more than advisable, it is imperative, that all of us should be secret.
The... raid--unpleasant word!--upon the establishment in Paris--was so
unexpected that there was no time to advise patrons; but the admirable
tact of the French authorities ensured the suppression of all names.
Since--always as a protective measure--no business relationship exists
between any two of Mr. King's establishments (each one being entirely
self-governed) some difficulty is being experienced, I believe, in
obtaining the names of those who patronized Madame Jean. But I am doubly
glad to have met you, M. Gaston, for not only can I put you in touch
with the London establishment, but I can impress upon you the necessity
of preserving absolute silence”...
M. Gaston extended his palms eloquently.
“To me,” he declared, “the name of Mr. King is a sacred symbol.”
“It is to all of us!” responded the Greek, devoutly.
M. Gaston in turn became confidential, bending toward Gianapolis
so that, as the shadow of the Greek fell upon his face, his pupils
contracted catlike.
“How often have I prayed,” he whispered, “for a sight of that remarkable
man!”
A look of horror, real or simulated, appeared upon the countenance of
Gianapolis.
“To see--Mr. King!” he breathed. “My dear friend, I declare to you by
all that I hold sacred that I--though one of the earliest patrons of the
first establishment, that in Pekin--have never seen Mr. King!”
“He is so cautious and so clever as that?”
“Even as cautious and even as clever--yes! Though every branch of the
enterprise in the world were destroyed, no man would ever see Mr. King;
he would remain but a NAME!”
“You will arrange for me to visit the house of--Ho-Pin, did you
say?--immediately?”
“To-day, if you wish,” said Gianapolis, brightly.
“My funds,” continued M. Gaston, shrugging his shoulders, “are not
limitless at the moment; and until I receive a remittance from Paris”...
The brow of Mr. Gianapolis darkened slightly.
“Our clientele here,” he replied, “is a very wealthy one, and the fees
are slightly higher than in Paris. An entrance fee of fifty guineas is
charged, and an annual subscription of the same amount”...
“But,” exclaimed M. Gaston, “I shall not be in London for so long as
a year! In a week or a fortnight from now, I shall be on my way to
America!”
“You will receive an introduction to the New York representative,
and your membership will be available for any of the United States
establishments.”
“But I am going to South America.”
“At Buenos Aires is one of the largest branches.”
“But I am not going to Buenos Aires! I am going with a prospecting party
to Yucatan.”
“You must be well aware, monsieur, that to go to Yucatan is to exile
yourself from all that life holds for you.”
“I can take a supply”...
“You will die, monsieur! Already you suffer abominably”...
“I do not suffer because of any lack of the specific,” said M. Gaston
wearily; “for if I were entirely unable to obtain possession of it,
I should most certainly die. But I suffer because, living as I do at
present in a public hotel, I am unable to embark upon a protracted
voyage into those realms which hold so much for me”...
“I offer you the means”...
“But to charge me one hundred guineas, since I cannot possibly avail
myself of the full privileges, is to rob me--is to trade upon my
condition!” M. Gaston was feebly indignant.
“Let it be twenty-five guineas, monsieur,” said the Greek, reflectively,
“entitling you to two visits.”
“Good! good!” cried M. Gaston. “Shall I write you a check?”
“You mistake me,” said Gianapolis. “I am in no way connected with the
management of the establishment. You will settle this business matter
with Mr. Ho-Pin”...
“Yes, yes!”
“To whom I will introduce you this evening. Checks, as you must be
aware, are unacceptable. I will meet you at Piccadilly Circus, outside
the entrance to the London Pavilion, at nine o'clock this evening,
and you will bring with you the twenty-five guineas in cash. You will
arrange to absent yourself during the following day?”
“Of course, of course! At nine o'clock at Piccadilly Circus?”
“Exactly.”
M. Gaston, this business satisfactorily completed, made his way to his
own room by a somewhat devious route, not wishing to encounter anyone of
his numerous acquaintances whilst in an apparent state of ill-health so
calculated to excite compassion. He avoided the lift and ascended the
many stairs to his small apartment.
Here he rectified the sallowness of his complexion, which was due, not
to outraged nature, but to the arts of make-up. His dilated pupils (a
phenomenon traceable to drops of belladonna) he was compelled to suffer
for the present; but since their condition tended temporarily to impair
his sight, he determined to remain in his room until the time for the
appointment with Gianapolis.
“So!” he muttered--“we have branches in Europe, Asia, Africa and
America! Eh, bien! to find all those would occupy five hundred
detectives for a whole year. I have a better plan: crush the spider and
the winds of heaven will disperse his web!”
XXIX
M. MAX OF LONDON AND M. MAX OF PARIS
He seated himself in a cane armchair and, whilst the facts were fresh in
his memory, made elaborate notes upon the recent conversation with the
Greek. He had achieved almost more than he could have hoped for; but,
knowing something of the elaborate organization of the opium group, he
recognized that he owed some part of his information to the sense
of security which this admirably conducted machine inspired in its
mechanics. The introduction from Sir Brian Malpas had worked wonders,
without doubt; and his own intimate knowledge of the establishment
adjoining the Boulevard Beaumarchais, far from arousing the suspicions
of Gianapolis, had evidently strengthened the latter's conviction that
he had to deal with a confirmed opium slave.
The French detective congratulated himself upon the completeness of his
Paris operation. It was evident that the French police had succeeded in
suppressing all communication between the detained members of the Rue
St. Claude den and the head office--which he shrewdly suspected to be
situated in London. So confident were the group in the self-contained
properties of each of their branches that the raid of any one
establishment meant for them nothing more than a temporary financial
loss. Failing the clue supplied by the draft on Paris, the case, so far
as he was concerned, indeed, must have terminated with the raiding
of the opium house. He reflected that he owed that precious discovery
primarily to the promptness with which he had conducted the raid--to the
finding of the letter (the ONE incriminating letter) from Mr. King.
Evidently the group remained in ignorance of the fact that the little
arrangement at the Credit Lyonnais had been discovered. He surveyed--and
his eyes twinkled humorously--a small photograph which was contained in
his writing-case.
It represented a very typical Parisian gentleman, with a carefully
trimmed square beard and well brushed mustache, wearing pince-nez and
a white silk knot at his neck. The photograph was cut from a French
magazine, and beneath it appeared the legend:
“M. Gaston Max, Service de Surete.”
There was marked genius in the conspicuous dressing of M. Gaston Max,
who, as M. Gaston, was now patronizing the Hotel Astoria. For whilst
there was nothing furtive, nothing secret, about this gentleman, the
closest scrutiny (and because he invited it, he was never subjected to
it) must have failed to detect any resemblance between M. Gaston of the
Hotel Astoria and M. Gaston Max of the Service de Surete.
And which was the original M. Gaston Max? Was the M. Max of the magazine
photograph a disguised M. Max? or was that the veritable M. Max, and was
the patron of the Astoria a disguised M. Max? It is quite possible that
M. Gaston Max, himself, could not have answered that question, so true
an artist was he; and it is quite certain that had the occasion arisen
he would have refused to do so.
He partook of a light dinner in his own room, and having changed into
evening dress, went out to meet Mr. Gianapolis. The latter was on the
spot punctually at nine o'clock, and taking the Frenchman familiarly
by the arm, he hailed a taxi-cab, giving the man the directions, “To
Victoria-Suburban.” Then, turning to his companion, he whispered:
“Evening dress? And you must return in daylight.”
M. Max felt himself to be flushing like a girl. It was an error of
artistry that he had committed; a heinous crime! “So silly of me!” he
muttered.
“No matter,” replied the Greek, genially.
The cab started. M. Max, though silently reproaching himself, made
mental notes of the destination. He had not renewed his sallow
complexion, for reasons of his own, and his dilated pupils were
beginning to contract again, facts which were not very evident, however,
in the poor light. He was very twitchy, nevertheless, and the face of
the man beside him was that of a sympathetic vulture, if such a creature
can be imagined. He inquired casually if the new patron had brought
his money with him, but for the most part his conversation turned upon
China, with which country he seemed to be well acquainted. Arrived
at Victoria, Mr. Gianapolis discharged the cab, and again taking the
Frenchman by the arm, walked with him some twenty paces away from the
station. A car suddenly pulled up almost beside them.
Ere M. Max had time to note those details in which he was most
interested, Gianapolis had opened the door of the limousine, and the
Frenchman found himself within, beside Gianapolis, and behind drawn
blinds, speeding he knew not in what direction!
“I suppose I should apologize, my dear M. Gaston,” said the Greek; and,
although unable to see him, for there was little light in the car, M.
Max seemed to FEEL him smiling--“but this little device has proved so
useful hitherto. In the event of any of those troubles--wretched police
interferences--arising, and of officious people obtaining possession of
a patron's name, he is spared the necessity of perjuring himself in any
way”...
“Perhaps I do not entirely understand you, monsieur?” said M. Max.
“It is so simple. The police are determined to raid one of our
establishments: they adopt the course of tracking an habitue. This is
not impossible. They question him; they ask, 'Do you know a Mr. King?'
He replies that he knows no such person, has never seen, has never
spoken with him! I assure you that official inquiries have gone thus far
already, in New York, for example; but to what end? They say, 'Where is
the establishment of a Mr. King to which you have gone on such and such
an occasion?' He replies with perfect truth, 'I do not know.' Believe me
this little device is quite in your own interest, M. Gaston.”
“But when again I feel myself compelled to resort to the solace of the
pipe, how then?”
“So simple! You will step to the telephone and ask for this number: East
18642. You will then ask for Mr. King, and an appointment will be made;
I will meet you as I met you this evening--and all will be well.”
M. Max began to perceive that he had to deal with a scheme even more
elaborate than hitherto he had conjectured. These were very clever
people, and through the whole complicated network, as through the petal
of a poppy one may trace the veins, he traced the guiding will--the
power of a tortuous Eastern mind. The system was truly Chinese in its
elaborate, uncanny mystifications.
In some covered place that was very dark, the car stopped, and
Gianapolis, leaping out with agility, assisted M. Max to descend.
This was a covered courtyard, only lighted by the head-lamps of the
limousine.
“Take my hand,” directed the Greek.
M. Max complied, and was conducted through a low doorway and on to
descending steps.
Dimly, he heard the gear of the car reversed, and knew that the
limousine was backing out from the courtyard. The door behind him was
closed, and he heard no more. A dim light shone out below.
He descended, walking more confidently now that the way was visible. A
moment later he stood upon the threshold of an apartment which calls
for no further description at this place; he stood in the doorway of the
incredible, unforgettable cave of the golden dragon; he looked into the
beetle eyes of Ho-Pin!
Ho-Pin bowed before him, smiling his mirthless smile. In his left hand
he held an amber cigarette tube in which a cigarette smoldered gently,
sending up a gray pencil of smoke into the breathless, perfumed air.
“Mr. Ho-Pin,” said Gianapolis, indicating the Chinaman, “who will attend
to your requirements. This is our new friend from Paris, introduced by
Sir B. M----, M. Gaston.”
“You are vewry welcome,” said the Chinaman in his monotonous, metallic
voice. “I understand that a fee of twenty-five guineas”--he bowed again,
still smiling.
The visitor took out his pocket-book and laid five notes, one sovereign,
and two half-crowns upon a little ebony table beside him. Ho-Pin bowed
again and waved his hand toward the lemon-colored door on the left.
“Good night, M. Gaston!” said Gianapolis, in radiant benediction.
“Au revoir, monsieur!”
M. Max followed Ho-Pin to Block A and was conducted to a room at
the extreme right of the matting-lined corridor. He glanced about it
curiously.
“If you will pwrepare for your flight into the subliminal,” said Ho-Pin,
bowing in the doorway, “I shall pwresently wreturn with your wings.”
In the cave of the golden dragon, Gianapolis sat smoking upon one of the
divans. The silence of the place was extraordinary; unnatural, in the
very heart of busy commercial London. Ho-Pin reappeared and standing in
the open doorway of Block A sharply clapped his hands three times.
Said, the Egyptian, came out of the door at the further end of the
place, bearing a brass tray upon which were a little brass lamp of
Oriental manufacture wherein burned a blue spirituous flame, a Japanese,
lacquered box not much larger than a snuff-box, and a long and most
curiously carved pipe of wood inlaid with metal and having a metal
bowl. Bearing this, he crossed the room, passed Ho-Pin, and entered the
corridor beyond.
“You have, of course, put him in the observation room?” said Gianapolis.
Ho-Pin regarded the speaker unemotionally.
“Assuwredly,” he replied; “for since he visits us for the first time,
Mr. King will wish to see him”...
A faint shadow momentarily crossed the swarthy face of the Greek at
mention of that name--MR. KING. The servants of Mr. King, from the
highest to the lowest, served him for gain... and from fear.
XXX
MAHARA
Utter silence had claimed again the cave of the golden dragon.
Gianapolis sat alone in the place, smoking a cigarette, and gazing
crookedly at the image on the ivory pedestal. Then, glancing at his
wrist-watch, he stood up, and, stepping to the entrance door, was about
to open it...
“Ah, so! You go--already?”--
Gianapolis started back as though he had put his foot upon a viper, and
turned.
The Eurasian, wearing her yellow, Chinese dress, and with a red poppy in
her hair, stood watching him through half-shut eyes, slowly waving her
little fan before her face. Gianapolis attempted the radiant smile, but
its brilliancy was somewhat forced tonight.
“Yes, I must be off,” he said hurriedly; “I have to see someone--a
future client, I think!”
“A future client--yes!”--the long black eyes were closed almost entirely
now. “Who is it--this future client, that you have to see?”
“My dear Mahara! How odd of you to ask that”...
“It is odd of me?--so!... It is odd of me that I thinking to wonder why
you alway running away from me now?”
“Run away from you! My dear little Mahara!”--He approached the
dusky beauty with a certain timidity as one might seek to caress a
tiger-cat--“Surely you know”...
She struck down his hand with a sharp blow of her closed fan, darting at
him a look from the brilliant eyes which was a living flame.
Resting one hand upon her hip, she stood with her right foot thrust
forward from beneath the yellow robe and pivoting upon the heel of its
little slipper. Her head tilted, she watched him through lowered lashes.
“It was not so with you in Moulmein,” she said, her silvery voice
lowered caressingly. “Do you remember with me a night beside the
Irawaddi?--where was that I wonder? Was it in Prome?--Perhaps, yes?...
you threatened me to leap in, if... and I think to believe you!--I
believing you!”
“Mahara!” cried Gianapolis, and sought to seize her in his arms.
Again she struck down his hand with the little fan, watching him
continuously and with no change of expression. But the smoldering fire
in those eyes told of a greater flame which consumed her slender
body and was potent enough to consume many a victim upon its altar.
Gianapolis' yellow skin assumed a faintly mottled appearance.
“Whatever is the matter?” he inquired plaintively.
“So you must be off--yes? I hear you say it; I asking you who to meet?”
“Why do you speak in English?” said Gianapolis with a faint irritation.
“Let us talk...”
She struck him lightly on the face with her fan; but he clenched his
teeth and suppressed an ugly exclamation.
“Who was it?” she asked, musically, “that say to me, 'to hear you
speaking English--like rippling water'?”
“You are mad!” muttered Gianapolis, beginning to drill the points of
his mustache as was his manner in moments of agitation. His crooked eyes
were fixed upon the face of the girl. “You go too far.”
“Be watching, my friend, that you also go not too far.”
The tones were silvery as ever, but the menace unmistakable. Gianapolis
forced a harsh laugh and brushed up his mustache furiously.
“What are you driving at?” he demanded, with some return of
self-confidence. “Am I to be treated to another exhibition of your
insane jealousies?”...
“AH!” The girl's eyes opened widely; she darted another venomous glance
at him. “I am sure now, I am SURE!”
“My dear Mahara, you talk nonsense!”
“Ah!”
She glided sinuously toward him, still with one hand resting upon her
hip, stood almost touching his shoulder and raised her beautiful wicked
face to his, peering at him through half-closed eyes, and resting the
hand which grasped the fan lightly upon his arm.
“You think I do not see? You think I do not watch?”--softer and softer
grew the silvery voice--“at Olaf van Noord's studio you think I do not
hear? Perhaps you not thinking to care if I see and hear--for it seem
you not seeing nor hearing ME. I watch and I see. Is it her so soft
brown hair? That color of hair is so more prettier than ugly black!
Is it her English eyes? Eyes that born in the dark forests of Burma so
hideous and so like the eyes of the apes! Is it her white skin and her
red cheeks? A brown skin--though someone, there was, that say it is
satin of heaven--is so tiresome; when no more it is a new toy it does
not interest”...
“Really,” muttered Gianapolis, uneasily, “I think you must be mad! I
don't know what you are talking about.”
“LIAR!”
One lithe step forward the Eurasian sprang, and, at the word, brought
down the fan with all her strength across Gianapolis' eyes!
He staggered away from her, uttering a hoarse cry and instinctively
raising his arms to guard himself from further attack; but the girl
stood poised again, her hand upon her hip; and swinging her right toe to
and fro. Gianapolis, applying his handkerchief to his eyes, squinted at
her furiously.
“Liar!” she repeated, and her voice had something of a soothing whisper.
“I say to you, be so careful that you go not too far--with me! I do what
I do, not because I am a poor fool”...
“It's funny,” declared Gianapolis, an emotional catch in his
voice--“it's damn funny for you--for YOU--to adopt these airs with me!
Why, you went to Olaf van”...
“Stop!” cried the girl furiously, and sprang at him panther-like so that
he fell back again in confusion, stumbled and collapsed upon a divan,
with upraised, warding arms. “You Greek rat! you skinny Greek rat! Be
careful what you think to say to me--to ME! to ME! Olaf van Noord--the
poor, white-faced corpse-man! He is only one of Said's mummies! Be
careful what you think to say to me... Oh! be careful--be very careful!
It is dangerous of any friend of--MR. KING”...
Gianapolis glanced at her furtively.
“It is dangerous of anyone in a house of--MR. KING to think to make
attachments,”--she hissed the words beneath her breath--“outside of
ourselves. MR. KING would not be glad to hear of it... I do not like to
tell it to MR. KING”...
Gianapolis rose to his feet, unsteadily, and stretched out his arms in
supplication.
“Mahara!” he said, “don't treat me like this! dear little Mahara! what
have I done to you? Tell me!--only tell me!”
“Shall I tell it in English?” asked the Eurasian softly. Her eyes now
were nearly closed; “or does it worry you that I speak so ugly”...
“Mahara!”...
“I only say, be so very careful.”
He made a final, bold attempt to throw his arms about her, but she
slipped from his grasp and ran lightly across the room.
“Go! hurry off!” she said, bending forward and pointing at him with her
fan, her eyes widely opened and blazing--“but remember--there is danger!
There is Said, who creeps silently, like the jackal”...
She opened the ebony door and darted into the corridor beyond, closing
the door behind her.
Gianapolis looked about him in a dazed manner, and yet again applied his
handkerchief to his stinging eyes. Whoever could have seen him now
must have failed to recognize the radiant Gianapolis so well-known in
Bohemian society, the Gianapolis about whom floated a halo of mystery,
but who at all times was such a good fellow and so debonair. He took up
his hat and gloves, turned, and resolutely strode to the door. Once
he glanced back over his shoulder, but shrugged with a sort of
self-contempt, and ascended to the top of the steps.
With a key which he selected from a large bunch in his pocket, he opened
the door, and stepped out into the garage, carefully closing the door
behind him. An electric pocket-lamp served him with sufficient light to
find his way out into the lane, and very shortly he was proceeding along
Limehouse Causeway. At the moment, indignation was the major emotion
ruling his mind; he resented the form which his anger assumed, for it
was a passion of rebellion, and rebellion is only possible in servants.
It is the part of a slave resenting the lash. He was an unscrupulous,
unmoral man, not lacking in courage of a sort; and upon the conquest of
Mahara, the visible mouthpiece of Mr. King, he had entered in much
the same spirit as that actuating a Kanaka who dives for pearls in a
shark-infested lagoon. He had sought a slave, and lo! the slave was
become the master! Otherwise whence this spirit of rebellion... this
fear?
He occupied himself with such profitless reflections up to the time that
he came to the electric trains; but, from thence onward, his mind became
otherwise engaged. On his way to Piccadilly Circus that same evening, he
had chanced to find himself upon a crowded pavement walking immediately
behind Denise Ryland and Helen Cumberly. His esthetic, Greek soul had
been fired at first sight of the beauty of the latter; and now, his
heart had leaped ecstatically. His first impulse, of course, had been to
join the two ladies; but Gianapolis had trained himself to suspect all
impulses.
Therefore he had drawn near--near enough to overhear their conversation
without proclaiming himself. What he had learned by this eavesdropping
he counted of peculiar value.
Helen Cumberly was arranging to dine with her friend at the latter's
hotel that evening. “But I want to be home early,” he had heard the
girl say, “so if I leave you at about ten o'clock I can walk to Palace
Mansions. No! you need not come with me; I enjoy a lonely walk through
the streets of London in the evening”...
Gianapolis registered a mental vow that Helen's walk should not be a
lonely one. He did not flatter himself upon the possession of a pleasing
exterior, but, from experience, he knew that with women he had a winning
way.