by Sax Rohmer
“Quick! quick!” he cried— “the telephone! … Ah!”
Just inside the window he stood, swaying and breathing rapidly, his gaze upon the instrument.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried— “what has happened, then!”
Stuart stared at the new-comer dazedly.
“Hell has been in my room!” he replied. “That’s all!”
“Ah!” said the stranger— “again he eludes me! The telephone was the only chance. Pas d’blaque! we are finished!”
He dropped into a chair, removed his light grey hat and began to dry his moist brow with a fine silk handkerchief. Stuart stared at him like a man who is stupefied. The room was still laden with strange fumes.
“Blimey!” remarked the new-comer, and his Whitechapel was as perfect as his Montmatre. He was looking at the decapitated telephone. “This is a knock-out!”
“Might I ask,” said Stuart, endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, “where you came from?”
“From up a tree!” was the astonishing reply. “It was the only way to get over!”
“Up a tree!”
“Exactly. Yes, I was foolish. I am too heavy. But what could I do! We must begin all over again.”
Stuart began to doubt his sanity. This was no ordinary man.
“Might I ask,” he said, “who you are and what you are doing in my house?”
“Ah!” The stranger laughed merrily. “You wonder about me — I can see it. Permit me to present myself — Gaston Max, at your service!”
“Gaston Max!” Stuart glared at the speaker incredulously. “Gaston Max! Why, I conduct a post mortem examination upon Gaston Max tomorrow, in order to learn if he was poisoned!”
“Do not trouble, doctor. That poor fellow is not Gaston Max and he was not poisoned. You may accept my word for it. I had the misfortune to strangle him.”
PART II. STATEMENT OF GASTON MAX
I. THE DANCER OF MONTMARTRE
CHAPTER I
ZARA EL-KHALA
The following statement which I, Gaston Max, am drawing up in duplicate for the guidance of whoever may inherit the task of tracing “The Scorpion” — a task which I have begun — will be lodged — one copy at the Service de Surete in Paris, and the other copy with the Commissioner of Police, New Scotland Yard. As I apprehend that I may be assassinated at any time, I propose to put upon record all that I have learned concerning the series of murders which I believe to be traceable to a certain person. In the event of my death, my French colleagues will open the sealed packet containing this statement and the English Assistant Commissioner of the Special Branch responsible for international affairs will receive instructions to open that which I shall have lodged at Scotland Yard.
This matter properly commenced, then, with the visit to Paris, incognito, of the Grand Duke Ivan, that famous soldier of whom so much was expected, and because I had made myself responsible for his safety during the time that he remained in the French capital, I (also incognito be it understood) struck up a friendship with one Casimir, the Grand Duke’s valet. Nothing is sacred to a valet, and from Casimir I counted upon learning the real reason which had led this nobleman to visit Paris at so troublous a time. Knowing the Grand Duke to be a man of gallantry, I anticipated finding a woman in the case — and I was not wrong.
Yes, there was a woman, and nom d’nom!she was beautiful. Now in Paris we have many beautiful women, and in times of international strife it is true that we have had to shoot some of them. For my own part I say with joy that I have never been instrumental in bringing a woman to such an end. Perhaps I am sentimental; it is a French weakness; but on those few occasions when I have found a guilty woman in my power — and she has been pretty — morbleu! — she has escaped! It may be that I have seen to it that she was kept out of further mischief, but nevertheless she has never met a firing-party because of me. Very well.
From the good fellow Casimir I learned that a certain dancer appearing at one of our Montmartre theatres had written to the Grand Duke craving the honour of his autograph — and enclosing her photograph.
Pf! it was enough. One week later the autograph arrived — attached to an invitation to dine with the Grand Duke at his hotel in Paris. Yes — he had come to Paris. I have said that he was susceptible and I have said that she was beautiful. I address myself to men of the world, and I shall not be in error if I assume that they will say, “A wealthy fool and a designing woman. It is an old story.” Let us see.
The confidences of Casimir interested me in more ways than one. In the first place I had particular reasons for suspecting anyone who sought to obtain access to the Grand Duke. These were diplomatic. And in the second place I had suspicions of Zara el-Khala. These were personal.
Yes — so she called herself — Zara el-Khala, which in Arabic is “Flower of the Desert.” She professed to be an Egyptian, and certainly she had the long, almond-shaped eyes of the East, but her white skin betrayed her, and I knew that whilst she might possess Eastern blood, she was more nearly allied to Europe than to Africa. It is my business to note unusual matters, you understand, and I noticed that this beautiful and accomplished woman of whom all Paris was beginning to speak rapturously remained for many weeks at a small Montmartre theatre. Her performance, which was unusually decorous for the type of establishment at which she appeared, had not apparently led to an engagement elsewhere.
This aroused the suspicions to which I have referred. In the character of a vaudeville agent I called at the Montmartre theatre and was informed by the management that Zara-el-Khala received no visitors, professional or otherwise. A small but expensive car awaited her at the stage door. My suspicions increased. I went away, but returned on the following night, otherwise attired, and from a hiding-place which I had selected on the previous evening I watched the dancer depart.
She came out so enveloped in furs and veils as to be unrecognizable, and a Hindu wearing a chauffeur’s uniform opened the door of the car for her, and then, having arranged the rugs to her satisfaction, mounted to the wheel and drove away.
I traced the car. It had been hired for the purpose of taking Zara el-Khala from her hotel — to the theatre and home nightly. I sent a man to call upon her at the hotel — in order to obtain press material, ostensibly. She declined to see him. I became really interested. I sent her a choice bouquet, having the card of a nobleman attached to it, together with a message of respectful admiration. It was returned. I prevailed upon one of the most handsome and gallant cavalry officers in Paris to endeavour to make her acquaintance. He was rebuffed.
Eh bien! I knew then that Mlle. Zara of the Desert was unusual.
You will at once perceive that when I heard from the worthy Casimir how this unapproachable lady had actually written to the Grand Duke Ivan and had gone so far as to send him her photograph, I became excited. It appeared to me that I found myself upon the brink of an important discovery. I set six of my first-class men at work: three being detailed to watch the hotel of the Grand Duke Ivan and three to watch Zara el-Khala. Two more were employed in watching the Hindu servant and one in watching my good friend Casimir. Thus, nine clever men and myself were immediately engaged upon the case.
Why do I speak of a “case” when thus far nothing of apparent importance had occurred? I will explain. Although the Grand Duke travelled incognito, his Government knew of the journey and wished to learn with what object it had been undertaken.
At the time that I made the acquaintance of Casimir the Grand Duke had been in Paris for three days, and he was — according to my informant— “like a raging lion.” The charming dancer had vouchsafed no reply to his invitation and he had met with the same reception, on presenting himself in person, which had been accorded to myself and to those others who had sought to obtain an interview with Zara el-Khala!
My state of mystification grew more and more profound. I studied the reports of my nine assistants.
It appeared that the girl had been in Paris for a period of two months. She occ
upied a suite of rooms in which all her meals were served. Except the Hindu who drove the hired car, she had no servant. She never appeared in the public part of the hotel unless veiled, and then merely in order to pass out to the car or in from it on returning. She drove out every day. She had been followed, of course, but her proceedings were unexceptionable. Leaving the car at a point in the Bois De Boulogne, she would take a short walk, if the day was fine enough, never proceeding out of sight of the Hindu, who followed with the automobile, and would then drive back to her hotel. She never received visits and never met any one during these daily excursions.
I turned to the report dealing with the Hindu. He had hired a room high up under the roof of an apartment house where foreign waiters and others had their abodes. He bought and cooked his own food, which apparently consisted solely of rice, lentils and fruit. He went every morning to the garage and attended to the car, called for his mistress, and having returned remained until evening in his own apartment. At night, after returning from the theatre, he sometimes went out, and my agent had failed to keep track of him on every occasion that he had attempted pursuit. I detached the man who was watching Casimir and whose excellent reports revealed the fact that Casimir was an honest fellow — as valets go — and instructed him to assist in tracing the movements of the Hindu.
Two nights later they tracked him to a riverside cafe kept by a gigantic quadroon from Dominique and patronized by that type which forms a link between the lowest commercial and the criminal classes: itinerant vendors of Eastern rugs, street performers and Turkish cigarette makers.
At last I began to have hopes. The Grand Duke at this time was speaking of leaving Paris, but as he had found temporary consolation in the smiles of a lady engaged at the “Folies” I did not anticipate that he would depart for several days at any rate. Also he was the kind of man who is stimulated by obstacles.
The Hindu remained for an hour in the cafe, smoking and drinking some kind of syrup, and one of my fellows watched him. Presently the proprietor called him into a little room behind the counter and closed the door. The Hindu and the quadroon remained there for a few minutes, then the Hindu came out and left the cafe, returning to his abode. There was a telephone in this inner room, and my agent was of opinion that the Indian had entered either to make or to receive a call. I caused the line to be tapped.
On the following night the Hindu came back to the cafe, followed by one of my men. I posted myself at a selected point and listened for any message that might pass over the line to or from the cafe. At about the same hour as before — according to the report — someone called up the establishment, asking for “Miguel.” This was the quadroon, and I heard his thick voice replying. The other voice — which had first spoken — was curiously sibilant but very distinct. Yet it did not sound like the voice of a Frenchman or of any European. This was the conversation:
“Miguel.”
“Miguel speaks.”
“Scorpion. A message for Chunda Lal.”
“Very good.”
Almost holding my breath, so intense was my excitement, I waited whilst Miguel went to bring the Hindu. Suddenly a new voice spoke — that of the Hindu.
“Chunda Lal speaks,” it said.
I clenched by teeth; I knew that I must not miss a syllable.
“Scorpion” replied … in voluble Hindustani — a language of which I know less than a dozen words!
CHAPTER II
CONCERNING THE GRAND DUKE
Although I had met with an unforeseen check, I had nevertheless learned three things. I had learned that Miguel the quadroon was possibly in league with the Hindu; that the Hindu was called Chunda Lal; and that Chunda Lal received messages, probably instructions, from a third party who announced his presence by the word “Scorpion.”
One of my fellows, of course, had been in the cafe all the evening, and from him I obtained confirmation of the fact that it had been the Hindu who had been summoned to the telephone and whom I had heard speaking. Instant upon the man at the cafe replacing the telephone and disconnecting, I called up the exchange. They had been warned and were in readiness.
“From what subscriber did that call come?” I demanded.
Alas! another check awaited me. It had originated in a public call office, and “Scorpion” was untraceable by this means!
Despair is not permitted by the traditions of the Service de Surete. Therefore I returned to my flat and recorded the facts of the matter thus far established. I perceived that I had to deal, not with a designing woman, but with some shadowy being of whom she was an instrument. The anomaly of her life was in a measure explained. She sojourned in Paris for a purpose — a mysterious purpose which was concerned (I could not doubt it) with the Grand Duke Ivan. This was not an amorous but a political intrigue.
I communicated, at a late hour, with the senior of the three men watching the Grand Duke. The Grand Duke that evening had sent a handsome piece of jewellery purchased in Rue de la Paix to the dancer. It had been returned.
In the morning I met with the good Casimir at his favorite cafe. He had just discovered that Zara el-Khala drove daily to the Bois de Boulogne, alone, and that afternoon the Grand Duke had determined to accost her during her solitary walk. I prepared myself for this event. Arrayed in a workman’s blouse and having a modest luncheon and a small bottle of wine in a basket, I concealed myself in that part of the Bois which was the favourite recreation ground of the dancer, and awaited her appearance.
The Grand Duke appeared first upon the scene, accompanied by Casimir. The latter pointed out to him a path through the trees along which Zara el-Khala habitually strolled and showed him the point at which she usually rejoined the Hindu who followed along the road with the car. They retired. I seated myself beneath a tree from whence I could watch the path and the road and began to partake of the repast which I had brought with me.
At about three o’clock the dancer’s car appeared, and the girl, veiled as usual, stepped out, and having exchanged a few words with the Indian, began to walk slowly towards me, sometimes pausing to watch a bird in the boughs above her and sometimes to examine some wild plant growing beside the way. I ate cheese from the point of a clasp-knife and drank wine out of the bottle.
Suddenly she saw me.
She had cast her veil aside in order to enjoy the cool and fragrant air, and as she stopped and regarded me doubtfully where I sat, I saw her beautiful face, undefiled, now, by make-up and unspoiled by the presence of garish Eastern ornaments. Nom d’un nom! but she was truly a lovely woman! My heart went out in sympathy to the poor Grand Duke. Had I received such a mark of favour from her as he had received, and had I then been scorned as now she scorned him, I should have been desperate indeed.
Coming around a bend in the path, then, she stood only a few paces away, looking at me. I touched the peak of my cap.
“Good-day, mademoiselle,” I said. “The weather is very beautiful.”
“Good-day,” she replied.
I continued to eat cheese, and reassured she walked on past me. Twenty yards beyond, the Grand Duke was waiting. As I laid down my knife upon the paper which had been wrapped around the bread and cheese, and raised the bottle to my lips, the enamoured nobleman stepped out from the trees and bowed low before Zara el-Khala.
She started back from him — a movement of inimitable grace, like that of a startled gazelle. And even before I had time to get upon my feet she had raised a little silver whistle to her lips and blown a short shrill note.
The Grand Duke, endeavouring to seize her hand, was pouring out voluble expressions of adoration in execrable French, and Zara el-Khala was retreating step by step. She had quickly thrown the veil about her again. I heard the pad of swiftly running feet. If I was to intervene before the arrival of the Hindu, I must act rapidly. I raced along the path and thrust myself between the Grand Duke and the girl.
“Mademoiselle,” I said, “is this gentleman annoying you?”
“How dare you, low pig!
” cried the Grand Duke, and with a sweep of his powerful arm he hurled me aside.
“Thank you,” replied Zara el-Khala with great composure. “But my servant is here.”
As I turned, Chunda Lal hurled himself upon the Grand Duke from behind. I had never seen an expression in a man’s eyes like that in the eyes of the Hindu at this moment. They blazed like the eyes of a tiger, and his teeth were bared in a savage grin which I cannot hope to describe. His lean body seemed to shoot through the air, and he descended upon his burly adversary as a jungle beast falls upon its prey. Those long brown fingers clasping his neck, the Grand Duke fell forward upon his face.
“Chunda Lal!” said the dancer.
Kneeling, his right knee thrust between the shoulder blades of the prostrate man, the Hindu looked up — and I read murder in those glaring eyes. That he was an accomplished wrestler — or perhaps a strangler — I divined from the helplessness of the Grand Duke, who lay inert, robbed of every power except that of his tongue. He was swearing savagely.
“Chunda Lal!” said Zara el-Khala again. The Hindu shifted his grip from the neck to the arms of the Grand Duke. He pinioned him as is done in jiu-jitsu and forced him to stand upright. It was a curious spectacle — the impotency of this burly nobleman in the hands of his slight adversary. As they swayed to their feet, I thought I saw the glint of metal in the right hand of the Indian, but I could not be sure, for my attention was diverted. At this moment Casimir appeared upon the scene, looking very frightened.
Suddenly releasing his hold altogether, the Hindu glaring into the empurpled face of the Grand Duke, shot out one arm and pointed with a quivering finger along the path.
“Go!” he said.
