by Sax Rohmer
“That’s right.”
“Millions behind the black market, the gambling racket taking more money than Monte Carlo; a big spy ring sending news to Berlin before it’s known to the Hoose o’ Commons. A decrease in crime!”
He rested his elbow on the blotting pad, pressing tips of long, sensitive fingers together and exposing his angular wrists.
“I mind me of Port Said, where a wee job led me some whiles ago. A cleaner, quieter little bit of a town no man could wish to see. But my opposite number there took me underground. Weel, weel! The black-out has done just that to crime in London: — driven it underground.”
“I’m glad the spy game isn’t in my hands,” remarked Sergeant Bluett. “Mr. Gaston Max is welcome to his job.”
“Gaston Max is a most acceptable confrère. Owing to what he calls a wee misunderstanding wi’ Vichy, he’s now one o’ us. He has a brilliant record wi’ the Paris police, and in my opeenion is the best detective in Europe.”
Sergeant Bluett withdrew the evening paper and rerolled it almost fiercely. “He gets far more rope from the Chief than we do. We have to stick to the book of the words; he sings his own sweet song.”
“Such was the arrangement. And until he has proven himself, it isna’ for us to creeticise a clever officer.”
“He looks more like a clever comic to me. As for the marvellous Paris methods we’ve heard so much about, I should say they’re twenty years out of date.”
“That’s as may be. But his English compares verra favorably wi’ your French.”
“H’m—” the evening paper disappeared into a pocket of Bluett’s grey trousers— “I’m none too sure about the French these days. You’ve only got to look at their history to see what I mean.”
“French history has its dark spots, Bluett. But I could remark that England has black patches. I was thinking about the execution o’ King Charles.”
“Scotland too,” said Bluett helpfully. “I was thinking about the massacre of Glencoe.”
The ‘phone buzzed. Sergeant Bluett groaned. Chief Inspector Firth, frowning, took up the instrument.
“Yes, sir. Firth here.” He framed his lips in an unspoken word, whereby Sergeant Bluett became aware of the fact that the caller was Assistant Commissioner Colonel J.N.G. O’Halloran — affectionately known as Jingo, and probably the most popular of Scotland Yard’s senior officers. “Sergeant Bluett is in my office. Yes, sir, — I will be along at once.”
The Chief Inspector replaced the receiver and stood up, revealing his great height and the fact that he wore a Harris tweed suit which his tailor might with justice have claimed to be well cut, assuming that it had been cut for a smaller customer. Firth smiled grimly, and because he had a slightly undershot jaw, when he smiled one saw his lower teeth.
“Back to the streets o’ Babylon,” he said. “Wi’ this decrease in crime, our work is never done.”
2
House with the Scarlet Door
A full moon, veiled from time to time by ragged clouds, looked down upon a crop of giant mushrooms which was really a fleet of barrage balloons floating high above a hushed and darkened London. The police officers were accustomed to these strangely silent streets; they no longer suffered memory’s pangs; unmoved they passed by the sites of historic landmarks, of buildings with associations whose tendrils were wound around the heart of every Londoner, but which were marked now only by gaping chasms. The blue pencil of the Luftwaffe had erased those homely records; the red pencil of the Royal Air Force was busily balancing the account.
But the returning Londoner who had known the area in normal times must have surveyed this scene with some astonishment. Revellers there were, although the hour was late, but they revelled behind closed doors, unlighted windows. Wardens, police, and irrepressible taxicabs held undisputed possession. Gloomy reflections no doubt claimed the Chief Inspector’s mind, for he broke a long silence only when the police car, entering South Audley Street, swung from thence into a narrow turning. The driver pulled up.
“This is the house, sir.”
“Good.”
Firth disentangled his great length from the low pitched car, and when he stood upright on the pavement he towered above its roof. Sergeant Bluett, who rode beside the driver, got out also. To their experienced eyes, the scene possessed certain unique characteristics, not least of these being the fact that South Audley Street showed empty from end to end.
“No one in sight,” muttered the Chief Inspector.
Sergeant Bluett was shining the ray of a torch upon a door painted vivid scarlet, and further distinguished by what appeared to be silver fittings. He moved the ray slightly so that it illuminated a small silver plate; he read aloud:
“LORD MARCUS AMBERDALE”
As Bluett switched off the torch and turned, staring with innocent looking eyes at the Chief Inspector:
“Ring,” said Firth.
Bluett pressed a silver button, and a dim note sounded from somewhere beyond the scarlet door, as a fourth occupant of the car, uttering a loud sigh, clambered out carrying a brown leather bag. This was a short, stout man, with a short, stout black moustache, and wearing a stout black hat. He lingered beside the car for a moment and stared up and down the street.
“The first time in my experience, inspector,” he said, “that I have been called to such a scene and found not a soul about.”
“Just what I was thinking, doctor,” Bluett replied, glancing over his shoulder. “Queer, I call it.”
“Ring again,” said the Chief Inspector; and Bluett rang.
The three men stood in the silent street, while the uniformed driver leaned out watching. That murmurous background composed of themes mechanical and human, which is the symphony of London, and which until black-out was invented had never ceased, day or night, for several centuries, was hushed to a querulous whisper. This new stillness of metropolitan midnight had a capacity to awe.
Inspector Firth stepped back, and during a brief flood of moonlight surveyed the house. It was one of those bijou Mayfair residences, smart and labor saving, which had become so popular as a result of the insoluble staff problem. It contained no more than seven or eight rooms and had a total frontage of some four paces. Nestling between larger neighbors, a low parapet enclosed narrow strips of tiled forecourt. The corners of this parapet, flanking the obstinately closed scarlet door, supported square stone flower boxes, filled with soil but displaying no flowers. And now, as Firth stood there looking up, South Audley Street’s silence was broken.
A sound of distant chanting arose. The voice was a man’s, rich, sweet, and informed with passionate intensity.
As this chanting swelled, diminished, and died away:
“Phew!” exclaimed Sergeant Bluett. “This isn’t the tradesmen’s entrance to Farm Street, is it?” — for indeed, that fashionable Jesuit Church was no great distance away.
The moon became wholly obscured. Drops of rain made a sound like tapping fingers on the car roof. And some small, furry object darted past Sergeant Bluett and disappeared in darkness.
“Here! what was that?” he exclaimed.
“That,” said Firth, with ponderous sarcasm, “was an example of felis domestica, or common hoose cat. The bell push is directly before ye ... For heaven’s sake, what’s that!”
“That” was another cat, which had brushed against Firth’s leg in retiring. And now Sergeant Bluett began to shine his torch into shadows behind the low parapet — and out from this cover sprang countless cats of all kinds; certainly no less than ten! When the last of the cats, a large and majestic Persian, had been put to flight by the questing ray, Sergeant Bluett inhaled deeply.
The three men before the scarlet door exchanged glances. It was the police driver who spoke.
“That’s funny,” he said.
Inspector Firth half turned as if to reply, then evidently changed his mind, and addressed Bluett instead.
“Ring again — and keep on ringing.”
So th
at once more that remote buzzing might be heard from somewhere behind the scarlet door. And now Firth pressed his ear to one of the enamelled panels.
“Can you hear anything?” Dr. Fawcett inquired, a nervous note in his voice.
“I can. Footsteps.”
The door was opened. Against dim light in a paved lobby, a gaunt figure appeared, the figure of a man almost as tall as Chief Inspector Firth. He wore what looked, at first sight, like a yellow dressing-gown, but which appeared, on closer inspection, to be a robe of unbleached linen. As Bluett uncompromisingly directed the ray of his torch upon the man’s face, his impression that they had disturbed a priest at his devotions was strengthened rather than removed. It was a strange face, that of an aesthete, a scholar, drawn and lined, no more than a pallid frame for large, burning eyes which seemed to change from gray to blue. This man was so blond that it was hard to tell if his hair, grown unfashionably long and brushed back from a brow almost Shakespearian in contour, was very fair or nearly white. He wore a slight moustache which drooped at the ends. Save for the fire which burned in his eyes, he was strangely, almost unnaturally composed.
“Good evening, sir,” said the Chief Inspector, stepping forward. “Do I address Lord Marcus Amberdale?”
“You do. I am at your service.”
Firth turned and spoke to the driver. “Pull around the corner of South Street. Keep a sharp lookout.”
And as he spoke, from the dim lobby where Lord Marcus stood, out into that silent street crept a heavy perfume, a perfume so unmistakable that the doctor sniffed audibly, and Sergeant Bluett again exchanged glances with Chief Inspector Firth. It was burning incense. The car moved off.
“You sent a message to Scotland Yard about ten minutes ago, sir. I am here to investigate.”
“You are welcome.” The refined, musical, rather troubled voice expressed little beyond bewilderment.
“I am Chief Inspector Firth.”
“Please come in, Chief Inspector. I was fortunate enough to find Colonel O’Halloran in his office when I ‘phoned. He and I were formerly brother officers, you know. Who are these other gentlemen?”
“Detective-sergeant Bluett, my assistant, and Dr. Fawcett, Divisional surgeon.”
“Yes, of course. Will you please come in also, gentlemen? I do not desire to be rude, but this regrettable interruption could not have occurred at a less fortunate moment. I must request you to lower your voices and to make as little noise as possible. You will understand, I trust, that I have a reason for my request.”
The lobby which they entered was paved with what Dr. Fawcett (something of an archaeologist) judged to be fragments of Roman mosaic, cleverly reconstructed in a geometrical design. Indeed, there was nothing about the appointments of the place to suggest that it formed part of a London house. Its character transported the doctor to Pompeii. On the walls were singular frescoes, and a ceiling of lapis lazuli blue had been gemmed with stars in mother o’ pearl or some other translucent material.
Four antique pillars supported this ceiling, or heaven, and between two of them a purple curtain hung. A niche in one wall enshrined a statuette of Isis, an Ancient Egyptian piece, quite perfect, which must have been of great value. A lamp burned before it. Otherwise, although the lobby swam in a sort of liquid radiance, the source of light was invisible. And now, the scarlet door being closed, that oppression of incense which had been perceptible outside, became almost unendurable — a subtle prompting to be repelled at all costs.
A long Roman couch rested before the wall facing the niche of Isis, and upon this lay the body of a man in evening dress. Lord Marcus, having admitted his visitors, stood before the purple curtain, and one saw, now, that his robe was bordered with a design of a similar color. He wore sandals. His large blue eyes were dreamy, preoccupied.
“I repeat, gentlemen, make as little noise as possible. My house is a small one; and to-night, when I had reached a higher plane than any I have reached before, comes interruption upon interruption.”
He folded his arms and stood there; a tall, strangely impressive figure, that of a high priest who guards the holy of holies. Dr. Fawcett glanced at Chief Inspector Firth; found himself thinking about cats; put down his bag, and crossed the lobby. He bent over the man who lay on the couch — stooped lower, and uttered a significant exclamation.
“Good God!”
“What?” asked Firth, and was surprised to note that his somewhat strident voice had uttered no more than a whisper.
“He has a broken neck.”
“What!”
“See for yourself.”
Lord Marcus, his lips moving as if in silent prayer, did not stir. He looked straight before him in the direction of the closed door, which inside was panelled with dull silver and engraved with cabalistic inscriptions. Firth and Detective-sergeant Bluett joined Dr. Fawcett.
They saw the body of a man of no more than medium height, but of good figure. He wore a double breasted dinner jacket and its usual accompaniments, and his face, closely shaven except for a moustache resembling a pencilled line, was that of one thirty-five or forty years of age, who in life might have been conventionally handsome. He had abundant wavy dark hair, carefully dressed, and all those attributes of good grooming which are usually associated with a man of culture. His complexion, however, and his expression, if expression it could be called, were unpleasant to see. He appeared to have sustained a tremendous blow on the brow above his right eye, and his head was twisted in a grotesquely horrible manner.
“Just lift his shoulders,” the doctor directed.
Firth stooped and did so. The twisted head sagged in a fashion so gruesome that he quickly lowered the body again.
“You see? Fracture dislocation of the neck. Skull bent back so as to rupture the anterior ligament. The official hangman couldn’t have made a neater job of it.”
Dr. Fawcett stooped again, and carefully examined a slight abrasion on the firm, clean-shaven jaw. He manipulated the bones and made other examinations, then straightening up, he stared at that robed immobile figure before the purple curtain. On an Arab coffee table stood a crystal pitcher half full of water, a tumbler beside it.
“Did you try to revive him?” the doctor asked Lord Marcus.
“Yes.” He inclined his head very slightly; “but the moment I endeavored to raise him, I realised, as you have realised, that his neck was broken.”
“Was he a friend of yours?” The question came from Firth.
“I never saw him in my life before.”
“Of course, doctor—” the Chief Inspector turned, the lids of his leonine eyes slightly contracted— “you know who this is?”
“The face is familiar in some way, inspector, but I confess—”
“You know him, Sergeant Bluett?”
Bluett, who was examining the contents of a wallet he had found on the dead man, turned. The newspaper in his trouser pocket seemed to impede his movements: he removed it and put it in an inside coat pocket.
“No. I was just trying to find out.”
“Aye, it’s a fact that a man’s appearance undergoes a subtle change after he has had his neck broken. It’s Sir Giles Loeder.”
“Good God! — so it is,” Dr. Fawcett exclaimed. “I heard him broadcast from the B.B.C. this evening — postscript to the nine o’clock news!”
“Aye? Is that so? Weel, no doubt ye’ll be wishing to complete your examination, doctor. I will leave you to it ... Is it possible for us, Lord Marcus, to sit down anywheres while I ask you a few simple questions?”
“I am at your disposal, Chief Inspector. Will you be good enough to come this way.”
Lord Marcus crossed before the curtain, and opened a door in a recess which one might not have suspected to be there. He stood aside, slightly inclining his head again. Firth and Bluett, each casting an odd, sidelong glance at that which lay on the Roman couch, entered a room which was evidently a study.
The smell of incense was less perceptible here, and in his d
istinctive way each of the men, as he entered past the white-robed Lord Marcus, experienced a subtle sense of gratitude for this. Lord Marcus, pausing for a moment in an attitude of listening, entered after them and closed the door with a long, white, delicate hand. He indicated a settee and a deep armchair. This, they saw, was an orderly workroom, every available inch of wall space being occupied by closely stacked volumes. On a large mahogany table a green shaded lamp burned; and all the titles of those books within reach of its light reflected up from the carved and lustrous surface, indicated that Occultism and Ancient Egypt played a large part in Lord Marcus’ studies.
A nearly illegible papyrus was open on this table, held flat by four unusual paperweights. These were: a black granite figure of Set, god of the dead; a fossilised fish; a lump of quartz glittering with specks of gold; and a mummied hand (that of a woman) highly varnished and mounted in a gold bangle. Before the books on some of the shelves were statuettes and tomb ornaments, with fragments of mural decorations, and there was a complete mummy in a highly painted sarcophagus standing just inside the door.
“Gentlemen,” said Lord Marcus, “I beg you to be seated.”
Chief Inspector Firth was angrily conscious of feeling ill at ease. The situation was outside his experience. There was folly, madness, in the story somewhere; for he doubted the sanity of this impassive, linen-robed man, who during a national crisis unique in history could find time for whatever mumbo-jumbo was going on behind that drawn curtain. Nevertheless, Lord Marcus, mad or sane, was a son of the aged Marquis of Ord: therefore the Chief Inspector began awkwardly:
“Might I ask, sir, at what time Sir Giles arrived?”
“Arrived?” the musical voice echoed. “I fear I cannot tell you exactly; but the sound of his arrival, if it may be so described, broke in upon the Rites at a moment of great danger to myself, since I was compelled to break the contact in order to learn what had occurred.”
And now the courteous, but incomprehensible, character of this reply increased Firth’s ill-humor. What did Lord Marcus mean by “the Rites” — or for that matter, “breaking the contact”?
