by Sax Rohmer
I had learned something else. He did not know that I had recognized him as the person who had tracked me to Dr. Stuart’s house!
He invited me to drink with him, and I did so. As we raised our glasses I made a move. Looking all about me suspiciously:
“Am I right in supposing that you have business in this part of London?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied “My affairs bring me here sometimes.”
“You are well acquainted with the neighbourhood?”
“Fairly well. But actually of course I am a stranger to London.”
I tapped him confidentially upon the breast.
“Take my advice, as a friend,” I said, “and visit these parts as rarely as possible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It is dangerous. From the friendly manner in which you entered into conversation with me, I perceived that you were of a genial and unsuspicious nature. Very well. I warn you. Last night I was followed from a certain street not far from here to the house of a medical man who is a specialist in certain kinds of criminology, you understand.”
He stared at me very hard, his teeth bared by that fearful snarl. “You are a strange cabman.”
“Perhaps I am. No matter. Take my advice. I have things written here” — I tapped the breast of my tunic— “which will astonish all the world shortly. I tell you, my friend, my fortune is made.”
I finished my drink and ordered another for myself and one for my acquaintance. He was watching me doubtfully. Taking up my replenished glass, I emptied it at a draught and ordered a third. I leaned over towards the scarred man, resting my hand heavily upon his shoulder.
“Five thousand pounds,” I whispered thickly, “has been offered for the information which I have here in my pocket. It is not yet complete, you understand, and because they may murder me before I obtain the rest of the facts, do you know what I am going to do with this?”
Again I tapped my tunic pocket. “Le Balafre” frowned perplexedly.
“I don’t even know what you are talking about, my friend,” he replied.
“I know what I am talking about,” I assured him, speaking more and more huskily. “Listen, then: I am going to take all my notes to my friend, the doctor, and leave them with him, sealed — sealed, you follow me? If I do not come back for them, In a week, shall we say? — he sends them to the police. I do not profit, you think? No.morbleu! but there are some who hang!”
Emptying my third glass, I ordered a fourth and one for my companion. He checked me.
“No more for me, thank you,” he said. “I have — business to attend to. I will wish you good-night.”
“Good-night!” I cried boisterously— “good-night, friend! take heed of my good advice!”
As he went out, the barman brought me my fourth glass of cognac, staring at me doubtfully. Our conversation had been conducted in French, but the tone of my voice had attracted attention.
“Had about enough, ain’t you, mate?” he said. “Your ugly pal jibbed!”
“Quite enough!” I replied, in English now of course. “But I’ve had a stroke of luck to-night and I feel happy. Have one with me. This is a final.”
On going out into the street I looked cautiously about me, for I did not expect to reach the house of Dr. Stuart unmolested. I credited “Le Balafre” with sufficient acumen to distrust the genuineness of my intoxication, even if he was unaware of my real identity. I never make the mistake of underestimating an opponent’s wit, and whilst acting on the assumption that the scarred man knew me to be forcing his hand, I recognized that whether he believed me to be drunk or sober, Gaston Mas or another, his line of conduct must be the same. He must take it for granted that I actually designed to lodge my notes with Dr. Stuart and endeavour to prevent me doing so.
I could detect no evidence of surveillance whatever and cranking the engine I mounted and drove off. More than once, as I passed along Commercial Road, I stopped and looked back. But so far as I could make out no one was following me. The greater part of my route lay along populous thoroughfares, and of this I was not sorry; but I did not relish the prospect of Thames Street, along which presently my course led me.
Leaving the city behind me, I turned into that thoroughfare, which at night is almost quite deserted, and there I pulled up. Pardieu! I was disappointed! It seemed as though my scheme had miscarried. It could not understand why I had been permitted to go unmolested, and I intended to walk back to the corner for a final survey before continuing my journey. This survey was never made.
As I stopped the cab and prepared to descend, a faint — a very faint — sound almost in my ear, set me keenly on the alert. Just in the nick of time I ducked … as the blade of a long knife flashed past my head, ripping its way through my cloth cap!
Yes! That movement had saved my life, for otherwise the knife must have entered my shoulder — and pierced to my heart!
Someone was hidden in the cab!
He had quietly opened one of the front windows and had awaited a suitable opportunity to stab me. Now, recognizing failure, he leapt out on the near side as I lurched and stumbled from my seat, and ran off like the wind. I never so much as glimpsed him.
“Mon Dieu!” I muttered, raising my hand to my head, from which blood was trickling down my face, “the plan succeeds!”
I bound a handkerchief as tightly as possible around the wound in my scalp and put my cap on to keep the bandage in place. The wound was only a superficial one, and except for the bleeding I suffered no inconvenience from it. But I had now a legitimate reason for visiting Dr. Stuart, and as I drove on towards Battersea I was modifying my original plan in accordance with the unforeseen conditions.
It was long past Dr. Stuart’s hours of consultation when I arrived at his house, and the servant showed me into a waiting-room, informing me that the doctor would join me in a few minutes. Directly she had gone out I took from the pocket of my tunic the sealed envelope which I had intended to lodge with the doctor. Pah! it was stained with blood which had trickled down from the wound in my scalp!
Actually, you will say, there was no reason why I should place a letter in the hand of Dr. Stuart; my purpose would equally well be served by pretending that I had done so. Ah, but I knew that I had to deal with clever people — with artists in crime — and it behooved me to be an artist also. I had good reason to know that their system of espionage was efficient; and the slipshod way is ever the wrong way.
The unpleasantly sticky letter I returned to my pocket, looking around me for some means of making up any kind of packet which could do duty as a substitute. Beyond a certain draped over a recess at one end of the waiting-room I saw a row of boxes, a box of lint and other medical paraphernalia. It was the doctor’s dispensary. Perhaps I might find there an envelope.
I crossed the room and looked. Immediately around the corner, on a level with my eyes, was a packet of foolscap envelopes and a stick of black sealing-wax! Bien! all that I now required was a stout sheet of paper to enclose in one of those envelopes. But not a scrap of paper could I find, except the blood-stained letter in my pocket — towards which I had formed a strong antipathy. I had not even a newspaper in my possession. I thought of folding three or four envelopes, but there were only six in all, and the absence of so many might be noted.
Drawing aside a baize curtain which hung from the bottom shelf, I discovered a number of old card-board boxes. It was sufficient. With a pair of surgical scissors I cut a piece from the lid of one and thrust it into an envelope, gumming down the lapel. At a little gas jet intended for the purpose I closed both ends with wax and — singular coincidence! — finding a Chinese coin fastened to a cork lying on the shelf, my sense of humour prompted me to use it as a seal! Finally, to add to the verisimilitude of the affair I borrowed a pen which rested in a bottle of red ink and wrote upon the envelope the number: 30, that day being the thirtieth day of the month.
It was well that the artist within me had dictated this careful elabora
tion, as became evident a few minutes later when the doctor appeared at the head of a short flight of stairs and requested me to step up to his consulting-room. It was a small room, so that the window, over which a linen blind was drawn, occupied nearly the whole of one wall. As Dr. Stuart, having examined the cut on my scalp, descended to the dispensary for lint, the habits of a lifetime asserted themselves.
I quickly switched off the light and peeped out of the window around the edge of the blind, which I drew slightly aside. In the shadow of the wall upon the opposite side of the narrow lane a man was standing! I turned on the light again. The watcher should not be disappointed!
My skull being dressed, I broached the subject of the letter, which I said I had found in my cab after the accident which had caused the injury.
“Someone left this behind to-day, sir,” I said; “perhaps the gentleman who was with me when I had the accident; and I’ve got no means of tracing him. He may be able to trace me, though, or he may advertise. It evidently contains something valuable. I wonder if you would do me a small favour? Would you mind taking charge of it for a week or so, until it is claimed?”
He asked me why I did not take it to Scotland Yard.
“Because,” said I, “if the owner claims it from Scotland Yard he is less likely to be generous than if he gets it direct from me!”
“But what is the point,” asked Dr. Stuart, “in leaving it here?”
I explained that if I kept the letter I might be suspected of an intention of stealing it, whereas directly there was any inquiry, he could certify that I had left it in his charge. He seemed to be satisfied and asked me to come into his study for a moment. The man in the lane was probably satisfied, too. I had stood three paces from the table-lamp all the time, waving the letter about as I talked, and casting a bold shadow on the linen blind!
The first thing that struck me as I entered the doctor’s study was that the French windows, which opened on a sheltered lawn, were open. I acted accordingly.
“You see,” said Dr. Stuart, “I am enclosing your letter in this big envelope which I am sealing.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, standing at some distance from him, so that he had to speak loudly. “And would you mind addressing it to the Lost Property Office.”
“Not at all,” said he, and did as I suggested. “If not reclaimed within a reasonable time, it will be sent to Scotland Yard.”
I edged nearer to the open window.
“If it is not reclaimed,” I said loudly, “it goes to Scotland Yard — yes.”
“Meanwhile,” concluded the doctor, “I am locking it in this private drawer in my bureau.”
“It is locked in your bureau. Very good.”
CHAPTER III
DISAPPEARANCE OF CHARLES MALET
Knowing, and I knew it well, that people of “The Scorpion” were watching, I do not pretend that I felt at my ease as I drove around to the empty house in which I garaged my cab. My inquiry had entered upon another stage, and Charles Malet was about to disappear from the case. I was well aware that if he failed in his vigilance for a single moment he might well disappear from the world!
The path which led to the stables was overgrown with weeds and flanked by ragged bushes; weeds and grass sprouted between the stones paving the little yard, also, although they were withered to a great extent by the petrol recently spilled there. Having run the cab into the yard, I alighted and looked around the deserted grounds, mysterious in the moonlight. Company would have been welcome, but excepting a constable who had stopped and chatted with me on one or two evenings I always had the stables to myself at night.
I determined to run the cab into the stable and lock it up without delay, for it was palpably dangerous in the circumstances to remain longer than necessary in that lonely spot. Hurriedly I began to put out the lamps. I unlocked the stable doors and stood looking all about me again. I was dreading the ordeal of driving the cab those last ten yards into the garage, for whilst I had my back to the wilderness of bushes it would be an easy matter for anyone in hiding there to come up behind me.
Nevertheless, it had to be done. Seating myself at the wheel I drove into the narrow building, stopped the engine and peered cautiously around toward the bright square formed by the open doors. Nothing was to be seen. No shadow moved.
A magazine pistol held in my hand, I crept, step by step, along the wall until I stood just within the opening. There I stopped.
I could hear a sound of quick breathing! There was someone waiting outside!
Dropping quietly down upon the pavement, I slowly protruded my head around the angle of the brick wall at a point not four inches above the ground. I knew that whoever waited would have his eyes fixed upon the doorway at the level of a man’s head.
Close to the wall, a pistol in his left hand and an upraised stand-bag in his right, stood “Le Balafre!” His eyes gleamed savagely in the light of the moon and his teeth were bared in that fearful animal snarl. But he had not seen me.
Inch by inch I thrust my pistol forward, the barrel raised sharply. I could not be sure of my aim, of course, nor had I time to judge it carefully.
I fired.
The bullet was meant for his right wrist, but it struck him in the fleshy part of his arm. Uttering a ferocious cry he leapt back, dropped his pistol — and perceiving me as I sprang to my feet, lashed at my head with the sand-bag. I raised my left arm to guard my skull and sustained the full force of the blow upon it.
I staggered back against the wall, and my own pistol was knocked from my grasp. My left arm was temporarily useless and the man of the scar was deprived of the use of his right. Pardieu! I had the better chance!
He hurled himself upon me.
Instantly he recovered the advantage, for he grasped me by the throat with his left hand — and, nom d’un nom! what a grip he had! Flat against the wall he held me, and began, his teeth bared in that fearful grin, to crush the life from me.
To such an attack there was only one counter. I kicked him savagely — and that death-grip relaxed. I writhed, twisted — and was free! As I regained my freedom I struck up at him, and by great good fortune caught him upon the point of the jaw. He staggered. I struck him over the heart, and he fell I pounced upon him, exulting, for he had sought my life and I knew no pity.
Yet I had not thought so strong a man would choke so easily, and for some moments I stood looking down at him, believing that he sought to trick me. But it was not so. His affair was finished.
I listened. The situation in which I found myself was full of difficulty. An owl screeched somewhere in the trees, but nothing else stirred. The sound of the shot had not attracted attention, apparently. I stooped and examined the garments of the man who lay at my feet.
He carried a travel coupon to Paris bearing that day’s date, together with some other papers, but, although I searched all his pockets, I could find nothing of real interest, until in an inside pocket of his coat I felt some hard, irregularly shaped object. I withdrew it, and in the moonlight it lay glittering in my palm … a golden scorpion!
It had apparently been broken in the struggle. The tail was missing, nor could I find it: but I must confess that I did not prolong the search.
Some chance effect produced by the shadow of the moonlight, and the presence of that recently purchased ticket, gave me the idea upon which without delay I proceeded to act. Satisfying myself that there was no mark upon any of his garments by which the man could be identified, I unlocked from my wrist an identification disk which I habitually wore there, and locked it upon the wrist of the man with the scar!
Clearly, I argued, he had been detailed to dispatch me and then to leave at once for France. I would make it appear that he had succeeded.
Behold me, ten minutes later, driving slowly along a part of the Thames Embankment which I chanced to remember, a gruesome passenger riding behind me in the cab. I was reflecting as I kept a sharp look-out for a spot which I had noted one day during my travels, how easily o
ne could commit murder in London, when a constable ran out and intercepted me!
Mon Deiu! how my heart leapt!
“I’ll trouble you for your name and number, my lad,” he said.
“What for?” I asked, and remembering a rare fragment of idiom: “What’s up with you?” I added.
“Your lamp’s out!” he cried, “that’s what’s up with me!”
“Oh,” said I, climbing from my seat— “very well. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But here is my license.”
I handed him the little booklet and began to light my lamps, cursing myself for a dreadful artist because I had forgotten to do so.
“All right,” he replied, and handed it back to me. “But how the devil you’ve managed to get all your lamps out, I can’t imagine!”
“This is my first job since dusk,” I explained hurrying around to the tail-light. “And he don’t say much!” remarked the constable.
I replaced my matches in my pocket and returned to the front of the cab, making a gesture as of one raising a glass to his lips and jerking my thumb across my shoulder in the direction of my unseen fare.
“Oh, that’s it!” said the constable, and moved off.
Never in my whole career have I been so glad to see the back of any man!
I drove on slowly. The point for which I was making was only some three hundred yards further along, but I had noted that the constable had walked off in the opposite direction. Therefore, arriving at my destination — a vacant wharf open to the road — I pulled up and listened.
Only the wash of the tide upon the piles of the wharf was audible, for the night was now far advanced.
I opened the door of the cab and dragged out “Le Balafre.” Right and left I peered, truly like a stage villain, and then hauled my unpleasant burden along the irregularly paved path and on to the little wharf. Out in mid-stream a Thames Police patrol was passing, and I stood for a moment until the creak of the oars grew dim.
