in the neighborhood of Shoreditch, and chartered a taxi-cab. From this
he descended at the corner of Arundel Street and strolled along westward
in the direction of the hotel patronized by Miss Ryland. At a corner
from which he could command a view of the entrance, he paused and
consulted his watch.
It was nearly twenty minutes past ten. Mentally, he cursed Mahara, who
perhaps had caused him to let slip this golden opportunity. But his was
not a character easily discouraged; he lighted a cigarette and prepared
himself to wait, in the hope that the girl had not yet left her friend.
Gianapolis was a man capable of the uttermost sacrifices upon either
of two shrines; that of Mammon, or that of Eros. His was a temperament
(truly characteristic of his race) which can build up a structure
painfully, year by year, suffering unutterable privations in the cause
of its growth, only to shatter it at a blow for a woman's smile. He was
a true member of that brotherhood, represented throughout the bazaars of
the East, of those singular shopkeepers who live by commercial rapine,
who, demanding a hundred piastres for an embroidered shawl from a plain
woman, will exchange it with a pretty one for a perfumed handkerchief.
Externally of London, he was internally of the Levant.
His vigil lasted but a quarter of an hour. At twenty-five minutes to
eleven, Helen Cumberly came running down the steps of the hotel and
hurried toward the Strand. Like a shadow, Gianapolis, throwing away a
half-smoked cigarette, glided around the corner, paused and so timed
his return that he literally ran into the girl as she entered the main
thoroughfare.
He started back.
“Why!” he cried, “Miss Cumberly!”
Helen checked a frown, and hastily substituted a smile.
“How odd that I should meet you here, Mr. Gianapolis,” she said.
“Most extraordinary! I was on my way to visit a friend in Victoria
Street upon a rather urgent matter. May I venture to hope that your path
lies in a similar direction?”
Helen Cumberly, deceived by his suave manner (for how was she to know
that the Greek had learnt her address from Crockett, the reporter?),
found herself at a loss for an excuse. Her remarkably pretty mouth was
drawn down to one corner, inducing a dimple of perplexity in her left
cheek. She had that breadth between the eyes which, whilst not an
attribute of perfect beauty, indicates an active mind, and is often
found in Scotch women; now, by the slight raising of her eyebrows, this
space was accentuated. But Helen's rapid thinking availed her not at
all.
“Had you proposed to walk?” inquired Gianapolis, bending deferentially
and taking his place beside her with a confidence which showed that her
opportunity for repelling his attentions was past.
“Yes,” she said, hesitatingly; “but--I fear I am detaining you”...
Of two evils she was choosing the lesser; the idea of being confined in
a cab with this ever-smiling Greek was unthinkable.
“Oh, my dear Miss Cumberly!” cried Gianapolis, beaming radiantly, “it is
a greater pleasure than I can express to you, and then for two friends
who are proceeding in the same direction to walk apart would be quite
absurd, would it not?”
The term “friend” was not pleasing to Helen's ears; Mr. Gianapolis went
far too fast. But she recognized her helplessness, and accepted this
cavalier with as good a grace as possible.
He immediately began to talk of Olaf van Noord and his pictures,
whilst Helen hurried along as though her life depended upon her speed.
Sometimes, on the pretense of piloting her at crossings, Gianapolis
would take her arm; and this contact she found most disagreeable; but on
the whole his conduct was respectful to the point of servility.
A pretty woman who is not wholly obsessed by her personal charms, learns
more of the ways of mankind than it is vouchsafed to her plainer sister
ever to know; and in the crooked eyes of Gianapolis, Helen Cumberly read
a world of unuttered things, and drew her own conclusions. These several
conclusions dictated a single course; avoidance of Gianapolis in future.
Fortunately, Helen Cumberly's self-chosen path in life had taught her
how to handle the nascent and undesirable lover. She chatted upon
the subject of art, and fenced adroitly whenever the Greek sought
to introduce the slightest personal element into the conversation.
Nevertheless, she was relieved when at last she found herself in the
familiar Square with her foot upon the steps of Palace Mansions.
“Good night, Mr. Gianapolis!” she said, and frankly offered her hand.
The Greek raised it to his lips with exaggerated courtesy, and retained
it, looking into her eyes in his crooked fashion.
“We both move in the world of art and letters; may I hope that this
meeting will not be our last?”
“I am always wandering about between Fleet Street and Soho,” laughed
Helen. “It is quite certain we shall run into each other again before
long. Good night, and thank you so much!”
She darted into the hallway, and ran lightly up the stairs. Opening the
flat door with her key, she entered and closed it behind her, sighing
with relief to be free of the over-attentive Greek. Some impulse
prompted her to enter her own room, and, without turning up the light,
to peer down into the Square.
Gianapolis was descending the steps. On the pavement he stood and looked
up at the windows, lingeringly; then he turned and walked away.
Helen Cumberly stifled an exclamation.
As the Greek gained the corner of the Square and was lost from view, a
lithe figure--kin of the shadows which had masked it--became detached
from the other shadows beneath the trees of the central garden and
stood, a vague silhouette seemingly looking up at her window as
Gianapolis had looked.
Helen leaned her hands upon the ledge and peered intently down. The
figure was a vague blur in the darkness, but it was moving away along by
the rails... following Gianapolis. No clear glimpse she had of it, for
bat-like, it avoided the light, this sinister shape--and was gone.
XXXI
MUSK AND ROSES
It is time to rejoin M. Gaston Max in the catacombs of Ho-Pin. Having
prepared himself for drugged repose in the small but luxurious apartment
to which he had been conducted by the Chinaman, he awaited with interest
the next development. This took the form of the arrival of an Egyptian
attendant, white-robed, red-slippered, and wearing the inevitable
tarboosh. Upon the brass tray which he carried were arranged the
necessities of the opium smoker. Placing the tray upon a little table
beside the bed, he extracted from the lacquered box a piece of gummy
substance upon the end of a long needle. This he twisted around,
skilfully, in the lamp flame until it acquired a blue spirituous flame
of its own. He dropped it into the bowl of the carven pipe and silently
placed the pipe in M. Max's hand.
Max, with simulated eagerness, rested the mouthpiece between his lips
and EXHALED rapturously.
Said stood watching him, without the slightest expression of interest
being perceptible upon his immobile face. For some time the Frenchman
made pretense of inhaling, gently, the potent vapor, lying propped upon
one elbow; then, allowing his head gradually to droop, he closed his
eyes and lay back upon the silken pillow.
Once more he exhaled feebly ere permitting the pipe to drop from his
listless grasp. The mouthpiece yet rested between his lips, but the
lower lip was beginning to drop. Finally, the pipe slipped through his
fingers on to the rich carpet, and he lay inert, head thrown back, and
revealing his lower teeth. The nauseating fumes of opium loaded the
atmosphere.
Said silently picked up the pipe, placed it upon the tray and retired,
closing the door in the same noiseless manner that characterized all his
movements.
For a time, M. Max lay inert, glancing about the place through the veil
of his lashes. He perceived no evidence of surveillance, therefore he
ventured fully to open his eyes; but he did not move his head.
With the skill in summarizing detail at a glance which contributed
largely to make him the great criminal investigator that he was, he
noted those particulars which at an earlier time had occasioned the
astonishment of Soames.
M. Max was too deeply versed in his art to attempt any further
investigations, yet; he contented himself with learning as much as was
possible without moving in any way; and whilst he lay there awaiting
whatever might come, the door opened noiselessly--to admit Ho-Pin.
He was about to be submitted to a supreme test, for which, however, he
was not unprepared. He lay with closed eyes, breathing nasally.
Ho-Pin, his face a smiling, mirthless mask, bent over the bed. Adeptly,
he seized the right eyelid of M. Max, and rolled it back over his
forefinger, disclosing the eyeball. M. Max, anticipating this test of
the genuineness of his coma, had rolled up his eyes at the moment of
Ho-Pin's approach, so that now only the white of the sclerotic showed.
His trained nerves did not betray him. He lay like a dead man, never
flinching.
Ho-Pin, releasing the eyelid, muttered something gutturally, and stole
away from the bed as silently as he had approached it. Very methodically
he commenced to search through M. Max's effects, commencing with the
discarded garments. He examined the maker's marks upon these, and
scrutinized the buttons closely. He turned out all the pockets, counted
the contents of the purse, and of the notecase, examined the name inside
M. Max's hat, and explored the lining in a manner which aroused the
detective's professional admiration. Watch and pocket-knife, Ho-Pin
inspected with interest. The little hand-bag which M. Max had
brought with him, containing a few toilet necessaries, was overhauled
religiously. So much the detective observed through his lowered lashes.
Then Ho-Pin again approached the bed and M. Max became again a dead man.
The silken pyjamas which the detective wore were subjected to gentle
examination by the sensitive fingers of the Chinaman, and those same
fingers crept beetle-like beneath the pillow.
Silently, Ho-Pin stole from the room and silently closed the door.
M. Max permitted himself a long breath of relief. It was an ordeal
through which few men could have passed triumphant.
The SILENCE of the place next attracted the inquirer's attention. He had
noted this silence at the moment that he entered the cave of the golden
dragon, but here it was even more marked; so that he divined, even
before he had examined the walls, that the apartment was rendered
sound-proof in the manner of a public telephone cabinet. It was a
significant circumstance to which he allotted its full value.
But the question uppermost in his mind at the moment was this: Was the
time come yet to commence his explorations?
Patience was included in his complement, and, knowing that he had
the night before him, he preferred to wait. In this he did well.
Considerable time elapsed, possibly half-an-hour... and again the door
opened.
M. Max was conscious of a momentary nervous tremor; for now a WOMAN
stood regarding him. She wore a Chinese costume; a huge red poppy was
in her hair. Her beauty was magnificently evil; she had the grace of a
gazelle and the eyes of a sorceress. He had deceived Ho-Pin, but could
he deceive this Eurasian with the witch-eyes wherein burnt ancient
wisdom?
He felt rather than saw her approach; for now he ventured to peep
no more. She touched him lightly upon the mouth with her fingers and
laughed a little low, rippling laugh, the sound of which seemed
to trickle along his sensory nerves, icily. She bent over
him--lower--lower--and lower yet; until, above the nauseating odor of
the place he could smell the musk perfume of her hair. Yet lower
she bent; with every nerve in his body he could feel her nearing
presence....
She kissed him on the lips.
Again she laughed, in that wicked, eerie glee.
M. Max was conscious of the most singular, the maddest impulses; it was
one of the supreme moments of his life. He knew that all depended
upon his absolute immobility; yet something in his brain was prompting
him--prompting him--to gather the witch to his breast; to return that
poisonous, that vampirish kiss, and then to crush out life from the
small lithe body.
Sternly he fought down these strange promptings, which he knew to
emanate hypnotically from the brain of the creature bending over him.
“Oh, my beautiful dead-baby,” she said, softly, and her voice was low,
and weirdly sweet. “Oh, my new baby, how I love you, my dead one!” Again
she laughed, a musical peal. “I will creep to you in the poppyland where
you go... and you shall twine your fingers in my hair and pull my red
mouth down to you, kissing me... kissing me, until you stifle and you
die of my love.... Oh! my beautiful mummy-baby... my baby.”...
The witch-crooning died away into a murmur; and the Frenchman became
conscious of the withdrawal of that presence from the room. No sound
came to tell of the reclosing of the door; but the obsession was
removed, the spell raised.
Again he inhaled deeply the tainted air, and again he opened his eyes.
He had no warranty to suppose that he should remain unmolested during
the remainder of the night. The strange words of the Eurasian he did not
construe literally; yet could he be certain that he was secure?... Nay!
he could be certain that he was NOT!
The shaded lamp was swung in such a position that most of the light was
directed upon him where he lay, whilst the walls of the room were bathed
in a purple shadow. Behind him and above him, directly over the head of
the bunk, a faint sound--a sound inaudible except in such a dead silence
as that prevailing--told of some shutter being raised or opened. He had
trained himself to watch beneath lowered lids without betraying that he
was doing so by the slightest nervous twitching. Now, as he watched the
purple shaded lamp above him, he observed that it was swaying and moving
very gently, whereas hitherto it had floated motionless in the still
air.
No other sound came to guide him, and to have glanced upward would have
been to betray all.
For the second time that night he became aware of one who watched him,
became conscious of observation without the guaranty of his physical
senses. And beneath this new surveillance, there grew up such a
revulsion of his inner being as he had rarely experienced. The perfume
of ROSES became perceptible; and for some occult reason, its fragrance
DISGUSTED.
It was as though a faint draught from the opened shutter poured into the
apartment an impalpable cloud of evil; the very soul of the Eurasian,
had it taken vapory form and enveloped him, could not have created a
greater turmoil of his senses than this!
Some sinister and definitely malignant intelligence was focussed upon
him; or was this a chimera of his imagination? Could it be that now he
was become en rapport with the thought-forms created in that chamber by
its successive occupants?
Scores, perhaps hundreds of brains had there partaken of the unholy
sacrament of opium; thousands, millions of evil carnivals had trailed in
impish procession about that bed. He knew enough of the creative power
of thought to be aware that a sensitive mind coming into contact with
such an atmosphere could not fail to respond in some degree to the
suggestions, to the elemental hypnosis, of the place.
Was he, owing to his self-induced receptivity of mind, redreaming the
evil dreams of those who had occupied that bed before him?
It might be so, but, whatever the explanation, he found himself unable
to shake off that uncanny sensation of being watched, studied, by a
powerful and inimical intelligence.
Mr. King!... Mr. King was watching him!
The director of that group, whose structure was founded upon the
wreckage of human souls, was watching him! Because of a certain
sympathy which existed between his present emotions and those which had
threatened to obsess him whilst the Eurasian was in the room, he half
believed that it was she who peered down at him, now... or she, and
another.
The lamp swung gently to and fro, turning slowly to the right and
then revolving again to the left, giving life in its gyrations to
the intermingled figures on the walls. The atmosphere of the room was
nauseating; it was beginning to overpower him....
Creative power of thought... what startling possibilities it opened
up. Almost it seemed, if Sir Brian Malpas were to be credited, that
the collective mind-force of a group of opium smokers had created the
“glamor” of a woman--an Oriental woman--who visited them regularly in
their trances. Or had that vision a prototype in the flesh--whom he had
seen?...
Creative power of thought... MR. KING! He was pursuing Mr. King; whilst
Mr. King might be nothing more than a thought-form--a creation of
cumulative thought--an elemental spirit which became visible to his
subjects, his victims, which had power over them; which could slay
them as the “shell” slew Frankenstein, his creator; which could
materialize:... Mr. King might be the Spirit of Opium....
The faint clicking sound was repeated.
Beads of perspiration stood upon M. Max's forehead; his imagination had
been running away with him. God! this was a house of fear! He controlled
himself, but only by dint of a tremendous effort of will.
Stealthily watching the lamp, he saw that the arc described by its
gyrations was diminishing with each successive swing, and, as he
watched, its movements grew slighter and slighter, until finally it
became quite stationary again, floating, purple and motionless, upon the
stagnant air.
Very slowly, he ventured to change his position, for his long ordeal was
beginning to induce cramp. The faint creaking of the metal bunk seemed,
in the dead stillness and to his highly-tensed senses, like the rattling
of castanets.
For ten minutes he lay in his new position; then moved slightly again
and waited for fully three-quarters of an hour. Nothing happened, and he
now determined to proceed with his inquiries.
Sitting upon the edge of the bunk, he looked about him, first directing
his attention to that portion of the wall immediately above. So
cunningly was the trap contrived that he could find no trace of its
existence. Carefully balancing himself upon the rails on either side of
the bunk, he stood up, and peered closely about that part of the wall
from which the sound had seemed to come. He even ran his fingers lightly
over the paper, up as high as he could reach; but not the slightest
crevice was perceptible. He began to doubt the evidence of his own
senses.
Unless his accursed imagination had been playing him tricks, a trap of
some kind had been opened above his head and someone had looked in at
him; yet--and his fingers were trained to such work--he was prepared
to swear that the surface of the Chinese paper covering the wall was
perfectly continuous. He drummed upon it lightly with his finger-tips,
here and there over the surface above the bed. And in this fashion he
became enlightened.
A portion, roughly a foot in height and two feet long, yielded a
slightly different note to his drumming; whereby he knew that that part
of the paper was not ATTACHED to the wall. He perceived the truth. The
trap, when closed, fitted flush with the back of the wall-paper, and
this paper (although when pasted upon the walls it showed no evidence of
the fact) must be TRANSPARENT.
From some dark place beyond, it was possible to peer in THROUGH the
rectangular patch of paper as through a window, at the occupant of the
bunk below, upon whom the shaded lamp directly poured its rays!
He examined more closely a lower part of the wall, which did not fall
within the shadow of the purple lamp-shade; for he was thinking of the
draught which had followed the opening of the trap. By this examination
he learnt two things: The explanation of the draught, and that of a
peculiar property possessed by the mural decorations. These (as Soames
had observed before him) assumed a new form if one stared at them
closely; other figures, figures human and animal, seemed to take
shape and to peer out from BEHIND the more obvious designs which were
perceptible at a glance. The longer and the closer one studied these
singular walls, the more evident the UNDER design became, until it
usurped the field of vision entirely. It was a bewildering delusion; but
M. Max had solved the mystery.
There were TWO designs; the first, an intricate Chinese pattern,
was painted or printed upon material like the finest gauze. This
was attached over a second and vividly colored pattern upon thick
parchment-like paper--as he learnt by the application of the point of
his pocket-knife.
The observation trap was covered with this paper, and fitted so nicely
in the opening that his fingers had failed to detect, through the
superimposed gauze, the slightest irregularity there. But, the trap
opened, a perfectly clear view of the room could be obtained through the
gauze, which, by reason of its texture, also admitted a current of air.
This matter settled, M. Max proceeded carefully to examine the entire
room foot by foot. Opening the door in one corner, he entered the
bathroom, in which, as in the outer apartment, an electric light
was burning. No window was discoverable, and not even an opening for
ventilation purposes. The latter fact he might have deduced from the
stagnation of the atmosphere.
Half an hour or more he spent in this fashion, without having discovered
anything beyond the secret of the observation trap. Again he took out
his pocket-knife, which was a large one with a handsome mother-o'-pearl
handle. Although Mr. Ho-Pin had examined this carefully, he had solved
only half of its secrets. M. Max extracted a little pair of tweezers
from the slot in which they were lodged--as Ho-Pin had not neglected
to do; but Ho-Pin, having looked at the tweezers, had returned them to
their place: M. Max did not do so. He opened the entire knife as though
it had been a box, and revealed within it a tiny set of appliances
designed principally for the desecration of locks!
Selecting one of these, he took up his watch from the table upon which
it lay, and approached the door. It possessed a lever handle of the
Continental pattern, and M. Max silently prayed that this might not be
a snare and a delusion, but that the lock below might be of the same
manufacture.
In order to settle the point, he held the face of his watch close to
the keyhole, wound its knob in the wrong direction, and lo! it became an
electric lamp!
One glance he cast into the tiny cavity, then dropped back upon the
bunk, twisting his mobile mouth in that half smile at once humorous and
despairful.
“Nom d'un p'tit bonhomme!--a Yale!” he muttered. “To open that without
noise is impossible! Damn!”
M. Max threw himself back upon the pillow, and for an hour afterward lay
deep in silent reflection.
He had cigarettes in his case and should have liked to smoke, but feared
to take the risk of scenting the air with a perfume so unorthodox.
He had gained something by his exploit, but not all that he had hoped
for; clearly his part now was to await what the morning should bring.
XXXII
BLUE BLINDS
Morning brought the silent opening of the door, and the entrance of
Said, the Egyptian, bearing a tiny Chinese tea service upon a lacquered
tray.
But M. Max lay in a seemingly deathly stupor, and from this the
impassive Oriental had great difficulty in arousing him. Said, having
shaken some symptoms of life into the limp form of M. Max, filled the
little cup with fragrant China tea, and, supporting the dazed man, held
the beverage to his lips. With his eyes but slightly opened, and with
all his weight resting upon the arm of the Egyptian, he gulped the hot
tea, and noted that it was of exquisite quality.
THEINE is an antidote to opium, and M. Max accordingly became somewhat
restored, and lay staring at the Oriental, and blinking his eyes
foolishly.
Said, leaving the tea service upon the little table, glided from the
room. Something else the Egyptian had left upon the tray in addition to
the dainty vessels of porcelain; it was a steel ring containing a dozen
or more keys. Most of these keys lay fanwise and bunched together, but
one lay isolated and pointing in an opposite direction. It was a Yale
key--the key of the door!