Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  The Grand Duke clenched his fists, looked from face to face as if calculating his chances, then shrugged his shoulders, very deliberately wiped his neck and wrists, where the Indian had held him, with a large silk handkerchief and threw the handkerchief on the ground. I saw a speck of blood upon the silk. Without another glance he walked away, Casimir following sheepishly. It is needless, perhaps, to add that Casimir had not recognized me.

  I turned to the dancer, touching the peak of my cap.

  “Can I be of any assistance to mademoiselle?” I asked.

  “Thank you — no,” she replied.

  She placed five francs in my hand and set off rapidly through the trees in the direction of the road, her bloodthirsty but faithful attendant at her heels!

  I stood scratching my head and looking after her.

  That afternoon I posted a man acquainted with Hindustani to tap any message which might be sent to or from the cafe used by Chunda Lal. I learned that the Grand Duke had taken a stage box at the Montmartre theatre at which the dancer was appearing, and I decided that I would be present also.

  A great surprise was in store for me.

  Zara el-Khala had at this time established a reputation which extended beyond those circles from which the regular patrons of this establishment were exclusively drawn and which had begun to penetrate to all parts of Paris. You will remember that it was the extraordinary circumstance of her remaining at this obscure place of entertainment so long which had first interested me in the lady. I had learned that she had rejected a number of professional offers, and, as I have already stated, I had assured myself of this unusual attitude by presenting the card of a well-known Paris agency — and being refused admittance.

  Now, as I leaned upon the rail at the back of the auditorium and the time for the dancer’s appearance grew near, I could not fail to observe that there was a sprinkling of evening-dress in the stalls and that the two boxes already occupied boasted the presence of parties of well-known men of fashion. Then the Grand Duke entered as a troupe of acrobats finished their performance. Zara el-Khala was next upon the programme. I glanced at the Grand Duke and thought that he looked pale and unwell.

  The tableau curtain fell and the manager appeared behind the footlights. He, also, seemed to be much perturbed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I greatly regret to announce that Mlle. Zara el-Kahla is indisposed and unable to appear. We have succeeded in obtaining the services — —”

  Of whom he had succeeded in obtaining the services I never heard, for the rougher section of the audience rose at him like a menacing wave! They had come to see the Egyptian dancer and they would have their money back! It was a swindle; they would smash the theatre!

  If one had doubted the great and growing popularity of Zara el-Kahla, this demonstration must have proved convincing. Over the heads of the excited audience, I saw the Grand Duke rise as if to retire. The other box parties were also standing up and talking angrily.

  “Why was it not announced outside the theatre?” someone shouted. “We did not know until twenty minutes ago!” cried the manager in accents of despair.

  I hurried from the theatre and took a taxicab to the hotel of the dancer. Running into the hall, I thrust a card in the hand of a concierge who stood there.

  “Announce to Mlle. Zara el-Khala that I must see her at once,” I said.

  The man smiled and returned the card to me.

  “Mlle. Zara el-Khala left Paris at seven o’clock, monsieur!”

  “What! I cried — left Paris!”

  “But certainly. Her baskets were taken to the Gare du Nord an hour earlier by her servant and she went off by the seven-fifty rapid for Calais. The theatre people were here asking for her an hour ago.”

  I hurried to my office to obtain the latest reports of my men, I had lost touch with them, you understand, during the latter part of the afternoon and evening. I found there the utmost confusion. They had been seeking me all over Paris to inform me that Zara el-Khala had left. Two men had followed her and had telephoned from Calais for instructions. She had crossed by the night mail for Dover. It was already too late to instruct the English police.

  For a few hours I had relaxed my usual vigilance — and this was the result. What could I do? Zara el-Khala had committed no crime, but her sudden flight — for it looked like flight you will agree — was highly suspicious. And as I sat there in my office filled with all sorts of misgivings, in ran one of the men engaged in watching the Grand Duke.

  The Grand Duke had been seized with illness as he left his box in the Montmartre theatre and had died before his car could reach the hotel!

  CHAPTER III

  A STRANGE QUESTION

  A conviction burst upon my mind that a frightful crime had been committed. By whom and for what purpose I knew not. I hastened to the hotel of the Grand Duke. Tremendous excitement prevailed there, of course. There is no more certain way for a great personage to court publicity than to travel incognito. Everywhere that “M. de Stahler” had appeared all Paris had cried, “There goes the Grand Duke Ivan!” And now as I entered the hotel, press, police and public were demanding: “Is it true that the Grand Duke is dead?” Just emerging from the lift I saw Casimir. In propria persona — as M. Max — he failed to recognize me.

  “My good man,” I said— “are you a member of the suite of the late Grand Duke?”

  “I am, or was, the valet of M. de Stahler, monsieur,” he replied.

  I showed him my card.

  “To me ‘M. de Stahler’ is the Grand Duke Ivan. What other servants had he with him?” I asked, although I knew very well.

  “None, monsieur.”

  “Where and when was he taken ill?”

  “At the Theatre Coquerico. Montmartre, at about a quarter past ten o’clock to-night.”

  “Who was with him?”

  “No one, monsieur. His Highness was alone in a box. I had instructions to call with the car at eleven o’clock.”

  “Well?”

  “The theatre management telephoned at a quarter past ten to say that His Highness had been taken ill and that a physician had been sent for. I went in the car at once and found him lying in one of the dressing-rooms to which he had been carried. A medical man was in attendance. The Grand Duke was unconscious. We moved him to the car — —”

  “We?”

  “The doctor, the theatre manager, and myself. The Grand Duke was then alive, the physician declared, although he seemed to me to be already dead. But just before we reached the hotel, the physician, who was watching His Highness anxiously, cried, ‘Ah,mon Dieu! It is finished. What a catastrophe!’”

  “He was dead?”

  “He was dead, monsieur.”

  “Who has seen him?”

  “They have telephoned for half the doctors in Paris, monsieur, but it is too late.”

  He was affected, the good Casimir. Tears welled up in his eyes. I mounted in the lift to the apartment in which the Grand Duke lay. Three doctors were there, one of them being he of whom Casimir had spoken. Consternation was written on every face.

  “It was his heart,” I was assured by the doctor who had been summoned to the theatre. “We shall find that he suffered from heart trouble.”

  They were all agreed upon the point.

  “He must have sustained a great emotional shock,” said another.

  “You are convinced that there was no foul play, gentlemen?” I asked.

  They were quite unanimous on the point.

  “Did the Grand Duke make any statement at the time of the seizure which would confirm the theory of a heart attack?”

  No. He had fallen down unconscious outside the door of his box, and from this unconsciousness he had never recovered. (Depositions of witnesses, medical evidence and other documents are available for the guidance of whoever may care to see them, but, as is well known, the death of the Grand Duke was ascribed to natural causes and it seemed as though my trouble would after all prove to be i
n vain.) Let us see what happened.

  Leaving the hotel, on the night of the Grand Duke’s death, I joined the man who was watching the cafe telephone.

  There had been a message during the course of the evening, but it had been for a Greek cigarette-maker and it referred to the theft of several bales of Turkish tobacco — useful information, of minor kind, but of little interest to me. I knew that it would be useless to question the man Miguel, although I strongly suspected him of being a member of “The Scorpion’s” organization. Any patron of the establishment enjoyed the privilege of receiving private telephone calls at the cafe on payment of a small fee.

  A man of less experience in obscure criminology might now have assumed that he had been misled by a series of striking coincidences. Remember, there was not a shadow of doubt in the minds of the medical experts that the Grand Duke had died from syncope. His own professional advisor had sent written testimony to show that there was hereditary heart trouble, although not of a character calculated to lead to a fatal termination except under extraordinary circumstances. His own Government, which had every reason to suspect that the Grand Duke’s assassination might be attempted, was satisfied. Eh bien! I was not.

  I cross-examined the manager of the Theatre Coquerico. He admitted that Mlle. Zara el-Khala had been a mystery throughout her engagement. Neither he nor anyone else connected with the house had ever entered her dressing-room or held any conversation with her, whatever, except the stage-manager and the musical director. These had spoken to her about her music and about lighting and other stage effects. She spoke perfect French.

  Such a state of affairs was almost incredible, but was explained by the fact that the dancer, at a most modest salary, had doubled the takings of the theatre in a few days and had attracted capacity business throughout the remainder of her engagement. She had written from Marseilles, enclosing press notices and other usual matter and had been booked direct for one week. She had remained for two months, and might have remained for ever, the poor manager assured me, at five times the salary!

  A curious fact now came to light. In all her photographs Zara el-Khala appeared veiled, in the Eastern manner; that is to say, she wore a white silk yashmak which concealed all her face except her magnificent eyes! On the stage the veil was discarded; in the photographs it was always present.

  And the famous picture which she had sent to the Grand Duke? He had destroyed it, in a fit of passion, on returning from the Bois de Boulogne after his encounter with Chunda Lal!

  It is Fate after all — Kismet — and not the wit of man which leads to the apprehension of really great criminals — a tireless Fate which dogs their footsteps, a remorseless Fate from which they fly in vain. Long after the funeral of the Grand Duke, and at a time when I had almost forgotten Zara el-Khala, I found myself one evening at the opera with a distinguished French scientist and he chanced to refer to the premature death (which had occurred a few months earlier) of Henrik Ericksen, the Norwegian.

  “A very great loss to the century, M. Max,” he said. “Ericksen was as eminent in electrical science as the Grand Duke Ivan was eminent in the science of war. Both were stricken down in the prime of life — and under almost identical circumstances.”

  “That is true,” I said thoughtfully.

  “It would almost seem,” he continued, “as if Nature had determined to foil any further attempts to rifle her secrets and Heaven to check mankind in the making of future wars. Only three months after the Grand Duke’s death, the American admiral, Mackney, died at sea — you will remember? Now, following Ericksen, Van Rembold, undoubtedly the greatest mining engineer of the century and the only man who has ever produced radium in workable quantities, is seized with illness at a friend’s house and expires even before medical aid can be summoned.”

  “It is very strange.’

  “It is uncanny.”

  “Were you personally acquainted with the late Van Rembold?” I asked.

  “I knew him intimately — a man of unusual charm, M. Max; and I have particular reason to remember his death, for I actually met him and spoke to him less than an hour before he died. We only exchanged a few words — we met on the street; but I shall never forget the subject of our chat.”

  “How is that?” I asked.

  “Well, I presume Van Rembold’s question was prompted by his knowledge of the fact that I had studied such subjects at one time; but he asked me if I knew of any race or sect in Africa or Asia who worshipped scorpions.”

  “Scorpions!” I cried. “Ah, mon Dieu! monsieur say it again — scorpions?”

  “But yes, certainly. Does it surprise you?”

  “Did it not surprise you?”

  “Undoubtedly. I could not imagine what had occurred to account for his asking so strange a question. I replied that I knew of no such sect, and Van Rembold immediately changed the subject, nor did he revert to it. So that I never learned why he had made that singular inquiry.”

  You can imagine that this conversation afforded me much food for reflection. Whilst I could think of no reason why anyone should plot to assassinate Grand Dukes, admirals and mining engineers, the circumstances of the several cases were undoubtedly similar in a number of respects. But it was the remarkable question asked by Van Rembold which particularly aroused my interest.

  Of course it might prove to be nothing more than a coincidence, but when one comes to consider how rarely the word “scorpion” is used, outside those in which these insects abound, it appears to be something more. Van Rembold, then, had had some occasion to feel curious about the scorpions; the name “Scorpion” was associated with the Hindu follower of Zara el-Khala; and she was who had brought the Grand Duke to Paris, where he had died.

  Oh! it was a very fragile thread, but by following such a thread as this we are sometimes led to the heart of a labyrinth.

  Beyond wondering if some sinister chain bound together this series of apparently natural deaths I might have made no move in the matter, but something occurred which spurred me to action. Sir Frank Narcombe, the great English surgeon, collapsed in the foyer of a London theatre and died shortly afterwards. Here again I perceived a case of a notable man succumbing unexpectedly in a public place — a case parallel to that of the Grand Duke, of Ericksen, of Van Rembold! it seemed as though some strange epidemic had attacked men of science — yes! they were all men of science, even including the Grand Duke, who was said to be the most scientific soldier in Europe, and the admiral, who had perfected the science of submarine warfare.

  “The Scorpion!” … that name haunted me persistently. So much so that at last I determined to find out for myself if Sir Frank Narcombe had ever spoken about a scorpion or if there was any evidence to show that he had been interested in the subject.

  I could not fail to remember, too, that Zara el-Khala had last been reported as crossing to England.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE FIGHT IN THE CAFE

  New Scotland Yard had been advised that any reference to a scorpion, in whatever form it occurred, should be noted and followed up, but nothing had resulted and as a matter of fact I was not surprised in the least. All that I had learned — and this was little enough — I had learned more or less by accident. But I came to the conclusion that a visit to London might be advisable.

  I had caused a watch to be kept upon the man Miguel, whose establishment seemed to be a recognized resort of shady characters. I had no absolute proof, remember, that he knew anything of the private affairs of the Hindu, and no further reference to a scorpion had been made by anyone using the cafe telephone. Nevertheless I determined to give him a courtesy call before leaving for London … and to this determination I cannot doubt that once again I was led by providence.

  Attired in a manner calculated to enable me to pass unnoticed among the patrons of the establishment, I entered the place and ordered cognac. Miguel having placed it before me, I lighted a cigarette and surveyed my surroundings.

  Eight or nine men were in the ca
fe, and two women. Four of the men were playing cards at a corner table, and the others were distributed about the place, drinking and smoking. The women, who were flashily dressed but who belonged to that order of society which breeds the Apache, were deep in conversation with a handsome Algerian. I recognized only one face in the cafe — that of a dangerous character, Jean Sach, who had narrowly escaped the electric chair in the United States and who was well known to the Bureau. He was smiling at one of the two women — the woman to whom the Algerian seemed to be more particularly addressing himself.

  Another there was in the cafe who interested me as a student of physiognomy — a dark, bearded man, one of the card-players. His face was disfigured by a purple scar extending from his brow to the left corner of his mouth, which it had drawn up into a permanent snarl, so that he resembled an enraged and dangerous wild animal. Mentally I classified this person as “Le Balafre.”

  I had just made up my mind to depart when the man Sach arose, crossed the cafe and seated himself insolently between the Algerian and the woman to whom the latter was talking. Turning his back upon the brown man, he addressed some remark to the woman, at the same time leering in her face.

  Women of this class are difficult, you understand? Sach received from the lady a violent blow upon the face which rolled him on the floor! As he fell, the Algerian sprang up and drew a knife. Sach rolled away from him and also reached for the knife which he carried in a hip-pocket.

  Before he could draw it, Miguel, the quadroon proprietor, threw himself upon him and tried to pitch him into the street. But Sach, although a small man, was both agile and ferocious. He twisted out of the grasp of the huge quadroon and turned, raising the knife. As he did so, the Algerian deftly kicked it from his grasp and left Sach to face Miguel unarmed. Screaming with rage, he sprang at Miguel’s throat, and the tow fell writhing upon the floor.

  There could only be one end to such a struggle, of course, as the Algerian recognized by replacing his knife in his pocket and resuming his seat. Miguel obtained a firm hold upon Sacah and raised him bodily above his head, as one has seen a professional weight-lifter raise a heavy dumb-bell. Thus he carried him, kicking and foaming at the mouth with passion, to the open door. From the step he threw him into the middle of the street.