Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  Under these heads appeared a full and finely descriptive account of the happenings already noticed.

  DRAMATIC ESCAPE OF MR. MACREADY AND MR. HECTOR MURRAY

  Special Interview with Mr. Murray

  WHERE ARE THE MISSING MAGNATES?

  Is Scotland Yard Effete?

  From Mr. Hector Murray ... our special representative obtained a full account of the outrage, which threw much light upon a mystery that otherwise appeared insoluble. After ... they entered the room at the Astoria, where they had agreed to discuss a plan of mutual action against the common enemy of Capital, Mr. Murray informed our representative that nothing unusual took place for some twenty minutes or half an hour. Baron Hague had just risen to make a proposal, when the lights were extinguished.

  As it was a very black night, the room was plunged into complete darkness. Before anyone had time to ascertain the meaning of the occurrence, a voice, which our representative was informed seemed to proceed from the floor, uttered the following words:

  “Let no one speak or move. Mr. Macready place your revolver upon the table.” (Mr. Macready was the only member of the company who was armed, and, curiously enough, as the voice commenced he had drawn his revolver.) “Otherwise, your son’s yacht, the Savannah, will be posted missing. Hear me out, every one of you, lest great misfortune befall those dear to you. Mr. Murray, your sister and niece will disappear from the Villa Marina, Monte Carlo, within four hours of any movement made by you without my express permission. Mr. Oppner, you have a daughter. Believe me, she and you are quite safe — at present. Baron Hague, Sir Leopold Jesson, and Mr. Rohscheimer, my agents have orders, which only I can recall to bring you to Carey Street. I threaten no more than I can carry out. Give the alarm if it please you ... but I have warned.”

  During this most extraordinary speech shadowy shapes seemed to be flitting about the room. The nature of the threats uttered had, for the time, quite unmanned the six gentlemen, which is no matter for surprise. Then, at a muttered command in what Mr. Murray informed our representative to have been Arabic, four lamps — or, rather, balls of fire — appeared at the four corners of the apartment. This bizarre scene, suggestive of nothing so much as an Eastern romance, was due to the presence of several Arabs in heavy robes, who had in some way entered in the darkness, and who now stood around the walls, four of their number holding in their brown hands these peculiar globular lights, which were of a kind quite new to those present. (An article by Mr. Pearce Baldry, of Messrs. Armiston, Baldry & Co., dealing with the possible construction of these lamps, appears on page 6.)

  Immediately inside the open window stood a tall man in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He carried no arms, but wore a black silk half-mask. Mr. Rohscheimer at this juncture rendered the episode even more dramatic by exclaiming:

  “Good heavens! It’s Séverac Bablon!”

  “It is, indeed, Mr. Rohscheimer,” said that menace to civilised society; “so that no doubt you will respect my orders. Mr. Macready, I do not see your revolver upon the table. I have warned you twice.”

  Mr. Macready, who is not easily intimidated, evidently concluding that no good could come of resistance at that time, threw the revolver on to the table and folded his arms.

  “I give you my word,” concluded Séverac Bablon, “that no bodily harm shall come to any one of you so long as you attempt no resistance. What will now be done is done only by way of precaution. Any sound would be fatal.”

  At a signal to the Arabs the four lights were hidden, and each of the six gentlemen were seized in the darkness in such a manner that resistance was impossible. Each had a hand clapped over his mouth, whilst he was securely gagged and bound by men who evidently had the arts of the Thug at their fingers’ ends. Mr. Murray informed our representative that so certain were they of Séverac Bablon’s power to perform all that he had threatened that, in his opinion, no one struggled, with the exception of Mr. Macready, who, however, was promptly overpowered.

  It was then that they learnt how the Arabs and their master had entered. For each of the distinguished company, commencing with Baron Hague, was lowered by a rope to a window on the fifth floor and drawn in by men who waited there.

  There is no doubt that access had been gained by means of a short ladder from this lower window; indeed, Mr. Murray saw such a ladder in use when, all having descended through the darkness, the last to leave — an Arab — returned by that means. Such was the dispatch and perfect efficiency of this audacious man’s Eastern gang, that Mr. Murray and his friends were all removed from the upper apartment to the lower in less than seven minutes. It will be remembered that the south wing of the Astoria has lately been faced with dark grey granite, that it was a moonless night, and that the daring operation could only have been visible, if visible at all, from the distant Embankment. No hitch occurred whatever; Séverac Bablon’s Arabs exhibited all the agility and quickness of monkeys. It is illustrative of his brazen methods that he then removed the gags, and invited his victims to partake of some refreshments, “as they had a long drive before them.”

  Needless to say, they were all severely shaken by their perilous adventure; and this led to an angry outburst from Mr. Macready, who demanded a full explanation of the outrage.

  “Sir,” was the reply, “it is not for you to ask. As a final warning to you and to your friends — for the provisions I have made in your case are no more complete than those which I have made in the others — permit me to tell you that eight of the twelve men manning your son’s boat including two officers — are under my orders. If any obstacle be placed in my way by you a wireless message will carry instructions, though I myself lie in detention, or dead, that the Savannah be laid upon a certain course. That course, Mr. Macready, will not bring her into any port known to the Board of Trade. Shall I nominate the crew? Or are your doubts dispersed?”

  The insight thus afforded them to the far-reaching influence, the all-pervading power, of this arch-brigand whose presence in our midst is a disgrace to the police of the world, was sufficient to determine them upon a passive attitude. A gentleman who seemed very nervous then appeared, and skilfully disguised all six. Mr. Rohscheimer mentioned later to Mr. Murray that in this man he had recognised, beyond any shadow of doubt, a perruquier whose name is a household word. But this doubtless was but another clever trick of the master trickster.

  In three parties of two, each accompanied by an Arab dressed in European clothes, but wearing a tarboosh, they left the hotel. Disguised beyond recognition, they were conducted to a roomy car of the “family” pattern, which was in waiting; the blinds were drawn down, and they were driven away.

  At the end of a rapid drive of about an hour’s duration, Messrs. Murray and Macready were requested by one of the three accompanying Arabs to alight, and were informed that Séverac Bablon desired to tender his sincere apologies for the inconvenience to which, unavoidably, he had put them, and for the evils with which — though only in the “most sacred interests” — he had been compelled to threaten them. They were absolved from all obligations and at liberty now to take what steps they thought fit. With which they were set down in a lonely spot, and the car was driven away. As our readers are already well aware, this lonely spot was upon Wandsworth Common.

  It is almost impossible to credit the fact that six influential men of world-wide reputation could thus, publicly, be kidnapped from a London hotel. But in this connection two things must be remembered. Firstly, for reasons readily to be understood and appreciated, they offered no resistance; secondly, the presence of so many Orientals in the hotel occasioned no surprise. A Prince Said Abu-el-Ahzab had been residing for some time in the apartments below those occupied by Mr. J. J. Oppner, and the members of his numerous suite are familiar to all residents. He and his following have disappeared, but a cash payment of all outstanding accounts has been left behind. It has been discovered that the light was cut off from one of the rooms occupied by the ci-devant prince, and the police are at work upon severa
l other important clues which point beyond doubt to the fact that “Prince Said Abu-el-Ahzab” was none other than Séverac Bablon.

  During the next twenty-four hours the entire habitable world touched by cable service literally gasped at this latest stroke of the notorious Séverac Bablon. Despite the frantic and unflagging labours of every man that Scotland Yard could spare to the case nothing was accomplished. The wife or nearest kin of each of the missing men had received a typed card:

  “Fear nothing. No harm shall befall a guest of Séverac Bablon.”

  These cards, which could be traced to no maker or stationer, all had been posted at Charing Cross.

  Then, in the stop press of the Gleaner’s final edition, appeared the following:

  “Baron Hague, Sir L. Jesson, Messrs. Rohscheimer and Oppner have returned to their homes.”

  It is improbable that in the history of the newspaper business, even during war-time, there has ever been such a rush made for the papers as that which worked the trade to the point of general exhaustion on the following morning.

  Without pausing here to consider the morning’s news, let us return to the Chancery Legal Incorporated Credit Society Bank.

  “Move along here, please. Move on. Move on.”

  Again the street is packed with emotional humanity. But what a different scene is this, although in its essentials so similar. For every face is flushed with excitement — joyful excitement. As once before, they press eagerly on toward the bank entrance; but this morning the doors are open. Almost every member of that crushed and crushing assembly holds a copy of the morning paper. Every man and every woman in the crowd knows that the missing financiers have declined, firmly, to afford any information whatever respecting their strange adventure — that they have refused, all four of them, point blank either to substantiate or to deny the sensational story of Messrs. Macready and Murray. “The incident is closed,” Baron Hague is reported as declaring. But what care the depositors of the Chancery Legal Incorporated? For is it not announced, also, that this quartet of public benefactors, with a fifth philanthropist (who modestly remains anonymous) have put up between them no less a sum than three and a half million pounds to salve the wrecked bank?

  “By your leave. Make way here. Stand back, if you please.”

  Someone starts a cheer, and it is feverishly taken up by the highly wrought throng, as an escorted van pulls slowly through the crowd. It is bullion from the Bank of England. Good red gold and crisp notes. It is dead hopes raised from the dust; happiness reborn, like a ph[oe]nix from the ashes of misery.

  “Hip, hip, hip, hooray!”

  Again and again, and yet again that joyous cheer awakes the echoes of the ancient Inns.

  It was as a final cheer died away that Haredale, on the rim of the throng, felt himself tapped upon the shoulder.

  He turned a flushed face and saw a tall man, irreproachably attired, standing smiling at his elbow. The large eyes, with their compelling light of command, held nothing now but a command to friendship.

  “Séverac Bablon!”

  “Well, Haredale!” The musical voice made itself audible above all the din. “These good people would rejoice to know the name of that anonymous friend who, with four other disinterested philanthropists, has sought to bring a little gladness into a grey world. Here am I. And there, on the bank steps, are police. Make your decision. Either give me in charge or give me your hand.”

  Haredale could not speak; but he took the outstretched hand of the most surprising bandit the world ever has known, and wrung it hard.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE TURKISH YATAGHAN

  It was about a fortnight later that a City medical man, Dr. Simons, in the dusk of a spring evening, might have been seen pressing his way through the crowd of excited people who thronged the hall of Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street.

  Addressing himself to a portly, florid gentleman who exhibited signs of having 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 silk handkerchief, 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 bowed slightly.

  The two, followed by a murmuring chorus, ascended the stairs.

  “Stand back, please,” rapped the physician tartly, turning upon their following. “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 went upstairs alone. Most of the people employed in those offices left sharp at six, but a little group of belated workers from an upper floor were nervously peeping in at an open door bearing the words:

  Douglas Graham

  They stood aside for the doctor, who entered briskly, Rohscheimer at his heels, and closed the door behind him. A chilly and indefinable something pervaded the atmosphere of Moorgate Place a something that floats, like a marsh mist, about the scene of a foul deed.

  The outer office was in darkness, as was that opening off it on the left; but out from the inner sanctum poured a flood of light.

  Douglas Graham’s private office was similar to the private offices of a million other business men, but on this occasion it differed in one dread particular.

  Stretched upon the fur rug before the American desk lay a heavily built figure, face downward. It was that of a fashionably dressed man, one who had been portly, no longer young, but who had received a murderous thrust behind the left shoulder-blade, and whose life had ebbed in the grim red stream that stained the fur beneath him.

  With a sharp glance about him, the doctor bent, turned the body and made a 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, with a richly ornamented hilt. Several documents were impaled by its crimson point, and upon the topmost the following had roughly and shakily been printed:

  “VENGENCE IS MINE!

  “Séverac Bablon.”

  Dr. Simons started perceptibly, and looked about the place with a sudden apprehension. 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 his hand in protest. He was looking, for the twentieth time, at the words printed upon the bloodstained paper.

  “One moment,” he said, and opened his bag. “Here” — pouring out a draught into 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, who stepped to the telephone and called up a Gerrard number.

  “Doctor John Simons speaking,” he said presently. “Come at once to Moorgate Place, Moorgate Street. Murder been committed by — Séverac Bablon. Most peculiar weapon used. The police, no doubt, would value an expert 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 o
n the telephone. The police ascertained from Rohscheimer that he had held an interest in the “Douglas Graham” business, that this business was of an usurious character, that the dead man’s real name was Paul Gottschalk, and that he, Rohscheimer, found the outer door fastened when he arrived at about seven o’clock, opened it with a key which he held, and saw Gottschalk as they saw him now. The office was in darkness. Apparently, valuables had been taken from the safe — which was open. The staff usually left at six.

  This was the point reached when Detective Harborne put in an appearance and, with professional nonchalance, took over the investigation. Dr. Simons glanced at his watch and impatiently strode up and down the outside office.

  A few minutes later came a loud knocking on the door. Simons opened it quickly, admitting a most strange old gentleman — tall and ramshackle — who was buttoned up in a chess-board inverness; whose trousers frayed out over his lustreless boots like much-defiled lace; whose coat-sleeves, protruding from the cape of his inverness, sought to make amends for the dullness of his footwear. He wore a turned-down collar and a large, black French knot. His hirsute face was tanned to the uniform hue of a coffee berry; his unkempt grey hair escaped in tufts from beneath a huge slouched hat; and his keen old eyes peered into 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 the liberty of asking Doctor Emmanuel Lepardo, whom I chanced to know was in London, to give an opinion upon the rather odd weapon with which this crime was perpetrated. He is one of the first authorities in Europe, and I thought you might welcome his assistance at this early stage of your inquiry.”

  “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 wish Inspector 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 we don’t make an arrest.”