by Sax Rohmer
He paused to light a fresh cigarette, and then:
“I believe poor old Smith knew,” he went on. “He was the one man in the world she had really to fear. And he…” the sentence remained unfinished.
“That she regarded Swâzi Pasha as an obstruction,” I said, “she was good enough to tell me herself.”
Petrie glanced at his wife, whose expressive eyes registered a deep horror; then:
“I said a while ago,” he added, “that I don’t give very much for his chances. Selfishly, I can find it in my heart to wish that he had chosen another hotel. Karamanèh has lived in the storm center too long to want any further experiences.”
This, then, was the atmosphere which surrounded us all that evening in a London hotel; this the shadow under which we lay.
During dinner — which was served in Petrie’s sitting room, for Weymouth had had no opportunity of dressing:
“I suppose,” said I, “that Mr. Solkel is receiving suitable attention?”
Weymouth nodded.
“He hasn’t gone out,” he replied. “But I hear that a new wardrobe trunk was delivered and taken up to his room this afternoon. This suggests that he is leaving shortly. If he goes out he will be followed. If he rings for anything, the waiter will be a Scotland Yard man.”
Weymouth had secured a small room right up under the roof, for London was packed. But I drew a great sense of security from his presence in the building. At his wife’s request, Petrie had abandoned a program for the evening, arranged earlier, and had decided to remain at home.
When we said goodnight to our host and hostess, Weymouth came along to my room. Pausing in the corridor, he stared at the door of Number 41; but not until we had entered my adjoining apartment and lighted our pipes, did he speak; then:
“Swâzi Pasha has canceled an engagement to dine with the prime minister tonight, owing to the delay in Paris,” he said. “He’s not going out and is receiving no one. Even the press have been refused. But Yale’s job starts tomorrow. The Pasha has four public appointments.”
“You feel fairly confident, then, of his safety tonight?”
“Perfectly,” Weymouth replied grimly. “I feel so confident about it that I’m going to patrol the hotel in person! You turn in, Greville. You’re not really fit yet. Goodnight.”
Sleep was a difficult problem. Apart from a morbid and uncontrollable apprehension, I was intensely strung up by reason of the fact that Rima was due in the morning. I tried reading, but simply couldn’t concentrate upon the printed page.
The jade-green eyes of Fah Lo Suee began to haunt me, and in the dialogue of the story I was trying to read I seemed to hear her voice, speaking the lines in that bell-like, hypnotic voice.
I relived those ages of horror and torment in the green-gold room: I saw again the malignant dwarf— “A Hashishîn,” Weymouth had told me. “They belong to the Old Man of the Mountain — Sheikh Ismail.” I heard the creature’s dying shrieks; I saw the Dacoit return, carrying his bloody knife…
Throwing down the magazine disgustedly, I began to pace my room. I contemplated another whiskey-and-soda, but realized in time that it would be a poor cure for insomnia. The after-theatre rush was subsiding. Piccadilly was settling down into its nightly somnolence. That inner circle of small, expensive streets containing the exclusive dance clubs would be full of motor traffic now for London’s night life is highly centralized, the Bohemia of Soho impinging on the white-shirted gayety of Mayfair; two tiny spots on the map; sleepless eyes in a sleeping world.
I wondered if Petrie and his wife were awake — and I wondered what Weymouth was doing. This curiosity about Weymouth grew so intense that I determined to ring and find out. It was at this moment that I first heard the sound.
It was difficult to identify. I stood still, listening — all those doubts and surmises centered now upon my mysterious neighbor, Mr. Solkel. What I heard was this:
A dim, metallic sound, which might have been made by someone slightly shaking a sheet of thin metal. Next, a faint sibilance, which oddly suggested paying out a line. Then came silence…
My brain was functioning at high pressure. Whereas, in the foggy stage that followed my dreadful experience, I should have been incapable of thinking consistently about anything, now a dozen theories sprang to my mind. I decided to stand still — and to listen.
The sound was renewed. It came from beyond the fireplace!
An electric radiator, which I had had no occasion to use, stood there. Stooping, I quietly placed it on the rug; and kneeling down I pressed my ear to the tiles of the recess in which it had rested.
Whispering!
And at this very moment a fact occurred to me… a startling fact!
My room was directly above Suite Number 5!
The connection defied me, but of one thing I was sure: these strange noises, which had temporarily ceased, portended some attempt on Swâzi Pasha’s apartments below.
I came to a swift decision. Walking silently in my slippers, I crossed to the door, opened it cautiously, and peeped out into the corridor. It was empty and dark save for one dim light at the end. Leaving my door ajar, I started for the staircase…
A sense of urgency possessed me — I must find Weymouth or Fletcher! The fate not only of a Turkish statesman but perhaps of Europe depended upon promptitude.
Silence everywhere as I hurried along the corridor to the staircase. I raced down in semi-darkness. I reached the corridor below, lighted only by one dim lamp just above the elevator shaft. I looked right. The corridor was empty. I looked left. There was no one.
Hesitant, I stood debating my course. I might ring for the liftman. I might race on down into the lobby and summon the night porter. The result would have been better accomplished had I used my own room telephone. No doubt I had counted too confidently on meeting Fletcher or Weymouth.
I determined to take the matter into my own hands. I turned left, and walked swiftly in the direction of the door of Suite Number 5.
Even at the moment that I reached it I hesitated again. Of the fact that some deadly peril, urgent, instant, threatened Swâzi Pasha, I seemed to have occult information. But, as I realized, my facts were scanty. If I roused him, I might save his life. On the other hand, I might make myself ridiculous.
There was a bell-push outside the door, and my hand was raised to press it. Suddenly, silently, the door opened… and I found myself staring into the gaunt, angular face of Nayland Smith!
CHAPTER NINE
THE MAN FROM EL-KHRGA
With one significant gesture, Nayland Smith silenced the words on my lips. He took a quick step forward into the corridor and I saw that he was barefooted. Then, his lips very close to my ear:
“Lucky I heard you,” he whispered. “One ring would have ruined everything! Come in. Be silent… Whatever happens, do nothing.”
He stepped back, pointing urgently to my slippers. I removed them and tiptoed into the lobby. Nayland Smith reclosed the front door without making a sound and led me into the principal bedroom.
Except for a faint streak of light coming through the curtains, the room was in darkness. He pushed me down into a corner near the foot of the bed and disappeared.
To say that I was astounded would be to labor the obvious. I actually questioned my sanity. That Nayland Smith was alive made me want to shout with joy. But what in heaven’s name was he doing in Swâzi Pasha’s apartments? Where had he been and why had he failed to notify us of his escape? Finally, what was it that I had nearly ruined by my unexpected appearance and for what was he waiting in the dark?
Where Smith had gone and why we were concealing ourselves, I simply couldn’t imagine; but, my eyes growing used to the gloom, I peered carefully about the bedroom without moving from the position in which he had placed me. I could see no one, hear nothing.
Then all my senses became keyed up — alert. I had detected a sound of soft footsteps in the corridor outside! I waited — listening to it drawing nearer and neare
r. The walker had reached the door, I thought… But he did not pause, but passed on. The sound of footsteps grew faint — and finally died away.
Silence fell again. The window behind those drawn curtains was open at the top, and sometimes faint street noises reached my ears: the hooting of a passing taxi, the deeper note of a private car; and once, rumbling of what I judged to be a string of heavy lorries.
But in the building about me, complete silence prevailed. I found myself looking across an eiderdown bedspread in the direction of the fireplace. Except that it was more ornate, it closely resembled that in my own room. The shock of meeting Smith, the present horrible mystery, keyed up my already wide-awake brain. I began to form a theory…
At which moment, as if to confirm it, came a faint sound. Something was shuffling lightly behind the electric radiator!
This was backed by green tiles, or imitation tiles which I judged to be stamped on metal. The deep recess which they lined resembled a black cavity from where I crouched. I could just detect one spot of light on the metal hood of the radiator.
Following some moments of tense silence, came a second sound. And this… I recognized.
It was the same subdued, metallic clang which had arrested my attention in the room above!
I thought that the darkness behind the radiator had grown even denser. I scarcely breathed. Fists clenched, I watched, preparing to duck if any light should come, since my discovery was clearly the last thing Nayland Smith desired.
The spot of high light on the hood moved outwards, towards me. I was afraid to trust my sight — until a very soft padding on the carpet provided an explanation of this phenomenon.
Someone had opened the back of the fireplace and now was lifting the radiator out bodily…
Who, or what, had crept out into the room?
Nothing moved again, but I thought a figure stood between me and the recess. Whatever it might be, it remained motionless, so that, after I had concentrated my gaze, it presently took shape in the dusk — but such horrible shape, that, divided only by the width of the bed from it, I shrank involuntarily.
It was a spiritual as well as a physical shrinking, such as I had experienced in that room in Limehouse, when, on the night of horror which had led to my release, a ghastly yellow dwarf had crossed my room, carrying a lantern. Of the fate of that misshapen thing I had seen bloody evidence. This figure now standing silent in the darkness — standing so near to me — was another of the malignant killers; one of those Arabian abominations attached to the Old Man of the Mountain… he whose blazing eyes, as he sprang up from his mattress when the Mandarin Ki Ming denounced us, formed my last memory of the Council of Seven…
A sickly sweet exotic perfume stole to my nostrils… I knew it!
To crouch there inactive with definite terror beginning to claim me was next to impossible; and I wondered why Nayland Smith had imposed so appalling a task. I wondered where he was — I wondered if he had seen what I could see — knew what I knew.
The answer came swiftly, almost silently. I heard a dull, nauseating thud, followed by a second, heavier thud on the carpet. Nayland Smith’s voice came in a tense whisper:
“Don’t stir, Greville.”
My heart was beating like a sledge-hammer.
I began to count the seconds… Fully a minute passed in absolutely unbroken silence.
Nayland Smith, I realized now, had been concealed in one of two recesses flanking the projecting fireplace. This same formation occurred in my own room, and might betoken a girder or platform, or possibly a flue. Formerly, the Park Avenue had been fitted with open coal fires.
Another minute passed. Nothing happened. The suspense began to grow intolerable. A third minute commenced — then a sound broke that electric stillness; a soft shuffling sound, like that which had heralded the approach of the Arabian dwarf. It was all the more obvious now since the back of the fireplace had been displaced, and it resembled that of a heavy body moving in a narrow space.
Sounds of movement grew suddenly louder and then ceased altogether.
Silence fell again. This, I believe, was the least endurable moment of all. Every sense told me that someone was peering out into the room. But I hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect — nor, if attack were coming, what form it would take!
Soft padding.
Silence.
A whispered phrase came like a hiss out of the darkness:
“Enta raih fên?” (Where has he gone?)
The words were Arab — but not spoken by an Arab!
Yet I gathered that the speaker, in what I judged to be a state of excitement, had abandoned his own tongue in favor of that of the murderous dwarf, whose absence clearly puzzled him. But I had little time for thought.
There came a rush, and a crash which shook the room… a shot! — a flash of dim light and the tinkle of broken glass! The bullet had shattered the window above my head… Then:
“The switch, Greville!” came Nayland Smith’s voice. “Over the bed!”
I sprang up as well as my cramped limbs would permit, jumped onto the bed, and groped for the pendant switch.
A sound of panting and gurgling came from somewhere down on the carpet between the bed and the fireplace; loud banging on the floor. Presently I found the switch, and was dazzled when the room became flooded with light. I jumped across to the other side of the bed. I could hear racing footsteps in the corridor outside, excited voices, movement all about…
At my feet sprawled a man in pajamas, his head thrown back and his eyes staring upward, almost starting from their sockets. Nayland Smith knelt upon him, his right hand clutching the throat of the prostrate man, his left pressing to the floor sinewy brown fingers in which a pistol was gripped.
“Get his gun!” he snapped, without releasing that strangle-hold.
I slipped around the combatants and snatched the pistol from that virile grasp. As I stooped, I had my first proper view of the captive…
He was the man I had seen in the corridor — Mr. Solkel!
A bell was ringing furiously. Someone was banging on the outer door.
“Open!” Smith panted.
Half under the bed lay the hideous dwarf, motionless.
Weymouth’s voice was raised outside in the corridor now.
“Hello, there!” he bellowed. “Open this door! Be quick, or we shall have to force it!”
“Open!” Smith rapped irritably.
I turned and ran to the door.
One glance of incredulity Weymouth gave; then, followed by Fletcher and two others who wore the Park Avenue livery, he rushed past me.
“Good God!” I heard. “Sir Denis!” Then: “Are you mad, sir? You’re strangling Swâzi Pasha!”
“Our first captures!” said Nayland Smith.
An overcoated figure in charge of two detectives dressed as footmen disappeared from the suite.
“Your mistake, Weymouth, was natural enough. In appearance he is Swâzi Pasha.”
“He is,” said Dr. Petrie, who had joined us in the apartment — all the hotel had been aroused by the shot. “I met Swâzi in Cairo only a year ago; and if the man under arrest is not Swâzi Pasha, then I shall never trust my eyes again.”
“Really, Petrie?” said Nayland Smith, and smiled in that way which lent him such a boyish appearance. “Yet” — he pointed to the open fireplace— “the metal back of this recess has been removed very ingeniously. It has been reattached to the opening which it was designed to mask, but tonight as you see it hangs down in the ventilation shaft by reason of the fact that a stout piece of canvas has been glued to the back so as to act as a hinge.
“Can you suggest any reason why Swâzi Pasha should remove the back of his fireplace and why he should climb down a rope ladder from the apartment of a certain Mr. Solkel in the middle of the night?”
It was Weymouth who answered the question, and:
“I admit I can’t, Sir Denis,” he said.
“No wonder! The details of this amazin
g plot are only beginning to dawn upon me by degrees. In addition to the ladder which undoubtedly communicates with Room 41 above us, there’s this stout length of rope with a noose at the end. Can you imagine what purpose it was intended to serve?”
We all stared into the recess. As Smith had said, and as we all had noticed, such a ladder as he described hung in the shaft, possibly as a means of communication between the two floors. A length of rope had been carried into the room. The noose with which it ended lay upon the carpet at our feet.
“I shall make a suggestion,” Smith went on. “Mr. Solkel has been occupying Number 41, I understand, for a week past. He has employed his time well! We shall find that the imitation tiling at the back of his fireplace has been removed in a similar fashion to this… because Suite Number 5 was reserved for Swâzi Pasha as long as a month ago. The purpose of the ladder is obvious enough. A moment’s consideration will convince us, I believe, of the use to which this noose was intended to be put. The business of the dwarf, a highly trained specialist — now in Vine Street Police Station — was quietly to enter Swâzi Pasha’s room and to silence him with a wad of cottonwool which you recall he clutched in his hand, and which was saturated with some narcotic. The smell is still perceptible. Possibly you, Petrie, can tell us what it is?”
Petrie shook his head doubtfully; but:
“I have preserved it,” he said. “It’s upstairs. Some preparation of Indian hemp, I think.”
“Cannabis indica was always a favorite, I seem to recall, with this group,” Smith said grimly. “Probably you are right. The pasha being rendered quietly unconscious, it was the duty of the dwarf to slip the noose under his arms and to assist the man waiting in the room above to haul the body up. These dwarfs, of whom the first living specimen now lies in a cell in Vine Street — the only Hashishîn, I believe, ever captured by European police — have the strength of gorillas, although they are of small stature. The body of the insensible man being carried up to Number 41 by the dwarf on the rope ladder, assisted by the efforts of ‘Mr. Solkel’ above, the pasha was to be placed in bed. Once there, no doubt it was their amiable intention to dispose of him in some manner calculated to suggest that he had died of heart failure.
