by Sax Rohmer
7. The Scarab of Lapis Lazuli
KHAMSIN, THAT scorching breeze from the south which, when it reaches Italy and the Levant, becomes the sirocco, has a bad reputation; and there was one occasion when khamsin, aided and abetted by Jane Watkin, of Bruton Street, brought about a tragedy which might have remained forever a mystery if oppressive heat, harbinger of the Serpent Wind, had not made Bimbashi Baruk uncommonly thirsty.
Shortly after his successful inquiries in the Syrian desert, he was passing the club not long before midnight on his way to his Cairo headquarters, when he decided to turn in there for a drink. He had the bar to himself except for young Cardew of H.Q. and a civilian whom he didn't know. In these circumstances it was unavoidable that he should overhear a conversation which had the most remarkable consequences.
The behavior of Dick Cardew, who would have been Army middleweight champion if he had learned to curb his temper, was so wholly unpredictable that when, tersely excusing himself to his friend and bidding the bimbashi good night, he dashed out, he left the bimbashi troubled in mind; so much so that he determined to follow. He liked Cardew and he sensed trouble brewing.
There was a nearly full moon, but as he drove across the bridge Bimbashi Baruk noted that the sky looked of a dirty blue, not unlike that which distinguished his own water-color paintings, stars twinkling dimly as through a veil. A puff of air met him which might have come from a furnace, and it carried a nearly impalpable grittiness. But he had come within sight of his destination before the hot wind, proclaimed by a furious lashing of palm fronds, burst in all its fury.
He saw as he reached the gates of the villa that a number of cars were being driven away. Waves of heat seemed to crush down upon him as he turned into the drive and huge leaves fell from the treetops as mastlike trunks bent back before the fiery breath of the desert. Clouds of dust now obscured stars and moon. Guests anxious to reach home hurried past in a darkness almost complete, and the Serpent Wind howled like demoniac voices of a hundred devils. This was a first-class dust storm, a terror which rarely descends upon Cairo.
Double glazed doors were draped and a lobby beyond was dimly lighted. An Egyptian servant asked no questions when Bimbashi Baruk pushed these doors open and went in: he merely closed them again to keep out the hot wind. The air smelled like that of a recently crowded bar.
“Is Captain Cardew here?” the bimbashi asked rapidly in Arabic.
“Yes, sir. At least, I have not seen Yuzbashi Cardew go.”
He passed on. He did not know Mrs. Yardley Etherton well, although he had received an invitation to her buffet party now so hurriedly dispersing. Young and attractive wife of an elderly and respected U.S. diplomat, she was, in his own words, one of those women who mean no harm but who manage to do a lot.
Of course it was possible that Cardew had left unobserved by the bowwab. However, the bimbashi determined to seek out Mrs. Yardley Etherton. A sound of voices suggested that those guests who remained were assembled in a long, narrow lounge which, he remembered, opened onto the garden. He walked along a carpeted corridor. Khamsin howled ghoulishly outside, but its waitings were dimmed by closed shutters.
As he passed a door ajar, that of an apparently unlighted room, Bimbashi Baruk pulled up sharply; his fists became nervously clenched. Above wailing of the wind he had heard, coming from this room, another sound—a woman's scream, a babble of words, upon which ensued sudden silence.
Seized by an unpleasant premonition, he pushed the door open and looked into the room. As he had supposed, it was in darkness, but he groped for and found a switch, so that a standard lamp became lighted. The room, furnished as a study, was empty. He saw a second door, behind an orderly desk. Crossing, he found a key in place, and the door locked. A curtained alcove at the other end, in which were a divan and coffee tables, afforded no explanation of the mystery; for this alcove also was empty. Drafts of hot, gritty air and the billowing of draperies before french windows gave him a clue at last.
He pulled a curtain aside, found one of the windows to be partly open, and was met by a full blast of khamsin. But he ignored it. Light from the standard lamp, shining dimly out onto the terrace, had shown him the figure of a man lying outstretched not more than three feet from where he stood. Blood poured from a deep head wound.
In the adjoining room, someone had started a gramophone, and sibilant slippers told Bimbashi Baruk that they were dancing.
THESE WERE THE CIRCUMSTANCES which led to the awakening of Commandant Hatton of the Cairo police. Hatton, who was entitled to call himself Hatton Pasha, but never did so, was formerly attached to the C.I.D. He had survived two changes of regime since his Egyptian appointment, had overridden superannuation and generally was regarded as irreplaceable.
“This is not my idea of clean, healthy fun,” he remarked.
A chiming clock was clearing its throat preparatory to striking two. Hatton, seated in the villa study, looked up from his notes. A big man, fresh-colored, with close-cut, silver-gray hair and a small mustache resembling a midget currycomb, his light blue eyes had outlived a happy childhood.
“I am more than a little bothered, myself,” Bimbashi Baruk admitted. “We have bold, sturdy lying to deal with.”
Hatton nodded. He was glad to have Bimbashi Baruk with him in an inquiry at once so puzzling and so delicate; he held Bimbashi Baruk in high esteem. He had known, and had respected, his Arab father, had admired from afar, humbly and spiritually, his English mother. In the young Camel Corps major he recognized both, transmuted by that strange union into something fine and unusual. Occasional puffs of hot air alone remained as evidence that the desert had sought once more to blot out a city and had failed. The facts embodied in Hatton's notes were bizarre and confusing. They were these.
The man discovered by Bimbashi Baruk, when dragged into the study, had proved to be dead. Neither host nor hostess being discoverable (it was learned later that Yardley Etherton was away from Cairo), the bimbashi had taken charge. A doctor was summoned, the police were notified, and guests still on the premises were asked to remain. The victim had a skull wound behind his right ear and a severe laceration of the jaw, but the physician was of opinion that these were not the direct cause of death—which he believed to have taken place approximately at the time that the body was found. He suspected some contributory cause; probably a heart weakness. The doctor estimated the dead man, tall and of handsome presence, to have been about thirty-five years of age. His few possessions gave no clue to his identity.
“We can reasonably suppose,” said Hatton, “that he was a stranger to Cairo. Not because nobody has admitted to recognizing him, but because he wears a borrowed dress suit with no label. Short of hotel valets—who generally have a few on hand—places where he might have borrowed it are limited.”
A spell of silence followed, during which straggling puffs of khamsin whistled, elfin, in the trees outside.
“I think,” said Bimbashi Baruk, “that we may accept the evidence showing that Mrs. Yardley Etherton, finding her party dispersing, joined friends with whom she drove into Cairo.”
“Yes. Her slogan is, 'Don't break up the party.
“It is not clear to me, though, of the four guests who remain, why one was detained.”
“Adrienne Arlen?”
“Yes.” Bimbashi Baruk's eyes grew dreamy.
“First, her behavior when she viewed the body.”
“H'm—perhaps. No sensitive woman enjoys looking at a bloodstained corpse.”
“Then, you observed, no doubt, that she carries a handbag with initials in diamonds?”
“I had noted the fact.” The bimbashi's drooping eyelids were raised momentarily. “These initials, although she hides them rather cleverly, are J. F.”
“Exactly. Either she has given a false name—”
“Or borrowed the bag.”
There was a rap on the door.
“Come in,” said Hatton.
The door opened and Cardew entered.
“Sorry if I seem to butt in, Hatton—but might I have a private chat with Major Baruk?”
“Certainly; by all means.”
Hatton went out, quietly closing the door. Bimbashi Baruk took the seat just vacated and began to fill his pipe.
“Try the armchair, Cardew,” he said. “It looks restful.”
Cardew crossed to the chair but did not sit in it; he sat on one arm, facing the bimbashi. Of no more than medium height, Richard Cardew was a man powerfully built; his dark brown hair grew in small, tight waves, and his gray eyes had sometimes been described as dangerous. If his jaw was a shade too heavy, a shy smile betrayed a sensitive nature; only a fool could have doubted his spirit and integrity.
“I want to get this thing clear if I can,” he began steadily, “for I find the present situation intolerable.”
Bimbashi Baruk struck a match. “It's a police inquiry, Cardew,” he replied. “If my presence is not entirely accidental, it is in no way official. I am out to help everybody, so fire away.”
“Well, when I gave my evidence, there was one small point which I withheld. You will understand when I explain.”
Bimbashi Baruk lighted his pipe. “Suppose you start from the club,” he suggested. “I could not avoid overhearing your conversation, a fact which explains why I came out. I heard a man tell you that he had just come from one of Mrs. Etherton's affairs at Gezira, and that Lady Avalon Westry was there. Go ahead from that point.”
“I will,” said Cardew grimly. “What you evidently didn't hear was his description of the behavior of the man with whom he had seen her. I was rather staggered.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see Avalon had called me earlier in the evening to say that she felt rather under the weather and was going to turn in. Idashed out here in a pretty foul humor. I never cared a lot for Nan Etherton, but she and Val were at the same finishing school in France, and I suppose there's no real harm in the woman. When I arrived, there was every sign of a big storm blowing up, and the crowd was dismissing. I saw Peter Malmsey—Nan Etherton's tame boy friend—and he told me that Val was still here. Nan had joined the Farquharsons and had pushed over to Cairo. Peter was acting as deputy host.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to look for Val.”
“And did you find her?”
“Yes. Now, I told Hatton that she was talking to someone whom I couldn't see clearly, just outside this room.”
“I remember.”
“From the garden, I saw them come out. The breeze was rising and people were already dashing away. Well, she and the man went along the terrace towards the steps. I lost sight of them.”
“This tallies with what you told Hatton. Which is the part you wish to correct?”
“Well, when the surgeon had finished and we were asked to view the body, I said that I didn't know the man. In a sense, this was true—but he is the man Val was talking to!”
Bimbashi Baruk's expression grew grim.
“I understand your former—reticence, Cardew. Avalon had already denied that she knew him.”
Cardew dropped into the armchair and ran his fingers through tight waves of hair. “Exactly! That's the devil of it. What could I do then?”
“The more urgent question is, what are you going to do now? Have you had it out with her?”
Cardew shook his head almost savagely. “She is highly strung, as you know, and at the moment on the verge of hysteria. It is painfully clear that Hatton, after a short interrogation, allowed everybody to go except Avalon, myself—and some woman I had never seen before. Peter Malmsey stayed as representative of the hostess. Since he can't suspect Peter, what am I to infer?”
Peter Malmsey was one of those young men who are well connected and something at a Ministry; it was true that nobody could suspect Peter.
“The simple fact is, Cardew, that in the eyes of criminal law no man's unsupported word is worth a damn. Hatton regards Miss Arlen's evidence as unsatisfactory, and Avalon told him she was hunting for her car when I called on everyone to return. Unfortunately, she hunted alone. You said you were looking for Avalon. But you see, Cardew, no one saw you looking for her.”
“But Avalon—”
“Leave Avalon to me,” said the bimbashi, quietly. “Just keep out of the way.”
“You are not going to tell her—”
“It is unnecessary that I should refer to our conversation.”
AVALON MARY WESTRY, only daughter of the Marquis of Derringham, would have been hailed as a beauty by social columnists had her debut been made in a normally silly season. She was tall, slight and delicately fair: to have described her as a blonde would have been coarse. She legitimately prompted the simile of a lily with her cool white skin and pale golden hair. Her eyes were calmly blue, and a suggestion rather than the presence of aggressiveness about her chin, alone disturbed the Madonna picture. Lady Avalon, in common with others, had undertaken war employments in England, but it had been noted that she rarely remained long in any one of them. Officially, indifferent health was held to blame; actually, few girls of her age were more healthy.
The fact was that, although not strictly beautiful and although of a far from ardent temperament, Lady Avalon possessed that elusive appeal which in bygone days had made Phryne such a public nuisance. Upon certain men her presence acted like fumes of hashish, so keen was the desire which she provoked. This circumstance had caused her parents no small concern, since more than one scandal had been narrowly averted. When Dick Cardew came along—unlike her other suitors, he was unattached, wealthy and in every way eligible—an early marriage was urged by Avalon's anxious mother.
Avalon, however, had proved difficult; she declined to permit any announcement. But when Dick Cardew left for Egypt, Avalon saw him off— and broke down hopelessly as the train pulled out. Some months later, during the time that she was employed in the Ministry of Supply, information reached her father concerning yet another scandal about to bloom, and the historic “Westry jaw” of the marquis (delicately inherited by his daughter) became set in two right-angle triangles. Her health demanded sun and a dry climate: Lady Avalon was sent out to her aunt in Cairo. She went gladly, for Dick Cardew was there; but up to the time of the villa tragedy, no engagement had been reported....
The puff of khamsin having extinguished itself with its own violence, a nearly full moon held her Isis mirror above that land of Egypt in which the ancient gods were dying. Heat remained, bearing down oppressively upon the garden, and there were queer cracklings and rustlings among palm tops and in the flower borders. Night reopened her jewel casket and the sloping yards of moored dahabiyehs showed like silver slashes on dark velvet. There was a shaded path overlooking the Nile, but its seats were coated with dust, and Lady Avalon and Bimbashi Baruk leaned on a low stone parapet looking down at the muddy river.
She wore a white lace frock, with a sort of cowl which she had drawn over her fair hair, creating an effect similar to that of a mantilla; she appeared almost immortally ethereal. From a boat somewhere upstream, borne upon a faint breeze, came monotonous strains of a reed pipe.
“You see, Major”—Avalon's voice was low-pitched but peculiarly clear—“I am one of those unfortunate people who are always found out. I don't truly believe I have ever done anything desperately bad, but whatever I do, right or wrong, it inevitably comes to light. I know lots of girls who have had secret affairs—in fact I know few who haven't; but if ever a man has even ventured to kiss me, some friend of the family has always seen him. Now, when everything was coming right, this thing happens.”
“You didn't expect Cardew to be here?”
“Oh, no!”
The bimbashi studied Avalon's pure profile. “I am afraid,” he said quietly, “that you will have to explain to him why you came. Or should you prefer to explain to me?”
He saw her biting her lip.
“Suppose I did explain to you,” she replied, “would you consider it your duty to pass the explanati
on on to Mr. Hatton?”
“That would depend upon the explanation. You see, it is a serious offense to obstruct a police officer in the execution of his duty.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that you told Hatton you had never seen the dead man before.”
“Well?”
“Well, I was led to my discovery of the body by hearing you call out, 'Larry! Larry! What have you done?' Those, I think, were your exact words?”
Avalon leaned forward, resting her hands on the dusty parapet. Faintly, strains of that distant pipe reached the bimbashi's ears.
“Oh, you heard that?”
“Distinctly.”
“Does Dick know?”
“That I overheard your words? Of course not. Why should I have told him?”
“I don't know; but he has been trying to cross-examine me all night, and I have clung like a limpet to Peter Malmsey. Oh, Major, I don't know what to say!”
“Before you say anything, even to me—have you the slightest idea who committed the crime?”
“On my word of honor, not the slightest—unless it was a case of suicide. He said he would do it.”
“His injuries are not consistent with such a theory. And now, Avalon: Who was this man?”
THE STORY which Lady Avalon Westry told to Bimbashi Baruk was so true to pattern, except in its catastrophe, that the bimbashi quite easily could have concluded it without assistance from the girl. The dead man was Lawrence Bard, junior partner in a prominent firm of cotton brokers, Grantock, Ferez & Bard, of Manchester, London, Alexandria and Cairo....
“You see, he caught me very young. I was a little fool. It seemed like real romance to me. I didn't think so afterwards. He used to manage to get invited wherever I went and he swore he would shoot himself if I didn't marry him—although he had a wife already. But he said that she was grossly unfaithful and that he had evidence for a divorce.”
“And for how long did this friendship last?”
“Oh, perhaps a year. Then I met Dick—and somehow the affair with Larry Bard suddenly seemed vulgar, sordid. I was given a job at the Ministry of Supply; my French was my sole qualification—I suppose I have a flair for it. He—Lawrence Bard—got an appointment there too, and I simply couldn't make him understand that it was finished. He positively haunted me, and people began to talk. Of course, Father heard the story; he would. You see, it was really because of Larry Bard that I wouldn't agree to marry Dick. I felt he ought to know, but I hadn't the pluck to tell him.”
