by Sax Rohmer
“And from China,” added Dunbar.
“Yes, yes, from China as you say, Inspector.” He turned to Gaston Max. “Can it really be, M. Max, that we have to deal with an upcrop of some deeply-seated evil which resides in the Far East? Are all these cases, not the work of individual criminal but manifestations of a more sinister, a darker force?”
Gaston Max met his glance and Max’s mouth grew very grim.
“I honestly believe so.” he answered. “I have believed it for nearly two years — ever since the Grand Duke died. And now, you said, I remember, that you had made a note the nature of which you would communicate.”
“Yes,” replied the Assistant Commissioner— “a small point, but one which may be worthy of attention. This ray, Dr. Stuart, which played such havoc in your study — do you know of anything approaching to it in more recent scientific devices?”
“Well,” said Stuart, “it my be no more than a development of one of several systems, notably of that of the late Henrik Ericksen upon which he was at work at the time of his death.”
“Exactly.” The Assistant Commissioner smiled in his most Mephistophelean manner. “Of the late Henrik Ericksen, as you say.”
He said no more for a moment and sat smoking and looking from face to face. Then:
“That is the subject of my note, gentlemen,” he added. “The other minutiae are of no immediate importance.”
“Non d’un p’tit bonhomme!” whispered Gaston Max. “I see! You think that Ericksen had completed his experiments before he died, but that he never lived to give them to the world?”
The Assistant Commissioner waved one hand in the air so that he discoloration of the first and second fingers was very noticeable.
“It is for you to ascertain these points, M. Max,” he said— “I only suggest. But I begin to share your belief that a series of daring and unusual assassinations has been taking place under the eyes of the police authorities of Europe. It can only be poison — an unknown poison, perhaps. We shall be empowered to exhume the body of the late Sir Frank Narcombe in a few days’ time, I hope. His case puzzles me hopelessly. What obstacle did a surgeon offer to this hypothetical Eastern movement? On the other hand, what can have been filched from him before his death? The death of an inventor, a statesman, a soldier, can be variously explained by your ‘Yellow’ hypothesis, M. Max, but what of the death of a surgeon?”
Gaston Max shrugged, and his mobile mouth softened in a quaint smile.
“We have learned a little,” he said, “and guessed a lot. Let us hope to guess more — and learn everything!”
“May I suggest,” added Dunbar, “that we hear Sowerby’s report, sir?”
“Certainly,” agreed the Assistant Commissioner— “call Sergeant Sowerby.”
A moment later Sergeant Sowerby entered, his face very red and his hair bristling more persistently than usual.
“Anything to report, Sowerby?” asked Dunbar.
“Yes, Inspector,” replied Sowerby, in his Police Court manner; — he faced the Assistant Commissioner, “with your permission, sir.”
He took out a note-book which appeared to be the twin of Dunbar’s and consulted it, assuming an expression of profound reflection.
“In the first place, sir,” he began, never raising his eyes from the page, “I have traced the cab sold on the hire-purchase system to a certain Charles Mallett…”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Max breezily— “he calls me a hammer! It is not Mallett, Sergeant Sowerby — you have got too many l’s in that name; it is Malet and is called like one from the Malay States!”
“Oh,” commented Sowerby, glancing up— “indeed. Very good, sir. The owner claims the balance of purchase money!”
Every one laughed at that, even the satanic Assistant Commissioner.
“Pay your debts, M. Max,” he said. “You will bring the Service de Surete into bad repute! Carry on, Sergeant.”
“This cab,” continued Sowerby, when Dunbar interrupted him.
“Cut out the part about the cab, Sowerby,” he said. “We’ve found that out from M. Max. Have you anything to report about the yellow car?”
“Yes,” replied Sowerby, unperturbed, and turning over to the next page. “It was hired form Messrs. Wickers’ garage, at Canning Town, by the week. The lady who hired it was a Miss Dorian, a French lady. She gave no reference, except that of the Savoy Hotel, where she was stopping. She paid a big deposit and had her own chauffeur, a colored man of some kind.
“Is it still in use by her?” snapped Dunbar eagerly.
“No, Inspector. She claimed her deposit this morning and said she was leaving London.”
“The cheque?” cried Dunbar.
“Was cashed half an hour later.”
“At what bank?”
“London County & Birmingham, Canning Town. Her own account at a Strand bank was closed yesterday. The details all concern milliners, jewellers, hotels and so forth. There’s nothing there. I’ve been to the Savoy, of course.”
“Yes!”
“A lady named Dorian has had rooms there for six weeks, has dined there on several occasions, but was more often away than in the hotel.”
“Visitors?”
“Never had any.”
“She used to dine alone, then?”
“Always.”
“In the public dining-room?”
“No. In her own room.”
“Morbleu!” muttered Max. “It is she beyond doubt. I recognize her sociable habits!”
“Has she left now?” asked Dunbar.
“She left a week ago.”
Sowerby closed his note-book and returned it to his pocket.
“Is that all you have to report, Sergeant?” asked the Assistant Commissioner.
“That’s all, sir.”
“Very good.”
Sergeant Sowerby retired.
“Now, sir,” said Dunbar, “I’ve got Inspector Kelly here. He looks after the Chinese quarter. Shall I call him?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Presently there entered a burly Irishman, bluff and good-humoured, a very typical example of the intelligent superior police officer, looking keenly around him.
“Ah, Inspector,” the Assistant Commissioner greeted him— “we want your assistance in a little matter concerning the Chinese residential quarter. You know this district?”
“Certainly, sir. I know it very well.”
“On this map” — the Assistant Commissioner laid a discoloured forefinger upon the map of London— “you will perceive that we have drawn a circle.”
Inspector Kelly bent over the table.
“Yes, sir.”
“Within that circle, which is no larger in circumference that a shilling as you observe, lies a house used by a certain group of people. It has been suggested to me that these people may be Chinese or associates of Chinese.”
“Well, sir,” said Inspector Kelly, smiling broadly, “considering the patch inside the circle I think it more than likely! Seventy-five or it may be eighty per cent of the rooms and cellars and attics in those three streets are occupied by Chinese.”
“For your guidance, Inspector, we believe these people to be a dangerous gang of international criminals. Do you know of any particular house, or houses, likely to be used as a meeting-place by such a gang?”
Inspector Kelly scratched his close-cropped head.
“A woman was murdered just there, sir,” he said, taking up a pen from the table and touching a point near the corner of Three Colt Street, “about a twelve-month ago. We traced the man — a Chinese sailor — to a house lying just about here.” Again he touched the map. “It’s a sort of little junk-shop with a ramshackle house attached, all cellars and rabbit-hutches, as you might say, overhanging a disused cutting which is filled at high tide. Opium is to be had there and card-playing goes on, and I won’t swear that you couldn’t get liquor. But it’s well conducted as such dives go.”
“Why is it not closed?” inquired t
he Assistant Commissioner, seizing an opportunity to air his departmental ignorance.
“Well, sir,” replied Inspector Kelly, his eyes twinkling— “if we shut up all these places we should never know where to look for some of our regular customers! As I mentioned, we found the wanted Chinaman, three parts drunk, in one of the rooms.”
“It’s a sort of lodging-house, then?”
“Exactly. There’s a moderately big room just behind the shop, principally used by opium-smokers, and a whole nest of smaller rooms above and below. Mind you, sir, I don’t say this is the place you’re looking for, but it’s the most likely inside your circle.”
“Who is the proprietor?”
“A retired Chinese sailor called Ah-Fang-Fu, but better known as ‘Pidgin.’ His establishment is called locally ‘The Pidgin House.’”
“Ah.” The Commissioner lighted a cigarette. “And you know of no other house which might be selected for such a purpose as I have mentioned?”
“I can’t say I do, sir. I know pretty well all the business affairs of that neighbourhood, and none of the houses inside your circle have changed hands during the past twelve months. Between ourselves, sir, nearly all the property in the district belongs to Ah-Fang-Fu, and anything that goes on in Chinatown he knows about!”
“Ah, I see. Then in any event he is the man we want to watch?”
“Well, sir, you ought to keep an eye on his visitors, I should say.”
“I am obliged to you, Inspector,” said the courteous Assistant Commissioner, “for your very exact information. If necessary I shall communicate with you again. Good-day.”
“Good-day, sir,” replied the Inspector. “Good-day, gentlemen.”
He went out.
Gaston Max, who had diplomatically remained in the background throughout this interview, now spoke.
“Pardieu! but I have been thinking,” he said. “Although ‘The Scorpion,’ as I hope, believes that that troublesome Charles Malet is dead, he may also wonder if Scotland Yard has secured from Dr. Stuart’s fire any fragments of the information sealed in the envelope! What does it mean, this releasing of the yellow car, closing of the bank account and departure from the Savoy?”
“It means flight!” cried Dunbar, jumping violently to his feet. “By gad, sir!” he turned to the Assistant Commissioner— “the birds may have flown already!”
The Assistant Commissioner leaned back in his chair.
“I have sufficient confidence in M. Max,” he said, “to believe that, having taken the responsibility of permitting this dangerous group to learn that they were under surveillance, he has good reason to suppose that they have not slipped through our fingers.”
Gaston Max bowed.
“It is true,” he replied, and from his pocket he took a slip of flimsy paper. “This code message reached me as I was about to leave my hotel. The quadroon, Miguel, left Paris last night and arrived in London this morning — —”
“He was followed?” cried Dunbar.
“But certainly. He was followed to Limehouse, and he was definitely seen to enter the establishment described to us by Inspector Kelly!”
“Gad!” said Dunbar— “then someone is still there?”
“Someone, as you say, is still there,” replied Max. “But everything points to the imminent departure of this someone. Will you see to it, Inspector, that not a rat — pardieu not a little mouse — is allowed to slip out of our red circle to-day. For to-night we shall pay a friendly visit to the house of Ah-Fang-Fu, and I should wish all the company to be present.”
CHAPTER III
MISKA’S STORY
Stuart returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. He had refrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meeting with Mlle. Dorian to the police authorities that this meeting now constituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to the beautiful accomplice of “The Scorpion” — to the dark-eyed servant of the uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means. He hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him a kind of savage joy.
In his study he found a Post Office workman engaged in fitting a new telephone. As Stuart entered the man turned.
“Good-afternoon, sir,” he said, taking up the destroyed instrument from the litter of flux, pincers and screw drivers lying upon the table. “If it’s not a rude question, how on earth did this happen?”
Stuart laughed uneasily.
“It got mixed up with an experiment which I was conducting,” he replied evasively.
The man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.
“It seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blast furnace,” he continued. “Experiments of that sort are a bit dangerous outside a proper laboratory, I should think.”
“They are,” agreed Stuart. “But I have no facilities here, you see, and I was — er — compelled to attempt the experiment. I don’t intend to repeat it.”
“That’s lucky,” murmured the man, dropping the instrument into a carpet-bag. “If you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!”
Walking out towards the dispensary, Stuart met Mrs. M’Gregor.
“A Post Office messenger brought this letter for you, Mr. Keppel, just the now,” she said, handing Stuart a sealed envelope.
He took the envelope from her hand, and turned quickly away. He felt that he had changed colour. For it was addressed in the handwriting of … Mlle. Dorian!
“Thank you, Mrs. M’Gregor,” he said and turned into the dining-room.
Mrs. M’Gregor proceeded about her household duties, and as her footsteps receded, Stuart feverishly tore open the envelope. That elusive scent of jasmine crept to his nostrils. In the envelope was a sheet of thick note-paper (having the top cut off evidently in order to remove the printed address), upon which the following singular message was written:
“Before I go away there is something I want to say to you. You do not trust me. It is not wonderful that you do not. But I swear that I only want to save you from a great danger. If you will promise not to tell the police anything of it, I will meet you at six o’clock by the Book Stall at Victoria Station — on the Brighton side. If you agree you will wear something white in your button-hole. If not you cannot find me there. Nobody ever sees me again.”
There was no signature, but no signature was necessary.
Stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and down the room. His heart was beating ridiculously. His self-contempt was profound. But he could not mistake his sentiments.
His duty was plain enough. But he had failed in it once, and even as he strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must fail again. He knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placing this note in the hands of the police … and he knew that he should be at Victoria Station at six o’clock.
He would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory to a series of crimes — for this was what his conduct amounted to; he had thought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. Yet the only excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was that this girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. Weighed against the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerous criminal group what was it worth? If the supposition of Gaston Max was correct, “The Scorpion” had at least six successful murders to his credit, in addition to the attempt upon his (Stuart’s) life and that of “Le Balafre”, upon the life of Gaston Max.
It was an accomplice of this nameless horror called “The Scorpion” with whom at six o’clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting from justice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was adding difficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!
Up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at a clock upon the mantelpiece. His behavior he told himself was contemptible.
Yet, at a quarter to six, he went out — and seeing a little cluster of daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the pa
th, he plucked one and set it in his button-hole!
A few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glanced sharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhood of the bookstall. There was no sign of Mlle. Dorian. He walked around the booking office without seeing her and glanced into the waiting-room. Then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that the hour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timid touch upon his shoulder.
He turned — and she was standing by his side!
She was Parisian from head to foot, simply but perfectly gowned. A veil hung from her hat and half concealed her face, but could not hide her wonderful eyes nor disguise the delightful curves of her red lips. Stuart automatically raised his hat, and even as he did so wondered what she should have said and done had she suddenly found Gaston Max standing at his elbow! He laughed shortly.
“You are angry with me,” said Mlle. Dorian, and Stuart thought that her quaint accent was adorable. “Or are you angry with yourself for seeing me?”
“I am angry with myself,” he replied, “for being so weak.”
“Is it so weak,” she said, rather tremulously, “not to judge a woman by what she seems to be and not to condemn her before you hear what she has to say? If that is weak, I am glad; I think it is how a man should be.”
Her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and Stuart resigned himself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.
“We cannot very well talk here,” he said. “Suppose we go into the hotel and have late tea, Mlle. Dorian.”
“Yes. Very well. But please do not call me that. It is not my name.”
Stuart was on the point of saying, “Zara el-Khala then,” but checked himself in the nick of time. He might hold communication with the enemy, but at least he would give away no information.
“I am called Miska,” she added. “Will you please call me Miska?”
