The Yellow Claw

by Sax Rohmer

  XXIX

  M. MAX OF LONDON AND M. MAX OF PARIS

  He seated himself in a cane armchair and, whilst the facts were fresh inhis memory, made elaborate notes upon the recent conversation with theGreek. He had achieved almost more than he could have hoped for; but,knowing something of the elaborate organization of the opium group, herecognized that he owed some part of his information to the senseof security which this admirably conducted machine inspired in itsmechanics. The introduction from Sir Brian Malpas had worked wonders,without doubt; and his own intimate knowledge of the establishmentadjoining the Boulevard Beaumarchais, far from arousing the suspicionsof Gianapolis, had evidently strengthened the latter's conviction thathe had to deal with a confirmed opium slave.

  The French detective congratulated himself upon the completeness of hisParis operation. It was evident that the French police had succeeded insuppressing all communication between the detained members of the RueSt. Claude den and the head office--which he shrewdly suspected to besituated in London. So confident were the group in the self-containedproperties of each of their branches that the raid of any oneestablishment meant for them nothing more than a temporary financialloss. Failing the clue supplied by the draft on Paris, the case, so faras he was concerned, indeed, must have terminated with the raidingof the opium house. He reflected that he owed that precious discoveryprimarily to the promptness with which he had conducted the raid--to thefinding of the letter (the ONE incriminating letter) from Mr. King.

  Evidently the group remained in ignorance of the fact that the littlearrangement at the Credit Lyonnais had been discovered. He surveyed--andhis eyes twinkled humorously--a small photograph which was contained inhis writing-case.

  It represented a very typical Parisian gentleman, with a carefullytrimmed square beard and well brushed mustache, wearing pince-nez anda white silk knot at his neck. The photograph was cut from a Frenchmagazine, and beneath it appeared the legend:

  "M. Gaston Max, Service de Surete."

  There was marked genius in the conspicuous dressing of M. Gaston Max,who, as M. Gaston, was now patronizing the Hotel Astoria. For whilstthere was nothing furtive, nothing secret, about this gentleman, theclosest scrutiny (and because he invited it, he was never subjected toit) must have failed to detect any resemblance between M. Gaston of theHotel Astoria and M. Gaston Max of the Service de Surete.

  And which was the original M. Gaston Max? Was the M. Max of the magazinephotograph a disguised M. Max? or was that the veritable M. Max, and wasthe patron of the Astoria a disguised M. Max? It is quite possible thatM. Gaston Max, himself, could not have answered that question, so truean artist was he; and it is quite certain that had the occasion arisenhe would have refused to do so.

  He partook of a light dinner in his own room, and having changed intoevening dress, went out to meet Mr. Gianapolis. The latter was on thespot punctually at nine o'clock, and taking the Frenchman familiarlyby the arm, he hailed a taxi-cab, giving the man the directions, "ToVictoria-Suburban." Then, turning to his companion, he whispered:"Evening dress? And you must return in daylight."

  M. Max felt himself to be flushing like a girl. It was an error ofartistry that he had committed; a heinous crime! "So silly of me!" hemuttered.

  "No matter," replied the Greek, genially.

  The cab started. M. Max, though silently reproaching himself, mademental notes of the destination. He had not renewed his sallowcomplexion, for reasons of his own, and his dilated pupils werebeginning to contract again, facts which were not very evident, however,in the poor light. He was very twitchy, nevertheless, and the face ofthe man beside him was that of a sympathetic vulture, if such a creaturecan be imagined. He inquired casually if the new patron had broughthis money with him, but for the most part his conversation turned uponChina, with which country he seemed to be well acquainted. Arrivedat Victoria, Mr. Gianapolis discharged the cab, and again taking theFrenchman by the arm, walked with him some twenty paces away from thestation. A car suddenly pulled up almost beside them.

  Ere M. Max had time to note those details in which he was mostinterested, Gianapolis had opened the door of the limousine, and theFrenchman found himself within, beside Gianapolis, and behind drawnblinds, speeding he knew not in what direction!

  "I suppose I should apologize, my dear M. Gaston," said the Greek; and,although unable to see him, for there was little light in the car, M.Max seemed to FEEL him smiling--"but this little device has proved souseful hitherto. In the event of any of those troubles--wretched policeinterferences--arising, and of officious people obtaining possession ofa patron's name, he is spared the necessity of perjuring himself in anyway"...

  "Perhaps I do not entirely understand you, monsieur?" said M. Max.

  "It is so simple. The police are determined to raid one of ourestablishments: they adopt the course of tracking an habitue. This isnot impossible. They question him; they ask, 'Do you know a Mr. King?'He replies that he knows no such person, has never seen, has neverspoken with him! I assure you that official inquiries have gone thus faralready, in New York, for example; but to what end? They say, 'Where isthe establishment of a Mr. King to which you have gone on such and suchan occasion?' He replies with perfect truth, 'I do not know.' Believe methis little device is quite in your own interest, M. Gaston."

  "But when again I feel myself compelled to resort to the solace of thepipe, how then?"

  "So simple! You will step to the telephone and ask for this number: East18642. You will then ask for Mr. King, and an appointment will be made;I will meet you as I met you this evening--and all will be well."

  M. Max began to perceive that he had to deal with a scheme even moreelaborate than hitherto he had conjectured. These were very cleverpeople, and through the whole complicated network, as through the petalof a poppy one may trace the veins, he traced the guiding will--thepower of a tortuous Eastern mind. The system was truly Chinese in itselaborate, uncanny mystifications.

  In some covered place that was very dark, the car stopped, andGianapolis, leaping out with agility, assisted M. Max to descend.

  This was a covered courtyard, only lighted by the head-lamps of thelimousine.

  "Take my hand," directed the Greek.

  M. Max complied, and was conducted through a low doorway and on todescending steps.

  Dimly, he heard the gear of the car reversed, and knew that thelimousine was backing out from the courtyard. The door behind him wasclosed, and he heard no more. A dim light shone out below.

  He descended, walking more confidently now that the way was visible. Amoment later he stood upon the threshold of an apartment which callsfor no further description at this place; he stood in the doorway of theincredible, unforgettable cave of the golden dragon; he looked into thebeetle eyes of Ho-Pin!

  Ho-Pin bowed before him, smiling his mirthless smile. In his left handhe held an amber cigarette tube in which a cigarette smoldered gently,sending up a gray pencil of smoke into the breathless, perfumed air.

  "Mr. Ho-Pin," said Gianapolis, indicating the Chinaman, "who will attendto your requirements. This is our new friend from Paris, introduced bySir B. M----, M. Gaston."

  "You are vewry welcome," said the Chinaman in his monotonous, metallicvoice. "I understand that a fee of twenty-five guineas"--he bowed again,still smiling.

  The visitor took out his pocket-book and laid five notes, one sovereign,and two half-crowns upon a little ebony table beside him. Ho-Pin bowedagain and waved his hand toward the lemon-colored door on the left.

  "Good night, M. Gaston!" said Gianapolis, in radiant benediction.

  "Au revoir, monsieur!"

  M. Max followed Ho-Pin to Block A and was conducted to a room atthe extreme right of the matting-lined corridor. He glanced about itcuriously.

  "If you will pwrepare for your flight into the subliminal," said Ho-Pin,bowing in the doorway, "I shall pwresently wreturn with your wings."

  In the cave of the golden dragon, Gianapolis sat smoking upon one of thedivans. The silenc
e of the place was extraordinary; unnatural, in thevery heart of busy commercial London. Ho-Pin reappeared and standing inthe open doorway of Block A sharply clapped his hands three times.

  Said, the Egyptian, came out of the door at the further end of theplace, bearing a brass tray upon which were a little brass lamp ofOriental manufacture wherein burned a blue spirituous flame, a Japanese,lacquered box not much larger than a snuff-box, and a long and mostcuriously carved pipe of wood inlaid with metal and having a metalbowl. Bearing this, he crossed the room, passed Ho-Pin, and entered thecorridor beyond.

  "You have, of course, put him in the observation room?" said Gianapolis.

  Ho-Pin regarded the speaker unemotionally.

  "Assuwredly," he replied; "for since he visits us for the first time,Mr. King will wish to see him"...

  A faint shadow momentarily crossed the swarthy face of the Greek atmention of that name--MR. KING. The servants of Mr. King, from thehighest to the lowest, served him for gain... and from fear.