The Yellow Claw gm-1

by Sax Rohmer

  "Oh, my God! how horrible!" whispered Helen.

  "A certain notorious character," resumed Dr. Cumberly…

  "Soames!" snapped Denise Ryland. "Since I heard… that man's name I knew him for… a villain… of the worst possible… description… imaginable."

  "Soames," replied Dr. Cumberly, smiling slightly, "was one of the group, beyond doubt—for I may as well explain that we are dealing with an elaborate organization; but the chief member, to whom I have referred, is a greater one than Soames. He is a certain shadowy being, known as Mr. King."

  "The name on the paper!" said Helen, quickly. "But of course the police have been looking for Mr. King all along?"

  "In a general way—yes; but as we have thousands of Kings in London alone, the task is a stupendous one. The information which I received this morning narrows down the search immensely; for it points to Mr. King being the chief, or president, of a sort of opium syndicate, and, furthermore, it points to his being a Chinaman."

  "A Chinaman!" cried Denise and Helen together.

  "It is not absolutely certain, but it is more than probable. The point is that Mrs. Leroux has not eloped with some unknown lover; she is in one of the opium establishments of Mr. King."

  "Do you mean that she is detained there?" asked Helen.

  "It appears to me, now, to be certain that she is. My hypothesis is that she was an habitue of this place, as also was Mrs. Vernon. These unhappy women, by means of elaborate plans, made on their behalf by the syndicate, indulged in periodical opium orgies. It was a game well worth the candle, as the saying goes, from the syndicate's standpoint; for Mrs. Leroux, alone, has paid no less than a thousand pounds to the opium group!"

  "A thousand pounds!" cried Denise Ryland. "You don't mean to tell me that that… silly fool… of a man, Harry Leroux… has allowed himself to be swindled of… all that money?"

  "There is not the slightest doubt about it," Dr. Cumberly assured her; "he opened a credit to that amount in Paris, and the entire sum has been absorbed by Mr. King!"

  "It's almost incredible!" said Helen.

  "I quite agree with you," replied her father. "Of course, most people know that there are opium dens in London, as in almost every other big city, but the existence of these palatial establishments, conducted by Mr. King, although undoubtedly a fact, is a fact difficult to accept. It doesn't seem possible that such a place can be conducted secretly; whereas I am assured that all the efforts of Scotland Yard thus far have failed to locate the site of the London branch."

  "But surely," cried Denise Ryland, nostrils dilated indignantly, "some of the… customers of this… disgusting place… can be followed?"…

  "The difficulty is to identify them," explained Cumberly. "Opium smoking is essentially a secret vice; a man does not visit an opium den openly as he would visit his club; and the elaborate precautions adopted by the women are illustrated in the case of Mrs. Vernon, and in the case of Mrs. Leroux. It is a pathetic fact almost daily brought home to me, that women who acquire a drug habit become more rapidly and more entirely enslaved by it than does a man. It becomes the center of the woman's existence; it becomes her god: all other claims, social and domestic, are disregarded. Upon this knowledge, Mr. King has established his undoubtedly extensive enterprise."…

  Dr. Cumberly stood up.

  "I will go down and see Leroux," he announced quietly. "His sorrow hitherto has been secondary to his indignation. Possibly ignorance in this case is preferable to the truth, but nevertheless I am determined to tell him what I know. Give me ten minutes or so, and then join me. Are you agreeable?"

  "Quite," said Helen.

  Dr. Cumberly departed upon his self-imposed mission.

  Chapter 25 FATE'S SHUTTLECOCK

  Some ten minutes later, Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland were in turn admitted to Henry Leroux's flat. They found him seated on a couch in his dining-room, wearing the inevitable dressing-gown. Dr. Cumberly, his hands clasped behind him, stood looking out of the window.

  Leroux's pallor now was most remarkable; his complexion had assumed an ivory whiteness which lent his face a sort of statuesque beauty. He was cleanly shaven (somewhat of a novelty), and his hair was brushed back from his brow. But the dark blue eyes were very tragic.

  He rose at sight of his new visitors, and a faint color momentarily tinged his cheeks. Helen Cumberly grasped his outstretched hand, then looked away quickly to where her father was standing.

  "I almost thought," said Leroux, "that you had deserted me."

  "No," said Helen, seeming to speak with an effort—"we—my father, thought—that you needed quiet."

  Denise Ryland nodded grimly.

  "But now," she said, in her most truculent manner, "we are going to… drag you out of… your morbid… self… for a change… which you need… if ever a man… needed it."

  "I have just prescribed a drive," said Dr. Cumberly, turning to them, "for to-morrow morning; with lunch at Richmond and a walk across the park, rejoining the car at the Bushey Gate, and so home to tea."

  Henry Leroux looked eagerly at Helen in silent appeal. He seemed to fear that she would refuse.

  "Do you mean that you have included us in the prescription, father?" she asked.

  "Certainly; you are an essential part of it."

  "It will be fine," said the girl quietly; "I shall enjoy it."

  "Ah!" said Leroux, with a faint note of contentment in his voice; and he reseated himself.

  There was an interval of somewhat awkward silence, to be broken by Denise Ryland.

  "Dr. Cumberly has told you the news?" she asked, dropping for the moment her syncopated and pugnacious manner.

  Leroux closed his eyes and leant back upon the couch.

  "Yes," he replied. "And to think that I am a useless wreck—a poor parody of a man—whilst—Mira is… Oh, God! help me!—God help HER!"

  He was visibly contending with his emotions; and Helen Cumberly found herself forced to turn her head aside.

  "I have been blind," continued Leroux, in a forced, monotonous voice. "That Mira has not—deceived me, in the worst sense of the word, is in no way due to my care of her. I recognize that, and I accept my punishment; for I deserved it. But what now overwhelms me is the knowledge, the frightful knowledge, that in a sense I have misjudged her, that I have remained here inert, making no effort, thinking her absence voluntary, whilst—God help her!—she has been"…

  "Once again, Leroux," interrupted Dr. Cumberly, "I must ask you not to take too black a view. I blame myself more than I blame you, for having failed to perceive what as an intimate friend I had every opportunity to perceive; that your wife was acquiring the opium habit. You have told me that you count her as dead"—he stood beside Leroux, resting both hands upon the bowed shoulders—"I have not encouraged you to change that view. One who has cultivated—the—vice, to a point where protracted absences become necessary—you understand me?—is, so far as my experience goes"…

  "Incurable! I quite understand," jerked Leroux. "A thousand times better dead, indeed."

  "The facts as I see them," resumed the physician, "as I see them, are these: by some fatality, at present inexplicable, a victim of the opium syndicate met her death in this flat. Realizing that the inquiries brought to bear would inevitably lead to the cross-examination of Mrs. Leroux, the opium syndicate has detained her; was forced to detain her."

  "Where is the place," began Leroux, in a voice rising higher with every syllable—"where is the infamous den to which—to which"…

  Dr. Cumberly pressed his hands firmly upon the speaker's shoulders.

  "It is only a question of time, Leroux," he said, "and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that—though at a great cost to yourself—this dreadful evil has been stamped out, that this yellow peril has been torn from the heart of society. Now, I must leave you for the present; but rest assured that everything possible is being done to close the nets about Mr. King."

  "Ah!" whispered Leroux, "MR. KING!"


  "The circle is narrowing," continued the physician. "I may not divulge confidences; but a very clever man—the greatest practical criminologist in Europe—is devoting the whole of his time, night and day, to this object."

  Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland exhibited a keen interest in the words, but Leroux, with closed eyes, merely nodded in a dull way. Shortly, Dr. Cumberly took his departure, and, Helen looking at her companion interrogatively:—

  "I think," said Denise Ryland, addressing Leroux, "that you should not over-tax your strength at present." She walked across to where he sat, and examined some proofslips lying upon the little table beside the couch. "'Martin Zeda,'" she said, with a certain high disdain. "Leave 'Martin Zeda' alone for once, and read a really cheerful book!"

  Leroux forced a smile to his lips.

  "The correction of these proofs," he said diffidently, "exacts no great mental strain, but is sufficient to—distract my mind. Work, after all, is nature's own sedative."

  "I rather agree with Mr. Leroux, Denise," said Helen;—"and really you must allow him to know best."

  "Thank you," said Leroux, meeting her eyes momentarily. "I feared that I was about to be sent to bed like a naughty boy!"

  "I hope it's fine to-morrow," said Helen rapidly. "A drive to Richmond will be quite delightful."

  "I think, myself," agreed Leroux, "that it will hasten my recovery to breathe the fresh air once again."

  Knowing how eagerly he longed for health and strength, and to what purpose, the girl found something very pathetic in the words.

  "I wish you were well enough to come out this afternoon," she said; "I am going to a private view at Olaf van Noord's studio. It is sure to be an extraordinary afternoon. He is the god of the Soho futurists, you know. And his pictures are the weirdest nightmares imaginable. One always meets such singular people there, too, and I am honored in receiving an invitation to represent the Planet!"

  "I consider," said Denise Ryland, head wagging furiously again, "that the man is… mad. He had an exhibition… in Paris … and everybody… laughed at him… simply LAUGHED at him."

  "But financially, he is very successful," added Helen.

  "Financially!" exclaimed Denise Ryland, "FINANCIALLY! To criticize a man's work… financially, is about as… sensible as… to judge the Venus… de Milo… by weight!—or to sell the works… of Leonardo… da Vinci by the… yard! Olaf van Noord is nothing but… a fool… of the worst possible… description… imaginable."

  "He is at least an entertaining fool!" protested Helen, laughingly.

  "A mountebank!" cried Denise Ryland; "a clown… a pantaloon… a whole family of… idiots… rolled into one!"

  "It seems unkind to run away and leave you here—in your loneliness," said Helen to Leroux; "but really I must be off to the wilds of Soho."…

  "To-morrow," said Leroux, standing up and fixing his eyes upon her lingeringly, "will be a red-letter day. I have no right to complain, whilst such good friends remain to me—such true friends."…

  Chapter 26 "OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES"

  A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord's large and dirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those weird and nondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre in the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals, representing the Press, leavened the throng, but the entire gathering—"advanced" and unenlightened alike—seemed to be drawn to a common focus: a large canvas placed advantageously in the southeast corner of the studio, where it enjoyed all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.

  Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching stool, and handling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder with much grace, was Olaf van Noord. He had hair of so light a yellow as sometimes to appear white, worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut squarely all around behind, lending him a medieval appearance. He wore a slight mustache carefully pointed; and his scanty vandyke beard could not entirely conceal the weakness of his chin. His complexion had the color and general appearance of drawing-paper, and in his large blue eyes was an eerie hint of sightlessness. He was attired in a light tweed suit cut in an American pattern, and out from his low collar flowed a black French knot.

  Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland, advancing across the floor with the measured gait of a tragic actor. He greeted them aloofly, and a little negro boy proffered tiny cups of China tea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as her gaze swept the picture-covered walls; but she seemed to approve of the tea.

  The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing little yellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly smilingly refused, but Denise Ryland took one of the cigarettes, sniffed at it superciliously—and then replaced it in the box.

  "It has a most… egregiously horrible… odor," she commented.

  "They are a special brand," explained Olaf van Noord, distractedly, "which I have imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a small percentage of opium."

  "Opium!" exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring at the speaker and then at Helen Cumberly, as though the latter were responsible in some way for the vices of the painter.

  "Yes," he said, reclosing the box, and pacing somberly to the door to greet a new arrival.

  "Did you ever in all your life," said Denise Ryland, glancing about her, "see such an exhibition… of nightmares?"

  Certainly, the criticism was not without justification; the dauby-looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible water-colors, and riotous charcoal sketches which formed the mural decoration of the studio were distinctly "advanced." But, since the center of interest seemed to be the large canvas on the easel, the two moved to the edges of the group of spectators and began to examine this masterpiece. A very puzzled newspaperman joined them, bending and whispering to Helen Cumberly:

  "Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am writing it up as a practical joke! We are giving him half a column—Lord knows what for!—but I can't see how to handle it except as funny stuff."

  "But, for heaven's sake… what does he… CALL it?" muttered Denise Ryland, holding a pair of gold rimmed pince-nez before her eyes, and shifting them to and fro in an endeavor to focus the canvas.

  "'Our Lady of the Poppies,'" replied the journalist. "Do you think it's intended to mean anything in particular?"

  The question was no light one; it embodied a problem not readily solved. The scene depicted, and depicted with a skill, with a technical mastery of the bizarre that had in it something horrible—was a long narrow room—or, properly, cavern. The walls apparently were hewn from black rock, and at regular intervals, placed some three feet from these gleaming walls, uprose slender golden pillars supporting a kind of fretwork arch which entirely masked the ceiling. The point of sight adopted by the painter was peculiar. One apparently looked down into this apartment from some spot elevated fourteen feet or more above the floor level. The floor, which was black and polished, was strewn with tiger skins; and little, inlaid tables and garishly colored cushions were spread about in confusion, whilst cushioned divans occupied the visible corners of the place. The lighting was very "advanced": a lamp, having a kaleidoscopic shade, swung from the center of the roof low into the room and furnished all the illumination.

  Three doors were visible; one, directly in line at the further end of the place, apparently of carved ebony inlaid with ivory; another, on the right, of lemon wood or something allied to it, and inlaid with a design in some emerald hued material; with a third, corresponding door, on the left, just barely visible to the spectator.

  Two figures appeared. One was that of a Chinaman in a green robe scarcely distinguishable from the cushions surrounding him, who crouched upon the divan to the left of the central door, smoking a long bamboo pipe. His face was the leering face of a yellow satyr. But, dominating the composition, and so conceived in form, in color, and in lighting, as to claim the attention centrally, so that the other extravagant details became but a setting for it, was another
figure.

  Upon a slender ivory pedestal crouched a golden dragon, and before the pedestal was placed a huge Chinese vase of the indeterminate pink seen in the heart of a rose, and so skilfully colored as to suggest an internal luminousness. The vase was loaded with a mass of exotic poppies, a riotous splash of color; whilst beside this vase, and slightly in front of the pedestal, stood the figure presumably intended to represent the Lady of the Poppies who gave title to the picture.

  The figure was that of an Eastern girl, slight and supple, and possessing a devilish and forbidding grace. Her short hair formed a black smudge upon the canvas, and cast a dense shadow upon her face. The composition was infinitely daring; for out of this shadow shone the great black eyes, their diablerie most cunningly insinuated; whilst with a brilliant exclusion of detail—by means of two strokes of the brush steeped in brightest vermilion, and one seemingly haphazard splash of dead white—an evil and abandoned smile was made to greet the spectator.

  To the waist, the figure was a study in satin nudity, whence, from a jeweled girdle, light draperies swept downward, covering the feet and swinging, a shimmering curve out into the foreground of the canvas, the curve being cut off in its apogee by the gold frame.

  Above her head, this girl of demoniacal beauty held a bunch of poppies seemingly torn from the vase: this, with her left hand; with her right she pointed, tauntingly, at her beholder.

  In comparison with the effected futurism of the other pictures in the studio, "Our Lady of the Poppies," beyond question was a great painting. From a point where the entire composition might be taken in by the eye, the uncanny scene glowed with highly colored detail; but, exclude the scheme of the composition, and focus the eye upon any one item—the golden dragon—the seated Chinaman—the ebony door—the silk-shaded lamp; it had no detail whatever: one beheld a meaningless mass of colors. Individually, no one section of the canvas had life, had meaning; but, as a whole, it glowed, it lived—it was genius. Above all, it was uncanny.