards above the wharf, we cannot fail to hear the signal. For my
part I never noticed anything suspicious, and never had anything
reported, about this ginger firm, and where the swell dope-shop
I've heard about can be situated, beats me. It can't very well be
UNDER the place, or it would be below the level of the blessed
river!"
"This waiting makes me sick!" growled Stringer. "If I understand
aright--and I'm not sure that I do--there are two women tucked away
there somewhere in that place"--he jerked his thumb aimlessly into
the fog; "and here we are hanging about with enough men in yards,
in doorways, behind walls, and freezing on the river, to raid the
Houses of Parliament!"
"It's a pity we didn't get the word from the hospitals before Max
was actually inside," said Rogers. "For three wealthy ladies to be
driven to three public hospitals in a sort of semi-conscious
condition, with symptoms of opium, on the same evening isn't
natural. It points to the fact that the boss of the den has
UNLOADED! He's been thoughtful where his lady clients were
concerned, but probably the men have simply been kicked out and
left to shift for themselves. If we only knew one of them it might
be confirmed."
"It's not worth worrying about, now," growled Stringer. "Let's
have a look at the time."
He fumbled inside his overcoat and tugged out his watch.
"Here's a light," said Rogers, and shone the ray of an electric
torch upon the watch-face.
"A quarter-to-three," grumbled Stringer. "There may be murder
going on, and here we are." . . .
A sudden clamor arose upon the shore, near by; a sound as of
sledge-hammers at work. But above this pierced shrilly the call of
a police whistle.
"What's that?" snapped Rogers, leaping up. "Stand by there!"
The sound of the whistle grew near and nearer; then came a voice--
that of Sergeant Sowerby--hailing them through the fog.
"DUNBAR'S IN! But the gang have escaped! They've got to a motor
launch twenty yards down, on the end of the creek" . . .
But already the police boat was away.
"Let her go!" shouted Rogers--"close inshore! Keep a sharp lookout
for a cutter, boys!"
Stringer, aroused now to excitement, went blundering forward
through the fog, joining the men in the bows. Four pairs of eyes
were peering through the mist, the damnable, yellow mist that
veiled all things.
"Curse the fog!" said Stringer; "it's just our damn luck!"
"Cutter 'hoy!" bawled a man at his side suddenly, one of the river
police more used to the mists of the Thames. "Cutter on the port
bow, sir!"
"Keep her in sight," shouted Rogers from the stern; "don't lose her
for your lives!"
Stringer, at imminent peril of precipitating himself into the
water, was craning out over the bows and staring until his eyes
smarted.
"Don't you see her?" said one of the men on the lookout. "She
carries no lights, of course, but you can just make out the streak
of her wake."
Harder, harder stared Stringer, and now a faint, lighter smudge in
the blackness, ahead and below, proclaimed itself the wake of some
rapidly traveling craft.
"I can hear her motor!" said another voice.
Stringer began, now, also to listen.
Muffled sirens were hooting dismally all about Limehouse Reach, and
he knew that this random dash through the night was fraught with
extreme danger, since this was a narrow and congested part of the
great highway. But, listen as he might, he could not detect the
sounds referred to.
The brazen roar of a big steamer's siren rose up before them.
Rogers turned the head of the cutter sharply to starboard but did
not slacken speed. The continuous roar grew deeper, grew louder.
"Sharp lookout there!" cried the inspector from the stern.
Suddenly over their bows uprose a black mass.
"My God!" cried Stringer, and fell back with upraised arms as if
hoping to fend off that giant menace.
He lurched, as the cutter was again diverted sharply from its
course, and must have fallen under the very bows of the oncoming
liner, had not one of the lookouts caught him by the collar and
jerked him sharply back into the boat.
A blaze of light burst out over them, and there were conflicting
voices raised one in opposition to another. Above them all, even
above the beating of the twin screws and the churning of the inky
water, arose that of an officer from the bridge of the steamer.
"Where the flaming hell are YOU going?" inquired this stentorian
voice; "haven't you got any blasted eyes and ears" . . .
High on the wash of the liner rode the police boat; down she
plunged again, and began to roll perilously; up again--swimming it
seemed upon frothing milk.
The clangor of bells, of voices, and of churning screws died,
remote, astern.
"Damn close shave!" cried Rogers. "It must be clear ahead; they've
just run into it."
One of the men on the lookout in the bows, who had never departed
from his duty for an instant throughout this frightful commotion,
now reported:
"Cutter crossing our bow, sir! Getting back to her course."
"Keep her in view," roared Rogers.
"Port, sir!"
"How's that?"
"Starboard, easy!"
"Keep her in view!"
"As she is, sir!"
Again they settled down to the pursuit, and it began to dawn upon
Stringer's mind that the boat ahead must be engined identically
with that of the police; for whilst they certainly gained nothing
upon her, neither did they lose.
"Try a hail," cried Rogers from the stern. "We may be chasing the
wrong boat!"
"Cutter 'hoy!" bellowed the man beside Stringer, using his hands in
lieu of a megaphone--"heave to!"
"Give 'em 'in the King's name!'" directed Rogers again.
"Cutter 'hoy," roared the man through his trumpeted hands,--"heave
to--in the King's name!"
Stringer glared through the fog, clutching at the shoulder of the
shouter almost convulsively.
"Take no notice, sir," reported the man.
"Then it's the gang!" cried Rogers from the stern; "and we haven't
made a mistake. Where the blazes are we?"
"Well on the way to Blackwall Reach, sir," answered someone. "Fog
lifting ahead."
"It's the rain that's doing it," said the man beside Stringer.
Even as he spoke, a drop of rain fell upon the back of Stringer's
hand. This was the prelude; then, with ever-increasing force, down
came the rain in torrents, smearing out the fog from the
atmosphere, as a painter, with a sponge, might wipe a color from
his canvas. Long tails of yellow vapor, twining--twining--but
always coiling downward, floated like snakes about them; and the
oily waters of the Thames became pock-marked in the growing light.
Stringer now quite clearly discerned the quarry--a very rakish-
looking motor cutter, painted black, and speeding seaward ahead of
them. He quivered with excitement.
"Do you know the boat?" cried Rogers, addressing his crew in
general.
"No, sir," reported his second-in-command; "she's a stranger to me.
They must have kept her hidden somewhere." He turned and looked
back into the group of faces, all directed toward the strange
craft. "Do any of you know her?" he demanded.
A general shaking of heads proclaimed the negative.
"But she can shift," said one of the men. "They must have been
going slow through the fog; she's creeping up to ten or twelve
knots now, I should reckon."
"Your reckoning's a trifle out!" snapped Rogers, irritably, from
the stern; "but she's certainly showing us her heels. Can't we put
somebody ashore and have her cut off lower down?"
"While we're doing that," cried Stringer, excitedly, "she would
land somewhere and we should lose the gang!"
"That's right," reluctantly agreed Rogers. "Can you see any of her
people?"
Through the sheets of rain all peered eagerly.
"She seems to be pretty well loaded," reported the man beside
Stringer, "but I can't make her out very well."
"Are we doing our damnedest?" inquired Rogers.
"We are, sir," reported the engineer; "she hasn't got another oat
in her!"
Rogers muttered something beneath his breath, and sat there glaring
ahead at the boat ever gaining upon her pursuer.
"So long as we keep her in sight," said Stringer, "our purpose is
served. She can't land anybody."
"At her present rate," replied the man upon whose shoulders he was
leaning, "she'll be out of sight by the time we get to Tilbury or
she'll have hit a barge and gone to the bottom!"
"I'll eat my hat if I lose her!" declared Rogers angrily. "How the
blazes they slipped away from the wharf beats me!"
"They didn't slip away from the wharf," cried Stringer over his
shoulder. "You heard what Sowerby said; they lay in the creek
below the wharf, and there was some passageway underneath."
"But damn it all, man!" cried Rogers, "it's high tide; they must be
a gang of bally mermaids. Why, we were almost level with the wharf
when we left, and if they came from BELOW that, as you say, they
must have been below water!"
"There they are, anyway," growled Stringer.
Mile after mile that singular chase continued through the night.
With every revolution of the screw, the banks to right and left
seemed to recede, as the Thames grew wider and wider. A faint
saltiness was perceptible in the air; and Stringer, moistening his
dry lips, noted the saline taste.
The shipping grew more scattered. Whereas, at first, when the fog
had begun to lift, they had passed wondering faces peering at them
from lighters and small steamers, tow boats and larger anchored
craft, now they raced, pigmy and remote, upon open waters, and
through the raindrift gray hulls showed, distant, and the banks
were a faint blur. It seemed absurd that, with all those vessels
about, they nevertheless could take no steps to seek assistance in
cutting off the boat which they were pursuing, but must drive on
through the rain, ever losing, ever dropping behind that black
speck ahead.
A faint swell began to be perceptible. Stringer, who throughout
the whole pursuit thus far had retained his hold upon the man in
the bows, discovered that his fingers were cramped. He had much
difficulty in releasing that convulsive grip.
"Thank you!" said the man, smiling, when at last the detective
released his grip. "I'll admit I'd scarcely noticed it myself, but
now I come to think of it, you've been fastened onto me like a vise
for over two hours!"
"Two hours!" cried Stringer; and, crouching down to steady himself,
for the cutter was beginning to roll heavily, he pulled out his
watch, and in the gray light inspected the dial.
It was true! They had been racing seaward for some hours!
"Good God!" he muttered.
He stood up again, unsteadily, feet wide apart, and peered ahead
through the grayness.
The banks he could not see. Far away on the port bow a long gray
shape lay--a moored vessel. To starboard were faint blurs,
indistinguishable, insignificant; ahead, a black dot with a faint
comet-like tail--the pursued cutter--and ahead of that, again, a
streak across the blackness, with another dot slightly to the left
of the quarry . . .
He turned and looked along the police boat, noting that whereas,
upon the former occasion of his looking, forms and faces had been
but dimly visible, now he could distinguish them all quite clearly.
The dawn was breaking.
"Where are we?" he inquired hoarsely.
"We're about one mile northeast of Sheerness and two miles
southwest of the Nore Light!" announced Rogers--and he laughed, but
not in a particularly mirthful manner.
Stringer temporarily found himself without words.
"Cutter heading for the open sea, sir," announced a man in the
bows, unnecessarily.
"Quite so," snapped Rogers. "So are you!"
"We have got them beaten," said Stringer, a faint note of triumph
in his voice. "We've given them no chance to land."
"If this breeze freshens much," replied Rogers, with sardonic
humor, "they'll be giving US a fine chance to sink!"
Indeed, although Stringer's excitement had prevented him from
heeding the circumstance, an ever-freshening breeze was blowing in
his face, and he noted now that, quite mechanically, he had removed
his bowler hat at some time earlier in the pursuit and had placed
it in the bottom of the boat. His hair was blown in the wind,
which sang merrily in his ears, and the cutter, as her course was
slightly altered by Rogers, ceased to roll and began to pitch in a
manner very disconcerting to the lands-man.
"It'll be rather fresh outside, sir," said one of the men,
doubtfully. "We're miles and miles below our proper patrol" . . .
"Once we're clear of the bank it'll be more than fresh," replied
Rogers; "but if they're bound for France, or Sweden, or Denmark,
that's OUR destination, too!" . . .
On--and on--and on they drove. The Nore Light lay astern; they
were drenched with spray. Now green water began to spout over the
nose of the laboring craft.
"I've only enough juice to run us back to Tilbury, sir, if we put
about now!" came the shouted report.
"It's easy to TALK!" roared Rogers. "If one of these big 'uns gets
us broadside on, our number's up!" . . .
"Cutter putting over for Sheppey coast, sir!" bellowed the man in
the bows.
Stringer raised himself, weakly, and sought to peer through the
driving spray and rain-mist.
"By God! THEY'VE TURNED--TURTLE!" . . .
"Stand by with belts!" bellowed Rogers.
Rapidly life belts were unlashed; and, ahead, to port, to
starboard, brine-stung eyes glared out from the reeling craft.
Gray in the nascent dawn stretched the tossing sea about them; and
lonely they rode upon its billows.
"PORT! PORT! HARD A-PORT!" screamed the lookout.
But Rogers, grimly watching the oncoming billows, knew that to
essay the maneuver at that moment meant swamping the cutter.
Straight ahead they drove. A wave, higher than any they yet had
had to ride, came boiling down upon them . . . and twisting,
writhing, upcasting imploring arms to the elements--the implacable
elements--a girl, a dark girl, entwined, imprisoned in silken
garments, swept upon its crest!
Out shot a cork belt into the boiling sea . . . and fell beyond her
reach. She was swept past the cutter. A second belt was hurled
from the stern . . .
The Eurasian, uttering a wailing cry like that of a seabird, strove
to grasp it . . .
Close beside her, out of the wave, uprose a yellow hand, grasping--
seeking--clutching. It fastened itself into the meshes of her
floating hair . . .
"Here goes!" roared Rogers.
They plunged down into an oily trough; they turned; a second wave
grew up above them, threateningly, built its terrible wall higher
and higher over their side. Round they swung, and round, and
round . . .
Down swept the eager wave . . . down--down--down . . . It lapped
over the stern of the cutter; the tiny craft staggered, and paused,
tremulous--dragged back by that iron grip of old Neptune--then
leaped on--away--headed back into the Thames estuary, triumphant.
"God's mercy!" whispered Stringer--"that was touch-and-go!"
No living thing moved upon the waters.
XLI
WESTMINSTER--MIDNIGHT
Detective-Sergeant Sowerby reported himself in Inspector Dunbar's
room at New Scotland Yard.
"I have completed my inquiries in Wharf-end Lane," he said; and
pulling out his bulging pocketbook, he consulted it gravely.
Inspector Dunbar looked up.
"Anything important?" he asked.
"We cannot trace the makers of the sanitary fittings, and so forth,
but they are all of American pattern. There's nothing in the
nature of a trademark to be found from end to end of the place;
even the iron sluice-gate at the bottom of the brick tunnel has had
the makers' name chipped off, apparently with a cold chisel. So
you see they were prepared for all emergencies!"
"Evidently," said Dunbar, resting his chin on the palms of his
hands and his elbows upon the table.
"The office and warehouse staff of the ginger importing concern are
innocent enough, as you know already. Kan-Suh Concessions was
conducted merely as a blind, of course, but it enabled the
Chinaman, Ho-Pin, to appear in Wharf-end Lane at all times of the
day and night without exciting suspicion. He was supposed to be
the manager, of course. The presence of the wharf is sufficient to
explain how they managed to build the place without exciting
suspicion. They probably had all the material landed there labeled
as preserved ginger, and they would take it down below at night,
long after the office and warehouse Staff of Concessions had gone
home. The workmen probably came and went by way of the river,
also, commencing work after nightfall and going away before
business commenced in the morning."
"It beats me," said Dunbar, reflectively, "how masons, plumbers,
decorators, and all the other artisans necessary for a job of that
description, could have been kept quiet."
"Foreigners!" said Sowerby triumphantly. "I'll undertake to say
there wasn't an Englishman on the job. The whole of the gang was
probably imported from abroad somewhere, boarded and lodged during
the day-time in the neighborhood of Limehouse, and watched by Mr.
Ho-Pin or somebody else until the job was finished; then shipped
back home again. It's easily done if money is no object."
"That's right enough," agreed Dunbar; "I have no doubt you've hit
upon the truth. But now that the place has been dismantled, what
does it look like? I haven't had time to come down myself, but I
intend to do so before it's closed up."
"Well," said Sowerby, turning over a page of his notebook, "it
looks like a series of vaults, and the Rev. Mr. Firmingham, a local
vicar whom I got to inspect it this morning, assures me,
positively, that it's a crypt."
"A crypt! exclaimed Dunbar, fixing his eyes upon his subordinate.
"A crypt--exactly. A firm dealing in grease occupied the warehouse
before Kan-Suh Concessions rented it, and they never seem to have
suspected that the place possessed any cellars. The actual owner
of the property, Sir James Crozel, an ex-Lord Mayor, who is also
ground landlord of the big works on the other side of the lane, had
no more idea than the man in the moon that there were any cellars
beneath the place. You see the vaults are below the present level
of the Thames at high tide; that's why nobody ever suspected their
existence. Also, an examination of the bare walls--now stripped--
shows that they were pretty well filled up to the top with ancient
debris, to within a few years ago, at any rate."
"You mean that our Chinese friends excavated them?"
"No doubt about it. They were every bit of twenty feet below the
present street level, and, being right on the bank of the Thames,
nobody would have thought of looking for them unless he knew they
were there."
"What do you mean exactly, Sowerby?" said Dunbar, taking out his
fountain-pen and tapping his teeth with it.
"I mean," said Sowerby, "that someone connected with the gang must
have located the site of these vaults from some very old map or
book."
"I think you said that the Reverend Somebody-or-Other avers that
they were a crypt?"
"He does; and when he pointed out to me the way the pillars were
placed, as if to support the nave of a church, I felt disposed to
agree with him. The place where the golden dragon used to stand
(it isn't really gold, by the way!) would be under the central
aisle, as it were; then there's a kind of side aisle on the right
and left and a large space at top and bottom. The pillars are
stone and of very early Norman pattern, and the last three or four
steps leading down to the place appear to belong to the original
structure. I tell you it's the crypt of some old forgotten Norman
church or monastery chapel."
"Most extraordinary!" muttered Dunbar.
"But I suppose it is possible enough. Probably the church was
burnt or destroyed in some other way; deposits of river mud would
gradually cover up the remaining ruins; then in later times, when
the banks of the Thames were properly attended to, the site of the
place would be entirely forgotten, of course. Most extraordinary!"
"That's the reverend gentleman's view, at any rate," said Sowerby,
"and he's written three books on the subject of early Norman
churches! He even goes so far as to say that he has heard--as a
sort of legend--of the existence of a very large Carmelite
monastery, accommodating over two hundred brothers, which stood
somewhere adjoining the Thames within the area now covered by
Limehouse Causeway and Pennyfields. There is a little turning not
far from the wharf, known locally--it does not appear upon any map--
as Prickler's Lane; and my friend, the vicar, tells me that he has
held the theory for a long time"--Sowerby referred to his notebook
with great solemnity--"that this is a corruption of Pre-aux-Clerce
Lane."
"H'm!" said Dunbar; "very ingenious, at any rate. Anything else?"
"Nothing much," said Sowerby, scanning his notes, "that you don't
know already. There was some very good stuff in the place--
Oriental ware and so on, a library of books which I'm told is
unique, and a tremendous stock of opium and hashish. It's a
perfect maze of doors and observation-traps. There's a small
kitchen at the end, near the head of the tunnel--which, by the way,
could be used as a means of entrance and exit at low tide. All the
electric power came through the meter of Kan-Suh Concessions."
"I see," said Dunbar, reflectively, glancing at his watch; "in a
word, we know everything except" . . .
"What's that?" said Sowerby, looking up.
"The identity of Mr. King!" replied the inspector, reaching for his
hat which lay upon the table.
Sowerby replaced his book in his pocket.
"I wonder if any of the bodies will ever come ashore?" he said.
"God knows!" rapped Dunbar; "we can't even guess how many were
aboard. You might as well come along, Sowerby, I've just heard
from Dr. Cumberly. Mrs. Leroux" . . .
"Dead?"
"Dying," replied the inspector; "expected to go at any moment. But
the doctor tells me that she may--it's just possible--recover
consciousness before the end; and there's a bare chance" . . .
"I see," said Sowerby eagerly; "of course she must know!"
The two hastened to Palace Mansions. Despite the lateness of the
hour, Whitehall was thronged with vehicles, and all the glitter and
noise of midnight London surrounded them.
"It only seems like yesterday evening," said Dunbar, as they
mounted the stair of Palace Mansions, "that I came here to take
charge of the case. Damme! it's been the most exciting I've ever
handled, and it's certainly the most disappointing."
"It is indeed," said Sowerby, gloomily, pressing the bell-button at
the side of Henry Leroux's door.
The door was opened by Garnham; and these two, fresh from the noise
and bustle of London's streets, stepped into the hushed atmosphere
of the flat where already a Visitant, unseen but potent, was
arrived, and now was beckoning, shadowlike, to Mira Leroux.
"Will you please sit down and wait," said Garnham, placing chairs
for the two Scotland Yard men in the dining-room.
"Who's inside?" whispered Dunbar, with that note of awe in his
voice which such a scene always produces; and he nodded in the
direction of the lobby.
"Mr. Leroux, sir," replied the man, "the nurse, Miss Cumberly, Dr.
Cumberly and Miss Ryland" . . .
"No one else?" asked the detective sharply.
"And Mr. Gaston Max," added the man. "You'll find whisky and
cigars upon the table there, sir."
He left the room. Dunbar glanced across at Sowerby, his tufted
brows raised, and a wry smile upon his face.
"In at the death, Sowerby!" he said grimly, and lifted the stopper
from the cut-glass decanter.
In the room where Mira Leroux lay, so near to the Borderland that
her always ethereal appearance was now positively appalling, a
hushed group stood about the bed.
"I think she is awake, doctor," whispered the nurse softly, peering
into the emaciated face of the patient.
Mira Leroux opened her eyes and smiled at Dr. Cumberly, who was
bending over her. The poor faded eyes turned from the face of the
physician to that of Denise Ryland, then to M. Max, wonderingly;
next to Helen, whereupon an indescribable expression crept into
them; and finally to Henry Leroux, who, with bowed head, sat in the
chair beside her. She feebly extended her thin hand and laid it
upon his hair. He looked up, taking the hand in his own. The eyes
of the dying woman filled with tears as she turned them from the
face of Leroux to Helen Cumberly--who was weeping silently.
"Look after . . . him," whispered Mira Leroux.
Her hand dropped and she closed her eyes again. Cumberly bent
forward suddenly, glancing back at M. Max who stood in a remote
corner of the room watching this scene.
Big Ben commenced to chime the hour of midnight. That frightful
coincidence so startled Leroux that he looked up and almost rose
from his chair in his agitation. Indeed it startled Cumberly,
also, but did not divert him from his purpose.
"It is now or never!" he whispered.
He took the seemingly lifeless hand in his own, and bending over
Mira Leroux, spoke softly in her ear:
"Mrs. Leroux," he said, "there is something which we all would ask
you to tell us; we ask it for a reason--believe me."
Throughout the latter part of this scene the big clock had been
chiming the hour, and now was beating out the twelve strokes of
midnight; had struck six of them and was about to strike the
seventh.
SEVEN! boomed the clock.
Mira Leroux opened her eyes and looked up into the face of the
physician.
EIGHT! . . .
"Who," whispered Dr. Cumberly, "is he?"
NINE!
In the silence following the clock-stroke, Mira Leroux spoke almost
inaudibly.
"You mean . . . MR. KING?"
TEN!
"Yes, yes! Did you ever SEE him?" . . .
Every head in the room was craned forward; every spectator tensed
up to the highest ultimate point.
"Yes," said Mira Leroux quite clearly; "I saw him, Dr. Cumberly . . .
He is" . . .
ELEVEN!
Mira Leroux moved her head and smiled at Helen Cumberly; then
seemed to sink deeper into the downy billows of the bed. Dr.
Cumberly stood up very slowly, and turned, looking from face to
face.
"It is finished," he said--"we shall never know!"
But Henry Leroux and Helen Cumberly, their glances meeting across
the bed of the dead Mira, knew that for them it was not finished,
but that Mr. King, the invisible, invisibly had linked them.
TWELVE! . . .