It was not until the evening of the following day that Harley rang me
up, and:
“I want you to come round at once,” he said urgently. “The Deepbrow case
is developing along lines which I confess I had anticipated, but which
are dramatic nevertheless.”
Knowing that Harley did not lightly make such an assertion, I put aside
the work upon which I was engaged and hurried around to Chancery Lane.
I found my friend, pipe in mouth, walking up and down his smoke-laden
study in a state which I knew to betoken suppressed excitement, and:
“Did Wessex find your photographer?” I asked on entering.
“Yes,” he replied. “A first-class man, as I had anticipated. As I had
further anticipated he did a number of copies of the picture for the
foreign gentleman--about fifty, in fact!”
“Fifty!”
“Yes! Does the significance of that fact strike you?” asked Harley, a
queer smile stealing across his tanned, clean-shaven face.
“It is an extraordinary thing for even an ardent admirer to have so many
reproductions done of the same picture!”
“It is! I will show you now what I found trodden into one of the
footprints where the struggle took place beside the car.”
Harley produced a piece of thick silk twine.
“What is it?”
“It is a link, Knox--a link to seek which I really went down to
Deepbrow.” He stared at me quizzically, but my answering look must have
been a blank one. “It is part of the tassel of one of those red cloth
caps commonly called in England, a fez!”
He continued to stare at me and I to stare at the piece of silk; then:
“What is the next move?” I demanded. “Your new clue rather bewilders
me.”
“The next move,” he said, “is to retire to the adjoining room and make
ourselves look as much like a couple of Oriental commercial travellers
as our correctly British appearance will allow!”
“What!” I cried.
“That's it!” laughed Harley. “I have a perpetual tan, and I think I can
give you a temporary one which I keep in a bottle for the purpose.”
Twenty minutes later, then, having quitted Harley's chambers by a back
way opening into one of those old-world courts which abound in this part
of the metropolis, two quietly attired Eastern gentlemen got into a
cab at the corner of Chancery Lane and proceeded in the direction of
Limehouse.
There are haunts in many parts of London whose very existence is
unsuspected by all but the few; haunts unvisited by the tourist and
even unknown to the copy-hunting pressman. Into a quiet thoroughfare not
three minutes' walk from the busy life of West India Dock Road, Harley
led the way. Before a door sandwiched in between the entrance to a Greek
tobacconist's establishment and a boarded shop-front, he paused and
turned to me.
“Whatever you see or hear,” he cautioned, “express no surprise. Above
all, show no curiosity.”
He rang the bell beside the door, and almost immediately it was opened
by a Negress, grossly and repellently ugly.
Harley pattered something in what sounded like Arabic, whereat the
Negress displayed the utmost servility, ushering us into an ill-lighted
passage with every evidence of respect. Following this passage to its
termination, an inner door was opened, and a burst of discordant music
greeted us, together with a wave of tobacco smoke. We entered.
Despite my friend's particular injunctions to the contrary I gave a
start of amazement.
We stood in the doorway of a fairly large apartment having a divan round
three of its sides. This divan was occupied by ten or a dozen men of
mixed nationalities--Arabs, Greeks, lascars, and others. They smoked
cigarettes for the most part and sipped Mokha from little cups. A girl
was performing a wriggling dance upon the square carpet occupying the
centre of the floor, accompanied by a Nubian boy who twanged upon a
guitar, and by most of the assembled company, who clapped their hands to
the music or droned a low, tuneless dirge.
Shortly after our entrance the performance terminated, and the girl
retired through a curtained doorway at the farther end of the room.
Our presence being now observed, suspicious glances were cast in our
direction, and a very aged man, who sat smoking a narghli near the door
by which the girl had made her exit, gravely waved towards us the amber
mouthpiece which he held in his hand.
Harley walked straight across to him, I close at his heels. The light of
a lamp which hung close by fell fully upon my friend's face; and, rising
from his seat, the old man greeted him with the dignified and graceful
salutation of the East. At his request we seated ourselves beside him,
and, while we all three smoked excellent Turkish cigarettes, Harley and
he conversed in a low tone. Suddenly, at some remark of my friend's,
our strange host rose to his feet, an angry frown contracting his heavy
eyebrows.
Silence fell upon the company.
In a loud and peremptory voice he called out something in Arabic.
Instantly I detected a fellow near the entrance door, and whom I had not
hitherto observed, slipping furtively into the shadow, with a view, as
I thought, to secret departure. He seemed to be deformed in some way
and had the most evil, pock-marked face I had ever beheld in my life.
Angrily, the majestic old man recalled him. Whereupon, with a sort of
animal snarl quite indescribable, the fellow plucked out a knife! Two
men who had been on the point of seizing him fell back, and:
“Hold him!” shouted Harley, springing forward--“hold him! It's Ali of
Cairo!”
But Harley was too late. Turning, the strange and formidable-looking
Oriental ran like the wind! Ere hand could be raised to stay him he was
through the doorway!
“That settles it,” said Harley grimly, as once more I found myself in a
cab beside him. “I was right; but he'll forestall us!”
“Who will forestall us?” I asked in bewilderment.
“The biggest villain in Europe, Asia, or Africa!” cried my companion.
“I have wasted precious time to-day. I might have known.” He drummed
irritably upon his knees. “The place we have just left is a sort of
club, you understand, Knox, and Hakim is the proprietor or host as well
as being an old gentleman of importance and authority in the Moslem
world. I told him of my suspicions--which step I should have taken
earlier--and they were instantly confirmed. My man was there--recognized
me--and bolted! He'll forestall us.”
“But my dear fellow,” I said patiently--“who is this man, and what has
he to do with the Deepbrow case?”
“He is the blackest scoundrel breathing!” answered Harley bitterly. “As
to what he has to do with the case--why did he bolt? At any rate, I know
where to find him now--and we may not be too late after all.”
“But who and what is this man?”
“He is Ali of Cairo! As to what he is--you will soon learn.”