THE LIGHT OF EL-MEDINEH
Bristol and I walked slowly in the direction of the entrance of the
British Antiquarian Museum. It was the day following upon the
sensational scene in my chambers.
“There’s very little doubt,” said Bristol, “that Earl Dexter has the
slipper and that Hassan of Aleppo knows where Dexter is in hiding. I
don’t know which of the two is more elusive. Hassan apparently melted
into thin air yesterday; and although The Stetson Man has never within
my experience employed disguises, no one has set eyes upon him since
the night that he vanished from his lodgings off the Waterloo Road.
It’s always possible for a man to baffle the police by remaining
closely within doors, but during all the time that has elapsed Dexter
must have taken a little exercise occasionally, and the missing hand
should have betrayed him.”
“The wonder to me is,” I replied, “that he has escaped death at the
hands of the Hashishin. He is a supremely daring man, for I should
think that he must be carrying the slipper of the Prophet about with
him!”
“I would rather he did it than I!” commented Bristol. “For sheer
audacity commend me to The Stetson Man! His idea no doubt was to use
you as intermediary in his negotiations with the Museum authorities,
but that plan failing, he has written them direct, thoughtfully
omitting his address, of course!”
We were, in fact, at that moment bound for the Museum to inspect this
latest piece of evidence.
“The crowning example of the man’s audacity and cleverness,” added my
companion, “is his having actually approached Hassan of Aleppo with a
similar proposition! How did he get in touch with him? All Scotland
Yard has failed to find any trace of that weird character!”
“Birds of a feather—” I suggested.
“But they are not birds of a feather!” cried Bristol. “On your own
showing, Hassan of Aleppo is simply waiting his opportunity to balance
Dexter’s account forever! I always knew Dexter was a clever man; I
begin to think he’s the most daring genius alive!”
We mounted the steps of the Museum. In the hallway Mostyn, the curator,
awaited us. Having greeted Bristol and myself he led the way to his
private office, and from a pigeon-hole in his desk took out a letter
typewritten upon a sheet of quarto paper.
Bristol spread it out upon the blotting pad and we bent over it
curiously.
SIR—
I believe I can supply information concerning the whereabouts of the
missing slipper of Mohammed. As any inquiry of this nature must be
extremely perilous to the inquirer and as the relic is a priceless one,
my fee would be 10,000 pounds. The fanatics who seek to restore the
slipper to the East must not know of any negotiations, therefore I omit
my address, but will communicate further if you care to insert
instructions in the agony column of Times.
Faithfully,
EARL DEXTER
Bristol laughed grimly.
“It’s a daring game,” he said; “a piece of barefaced impudence quite
characteristic.
“He’s posing as a sort of private detective now, and is prepared for a
trifling consideration to return the slipper which he stole himself! He
must know, though, that we have his severed hand at the Yard to be used
in evidence against him.”
“Is the Burton Room open to the public again?” I asked Mostyn.
“It is open, yes,” he replied, “and a quite unusual number of visitors
come daily to gaze at the empty case which once held the slipper of the
Prophet.”
“Has the case been mended?”
“Yes; it is quite intact again; only the exhibit is missing.”
We ascended the stairs, passed along the Assyrian Room, which seemed to
be unusually crowded, and entered the lofty apartment known as the
Burton Room. The sunblinds were drawn, and a sort of dim, religious
light prevailed therein. A group of visitors stood around an empty case
at the farther end of the apartment.
“You see,” said Mostyn, pointing, “that empty case has a greater
attraction than all the other full ones!”
But I scarcely heeded his words, for I was intently watching the
movements of one of the group about the empty case. I have said that
the room was but dimly illuminated, and this fact, together no doubt
with some effect of reflected light, enhanced by my imagination,
perhaps produced the phenomenon which was occasioning me so much
amazement.
Remember that my mind was filled with memories of weird things, that I
often found myself thinking of that mystic light which Hassan of Aleppo
had called the light of El-Medineh—that light whereby, undeterred by
distance, he claimed to be able to trace the whereabouts of any of the
relics of the Prophet.
Bristol and Mostyn walked on then; but I stood just within the doorway,
intently, breathlessly watching an old man wearing an out-of-date
Inverness coat and a soft felt hat. He had a gray beard and moustache,
and long, untidy hair, walked with a stoop, and in short was no unusual
type of Visitor to that institution.
But it seemed to me, and the closer I watched him the more convinced I
became, that this was no optical illusion, that a faint luminosity, a
sort of elfin light, played eerily about his head!
As Bristol and Mostyn approached the case the old man began to walk
toward me and in the direction of the door. The idea flashed through my
mind that it might be Hassan of Aleppo himself, Hassan who had
predicted that the stolen slipper should that day be returned to the
Museum!
Then he came abreast of me, passed me, and I felt that my surmise had
been wrong. I saw Bristol, from farther up the room, turn and look
back. Something attracted his trained eye, I suppose, which was not
perceptible to me. But he suddenly came striding along. Obviously he
was pursuing the old man, who was just about to leave the apartment.
Seeing that the latter had reached the doorway, Bristol began to run.
The old man turned; and amid a chorus of exclamations from the
astonished spectators, Bristol sprang upon him!
How it all came about I cannot say, cannot hope to describe; but there
was a short, sharp scuffle, the crack of a well-directed blow ... and
Bristol was rolling on his back, the old man, hatless, was racing up
the Assyrian Room, and everyone in the place seemed to be shouting at
once!
Bristol, with blood streaming from his face, staggered to his feet,
clutching at me for support.
“After him, Mr. Cavanagh!” he cried hoarsely. “It’s your turn to-day!
After him! That’s Earl Dexter!”
Mostyn waited for no more, but went running quickly through the
Assyrian Room. I may mention here that at the head of the stairs he
found the caped Inverness which had served to conceal Dexter’s
mutilated arm, and later, behind a piece of statuary, a wig and a very
ingenious false beard and moustache were discovered. But of The Stetson
Man there was no trace. His brief start had enabled him to make good
his escape.
As Mostyn went off, and a group of visitors flocked in our direction,
Bristol, who had been badly shaken by the blow, turned to them.
“You will please all leave the Burton Room immediately,” he said.
Looks of surprise greeted his words; but with his handkerchief raised
to his face, he peremptorily repeated them. The official note in his
voice was readily to be detected; and the wonder-stricken group
departed with many a backward glance.
As the last left the Burton Room, Bristol pointed, with a rather shaky
finger, at the soft felt hat which lay at his feet. It had formed part
of Dexter’s disguise. Close beside it lay another object which had
evidently fallen from the hat—a dull red thing lying on the polished
parquet flooring.
“For God’s sake don’t go near it!” whispered Bristol. “The room must be
closed for the present. And now I’m off after that man. Step clear of
it.”
His words were unnecessary; I shunned it as a leprous thing.
It was the slipper of the Prophet!