Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “I told him to go to China,” concluded the object of my suspicion, again rapping upon the counter, “and you see what come of it. All I got to say is this: If they’re so bloody patriotic, I says one thing: I ain’t the man to stand in their way. You done me a good turn to-night, mate; I’m doing you one. ‘Ere’s the bloody pigtail, ‘ere’s my empty mug. Fill the mug and the pigtail’s yours. It’s good for a quid at the dock gates any day!”

  My suspicions vanished; my interest arose to boiling point. I refilled my acquaintance’s mug, pressed a sovereign upon him (in honesty I must confess that he was loath to take it), and departed with the pigtail coiled neatly in an inner pocket of my jacket. I entered the house in Wade Street by the side door, and half an hour later let myself out by the front door, having cast off my dockland disguise.

  II

  HOW I LOST IT

  It was not until the following evening that I found leisure to examine my strange acquisition, for affairs of more immediate importance engrossed my attention. But at about ten o’clock I seated myself at my table, lighted the lamp, and taking out the pigtail from the table drawer, placed it on the blotting-pad and began to examine it with the greatest curiosity, for few Chinese affect the pigtail nowadays.

  I had scarcely commenced my examination, however, when it was dramatically interrupted. The door bell commenced to ring jerkily. I stood up, and as I did so the ringing ceased and in its place came a muffled beating on the door. I hurried into the passage as the bell commenced ringing again, and I had almost reached the door when once more the ringing ceased; but now I could hear a woman’s voice, low but agitated:

  “Open the door! Oh, for God’s sake be quick!”

  Completely mystified, and not a little alarmed, I threw open the door, and in there staggered a woman heavily veiled, so that I could see little of her features, but by the lines of her figure I judged her to be young.

  Uttering a sort of moan of terror she herself closed the door, and stood with her back to it, watching me through the thick veil, while her breast rose and fell tumultuously.

  “Thank God there was someone at home!” she gasped.

  I think I may say with justice that I had never been so surprised in my life; every particular of the incident marked it as unique — set it apart from the episodes of everyday life.

  “Madam,” I began doubtfully, “you seem to be much alarmed at something, and if I can be of any assistance to you —— —”

  “You have saved my life!” she whispered, and pressed one hand to her bosom. “In a moment I will explain.”

  “Won’t you rest a little after your evidently alarming experience?” I suggested.

  My strange visitor nodded, without speaking, and I conducted her to the study which I had just left, and placed the most comfortable arm-chair close beside the table so that as I sat I might study this woman who so strangely had burst in upon me. I even tilted the shaded lamp, artlessly, a trick I had learned from Harley, in order that the light might fall upon her face.

  She may have detected this device; I know not; but as if in answer to its challenge, she raised her gloved hands and unfastened the heavy veil which had concealed her features.

  Thereupon I found myself looking into a pair of lustrous black eyes whose almond shape was that of the Orient; I found myself looking at a woman who, since she was evidently a Jewess, was probably no older than eighteen or nineteen, but whose beauty was ripely voluptuous, who might fittingly have posed for Salome, who, despite her modern fashionable garments, at once suggested to my mind the wanton beauty of the daughter of Herodias.

  I stared at her silently for a time, and presently her full lips parted in a slow smile. My ideas were diverted into another channel.

  “You have yet to tell me what alarmed you,” I said in a low voice, but as courteously as possible, “and if I can be of any assistance in the matter.”

  My visitor seemed to recollect her fright — or the necessity for simulation. The pupils of her fine eyes seemed to grow larger and darker; she pressed her white teeth into her lower lips, and resting her hands upon the table leaned toward me.

  “I am a stranger to London,” she began, now exhibiting a certain diffidence, “and to-night I was looking for the chambers of Mr. Raphael Philips of Figtree Court.”

  “This is Figtree Court,” I said, “but I know of no Mr. Raphael Philips who has chambers here.”

  The black eyes met mine despairingly.

  “But I am positive of the address!” protested my beautiful but strange caller — from her left glove she drew out a scrap of paper, “here it is.”

  I glanced at the fragment, upon which, in a woman’s hand the words were pencilled: “Mr. Raphael Philips, 36-b Figtree Court, London.”

  I stared at my visitor, deeply mystified.

  “These chambers are 36-b!” I said. “But I am not Raphael Philips, nor have I ever heard of him. My name is Malcolm Knox. There is evidently some mistake, but” — returning the slip of paper— “pardon me if I remind you, I have yet to learn the cause of your alarm.”

  “I was followed across the court and up the stairs.”

  “Followed! By whom?”

  “By a dreadful-looking man, chattering in some tongue I did not understand!”

  My amazement was momentarily growing greater.

  “What kind of a man?” I demanded rather abruptly.

  “A yellow-faced man — remember I could only just distinguish him in the darkness on the stairway, and see little more of him than his eyes at that, and his ugly gleaming teeth — oh! it was horrible!”

  “You astound me,” I said; “the thing is utterly incomprehensible.” I switched off the light of the lamp. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of him in the court below.”

  “Oh, don’t leave me! For heaven’s sake don’t leave me alone!”

  She clutched my arm in the darkness.

  “Have no fear; I merely propose to look out from this window.”

  Suiting the action to the word, I peered down into the court below. It was quite deserted. The night was a very dark one, and there were many patches of shadow in which a man might have lain concealed.

  “I can see no one,” I said, speaking as confidently as possible, and relighting the lamp, “if I call a cab for you and see you safely into it, you will have nothing to fear, I think.”

  “I have a cab waiting,” she replied, and lowering the veil she stood up to go.

  “Kindly allow me to see you to it. I am sorry you have been subjected to this annoyance, especially as you have not attained the object of your visit.”

  “Thank you so much for your kindness; there must be some mistake about the address, of course.”

  She clung to my arm very tightly as we descended the stairs, and often glanced back over her shoulder affrightedly, as we crossed the court. There was not a sign of anyone about, however, and I could not make up my mind whether the story of the yellow man was a delusion or a fabrication. I inclined to the latter theory, but the object of such a deception was more difficult to determine.

  Sure enough, a taxicab was waiting at the entrance to the court; and my visitor, having seated herself within, extended her hand to me, and even through the thick veil I could detect her brilliant smile.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Knox,” she said, “and a thousand apologies. I am sincerely sorry to have given you all this trouble.”

  The cab drove off. For a moment I stood looking after it, in a state of dreamy incertitude, then turned and slowly retraced my steps. Reopening the door of my chambers with my key, I returned to my study and sat down at the table to endeavour to arrange the facts of what I recognized to be a really amazing episode. The adventure, trifling though it seemed, undoubtedly held some hidden significance that at present was not apparent to me. In accordance with the excellent custom of my friend, Paul Harley, I prepared to make notes of the occurrence while the facts were still fresh in my memory. At the moment that I was about to begin, I m
ade an astounding discovery.

  Although I had been absent only a few minutes, and had locked my door behind me, the pigtail was gone!

  I sat quite still, listening intently. The woman’s story of the yellow man on the stairs suddenly assumed a totally different aspect — a new and sinister aspect. Could it be that the pigtail was at the bottom of the mystery? — could it be that some murderous Chinaman who had been lurking in hiding, waiting his opportunity, had in some way gained access to my chambers during that brief absence? If so, was he gone?

  From the table drawer I took out a revolver, ascertained that it was fully loaded, and turning up light after light as I proceeded, conducted a room-to-room search. It was without result; there was absolutely nothing to indicate that anyone had surreptitiously entered or departed from my chambers.

  I returned to the study and sat gazing at the revolver lying on the blotting-pad before me. Perhaps my mind worked slowly, but I think that fully fifteen minutes must have passed before it dawned on me that the explanation not only of the missing pigtail but of the other incidents of the night, was simple enough. The yellow man had been a fabrication, and my dark-eyed visitor had not been in quest of “Raphael Philips,” but in quest of the pigtail: and her quest had been successful!

  “What a hopeless fool I am!” I cried, and banged my fist down upon the table, “there was no yellow man at all — there was — —”

  My door bell rang. I sprang nervously to my feet, glanced at the revolver on the table — and finally dropped it into my coat pocket ere going out and opening the door.

  On the landing stood a police constable and an officer in plain clothes.

  “Your name is Malcolm Knox?” asked the constable, glancing at a note-book which he held in his hand.

  “It is,” I replied.

  “You are required to come at once to Bow Street to identify a woman who was found murdered in a taxi-cab in the Strand about eleven o’clock to-night.”

  I suppressed an exclamation of horror; I felt myself turning pale.

  “But what has it to do —— —”

  “The driver stated she came from your chambers, for you saw her off, and her last words to you were ‘Good night, Mr. Knox, I am sincerely sorry to have given you all this trouble.’ Is that correct, sir?”

  The constable, who had read out the information in an official voice, now looked at me, as I stood there stupefied.

  “It is,” I said blankly. “I’ll come at once.” It would seem that I had misjudged my unfortunate visitor: her story of the yellow man on the stair had apparently been not a fabrication, but a gruesome fact!

  III

  HOW I REGAINED IT

  My ghastly duty was performed; I had identified the dreadful thing, which less than an hour before had been a strikingly beautiful woman, as my mysterious visitor. The police were palpably disappointed at the sparsity of my knowledge respecting her. In fact, had it not chanced that Detective Sergeant Durham was in the station, I think they would have doubted the accuracy of my story.

  As a man of some experience in such matters, I fully recognized its improbability, but beyond relating the circumstances leading up to my possession of the pigtail and the events which had ensued, I could do no more in the matter. The weird relic had not been found on the dead woman, nor in the cab.

  Now the unsavoury business was finished, and I walked along Bow Street, racking my mind for the master-key to this mystery in which I was become enmeshed. How I longed to rush off to Harley’s rooms in Chancery Lane and to tell him the whole story! But my friend was a thousand miles away — and I had to see the thing out alone.

  That the pigtail was some sacred relic stolen from a Chinese temple and sought for by its fanatical custodians was a theory which persistently intruded itself. But I could find no place in that hypothesis for the beautiful Jewess; and that she was intimately concerned I did not doubt. A cool survey of the facts rendered it fairly evident that it was she and none other who had stolen the pigtail from my rooms. Some third party — possibly the “yellow man” of whom she had spoken — had in turn stolen it from her, strangling her in the process.

  The police theory of the murder (and I was prepared to accept it) was that the assassin had been crouching in hiding behind or beside the cab — or even within the dark interior. He had leaped in and attacked the woman at the moment that the taxi-man had started his engine; if already inside, the deed had proven even easier. Then, during some block in the traffic, he had slipped out unseen, leaving the body of the victim to be discovered when the cab pulled up at the hotel.

  I knew of only one place in London where I might hope to obtain useful information, and for that place I was making now. It was Malay Jack’s, whence I had been bound on the previous night when my strange meeting with the seaman who then possessed the pigtail had led to a change of plan. The scum of the Asiatic population always come at one time or another to Jack’s, and I hoped by dint of a little patience to achieve what the police had now apparently despaired of achieving — the discovery of the assassin.

  Having called at my chambers to obtain my revolver, I mounted an eastward-bound motor-bus. The night, as I have already stated, was exceptionally dark. There was no moon, and heavy clouds were spread over the sky; so that the deserted East End streets presented a sufficiently uninviting aspect, but one with which I was by no means unfamiliar and which certainly in no way daunted me.

  Changing at Paul Harley’s Chinatown base in Wade Street, I turned my steps in the same direction as upon the preceding night; but if my own will played no part in the matter, then decidedly Providence truly guided me. Poetic justice is rare enough in real life, yet I was destined to-night to witness swift retribution overtaking a malefactor.

  The by-ways which I had trodden were utterly deserted; I was far from the lighted high road, and the only signs of human activity that reached me came from the adjacent river; therefore, when presently an outcry arose from somewhere on my left, for a moment I really believed that my imagination was vividly reproducing the episode of the night before!

  A furious scuffle — between a European and an Asiatic — was in progress not twenty yards away!

  Realizing that such was indeed the case, and that I was not the victim of hallucination, I advanced slowly in the direction of the sounds, but my footsteps reechoed hollowly from wall to wall of the narrow passage-way, and my coming brought the conflict to a sudden and dramatic termination.

  “Thought I wouldn’t know yer ugly face, did yer?” yelled a familiar voice. “No good squealin’ — I got yer! I’d bust you up if I could!” (a sound of furious blows and inarticulate chattering) “but it ain’t ‘umanly possible to kill a Chink —— —”

  I hurried forward toward the spot where two dim figures were locked in deadly conflict.

  “Take that to remember me by!” gasped the husky voice as I ran up.

  One of the figures collapsed in a heap upon the ground. The other made off at a lumbering gait along a second and even narrower passage branching at right angles from that in which the scuffle had taken place.

  The clatter of the heavy sea-boots died away in the distance. I stood beside the fallen man, looking keenly about to right and left; for an impression was strong upon me that another than I had been witness of the scene — that a shadowy form had slunk back furtively at my approach. But the night gave up no sound in confirmation of this, and I could detect no sign of any lurker.

  I stooped over the Chinaman (for a Chinaman it was) who lay at my feet, and directed the ray of my pocket-lamp upon his yellow and contorted countenance. I suppressed a cry of surprise and horror.

  Despite the human impossibility referred to by the missing fireman, this particular Chinaman had joined the shades of his ancestors. I think that final blow, which had felled him, had brought his shaven skull in such violent contact with the wall that he had died of the thundering concussion set up.

  Kneeling there and looking into his upturned eyes, I beca
me aware that my position was not an enviable one, particularly since I felt little disposed to set the law on the track of the real culprit. For this man who now lay dead at my feet was doubtless one of the pair who had attempted the life of the fireman of the Jupiter.

  That my seafaring acquaintance had designed to kill the Chinaman I did not believe, despite his stormy words: the death had been an accident, and (perhaps my morality was over-broad) I considered the assault to have been justified.

  Now my ideas led me further yet. The dead Chinaman wore a rough blue coat, and gingerly, for I found the contact repulsive, I inserted my hand into the inside pocket. Immediately my fingers closed upon a familiar object — and I stood up, whistling slightly, and dangling in my left hand the missing pigtail!

  Beyond doubt Justice had guided the seaman’s blows. This was the man who had murdered my dark-eyed visitor!

  I stood perfectly still, directing the little white ray of my flashlight upon the pigtail in my hand. I realized that my position, difficult before, now was become impossible; the possession of the pigtail compromised me hopelessly. What should I do?

  “My God!” I said aloud, “what does it all mean?”

  “It means,” said a gruff voice, “that it was lucky I was following you and saw what happened!”

  I whirled about, my heart leaping wildly. Detective-Sergeant Durham was standing watching me, a grim smile upon his face!

  I laughed rather shakily.

  “Lucky indeed!” I said. “Thank God you’re here. This pigtail is a nightmare which threatens to drive me mad!”

  The detective advanced and knelt beside the crumpled-up figure on the ground. He examined it briefly, and then stood up.

  “The fact that he had the missing pigtail in his pocket,” he said, “is proof enough to my mind that he did the murder.”