his lunch with avidity.
XVIII
THE WORLD ABOVE
The night had set in grayly, and a drizzle of fine rain was falling.
West India Dock Road presented a prospect so uninviting that it must
have damped the spirits of anyone but a cave-dweller.
Soames, buttoned up in a raincoat kindly lent by Mr. Gianapolis, and of
a somewhat refined fit, with a little lagoon of rainwater forming
within the reef of his hat-brim, trudged briskly along. The necessary
ingredients for the manufacture of mud are always present (if invisible
during dry weather) in the streets of East-end London, and already
Soames' neat black boots were liberally bedaubed with it. But what cared
Soames? He inhaled the soot-laden air rapturously; he was glad to feel
the rain beating upon his face, and took a childish pleasure in ducking
his head suddenly and seeing the little stream of water spouting from
his hat-brim. How healthy they looked, these East-end workers, these
Italian dock-hands, these Jewish tailors, these nondescript, greasy
beings who sometimes saw the sun. Many of them, he knew well, labored
in cellars; but he had learnt that there are cellars and cellars. Ah! it
was glorious, this gray, murky London!
Yet, now that temporarily he was free of it, he realized that there was
that within him which responded to the call of the catacombs; there was
a fascination in the fume-laden air of those underground passages; there
was a charm, a mysterious charm, in the cave of the golden dragon, in
that unforgettable place which he assumed to mark the center of the
labyrinth; in the wicked, black eyes of the Eurasian. He realized that
between the abstraction of silver spoons and deliberate, organized
money-making at the expense of society, a great chasm yawned; that there
may be romance even in felony.
Soames at last felt himself to be a traveler on the highroad to fortune;
he had become almost reconciled to the loss of his bank balance, to the
loss of his place in the upper world. His was the constitution of a born
criminal, and, had he been capable of subtle self-analysis, he must
have known now that fear, and fear only, hitherto had held him back, had
confined him to the ranks of the amateurs. Well, the plunge was taken.
Deep in such reflections, he trudged along through the rain, scarce
noting where his steps were leading him, for all roads were alike
to-night. His natural inclinations presently dictated a halt at a
brilliantly lighted public house; and, taking off his hat to shake some
of the moisture from it, he replaced it on his head and entered the
saloon lounge.
The place proved to be fairly crowded, principally with local tradesmen
whose forefathers had toiled for Pharaoh; and conveying his glass of
whisky to a marble-topped table in a corner comparatively secluded,
Soames sat down for a consideration of past, present, and future; an
unusual mental exercise. Curiously enough, he had lost something of his
old furtiveness; he no longer examined, suspiciously, every stranger who
approached his neighborhood; for as the worshipers of old came by the
gate of Fear into the invisible presence of Moloch, so he--of equally
untutored mind--had entered the presence of Mr. King! And no devotee
of the Ammonite god had had greater faith in his potent protection than
Soames had in that of his unseen master. What should a servant of Mr.
King fear from the officers of the law? How puny a thing was the law
in comparison with the director of that secret, powerful, invulnerable
organization whereof to-day he (Soames) formed an unit!
Then, oddly, the old dormant cowardice of the man received a sudden
spurring, and leaped into quickness. An evening paper lay upon the
marble top of the table, and carelessly taking it up, Soames, hitherto
lost in imaginings, was now reminded that for more than a week he had
lain in ignorance of the world's doings. Good Heavens! how forgetful he
had been! It was the nepenthe of the catacombs. He must make up for lost
time and get in touch again with passing events: especially he must post
himself up on the subject of... the murder....
The paper dropped from his hands, and, feeling himself blanch beneath
his artificial tan, Soames, in his old furtive manner, glanced around
the saloon to learn if he were watched. Apparently no one was taking the
slightest notice of him, and, with an unsteady hand, he raised his glass
and drained its contents. There, at the bottom of the page before him,
was the cause of this sudden panic; a short paragraph conceived as
follows:--
REPORTED ARREST OF SOAMES
It is reported that a man answering to the description of Soames, the
butler wanted in connection with the Palace Mansions outrage, has been
arrested in Birmingham. He was found sleeping in an outhouse belonging
to Major Jennings, of Olton, and as he refused to give any account of
himself, was handed over, by the gentleman's gardener, to the local
police. His resemblance to the published photograph being observed, he
was closely questioned, and although he denies being Luke Soames, he is
being held for further inquiry.
Soames laid down the paper, and, walking across to the bar, ordered a
second glass of whisky. With this he returned to the table and began
more calmly to re-read the paragraph. From it he passed to the other
news. He noted that little publicity was given to the Palace Mansions
affair, from which he judged that public interest in the matter was
already growing cold. A short summary appeared on the front page, and
this he eagerly devoured. It read as follows:--
PALACE MANSIONS MYSTERY
The police are following up an important clue to the murderer of Mrs.
Vernon, and it is significant in this connection that a man answering
to the description of Soames was apprehended at Olton (Birmingham) late
last night. (See Page 6). The police are very reticent in regard to the
new information which they hold, but it is evident that at last they are
confident of establishing a case. Mr. Henry Leroux, the famous novelist,
in whose flat the mysterious outrage took place, is suffering from a
nervous breakdown, but is reported to be progressing favorably by Dr.
Cumberly, who is attending him. Dr. Cumberly, it will be remembered, was
with Mr. Leroux, and Mr. John Exel, M. P., at the time that the murder
was discovered. The executors of the late Mr. Horace Vernon are faced
with extraordinary difficulties in administering the will of the
deceased, owing to the tragic coincidence of his wife's murder within
twenty-four hours of his own demise.
Public curiosity respecting the nursing home in Gillingham Street,
with its electric baths and other modern appliances, has by no means
diminished, and groups of curious spectators regularly gather outside
the former establishment of Nurse Proctor, and apparently derive some
form of entertainment from staring at the windows and questioning the
constable on duty. The fact that Mrs. Vernon undoubtedly came from this
establishment on the night of the crime, and that the proprietors of the
nursing home fled immediately, leaving absolutely no clue behind them,
complicates the mystery which Scotland Yard is engaged in unraveling.
It is generally believed that the woman, Proctor, and her associates
had actually no connection with the crime, and that realizing that
the inquiry might turn in their direction, they decamped. The obvious
inference, of course, is that the nursing home was conducted on lines
which would not bear official scrutiny.
The flight of the butler, Soames, presents a totally different aspect,
and in this direction the police are very active.
Soames searched the remainder of the paper scrupulously, but failed to
find any further reference to the case. The second Scottish stimulant
had served somewhat to restore his failing courage; he congratulated
himself upon taking the only move which could have saved him from
arrest; he perceived that he owed his immunity entirely to the
protective wings of Mr. King. He trembled to think that his fate might
indeed have been that of the man arrested at Olton; for, without money
and without friends, he would have become, ere this, just such an
outcast and natural object of suspicion.
He noted, as a curious circumstance, that throughout the report there
was no reference to the absence of Mrs. Leroux; therefore--a primitive
reasoner--he assumed that she was back again at Palace Mansions. He
was mentally incapable of fitting Mrs. Leroux into the secret machine
engineered by Mr. King through the visible agency of Ho-Pin. On the
whole, he was disposed to believe that her several absences--ostensibly
on visits to Paris--had nothing to do with the catacombs of Ho-Pin, but
were to be traced to the amours of the radiant Gianapolis. Taking into
consideration his reception by the Chinaman in the cave of the golden
dragon, he determined, to his own satisfaction, that this had been
dictated by prudence, and by Mr. Gianapolis. In short he believed that
the untimely murder of Mrs. Vernon had threatened to direct attention to
the commercial enterprise of the Greek, and that he, Soames, had become
incorporated in the latter in this accidental fashion. He believed
himself to have been employed in a private intrigue during the time
that he was at Palace Mansions, and counted it a freak of fate that Mr.
Gianapolis' affairs of the pocket had intruded upon his affairs of the
heart.
It was all very confusing, and entirely beyond Soames' mental capacity
to unravel.
He treated himself to a third scotch whisky, and sallied out into the
rain. A brilliantly lighted music hall upon the opposite side of the
road attracted his attention. The novelty of freedom having worn off, he
felt no disposition to spend the remainder of the evening in the street,
for the rain was now falling heavily, but determined to sample the
remainder of the program offered by the “first house,” and presently was
reclining in a plush-covered, tip-up seat in the back row of the stalls.
The program was not of sufficient interest wholly to distract his mind,
and during the performance of a very tragic comedian, Soames found his
thoughts wandering far from the stage. His seat was at the extreme end
of the back row, and, quite unintentionally, he began to listen to the
conversation of two men, who, standing just inside the entrance door and
immediately behind him to the right, were talking in subdued voices.
“There are thousands of Kings in London,” said one...
Soames slowly lowered his hands to the chair-arms on either side of him
and clutched them tightly. Every nerve in his body seemed to be strung
up to the ultimate pitch of tensity. He was listening, now, as a man
arraigned might listen for the pronouncement of a judgment.
“That's the trouble,” replied a second voice; “but you know Max's
ideas on the subject? He has his own way of going to work; but my idea,
Sowerby, is that if we can find the one Mr. Soames--and I am open to bet
he hasn't left London--we shall find the right Mr. King.”
The comedian finished, and the orchestra noisily chorded him off.
Soames, his forehead wet with perspiration, began to turn his head, inch
by inch. The lights in the auditorium were partially lowered, and he
prayed, devoutly, that they would remain so; for now, glancing out of
the corner of his right eye, he saw the speakers.
The taller of the two, a man wearing a glistening brown overall and
rain-drenched tweed cap, was the detective who had been in Leroux's
study and who had ordered him to his room on the night of the murder!
Then commenced for Soames such an ordeal as all his previous life had
not offered him; an ordeal beside which even the interview with Mr.
King sank into insignificance. His one hope was in the cunning of Said's
disguise; but he knew that Scotland Yard men judged likenesses, not by
complexions, which are alterable, not by the color of the hair, which
can be dyed, but by certain features which are measurable, and which may
be memorized because nature has fashioned them immutable.
What should he do?--What should he do? In the silence:
“No good stopping any longer,” came the whispered voice of the shorter
detective; “I have had a good look around the house, and there is nobody
here.”...
Soames literally held his breath.
“We'll get along down to the Dock Gate,” was the almost inaudible reply;
“I am meeting Stringer there at nine o'clock.”
Walking softly, the Scotland Yard men passed out of the theater.
XIX
THE LIVING DEAD
The night held yet another adventure in store for Soames. His encounter
with the two Scotland Yard men had finally expelled all thoughts of
pleasure from his mind. The upper world, the free world, was beset with
pitfalls; he realized that for the present, at any rate, there could be
no security for him, save in the catacombs of Ho-Pin. He came out of
the music-hall and stood for a moment just outside the foyer, glancing
fearfully up and down the rain-swept street. Then, resuming the drenched
raincoat which he had taken off in the theater, and turning up its
collar about his ears, he set out to return to the garage adjoining the
warehouse of Kan-Suh Concessions.
He had fully another hour of leave if he cared to avail himself of
it, but, whilst every pedestrian assumed, in his eyes, the form of a
detective, whilst every dark corner seemed to conceal an ambush, whilst
every passing instant he anticipated feeling a heavy hand upon his
shoulder, and almost heard the words:--“Luke Soames, I arrest you”...
Whilst this was his case, freedom had no joys for him.
No light guided him to the garage door, and he was forced to seek
for the handle by groping along the wall. Presently, his hand came in
contact with it, he turned it--and the way was open before him.
Being far from familiar with the geography of the place, he took out a
box of matches, and struck one to light him to the shelf above which the
bell-push was concealed.
Its feeble light revealed, not only the big limousine near which he
was standing and the usual fixtures of a garage, but, dimly penetrating
beyond into the black places, it also revealed something else....
The door in the false granite blocks was open!
Soames, who had advanced to seek the bell-push, stopped short. The match
burnt down almost to his fingers, whereupon he blew it out and carefully
crushed it under his foot. A faint reflected light rendered perceptible
the stone steps below. At the top, Soames stood looking down. Nothing
stirred above, below, or around him. What did it mean? Dimly to his ears
came the hooting of some siren from the river--evidently that of a large
vessel. Still he hesitated; why he did so, he scarce knew, save that he
was afraid--vaguely afraid.
Then, he asked himself what he had to fear, and conjuring up a mental
picture of his white bedroom below, he planted his foot firmly upon
the first step, and from thence, descended to the bottom, guided by the
faint light which shone out from the doorway beneath.
But the door proved to be only partly opened, and Soames knocked
deferentially. No response came to his knocking, and he so greatly
ventured as to push the door fully open.
The cave of the golden dragon was empty. Half frightfully, Soames
glanced about the singular apartment, in amid the mountainous cushions
of the leewans, behind the pedestal of the dragon; to the right and to
the left of the doorway wherein he stood.
There was no one there; but the door on the right--the door inlaid with
ebony and green stone, which he had never yet seen open was open now,
widely opened. He glided across the floor, his wet boots creaking
unmusically, and peeped through. He saw a matting-lined corridor
identical with that known as Block A. The door of one apartment, that on
the extreme left, was opened. Sickly fumes were wafted out to him, and
these mingled with the incense-like odor which characterized the temple
of the dragon.
A moment he stood so, then started back, appalled.
An outcry--the outcry of a woman, of a woman whose very soul is
assailed--split the stillness. Not from the passageway before him, but
from somewhere behind him--from the direction of Block A--it came.
“For God's sake--oh! for God's sake, have mercy! Let me go!... let me
go!” Higher, shriller, more fearful and urgent, grew the voice--“LET ME
GO!”...
Soames' knees began to tremble beneath him; he clutched at the black
wall for support; then turned, and with unsteady footsteps crossed to
the door communicating with the corridor which contained his room.
It had a lever handle of the Continental pattern, and, trembling with
apprehension that it might prove to be locked, Soames pressed down this
handle.
The door opened...
“Hina, effendi!--hina!”
The voice sounded like that of Said....
“Oh! God in Heaven help me!... Help!--help!”...
“Imsik!”...
Footsteps were pattering upon the stone stairs; someone was descending
from the warehouse! The frenzied shrieks of the woman continued. Soames
broke into a cold perspiration; his heart, which had leaped wildly,
seemed now to have changed to a cold stone in his breast. Just at the
entrance to the corridor he stood, frozen with horror at those cries.
“Ikfil el-bab!” came now, in the voice of Ho-Pin,--and nearer.
“Let me go!... only let me go, and I will never breathe a word. ... Ah!
Ah! Oh! God of mercy! not the needle again! You are killing me!... not
the needle!”...
Soames staggered on to his own room and literally fell within--as across
the cave of the golden dragon, behind him, SOMEONE--one whom he did not
see but only heard, one whom with all his soul he hoped had not seen
HIM--passed rapidly.
Another shriek, more frightful than any which had preceded it, struck
the trembling man as an arrow might have struck him. He dropped upon
his knees at the side of the bed and thrust his fingers firmly into
his ears. He had never swooned in his life, and was unfamiliar with the
symptoms, but now he experienced a sensation of overpowering nausea;
a blood-red mist floated before his eyes, and the floor seemed to rock
beneath him like the deck of a ship....
That soul-appalling outcry died away, merged into a sobbing, moaning
sound which defied Soames' efforts to exclude it.... He rose to his
feet, feeling physically ill, and turned to close his door....
They were dragging someone--someone who sighed, shudderingly, and whose
sighs sank to moans, and sometimes rose to sobs,--across the apartment
of the dragon. In a faint, dying voice, the woman spoke again:--
“Not Mr. King!... NOT MR. KING!... Is there no God in Heaven!... AH!
spare me... spare”...
Soames closed the door and stood propped up against it, striving to
fight down the deathly sickness which assailed him. His clothes were
sticking to his clammy body, and a cold perspiration was trickling down
his forehead and into his eyes. The sensation at his heart was unlike
anything that he had ever known; he thought that he must be dying.
The awful sounds died away... then a muffled disturbance drew his
attention to a sort of square trap which existed high up on one wall
of the room, but which admitted no light, and which hitherto had
never admitted any sound. Now, in the utter darkness, he found himself
listening--listening...
He had learnt, during his duties in Block A, that each of the minute
suites was rendered sound-proof in some way, so that what took place in
one would be inaudible to the occupant of the next, provided that both
doors were closed. He perceived, now, that some precaution hitherto
exercised continuously had been omitted to-night, and that the sounds
which he could hear came from the room next to his own--the room which
opened upon the corridor that he had never entered, and which now he
classified, mentally, as Block B.
What did it mean?
Obviously there had been some mishap in the usually smooth conduct
of Ho-Pin's catacombs. There had been a hurried outgoing in several
directions... a search?
And by the accident of his returning an hour earlier than he was
expected, he was become a witness of this incident, or of its dreadful,
concluding phases. He had begun to move away from the door, but now he
returned, and stood leaning against it.
That stifling room where roses shed their petals, had been opened
to-night; a chill touched the very center of his being and told him so.
The occupant of that room--the Minotaur of this hideous labyrinth--was
at large to-night, was roaming the passages about him, was perhaps
outside his very door....
Dull moaning sounds reached him through the trap. He realized that if he
had the courage to cross the room, stand upon a chair and place his ear
to the wall, he might be able to detect more of what was passing in the
next apartment. But craven fear held him in its grip, and in vain he
strove to shake it off. Trembling wildly, he stood with his back to the
door, whilst muttered words, and moans, ever growing fainter, reached
him from beyond. A voice, a harsh, guttural voice--surely not that of
Ho-Pin--was audible, above the moaning.
For two minutes--three minutes--four minutes--he stood there, tottering
on the brink of insensibility, then... a faint sound--a new sound,--drew
his gaze across the room, and up to the corner where the trap was
situated.
A very dim light was dawning there; he could just detect the outline of
an opening--a half-light breaking the otherwise impenetrable darkness.
He felt that his capacity for fear was strained to its utmost; that he
could support nothing more, yet a new horror was in store for him; for,
as he watched that gray patch, in it, as in a frame, a black silhouette
appeared--the silhouette of a human head... a woman's head!
Soames convulsively clenched his jaws, for his teeth were beginning to
chatter.
A whistle, an eerie, minor whistle, subscribed the ultimate touch
of terror to the night. The silhouette disappeared, and, shortly
afterwards, the gray luminance. A faint click told of some shutter being
fastened; complete silence reigned.
Soames groped his way to the bed and fell weakly upon it, half lying
down and burying his face in the pillow. For how long, he had no idea,
but for some considerable time, he remained so, fighting to regain
sufficient self-possession to lie to Ho-Pin, who sooner or later must
learn of his return.
At last he managed to sit up. He was not trembling quite so wildly, but
he still suffered from a deathly sickness. A faint streak of light from
the corridor outside shone under his door. As he noted it, it was joined
by a second streak, forming a triangle.
There was a very soft rasping of metal. Someone was opening the door!
Soames lay back upon the bed. This time he was past further panic and
come to a stage of sickly apathy. He lay, now, because he could not sit
upright, because stark horror had robbed him of physical strength, and
had drained the well of his emotions dry.
Gradually--so that the operation seemed to occupy an interminable time,
the door opened, and in the opening a figure appeared.
The switch clicked, and the room was flooded with electric light.
Ho-Pin stood watching him.
Soames--in his eyes that indescribable expression seen in the eyes of a
bird placed in a cobra's den--met the Chinaman's gaze. This gaze was no
different from that which habitually he directed upon the people of the
catacombs. His yellow face was set in the same mirthless smile, and his
eyebrows were raised interrogatively. For the space of ten seconds, he
stood watching the man on the bed. Then:--
“You wreturn vewry soon, Mr. Soames?” he said, softly.
Soames groaned like a dying man, whispering:
“I was... taken ill--very ill.”...
“So you wreturn befowre the time awranged for you?”
His metallic voice was sunk in a soothing hiss. He smiled steadily: he
betrayed no emotion.
“Yes... sir,” whispered Soames, his hair clammily adhering to his brow
and beads of perspiration trickling slowly down his nose.
“And when you wreturn, you see and you hear--stwrange things, Mr.
Soames?”
Soames, who was in imminent danger of becoming physically ill, gulped
noisily.
“No, sir,” he whispered,--tremulously, “I've been--in here all the
time.”
Ho-Pin nodded, slowly and sympathetically, but never removed the
glittering eyes from the face of the man on the bed.