THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH
It was rather less than two hours earlier on the same evening that
Quentin Gray came out of the confectioner’s shop in old Bond Street
carrying a neat parcel. Yellow dusk was closing down upon this bazaar
of the New Babylon, and many of the dealers in precious gems, vendors
of rich stuffs, and makers of modes had already deserted their shops.
Smartly dressed show-girls, saleswomen, girl clerks and others crowded
the pavements, which at high noon had been thronged with ladies of
fashion. Here a tailor’s staff, there a hatter’s lingered awhile as
iron shutters and gratings were secured, and bidding one another good
night, separated and made off towards Tube and bus. The working day was
ended. Society was dressing for dinner.
Gray was about to enter the cab which awaited him, and his
fresh-colored, boyish face wore an expression of eager expectancy,
which must have betrayed the fact to an experienced beholder that he
was hurrying to keep an agreeable appointment. Then, his hand resting
on the handle of the cab-door, this expression suddenly changed to one
of alert suspicion.
A tall, dark man, accompanied by a woman muffled in grey furs and
wearing a silk scarf over her hair, had passed on foot along the
opposite side of the street. Gray had seen them through the cab
windows.
His smooth brow wrinkled and his mouth tightened to a thin straight
line beneath the fair “regulation” moustache. He fumbled under his
overcoat for loose silver, drew out a handful and paid off the taximan.
Sometimes walking in the gutter in order to avoid the throngs upon the
pavement, regardless of the fact that his glossy dress-boots were
becoming spattered with mud, Gray hurried off in pursuit of the pair.
Twenty yards ahead he overtook them, as they were on the point of
passing a picture dealer’s window, from which yellow light streamed
forth into the humid dusk. They were walking slowly, and Gray stopped
in front of them.
“Hello, you two!” he cried. “Where are you off to? I was on my way to
call for you, Rita.”
Flushed and boyish he stood before them, and his annoyance was
increased by their failure to conceal the fact that his appearance was
embarrassing if not unwelcome. Mrs. Monte Irvin was a petite, pretty
woman, although some of the more wonderful bronzed tints of her hair
suggested the employment of henna, and her naturally lovely complexion
was delicately and artistically enhanced by art. Nevertheless, the
flower-like face peeping out from the folds of a gauzy scarf, like a
rose from a mist, whilst her soft little chin nestled into the fur,
might have explained even in the case of an older man the infatuation
which Quentin Gray was at no pains to hide.
She glanced up at her companion, Sir Lucien Pyne, a swarthy, cynical
type of aristocrat, imperturbably. Then: “I had left a note for you,
Quentin,” she said hurriedly. She seemed to be in a dangerously
high-strung condition.
“But I have booked a table and a box,” cried Gray, with a hint of
juvenile petulance.
“My dear Gray,” said Sir Lucien coolly, “we are men of the world—and we
do not look for consistency in womenfolk. Mrs. Irvin has decided to
consult a palmist or a hypnotist or some such occult authority before
dining with you this evening. Doubtless she seeks to learn if the play
to which you propose to take her is an amusing one.”
His smile of sardonic amusement Gray found to be almost insupportable,
and although Sir Lucien refrained from looking at Mrs. Irvin whilst he
spoke, it was evident enough that his words held some covert
significance, for:
“You know perfectly well that I have a particular reason for seeing
him,” she said.
“A woman’s particular reason is a man’s feeble excuse,” murmured Sir
Lucien rudely. “At least, according to a learned Arabian philosopher.”
“I was going to meet you at Prince’s,” said Mrs. Irvin hurriedly, and
again glancing at Gray. There was a pathetic hesitancy in her manner,
the hesitancy of a weak woman who adheres to a purpose only by supreme
effort.
“Might I ask,” said Gray, “the name of the pervert you are going to
consult?”
Again she hesitated and glanced rapidly at Sir Lucien, but he was
staring coolly in another direction.
“Kazmah,” she replied in a low voice.
“Kazmah!” cried Gray. “The man who sells perfume and pretends to read
dreams? What an extraordinary notion. Wouldn’t tomorrow do? He will
surely have shut up shop!”
“I have been at pains to ascertain,” replied Sir Lucien, “at Mrs.
Irvin’s express desire, that the man of mystery is still in session and
will receive her.”
Beneath the mask of nonchalance which he wore it might have been
possible to detect excitement repressed with difficulty; and had Gray
been more composed and not obsessed with the idea that Sir Lucien had
deliberately intruded upon his plans for the evening, he could not have
failed to perceive that Mrs. Monte Irvin was feverishly preoccupied
with matters having no relation to dinner and the theatre. But his
private suspicions grew only the more acute.
“Then if the dinner is not off,” he said, “may I come along and wait
for you?”
“At Kazmah’s?” asked Mrs. Irvin. “Certainly.” She turned to Sir Lucien.
“Shall you wait? It isn’t much use as I’m dining with Quentin.”
“If I do not intrude,” replied the baronet, “I will accompany you as
far as the cave of the oracle, and then bid you good night.”
The trio proceeded along old Bond Street. Quentin Gray regarded the
story of Kazmah as a very poor lie devised on the spur of the moment.
If he had been less infatuated, his natural sense of dignity must have
dictated an offer to release Mrs. Irvin from her engagement. But
jealousy stimulates the worst instincts and destroys the best. He was
determined to attach himself as closely as the old Man of the Sea
attached himself to Es-Sindibad, in order that the lie might be
unmasked. Mrs. Irvin’s palpable embarrassment and nervousness he
ascribed to her perception of his design.
A group of shop girls and others waiting for buses rendered it
impossible for the three to keep abreast, and Gray, falling to the
rear, stepped upon the foot of a little man who was walking close
behind them.
“Sorry, sir,” said the man, suppressing an exclamation of pain—for the
fault had been Gray’s.
Gray muttered an ungenerous acknowledgment, all anxiety to regain the
side of Mrs. Irvin; for she seemed to be speaking rapidly and excitedly
to Sir Lucien.
He recovered his place as the two turned in at a lighted doorway. Upon
the wall was a bronze plate bearing the inscription:
KAZMAH
Second Floor
Gray fully expected Mrs. Irvin to suggest that he should return later.
But without a word she began to ascend the stairs. Gray followed, Sir
Lucien standing aside to give him precedence. On the second floor was a
door painted in Oriental fashion. It possessed neither bell nor
knocker, but as one stepped upon the threshold this door opened
noiselessly as if dumbly inviting the visitor to enter the square
apartment discovered. This apartment was richly furnished in the Arab
manner, and lighted by a fine brass lamp swung upon chains from the
painted ceiling. The intricate perforations of the lamp were inset with
colored glass, and the result was a subdued and warm illumination.
Odd-looking oriental vessels, long-necked jars, jugs with tenuous
spouts and squat bowls possessing engraved and figured covers emerged
from the shadows of niches. A low divan with gaily colored mattresses
extended from the door around one corner of the room where it
terminated beside a kind of _mushrabîyeh_ cabinet or cupboard. Beyond
this cabinet was a long, low counter laden with statuettes of Nile
gods, amulets, mummy-beads and little stoppered flasks of blue enamel
ware. There were two glass cases filled with other strange-looking
antiquities. A faint perfume was perceptible.
Sir Lucien entering last of the party, the door closed behind him, and
from the cabinet on the right of the divan a young Egyptian stepped
out. He wore the customary white robe, red sash and red slippers, and a
_tarbûsh_, the little scarlet cap commonly called a fez, was set upon
his head. He walked to a door on the left of the counter, and slid it
noiselessly open. Bowing gravely, “The Sheikh el Kazmah awaits,” he
said, speaking with the soft intonation of a native of Upper Egypt.
It now became evident, even to the infatuated Gray, that Mrs. Irvin was
laboring under the influence of tremendous excitement. She turned to
him quickly, and he thought that her face looked almost haggard, whilst
her eyes seemed to have changed color—become lighter, although he could
not be certain that this latter effect was not due to the peculiar
illumination of the room. But when she spoke her voice was unsteady.
“Will you see if you can find a cab,” she said. “It is so difficult at
night, and my shoes will get frightfully muddy crossing Piccadilly. I
shall not be more than a few minutes.” She walked through the doorway,
the Egyptian standing aside as she passed. He followed her, but came
out again almost immediately, reclosed the door, and retired into the
cabinet, which was evidently his private cubicle.
Silence claimed the apartment. Sir Lucien threw himself nonchalantly
upon the divan, and took out his cigarette-case.
“Will you have a cigarette, Gray?” he asked.
“No thanks,” replied the other, in tones of smothered hostility. He was
ill at ease, and paced the apartment nervously. Pyne lighted a
cigarette, and tossed the extinguished match into a brass bowl.
“I think,” said Gray jerkily, “I shall go for a cab. Are you
remaining?”
“I am dining at the club,” answered Pyne, “but I can wait until you
return.”
“As you wish,” jerked Gray. “I don’t expect to be long.”
He walked rapidly to the outer door, which opened at his approach and
closed noiselessly behind him as he made his exit.