Bimbashi Baruk Of Egypt

by Sax Rohmer

  He drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

  “It was taken by the orderly on duty and sent up to the ward. You see, the patient's mind was clear, at intervals, although his tongue was paralyzed. They decided to read the message out to him. Here it is, as the orderly wrote it down”— and he passed the chit across.

  Bimbashi Baruk read the following words aloud:

  “Please tell Major Rafael de Maura that Gabriel Varez is with him in spirit.”

  “Did he seem to understand?”

  The colonel nodded: it was an eloquent nod.

  “He forced himself upright in bed—and he spoke, for the first and the last time—”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, 'My shoes—'”

  “My shoes?”

  “Just that. Then came the final seizure—and his heart conked out.”

  Dawney suddenly observed that Bimbashi Baruk was not drinking. He became conscience-stricken.

  There was an interval of silence. Bimbashi Baruk watched a daddy longlegs bent upon committing hara-kiri in a port glass. He possessed a sort of extra sense which, but only at odd times, enabled him to read from a man's eyes what that man was thinking. Such a message had just reached him from Dawney. It was this: “I believe Major de Maura was murdered.”

  “I take it”—the bimbashi seemed to be thinking aloud—“that the message, and its strange effect, gave you the idea that there had been foul play?”

  Colonel Dawney stared.

  “I don't know how you knew, but you're right. It startled the poor devil like an electric shock, with the queer result I have mentioned. I assume his reaction to have been one of urgency; a sudden, uncontrollable desire to get away—presumably from Gabriel Varez. Hence his words, 'My shoes.'”

  “Was he undressed?”

  “Yes; they found him in bed. But my idea wasn't based on the message entirely. Charlton— he's one of the M.O.'s here—came on duty soon after de Maura died. It was he who phoned me just now. Charlton spent some years in South America; and although I'm inclined to think that the patient's nationality and the mysterious message inspired his theory, Charlton insists that de Maura didn't die of tetanus at all—”

  “What's that?” Bimbashi Baruk's sleepy blue eyes woke up. “Then of what did he die?”

  “According to Charlton, of curare poisoning.”

  “Curare poisoning?”

  “I have never come across a case myself, but I understand that the symptoms are similar, except that the onset is sudden and the end more swift. A mere touch, of course, is sufficient to do the trick with curare—and there was that tiny pinprick on his finger. Point is, B.B., that if it was, as Charlton believes, curare, the case goes very deep indeed.”

  “What is curare? Is it something one can buy at a druggist's?”

  Colonel Dawney laughed. He had ingrowing laughter, silent, but evidently very painful.

  “Don't be a fool. It's an alkaloid found in the extract of some South American tree and principally used as an arrow poison. Next to unobtainable.”

  “That fact rather narrows down the inquiry, don't you think? I mean, in order of importance, I should look for one, definite evidence that curare was used; two, somebody who had some or who could obtain it; three, de Maura's secret visitor; and four, Gabriel Varez. Either three or four, or possibly both, might prove to be two.”

  “H'm—lucid reasoning, I admit.”

  “If you really think that there's anything underlying this business, I should be glad, if it would relieve your mind, I mean, to look into it.”

  Colonel Dawney smiled his gratitude.

  “Thanks, B.B. I should naturally have hesitated to suggest such a thing; but—I'll have Mrs. Saunders called up.”

  MAJOR DE MAURA'S apartments formed a suite, accessible from a side entrance. The sitting room offered no useful evidence. Mrs. Saunders, a hushed little woman who looked fragile, the bimbashi had dismissed from the inquiry, although, if one were to accept as authentic a spacious and gaily colored photograph of the late Mr. Saunders which hung above a bureau, her survival became a minor mystery. It exhibited a gentleman who wore a well-nourished but angry mustache and a Masonic apron, a gentleman whose hypnotic glare would have frightened anyone to death, the bimbashi thought, with the possible exception of W. E. Gladstone. A row of textbooks in English, French, German and Spanish lay on the bureau. The bimbashi glanced at them and went into the bedroom. This he found in wild disorder, with bedclothes strewn all about the floor.

  There were few tasks he liked less than that of taking stock of another man's private possessions, made pathetic, and in a sense sacred, by the seal of death. It approached sheer indecency. But he went on with it and presently found himself considering a parade of shoes, lined up two-deep in a cupboard. Clearly Major de Maura had been a shoe fancier: he counted ten pairs. Another pair lay under a chair beside the bed, and near by he saw some red Persian slippers.

  For a long time Bimbashi Baruk considered the rows of shoes, wondering in what way they differed from other shoes. They were unusually small, certainly, but it was not until he picked one up and compared it with his own that he grasped the real difference. The heels were almost an inch higher than normal. De Maura, a man below average height, had been anxious to add to his stature.

  Nearly an hour elapsed before Bimbashi Baruk came downstairs and bade Mrs. Saunders good night. He had discovered nothing of importance. True, the bimbashi knew now that Major de Maura had had no visitors on Saturday, but had gone out to mail letters shortly after seven o'clock, returning before eight; that he had been a married man with two daughters, and separated from his wife, who lived in Buenos Aires, for ten years; that he had proved himself a courageous and capable soldier; that he was effeminately proud of his small feet; that he was a chronic amorist; that he dyed his hair; that he had been involved in a local intrigue; that he had expensive taste in cigars and a streak of sadism in his character— together with one or two other trivial facts.

  But as he walked on through the darkness, Bimbashi Baruk found himself saying aloud, “My shoe!.” He said it in a variety of ways, pronouncing the two words with subtle intonations, so that a number of motives might have inspired them. But “My shoes” remorselessly haunted him, until at last he pulled up, turned and went back.

  The immediate outcome of his second visit to Mrs. Saunders, from which he brought away a pair of shoes wrapped in newspaper, was a phone call to Colonel Dawney.

  “Hullo, Colonel. Baruk here. I believe you are right about de Maura. Looks like an amazingly clever murder. I'm afraid I shall have to glance over the body. You seem to have missed something. Will it be troubling you?”

  ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Bimbashi Baruk set out on a tour of cobblers' shops in and around Lychgate. His routine was as follows:

  “Good morning. My friend Major de Maura left a pair of shoes to be repaired. Are they ready?”

  On learning from one that Major de Maura was not a customer, he inquired the name of another. In this manner he had made six futile calls when somebody suggested that he might try Mr. Stickle. The name sounded faintly familiar, but although Mr. Stickle's establishment proved to be not more than three hundred yards from the White Hart, he had no small difficulty in finding it.

  The cottage, a seventeenth-century survival like the inn, shrank back from Lychgate Heath, as if to avoid observation. It had a rusty red roof and diamond-paned windows, and it was smothered in sweet briar, now jeweled richly with scarlet berries. A brick path, worn in the center so as to resemble a shallow ditch, led from gate to porch. Above this porch appeared a sign which stated:

  Jeremiah Stickle

  Shoemaker

  Established 1739

  And, cross-legged on a bench inside the front window, so that he commanded a view of the path, was seated at his last none other than the little red man who had a voice like a macaw. The bimbashi entered. The place smelled of leather, hot wax, brass and a number of other things. Mr. Stic
kle went on hammering nails into the sole of an elderly boot and paid not the smallest attention to his visitor.

  “Good morning,” said the bimbashi. “My friend Major de Maura left a pair of shoes to be repaired. Are they ready?”

  Jeremiah Stickle glanced sideways and mumbled: his mouth was full of nails. When a row had been completed and certain redundant nails returned to a tin box, Mr. Stickle made up for his enforced silence.

  “Collected 'em hisself on Friday mornin',” he squeaked. “Friday mornin' they was promised for, and Friday mornin' he had 'em.”

  “H'm.” The bimbashi looked puzzled. “You mean, of course, a pair of brown shoes with perforated white uppers—sometimes known as 'corespondent's' shoes?”

  “I do—and he had 'em Friday mornin'. Punctual I am, and knows me trade. When that picture what Joe Porter has of the White Hart in 1743 were made, this business stood here, it did, and a Stickle were in it.”

  He smiled proudly, displaying through a hole in his red beard those few teeth which had survived a lifetime devoted to chewing brass nails.

  “So I gather,” said the bimbashi, wondering if a prosperous-looking spider whose web embraced one corner of the room had been in it too. “While you were amusing yourself at the White Hart on Thursday night, who was in charge here?”

  “Amusin' meself!” Mr. Stickle's beard almost audibly crackled. “Let me tell you something, mister. Nobody can't get me out of a night—nobody. Don't hold with it these times. But Thursday night were a challenge. I never refuses a challenge. If there's a champion shoemaker around these parts, I reckon everybody knows where to find him. But”—his voice assumed its most pathetic squeak—“I wish I knowed who done it.”

  “Who was here while you were out?”

  “Nobody. I lives by meself. When I goes out for a pint I puts this here board up what says, 'Back in 10 minutes.' The other night there wasn't no board—but I got a good Yale lock and all the windows was fastened.”

  “Had anything been disturbed when you returned?”

  “'Course nothing had been disturbed. Who'd disturb it?”

  “When did you finish work on the shoes?”

  “Thursday afternoon. Half-heelin' were the job. He has extra high heels and wears 'em down accordin'.”

  “Who, except you, could have known when the shoes were finished and when they were to be called for?”

  “Anybody who knowed me methods. Lots of people drops in for a talk like. Any of 'em could have knowed.”

  “Name some of these people.”

  Mr. Stickle scratched under his beard.

  “Well—Tom Payne were in Wednesday, I think it were. Then Bill Hookey come in Friday. Sam Jollet, the constable, he step in nearly every day some time.”

  “Has any of these a key of the door?”

  “Key o' the door! I wouldn't trust a key o' me door to no livin' man, no, nor woman neither, nobody livin'—except Dr. Allardyce.”

  “Why 'except Dr. Allardyce'?”

  “Because Dr. Allardyce have one.” He laughed as though he had scored a point. “Maybe you think Dr. Allardyce stole them shoes? Likely, too, I'd say!” He chuckled until his spectacles threatened to fall off. “That's a good 'un, that is.”

  “But why has Dr. Allardyce a key?”

  “'Cause I never ask for it to be give up. When I were layin' in me bed here with me bronchitis last spring, Dr. Allardyce have a key made to come in an' out. Stay best part o' one night along o' me, too. Aye, there ain't another doctor in Lychgate would have did it. I challenge you to find one. That's what I calls a real doctor. Always droppin' in for a chat, too, friendly like—”

  “I see,” said the bimbashi. “Does Dr. Allardyce live near here?”

  “Heath House. That's where Dr. Allardyce live.” He took up the notice, “Back in 10 minutes,”

  “Would there be any objection to me goin' along to the White Hart for me pint?” he inquired.

  HEATH HOUSE, tendrils of creeper running like veins across its weather-beaten face, challenged the heath in rather forbidding silence. On a brass plate beside the gate appeared:

  JULIAN ALLARDYCE, F.R.C.P. (Edin.)

  DR. M. ALLARDYCE.

  A trim, grim and elderly Scotswoman opened the door to Bimbashi Baruk. He was presently shown upstairs and left in a well-appointed study, both windows of which commanded extensive views of Lychgate Heath. He had waited no more than a minute when one of three doors opened and a man who wore a long white coat came in. The bimbashi felt the impact of a powerful personality.

  “Good morning, Major Baruk. I understand that you wish to see me.”

  “Dr. Allardyce?”

  “Julian Allardyce, at your service.”

  Julian Allardyce was tall, of a lean but athletic build of which his visitor approved; clean shaven, with abundant silvering hair brushed back from a fine brow. His gray eyes were steady in their regard and he would have been strikingly handsome if the bridge of a strong, straight nose had not been broken at some time.

  “My call concerns one of your patients—”

  “I do not practice, sir, although I hold a medical degree.” He had a light, vibrant voice and at times a somewhat arrogant academic manner. “I am employed in research work.” Another of the three doors opened and a woman came in. Julian Allardyce extended a large, capable hand.“This is Dr. Allardyce.”

  Bimbashi Baruk turned, and was about to say something about “your daughter,” but his nimble wit stepped on his tongue in the nick of time. He contented himself with a formal bow.

  “Major Baruk wishes to see you about one of your patients, Marian.” Julian Allardyce bowed slightly to the bimbashi. “This is my wife. And now, no doubt you will excuse me, sir, as I am engaged upon work of some urgency.”

  He went out.

  “Won't you sit down, Major Baruk.” Mrs. Allardyce spoke in quiet, cultured and musical tones. “I hope I can help you. Which of my patients is it?”

  Bimbashi Baruk took a seat in an armchair and Mrs. Allardyce on a deep settee placed between two windows. The bimbashi wondered how even Jeremiah Stickle had contrived to gabble for several minutes without betraying the fact that “Dr. Allardyce” was feminine. He noted that she was dressed now in a smart tweed suit, that she was slight and shapely and her husband's junior by many years. Her dark hair, in which one might detect faint coppery streaks, had a most intriguing wave. She wore spectacles, and, smiling so as to display small, milky-white teeth, she removed the spectacles and laid them beside her.

  “My professional disguise,” she explained. “I have learned that they give patients confidence.”

  He found himself looking into amber eyes fringed by long, curling lashes, and he knew that Mrs. Allardyce was a remarkably beautiful woman; he knew, too, that she was not English. A swift picture of the story took form in his brain, clear and strong as a good photographic print.

  “Actually, I am interested in two patients,” he replied slowly. “The first is Gabriel Varez.”

  Mrs. Allardyce watched him steadily; her expression was unfathomable.

  “I have no patient of that name.”

  “Shall I say, then,was Gabriel Varez? The other is Jeremiah Stickle.”

  “I have certainly attended Stickle, but not lately. Is he ill again?”

  “Not at all, nor is he of more than secondary importance. I am chiefly anxious to know why you sent a phone message to Major de Maura on behalf of Gabriel Varez.”

  “You say thatI sent such a message?”

  The bimbashi hated his task more and more every minute. His peculiar system of interrogation called for great moral courage in practice; but he had outlined the inquiry to Colonel Dawney in this way: (1) definite evidence that curare was used. This he believed he had secured. (2) Somebody who had some or who could obtain it. In this household he had found, at least, somebody who could obtain it and also somebody who could have had access to de Maura's shoes while they were in Stickle's workshop. Her appearance suggested that thi
s beautiful woman who possessed leopard eyes and a preoccupied husband, might conceivably be (3) de Maura's secret visitor. There were weak features in the formula, but, in lieu of a better, he allowed it to dictate his next remark.

  “My dear Mrs. Allardyce,” he said, “it would be nearly impossible to mistake your voice.”

  “My voice?”

  “Your words were, 'Please tell Major Rafael de Maura that Gabriel Varez is with him in spirit.' Your voice is undisguisable.”

  “Butyou did not—”

  She checked herself, dropped protective lashes; but it was too late. At last, that extra sense of the bimbashi's had awakened. The completed sentence reached his brain; it was: “Butyou did not take the message.” He sighed and stood up. He was acutely uncomfortable. He stared out of a window, learning that the cottage of Jeremiah Stickle was visible from that point. Then he turned.

  “Let me make my position clear.” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “I hold a sort of warrant, authorizing all Officers Commanding, Chief Constables and others, to afford me every facility. In point of fact, my present visit is not an official one.” Mrs. Allardyce rose from the settee and confronted him. “Would you care to give me particulars and leave the result to my conscience; or do you prefer that I pass the inquiry over to the police, with such evidence as I have?” Her hands had been clenched, but she relaxed them.

  “What evidence have you?” she asked coldly.

  He took out a small leather box, velvet-lined; it had formerly held pearl studs. It now contained an odd-looking object which he handled gingerly.