by Sax Rohmer
Below the terrace I paused, looking again toward the distant tower.
The top remained just visible above the trees… and there, still coming and going, was the signal light!
I stepped out farther from the building, cautiously, looking upward to the left.
“Ah!” I muttered.
Dropping down upon the sloping lawn, its turf still wet from the recent downpour, I crept farther northward, until I could obtain a clear view of the study window.
The room was in darkness, but the curtains were not drawn. A light, probably that of an electric torch, was coming and going, dot and dash, in the chief’s study!
I came to the end of the terrace, and taking advantage of a bank of rhododendrons, crept farther away from the house, until I could see, not merely the reflection, but the actual light being operated.
Faintly as it glowed in the darkness, I could detect the figure of one who held it… And at first I was loath to credit what I saw.
The legend of Abbots Hold; Rima’s fears; memories—dreadful memories—of my own, must certainly, I determined, be influencing my imagination.
The man signaling to that other on the distant tower—for a man I assumed the signaler to be—was wrapped in a sort of cowl… his head so enveloped in the huge hood that in the dim reflection of the torch it was quite impossible to detect his features.
“Good God!” I muttered. “What does this mean!”
Stooping below the level of the bushes, I turned. Regaining the shelter of the terrace, I ran for twenty paces. Then, leaping into the shrubbery, I located the thick branch of ivy which was a ladder to my window, and began to climb up again, my heart beating very fast, and my thoughts racing far ahead of physical effort.
Scrambling over the stone balustrade, I stepped towards the open French window of my room…
Out of the shadows into the moonlight a figure moved. It was Nayland Smith!
“Ssh! Speak quietly, Greville!”
I stared in amazement, standing there breathing heavily by the open window, then:
“Why?” I asked in a low voice. “What’s happened?”
“Close the window,” said Smith.
I obeyed, and then, turning:
“Did you see me climbing up?” I asked.
“No. I heard you. I was afraid to show myself. I was expecting someone else! But you are bursting with news. Tell me.”
Quickly I told him of the light beyond the valley—of the cowled figure in the study.
“Too late to trap him now, Sir Denis!” I finished, starting for the door.
He grabbed my arm.
“Not too late!” he rapped. “Here he is!”
I threw a quick and startled glance around the room, as:
“Where?” I demanded.
“There!”
Nayland Smith pointed to my bed.
Amazed to the verge of losing control, I stared at the bed. A rough, camel-hair garment lay there… I moved, touched it. Then I knew.
“It’s the robe of a Lama monk!”
Nayland Smith nodded grimly.
“Together with a certain sandbag,” he said, “it has formed part of my baggage since that eventful meeting of the Council of Seven at el-Khârgal.”
“But—”
“Why did I play ghost? Very simple. I suspected that some member of the household was in league with the enemy. I believe, now, I was wrong. But I knew that wherever my private inquiries led me, no one would challenge the hooded monk of Abbots Hold!”
“Good enough,” I admitted. “But you were signaling from the study!”
“I was!” Nayland Smith rapped. “I was signaling to Weymouth who was watching from the tower.”
“To Weymouth!”
“Exactly! Weymouth reported in that way to me—as had been arranged; and I gave him certain instructions in return.”
I looked him squarely in the face, and:
“Does the chief know that Superintendent Weymouth is standing by?” I asked.
“He does not!” Nayland Smith smiled, and my anger began to melt. “That rather takes the wind out of your angry sails, Greville!” He grasped my shoulder. “I don’t trust Barton!” he added.
“What!”
“I don’t trust you… Both have been under the influence of Fah Lo Suee. And tonight I don’t trust Rima!”
I had dropped down onto the bed, but now I started up. Into the sudden silence, like the growling of angry beasts, came an echo of thunder away eastward.
“What the devil do you mean?”
“Ssh!” Nayland Smith restrained me; his gaze was compelling. “You heard me say tonight that I had had my first glimpse of the ghost?”
“Well?”
“It was true. The ‘ghost’ slipped through my fingers. But the ghost was Fah Lo Suee!… Don’t raise your voice. I have a reason for this. Just outline to me, without any reservation, what took place from the time that you left Barton’s study to the time that you said goodnight to Rima.”
I stared blankly for a moment, then:
“You are her accepted lover,” he added, “and she is very charming. I congratulate you… and give you my permission to leave out the kisses…”
“Rima was obsessed with the idea,” I said, “that someone was hiding in the big lacquer cabinet. But her frame of mind seems to have been such that she wouldn’t stoop to test this suspicion.”
“Very characteristic,” Nayland Smith commented. “You may remember that I left Barton’s study some time ahead of you?”
“Yes.”
“The cabinet in question stands beside the newel post of the staircase, and as the library was lighted tonight, in deep shadow. It has certain properties, Greville, with which I am acquainted but which may be unfamiliar to you. It’s a very old piece and I had examined it in the past. It has lacquered doors in front and a plain door at the back!”
“Do you mean—”
“Precisely! As I came out of the study, I noticed a curious passivity in Rima’s attitude which aroused my interest. Also, she was not reading, as your account would lead one to suppose—but, twisted around in her chair, was staring rigidly at the French windows! The staircase, you remember, is not visible from outside!”
“Then—”
“Her suspicion—which came later—was based on fact. I was in the cabinet!”
“But when—”
“Did I withdraw? Husband your blushes. I escaped at the moment you entered the room, and slipped unnoticed through the door leading to the servants’ quarters below the staircase. I made my way back to the study via the east wing, and waited for Weymouth’s signal. I had another small problem to investigate en route and so I grabbed my useful ghostly disguise!”
“What was the small problem?”
“The cheetah!”
“The cheetah?”
“A tame cheetah, Greville, is more sensitive than any ordinary domestic animal to the presence of strangers. He is used to Barton’s guests, but an intruder would provoke howls calculated to rouse the house. I suspected that the cat had been doped.”
“By heaven, you’re right!”
“I know I’m right! When I went round there in my monkish disguise he was snoring like an elephant! But please go on.”
To the best of my ability I outlined what Rima had told me of her mood of passive terror. I tried to explain that I had reassured her and had finally parted from her confident that she was restored to normal; but:
“There’s something wrong,” Nayland Smith rapped irritably; “and time is important. She went out of the library—I’ll swear, to fetch something—just before you came in—and she opened and then reclosed the windows.”
“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed.
“Ssh!”
“I had overlooked it, Sir Denis—although it isn’t of the slightest importance. She had gone to her room to get a scent spray containing eau-de-Cologne.”
Nayland Smith, who had been walking across and across the rug beside th
e bed, pulled up with a jerk.
“Not of the slightest importance? It’s what I’ve been waiting to hear! At last I understand the strong smell of eau-de-Cologne which I detected on the terrace outside the library… Quick! You are privileged… Steal along to Rima’s room. Take your shoes off. Go by the balcony. Her window is open, no doubt. If she’s awake—which I think unlikely—ask her for the eau-de-Cologne bottle. Explain things how you like. If she’s asleep, find it—and bring it to me! Take this torch…”
The strange theft was accomplished without a hitch. Rima slept soundly. Although her dressing table was littered with bottles, I found the spray easily enough—for it was the only one of its kind there. I hurried back to my room.
Nayland Smith took it from my hands as though it had been a live bomb. He opened the door and went out. I heard him turn a tap on in the bathroom. Then he returned—carrying the spray. I saw that it was still half full.
“Take it back,” he directed.
And I replaced it on Rima’s dressing table without arousing her.
“Good,” Smith acknowledged. “Now we enter a province of surmise.”
He began to pace the mat again, deep in thought; then:
“I am the likeliest!” he snapped suddenly; and although I couldn’t imagine what he meant, went on immediately: “Conceal yourself in the south corner of the balcony. The ivy is thick there. Keep your shoes off. We must be silent.”
As the paving was still wet, my prospect was poor; but:
“If anyone moves in Rima’s room,” he continued rapidly, “don’t stir. If anyone comes out onto the balcony—watch. But whoever it is, do nothing. Just watch. If necessary, follow, but don’t speak and don’t be discovered. Off you go, Greville!”
I had already started, when:
“It may be a bit of an ordeal,” he added, “but I count on you.”
Past the open window of Smith’s room I went and past that, closed, which belonged to the vacant room. Then, creeping silently, I went by Rima’s window and crouched down among a tangle of wet ivy in the corner formed by the stone balustrade.
The sky directly above was cloudless again, and part of the balcony gleamed phantomesque in silvery moonlight. But, another part, including the corner in which I lay concealed, was in deep shadow. From somewhere a long way off—perhaps over the sea— came dim drumming of thunder. About me whispered leaves of rain-drenched foliage.
I saw Nayland Smith go into his room.
What were we waiting for?
Abbots Hold was silent. Nothing stirred, until a soft fluttering immediately above me set my heart thumping.
An owl swept out from the eaves and disappeared in the direction of the big plantation. From some reed bed of the nearby river a disturbed lapwing gave her eerie, peewit cry. The cry was repeated; then answered far away. Silence fell once more.
My post was a cold and uncomfortable one. It was characteristic of Nayland Smith that he took no count of such details where either himself or another was concerned. The job in hand overrode in importance any such trivial considerations.
Presently I heard the big library clock strike—and I counted the strokes mechanically.
Midnight.
I reflected that in London, now, folk would just be finishing supper.
Then… I saw her!
I suppose—I hope—I shall never again experience just the sort of shock which gripped my heart at this moment. Vaguely, I had imagined that our purpose was protective; that I was on guard because Rima’s safety was at stake in some way. To the mystery of Nayland Smith’s words, “I am the likeliest,” I had failed all along to discover any solution.
Now, the solution came… hazily at first.
Rima, a fairy gossamer figure in the moonlight, came out barefooted onto the terrace!
Unhesitatingly, she turned right, passed the vacant room and entered the open window of that occupied by Nayland Smith! I could not believe the evidence of my senses. Just in the nick of time I checked her name as it leaped to my lips.
“…You must be silent. It may be a bit of an ordeal—but I count on you…”
Rising slowly to my feet, I stole along the terrace. The moon shone into Smith’s room as it shone into mine. Just before reaching the window, I dropped down on my knees and cautiously craned forward to peer in.
Nayland Smith was in bed, the sheets drawn up to his chin. His eyes were closed… and Rima stood beside him.
Something that had puzzled me in that first stunning moment now resolved itself—grotesquely. I had realized that Rima carried a glittering object. I saw it clearly as I peered into the room.
It was the scent spray!
And, as I watched, I saw her stoop and spray the face of the motionless man in the bed!
She turned… She was coming out again.
I drew back and hurried to my shadowy corner. Rima appeared in the moonlight. She looked unnaturally pale. But with never a glance to right or left she walked to her room and went in. Her eyes were wide open—staring.
Absolute silence…
Then Nayland Smith appeared. He was fully dressed but he had removed his shoes.
He signaled to me to approach Rima’s window. A man stupefied— horror, amazement, incredulity, each fighting for a place—I obeyed. Dropping to my knees again, I peered in…
Rima, at the green marble wash-basin, was emptying the scent spray! She allowed hot water to run for some time, and then carefully rinsed, the container and the fitting. Replacing the latter in position, she put the bottle on the dressing table where I had found it… and went to bed!
Nayland Smith beckoned to me. I rose and walked very unsteadily along the terrace to his room.
“Rima!” I said. “Rima! My God, Sir Denis, what does it mean?”
He grasped my shoulder hard.
“Nothing,” he replied.
His keen eyes studied my amazement.
“Nothing?”
“Just that—nothing. I warned you it might prove to be an ordeal. Sit down. A peg of whiskey will do us both good…”
I sat down without another word. And Nayland Smith brewed two stiff pegs. Handing one to me:
“Here’s part of the explanation,” he jerked—and held a book under my nose. “Smell. Only one sniff!”
A sickly sweet odour came from the open pages. The book was that which Rima had been reading in the library.
“Familiar?”
I nodded; and took a long drink. My hand was none too steady. It was a perfume I could never forget. It formed my last memory of the meeting of the Seven at el-Khârga; my first memory of that dreadful awakening in the green-gold room in Limehouse!
“Hashîsh!” snapped Nayland Smith—“or something prepared from it. Rima, by means of this doped book, was put into a receptive condition. It’s a routine, Greville, with which Petrie is unhappily familiar… hence Petrie’s detention on the way!
“Fah Lo Suee is an accomplished hypnotist! For this piece of information I am also indebted to the doctor: he once all but succumbed to her… and she was only in her teens in those days. She was posted outside the closed French windows of the library tonight. In some way, and at the psychological moment, she attracted Rima’s attention—and obtained mental control over her.”
“But… is this possible?”
“You have seen it in full operation,” he answered. “Rima was given hypnotic orders to go to her room for a scent spray. She obeyed. That was when from my post in the Chinese cabinet I heard her hurry upstairs. She brought the spray, opened the window—I heard her—and gave it to Fah Lo Suee (whose name, by the way, means ‘Sweet Perfume’). It was emptied, recharged and returned to her. She reclosed the window… having received those detailed posthypnotic instructions which we have seen her carry out tonight.”
“But”—my bewilderment was increasing—“I spoke to her after this! I even asked her why she had fetched the scent spray, and she said she had detected a sickly smell—like decaying leaves—and thought i
t would freshen the air.”
“Part of her orders!” he rapped. “Next, she was instructed to go to bed and sleep until midnight; then to spray me with the contents (which I preserved for analysis and replaced with water!) and then to remove all traces—as we know she did do! My dear fellow, Rima is utterly unaware that she has played this part… and doubtless it would have been an easy death!”
“You mean, when she wakes, she will know nothing about it?”
“Nothing whatever! Unless, perhaps, as in Petrie’s case, the memory of a troubled dream. However, I have hopes… if my Morse orders were promptly obeyed.”
“You mean your signal to Weymouth?”
He nodded, and:
“The ‘gypsies,’” he rapped.
“What!”
“Three are Dacoits—one posing as an old hag! The ‘boy’ of the party is Fah Lo Suee!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DR. AMBER
“I can’t blame myself,” said Weymouth, staring disconsolately out of the window. “She’s slipped through our fingers again. A real chip of the old block,” he added. “It took a load off my mind, after the Limehouse raid, to hear that Nayland Smith had seen the Doctor, in person, in Paris—and lost him!…”
The “gypsy” caravan behind the big plantation which formed a western boundary to Sir Lionel’s Norfolk place had been seized by a party of constabulary under Weymouth’s command—and had proved to be empty. This had happened three days before, but it still rankled in the superintendent’s mind.
“I can’t hang on here indefinitely,” he explained. “I’m badly needed in Cairo at the moment. The disappearance of Sir Denis and yourself was the real excuse for my leave, but now…”
His point was clear enough. Weymouth was a staunch friend, but he loved his job. He had come to England in pursuit of a clue which suggested that Nayland Smith and I had been smuggled into Europe. We were found. Duty called him back.
“It isn’t your present job, I admit,” said I; “but it’s the tail end of an old one, after all!”
