Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  But as Zoe Oppner looked into the great luminous eyes she knew that he had imposed upon her the yoke of a mysterious sovereignty.

  From the foyer came a sound, unfamiliar enough in the Astoria — the sound of someone whistling. Even as Zoe started, wondering if she could trust her ears, Séverac Bablon took both her hands, in the impulsive and strangely imperious way she knew.

  “Good-bye,” he said. “Perhaps I am wrong and you are right. Time will reveal that. If you ever wish to see me, you know where I may be found. Good-bye!”

  He turned abruptly and ascended the stairs. He had but just disappeared when Inspector Sheffield entered!

  Zoe felt that her face turned pale; but she bravely smiled as the Scotland Yard man approached her.

  “You see, I am back again, Miss Oppner! Do you know if Mr. Oppner has gone out?”

  “I am not sure. But I think he went out with Mr. Alden.”

  Sheffield’s face clouded. This employment of a private detective was a sore point with the Inspector. It seemed strangely like a slight upon the official service. Not that Sheffield was on bad terms with Alden. He was too keen a diplomat for that. But he went in hourly dread that the Pinkerton man would forestall Scotland Yard.

  To Sheffield it appeared impossible that Séverac Bablon could much longer evade arrest. In fact, it was incomprehensible to him how this elusive character had thus far remained at large. Slowly, and by painful degrees, Sheffield was learning that Séverac Bablon’s organisation was more elaborate and far-reaching, and embraced more highly placed persons, than at one time he could have credited.

  It would appear that there were Government officials in the group which surrounded this man, pointing to ramifications which sometimes the detective despaired of following. News from Paris, received only that morning, would seem to indicate that a similar state of affairs prevailed in the French capital. With whom, Sheffield asked himself, had he to deal? Who was Séverac Bablon? That he was in some way associated with Jewish people and Jewish interests the Yard man was convinced. But he could not determine, to his own satisfaction, if Séverac Bablon’s activities were inimical to Juda or otherwise. It was a bewildering case.

  “I hope Mr. Oppner hasn’t gone out,” he said, after a pause. “I particularly wanted to see him again.”

  “Is there some new clue?” asked Zoe eagerly.

  Inspector Sheffield was nonplussed. Here was the daughter of J. J. Oppner, the last girl in the world whom any sane man would suspect of complicity in the Séverac Bablon outrages; yet, for reasons of his own, Sheffield wondered if she were as wholly ignorant of Bablon’s identity as the rest of the world. He distrusted everyone. He had said to Detective-Sergeant Harborne, who was associated with him in the case, “Where Séverac Bablon is concerned, I wouldn’t trust the Lord Mayor of London — no, nor the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Accordingly, he replied, “I think not, Miss Oppner. I’ll just run upstairs and see if there’s anybody about.”

  CHAPTER XII

  LOVE, LUCRE AND MR. ALDEN

  Zoe was waiting for Lady Mary Evershed. Lady Mary was late — an unremarkable circumstance, since Lady Mary was a woman, and less remarkable than ordinarily for the reason that Lady Mary had met Sir Richard Haredale on the way. At the time she should have been at the Astoria she was pacing slowly through St. James’s Park, beside Haredale.

  “My position is becoming impossible, Mary,” he said, with painful distinctness. “Every day seems to see the time more distant, instead of nearer, when I can say good-bye to Mr. Julius Rohscheimer. My situation is little better than that of his secretary. By hard work, and it is hard work to act as Rohscheimer’s social Virgil! — and by harder self-repression, I have struggled to earn enough to enable me to cry quits with the other rogues who preyed upon me, when — before I knew you. I’ve scarcely a shred of self-respect left, Mary!”

  She looked down at the gravelled path and made no answer to his self-accusation.

  “It is only my sense of humour that has saved me. But one day I shall break out! It is inevitable. I cannot pander for ever to Rohscheimer’s social ambitions. Yet, if I show fight, he will break me! Saving the prospect — with a hale and hearty uncle intervening, and one of the best; may he live to be a hundred! — of the title, and all that goes with it, what have I to offer you, Mary? I am a man sailing under false colours. Practically, I am a salaried servant of Rohscheimer’s. I don’t actually draw my salary; but in recognition of my services in popularising his wife’s entertainments, he keeps the vultures at bay! Bah! I despise myself!”

  Mary looked up to him, tenderly reproachful.

  “You silly boy!” she said. “There is nothing dishonourable in what you do!”

  “Possibly not. But how would your father like to know of my position.”

  She lowered her eyes again.

  “Is my father indebted to Julius Rohscheimer in any way, Dick?” she asked suddenly.

  Haredale laughed nervously.

  “Rohscheimer does not honour me with the whole of his confidence in financial matters,” he replied. “It is a question Adeler would be better able to answer.”

  “Mr. Adeler, yes. What a singular man! Do you know, Dick, in spite of father’s ideas respecting our old English aristocracy, I have sometimes felt, in Mr. Adeler’s presence, that he, though a Jew, was a thousand times more of an aristocrat than I?”

  Haredale glanced at her oddly.

  “I have at times been conscious of a similar feeling!” he said. “No doubt one’s instincts are true enough. Adeler’s pedigree conceivably may go back to Jewish nobles who entertained monarchs in their marble palaces when the Eversheds and Haredales considered several streaks of red ochre an adequate costume for the most important functions.”

  He laughed boyishly at his own words.

  “Oh, Dick!” said Mary. “How absurd of you. It is impossible to imagine an Evershed in such a condition. But yet, you are right. How singular that most people should overlook so obvious a fact; that there is a Jewish aristocracy, possibly one of the most ancient in the world.”

  “The Jews are an Eastern people,” replied Haredale. “That is the fact which is generally overlooked. They are, excepting one, the most remarkable people in the modern world.”

  “Do you know,” said the girl, unconsciously lowering her voice, “I have sometimes thought that Séverac Bablon was in some way connected — —”

  “Yes?”

  “With the ancient history of the Jews!”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “I can hardly explain. But at the Rohscheimers, on the night of the ball, Séverac Bablon was masked, of course; yet it seemed to me — —”

  “Mary,” interrupted Haredale, “don’t tell me that you believe the romantic stories circulating about the man!”

  “What stories, Dick?”

  “Why, about his holding the Seal of Suleyman, whatever that may be — —”

  “But Mrs. Elschild says he does!”

  Haredale started.

  “How can she possibly know?”

  A flush tinged Lady Mary’s clear complexion for a moment, and left it paler than it was wont to be. She despised a woman who could not preserve a secret (and therefore must have had a poor opinion of her sex), yet she had nearly allowed her own tongue to betray her. Whatever Mrs. Elschild had told her had been told in confidence, and under the seal of friendship.

  “Perhaps she does not know. Someone may have told her.”

  “It’s all over London,” said Haredale; “in the clubs, everywhere! I wonder you have not heard it before. There seems to be an organised attempt to glorify this man, who, after all, is no more than an up-to-date highwayman. Someone has spread the absurd story that he is of Jewish royal blood; whereas the royal line of the Jews must have been extinct for untold generations!”

  “Why must it? You have just said that the Jews are an Eastern people. And all Eastern peoples are subtle and secretive. I invariably lose
half of my self-importance in Egypt, for instance. There is something in the eye of the meanest fellah which is painfully like patronage!”

  Haredale shrugged his shoulders.

  “What a thing it is,” he said humorously, “to be born with black hair, flashing eyes and an olive skin! One can then be any kind of mountebank or robber, and yet rest assured of the ladies’ homage.”

  They walked on in silence for awhile. Then —

  “Heaven knows what happened to Rohscheimer,” said Haredale abruptly, “to have frightened him into writing such a stupendous cheque! I may hear, later, but thus far he is too sore to touch upon the matter!”

  “My father has visited him.”

  “At last — yes! Do you remember when Rohscheimer offered me five hundred pounds if I could induce the Marquess to come to dinner? Gad! He came perilously near to a just retribution that day! I think if I had been in uniform I should have run him through!”

  “These extraordinary donations of course are the sequel to the mysterious business of the card and the unseen hand?”

  “Certainly. Séverac Bablon is at the bottom of the whole business. I described the device, introducing two triangles, do you remember, which appeared on the cards, to a chap at the club who is rather a learned Orientalist, and he assured me that, so far as he could judge from my description, it corresponded with that of the supposed seal of Solomon. I was unable to remember part of the design, of course. But, at any rate, this merely goes to prove that Bablon is an accomplished showman.”

  “I am afraid I must be going, Dick. I have to meet Zoe Oppner.”

  “Let’s go and find a cab, then. But it was so delightful to have you all to myself, Mary, if only for a very little while.”

  The boyishness had gone out of his voice again, and Lady Mary knew all too well of what he was thinking. She took his arm and pressed it hard.

  “I don’t think anyone was ever in such a dreadful position in the world before, Dick!” she declared. “To tolerate it seems impossible, seems wrong. But to defy Rohscheimer, with your affairs as they are, means — what does it mean, Dick?”

  “I dare not think what it means, Mary,” he replied. “Not when you are with me. But one day — soon, I am afraid — it will all be taken out of my hands. I shall tell Mr. Julius Rohscheimer exactly what I think of him, and there will be an end of the whole arrangement.”

  They said no more until the girl was entering the cab. Then:

  “I understand, Dick,” she whispered, “and nobody else knows, so try to be diplomatic for a little longer.”

  Holding her hand, he looked into her eyes. Then, without another word between them, the cab moved off, and Haredale stood looking after it until it was lost amid the traffic. He started to walk across to Park Lane.

  At the Astoria Zoe was waiting patiently. But when, at last, Mary found herself in her friend’s room, the gloomy companionship of the thoughts with which she had been alone since leaving Haredale, proved too grievous to be borne alone. She threw herself on to a cushioned settee, and her troubles found vent in tears.

  “Mary, dear!” cried Zoe, all that was maternal protective in her nature, asserting itself. “Tell me all about it.”

  The unruly mop of her brown hair mingled with the gold of her friend’s, and presently, between sobs, the story was told — an old, old story enough.

  “He will have to resign his commission,” she sobbed. “And then he will have to go abroad! Oh, Zoe! I know it must come soon. Even I cannot expect him, nor wish him to dance attendance on that odious Julius Rohscheimer for ever! And he makes so little headway.”

  Zoe’s little foot beat a soft tatoo upon the carpet.

  “I wonder — will there always be a Julius Rohscheimer for him to dance attendance upon!” she said softly.

  Mary raised her tearful eyes.

  “What do you mean, Zoe?”

  “Has it never occurred to you that — Séverac Bablon will ultimately make a poor man of Rohscheimer?”

  “Oh! I should not like to think that, because — —”

  “If he went that far, he might do the same for Pa. I can’t believe that, Mary. Pa’s awful mean, but after all his money is cleaner than Rohscheimer’s.”

  Mary dried her eyes.

  “I hardly know whether to regard that strange man, Séverac Bablon, as a friend or a foe,” she said. “He certainly seems to confine his outrages to those who have plenty but object to spending it.”

  “Except on themselves! He’s a friend right enough, Mary. I believe he is anxious to reveal all these rich people in a new light, to whitewash them. If only they would change their ideas and do some good with their money, I don’t think they would be troubled any more by Séverac Bablon. You never hear of Mr. Elschild being robbed by him — nor any of the family suffering in any way.”

  “Mr. Elschild received one of the mysterious cards, and he has sent a big cheque to the Gleaner fund.”

  “He has to keep up appearances, Mary, don’t you see? But it is certain that he sent the money quite voluntarily. He did not wait to be squeezed. I wish Pa would come to his senses. If, instead of spending a small fortune on private detectives, he would start to use his money for good, he would have no further need for the Pinkerton men. Certainly he would not be made to buy airships for England!”

  A smile dawned upon Lady Mary’s face.

  “Isn’t it preposterous!” she said. “The idea of raising money for such a purpose from people like Baron Hague!”

  “Baron Hague left for Berlin this morning. We shall probably never know under what circumstances he issued his cheque for fifty thousand pounds! Doesn’t it seem just awful, with all this money floating about, that poor Sir Richard is nearly stranded for quite a trifle!”

  “Oh, it is dreadful! And I can see no way out.”

  “No,” murmured Zoe. “Yet there must be a way.”

  She walked to the window, and stood looking out thoughtfully upon the Embankment far below.

  What a strange, complex drama moved about her! It was impossible even to determine for what parts some of the players were cast. Where, she wondered, was Inspector Sheffield now? And where was Séverac Bablon? So far as she was aware, both were actually in the Astoria. There was something almost uncanny in the elusiveness of Séverac Bablon. His disdain of all attempts to compass his downfall betokened something more than bravado. He must know himself immune.

  Why?

  If what he had rather hinted than declared were true — and never for a moment did she doubt his sincerity — then his accomplices, his friends, his subjects (she knew not how to name them), must be numberless. Was she, herself, not of their ranks?

  Of the thousands who moved beneath her, upon trams, in cabs, in cars, on foot, how many were servants of that mysterious master? It was fascinating, yet terrifying, this inside knowledge of a giant conspiracy, of which, at that moment, the civilised world was talking. Mary Evershed’s voice broke in upon her musing:

  “Come along, Zoe. We shall never be back in time for lunch if we don’t hurry.”

  They descended in the lift and walked out to where Mr. Oppner’s big car awaited them. A moment later, as the man turned out into the Strand, Sheard passed close by upon the pavement. He raised his hat to the two pretty travellers. Clearly, he was bound for the Astoria.

  And a few yards further on, unobtrusively walking behind a very large German tourist, appeared the person of Mr. A. X. Alden.

  “Why!” whispered Zoe. “I believe he is following Mr. Sheard.”

  Her surmise was correct. The astute Mr. Alden had found himself at a loss to account for some of the exclusive items respecting the doings of Séverac Bablon which latterly had been appearing in the Gleaner. By dint of judiciously oiling the tongue of a chatty compositor, he had learned that the unique copy was contributed by Mr. H. T. Sheard. Mr. Oppner had advised him to keep a close watch upon the movements of Mr. Antony Elschild. Although Alden found it hard to credit the idea that the great El
schild family should be in any way associated with the campaign of brigandage, Mr. Oppner was more open-minded.

  Now Alden, too, was beginning to wonder. There seemed to be a friendship between Elschild and the pressman; and Sheard, from some source evidently unopen to his fellow copy-hunters, obtained much curious information anent Séverac Bablon. One of Alden’s American colleagues accordingly was devoting some unobtrusive attention to whomsoever came and went at the Elschild establishment in Lombard Street, whilst Alden addressed himself to the task of shadowing Sheard.

  When the latter walked into the lobby of the Astoria, Mr. Alden was not far away.

  “Has Mr. Gale of New York arrived yet?” was the pressman’s inquiry.

  Yes. Mr. Gale of New York had arrived.

  Upon learning which, Sheard seemed to hesitate, glancing about him as if suspicious of espionage. Mr. Alden, deeply engaged, or so it appeared, in selecting a cigar at the stall, was all ears — and through a mirror before which he had intentionally placed himself, he could watch Sheard’s movements whilst standing with his back towards him.

  At last Sheard took out his notebook and hastily scribbled something therein. Tearing out the leaf, he asked for an envelope, which the boy procured for him. With the closed book as a writing-pad, he addressed the envelope. Then, enclosing the note, carefully sealed up the message, and handed it to the boy, glancing about him the while with a palpable apprehension.

  Finally, lighting a cigarette with an air of nonchalance but ill assumed, Sheard strolled out of the hotel.

  He had not passed the door ere Alden was clamouring for an hotel envelope. The boy was just about to enter a lift as the detective darted across the lobby and entered with him. Short as the time at his disposal had been, Mr. Alden had scrawled some illegible initial followed by “Gale, Esq.,” upon the envelope, and had stuck down the flap.

  The boy quitted the lift on the fourth floor. So did Alden. One or two passengers joined at that landing, but the unsuspecting boy went on his way along the corridor, turned to the right and rapped on a door numbered 63.