The Golden Scorpion

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XI

  THE BLUE RAY

  Dusk found Stuart in a singular frame of mind. He was torn betweenduty--or what he conceived to be his duty--to the community, and ...something else. A messenger from New Scotland Yard had brought him abundle of documents relating to the case of Sir Frank Narcombe, anda smaller packet touching upon the sudden end of Henrik Ericksen, theNorwegian electrician, and the equally unexpected death of the GrandDuke Ivan. There were medical certificates, proceedings of coroners,reports of detectives, evidence of specialists and statements offriends, relatives and servants of the deceased. A proper examinationof all the documents represented many hours of close study.

  Stuart was flattered by the opinion held of his ability by theAssistant Commissioner, but dubious of his chance of detecting anyflaw in the evidence which had escaped the scrutiny of so many highlytrained observers.

  He paced the study restlessly. Although more than six hours hadelapsed, he had not communicated to Scotland Yard the fact of hishaving seen Mlle. Dorian that afternoon. A hundred times he had readthe message, although he knew it by heart, knew the form of everyletter, the odd crossing of the _t'_s and the splashy dotting ofthe _i_'s.

  If only he could have taken counsel with someone--with someone notbound to act upon such information--it would have relieved his mentalstress. His ideas were so chaotic that he felt himself to be incapableof approaching the task presented by the pile of papers lying upon histable.

  The night was pleasantly warm and the sky cloudless. Often enough hefound himself glancing toward the opened French windows, and once hehad peered closely across into the belt of shadow below the hedge,thinking that he had detected something which moved there. Steppingto the window, the slinking shape had emerged into the moonlight--andhad proclaimed itself to be that of a black cat!

  Yet he had been sorely tempted to act upon the advice so strangelyoffered. He refrained from doing so, however, reflecting that to spendhis evenings with closed and barred shutters now that a spell of hotweather seemed to be imminent would be insufferable. Up and down theroom he paced tirelessly, always confronted by the eternal problem.

  Forcing himself at last to begin work if only as a sedative, he filledand lighted his pipe, turned off the centre lamp and lighted thereading lamp upon his table. He sat down to consider the papersbearing upon the death of Eriksen. For half an hour he read onsteadily and made a number of pencil notes. Then he desisted and satstaring straight before him.

  What possible motive could there be in assassinating these people? Thecase of the Grand Duke might be susceptible of explanation, but thoseof Henrik Ericksen and Sir Frank Narcombe were not. Furthermore hecould perceive no links connecting the three, and no reason why theyshould have engaged the attention of a common enemy. Such crimes wouldseem to be purposeless. Assuming that "The Scorpion" was an individual,that individual apparently was a dangerous homicidal maniac.

  But, throughout the documents, he could discover no clue pointing tothe existence of such an entity. "The Scorpion" might be an inventionof the fertile brain of M. Gaston Max; for it had become more and moreevident, as he had read, that the attempt to trace these deaths to anidentical source had originated at the Service de Surete, and it wasfrom Paris that the name "The Scorpion" had come. The fate of Max wassignificant, of course. The chances of his death proving to have beendue to accident were almost negligible and the fact that a fragment ofa golden scorpion had actually been found upon his body was certainlycurious.

  "Close your shutters at night...."

  How the words haunted him and how hotly he despised himself for agrowing apprehension which refused to be ignored. It was more mentalthan physical, this dread which grew with the approach of midnight,and it resembled that which had robbed him of individuality and allbut stricken him inert when he had seen upon the moon-bright screen ofthe curtains the shadow of a cowled man.

  Dark forces seemed to be stirring, and some unseen menace crept nearto him out of the darkness.

  The house was of early Victorian fashion and massive folding shutterswere provided to close the French windows. He never used them, as amatter of fact, but now he tested the fastenings which kept them inplace against the inner wall and even moved them in order to learn ifthey were still serviceable.

  Of all the mysteries which baffled him, that of the piece ofcardboard in the envelope sealed with a Chinese coin was the mostirritating. It seemed like the purposeless trick of a child, yet ithad led to the presence of the cowled man--and to the presence ofMlle. Dorian. Why?

  He sat down at his table again.

  "Damn the whole business!" he said. "It is sending me crazy."

  Selecting from the heap of documents a large sheet of note-paperbearing a blue diagram of a human bust, marked with figures andmarginal notes, he began to read the report to which it wasappended--that of Dr. Halesowen. It stated that the late Sir FrankNarcombe had a "horizontal" heart, slightly misplaced and dilatated,with other details which really threw no light whatever upon thecause of his death.

  "_I_ have a horizontal heart," growled Stuart--"and considering myconsumption of tobacco it is certainly dilatated. But I don't expectto drop dead in a theatre nevertheless."

  He read on, striving to escape from that shadowy apprehension, but ashe read he was listening to the night sounds of London, to thewhirring of distant motors, the whistling of engines upon the railwayand dim hooting of sirens from the Thames. A slight breeze had arisenand it rustled in the feathery foliage of the acacias and made awhispering sound as it stirred the leaves of the privet hedge.

  The drone of an approaching car reached his ears. Pencil in hand, hesat listening. The sound grew louder, then ceased. Either the carhad passed or had stopped somewhere near the house. Came a rap onthe door.

  "Yes," called Stuart and stood up, conscious of excitement.

  Mrs. M'Gregor came in.

  "There is nothing further you'll be wanting to-night?" she asked.

  "No," said Stuart, strangely disappointed, but smiling at the oldlady cheerfully. "I shall turn in very shortly."

  "A keen east wind has arisen," she continued, severely eyeing theopened windows, "and even for a medical man you are strangelyimprudent. Shall I shut the windows?"

  "No, don't trouble, Mrs. M'Gregor. The room gets very stuffy withtobacco smoke, and really it is quite a warm night. I shall closethem before I retire, of course."

  "Ah well," sighed Mrs. M'Gregor, preparing to depart. "Good-night,Mr. Keppel."

  "Good-night, Mrs. M'Gregor."

  She retired, and Stuart sat staring out into the darkness. He wasnot prone to superstition, but it seemed like tempting providence toremain there with the windows open any longer. Yet paradoxically, helacked the moral courage to close them--to admit to himself that hewas afraid!

  The telephone bell rang, and he started back in his chair as thoughto avoid a blow.

  By doing so he avoided destruction.

  At the very instant that the bell rang out sharply in the silence--soexact is the time-table of Kismet--a needle-like ray of blue lightshot across the lawn from beyond and above the hedge and--but forthat nervous start--must have struck fully upon the back of Stuart'sskull. Instead, it shone past his head, which it missed only byinches, and he experienced a sensation as though some one hadbuffeted him upon the cheek furiously. He pitched out of his chairand on to the carpet.

  The first object which the ray touched was the telephone; and next,beyond it, a medical dictionary; beyond that again, the grate, inwhich a fire was laid.

  "My God!" groaned Stuart--"what is it!"

  An intense crackling sound deafened him, and the air of the roomseemed to have become hot as that of an oven. There came a series ofdull reports--an uncanny wailing ... and the needle-ray vanished.A monstrous shadow, moon-cast, which had lain across the carpet ofthe lawn--the shadow of a cowled man--vanished also.

  Clutching the side of his head, which throbbed and tingled as thoughfrom the blow of an open hand, Stuart strug
gled to his feet. Therewas smoke in the room, a smell of burning and of fusing metal. Heglared at the table madly.

  The mouthpiece of the telephone had vanished!

  "My God!" he groaned again, and clutched at the back of the chair.

  His dictionary was smouldering slowly. It had a neat round hole somethree inches in diameter, bored completely through, cover to cover!The fire in the grate was flaring up the chimney!

  He heard the purr of a motor in the lane beside the house. The roomwas laden with suffocating fumes. Stuart stood clutching the chair andstriving to retain composure--sanity. The car moved out of the lane.

  Someone was running towards the back gate of the house ... wasscrambling over the hedge ... was racing across the lawn!

  A man burst into the study. He was a man of somewhat heavy build,clean-shaven and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about hislips and jaw lent added vigour to a flexible but masterful mouth. Hisdark hair was tinged with grey, his dark eyes were brilliant withexcitement. He was very smartly dressed and wore light tan gloves. Hereeled suddenly, clutching at a chair for support.

  "Quick! quick!" he cried--"the telephone! ... Ah!"

  Just inside the window he stood, swaying and breathing rapidly, hisgaze upon the instrument.

  "_Mon Dieu!_" he cried--"what has happened, then!"

  Stuart stared at the new-comer dazedly.

  "Hell has been in my room!" he replied. "That's all!"

  "Ah!" said the stranger--"again he eludes me! The telephone was theonly chance. _Pas d'blaque!_ we are finished!"

  He dropped into a chair, removed his light grey hat and began to dryhis moist brow with a fine silk handkerchief. Stuart stared at himlike a man who is stupefied. The room was still laden with strangefumes.

  "_Blimey!_" remarked the new-comer, and his Whitechapel was as perfectas his Montmatre. He was looking at the decapitated telephone. "Thisis a knock-out!"

  "Might I ask," said Stuart, endeavouring to collect his scatteredsenses, "where you came from?"

  "From up a tree!" was the astonishing reply. "It was the only wayto get over!"

  "Up a tree!"

  "Exactly. Yes, I was foolish. I am too heavy. But what could I do!We must begin all over again."

  Stuart began to doubt his sanity. This was no ordinary man.

  "Might I ask," he said, "who you are and what you are doing in myhouse?"

  "Ah!" The stranger laughed merrily. "You wonder about me--I can seeit. Permit me to present myself--Gaston Max, at your service!"

  "Gaston Max!" Stuart glared at the speaker incredulously. "Gaston Max!Why, I conduct a _post mortem_ examination upon Gaston Max tomorrow,in order to learn if he was poisoned!"

  "Do not trouble, doctor. That poor fellow is not Gaston Max and hewas not poisoned. You may accept my word for it. I had the misfortuneto strangle him."

  PART II

  STATEMENT OF GASTON MAX