Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  * * * * * *

  Tropical heat prevailed throughout the following day and Paul spent the morning pacing up and down his study. Yvonne was in Brighton. Paul long since had realised that the sympathy between them was imperfect, but always he had counted upon re-establishing the old complete comradeship when his great task should be at last concluded. This morning he had learned the truth, that Yvonne was with Orlando James, but his brain was still too numb fully to appreciate it. Towards noon he sat down at his writing-table and began to read with close attention the typed pages of The Key. Bassett was becoming anxious and had rung up more than once during the morning. Arrangements had been made to publish simultaneously in the principal capitals of the world, and the publishers had been busy for several months accumulating paper to meet the unparalleled demand for this vast first edition.... Eustace knocked three times at the study door to announce that luncheon was served, but Paul continued his reading. During the afternoon he caused a fire to be lighted in the study grate.

  It was late evening before he left the house, and he set out with no conscious objective in view, yet subconsciously he was already come to his journey’s end. His ideas were chaotic, and he seemed to be spiritually adrift. That his book was indeed the Key he was unable to doubt. He had truly grasped the stupendous truth underlying that manifestation called life, but seeking to discern retrospectively the path whereby he had pierced to the heart of the labyrinth he found confusion and stood dismayed before the dazzling jewel which he had unearthed. The past intruded subtly upon him, and he was all but swept away by sorrowful memories of Don. He saw him coming along the Pilgrim’s Way and heard his cheery greeting as he stepped upon the terrace of Hatton Towers.

  Where that night’s wandering led him he knew not, but there were those who saw him passing along Limehouse Causeway as if in quest of the Chinese den where once he and Thessaly had watched men smoke opium, and others who spoke to him, but without receiving acknowledgment, in the neighbourhood of Westminster Cathedral. He appeared, too, at the Café Royal, standing just within the doorway and looking from table to table as one who seeks a friend, but went out again without addressing a word to anyone. At a late hour he saw a light shining from a casement window and mechanically he pressed the knob of a bell above which appeared the number 23. Flamby opened the door and Paul stood looking at her in the dusk.

  XII

  “Oh,” said Flamby, “I had given you up.”

  She wore a blue and white kimono and had little embroidered Oriental slippers on her feet. Under the light of the silk-shaded lamp her hair gleamed wonderfully. She had matured since that day in Bluebell Hollow, when Paul and Don had first seen her. The world had not hardened her and the curves of her face were almost childlike, yet there was something gone from her eyes and something new come to replace it. Resourcefulness was there, but no hint of boldness and her moods of timidity were exquisite. Now, having naively confessed her dreams, her sudden confusion was lovable.

  “I scarcely know,” declared Paul. “I scarcely know why I have come at such an hour. It is not fair to you, and it is not practising what I preach.”

  “Please come in. You are welcome at any time, and as nobody will see you there can be no harm done.”

  Paul entered and stood looking vaguely at the parcel which he carried. It contained the manuscript of The Key. Thus reminded of its presence he found himself wondering why since he had forgotten that he carried it, he had not absently left it behind somewhere during his aimless wanderings. He laid it with his hat on the open bureau. The little apartment had assumed very marked individuality. Many delightful sketches and water-colour drawings ornamented the walls and a delicate pastel study of Dovelands Cottage hung above the famous clock on the mantelpiece. Paul crossed and examined this picture closely.

  “Who is living in Dovelands Cottage now, Flamby?” he asked. “I believe Nevin told me that it had been sold.”

  Flamby turned aside to take up a box of cigarettes.

  “Don bought it,” she said slowly. “I don’t know why he didn’t want you to know, but he asked me not to tell you.”

  Paul continued to stare at the picture, until Flamby spoke again. “Will you have a cigarette?” she asked, her voice low and monotonous.

  “No, thank you very much.”

  “I can make coffee in a minute.”

  “Please don’t think of it.”

  Through the little mirror immediately below the pastel Flamby studied Paul covertly. He had aged; all the beauty of his face resided now in his eyes. Two years had changed him from a young and handsome man to one whose youth is left behind, and who from the height of life’s pilgrimage looks down sadly but unfalteringly into a valley of shadows. He turned to her.

  “Mrs. Chumley?”

  “I was with her this morning. She is staying for a while at the cottage. I think she is nearly broken-hearted. From the time that his mother died, when Don was very little, Mrs. Chumley looked after him until he went away to school. You know, don’t you? But she is so brave. I wish,” said Flamby, her voice sunken almost to a whisper, “I wish I could be as brave ...” She sat down on the settee, biting her lower lip and striving hard to retain composure.

  “You are very brave indeed, and very loyal,” answered Paul, but he did not approach her where she sat. “You have taught me that there are women as far above pettiness and spitefulness as every man should be, but as every man is not.”

  “I wasn’t like it before I knew Mrs. Chumley and — Don.”

  “You were always true to yourself, and there is no higher creed. Flamby, I have received some papers which Don left with Nevin to be delivered to me. You thought me so mean and lowly, so ignorant and so vainglorious that I could judge a girl worthy of Don’s love to be unworthy of my friendship. You were right. No! please don’t speak — yet You were right, but you suffered in silence, and you did not hate me. I don’t ask you to forgive me, I only thank you very, very sincerely.”

  Flamby held a handkerchief tightly between her teeth, and stared fixedly at a photograph of one of her propaganda pictures which hung on the wall to the right of the bedroom door.

  “There on your bureau,” continued Paul, “lies my second book. It contains the key to mysteries which have baffled men since the world began. I do not say it with vanity; vanity is dead within me. I say it with fear, for I did not unravel those mysteries; I did not write that book.”

  “Oh,” whispered Flamby.

  “Yes — again you saw clearly, little wonder-girl. Don has told me how you traced the black thread running through the woof of The Gates, and that black thread was truth. It is truth that slays and truth that damns. Not for a million ages can men be sufficiently advanced to know and to live. Hypocrisy triumphs; for the few is the fruit of knowledge — for the multitude, the husk. I have seen the Light of the World, but I stand in the shadow. Yet from the bottom of my heart I thank God that at the price of happiness I have bought escape from a sin more deadly than that which any man has committed. Only by renouncing the world may we win the world. This is the lesson of Golgotha. Behind the curtain of the War move forces of incalculable evil which first found expression in Germany to-day as they found expression there in the Middle Ages. It was in a Rhine monastery that the first Black Mass was sung. It was in a Rhine town that Lucifer opened his new campaign against mankind; it was in German soil that he planted his seed. Flamby, I tell you that the Hohenzollerns are a haunted race, ruling a haunted land, doomed and cursed. About them are obscene spirits wearing the semblance of men — of men gross and heavy, and leaden-eyed; and upon each brow is the mark of the Bull, the sigil of Hell.”

  Flamby watched him, listening spellbound to his strange words. He was inspired; anger and sorrow drove him remorselessly on and a chill finger seemed to touch Flamby’s heart as she listened; for resignation and finality informed his speech.

  “Each human soul must fight its way out of the night of the valley, Flamby, before it can pass the gates of daw
n. Each error is a step in the path and there are steps right to the top. To me it was given to see but not to understand until this very hour. What I have done it was ordained that I should do; what I was about to do God forbade.” He paused, glancing at Flamby and quickly away again. “Don’s letter has opened my eyes, which were blinded. I shall not ask you for what purpose you risked so much to visit the studio of Orlando James. I know. Your fire is laid, Flamby; may I light it?”

  “Of course, if you wish.”

  Paul stooped and held a match to the paper, watching the tongues of flame licking the dry wood; and ere long a small fire was crackling in the grate. He turned to Flamby, pointing to the parcel which lay upon the bureau. “The purpose with which I set out recurs to me,” he said. “I have destroyed all the typed copies and every note. It is my wish that you shall destroy the manuscript.”

  “Of The Key?” she whispered.

  “Please.”

  “But — are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Flamby met his set gaze and unwrapping the manuscript she approached the fire. Paul stood aside, resting his elbow upon a corner of the mantelshelf. Flamby’s hands were very unsteady.

  “Tear out the pages,” said Paul, “and throw them loosely on the flames. They will burn more readily.”

  Flamby obeyed him, and page by page began to destroy the book containing truths which were known in the sanctuaries of Memphis but which the world was yet too young to understand. Excepting the voice of the flames there was no sound in the room until Flamby had laid the last page upon the pyre, when she sank upon her knees and hid her face in her hands. Her hair rippled down and veiled her redly.

  Paul watched her for a while and then, irresistibly, inevitably, he was drawn down beside her; his arm crept around the bowed shoulders and he pressed his cheek against fragrant curls. “Flamby,” he said, “dear little wild-haired Flamby. The sorrow of the world has claimed us both. Let us both be brave — and true.” And although he would have bartered many things once accounted of price for the right to crush her in his arms he rose to his feet again and moved away to the corner of the mantelshelf, for the nearness and the touch of her intoxicated him. Flamby did not stir. The mound of ashes settled lower in the grate. Paul took up his hat and walked to the door.

  “Good night, Flamby,” he said. “Wait for me. I shall be waiting for you.”

  The door closed and Flamby heard footsteps retreating along the gallery. As the sound became inaudible, a maroon burst dully at no great distance away. Flamby leapt to her feet. Her eyes were wild as she stood there, hands clenched tightly, and listened. A second maroon gave warning of the approaching air raiders. Flamby ran to the door, threw it open and sprang out into the brilliant moonlight as police whistles began to skirl in the distance. The slender chain about her neck parted unaccountably and unperceived by Flamby her locket fell at her feet.

  “Paul!” she cried. “Paul! come back — come back!”

  But only an echo which dwelt in the arch of the entrance answered her, saying sadly: “Paul ... Paul ...”

  * * * * * *

  Heedless of those who urged him to take cover, of the flat shrieking of whistles and later of the roar of the barrage, Paul walked on under the stars of a perfect night and above him droned the Gotha engines. He prayed silently.

  “Master of Destiny, all-Merciful God, suffer me to die that I may be reborn a wiser and a better man. Of Thine infinite mercy guide the steps of Yvonne who was my wife. Grant her the happiness for which she sought and which I denied her. To those who wait give faith and fortitude: to me, O God, give death. Amen.”

  A bomb fell shrieking through the air and burst with a rumbling monstrous peal, digging a pit, a smoking grave, on the spot where Paul had stood. His body was scattered like flock by the wind; his spirit was drawn into the ceaseless Loom.

  OM MANI PADME HUM.

  THE QUEST OF THE SACRED SLIPPER

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER I

  THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR

  I was not the only passenger aboard the S.S. Mandalay who perceived the disturbance and wondered what it might portend and from whence proceed. A goodly number of passengers were joining the ship at Port Said. I was lounging against the rail, pipe in mouth, lazily wondering, with a large vagueness.

  What a heterogeneous rabble it was! — a brightly coloured rabble, but the colours all were dirty, like the town and the canal. Only the sky was clean; the sky and the hard, merciless sunlight which spared nothing of the uncleanness, and defied one even to think of the term dear to tourists, “picturesque.” I was in that kind of mood. All the natives appeared to be pockmarked; all the Europeans greasy with perspiration.

  But what was the stir about?

  I turned to the dark, bespectacled young man who leaned upon the rail beside me. From the first I had taken to Mr. Ahmad Ahmadeen.

  “There is some kind of undercurrent of excitement among the natives,” I said, “a sort of subdued Greek chorus is audible. What’s it all about?”

  Mr. Ahmadeen smiled. After a gaunt fashion, he was a handsome man and had a pleasant smile.

  “Probably,” he replied, “some local celebrity is joining the ship.”

  I stared at him curiously.

  “Any idea who he is?” (The soul of the copyhunter is a restless soul.)

  A group of men dressed in semi-European fashion — that is, in European fashion save for their turbans, which were green — passed close to us along the deck.

  Ahmadeen appeared not to have heard the question.

  The disturbance, which could only be defined as a subdued uproar, but could be traced to no particular individual or group, grew momentarily louder — and died away. It was only when it had completely ceased that one realized how pronounced it had been — how altogether peculiar, secret; like that incomprehensible murmuring in a bazaar when, unknown to the insular visitor, a reputed saint is present.

  Then it happened; the inexplicable incident which, though I knew it not, heralded the coming of strange things, and the dawn of a new power; which should set up its secret standards in England, which should flood Europe and the civilized world with wonder.

  A shrill scream marked the overture — a scream of fear and of pain, which dropped to a groan, and moaned out into the silence of which it was the cause.

  “My God! what’s that?”

  I started forward. There was a general crowding rush, and a darkly tanned and bearded man came on board, carrying a brown leather case. Behind him surged those who bore the victim.

  “It’s one of the lascars!”

  “No — an Egyptian!”

  “It was a porter — ?”

  “What is it — ?”

  “Someone been stabbed!”

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “Stand away there, if you please!”

  That was a ship’s officer; and the voice of authority served to quell the disturbance. Through a lane walled with craning heads they bore the insensible man. Ahmadeen was at my elbow.


  “A Copt,” he said softly. “Poor devil!” I turned to him. There was a queer expression on his lean, clean-shaven, bronze face.

  “Good God!” I said. “His hand has been cut off!”

  That was the fact of the matter. And no one knew who was responsible for the atrocity. And no one knew what had become of the severed hand! I wasted not a moment in linking up the story. The pressman within me acted automatically.

  “The gentleman just come aboard, sir,” said a steward, “is Professor Deeping. The poor beggar who was assaulted was carrying some of the Professor’s baggage.” The whole incident struck me as most odd. There was an idea lurking in my mind that something else — something more — lay behind all this. With impatience I awaited the time when the injured man, having received medical attention, was conveyed ashore, and Professor Deeping reappeared. To the celebrated traveller and Oriental scholar I introduced myself.

  He was singularly reticent.

  “I was unable to see what took place, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said. “The poor fellow was behind me, for I had stepped from the boat ahead of him. I had just taken a bag from his hand, but he was carrying another, heavier one. It is a clean cut, like that of a scimitar. I have seen very similar wounds in the cases of men who have suffered the old Moslem penalty for theft.”

  Nothing further had come to light when the Mandalay left, but I found new matter for curiosity in the behaviour of the Moslem party who had come on board at Port Said.

  In conversation with Mr. Bell, the chief officer, I learned that the supposed leader of the party was one, Mr. Azraeel. “Obviously,” said Bell, “not his real name or not all it. I don’t suppose they’ll show themselves on deck; they’ve got their own servants with them, and seem to be people of consequence.”