The Complete Simon Iff

by Aleister Crowley

  The Prince rubbed his hands softly together with satisfaction.

  "So you will please arrange with Mr. Berkeley to call here in the morning, and I will have my plan ready for him."

  The two men exchanged salutes as before; then the Prince once again became the butler, and retired to the servants' hall with a tray of liqueurs.

  IV

  Dolores, sitting in a prison cell, became a very formidable person indeed. The absolute silence and solitude, the remoteness of humanity, the absence of any possible distraction, acted upon her brain as a most potent stimulus. She began to understand what Simon Iff had once told her about the advantages of a hermit's life, such as he himself adopted at such frequent intervals. She felt that a few months of it would enable her to solve the secret of the Universe, just as he had done. But for the moment the possibilities of mysticism did not interest her. She concentrated, naturally enough, upon the immediate problem.

  In the first place, why prison? She felt pretty sure that her master was not there against his will. Perhaps he wanted just such facility for profound and undisturbed thought as she herself was enjoying. She had often heard him complain of the difficulty of concentration in New York City. Prison was a simple and ingenious substitute for a cloister! Also, it seemed probable that he feared for her life, after two, perhaps three, such narrow escapes.

  Next; why the great change in his manner towards her? He was going to expose the conspiracy; and he did not want her help. She was sure that he was not actuated by any ungenerous feeling. All she had to go on was the snub "Do as you like about it!"

  But what was his plan? To let the enemy pursue him, catch him. He had said so. He had some device in his mind, no doubt, for dealing with that situation; but then, why did he not want her to help? There could be only one answer: he was not perfectly sure of the result. He was going into danger, and he knew it. He would not tell her to go back to Boston, and throw up the case; he would know that that would be the very word to make her insist upon continuing.

  The more she thought over the situation the more she felt sure of the correctness of that conclusion. There was then only one course for her to take, and that was to watch over him. Whether his snub were due to scorn or to fatherly care, she would go on, either to show her mettle or to prove herself worthy of his loving thought, as the event might declare.

  She next turned her thoughts to the enemy. Who was it? Somebody with immense resources, with a brain altogether Machiavellian, and a supreme talent for organization. It must be some one highly placed in his own country, or he would not be trusted. Yet it could not be an accredited representative; the discovery of such a plot would mean war, and the events of the previous summer had proved conclusively that war was the one thing which that nation wished to avoid, even at the cost of humiliation in the face of the whole world. Who then would serve but a man who could be disowned? Was there no man of this sort available? Possibly there was some one who had been publicly disgraced, who was supposed even, it might be, to be dead. Her mind ran back over the years. Had not her father told her something once - something that suggested such a personality? Of course. The cap fitted a certain Prince Joachim von Araberg, a mathematician of the highest rank, a physiologist of extraordinary distinction and original views, who had become a specialist in psychotherapeutics. In 1901 he had been mixed up in an intrigue to manipulate the succession to a principality by driving the heir-apparent into insanity. The Emperor had interfered, the Prince was disgraced, and the report of his suicide in exile a year later had ended the scandal. She remembered, too, that her father had discredited the report at the time, saying that he was the last man in the world to kill himself, and a year or so afterwards had produced an anonymous monograph on the Binary Theorem of Fermat, published in Philadelphia, as evidence of his survival. "It's as characteristic as a photograph or a thumb-print," had been his comment. Dolores thought that her own identification was more than a little more than guesswork; it was not likely that two men should so accurately fill the conditions demanded by her problem.

  But her satisfaction was dimmed by the reflection that she had no evidence on his presence in America beyond her mere deduction, and that, even so, she had not the slightest idea where to begin to look for him.

  The next morning she was freed, with apologies, and her first thought was to communicate her idea to Simon Iff, who, they told her, had been released an hour before.

  She telephoned his apartment: he had not returned. A second call an hour later met with equal ill-luck. She began to be alarmed. Already he had plunged into the abyss. He was in danger, she was sure of that; and she had lost track of him completely.

  She began once more to analyze. Simon had told her that he meant to be caught, and that he would make the enemy think that he was an ass. Somehow, then, he was sure that they would no longer aim at his life, that they would try in some way to fool him. Simon's whole speech implied that he foresaw a personal interview, the most probable method of direct communication; and he intended to make no difficulty about this; he courted it. He must then be gone away on this business. But Dolores felt certain that the enemy - she already thought of him as Joachim - would terminate the interview, whatever its results, by the murder of her master. Of course, he might have taken some secret precautions; he might have arranged for some one to follow him, for instance, or for certain explosions to occur in case of his non-reappearance. She remembered with what unexpected foresight and resource he had acted on the morning Alma sailed.

  But where was he? The Lord only knew! On no! came the swift antiphone. There are men who know, and they can be made to tell.

  But who?

  V

  Simon Iff, returning with cheerful resignation to his apartment from the prison, had found Miss Mollie Madison waiting in the hall. There was also a gentleman, said the janitor, a Mr. Berkeley, on important business. Mr. Iff would be glad to speak with him.

  Mr. Berkeley approached hastily. His very elegant dress was slightly disordered, and he bore other marks of extreme impatience and agitation.

  "Shall we go upstairs?" asked Simon.

  "If you would only come direct? Every second is precious, unspeakably precious."

  "Certainly; I see your car is at the door. But what is the trouble?"

  Berkeley handed a letter to the magician: at the same time he gave the Sign of Distress of the Royal Arch. The letter, moreover, was written in the secret cipher of that Companionship, with which Simon Iff was well acquainted. But even when rendered into English, it remained quite unintelligible.

  "Three-one in Washington Square.

  Station of Principal Sojourner.

  Where was the Saviour born?

  Fourth from the East.

  I must die unless Companions rescue me."

  "This letter means nothing to you, Companion Berkeley?"

  "Nothing."

  "It is quite plain to me. Imagine yourself in a great Chapter-Room, with the Arch of Washington Square to represent the East, where the Three-One sit. Then where would the station of the Principal Sojourner be? Just one street away, to one side of Fifth Avenue. Where was the Saviour born? In a stable. There are several stables in that street; it's the fourth, counting from the East. Let's be off and help him! Come along, Mollie!"

  They got into Berkeley's car and started on their journey.

  "I was sure you would solve the puzzle," said the remittance man.

  "I was sure you were sure, because you wanted me to hurry, before I had even seen it."

  Berkeley looked a little confused.

  "I won't ask you how you got the letter, or why our Excellent Companion did not appeal to the community at large in the terrible situation in which he finds himself. Quite otherwise. I will ask you which college you were at."

  "Magdalen," answered Berkeley, with a sudden note of pain in his voice.

  "Ah, Magdalen!" cried Iff, with enthusiasm. "I am Cambridge, of course, Trinity, but I had rooms there once, Lord Gorham's ol
d rooms, do you remember? I was reading the Dee Manuscripts in the Bodder."

  Iff took no notice of the devious route by which the chauffeur chose to approach Washington Square, of his sudden changes of speed, or of the interest he took in any car which came up behind them. He talked of Magdalen Tower, the Thames, Iffley, the Broad, the High, the Radcliffe Camera, Tom Tower, the Torpids, Carfax - everything that means everything to Oxford men. He made history itself vital and lyric.

  Berkeley's interjections, at first mechanical, became gradually natural and enthusiastic.

  Iff noticed it, and suddenly changed the subject. "This is Third Avenue, isn't it?" Berkeley went white. "Yes, Mr. Iff, it is," he said in a tone of lamentable sadness. There was a moment's pause.

  "Mr. Iff, it has just struck me that the letter is some foolish hoax. Let's forget it, and go to lunch somewhere."

  "A letter in Our Cipher?" cried Simon in assumed surprise. "Impossible!"

  "I'm sure of it," answered Berkeley. "Now I come to think, I believe it's in Cummings' writing, and he's a practical joker, if ever there was one."

  "It is none the less our duty to investigate the matter. This is your car, of course; but we go to this stable, or Miss Madison and I get out and take a taxi."

  Berkeley acquiesced with a groan.

  It is my first rule," continued the magician, "never to let any thing interfere with plans once agreed upon. Think what would happen to the Solar System if the planet Jupiter suddenly decided to lunch at Delmonico's! The Way of the Tao is to allow everything to happen. It all comes right in the end."

  Simon Iff, perceiving Washington Square in the distance, gave his directions through the speaking-tube.

  There was no difficulty in finding the stable indicated in the letter. The party got out, and the magician rapped upon the door. It slowly opened.

  The interior of the stable was very dark, but Mollie, who kept close to 'Cephas' while Berkeley shut the door, caught the glint of levelled pistols. She sprang impetuously in front of the mystic.

  "Charming of you, child!" he said calmly. "But the revolvers are only for effect."

  "For effect indeed!" boomed a sinister voice from the darkness.

  "This is merely a pleasant talk between old friends. Is it not so, Prince Joachim?"

  "You know me - so!"

  "Who could forget that wonderful voice - the very incarnation of will-power? Didn't we meet at Munich in July of '84?"

  "Very good, Mr. Iff. We may have light then for our pleasant talk!"

  "Please do," said Simon. "I dislike to smoke in the dark." And as an electric bulb glowed overhead, he offered his case to the Prince. The latter took one thoughtfully, but did not light it.

  "I do not quite understand your attitude, Mr. Iff," he said slowly.

  "Exactly," replied the magician, very cordially, as he lighted his cigar. "That is why I have come here. Pray observe; our apparent antagonism is entirely on your side. We are both agents of the Great Purpose; but perhaps you do not understand so well as I do how this can be so."

  "Ha!" said the Prince. "Do they keep something back from me in the Wilhelmstrasse?"

  "Possibly," said Iff, with cool insolence.

  "I do not like this," said Joachim heavily; "I do not like this at all; no, it is sure that I do not like this." He looked at his companion, who wore a black mask. The reply was a shrug of the shoulders.

  "Yes, there is something wrong," said the Prince. "I know it is so because you think it is not so."

  "Yes; von Weibheim always was a fool," chirped Simple Simon. "I recognize him by the shape of his chin and the very characteristic creases in his waistcoat."

  "Hell!" said Prince Joachim, solidly and emphatically, "Hell!"

  "True," said Iff.

  "Berkeley," said the Prince, in swift incisive tones, "Mr. Iff made no attempt to communicate with anybody?"

  "None. I can swear to it."

  "And you were not followed?"

  "Bauerkeller is your own man. Can't you trust him?"

  "I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that I took no precautions of any sort. If anybody knows where I am, it is you, not I, who have told. I was particularly careful for a very special reason, which you may learn later, to leave absolutely no clue to my movements." The Prince knew enough not to doubt for a second that Iff was speaking the truth.

  "Well, then, well. Perhaps Mr. Iff has learnt the bluff of these idiotic Yankees. It will not go with us. I have perhaps a little surprise for you, Mr. Magician. A little atropine in your veins, and a little ether and nitrous oxide in your nostriles, and with my will-power and my soul-science you shall tell me in your delirium what I want to know."

  "Why trouble yourself?" said Simple Simon. "I can't answer for the Wilhelmstrasse, but I have certainly no secrets from you. Come; how can I enlighten you?"

  "There is something very wrong," mused the other; "very wrong. But we must just try it out. Please step to this side!"

  He began his examination in a low voice. He was answered simply, fluently, convincingly, without the least attempt at concealment or equivocation. The magician revealed a dozen secrets, any one of them enough to shake the world. Prince Joachim positively gasped. Simon Iff, in twenty minutes' conversation, had made him one of the fifty most powerful statesmen in the world. But once again his scepticism stopped him.

  "There is something wrong," he repeated ponderously, "there is something behind all this. Why do you so willingly tell me these things, Mr. Iff?"

  "It is the Way of the Tao, Prince. You ask me, and I tell you. What can be more simple? Surely you can see that all the trouble in this world arises from not being natural, from raising artificial obstacles where none need exist!"

  "Ah well, if it is mysticism, very good. Very good. That and the so much alcohol - and the drugs also - they have made the brain soft. I understand. Well, I know all now. What is the combination of your safe, please?"

  "The word is Water. The strongest thing in the world, Prince, because it doesn't resist."

  "And will you write me a letter, so that I may visit your bank? I must have that little paper, Mr. Iff."

  "Certainly, with pleasure. I am always delighted to oblige."

  He wrote the desired authorization, and handed it to the Prince with a low bow.

  "It is ended, then," said the latter, with a change in his voice. "I suppose you think, Mr. Iff," he continued impressively, "that I am deceived by your foolish talk about the Tao. A fig! Rubbish! Rubbish! You say it to save your face. No, you knew that you were in my power, and hoped to buy your life by servile obedience. But, Mr. Iff, it will not do. I tell you that it will not do. If I let you go you might become dangerous again."

  "Let me enlighten you on one more point before I die. I was never dangerous to you. The defect of such minds as your own is that you always look for danger in the wrong place."

  "There is something very wrong," reiterated the Prince. "But it can do no harm to hurry with our programme. Mr. Berkeley, you will please kill these good people, and we will go away and leave them to Mother Meakins to clean up."

  "I'm damned if I do," answered Berkeley. "Mr. Iff has behaved like a gentleman. He has told you all you wanted to know, and I won't do your butcher's work. A girl into the bargain as well. No, I'm through."

  "You see where you go wrong," said Simple Simon to the astounded Prince, who had expected anything rather than that such a well-tried tool should break in his hand. "A broken gentleman is still a gentleman, if you know how to remind him of it."

  The Prince found his voice. "I must break my rule," he said hesitatingly, "and do it myself. And I shall include you, Mr. Berkeley, in the butcher's work. Keep them covered, von Weibheim; I will do what is necessary without noise."

  The momentary silence that followed was broken by a resounding knock upon the door. The Prince sprang to the situation.

  "Throw away those silly guns, Fritz, you fool. We must open. I knew there was something wrong. Open, Mr. Berkeley.
Will you try one of my cigars, Mr. Iff?"

  "Thank you," said Simon, "I am sure they are better than mine."

  As Berkeley lifted the latch the door was thrust violently inwards, and Mr. Commissioner Teake with six armed detectives burst into the stable.

  Behind them, particularly cool and supercilious, sailed Dolores Cass.

  The three conspirators made no resistance to the police.

  "Ah, Dolores!" smiled Simon, "you must really let me introduce Prince Joachim von Arnberg."

  "I feel already as if he were an old friend. My father used often to speak to me of him."

  "So!" growled the captive.

  "But that doesn't explain it at all," interjected Simon. "And I'm quite as anxious to know as the Prince is."

  "Know what?" came the sinister voice.

  "How this lady got here, of course."

  "Why," said Dolores, "it was really very exciting. I had no idea whatever where to look for you. But I reasoned that if you had been lured away to be murdered by this very highly organized gang, it was probably to be a place carefully prepared, with all the latest improvements for getting rid of bodies. But who knew where that was? The Prince was kind enough to provide me with a guide - the man who had just confessed to the shootings which I knew he didn't do. So he must have been a member of the gang. I went to Mr. Teake, who has been very kind in every way, and gave me a free hand."