Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “Gentlemen! I tremble, now, to relate what happened! The axe of Black Geoffrey, which had hung for centuries before the rail above, was shaken from its place by the shock and its time-worn fastenings were torn bodily from their hold. At the instant that Heidelberger’s huge body struck the post, the great axe, as though detached by invisible hands, fell, blade downward, cleaving the head of the unfortunate man and remaining, with quivering shaft, upright in the oaken floor!

  “The suddenness of the tragedy almost dazed me, and I was awakened to its awful reality by old Ryder’s cry— ‘Oh, Master Roly!’ As Master Roly I had always been known to the old butler, and this name it was which some one stated to be ‘holy.’

  “Our subsequent action was, perhaps, ill-advised. Removing the axe and raising the head of the victim, examination showed him to be dead, and, hearing hesitating footsteps upon the narrow stair beneath the gallery, we seized the candle and retreated through the secret panel, Ryder severely cutting his hand in endeavouring to force the rusty bolt into place. It was not until we stood in a lane bordering the grounds, where I had tethered the mare upon which I had ridden from the farm, that the seemingly guilty nature of our action dawned upon me. Now, however, was too late to atone for what I attribute to a momentary panic; and requesting Ryder to keep silence until he received instructions from me, I mounted the mare, intending to return to my lodgings and think the matter quietly over.

  “By an unlucky accident, the brute threw me, at some distance from the farm, thereby all but bringing about a second tragedy; and what followed is already known to you.

  “Of Ryder I need only say that rather than incriminate me he was prepared to pay the penalty for a deed which was in truth a visitation of God. Dr. Madden recognised me, of course, and to him also I am eternally indebted. I had proposed to make this statement before a magistrate later to-day.”

  “You see,” said Moris Klaw, “I have done nothing! It would all have happened the same if I had been in Peru!”

  Grimsby cleared his throat.

  “Without casting any doubt upon Sir Roland’s word,” he began, “there’s no evidence to go to a jury that he didn’t—”

  “Pull down the axe himself?” suggested Klaw.

  Grimsby looked uncomfortable.

  “Well — is there?”

  “There is!” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I am he! This case most triumphantly substantiates my theory of Cycles! Almost parallel it occurred hundreds of years ago, at Dyke Manor! The axe has repeated itself!”

  “H’um!” said Grimsby. “Your theory of Cycles wouldn’t hold water with twelve good men and true, I’m afraid, Mr. Klaw!”

  “Yes?” replied Moris Klaw. “No? You think not, eh? Well then, there is another little point. I am an old crank-fool, eh? So? But you? You are sublimely mad, my Grimsby! You say he, or Mr. Ryder, may have snatched down the black axe? Yes? Have you tried to reach the spot where it hung before the rail?”

  “No,” confessed Grimsby, with the light as of the dawning of an unpleasant idea in his eyes.

  “No,” said Klaw, placidly; “but I have. Mr. Grimsby, it is impossible to reach within three feet of the spot, from the stair or from the gallery; and no live thing but a giraffe could reach it from the floor!”

  We were seated in the train, homeward-bound.

  “For this case,” grumbled Klaw, “I get no credit. It will be said that it all came out without aid from you or from me. Never mind — I have my fee!”

  He patted the haft of the great axe, which ghastly relic in some way he had arranged to appropriate. Grimsby was watching Isis Klaw out of the corner of his eye. From a dainty gold case she offered him a cigarette. Grimsby is no cigarette smoker, but he accepted, with alacrity.

  The beautiful Isis took one also, and lay back puffing sinuous spirals from between her perfect red lips.

  Fourth Episode. CASE OF THE IVORY STATUE

  I

  Where a case did not touch his peculiar interest, appeals to Moris Klaw fell upon deaf ears. However dastardly a crime, if its details were of the sordid sort, he shrank within his Wapping curio-shop as closely as any tortoise within its shell.

  “Of what use,” he said to me on one occasion, “are my acute psychic sensibilities to detect who it is with a chopper that has brained some unhappy washerwoman? Shall I bring to bear those delicate perceptions which it has taken me so many years to acquire in order that some ugly old fool shall learn what has become of his pretty young wife? I think not — no!”

  Sometimes, however, when Inspector Grimsby of Scotland Yard was at a loss, he would induce me to intercede with the eccentric old dealer, and sometimes Moris Klaw would throw out a hint.

  Beyond doubt the cases that really interested him were those that afforded scope for the exploiting of his pet theories; the Cycle of Crime, the criminal history of all valuable relics, the indestructibility of thought. Such a case came under my personal notice on one occasion, and my friend Coram was instrumental in enlisting the services of Moris Klaw. It was, I think, one of the most mysterious affairs with which I ever came in contact, and the better to understand it you must permit me to explain how Roger Paxton, the sculptor, came to have such a valuable thing in his studio as that which we all assumed had inspired the strange business.

  It was Sir Melville Fennel, then, who commissioned Paxton to execute a chryselephantine statue. Sir Melville’s museum of works of art, ancient and modern, is admittedly the second finest private collection of the kind in the world. The late Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s alone took precedence.

  The commission came as something of a surprise. The art of chryselephantine sculpture, save for one attempt at revival, in Belgium, has been dead for untold generations. By many modern critics, indeed, it is condemned, as being not art but a parody of art.

  Given carte-blanche in the matter of cost, Paxton produced a piece of work which induced the critics to talk about a modern Phidias. Based upon designs furnished by the eccentric but wealthy baronet, the statue represented a slim and graceful girl reclining as in exhaustion upon an ebony throne. The ivory face, with its wearily closed eyes, was a veritable triumph, and was surmounted by a head-dress of gold intertwined among a mass of dishevelled hair. One ivory arm hung down so that the fingers almost touched the pedestal; the left hand was pressed to the breast as though against a throbbing heart. Gold bracelets and anklets, furnished by Sir Melville, were introduced into the composition; and, despite the artist’s protest, a heavy girdle, encrusted with gems and found in the tomb of some favourite of a long-dead Pharaoh, encircled the waist. When complete, the thing was, from a merely intrinsic point of view, worth several thousand pounds.

  As the baronet had agreed to the exhibition of the statue prior to its removal to Fennel Hall, Paxton’s star was seemingly in the ascendant, when the singular event occurred that threatened to bring about his ruin.

  The sculptor gave one of the pleasant little dinners for which he had gained a reputation. His task was practically completed, and his friends had all been enjoined to come early, so that the statue could be viewed before the light failed. We were quite a bachelor party, and I shall always remember the circle of admiring faces surrounding the figure of the reclining dancer — warmed in the soft light to an almost uncanny semblance of fair flesh and blood.

  “You see,” explained Paxton, “this composite work although it has latterly fallen into disrepute, affords magnificent scope for decorative purposes; such a richness of colour can be obtained. The ornaments are genuine antiques and of great value — a fad of my patron’s.”

  For some minutes we stood silently admiring the beautiful workmanship; then Harman inquired: “Of what is the hair composed?”

  Paxton smiled. “A little secret I borrowed from the Greeks!” he replied, with condonable vanity “Polyclitus and his contemporaries excelled at the work.”

  “That jewelled girdle looks detachable,” I said.

  “It is firmly fastened to the waist of the figure,” answe
red the sculptor. “I defy any one to detach it inside an hour.”

  “From a modern point of view the thing is an innovation,” remarked one of the others, thoughtfully.

  Coram, curator of the Menzies Museum, who up to the present had stood in silent contemplation of the figure, now spoke for the first time. “The cost of materials is too great for this style of work ever to become popular,” he averred. “That girdle, by the way, represents a small fortune, and together with the anklets, armlets and head-dress, might well tempt any burglar. What precautions do you take, Paxton?”

  “Sleep out here every night,” was the reply; “and there is always some one here in the daytime. Incidentally, a curious thing occurred last week. I had just fixed the girdle, which, I may explain, was once the property of Nicris, a favourite of Ramses III., and my model was alone here for a few minutes. As I was returning from the house I heard her cry out, and when I came to look for her she was crouching in a corner trembling. What do you suppose had frightened her?”

  “Give it up,” said Harman.

  “She swore that Nicris — for the statue is supposed to represent her — had moved!”

  “Imagination,” replied Coram; “but easily to be understood. I could believe it, myself, if I were here alone long enough.”

  “I fancy,” continued Paxton, “that she must have heard some of the tales that have been circulated concerning the girdle. The thing has a rather peculiar history. It was discovered in the tomb of the dancer by whom it had once been worn; and it is said that an inscription was unearthed at the same time containing an account of Nicris’s death under particularly horrible circumstances. Seton — you fellows know Seton — who was present at the opening of the sarcophagus, tells me that the Arabs, on catching sight of the girdle, all prostrated themselves and then took to their heels. Sir Melville Fennel’s agent sent it on to England, however, and Sir Melville conceived the idea of this statue.”

  “Luckily for you,” added Coram.

  “Quite so,” laughed the sculptor; and, carefully locking the studio door, he led the way up the short path to the house.

  We were a very merry party, and the night was far advanced ere the gathering broke up. Coram and I were the last to depart; and having listened to the voices of Harman and the others dying away as they neared the end of the street, we also prepared to take our leave.

  “Just come with me as far as the studio,” said Paxton, “and having seen that all’s well I’ll let you out by the garden door.”

  Accordingly, we donned our coats and hats, and followed our host to the end of the garden, where his studio was situated. The door unlocked, we all three stepped inside the place and gazed upon the figure of Nicris — the pallid face and arms seeming almost unearthly in the cold moonlight, wherein each jewel of the girdle and head-dress glittered strangely.

  “Of course,” muttered Coram, “the thing’s altogether irregular — a fact which the critics will not fail to impress upon you; but it is unquestionably very fine, Paxton. How uncannily human it is! I don’t entirely envy you your bedchamber, old man!”

  “Oh, I sleep well enough,” laughed Paxton. “No luxury, though; just this corner curtained off and a camp bedstead.”

  “A truly Spartan couch!” I said. “Well, goodnight, Paxton. We shall probably see you to-morrow — I mean later to-day!”

  With that we parted, leaving the sculptor to his lonely vigil at the shrine of Nicris, and as my rooms were no great distance away, some half-hour later I was in bed and asleep.

  I little suspected that I had actually witnessed the commencement of one of the most amazing mysteries which ever cried out for the presence of Moris Klaw.

  II

  Some few minutes subsequent to retiring — or so it seemed to me; a longer time actually had elapsed — I was aroused by the ringing of my telephone bell. I scrambled sleepily out of bed and ran to the instrument.

  Coram was the caller. And, now fully awake, I listened with an ever-growing wonder to his account of that which had prompted him to ring me up. Briefly, it amounted to this: some mysterious incident, particulars of which he omitted, had aroused Paxton from his sleep. Seeking the cause of the disturbance, the artist had unlocked the studio door and gone out into the garden. He was absent but a moment and never out of earshot of the door; yet, upon his return, the statue of Nicris had vanished!

  “I have not hesitated to ‘phone through to Wapping,” concluded Coram, “and get a special messenger sent to Moris Klaw. You see, the matter is urgent. If the statue cannot be recovered, its loss may spell ruin for Paxton. He had heard me speak of Moris Klaw, and of the wonders he worked in the Greek Room mysteries and accordingly called me up. I knew, if Klaw came, you would be anxious to be present.”

  “Certainly,” I replied, “I wouldn’t miss one of his inquiries for anything. Shall I meet you at Paxton’s?”

  “Yes.”

  I lost little time in dressing. From Coram’s brief account, the mystery appeared to be truly a dark one. Would Moris Klaw respond to this midnight appeal? There was little chance of a big fee; for Paxton was not a rich man; but in justice to the remarkable person whom it is my privilege to present to you in these papers, I must add that monetary considerations seemingly found no place in Klaw’s philosophy. He acted, I believe, from sheer love of the work; and this affair, with its bizarre details — the ancient girdle of the dancing girl — the fear of the model, who had declared that the statue moved — was such, I thought, as must appeal to him.

  Ten minutes later I was at Paxton’s house. He and Coram were in the hall, and Coram admitted me.

  “Do you mean,” he asked of Paxton, pursuing a conversation which my advent had interrupted, “that the statue melted into the empty air?”

  “The double doors opening on to the street were securely locked and barred; that of the garden was also locked; I was in the garden, and not ten yards from the studio,” was Paxton’s reply. “Nevertheless, Nicris had vanished, leaving no trace behind!”

  Incredible though the story appeared, its confirmation was to be found in the speaker’s face. I was horrified to see how haggard he looked.

  “It will ruin me!” he said, and reiterated the statement again and again.

  “But, my dear fellow,” I cried, “surely you have not given up hope of recovering the statue? After all, such a robbery as this can scarcely have been perpetrated without leaving some clue behind.”

  “Robbery!” repeated Paxton, looking at me strangely: “you would be less confident that it is a case of robbery, Searles, if you had heard what I heard!”

  I glanced at Coram, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Then Coram has not told you?”

  “He has told me that something aroused you in the night and that you left the studio to investigate the matter.”

  “Correct, so far. Something did arouse me; and the thing was a voice!”

  “A voice?”

  “It would be, I suppose, about two hours after you had gone, and I was soundly asleep in the studio, when I suddenly awoke and sat up to listen — for it seemed to me that I heard a cry immediately outside the door.”

  “What kind of cry?”

  “Of that I was not, at first, by any means certain; but after a brief interval the cry was repeated. It sounded more like the voice of a boy than that of a man and it uttered but one word: ‘Nicris!’”

  “And then?”

  “I sprang on to the floor, and stood for a moment in doubt — the thing seemed so uncanny. The electric light is not, as you know, installed in the studio, or I should have certainly switched it on. For possibly a minute I hesitated, and then, as I pulled the curtains aside and stood by the door to listen, for the third occasion the cry was repeated, this time coming indisputably from immediately outside.”

  “You refer to the door that opens on to the garden?”

  “Exactly — close to which stands my bed. This, then
, decided me. Taking up the small revolver which I have always kept handy since Nicris was completed, I unlocked the door and stepped out into the garden—”

  A vehicle, cab or car, was heard to draw up outside the house. Came the sound of a rumbling voice. Coram sprang to the door.

  “Moris Klaw!” I cried.

  “Good-morning, Mr. Coram!” said the strange voice, from the darkness outside. “Good-morning, Mr. Searles!”

  Moris Klaw entered.

  He wore his flat-topped, brown bowler of effete pattern; he wore his long, shabby, caped coat; and from beneath it gleamed the pointed, glossy toe-caps of his continental boots. Through his gold-rimmed glasses he peered into the shadows of the hall. His scanty, colourless beard appeared less adequate than ever to clothe the massive chin. The dim light rendered his face more cadaverous and more yellow even than usual.

  “And this,” he proceeded, as the anxious sculptor came forward, “is Mr. Paxton, who has lost his statue? Good-morning, Mr. Paxton!”

  He bowed, removing the bowler and revealing his great, high brow. Coram was about to reclose the door.

  “Ah, no!” Moris Klaw checked him. “My daughter is to come yet with my cushion!”

  Paxton stared, not comprehending, but stared yet harder when Isis Klaw appeared, carrying a huge red cushion. She was wrapped in a cloak which effectually concealed her lithe figure, and from the raised hood her darkly beautiful face looked out with bewitching effect. She divided between Coram and myself one of her dazzling smiles.

  “It is Mr. Paxton,” said her father, indicating the sculptor. Then, indicating the girl: “It is my daughter, Isis. Isis will help us to look for Nicris. Why am I here, an old fool who ought to be asleep? Because of this girdle your statue wore. I so well remember when it was dug up. I cannot know its history; but be sure it is evil. From the beginning, please, Mr. Paxton!”