by Sax Rohmer
“Well, sir, you remember I had cleaned your dress shoes for to-night. They were on the kitchen floor, and Mr. Bernstein threw all the newspapers on top of them. I believe — I can account for it in no other way: he is rather an impulsive gentleman — that he must have picked them up with the paper and put them into one of the suitcases.”
“You mean they are not there?”
“I do, sir. I am sorry; but I can find them nowhere.”
25
Kyphi
A constable passing down South Audley Street at about midnight, turned into that little bay which embraced the house with the scarlet door, and in accordance with instructions shone his light upon it. He pressed against the panels to make sure fastenings were secure, glanced up at shaded windows and was about to pass on, when something brushed against his leg. He started, directing the ray downward, and it illuminated a number of brilliant eyes upturned to him from behind low parapets. These eyes belonged to a company of cats.
“Be off with you!” growled the constable, and flashed his light threateningly amongst them.
They scattered in many directions, so that except for two fiery circles which remained focussed upon him from the darkness of a near-by corner, the eyes of a large, gray Persian, night swallowed them up. He flashed his light again upon the door. “Funny business,” he muttered.
The constable hesitated, sniffing suspiciously: he thought that he detected a faint church-like odor. However, he could not quite make up his mind on this point, and so, switching off his light, he went tramping on. He wondered if the incident called for reporting, but secretly feared the ridicule which such a report was calculated to invoke. He had been told about the cats which haunted the vicinity of Lord Marcus’s house, and as he went on through dark, deserted streets, under a leaden sky, he found his mind constantly reverting to that feline assembly before the scarlet door, trying in vain to account for the presence of those cats.
Explanation lay in that miniature temple, behind silver panels which opened out of the Roman atrium of Lord Marcus’s house. The shrine, or altar, with its throne and fantastic procession of Nile gods, was veiled; a tall screen stood before its golden curtain. The only light was that concentrated in some mysterious way upon this screen. It produced the image or illusion of a crystal globe, an image more than a foot in diameter, which alternately cleared and clouded in a manner to suggest that it was hollow and contained moving vapor. It seemed to revolve slowly upon an invisible axis.
One present, and grown accustomed to darkness, would have observed a silver censer placed immediately inside the door, from which arose almost straight pencils of odorous smoke. The air of this secret chapel was laden with the perfume of kyphi; and seated stiffly upright facing the screen was Mrs. Vane.
She wore a severe black dinner frock cut square at the neck. None of the raiment of a priestess of Isis adorned her to-night, but her pose was the same: her hands, fingers extended, resting upon the arms of the chair, her knees pressed together, and her green flecked amber eyes widely open and fixed upon the revolving image. Beside the screen, so that he faced her, Lord Marcus Amberdale, wearing his characteristic evening dress, with black velvet jacket, stood motionless, watching. Mrs. Vane’s lips moved slightly; she uttered a sound resembling a faint moan.
“Look for the guiding ray.” Lord Marcus’s melodious voice, low pitched, held a note of absolute command.
“I cannot find it ... I am so tired.”
Reflected light touched her flamboyant hair without creating any semblance of passionate humanity; hers was the beauty of one of those chryselephantine goddesses fashioned by the genius of Phidias.
“Search for the ray. I order you to find it.”
A brief spasm of pain passed over Mrs. Vane’s features. It was gone immediately, to leave them placid, dehumanised. “I am searching,” she murmured.
Silence became complete again. The image revolved, grew clear, grew cloudy, pencils of smoke wavered tremulously, as if in that still atmosphere even speech disturbed the air.
“I see it!”
Her lips opened slightly in a rapt smile; otherwise she did not stir.
“Follow where it leads.”
“It is so hard,” she whispered. “Why must I go?”
“I order you to go.”
The smile disappeared, and that pathetic suggestion of pain flashed across her features. Following some moments of silence, Lord Marcus spoke.
“Where does it lead?”
“Away — far away. I cannot say where, but I have left streets behind.”
“Look up. Where is the moon?”
“I cannot see it; only clouds.”
“Look until you do see it. Look beyond the clouds.”
“It is on my right, above a wood. The ray is moving over this wood.”
“Follow it.”
“I am afraid. It is very lonely.”
“There is nothing to fear. Do as I tell you.”
She moaned again faintly, and once more that expression crossed her face, that of one who toils with failing strength, who fears greatly, but who presses on ...
“Ah!” It was an exclamation of horror. “The wood is full of great cats! They are all about me! I can see their eyes — everywhere ...”
“They cannot harm you. Go on.”
Life, now, might have been detected in the body of the entranced medium. Her breast began to rise and fall; her lips were slightly opened. “I am beyond the wood. I can see a large house.”
“Describe it.”
“I have been to this house. It is the house of Lord Huskin.”
“We fail!”
A note of disappointment crept into Lord Marcus’s imperious voice. “To-night we fail again.”
“May I return? I am afraid, and I am very tired.”
“Does the ray rest above the house?”
“No, it moves on.”
“Follow it.”
“Oh, I cannot, I cannot! I can do no more.”
“Follow it.”
Violently, now, that unnatural stillness of Mrs. Vane became disturbed. She began to breathe as one who is all but exhausted. Spasms of pain plucked at the corners of her lips; her fingers, which had rested so placidly on the chair arms, twitched, cluching them for support.
“Where do you find yourself? Speak.”
“I can see a cottage.”
“Describe it.”
“It has a low wooden porch on which roses are growing ... A small stream runs through ... the garden.”
Mrs. Vane was now panting for breath as one in the last extremity of exhaustion, but the inexorable voice commanded: “Go on.”
“I cannot ... I am falling, fainting ... dying.”
“If I call you back, you must return again, later.”
“Call me back ... I beg you ... call me back!”
For a moment more Lord Marcus remained in that motionless pose, then stepped forward and rested his hand, the hand upon which he wore a scarab ring, lightly on the woman’s head. “Wake! I order you to awake ...”
26
Michael Corcoran Calls
Chief Inspector Firth had been writing busily for more than an hour when Bluett came in. He screwed the cap onto his fountain pen as the Sergeant entered, and replaced it in a waistcoat pocket, raising his tawny eyes.
“Which would you say, Bluett,” he demanded, “is the most fashionable night club in London now?”
“Green Spider,” Bluett replied promptly.
“Is tha’ so? And for luncheon?”
“Grand Marnier.”
“Aye, I’m thinking ye’re no’ far wrong. Now—” he leaned back in his chair— “I have some particulars concerning the shareholders in both o’ them. Destrée is almost certainly one.”
“That’s right. She’s got the knack of being in on a good thing.”
“I’m thinking so. Roulette in Mayfair is a good thing.”
“Ah,” murmured Bluett, “but we can’t pin that to her.” He
rested his elbow on the mantelpiece, then, with a startled look began to search all his pockets. “I’ve left my newspaper behind,” he muttered.
“That will be a serious blow. Was your dinner wrapped in it?” Firth showed a row of small, regular lower teeth, in one of his rare smiles. “I ha’ been making a summary of the Loeder case to date.” He tapped the writing-block. “Maybe you will check it over wi’ me. I ha’ notes here o’ the principal parties so far concerned in the matter, wi’ what we know about them.” He glanced down:— “Lord Marcus Amberdale: We ha’ failed to prove any association between him and the murdered man, or to think of any motive which could have prompted the crime.”
“Unless he’s mad,” muttered Bluett, who, in the absence of a newspaper, didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
“A fact which is duly noted. Mrs. Vane: Observation has been kept on this lady, but nothing has come of it. Medical evidence and the evidence o’ my own eyes suggest that she knows nothing more than she has told us.”
“The limping man,” muttered Bluett, absently.
“As such, he doesna’ appear in my summary. We may be in a poseetion to put a name to him when fingerprint files have been searched. Next: Miss Fay Perigal. I dismiss her from the case. Wake, the butler: I ha’ serious doubts o’ this man, but we can get no direct evidence against him. You have interviewed his wife, and you tell me she seems a decent body, and that her story of what Wake did on the night of the murder corresponds entirely wi’ his own.”
“That’s right.”
“It is a matter into which I am minded to go further. I had him closely covered, as you know, and reports are curious. More o’ this later. Mrs. Sankey, at whose flat in Hay Hill it is practically certain Loeder was playing on the night o’ the crime.”
“Left town,” said Bluett; “flat shut up.”
“I am aware of it, and the fact in itself is suspeecious. This woman is the widow of an Indian Civil Servant, and I believe she sublets her flat to the roulette gang for a high figure. She is just a stooge, and likely innocent enough as they come. It is Mrs. Destrée who could tell us whether Sir Giles had money in his possession on that night when he left. I think he did.”
“The empty case certainly points that way,” admitted Bluett.
“It a’most confirms it; but the leather carries no fingerprints. Mr. Michaelis: He is a naturalised British subject, a man o’ means and director of a number of City companies, including a concern called ‘Mayfair Caterers’ which controls The Green Spider and The Grand Marnier. I am wondering if another of his companies is the roulette racket?”
“In my opinion,” said Bluett, “he is in on everything that Destrée is in on. I mean, he represents her on The Green Spider, The Grand Marnier — and like enough on roulette as well.”
“Then there is a man called Francis, who occupies a flat immediately above that of Destrée. According to Max, they are associated. This Francis is an American. I have had no chance to check his papers, but, if he’s crooked, his papers will be in order. We know that game. I ha’ found out, though, that he’s London correspondent of the Transcontinent News Service of New York. That’s O.K., so far as it goes. In his spare time he is a radio comedian—”
“That’s right: Francis Batt. Dam’ good, too. I found that out.”
“You did?” The tawny eyes half closed from the bottom upward. “It’s just possible, Bluett, that someone told ye? I was thinking about Gaston Max.”
“So was I. That’s funny. I was thinking he might have mentioned it to you.”
“Ah.” The Chief Inspector frowned thoughtfully. “We know that Loeder was a German agent — one o’ the dirtiest villains who ever escaped hanging — and so we have to bear in mind that his murder may have been o’ a political character.”
“Gaston Max treats it as a sort of side-show,” said Bluett gloomily; “but we have got to solve it, haven’t we? I mean, whether it’s a gang murder or not. But I think your own theory is the right one: that robbery was the motive.”
Chief Inspector Firth sighed and lay back in his chair again. “Weel, we had powers some days ago to investigate Sir Giles’s affairs and to open his safe. I left it to you. What did you find?”
“Nothing much,” Bluett admitted, “except evidence that he paid Rita Martin’s rent, and, of course, that curious matter of his drawing five thousand pounds in small notes from his bank about two weeks before his murder. The bank gave me the numbers of the notes, but they haven’t traced any yet.”
“It wouldn’t help us much if they did,” said Firth despondently; “at least, not that I can see. Of course, I should like to know what he wanted that money for. It’s a large sum to draw out in cash. If only we could ha’ got the gambling gang inside for a day or two, maybe an investigation o’ their affairs might have shown if he had money on him at the time—”
He ceased speaking as the ‘phone buzzed. Taking up the instrument: “Yes,” he said sharply, “who is it? Mr. Michael Corcoran?” He glanced up at Bluett through half-closed eyes. “Michael Corcoran, K.C. Oh, very well — please show him up.” He replaced the receiver. “That’s verra queer,” he muttered. “What in the name o’ glory can Michael Corcoran want to see me about?”
“Shall I go?”
“No, wait. I’ll give you the tip if necessary.”
A few moments later Michael Corcoran entered, a portfolio under his arm; his air, one of professional briskness, and his attire, professionally correct.
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
“Good afternoon, sir. This is my assistant, Detective-sergeant Bluett. Would you wish this to be a private interview?”
“Not at all — not at all.” Corcoran laid his portfolio on the desk, and turned to Bluett. “My business concerns a case upon which I presume you are both working. In short, I am here on behalf of a client.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Firth, a puzzled frown between his brows. “How does your client’s business concern me?”
“It concerns you very intimately, Inspector, for the simple reason that my client killed Sir Giles Loeder.”
27
Gaston Max Wears Pearl Gray
Colonel O’Halloran stared from the bay window of his office. He was busily rolling a cigarette, and his upcast gaze appeared to be fixed upon barrage balloons, oily bubbles in an azure bowl, for the afternoon was a brilliant one. In a leathern armchair near the large and somewhat untidy desk, Gaston Max sat, watching the check coated back of the Assistant Commissioner. Max wore a pearl gray suit, smartly tailored, dark blue soft collared shirt, and a dull red tie with black spots. A handkerchief of similar design drooped from his breast pocket, and he was twirling a heavy-looking monocle by its cord around and around one extended forefinger.
“I am obliged, Colonel O’Halloran, my friend, for your interest. My case against the spy ring is making famous progress. Thanks so much, oh so much, for those facilities which I owe to you. But yes, sacred blue! certainly. Lacking my base in Soho, freedom from those regulations which shackle my confrères, I could have done little. Bernstein & Company are highly respected in the black market. We do a spanking trade. In fact, the good Lord Huskin, a worthy and clever man, acting on behalf of Lord Woolton, of course, has been inquiring about us lately. If I am arrested, you must get me out.”
“Thanks,” snapped the Assistant Commissioner without turning; “don’t count on it. Waiting to hear why you sent me that extraordinary note at the Grand Marnier.”
Gaston Max smiled. “As Mr. Bernstein,” he said, “I do some small business with the Restaurant Grand Marnier. I make my deliveries at night. Marnier, the celebrated maître-d’hôtel, is an employee of the proprietors — no more. He is not acquainted with the secrets of this place, nor is Jules, his head-waiter. But the second waiter was placed there by the controlling company — Mayfair Caterers; the charming lady receptionist also. Very well. There is a private office of Mayfair Caterers, a small room upstairs, which always is kept locked unless a
director should come. Eh bien! those four cubicles intimes, so popular, I believe them to be no more than sound boxes connected by microphone with this room upstairs! All that is spoken in them can be heard, you understand? If I am right, we shall see, we shall know.”
“So that’s why you were there dressed up like an African chasseur?”
“But of course! My case approaches a climax. I must make no mistakes. You saw that I had with me an admiral of the Free French? He is my good friend. Together, we had rehearsed our rôles. We were discussing important details concerning the big convoy to Malta—”
“What’s that!” Colonel O’Halloran snapped.
“Such interesting details, my colonel, details known to nobody else, because I invented them! I am spreading such bait in all sorts of places where I think my spy-fish seek their prey — at the Grand Marnier, at the Green Spider, among those who frequent Mayfair roulette parties. The use of this information I can trace — for it is my own copyright!”
“Damn it!” said the Assistant Commissioner, “always startling me to death, Max. D’you mean to say that when I, for instance, book a table at Grand Marnier, that wench at the desk tips somebody off, and he cuts upstairs to private office and listens in?”
“But certainly!”
“Good God!” The colonel looked seriously disturbed.
“For the ordinary, those tables are never available. But for a Commissioner of Scotland Yard, an admiral of the Fleet, a member of the War Cabinet — oh, là, là!”
“This is a hell of a thing, Max! Hope you’ll rope those scoundrels in pretty soon. Feel disposed to shut the place.”
“No, no, I beg! This would ruin all. Already dangerous elements, yes, malevolent people, you understand, have become suspicious of me.”
“Indeed!” the colonel blinked rapidly. “Mean the enemy agents?”
“Unfortunately, yes. And these are very dangerous people. Whilst I have almost obtained my conclusive evidence against them, I believe they have failed to obtain any against me. But let me tell you this: only a few nights ago I was followed to Windmill Street by Detective-sergeant Bluett, a highly efficient officer. This did not matter. To him I revealed myself; we are all for one and one for all: but someone else followed me, also.”
