Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “When she came out again, she was in evening dress. She stood on the other side of the street for a while, looking right and left. She was evidently in a hurry, and as no taxi appeared, she began almost to run towards Sloane Square. I paid my bill quickly, dashed out and followed her. Quite a few people were going by Underground but all the same I saw that I couldn’t risk travelling in the same elevator. I took a ticket at random and rushed down the stairs. She had got there ahead of me, but just as I reached the platform a train pulled in, and I was in time to see her get on board. I took a seat in the next coach.

  “No need to bore you with details. I nearly lost her when she changed at Charing Cross; but when she got out at Oxford Circus I ran up the stairs there as I had run down at Chelsea. It was black-out by now, and I knew that once she got outside, I should lose my chance. But I had made good time on the stairs, and I picked her up again.

  “Once out on the street, I kept close behind her. She was trying to find a taxi. Presently, during a traffic hold-up, she darted right out and jumped into a cab that was pulled up by an island in the middle. I didn’t know what to do. I thought all my trouble was going to be wasted. But it was quite dark, and I ran across just as the cab pulled off. I stood there looking after it, right on the island, when a man driving a private car slowed up, and said, ‘Can I give you a lift?’”

  Kershaw paused, looking from face to face. “That seems like Fate at work, doesn’t it? ‘I have just missed my friend,’ I told him; ‘she is in that taxi just ahead. If you could manage to keep it in sight—’.

  “He said: ‘Jump in. That’s in my direction.’ Then, only a few minutes later, he sang out, ‘The taxi is pulling up outside the B.B.C.’

  “That settled it. I thanked him and jumped out just in time to see Rita go into Broadcasting House. When I say that settled it, I mean it confirmed the rumors which had reached me about Loeder. I was certain now that she was going to meet him, because I knew that he was broadcasting after the nine o’clock news. So once more I settled down to wait.”

  The dull, flat voice of the speaker, accompanied by a harmony of bird notes, the serenity and beauty of an English countryside, served to strengthen, in the minds of those who listened, this drama of tormented jealousy enacted in darkened London.

  “There is a rank outside Broadcasting House, just around the corner, and I reserved a taxi. I hadn’t very long to wait. I stood on the steps, beyond the doors which open into the big entrance hall. Rita came out with a man. I wasn’t three yards from them. I might not have known who he was, if someone else who came out at the same time had not asked, ‘Can I give you a lift, Sir Giles?’

  “I knew then; I knew that I had been right; and I knew that I was a fool. But I couldn’t condemn her, yet. I had no claim whatever to deny her anyone’s friendship. I listened, and I heard Loeder reply, ‘If it isn’t taking you out of your way, I want to go to Hay Hill, Mayfair.’

  “When the car pulled off, I worked my old trick. I said to the taxi driver, ‘Those are my friends, ahead there. Someone has given them a lift. Do you think you can follow on to Hay Hill, Mayfair?’ We arrived just in time to see them get out, and go into a big block of apartments. I watched them step into the elevator, then I read all the names on the board, but Loeder’s wasn’t there. I knew, though, that a lot of London flats were sublet, and I had little doubt that Rita had gone to his apartment. I had to keep walking away as though I was making for some place on the ground floor, because quite a number of people began to arrive and go up in the elevator. There was no attendant, but it was self-working. It occurred to me that maybe there was a party and that Rita’s doings so far were innocent enough.

  “I made up my mind to wait, if necessary all night. If she didn’t come out again, that was good enough. If she did, I would follow her. I’m not going to describe my frame of mind, but I’m afraid it was pretty ugly. After a time no more people arrived, and I just walked up and down the steep, deserted street outside, wondering if I had misjudged her, wondering which apartment she was in; feeling I wanted to find out, to stand in front of her and to ask her outright what she was to Sir Giles Loeder.

  “A full moon kept bursting through the clouds and shining on blacked-out windows so that they looked all lighted up from inside. I never knew that London was so silent at night, so lonely. A warden and a policeman were the only people who passed during the next hour, and I found myself counting the barrage balloons I could see from the top of the street. Well, between eleven and midnight, some of the people I had seen go in, came out again, which confirmed my idea that there had been a party. But still, there was no sign of Rita. More than once I weakened: I was getting very tired, and thirsty, and I was not really quite fit. But I had made up my mind to see the thing through, so I clenched my teeth, and stuck it.

  “At last, someone rang up the elevator again. Then, from above, I heard her voice. I ran outside before she could reach the hallway. There was no car, and no taxi anywhere about, so that wherever she was going she would have to walk for a time, at least. It was getting darker with fewer patches of moonlight. I reckoned on following without being seen. When they came out they passed within a yard of me — Loeder and Rita. And right then, from their conversation, I knew there was no more room for doubt.”

  Kershaw, now, was exhibiting distress signals; he spoke rapidly, tensely. He had discarded his cigarette and clutched the rail of the bridge again with both hands.

  “I felt completely sick. I can’t explain that feeling, that wave of nausea which swept over me. But I cursed myself for a poor fool, and conquered it. And when they moved off down Hay Hill, arguing, I was close behind. They had been to a party of some sort; so much I gathered. And now he was trying to urge her to spend the night at his flat, which it seemed was quite near. The very way she declined would have been evidence enough. They walked on; he had his arm around her, and was kissing her. He was carrying some sort of portfolio. Suddenly, on the next corner, a taxi appeared, slowed up and the man called out, ‘Taxi, sir?’

  “Rita seemed to jump at the chance of getting away. ‘Really, Giles, dear,’ she said, ‘I have a hard day to-morrow, and I must go home.’ He tried again to make her change her mind, but she insisted on getting into the taxi. I stood there watching him kiss her, long, possessive kisses. It made my blood boil like mad. Then, picking up his portfolio, he waved as the taxi drew off, and Rita blew a kiss to him. I was standing back in the shadow of a doorway. It was a moment of pitch darkness, the moon was quite obscured; when Loeder, as a sort of parting gesture, maybe, shone his torch and waved its beam in the direction of the taxi.

  “A reflection, or something, must have shone upon me for a moment, because I saw Rita, her face white and frightened, leaning out of the window staring back — not towards where Loeder stood, but towards the doorway in which I was hiding.”

  “Let me be quite clear on that point,” Michael Corcoran interrupted. “Are you sure, or moderately sure, that this girl saw you?”

  “I think I can say that I am absolutely sure she saw me.”

  “H’m! Go ahead.”

  “Although I knew that I was in no proper shape for an interview, I made up my mind all the same that I would have it out with Loeder. I knew he was a married man, because when first the rumors began to reach me, I had made inquiries, and I was not going to miss this chance of telling him what I thought about him. He moved on briskly as if sure of his way. For my part I have never known London very well, and I can’t say with any certainty just where we had arrived, except that I think we crossed Berkeley Square. But I followed him until he turned into a side street and I could be sure there was not a soul about. Hearing me overtaking him, he stopped, spun around, and flashed a light in my face.

  “‘Oh!’ he said, ‘an Air Force officer. I thought it was a pickpocket.’

  “Naturally, I don’t remember my exact words in reply, but I told him my name, and said that maybe he had heard it from Rita. He said, ‘No, I don’t recall
it,’ and walked on. Then I grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him around to face me. He said, ‘What the hell are you up to? Do you want to spend the night in gaol?’ So, keeping my hand on his shoulder, I told him all I had to say. I held myself in check; I used no violent language; I stated the plain facts as I saw them: — that he had used his money and his position to seduce a girl who likely enough would have gone straight if she had never known him, a girl who had to live on whatever she could earn, and in times such as these was to be pitied if she fell for smart clothes and entertainment. Not a soul came near during all this time. I never heard a sound except once or twice that of distant traffic. Finally, I said to him, ‘There is just one thing I am going to ask. You have a wife, but I know you are separated. If you mean to get a divorce and marry Rita, that lets me out: I have no more to say; the choice is hers.’”

  Kershaw stood up and clenched his hands in an effort to retain control, an effort which he was unable to conceal.

  Fay, biting her lip fiercely, stared intently down at the grass.

  “His reply was what led to the tragedy. I hold no brief for Rita Martin; I know, now, that she’s a little twister. She has no more sense of morals, much less of comradeship, than I would expect to find in a barnyard. That is beside the point. He laughed in my face. What he said about Rita I am not going to repeat. Then, with the portfolio which he carried, he struck my hand from his shoulder, and turned away. By this time, although I had fought hard, I had begun to see red. I tore the thing from him, threw it down on the sidewalk, and said, ‘Put up your hands, because I am going to thrash you until I am tired.’

  “He did — and he took me by surprise. Dan will tell you that we both worked pretty hard at our boxing. In fact, if the war hadn’t come, I guess Dan would have got his Blue.”

  “You would have got yours first, Dick.”

  “That’s as may be. But I am not entirely useless, anyway. Well, neither was Loeder. Fighting in the dark was a novel experience for me, and he registered one or two hard knocks before I got his measure. Then, the moon shone out, suddenly, just as he gave me an opening, and I caught him with a straight left, over the heart. The weight I put into it gave my groggy foot a sharp twinge; in fact, I almost fell, too. But Loeder went down for the count, rolled sideways, and then lay still.”

  “Stop there!” Michael Corcoran broke in. “Where was his portfolio?”

  “I don’t know. I had snatched it away from him and thrown it aside.”

  “Was he wearing a hat?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible that his head struck the pavement so hard that he died of concussion?”

  “That was not my impression, sir. Although it was a fairly strong blow, I don’t believe, when I consider that my ankle let me down, how it could possibly have been a knock-out.” After a moment Dick added: “But he seemed to me to fall, for the moonlight was quite bright for a few moments, as a man would fall who knew the game.”

  “Was the pavement wet?”

  “No; the rain came later. Anyway, as he didn’t get up, I bent over him — pretty cautiously, because I was expecting a trap. But when I moved him he just went limp, and lay flat with his arms stretched out.”

  In their excitement, none of the three men had noticed Fay. Now, suddenly, Dick Kershaw noticed her. She was supporting herself unsteadily, one hand resting upon the grass.

  “Fay!” he cried, and sprang from the bridge to her side, dropping to his knee and throwing his arm around her. “Fay, dear! don’t let it hurt you so much. I know it’s horrible, but it was a fair fight.”

  “I know it was, Dick,” she whispered, and looked up at him. “Don’t worry, dear. Nurses know how to take care of themselves. But somehow, as you were talking — I could see it all.”

  “Are you quite sure?” He stood up.

  “Quite sure.”

  He stayed where he was, standing beside her, and went on: “I concluded that he was out right enough, and I may as well admit that I rather lost my head. It came to me in a flash that if the affair led to a police court, I should be kicked out of the R.A.F. and I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that Rita wasn’t worth it.” He stared down at Fay during another long pause. “Then I heard footsteps, coming up rapidly. Well, the rest is easy ...

  “I bolted. I have told you that I don’t know just where this took place, and I may add that I don’t know which way I went. I just tramped on and on, along dark streets and across squares, with the whole beastly business going round and round in my head like a crazy circus. It made me sick to think about Rita, and even then, long after I had left him lying, it made me coldly, murderously angry to think of Loeder. He’s dead, and I shouldn’t say it — but that man was a dirty outsider. I sat for awhile on a seat in some large open space. It may have been Hyde Park, but I couldn’t be sure. Whenever I heard a policeman coming, I moved on. You see, Loeder knew my name; I was quite sure he would report the matter to the police when he came to, and I hadn’t made up my mind what my defence was going to be.

  “In the meantime I didn’t know what to do. The little hotel I have mentioned locks its doors about eleven, and to get in I should have had to ring and so attract attention to myself. I thought it better to stay out. I must have walked for miles. Sometimes I wondered if I was going mad, or had already gone mad. Then it rained, as it rained several times during the night. I sheltered under trees, or in doorways — anywhere, but still kept on walking. I went right on like that until daylight came. Then I found myself in Bond Street. As it began to grow light, I recognised where I was. I saw a coffee-stall amongst a lot of wreckage in a corner, and I walked over there.” He fixed his steady glance on Michael Corcoran. “That was where we first met, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Michael Corcoran, looking anxiously at Fay. “That was where you heard on the radio—”

  “That Loeder was dead. When I heard that, I lost control again. You see, I had been in hospital for some time and I was not quite myself, I suppose. I went back to my hotel at Lancaster Gate, and managed to get in, so early in the morning, without being noticed. I was scared; I admit that. But above all, I was wretchedly ashamed of myself — ashamed of the motive which had led me, although unintentionally, to take a man’s life. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know in whom to confide. I had left the club as my address in London, and I used to send a boy to collect correspondence and messages. I took long walks in Kensington Gardens. I told the hotel people I was convalescing — they were very decent to me — and took meals in my room.

  “There were only two people I could think of whose advice I would dare to ask. For long days and nights — oh, such dreary, sleepless nights — I tried to whip up courage to come down here. I read every scrap of news I could get hold of. But it was little enough. I realised that for some reason the police were suppressing many of the circumstances; and that was worse than ever. I began to feel like a hunted criminal. Every time a constable came along Craven Terrace I thought he was coming for me. I can’t explain this mood: I know it was contemptible; I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Fay—” he dropped on his knees beside her again— “I knew how it would hurt, but I came to tell the whole story to you and to ask for your advice.” He reached out his hand. “And for yours, Dan.”

  “There are two things you have to do,” said Michael Corcoran briskly. “First, is to stay here. Can he stay here, Nurse Fay?”

  “Of course,” said Fay. “I can easily arrange it with matron.”

  “The second,” Corcoran went on, “is to make quite sure that no living soul, except the four of us now present, hears a single word of this. I don’t want you to go back to London, Kershaw. Arrange in some way to have your things sent down. For the rest — well, I shall have a number of questions to ask ... but leave the rest to me.”

  21

  The Quest of Lord Marcus

  An interview which had some bearing upon the astonishing discovery in South Audley Street, or, more exactly, upon a subsequent develop
ment in the mystery, took place one morning at the Assistant Commissioner’s club. Lord Marcus Amberdale was lunching with Colonel O’Halloran.

  They sat at a side table in the lofty bar, an apartment impregnated with that Service aroma peculiar to clubs whose membership is almost entirely confined to officers. The club was noted for its dry sherry, and a small carafe of this stood between them. Lord Marcus, who wore a blue suit and a blue stock with a small white spot, looked more than ever like a hangover from the Regency; his handsome, lined face was troubled as he stared across the table at his old friend, and the colonel’s little eyes were blinking furiously.

  “I find it peculiarly difficult to state the facts, O’Halloran. I am regarded in many quarters as suspect — an unhappy atmosphere in which to spend one’s days. Even here—” he extended a long sensitive hand— “I am conscious of it. Furthermore, I have reason to believe that officers from Scotland Yard are actually covering my movements. I think I have detected this on more than one occasion. I am not complaining: I have no right to complain: but, at its best, it is a waste of your fellows’ time, at its worst, an intolerable implication.”

  “Quite see what you mean,” rattled the Assistant Commissioner. “Follow entirely. Must agree. As a matter of fact, wanted to talk to you about it all. Glad to see you in any event. Haven’t seen enough of each other in recent years.”

  “It is a great pleasure to me,” Lord Marcus declared, and raised his glass with old fashioned courtesy. “This consciousness of a sleepless surveillance is prejudicial to my work. As you know, I have placed my knowledge of the Near East at the disposal of the Ministry of Information, and my employment is of a highly confidential character. A mere whisper would be sufficient to destroy my usefulness.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” said the colonel. “Haven’t agreed you’re being watched in any way. Contrary to my orders if you are. But frankly, one can sympathise with Chief Inspector Firth. Rather groping in the dark; and after all, Amberdale, damn it, dead man was found on your premises. Can’t get away from that.”