The Yellow Claw

by Sax Rohmer

  XXVII

  GROVE OF A MILLION APES

  Four men sauntered up the grand staircase and entered the hugesmoking-room of the Radical Club as Big Ben was chiming the hour ofeleven o'clock. Any curious observer who had cared to consult thevisitor's book in the hall, wherein the two lines last written were notyet dry, would have found the following entries:

  VISITOR RESIDENCE INTROD'ING MEMBER Dr. Bruce Cumberly London John Exel M. Gaston Paris Brian Malpas

  The smoking-room was fairly full, but a corner near the big open gratehad just been vacated, and here, about a round table, the four disposedthemselves. Our French acquaintance being in evening dress had perforceconfined himself in his sartorial eccentricities to a flowing silkknot in place of the more conventional, neat bow. He was already upondelightfully friendly terms with the frigid Exel and the aristocraticSir Brian Malpas. Few natures were proof against the geniality of thebrilliant Frenchman.

  Conversation drifted, derelict, from one topic to another, now seizedby this current of thought, now by that; and M. Gaston Max made noperceptible attempt to steer it in any given direction. But presently:

  "I was reading a very entertaining article," said Exel, turning hismonocle upon the physician, "in the Planet to-day, from the pen of MissCumberly; Ah! dealing with Olaf van Noord."

  Sir Brian Malpas suddenly became keenly interested.

  "You mean in reference to his new picture, 'Our Lady of the Poppies'?"he said.

  "Yes," replied Exel, "but I was unaware that you knew van Noord?"

  "I do not know him," said Sir Brian, "I should very much like to meethim. But directly the picture is on view to the public I shall certainlysubscribe my half-crown."

  "My own idea," drawled Exel, "was that Miss Cumberly's article probablywas more interesting than the picture or the painter. Her descriptionof the canvas was certainly most vivid; and I, myself, for a moment,experienced an inclination to see the thing. I feel sure, however, thatI should be disappointed."

  "I think you are wrong," interposed Cumberly. "Helen is enthusiasticabout the picture, and even Miss Ryland, whom you have met and who is asomewhat severe critic, admits that it is out of the ordinary."

  Max, who covertly had been watching the face of Sir Brian Malpas, saidat this point:

  "I would not miss it for anything, after reading Miss Cumberly's accountof it. When are you thinking of going to see it, Sir Brian? I mightarrange to join you."

  "Directly the exhibition is opened," replied the baronet, lapsing againinto his dreamy manner. "Ring me up when you are going, and I will joinyou."

  "But you might be otherwise engaged?"

  "I never permit business," said Sir Brian, "to interfere with pleasure."

  The words sounded absurd, but, singularly, the statement was true. SirBrian had won his political position by sheer brilliancy. He was utterlyunreliable and totally indifferent to that code of social obligationswhich ordinarily binds his class. He held his place by force ofintellect, and it was said of him that had he possessed the faintestconception of his duties toward his fellow men, nothing could haveprevented him from becoming Prime Minister. He was a puzzle to all whoknew him. Following a most brilliant speech in the House, which wouldwin admiration and applause from end to end of the Empire, he would,perhaps on the following day, exhibit something very like stupidityin debate. He would rise to address the House and take his seat againwithout having uttered a word. He was eccentric, said his admirers, butthere were others who looked deeper for an explanation, yet failed tofind one, and were thrown back upon theories.

  M. Max, by strategy, masterful because it was simple, so arrangedmatters that at about twelve o'clock he found himself strolling with SirBrian Malpas toward the latter's chambers in Piccadilly.

  A man who wore a raincoat with the collar turned up and buttoned tightlyabout his throat, and whose peculiar bowler hat seemed to be so tightlypressed upon his head that it might have been glued there, detachedhimself from the shadows of the neighboring cab rank as M. Gaston Maxand Sir Brian Malpas quitted the Club, and followed them at a discreetdistance.

  It was a clear, fine night, and both gentlemen formed conspicuousfigures, Sir Brian because of his unusual height and upright militarybearing, and the Frenchman by reason of his picturesque cloak andhat. Up Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square and so on up toPiccadilly Circus went the two, deep in conversation; with the tirelessman in the raincoat always dogging their footsteps. So the processionproceeded on, along Piccadilly. Then Sir Brian and M. Max turned intothe door of a block of chambers, and a constable, who chanced to bepassing at the moment, touched his helmet to the baronet.

  As the two were entering the lift, the follower came up level with thedoorway and abreast of the constable; the top portion of a very redface showed between the collar of the raincoat and the brim of the hat,together with a pair of inquiring blue eyes.

  "Reeves!" said the follower, addressing the constable.

  The latter turned and stared for a moment at the speaker; then salutedhurriedly.

  "Don't do that!" snapped the proprietor of the bowler; "you should knowbetter! Who was that gentleman?"

  "Sir Brian Malpas, sir."

  "Sir Brian Malpas?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And the other?"

  "I don't know, sir. I have never seen him before."

  "H'm!" grunted Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, walking across the roadtoward the Park with his hands thrust deep in his pockets; "I have! Whatthe deuce is Max up to? I wonder if Dunbar knows about this move?"

  He propped himself up against the railings, scarcely knowing what heexpected to gain by remaining there, but finding the place as wellsuited to reflection as any other. He shared with Dunbar a dread thatthe famous Frenchman would bring the case to a successful conclusionunaided by Scotland Yard, thus casting professional discredit uponDunbar and himself.

  His presence at that spot was largely due to accident. He had chanced tobe passing the Club when Sir Brian and M. Max had come out, and, fearfulthat the presence of the tall stranger portended some new move on theFrenchman's part, Sowerby had followed, hoping to glean something bypersistency when clues were unobtainable by other means. He had had notime to make inquiries of the porter of the Club respecting the identityof M. Max's companion, and thus, as has appeared, he did not obtain thedesired information until his arrival in Piccadilly.

  Turning over these matters in his mind, Sowerby stood watching the blockof buildings across the road. He saw a light spring into being in a roomoverlooking Piccadilly, a room boasting a handsome balcony. This tookplace some two minutes after the departure of the lift bearing Sir Brianand his guest upward; so that Sowerby permitted himself to conclude thatthe room with the balcony belonged to Sir Brian Malpas.

  He watched the lighted window aimlessly and speculated upon the natureof the conversation then taking place up there above him. Had hepossessed the attributes of a sparrow, he thought, he might have flownup to that balcony and have "got level" with this infernally cleverFrenchman who was almost certainly going to pull off the case under thevery nose of Scotland Yard.

  In short, his reflections were becoming somewhat bitter; and persuadedthat he had nothing to gain by remaining there any longer he was aboutto walk off, when his really remarkable persistency received a trivialreward.

  One of the windows communicating with the balcony was suddenly thrownopen, so that Sowerby had a distant view of the corner of a picture, ofthe extreme top of a book-case, and of a patch of white ceiling in theroom above; furthermore he had a clear sight of the man who had openedthe window, and who now turned and reentered the room. The man was SirBrian Malpas.

  Heedless of the roaring traffic stream, upon the brink of which hestood, heedless of all who passed him by, Sowerby gazed aloft, seekingto project himself, as it were, into that lighted room. Not being anaccomplished clairvoyant, he remained in all his component parts uponthe pavement o
f Piccadilly; but ours is the privilege to succeed whereSowerby failed, and the comedy being enacted in the room above shouldprove well deserving of study.

  To the tactful diplomacy of M. Gaston Max, the task of securing fromSir Brian an invitation to step up into his chambers in order to smokea final cigar was no heavy one. He seated himself in a deep armchair, atthe baronet's invitation, and accepted a very fine cigar, contentedly,sniffing at the old cognac with the appreciation of a connoisseur, ereholding it under the syphon.

  He glanced around the room, noting the character of the ornaments,and looked up at the big bookshelf which was near to him; these rapidinquiries dictated the following remark: "You have lived in China, SirBrian?"

  Sir Brian surveyed him with mild surprise.

  "Yes," he replied; "I was for some time at the Embassy in Pekin."

  His guest nodded, blowing a ring of smoke from his lips and tracing itshazy outline with the lighted end of his cigar.

  "I, too, have been in China," he said slowly.

  "What, really! I had no idea."

  "Yes--I have been in China... I"...

  M. Gaston grew suddenly deathly pale and his fingers began to twitchalarmingly. He stared before him with wide-opened eyes and began tocough and to choke as if suffocating--dying.

  Sir Brian Malpas leapt to his feet with an exclamation of concern. Hisvisitor weakly waved him away, gasping: "It is nothing... it will...pass off. Oh! mon dieu!"...

  Sir Brian ran and opened one of the windows to admit more air tothe apartment. He turned and looked back anxiously at the man in thearmchair.

  M. Gaston, twitching in a pitiful manner and still frightfully pale, wasclutching the chair-arms and glaring straight in front of him. Sir Brianstarted slightly and advanced again to his visitor's side.

  The burning cigar lay upon the carpet beside the chair, and SirBrian took it up and tossed it into the grate. As he did so he lookedsearchingly into the eyes of M. Gaston. The pupils were extraordinarydilated....

  "Do you feel better?" asked Sir Brian.

  "Much better," muttered M. Gaston, his face twitching nervously--"muchbetter."

  "Are you subject to these attacks?"

  "Since--I was in China--yes, unfortunately."

  Sir Brian tugged at his fair mustache and seemed about to speak, thenturned aside, and, walking to the table, poured out a peg of brandy andoffered it to his guest.

  "Thanks," said M. Gaston; "many thanks indeed, but already I recover.There is only one thing that would hasten my recovery, and that, I fear,is not available."

  "What is that?"

  He looked again at M. Gaston's eyes with their very dilated pupils.

  "Opium!" whispered M. Gaston.

  "What! you... you"...

  "I acquired the custom in China," replied the Frenchman, his voicegradually growing stronger; "and for many years, now, I have regardedopium, as essential to my well-being. Unfortunately business hasdetained me in London, and I have been forced to fast for an unusuallylong time. My outraged constitution is protesting--that is all."

  He shrugged his shoulders and glanced up at his host with an odd smile.

  "You have my sympathy," said Sir Brian....

  "In Paris," continued the visitor, "I am a member of a select and cozylittle club; near the Boulevard Beaumarchais...."

  "I have heard of it," interjected Malpas--"on the Rue St. Claude?"

  "That indeed is its situation," replied the other with surprise. "Youknow someone who is a member?"

  Sir Brian Malpas hesitated for ten seconds or more; then, crossing theroom and reclosing the window, he turned, facing his visitor across thelarge room.

  "I was a member, myself, during the time that I lived in Paris," hesaid, in a hurried manner which did not entirely serve to cover hisconfusion.

  "My dear Sir Brian! We have at least one taste in common!"

  Sir Brian Malpas passed his hand across his brow with a weary gesturewell-known to fellow Members of Parliament, for it often presaged theabrupt termination of a promising speech.

  "I curse the day that I was appointed to Pekin," he said; "for it was inPekin that I acquired the opium habit. I thought to make it my servant;it has made me"...

  "What! you would give it up?"

  Sir Brian surveyed the speaker with surprise again.

  "Do you doubt it?"

  "My dear Sir Brian!" cried the Frenchman, now completely restored, "myreal life is lived in the land of the poppies; my other life is but ashadow! Morbleu! to be an outcast from that garden of bliss is to metorture excruciating. For the past three months I have regularly met inmy trances."...

  Sir Brian shuddered coldly.

  "In my explorations of that wonderland," continued the Frenchman, "amost fascinating Eastern girl. Ah! I cannot describe her; for when, ata time like this, I seek to conjure up her image,--nom d'un nom! do youknow, I can think of nothing but a serpent!"

  "A serpent!"

  "A serpent, exactly. Yet, when I actually meet her in the land of thepoppies, she is a dusky Cleopatra in whose arms I forget the world--eventhe world of the poppy. We float down the stream together, always inan Indian bark canoe, and this stream runs through orange groves.Numberless apes--millions of apes, inhabit these groves, and as wetwo float along, they hurl orange blossoms--orange blossoms, youunderstand--until the canoe is filled with them. I assure you, monsieur,that I perform these delightful journeys regularly, and to be deprivedof the key which opens the gate of this wonderland, is to me like beingexiled from a loved one. Pardieu! that grove of the apes! Morbleu! mywitch of the dusky eyes! Yet, as I have told you, owing to some trick ofmy brain, whilst I can experience an intense longing for that companionof my dreams, my waking attempts to visualize her provide nothing butthe image"...

  "Of a serpent," concluded Sir Brian, smiling pathetically. "You areindeed an enthusiast, M. Gaston, and to me a new type. I had supposedthat every slave of the drug cursed his servitude and loathed anddespised himself."...

  "Ah, monsieur! to ME those words sound almost like a sacrilege!"

  "But," continued Sir Brian, "your remarks interest me strangely; for tworeasons. First, they confirm your assertion that you are, or were, anhabitue of the Rue St. Claude, and secondly, they revive in my mind anold fancy--a superstition."

  "What is that, Sir Brian?" inquired M. Max, whose opium vision was afaithful imitation of one related to him by an actual frequenter of theestablishment near the Boulevard Beaumarchais.

  "Only once before, M. Gaston, have I compared notes with a fellowopium-smoker, and he, also, was a patron of Madame Jean; he, also, metin his dreams that Eastern Circe, in the grove of apes, just as I"...

  "Morbleu! Yes?"

  "As I meet her!"

  "But this is astounding!" cried Max, who actually thought it so. "Yourfancy--your superstition--was this: that only habitues of Rue St.Claude met, in poppyland, this vision? And in your fancy you are nowconfirmed?"

  "It is singular, at least."

  "It is more than that, Sir Brian! Can it be that some intelligencepresides over that establishment and exercises--shall I call it ahypnotic influence upon the inmates?"

  M. Max put the question with sincere interest.

  "One does not ALWAYS meet her," murmured Sir Brian. "But--yes, it ispossible. For I have since renewed those experiences in London."

  "What! in London?"

  "Are you remaining for some time longer in London?"

  "Alas! for several weeks yet."

  "Then I will introduce you to a gentleman who can secure you admissionto an establishment in London--where you may even hope sometimes to findthe orange grove--to meet your dream-bride!"

  "What!" cried M. Gaston, rising to his feet, his eyes bright withgratitude, "you will do that?"

  "With pleasure," said Sir Brian Malpas, wearily; "nor am I jealous!But--no! do not thank me, for I do not share your views upon thesubject, monsieur. You are a devout worshiper; I, an unhappy slave!"