by Sax Rohmer
This conversation was interrupted, but I found my unseen fellow voyagers peculiarly interesting and pursued inquiries in other directions. I saw members of the distinguished travellers’ retinue going about their duties, but never obtained a glimpse of Mr. Azraeel nor of any of his green-turbaned companions.
“Who is Mr. Azraeel?” I asked Ahmadeen.
“I cannot say,” replied the Egyptian, and abruptly changed the subject.
Some curious aroma of mystery floated about the ship. Ahmadeen conveyed to me the idea that he was concealing something. Then, one night, Mr. Bell invited me to step forward with him.
“Listen,” he said.
From somewhere in the fo’c’sle proceeded low chanting.
“Hear it?”
“Yes. What the devil is it?”
“It’s the lascars,” said Bell. “They have been behaving in a most unusual manner ever since the mysterious Mr. Azraeel joined us. I may be wrong in associating the two things, but I shan’t be sorry to see the last of our mysterious passengers.”
The next happening on board the Mandalay which I have to record was the attempt to break open the door of Professor Deeping’s stateroom. Except when he was actually within, the Professor left his room door religiously locked.
He made light of the affair, but later took me aside and told me a curious story of an apparition which had appeared to him.
“It was a crescent of light,” he said, “and it glittered through the darkness there to the left as I lay in my berth.”
“A reflection from something on the deck?”
Deeping smiled, uneasily.
“Possibly,” he replied; “but it was very sharply defined. Like the blade of a scimitar,” he added.
I stared at him, my curiosity keenly aroused. “Does any explanation suggest itself to you?” I said.
“Well,” he confessed, “I have a theory, I will admit; but it is rather going back to the Middle Ages. You see, I have lived in the East a lot; perhaps I have assimilated some of their superstitions.”
He was oddly reticent, as ever. I felt convinced that he was keeping something back. I could not stifle the impression that the clue to these mysteries lay somewhere around the invisible Mohammedan party.
“Do you know,” said Bell to me, one morning, “this trip’s giving me the creeps. I believe the damned ship’s haunted! Three bells in the middle watch last night, I’ll swear I saw some black animal crawling along the deck, in the direction of the forward companion-way.”
“Cat?” I suggested.
“Nothing like it,” said Mr. Bell. “Mr. Cavanagh, it was some uncanny thing! I’m afraid I can’t explain quite what I mean, but it was something I wanted to shoot!”
“Where did it go?”
The chief officer shrugged his shoulders. “Just vanished,” he said. “I hope I don’t see it again.”
At Tilbury the Mohammedan party went ashore in a body. Among them were veiled women. They contrived so to surround a central figure that I entirely failed to get a glimpse of the mysterious Mr. Azraeel. Ahmadeen was standing close by the companion-way, and I had a momentary impression that one of the women slipped something into his hand. Certainly, he started; and his dusky face seemed to pale.
Then a deck steward came out of Deeping’s stateroom, carrying the brown bag which the Professor had brought aboard at Port Said. Deeping’s voice came:
“Hi, my man! Let me take that bag!”
The bag changed hands. Five minutes later, as I was preparing to go ashore, arose a horrid scream above the berthing clamour. Those passengers yet aboard made in the direction from which the scream had proceeded.
A steward — the one to whom Professor Deeping had spoken — lay writhing at the foot of the stairs leading to the saloon-deck. His right hand had been severed above the wrist!
CHAPTER II
THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES
During the next day or two my mind constantly reverted to the incidents of the voyage home. I was perfectly convinced that the curtain had been partially raised upon some fantasy in which Professor Deeping figured.
But I had seen no more of Deeping nor had I heard from him, when abruptly I found myself plunged again into the very vortex of his troubled affairs. I was half way through a long article, I remember, upon the mystery of the outrage at the docks. The poor steward whose hand had been severed lay in a precarious condition, but the police had utterly failed to trace the culprit.
I had laid down my pen to relight my pipe (the hour was about ten at night) when a faint sound from the direction of the outside door attracted my attention. Something had been thrust through the letter-box.
“A circular,” I thought, when the bell rang loudly, imperatively.
I went to the door. A square envelope lay upon the mat — a curious envelope, pale amethyst in colour. Picking it up, I found it to bear my name — written simply —
“Mr. Cavanagh.”
Tearing it open I glanced at the contents. I threw open the door. No one was visible upon the landing, but when I leaned over the banister a white-clad figure was crossing the hall, below.
Without hesitation, hatless, I raced down the stairs. As I crossed the dimly lighted hall and came out into the peaceful twilight of the court, my elusive visitor glided under the archway opposite.
Just where the dark and narrow passage opened on to Fleet Street I overtook her — a girl closely veiled and wrapped in a long coat of white ermine.
“Madam,” I said.
She turned affrightedly.
“Please do not detain me!” Her accent was puzzling, but pleasing. She glanced apprehensively about her.
You have seen the moon through a mist? — and known it for what it was in spite of its veiling? So, now, through the cloudy folds of the veil, I saw the stranger’s eyes, and knew them for the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen, had ever dreamt of.
“But you must explain the meaning of your note!”
“I cannot! I cannot! Please do not ask me!”
She was breathless from her flight and seemed to be trembling. From behind the cloud her eyes shone brilliantly, mysteriously.
I was sorely puzzled. The whole incident was bizarre — indeed, it had in it something of the uncanny. Yet I could not detain the girl against her will. That she went in apprehension of something, of someone, was evident.
Past the head of the passage surged the noisy realities of Fleet Street. There were men there in quest of news; men who would have given much for such a story as this in which I was becoming entangled. Yet a story more tantalizingly incomplete could not well be imagined.
I knew that I stood upon the margin of an arena wherein strange adversaries warred to a strange end. But a mist was over all. Here, beside me, was one who could disperse the mist — and would not. Her one anxiety seemed to be to escape.
Suddenly she raised her veil; and I looked fully into the only really violet eyes I had ever beheld. Mentally, I started. For the face framed in the snowy fur was the most bewitchingly lovely imaginable. One rebellious lock of wonderful hair swept across the white brow. It was brown hair, with an incomprehensible sheen in the high lights that suggested the heart of a blood-red rose.
“Oh,” she cried, “promise me that you will never breathe a word to any one about my visit!”
“I promise willingly,” I said; “but can you give me no hint?”
“Honestly, truly, I cannot, dare not, say more! Only promise that you will do as I ask!”
Since I could perceive no alternative —
“I will do so,” I replied.
“Thank you — oh, thank you!” she said; and dropping her veil again she walked rapidly away from me, whispering, “I rely upon you. Do not fail me. Good-bye!”
Her conspicuous white figure joined the hurrying throngs upon the pavement beyond. My curiosity brooked no restraint. I hurried to the end of the courtway. She was crossing the road. From the shadows where he had lurked, a man came forward to
meet her. A vehicle obstructed the view ere I could confirm my impression; and when it had passed, neither my lovely visitor nor her companion were anywhere in sight.
But, unless some accident of light and shade had deceived me, the man who had waited was Ahmad Ahmadeen!
It seemed that some astral sluice-gate was raised; a dreadful sense of foreboding for the first time flooded my mind. Whilst the girl had stood before me it had been different — the mysterious charm of her personality had swamped all else. But now, the messenger gone, it was the purport of her message which assumed supreme significance.
Written in odd, square handwriting upon the pale amethyst paper, this was the message —
Prevail upon Professor Deeping to place what he has in the brown case in the porch of his house to-night. If he fails to do so, no power on earth can save him from the Scimitar of Hassan.
A FRIEND.
CHAPTER III
“HASSAN OF ALEPPO”
Professor Deeping’s number was in the telephone directory, therefore, on returning to my room, where there still lingered the faint perfume of my late visitor’s presence, I asked for his number. He proved to be at home.
“Strange you should ring me up, Cavanagh,” he said; “for I was about to ring you up.”
“First,” I replied, “listen to the contents of an anonymous letter which I have received.”
(I remembered, and only just in time, my promise to the veiled messenger.)
“To me,” I added, having read him the note, “it seems to mean nothing. I take it that you understand better than I do.”
“I understand very well, Cavanagh!” he replied. “You will recall my story of the scimitar which flashed before me in the darkness of my stateroom on the Mandalay? Well, I have seen it again! I am not an imaginative man: I had always believed myself to possess the scientific mind; but I can no longer doubt that I am the object of a pursuit which commenced in Mecca! The happenings on the steamer prepared me for this, in a degree. When the man lost his hand at Port Said I doubted. I had supposed the days of such things past. The attempt to break into my stateroom even left me still uncertain. But the outrage upon the steward at the docks removed all further doubt. I perceived that the contents of a certain brown leather case were the objective of the crimes.”
I listened in growing wonder.
“It was not necessary in order to further the plan of stealing the bag that the hands were severed,” resumed the Professor. “In fact, as was rendered evident by the case of the steward, this was a penalty visited upon any one who touched it! You are thinking of my own immunity?”
“I am!”
“This is attributable to two things. Those who sought to recover what I had in the case feared that my death en route might result in its being lost to them for ever. They awaited a suitable opportunity. They had designed to take it at Port Said certainly, I think; but the bag was too large to be readily concealed, and, after the outrage, might have led to the discovery of the culprit. In the second place, they are uncertain of my faith. I have long passed for a true Believer in the East! As a Moslem I visited Mecca—”
“You visited Mecca!”
“I had just returned from the hadj when I joined the Mandalay at Port Said! My death, however, has been determined upon, whether I be Moslem or Christian!”
“Why?”
“Because,” came the Professor’s harsh voice over the telephone, “of the contents of the brown leather case! I will not divulge to you now the nature of these contents; to know might endanger you. But the case is locked in my safe here, and the key, together with a full statement of the true facts of the matter, is hidden behind the first edition copy of my book ‘Assyrian Mythology,’ in the smaller bookcase—”
“Why do you tell me all this?” I interrupted.
He laughed harshly.
“The identity of my pursuer has just dawned upon me,” he said. “I know that my life is in real danger. I would give up what is demanded of me, but I believe its possession to be my strongest safeguard.”
Mystery upon mystery! I seemed to be getting no nearer to the heart of this maze. What in heaven’s name did it all mean? Suddenly an idea struck me.
“Is our late fellow passenger, Mr. Ahmadeen, connected with the matter?” I asked.
“In no way,” replied Deeping earnestly. “Mr. Ahmadeen is, I believe, a person of some consequence in the Moslem world; but I have nothing to fear from him.”
“What steps have you taken to protect yourself?”
Again the short laugh reached my ears.
“I’m afraid long residence in the East has rendered me something of a fatalist, Cavanagh! Beyond keeping my door locked, I have taken no steps whatever. I fear I am quite accessible!”
A while longer we talked; and with every word the conviction was more strongly borne in upon me that some uncanny menace threatened the peace, perhaps the life, of Professor Deeping.
I had hung up the receiver scarce a moment when, acting upon a sudden determination, I called up New Scotland Yard, and asked for Detective-Inspector Bristol, whom I knew well. A few words were sufficient keenly to arouse his curiosity, and he announced his intention of calling upon me immediately. He was in charge of the case of the severed hand.
I made no attempt to resume work in the interval preceding his arrival. I had not long to wait, however, ere Bristol was ringing my bell; and I hurried to the door, only too glad to confide in one so well equipped to analyze my doubts and fears. For Bristol is no ordinary policeman, but a trained observer, who, when I first made his acquaintance, completely upset my ideas upon the mental limitations of the official detective force.
In appearance Bristol suggests an Anglo-Indian officer, and at the time of which I write he had recently returned from Jamaica and his face was as bronzed as a sailor’s. One would never take Bristol for a detective. As he seated himself in the armchair, without preamble I plunged into my story. He listened gravely.
“What sort of house is Professor Deeping’s?” he asked suddenly.
“I have no idea,” I replied, “beyond the fact that it is somewhere in Dulwich.”
“May I use your telephone?”
“Certainly.”
Very quickly Bristol got into communication with the superintendent of P Division. A brief delay, and the man came to the telephone whose beat included the road wherein Professor Deeping’s house was situated.
“Why!” said Bristol, hanging up the receiver after making a number of inquiries, “it’s a sort of rambling cottage in extensive grounds. There’s only one servant, a manservant, and he sleeps in a detached lodge. If the Professor is really in danger of attack he could not well have chosen a more likely residence for the purpose!”
“What shall you do? What do you make of it all?”
“As I see the case,” he said slowly, “it stands something like this: Professor Deeping has...”
The telephone bell began to ring.
I took up the receiver.
“Hullo! Hullo.”
“Cavanagh! — is that Cavanagh?”
“Yes! yes! who is that?”
“Deeping! I have rung up the police, and they are sending some one. But I wish...”
His voice trailed off. The sound of a confused and singular uproar came to me.
“Hullo!” I cried. “Hullo!”
A shriek — a deathful, horrifying cry — and a distant babbling alone answered me. There was a crash. Clearly, Deeping had dropped the receiver. I suppose my face blanched.
“What is it?” asked Bristol anxiously.
“God knows what it is!” I said. “Deeping has met with some mishap—”
When, over the wires —
“Hassan of Aleppo!” came a dying whisper. “Hassan ... of Aleppo...”
CHAPTER IV
THE OBLONG BOX
“You had better wait for us,” said Bristol to the taxi-man.
“Very good, sir. But I shan’t be able to take you further
back than the Brixton Garage. You can get another cab there, though.”
A clock chimed out — an old-world chime in keeping with the loneliness, the curiously remote loneliness, of the locality. Less than five miles from St. Paul’s are spots whereto, with the persistence of Damascus attar, clings the aroma of former days. This iron gateway fronting the old chapel was such a spot.
Just within stood a plain-clothes man, who saluted my companion respectfully.
“Professor Deeping,” I began.
The man, with a simple gesture, conveyed the dreadful news.
“Dead! dead!” I cried incredulously.
He glanced at Bristol.
“The most mysterious case I have ever had anything to do with, sir,” he said.
The power of speech seemed to desert me. It was unthinkable that Deeping, with whom I had been speaking less than an hour ago, should now be no more; that some malign agency should thus murderously have thrust him into the great borderland.
In that kind of silence which seems to be peopled with whispering spirits we strode forward along the elm avenue. It was very dark where the moon failed to penetrate. The house, low and rambling, came into view, its facade bathed in silver light. Two of the visible windows were illuminated. A sort of loggia ran along one side.
On our left, as we made for this, lay a black ocean of shrubbery. It intruded, raggedly, upon the weed-grown path, for neglect was the keynote of the place.
We entered the cottage, crossed the tiny lobby, and came to the study. A man, evidently Deeping’s servant, was sitting in a chair by the door, his head sunken in his hands. He looked up, haggard-faced.
“My God! my God!” he groaned. “He was locked in, gentlemen! He was locked in; and yet something murdered him!”
“What do you mean?” said Bristol. “Where were you?”
