Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  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, moving 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 Fr
ench 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 cultivate... 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.

  “Goo
d 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....”