by Sax Rohmer
I leapt out of the cab, thrust half a crown into the man’s hand, and ran on to the corner. The night was now far advanced, and I knew that the chances of detection were thereby increased. But the woman seemed to have abandoned her fears, and I saw her just ahead of me walking resolutely past the lamp beyond which a short time earlier she had met with a dangerous adventure.
Since the opposite side of the street was comparatively in darkness, I slipped across, and in a state of high nervous tension pursued this strange work of espionage. I was convinced that I had forestalled Bristol and that I was hot upon the track of those who could explain the mystery of the dead dwarf.
The woman entered the gate of the block of dwellings even more forbidding in appearance than those which that night had staged a dreadful drama.
As the figure with the basket was lost from view I crept on, and in turn entered the evil-smelling hallway. I stepped cautiously, and standing beneath a gaslight protected by a wire frame, I congratulated myself upon having reached that point of vantage as silently as any Sioux stalker.
Footsteps were receding up the stone stairs. Craning my neck, I peered up the well of the staircase. I could not see the woman, but from the sound of her tread it was possible to count the landings which she passed. When she had reached the fourth, and I heard her step upon yet another flight, I knew that she must be bound for the topmost floor; and observing every precaution, almost holding my breath in a nervous endeavour to make not the slightest sound, rapidly I mounted the stairs.
I was come to the third landing in this secret fashion when quite distinctly I heard the grating of a key in a lock!
Since four doors opened upon each of the landings, at all costs, I thought, I must learn by which door she entered.
Throwing caution to the winds I raced up the remaining flights ... and there at the top the woman confronted me, with blazing eyes! — with eyes that thrilled every nerve; for they were violet eyes, the only truly violet eyes I have ever seen! They were the eyes of the woman who like a charming, mocking will-o’-the-wisp had danced through this tragic scene from the time that poor Professor Deeping had brought the Prophet’s slipper to London up to this present hour!
There at the head of those stone steps in that common dwelling-house I knew her — and in the violet eyes it was written that she knew, and feared, me!
“What do you want? Why are you following me?”
She made no endeavour to disguise her voice. Almost, I think, she spoke the words involuntarily.
I stood beside her. Quickly as she had turned from the door at my ascent, I had noted that it was that numbered forty-eight which she had been about to open.
“You waste words,” I said grimly. “Who lives there?”
I nodded in the direction of the doorway. The violet eyes watched me with an expression in their depths which I find myself wholly unable to describe. Fear predominated, but there was anger, too, and with it a sort of entreaty which almost made me regret that I had taken this task upon myself. From beneath the shabby black hat escaped an errant lock of wavy hair wholly inconsistent with the assumed appearance of the woman. The flickering gaslight on the landing sought out in that wonderful hair shades which seemed to glow with the soft light seen in the heart of a rose. The thick veil was raised now and all attempts at deception abandoned. At bay she faced me, this secret woman whom I knew to hold the key to some of the darkest places which we sought to explore.
“I live there,” she said slowly. “What do you want with me?”
“I want to know,” I replied, “for whom are those provisions in your basket?”
She watched me fixedly.
“And I want to know,” I continued, “something that only you can tell me. We have met before, madam, but you have always eluded me. This time you shall not do so. There’s much I have to ask of you, but particularly I want to know who killed the Hashishin who lies dead at no great distance from here!”
“How can I tell you that? Of what are you speaking?”
Her voice was low and musical; that of a cultured woman. She evidently recognized the futility of further subterfuge in this respect.
“You know quite well of what I am speaking! You know that you can tell me if any one can! The fact that you go disguised alone condemns you! Why should I remind you of our previous meetings — of the links which bind you to the history of the Prophet’s slipper?” She shuddered and closed her eyes. “Your present attitude is a sufficient admission!”
She stood silent before me, with something pitiful in her pose — a wonderfully pretty woman, whose disarranged hair and dilapidated hat could not mar her beauty; whose clumsy, ill-fitting garments could not conceal her lithe grace.
Our altercation had not thus far served to arouse any of the inhabitants and on that stuffy landing, beneath the flickering gaslight, we stood alone, a group of two which epitomized strange things.
Then, with that quietly dramatic note which marks real life entrances and differentiates them from the loudly acclaimed episodes of the stage, a third actor took up his cue.
“Both hands, Mr. Cavanagh!” directed an American voice.
Nerves atwitch, I started around in its direction.
From behind the slightly opened door of No. 48 protruded a steel barrel, pointed accurately at my head!
I hesitated, glancing from the woman toward the open door.
“Do it quick!” continued the voice incisively. “You are up against a desperate man, Mr. Cavanagh. Raise your hands. Carneta, relieve Mr. Cavanagh of his gun!”
Instantly the girl, with deft fingers, had obtained possession of my revolver.
“Step inside,” said the crisp, strident voice. Knowing myself helpless and quite convinced that I was indeed in the clutches of desperate people, I entered the doorway, the door being held open from within. She whom I had heard called Carneta followed. The door was reclosed; and I found myself in a perfectly bare and dim passageway. From behind me came the order —
“Go right ahead!”
Into a practically unfurnished room, lighted by one gas jet, I walked. Some coarse matting hung before the two windows and a fairly large grip stood on the floor against one wall. A gas-ring was in the hearth, together with a few cheap cooking utensils.
I turned and faced the door. First entered Carneta, carrying the basket; then came a man with a revolver in his left hand and his right arm strapped across his chest and swathed in bandages. One glance revealed the fact that his right hand had been severed — revealed the fact, though I knew it already, that my captor was Earl Dexter.
He looked even leaner than when I had last seen him. I had no doubt that his ghastly wound had occasioned a tremendous loss of blood. His gaunt face was positively emaciated, but the steely gray eyes had lost nothing of their brightness. There was a good deal about Mr. Earl Dexter, the cracksman, that any man must have admired.
“Shut the door, Carneta,” he said quietly. His companion closed the door and Dexter sat down on the grip, regarding me with his oddly humorous smile.
“You’re a visitor I did not expect, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said. “I expected someone worse. You’ve interfered a bit with my plans but I don’t know that I can’t rearrange things satisfactorily. I don’t think I’ll stop for supper, though—” He glanced at the girl, who stood silent by the door.
“Just pack up the provisions,” he directed, nodding toward the basket— “in the next room.”
She departed without a word.
“That’s a noticeable dust coat you’re wearing, Mr. Cavanagh,” said the American; “it gives me a great notion. I’m afraid I’ll have to borrow it.”
He glanced, smiling, at the revolver in his left hand and back again to me. There was nothing of the bully about him, nothing melodramatic; but I took off the coat without demur and threw it across to him.
“It will hide this stump,” he said grimly; “and any of the Hashishin gentlemen who may be on the look-out — though I rather fancy the road is
clear at the moment — will mistake me for you. See the idea? Carneta will be in a cab and I’ll be in after her and away before they’ve got time to so much as whistle.”
Very awkwardly he got into the coat.
“She’s a clever girl, Carneta,” he said. “She’s doctored me all along since those devils cut my hand off.”
As he finished speaking Carneta returned.
She had discarded her rags and wore a large travelling coat and a fashionable hat.
“Ready?” asked Dexter. “We’ll make a rush for it. We meant to go to-night anyway. It’s getting too hot here!” He turned to me.
“Sorry to say,” he drawled, “I’ll have to tie you up and gag you. Apologize; but it can’t be helped.”
Carneta nodded and went out of the room again, to return almost immediately with a line that looked as though it might have been employed for drying washing.
“Hands behind you,” rapped Dexter, toying with the revolver— “and think yourself lucky you’ve got two!”
There was no mistaking the manner of man with whom I had to deal, and I obeyed; but my mind was busy with a hundred projects. Very neatly the girl bound my wrists, and in response to a slight nod from Dexter threw the end of the line up over a beam in the sloping ceiling, for the room was right under the roof, and drew it up in such a way that, my wrists being raised behind me, I became utterly helpless. It was an ingenious device indicating considerable experience.
“Just tie his handkerchief around his mouth,” directed Dexter: “that will keep him quiet long enough for our purpose. I hope you will be released soon, Mr. Cavanagh,” he added. “Greatly regret the necessity.”
Carneta bound the handkerchief over my mouth.
Dexter extinguished the gas.
“Mr. Cavanagh,” he said, “I’ve gone through hell and I’ve lost the most useful four fingers and a thumb in the United States to get hold of the Prophet’s slipper. Any one can have it that’s open to pay for it — but I’ve got to retire on the deal, so I’ll drive a hard bargain! Good-night!”
There was a sound of retreating footsteps, and I heard the entrance door close quietly.
CHAPTER XVIII
WHAT CAME THROUGH THE WINDOW
I had not been in my unnatural position for many minutes before I began to suffer agonies, agonies not only physical but mental; for standing there like some prisoner of the Inquisition, it came to me how this dismantled apartment must be the focus of the dreadful forces of Hassan of Aleppo!
That Earl Dexter had the slipper of the Prophet I no longer doubted, and that he had sustained, in this dwelling beneath the roof, an uncanny siege during the days which had passed since the theft from the Antiquarian Museum, was equally certain. Helpless, gagged, I pictured those hideous creatures, evil products of the secret East, who might, nay, who must surround that place! I thought of the horrible little yellow man who lay dead in Wyatt’s Buildings; and it became evident to me that the house in which I was now imprisoned must overlook the back of those unsavoury tenements. The windows, sack-covered now, no doubt commanded a view of the roofs of the buildings. One of the mysteries that had puzzled us was solved. It was Earl Dexter who had shot the yellow dwarf as he was bound for this very room! But how humanly the Hashishin had proposed to gain his goal, how he had travelled through empty space — for from empty space the shot had brought him down — I could not imagine.
I knew something of the almost supernatural attributes of these people. From Professor Deeping’s book I knew of the incredible feats which they could perform when under the influence of the drug hashish. From personal experience also I knew that they had powers wholly abnormal.
The pain in my arms and back momentarily increased. An awesome silence ruled. I tortured myself with pictures of murderous yellow men possessed of the power claimed by the Mahatmas, of levitation. Mentally I could see a distorted half-animal creature carrying a great gleaming knife and floating supernaturally toward me through the night!
A soft pattering sound became perceptible on the sloping roof above!
I think I have never known such intense and numbing fear as that which now descended upon me. Perhaps I may be forgiven it. A more dreadful situation it would be hard to devise. Knowing that I was on the fifth story of a house, bound, helpless, I knew, too, that a second mystic guardian of the slipper was come to accomplish the task in which the first had failed!
I began to pray fervently.
Neither of the windows were closed; and now through the intense darkness I heard one of them being raised up — up — up...
The sacking was pulled aside inch by inch.
Silhouetted against the faintly luminous background I saw a hunched, unnatural figure. The real was more dreadful even than the imaginary — for some stray beam of light touched into cold radiance a huge curved knife which the visitant held between his teeth!
My fear became a madness, and I twisted my body violently in a wild endeavour to free myself. A dreadful pain shot through my left shoulder, and the whole nightmare scene — the thing with the knife at the window — the low-ceiled room-began to fade away from me. I seemed to be falling into deep water.
A splintering crash and the sound of shouting formed my last recollections ere unconsciousness came.
I found myself lying in an armchair with Bristol forcing brandy between my lips. My left arm hung limply at my side and the pain in my dislocated shoulder was excruciating.
“Thank God you are all right, Mr. Cavanagh!” said the inspector. “I got the surprise of my life when we smashed the door in and found you tied up here!”
“You came none too soon,” I said feebly. “God knows how Providence directed you here.”
“Providence it was,” replied Bristol. “From the roof of Wyatt’s Buildings — you know the spot? — I saw the second yellow devil coming. By God! They meant to have it to-night! They don’t value their lives a brass farthing against that damned slipper!”
“But how—”
“Along the telegraph-wires, Mr. Cavanagh! They cross Wyatt’s Buildings and cross this house. It was a moonless night or we should have seen it at once! I watched him, saw him drop to this roof — and brought the men around to the front.”
“Did he, that awful thing, escape?”
“He dropped full forty feet into a tree — from the tree to the ground, and went off like a cat!”
“Earl Dexter has escaped us,” I said, “and he has the slipper!”
“God help him!” replied Bristol. “For by now he has that hell-pack at his heels! What a case! Heavens above, it will drive me mad!”
CHAPTER XIX
A RAPPING AT MIDNIGHT
Inspector Bristol finished his whisky at a gulp and stood up, a tall, massive figure, stretching himself and yawning.
“The detective of fiction would be hard at work on this case, now,” he said, smiling, “but I don’t even pretend to be. I am at a standstill and I don’t care who knows it.”
“You have absolutely no clue to the whereabouts of Earl Dexter?”
“Not the slightest, Mr. Cavanagh. You hear a lot about the machinery of the law, but as a matter of fact, looking for a clever man hidden in London is a good deal like looking for a needle in a haystack. Then, he may have been bluffing when he told you he had the Prophet’s slipper. He’s already had his hand cut off through interfering with the beastly thing, and I really can’t believe he would take further chances by keeping it in his possession. Nevertheless, I should like to find him.”
He leaned back against the mantelpiece, scratching his head perplexedly. In this perplexity he had my sympathy. No such pursuit, I venture to say, had ever before been required of Scotland Yard as this of the slipper of the Prophet. An organization founded in 1090, which has made a science of assassination, which through the centuries has perfected the malign arts, which, lingering on in a dark spot in Syria, has suddenly migrated and established itself in London, is a proposition almost unthinkable.
&nb
sp; It was hard to believe that even the daring American cracksman should have ventured to touch that blood-stained relic of the Prophet, that he should have snatched it away from beneath the very eyes of the fanatics who fiercely guarded it. What he hoped to gain by his possession of the slipper was not evident, but the fact remained that if he could be believed, he had it, and provided Scotland Yard’s information was accurate, he still lurked in hiding somewhere in London.
Meanwhile, no clue offered to his hiding-place, and despite the ceaseless vigilance of the men acting under Bristol’s orders, no trace could be found of Hassan of Aleppo nor of his fiendish associates.
“My theory is,” said Bristol, lighting a cigarette, “that even Dexter’s cleverness has failed to save him. He’s probably a dead man by now, which accounts for our failing to find him; and Hassan of Aleppo has recovered the slipper and returned to the East, taking his gruesome company with him — God knows how! But that accounts for our failing to find him.”
I stood up rather wearily. Although poor Deeping had appointed me legal guardian of the relic, and although I could render but a poor account of my stewardship, let me confess that I was anxious to take that comforting theory to my bosom. I would have given much to have known beyond any possibility of doubt that the accursed slipper and its blood-lustful guardian were far away from England. Had I known so much, life would again have had something to offer me besides ceaseless fear, endless watchings. I could have slept again, perhaps; without awaking, clammy, peering into every shadow, listening, nerves atwitch to each slightest sound disturbing the night; without groping beneath the pillow for my revolver.
“Then you think,” I said, “that the English phase of the slipper’s history is closed? You think that Dexter, minus his right hand, has eluded British law — that Hassan and Company have evaded retribution?”
