by Sax Rohmer
“I can try,” replied Bristol. “Meanwhile, I take it, the safe must remain at Dulwich?”
“Certainly. It should be guarded.”
“We are guarding it and shall guard it,” Bristol assured him. “I only hope we catch someone trying to get at it!”
Shortly afterward Bristol and I left the office, and, his duties taking him to Scotland Yard, I returned to my chambers to survey the position in which I now found myself. Indeed, it was a strange one enough, showing how great things have small beginnings; for, as a result of a steamer acquaintance I found myself involved in a dark business worthy of the Middle Ages. That Professor Deeping should have stolen one of the holy slippers of Mohammed was no affair of mine, and that an awful being known as Hassan of Aleppo should have pursued it did not properly enter into my concerns; yet now, with a group of Eastern fanatics at large in England, I was become, in a sense, the custodian of the relic. Moreover, I perceived that I had been chosen that I might safeguard myself. What I knew of the matter might imperil me, but whilst I held the key to the reliquary, and held it fast, I might hope to remain immune though I must expect to be subjected to attempts. It would be my affair to come to terms.
Contemplating these things I sat, in a world of dark dreams, unconscious of the comings and goings in the court below, unconscious of the hum which told of busy Fleet Street so near to me. The weather, as is its uncomfortable habit in England, had suddenly grown tropically hot, plunging London into the vapours of an African spring, and the sun was streaming through my open window fully upon the table.
I mopped my clammy forehead, glancing with distaste at the pile of work which lay before me. Then my eyes turned to an open quarto book. It was the late Professor Deeping’s “Assyrian Mythology,” and embodied the result of his researches into the history of the Hashishin, the religious murderers of whose existence he had been so skeptical. To the Chief of the Order, the terrible Sheikh Hassan of Aleppo, he referred as a “fabled being”; yet it was at the hands of this “fabled being” that he had met his end! How incredible it all seemed. But I knew full well how worthy of credence it was.
Then upon my gloomy musings a sound intruded — the ringing of my door bell. I rose from my chair with a weary sigh, went to the door, and opened it. An aged Oriental stood without. He was tall and straight, had a snow-white beard and clear-cut, handsome features. He wore well-cut European garments and a green turban. As I stood staring he saluted me gravely.
“Mr. Cavanagh?” he asked, speaking in faultless English.
“I am he.”
“I learn that the services of a Moslem workman are required.”
“Quite correct, sir; but you should apply at the offices of Messrs. Rawson & Rawson, Chancery Lane.”
The old man bowed, smiling.
“Many thanks; I understood so much. But, my position being a peculiar one, I wished to speak with you — as a friend of the late Professor.”
I hesitated. The old man looked harmless enough, but there was an air of mystery about the matter which put me on my guard.
“You will pardon me,” I said, “but the work is scarcely of a kind—”
He raised his thin hand.
“I am not undertaking it myself. I wished to explain to you the conditions under which I could arrange to furnish suitable porters.”
His patient explanation disposed me to believe that he was merely some kind of small contractor, and in any event I had nothing to fear from this frail old man.
“Step in, sir,” I said, repenting of my brusquerie — and stood aside for him.
He entered, with that Oriental meekness in which there is something majestic. I placed a chair for him in the study, and reseated myself at the table. The old man, who from the first had kept his eyes lowered deferentially, turned to me with a gentle gesture, as if to apologize for opening the conversation.
“From the papers, Mr. Cavanagh,” he began, “I have learned of the circumstances attending the death of Professor Deeping. Your papers” — he smiled, and I thought I had never seen a smile of such sweetness— “your papers know all! Now I understand why a Moslem is required, and I understand what is required of him. But remembering that the object of his labours would be to place a holy relic on exhibition for the amusement of unbelievers, can you reasonably expect to obtain the services of one?”
His point of view was fair enough.
“Perhaps not,” I replied. “For my own part I should wish to see the slipper back in Mecca, or wherever it came from. But Professor Deeping—”
“Professor Deeping was a thorn in the flesh of the Faithful!”
My visitor’s voice was gravely reproachful.
“Nevertheless his wishes must be considered,” I said, “and the methods adopted by those who seek to recover the relic are such as to alienate all sympathy.”
“You speak of the Hashishin?” asked the old man. “Mr. Cavanagh, in your own faith you have had those who spilled the blood of infidels as freely!”
“My good sir, the existence of such an organization cannot be tolerated today! This survival of the dark ages must be stamped out. However just a cause may be, secret murder is not permissible, as you, a man of culture, a Believer, and” — I glanced at his unusual turban— “a descendant of the Prophet, must admit.”
“I can admit nothing against the Guardian of the Tradition, Mr. Cavanagh! The Prophet taught that we should smite the Infidel. I ask you — have you the courage of your convictions?”
“Perhaps; I trust so.”
“Then assist me to rid England of what you have called a survival of the dark ages. I will furnish porters to remove and carry the safe, if you will deliver to me the key!”
I sprang to my feet.
“That is madness!” I cried. “In the first place I should be compromising with my conscience, and in the second place I should be defenceless against those who might—”
“I have with me a written promise from one highly placed — one to whose will Hassan of Aleppo bows!”
My mind greatly disturbed, I watched the venerable speaker. I had determined now that he was some religious leader of Islam in England, who had been deputed to approach me; and, let me add, I was sorely tempted to accede to his proposal, for nothing would be gained by any one if the slipper remained for ever at the museum, whereas by conniving at its recovery by those who, after all, were its rightful owners I should be ridding England of a weird and undesirable visitant.
I think I should have agreed, when I remembered that the Hashishin had murdered Professor Deeping and had mutilated others wholly innocent of offence. I looked across at the old man. He had drawn himself up to his great height, and for the first time fully raising the lids, had fixed upon me the piercing gaze of a pair of eagle eyes. I started, for the aspect of this majestic figure was entirely different from that of the old stranger who had stood suppliant before me a moment ago.
“It is impossible,” I said. “I can come to no terms with those who shield murderers.”
He regarded me fixedly, but did not move.
“Es-selam ‘aleykum!” I added (“Peace be on you!”) closing the interview in the Eastern manner.
The old man lowered his eyes, and saluted me with graceful gravity.
“Wa-’aleykum!” he said (“And on you!”). I conducted him to the door and closed it upon his exit. In his last salute I had noticed the flashing of a ring which he wore upon his left hand, and he was gone scarce ten seconds ere my heart began to beat furiously. I snatched up “Assyrian Mythology” and with trembling fingers turned to a certain page.
There I read —
Each Sheikh of the Assassins is said to be invested with the “Ring of the Prophet.” It bears a green stone, shaped in the form of a scimitar or crescent.
My dreadful suspicion was confirmed. I knew who my visitor had been.
“God in heaven!” I whispered. “It was Hassan of Aleppo!”
CHAPTER VII
FIRST ATTEMPT ON TH
E SAFE
On the following morning I was awakened by the arrival of Bristol. I hastened to admit him.
“Your visitor of yesterday,” he began, “has wasted no time!”
“What has happened?”
He tugged irritably at his moustache. “I don’t know!” he replied. “Of course it was no surprise to find that there isn’t a Mohammedan who’ll lay his little finger on Professor Deeping’s safe! There’s no doubt in my mind that every lascar at the docks knows Hassan of Aleppo to be in England. Some other arrangement will have to be arrived at, if the thing is ever to be taken to the Antiquarian Museum. Meanwhile we stand to lose it. Last night—”
He accepted a cigarette, and lighted it carefully.
“Last night,” he resumed, “a member of P Division was on point duty outside the late Professor’s house, and two C.I.D. men were actually in the room where the safe is. Result — someone has put in at least an hour’s work on the lock, but it proved too tough a job!”
I stared at him amazedly.
“Someone has been at the lock!” I cried. “But that is impossible, with two men in the room — unless—”
“They were both knocked on the head!”
“Both! But by whom! My God! They are not—”
“Oh, no! It was done artistically. They both came round about four o’clock this morning.”
“And who attacked them?”
“They had no idea. Neither of them saw a thing!”
My amazement grew by leaps and bounds. “But, Bristol, one of them must have seen the other succumb!”
“Both did! Their statements tally exactly!”
“I quite fail to follow you.”
“That’s not surprising. Listen: When I got on the scene about five o’clock, Marden and West, the two C.I.D. men, had quite recovered their senses, though they were badly shaken, and one had a cracked skull. The constable was conscious again, too.”
“What! Was he attacked?”
“In exactly the same way! I’ll give you Marden’s story, as he gave it to me a few minutes after the surgeon had done with him. He said that they were sitting in the study, smoking, and with both windows wide open. It was a fearfully hot night.”
“Did they have lights?”
“No. West sat in an armchair near the writing-table; Marden sat by the window next to the door. I had arranged that every hour one of them should go out to the gate and take the constable’s report. It was just after Marden had been out at one o’clock that it happened.
“They were sitting as I tell you when Marden thought he heard a curious sort of noise from the gate. West appeared to have heard nothing; but I have no doubt that it was the sound of the constable’s fall. West’s pipe had gone out, and he struck a match to relight it. As he did so, Marden saw him drop the match, clench both fists, and with eyes glaring in the moonlight and his teeth coming together with a snap, drop from his chair.
“Marden says that he was half up from his seat when something struck him on the back of the head with fearful force. He remembered nothing more until he awoke, with the dawn creeping into the room, and heard West groaning somewhere beside him. They both had badly damaged skulls with great bruises behind the ear. It is instructive to note that their wounds corresponded almost to a fraction of an inch. They had been stunned by someone who thoroughly understood his business, and with some heavy, blunt weapon. A few minutes later came the man to relieve the constable; and the constable was found to have been treated in exactly the same way!”
“But if Marden’s account is true—”
“West, as he lost consciousness, saw Marden go in exactly the same way.”
“Marden was seated by the open window, but I cannot conjecture how any one can have got at West, who sat by the table!”
“The case of Marden is little less than remarkable; he was some distance from the window. No one could possibly have reached him from outside.”
“And the constable?”
“The constable can give us no clue. He was suddenly struck down, as the others were. I examined the safe, of course, but didn’t touch it, according to instructions. Someone had been at work on the lock, but it had defied their efforts. I’m fully expecting though that they’ll be back to-night, with different tools!”
“The place is watched during the day, of course?”
“Of course. But it’s unlikely that anything will be attempted in daylight. Tonight I am going down myself.”
“Could you arrange that I join you?”
“I could, but you can see the danger for yourself?”
“It is extraordinarily mysterious.”
“Mr. Cavanagh, it’s uncanny!” said Bristol. “I can understand that one of these Hashishin could easily have got up behind the man on duty out in the open. I know, and so do you, that they’re past masters of that kind of thing; but unless they possess the power to render themselves invisible, it’s not evident how they can have got behind West whilst he sat at the table, with Marden actually watching him!”
“We must lay a trap for them to-night.”
“Rely upon me to do so. My only fear is that they may anticipate it and change their tactics. Hassan of Aleppo apparently knows as much of our plans as we do ourselves.”
Inspector Bristol, though a man of considerable culture, clearly was infected with a species of supernatural dread.
CHAPTER VIII
THE VIOLET EYES AGAIN
At four o’clock in the afternoon I had heard nothing further from Bristol, but I did not doubt that he would advise me of his arrangements in good time. I sought by hard work to forget for a time the extraordinary business of the stolen slipper; but it persistently intruded upon my mind. Particularly, my thoughts turned to the night of Professor Deeping’s murder, and to the bewitchingly pretty woman who had warned me of the impending tragedy. She had bound me to secrecy — a secrecy which had proved irksome, for it had since appeared to me that she must have been an accomplice of Hassan of Aleppo. At the time I had been at a loss to define her peculiar accent, now it seemed evidently enough to have been Oriental.
I threw down my pen in despair, for work was impossible, went downstairs, and walked out under the arch into Fleet Street. Quite mechanically I turned to the left, and, still engaged with idle conjectures, strolled along westward.
Passing the entrance to one of the big hotels, I was abruptly recalled to the realities — by a woman’s voice.
“Wait for me here,” came musically to my ears.
I stopped, and turned. A woman who had just quitted a taxi-cab was entering the hotel. The day was hot and thunderously oppressive, and this woman with the musical voice wore a delicate costume of flimsiest white. A few steps upward she paused and glanced back. I had a view of a Greek profile, and for one magnetic instant looked into eyes of the deepest and most wonderful violet.
Then, shaking off inaction, I ran up the steps and overtook the lady in white as a porter swung open the door to admit her. We entered together.
“Madame,” I said in a low tone, “I must detain you for a moment. There is something I have to ask.”
She turned, exhibiting the most perfect composure, lowered her lashes and raised them again, the gaze of the violet eyes sweeping me from head to foot with a sort of frigid scorn.
“I fear you have made a mistake, sir. We have never met before!”
Her voice betrayed no trace of any foreign accent!
“But,” I began — and paused.
I felt myself flush; for this encounter in the foyer of an hotel, with many curious onlookers, was like to prove embarrassing if my beautiful acquaintance persisted in her attitude. I fully realized what construction would be put upon my presence there, and foresaw that forcible and ignominious ejection must be my lot if I failed to establish my right to address her.
She turned away, and crossed in the direction of the staircase. A sunbeam sought out a lock of hair that strayed across her brow, and kissed it to a sudden glow like that
which lurks in the heart of a blush rose.
That wonderful sheen, which I had never met with elsewhere in nature, but which no artifice could lend, served to remove my last frail doubt which had survived the evidence of the violet eyes. I had been deceived by no strange resemblance; this was indeed the woman who had been the harbinger of Professor Deeping’s death. In three strides I was beside her again. Curious glances were set upon me, and I saw a servant evidently contemplating approach; but I ignored all save my own fixed purpose.
“You must listen to what I have to say!” I whispered. “If you decline, I shall have no alternative but to call in the detective who holds a warrant for your arrest!”
She stood quite still, watching me coolly. “I suppose you would wish to avoid a scene?” I added.
“You have already made me the object of much undesirable attention,” she replied scornfully. “I do not need your assurance that you would disgrace me utterly! You are talking nonsense, as you must be aware — unless you are insane. But if your object be to force your acquaintance upon me, your methods are novel, and, under the circumstances, effective. Come, sir, you may talk to me — for three minutes!”
The musical voice had lost nothing of its imperiousness, but for one instant the lips parted, affording a fleeting glimpse of pearl beyond the coral.
Her sudden change of front was bewildering. Now, she entered the lift and I followed her. As we ascended side by side I found it impossible to believe that this dainty white figure was that of an associate of the Hashishin, that of a creature of the terrible Hassan of Aleppo. Yet that she was the same girl who, a few days after my return from the East, had shown herself conversant with the plans of the murderous fanatics was beyond doubt. Her accent on that occasion clearly had been assumed, with what object I could not imagine. Then, as we quitted the lift and entered a cosy lounge, my companion seated herself upon a Chesterfield, signing to me to sit beside her.
As I did so she lay back smiling, and regarding me from beneath her black lashes. Thus, half veiled, her great violet eyes were most wonderful.