CHAPTER II. THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH
CHAPTER III. KAZMAH
CHAPTER IV. THE CLOSED DOOR
CHAPTER V. THE DOOR IS OPENED
CHAPTER VI. RED KERRY
CHAPTER VII. FURTHER EVIDENCE
CHAPTER VIII. KERRY CONSULTS THE ORACLE
CHAPTER IX. A PACKET OF CIGARETTES
CHAPTER X. SIR LUCIEN’S STUDY WINDOW
CHAPTER XI. THE DRUG SYNDICATE
PART SECOND—MRS. SIN
CHAPTER XII. THE MAID OF THE MASQUE
CHAPTER XIII. A CHANDU PARTY
CHAPTER XIV. IN THE SHADE OF THE LONELY PALM
CHAPTER XV. METAMORPHOSIS
CHAPTER XVI. LIMEHOUSE
CHAPTER XVII. THE BLACK SMOKE
CHAPTER XVIII. THE DREAM OF SIN SIN WA
CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAFFIC
CHAPTER XX. KAZMAH’S METHODS
CHAPTER XXI. THE CIGARETTES FROM BUENOS AYRES
CHAPTER XXII. THE STRANGLE-HOLD
PART THIRD—THE MAN FROM WHITEHALL
CHAPTER XXIII. CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY RESIGNS
CHAPTER XXIV. TO INTRODUCE 719
CHAPTER XXV. NIGHT-LIFE OF SOHO
CHAPTER XXVI. THE MOODS OF MOLLIE
CHAPTER XXVII. CROWN EVIDENCE
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE GILDED JOSS
CHAPTER XXIX. DOUBTS AND FEARS
CHAPTER XXX. THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
CHAPTER XXXI. THE STORY OF 719
CHAPTER XXXII. ON THE ISLE OF DOGS
PART FOURTH—THE EYE OF SIN SIN WA
CHAPTER XXXIII. CHINESE MAGIC
CHAPTER XXXIV. ABOVE AND BELOW
CHAPTER XXXV. BEYOND THE VEIL
CHAPTER XXXVI. SAM TÛK MOVES
CHAPTER XXXVII. SETON PASHA REPORTS
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE SONG OF SIN SIN WA
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE EMPTY WHARF
CHAPTER XL. COIL OF THE PIGTAIL
CHAPTER XLI. THE FINDING OF KAZMAH
CHAPTER XLII. A YEAR LATER
CHAPTER XLIII. THE STORY OF THE CRIME
PART FIRST
KAZMAH THE DREAM-READER
CHAPTER I.
A MESSAGE FOR IRVIN
Monte Irvin, alderman of the city and prospective Lord Mayor of London,
paced restlessly from end to end of the well-appointed library of his
house in Prince’s Gate. Between his teeth he gripped the stump of a
burnt-out cigar. A tiny spaniel lay beside the fire, his beady black
eyes following the nervous movements of the master of the house.
At the age of forty-five Monte Irvin was not ill-looking, and, indeed,
was sometimes spoken of as handsome. His figure was full without being
corpulent; his well-groomed black hair and moustache and fresh if
rather coarse complexion, together with the dignity of his upright
carriage, lent him something of a military air. This he assiduously
cultivated as befitting an ex-Territorial officer, although as he had
seen no active service he modestly refrained from using any title of
rank.
Some quality in his brilliant smile, an oriental expressiveness of the
dark eyes beneath their drooping lids, hinted a Semitic strain; but it
was otherwise not marked in his appearance, which was free from
vulgarity, whilst essentially that of a successful man of affairs.
In fact, Monte Irvin had made a success of every affair in life with
the lamentable exception of his marriage. Of late his forehead had
grown lined, and those business friends who had known him for a man of
abstemious habits had observed in the City chophouse at which he
lunched almost daily that whereas formerly he had been a noted
trencherman, he now ate little but drank much.
Suddenly the spaniel leapt up with that feverish, spider-like activity
of the toy species and began to bark.
Monte Irvin paused in his restless patrol and listened.
“Lie down!” he said. “Be quiet.”
The spaniel ran to the door, sniffing eagerly. A muffled sound of
voices became audible, and Irvin, following a moment of hesitation,
crossed and opened the door. The dog ran out, yapping in his irritating
staccato fashion, and an expression of hope faded from Irvin’s face as
he saw a tall fair girl standing in the hallway talking to Hinkes, the
butler. She wore soiled Burberry, high-legged tan boots, and a peaked
cap of distinctly military appearance. Irvin would have retired again,
but the girl glanced up and saw him where he stood by the library door.
He summoned up a smile and advanced.
“Good evening, Miss Halley,” he said, striving to speak genially—for of
all of his wife’s friends he liked Margaret Halley the best. “Were you
expecting to find Rita at home?”
The girl’s expression was vaguely troubled. She had the clear
complexion and bright eyes of perfect health, but to-night her eyes
seemed over-bright, whilst her face was slightly pale.
“Yes,” she replied; “that is, I hoped she might be at home.”
“I am afraid I cannot tell you when she is likely to return. But please
come in, and I will make inquiries.”
“Oh, no, I would rather you did not trouble and I won’t stay, thank you
nevertheless. I expect she will ring me up when she comes in.”
“Is there any message I can give her?”
“Well”—she hesitated for an instant—“you might tell her, if you would,
that I only returned home at eight o’clock, so that I could not come
around any earlier.” She glanced rapidly at Irvin, biting her lip. “I
wish I could have seen her,” she added in a low voice.
“She wishes to see you particularly?”
“Yes. She left a note this afternoon.” Again she glanced at him in a
troubled way. “Well, I suppose it cannot be helped,” she added and
smilingly extended her hand. “Good night, Mr. Irvin. Don’t bother to
come to the door.”
But Irvin passed Hinkes and walked out under the porch with Margaret
Halley. Humid yellow mist floated past the street lamps, and seemed to
have gathered in a moving reef around the little runabout car which was
standing outside the house, its motor chattering tremulously.
“Phew! a beastly night!” he said. “Foggy and wet.”
“It’s a brute isn’t it?” said the girl laughingly, and turned on the
steps so that the light shining out of the hallway gleamed on her white
teeth and upraised eyes. She was pulling on big, ugly, furred gloves,
and Monte Irvin mentally contrasted her fresh, athletic type of beauty
with the delicate, exotic charm of his wife.
She opened the door of the little car, got in and drove off, waving one
hugely gloved hand to Irvin as he stood in the porch looking after her.
When the red tail-light had vanished in the mist he returned to the
house and re-entered the library. If only all his wife’s friends were
like Margaret Halley, he mused, he might have been spared the
insupportable misgivings which were goading him to madness. His mind
filled with poisonous suspicions, he resumed his pacing of the library,
awaiting and dreading that which should confirm his blackest theories.
He was unaware of the fact that throughout the interview he had held
the stump of cigar between his teeth. He held it there yet, pacing,
pacing up and down the long room.
Then came the expected summons. The telephone bell rang. Monte Irvin
clenched his hands and inhaled deeply. His color changed in a manner
that would have aroused a physician’s interest. Regaining his
self-possession by a visible effort, he crossed to a small side-table
upon which the instrument rested. Rolling the cigar stump into the left
corner of his mouth, he took up the receiver.
“Hallo!” he said.
“Someone named Brisley, sir, wishes—”
“Put him through to me here.”
“Very good, sir.”
A short interval, then:
“Yes?” said Monte Irvin.
“My name is Brisley. I have a message for Mr. Monte Irvin.”
“Monte Irvin speaking. Anything to report, Brisley?”
Irvin’s deep, rich voice was not entirely under control.
“Yes, sir. The lady drove by taxicab from Prince’s Gate to Albemarle
Street.”
“Ah!”
“Went up to chambers of Sir Lucien Pyne and was admitted.”
“Well?”
“Twenty minutes later came out. Lady was with Sir Lucien. Both walked
around to old Bond Street. The Honorable Quentin Gray—”
“Ah!” breathed Irvin.
“—Overtook them there. He got out of a cab. He joined them. All three
up to apartments of a professional crystal-gazer styling himself Kazmah
‘the dream-reader.’”
A puzzled expression began to steal over the face of Monte Irvin. At
the sound of the telephone bell he had paled somewhat. Now he began to
recover his habitual florid coloring.
“Go on,” he directed, for the speaker had paused.
“Seven to ten minutes later,” resumed the nasal voice, “Mr. Gray came
down. He hailed a passing cab, but man refused to stop. Mr. Gray seemed
to be very irritable.”
The fact that the invisible speaker was reading from a notebook he
betrayed by his monotonous intonation and abbreviated sentences, which
resembled those of a constable giving evidence in a police court.
“He walked off rapidly in direction of Piccadilly. Colleague followed.
Near the Ritz he obtained a cab. He returned in same to old Bond
Street. He ran upstairs and was gone from four-and-a-half to five
minutes. He then came down again. He was very pale and agitated. He
discharged cab and walked away. Colleague followed. He saw Mr. Gray
enter Prince’s Restaurant. In the hall Mr. Gray met a gent unknown by
sight to colleague. Following some conversation both gents went in to
dinner. They are there now. Speaking from Dover Street Tube.”
“Yes, yes. But the lady?”
“A native, possibly Egyptian, apparently servant of Kazmah, came out a
few minutes after Mr. Gray had gone for cab, and went away. Sir Lucien
Pyne and lady are still in Kazmah’s rooms.”
“What!” cried Irvin, pulling out his watch and glancing at the disk.
“But it’s after eight o’clock!”
“Yes, sir. The place is all shut up, and other offices in block closed
at six. Door of Kazmah’s is locked. I knocked and got no reply.”
“Damn it! You’re talking nonsense! There must be another exit.”
“No, sir. Colleague has just relieved me. Left two gents over their
wine at Prince’s.”
Monte Irvin’s color began to fade slowly.
“Then it’s Pyne!” he whispered. The hand which held the receiver shook.
“Brisley—meet me at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street. I am coming
now.”
He put down the telephone, crossed to the wall and pressed a button.
The cigar stump held firmly between his teeth, he stood on the rug
before the hearth, facing the door. Presently it opened and Hinkes came
in.
“The car is ready, Hinkes?”
“Yes, sir, as you ordered. Shall Pattison come round to the door?”
“At once.”
“Very good, sir.”
He withdrew, closing the door quietly, and Monte Irvin stood staring
across the library at the full-length portrait in oils of his wife in
the pierrot dress which she had worn in the third act of _The Maid of
the Masque_.
The clock in the hall struck half-past eight.