On the black silk the shrivelling, bloodless fingers lay half curved
like talons. At first I could not bring myself to gaze upon the
mutilated hand I had so recently grasped; but at length, fascinated by
the gruesome mystery, I inspected it minutely. On the stiffened fingers
diamonds glistened in the bar of sunlight that strayed into the room,
and my own ring remained there, a silent witness of some terrible
tragedy.
Had Zoraida been murdered? Was she, after all, the wife of a jealous,
fanatical Moslem, who had discovered our friendship, and who had wreaked
an awful vengeance upon her? As I stood with the horrible contents of
the box before my eyes, strange thoughts took possession of me. With
startling vividness I pictured the woman I loved, and to whom I owed my
life, lying stark and dead, with one hand hacked away and a great ugly
wound in her white breast where the assassin's cruel knife had entered.
I seemed to see every detail of a hideous crime; on my ears there fell
the soft lapping of the sea, and the splash as the body, divested of its
silks and jewels, was hurled into the water as unceremoniously as offal
by two brutal, stalwart negroes. Had not Zoraida been apprehensive of
danger? Had she not told me frankly that her life was uncertain? Yet I
had never dreamed of murder!
Alas! death comes swiftly sometimes to inmates of the harem. To-day
Zuleika or Zohra, Kheira or Khadidja, may be the favourite, exercising
power over her lord, and holding sway through him over the world outside
her luxurious prison, but to-morrow she may be a corpse floating out
with the tide into the lonely sea.
The sight of the dead hand was sickening. I could not bear it.
Replacing the lid upon the box, I stood for a few moments in hesitation,
then resolved to rid myself of the ghastly object that had been sent me
by an unknown enemy. With the box under my arm, I went out into the
glaring sunlight. Half-way across the broad Place, it occurred to me to
find the mysterious house to which old Messoudia had conducted me, and
with the severed member in my possession to seek an explanation. Did
not our mutual pledges give me a right to demand knowledge of Zoraida's
welfare? If she had actually fallen a victim to the caprices of a
monster, was it not my duty to investigate the affair, and bring to
justice the perpetrator of the crime? With such thoughts I crossed the
Jews' quarter, and, ascending the long narrow Arab street, the Rue de la
Kasbah, leading through the heart of the native quarter, was soon
climbing with impatient steps the maze-like labyrinth of shady passages,
with their low dark archways and great, gloomy, prison-like houses,
among which I hoped to recognise the arched door again. I spent a
weary, anxious afternoon. The air was sultry, the Arabs lay stretched
on the benches in the _kahouas_, or, squatting lazily on the mats
outside, were oblivious to their surroundings. Everything was sleepful.
Shoemakers and embroiderers who had ceased work were dozing in their
little dens, and as I trudged wearily onward, I passed only a solitary
ass with heavily-laden panniers plodding on, followed leisurely by his
master, who wore a jasmine flower behind his ear. The stillness was
only broken by the far-off voices of some Arab urchins at their play, or
ever and anon the thumping of the _derbouka_ and the twanging of the
_guenibri_ floating out of the small closely-barred windows of the
harems fell upon my ears as I passed. Surely mine was an unique
experience, wandering at will, and bearing with me the dead hand of the
woman I loved!
The bright blue sea was like glass, the sky cloudless, and the whole
world seemed at peace; yet I was the least peaceful. Carrying the
casket containing the horrible souvenir, I stumbled onward, toiling
aimlessly and in vain up through the gloomy, crooked passages. Feelings
I had never before experienced assailed me with a force that first
perplexed and then astounded me. I was afraid; and what rather
heightened than diminished the unwonted sensation, was the fact that I
was not afraid of anything tangible either in the present or the future,
but of something mysterious and peculiar. Every sound jarred upon my
nerves, causing the faintest murmur to seem like the utterance of a
great dread, as awful as it was inexplicable.
Time after time, finding myself at the boundary of the Kasbah, I again
turned and plunged into the narrow, crooked thoroughfares, hoping by
wandering in this manner to discover the house to which I had been
conducted. Alas! it was a forlorn hope. Messoudia had taken
precautions in order that I should not be able to retrace my steps;
besides, there were hundreds of houses with similar entrances, and
though I strove to decide which was the mysterious residence I sought, I
could detect absolutely nothing by which to identify it.
Terror shackled my steps. During those hot, anxious hours I several
times traversed the streets from the winding Rue Rovigo to the Boulevard
Valee on the opposite side of the town, exploring each of the narrow,
ancient lanes lying between the Rue Bab Azzoun and the grim old citadel.
Every effort to discover the house where I had spent such eventful
hours failed, and at last entering a _kahoua_, and having given the
lounging Arabs "peace," I sank upon a bench, and, placing the box beside
me, called for coffee.
While the old Arab was brewing it on his tiled stove, a man in a ragged
and rather soiled burnouse entered, and, after grunting a greeting,
squatted near me, idly smoking his long haschish pipe. He was of rather
forbidding countenance, with a thin black beard, and eyes that seemed to
flame like torches.
Noticing that I had uttered a salutation in Arabic, one of the
customers, a very old man, who was half reclining on a bench opposite
me, gravely observed--
"It is not often that the Roumi speaketh our tongue."
"No," I replied, smiling. "But I have lived for many moons among thy
clansmen, and have wandered far and wide in this thy Land of the Sun."
My remark interested them, and was received with muttered satisfaction.
As I wore European dress, I knew they viewed me with considerable
suspicion.
"Hast thou travelled in the Great Desert?" the old man asked.
"Yes," I answered. "With the caravans I have been over the Areg and the
Sahara, and," laughing, I added, "I have managed to escape from the
clutches of Hadj Absalam--"
"Cursed be his name! May Allah never show him mercy!" interrupted the
dark-faced man, who was smoking quietly beside me. I turned, surprised
at such a vehement denunciation.
"I heard a rumour at Constantine the other day," remarked my
interrogator, "that his men have recently raided the caravan of Ali Ben
Hafiz, and massacred the whole party."
"That is quite correct," I replied. "I was with them, and because of my
Faith my life was spared so that I might be tortured. But I escaped,
and returned hence."
"Praise be unto the Prophet who hast preserved thee!" he said devoutly.
"Indeed, Absalam's people are a terror to all. Our brother Ali Ben
Hafiz--may Allah show him mercy--was very well known here."
"Yes. Very well known," echoed half a dozen guttural voices.
"He often played _damma_ here," continued the old Arab, "and no man was
more respected in the Kasbah than he." Then, raising himself and
pointing to the end of the low-roofed cafe, where on the walls hung
grotesquely-executed texts from the Koran and gaudily-coloured pictures
of the city of Mecca, he added, "See there! once while he was smoking in
this _kahoua_, a Roumi who chanced to come in drew that portrait. Dost
thou recognise him?"
Interested, I rose and walked to where the little pencil sketch was
hanging. Notwithstanding the dim light, I could see that the features
of my dead friend were lifelike, and I deciphered in the corner the
signature of one of our greatest living English artists.
"It is excellent. The expression on the features is exact," I agreed,
and, taking the coffee from the hand of the _kahouaji_, I sipped it, and
gave him the ten centimes demanded.
Returning to my bench, I suddenly noticed that while my back had been
turned to inspect the portrait, the dark-faced man who had entered after
me had risen and quietly departed.
Next second I made a discovery.
"My box!" I gasped. "See! it has gone! _It has been stolen_!"
The Arabs, startled from their lethargy, exchanged black looks of
disapproval, some of them muttering that True Believers would never
pollute themselves by handling the treasure of Infidels.
"My box has been taken by that man who has just left!" I cried, rushing
headlong out into the street, and glancing quickly up and down. But he
had vanished like a shadow! No human being was in sight. Frantically I
rushed about, peering eagerly into dark corners and gloomy archways in
the vicinity, but the man, who had apparently been watching for an
opportunity to obtain possession of the box, had disappeared in that
bewildering maze of streets and left no trace behind!
At last re-entering the _kahoua_, the customers of which had now risen
and were holding a very animated discussion over the dexterously
accomplished robbery, I demanded if anyone present knew the man.
Everyone, however, disclaimed acquaintance with him.
"He is an utter stranger," said the old man who had been conversing with
me. "To judge from his face, he cometh from the Areg."
"Evidently he hath no friendship for Hadj Absalam," observed one of the
Arabs grimly, as in the midst of an exciting argument he stopped to
light a cigarette, carefully extinguishing the match with his fingers.
"But my loss is irreparable. That box contained"--I hesitated. Then I
added, "It contained great treasure."
"May Allah consign the thief to Hawiyat for ever!" exclaimed one of the
men calmly.
"May the Prophet send thee consolation!" added another. "Against Fate
thou canst not arm thyself," observed a third. "May the entrails of the
thief be burned!"
To such remarks I returned thanks, and, heedless of the questions they
asked concerning the value of the contents of the stolen box, I stood
deep in thought. Though the circumstances were somewhat suspicious that
my attention should have been diverted in the manner it had, still there
was no mistake that the portrait was actually that of my murdered
friend; and, further, the thief had not, as far as I had noticed, spoken
to any of those around him. Expert pilferers as the Arabs mostly are, I
could not in this instance bring myself to believe that I had been the
victim of a plot. Again, it was not a pleasant reflection that the
thief might have stolen it thinking it contained valuables, and then,
finding the hideous object inside, would in such a case most likely give
information which would lead to my arrest for murder! My guilt would be
assumed, and to prove my innocence I should experience considerable
difficulty.
On the other hand, however, the circumstances pointed strongly to the
theory that the ragged ruffian had dogged my footsteps in order to
obtain possession of the casket. But for what reason? The box had been
wrapped in brown paper, there being nothing whatever in its exterior to
excite undue curiosity. Was it possible that the thief might have been
aware of its contents? Was the possession of this startling evidence of
a gruesome tragedy of imperative necessity? If so, why?
None of these questions could I answer. I felt that the robbery was not
an ordinary one. It was an enigma that I could not solve. The hand,
with its rings, had been stolen from me by one who was evidently an
expert thief, and, recognising that any attempt to recover it was
useless, I thanked the Arabs in the _kahoua_ for their condolences, and
left, turning my steps slowly towards the European quarter.
I recollected that I had promised Zoraida to set out that night on my
journey into the distant Desert. Again and again her earnest words in
her own musical tongue rang in my ears: "Thou wilt go for my sake," she
had said. "Remember the instructions I have given thee; and, above all,
promise to seek no explanation of what thou mayest hear or see regarding
me until thou hast returned from Agadez. Thou wilt undertake this
mission in order to save my life, to rescue me from a horrible fate that
threateneth to overwhelm me!"
Had she already succumbed to the fate she dreaded?
Utterly powerless to obtain any information that might lead to the
elucidation of the extraordinary mystery, I at length, after calmly
reviewing the situation over a cigarette under the palms in the Place
Bresson, resolved to keep my promise to her, and before midnight I left
the City of the Corsairs on the first stage of my long, tedious journey
southward towards the sun.
The temptation to return to England and leave the mystery unsolved had
indeed been great, yet I could not forget that I had pledged my word to
a woman I loved better than life. She had declared that I alone could
save her, and trusted me. These thoughts caused my decision to attempt
the perilous journey. Is it not, indeed, true that sometimes beauty
draws us with a single hair towards our doom?
Why, I wondered, had she been so intensely anxious that I should refrain
from seeking any explanation of these strange, ever-deepening and
perplexing mysteries? Her words and actions were those of a woman
apprehensive of some terrible tragedy that she was powerless to avert;
and even though I started that night from Algiers fully determined to
learn the secret of the Crescent of Glorious Wonders I carried, and its
bearing upon her welfare, yet that shrill, despairing cry I had heard
after leaving her presence still sounded distinctly in my ears, the
dolorous, agonised wail of the hapless victim of a hidden crime.