Forcing himself at last to begin work if only as a sedative, he filled and lighted his pipe, turned off the centre lamp and lighted the reading lamp upon his table. He sat down to consider the papers bearing upon the death of Ericksen. For half an hour he read on steadily and made a number of pencil notes. Then he desisted and sat staring straight before him.
What possible motive could there be in assassinating these people? The case of the Grand Duke might be susceptible of explanation, but those of Henrik Ericksen and Sir Frank Narcombe were not. Furthermore he could perceive no links connecting the three, and no reason why they should have engaged the attention of a common enemy. Such crimes would seem 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 to the existence of such an entity. "The Scorpion" might be an invention of the fertile brain of M. Gaston Max; for it had become more and more evident, as he had read, that the attempt to trace these deaths to an identical source had originated at the Service de Sureté, and it was from Paris that the name "The Scorpion" had come. The fate of Max was significant, of course. The chances of his death proving to have been due to accident were almost negligible and th3e fact that a fragment of a golden scorpion had actually been found upon his body was certainly curious.
"Close your shutters at night. . . ."
How the words haunted him and how hotly he despised himself for a growing apprehension which refused to be ignored. It was more mental than physical, this dread which grew with the approach of midnight, and it resembled that which had robbed him if individuality and all but stricken him inert when he had seen upon the moon-bright screen of the curtains the shadow of the cowled man.
Dark forces seemed to be stirring, and some unseen menace crept near to him out of the darkness.
The house was of early Victorian fashion and massive folding shutters were provided to close the French windows. He never used them, as a matter of fact, but now he tested the fastenings which kept them in place against the inner wall and even moved them in order to learn if they were still serviceable.
Of all the mysteries which baffled him, that of the piece of cardboard in the envelope sealed with a Chinese coin was the most irritating. It seemed like the purposeless trick of a child, yet it had led to the presence of the cowled man--and to the presence of Mlle. 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-paper bearing a blue diagram of a human bust, marked with figures and marginal notes, he began to read the report to which it was appended--that of Dr. Halesowen. It stated that the late Sir Frank Narcombe had a "horizontal" heart, slightly misplaced and dilatated, with other details which really threw no light whatever upon the cause of his death.
"I have a horizontal heart," growled Stuart--"and considering my consumption of tobacco it is certainly dilatated. But I don't expect to drop dead in a theatre nevertheless."
He read on, striving to escape from that shadowy apprehension, but as he read he was listening to the night sounds of London, to the whirring of distant motors, the whistling of engines upon the railway and dim hooting of sirens from the Thames. A slight breeze had arisen and it rustled in the feathery foliage of the acacias and made a whispering sound as it stirred the leaves of the privet hedge.
The drone of an approaching car reached his ears. Pencil in hand, he sat listening. The sound grew louder, then ceased. Either the car had passed or had stopped somewhere near the house. Came a rap on the 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 old lady cheerfully. "I shall turn in very shortly."
"A keen east wind has arisen," she continued, severely eyeing the opened windows, "and even for a medical man you are strangely imprudent. Shall I shut the windows?"
"No, don't trouble, Mrs. M'Gregor. The room gets very stuffy with tobacco smoke, and really it is quite a warm night. I shall close them 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 was not prone to superstition, but it seemed like tempting providence to remain there with the windows open any longer. Yet paradoxically, he lacked the moral courage to close them--to admit to himself that he was afraid!
The telephone bell rang, and he started back in his chair as though to avoid a blow.
By doing so he avoided destruction.
At the very instant that the bell rang out sharply in the silence--so exact is the time-table of Kismet--a needle-like ray of blue light shot across the lawn from beyond and above the hedge and--but for that nervous start--must have struck fully upon the back of Stuart's skull. Instead, it shone past his head, which it missed only by inches, and he experienced a sensation as though some one had buffeted him upon the cheek furiously. He pitched out of his chair and 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, in which a fire was laid.
"My God!" groaned Stuart--"what is it!"
An intense crackling sound deafened him, and the air of the room seemed to have become hot as that of an oven. There came a series of dull reports--an uncanny wailing . . . and the needle-ray vanished. A monstrous shadow, moon-cast, which had lain across the carpet of the lawn--the shadow of a cowled man--vanished also.
Clutching the side of his head, which throbbed and tingled as though from the blow of an open hand, Stuart struggled to his feet. There was smoke in the room, a smell of burning and of fusing metal. He glared 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 some three 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 room was laden with suffocating fumes. Stuart stood clutching the chair and striving to retain composure--sanity. The car moved out of the lane.
Someone was running towards the back gate of the house . . . was scrambling 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 his lips and jaw lent added vigour to a flexible but masterful mouth. His dark hair was tinged with grey, his dark eyes were brilliant with excitement. He was very smartly dressed and wore light tan gloves. He reeled suddenly, clutching at a chair for support.
"Quick! Quick!" he cried--"the telephone! . . . Ah!"
Just inside the window he stood, swaying and breathing rapidly, his gaze upon the destroyed 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 the only chance. Pas d'blague! we are finished!"
He dropped into a chair, removed his light grey hat and began to dry his moist brow with a fine silk handkerchief. Stuart stared at him like a man who is stupefied. The room was still laden with strange fumes.
"Blimey!" remarked the new-comer, and his Whitechapel was as perfect as his Montmartre. He was looking at the decapitated telephone. "This is a knock-out!"
"Might I ask," said Stuart, endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, "where you came from?"
"From up a tree!" was the astonishing reply. "It was the only way to 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 my house?"
"Ah!" The stranger laughed merrily. "You wonder about me--I can see it. 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 to-morrow, in order to learn if he was poisoned!"
"Do not trouble, doctor. That poor fellow is not Gaston Max and he was not poisoned. I had the misfortune to strangle him."
PART II
STATEMENT OF M. GASTON MAX
I. THE DANCER OF MONTMARTRE
CHAPTER I. ZRA EL-KHAL
THE following statement which I, Gaston Max, am drawing up in duplicate for the guidance of whoever may inherit the task of tracing "The Scorpion"--a task which I have begun--will be lodged--one copy at the Service de Sureté in Paris, and the other copy with the Commissioner of Police, New Scotland Yard. As I apprehend that I may be assassinated at any time, I propose to put upon record all that I have learned concerning the series of murders which I believe to be traceable to a certain person. In the event of my death, my French colleagues will open the sealed packet containing this statement and the English Assistant Commissioner of the Special Branch responsible for international affairs will receive instructions to open that which I shall have lodged at Scotland Yard.
This matter properly commenced, then, with the visit to Paris, incognito, of the Grand Duke Ivan, that famous soldier of whom so much was expected, and because I had made myself responsible for his safety during the time that he remained in the French capital, A (also incognito be it understood) struck up a friendship with one Casimir, the Grand Duke's valet. Nothing is sacred to a valet, and from Casimir I counted upon learning the real reason which had led this nobleman to visit Paris at so troublous a time. Knowing the Grand Duke to be a man of gallantry, I anticipated finding a woman in the case--and I was not wrong.
Yes, there was woman, and, nom d'un nom! she was beautiful.
Now in Paris we have many beautiful women, and in times of international strife it is true that we have had to shoot some of them. For my own part I say with joy that I have never been instrumental in bringing a woman to such an end. Perhaps I am sentimental; it is a French weakness; but on those few occasions when I have found a guilty woman in my power--and she has been pretty--morbleu! she has escaped! It may be said that I have seen to it that she was kept out of further mischief, but nevertheless she has never met a firing-party because of me. Very well.
From the good fellow Casimir I learned that a certain dancer appearing at one of our Montmartre theatres had written to the Grand Duke craving the honour of his autograph--and enclosing her photograph.
Pf! It was enough. One week later the autograph arrived--attached to an invitation to dine with the Grand Duke at his hotel in Paris. Yes--he had come to Paris. I have said that he was susceptible and I have said that she was beautiful. I address myself to men of the world, and I shall not be in error if I assume that they will say, "A wealthy fool and a designing woman. It is an old story." Let us see.
The confidences of Casimir interested me in more ways than one. In the first place I had particular reasons for suspecting anyone who sought to obtain access to the Grand Duke. These were diplomatic. And in the second place I had suspicions of Zâra el-Khalâ. These were personal.
Yes--so she called herself--Zâra el-Khalâ, which in Arabic is "Flower of the Desert." She professed to be an Egyptian, and certainly she had the long, almond-shaped eyes of the East, but her white skin betrayed her, and I knew that whilst she might possess Eastern blood, she was more nearly allied to Europe than to Africa. It is my business to note unusual matters, you understand, and I noticed that this beautiful and accomplished woman of whom all Paris was beginning to speak rapturously remained for many weeks at a small Montmartre theatre. Her performance, which was unusually decorous for the type of establishment at which she appeared, had not apparently led to an engagement elsewhere.
This aroused the suspicions to which I have referred. In the character of a vaudeville agent I called at the Montmartre theatre and was informed by the management that Zâra el-Khalâ received no visitors, professional or otherwise. A small but expensive car awaited her at the stage door. My suspicions increased. I went away, but returned on the following night, otherwise attired, and from a hiding-place which I had selected on the previous evening I watched the dancer depart.
She came out so enveloped in furs and veils as to be unrecognizable, and a Hindu wearing chauffeur's uniform opened the door of the car for her, and then, having arranged the rugs to her satisfaction, mounted to the wheel and drove away.
I traced the car. It had been hired for the purpose of taking Zâra el-Khalâ from her hotel--a small one in an unfashionable part of Paris--to the theatre and home nightly. I sent a man to call upon her at the hotel--in order to obtain press material, ostensibly. She declined to see him. I became really interested. I sent her a choice bouquet, having the card of a nobleman attached to it, together with a message of respectful admiration. It was returned. I prevailed upon one of the most handsome and gallant cavalry officers in Paris to endeavour to make her acquaintance. He was rebuffed.
Eh, bien! I knew than that Mlle. Zâra of the Desert was unusual.
You will at once perceive that when I heard from the worthy Casimir how this unapproachable lady had actually written to the Grand Duke Ivan and had gone so far as to send him her photograph, I became excited. It appeared to me that I found myself upon the brink of an important discovery. I set six of my first-class men at work: three being detailed to watch the hotel of the Grand Duke Ivan and three to watch Zâra el-Khalâ. Two more were employed in watching the Hindu servant and one in watching my good friend Casimir. Thus, nine clever men and myself were immediately engaged upon the case.
Why do I speak of a "case" when thus far nothing of apparent importance had occurred? I will explain. Although the Grand Duke travelled incognito, his Government knew of the journey and wished to learn with what object it had been undertaken.
At the time that I made the acquaintance of Casimir the Grand Duke had been in Paris for three days, and he was--according to my informant--"like a raging lion." The charming dancer had vouchsafed no reply to his invitation and he had met with the same reception, on presenting himself in person, which had been accorded to myself and to those others who had sought to obtain an interview with Zâra el-Khalâ!
My state of mystification grew more and more profound. I studied the reports of my nine assistants.
It appeared that the girl had been in Paris for a period of two months. She occupied a suite of rooms in which all her meals were served. Except the Hindu who drove the hired car, she had no servant. She never appeared in the public part of the hotel unless veiled, and then merely in order to pass out to the car or in from it on returning. She drove out every day. She had been followed, of course, but her proceedings were unexceptionable. Leaving the car at a point in the Bois de Boulogne, she would take a short walk, if the day was fine enough, never proceeding out of sight of the Hindu, who followed with the automobile, and would then drive back to her hotel. She never received visits and never met any one during these daily excursions.
I turned to the report dealing with the Hindu.
He had hired a room high up under the roof of an apartment house where foreign waiters and others had their abodes. He bought and cooked his own food, which apparently consisted solely of rice, lentils and fruit. He went every morning to the garage and attended to the car, called for his mistress, and having returned remained until evening in his own apartment. At night, after returning from the theatre, he sometimes we
nt out, and my agent had failed to keep track of him on every occasion that he had attempted pursuit. I detached the man who was watching Casimir and whose excellent reports revealed the fact that Casimir was an honest fellow--as valets go--and instructed him to assist in tracing the movements of the Hindu.
Two nights later they tracked him to a riverside café kept by a gigantic quadroon from Dominique and patronized by that type which forms a link between the lowest commercial and the criminal classes: itinerant vendors of Eastern rugs, street performers and Turkish cigarette makers.
At last I began to have hopes. The Grand Duke at this time was speaking of leaving Paris, but as he had found temporary consolation in the smiles of a lady engaged at the "Folies" I did not anticipate that he would depart for several days at any rate. Also, he was the kind of man who is stimulated by obstacles.
The Hindu remained for an hour in the café, smoking and drinking some kind of syrup, and one of my fellows watched him. Presently the proprietor called him into a little room behind the counter and closed the door. The Hindu and the quadroon remained there for a few minutes, then the Hindu came out and left the café, returning to his abode. There was a telephone in this inner room, and my agent was of opinion that the Indian had entered either to make or to receive a call. I caused the line to be tapped.
On the following night the Hindu came back to the café, followed by one of my men. I posted myself at a selected point and listened for any message that might pass over the line to or from the café. At about the same hour as before--according to the report--someone called up the establishment, asking for "Miguel." This was the quadroon, and I heard his thick voice replying. The other voice--which had first spoken--was curiously sibilant but very distinct. Yet it did not sound like the voice of a Frenchman or of any European. This was the conversation:
"Miguel."
"Miguel speaks."
"Scorpion. A message for Chunda Lal."
"Very good."
Almost holding my breath, so intense was my excitement, I waited whilst Miguel went to bring the Hindu. Suddenly a new voice spoke--that of the Hindu.
The Golden Scorpion Page 6
