The Quest of the Sacred Slipper

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XIX

  A RAPPING AT MIDNIGHT

  Inspector Bristol finished his whisky at a gulp and stood up, a tall,massive figure, stretching himself and yawning.

  "The detective of fiction would be hard at work on this case, now,"he said, smiling, "but I don't even pretend to be. I am at astandstill and I don't care who knows it."

  "You have absolutely no clue to the whereabouts of Earl Dexter?"

  "Not the slightest, Mr. Cavanagh. You hear a lot about the machineryof the law, but as a matter of fact, looking for a clever man hiddenin London is a good deal like looking for a needle in a haystack.Then, he may have been bluffing when he told you he had the Prophet'sslipper. He's already had his hand cut off through interfering withthe beastly thing, and I really can't believe he would take furtherchances by keeping it in his possession. Nevertheless, I should liketo find him."

  He leaned back against the mantelpiece, scratching his headperplexedly. In this perplexity he had my sympathy. No suchpursuit, I venture to say, had ever before been required of ScotlandYard as this of the slipper of the Prophet. An organization foundedin 1090, which has made a science of assassination, which throughthe centuries has perfected the malign arts, which, lingering on ina dark spot in Syria, has suddenly migrated and established itselfin London, is a proposition almost unthinkable.

  It was hard to believe that even the daring American cracksmanshould have ventured to touch that blood-stained relic of theProphet, that he should have snatched it away from beneath the veryeyes of the fanatics who fiercely guarded it. What he hoped togain by his possession of the slipper was not evident, but the factremained that if he could be believed, he had it, and providedScotland Yard's information was accurate, he still lurked in hidingsomewhere in London.

  Meanwhile, no clue offered to his hiding-place, and despite theceaseless vigilance of the men acting under Bristol's orders, notrace could be found of Hassan of Aleppo nor of his fiendishassociates.

  "My theory is," said Bristol, lighting a cigarette, "that evenDexter's cleverness has failed to save him. He's probably a deadman by now, which accounts for our failing to find him; and Hassanof Aleppo has recovered the slipper and returned to the East, takinghis gruesome company with him--God knows how! But that accountsfor our failing to find him."

  I stood up rather wearily. Although poor Deeping had appointed melegal guardian of the relic, and although I could render but a pooraccount of my stewardship, let me confess that I was anxious totake that comforting theory to my bosom. I would have given muchto have known beyond any possibility of doubt that the accursedslipper and its blood-lustful guardian were far away from England.Had I known so much, life would again have had something to offerme besides ceaseless fear, endless watchings. I could have sleptagain, perhaps; without awaking, clammy, peering into every shadow,listening, nerves atwitch to each slightest sound disturbing thenight; without groping beneath the pillow for my revolver.

  "Then you think," I said, "that the English phase of the slipper'shistory is closed? You think that Dexter, minus his right hand,has eluded British law--that Hassan and Company have evadedretribution?"

  "I do!" said Bristol grimly, "and although that means the biggestfailure in my professional career, I am glad--damned glad!"

  Shortly afterward he took his departure; and I leaned from thewindow, watching him pass along the court below and out under thearch into Fleet Street. He was a man whose opinions I valued, andin all sincerity I prayed now that he might be right; that thesurcease of horror which we had recently experienced after theghastly tragedies which had clustered thick about the hauntedslipper, might mean what he surmised it to mean.

  The heat to-night was very oppressive. A sort of steaming mistseemed to rise from the court, and no cooling breeze entered myopened windows. The clamour of the traffic in Fleet Street cameto me but remotely. Big Ben began to strike midnight. So faras I could see, residents on the other stairs were all abed anda velvet shadow carpet lay unbroken across three parts of thecourt. The sky was tropically perfect, cloudless, and jewelledlavishly. Indeed, we were in the midst of an Indian summer; itseemed that the uncanny visitants had brought, together with anatmosphere of black Eastern deviltry, something, too, of theEastern climate.

  The last stroke of the Cathedral bell died away. Other moredistant bells still were sounding dimly, but save for theceaseless hum of the traffic, no unusual sound now disturbed thearchaic peace of the court.

  I returned to my table, for during the time that had passed I hadbadly neglected my work and now must often labour far into thenight. I was just reseated when there came a very soft rappingat the outer door!

  No doubt my mood was in part responsible, but I found myselfthinking of Poe's weird poem, "The Raven"; and like the charactertherein I found myself hesitating.

  I stole quietly into the passage. It was in darkness. How odd itis that in moments of doubt instinctively one shuns the dark andseeks the light. I pressed the switch lighting the hall lamp, andstood looking at the closed door.

  Why should this late visitor have rapped in so uncanny a fashionin preference to ringing the bell?

  I stepped back to my table and slipped a revolver into my pocket.

  The muffled rapping was repeated. As I stood in the study doorwayI saw the flap of the letter-box slowly raised!

  Instantly I extinguished both lights. You may brand me aschildishly timid, but incidents were fresh in my memory whichjustified all my fears.

  A faintly luminous slit in the door showed me that the flap was nowfully raised. It was the dim light on the stairway shining through.Then quite silently the flap was lowered. Came the soft rappingagain.

  "Who's there?" I cried.

  No one answered.

  Wondering if I were unduly alarming myself, yet, I confess, strungup tensely in anticipation that this was some device of the phantomenemy, I stood in doubt.

  The silence remained unbroken for thirty seconds or more. Then yetagain it was disturbed by that ghostly, muffled rapping.

  I advanced a step nearer to the door.

  "Who's there?" I cried loudly. "What do you want?"

  The flap of the letter box began to move, and I formed a suddendetermination. Making no sound in my heelless Turkish slippersI crept close up to the door and dropped upon my knees.

  Thereupon the flap became fully lifted, but from where I crouchedbeneath it I was unable to see who or what was looking in; yet Ihesitated no longer. I suddenly raised myself and thrust therevolver barrel through the opening!

  "Who are you?" I cried. "Answer or I fire!"--and along the barrelI peered out on to the landing.

  Still no one answered. But something impalpable--a powder--avapour--to this hour I do not know what--enveloped me with itsnauseating fumes; was puffed fully into my face! My eyes, mymouth, my nostrils became choked up, it seemed, with a deadlystifling perfume.

  Wildly, feeling that everything about me was slipping away, that Iwas sinking into a void, for ought I knew that of dissolution, Ipulled the trigger once, twice, thrice...

  "My God!"--the words choked in my throat and I reeled back intothe passage--"it's not loaded!"

  I threw up my arms to save myself, lurched, and fell forward intowhat seemed a bottomless pit.