His words were received in hushed silence.
"What became of those stolen plans?" he continued, speaking now in a very low voice. "In the stress of recent years has the Haley torpedo made its appearance so that we might learn to which Government the plans had been taken? No! the same mystery surrounds the fate of the information filched from the drugged brain of 'M. Blank.' In a word"--he raised a finger dramatically--"someone is hoarding up those instruments of destruction! Who is it that collects such things and for what purpose does he collect them?"
Following another tense moment of silence:
"Let us have your own theory, M. Max," said the Assistant Commissioner
Gaston Max shrugged his shoulders.
"It is not worthy of the name of a theory," he replied, "the surmise which I have made. But recently I found myself considering the fact that 'The Scorpion' might just conceivably be a Chinaman. Now, 'Mr. King,' we believe, was a Chinaman, and 'Mr. King,' as I am now convinced, operated not for a personal but for a deeper, political purpose. He stole the brains of genius and accumulated that which he had stolen. 'The Scorpion' destroys genius. Is it not possible that these contrary operations may be part of a common plan?"
CHAPTER II. THE RED CIRCLE
"YOU are not by any chance," suggested Stuart smiling slightly, "hinting at that defunct bogey the 'Yellow Peril'?"
"Ah!" cried Max, "but certainly I am not! Do not misunderstand me. This group with which we are dealing is shown to be not of a national but of an international character. The same applied to the organisation of 'Mr. King.' But a Chinaman directed the one, and I begin to suspect that a Chinaman directs the other. No, I speak of no ridiculous 'Yellow Peril,' my friends. John Chinaman, as I have known him, is the whitest man breathing; but can you not imagine"--he dropped his voice again in that impressive way which was yet so truly Gallic--"can you not imagine a kind of Oriental society which like a great, a formidable serpent, lies hidden somewhere below that deceptive jungle of the East? These are troubled times. It is a wise state to-day that knows its own leaders. Can you not imagine a dreadful sudden menace, not of men and guns but of brains and capital?"
"You mean," said Dunbar slowly, "that 'The Scorpion' may be getting people out of the way who might interfere with this rising or invasion or whatever it is?"
"Just as 'Mr. King' accumulated material for it," interjected the Assistant Commissioner. "It is a bold conception, M. Max, and it raises the case out of the ordinary category and invests it with enormous international importance."
All were silent for a time. Stuart, Dunbar and the Commissioner watching the famous Frenchman as he sat there, arrayed in the latest fashion of Savile Row, yet Gallic to his finger-tips and in every gesture. It was almost impossible at times to credit the fact that a Parisian was speaking, for the English of Gaston Max was flawless except that he spoke with a faint American accent. Then, suddenly, a gesture, an expletive, would betray the Frenchman.
But such betrayals never escaped from him when, in one of his inimitable disguises, he penetrated to the purlieus of Whitechapel, to the dens of Limehouse. Then he was the perfect Hooligan, as, mingling with the dangerous thieves of Paris, he was the perfect Apache. It was an innate gift of mimicry which had made him the greatest investigator of his day. He could have studied Chinese social life for six months and thereupon have become a mandarin whom his own servants would never have suspected to be a "foreign barbarian." It was pure genius, as opposed to the brilliant efficiency of Dunbar.
But in the heart of the latter, as he studied Gaston Max and realized the gulf that separated them, there was nothing but generous admiration for a master; yet Dunbar was no novice, for a process of fine deductive reasoning he had come to the conclusion, as has appeared, that Gaston Max had been masquerading as a cabman and that the sealed letter left with Dr. Stuart had been left as a lure. By one of those tricks of fate which sometimes perfect the plans of men but more often destroy them, the body of "Le Balafré" had been so disfigured during the time that it had been buffeted about in the Thames that it was utterly unrecognizable and indescribable. But even the disk had not deceived Dunbar. He had seen in that another ruse of his brilliant confrere, and his orders to the keeper of the mortuary to admit no one without a written permit had been dictated by the conviction that Max wished the body to be mistaken for his own. In Inspector Dunbar, Gaston Max immediately had recognized an able colleague as Mrs. M'Gregor had recognized "a grand figure of a man."
The Assistant Commissioner broke the silence.
"There have been other cases," he said reflectively, "now that one considers the matter, which seemed to point to the existence of such a group or society as you indicate, M. Max, notably one with which, if I remember rightly, Inspector"--turning his dark eyes towards Dunbar--"Inspector Weymouth, late of this Branch, was associated?"
"Quite right, sir. It was his big case, and it got him a fine billet as Superintendent in Cairo if you remember?"
"Yes," mused the Assistant Commissioner--"he transferred to Egypt--a very good appointment, as you say. That, again, was before my term of office, but there were a number of very ghastly crimes connected with the case and it was more or less definitely established, I believe, that some extensive secret society did actually exist throughout the East, governed, I fancy, by a Chinaman."
"And from China," added Dunbar.
"Yes, yes, from China as you say, Inspector." He turned to Gaston Max. "Can it really be, M. Max, that we have to deal with an upcrop of some deeply-seated evil which resides in the Far East? Are all these cases, not the word of individual criminals but manifestations of a more sinister, a darker force?"
Gaston Max met his glance and Max's mouth grew very grim.
"I honestly believe so," he answered. "I have believed it for nearly two years--ever since the Grand Duke died. And now, you said, I remember, that you had made a note the nature of which you would communicate."
"Yes," replied the Assistant Commissioner--"a small point, but one which may be worthy of attention. This ray, Dr. Stuart, which played such havoc in your study--do you know of anything approaching to it in more recent scientific devices?"
"Well," said Stuart, "it may be no more than a development of one of several systems, notably of that of the late Henrik Ericksen upon which he was at work at the time of his death."
"Exactly." The Assistant Commissioner smiled in his most Mephistophelean manner. "Of the late Henrik Ericksen, as you say."
He said no more for a moment and sat smoking and looking from face to face. Then:
"That is the subject of my note, gentlemen," he added. "The other minutiæ are of no immediate importance."
"Nom d'un p'tit bonhomme!" whispered Gaston Max. "I see! You think that Ericksen had completed his experiments before he died, but that he never lived to give them to the world?"
The Assistant Commissioner waved one hand in the air so that the discoloration of first and second fingers was very noticeable.
"It is for you to ascertain these points, M. Max," he said--"I only suggest. But I begin to share your belief that a series of daring and unusual assassinations has been taking place under the eyes of the police authorities of Europe. It can only be poison--an unknown poison, perhaps. We shall be empowered to exhume the body of the late Sir Frank Narcombe in a few days' time, I hope. His case puzzles me hopelessly. What obstacle did a surgeon offer to this hypothetical Eastern movement? On the other hand, what can have been filched from him before his death? The death of an inventor, a statesman, a soldier, can be variously explained by your 'Yellow' hypothesis, M. Max, but what of the death of a surgeon?"
Gaston Max shrugged, and his mobile mouth softened in a quaint smile.
"We have learned a little," he said, "and guessed a lot. Let us hope to guess more--and learn everything!"
"May I suggest," added Dunbar, "that we hear Sowerby's report, sir?"
"Certainly," agreed the Assistant Commissioner--"call Sergeant Sowerby."
&
nbsp; A moment later Sergeant Sowerby entered, his face very red and his hair bristling more persistently than usual.
"Anything to report, Sowerby?" asked Dunbar.
"Yes, Inspector," replied Sowerby, in his Police Court manner;--he faced the Assistant Commissioner "with your permission, sir."
He took out a note-book which appeared to be the twin of Dunbar's and consulted it, assuming an expression of profound reflection.
"In the first place, sir," he began, never raising his eyes from the page, "I have traced the cab sold on the hire-purchase system to a certain Charles Mallet . . ."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Max breezily--"he calls me a hammer! It is not Mallet, Sergeant Sowerby--you have got too many l's in that name; it is Malet and is called like one from the Malay States!"
"Oh," commented Sowerby, glancing up--"indeed. Very good, sir. The owner claims the balance of purchase money!"
Every one laughed at that, even the Satanic Assistant Commissioner.
"Pay your debts, M. Max," he said. "You will bring the Service de Sureté into bad repute! Carry on, Sergeant."
"The cab," continued Sowerby, when Dunbar interrupted him.
"Cut out the part about the cab, Sowerby," he said. "We've found that out from M. Max. Have you anything to report about the yellow car?"
"Yes," replied Sowerby, unperturbed, and turning over to the next page. "It was hired from Messrs. Wickers' garage, at Canning Town, by the week. The lady who hired it was a Miss Dorian, a French lady. She gave no reference, except that of the Savoy Hotel, where she was stopping. She paid a big deposit and had her own chauffeur, a coloured man of some kind."
"Is it still in use by her?" snapped Dunbar eagerly.
"No, Inspector. She claimed her deposit this morning and said she was leaving London."
"The cheque?" cried Dunbar.
"Was cashed half an hour later."
"At what bank?"
"London County & Birmingham, Canning Town. Her own account at a Strand bank was closed yesterday. The details all concern milliners, jewellers, hotels and so forth. There's nothing there. I've been to the Savoy, of course."
"Yes!"
"A lady named Dorian has had rooms there for six weeks, has dined there on several occasions, but was more often away than in the hotel."
"Visitors?"
"Never had any."
"She used to dine alone, then?"
"Always."
"In the public dining-room?"
"No. In her own room."
"Morbleu!" muttered Max. "It is she beyond doubt. I recognize her sociable habits!"
"Has she left now?" asked Dunbar.
"She left a week ago."
Sowerby closed his note-book and returned it to his pocket.
"Is that all you have to report, Sergeant?" asked the Assistant Commissioner.
"That's all, sir."
"Very good."
Sergeant Sowerby retired.
"Now, sir," said Dunbar, "I've got Inspector Kelly here. He looks after the Chinese quarter. Shall I call him?"
"Yes, Inspector."
Presently there entered a burly Irishman, bluff and good-humoured, a very typical example of the intelligent superior police officer, looking keenly around him.
"Ah, Inspector," the Assistant Commissioner greeted him--"we want your assistance in a little matter concerning the Chinese residential quarter. You know this district?"
"Certainly, sir. I know it very well."
"On this map"--the Assistant Commissioner laid a discoloured forefinger upon the map of London--"you will perceive that we have drawn a circle."
Inspector Kelly bent over the table.
"Yes, sir."
"Within that circle, which is no larger in circumference than a shilling as you observe, lies a house used by a certain group of people. It has been suggested to me that these people may be Chinese associates of Chinese."
"Well, sir," said Inspector Kelly, smiling broadly, "considering the patch inside the circle I think it more than likely! Seventy-five or it may be eighty per cent of the rooms and cellars and attics in those three streets are occupied by Chinese."
"For your guidance, Inspector, we believe these people to be a dangerous gang of international criminals. Do you know of any particular house, or houses, likely to be used as a meeting-place by such a gang?"
Inspector Kelly scratched his close-cropped head.
"A woman was murdered just there, sir," he said, taking up a pen from the table and touching a point near the corner of Three Colt Street, "about a twelve-month ago. We traced the man--a Chinese sailor--to a house lying just about here." Again he touched the map. "It's a sort of little junk-shop with a ramshackle house attached, all cellars and rabbit-hutches, as you might say, overhanging a disused cutting which is filled at high tide. Opium is to be had there and card-playing goes on, and I won't swear that you couldn't get liquor. But it's well conducted as such dives go."
"Why is it not closed?" inquired the Assistant Commissioner, seizing an opportunity to air his departmental ignorance.
"Well, sir," replied Inspector Kelly, his eyes twinkling--"if we shut up all these places we should never know where to look for some of our regular customers! As I mentioned, we found the wanted Chinaman, three parts drunk, in one of the rooms there."
"It's a sort of lodging house, then?"
"Exactly. There's a moderately big room just behind the shop, principally used by opium-smokers, and a whole nest of smaller rooms above and below. Mind you, sir, I don't say this is the place you're looking for, but it's the most likely inside your circle."
"Who is the proprietor?"
"A retired Chinese sailor called Ah-Fang-Fu, but better known as 'Pidgin.' His establishment is called locally 'The Pidgin House.'"
"Ah." The Commissioner lighted a cigarette. "And you know of no other house which might be selected for such a purpose as I have mentioned?"
"I can't say I do, sir. I know pretty well all the business affairs of that neighbourhood, and none of the houses inside your circle have changed hands during the past twelve months. Between ourselves, sir, nearly all the property in the district belongs to Ah-Fang-Fu, and anything that goes on in Chinatown he knows about!"
"Ah, I see. Then in any event he is the man we want to watch?"
"Well, sir, you ought to keep an eye on his visitors, I should say."
"I am obliged to you, Inspector," said the courteous Assistant Commissioner, "for your very exact information. If necessary I shall communicate with you again. Good-day."
"Good-day, sir," replied the Inspector. "Good-day, gentlemen."
He went out.
Gaston Max, who had diplomatically remained in the background throughout this interview, now spoke.
"Pardieu! but I have been thinking," he said. "Although 'The Scorpion,' as I hope, believes that that troublesome Charles Malet is dead, he may also wonder if Scotland Yard has secured from Dr. Stuart's fire any fragments of the information sealed in the envelope! What does it mean, this releasing of the yellow car, closing of the bank account and departure from the Savoy?"
"It means flight!" cried Dunbar, jumping violently to his feet. "By gad, sir!" he turned to the Assistant Commissioner--"the birds may have flown already!"
The Assistant Commissioner leaned back in his chair.
"I have sufficient confidence in M. Max," he said, "to believe that, having taken the responsibility of permitting this dangerous group to learn that they were under surveillance, he has good reason to suppose that they have not slipped through our fingers."
Gaston Max bowed.
"It is true," he replied, and from his pocket he took a slip of flimsy paper. "This code message reached me as I was about to leave my hotel. The quadroon, Miguel, left Paris last night and arrived in London this morning----"
"He was followed?" cried Dunbar.
"But certainly. He was followed to Limehouse, and he was definitely seen to enter the establishment described to us by Inspector Kell
y!"
"Gad!" cried Dunbar--"then someone is still there?"
"Someone, as you say, is still there," replied Max. "But everything points to the imminent departure of this some one. Will you see to it, Inspector, that not a rat--pardieu! not a little mouse--is allowed to slip out of our red circle to-day. For to-night we shall pay a friendly visit to the house of Ah-Fang-Fu, and I should wish all the company to be present."
CHAPTER III. MISKA'S STORY
STUART returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. He had refrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meeting with Mlle. Dorian to the police authorities that this meeting now constituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to the beautiful accomplice of "The Scorpion"--to the dark-eyed servant of the uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means. He hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him a kind of savage joy.
In his study he found a Post Office workman engaged in fitting a new telephone. As Stuart entered the man turned.
"Good-afternoon, sir," he said, taking up the destroyed instrument from the litter of flux, pincers and screw-drivers lying upon the table. "If it's not a rude question, how on earth did this happen?"
Stuart laughed uneasily.
"It got mixed up with an experiment which I was conducting," he replied evasively.
The man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.
"It seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blast furnace," he continued. "Experiments of that sort are a bit dangerous outside a proper laboratory, I should think."
"They are," agreed Stuart. "But I have no facilities here, you see, and I was--er--compelled to attempt the experiment. I don't intend to repeat it."
"That's lucky," murmured the man, dropping the instrument into a carpet-bag. "If you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!"
Walking out towards the dispensary, Stuart met Mrs. M'Gregor.
"A Post Office messenger brought this letter for you, Mr. Keppel, just the now," she said, handing Stuart a sealed envelope.
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