by Sax Rohmer
There was something barbaric in its form. It vaguely resembled a mosque. And I wondered if its builder had been influenced by the Crusades. A Felsenweir banner had flown in Palestine. Two ancient cypresses guarded the door, and this door was of some time-blackened wood, covered with iron scrollwork and seeming to have been unopened for generations. In fact, the queer, square building which palpably had not known a restorer’s hand, ordinarily, I thought, must have lain in ruin. There was something phenomenal in its solidity.
Set in worn stonework above this door, a device had been carved; but Time or the hand of man—I could not be sure which—had completely defaced it. No doubt it had represented the crest of the Felsenweirs, but none could have deciphered it now.
Gaston Max stepped forward and examined the mediaeval fastenings. He tested the strength of the woodwork. He turned, smiled, and shrugged. Then, from an inner pocket he took out a lens. He examined the lock, the hinges, and the worn stonework below. He replaced the lens.
“This door has not been opened for many years,” he declared positively.
3
Vegetation grew close up to the mausoleum on two sides, rank and unkempt. There was an ancient, musty smell.
“Stay where you are on the path, please,” said Max. “There is something I wish to investigate.” Stepping mincingly like a dancing master, he forced a delicate way through the undergrowth, stooping and peering at the soft ground. In this way he per- formed a circuit of the building. He rejoined me and again shrugged characteristically.
“Not a trace,” he reported. “No steps but mine have disturbed that smelly tangle for long enough. Name of a good little man! the vampire leaves no footprints. It is not from here, Mr. Woodville, that our charming friend Mme. Yburg was coming when you met her.”
The storm had gathered so blackly above us that I was anxious to commence the return journey, when.
“One thing more,” said Max softly.
He was gazing through ever growing darkness along the path, westward.
“What?”
He pointed, and I stared wonderingly in the direction indicated.
“Mysterious,” he murmured, “yet perhaps no more than a coincidence. But amid all these ancient tombs, most of them hundreds of years old, there is one yonder, you see, which has been renovated quite recently!”
To my mind the explanation was simple enough, but Max’s expression held a sudden triumph as we walked along the narrow mossy path and stood before that monument which had arrested his attention. It bore no inscription and was palpably of great age. but as he had said, signs of recent repair were evident.
As Max, drawing the lens again from his pocket, stooped and began to examine the crevices in the stonework, a blinding flash of lightning came. It whitely illuminated the prospect. It seemed like a reproach, a threat, to those who would disturb the dwellings of the dead. Max started upright; my own heart seemed to miss a beat. As he turned to me, although his face thus lighted looked unnaturally pale, he was smiling. And I thought there was triumph in his glance.
“I may be wrong,” he said enigmatically, “but I think I am right.”
My reply was drowned in a deafening crackle of thunder. In silence we turned and ran along the path as the first great drops of rain began to fall. We made for the lychgate, the only shelter we knew.
What prompted me to look back from the corner on to the main path, I cannot say. But I did so. . . .
A tall cloaked figure was standing by the Felsenweir vault! . . . and I thought of the Countess Adelheid. . . .
“Max!” I cried.
He was five paces ahead of me, but he pulled up with a jerk and turned. Even as he did so, the figure vanished. There came another blinding flash of lightning followed by a torrent of rain.
“What?” impatiently.
“Nothing. I must have been mistaken.”
And we ran on side by side.
CHAPTER X - TWO TURKISH LADIES
1
Having changed my wet clothing, had a shower bath and a brisk towelling, I came out of the bathroom and stared through open windows across rain-drenched lawns to Lichtenthaler Allee. The storm had passed, skies were blue, and the day had resumed all its old serenity.
My memories of our recent investigations in the cemetery seemed already trivial—insignificant. Rain-drenched roses gave freely of their perfume; all earth was fragrant; and under the trees which still dripped moisture, men in flannel kit and girls in flimsy summer frocks were appearing again.
Gaston Max, having also changed, presently rejoined me wearing gorgeous plus-fours. His expression was very thoughtful, and as he entered:
“I have been thinking hard, my friend,” he said. “Do you remember the suit I am wearing?”
“I remember it very well.,,
“I was wearing it on Monday when I followed Mme. Yburg to the cemetery. I had had no time to change before dinner, and later when I returned, I forgot to leave it out for the valet. . . From his pocket he produced a gold cigarette case. “In the coat is my missing case!”
“Good!” said I, ringing for a waiter. “In a less reputable hotel you might easily have lost it.”
“Yes!” Max was staring out of the open window. “I first missed it, you remember, last night.”
“Quite!”
I turned, glancing at him curiously.
“Does this suggest anything to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah! I may be wrong. To me it suggests a possible theory.”
He pressed a jewelled button in the ornate case and a cigarette shot up magically, which he proffered. It was a caporal but I accepted it.
“Your cigarette case is worthy of the late Harry Houdini.”
Max stared at me fixedly for a moment and then glanced down at the case. There came a rap on the door and the waiter entered.
“I am inclined to agree with you.”
I was puzzled. There was a hidden significance in his words which evaded me. And having ordered cocktails, as the waiter went out:
“You seem to be hinting that there is some mystery about your loss of the case,” I said.
“No,” Max replied, “not about my loss—that was pure chance. But about the case, yes. I think so.”
“Is the mystery of a private nature?”
“Not at all. But as I dislike making a fool of myself, I should prefer to check my theories before I confide them to you.”
He shot a second cigarette into the palm of his hand and replaced the gold case in his pocket; then:
“Consider,” he went on, “the circumstances of our last warning. You remember it?”
“Very clearly."
“Apart from its apparently supernatural character, it was remarkable for one thing.”
“What was that?”
“It will be clear if I simply remind you that at the time the last warning reached us you were expecting it.”
His words puzzled me for a moment. And then:
“I think I understand what you mean,” I said. “It came to me at precisely the same time as the others had come?”
“But exactly! Whereas my second warning had not been so accommodating. Had you considered this point?”
Frankly I admitted I had not.
“Does it seem significant to you?”
“It does.”
“I will not stress this point—I may be wrong.”
2
I had become accustomed to the presence of Mme. Yburg at the luncheon hour, but although Max and I lingered, she did not appear. I asked the Frenchman if he knew where she lived. He smiled wryly, and:
“Considering my profession, it seems absurd/’ he confessed, “but I have no idea.”
“She is a very clever woman.”
Max rolled a bread crumb softly upon the cloth.
“Undoubtedly. What we know of her history proves it.” He glanced across at me. “How absurd! Never before have I been at such a loss. Frankly, my friend, although we have onl
y until midnight, I have no idea how to occupy the remaining hours. No, none. In short, I have failed in the most elementary duty of a criminal investigator.”
“What is that?”
“The elimination of unessentials.”
“Ah!” I nodded, thinking deeply. “I see what you mean.”
“I have nine theories,” Max went on. “Into four of them I could begin to inquire this afternoon—but of these four three are certainly wrong, and it is possible that the true solution lies amongst the other five —which I cannot investigate this afternoon; or that no one of the nine is the true solution.”
I laughed.
“In these circumstances, what do you propose to do?”
“I propose,” Max replied, “to retire and to meditate.”
“You mean you want to be alone this afternoon?”
He nodded.
“This does not offend you?”
“Not at all!”
“Good. To-night there is, as you must have observed, a fancy-dress dance taking place here. Such occasions always I have observed to be fruitful. Therefore, I think we shall be present.”
“In fancy dress?”
Max shook his head.
“As ourselves,” he answered solemnly. “Let us meet at seven o'clock in the cocktail bar and dine together.”
“We shall still have five hours.” ...
3
When I joined Gaston Max at seven o'clock, I entered a fantastic world.
In England nowadays, except at elaborately organized affairs, the call of fancy dress falls upon deafish ears. On the Continent it is otherwise, or so it appeared to me at the moment I entered the bar.
As a rule few women penetrated to George’s sanctum. This night provided that exception which proves the rule. Cleopatra was there with Frederick the Great in attendance. Pierrette's cigarette was being lighted by a cardinal. A peasant of the Black Forest came in escorting a nautch girl. There were grotesque figures; few black coats. But whereas the men wore heavy and elaborate costumes—one was in Moorish armour—the women seemed to have pursued a more simple ideal. If ugly man has a tendency to hide, beautiful woman loves to show herself in public.
Max emerged from the colour scheme, the most perfectly dressed man in the room. He looked like a silk hat fresh from the hatter’s.
Having procured cocktails, we edged to a space near the door.
There had been no return of the storm. The night was still and hot. I greeted a few recognizable acquaintances as presently we made our way to a somewhat remote table in the dining room. Fritz was smiling but apologetic.
“It is so difficult, gentlemen,” he explained. “There are many people here, notable people, who come for this occasion and reserve their table so far in advance.”
When, having taken our wine order, Fritz had gone:
“Look about,” said Max in a low voice, bending toward me, “and see if you can find Mme. Yburg.”
“You think she is here?”
“I am sure she is here.”
I leaned back and looked about me. An unseen orchestra played softly. Animated groups surrounded every table in view. Ice buckets were at a premium and I encountered many laughing glances. For the inscrutable, slightly oblique eyes of Mme. Yburg I searched in vain. Let me confess that my quest was not a wholehearted one. I was looking for Mme. Yburg, yes! Undoubtedly she formed a link with that mysterious power which had limited our hours in Baden-Baden. But I was hoping, too, for a sight of frank blue eyes, for a glimpse of a shapely tawny head, and of slim, sun-browned shoulders. My search was unfruitful and I sighed.
“Four and a half hours,” said a voice.
I turned sharply. Gaston Max was smiling at me. “Did I startle you?”
“Yes, I confess you did.”
“It is amusing.”
The sound of gay voices became a mere background, unreal, deceptive; a painted cloth against which Max and I, willy-nilly, must play a grim drama.
“It is certain,” he went on, “that there are many people here tonight who belong to that invisible organization which speaks to us through the Voice. You agree with me?”
I nodded.
“Do you see our cross-eyed waiter anywhere?” “No.”
“It is possible he suspects, and has gone. Do you realize, my friend, that no violence has been offered to any of us—that only a Voice has spoken, Yet . . .” he shrugged ... “do you doubt?”
Being conscious of a growing uneasiness almost amounting to a physical chill:
“It’s impossible to doubt,” I replied, “that we are up against the plans of some very high intelligence. What those plans may be . . .”
Max reached across the table and grasped my arm.
“Have you a match?”
I saw that he held an unlighted cigarette between his lips. Startled, I met his fixed look. Lowering his voice:
“Speak softly,” he warned, “I think somebody is listening.”
4
When later we penetrated to that crowded ballroom, utter unreality was the keynote of my feelings. I found myself thinking of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death”—nor should I have been surprised if the Voice, incarnate and ghastly, a menacing figure from another world, had joined the revellers.
Whom Max had suspected of eavesdropping he had not told me. Perhaps the presence of a heavily disguised group at the next table may have aroused his suspicion. Toward the end of dinner I had asked him outright if he had learned anything which I did not know.
“Yes. My meditations this afternoon resulted in one definite discovery, and one theory. I shall presently tell you what I know and what I suspect. But, now, let us mix with the dancers and look out for Mme. Yburg. If you see her do not let her know— unless of course she is undisguised. If I leave you, do not be alarmed. But at a quarter of twelve be in your apartment.” . . .
It was all abominably mystifying. We left the dining room and entered the ballroom. And as we pushed our way through a group of people standing immediately inside the doorway, I lost Gaston Max.
To say that he disappeared would be to suggest an illusion: the fact remains that, whereas he entered beside me, on gaining the edge of the floor he was there no longer.
Admittedly I became somewhat abstracted. And for this reason:
As I reached the outer edge of the throng and gazed across the room, my glance, as though magnetically attracted, rested on the gauzily clad figure of an Arab girl. Except for shapely brown arms and suggested outline, nothing of her was visible but the bridge of her nose and two bright eyes.
These eyes, though the lids were darkened, were not the eyes of an Eastern. They were sky blue and they met my glance fixedly. No mistake was possible.
It was the girl of the Kurhaus!
Exploring has taught me many things, not least among them the importance of brisk decision. Rather rudely perhaps I pushed my way around the edge of the dancing floor.
Some few altercations I had, for the way was crowded. But I never lost sight of my objective. She seemed to be alone and I should have thought she was looking for someone amongst the many dancers, except that her glance rarely seemed to leave mine.
Presently I found myself beside her.
Let me say in my defence that I am no Don Juan. Having passed through all those temptations which the fag-end of the war with Germany offered to a fledgling officer, I had never experienced more than a passing interest in any woman. Somehow the sentiment awakened by this sun-kissed Diana was deeper different, more vital. Otherwise, for my social assurance is not great and my sense of the proprieties is enormous, I should never have had the impudence to behave as I did behave.
When I stepped up beside her, the girl turned and looked at me. Through her gauzy yashmak I could see that she was smiling.
“Lady of the East,” I said, and knew my speech to be rather ridiculous—my heart was beating rapidly— “may I have the honour of dancing with you?”
For one ghastly moment it
occurred to me that she might not speak English, but:
“Yes, if you like,” she replied.
Her English was faultless, quite without accent, yet the intonation told me that she was not an Englishwoman.
“Thank you.”
And we joined the dancers. It was a slow procession, yet we were half around the room before we spoke again, nor had I looked into her eyes. Then: “You must think-me very rude, or very brave,” I said, “but I have seen you before.”
“I know.” She met my glance frankly. “I saw you in the Kurhaus last night.”
I laughed, but I was glad. The confession was at once naive and gratifying.
“And I saw you.”
“I know you did. And somehow I knew we should meet again.”
She danced perfectly and I did not; but it’s more of a woman’s job anyway. Then:
“Surely you are not here alone?” I experimented.
“No. I came with a friend, but I have lost her.”
“That’s odd. Precisely the same thing has happened to me.”
“We seem to have quite a lot in common,” she murmured.
But her sophistication was that of a schoolgirl newly upon the world, and when I laughed at her words, she joined me gaily.
Midnight, with its threat, was forgotten. My mission in the Black Forest sank into a gloomy background. I had found myself in touch with hideous, terrible things. Their very memory was contaminating. I was in danger no doubt; but such is my makeup, thank God, I cast it aside as a snake casts its skin, and for one little hour I was content.
Presently we walked out into the moonlit gardens, my companion glancing about her fearfully.
“If I’m caught,” she declared, “there’ll be a fearful row.”
And as she preceded me down the steps I cudgelled my brains in vain for a clue to something familiar in the way she carried herself—in her intonation—in the poise of her proud head.
I was not alone in my admiration of the graceful Arab, but she was satisfied to be in my company, and of this I was absurdly proud. She was so utterly removed from the dark things which I had met with in Baden—from the cemetery-haunting mysteries of the Black Forest.
