by Sax Rohmer
Stuart assumed an expression of perplexity to hide his embarrassment. “Mrs. M’Gregor,” he said rather ruefully, “you watch over me as tenderly as my own mother would have done. I have observed a certain restraint in your manner whenever you have had occasion to refer to Mlle. Dorian. In what way does she differ from my other lady patients?” And even as he spoke the words he knew in his heart that she differed from every other woman in the world.
Mrs. M’Gregor sniffed. “Do your other lady patients wear furs that your airnings for six months could never pay for, Mr. Keppel?” she inquired.
“No, unfortunately they pin their faith, for the most part, to gaily coloured shawls. All the more reason why I should bless the accident which led Mlle. Dorian to my door.”
Mrs. M’Gregor, betraying, in her interest, real suspicion, murmured sotto voce: “Then she is a patient?”
“What’s that?” asked Stuart, regarding her surprisedly. “A patient? Certainly. She suffers from insomnia.”
“I’m no’ surprised to hear it.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. M’Gregor?”
“Now, Mr. Keppel, laddie, ye’re angry with me, and like enough I am a meddlesome auld woman. But I know what a man will do for shining een and a winsome face — nane better to my sorrow — and twa times have I heard the Warning.”
Stuart stood up in real perplexity. “Pardon my density, Mrs. M’Gregor, but — er — the Warning? To what ‘warning’ do you refer?”
Seating herself in the chair before the writing-table, Mrs. M’Gregor shook her head pensively. “What would it be,” she said softly, “but the Pibroch o’ the M’Gregors?”
Stuart came across and leaned upon a corner of the table. “The Pibroch of the M’Gregors?” he repeated.
“Nane other. ’Tis said to be Rob Roy’s ain piper that gives warning when danger threatens ane o’ the M’Gregors or any they love.”
Stuart restrained a smile, and, “A well-meaning but melancholy retainer!” he commented.
“As well as I hear you now, laddie, I heard the pibroch on the day a certain woman first crossed my threshold, nigh thirty years ago, in Inverary. And as plainly as I heard it wailing then, I heard it the first evening that Miss Dorian came to this house!”
Torn between good-humoured amusement and real interest, “If I remember rightly,” said Stuart, “Mlle. Dorian first called here just a week ago, and immediately before I returned from an Infirmary case?”
“Your memory is guid, Mr. Keppel.”
“And when, exactly, did you hear this Warning?”
“Twa minutes before you entered the house; and I heard it again the now.”
“What! you heard it to-night?”
“I heard it again just the now and I lookit out the window.”
“Did you obtain a glimpse of Rob Roy’s piper?”
“Ye’re laughing at an old wife, laddie. No, but I saw Miss Dorian away in her car and twa minutes later I saw yourself coming round the corner.”
“If she had only waited another two minutes,” murmured Stuart. “No matter; she may return. And are these the only occasions upon which you have heard this mysterious sound, Mrs. M’Gregor?”
“No, Master Keppel, they are not. I assure ye something threatens. It wakened me up in the wee sma’ hours last night — the piping — an’ I lay awake shaking for long eno’.”
“How extraordinary. Are you sure your imagination is not playing you tricks?”
“Ah, you’re no’ takin’ me seriously, laddie.”
“Mrs. M’Gregor” — he leaned across the table and rested his hands upon her shoulders— “you are a second mother to me, your care makes me feel like a boy again; and in these grey days it’s good to feel like a boy again. You think I am laughing at you, but I’m not. The strange tradition of your family is associated with a tragedy in your life; therefore I respect it. But have no fear with regard to Mlle. Dorian. In the first place she is a patient; in the second — I am merely a penniless suburban practitioner. Good-night, Mrs. M’Gregor. Don’t think of waiting up. Tell Mary to show Mademoiselle in here directly she arrives — that is if she really returns.”
Mrs. M’Gregor stood up and walked slowly to the door. “I’ll show Mademoiselle in mysel’, Mr. Keppel,” she said,— “and show her out.”
She closed the door very quietly.
CHAPTER III
THE SCORPION’S TAIL
Seating himself at the writing-table, Stuart began mechanically to arrange his papers. Then from the tobacco jar he loaded his pipe, but his manner remained abstracted. Yet he was not thinking of the phantom piper but of Mlle. Dorian.
Until he had met this bewilderingly pretty woman he had thought that his heart was for evermore proof against the glances of bright eyes. Mademoiselle had disillusioned him. She was the most fragrantly lovely creature he had ever met, and never for one waking moment since her first visit, had he succeeded in driving her bewitching image from his mind. He had tried to laugh at his own folly, then had grown angry with himself, but finally had settled down to a dismayed acceptance of a wild infatuation.
He had no idea who Mlle. Dorian was; he did not even know her exact nationality, but he strongly suspected there was a strain of Eastern blood in her veins. Although she was quite young, apparently little more than twenty years of age, she dressed like a woman of unlimited means, and although all her visits had been at night he had had glimpses of the big car which had aroused Mrs. M’Gregor’s displeasure.
Yes — so ran his musings, as, pipe in mouth, he rested his chin in his hands and stared grimly into the fire — she had always come at night and always alone. He had supposed her to be a Frenchwoman, but an unmarried French girl of good family does not make late calls, even upon a medical man, unattended. Had he perchance unwittingly made himself a party to the escapade of some unruly member of a noble family? From the first he had shrewdly suspected the ailments of Mlle. Dorian to be imaginary — Mlle. Dorian? It was an odd name.
“I shall be imagining she is a disguised princess if I wonder about her any more!” he muttered angrily.
Detecting himself in the act of heaving a weary sigh, he coughed in self-reproval and reached into a pigeon-hole for the MS. of his unfinished paper on “Snake Poisons and Their Antidotes.” By chance he pulled out the brief account, written the same morning, of his uncanny experience during the night. He read it through reflectively.
It was incomplete. A certain mental haziness which he had noted upon awakening had in some way obscured the facts. His memory of the dream had been imperfect. Even now, whilst recognizing that some feature of the experience was missing from his written account, he could not identify the omission. But one memory arose starkly before him — that of the cowled man who had stood behind the curtains. It had power to chill him yet. The old incredulity returned and methodically he re-examined the contents of some of the table drawers. Ere long, however, he desisted impatiently.
“What the devil could a penniless doctor have hidden in his desk that was worth stealing!” he said aloud. “I must avoid cold salmon and cucumber in future.”
He tossed the statement aside and turned to his scientific paper.
There came knock at the door.
“Come in!” snapped Stuart irritably; but the next moment he had turned, eager-eyed to the servant who had entered.
“Inspector Dunbar has called, sir.”
“Oh, all right,” said Stuart, repressing another sigh. “Show him in here.”
There entered, shortly, a man of unusual height, a man gaunt and square both of figure and of face. He wore his clothes and his hair untidily. He was iron grey and a grim mouth was ill concealed by the wiry moustache. The most notable features of a striking face were the tawny leonine eyes, which could be fierce, which could be pensive and which were often kindly.
“Good evening, doctor,” he said — and his voice was pleasant and unexpectedly light in tome. “Hope I don’t intrude.”
“Not at al
l, Inspector,” Stuart assured him.
“Make yourself comfortable in the armchair and fill your pipe.”
“Thanks,” said Dunbar. “I will.” He took out his pipe and reached out a long arm for the tobacco jar. “I came to see if you could give me a tip on a matter that has cropped up.”
“Something in my line?” asked Stuart, a keen professional look coming momentarily into his eyes.
“It’s supposed to be a poison case, although I can’t see it myself,” answered the detective — to whom Keppel Stuart’s unusual knowledge of poisons had been of service in the past; “but if what I suspect is true, it’s a very big case all the same.”
Laying down his pipe, which he had filled but not lighted, Inspector Dunbar pulled out from the inside pocket of his tweed coat a bulging note-book and extracted therefrom some small object wrapped up in tissue paper. Unwrapping this object, he laid it upon the table.
“Tell me what that is, doctor,” he said, “and I shall be obliged.”
Stuart peered closely at that which lay before him. It was a piece of curiously shaped gold, cunningly engraved in a most unusual way. Rather less than an inch in length, it formed a crescent made up of six oval segments joined one to another, the sixth terminating in a curled point. The first and largest segment ended jaggedly where it had evidently been snapped off from the rest of the ornament — if the thing had formed part of an ornament. Stuart looked up, frowning in a puzzled way.
“It is a most curious fragment of jewellery — possibly of Indian origin,” he said.
Inspector Dunbar lighted his pipe and tossed the match-end into the fire. “But what does it represent?” he asked.
“Oh, as to that — I said a curious fragment advisedly, because I cannot imagine any woman wearing such a beastly thing. It is the tail of a scorpion.”
“Ah!” cried Dunbar, the tawny eyes glittering with excitement. “The tail of a scorpion! I thought so! And Sowerby would have it that it represented the stem of a Cactus or Prickly Pear!”
“Not so bad a guess,” replied Stuart. “There are resemblances — not in the originals but in such a miniature reproduction as this. He was wrong, however. May I ask where you obtained the fragment?”
“I’m here to tell you, doctor, for now that I know it’s a scorpion’s tail I know that I’m out of my depth as well. You’ve travelled in the East and lived in the East — two very different things. Now, while you were out there, in India, China, Burma, and so on, did you ever come across a religion or a cult that worshipped scorpions?”
Stuart frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with the mouthpiece of his pipe. Dunbar watched him expectantly.
“Help yourself to whiskey-and-soda, Inspector,” said Stuart absently. “You’ll find everything on the side-table yonder. I’m thinking.”
Inspector Dunbar nodded, stood up and crossed the room, where he busied himself with syphon and decanter. Presently he returned, carrying two full glasses, one of which he set before Stuart. “What’s the answer, doctor?” he asked.
“The answer is no. I am not acquainted with any sect of scorpion-worshippers, Inspector. But I once met with a curious experience at Su-Chow in China, which I have never been able to explain, but which may interest you. It wanted but a few minutes to sunset, and I was anxious to get back to my quarters before dusk fell. Therefore I hurried up my boy, who was drawing the rickshaw, telling him to cross the Canal by the Wu-men Bridge. He ran fleetly in that direction, and we were actually come to the steep acclivity of the bridge, when suddenly the boy dropped the shafts and fell down on his knees, hiding his face in his hands.
“‘Shut your eyes tightly, master!’ he whispered. ‘The Scorpion is coming!’
“I stared down at him in amazement, as was natural, and not a little angrily; for his sudden action had almost pitched me on my head. But there he crouched, immovable, and staring up the slope I say that it was entirely deserted except for one strange figure at that moment crossing the crown of the bridge and approaching. It was the figure of a tall and dignified Chinaman, or of one who wore the dress of a Chinaman. For the extra-ordinary thing about the stranger’s appearance was this; he also wore a thick green veil!”
“Covering his face?”
“So as to cover his face completely. I was staring at him in wonder, when the boy, seeming to divine the other’s approach, whispered, ‘Turn your head away! Turn your head away!”
“He was referring to the man with the veil?”
“Undoubtedly. Of course I did nothing of the kind, but it was impossible to discern the stranger’s features through the thick gauze, although he passed quite close to me. He had not proceeded another three paces, I should think, before my boy had snatched up the shafts and darted across the bridge as though all hell were after him! Here’s the odd thing, though; I could never induce him to speak a word on the subject afterwards! I bullied him and bribed him, but all to no purpose. And although I must have asked more than a hundred Chinamen in every station of society from mandarin to mendicant, ‘Who or what is The Scorpion?’ one and all looked stupid, blandly assuring me that they did not know what I meant.”
“H’m!” said Dunbar, “it’s a queer yarn, certainly. How long ago would that be, doctor?”
“Roughly — five years.”
“It sounds as though it might belong to the case. Some months back, early in the winter, we received instructions at the Yard to look out everywhere in the press, in buffets, theatres, but particularly in criminal quarters, for any reference (of any kind whatever) to a scorpion. I was so puzzled that I saw the Commissioner about it, and he could tell me next to nothing. He said the word had come through from Paris, but that Paris seemed to know no more about it than we did. It was associated in some way with the sudden deaths of several notable public men about that time; but as there was no evidence of foul play in any of the cases, I couldn’t see what it meant at all. Then, six weeks ago, Sir Frank Narcombe, the surgeon, fell dead in the foyer of a West-End theatre — you remember?”
CHAPTER IV
MADEMOISELLE DORIAN
The telephone bell rang.
Stuart reached across for the instrument and raised the receiver. “Yes,” he said— “Dr. Stuart speaking. Inspector Dunbar is here. Hold on.”
He passed the instrument to Dunbar, who had stood up on hearing his name mentioned. “Sergeant Sowerby at Scotland Yard wishes to speak to you, Inspector.”
“Hullo,” said Dunbar— “that you, Sowerby. Yes — but I arrived here only a short time ago. What’s that? — Max? Good God! what does it all mean! Are you sure of the number — 49685? Poor chap — he should have worked with us instead of going off alone like that. But he was always given to that sort of thing. Wait for me. I’ll be with you in a few minutes. I can get a taxi. And, Sowerby — listen! It’s ‘The Scorpion’ case right enough. That bit of gold found on the dead man is not a cactus stem; it’s a scorpion’s tail!”
He put down the telephone and turned to Stuart, who had been listening to the words with growing concern. Dunbar struck his open palm down on to the table with a violent gesture.
“We have been asleep!” he exclaimed. “Gaston Max of the Paris Service has been at work in London for a month, and we didn’t know it!”
“Gaston Max!” cried Start— “then it must be a big case indeed.”
As a student of criminology the name of the celebrated Frenchman was familiar to him as that of the foremost criminal investigator in Europe, and he found himself staring at the fragment of gold with a new and keener interest.
“Poor chap,” continued Dunbar— “it was his last. The body brought in from Hanover Hole has been identified as his.”
“What! it is the body of Gaston Max!”
“Paris has just wired that Max’s reports ceased over a week ago. He was working on the case of Sir Frank Narcombe, it seems, and I never knew! But I predicted a long time ago that Max would play the lone-hand game once too often. They sent particulars. The id
entification disk is his. Oh! there’s no doubt about it, unfortunately. The dead man’s face is unrecognizable, but it’s not likely there are two disks of that sort bearing the initials G.M. and the number 49685. I’m going along now. Should you care to come, doctor?”
“I am expecting a patient, Inspector,” replied Stuart— “er — a special case. But I hope you will keep me in touch with this affair?”
“Well, I shouldn’t have suggested your coming to the Yard if I hadn’t wanted to do that. As a matter of fact, this scorpion job seems to resolve itself into a case of elaborate assassination by means of some unknown poison; and although I should have come to see you in any event, because you have helped me more than once, I came to-night at the suggestion of the Commissioner. He instructed me to retain your services if they were available.”
“I am honoured,” replied Stuart. “But after all, Inspector, I am merely an ordinary suburban practitioner. My reputation has yet to be made. What’s the matter with Halesowen of Upper Wimpole Street? He’s the big man.”
“And if Sir Frank Narcombe was really poisoned — as Paris seems to think he was — he’s also a big fool.” retorted Dunbar bluntly. “He agreed that death was due to heart trouble.”
“I know he did; unsuspected ulcerative endocarditis. Perhaps he was right.”
“If he was right,” said Dunbar, taking up the piece of gold from the table, “what was Gaston Max doing with this thing in his possession?”
“There may be no earthly connection between Max’s inquiries and the death of Sir Frank.”
“On the other hand — there may! Leaving Dr. Halesowen out of the question, are you open to act as expert adviser in this case?”
“Certainly; delighted.”
“Your fee is your own affair, doctor. I will communicate with you later, if you wish, or call again in the morning.”
Dunbar wrapped up the scorpion’s tail in the piece of tissue paper and was about to replace it in his note-case. Then:
“I’ll leave this with you, doctor,” he said. “I know it will be safe enough, and you might like to examine it at greater leisure.”
