Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  The night was still — as still as a London night can be; for there is always a vague murmuring in the metropolis as though the sleeping city breathed gently and sometimes stirred in its sleep.

  Then, distinct amid these usual nocturnal noises, rose another, unaccountable sound, a muffled crash followed by a musical tinkling.

  Mostyn sprang up in bed, drew on a dressing-gown, and took from the small safe at his bed-head the Museum keys and a loaded revolver. A somewhat dishevelled figure, pale and wild-eyed, he made his way through the private door and into the ghostly precincts of the Museum. He did not hesitate, but ascended the stairs and unlocked the door of the Assyrian gallery.

  Along its ghostly aisles he passed, and before the door which gave admittance to the Burton Room paused, fumbling a moment for the key.

  Inside the room something was moving!

  Mostyn was keenly alarmed; he knew that he must enter at once or never. He inserted the key in the lock, swung open the heavy door, stepped through and closed it behind him. He was a man of tremendous moral courage, for now, — alone in the apartment which harboured the uncanny relic, alone in the discharge of his duty, he stood with his back to the door trembling slightly, but with the idea of retreat finding no place in his mind.

  One side of the room lay in blackest darkness; through the furthermost window of the other a faint yellowed luminance (the moonlight through the blind) spread upon the polished parquet flooring. But that which held the curator spell-bound — that which momentarily quickened into life the latent superstition, common to all mankind, was a beam of cold light which poured its effulgence fully upon the case containing the Prophet’s slipper! Where the other exhibits lay either in utter darkness or semi-darkness this one it seemed was supernaturally picked out by this lunar searchlight!

  It was ghostly-unnerving; but, the first dread of it passed, Mostyn recalled how during the day a hole inexplicably had been cut in that blind; he recalled that it had not been mended, but that the damaged blind had merely been rolled up again.

  And as a dawning perception of the truth came to him, as falteringly he advanced a step toward the mystic beam, he saw that one side of the case had been shattered — he saw the broken glass upon the floor; and in the dense shadow behind and under the beam of light, vaguely he saw a dull red object.

  It moved — it seemed to live! It moved away from the case and in the direction of the eastern windows.

  “My God!” whispered Mostyn; “it’s the Prophet’s slipper!”

  And wildly, blindly, he fired down the room. Later he knew that he had fired in panic, for nothing human was or could be in the place; yet his shot was not without effect. In the instant of its flash, something struck sharply against the dimly seen blind of one of the east windows; he heard the crash of broken glass.

  He leapt to the switch and flooded the room with light. A fear of what it might hold possessed him, and he turned instantly.

  Hard by the fragments of broken glass upon the floor and midway between the case and the first easterly window lay the slipper. A bell was ringing somewhere. His shot probably had aroused the attention of the policeman. Someone was clamouring upon the door of the Museum, too. Mostyn raced forward and raised the blind — that toward which the slipper had seemed to move.

  The lower pane of the window was smashed. Blood was trickling down upon the floor from the jagged edges of the glass.

  “Hullo there! Open the door! Open the door!”

  Bells were going all over the place now; sounds of running footsteps came from below; but Mostyn stood staring at the broken window and at the solid iron bars which protected it without, which were intact, substantial — which showed him that nothing human could possibly have entered.

  Yet the case was shattered, the holy slipper lay close beside him upon the floor, and from the broken window-pane blood was falling — drip-drip-drip...

  That was the story as I heard it half an hour later. For Inspector Bristol, apprised of the happening, was promptly on the scene; and knowing how keen was my interest in the matter, he rang me up immediately. I arrived soon after Bristol and found a perplexed group surrounding the uncanny slipper of the Prophet. No one had dared to touch it; the dread vengeance of Hassan of Aleppo would visit any unbeliever who ventured to lay hand upon the holy, bloody thing. Well we knew it, and as though it had been a venomous scorpion we, a company of up-to-date, prosaic men of affairs, stood around that dilapidated markoob, and kept a respectful distance.

  Mostyn, an odd figure in pyjamas and dressing-gown, turned his pale, intellectual face to me as I entered.

  “It will have to be put back ... secretly,” he said.

  His voice was very unsteady. Bristol nodded grimly and glanced at the two constables, who, with a plain-clothes man unknown to me, made up that midnight company.

  “I’ll do it, sir,” said one of the constables suddenly.

  “One moment” — Mostyn raised his hand!

  In the ensuing silence I could hear the heavy breathing of those around me. We were all looking at the slipper, I think.

  “Do you understand, fully,” the curator continued, “the risk you run?”

  “I think so, sir,” answered the constable; “but I’m prepared to chance it.”

  “The hands,” resumed Mostyn slowly, “of those who hitherto have ventured to touch it have been” — he hesitated— “cut off.”

  “Your career in the Force would be finished if it happened to you, my lad,” said Bristol shortly.

  “I suppose they’d look after me,” said the man, with grim humour.

  “They would if you met with — an accident, in the discharge of your duty,” replied the inspector; “but I haven’t ordered you to do it, and I’m not going to.”

  “All right, sir,” said the man, with a sort of studied truculence, “I’ll take my chance.”

  I tried to stop him; Mostyn, too, stepped forward, and Bristol swore frankly. But it was all of no avail.

  A sort of chill seemed to claim my very soul when I saw the constable stoop, unconcernedly pick up the slipper, and replace it in the broken case.

  It was out of a silence cathedral-like, awesome, that he spoke.

  “All you want is a new pane of glass, sir,” he said— “and the thing’s done.”

  I anticipate in mentioning it here; but since Constable Hughes has no further place in these records I may perhaps be excused for dismissing him at this point.

  He was picked up outside the section house on the following evening with his right hand severed just above the wrist.

  CHAPTER XIV

  A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

  The day that followed was one of the hottest which we experienced during the heat wave. It was a day crowded with happenings. The Burton Room was closed to the public, whilst a glazier worked upon the broken east window and a new blind was fitted to the west. Behind the workmen, guarded by a watchful commissionaire, yawned the shattered case containing the slipper.

  I wondered if the visitors to the other rooms of the Museum realized, as I realized, that despite the blazing sunlight of tropical London, the shadow of Hassan of Aleppo lay starkly on that haunted building?

  At about eleven o’clock, as I hurried along the Strand, I almost collided with the girl of the violet eyes! She turned and ran like the wind down Arundel Street, whilst I stood at the corner staring after her in blank amazement, as did other passers-by; for a man cannot with dignity race headlong after a pretty woman down a public thoroughfare!

  My mystification grew hourly deeper; and Bristol wallowed in perplexities.

  “It’s the most horrible and confusing case,” he said to me when I joined him at the Museum, “that the Yard has ever had to handle. It bristles with outrages and murders. God knows where it will all end. I’ve had London scoured for a clue to the whereabouts of Hassan and Company and drawn absolutely blank! Then there’s Earl Dexter. Where does he come in? For once in a way he’s living in hiding. I can’t find his
headquarters. I’ve been thinking—”

  He drew me aside into the small gallery which runs parallel with the Assyrian Room.

  “Dexter has booked two passages in the Oceanic. Who is his companion?”

  I wondered, I had wondered more than once, if his companion were my beautiful violet-eyed acquaintance. A scruple — perhaps an absurd scruple — hitherto had kept me silent respecting her, but now I determined to take Bristol fully into my confidence. A conviction was growing upon me that she and Earl Dexter together represented that third party whose existence we had long suspected. Whether they operated separately or on behalf of the Moslems (of which arrangement I could not conceive) remained to be seen. I was about to voice my doubts and suspicions when Bristol went on hurriedly —

  “I have thoroughly examined the Burton Room, and considering that the windows are thirty feet from the ground, that there is no sign of a ladder having stood upon the lawn, and that the iron bars are quite intact, it doesn’t look humanly possible for any one to have been in the room last night prior to Mostyn’s arrival!”

  “One of the dwarfs—”

  “Not even one of the dwarfs,” said Bristol, “could have passed between those iron bars!”

  “But there was blood on the window!”

  “I know there was, and human blood. It’s been examined!”

  He stared at me fixedly. The thing was unspeakably uncanny.

  “To-night,” he went on, “I am remaining in here” — nodding toward the Assyrian Room— “and I have so arranged it that no mortal being can possibly know I am here. Mostyn is staying, and you can stay, too, if you care to. Owing to Professor Deeping’s will you are badly involved in the beastly business, and I have no doubt you are keen to see it through.”

  “I am,” I admitted, “and the end I look for and hope for is the recovery of the slipper by its murderous owners!”

  “I am with you,” said Bristol. “It’s just a point of honour; but I should be glad to make them a present of it. We’re ostentatiously placing a constable on duty in the hallway to-night — largely as a blind. It will appear that we’re taking no other additional precautions.”

  He hurried off to make arrangements for my joining him in his watch, and thus again I lost my opportunity of confiding in him regarding the mysterious girl.

  I half anticipated, though I cannot imagine why, that Earl Dexter would put in an appearance, during the day. He did not do so, however, for Bristol had put a constable on the door who was well acquainted with the appearance of The Stetson Man. The inspector, in the course of his investigations, had come upon what might have been a clue, but what was at best a confusing one. Close by the wall of the curator’s house and lying on the gravel path he had found a part of a gold cuff link. It was of American manufacture.

  Upon such slender evidence we could not justly assume that it pointed to the presence of Dexter on the night of the attempted robbery, but it served to complicate a matter already sufficiently involved.

  In pursuance of Bristol’s plan, I concealed myself that evening just before the closing of the Museum doors, in a recess behind a heavy piece of Babylonian sculpture. Bristol was similarly concealed in another part of the room, and Mostyn joined us later.

  The Museum was closed; and so far as evidence went the authorities had relied again upon the bolts and bars hitherto considered impregnable, and upon the constable in the hall. The broken window was mended, the cut blind replaced, and within, in its shattered case, reposed the slipper of the Prophet.

  All the blinds being lowered, the Assyrian Room was a place of gloom, yellowed on the western side by the moonlight through the blind. The door communicating with the Burton Room was closed but not fastened.

  “They operated last night,” Bristol whispered to me, “at the exact time when the moonlight shone through the hole in the westerly blind on to the case. If they come to-night, and I am quite expecting them, they will have to dispense with that assistance; but they know by experience where to reach the case.”

  “Despite our precautions,” I said, “they will almost certainly know that a watch is being kept.”

  “They may or they may not,” replied Bristol. “Either way I’m disposed to think there will be another attempt. Their mysterious method is so rapid that they can afford to take chances.”

  This was not my first night vigil since I had become in a sense the custodian of the relic, but it was quite the most dreary. Amid the tomb-like objects about us we seemed two puny mortals toying with stupendous things. We could not smoke and must converse only in whispers; and so the night wore on until I began to think that our watch would be dully uneventful.

  “Our big chance,” whispered Mostyn, “is in the fact that any day may change the conditions. They can’t afford to wait.”

  He ceased abruptly, grasping my arm. From somewhere, somewhere outside the building, we all three had heard a soft whistle. A moment of tense listening followed.

  “If only we could have had the place surrounded,” whispered Bristol— “but it was impossible, of course.”

  A faint grating noise echoed through the lofty Burton Room. Bristol slipped past me in the semi-gloom, and gently opened the communicating door a few inches.

  A-tiptoe, I joined him, and craning across his shoulder saw a strange and wonderful thing.

  The newly glazed east window again was shattered with a booming crash! The yellow blind was thrust aside. A long something reached out toward the broken case. There was a sort of fumbling sound, and paralyzed with the wonder of it — for the window, remember, was thirty feet from the ground — I stood frozen to my post.

  Not so Bristol. As the weird tentacle (or more exactly it reminded me of a gigantic crab’s claw) touched the case, the Inspector leapt forward. A white beam from his electric torch cut through to the broken cabinet.

  The thing was withdrawn ... and with it went the slipper of the Prophet.

  “Raise the blinds!” cried Bristol. “Mr. Cavanagh! Mr. Mostyn! We must not let them give us the slip!”

  I got up the blind of the nearer window as Bristol raised the other. Not a living thing was in sight from either!

  Mostyn was beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder. I noted how he trembled. Bristol turned and looked back at us. The light from his pocket torch flashed upon the curator’s face; and I have never seen such an expression of horrified amazement as that which it wore. Faintly, I could hear the constable racing up the steps from the hall.

  Ideas of the supernatural came to us all, I know; when, with a scuffling sound not unlike that of a rat in a ceiling, something moved above us!

  “Damn my thick head!” roared Bristol, furiously. “He’s on the roof! It’s flat as a floor and there’s enough ivy alongside the water-spout on your house adjoining, Mr. Mostyn, to afford foothold to an invading army!”

  He plunged off toward the open door, and I heard him racing down the Assyrian Room.

  “He had a short rope ladder fixed from the gutter!” he cried back at us. “Graham! Graham!” (the constable on duty in the hall)— “Get the front door open! Get...” His voice died away as he leapt down the stairs.

  From the direction of Orpington Square came a horrid, choking scream. It rose hideously; it fell, rose again — and died.

  The thief escaped. We saw the traces upon the ivy where he had hastened down. Bristol ascended by the same route, and found where the ladder-hooks had twice been attached to the gutterway. Constable Graham, who was first actually to leave the building, declared that he heard the whirr of a re-started motor lower down Great Orchard Street.

  Bristol’s theory, later to be dreadfully substantiated, was that the thief had broken the glass and reached into the case with an arrangement similar to that employed for pruning trees, having a clutch at the end, worked with a cord.

  “Hassan has been too clever for us!” said the inspector. “But — what in God’s name did that awful screaming mean?”

  I had a theory, but
I did not advance it then.

  It was not until nearly dawn that my theory, and Bristol’s, regarding the clutch arrangement, both were confirmed. For close under the railings which abut on Orpington Square, in a pool of blood we found just such an instrument as Bristol had described.

  And still clutching it was a pallid and ghastly shrunken hand that had been severed from above the wrist!

  “Merciful God!” whispered the inspector— “look at the opal ring on the finger! Look at the bandage where he cut himself on the broken window-glass that first night, when Mr. Mostyn disturbed him. It wasn’t the Hashishin who stole the thing.... It’s Earl Dexter’s hand!”

  No one spoke for a moment. Then —

  “Which of them has—” began Mostyn huskily.

  “The slipper of the Prophet?” interrupted Bristol. “I wonder if we shall ever know?”

  CHAPTER XV

  A SHRIVELLED HAND

  Around a large square table in a room at New Scotland Yard stood a group of men, all of whom looked more or less continuously at something that lay upon the polished deal. One of the party, none other than the Commissioner himself, had just finished speaking, and in silence now we stood about the gruesome object which had furnished him with the text of his very terse address.

  I knew myself privileged in being admitted to such a conference at the C.I.D. headquarters and owed my admission partly to Inspector Bristol, and partly to the fact that under the will of the late Professor Deeping I was concerned in the uncanny business we were met to discuss.

  Novelty has a charm for every one; and to find oneself immersed in a maelstrom of Eastern devilry, with a group of scientific murderers in pursuit of a holy Moslem relic, and unexpectedly to be made a trustee of that dangerous curiosity, makes a certain appeal to the adventurous. But to read of such things and to participate in them are widely different matters. The slipper of the Prophet and the dreadful crimes connected with it, the mutilations, murders, the uncanny mysteries which made up its history, were filling my world with horror.