by Sax Rohmer
The Baron gulped.
“In Berlin — they would say I was mad!”
“And what will they say in Berlin if I call up De Beers in the morning? Which reputation is preferable, Baron?”
Hague sat staring, fascinated, at the man in the long robe, who smoked yellow cigarettes and filled the air with their peculiar fumes. It seemed to him, suddenly, that he had taken leave of his senses, and that this cell — this pungent perfume — this man with the soul-searching eyes, the incisive voice — all were tricks of his senses.
What had he preserved the secret of his connection with the Hatton Garden firm for all these long years — each year determining to quit whilst safe, but each year lured on by the prospect of vaster gain — only to lay it at the feet of this Séverac Bablon, who would ruin him?
Faintly, sounds of occasional traffic penetrated. From a place of half-shadows beyond the table, Séverac Bablon’s luminous eyes watched. Save for those distant sounds which told of a thoroughfare near by, silence lay like a fog upon the place, and upon the mind of Baron Hague.
It grew intolerable, this stillness; it bred fear. Who was Séverac Bablon? What was the secret of his power?
Hague looked up.
“Gott im Himmel!” he said hoarsely. “Who are you? Why do you persecute those who are Jewish?”
Séverac Bablon stretched his hand over the great carved table, holding it, motionless, beneath the lamp. From the bezel of the solitary ring which he wore gleamed iridescent lights, venomous as those within the eye of a serpent.
A device, which seemed to be formed of lines of fire within the stone, glowed, redly, through the greenness. The ring was old — incalculably old — as anyone could see at a glance. And, in some occult fashion, it spoke to Baron Hague; spoke to that which was within him — stirred up the Jewish blood and set it leaping madly through his veins.
Back to his mind came certain words of a rabbi, long since gone to his fathers; before his eyes glittered words which he had had impressed upon his mind more recently than in those half-forgotten childish days.
And now, he feared. Slowly, he rose from the big cushioned chair. He feared the man whom all the world knew as Séverac Bablon, and his fear, for once, was something that did not arise from his purse. It was something which arose from the green stone — and from the one who possessed it — who dared to wear it. Hague backed yet farther from the table, squarely, whereupon, beneath the globular lamp, lay the long white hand.
“Gott!” he muttered. “I am going mad! You cannot be — you — —”
“I am he!”
Baron Hague’s knees began to tremble.
“It is impossible!”
“Israel Hagar,” continued the other sternly. “Those before you changed your ancient name to Hague; but to me you are Israel Hagar! You doubt, because you dare not believe. But there is that within your soul — that which you inherit from forefathers who obeyed the great King, from forefathers who toiled for Pharaoh — there is that within your soul which tells you who I am!”
The Baron could scarcely stand.
“Ach, no!” he groaned. “What do you want? I will do anything — anything; but let me go!”
“I want you,” continued Séverac Bablon, “since you deny the ring, to draw aside yonder curtain and look upon what it conceals!”
But Hague drew back yet further.
“Ach, no!” he said, huskily. “I deny nothing! I dare not!”
“By which I know that you have recognised in whose presence you stand, Israel Hagar! Knowing yourself at heart to be a robber, a liar, a hypocrite, you dare not, being also a Jew, raise that veil!”
Baron Hague offered no defence; made no reply.
“You are found guilty, Israel Hagar,” resumed the merciless voice, “of dragging through the mire of greed — through the sloughs of lust of gold — a name once honoured among nations. It is such as you that have earned for the Jewish people a repute it ill deserves. Save for such as Mr. Antony Elschild, you and your like must have blotted out for ever all that is glorious in the Jewish name. Despite all, you have succeeded in staining it — and darkly. I have a mission. It is to erase that stain. Therefore, when the list appears of those who wish to preserve intact the British Empire, your name shall figure amongst the rest!”
Hague groaned.
“It will be explained, for the benefit of the curious, and to the glory of the Jews, that in some measure of recognition of those vast profits reaped from British ventures, you are desirous of showing your interest in British welfare!”
“It will be my ruin in Berlin!”
“I should regret to think so. Had you, in the whole of your career, during the entire period that you have been swelling your money-bags with British money, devoted one guinea — one paltry guinea — to any charitable purpose here, I had spared you the risk. As matters stand, I shall require your cheque for an amount equal to that subscribed by Mr. Elschild.”
“Fifty thousand pounds!” gasped Hague.
“Exactly! Pen and ink are on the table. Your cheque book I have left in your pocket!”
“I won’t — —”
Hague met the eyes of the incomprehensible man who watched him from beyond the table; he saw the gleam of the ring, as Séverac Bablon placed a pen within reach.
“You — must be — mad!”
“You will decidedly be mad, Baron, if you refuse, for I assure you, upon my word of honour, I shall lay those papers before those whom they will interest in the morning!”
“And — if — I give you such a — —”
“Immediately your cheque is cleared I will return the papers.”
“And — the diamonds?”
“I shall consider my course in regard to the diamonds.”
“This — is robbery!”
“And your mode of obtaining the diamonds, Baron — what should you term that?”
“You mean to ruin me!”
“Be good enough either to draw the cheque, payable to the editor of the Gleaner — who will act in this matter, since I cannot appear — or to decline definitely to do so.”
“It will ruin me.”
“To decline? I admit that!”
Very shakily, having taken his cheque book from his pocket, Baron Hague drew and signed a cheque for the fabulous, the atrocious sum of £50,000.
A heavy smell — overpowering — crept to his nostrils as he bent forward over the table. He mentally ascribed it to the yellow cigarettes.
He laid down the pen with trembling fingers. That same sense of increasing distances which had heralded the stupor in the cab was coming upon him again. The cell-like room seemed to be receding. Séverac Bablon’s voice reached him from a remote distance:
“In future, Israel Hagar, seek to make — better use of your — opportunities.”
“Wake up, sir! Hadn’t you better be getting home?”
Baron Hague strove to stand. What had happened? Where was he?
“Hold up, sir! Here’s a cab waiting! What address, sir?”
The Baron rubbed his eyes and looked dazedly about him. He was half supported by a police constable.
“Officer! Where am I, eh?”
“I found you sitting on the step of the Burlington Arcade, sir! Where you’d been before that isn’t for me to say! Come on, jump in!”
Hague found himself bundled into the cab.
“Hotel — Astoria!” he mumbled, and his head fell forward on his breast again.
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE DRESSING-ROOM
The house was very quiet.
Julius Rohscheimer stood quite motionless in his dressing-room listening for a sound which he expected to hear, but which he also feared to hear. The household in Park Lane slept now. Park Lane is never quite still at any hour of the night, and now as Rohscheimer listened, all but holding his breath, a hundred sounds conflicted in the highway below. But none of these interested him.
He had been in his room for more than half an h
our; had long since dismissed his man; and had sat down, arrayed in brilliant pyjamas (quite a new line from Paris, recommended by Haredale, a sartorial expert with a keen sense of humour), for a cigarette and a mental review of the situation.
Having shown himself active in other directions, Séverac Bablon had evidently turned his eyes once more toward Park Lane. Julius Rohscheimer mentally likened himself and his set to those early martyrs who, defenceless, were subjected to the attacks of armed gladiators. No precautions, it seemed, prevailed against this enemy of Capital. Police protection was utterly useless. Thus far, not a solitary arrest had been made. So, now, in his own palatial house, but with a strip of cardboard lying before him bearing his name, underlined in red, Rohscheimer anticipated mysterious outrage at any moment — and knew, instinctively, that he would be unable to defend himself against it.
Again came that vague stirring; and it seemed to come, not from beyond the walls, but from somewhere close at hand — from ——
Rohscheimer turned, stealthily, in his chair. The cigarette dropped from between his nerveless fingers, and lay smouldering upon the Persian carpet.
His bulging eyes grew more and more prominent, and his adipose jaw dropped. And he sat, quivering fatly, his gaze upon the doors of the big wardrobe which occupied the space between the windows. Distinctly he remembered that these doors had been closed. But now they were open.
Palsied with fear of what might be within, he sat, watched, and grew pale.
The doors were opening slowly!
No move he made toward defence. He was a man inert from panic.
Something gleamed out of the dark gap — a revolver barrel. Two fingers pushed a card into view. Upon it, in red letters, were the words:
“Do not move!”
The warning was, at once, needless and disregarded. Rohscheimer shook the chair with his tremblings.
A smaller card was tossed across on to the table.
The fat hand which the financier extended toward the card shook grotesquely; the diamonds which adorned it sparkled and twinkled starrily. Before his eyes a red mist seemed to dance; but, through it, Rohscheimer made out the following:
“There is a cheque-book in your coat pocket, and your coat hangs beside me in the wardrobe. I will throw the book across to you. You will make out a cheque for £100,000, payable to the editor of the Gleaner, and also write a note explaining that this is your contribution towards the fund for the founding, by patriotic Britons, of a suitable air fleet.”
Rohscheimer, out of the corner of his eye, was watching the gleaming barrel, which pointed straightly at his head. From the dark gap between the wardrobe doors sped a second projectile, and fell before him on the table.
It was his cheque-book. Mechanically he opened it. Within was stuck another card. Upon it, in the same evidently disguised handwriting, appeared:
“A fountain pen lies on the table before you. Do not hesitate to follow instructions — or I shall shoot you. All arrangements are made for my escape. Throw the cheque and the note behind you and do not dare to look around again until you have my permission. If you do so once, I may only warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you.”
Perfect silence ruled. Even the traffic in Park Lane outside seemed momentarily to have ceased. From the wardrobe behind Julius Rohscheimer came no sound. He took up the pen; made out and signed the preposterous cheque.
To the ruling but silent intelligence concealed behind those double doors he had no thought of appeal. He dared not even address himself to that invisible being. Such idea was as far from his mind as it must have been of old from the mind of him who listened to a Sybilline oracle delivered from the mystic tripod.
Sufficiently he controlled his twitching fingers to write a note, as follows — (what awful irony!):
“To the Editor of the Gleaner,
“Sir, — I enclose a cheque for £100,000” (as he wrote these dreadful words, Rohscheimer almost contemplated rebellion; but the silence — the fearful silence — and the thought of the one who watched him proved too potent for his elusive courage. He wrote on). “I desire you to place it at the disposal of the Government for purposes of ariel” (Rohscheimer was no scholar) “defence. I hope others will follow suit.” (He did. It was horrible to be immolated thus, a solitary but giant sacrifice, upon the altar of this priest of iconoclasm)— “I am, sir, yours, etc.
“Julius Rohscheimer.”
Cheque and note he folded together, and stretching his hand behind him, threw them in the direction of the haunted wardrobe. His fear that, even now, he might be assassinated, grew to such dimensions that he came near to swooning. But upon no rearward glance did he venture.
Several heavy vehicles passed along the Lane. Rohscheimer listened intently, but gathered no sound from amid those others that gave clue to the enemy’s movements.
Clutching at the table-edge he sat, and tasted of violent death, by anticipation.
The traffic sounds subsided again. A new stillness was born. Within the great house nothing moved. But still Julius Rohscheimer shook and quivered. Only his mind was clearing; and already he was at work upon a scheme to save his money.
One hundred thousand pounds. Heavens above! It was ruination!
A faint creak.
“Do not dare to look around again until you have my permission,” read the card before his eyes. “If you do so once I may only warn you; if you do so twice, I shall kill you.”
One hundred thousand pounds! He could have cried. But, after all, he was a rich man — a very rich man; not so rich as Oppner, nor even so rich as Hague; but a comfortably wealthy man. Life was very good in his eyes. There were those little convivial evenings — those week-end motoring trips. He would take no chances. Life was worth more than one hundred thousand pounds.
He did not glance around.
So, the minutes passed. They passed, for the most part, in ghostly silence, sometimes broken by the hum of the traffic below, by the horn of a cab or car. Nothing from within the house broke that nerve-racking stillness.
If only there had been a mirror, so placed that by moving his eyes only he could have obtained a glimpse of the wardrobe. But there was no mirror so placed.
Faintly to his ears came the striking of a clock. He listened intently, but could not determine if it struck the quarter, half, three-quarters, or hour. Certainly, from the decrease of traffic in Park Lane, it must be getting very late, he knew.
His limbs began to ache. Cautiously he changed the position of his slippered feet. The clock in the hall began to strike. And Rohscheimer’s heart seemed to stand still.
It struck the half-hour. So it was half-past one! He had been sitting there for an hour — an agonised hour!
What could the Unseen be waiting for?
Gradually his heart-beats grew normal again, and his keen mind got to work once more upon the scheme for frustrating the audacious plan of this robber who robbed from incredible motives.
An air fleet! What rot! What did he care about air fleets? One hundred thousand pounds! But if he presented himself at the Gleaner office as soon as it opened that morning, and explained, before the editor (curse him!) had had time to deal with his correspondence, that by an oversight (late night; the editor, as a man of the world, would understand) he had been thinking of a hundred and had written a hundred thousand, and also had written too many noughts after the amount of his subscription to the Gleaner fund, what then? The editor could not possibly object to returning him his cheque and accepting one for a thousand. A thousand was bad enough; but a hundred thousand!
He was growing stiff again.
Two o’clock!
Beneath his eyes lay the card which read:
“If you do so once, I may only warn you — —”
A sudden burst of courage came to Julius Rohscheimer. Anything, he now determined, was preferable to this suspense.
He began to turn his head.
It was a ruse, he saw it all; a ruse to keep him there, silent,
prisoned, whilst his cheque, his precious cheque, was placed in the hands of the Gleaner people.
Around he turned — and around. The corner of the wardrobe came within his field of vision. Still farther he moved. The doors, now, were visible.
And the gleaming barrel pointed truly at his head!
“No; no!” he whispered tremulously, huskily. “Ah, God! no! Spare me! I swear — I swear — I will not look again. I won’t move. I’ll make no sound.”
He dropped his head into his hands — quaking; the lamp, the table, were swimming about him; he had never passed through ten such seconds of dread as those which followed his spell of temerity.
Yet he lived — and knew himself spared. Not for five hundred thousand pounds would he have looked again.
The minutes wore on — became hours. It seemed to Julius Rohscheimer that all London slept now; all London save one unhappy man in Park Lane.
Three o’clock, four o’clock, five o’clock struck. His head fell forward. He aroused himself with a jerk. Again his head fell forward. And this time he did not arouse himself; he slept.
“Mr. Rohscheimer! Mr. Rohscheimer!”
There were voices about him. He could distinguish that of his wife. Adeler was shaking him. Was that Haredale at the door?
Shakily, he got upon his feet.
“Why, Mr. Rohscheimer!” exclaimed Adeler, in blank wonderment, “have you not been to bed?”
“What time?” muttered Rohscheimer, “what time — —”
Sir Richard Haredale, who evidently thought that the financier had had one of his “heavy nights,” smiled discreetly.
“Pull yourself together, Rohscheimer!” he said. “Just put your head under the tap and jump into a dressing-gown. The green one with golden dragons is the most unique. You’ll have to hold an informal reception here in your dressing-room. We can’t keep the Marquess waiting.”
“The Marquess?” groaned Rohscheimer, clutching at his head. “The Marquess?”
It had been his social dream for years to behold a real live Marquess beneath that roof. He had gone so far as to offer Haredale five hundred pounds down if he could bring one to dinner. But Haredale’s best achievement to date had been Lord Vignoles.
