THE THREE MESSAGES
I stood in the foyer of the Astoria Hotel. About me was the pulsing
stir of transatlantic life, for the tourist season was now at its
height, and I counted myself fortunate in that I had been able to
secure a room at this establishment, always so popular with American
visitors. Chatting groups surrounded me and I became acquainted with
numberless projects for visiting the Tower of London, the National
Gallery, the British Museum, Windsor Castle, Kew Gardens, and the other
sights dear to the heart of our visiting cousins. Loaded lifts ascended
and descended. Bradshaws were in great evidence everywhere; all was
hustle and glad animation.
The tall military-looking man who stood beside me glanced about him
with a rather grim smile.
“You ought to be safe enough here, Mr. Cavanagh!” he said.
“I ought to be safe enough in my own chambers,” I replied wearily. “How
many of these pleasure-seeking folk would believe that a man can be as
greatly in peril of his life in Fleet Street as in the most uncivilized
spot upon the world map? Do you think if I told that prosperous New
Yorker who is buying a cigar yonder, for instance, that I had been
driven from my chambers by a band of Eastern assassins founded some
time in the eleventh century, he would believe it?”
“I am certain he wouldn’t!” replied Bristol. “I should not have
credited it myself before I was put in charge of this damnable case.”
My position at that hour was in truth an incredible one. The sacred
slipper of Mohammed lay once more in the glass case at the Antiquarian
Museum from which Earl Dexter had stolen it. Now, with apish yellow
faces haunting my dreams, with ghostly menaces dogging me day and
night, I was outcast from my own rooms and compelled, in self-defence,
to live amid the bustle of the Astoria. So wholly nonplussed were the
police authorities that they could afford me no protection. They knew
that a group of scientific murderers lay hidden in or near to London;
they knew that Earl Dexter, the foremost crook of his day, was also in
the metropolis—and they could make no move, were helpless; indeed, as
Bristol had confessed, were hopeless!
Bristol, on the previous day, had unearthed the Greek cigar merchant,
Acepulos, who had replaced the slipper in its case (for a monetary
consideration). He had performed a similar service when the
bloodstained thing had first been put upon exhibition at the Museum,
and for a considerable period had disappeared. We had feared that his
religious pretensions had not saved him from the avenging scimitar of
Hassan; but quite recently he had returned again to his Soho shop, and
in time thus to earn a second cheque.
As Bristol and I stood glancing about the foyer of the hotel, a
plain-clothes officer whom I knew by sight came in and approached my
companion. I could not divine the fact, of course, but I was about to
hear news of the money-loving and greatly daring Graeco-Moslem.
The detective whispered something to Bristol, and the latter started,
and paled. He turned to me.
“They haven’t overlooked him this time, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said.
“Acepulos has been found dead in his room, nearly decapitated!”
I shuddered involuntarily. Even there, amid the chatter and laughter of
those light-hearted tourists, the shadow of Hassan of Aleppo was
falling upon me.
Bristol started immediately for Soho and I parted from him in the
Strand, he proceeding west and I eastward, for I had occasion that
morning to call at my bank. It was the time of the year when London is
full of foreigners, and as I proceeded in the direction of Fleet Street
I encountered more than one Oriental. To my excited imagination they
all seemed to glance at me furtively, with menacing eyes, but in any
event I knew that I had little to fear whilst I contrived to keep to
the crowded thoroughfares. Solitude I dreaded and with good reason.
Then at the door of the bank I found fresh matter for reflection. The
assistant manager, Mr. Colby, was escorting a lady to the door. As I
stood aside, he walked with her to a handsome car which waited, and
handed her in with marks of great deference. She was heavily veiled and
I had no more than a glimpse of her, but she appeared to be of middle
age and had gray hair and a very stately manner.
I told myself that I was unduly suspicious, suspicious of everyone and
of everything; yet as I entered the bank I found myself wondering where
I had seen that dignified, grayhaired figure before. I even thought of
asking the manager the name of his distinguished customer, but did not
do so, for in the circumstances such an inquiry must have appeared
impertinent.
My business transacted, I came out again by the side entrance which
opens on the little courtyard, for this branch of the London County and
Provincial Bank occupies a corner site.
A ragged urchin who was apparently waiting for me handed me a note. I
looked at him inquiringly.
“For me?” I said.
“Yes, sir. A dark gentleman pointed you out as you was goin’ into the
bank.”
The note was written upon a half sheet of paper and, doubting if it was
really intended for me, I unfolded it and read the following—
Mr. Cavanagh, take the keys of the case containing the holy slipper to
your hotel this evening without fail.
HASSAN.
“Who gave you this, boy?” I asked sharply.
“A foreign gentleman, sir, very dark—like an Indian.”
“Where is he?”
“He went off in a cab, sir, after he give me the note.”
I handed the boy sixpence and slowly pursued my way. An idea was
forming in my mind to trap the enemy by seeming acquiescent. I wondered
if my movements were being watched at that moment. Since it was more
than probable, I returned to the bank, entered, and made some trivial
inquiry of a cashier, and then came out again and walked on as far as
the Report office.
I had not been in the office more than five minutes before I received a
telegram from Inspector Bristol. It had been handed in at Soho, and the
message was an odd one.
CAVANAGH, Report, London.
Plot afoot to steal keys. Get them from bank and join me 11 o’clock at
Astoria. Have planned trap.
BRISTOL.
This was very mysterious in view of the note so recently received by
me, but I concluded that Bristol had hit upon a similar plan to that
which was forming in my own mind. It seemed unnecessarily hazardous,
though, actually to withdraw the keys from their place of safety.
Pondering deeply upon the perplexities of this maddening case, I
shortly afterward found myself again at the bank. With the manager I
descended to the strong-room, and the safe was unlocked which contained
the much-sought-for keys of the case at the Antiquarian Museum.
“There are the keys, quite safe!—and by the way, this is my second
visit here this morning, Mr. Cavanagh,” said the manager, with whom I
was upon rather intimate terms. “A foreign lady who has recently become
a customer of the bank deposited some valuable jewels here this
morning—less than an hour ago, in fact.”
“Indeed,” I said, and my mind was working rapidly. “The lady who came
in the large blue car, a gray-haired lady?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “did you notice her, then?”
I nodded and said no more, for in truth I had no more to say. I had
good reason to respect the uncanny powers of Hassan of Aleppo, but I
doubted if even his omniscience could tell him (since I had actually
gone down into the strong-room) whether when I emerged I had the keys,
or whether my visit and seeming acceptance of his orders had been no
more than a subterfuge!
That the Hashishin had some means of communicating with me at the
Astoria was evident from the contents of the note which I had received,
and as I walked in the direction of the hotel my mind was filled with
all sorts of misgivings. I was playing with fire! Had I done rightly or
should I have acted otherwise? I sighed wearily. The dark future would
resolve all my doubts.
When I reached the Astoria, Bristol had not arrived. I lighted a
cigarette and sat down in the lounge to await his coming. Presently a
boy approached, handing me a message which had been taken down from the
telephone by the clerk. It was as follows—
Tell Mr. Cavanagh, who is waiting in the hotel, to take what I am
expecting to his chambers, and say that I will join him there in twenty
minutes.
INSPECTOR BRISTOL.
Again I doubted the wisdom of Bristol’s plan. Had I not fled to the
Astoria to escape from the dangerous solitude of my rooms? That he was
laying some trap for the Hashishin was sufficiently evident, and whilst
I could not justly suspect him of making a pawn of me I was quite
unable to find any other explanation of this latest move.
I was torn between conflicting doubts. I glanced at my watch. Yes!
There was just time for me to revisit the bank ere joining Bristol at
my chambers! I hesitated. After all, in what possible way could it
jeopardize his plans for me merely to pretend to bring the keys?
“Hang it all!” I said, and jumped to my feet. “These maddening
conjectures will turn my brain! I’ll let matters stand as they are, and
risk the consequences!”
I hesitated no longer, but passed out from the hotel and once more
directed my steps in the direction of Fleet Street.
As I passed in under the arch through which streamed many busy workers,
I told myself that to dread entering my own chambers at high noon was
utterly childish. Yet I did dread doing so! And as I mounted the stair
and came to the landing, which was always more or less dark, I paused
for quite a long time before putting the key in the lock.
The affair of the accursed slipper was playing havoc with my nerves,
and I laughed dryly to note that my hand was not quite steady as I
turned the key, opened my door, and slipped into the dim hallway.
As I closed it behind me, something, probably a slight noise, but
possibly something more subtle—an instinct—made me turn rapidly.
There facing me stood Hassan of Aleppo.