by Sax Rohmer
“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Lepardo, peering about him, speaking in a most peculiar, rumbling tone, and with a strong accent. “I would not have missed such a chance. Where is this dagger? I have just returned from the Izamal temples of Yucatan. I have brought some fine specimens to Europe. Obsidian knives. Sacrificial. Beautiful.”
He shuffled jerkily into the private office, seemed to grasp its every detail in one comprehensive, peering glance, and pounced upon the dagger with a hoarse exclamation. The Scotland Yard man watched him with curiosity, and Julius Rohscheimer, in the open door, followed his movements 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? Damascened to 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 Damascus sword-blade and a Persian dagger handle, a yataghan of the Turkish pattern has been made. There are stones incrusted in the hilt but the blade is worth more. Very rare. This was made in Persia for the Turkish market.”
“One of Séverac Bablon’s Arabs,” burst in Rohscheimer hoarsely, “has done this.”
“Ah, yes. So? I read of him in Paris. He is in league with the chief of the Paris detective. Him? So. I meet him once.”
“Eh?” cried Harborne, “Séverac Bablon?”
Julius Rohscheimer’s eyes grew more prominent than usual.
“No, no. The great Lemage. Lemage of Paris — his accomplice. This dagger is worth two thousand francs. Let me see if a Turk has been in these rooms. I meet Victor Lemage on such another occasion with this. He say to me, ‘Dr. Lepardo, come to the Rue So-and-such. A young person is stabbed 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 the assassin. There is no smell of a Turk here. Ah, yes. The Turk, he have a smell 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 from the bloodstained paper bearing the name of Séverac Bablon to the other documents and books lying there; to the pigeon-holes; to the chair; to the rug; to the body. Crawling on all fours he went peering about the floor, 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 he is a man of most curious information. Believe me, if any Oriental has been 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, I understand, of the late Mr. Graham’s. He entered with a key about seven o’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 whom immediately departed.
“Are you sure of that, sir?” he called.
Against the promptings of his common sense, the eccentric methods of the peculiar 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 many away. If you look you see that he has torn pages from the private accounts on the desk. He is disturbed by Mr. Someheimer. Can you know the address of his lady secretary-typist?”
Harborne’s eyes sparkled appreciatively.
“You’re pretty wide at this business, doctor,” he confessed. “I’m looking after her myself. But Mr. Rohscheimer doesn’t know, and all the staff 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 I no longer am interested. Here” — placing a small object on the desk beside the yataghan— “is new evidence I find for you. It is a boot-button — foreign. Ah! if the great Lemage could be here. It is his imagination that makes him supreme. In his imagination he would murder again 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, taking with him the bills and the letters he had stolen, and the notes from the safe. 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 the other assassin. Ah! such a case would be joy to him. He would revel. He would gloat.”
Harborne nodded.
“If Mr. Lemage would come and revel with me for half an hour I wouldn’t say no to learning from him,” he said. “But it isn’t likely — particularly considering that this is a Séverac Bablon case.”
“Ah!” rumbled Dr. Lepardo, “you should travel, my friend. You would learn much of the imagination in the desert of Sahara, in the forests of Yucatan.”
“You know,” continued Harborne, turning to Simons, “these Séverac Bablon cases — I don’t mind admitting it — are over my weight. They bristle with clues. We get to know of addresses he uses — people he’s acquainted with — and what good does it do us? Not a ha’p’orth. Of course, it’s a fact that he’s had influential friends up to now, but this job, unless I’m mistaken, will alter the complexion of things. What d’you think Victor Lemage will say to this, Dr. Lepardo?”
But there was no one to answer, for the man from the forests of Yucatan had vanished.
The charwoman of Moorgate Place was the next person to encounter Dr. Lepardo, and his kindly manner completely won her heart. She had seen Miss Maitland — the dead man’s secretary — regularly go to lunch and sometimes to tea with a young lady from Messrs. Bowden and Ralph’s. The staff at this firm of stockbrokers was working late, and it was unlikely that the young lady had left, even yet. Dr. Lepardo expressed his anxiety to make her acquaintance, and was conducted by the garrulous old charwoman to an office in Copthall Avenue. The required young lady was found.
“My dear,” said Dr. Lepardo, paternally, “I have a private matter of utmost importance to tell to Miss Maitland — to-night. Where shall I find her?”
She lived, he was informed, at No. —— Stockwell Road, S.W. He took his departure, leaving an excellent impression behind him and half a sovereign in the hand of the charwoman. A torpedo-like racing car was waiting near Lothbury corner, and therein, Dr. Lepardo very shortly was whirling southward. The chauffeur negotiated London Bridge in a manner that filled the hearts of a score of taxi drivers with awe and wonderment. Stockwell Road was reached in twelve and a half minutes.
A dingy maid informed Dr. Lepardo that Miss Maitland had just finished her dinner. Would he walk up?
Dr. Lepardo walked up and made himself known to the pretty brown-haired girl who rose to greet him. Miss Maitland clearly was surprised — and a little frightened — by this unexpected visit. Her glance strayed from the visitor to a silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece and back again to Dr. Lepardo in a curiously wistful way.
“My dear,” he said, and his kindly, paternal manner seemed to reassure her somewhat, “I have come to ask your help in a — —”
He suddenly stepped to the mantelpiece and peered at the photograph. It was 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 my old friend — Gardener — Gaston — ah! I have no memory for his name. The good 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 sudden doubt.
“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 the pebbles.
“He used to say to me, the Guthrie père, ‘I send that boy Turkish pipes and ornaments and curiosities for his room. I wonder if that bad fellow’” — Dr. Lepardo poked a jesting finger at the girl—”’I wonder if he sell them.’”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” flashed Miss Maitland. Then came a sudden cloud upon the young face. “That is — I don’t think he would — if he could help it.”
“Ah, those money troubles,” sighed the old doctor. “But I quite forgot my business, thinking of Lawrence. There has been an — accident at your office, my child. He is quite well. Do not be afraid. Tell me — when did you leave to-night?”
Iris Maitland retreated from him step by step, her eyes fixed affrightedly upon his face. She sank into an arm-chair. The pretty blush had fled now, and she was very pale.
“Why,” she said tensely, “why have you asked me those questions? You do not 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 you want. Who are you? But I see now that you have made me tell you all about 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, my dear, never to neglect opportunity, however slight. When I arrive, unexpected, you glance at his photograph. You associate him, then, with the unexpected. I experiment. Forgive me. It is by such leaps in the dark that great things are won. It is where a little intuition is worth much wisdom. You are a brave girl, and so I tell you — it is for you to save 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. I work, my child, as no man has worked before. For great things I work. I work against time — against the police. I aspire to do the all but impossible — the wonderful. Only what you call luck and what I call intuition can make me win. A bargain — you answer me my questions and I answer you yours?”
The girl nodded. Her fingers were clutching and releasing the arms of the chair. Through the odd mask of peering benevolence worn by the brown old 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 of importance under G, except Garraway, the Hon. Claude Garraway and Count de 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 abroad for good. There is an advertisement in to-day’s paper. His pictures and things are valued at no less than thirty thousand pounds. I don’t know how his business stood with Mr. Graham; latterly, it had not passed through 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 are sure to find him there to-night. He is engaged there, I know, up to ten o’clock.”
Dr. Lepardo took the girl’s hand and pressed it soothingly.
“Do not faint; be a brave girl,” he said. “Your employer was killed shortly after you left.”
Deathly pale, she sat watching him.
“By — whom?”
“By Séverac Bablon, so it is written on his desk. It is unfortunate that Lawrence was there to-night; but I — I am your friend, my child. Are you going to faint — no?”
“No,” said the girl, smiling bravely.
“Then good-night.”
He pressed her hand again — and was gone.
CHAPTER XXIII
M. LEVI
The art of detection, in common with every other art, produces from time to time a genius; and a genius, whatever else he may be, emphatically is not a person having “an infinite capacity for taking pains.” Such masters of criminology as Alphonse Bertillon or his famous compatriot, Victor Lemage, whose resignation so recently had stirred the wide world to wonder — achieve their results by painstaking labours, yes, but all those labours would be more or less futile without that elusive element of inspiration, intuition, luck — call it what you will — which constitutes genius, which alone distinguishes such men from the other capable plodders about them. A brief retrospective survey of the surprising results achieved by Dr. Lepardo within the space of an hour will show these to have been due to brilliant imagination, deep knowledge of human nature, foresight, unusual mental activity, and — that other capacity so hard to define.
Dr. Lepardo was studying the following paragraph marked by Miss Maitland:
For Sale. — Entire furniture, antique, of large flat, comprising pieces by Sheraton, Chippendale, Boule, etc. Paintings by Greuze, Murillo, Van Dyck, also modern masters. Pottery, Chinese, Sèvres, old English, etc. A collection of 500 pieces of early pewter, etc., etc., etc. The whole valued at over £30,000.
The torpedo-like car had dropped him at Bedford Court Mansions, and, shuffling up the steps into the hall, he addressed himself to the porter.
“Ah, my friend, has the Count de Guise gone out again?”
“I have not seen him go out, sir.”
“Not since you saw him come in?”
“Not since then, sir — no.”
“About half-past seven he came in, I think? Yes, about half-past.”
“Quite right, sir.”
Again the odd gleam came into the doctor’s eyes, as it had come when, by one of his amazing leading questions he had learnt that Lawrence Guthrie’s father resided in Constantinople. The doctor mounted to the first floor. He was about to ring the bell of No. 59b, when another idea struck him. He descended and again addressed the porter.
“The Count must be resting. He does not reply. He has, of course, discharged his servants?”
“Yes, sir. He leaves England next week.”
“Ah, he is alone.”
Upstairs once more.
He rang three times before the door was opened to him by a tall, slight man, arrayed in a blue silk dressing-gown. He had a most pleasant face, and wore his moustache and beard according to the latest Parisian mode. He looked about thirty years of age, was fair, blue-eyed, and handsome.
“I am sorry to trouble you so late, Count,” said the old doctor, in perfect French; “but I t
hink I can make you an offer for some, if not all, of your collection.”
He hunted, peering through a case which apparently contained some dozens of cards, finally handing the Count the following:
Isidor Levi
Fine Art Expert
London and Paris.
Count de Guise hesitated, glanced at his caller, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat — and still hesitated.
“If I approve,” continued ‘Isidor Levi,’ “I will hand you a cheque on the Crédit Lyonnais.”
The Count bowed.
“Enter, M. Levi. Your name, of course, is known to me.”
Indeed it was a name familiar enough in art circles.
Dr. Lepardo entered.
The room into which the Count ushered him was most magnificently appointed. The visitor’s feet sank into the carpet as into banked moss. Beautiful furniture stood about. Pictures by eminent artists graced the walls. Statuettes, vases, busts, choice antiques, were everywhere. It was the room of a wealthy connoisseur, of an æsthete whose delicacy of taste bordered upon the effeminate. The doctor stared hard at the Count without permitting the latter to observe that he did so. With his hands thrust deep in the sack-like pockets of his inverness he drifted from treasure to treasure — uninvited, from room to room — like some rudderless craft. The Count followed. In his handsome face it might be read that he resented the attitude of M. Levi, who behaved as though he found himself in the gallery of a dealer. Suddenly, before a Van Dyck portrait, the visitor cried:
“Ah, a forgery, m’sieur! Spurious.”
Count de Guise leapt round upon him with perfect fury blazing in his blue eyes. The veins had sprung into prominence upon his forehead, and one throbbed — a virile blue cord — upon his left temple.
“M’sieur!”
He seemed to choke. His sudden passion was volcanic — terrible.
Dr. Lepardo, still peering, seemed not to heed him; then quickly:
“Ah, I apologise, I most sincerely apologise. I was misled by the unusual tone of the brown. But — no, it is undoubted. None other than Van Dyck painted that ruff.”
