"It is very strange."
"It is uncanny."
"Were you personally acquainted with the late Van Rembold?" I asked.
"I knew him intimately--a man of unusual charm, M. Max; and I have particular reason to remember his death, for I actually met him and spoke to him less than an hour before he died. We only exchanged a few words--we met on the street; but I shall never forget the subject of our chat."
"How is that?" I asked.
"Well, I presume Van Rembold's question was prompted by his knowledge of the fact that I had studied such subjects at one time; but he asked me if I knew of any race or sect in Africa or Asia who worshipped scorpions."
"Scorpions!" I cried. "Ah, mon Dieu! monsieur! Say it again--scorpions?"
"But yes, certainly. Does it surprise you?"
"Did it not surprise you?"
"Undoubtedly. I could not imagine what had occurred to account for his asking so strange a question. I replied that I knew of no such sect, and Van Rembold immediately changed the subject, nor did he revert to it. So that I never learned why he had made that singular inquiry."
You can imagine that this conversation afforded me much food for reflection. Whilst I could think of no reason why anyone should plot to assassinate Grand Dukes, admirals and mining engineers, the circumstances of the several cases were undoubtedly similar in a number of respects. But it was the remarkable question asked by Van Rembold which particularly aroused my interest.
Of course it might prove to be nothing more than a coincidence, but when one comes to consider how rarely the word "scorpion" is used, outside those countries in which these insects abound, it appears to be something more. Van Rembold, then, had had some occasion to feel curious about scorpions; the name "Scorpion" was associated with the Hindu follower of Zâra el-Khalâ; and she it was who had brought the Grand Duke to Paris, where he had died.
Oh! it was a very fragile thread, but by following such a thread as this we are sometimes led to the heart of a labyrinth.
Beyond wondering if some sinister chain bound together this series of apparently natural deaths I might have made no move in the matter, but something occurred which spurred me to action. Sir Frank Narcombe, the great English surgeon, collapsed in the foyer of a London theatre and died shortly afterwards. Here again I perceived a case of a notable man succumbing unexpectedly in a public place--a case parallel to that of the Grand Duke, of Ericksen, of Van Rembold! It seemed as though some strange epidemic had attacked men of science--yes! they were all men of science, even including the Grand Duke, who was said to be the most scientific soldier in Europe, and the admiral, who had perfected the science of submarine warfare.
"The Scorpion!" . . . that name haunted me persistently. So much so that at last I determined to find out for myself if Sir Frank Narcombe had ever spoken about a scorpion or if there was any evidence to show that he had been interested in the subject.
I could not fail to remember, too, that Zâra el-Khalâ had last been reported as crossing to England.
CHAPTER IV. THE FIGHT IN THE CAFÉ
NEW SCOTLAND YARD had been advised that any reference to a scorpion, in whatever form it occurred, should be noted and followed up, but nothing had resulted and as a matter of fact I was not surprised in the least. All that I had learned--and this was little enough--I had learned more or less by accident. But I came to the conclusion that a visit to London might be advisable.
I had caused a watch to be kept upon the man Miguel, whose establishment seemed to be a recognized resort of shady characters. I had no absolute proof, remember, that he knew anything of the private affairs of the Hindu, and no further reference to a scorpion had been made by anyone using the café telephone. Nevertheless I determined to give him a courtesy call before leaving for London . . . and to this determination I cannot doubt that once again I was led by providence.
Attired in a manner calculated to enable me to pass unnoticed among the patrons of the establishment, I entered the place and ordered cognac. Miguel having placed it before me, I lighted a cigarette and surveyed my surroundings.
Eight or nine men were in the café, and two women. Four of the men were playing cards at a corner table, and the others were distributed about the place, drinking and smoking. The women, who were flashily dressed but who belonged to that order of society which breeds the Apache, were deep in conversation with a handsome Algerian. I recognized only one face in the café--that of a dangerous character, Jean Sach, who had narrowly escaped the electric chair in the United States and who was well known to the Bureau. He was smiling at one of the two women--the woman to whom the Algerian seemed to be more particularly addressing himself.
Another there was in the café who interested me as a student of physiognomy--a dark, bearded man, one of the card-players. His face was disfigured by a purple scar extending from his brow to the left corner of his mouth, which it had drawn up into a permanent snarl, so that he resembled an enraged and dangerous wild animal. Mentally I classified this person as "Le Balafré."
I had just made up my mind to depart when the man Sach arose, crossed the café and seated himself insolently between the Algerian and the woman to whom the latter was talking. Turning his back upon the brown man, he addressed some remark to the woman, at the same time leering in her face.
Women of this class are difficult, you understand? Sach received from the lady a violent blow upon the face which rolled him on the floor! As he fell, the Algerian sprang up and drew a knife. Sach rolled away from him and also reached for the knife which he carried in a hip-pocket.
Before he could draw it, Miguel, the quadroon proprietor, threw himself upon him and tried to pitch him into the street. But Sach, although a small man, was both agile and ferocious. He twisted out of the grasp of the huge quadroon and turned, raising the knife. As he did so, the Algerian deftly kicked it from his grasp and left Sach to face Miguel unarmed. Screaming with rage, he sprang at Miguel's throat, and the two fell writhing upon the floor.
There could only be one end to such a struggle, of course, as the Algerian recognized by replacing his knife in his pocket and resuming his seat. Miguel obtained a firm hold upon Sach and raised him bodily above his head, as one has seen a professional weight-lifter raise a heavy dumb-bell. Thus he carried him, kicking and foaming at the mouth with passion, to the open door. From the step he threw him into the middle of the street.
At this moment I observed something glittering upon the floor close to the chair occupied by the Algerian. Standing up--for I had determined to depart--I crossed in that direction, stooped and picked up this object which glittered. As my fingers touched it, so did my heart give a great leap.
The object was a golden scorpion!
Forgetful of my dangerous surroundings I stood looking at the golden ornament in my hand . . . when suddenly and violently it was snatched from me! The Algerian, his brown face convulsed with rage, confronted me.
"Where did you find that charm?" he cried. "It belongs to me."
"Very well," I replied--"you have it."
He glared at me with a ferocity which the incident scarcely seemed to merit and exchanged a significant glance with someone who had approached and who now stood behind me. Turning, I met a second black gaze--that of the quadroon, who having restored order had returned from the café door and now stood regarding me.
"Did you find it on the floor?" asked Miguel suspiciously.
"I did."
He turned to the Algerian.
"It fell when you kicked the knife from the hand of that pig," he said. "You should be more careful."
Again they exchanged significant glances, but the Algerian resumed his seat and Miguel went behind the counter. I left the café conscious of the fact that black looks pursued me.
The night was very dark, and as I came out on to the pavement someone touched me on the arm. I turned in a flash.
"Walk on, friend," said the voice of Jean Sach. "What was it that you picked up from the floor?"<
br />
"A golden scorpion," I answered quickly.
"Ah!" he whispered--"I thought so! It is enough. They shall pay for what they have done to me--those two. Hurry, friend, as I do."
Before I could say another word or strive to detain him, he turned and ran off along a narrow courtway which at this point branched from the street.
I stood for a moment, nonplussed, staring after him. By good fortune I had learned more in ten minutes than by the exercise of all my ingenu8ity and the resources of the Service I could have learned in ten months! Par la barbe du prophete! the Kismet which dogs the footsteps of malefactors assisted me!
Recollecting the advice of Jean Sach, I set off at a brisk pace along the street, which was dark and deserted and which passed through a district marked red on the Paris crimes-map. Arriving at the corner, above which projected a lamp, I paused and glanced back into the darkness. I could see no one, but I thought I could detect the sound of stealthy footsteps following me.
The suspicion was enough. I quickened my pace, anxious to reach the crowded boulevard upon which this second street opened. I reached it unmolested, but intending to throw any pursuer off the track, I dodged and doubled repeatedly on the way to my flat and arrived there about midnight, convinced that I had eluded pursuit--if indeed I had been pursued.
All my arrangements were made for leaving Paris, and now I telephoned to the assistant on duty in my office, instructing him to take certain steps in regard to the proprietor of the café and the Algerian and to find the hiding-place of the man Jean Sach. I counted it more than ever important that I should go to London at once.
In this belief I was confirmed at the very moment that I boarded the Channel steamer at Boulogne; for as I stepped upon the deck I found myself face to face with a man who was leaning upon the rail and apparently watching the passengers coming on board. He was a man of heavy build, dark and bearded, and his face was strangely familiar.
Turning, as I lighted a cigarette, I glanced back at him in order to obtain a view of his profile. I knew him instantly--for now the scar was visible. It was "Le Balafré," who had been playing cards in Miguel's café on the previous night!
I have sometimes been criticised, especially by my English confreres, for my faith in disguises. I have been told that no disguise is impenetrable to the trained eye. I reply that there are many disguises but few trained eyes! To my faith in disguise I owed the knowledge that a golden scorpion was the token of some sort of gang, society, or criminal group, and to this same face which an English inspector of police once assured me to be a misplaced one I owed, on boarding the steamer, my escape from detection by this big bearded fellow who was possibly looking for me!
Yet, I began to wonder if after all I had escaped the shadowy pursuer whose presence I had suspected in the dark street outside the café or if he had tracked me and learned my real identity. In any event, the roles were about to be reversed! "Le Balafré" at Folkestone took a seat in a third-class carriage of the London train. I took one in the next compartment.
Arriving at Charing Cross, he stood for a time in the booking-hall, glanced at his watch, and then took up the handbag which he carried and walked out into the station yard. I walked out also.
"Le Balafré" accosted a cabman; and as he did so I passed close behind him and overheard a part of the conversation.
" . . . Bow Road Station East! It's too far. What?"
I glanced back. The bearded man was holding up a note--a pound note apparently. I saw the cabman nod. Without an instant's delay I rushed up to another cabman who had just discharged a passenger.
"To Bow Road Station East!" I said to the man. "Double fare if you are quick!"
It would be a close race. But I counted on the aid of that Fate which dogs the steps of wrong-doers! My cab was off first and the driver had every reason for hurrying. From the moment that we turned out into the Strand until we arrived at our destination I saw no more of "Le Balafré." My extensive baggage I must hope to recover later. Nothing else mattered, you understand, but the tracing of the man with the scar.
At Bow Road Station I discovered a telephone box in a dark corner which commanded a view of the street. I entered the box and waited. It was important that I should remain invisible. Unless my bearded friend had been unusually fortunate he could not well have arrived before me.
As it chanced I had nearly six minutes to wait. Then, not ten yards away, I saw "Le Balafré" arrive and dismiss the cabman outside the station. There was nothing furtive in his manner; he was evidently satisfied that no one pursued him; and he stood in the station entrance almost outside my box and lighted a cigar!
"Placing his bag upon the floor, he lingered, looking to left and right, when suddenly a big closed car painted dull yellow drew up beside the pavement. It was driven by a brown-faced chauffeur whose nationality I found difficulty in placing, for he wore large goggles. But before I could determine upon my plan of action, "Le Balafré" crossed the pavement and entered the car--and the car glided smoothly away, going East. A passing lorry obstructed my view and I even failed to obtain a glimpse of the number on the plate.
But I had seen something which had repaid me for my trouble. As the man of the scar had walked up to the car, he had exhibited to the brown-skinned chauffeur some object which he held in the palm of his hand . . . an object which glittered like gold!
II. "LE BALAFRÉ"
CHAPTER I. I BECOME CHARLES MALET
BEHOLD me established in rooms in Battersea and living retired during the day whilst I permitted my beard to grow. I had recognized that this mystery of "The Scorpion" was the biggest case which had ever engaged the attention of the Service de Sureté, and I was prepared, if necessary, to devote my whole time for twelve months to its solution. I had placed myself in touch with Paris, and had had certain papers and licences forwarded to me. A daily bulletin reached me, and one of these bulletins was sensational.
The body of Jean Sach had been recovered from the Seine. The man had been stabbed to the heart. Surveillance of Miguel and his associates continued unceasingly, but I had directed that no raids or arrests were to be made without direct orders from me.
I was now possessed of a French motor licence and also that of a Paris taxi-driver, together w2ith all the other documents necessary to establish the identity of one Charles Malet. Everything was now in order. I presented myself--now handsomely bearded--at New Scotland Yard and applied for a licence. The "knowledge of London" and other tests I passed successfully and emerged a fully-fledged cabman!
Already I had opened negotiations for the purchase of a dilapidated but serviceable cab which belonged to a small proprietor who had obtained a car of more up-to-date pattern to replace this obsolete one. I completed these negotiations by paying down a certain sum and arranged to garage my cab in the disused stable of a house near my rooms in Battersea.
Thus I now found myself in a position to appear anywhere at any time without exciting suspicion, enabled swiftly to proceed from point to point and to pursue anyone either walking or driving whom it might please me to pursue.. It was a modus operandi which had served me well in Paris and which had led to one of my biggest successes (the capture of the French desperado known as "Mr. Q.") in New York.
I had obtained, via Paris, particulars of the recent death of Sir Frank Narcombe, and the circumstances attendant upon his end were so similar to those which had characterized the fate of the Grand Duke, of Van Rembold and the others, that I could not for a moment believe them to be due to mere coincidence. Acting upon my advice Paris advised Scotland Yard to press for a post mortem examination of the body, but the influence of Sir Frank's family was exercised to prevent this being carried out--and exercised successfully.
Meanwhile, I hovered around the houses, flats, clubs and offices of everyone who had been associated with the late surgeon, noting to what addresses they directed me to drive and who lived at those addresses. In this way I obtained evidence sufficient to secure three judicial separati
ons, but not a single clue leading to "The Scorpion"! No matter.
At every available opportunity I haunted the East-End streets, hoping for a glimpse of the big car and the brown-skinned chauffeur or of my scarred man from Paris. I frequented all sorts of public bars and eating-houses used by foreign sailors and Asiatics. By day and by night I roamed about the dismal thoroughfares of that depressing district, usually with my flag down to imply that I was engaged.
Such diligence never goes long unrewarded. One evening, having discharged a passenger, a mercantile officer, at the East India Docks, as I was drifting, watchfully, back through Limehouse, I saw a large car pull up just ahead of me in the dark. A man got out and the car was driven off.
Two courses presented themselves. I was not sure that this was the car for which I sought, but it strangely resembled it. Should I follow the car or the man? A rapid decision was called for. I followed the man.
That I had not been mistaken in the identity of the car shortly appeared. The man took out a cigar and standing on the corner opposite the Town Hall, lighted it. I was close to him at the time, and by the light of the match, which he sheltered with his hands, I saw the scarred and bearded face! Triomphe! it was he!
Having lighted his cigar, he crossed the road and entered the saloon of a neighbouring public-house. Locking my cab I, also, entered that saloon. I ordered a glass of bitter beer and glanced around at the object of my interest. He had obtained a glass of brandy and was contorting his hideous face as he sipped the beverage. I laughed.
"Have they tried to poison you, mister!" I said.
"Ah, pardieu! poison--yes!" he replied.
"You want to have it out of a bottle," I continued confidentially--"Martell's Three Stars."
He stared at me uncomprehendingly.
"I don't know," he said haltingly. "I have very little English."
"Oh, that's it!" I cried, speaking French with a barbarous accent. "You only speak French?"
"Yes, yes," he replied eagerly. "It is so difficult to make oneself understood. This spirit is not cognac; it is some kind of petrol!"
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