The Golden Scorpion

by Sax Rohmer

  II. "LE BALAFRE"

  CHAPTER I

  I BECOME CHARLES MALET

  Behold me established in rooms in Battersea and living retired duringthe day while I permitted my beard to grow. I had recognized that mymystery of "The Scorpion" was the biggest case which had ever engagedthe attention of the Service de Surete, and I was prepared, ifnecessary, to devote my whole time for twelve months to its solution.I had placed myself in touch with Paris, and had had certain papersand licenses forwarded to me. A daily bulletin reached me, and one ofthese bulletins was sensational.

  The body of Jean Sach had been recovered from the Seine. The man hadbeen stabbed to the heart. Surveillance of Miguel and his associatescontinued unceasingly, but I had directed that no raids or arrestswere to be made without direct orders from me.

  I was now possessed of a French motor license and also that of a Paristaxi-driver, together with all the other documents necessary toestablish the identity of one Charles Malet. Everything was in order.I presented myself--now handsomely bearded--at New Scotland Yard andapplied for a license. The "knowledge of London" and other tests Ipassed successfully and emerged a fully-fledged cabman!

  Already I had opened negotiations for the purchase of a dilapidatedbut seviceable cab which belonged to a small proprietor who hadobtained a car of more up-to-date pattern to replace this obsoleteone. I completed these negotiations by paying down a certain sum andarranged to garage my cab in the disused stable of a house near myrooms in Battersea.

  Thus I now found myself in a position to appear anywhere at any timewithout exciting suspicion, enabled swiftly to proceed from point topoint and to pursue anyone either walking or driving whom it mightplease me to pursue. It was a _modus operandi_ which had served me wellin Paris and which had led to one of my biggest successes (the captureof the French desperado known as "Mr. Q.") in New York.

  I had obtained, _via_ Paris, particulars of the recent death of SirFrank Narcombe, and the circumstances attendant upon his end were sosimilar to those which had characterized the fate of the Grand Duke,of Van Rembold and the others, that I could not for a moment believethem to be due to mere coincidence. Acting upon my advice Parisadvised Scotland Yard to press for a _post mortem_ examination of thebody, but the influence of Sir Frank's family was exercised to preventthis being carried out--and exercised successfully.

  Meanwhile, I hovered around the houses, flats, clubs and offices ofeveryone who had been associated with the late surgeon, noting to whataddresses they directed me to drive and who lived at those address. Inthis way I obtained evidence sufficient to secure three judicialseparations, but not a single clue leading to "The Scorpion"! Nomatter.

  At every available opportunity I haunted the East-End streets, hopingfor a glimpse of the big car and the brown-skinned chauffeur or of myscarred man from Paris. I frequented all sorts of public bars andeating-houses used by foreign and Asiatics. By day and by night Iroamed about the dismal thoroughfares of that depressing district,usually with my flag down to imply that I was engaged.

  Such diligence never goes long unrewarded. One evening, havingdischarged a passenger, a mercantile officer, at the East India Docks,as I was drifting, watchfully, back through Limehouse, I saw a largecar pull up just ahead of me in the dark. A man got out and the carwas driven off.

  Two courses presented themselves. I was not sure that this was thecar for which I sought, but it strangely resembled it. Should I followthe car or the man? A rapid decision was called for. I followed the man.

  That I had not been mistaken in the identity of the car shortlyappeared. The man took out a cigar and standing on the corner oppositethe Town Hall, lighted it. I was close to him at the time, and by thelight of the match, which he sheltered with his hands, I saw thescarred and bearded face! _Triomphe!_ it was he!

  Having lighted his cigar, he crossed the road and entered the saloonof a neighbourhood public-house. Locking my cab I, also, entered thatsaloon. I ordered a glass of bitter beer and glanced around at theobject of my interest. He had obtained a glass of brandy and wascontorting his hideous face as he sipped the beverage. I laughed.

  "Have they tried to poison you, mister!" I said.

  "Ah,_pardieu!_ poison--yes!" he replied.

  "You want to have it out of a bottle," I continued confidentially--"Martell's Three Stars."

  He stared at me uncomprehendingly.

  "I don't know," he said haltingly. "I have very little English."

  "Oh, that's it!" I cried, speaking French with a barbarous accent."You only speak French?"

  "Yes, yes," he replied eagerly. "It is so difficult to make oneselfunderstood. This spirit is not cognac, it is some kind of petrol!"

  Finishing my bitter, I ordered two glasses of good brandy and placedone before "Le Balafre."

  "Try that," I said, continuing to speak in French, "You will find itis better."

  He sipped from his glass and agreed that I was right. We chattedtogether for ten minutes and had another drink, after which mydangerous-looking acquaintance wished me good-night and went out. Thecar had come from the West, and I strongly suspected that my man eitherlived in the neighbourhood or had come there to keep an appointment.Leaving my cab outside the public-house, I followed him on foot, downThree Colt Street to Ropemaker Street, where he turned into a narrowalley leading to the riverside. It was straight and deserted, and Idared not follow further until he had reached the corner. I heard hisfootsteps pass right to the end. Then the sound died away. I ran tothe corner. The back of a wharf building--a high blank wall--faced arow of ramshackle tenements, some of them built of wood; but not asoul was in sight.

  I reluctantly returned to the spot at which I had left the cab--andfound a constable there who wanted to know what I meant by leaving avehicle in the street unattended. I managed to enlist his sympathy bytelling him that I had been in pursuit of a "fare" who had swindled mewith a bad half-crown. The ruse succeeded.

  "Which street did he go down, mate?" asked the constable.

  I described the street and described the scarred man. The constableshook his head.

  "Sounds like one o' them foreign sailormen," he said. "But I don'tknow what he can have gone down there for. It's nearly all Chinese,that part."

  His words came as a revelation; they changed the whole complexion ofthe case. It dawned upon me even as he spoke the word "Chinese" thatthe golden scorpion which I had seen in the Paris cafe was of Chineseworkmanship! I started my engine and drove slowly to that street inwhich I had lost the track of "Le Balafre." I turned the cab so thatI should be ready to drive off at a moment's notice, and sat therewondering what my next move should be. How long I had been there Icannot say, when suddenly it began to rain in torrents.

  What I might have done or what I had hoped to do is of no importance;for as I sat there staring out at the dismal rain-swept street, a mancame along, saw the head-lamps of the cab and stopped, peering in mydirection. Evidently perceiving that I drove a cab and not a privatecar, he came towards me.

  "Are you disengaged?" he asked.

  Whether it was that I sympathized with him--he had no topcoat orumbrella--or whether I was guided by Fate I know not, but as he spokeI determined to give up my dreary vigil for that night. _Pardieu!_ butcertainly it was Fate again!

  "Well, I suppose I am, sir," I said, and asked him where he wantedto go.

  He gave an address not five hundred yards from my own rooms! I thoughtthis so curious that I hesitated no longer.

  "Jump in," I said; and still seeking in my mind for a link between thescorpion case and China, I drove off, and in less than half an hour,for the streets were nearly empty, arrived at my destination.

  The passenger, whose name was Dr. Keppel Stuart, very kindly suggesteda glass of hot grog, and I did not refuse his proferred hospitality.When I came out of his house again, the rain had almost ceased, andjust as I stooped to crank the car I thought I saw a shadowy figuremoving near the end of a lane which led to the tradesmen's entrance ofDr. Stuart's house. A s
udden suspicion laid hold upon me--a horribledoubt.

  Having driven some twenty yards along the road, I leaned from my seatand looked back. A big man wearing a black waterproof overall wasstanding looking after me!

  Remembering how cleverly I had been trailed from Miguel's cafe to myflat, in Paris (for I no longer doubted that someone had followed meon that occasion), I now perceived that I might again be the object ofthe same expert's attention. Stopping my engine half-way along thenext road, I jumped out and ran back, hiding in the bushes which grewbeside the gate of a large empty house. I had only a few seconds towait.

  A big closed car, running almost silently, passed before me ... and"Le Balafre" was leaning out of the window!

  At last I saw my chance of finding the headquarters of "The Scorpion."Alas! The man of the scar was as swift to recognize that possibilityas I. A moment after he had passed my stationary cab, and found it tobe deserted, his big car was off like the wind, and even before Icould step out from the bushes the roar of the powerful engine wasgrowing dim in the distance!

  I was detected. I had to deal with dangerously clever people.