by Sax Rohmer
“Is that the Commissioner’s Office, New Scotland Yard?” he asked. “Yes! My name is Dr. Keppel Stuart. If Inspector Dunbar is there, would you kindly allow me to speak to him.”
There was a short interval, then:
“Hullo!” came— “is that Dr. Stuart?”
“Yes. That you, Inspector? I have just remembered something which I should have observed in the first place if I had been really wide-awake. The envelope — you know the one I mean? — the one bearing the number, 30, has been sealed with a Chinese coin, known as cash. I have just recognized the fact and thought it wise to let you know at once.”
“Are you sure?” asked Dunbar.
“Certain. If you care to call at my place later to-day I can show you some cash. Bring the envelope with you and you will see that the coins correspond to the impression in the wax. The inscriptions vary in different provinces, but the form of all cash is the same.”
“Very good. Thanks for letting me know at once. It seems to establish a link with China, don’t you think?”
“It does, but it merely adds to the mystery.”
Coming out of the call-box, Stuart proceeded home, but made one or two professional visits before he actually returned to the house. He now remembered having left this particular cash piece (which he usually carried) in his dispensary, which satisfactorily accounted fro his failure to find the coin in his waistcoat pocket. He had broken the cork of a flask, and in the absence of another of correct size had manufactured a temporary stopper with a small cork to the top of which he had fixed the Chinese coin with a drawing-pin. His purpose served he had left the extemporized stopper somewhere in the dispensary.
Stuart’s dispensary was merely a curtained recess at one end of the waiting-room and shortly after entering the house he had occasion to visit it. Lying upon a shelf among flasks and bottles was the Chinese coin with the cork still attached. He took it up in order to study the inscription. Then:
“Have I cultivated somnambulism!” he muttered.
Fragments of black sealing-wax adhered to the coin!
Incredulous and half fearful he peered at it closely. He remembered that the impression upon the wax sealing the mysterious envelope had had a circular depression in the centre. It had been made by the head of the drawing-pin!
He found himself at the shelf immediately above that upon which the coin had lain. A stick of black sealing wax used for sealing medicine was thrust in beside a bundle of long envelopes in which he was accustomed to post his Infirmary reports!
One hand raised to his head, Stuart stood endeavouring to marshal his ideas into some sane order. Then, knowing what he should find, he raised the green baize curtain hanging from the lower shelf, which concealed a sort of cupboard containing miscellaneous stores and not a little rubbish, including a number of empty cardboard boxes.
A rectangular strip had been roughly cut from the lid of the topmost box!
The mysterious envelope and its contents, the wax and the seal — all had come from his own dispensary!
CHAPTER X
“CLOSE YOUR SHUTTERS AT NIGHT”
Inspector Dunbar stood in the little dispensary tapping his teeth with the end of a fountain-pen.
“The last time he visited you, doctor — the time when he gave you the envelope — did the cabman wait here in the waiting-room?”
“He did — yes. He came after my ordinary consulting hours and I was at supper, I remember, as I am compelled to dine early.”
“He would be in here alone?”
“Yes. No one else was in the room.”
“Would he have had time to find the box, cut out the piece of cardboard from the lid, put it in the envelope and seal it?”
“Ample time. But what could be his object? And why mark the envelope 30?”
“It was in your consulting-room that he asked you to take charge of the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Might I take a peep at the consulting room?”
“Certainly, Inspector.”
From the waiting-room they went up a short flight of stairs into the small apartment in which Stuart saw his patients. Dunbar looked slowly about him, standing in the middle of the room, then crossed and stared out of the window into the narrow lane below.
“Where were you when he gave you the envelope?” he snapped suddenly.
“At the table,” replied Stuart with surprise.
“Was the table-lamp alight?”
“Yes. I always light it when seeing patients.”
“Did you take the letter into the study to seal it in the other envelope?”
“I did, and he came along and witnessed me do it.”
“Ah,” said Dunbar, and scribbled busily in his note-book. “We are badly tied at Scotland Yard, doctor, and this case looks like being another for which somebody else will reap the credit. I am going to make a request that will surprise you.”
He tore a leaf out of the book and folded it carefully.
“I am going to ask you to seal up something and lock it away! But I don’t think you’ll be troubled by cowled burglars or beautiful women because of it. On this piece of paper I have written — a” — he ticked off the points on his fingers: “what I believe to be the name of the man who cut out the cardboard and sealed it in an envelope; b: the name of the cabman; and, c: the name of the man who rang me up here last night and gave me information which had only just reached the Commissioner. I’ll ask you to lock it away until it’s wanted, doctor.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” replied Stuart. “Come into the study and you shall see me do as you direct. I may add that the object to be served is not apparent to me.”
Entering the study, he took an envelope, enclosed the piece of paper, sealed the lapel and locked the envelope in the same drawer of the bureau which once had contained that marked 30.
“Mlle. Dorian has a duplicate key to this drawer.” he said. “Are you prepared to take the chance?”
“Quite,” replied Dunbar, smiling; “although my information is worth more than that which she risked so much to steal.”
“It’s most astounding. At every step the darkness increases. Why should anyone have asked me to lock up a blank piece of cardboard?”
“Why, indeed,” murmured Dunbar. “Well, I may as well get back. I am expecting a report from Sowerby. Look after yourself, sir. I’m inclined to think your pretty patient was talking square when she told you there might be danger.”
Stuart met the glance of the tawny eyes.
“What d’you mean, Inspector? Why should I be in danger?”
“Because,” replied Inspector Dunbar, “if ‘The Scorpion’ is a poisoner, as the chief seems to think, there’s really only one man in England he has to fear, and that man is Dr. Keppel Stuart.”
When the Inspector had taken his departure Stuart stood for a long time staring out of the study window at the little lawn with its bordering of high neatly-trimmed privet above which at intervals arose the mop crowns of dwarf acacias. A spell of warm weather seemed at last to have begun, and clouds of gnats floated over the grass, their minute wings glittering in the sunshine. Despite the nearness of teeming streets, this was a backwater of London’s stream.
He sighed and returned to some work which the visit of the Scotland Yard man had interrupted.
Later in the afternoon he had occasion to visit the institution to which he had recently been appointed as medical officer, and in contemplation of the squalor through which his steps led him he sought forgetfulness of the Scorpion problem — and of the dark eyes of Mlle. Dorian. He was not entirely successful, and returning by a different route he lost himself in memories which were sweetly mournful.
A taxicab passed him, moving slowly very close to the pavement. He scarcely noted it until it had proceeded some distance ahead of him. Then its slow progress so near to the pavement at last attracted his attention, and he stared vacantly towards the closed vehicle.
Mlle. Dorian was leaning out o
f the window and looking back at him!
Stuart’s heart leapt high. For an instant he paused, then began to walk rapidly after the retreating vehicle. Perceiving that she had attracted his attention, the girl extended a white-gloved hand from the window and dropped a note upon the edge of the pavement. Immediately she withdrew into the vehicle — which moved away at accelerated speed, swung around the next corner and was gone.
Stuart ran forward and picked up the note. Without pausing to read it, he pressed on to the corner. The cab was already two hundred yards away, and he recognized pursuit to be out of the question. The streets were almost deserted at the moment, and no one apparently had witnessed the episode. He unfolded the sheet of plain note-paper, faintly perfumed with jasmine, and read the following, written in an uneven feminine hand:
“Close your shutters at night. Do not think too bad of me.”
CHAPTER XI
THE BLUE RAY
Dusk found Stuart in a singular frame of mind. He was torn between duty — or what he conceived to be his duty — to the community, and … something else. A messenger from New Scotland Yard had brought him a bundle of documents relating to the case of Sir Frank Narcombe, and a smaller packet touching upon the sudden end of Henrik Ericksen, the Norwegian electrician, and the equally unexpected death of the Grand Duke Ivan. There were medical certificates, proceedings of coroners, reports of detectives, evidence of specialists and statements of friends, relatives and servants of the deceased. A proper examination of all the documents represented many hours of close study.
Stuart was flattered by the opinion held of his ability by the Assistant Commissioner, but dubious of his chance of detecting any flaw in the evidence which had escaped the scrutiny of so many highly trained observers.
He paced the study restlessly. Although more than six hours had elapsed, he had not communicated to Scotland Yard the fact of his having seen Mlle. Dorian that afternoon. A hundred times he had read the message, although he knew it by heart, knew the form of every letter, the odd crossing of the t’s and the splashy dotting of the i’s.
If only he could have taken counsel with someone — with someone not bound to act upon such information — it would have relieved his mental stress. His ideas were so chaotic that he felt himself to be incapable of approaching the task presented by the pile of papers lying upon his table.
The night was pleasantly warm and the sky cloudless. Often enough he found himself glancing toward the opened French windows, and once he had peered closely across into the belt of shadow below the hedge, thinking that he had detected something which moved there. Stepping to the window, the slinking shape had emerged into the moonlight — and had proclaimed itself to be that of a black cat!
Yet he had been sorely tempted to act upon the advice so strangely offered. He refrained from doing so, however, reflecting that to spend his evenings with closed and barred shutters now that a spell of hot weather seemed to be imminent would be insufferable. Up and down the room he paced tirelessly, always confronted by the eternal problem.
Forcing himself at last to begin work if only as a sedative, he filled and lighted his pipe, turned off the centre lamp and lighted the reading lamp upon his table. He sat down to consider the papers bearing upon the death of Eriksen. For half an hour he read on steadily and made a number of pencil notes. Then he desisted and sat staring straight before him.
What possible motive could there be in assassinating these people? The case of the Grand Duke might be susceptible of explanation, but those of Henrik Ericksen and Sir Frank Narcombe were not. Furthermore he could perceive no links connecting the three, and no reason why they should have engaged the attention of a common enemy. Such crimes would seem to be purposeless. Assuming that “The Scorpion” was an individual, that individual apparently was a dangerous homicidal maniac.
But, throughout the documents, he could discover no clue pointing to the existence of such an entity. “The Scorpion” might be an invention of the fertile brain of M. Gaston Max; for it had become more and more evident, as he had read, that the attempt to trace these deaths to an identical source had originated at the Service de Surete, and it was from Paris that the name “The Scorpion” had come. The fate of Max was significant, of course. The chances of his death proving to have been due to accident were almost negligible and the fact that a fragment of a golden scorpion had actually been found upon his body was certainly curious.
“Close your shutters at night….”
How the words haunted him and how hotly he despised himself for a growing apprehension which refused to be ignored. It was more mental than physical, this dread which grew with the approach of midnight, and it resembled that which had robbed him of individuality and all but stricken him inert when he had seen upon the moon-bright screen of the curtains the shadow of a cowled man.
Dark forces seemed to be stirring, and some unseen menace crept near to him out of the darkness.
The house was of early Victorian fashion and massive folding shutters were provided to close the French windows. He never used them, as a matter of fact, but now he tested the fastenings which kept them in place against the inner wall and even moved them in order to learn if they were still serviceable.
Of all the mysteries which baffled him, that of the piece of cardboard in the envelope sealed with a Chinese coin was the most irritating. It seemed like the purposeless trick of a child, yet it had led to the presence of the cowled man — and to the presence of Mlle. Dorian. Why?
He sat down at his table again.
“Damn the whole business!” he said. “It is sending me crazy.”
Selecting from the heap of documents a large sheet of note-paper bearing a blue diagram of a human bust, marked with figures and marginal notes, he began to read the report to which it was appended — that of Dr. Halesowen. It stated that the late Sir Frank Narcombe had a “horizontal” heart, slightly misplaced and dilatated, with other details which really threw no light whatever upon the cause of his death.
“I have a horizontal heart,” growled Stuart— “and considering my consumption of tobacco it is certainly dilatated. But I don’t expect to drop dead in a theatre nevertheless.”
He read on, striving to escape from that shadowy apprehension, but as he read he was listening to the night sounds of London, to the whirring of distant motors, the whistling of engines upon the railway and dim hooting of sirens from the Thames. A slight breeze had arisen and it rustled in the feathery foliage of the acacias and made a whispering sound as it stirred the leaves of the privet hedge.
The drone of an approaching car reached his ears. Pencil in hand, he sat listening. The sound grew louder, then ceased. Either the car had passed or had stopped somewhere near the house. Came a rap on the door.
“Yes,” called Stuart and stood up, conscious of excitement.
Mrs. M’Gregor came in.
“There is nothing further you’ll be wanting to-night?” she asked.
“No,” said Stuart, strangely disappointed, but smiling at the old lady cheerfully. “I shall turn in very shortly.”
“A keen east wind has arisen,” she continued, severely eyeing the opened windows, “and even for a medical man you are strangely imprudent. Shall I shut the windows?”
“No, don’t trouble, Mrs. M’Gregor. The room gets very stuffy with tobacco smoke, and really it is quite a warm night. I shall close them before I retire, of course.”
“Ah well,” sighed Mrs. M’Gregor, preparing to depart. “Good-night, Mr. Keppel.”
“Good-night, Mrs. M’Gregor.”
She retired, and Stuart sat staring out into the darkness. He was not prone to superstition, but it seemed like tempting providence to remain there with the windows open any longer. Yet paradoxically, he lacked the moral courage to close them — to admit to himself that he was afraid!
The telephone bell rang, and he started back in his chair as though to avoid a blow.
By doing so he avoided destruction.
&
nbsp; At the very instant that the bell rang out sharply in the silence — so exact is the time-table of Kismet — a needle-like ray of blue light shot across the lawn from beyond and above the hedge and — but for that nervous start — must have struck fully upon the back of Stuart’s skull. Instead, it shone past his head, which it missed only by inches, and he experienced a sensation as though some one had buffeted him upon the cheek furiously. He pitched out of his chair and on to the carpet.
The first object which the ray touched was the telephone; and next, beyond it, a medical dictionary; beyond that again, the grate, in which a fire was laid.
“My God!” groaned Stuart— “what is it!”
An intense crackling sound deafened him, and the air of the room seemed to have become hot as that of an oven. There came a series of dull reports — an uncanny wailing … and the needle-ray vanished. A monstrous shadow, moon-cast, which had lain across the carpet of the lawn — the shadow of a cowled man — vanished also.
Clutching the side of his head, which throbbed and tingled as though from the blow of an open hand, Stuart struggled to his feet. There was smoke in the room, a smell of burning and of fusing metal. He glared at the table madly.
The mouthpiece of the telephone had vanished!
“My God!” he groaned again, and clutched at the back of the chair.
His dictionary was smouldering slowly. It had a neat round hole some three inches in diameter, bored completely through, cover to cover! The fire in the grate was flaring up the chimney!
He heard the purr of a motor in the lane beside the house. The room was laden with suffocating fumes. Stuart stood clutching the chair and striving to retain composure — sanity. The car moved out of the lane.
Someone was running towards the back gate of the house … was scrambling over the hedge … was racing across the lawn!
A man burst into the study. He was a man of somewhat heavy build, clean-shaven and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about his lips and jaw lent added vigour to a flexible but masterful mouth. His dark hair was tinged with grey, his dark eyes were brilliant with excitement. He was very smartly dressed and wore light tan gloves. He reeled suddenly, clutching at a chair for support.
