by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XXII
THE TURKISH YATAGHAN
It was about a fortnight later that a City medical man, Dr. Simons, inthe dusk of a spring evening, might have been seen pressing his waythrough the crowd of excited people who thronged the hall of MoorgatePlace, Moorgate Street.
Addressing himself to a portly, florid gentleman who exhibited signs ofhaving suffered a recent nervous shock, he said crisply.
"My name, sir, is Simons. You 'phoned me?"
The florid gentleman, mopping his forehead with a Cambridge-blue silkhandkerchief, replied rather pompously, if thickly:
"I'm Julius Rohscheimer. You'll have heard of me."
Everyone had heard of that financial magnate, and Dr. Simons bowedslightly.
The two, followed by a murmuring chorus, ascended the stairs.
"Stand back, please," rapped the physician tartly, turning upon theirfollowing. "Will someone send for the police and ring up Scotland Yard?This is not a peep-show."
Abashed, the curious ones fell back, and Simons and Rohscheimer wentupstairs alone. Most of the people employed in those offices left sharpat six, but a little group of belated workers from an upper floor werenervously peeping in at an open door bearing the words:
DOUGLAS GRAHAM
They stood aside for the doctor, who entered briskly, Rohscheimer at hisheels, and closed the door behind him. A chilly and indefinablesomething pervaded the atmosphere of Moorgate Place a something thatfloats, like a marsh mist, about the scene of a foul deed.
The outer office was in darkness, as was that opening off it on theleft; but out from the inner sanctum poured a flood of light.
Douglas Graham's private office was similar to the private offices of amillion other business men, but on this occasion it differed in onedread particular.
Stretched upon the fur rug before the American desk lay a heavily builtfigure, face downward. It was that of a fashionably dressed man, one whohad been portly, no longer young, but who had received a murderousthrust behind the left shoulder-blade, and whose life had ebbed in thegrim red stream that stained the fur beneath him.
With a sharp glance about him, the doctor bent, turned the body and madea rapid examination. He stood up almost immediately, shrugging slightly.
"Dead!"
Julius Rohscheimer wiped his forehead with the Cambridge silk.
"Poor Graham! How long?" he said huskily.
"Roughly, half an hour."
"Look! look! On the desk!"
The doctor turned sharply from the body and looked as directed.
Stuck upright amid the litter of papers was a long, curved dagger, witha richly ornamented hilt. Several documents were impaled by its crimsonpoint, and upon the topmost the following had roughly and shakily beenprinted:
"VENGENCE IS MINE! "SEVERAC BABLON."
Dr. Simons started perceptibly, and looked about the place with a suddenapprehension. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that his face grew pale.
In the eerie silence of the dead man's room they faced one another.
The doctor, his straight brows drawn together, looked, again and again,from the ominous writing to the poor, lifeless thing on the rug.
"Then, indeed, his sins were great," he whispered.
Rohscheimer, with his eyes fixed on the dagger, shuddered violently.
"Let's get out, doctor," he quavered thickly. "My--my nerve's goin'."
Dr. Simons, though visibly shaken by this later discovery, raised hishand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the wordsprinted upon the bloodstained paper.
"One moment," he said, and opened his bag. "Here"--pouring out a draughtinto a little glass--"drink this. And favour me with two minutes'conversation before the police arrive."
Rohscheimer drank it off and followed the movements of the doctor, whostepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.
"Doctor John Simons speaking," he said presently. "Come _at once_ toMoorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by--SeveracBablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value anexpert opinion. You _must_ be here within ten minutes."
The arrival of a couple of constables frustrated whatever object Dr.Simons had had in detaining Mr. Rohscheimer, but the doctor lingered on,evidently awaiting whoever he had spoken to on the telephone. The policeascertained from Rohscheimer that he had held an interest in the"Douglas Graham" business, that this business was of an usuriouscharacter, that the dead man's real name was Paul Gottschalk, and thathe, Rohscheimer, found the outer door fastened when he arrived at aboutseven o'clock, opened it with a key which he held, and saw Gottschalk asthey saw him now. The office was in darkness. Apparently, valuables hadbeen taken from the safe--which was open. The staff usually left at six.
This was the point reached when Detective Harborne put in an appearanceand, with professional nonchalance, took over the investigation. Dr.Simons glanced at his watch and impatiently strode up and down theoutside office.
A few minutes later came a loud knocking on the door. Simons opened itquickly, admitting a most strange old gentleman--tall andramshackle--who was buttoned up in a chess-board inverness; whosetrousers frayed out over his lustreless boots like much-defiled lace;whose coat-sleeves, protruding from the cape of his inverness, sought tomake amends for the dullness of his footwear. He wore a turned-downcollar and a large, black French knot. His hirsute face was tanned tothe uniform hue of a coffee berry; his unkempt grey hair escaped intufts from beneath a huge slouched hat; and his keen old eyes peeredinto the room through thickly pebbled spectacles.
"Dr. Lepardo!" cried Simons. "I am glad to see you, sir."
"Eh? Who's that?" said Harborne, looking out from the inner office,notebook in hand. "You should not have let anybody in, doctor."
"Excuse me, Mr. Harborne," replied Simons civilly, "but I have taken theliberty of asking Doctor Emmanuel Lepardo, whom I chanced to know was inLondon, to give an opinion upon the rather odd weapon with which thiscrime was perpetrated. He is one of the first authorities in Europe, andI thought you might welcome his assistance at this early stage of yourinquiry."
"Oh," said the detective thoughtfully, "that's different. Thank you,sir," nodding to the new-comer. "I'm afraid your name isn't known to me,but if you can give us a tip or two I shall be grateful. I wishInspector Sheffield were here. These cases are fair nightmares to me.And now it's got to murder, life won't be worth living at the Yard if wedon't make an arrest."
"Yes, yes," said Dr. Lepardo, peering about him, speaking in a mostpeculiar, rumbling tone, and with a strong accent. "I would not havemissed such a chance. Where is this dagger? I have just returned fromthe Izamal temples of Yucatan. I have brought some fine specimens toEurope. Obsidian knives. Sacrificial. Beautiful."
He shuffled jerkily into the private office, seemed to grasp its everydetail in one comprehensive, peering glance, and pounced upon the daggerwith a hoarse exclamation. The Scotland Yard man watched him withcuriosity, and Julius Rohscheimer, in the open door, followed hismovements with a newly awakened interest.
"True Damascus!" he muttered, running a long finger up the blade. "Hilt,Persian--not Kultwork--Persian. Yes. Can I pull it out? Yes? Damascenedto within three inches. Very early."
He turned to the detective, dagger in hand.
"This is a Turkish yataghan."
No one appeared to be greatly enlightened.
"When I say a Turkish yataghan I mean that from a broken Damascussword-blade and a Persian dagger handle, a yataghan of the Turkishpattern has been made. There are stones incrusted in the hilt but theblade is worth more. Very rare. This was made in Persia for the Turkishmarket."
"One of Severac Bablon's Arabs," burst in Rohscheimer hoarsely, "hasdone this."
"Ah, yes. So? I read of him in Paris. He is in league with the chief ofthe Paris detective. Him? So. I meet him once."
"Eh?" cried Harborne, "Severac Bablon?"
Julius Rohscheimer's eyes grew more prominent than usual.
"No, no. The great Lemage. Lemage of Paris--his accomplice. This daggeris worth two thousand francs. Let me see if a Turk has been in theserooms. I meet Victor Lemage on such another occasion with this. He sayto me, 'Dr. Lepardo, come to the Rue So-and-such. A young person isstabbed with a new kind of knife.' I tell him, 'It is Afghan, M.Lemage.' He find one who had been in that country, arrest--and it is theassassin. There is no smell of a Turk here. Ah, yes. The Turk, he have asmell of his own, as have the negro, the Chinese, the Malay."
Pulling a magnifying-glass from one bulging pocket of his inverness, Dr.Lepardo went peering over the writing desk, passing with a grunt fromthe bloodstained paper bearing the name of Severac Bablon to the otherdocuments and books lying there; to the pigeon-holes; to the chair; tothe rug; to the body. Crawling on all fours he went peering about thefloor, scratching at the carpet with his long nails like some monstrous,restless cat.
Harborne glanced at Dr. Simons and tapped his forehead significantly.
"Humour my friend," whispered the physician. "He may appear mad, but heis a man of most curious information. Believe me, if any Oriental hasbeen in these rooms within the last hour he will tell you so."
Dr. Lepardo from beneath a table rumbled hoarsely:
"There is a back stair. He went out that way as someone came in."
Julius Rohscheimer started violently.
"Good God! Then he was here when _I_ came in!" he exclaimed.
"Who speaks?" rumbled Lepardo, crawling away into the outside office,and apparently following a trail visible only to himself.
"It is Mr. Julius Rohscheimer," explained Simons. "He was a partner, Iunderstand, of the late Mr. Graham's. He entered with a key about seveno'clock and discovered the murder."
"As he came in our friend the assassin go out," cried Lepardo.
Harborne gave rapid orders to the two constables, both of whomimmediately departed.
"Are you sure of that, sir?" he called.
Against the promptings of his common sense, the eccentric methods of thepeculiar old traveller were beginning to impress him.
"Certainly. But look!"
Dr. Lepardo re-entered the inner office, carrying several files.
"See! He begins to destroy these letters. He has certainly taken manyaway. If you look you see that he has torn pages from the privateaccounts on the desk. He is disturbed by Mr. Someheimer. Can you knowthe address of his lady secretary-typist?"
Harborne's eyes sparkled appreciatively.
"You're pretty wide at this business, doctor," he confessed. "I'mlooking after her myself. But Mr. Rohscheimer doesn't know, and all thestaff have gone long ago."
"Ah!" rumbled Dr. Lepardo, dropping his glass into the sack-like pocket."No Arab or such person has done this. He was one who wore gloves. So Ino longer am interested. Here"--placing a small object on the deskbeside the yataghan--"is new evidence I find for you. It is aboot-button--foreign. Ah! if the great Lemage could be here. It is hisimagination that makes him supreme. In his imagination he would murderagain the poor Graham with the yataghan. He would lose his boot-button.He would run away--as Mr. Heimar comes in--to some hiding-place, takingwith him the bills and the letters he had stolen, and the notes from thesafe. Once in his secret retreat, he would arrest himself--and behold,in an hour--in ten minutes--his hand would be upon the shoulder of theother assassin. Ah! such a case would be joy to him. He would revel. Hewould gloat."
Harborne nodded.
"If Mr. Lemage would come and revel with me for half an hour Iwouldn't say no to learning from him," he said. "But it isn'tlikely--particularly considering that this is a Severac Bablon case."
"Ah!" rumbled Dr. Lepardo, "you should travel, my friend. You wouldlearn much of the imagination in the desert of Sahara, in the forests ofYucatan."
"You know," continued Harborne, turning to Simons, "these Severac Babloncases--I don't mind admitting it--are over my weight. They bristle withclues. We get to know of addresses he uses--people he's acquaintedwith--and what good does it do us? Not a ha'p'orth. Of course, it's afact that he's had influential friends up to now, but this job, unlessI'm mistaken, will alter the complexion of things. What d'you thinkVictor Lemage will say to _this_, Dr. Lepardo?"
But there was no one to answer, for the man from the forests of Yucatanhad vanished.
The charwoman of Moorgate Place was the next person to encounter Dr.Lepardo, and his kindly manner completely won her heart. She had seenMiss Maitland--the dead man's secretary--regularly go to lunch andsometimes to tea with a young lady from Messrs. Bowden and Ralph's. Thestaff at this firm of stockbrokers was working late, and it was unlikelythat the young lady had left, even yet. Dr. Lepardo expressed hisanxiety to make her acquaintance, and was conducted by the garrulous oldcharwoman to an office in Copthall Avenue. The required young lady wasfound.
"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, paternally, "I have a private matter ofutmost importance to tell to Miss Maitland--to-night. Where shall I findher?"
She lived, he was informed, at No. ---- Stockwell Road, S.W. He took hisdeparture, leaving an excellent impression behind him and half asovereign in the hand of the charwoman. A torpedo-like racing car waswaiting near Lothbury corner, and therein, Dr. Lepardo very shortly waswhirling southward. The chauffeur negotiated London Bridge in a mannerthat filled the hearts of a score of taxi drivers with awe andwonderment. Stockwell Road was reached in twelve and a half minutes.
A dingy maid informed Dr. Lepardo that Miss Maitland had just finishedher dinner. Would he walk up?
Dr. Lepardo walked up and made himself known to the pretty brown-hairedgirl who rose to greet him. Miss Maitland clearly was surprised--and alittle frightened--by this unexpected visit. Her glance strayed from thevisitor to a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece and back againto Dr. Lepardo in a curiously wistful way.
"My dear," he said, and his kindly, paternal manner seemed to reassureher somewhat, "I have come to ask your help in a----"
He suddenly stepped to the mantelpiece and peered at the photograph. Itwas that of a rather odd-looking young man, and bore the inscription:"To Iris. Lawrence."
"Why, yes," he burst out; "surely this is my old friend! Can it be myold friend--Gardener--Gaston--ah! I have no memory for his name. Thegood boy, Lawrence Greely?"
The girl's eyes opened wildly.
"Guthrie!" she said, blushing. "You mean Guthrie?"
"Ah! Guthrie," cried the doctor, triumphantly. "You know my old friend,Lawrence Guthrie? He is in England?"
"He has never left it, to my knowledge," said the girl with suddendoubt.
"Foolish me," exclaimed Lepardo. "It was his father that lives abroad,in the East--Bagdad--Cairo."
"Constantinople," corrected Miss Maitland.
"Still the old foolish," rumbled her odd visitor. "Always the old fool.To be certain, it was Constantinople."
A curious gleam had crept into the keen eyes that twinkled behind thepebbles.
"He used to say to me, the Guthrie pere, 'I send that boy Turkish pipesand ornaments and curiosities for his room. I wonder if that badfellow'"--Dr. Lepardo poked a jesting finger at the girl--"'I wonder ifhe sell them.'"
"I'm _sure_ he wouldn't," flashed Miss Maitland. Then came a suddencloud upon the young face. "That is--I don't think he would--if he couldhelp it."
"Ah, those money troubles," sighed the old doctor. "But I quite forgotmy business, thinking of Lawrence. There has been an--accident at youroffice, my child. _He_ is quite well. Do not be afraid. Tell me--whendid you leave to-night?"
Iris Maitland retreated from him step by step, her eyes fixedaffrightedly upon his face. She sank into an arm-chair. The pretty blushhad fled now, and she was very pale.
"Why," she said tensely, "why have you asked me those questions? You donot know Lawrence. What has happened? Oh, what has happened?"
She was trembling now.
"Oh," she said, "I am afraid of you, Dr. Lepardo. I don't know what youwant. Who are you? But I see now that you have mad
e me tell you allabout him. I will tell you no more."
"My dear," said Dr. Lepardo, and the rumbling of his voice was kindly,"a woman has that great gift, intuition. It is true. It is my rule, mydear, never to neglect opportunity, however slight. When I arrive,unexpected, you glance at his photograph. You associate him, then, withthe unexpected. I experiment. Forgive me. It is by such leaps in thedark that great things are won. It is where a little intuition is worthmuch wisdom. You are a brave girl, and so I tell you--it is for you tosave Lawrence. If the Scotland Yard Mr. Harborne knew so much as I,nothing, I fear, could save him. I can do it--_I_. You shall help me. Iwork, my child, as no man has worked before. For great things I work. Iwork against time--against the police. I aspire to do the all butimpossible--the wonderful. Only what you call luck and what I callintuition can make me win. A bargain--you answer me my questions and Ianswer you yours?"
The girl nodded. Her fingers were clutching and releasing the arms ofthe chair. Through the odd mask of peering benevolence worn by the brownold traveller another, inspired, being momentarily had peeped forth.
"What time did you leave to-night?"
"A quarter past six."
"How many appointments had Mr. Graham afterwards? One with Lawrence.What other?"
"With Mr. Rohscheimer."
"No other?"
"No."
"What time Lawrence?"
"Directly I left."
"Mr. Graham did not know you two are acquainted, eh?"
"He did not."
"Had you access to his private accounts that he keep in his safe?"
"No."
"You keep the files?"
"Yes."
"Who is the most important creditor filed under G? Lawrence?"
The girl shook her head emphatically.
"Why, he only owed about fifty pounds," she said. "There were none ofimportance under G, except Garraway, the Hon. Claude Garraway and Countde Guise."
"Ah! Count de Guise. So quaint a name. He is rich, yes?"
"Awfully rich. He is selling all the things in his flat and going abroadfor good. There is an advertisement in to-day's paper. His pictures andthings are valued at no less than thirty thousand pounds. I don't knowhow his business stood with Mr. Graham; latterly, it had not passedthrough my hands at all."
"And his address?"
"59b Bedford Court Mansions."
"And I must see Lawrence too. Where shall I find him?"
"At Bart's--St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He is studying there. You aresure to find him there to-night. He is engaged there, I know, up to teno'clock."
Dr. Lepardo took the girl's hand and pressed it soothingly.
"Do not faint; be a brave girl," he said. "Your employer was killedshortly after you left."
Deathly pale, she sat watching him.
"By--whom?"
"By Severac Bablon, so it is written on his desk. It is unfortunate thatLawrence was there to-night; but I--I am your friend, my child. Are yougoing to faint--no?"
"No," said the girl, smiling bravely.
"Then good-night."
He pressed her hand again--and was gone.
