Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “I believe,” said Mr. Michaelis, his monocle focussed upon the speaker, “that we are all anxious to learn more about your studies, Lord Marcus. For my own part, I count myself privileged to be present: it would be a privilege at any time. But I am frankly curious to learn to what happy circumstance I owe my pleasure this evening.”

  Admittedly, the guests seemed oddly chosen. These were: Mr. Michaelis, Lady Huskin, Dick Kershaw, Fay Perigal, and Mrs. Vane. Lady Huskin had come in a spirit more proper to a studio party; to see a daring new picture and to meet the model. She was vastly flattered, nevertheless, to have been singled out by this aloof and exquisite aristocrat. She regretted the “informal” note; but she was wearing her pearls. “I am delightfully and frightfully excited,” she declared.

  Mrs. Vane, her wonderful hair a fiery halo, had selected that discreet black gown, square cut at the neck. She looked remarkably beautiful but unusually pale. She was acting as hostess, and approaching Fay, seated beside Dick Kershaw on the deep settee, she offered sandwiches. “I am used to these strange ordeals, and you are not. I hope it will be worth while, but I warn you it may be midnight before we get any supper.”

  “What about yourself?” said Dick Kershaw, with his charmingly boyish smile, jumping up and taking the plate from her. “You are looking after everybody else, and—”

  “Unfortunately, I have to officiate,” she replied; “I have to fast like a priest before the Mass.” She possessed a slightly husky contralto voice, a dramatic voice, suggesting deeps which in fact were not there. Lady Huskin, who had met her on the Riviera but had decided that she was not the sort of woman one takes up, performed a silent volte face, forming a mental determination to cultivate the beautiful friend of Lord Marcus.

  Dick shook his head in bewilderment, glancing aside at Fay. “I don’t know what it’s all about,” he admitted.

  Fay, gazing in a troubled way at Lord Marcus, shook her head, so that hazelnut hair shimmered like autumn leaves: her frank gray eyes held no reproach; rather, they sped a message of appeal. In her simple walking suit she looked slim with the lissom slimness of a dryad, and, when her glance rested on Dick Kershaw, delicately and radiantly lovely.

  “I believe I overheard a thought of yours, Fay,” Lord Marcus smiled, clasping his hands behind him. “But I hope to convince you by a palpable demonstration that my beliefs do not rest upon sand.” All, now, were listening to him. “My butler, James Wake, was arrested recently in connexion with the death of Sir Giles Loeder. This may be news in some quarters, for the name of the man detained has not appeared in the press. However, I hold my own views regarding Wake. A thief I had always known him to be: that he is a murderer, I deny. Let me, therefore, give you an outline, necessarily incomplete, of an experiment in which I ask you to co-operate with me to-night.”

  Lady Huskin, thrilled but slightly frightened, moved from her armchair to the settee, where she joined Dick and Fay. Mr. Michaelis leaned against a bookcase, motionless: his monocle catching the light from a standard lamp glittered statically. Mrs. Vane had retired.

  “We live in a machine age. Tied to the wheels of a giant Juggernaut, we are swept on, deafened and blinded to eternal Truth, crushing all beauty in our path. The horrors of this war merely illustrate my meaning: as the machine advances, God recedes, so that in time all the world would be plunged into darkness: those lamps laboriously lighted by followers of the great Masters be obscured, indeed, become buried and lost. In humility and deep consciousness of my own limited powers — as well as spiritual — I have endeavored to preserve some of those lamps from destruction.”

  Lady Huskin was holding Fay’s hand. The music of the speaker’s voice seemed to be touching chords deep within, chords which rarely sounded ...

  “I have failed in a large measure. I have achieved nothing to enable me to place results before the world in a manner calculated to serve any useful purpose. Yet, I have learned much; notably, that it is wrong to work alone. There is an unsuspected power latent in all of us. Few possess a sufficient quantity of this force, or, possessing, know how to direct it, to be able to employ their gifts as the high priests of Ancient Egypt formerly were able to do.”

  He paused, and the regard of his strange eyes rested upon one after another of his listeners. But no one spoke.

  “If the collective resources of seven suitable persons could be concentrated, however, this, as my inquiries have shown me, might under suitable direction achieve remarkable results. Now, regarding this age-old science which modern science ignores, it will be enough for me to say that the power I have mentioned varies in quantity, quality, and character in each individual. Only those within the same psychic cycle can hope to co-operate successfully. Blood transfusion offers a slight parallel. The symbolism of seven is familiar to everyone. There are seven days in the week, seven deadly sins; and for this symbolism of seven there is a strictly scientific reason. Therefore, I have sought for six persons whose spiritual forces are attuned to my own. I have found them, with the aid of Mrs. Vane, who is in my own cycle and is also a sensitive and a trained explorer of the borderland. Four others and myself are present; Mrs. Vane is the sixth; and we await the seventh, Mrs. Destrée, who is returning to London this evening, as Mr. Michaelis informs me, and will be present in time for our experiment.”

  Mr. Michaelis, now referred to, asked a question. “Do I gather that, in your opinion, all of us now present are associates of some former existence?”

  “Not necessarily, sir. That we have had common experiences is certain, as that we have lived in former times and at identical periods. One of those periods, and the fact that I was then alive, I could establish quite easily by means of unwrapping the mummy which stands beside me — that of a high priest who held office at Thebes some one thousand three hundred years before the birth of Christ.”

  Lady Huskin’s hold on Fay’s hand tightened.

  “No further evidence on this point would be demanded of me. But since my present purpose is not your conversion, but merely your co-operation, let me pass on to the object of to-night’s experiment. This is, quite simply, an attempt to settle a mundane problem: namely — who was responsible for the death of Sir Giles Loeder.”

  This remarkable anti-climax to a discourse so strange, yet so unmistakably exalted, this descent from the spiritual to the physical, produced a strange effect upon Lord Marcus’s listeners, notably upon Mr. Michaelis.

  “Might I point out, Lord Marcus,” he said, “that the inquiry in which you are asking us to take part is already in the competent hands of Scotland Yard?”

  “I am aware of the fact, sir, but even Scotland Yard is fallible. Unless my subjects are ill-chosen, I shall have around me to-night examples — all, I trust, upon their ascending journey — of some who in the past have looked up to the same stars and breathed the same air as I, who have fallen with me, as the angel fell, through one of the seven deadly sins. Directly Mrs. Destrée arrives to complete our circle, the experiment can begin. Mr. Michaelis tells me that urgent business called her out of Town ...”

  33

  Destrée Closes Her Eyes

  The nature of the urgency of that business to which Mr. Michaelis had referred would have become apparent to anyone secretly present several hours earlier in Destrée’s room where lilies floated. Only one sound disturbed its scented silence, that of almost uninterrupted movement of a fountain pen over rough paper. At a feminine little bureau, the upper part displaying behind plate glass several arresting pieces of jade, Mr. Francis sat writing. He wore evening dress, with a double-breasted tuxedo, which, since sunshine flooded the room, looked oddly out of place; he wore, also, black rimmed glasses, which queerly changed his appearance. He had before him a B.B.C. script typed on foolscap sheets secured with pink tape, and he appeared to be re-writing part of it. Destrée, attired in a tightly fitting fur-trimmed suit which resembled a Cossack uniform, an astrakhan hat upon her gleaming hair, earrings of pearl-shaped emeralds, watched him.

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p; Gauntlet gloves lay on the floor beside her; her feet were shod in soft, high legged boots which perfectly fitted the curve of her calf. Destrée dressed like no one but Destrée. She occupied her favorite place on the settee, smoking a cigarette in a tortoiseshell holder, and sideways, through lowered lashes, studying the writer.

  “This is a tough proposition. I just don’t see how I can do it,” Francis said suddenly, and laid his pen down. “The B.B.C. will stand for a certain number of alterations, slipped in neatly, but if I try to spill this load—”

  “Giles spilled even heavier loads,” Destrée’s tinkling voice reminded him. “Often, he wrote in his own messages.”

  Mr. Francis’s heavy jaw, for she viewed him in profile, jutted out truculently. “That’s none so hard to do in a political speech. It’s a different matter to have to get laughs with loaded material. This is dull stuff, even for the Troops.”

  “Then write it in your own way ... but leave out none of the essential words. The names of all the ships must go in,” Destrée smiled.

  “You know I can’t do it. I’m no cryptographer. You invented the Pythagoric code, and writing messages is your pidgin. But if I try to crack a gag like this, I shall arouse suspicion; I shall also get the bird.”

  “Oh!” she laughed, that childish, trilling laughter, “you are suffering from cold feet — yes? I see what it is. You have read in the papers that a man has been detained by Scotland Yard. It is so?”

  “Yes.” He swung around to face her. “And we don’t know who that man is, how much he knows, how much he may tell.”

  “I can venture a guess, Francis, about who he is — and I am rarely wrong. You can confirm it if you wish by lifting the telephone. It is Wake, Lord Marcus Amberdale’s butler. That was why I sent for him and talked to him. But he is very cunning. You think so?”

  “I do. I have suspected this man all along, kept him under observation, as you know. I figured he had the money when he turned down twenty guineas for one night’s work. To save himself, he may say anything. We can look for a visit from the police at any moment.”

  A discreet rap preceded the appearance of a grim looking elderly maid. “The car is here, madam ...”

  The car which ENSA had always provided to transport Francis Batt to out-of-Town concerts stood at the entrance to Gatacre House. Its driver, one of those elderly chauffeurs who have been coachmen, so that they might at any moment say “Gee up” to the engine, touched his cap respectfully, gazing into a clear sky pastel led with high white clouds.

  “Looks like keeping fine for the drive down, sir.”

  “That’s so,” shouted Francis.

  He had grown accustomed to shouting at this man, whom privately he regarded as a public danger when in charge of a vehicle, since he was nearly stone deaf, and indeed wore an earpiece to rectify this disability. Otherwise, in spite of his years, he was a competent driver. Francis placed a portfolio inside, and settled Destrée in the other corner before he got in himself. As the old chauffeur was about to close the door: “You know your way to Bidchurch, I guess?” he bawled.

  “Oh, yes, sir, I have been there before. We go through Farnborough.”

  “That’s right,” yelled Francis; then, lowering his voice, “A fine old British institution!” he added.

  They set out. Destrée lay back with closed eyes as Francis opened his portfolio, adjusted reading glasses and set to work on his notes. The commodious saloon car ran smoothly.

  Destrée broke a long silence. “You are afraid that if Wake was the man who ran up (I am sure of this, myself) he may have recognized your voice?”

  Mr. Francis removed his glasses and looked aside at her; she presented an engaging picture. “Wake, if it was Wake, ran up from the other direction. I left ‘way ahead of him, remember. It’s true I had to stand by and see Loeder petting his girl friend for quite a while before she quitted in a taxi.” He watched Destrée’s profile fixedly, but her features remained placid as a cameo. He went on:

  “The mystery man in Air Force blue cut in on me just as I was coming up with him. I took cover and so didn’t hear what happened until a scuffle started. I moved up just as Loeder went down. The Air Force guy ran off. Of course, Loeder was bluffing. He had stopped a hard one and got wise to the fact that the other fellow was too hot for him.”

  “So you tell me,” Destrée murmured.

  “I’m telling you again. He stood up, took off his tuxedo, and shook it, brushed himself down, picked up his portfolio and walked right on. I watched him do all that, and I overtook him just as he turned into South Audley Street. There was no sign of Wake before or at that time.”

  “He may have been near, all the same.”

  “No; he had gone the other way. You know croupiers always leave by the tradesmen’s entrance. I’m sure of it. No one saw me. There is something I want to say. I’ll say it now, whether it offends you or not. You think too much about the money. It was Loeder’s damned money that led to all the trouble — that, and the girl.”

  “I see.” Destrée’s voice, although it remained silver, was frozen silver. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

  “Plenty. I am by no means sure you believe that I don’t know what became of this money. I can only guess just what happened between you two on that night, but I know you lashed out at Loeder because of the girl, and I know he claimed the return of all his capital — five thousand pounds. God knows what was in your mind when you sent me after him. All you said was ‘Bring him back!’.”

  “Instead of which, you strangled him.”

  “That’s a lie! But it’s true because of what he was to you, that I hated him. I knew he wasn’t worth it.”

  “Oh, oh!” Destrée smiled: there were times when this man frightened her. “I can see that little vein throbbing above your eyebrow, even when you think of him.”

  The dimple in Francis’s chin had become static; it resembled a healed gunshot wound, and the vein to which Destrée referred was unpleasantly evident. He glared at her for a moment, his cold blue eyes shining metallically. “God knows why I should trouble myself. Michaelis (or maybe it’s more respectful to call him Major Felsenhayn) is the only man who really counts. He’s always with you.”

  “Indeed, and why not? Major Felsenhayn is a distinguished officer, and—”

  “A gentleman? While I’m just a common agent, and neither. But my neck means as much to me as his means to him. The main difference is that he doesn’t leave your apartment until three or four in the morning. Some nights, I never hear him leave at all.”

  “Even so, what of it? If it were true, it would be the concern of himself and of me, but of no one else. Yes?”

  “Maybe. It the major were the only one I’d have no case. But what about Loeder?”

  Destrée leaned back and closed her eyes again. “I sometimes think of the cause for which we all risk our lives. It may count for little to you, but to me ... Perhaps I have never known love, or perhaps I have. What is sometimes called love is simply a natural appetite, and to gratify it is no more than to eat a peach or drink a glass of wine. If I have had lovers I have given them little. My attraction — agacerie — brings nothing to me except a means to achieve my end when other means fail. Giles Loeder was a bad man, a man of poor extraction; but he was strong — except in one respect. So, I played upon this weakness. I told him that he could be of great value to us. I told him that every woman has her price — and that this was mine. Very well. He was of great value to us: we may never be able to replace him. The price I had to pay in return was a small one, I think.”

  “While you had him under your thumb, maybe it seemed that way,” said Francis. “But the night he brought that girl along, it seemed different, or so I imagined.”

  “Ah! so!” Destrée widely opened her eyes and glanced aside at him. “My woman’s vanity really betrayed me?”

  “Really betrayed you!” Francis mocked. “What did you say to me? — and you knew the man you were talking to. You sai
d: ‘Loeder has insisted on withdrawing his capital to-night. I have paid him all we have in reserve. Go to the table and get the rest.’”

  “I remember saying something like that.”

  “I went to the table to draw out the balance. As I have already remarked I don’t know how the quarrel had come about, but I can guess. The girl was in the bar talking to Olivar. I just brought the notes to your room and walked right out. After Loeder had left, do you remember what you said to me? I have told you once. Let me remind you. You said: ‘Bring him back!’.”

  Destrée laughed, that tinkling laughter like an echo of fairy bells. “Well, you did not bring him back. If I seem mysterious, it is because you are mysterious. There is something you have never told me.”

  The vein which throbbed on Francis’s brow grew darker. “Listen — I never told you what that man said to me, did I?”

  “No, you merely told me that there was a scuffle, and — an accident.”

  “Well, when I clapped him on the shoulder (he hadn’t heard me coming up) he turned around like a shot. I could see he was all tensed up — and I don’t wonder. I said: ‘Listen, Loeder, I want to step into your apartment and explain to you that you have left us in rather a fix’. He said: ‘I suppose that woman sent you after me?’”

  “That woman,” murmured Destrée.

  “I told him I didn’t know what had happened and that I didn’t care, but if he would be reasonable everything could be settled in the morning. He said: ‘Nothing will be settled in the morning; I sha’n’t be there. I’m through with the whole business. When I’m sick of a woman I walk out — and I have walked out’.”

  Destrée laughed.

  “Is that really what he said?”