by Sax Rohmer
His eagle eyes opened widely; they burned with fanaticism.
“Already she is here!” he resumed suddenly, and bent as one listening. “She comes under the archway; she crossed the courtyard — and is upon the stair! Admit her, effendim; I shall be close behind you!”
The door-bell rang.
With the consciousness that the black tube was directed toward the back of my head, I went and opened the door. My mind was at work again, and busy with plans to terminate this impossible situation.
On the landing stood a girl wearing a simple white frock which fitted her graceful figure perfectly. A white straw hat, of the New York tourist type, with a long veil draped from the back suited her delicate beauty very well. The red mouth drooped a little at the corners, but the big violet eyes, like lamps of the soul, seemed afire with mystic light.
“Mr. Cavanagh,” she said, very calmly and deliberately, “there is only one way now to end all this trouble. I come from the man who can return the slipper to where it belongs; but he wants his price!”
Her quiet speech served completely to restore my mental balance, and I noted with admiration that her words were so chosen as to commit her in no way. She knew quite well that thus far she might appear in the matter with impunity, and she clearly was determined to say nothing that could imperil her.
“Will you please come in?” I said quietly — and stood aside to admit her.
Exhibiting wonderful composure, she entered — and there, in the badly lighted hallway came face to face with my other visitor!
It was a situation so dramatic as to seem unreal.
Away from that tall figure retreated the girl with the violet eyes — and away — until she stood with her back to the wall. Even in the gloom I could see that her composure was deserting her; her beautiful face was pallid.
“Oh, God!” she whispered, all but inaudible— “You!”
Hassan, grasping the black rod in his hand, signed to her to enter the study. She stood quite near to me, with her eyes fixed upon him. I bent closer to her.
“My revolver — in left-hand table drawer,” I breathed in her ear. “Get it. He is watching me!”
I could not tell if my words had been understood, for, never taking her gaze from the Sheikh of the Assassins, she sidled into the study. I followed her; and Hassan came last of all. Just within the doorway he stood, confronting us.
“You have come,” he said, addressing the girl and speaking in perfect English but with a marked accent, “to open your impudent negotiations through Mr. Cavanagh for the return of the thrice holy relic to the Museum! Your companion, the man, who is inspired by the Evil One, has even dared to demand ransom for the slipper from me!”
Hassan was majestic in his wrath; but his eyes were black with venomous hatred.
“He has suffered the penalty which the Koran lays down; he has lost his right hand. But the lord of all evil protects him, else ere this he had lost his life! Move no closer to that table!”
I started. Either Hassan of Aleppo was omniscient or he had overheard my whispered words!
“Easily I could slay you where you stand!” he continued. “But to do so would profit me nothing. This meeting has been revealed to me. Last night I witnessed it as I slept. Also it has been revealed to me by Erroohanee, in the mirror of ink, that the slipper of the Prophet, Salla-’llahu ‘ale yhi wasellem! Shall indeed return to that place accursed, that infidel eyes may look upon it! It is the will of Allah, whose name be exalted, that I hold my hand, but it is also His will that I be here, at whatever danger to my worthless body.”
He turned his blazing eyes upon me.
“To-morrow, ere noon,” he said, “the slipper will again be in the Museum from which the man of evil stole it. So it is written; obscure are the ways. We met last night, you and I, but at that time much was dark to me that now is light. The holy ‘Alee spoke to me in a vision, saying: ‘There are two keys to the case in which it will be locked. Secure one, leaving the other with him who holds it! Let him swear to be secret. This shall be the price of his life!’”
The black tube was pointed directly at my forehead.
“Effendim,” concluded the speaker, “place in my hand the key of the case in the Antiquarian Museum!”
Hands convulsively clenched, the girl was looking from me to Hassan. My throat felt parched, but I forced speech to my lips.
“Your omniscience fails you,” I said. “Both keys are at my bank!”
Blacker grew the fierce eyes — and blacker. I gave myself up for lost; I awaited death — death by some awful, unique means — with what courage I could muster.
From the court below came the sound of voices, the voices of passers-by who so little suspected what was happening near to them that had someone told them they certainly had refused to credit it. The noise of busy Fleet Street came drumming under the archway, too.
Then, above all, another sound became audible. To this day I find myself unable to define it; but it resembled the note of a silver bell.
Clearly it was a signal; for, hearing it, Hassan dropped the tube and glanced toward the open window.
In that instant I sprang upon him!
That I had to deal with a fanatic, a dangerous madman, I knew; that it was his life or mine, I was fully convinced. I struck out then and caught him fairly over the heart. He reeled back, and I made a wild clutch for the damnable tube, horrid, unreasoning fear of which thus far had held me inert.
I heard the girl scream affrightedly, and I knew, and felt my heart chill to know, that the tube had been wrenched from my hand! Hassan of Aleppo, old man that he appeared, had the strength of a tiger. He recovered himself and hurled me from him so that I came to the floor crashingly half under my writing-table!
Something he cried back at me, furiously — and like an enraged animal, his teeth gleaming out from his beard, he darted from the room. The front door banged loudly.
Shaken and quivering, I got upon my feet. On the threshold, in a state of pitiable hesitancy, stood the pale, beautiful accomplice of Earl Dexter. One quick glance she flashed at me, then turned and ran!
Again the door slammed. I ran to the window, looking out into the court. The girl came hurrying down the steps, and with never a backward glance ran on and was lost to view in one of the passages opening riverward.
Out under the arch, statelily passed a tall figure — and Inspector Bristol was entering! I saw the detective glance aside as the two all but met. He stood still, and looked back!
“Bristol!” I cried, and waved my arms frantically.
“Stop him! Stop him! It’s Hassan of Aleppo!”
Bristol was not the only one to hear my wild cry — not the only one to dash back under the arch and out into Fleet Street.
But Hassan of Aleppo was gone!
CHAPTER XXII
THE LIGHT OF EL-MEDINEH
Bristol and I walked slowly in the direction of the entrance of the British Antiquarian Museum. It was the day following upon the sensational scene in my chambers.
“There’s very little doubt,” said Bristol, “that Earl Dexter has the slipper and that Hassan of Aleppo knows where Dexter is in hiding. I don’t know which of the two is more elusive. Hassan apparently melted into thin air yesterday; and although The Stetson Man has never within my experience employed disguises, no one has set eyes upon him since the night that he vanished from his lodgings off the Waterloo Road. It’s always possible for a man to baffle the police by remaining closely within doors, but during all the time that has elapsed Dexter must have taken a little exercise occasionally, and the missing hand should have betrayed him.”
“The wonder to me is,” I replied, “that he has escaped death at the hands of the Hashishin. He is a supremely daring man, for I should think that he must be carrying the slipper of the Prophet about with him!”
“I would rather he did it than I!” commented Bristol. “For sheer audacity commend me to The Stetson Man! His idea no doubt was to use you as intermed
iary in his negotiations with the Museum authorities, but that plan failing, he has written them direct, thoughtfully omitting his address, of course!”
We were, in fact, at that moment bound for the Museum to inspect this latest piece of evidence.
“The crowning example of the man’s audacity and cleverness,” added my companion, “is his having actually approached Hassan of Aleppo with a similar proposition! How did he get in touch with him? All Scotland Yard has failed to find any trace of that weird character!”
“Birds of a feather—” I suggested.
“But they are not birds of a feather!” cried Bristol. “On your own showing, Hassan of Aleppo is simply waiting his opportunity to balance Dexter’s account forever! I always knew Dexter was a clever man; I begin to think he’s the most daring genius alive!”
We mounted the steps of the Museum. In the hallway Mostyn, the curator, awaited us. Having greeted Bristol and myself he led the way to his private office, and from a pigeon-hole in his desk took out a letter typewritten upon a sheet of quarto paper.
Bristol spread it out upon the blotting pad and we bent over it curiously.
SIR —
I believe I can supply information concerning the whereabouts of the missing slipper of Mohammed. As any inquiry of this nature must be extremely perilous to the inquirer and as the relic is a priceless one, my fee would be 10,000 pounds. The fanatics who seek to restore the slipper to the East must not know of any negotiations, therefore I omit my address, but will communicate further if you care to insert instructions in the agony column of Times.
Faithfully,
EARL DEXTER
Bristol laughed grimly.
“It’s a daring game,” he said; “a piece of barefaced impudence quite characteristic.
“He’s posing as a sort of private detective now, and is prepared for a trifling consideration to return the slipper which he stole himself! He must know, though, that we have his severed hand at the Yard to be used in evidence against him.”
“Is the Burton Room open to the public again?” I asked Mostyn.
“It is open, yes,” he replied, “and a quite unusual number of visitors come daily to gaze at the empty case which once held the slipper of the Prophet.”
“Has the case been mended?”
“Yes; it is quite intact again; only the exhibit is missing.”
We ascended the stairs, passed along the Assyrian Room, which seemed to be unusually crowded, and entered the lofty apartment known as the Burton Room. The sunblinds were drawn, and a sort of dim, religious light prevailed therein. A group of visitors stood around an empty case at the farther end of the apartment.
“You see,” said Mostyn, pointing, “that empty case has a greater attraction than all the other full ones!”
But I scarcely heeded his words, for I was intently watching the movements of one of the group about the empty case. I have said that the room was but dimly illuminated, and this fact, together no doubt with some effect of reflected light, enhanced by my imagination, perhaps produced the phenomenon which was occasioning me so much amazement.
Remember that my mind was filled with memories of weird things, that I often found myself thinking of that mystic light which Hassan of Aleppo had called the light of El-Medineh — that light whereby, undeterred by distance, he claimed to be able to trace the whereabouts of any of the relics of the Prophet.
Bristol and Mostyn walked on then; but I stood just within the doorway, intently, breathlessly watching an old man wearing an out-of-date Inverness coat and a soft felt hat. He had a gray beard and moustache, and long, untidy hair, walked with a stoop, and in short was no unusual type of Visitor to that institution.
But it seemed to me, and the closer I watched him the more convinced I became, that this was no optical illusion, that a faint luminosity, a sort of elfin light, played eerily about his head!
As Bristol and Mostyn approached the case the old man began to walk toward me and in the direction of the door. The idea flashed through my mind that it might be Hassan of Aleppo himself, Hassan who had predicted that the stolen slipper should that day be returned to the Museum!
Then he came abreast of me, passed me, and I felt that my surmise had been wrong. I saw Bristol, from farther up the room, turn and look back. Something attracted his trained eye, I suppose, which was not perceptible to me. But he suddenly came striding along. Obviously he was pursuing the old man, who was just about to leave the apartment. Seeing that the latter had reached the doorway, Bristol began to run.
The old man turned; and amid a chorus of exclamations from the astonished spectators, Bristol sprang upon him!
How it all came about I cannot say, cannot hope to describe; but there was a short, sharp scuffle, the crack of a well-directed blow ... and Bristol was rolling on his back, the old man, hatless, was racing up the Assyrian Room, and everyone in the place seemed to be shouting at once!
Bristol, with blood streaming from his face, staggered to his feet, clutching at me for support.
“After him, Mr. Cavanagh!” he cried hoarsely. “It’s your turn to-day! After him! That’s Earl Dexter!”
Mostyn waited for no more, but went running quickly through the Assyrian Room. I may mention here that at the head of the stairs he found the caped Inverness which had served to conceal Dexter’s mutilated arm, and later, behind a piece of statuary, a wig and a very ingenious false beard and moustache were discovered. But of The Stetson Man there was no trace. His brief start had enabled him to make good his escape.
As Mostyn went off, and a group of visitors flocked in our direction, Bristol, who had been badly shaken by the blow, turned to them.
“You will please all leave the Burton Room immediately,” he said.
Looks of surprise greeted his words; but with his handkerchief raised to his face, he peremptorily repeated them. The official note in his voice was readily to be detected; and the wonder-stricken group departed with many a backward glance.
As the last left the Burton Room, Bristol pointed, with a rather shaky finger, at the soft felt hat which lay at his feet. It had formed part of Dexter’s disguise. Close beside it lay another object which had evidently fallen from the hat — a dull red thing lying on the polished parquet flooring.
“For God’s sake don’t go near it!” whispered Bristol. “The room must be closed for the present. And now I’m off after that man. Step clear of it.”
His words were unnecessary; I shunned it as a leprous thing.
It was the slipper of the Prophet!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE THREE MESSAGES
I stood in the foyer of the Astoria Hotel. About me was the pulsing stir of transatlantic life, for the tourist season was now at its height, and I counted myself fortunate in that I had been able to secure a room at this establishment, always so popular with American visitors. Chatting groups surrounded me and I became acquainted with numberless projects for visiting the Tower of London, the National Gallery, the British Museum, Windsor Castle, Kew Gardens, and the other sights dear to the heart of our visiting cousins. Loaded lifts ascended and descended. Bradshaws were in great evidence everywhere; all was hustle and glad animation.
The tall military-looking man who stood beside me glanced about him with a rather grim smile.
“You ought to be safe enough here, Mr. Cavanagh!” he said.
“I ought to be safe enough in my own chambers,” I replied wearily. “How many of these pleasure-seeking folk would believe that a man can be as greatly in peril of his life in Fleet Street as in the most uncivilized spot upon the world map? Do you think if I told that prosperous New Yorker who is buying a cigar yonder, for instance, that I had been driven from my chambers by a band of Eastern assassins founded some time in the eleventh century, he would believe it?”
“I am certain he wouldn’t!” replied Bristol. “I should not have credited it myself before I was put in charge of this damnable case.”
My position at that hour was
in truth an incredible one. The sacred slipper of Mohammed lay once more in the glass case at the Antiquarian Museum from which Earl Dexter had stolen it. Now, with apish yellow faces haunting my dreams, with ghostly menaces dogging me day and night, I was outcast from my own rooms and compelled, in self-defence, to live amid the bustle of the Astoria. So wholly nonplussed were the police authorities that they could afford me no protection. They knew that a group of scientific murderers lay hidden in or near to London; they knew that Earl Dexter, the foremost crook of his day, was also in the metropolis — and they could make no move, were helpless; indeed, as Bristol had confessed, were hopeless!
Bristol, on the previous day, had unearthed the Greek cigar merchant, Acepulos, who had replaced the slipper in its case (for a monetary consideration). He had performed a similar service when the bloodstained thing had first been put upon exhibition at the Museum, and for a considerable period had disappeared. We had feared that his religious pretensions had not saved him from the avenging scimitar of Hassan; but quite recently he had returned again to his Soho shop, and in time thus to earn a second cheque.
As Bristol and I stood glancing about the foyer of the hotel, a plain-clothes officer whom I knew by sight came in and approached my companion. I could not divine the fact, of course, but I was about to hear news of the money-loving and greatly daring Graeco-Moslem.
The detective whispered something to Bristol, and the latter started, and paled. He turned to me.
“They haven’t overlooked him this time, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said. “Acepulos has been found dead in his room, nearly decapitated!”
I shuddered involuntarily. Even there, amid the chatter and laughter of those light-hearted tourists, the shadow of Hassan of Aleppo was falling upon me.
Bristol started immediately for Soho and I parted from him in the Strand, he proceeding west and I eastward, for I had occasion that morning to call at my bank. It was the time of the year when London is full of foreigners, and as I proceeded in the direction of Fleet Street I encountered more than one Oriental. To my excited imagination they all seemed to glance at me furtively, with menacing eyes, but in any event I knew that I had little to fear whilst I contrived to keep to the crowded thoroughfares. Solitude I dreaded and with good reason.