Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

“I was away on an errand, sir. When I returned, the police were knocking the door down. He was locked in!”

  We passed him, entering the study.

  It was a museum-like room, lighted by a lamp on the littered table. At first glance it looked as though some wild thing had run amok there. The disorder was indescribable.

  “Touched nothing, of course?” asked Bristol sharply of the officer on duty.

  “Nothing, sir. It’s just as we found it when we forced the door.”

  “Why did you force the door?”

  “He rung us up at the station and said that something or somebody had got into the house. It was evident the poor gentleman’s nerve had broken down, sir. He said he was locked in his study. When we arrived it was all in darkness — but we thought we heard sounds in here.”

  “What sort of sounds?”

  “Something crawling about!”

  Bristol turned.

  “Key is in the lock on the inside of the door,” he said. “Is that where you found it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  He looked across to where the brass knob of a safe gleamed dully.

  “Safe locked?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Professor Deeping lay half under the table, a spectacle so ghastly that I shall not attempt to describe it.

  “Merciful heavens!” whispered Bristol. “He’s nearly decapitated!”

  I clutched dizzily at the mantelpiece. It was all so utterly, incredibly horrible. How had Deeping met his death? The windows both were latched and the door had been locked from within!

  “You searched for the murderer, of course?” asked Bristol.

  “You can see, sir,” replied the officer, “that there isn’t a spot in the room where a man could hide! And there was nobody in here when we forced the door!”

  “Why!” cried my companion suddenly. “The Professor has a chisel in his hand!”

  “Yes. I think he must have been trying to prise open that box yonder when he was attacked.”

  Bristol and I looked, together, at an oblong box which lay upon the floor near the murdered man. It was a kind of small packing case, addressed to Professor Deeping, and evidently had not been opened.

  “When did this arrive?” asked Bristol. Lester, the Professor’s man, who had entered the room, replied shakily —

  “It came by carrier, sir, just before I went out.”

  “Was he expecting it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Inspector Bristol and the officer dragged the box fully into the light. It was some three feet long by one foot square, and solidly constructed.

  “It is perfectly evident,” remarked Bristol, “that the murderer stayed to search for—”

  “The key of the safe!”

  “Exactly. If the men really heard sounds here, it would appear that the assassin was still searching at that time.”

  “I assure you,” the officer interrupted, “that there was no living thing in the room when we entered.”

  Bristol and I looked at one another in horrified wonder.

  “It’s incomprehensible!” he said.

  “See if the key is in the place mentioned by the Professor, Mr. Cavanagh, whilst I break the box.”

  I went to a great, open bookcase, which the frantic searcher seemed to have overlooked. Removing the bulky “Assyrian Mythology,” there, behind the volume, lay an envelope, containing a key, and a short letter. Not caring to approach more closely to the table and to that which lay beneath it, I was peering at the small writing, in the semi-gloom by the bookcase, when Bristol cried —

  “This box is unopenable by ordinary means! I shall have to smash it!”

  At his words, I joined him where he knelt on the floor. Mysteriously, the chest had defied all his efforts.

  “There’s a pick-axe in the garden,” volunteered Lester. “Shall I bring it?”

  “Yes.”

  The man ran off.

  “I see the key is safe,” said Bristol. “Possibly the letter may throw some light upon all this.”

  “Let us hope so,” I replied. “You might read it.”

  He took the letter from my hand, stepped up to the table, and by the light of the lamp read as follows —

  My Dear Cavanagh, —

  It has now become apparent to me that my life is in imminent danger. You know of the inexplicable outrages which marked my homeward journey, and if this letter come to your hand it will be because these have culminated in my death.

  The idea of a pursuing scimitar is not new to me. This phenomenon, which I have now witnessed three times, is fairly easy of explanation, but its significance is singular. It is said to be one of the devices whereby the Hashishin warn those whom they have marked down for destruction, and is called, in the East, “The Scimitar of Hassan.”

  The Hashishin were the members of a Moslem secret society, founded in 1090 by one Hassan of Khorassan. There is a persistent tradition in parts of the Orient that this sect still flourishes in Assyria, under the rule of a certain Hassan of Aleppo, the Sheikh-al-jebal, or supreme lord of the Hashishin. My careful inquiries, however, at the time that I was preparing matter for my “Assyrian Mythology,” failed to discover any trace of such a person or such a group.

  I accordingly assumed Hassan to be a myth — a first cousin to the ginn. I was wrong. He exists. And by my supremely rash act I have incurred his vengeance, for Hassan of Aleppo is the self-appointed guardian of the traditions and relics of Mohammed. And I have Stolen one of the holy slippers of the Prophet!

  He, with some of his servants, has followed me from Mecca to England. My precautions have enabled me to retain the relic, but you have seen what fate befell all those others who even touched the receptacle containing it.

  If I fall a victim to the Hashishin, I am uncertain how you, as my confidant, will fare. Therefore I have locked the slipper in my safe and to you entrust the key. I append particulars of the lock combination; but I warn you — do not open the safe. If their wrath be visited upon you, your possession of the key may prove a safeguard.

  Take the copy of “Assyrian Mythology.” You will find in it all that I learned respecting the Hashishin. If I am doomed to be assassinated, it may aid you; if not in avenging me, in saving others from my fate. I fear I shall never see you again. A cloud of horror settles upon me like a pall. Do not touch the slipper, nor the case containing it.

  EDWARD DEEPING.

  “It is almost incredible!” I said hoarsely.

  Bristol returned the letter to me without a word, and turning to Lester, who had reentered carrying a heavy pick-axe, he attacked the oblong box with savage energy.

  Through the house of death the sound of the blows echoed and rang with a sort of sacrilegious mockery. The box fell to pieces.

  “My God! look, sir!”

  Lester was the trembling speaker.

  The box, I have said, was but three feet long by one foot square, and had clearly defied poor Deeping’s efforts to open it. But a crescent-shaped knife, wet with blood, lay within!

  CHAPTER V

  THE OCCUPANT OF THE BOX

  Dimly to my ears came the ceaseless murmur of London. The night now was far advanced, and not a sound disturbed the silence of the court below my windows.

  Professor Deeping’s “Assyrian Mythology” lay open before me, beside it my notebook. A coal dropped from the fire, and I half started up out of my chair. My nerves were all awry, and I had more than my horrible memories of the murdered man to thank for it. Let me explain what I mean.

  When, after assisting, or endeavouring to assist, Bristol at his elaborate inquiries, I had at last returned to my chambers, I had become the victim of a singular delusion — though one common enough in the case of persons whose nerves are overwrought. I had thought myself followed.

  During the latter part of my journey I found myself constantly looking from the little window at the rear of the cab. I had an impression that some vehicle was tracking us. Then, when I discharged
the man and walked up the narrow passage to the court, it was fear of a skulking form that dodged from shadow to shadow which obsessed me.

  Finally, as I entered the hall and mounted the darkened stair, from the first landing I glanced down into the black well beneath. Blazing yellow eyes, I thought, looked up at me!

  I will confess that I leapt up the remaining flight of stairs to my door, and, safely within, found myself trembling as if with a palsy.

  When I sat down to write (for sleep was an impossible proposition) I placed my revolver upon the table beside me. I cannot say why. It afforded me some sense of protection, I suppose. My conclusions, thus far, amounted to the following —

  The apparition of the phantom scimitar was due to the presence of someone who, by means of the moonlight, or of artificial light, cast a reflection of such a weapon as that found in the oblong chest upon the wall of a darkened apartment — as, Deeping’s stateroom on the Mandalay, his study, etc.

  A group of highly efficient assassins, evidently Moslem fanatics, who might or might not be of the ancient order of the Hashishin, had pursued the stolen slipper to England. They had severed any hand, other than that of a Believer, which had touched the case containing it. (The Coptic porter was a Christian.)

  Uncertain, possibly, of Deeping’s faith, or fearful of endangering the success of their efforts by an outrage upon him en route, they had refrained from this until his arrival at his house. He had been warned of his impending end by Ahmad Ahmadeen.

  Who was Ahmadeen? And who was his beautiful associate? I found myself unable, at present, to answer either of those questions. In order to gain access to Professor Deeping, who so carefully secluded himself, a box had been sent to him by ordinary carrier. (As I sat at my table, Scotland Yard was busy endeavouring to trace the sender.) Respecting this box we had made an extraordinary discovery.

  It was of the kind used by Eastern conjurors for what is generally known as “the Box Trick.” That is to say, it could only be opened (short of smashing it) from the inside! You will remember what we found within it? Consider this with the new fact, above, and to what conclusion do you come?

  Something (it is not possible to speak of someone in connection with so small a box) had been concealed inside, and had killed Professor Deeping whilst he was actually engaged in endeavouring to force it open. This inconceivable creature had then searched the study for the slipper — or for the key of the safe. Interrupted and trapped by the arrival of the police, the creature had returned to the box, re-closed it, and had actually been there when the study was searched!

  For a creature so small as the murderous thing in the box to slip out during the confusion, and at some time prior to Bristol’s arrival, was no difficult matter. The inspector and I were certain that these were the facts.

  But what was this creature?

  I turned to the chapter in “Assyrian Mythology”— “The Tradition of the Hashishin.”

  The legends which the late Professor Deeping had collected relative to this sect of religious murderers were truly extraordinary. Of the cult’s extinction at the time of writing he was clearly certain, but he referred to the popular belief, or Moslem legend, that, since Hassan of Khorassan, there had always been a Sheikh-al-jebal, and that a dreadful being known as Hassan of Aleppo was the present holder of the title.

  He referred to the fact that De Sacy has shown the word Assassin to be derived from Hashishin, and quoted El-Idrisi to the same end. The Hashishin performed their murderous feats under the influence of hashish, or Indian hemp; and during the state of ecstasy so induced, according to Deeping, they acquired powers almost superhuman. I read how they could scale sheer precipices, pass fearlessly along narrow ledges which would scarce afford foothold for a rat, cast themselves from great heights unscathed, and track one marked for death in such a manner as to remain unseen not only by the victim but by others about him. At this point of my studies I started, in a sudden nervous panic, and laid my hand upon my revolver.

  I thought of the eyes which had seemed to look up from the black well of the staircase — I thought of the horrible end of this man whose book lay upon the table ... and I thought I heard a faint sound outside my study door!

  The key of Deeping’s safe, and his letter to me, lay close by my hand. I slipped them into a drawer and locked it. With every nerve, it seemed, strung up almost to snapping point, I mechanically pursued my reading.

  “At the time of the Crusades,” wrote Deeping, “there was a story current of this awful Order which I propose to recount. It is one of the most persistent dealing with the Hashishin, and is related to-day of the apparently mythical Hassan of Aleppo. I am disposed to believe that at one time it had a solid foundation, for a similar practice was common in Ancient Egypt and is mentioned by Georg Ebers.”

  My door began very slowly to open!

  Merciful God! What was coming into the room!

  So very slowly, so gently, nay, all but imperceptibly, did it move, that had my nerves been less keenly attuned I doubt not I should have remained unaware of the happening. Frozen with horror, I sat and watched. Yet my mental condition was a singular one.

  My direct gaze never quitted the door, but in some strange fashion I saw the words of the next paragraph upon the page before me!

  “As making peculiarly efficient assassins, when under the influence of the drug, and as being capable of concealing themselves where a normal man could not fail to be detected—”

  (At this moment I remembered that my bathroom window was open, and that the waste-pipe passed down the exterior wall.)

  “ — the Sheikh-al-jebal took young boys of a certain desert tribe, and for eight hours of every day, until their puberty, confined them in a wooden frame—”

  What looked like a reed was slowly inserted through the opening between door and doorpost! It was brought gradually around ... until it pointed directly toward me!

  I seemed to put forth a mighty mental effort, shaking off the icy hand of fear which held me inactive in my chair. A saving instinct warned me — and I ducked my head.

  Something whirred past me and struck the wall behind.

  Revolver in hand, I leapt across the room, dashed the door open, and fired blindly — again — and again — and again — down the passage.

  And in the brief gleams I saw it!

  I cannot call it man, but I saw the thing which, I doubt not, had killed poor Deeping with the crescent-knife and had propelled a poison-dart at me.

  It was a tiny dwarf! Neither within nor without a freak exhibition had I seen so small a human being! A kind of supernatural dread gripped me by the throat at sight of it. As it turned with animal activity and bounded into my bathroom, I caught a three-quarter view of the creature’s swollen, incredible head — which was nearly as large as that of a normal man!

  Never while my mind serves me can I forget that yellow, grinning face and those canine fangs — the tigerish, blazing eyes — set in the great, misshapen head upon the tiny, agile body.

  Wildly, I fired again. I hurled myself forward and dashed into the room.

  Like nothing so much as a cat, the gleaming body (the dwarf was but scantily clothed) streaked through the open window!

  Certain death, I thought, must be his lot upon the stones of the court far below. I ran and looked down, shaking in every limb, my mind filled with a loathing terror unlike anything I had ever known.

  Brilliant moonlight flooded the pavement beneath; for twenty yards to left and right every stone was visible.

  The court was empty!

  Human, homely London moved and wrought intimately about me; but there, at sight of the empty court below, a great loneliness swept down like a mantle — a clammy mantle of the fabric of dread. I stood remote from my fellows, in an evil world peopled with the creatures of Hassan of Aleppo.

  Moved by some instinct, as that of a frightened child, I dropped to my knees and buried my face in trembling hands.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE R
ING OF THE PROPHET

  “There is no doubt,” said Mr. Rawson, “that great personal danger attaches to any contact with this relic. It is the first time I have been concerned with anything of the kind.”

  Mr. Bristol, of Scotland Yard, standing stiffly military by the window, looked across at the gray-haired solicitor. We were all silent for a few moments.

  “My late client’s wishes,” continued Mr. Rawson, “are explicit. His last instructions, evidently written but a short time prior to his death, advise me that the holy slipper of the Prophet is contained in the locked safe at his house in Dulwich. He was clearly of opinion that you, Mr. Cavanagh, would incur risk — great risk — from your possession of the key. Since attempts have been made upon you, murderous attempts, the late Professor Deeping, my unfortunate client, evidently was not in error.”

  “Mysterious outrages,” said Bristol, “have marked the progress of the stolen slipper from Mecca almost to London.”

  “I understand,” interrupted the solicitor, “that a fanatic known as Hassan of Aleppo seeks to restore the relic to its former resting-place.”

  “That is so.”

  “Exactly; and it accounts for the Professor’s wish that the safe should not be touched by any one but a Believer — and for his instructions that its removal to the Antiquarian Museum and the placing of the slipper within that institution be undertaken by a Moslem or Moslems.”

  Bristol frowned.

  “Any one who has touched the receptacle containing the thing,” he said, “has either been mutilated or murdered. I want to apprehend the authors of those outrages, but I fail to see why the slipper should be put on exhibition. Other crimes are sure to follow.”

  “I can only pursue my instructions,” said Mr. Rawson dryly. “They are, that the work be done in such a manner as to expose all concerned to a minimum of risk from these mysterious people; that if possible a Moslem be employed for the purpose; and that Mr. Cavanagh, here, shall always hold the key or keys to the case in the museum containing the slipper. Will you undertake to look for some — Eastern workmen, Mr. Bristol? In the course of your inquiries you may possibly come across such a person.”