E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates

by E. Hoffmann Price

  “Oh, good Lord!” she gasped, glancing about her as though seeking some way of escape. “I didn’t—you must believe me—Hussayn is not—”

  “Yes?” Farrell prompted after a moment of silence. “You didn’t kill Hussayn, of course.”

  “I’m so glad that you believe me,” she said with obvious relief.

  “Only, I don’t!” declared Farrell. “And I would like to know why you dusted down Orleans Alley and stepped into a car that was waiting there for you, if you didn’t kill that fellow I found lying in the cross alley.”

  “That’s why I left,” she said. “I knew that I’d be accused of killing Hussayn. And when you sent for the police, I was sure the peacock would be safe.”

  “You’d have had to claim it from them, instead of me,” said Farrell.

  “I could have arranged that, as a close relative. But now that you’ve identified me as a witness, I’m put in a terrible position. I’ll be questioned. I’ll have to show Hussayn’s papers. And that would cause international complications—revolts—uprisings—”

  Farrell intently regarded her for a moment. He knew that her story was plausible.

  “I’m not trying to hang a murder on you,” he finally said. “I’m not officially connected with the police, and I can—and will—get you all the breaks I can.”

  She sighed with relief at his amiable assurance and the twinkle in his gray eyes. Farrell reached into the desk drawer into which he had swept the golden peacock and set it on the blotting pad.

  “Now open up,” he demanded. “If you’re not messed up in that killing, I’ll see that you get the peacock without embarrassing questions. Tell me the story, and if it makes sense, I’ll put it across to the police and keep you in the clear.”

  “Oh, you can’t imagine how grateful I am,” she exclaimed as she eagerly reached for the glittering amulet.

  “Just a moment,” murmured Farrell, on guard against sleight of hand. “Suppose you prove your point before—”

  But Farrell did not complete his suggestion that she establish claims before taking possession of the token. Azizah’s terrified scream startled Farrell as he reached forward to stay her eager hand. Leaping from his chair, he whirled in the direction of her wide-eyed stare. Bronson, at the end of the desk, drew his pistol as he turned.

  Farrell caught a glimpse of a broad, sallow face and the muzzle of an exceptionally heavy pistol emerging from the window drapes. The flame and stinging blast of Bronson’s automatic for an instant blinded Farrell. There was an answering crackle, then a peculiar, coughing report, and Azizah’s high-pitched shriek.

  Farrell snatched the butt of his .45; but even as his fingers closed about the checkered walnut stock, he choked, gasped for breath, reeled dazedly—

  The lights became dim and murky and the sounds of struggle and the Syrian girl’s outcry trickled into his consciousness as though he were miles away. He could just distinguish Bronson at his right front, and the jet of flame from his automatic. A swarthy face with high cheek bones parted in a flicker of white teeth as the marine pitched headlong to the floor, and vague, shadowy forms darted into the ever-thickening darkness that was closing in on Farrell.

  The pistol in his hand became intolerably heavy. He forced himself to press the trigger. He felt the jerk of the weapon, heard a bullet splinter a windowpane—

  And then, as he plunged headlong into impenetrable blackness, he heard a triumphant laugh above the roaring and drumming and droning in his ears. He knew that the long arm of Malik Tawus, the peacock god of the Yezidees, had reached into his very house and drugged him with a puff of narcotic gas shot from a pistol with an exceptionally large bore.

  CHAPTER III

  When Farrell recovered his senses, his first impression was that his throbbing head must at least extend from wall to wall. There was a rank, metallic taste in his mouth. The room still reeked with the acrid tang of smokeless powder blended with the sickeningly sweetish fumes that had overwhelmed him as he leveled his .45 at the first of the invaders.

  “Damn that girl!” he muttered thickly as he rolled over and laboriously struggled to his feet. Farrell tottered crazily for a moment, clutched the edge of the desk, and regained his balance. He saw Bronson, bleeding from a scalp wound, sprawled face-down on the floor. Near him, at the edge of the Feraghan carpet, was a black-haired man whose swarthy hand still clutched a pistol.

  Farrell saw at a glance that the intruder was dead. He turned to Bronson, who was muttering and stirring. Farrell took a decanter of brandy and poured a draft between his comrade’s teeth. The marine coughed, blinked, clambered to his knees.

  “That’d raise the dead!” he exclaimed as he reached for the source of supply and lowered its level a full inch. “Just as I folded one of ’em, something socked me; but that’s not what put me out.”

  “Gas,” replied Farrell. “And we might as well call the police, now that our foreign friends have made a couple of monkeys of us.”

  He grinned sourly and leaned across his desk to pick up the telephone. A siren blast interrupted the gesture.

  “Neighbors beat us to it.” He glanced about him, noted the plaster that stray bullets had knocked from the walls.

  “Anyway, the coroner can’t claim this bird met his death at the hands of person or persons unknown.”

  But before Farrell could continue his survey of the room, he was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Bronson admitted John Healy, who was leading a squad of detectives.

  “First it’s Turks in the French Quarter, and then you go home for more street fighting!” he exclaimed as he surveyed the disorder. “And who the hell’s this fellow you’ve laid out?”

  Farrell summarized the evening’s events and omitted nothing.

  “They sent that jane after the peacock I picked up, and to be sure I’d not hold out on her, they raided us while she was flim-flamming me,” he concluded. “And she looked like a perfect lady.”

  Healy snorted something pungent and unintelligible about ladies, then once more examined the imprint of the seal, which still lay on Farrell’s desk.

  “Do you mean to say this whole mess is hinging on half of a peacock?” he demanded.

  Farrell nodded.

  “Right on the face of it, it certainly does look as though a gang of Yezidee devil worshipers—”

  “What’s that?” demanded Healy with an incredulous stare. The detectives accompanying him, who had already begun their routine, turned to second their chief’s amazement. “Devil worshipers?”

  “Right, John. They worship Satan in the form of a peacock. And this inscription—” He translated the broken lines. “It checks closely. The first chapter of Al Yalvah, the Yezidee sacred book, opens up:

  “‘The Lord God created of Fire seven shining spirits, even as a man lighteth seven tapers one after another: and the chief of these was Malik Tawus, Lord of Evil.’”

  Healy glanced from Farrell to the grim features of the dead intruder.

  “Devil worshiper, eh? But how come you know so much about them?”

  “I’ve been around them, in the Sinjar Hills.”

  “I always thought there was something wrong with you,” snorted Healy, outraged at the thought of any friend of his having dealings with the followers of Satan. “It’s damn good judgment you showed in leavin’ home at an early age.”

  “Aw, cheer up, John,” interpolated Farrell. “What I want to know is something about that Arab that was killed in Pirate’s Alley.”

  “Oh, you mean Abdul?”

  “Abdul?” Farrell frowned. “The girl said his name was Hussayn. I don’t think she—”

  “Hussayn, is it?” Healy chuckled. “Oh, all right. Only I always call these Turks Abdul when we can’t identify them. There wasn’t a sign of identification on him. Not even a laundry mark. Looks like he’d made a careful effort to con
ceal his identity.

  “But he had a roll of hundred-dollar bills on him as big as a bolt of calico.”

  “That,” said Farrell, “just goes to prove that the peacock is the point of it all. They weren’t after money. It was the bird they wanted. I picked it up, and they went for my hide.”

  “That’s what you get for meddling,” growled Healy, pretending to censure Farrell’s turn at investigation. “Anyway, it doesn’t make any sense, all this peacock stuff.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” countered Farrell. “That’s why I held it out and started studying it—”

  “Lot of studying you did,” interrupted Healy from the right of his cigar stump. “But it must have been fun going to school with you.”

  “Oh, have it your own way, John. But you’re going to hear more of this peacock. The other half is likely to crop out.”

  He penciled a sketch to show how the vertically dove-tailed groove indicated that there must be two halves which would fit together.

  “And if you can’t take the peacock god theory,” Farrell added, “just remember that religion and politics are closely allied in the Orient. It may be a token of identification of some secret clique that’s planning a holy war—a jihad.

  “Arabia is one boiling mess to-day. There’s Ahmad, King of Najd—the King of Iraq—and the King of the Hejaz, all at each other’s throats, and all trying to gang up on the European powers that are edging in. International politics—”

  “Then where does the devil come in? Those A-rab fellows are Mohammedans.”

  “Right,” admitted Farrell. “But the golden bird may be camouflage. Nobody would suspect the symbol of a gang of mountaineers they all consider as low-down heathens.”

  “Which is what the whole crew of ’em is!” And delivered of that opinion, Healy pondered for a moment. It was entirely beyond the class of criminal investigation which he handled with relentless efficiency. Racketeers left town faster than they entered—that is, those that could leave under their own power. And local talent was jerked up with dizzying abruptness. But this outrageous foreign slant left Healy at loss; and though outwardly skeptical, he was glad enough to profit by Farrell’s years of adventure in the Orient.

  Healy’s thought were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

  “For you, John,” said Farrell as he handed the instrument to the chief of detectives. “And it sounds like hell to pay somewhere.”

  The crackling of the diaphragm seconded Farrell’s opinion.

  “What’s that?” barked Healy, his face suddenly grim and wrathful. “Who? Gimme that address. O. K., Duval! I’ll look into it myself.”

  He slammed the hand-set back to its yoke, glared at Farrell for a moment.

  “That makes you a prophet!” he exploded. “Martin Wentworth just beaned a burglar!”

  “Was it—”

  But Farrell knew the answer even before Healy interrupted.

  “Another one of them damn Turks!”

  Farrell chuckled.

  “If you call my unidentified guest Abdul, how about the fellow Wentworth knocked off? It’s a cinch he’ll have no more identification than the others.”

  “I’ll call the both of ’em Abdul!” Healy declared. “O’Hara! Dobson! Carry on with your routine! Let’s go, Glenn.”

  Farrell followed Healy to the department car. They drove down St. Charles Avenue, and turned into the Garden District, that mellowed stronghold of ancient mansions, old families, inherited wealth, and departed riches concealed by the subterfuge of paying guests.

  As they drove, Farrell wondered how Martin Wentworth, chairman of the board of the Asiatic-American Oil Corporation, had become embroiled with the outcropping of Oriental criminals. This, to Farrell, was the most fantastic note of the evening.

  Even though there is scarcely a day when ships from India, the Persian Gulf, or the Malay States, are not anchored along the river front, with their foreign crews squatting on deck, grinding curry powder or preparing pilau over charcoal fires, a burglary by an Oriental, and so far uptown, was unusual enough to border on incredibility.

  Farrell eliminated coincidence, and concluded that Martin Wentworth must be involved with the servants of the Golden Peacock.

  Wentworth’s mansion, square and massive as a fortress, was ablaze with lights that were visible despite the surrounding magnolias, bamboos, and clustered plantains of the estate. A police car which had come directly from headquarters was already at the curbing. A patrolman at the entrance of the grounds saluted as Healy and Farrell approached.

  Wentworth personally admitted them. His heavy features were still flushed with wrath, rather than excitement and alarm. Farrell wondered whether Healy had noted that slight but striking discrepancy.

  “Damned outrage!” Wentworth exploded by way of greeting. “Town’s a hotbed of crime!”

  Then, recognizing Farrell, whom he met at the Union Club at rare intervals: “Hi, Farrell—what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve just enjoyed a bit of an outrage myself,” Farrell explained. “We’re keeping Healy out late these nights. Looks like some one has declared open season.”

  Wentworth regarded him curiously for a moment. He seemed on the verge of inquiring as to the outrage, then changed his mind and led the way to his study.

  The room was a confusion of overturned furniture and book cases. A black marble pedestal was athwart the threshold, and a white marble bust of Napoleon lay in fragments on the broad hearth. The door of a wall safe yawned mockingly.

  Sprawled across the carpet before the safe lay a man whose head was a gory pulp in a scattering of pottery fragments.

  “When I woke up,” Wentworth explained, “there was a fellow trying to chloroform me. Lucky I sleep light. So I took a shot at him with my pistol, chased him downstairs, and found this lad in front of the safe. He was so intent on his work that the racket hadn’t aroused him. Guess he depended on his buddy to settle me. Just as he got on his feet, I pitched that jardinière at him.”

  Wentworth paused for breath, glanced about him, scowled fiercely, then laughed. “Always was a bum shot, so I had to throw something.”

  Farrell grinned appreciatively. Healy nodded, shifted his cigar stump, and scrutinized the prostrate intruder.

  “Looks like Mr. Abdul must have been pretty intent on his looting if you fired a shot and then came downstairs in time to catch him at it.” As he spoke, Healy sharply regarded the oil millionaire.

  “Well, that’s the way it happened,” Wentworth declared, with just a shade more of acrimony than the situation seemed to warrant. “And—”

  “What did he take?” interrupted Healy as he reached for his notebook.

  “Not a thing,” replied Wentworth promptly. “I’d not even have called you, if—”

  He gestured toward the intruder.

  “Uh-uh. Of course.”

  Healy lifted his derby, scratched his almost bald head, glanced inquiringly at the detectives, who were painstakingly going over the room.

  “Finger print everything in the safe,” Healy directed. “And we’ll find out just what this fellow was pawing over in his search.”

  This seemed to Farrell to be logical enough, until it occurred to him that Healy’s approach was far fetched. Whatever the intruder had been seeking, he would have to handle every paper and packet of documents, go through every one of the drawers and pigeonholes—and then Farrell suppressed an exclamation. Wentworth’s sudden change of expression indicated that Healy had scored a bull’s-eye.

  “Er—Mr. Healy, I don’t see what that would tell you,” countered Wentworth. The objection was vehement, yet at the same time hesitant, as though, while he wished to protest vigorously, Wentworth nevertheless wanted to avoid the appearance of objecting. For some reason, Wentworth did not want any one to know what had and what had not been handled by the ba
ttered fellow who lay sprawled in front of the safe.

  Farrell’s glance flashed from Wentworth to Healy. He caught a momentary flicker of the detective’s right eyelid and a passing gleam in his frosty blue eyes. Wentworth had become decidedly uneasy as he watched Healy’s probing gaze deliberately cover the room and its somber, magnificent appointments.

  “Too much burglary in this man’s town,” Healy finally remarked as he turned again to Wentworth. “First they gang up on Farrell, then they clean you out. What have you fellows been up to? Hoarding gold?”

  Wentworth’s heavy, florid features relaxed.

  “Gold!” He snorted, and grimaced jovially. He was apparently relieved. “With the oil business all shot to hell!”

  “And a gang of Turks pulling both jobs.”

  Farrell knew that Healy had timed the remark to jar Wentworth’s sudden relief, and sharply regarded the millionaire to note its effect.

  “Turks?” echoed Wentworth, his glance shifting to the body. “Oh, that fellow.”

  “Uh-uh. Farrell just conked a saddle-faced gentleman that pulled a raid on him about half an hour before you turned in an alarm. What the hell you two birds been messed up in, anyway?”

  “Stumps me,” was Wentworth’s ready reply. He chuckled and shrugged. “Now Farrell, with all his adventuring around in the Orient the past dozen years, might be expected to make a few enemies.”

  He paused, struck light to a cigar, then as an afterthought gestured invitingly toward the humidor. As they declined the Havanas, Farrell pondered on the obvious implication of the oil man’s remark: that in contrast to Farrell’s fame for blundering into foreign perils, he, Wentworth, was in an entirely different class.

  Healy apparently accepted the comparison as it had been intended. He glanced about once more, issued routine instructions to the men on duty, and led the way to his car.

  “What do you make of that guy?” he demanded as he stepped on the starter.

  Farrell caught the unmistakable glint of Healy’s eyes and knew that the detective had missed nothing.

  “I’ve got a hunch,” declared Farrell, “that that is one of the queerest burglaries you’ve met in a long time.”