Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  He tossed the cigar — he had smoked scarce an inch of it — into the empty grate.

  “I’m an Aunt Sally for any man to shy at,” he resumed bitterly. “My place henceforth is in the dark. Right! I’ve finished; the book’s closed. From the time I quit England — if I can quit — I’m on the straight! I’ve promised Carneta, and I mean to keep my word. See here—”

  Dexter turned to me.

  “You’ll want to know how I escaped from the cursed death-trap at Hassan’s house in Kent? I’ll tell you. I was never in it! I was hiding and waiting my chance. You know what was left to guard the slipper while the Sheikh — rot him — was away looking after arrangements for getting his mob out of the country?”

  I nodded.

  “You fell into the trap — you and Carneta. By God! I didn’t know till it was all over! But two minutes later I was inside that place — and three minutes later I was away with the slipper! Oh, it wasn’t a duplicate; it was the goods! What then? Carneta had had a sickening of the business and she just invited me to say Yes or No. I said Yes; and I’m a straight man onward.”

  “Then what were you doing on the train with the slipper?” asked Hilton sharply.

  “I was going to Liverpool, sir!” snapped The Stetson Man, turning on him. “I was going to try to get aboard the Mauretania and then make terms for my life! What happened? I slipped out at Birmingham for a drink — grip in hand! I put it down beside me, and Mr. Cavanagh here, all in a hustle, must have rushed in behind me, snatched a whisky and snatched my grip and started for H — !”

  A vivid flash of lightning flickered about the room. Then came the deafening boom of the thunder, right over the house it seemed.

  “I knew from the weight of the grip it wasn’t mine,” said Dexter, “and I was the most surprised guy in Great Britain and Ireland when I found whose it was! I opened it, of course! And right on top was a waistcoat and right in the first pocket was a telegram. Here it is!”

  He passed it to me. It was that which I had received from Hilton. I had packed the suit which I had been wearing that morning and must previously have thrust the telegram into the waistcoat pocket.

  “Providence!” Dexter assured me. “Because I got on the station in time to see Hassan of Aleppo join the train for H — ! I was too late, though. But I chartered a taxi out on Corporation Street and invited the man to race the local! He couldn’t do it, but we got here in time for the fireworks! Mr. Cavanagh, there are anything from six to ten Hashishin watching this house!”

  “I know it!”

  “They’re bareheaded; and in the dark their shaven skulls look like nothing human. They’re armed with those damned tubes, too. I’d give a thousand dollars — if I had it! — to know their mechanism. Well, gentlemen, deeds speak. What am I here for, when I might be on the way to Liverpool, and safety?”

  “You’re here to try to make up for the past a bit!” said a soft, musical voice. “Mr. Cavanagh’s life is in danger.”

  Carneta entered the room.

  The light played in that wonderful hair of hers; and pale though she was, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful woman.

  “Tell them,” she said quietly, “what must be done.”

  Soar glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes and shifted uneasily. Hilton stared as if fascinated.

  “Now,” rapped Dexter, in his strident voice, “putting aside all questions of justice and right (we’re not policemen), what do we want — you and I, Mr. Cavanagh?”

  “I can’t think clearly about anything,” I said dully. “Explain yourself.”

  “Very well. Inspector Bristol, C.I.D., would want me and Hassan arrested. I don’t want that! What I want is peace; I want to be able to sleep in comfort; I want to know I’m not likely to be murdered on the next corner! Same with you?”

  “Yes — yes.”

  “How can we manage it? One way would be to kill Hassan of Aleppo; but he wants a lot of killing — I’ve tried! Moreover, directly we’d done it, another Sheikh-al-jebal would be nominated and he’d carry on the bloody work. We’d be worse off than ever. Right! we’ve got to connive at letting the blood-stained fanatic escape, and we’ve got to give up the slipper!”

  “I’ll do that with all my heart!”

  “Sure! But you and I have both got little scores up against Hassan, which it’s not in human nature to forget. But I’ve got it worked out that there’s only one way. It may nearly choke us to have to do it, I’ll allow. I’m working on the Moslem character. Mr. Hilton, make up a fire in the grate here!”

  Hilton stared, not comprehending.

  “Do as he asks,” I said. “Personally, I am resigned to mutilation, since I have touched the bag containing the slipper, but if Dexter has a plan—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Soar interrupted. “I believe there’s some coal in the coal-box, but I shall have to break up a packing-case for firewood — or go out into the yard!”

  “Let it be the packing-case,” replied Hilton hastily.

  Accordingly a fire was kindled, whilst we all stood about the room in a sort of fearful uncertainty; and before long a big blaze was roaring up the chimney. Dexter turned to me.

  “Mr. Cavanagh,” said he, “I want you to go right upstairs, open a first-floor window — I would suggest that of your bedroom — and invite Hassan of Aleppo to come and discuss terms!”

  Silence followed his words; we were all amazed. Then —

  “Why do you ask me to do this?” I inquired.

  “Because,” replied Dexter, “I happen to know that Hassan has some queer kind of respect for you — I don’t know why.”

  “Which is probably the reason why he tried to kill me to-night!”

  “That’s beside the question, Mr. Cavanagh. He will believe you — which is the important point.”

  “Very well. I have no idea what you have in mind but I am prepared to adopt any plan since I have none of my own. What shall I say?”

  “Say that we are prepared to return the slipper — on conditions.”

  “He will probably try to shoot me as I stand at the window.”

  Dexter shrugged his shoulders.

  “Got to risk it,” he drawled.

  “And what are the conditions?”

  “He must come right in here and discuss them! Guarantee him safe conduct and I don’t think he’ll hesitate. Anyway, if he does, just tell him that the slipper will be destroyed immediately!”

  Without a word I turned on my heel and ascended the stairs.

  I entered my room, crossed to the window, and threw it widely open. Hovering over the distant hills I could see the ominous thunder cloud, but the storm seemed to have passed from “Uplands,” and only a distant muttering with the faint dripping of water from the pipes broke the silence of the night. A great darkness reigned, however, and I was entirely unable to see if any one was in the orchard.

  Like some mueddin of fantastic fable I stood there.

  “Hassan!” I cried— “Hassan of Aleppo!”

  The name rang out strangely upon the stillness — the name which for me had a dreadful significance; but the whole episode seemed unreal, the voice that had cried unlike my voice.

  Instantly as any magician summoning an efreet I was answered.

  Out from the trees strode a tall figure, a figure I could not mistake. It was that of Hassan of Aleppo!

  “I hear, effendim, and obey,” he said. “I am ready. Open the door!”

  “We are prepared to discuss terms. You may come and go safely” — still my voice sounded unfamiliar in my ears.

  “I know, effendim; it is so written. Open the door.”

  I closed the window and mechanically descended the stairs.

  “Mind it isn’t a trap!” cried Hilton, who, with the others, had overheard every word of this strange interview. “They may try to rush the door directly we open it.”

  “I’ll stand the chest behind it,” said Soar; “between the door and the wall, so that only one can enter a
t a time.”

  This was done, and the door opened.

  Alone, majestic, entered Hassan of Aleppo.

  He was dressed in European clothes but wore the green turban of a Sherif. With his snowy beard and coal-black eyes he seemed like a vision of the Prophet, of the Prophet in whose name he had committed such ghastly atrocities.

  Deigning no glance to Soar nor to Hilton, he paced into the room, passing me and ignoring Carneta, where Earl Dexter awaited him. I shall never forget the scene as Hassan entered, to stand looking with blazing eyes at The Stetson Man, who sat beside the fire with the slipper of Mohammed in his hand!

  “Hassan,” said Dexter quietly, “Mr. Cavanagh has had to promise you safe conduct, or as sure as God made me, I’d put a bullet in you!”

  The Sheikh of the Hashishin glared fixedly at him.

  “Companion of the evil one,” he said, “it is not written that I shall die by your hand — or by the hand of any here. But it has been revealed to me that to-night the gates of Paradise may be closed in my face.”

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” drawled Dexter. “But it’s up to you. You’ve got to swear by Mohammed—”

  “Salla-’llahu ‘aleyhi wasellem!”

  “That you won’t lay a hand upon any living soul, or allow any of your followers to do so, who has touched the slipper or had anything to do with it, but that you will go in peace.”

  “You are doomed to die!”

  “You don’t agree, then?”

  “Those who have offended must suffer the penalty!”

  “Right!” said Dexter — and prepared to toss the slipper into the heart of the fire!

  “Stop! Infidel! Stop!”

  There was real agony in Hassan’s voice. To my inexpressible surprise he dropped upon his knee, extending his lean brown hands toward the slipper.

  Dexter hesitated. “You agree, then?”

  Hassan raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  “I agree,” he said. “Dark are the ways. It is the will of God...”

  Dimly the booming of the thunder came echoing back to us from the hills. Above its roll sounded a barbaric chanting to which the drums of angry heaven formed a fitting accompaniment.

  I heard Soar shooting the bolts again upon the going of our strange visitor.

  Faint and more faint grew the chanting, until it merged into the remote muttering of the storm — and was lost. The quest of the sacred slipper was ended.

  DOPE: A STORY OF CHINATOWN AND THE DRUG TRAFFIC

  Although this story is not strictly biographical, it is said to be inspired by the life of the English actress Billie Carleton, who died following a drug overdose in 1918. Certainly the lead female character, Rita, is described as a pretty, young and talented former stage performer in the West End of London, which ties in well with Carleton’s career and untimely demise at the age of twenty-four. Published in 1919, it is set partly in Bohemian sets in London and in the Limehouse district of the city, an area with a population of East Asian immigrants, some of whom Rohmer claimed were the inspiration for Fu Manchu. However, Fu Manchu does not appear in this story.

  Monte Irvin is a highly respectable alderman of the city of London, and would-be mayoral candidate. He has a lovely home and a delightful wife, the beautiful Rita, and on the surface has no troubles. However, as the story opens one foggy evening, Irvin is deeply worried about the whereabouts and well being of Rita, who is not at home. He does not like most of her friends, believing them to be undesirable, and also suspects she is having an affair, so much so that he has her followed by private detectives. This same evening, the detective gives him the news he dreads – that Rita is alone with another man, following a consultation with an Egyptian mystic named Kazmah.

  Monte Irvin is not the only man in love with Rita. Quentin Gray, her friend, has a secret love for her, and it is he who first finds out that she and her companion for that evening, Sir Lucien Pyne, have apparently gone missing from the mystic’s rooms. Before long, no fewer than six men — Irvin, two private detectives, two policemen, and Gray (plus Gray’s friend, who tagged along) are looking for Rita. They break into Kazmah’s rooms, but she is not there; however, the murdered body of Sir Lucien Pyne is there, concealed behind a drape.

  As is normal procedure, the case is now handed over to the detective division, in the form of Chief Inspector “Red” Kerry and his assistant, Detective-Sergeant Coombes. Whilst they begin their investigation into the murder and Rita’s disappearance, Gray is shocked to hear from his doctor cousin that the brown cigarettes that Pyne had given him are laced with opium, and Kerry finds out that on the day of her death, Rita was frantically trying to gain supplies of cocaine, as her usual source would not co-operate. Rita’s doctor confirms that Rita was hopelessly addicted to various drugs. Meanwhile, Kerry has to take his enquiries into the social circles and seedy Oriental drug dens of Limehouse that Rita frequented in an attempt to find her, and with his characteristically abrasive style, is not going to take no for an answer…

  Drug taking and addiction is not a subject matter that would have shocked the readers of the early twentieth century. The Romantic poets of the early part of the nineteenth century were known for their addictions and in 1919 the public was used to even their literary heroes being drug users – Sherlock Holmes is the best known example – and society was on the brink of the roaring twenties and countless tales in the press about the “bright young things” or the “fast set”, young people from the stage, and upper echelons of society that had the time and money to take drugs and indulge in open relationships. The description of Rita’s decline into addiction is sensitively handled by Rohmer, detailing environmental factors as much as the background and character of the girl herself as factors in the tragedy – there is as much sadness as condemnation in the account, and a portrait is painted of a young woman that desperately wants to turn her life around, but, in the clutches of the wrong “set” and of the drugs she craved, found it impossible to change. Rohmer also touches on the pressures faced by the police when investigating serious crimes involving the upper classes, not only because of pressure from the establishment to keep things low key, but also the intrusion of the press into the case, looking for scandal involving well known socialites. Highly recommended as one of Rohmer’s best told tales, Dope offers as much valuable social commentary today as when first published in 1919.

  Limehouse Basin, east London — the setting of the novel

  CONTENTS

  PART FIRST — KAZMAH THE DREAM-READER

  CHAPTER I. A MESSAGE FOR IRVIN

  CHAPTER II. THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH

  CHAPTER III. KAZMAH

  CHAPTER IV. THE CLOSED DOOR

  CHAPTER V. THE DOOR IS OPENED

  CHAPTER VI. RED KERRY

  CHAPTER VII. FURTHER EVIDENCE

  CHAPTER VIII. KERRY CONSULTS THE ORACLE

  CHAPTER IX. A PACKET OF CIGARETTES

  CHAPTER X. SIR LUCIEN’S STUDY WINDOW

  CHAPTER XI. THE DRUG SYNDICATE

  PART SECOND — MRS. SIN

  CHAPTER XII. THE MAID OF THE MASQUE

  CHAPTER XIII. A CHANDU PARTY

  CHAPTER XIV. IN THE SHADE OF THE LONELY PALM

  CHAPTER XV. METAMORPHOSIS

  CHAPTER XVI. LIMEHOUSE

  CHAPTER XVII. THE BLACK SMOKE

  CHAPTER XVIII. THE DREAM OF SIN SIN WA

  CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAFFIC

  CHAPTER XX. KAZMAH’S METHODS

  CHAPTER XXI. THE CIGARETTES FROM BUENOS AYRES

  CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGLE-HOLD

  PART THIRD — THE MAN FROM WHITEHALL

  CHAPTER XXIII. CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY RESIGNS

  CHAPTER XXIV. TO INTRODUCE 719

  CHAPTER XXV. NIGHT-LIFE OF SOHO

  CHAPTER XXVI. THE MOODS OF MOLLIE

  CHAPTER XXVII. CROWN EVIDENCE

  CHAPTER XXVIII. THE GILDED JOSS

  CHAPTER XXIX. DOUBTS AND FEARS

  CHAPTER XXX. THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
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  CHAPTER XXXI. THE STORY OF 719

  CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE ISLE OF DOGS

  PART FOURTH — THE EYE OF SIN SIN WA

  CHAPTER XXXIII. CHINESE MAGIC

  CHAPTER XXXIV. ABOVE AND BELOW

  CHAPTER XXXV. BEYOND THE VEIL

  CHAPTER XXXVI. SAM TUK MOVES

  CHAPTER XXXVII. SETON PASHA REPORTS

  CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SONG OF SIN SIN WA

  CHAPTER XXXIX. THE EMPTY WHARF

  CHAPTER XL. COIL OF THE PIGTAIL

  CHAPTER XLI. THE FINDING OF KAZMAH

  CHAPTER XLII. A YEAR LATER

  CHAPTER XLIII. THE STORY OF THE CRIME

  Billie Carleton (1896-1918), the musical comedy actress, who at the age of twenty-two was found dead, apparently of a drug overdose.

  PART FIRST — KAZMAH THE DREAM-READER

  CHAPTER I. A MESSAGE FOR IRVIN

  Monte Irvin, alderman of the city and prospective Lord Mayor of London, paced restlessly from end to end of the well-appointed library of his house in Prince’s Gate. Between his teeth he gripped the stump of a burnt-out cigar. A tiny spaniel lay beside the fire, his beady black eyes following the nervous movements of the master of the house.

  At the age of forty-five Monte Irvin was not ill-looking, and, indeed, was sometimes spoken of as handsome. His figure was full without being corpulent; his well-groomed black hair and moustache and fresh if rather coarse complexion, together with the dignity of his upright carriage, lent him something of a military air. This he assiduously cultivated as befitting an ex-Territorial officer, although as he had seen no active service he modestly refrained from using any title of rank.

  Some quality in his brilliant smile, an oriental expressiveness of the dark eyes beneath their drooping lids, hinted a Semitic strain; but it was otherwise not marked in his appearance, which was free from vulgarity, whilst essentially that of a successful man of affairs.

  In fact, Monte Irvin had made a success of every affair in life with the lamentable exception of his marriage. Of late his forehead had grown lined, and those business friends who had known him for a man of abstemious habits had observed in the City chophouse at which he lunched almost daily that whereas formerly he had been a noted trencherman, he now ate little but drank much.