CHAPTER XI

THE BLUE RAY

Dusk found Stuart in a singular frame of mind. He was torn between

duty--or what he conceived to be his duty--to the community, and ...

something else. A messenger from New Scotland Yard had brought him a

bundle of documents relating to the case of Sir Frank Narcombe, and

a smaller packet touching upon the sudden end of Henrik Ericksen, the

Norwegian electrician, and the equally unexpected death of the Grand

Duke Ivan. There were medical certificates, proceedings of coroners,

reports of detectives, evidence of specialists and statements of

friends, relatives and servants of the deceased. A proper examination

of all the documents represented many hours of close study.

Stuart was flattered by the opinion held of his ability by the

Assistant Commissioner, but dubious of his chance of detecting any

flaw in the evidence which had escaped the scrutiny of so many highly

trained observers.

He paced the study restlessly. Although more than six hours had

elapsed, he had not communicated to Scotland Yard the fact of his

having seen Mlle. Dorian that afternoon. A hundred times he had read

the message, although he knew it by heart, knew the form of every

letter, the odd crossing of the _t'_s and the splashy dotting of

the _i_'s.

If only he could have taken counsel with someone--with someone not

bound to act upon such information--it would have relieved his mental

stress. His ideas were so chaotic that he felt himself to be incapable

of approaching the task presented by the pile of papers lying upon his

table.

The night was pleasantly warm and the sky cloudless. Often enough he

found himself glancing toward the opened French windows, and once he

had peered closely across into the belt of shadow below the hedge,

thinking that he had detected something which moved there. Stepping

to the window, the slinking shape had emerged into the moonlight--and

had proclaimed itself to be that of a black cat!

Yet he had been sorely tempted to act upon the advice so strangely

offered. He refrained from doing so, however, reflecting that to spend

his evenings with closed and barred shutters now that a spell of hot

weather seemed to be imminent would be insufferable. Up and down the

room he paced tirelessly, always confronted by the eternal problem.

Forcing himself at last to begin work if only as a sedative, he filled

and lighted his pipe, turned off the centre lamp and lighted the

reading lamp upon his table. He sat down to consider the papers

bearing upon the death of Eriksen. For half an hour he read on

steadily and made a number of pencil notes. Then he desisted and sat

staring straight before him.

What possible motive could there be in assassinating these people? The

case of the Grand Duke might be susceptible of explanation, but those

of Henrik Ericksen and Sir Frank Narcombe were not. Furthermore he

could perceive no links connecting the three, and no reason why they

should have engaged the attention of a common enemy. Such crimes would

seem to be purposeless. Assuming that "The Scorpion" was an individual,

that individual apparently was a dangerous homicidal maniac.

But, throughout the documents, he could discover no clue pointing to

the existence of such an entity. "The Scorpion" might be an invention

of the fertile brain of M. Gaston Max; for it had become more and more

evident, as he had read, that the attempt to trace these deaths to an

identical source had originated at the Service de Surete, and it was

from Paris that the name "The Scorpion" had come. The fate of Max was

significant, of course. The chances of his death proving to have been

due to accident were almost negligible and the fact that a fragment of

a golden scorpion had actually been found upon his body was certainly

curious.

"Close your shutters at night...."

How the words haunted him and how hotly he despised himself for a

growing apprehension which refused to be ignored. It was more mental

than physical, this dread which grew with the approach of midnight,

and it resembled that which had robbed him of individuality and all

but stricken him inert when he had seen upon the moon-bright screen of

the curtains the shadow of a cowled man.

Dark forces seemed to be stirring, and some unseen menace crept near

to him out of the darkness.

The house was of early Victorian fashion and massive folding shutters

were provided to close the French windows. He never used them, as a

matter of fact, but now he tested the fastenings which kept them in

place against the inner wall and even moved them in order to learn if

they were still serviceable.

Of all the mysteries which baffled him, that of the piece of

cardboard in the envelope sealed with a Chinese coin was the most

irritating. It seemed like the purposeless trick of a child, yet it

had led to the presence of the cowled man--and to the presence of

Mlle. Dorian. Why?

He sat down at his table again.

"Damn the whole business!" he said. "It is sending me crazy."

Selecting from the heap of documents a large sheet of note-paper

bearing a blue diagram of a human bust, marked with figures and

marginal notes, he began to read the report to which it was

appended--that of Dr. Halesowen. It stated that the late Sir Frank

Narcombe had a "horizontal" heart, slightly misplaced and dilatated,

with other details which really threw no light whatever upon the

cause of his death.

"_I_ have a horizontal heart," growled Stuart--"and considering my

consumption of tobacco it is certainly dilatated. But I don't expect

to drop dead in a theatre nevertheless."

He read on, striving to escape from that shadowy apprehension, but as

he read he was listening to the night sounds of London, to the

whirring of distant motors, the whistling of engines upon the railway

and dim hooting of sirens from the Thames. A slight breeze had arisen

and it rustled in the feathery foliage of the acacias and made a

whispering sound as it stirred the leaves of the privet hedge.

The drone of an approaching car reached his ears. Pencil in hand, he

sat listening. The sound grew louder, then ceased. Either the car

had passed or had stopped somewhere near the house. Came a rap on

the door.

"Yes," called Stuart and stood up, conscious of excitement.

Mrs. M'Gregor came in.

"There is nothing further you'll be wanting to-night?" she asked.

"No," said Stuart, strangely disappointed, but smiling at the old

lady cheerfully. "I shall turn in very shortly."

"A keen east wind has arisen," she continued, severely eyeing the

opened windows, "and even for a medical man you are strangely

imprudent. Shall I shut the windows?"

"No, don't trouble, Mrs. M'Gregor. The room gets very stuffy with

tobacco smoke, and really it is quite a warm night. I shall close

them before I retire, of course."

"Ah well," sighed Mrs. M'Gregor, preparing to depart. "Good-night,

Mr. Keppel."

"Good-night, Mrs. M'Gregor."

She retired, and Stuart sat staring out into the darkness. He was

not prone to superstition, but it seemed like tempting providence to

remain there with the windows open any longer. Yet paradoxically, he

lacked the moral courage to close them--to admit to himself that he

was afraid!

The telephone bell rang, and he started back in his chair as though

to avoid a blow.

By doing so he avoided destruction.

At the very instant that the bell rang out sharply in the silence--so

exact is the time-table of Kismet--a needle-like ray of blue light

shot across the lawn from beyond and above the hedge and--but for

that nervous start--must have struck fully upon the back of Stuart's

skull. Instead, it shone past his head, which it missed only by

inches, and he experienced a sensation as though some one had

buffeted him upon the cheek furiously. He pitched out of his chair

and on to the carpet.

The first object which the ray touched was the telephone; and next,

beyond it, a medical dictionary; beyond that again, the grate, in

which a fire was laid.

"My God!" groaned Stuart--"what is it!"

An intense crackling sound deafened him, and the air of the room

seemed to have become hot as that of an oven. There came a series of

dull reports--an uncanny wailing ... and the needle-ray vanished.

A monstrous shadow, moon-cast, which had lain across the carpet of

the lawn--the shadow of a cowled man--vanished also.

Clutching the side of his head, which throbbed and tingled as though

from the blow of an open hand, Stuart struggled to his feet. There

was smoke in the room, a smell of burning and of fusing metal. He

glared at the table madly.

The mouthpiece of the telephone had vanished!

"My God!" he groaned again, and clutched at the back of the chair.

His dictionary was smouldering slowly. It had a neat round hole some

three inches in diameter, bored completely through, cover to cover!

The fire in the grate was flaring up the chimney!

He heard the purr of a motor in the lane beside the house. The room

was laden with suffocating fumes. Stuart stood clutching the chair and

striving to retain composure--sanity. The car moved out of the lane.

Someone was running towards the back gate of the house ... was

scrambling over the hedge ... was racing across the lawn!

A man burst into the study. He was a man of somewhat heavy build,

clean-shaven and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about his

lips and jaw lent added vigour to a flexible but masterful mouth. His

dark hair was tinged with grey, his dark eyes were brilliant with

excitement. He was very smartly dressed and wore light tan gloves. He

reeled suddenly, clutching at a chair for support.

"Quick! quick!" he cried--"the telephone! ... Ah!"

Just inside the window he stood, swaying and breathing rapidly, his

gaze upon the instrument.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he cried--"what has happened, then!"

Stuart stared at the new-comer dazedly.

"Hell has been in my room!" he replied. "That's all!"

"Ah!" said the stranger--"again he eludes me! The telephone was the

only chance. _Pas d'blague!_ we are finished!"

He dropped into a chair, removed his light grey hat and began to dry

his moist brow with a fine silk handkerchief. Stuart stared at him

like a man who is stupefied. The room was still laden with strange

fumes.

"_Blimey!_" remarked the new-comer, and his Whitechapel was as perfect

as his Montmatre. He was looking at the decapitated telephone. "This

is a knock-out!"

"Might I ask," said Stuart, endeavouring to collect his scattered

senses, "where you came from?"

"From up a tree!" was the astonishing reply. "It was the only way

to get over!"

"Up a tree!"

"Exactly. Yes, I was foolish. I am too heavy. But what could I do!

We must begin all over again."

Stuart began to doubt his sanity. This was no ordinary man.

"Might I ask," he said, "who you are and what you are doing in my

house?"

"Ah!" The stranger laughed merrily. "You wonder about me--I can see

it. Permit me to present myself--Gaston Max, at your service!"

"Gaston Max!" Stuart glared at the speaker incredulously. "Gaston Max!

Why, I conduct a _post mortem_ examination upon Gaston Max tomorrow,

in order to learn if he was poisoned!"

"Do not trouble, doctor. That poor fellow is not Gaston Max and he

was not poisoned. You may accept my word for it. I had the misfortune

to strangle him."

PART II

STATEMENT OF GASTON MAX

I. THE DANCER OF MONTMARTRE

CHAPTER I

ZARA EL-KHALA

The following statement which I, Gaston Max, am drawing up in

duplicate for the guidance of whoever may inherit the task of tracing

"The Scorpion"--a task which I have begun--will be lodged--one copy at

the Service de Surete in Paris, and the other copy with the

Commissioner of Police, New Scotland Yard. As I apprehend that I may be

assassinated at any time, I propose to put upon record all that I have

learned concerning the series of murders which I believe to be

traceable to a certain person. In the event of my death, my French

colleagues will open the sealed packet containing this statement and

the English Assistant Commissioner of the Special Branch responsible

for international affairs will receive instructions to open that which

I shall have lodged at Scotland Yard.

This matter properly commenced, then, with the visit to Paris,

incognito, of the Grand Duke Ivan, that famous soldier of whom so much

was expected, and because I had made myself responsible for his safety

during the time that he remained in the French capital, I (also

incognito be it understood) struck up a friendship with one Casimir,

the Grand Duke's valet. Nothing is sacred to a valet, and from Casimir

I counted upon learning the real reason which had led this nobleman to

visit Paris at so troublous a time. Knowing the Grand Duke to be a man

of gallantry, I anticipated finding a woman in the case--and I was not

wrong.

Yes, there was a woman, and _nom d'nom!_she was beautiful.

Now in Paris we have many beautiful women, and in times of

international strife it is true that we have had to shoot some of

them. For my own part I say with joy that I have never been

instrumental in bringing a woman to such an end. Perhaps I am

sentimental; it is a French weakness; but on those few occasions when

I have found a guilty woman in my power--and she has been pretty--

_morbleu!_--she has escaped! It may be that I have seen to it that she

was kept out of further mischief, but nevertheless she has never met a

firing-party because of me. Very well.

From the good fellow Casimir I learned that a certain dancer appearing

at one of our Montmartre theatres had written to the Grand Duke craving

the honour of his autograph--and enclosing her photograph.

Pf! it was enough. One week later the autograph arrived--attached to an

invitation to dine with the Grand Duke at his hotel in Paris. Yes--he

had come to Paris. I have said that he was susceptible and I have said

that she was beautiful. I address myself to men of the world, and I

shall not be in error if I assume that they will say, "A wealthy fool

and a designing woman. It is an old story." Let us see.

The confidences of Casimir interested me in more ways than one. In the

first place I had particular reasons for suspecting anyone who sought

to obtain access to the Grand Duke. These were diplomatic. And in the

second place I had suspicions of Zara el-Khala. These were personal.

Yes--so she called herself--Zara el-Khala, which in Arabic is

"Flower of the Desert." She professed to be an Egyptian, and certainly

she had the long, almond-shaped eyes of the East, but her white skin

betrayed her, and I knew that whilst she might possess Eastern blood,

she was more nearly allied to Europe than to Africa. It is my business

to note unusual matters, you understand, and I noticed that this

beautiful and accomplished woman of whom all Paris was beginning to

speak rapturously remained for many weeks at a small Montmartre

theatre. Her performance, which was unusually decorous for the type

of establishment at which she appeared, had not apparently led to an

engagement elsewhere.

This aroused the suspicions to which I have referred. In the character

of a vaudeville agent I called at the Montmartre theatre and was

informed by the management that Zara-el-Khala received no visitors,

professional or otherwise. A small but expensive car awaited her at

the stage door. My suspicions increased. I went away, but returned on

the following night, otherwise attired, and from a hiding-place which

I had selected on the previous evening I watched the dancer depart.

She came out so enveloped in furs and veils as to be unrecognizable,

and a Hindu wearing a chauffeur's uniform opened the door of the car

for her, and then, having arranged the rugs to her satisfaction,

mounted to the wheel and drove away.

I traced the car. It had been hired for the purpose of taking Zara

el-Khala from her hotel--to the theatre and home nightly. I sent a

man to call upon her at the hotel--in order to obtain press material,

ostensibly. She declined to see him. I became really interested. I

sent her a choice bouquet, having the card of a nobleman attached to

it, together with a message of respectful admiration. It was returned.

I prevailed upon one of the most handsome and gallant cavalry officers

in Paris to endeavour to make her acquaintance. He was rebuffed.

_Eh bien!_ I knew then that Mlle. Zara of the Desert was unusual.

You will at once perceive that when I heard from the worthy Casimir

how this unapproachable lady had actually written to the Grand Duke

Ivan and had gone so far as to send him her photograph, I became

excited. It appeared to me that I found myself upon the brink of an

important discovery. I set six of my first-class men at work: three

being detailed to watch the hotel of the Grand Duke Ivan and three to

watch Zara el-Khala. Two more were employed in watching the Hindu

servant and one in watching my good friend Casimir. Thus, nine clever

men and myself were immediately engaged upon the case.

Why do I speak of a "case" when thus far nothing of apparent

importance had occurred? I will explain. Although the Grand Duke

travelled incognito, his Government knew of the journey and wished to

learn with what object it had been undertaken.

At the time that I made the acquaintance of Casimir the Grand Duke

had been in Paris for three days, and he was--according to my

informant--"like a raging lion." The charming dancer had vouchsafed

no reply to his invitation and he had met with the same reception, on

presenting himself in person, which had been accorded to myself and to

those others who had sought to obtain an interview with Zara el-Khala!

My state of mystification grew more and more profound. I studied the

reports of my nine assistants.

It appeared that the girl had been in Paris for a period of two months.

She occupied a suite of rooms in which all her meals were served.

Except the Hindu who drove the hired car, she had no servant. She

never appeared in the public part of the hotel unless veiled, and then

merely in order to pass out to the car or in from it on returning. She

drove out every day. She had been followed, of course, but her

proceedings were unexceptionable. Leaving the car at a point in the

Bois De Boulogne, she would take a short walk, if the day was fine

enough, never proceeding out of sight of the Hindu, who followed with

the automobile, and would then drive back to her hotel. She never

received visits and never met any one during these daily excursions.

I turned to the report dealing with the Hindu.

He had hired a room high up under the roof of an apartment house where

foreign waiters and others had their abodes. He bought and cooked his

own food, which apparently consisted solely of rice, lentils and fruit.

He went every morning to the garage and attended to the car, called

for his mistress, and having returned remained until evening in his

own apartment. At night, after returning from the theatre, he

sometimes went out, and my agent had failed to keep track of him on

every occasion that he had attempted pursuit. I detached the man who

was watching Casimir and whose excellent reports revealed the fact

that Casimir was an honest fellow--as valets go--and instructed him

to assist in tracing the movements of the Hindu.

Two nights later they tracked him to a riverside cafe kept by a

gigantic quadroon from Dominique and patronized by that type which

forms a link between the lowest commercial and the criminal classes:

itinerant vendors of Eastern rugs, street performers and Turkish

cigarette makers.

At last I began to have hopes. The Grand Duke at this time was

speaking of leaving Paris, but as he had found temporary consolation

in the smiles of a lady engaged at the "Folies" I did not anticipate

that he would depart for several days at any rate. Also he was the

kind of man who is stimulated by obstacles.

The Hindu remained for an hour in the cafe, smoking and drinking

some kind of syrup, and one of my fellows watched him. Presently the

proprietor called him into a little room behind the counter and closed

the door. The Hindu and the quadroon remained there for a few minutes,

then the Hindu came out and left the cafe, returning to his abode.

There was a telephone in this inner room, and my agent was of opinion

that the Indian had entered either to make or to receive a call. I

caused the line to be tapped.

On the following night the Hindu came back to the cafe, followed by

one of my men. I posted myself at a selected point and listened for

any message that might pass over the line to or from the cafe. At

about the same hour as before--according to the report--someone called

up the establishment, asking for "Miguel." This was the quadroon, and

I heard his thick voice replying. The other voice--which had first

spoken--was curiously sibilant but very distinct. Yet it did not sound

like the voice of a Frenchman or of any European. This was the

conversation:

"Miguel."

"Miguel speaks."

"_Scorpion._ A message for Chunda Lal."

"Very good."

Almost holding my breath, so intense was my excitement, I waited

whilst Miguel went to bring the Hindu. Suddenly a new voice

spoke--that of the Hindu.

"Chunda Lal speaks," it said.

I clenched by teeth; I knew that I must not miss a syllable.

"Scorpion" replied ... in voluble _Hindustani_--a language of which I

know less than a dozen words!

CHAPTER II

CONCERNING THE GRAND DUKE

Although I had met with an unforeseen check, I had nevertheless learned

three things. I had learned that Miguel the quadroon was possibly in

league with the Hindu; that the Hindu was called Chunda Lal; and that

Chunda Lal received messages, probably instructions, from a third

party who announced his presence by the word "_Scorpion_."

One of my fellows, of course, had been in the cafe all the evening,

and from him I obtained confirmation of the fact that it had been the

Hindu who had been summoned to the telephone and whom I had heard

speaking. Instant upon the man at the cafe replacing the telephone

and disconnecting, I called up the exchange. They had been warned and

were in readiness.

"From what subscriber did that call come?" I demanded.

Alas! another check awaited me. It had originated in a public call

office, and "Scorpion" was untraceable by this means!

Despair is not permitted by the traditions of the Service de Surete.

Therefore I returned to my flat and recorded the facts of the matter

thus far established. I perceived that I had to deal, not with a

designing woman, but with some shadowy being of whom she was an

instrument. The anomaly of her life was in a measure explained. She

sojourned in Paris for a purpose--a mysterious purpose which was

concerned (I could not doubt it) with the Grand Duke Ivan. This was

not an amorous but a political intrigue.

I communicated, at a late hour, with the senior of the three men

watching the Grand Duke. The Grand Duke that evening had sent a

handsome piece of jewellery purchased in Rue de la Paix to the dancer.

It had been returned.

In the morning I met with the good Casimir at his favorite cafe. He

had just discovered that Zara el-Khala drove daily to the Bois de

Boulogne, alone, and that afternoon the Grand Duke had determined to

accost her during her solitary walk. I prepared myself for this event.

Arrayed in a workman's blouse and having a modest luncheon and a small

bottle of wine in a basket, I concealed myself in that part of the

Bois which was the favourite recreation ground of the dancer, and

awaited her appearance.

The Grand Duke appeared first upon the scene, accompanied by Casimir.

The latter pointed out to him a path through the trees along which

Zara el-Khala habitually strolled and showed him the point at which

she usually rejoined the Hindu who followed along the road with the

car. They retired. I seated myself beneath a tree from whence I could

watch the path and the road and began to partake of the repast which

I had brought with me.

At about three o'clock the dancer's car appeared, and the girl,

veiled as usual, stepped out, and having exchanged a few words with

the Indian, began to walk slowly towards me, sometimes pausing to

watch a bird in the boughs above her and sometimes to examine some

wild plant growing beside the way. I ate cheese from the point of a

clasp-knife and drank wine out of the bottle.

Suddenly she saw me.

She had cast her veil aside in order to enjoy the cool and fragrant

air, and as she stopped and regarded me doubtfully where I sat, I saw

her beautiful face, undefiled, now, by make-up and unspoiled by the

presence of garish Eastern ornaments. _Nom d'un nom!_ but she was truly

a lovely woman! My heart went out in sympathy to the poor Grand Duke.

Had I received such a mark of favour from her as he had received, and

had I then been scorned as now she scorned him, I should have been

desperate indeed.

Coming around a bend in the path, then, she stood only a few paces

away, looking at me. I touched the peak of my cap.

"Good-day, mademoiselle," I said. "The weather is very beautiful."

"Good-day," she replied.

I continued to eat cheese, and reassured she walked on past me. Twenty

yards beyond, the Grand Duke was waiting. As I laid down my knife upon

the paper which had been wrapped around the bread and cheese, and

raised the bottle to my lips, the enamoured nobleman stepped out from

the trees and bowed low before Zara el-Khala.

She started back from him--a movement of inimitable grace, like that

of a startled gazelle. And even before I had time to get upon my feet

she had raised a little silver whistle to her lips and blown a short

shrill note.

The Grand Duke, endeavouring to seize her hand, was pouring out

voluble expressions of adoration in execrable French, and Zara

el-Khala was retreating step by step. She had quickly thrown the veil

about her again. I heard the pad of swiftly running feet. If I was to

intervene before the arrival of the Hindu, I must act rapidly. I raced

along the path and thrust myself between the Grand Duke and the girl.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "is this gentleman annoying you?"

"How dare you, low pig!" cried the Grand Duke, and with a sweep of his

powerful arm he hurled me aside.

"Thank you," replied Zara el-Khala with great composure. "But my

servant is here."

As I turned, Chunda Lal hurled himself upon the Grand Duke from behind.

I had never seen an expression in a man's eyes like that in the eyes

of the Hindu at this moment. They blazed like the eyes of a tiger, and

his teeth were bared in a savage grin which I cannot hope to describe.

His lean body seemed to shoot through the air, and he descended upon

his burly adversary as a jungle beast falls upon its prey. Those long

brown fingers clasping his neck, the Grand Duke fell forward upon his

face.

"Chunda Lal!" said the dancer.

Kneeling, his right knee thrust between the shoulder blades of the

prostrate man, the Hindu looked up--and I read murder in those glaring

eyes. That he was an accomplished wrestler--or perhaps a strangler--I

divined from the helplessness of the Grand Duke, who lay inert, robbed

of every power except that of his tongue. He was swearing savagely.

"Chunda Lal!" said Zara el-Khala again.

The Hindu shifted his grip from the neck to the arms of the Grand

Duke. He pinioned him as is done in _jiu-jitsu_ and forced him to

stand upright. It was a curious spectacle--the impotency of this burly

nobleman in the hands of his slight adversary. As they swayed to their

feet, I thought I saw the glint of metal in the right hand of the

Indian, but I could not be sure, for my attention was diverted. At

this moment Casimir appeared upon the scene, looking very frightened.

Suddenly releasing his hold altogether, the Hindu glaring into the

empurpled face of the Grand Duke, shot out one arm and pointed with a

quivering finger along the path.

"Go!" he said.

The Grand Duke clenched his fists, looked from face to face as if

calculating his chances, then shrugged his shoulders, very

deliberately wiped his neck and wrists, where the Indian had held him,

with a large silk handkerchief and threw the handkerchief on the

ground. I saw a speck of blood upon the silk. Without another glance

he walked away, Casimir following sheepishly. It is needless, perhaps,

to add that Casimir had not recognized me.

I turned to the dancer, touching the peak of my cap.

"Can I be of any assistance to mademoiselle?" I asked.

"Thank you--no," she replied.

She placed five francs in my hand and set off rapidly through the

trees in the direction of the road, her bloodthirsty but faithful

attendant at her heels!

I stood scratching my head and looking after her.

That afternoon I posted a man acquainted with Hindustani to tap any

message which might be sent to or from the cafe used by Chunda Lal.

I learned that the Grand Duke had taken a stage box at the Montmartre

theatre at which the dancer was appearing, and I decided that I would

be present also.

A great surprise was in store for me.

Zara el-Khala had at this time established a reputation which

extended beyond those circles from which the regular patrons of this

establishment were exclusively drawn and which had begun to penetrate

to all parts of Paris. You will remember that it was the extraordinary

circumstance of her remaining at this obscure place of entertainment

so long which had first interested me in the lady. I had learned that

she had rejected a number of professional offers, and, as I have

already stated, I had assured myself of this unusual attitude by

presenting the card of a well-known Paris agency--and being refused

admittance.

Now, as I leaned upon the rail at the back of the auditorium and the

time for the dancer's appearance grew near, I could not fail to

observe that there was a sprinkling of evening-dress in the stalls

and that the two boxes already occupied boasted the presence of parties

of well-known men of fashion. Then the Grand Duke entered as a troupe

of acrobats finished their performance. Zara el-Khala was next upon

the programme. I glanced at the Grand Duke and thought that he looked

pale and unwell.

The tableau curtain fell and the manager appeared behind the footlights.

He, also, seemed to be much perturbed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I greatly regret to announce that

Mlle. Zara el-Kahla is indisposed and unable to appear. We have

succeeded in obtaining the services----"

Of whom he had succeeded in obtaining the services I never heard, for

the rougher section of the audience rose at him like a menacing wave!

They had come to see the Egyptian dancer and they would have their

money back! It was a swindle; they would smash the theatre!

If one had doubted the great and growing popularity of Zara el-Kahla,

this demonstration must have proved convincing. Over the heads of the

excited audience, I saw the Grand Duke rise as if to retire. The other

box parties were also standing up and talking angrily.

"Why was it not announced outside the theatre?" someone shouted.

"We did not know until twenty minutes ago!" cried the manager in

accents of despair.

I hurried from the theatre and took a taxicab to the hotel of the

dancer. Running into the hall, I thrust a card in the hand of a

concierge who stood there.

"Announce to Mlle. Zara el-Khala that I must see her at once," I said.

The man smiled and returned the card to me.

"Mlle. Zara el-Khala left Paris at seven o'clock, monsieur!"

"What! I cried--left Paris!"

"But certainly. Her baskets were taken to the Gare du Nord an hour

earlier by her servant and she went off by the seven-fifty rapid for

Calais. The theatre people were here asking for her an hour ago."

I hurried to my office to obtain the latest reports of my men, I had

lost touch with them, you understand, during the latter part of the

afternoon and evening. I found there the utmost confusion. They had

been seeking me all over Paris to inform me that Zara el-Khala had

left. Two men had followed her and had telephoned from Calais for

instructions. She had crossed by the night mail for Dover. It was

already too late to instruct the English police.

For a few hours I had relaxed my usual vigilance--and this was the

result. What could I do? Zara el-Khala had committed no crime, but

her sudden flight--for it looked like flight you will agree--was

highly suspicious. And as I sat there in my office filled with all

sorts of misgivings, in ran one of the men engaged in watching the

Grand Duke.

The Grand Duke had been seized with illness as he left his box in the

Montmartre theatre and had died before his car could reach the hotel!

CHAPTER III

A STRANGE QUESTION

A conviction burst upon my mind that a frightful crime had been

committed. By whom and for what purpose I knew not. I hastened to the

hotel of the Grand Duke. Tremendous excitement prevailed there, of

course. There is no more certain way for a great personage to court

publicity than to travel incognito. Everywhere that "M. de Stahler"

had appeared all Paris had cried, "There goes the Grand Duke Ivan!"

And now as I entered the hotel, press, police and public were

demanding: "Is it true that the Grand Duke is dead?" Just emerging

from the lift I saw Casimir. _In propria persona_--as M. Max--he

failed to recognize me.

"My good man," I said--"are you a member of the suite of the late

Grand Duke?"

"I am, or was, the valet of M. de Stahler, monsieur," he replied.

I showed him my card.

"To me 'M. de Stahler' is the Grand Duke Ivan. What other servants had

he with him?" I asked, although I knew very well.

"None, monsieur."

"Where and when was he taken ill?"

"At the Theatre Coquerico. Montmartre, at about a quarter past ten

o'clock to-night."

"Who was with him?"

"No one, monsieur. His Highness was alone in a box. I had instructions

to call with the car at eleven o'clock."

"Well?"

"The theatre management telephoned at a quarter past ten to say that

His Highness had been taken ill and that a physician had been sent for.

I went in the car at once and found him lying in one of the

dressing-rooms to which he had been carried. A medical man was in

attendance. The Grand Duke was unconscious. We moved him to the car----"

"_We?_"

"The doctor, the theatre manager, and myself. The Grand Duke was then

alive, the physician declared, although he seemed to me to be already

dead. But just before we reached the hotel, the physician, who was

watching His Highness anxiously, cried, 'Ah,_mon Dieu!_ It is finished.

What a catastrophe!'"

"He was dead?"

"He was dead, monsieur."

"Who has seen him?"

"They have telephoned for half the doctors in Paris, monsieur, but it

is too late."

He was affected, the good Casimir. Tears welled up in his eyes. I

mounted in the lift to the apartment in which the Grand Duke lay.

Three doctors were there, one of them being he of whom Casimir had

spoken. Consternation was written on every face.

"It was his heart," I was assured by the doctor who had been summoned

to the theatre. "We shall find that he suffered from heart trouble."

They were all agreed upon the point.

"He must have sustained a great emotional shock," said another.

"You are convinced that there was no foul play, gentlemen?" I asked.

They were quite unanimous on the point.

"Did the Grand Duke make any statement at the time of the seizure

which would confirm the theory of a heart attack?"

No. He had fallen down unconscious outside the door of his box, and

from this unconsciousness he had never recovered. (Depositions of

witnesses, medical evidence and other documents are available for

the guidance of whoever may care to see them, but, as is well known,

the death of the Grand Duke was ascribed to natural causes and it

seemed as though my trouble would after all prove to be in vain.)

Let us see what happened.

Leaving the hotel, on the night of the Grand Duke's death, I joined

the man who was watching the cafe telephone.

There had been a message during the course of the evening, but it had

been for a Greek cigarette-maker and it referred to the theft of

several bales of Turkish tobacco--useful information, of minor kind,

but of little interest to me. I knew that it would be useless to

question the man Miguel, although I strongly suspected him of being

a member of "The Scorpion's" organization. Any patron of the

establishment enjoyed the privilege of receiving private telephone

calls at the cafe on payment of a small fee.

A man of less experience in obscure criminology might now have assumed

that he had been misled by a series of striking coincidences. Remember,

there was not a shadow of doubt in the minds of the medical experts

that the Grand Duke had died from syncope. His own professional

advisor had sent written testimony to show that there was hereditary

heart trouble, although not of a character calculated to lead to a

fatal termination except under extraordinary circumstances. His own

Government, which had every reason to suspect that the Grand Duke's

assassination might be attempted, was satisfied. _Eh bien!_ I was not.

I cross-examined the manager of the Theatre Coquerico. He admitted that

Mlle. Zara el-Khala had been a mystery throughout her engagement.

Neither he nor anyone else connected with the house had ever entered

her dressing-room or held any conversation with her, whatever, except

the stage-manager and the musical director. These had spoken to her

about her music and about lighting and other stage effects. She spoke

perfect French.

Such a state of affairs was almost incredible, but was explained by

the fact that the dancer, at a most modest salary, had doubled the

takings of the theatre in a few days and had attracted capacity

business throughout the remainder of her engagement. She had written

from Marseilles, enclosing press notices and other usual matter and

had been booked direct for one week. She had remained for two months,

and might have remained for ever, the poor manager assured me, at five

times the salary!

A curious fact now came to light. In all her photographs Zara

el-Khala appeared veiled, in the Eastern manner; that is to say, she

wore a white silk _yashmak_ which concealed all her face except her

magnificent eyes! On the stage the veil was discarded; in the

photographs it was always present.

And the famous picture which she had sent to the Grand Duke? He had

destroyed it, in a fit of passion, on returning from the Bois de

Boulogne after his encounter with Chunda Lal!

It is Fate after all--Kismet--and not the wit of man which leads to

the apprehension of really great criminals--a tireless Fate which

dogs their footsteps, a remorseless Fate from which they fly in vain.

Long after the funeral of the Grand Duke, and at a time when I had

almost forgotten Zara el-Khala, I found myself one evening at the

opera with a distinguished French scientist and he chanced to refer

to the premature death (which had occurred a few months earlier) of

Henrik Ericksen, the Norwegian.

"A very great loss to the century, M. Max," he said. "Ericksen was as

eminent in electrical science as the Grand Duke Ivan was eminent in

the science of war. Both were stricken down in the prime of life--and

under almost identical circumstances."

"That is true," I said thoughtfully.

"It would almost seem," he continued, "as if Nature had determined to

foil any further attempts to rifle her secrets and Heaven to check

mankind in the making of future wars. Only three months after the

Grand Duke's death, the American admiral, Mackney, died at sea--you

will remember? Now, following Ericksen, Van Rembold, undoubtedly the

greatest mining engineer of the century and the only man who has

ever produced radium in workable quantities, is seized with illness

at a friend's house and expires even before medical aid can be

summoned."

"It is very strange.'

"It is uncanny."

"Were you personally acquainted with the late Van Rembold?" I asked.

"I knew him intimately--a man of unusual charm, M. Max; and I have

particular reason to remember his death, for I actually met him and

spoke to him less than an hour before he died. We only exchanged a

few words--we met on the street; but I shall never forget the subject

of our chat."

"How is that?" I asked.

"Well, I presume Van Rembold's question was prompted by his knowledge

of the fact that I had studied such subjects at one time; but he

asked me if I knew of any race or sect in Africa or Asia who

worshipped scorpions."

"_Scorpions!_" I cried. "_Ah, mon Dieu!_ monsieur say it again--

_scorpions?_"

"But yes, certainly. Does it surprise you?"

"Did it not surprise _you_?"

"Undoubtedly. I could not imagine what had occurred to account for

his asking so strange a question. I replied that I knew of no such

sect, and Van Rembold immediately changed the subject, nor did he

revert to it. So that I never learned why he had made that singular

inquiry."

You can imagine that this conversation afforded me much food for

reflection. Whilst I could think of no reason why anyone should plot

to assassinate Grand Dukes, admirals and mining engineers, the

circumstances of the several cases were undoubtedly similar in a

number of respects. But it was the remarkable question asked by Van

Rembold which particularly aroused my interest.

Of course it might prove to be nothing more than a coincidence, but

when one comes to consider how rarely the word "scorpion" is used,

outside those in which these insects abound, it appears to be

something more. Van Rembold, then, had had some occasion to feel

curious about the scorpions; the name "Scorpion" was associated

with the Hindu follower of Zara el-Khala; and she was who had

brought the Grand Duke to Paris, where he had died.

Oh! it was a very fragile thread, but by following such a thread as

this we are sometimes led to the heart of a labyrinth.

Beyond wondering if some sinister chain bound together this series of

apparently natural deaths I might have made no move in the matter, but

something occurred which spurred me to action. Sir Frank Narcombe, the

great English surgeon, collapsed in the foyer of a London theatre and

died shortly afterwards. Here again I perceived a case of a notable

man succumbing unexpectedly in a public place--a case parallel to that

of the Grand Duke, of Ericksen, of Van Rembold! it seemed as though

some strange epidemic had attacked men of science--yes! they were all

men of science, even including the Grand Duke, who was said to be the

most scientific soldier in Europe, and the admiral, who had perfected

the science of submarine warfare.

"The Scorpion!" ... that name haunted me persistently. So much so that

at last I determined to find out for myself if Sir Frank Narcombe had

ever spoken about a scorpion or if there was any evidence to show that

he had been interested in the subject.

I could not fail to remember, too, that Zara el-Khala had last been

reported as crossing to England.

CHAPTER IV

THE FIGHT IN THE CAFE

New Scotland Yard had been advised that any reference to a scorpion,

in whatever form it occurred, should be noted and followed up, but

nothing had resulted and as a matter of fact I was not surprised in

the least. All that I had learned--and this was little enough--I had

learned more or less by accident. But I came to the conclusion that a

visit to London might be advisable.

I had caused a watch to be kept upon the man Miguel, whose

establishment seemed to be a recognized resort of shady characters.

I had no absolute proof, remember, that he knew anything of the

private affairs of the Hindu, and no further reference to a scorpion

had been made by anyone using the cafe telephone. Nevertheless I

determined to give him a courtesy call before leaving for London ...

and to this determination I cannot doubt that once again I was led

by providence.

Attired in a manner calculated to enable me to pass unnoticed among

the patrons of the establishment, I entered the place and ordered

cognac. Miguel having placed it before me, I lighted a cigarette and

surveyed my surroundings.

Eight or nine men were in the cafe, and two women. Four of the men

were playing cards at a corner table, and the others were distributed

about the place, drinking and smoking. The women, who were flashily

dressed but who belonged to that order of society which breeds the

Apache, were deep in conversation with a handsome Algerian. I

recognized only one face in the cafe--that of a dangerous character,

Jean Sach, who had narrowly escaped the electric chair in the United

States and who was well known to the Bureau. He was smiling at one of

the two women--the woman to whom the Algerian seemed to be more

particularly addressing himself.

Another there was in the cafe who interested me as a student of

physiognomy--a dark, bearded man, one of the card-players. His face

was disfigured by a purple scar extending from his brow to the left

corner of his mouth, which it had drawn up into a permanent snarl,

so that he resembled an enraged and dangerous wild animal. Mentally

I classified this person as "Le Balafre."

I had just made up my mind to depart when the man Sach arose, crossed

the cafe and seated himself insolently between the Algerian and the

woman to whom the latter was talking. Turning his back upon the brown

man, he addressed some remark to the woman, at the same time leering

in her face.

Women of this class are difficult, you understand? Sach received from

the lady a violent blow upon the face which rolled him on the floor!

As he fell, the Algerian sprang up and drew a knife. Sach rolled away

from him and also reached for the knife which he carried in a

hip-pocket.

Before he could draw it, Miguel, the quadroon proprietor, threw

himself upon him and tried to pitch him into the street. But Sach,

although a small man, was both agile and ferocious. He twisted out of

the grasp of the huge quadroon and turned, raising the knife. As he

did so, the Algerian deftly kicked it from his grasp and left Sach to

face Miguel unarmed. Screaming with rage, he sprang at Miguel's throat,

and the two fell writhing upon the floor.

There could only be one end to such a struggle, of course, as the

Algerian recognized by replacing his knife in his pocket and resuming

his seat. Miguel obtained a firm hold upon Sacah and raised him bodily

above his head, as one has seen a professional weight-lifter raise a

heavy dumb-bell. Thus he carried him, kicking and foaming at the mouth

with passion, to the open door. From the step he threw him into the

middle of the street.

At this moment I observed something glittering upon the floor close to

the chair occupied by the Algerian. Standing up--for I had determined

to depart--I crossed in that direction, stooped and picked up this

object which glittered. As my fingers touched it, so did my heart give

a great leap.

The object was a _golden scorpion!_

Forgetful of my dangerous surroundings I stood looking at the golden

ornament in my hand ... when suddenly and violently it was snatched

from me! The Algerian, his brown face convulsed with rage,

confronted me.

"Where did you find that charm?" he cried. "It belongs to me."

"Very well," I replied--"you have it."

He glared at me with a ferocity which the incident scarcely seemed to

merit and exchanged a significant glance with someone who had

approached and who now stood behind me. Turning, I met a second black

gaze--that of the quadroon who having restored order had returned from

the cafe door and now stood regarding me. "Did you find it on the

floor?" asked Miguel suspiciously.

"I did."

He turned to the Algerian.

"It fell when you kicked the knife from the hand of that pig," he

said. "You should be more careful."

Again they exchanged significant glances, but the Algerian resumed

his seat and Miguel went behind the counter. I left the cafe

conscious of the fact that black looks pursued me.

The night was very dark, and as I came out on to the pavement someone

touched me on the arm. I turned in a flash.

"Walk on, friend," said the voice of Jean Sach. "What was it that you

picked up from the floor?"

"A golden scorpion," I answered quickly.

"Ah!" he whispered--"I thought so! It is enough. They shall pay for

what they have done to me--those two. Hurry, friend, as I do."

Before I could say another word or strive to detain him, he turned

and ran off along a narrow courtway which at this point branched from

the street.

I stood for a moment, nonplussed, staring after him. By good fortune

I had learned more in ten minutes than by the exercise of all my

ingenuity and the resources of the Service I could have learned in

ten months! _Par al barbe du prophete_ the Kismet which dogs the

footsteps of malefactors assisted me!

Recollecting the advice of Jean Sach, I set off at a brisk pace along

the street, which was dark and deserted and which passed through a

district marked red on the Paris crimes-map. Arriving at the corner,

above which projected a lamp, I paused and glanced back into the

darkness. I could see no one, but I thought I could detect the sound

of stealthy footsteps following me.

The suspicion was enough. I quickened my pace, anxious to reach the

crowded boulevard upon which this second street opened. I reached it

unmolested, but intending to throw any pursuer off the track, I dodged

and doubled repeatedly on the way to my flat and arrived there about

midnight, convinced that I had eluded pursuit--if indeed I had been

pursued.

All my arrangements were made for leaving Paris, and now I telephoned

to the assistant on duty in my office, instructing him to take certain

steps in regard to the proprietor of the cafe and the Algerian and to

find the hiding-place of the man Jean-Sach. I counted it more than

ever important that I should go to London at once.

In this belief I was confirmed at the very moment that I boarded the

Channel steamer at Boulogne: for as I stepped upon the deck I found

myself face to face with a man who was leaning upon the rail and

apparently watching the passengers coming on board. He was a man of

heavy build, dark and bearded, and his face was strangely familiar.

Turning, as I lighted a cigarette, I glanced back at him in order to

obtain a view of his profile. I knew him instantly--for now the scar

was visible. It was "Le Balafre" who had been playing cards in

Miguel's cafe on the previous night!

I have sometimes been criticised, especially by my English confreres,

for my faith in disguise. I have been told that no disguise is

impenetrable to the trained eye. I reply that there are many disguises

but few trained eyes! To my faith in disguise I owed the knowledge

that a golden scorpion was the token of some sort of gang, society, or

criminal group, and to this same faith which an English inspector of

police once assured me to be a misplaced one I owed, on boarding the

steamer, my escape from detection by this big bearded fellow who was

possibly looking out for me!

Yet, I began to wonder if after all I had escaped the shadowy pursuer

whose presence I had suspected in the dark street outside the cafe or

if he had tracked me and learned my real identity. In any event, the

roles were about to be reversed! "Le Balafre" at Folkestone took a seat

in a third-class carriage of the London train. I took one in the next

compartment.

Arrived at Charing Cross, he stood for a time in the booking-hall,

glanced at his watch, and then took up the handbag which he carried

and walked out into the station yard. I walked out also.

"Le Balafre" accosted a cabman; and as he did so I passed close

behind him and overheard a part of the conversation.

"... Bow Road Station East! It's too far. What?"

I glanced back. The bearded man was holding up a note--a pound note

apparently. I saw the cabman nod. Without an instant's delay I rushed

up to another cabman who had just discharged a passenger.

"To Bow Road Station East!" I said to the man. "Double fare if you

are quick!"

It would be a close race. But I counted on the aid of that Fate which

dogs the steps of wrong-doers! My cab was off first and the driver had

every reason for hurrying. From the moment that we turned out into the

Strand until we arrived at our destination I saw no more of

"Le Balafre." My extensive baggage I must hope to recover later.

At Bow Road Station I discovered a telephone box in a dark corner

which commanded a view of the street. I entered this box and waited.

It was important that I should remain invisible. Unless my bearded

friend had been unusually fortunate he could not well have arrived

before me.

As it chanced I had nearly six minutes to wait. Then, not ten yards

away, I saw "Le Balafre" arrive and dismiss the cabman outside the

station.

There was nothing furtive in his manner; he was evidently satisfied

that no one pursued him; and he stood in the station entrance almost

outside my box and lighted a cigar!

Placing his bag upon the floor, he lingered, looking to left and right,

when suddenly a big closed car painted dull yellow drew up beside the

pavement. It was driven by a brown-faced chauffeur whose nationality

I found difficulty in placing, for he wore large goggles. But before

I could determine upon my plan of action, "Le Balafre" crossed the

pavement and entered the car--and the car glided smoothly away, going

East. A passing lorry obstructed my view and I even failed to obtain

a glimpse of the number on the plate.

But I had seen something which had repaid me for my trouble. As the

man of the scar had walked up to the car, had exhibited to the

brown-skinned chauffeur some object which he held in the palm of his

hand ... an object which glittered like gold!

II. "LE BALAFRE"

CHAPTER I

I BECOME CHARLES MALET

Behold me established in rooms in Battersea and living retired during

the day while I permitted my beard to grow. I had recognized that my

mystery of "The Scorpion" was the biggest case which had ever engaged

the attention of the Service de Surete, and I was prepared, if

necessary, to devote my whole time for twelve months to its solution.

I had placed myself in touch with Paris, and had had certain papers

and licenses forwarded to me. A daily bulletin reached me, and one of

these bulletins was sensational.

The body of Jean Sach had been recovered from the Seine. The man had

been stabbed to the heart. Surveillance of Miguel and his associates

continued unceasingly, but I had directed that no raids or arrests

were to be made without direct orders from me.

I was now possessed of a French motor license and also that of a Paris

taxi-driver, together with all the other documents necessary to

establish the identity of one Charles Malet. Everything was in order.

I presented myself--now handsomely bearded--at New Scotland Yard and

applied for a license. The "knowledge of London" and other tests I

passed successfully and emerged a fully-fledged cabman!

Already I had opened negotiations for the purchase of a dilapidated

but seviceable cab which belonged to a small proprietor who had

obtained a car of more up-to-date pattern to replace this obsolete

one. I completed these negotiations by paying down a certain sum and

arranged to garage my cab in the disused stable of a house near my

rooms in Battersea.

Thus I now found myself in a position to appear anywhere at any time

without exciting suspicion, enabled swiftly to proceed from point to

point and to pursue anyone either walking or driving whom it might

please me to pursue. It was a _modus operandi_ which had served me well

in Paris and which had led to one of my biggest successes (the capture

of the French desperado known as "Mr. Q.") in New York.

I had obtained, _via_ Paris, particulars of the recent death of Sir

Frank Narcombe, and the circumstances attendant upon his end were so

similar to those which had characterized the fate of the Grand Duke,

of Van Rembold and the others, that I could not for a moment believe

them to be due to mere coincidence. Acting upon my advice Paris

advised Scotland Yard to press for a _post mortem_ examination of the

body, but the influence of Sir Frank's family was exercised to prevent

this being carried out--and exercised successfully.

Meanwhile, I hovered around the houses, flats, clubs and offices of

everyone who had been associated with the late surgeon, noting to what

addresses they directed me to drive and who lived at those address. In

this way I obtained evidence sufficient to secure three judicial

separations, but not a single clue leading to "The Scorpion"! No

matter.

At every available opportunity I haunted the East-End streets, hoping

for a glimpse of the big car and the brown-skinned chauffeur or of my

scarred man from Paris. I frequented all sorts of public bars and

eating-houses used by foreign and Asiatics. By day and by night I

roamed about the dismal thoroughfares of that depressing district,

usually with my flag down to imply that I was engaged.

Such diligence never goes long unrewarded. One evening, having

discharged a passenger, a mercantile officer, at the East India Docks,

as I was drifting, watchfully, back through Limehouse, I saw a large

car pull up just ahead of me in the dark. A man got out and the car

was driven off.

Two courses presented themselves. I was not sure that this was the

car for which I sought, but it strangely resembled it. Should I follow

the car or the man? A rapid decision was called for. I followed the man.

That I had not been mistaken in the identity of the car shortly

appeared. The man took out a cigar and standing on the corner opposite

the Town Hall, lighted it. I was close to him at the time, and by the

light of the match, which he sheltered with his hands, I saw the

scarred and bearded face! _Triomphe!_ it was he!

Having lighted his cigar, he crossed the road and entered the saloon

of a neighbourhood public-house. Locking my cab I, also, entered that

saloon. I ordered a glass of bitter beer and glanced around at the

object of my interest. He had obtained a glass of brandy and was

contorting his hideous face as he sipped the beverage. I laughed.

"Have they tried to poison you, mister!" I said.

"Ah,_pardieu!_ poison--yes!" he replied.

"You want to have it out of a bottle," I continued confidentially--

"Martell's Three Stars."

He stared at me uncomprehendingly.

"I don't know," he said haltingly. "I have very little English."

"Oh, that's it!" I cried, speaking French with a barbarous accent.

"You only speak French?"

"Yes, yes," he replied eagerly. "It is so difficult to make oneself

understood. This spirit is not cognac, it is some kind of petrol!"

Finishing my bitter, I ordered two glasses of good brandy and placed

one before "Le Balafre."

"Try that," I said, continuing to speak in French, "You will find it

is better."

He sipped from his glass and agreed that I was right. We chatted

together for ten minutes and had another drink, after which my

dangerous-looking acquaintance wished me good-night and went out. The

car had come from the West, and I strongly suspected that my man either

lived in the neighbourhood or had come there to keep an appointment.

Leaving my cab outside the public-house, I followed him on foot, down

Three Colt Street to Ropemaker Street, where he turned into a narrow

alley leading to the riverside. It was straight and deserted, and I

dared not follow further until he had reached the corner. I heard his

footsteps pass right to the end. Then the sound died away. I ran to

the corner. The back of a wharf building--a high blank wall--faced a

row of ramshackle tenements, some of them built of wood; but not a

soul was in sight.

I reluctantly returned to the spot at which I had left the cab--and

found a constable there who wanted to know what I meant by leaving a

vehicle in the street unattended. I managed to enlist his sympathy by

telling him that I had been in pursuit of a "fare" who had swindled me

with a bad half-crown. The ruse succeeded.

"Which street did he go down, mate?" asked the constable.

I described the street and described the scarred man. The constable

shook his head.

"Sounds like one o' them foreign sailormen," he said. "But I don't

know what he can have gone down there for. It's nearly all Chinese,

that part."

His words came as a revelation; they changed the whole complexion of

the case. It dawned upon me even as he spoke the word "Chinese" that

the golden scorpion which I had seen in the Paris cafe was of Chinese

workmanship! I started my engine and drove slowly to that street in

which I had lost the track of "Le Balafre." I turned the cab so that

I should be ready to drive off at a moment's notice, and sat there

wondering what my next move should be. How long I had been there I

cannot say, when suddenly it began to rain in torrents.

What I might have done or what I had hoped to do is of no importance;

for as I sat there staring out at the dismal rain-swept street, a man

came along, saw the head-lamps of the cab and stopped, peering in my

direction. Evidently perceiving that I drove a cab and not a private

car, he came towards me.

"Are you disengaged?" he asked.

Whether it was that I sympathized with him--he had no topcoat or

umbrella--or whether I was guided by Fate I know not, but as he spoke

I determined to give up my dreary vigil for that night. _Pardieu!_ but

certainly it was Fate again!

"Well, I suppose I am, sir," I said, and asked him where he wanted

to go.

He gave an address not five hundred yards from my own rooms! I thought

this so curious that I hesitated no longer.

"Jump in," I said; and still seeking in my mind for a link between the

scorpion case and China, I drove off, and in less than half an hour,

for the streets were nearly empty, arrived at my destination.

The passenger, whose name was Dr. Keppel Stuart, very kindly suggested

a glass of hot grog, and I did not refuse his proferred hospitality.

When I came out of his house again, the rain had almost ceased, and

just as I stooped to crank the car I thought I saw a shadowy figure

moving near the end of a lane which led to the tradesmen's entrance of

Dr. Stuart's house. A sudden suspicion laid hold upon me--a horrible

doubt.

Having driven some twenty yards along the road, I leaned from my seat

and looked back. A big man wearing a black waterproof overall was

standing looking after me!

Remembering how cleverly I had been trailed from Miguel's cafe to my

flat, in Paris (for I no longer doubted that someone had followed me

on that occasion), I now perceived that I might again be the object of

the same expert's attention. Stopping my engine half-way along the

next road, I jumped out and ran back, hiding in the bushes which grew

beside the gate of a large empty house. I had only a few seconds to

wait.

A big closed car, running almost silently, passed before me ... and

"Le Balafre" was leaning out of the window!

At last I saw my chance of finding the headquarters of "The Scorpion."

Alas! The man of the scar was as swift to recognize that possibility

as I. A moment after he had passed my stationary cab, and found it to

be deserted, his big car was off like the wind, and even before I

could step out from the bushes the roar of the powerful engine was

growing dim in the distance!

I was detected. I had to deal with dangerously clever people.

CHAPTER II

BAITING THE TRAP

The following morning I spent at home, in my modest rooms, reviewing

my position and endeavouring to adjust my plans in accordance with the

latest development. "The Scorpion" had scored a point. What had aroused

the suspicions of "Le Balafre," I knew not; but I was inclined to think

that he had been looking from some window or peep-hole in the narrow

street with the wooden houses when I had, injudiciously, followed him

there.

On the other hand, the leakage might be in Paris--or in my

correspondence system. The man of the scar might have been looking for

me as I was looking for him. That he was looking for someone on the

cross-channel boat I had not doubted.

He was aware, then that Charles Malet, cabman, was watching him. But

was he aware that Charles Malet was Gaston Max? And did he know where

I lived? Also--did he perchance think that my meeting with Dr. Stuart

in Limehouse had been prearranged? Clearly he had seen Dr. Stuart

enter my cab, for he had pursued us to Battersea.

This course of reflection presently led me to a plan. It was a

dangerous plan, but I doubted if I should ever find myself in greater

danger than I was already. _Nom d'un nom!_ I had not forgotten the

poor Jean Sach!

That night, well knowing that I carried my life in my hands, I drove

again to Limehouse Town Hall, and again leaving my cab outside went

into the bar where I had previously met "Le Balafre." If I had doubted

that my movements were watched I must now have had such doubts

dispelled; for two minutes later the man with the scar came in and

greeted me affably!

I had learned something else. He did not know that I had recognized

him as the person who had tracked me to Dr. Stuart's house!

He invited me to drink with him, and I did so. As we raised our

glasses I made a move. Looking all about me suspiciously:

"Am I right in supposing that you have business in this part of

London?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied "My affairs bring me here sometimes."

"You are well acquainted with the neighbourhood?"

"Fairly well. But actually of course I am a stranger to London."

I tapped him confidentially upon the breast.

"Take my advice, as a friend," I said, "and visit these parts as

rarely as possible."

"Why do you say that?"

"It is dangerous. From the friendly manner in which you entered into

conversation with me, I perceived that you were of a genial and

unsuspicious nature. Very well. I warn you. Last night I was followed

from a certain street not far from here to the house of a medical man

who is a specialist in certain kinds of criminology, you understand."

He stared at me very hard, his teeth bared by that fearful snarl. "You

are a strange cabman."

"Perhaps I am. No matter. Take my advice. I have things written

here"--I tapped the breast of my tunic--"which will astonish all the

world shortly. I tell you, my friend, my fortune is made."

I finished my drink and ordered another for myself and one for my

acquaintance. He was watching me doubtfully. Taking up my replenished

glass, I emptied it at a draught and ordered a third. I leaned over

towards the scarred man, resting my hand heavily upon his shoulder.

"Five thousand pounds," I whispered thickly, "has been offered for the

information which I have here in my pocket. It is not yet complete,

you understand, and because they may murder me before I obtain the

rest of the facts, do you know what I am going to do with this?"

Again I tapped my tunic pocket. "Le Balafre" frowned perplexedly.

"I don't even know what you are talking about, my friend," he replied.

"_I_ know what I am talking about," I assured him, speaking more and

more huskily. "Listen, then: I am going to take all my notes to my

friend, the doctor, and leave them with him, sealed--sealed, you

follow me? If I do not come back for them, In a week, shall we say?--he

sends them to the police. _I_ do not profit, you think? No._morbleu!_

but there are some who hang!"

Emptying my third glass, I ordered a fourth and one for my companion.

He checked me.

"No more for me, thank you," he said. "I have--business to attend to.

I will wish you good-night."

"Good-night!" I cried boisterously--"good-night, friend! take heed of

my good advice!"

As he went out, the barman brought me my fourth glass of cognac, staring

at me doubtfully. Our conversation had been conducted in French, but

the tone of my voice had attracted attention.

"Had about enough, ain't you, mate?" he said. "Your ugly pal jibbed!"

"Quite enough!" I replied, in English now of course. "But I've had a

stroke of luck to-night and I feel happy. Have one with me. This is a

final."

On going out into the street I looked cautiously about me, for I did

not expect to reach the house of Dr. Stuart unmolested. I credited

"Le Balafre" with sufficient acumen to distrust the genuineness of

my intoxication, even if he was unaware of my real identity. I never

make the mistake of underestimating an opponent's wit, and whilst

acting on the assumption that the scarred man knew me to be forcing

his hand, I recognized that whether he believed me to be drunk or

sober, Gaston Max or another, his line of conduct must be the same.

He must take it for granted that I actually designed to lodge my notes

with Dr. Stuart and endeavour to prevent me doing so.

I could detect no evidence of surveillance whatever and cranking the

engine I mounted and drove off. More than once, as I passed along

Commercial Road, I stopped and looked back. But so far as I could

make out no one was following me. The greater part of my route lay

along populous thoroughfares, and of this I was not sorry; but I did

not relish the prospect of Thames Street, along which presently my

course led me.

Leaving the city behind me, I turned into that thoroughfare, which at

night is almost quite deserted, and there I pulled up. _Pardieu!_ I

was disappointed! It seemed as though my scheme had miscarried. It

could not understand why I had been permitted to go unmolested, and I

intended to walk back to the corner for a final survey before

continuing my journey. This survey was never made.

As I stopped the cab and prepared to descend, a faint--a very faint--

sound almost in my ear, set me keenly on the alert. Just in the nick

of time I ducked ... as the blade of a long knife flashed past my

head, ripping its way through my cloth cap!

Yes! That movement had saved my life, for otherwise the knife must

have entered my shoulder--and pierced to my heart!

Someone was hidden in the cab!

He had quietly opened one of the front windows and had awaited a

suitable opportunity to stab me. Now, recognizing failure, he leapt

out on the near side as I lurched and stumbled from my seat, and ran

off like the wind. I never so much as glimpsed him.

"_Mon Dieu!_" I muttered, raising my hand to my head, from which blood

was trickling down my face, "the plan succeeds!"

I bound a handkerchief as tightly as possible around the wound in my

scalp and put my cap on to keep the bandage in place. The wound was

only a superficial one, and except for the bleeding I suffered no

inconvenience from it. But I had now a legitimate reason for visiting

Dr. Stuart, and as I drove on towards Battersea I was modifying my

original plan in accordance with the unforeseen conditions.

It was long past Dr. Stuart's hours of consultation when I arrived at

his house, and the servant showed me into a waiting-room, informing me

that the doctor would join me in a few minutes. Directly she had gone

out I took from the pocket of my tunic the sealed envelope which I had

intended to lodge with the doctor. Pah! it was stained with blood

which had trickled down from the wound in my scalp!

Actually, you will say, there was no reason why I should place a

letter in the hand of Dr. Stuart; my purpose would equally well be

served by _pretending_ that I had done so. Ah, but I knew that I had

to deal with clever people--with artists in crime--and it behooved me

to be an artist also. I had good reason to know that their system of

espionage was efficient; and the slipshod way is ever the wrong way.

The unpleasantly sticky letter I returned to my pocket, looking around

me for some means of making up any kind of packet which could do duty

as a substitute. Beyond a curtain draped over a recess at one end of

the waiting-room I saw a row of boxes, a box of lint and other medical

paraphernalia. It was the doctor's dispensary. Perhaps I might find

there an envelope.

I crossed the room and looked. Immediately around the corner, on a

level with my eyes, was a packet of foolscap envelopes and a stick of

black sealing-wax! _Bien!_ all that I now required was a stout sheet

of paper to enclose in one of those envelopes. But not a scrap of

paper could I find, except the blood-stained letter in my pocket--

towards which I had formed a strong antipathy. I had not even a

newspaper in my possession. I thought of folding three or four

envelopes, but there were only six in all, and the absence of so

many might be noted.

Drawing aside a baize curtain which hung from the bottom shelf, I

discovered a number of old card-board boxes. It was sufficient. With

a pair of surgical scissors I cut a piece from the lid of one and

thrust it into an envelope, gumming down the lapel. At a little gas

jet intended for the purpose I closed both ends with wax and--

singular coincidence!--finding a Chinese coin fastened to a cork

lying on the shelf, my sense of humour prompted me to use it as a

seal! Finally, to add to the verisimilitude of the affair I borrowed

a pen which rested in a bottle of red ink and wrote upon the

envelope the number: 30, that day being the thirtieth day of the

month.

It was well that the artist within me had dictated this careful

elaboration, as became evident a few minutes later when the doctor

appeared at the head of a short flight of stairs and requested me to

step up to his consulting-room. It was a small room, so that the

window, over which a linen blind was drawn, occupied nearly the whole

of one wall. As Dr. Stuart, having examined the cut on my scalp,

descended to the dispensary for lint, the habits of a lifetime asserted

themselves.

I quickly switched off the light and peeped out of the window around

the edge of the blind, which I drew slightly aside. In the shadow of

the wall upon the opposite side of the narrow lane a man was standing!

I turned on the light again. The watcher should not be disappointed!

My skull being dressed, I broached the subject of the letter, which I

said I had found in my cab after the accident which had caused the

injury.

"Someone left this behind to-day, sir," I said; "perhaps the gentleman

who was with me when I had the accident; and I've got no means of

tracing him. He may be able to trace _me_, though, or he may advertise.

It evidently contains something valuable. I wonder if you would do me

a small favour? Would you mind taking charge of it for a week or so,

until it is claimed?"

He asked me why I did not take it to Scotland Yard.

"Because," said I, "if the owner claims it from Scotland Yard he is

less likely to be generous than if he gets it direct from me!"

"But what is the point," asked Dr. Stuart, "in leaving it here?"

I explained that if _I_ kept the letter I might be suspected of an

intention of stealing it, whereas directly there was any inquiry, he

could certify that I had left it in his charge. He seemed to be

satisfied and asked me to come into his study for a moment. The man

in the lane was probably satisfied, too. I had stood three paces from

the table-lamp all the time, waving the letter about as I talked, and

casting a bold shadow on the linen blind!

The first thing that struck me as I entered the doctor's study was

that the French windows, which opened on a sheltered lawn, were open.

I acted accordingly.

"You see," said Dr. Stuart, "I am enclosing your letter in this big

envelope which I am sealing."

"Yes, sir," I replied, standing at some distance from him, so that he

had to speak loudly. "And would you mind addressing it to the Lost

Property Office."

"Not at all," said he, and did as I suggested. "If not reclaimed

within a reasonable time, it will be sent to Scotland Yard."

I edged nearer to the open window.

"If it is not reclaimed," I said loudly, "it goes to Scotland Yard--yes."

"Meanwhile," concluded the doctor, "I am locking it in this private

drawer in my bureau."

"It is locked in your bureau. Very good."

CHAPTER III

DISAPPEARANCE OF CHARLES MALET

Knowing, and I knew it well, that people of "The Scorpion" were

watching, I do not pretend that I felt at my ease as I drove around to

the empty house in which I garaged my cab. My inquiry had entered upon

another stage, and Charles Malet was about to disappear from the case.

I was well aware that if he failed in his vigilance for a single moment

he might well disappear from the world!

The path which led to the stables was overgrown with weeds and flanked

by ragged bushes; weeds and grass sprouted between the stones paving

the little yard, also, although they were withered to a great extent

by the petrol recently spilled there. Having run the cab into the yard,

I alighted and looked around the deserted grounds, mysterious in the

moonlight. Company would have been welcome, but excepting a constable

who had stopped and chatted with me on one or two evenings I always

had the stables to myself at night.

I determined to run the cab into the stable and lock it up without

delay, for it was palpably dangerous in the circumstances to remain

longer than necessary in that lonely spot. Hurriedly I began to put

out the lamps. I unlocked the stable doors and stood looking all about

me again. I was dreading the ordeal of driving the cab those last ten

yards into the garage, for whilst I had my back to the wilderness of

bushes it would be an easy matter for anyone in hiding there to come

up behind me.

Nevertheless, it had to be done. Seating myself at the wheel I drove

into the narrow building, stopped the engine and peered cautiously

around toward the bright square formed by the open doors. Nothing was

to be seen. No shadow moved.

A magazine pistol held in my hand, I crept, step by step, along the

wall until I stood just within the opening. There I stopped.

I could hear a sound of quick breathing! There was someone waiting

outside!

Dropping quietly down upon the pavement, I slowly protruded my head

around the angle of the brick wall at a point not four inches above

the ground. I knew that whoever waited would have his eyes fixed upon

the doorway at the level of a man's head.

Close to the wall, a pistol in his left hand and an upraised

stand-bag in his right, stood "Le Balafre!" His eyes gleamed savagely

in the light of the moon and his teeth were bared in that fearful

animal snarl. But he had not seen me.

Inch by inch I thrust my pistol forward, the barrel raised sharply. I

could not be sure of my aim, of course, nor had I time to judge it

carefully.

I fired.

The bullet was meant for his right wrist, but it struck him in the

fleshy part of his arm. Uttering a ferocious cry he leapt back,

dropped his pistol--and perceiving me as I sprang to my feet, lashed

at my head with the sand-bag. I raised my left arm to guard my skull

and sustained the full force of the blow upon it.

I staggered back against the wall, and my own pistol was knocked from

my grasp. My left arm was temporarily useless and the man of the scar

was deprived of the use of his right. _Pardieu!_ I had the better

chance!

He hurled himself upon me.

Instantly he recovered the advantage, for he grasped me by the throat

with his left hand--and, _nom d'un nom!_ what a grip he had! Flat

against the wall he held me, and began, his teeth bared in that

fearful grin, to crush the life from me.

To such an attack there was only one counter. I kicked him savagely--

and that death-grip relaxed. I writhed, twisted--and was free! As I

regained my freedom I struck up at him, and by great good fortune

caught him upon the point of the jaw. He staggered. I struck him over

the heart, and as he fell I pounced upon him, exulting, for he had

sought my life and I knew no pity.

Yet I had not thought so strong a man would choke so easily, and for

some moments I stood looking down at him, believing that he sought to

trick me. But it was not so. His affair was finished.

I listened. The situation in which I found myself was full of

difficulty. An owl screeched somewhere in the trees, but nothing else

stirred. The sound of the shot had not attracted attention, apparently.

I stooped and examined the garments of the man who lay at my feet.

He carried a travel coupon to Paris bearing that day's date, together

with some other papers, but, although I searched all his pockets, I

could find nothing of real interest, until in an inside pocket of his

coat I felt some hard, irregularly shaped object. I withdrew it, and

in the moonlight it lay glittering in my palm ... a _golden scorpion!_

It had apparently been broken in the struggle. The tail was missing,

nor could I find it: but I must confess that I did not prolong the

search.

Some chance effect produced by the shadow of the moonlight, and the

presence of that recently purchased ticket, gave me the idea upon

which without delay I proceeded to act. Satisfying myself that there

was no mark upon any of his garments by which the man could be

identified, I unlocked from my wrist an identification disk which I

habitually wore there, and locked it upon the wrist of the man with

the scar!

Clearly, I argued, he had been detailed to dispatch me and then to

leave at once for France. I would make it appear that he had succeeded.

Behold me, ten minutes later, driving slowly along a part of the

Thames Embankment which I chanced to remember, a gruesome passenger

riding behind me in the cab. I was reflecting as I kept a sharp look-out

for a spot which I had noted one day during my travels, how easily one

could commit murder in London, when a constable ran out and

intercepted me!

_Mon Deiu!_ how my heart leapt!

"I'll trouble you for your name and number, my lad," he said.

"What for?" I asked, and remembering a rare fragment of idiom: "What's

up with you?" I added.

"Your lamp's out!" he cried, "that's what's up with me!"

"Oh," said I, climbing from my seat--"very well. I'm sorry. I didn't

know. But here is my license."

I handed him the little booklet and began to light my lamps, cursing

myself for a dreadful artist because I had forgotten to do so.

"All right," he replied, and handed it back to me. "But how the devil

you've managed to get _all_ your lamps out, I can't imagine!"

"This is my first job since dusk," I explained hurrying around to the

tail-light. "And _he_ don't say much!" remarked the constable.

I replaced my matches in my pocket and returned to the front of the

cab, making a gesture as of one raising a glass to his lips and

jerking my thumb across my shoulder in the direction of my unseen fare.

"Oh, that's it!" said the constable, and moved off.

Never in my whole career have I been so glad to see the back of any

man!

I drove on slowly. The point for which I was making was only some

three hundred yards further along, but I had noted that the constable

had walked off in the opposite direction. Therefore, arriving at my

destination--a vacant wharf open to the road--I pulled up and listened.

Only the wash of the tide upon the piles of the wharf was audible, for

the night was now far advanced.

I opened the door of the cab and dragged out "Le Balafre." Right and

left I peered, truly like a stage villain, and then hauled my

unpleasant burden along the irregularly paved path and on to the

little wharf. Out in mid-stream a Thames Police patrol was passing,

and I stood for a moment until the creak of the oars grew dim.

Then: there was a dull splash far below ... and silence again.

Gaston Max had been consigned to a watery grave!

Returning again to the garage, I wondered very much who he had been,

this one, "Le Balafre." Could it be that he was "The Scorpion"? I

could not tell, but I had hopes very shortly of finding out. I had

settled up my affairs with my landlady and had removed from my

apartments all papers and other effects. In the garage I had placed

a good suit of clothes and other necessities, and by telephone I had

secured a room at a West-End hotel.

The cab returned to the stable, I locked the door, and by the light

of one of the lamps, shaved off my beard and moustache. My uniform

and cap I hung up on the hook where I usually left them after working

hours, and changed into the suit which I had placed there in readiness.

I next destroyed all evidences of identity and left the place in a

neat condition. I extinguished the lamp, went out and locked the door

behind me, and carrying a travelling-grip and a cane I set off for my

new hotel.

Charles Malet had disappeared!

CHAPTER IV

I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

On the corner opposite Dr. Stuart's establishment stood a house which

was "to be let or sold." From the estate-agent whose name appeared

upon the notice-board I obtained the keys--and had a duplicate made of

that which opened the front door. It was a simple matter, and the

locksmith returned both keys to me within an hour. I informed the

agent that the house would not suit me.

Nevertheless, having bolted the door, in order that prospective

purchasers might not surprise me, I "camped out" in an upper room all

day, watching from behind the screen of trees all who came to the house

of Dr. Stuart. Dusk found me still at my post, armed with a pair of

good binoculars. Every patient who presented himself I scrutinized

carefully, and finding as the darkness grew that it became increasingly

difficult to discern the features of visitors, I descended to the front

garden and resumed my watch from the lower branches of a tree which

stood some twenty feet from the roadway.

At selected intervals I crept from my post and surveyed the lane upon

which the window of the consulting-room opened and also the path

leading to the tradesmen's entrance, from which one might look across

the lawn and in at the open study windows. It was during one of these

tours of inspection and whilst I was actually peering through a gap in

the hedge, that I heard the telephone bell. Dr. Stuart was in the

study and I heard him speaking.

I gathered that his services were required immediately at some

institution in the neighbourhood. I saw him take his hat, stick and

bag from the sofa and go out of the room. Then I returned to the front

garden of my vacant house.

No one appeared for some time. A policeman walked slowly up the road,

and flashed his lantern in at the gate of the house I had commandeered.

His footsteps died away. Then, faintly, I heard the hum of a powerful

motor. I held my breath. The approaching car turned into the road at

a point above me to the right, came nearer ... and stopped before Dr.

Stuart's door.

I focussed my binoculars upon the chauffeur.

It was the brown-skinned man! _Nom d'un nom!_ a _woman_ was descending

form the car. She was enveloped in furs and I could not see her face.

She walked up the steps to the door and was admitted.

The chauffeur backed the car into the lane beside the house.

My heart beating rapidly with excitement, I crept out by the further

gate of the drive, crossed the road at a point fifty yards above the

house and walking very quietly came back to the tradesmen's entrance.

Into its enveloping darkness I glided and on until I could peep across

the lawn.

The elegant visitor, as I hoped, had been shown, not into the ordinary

waiting-room but into the doctor's study. She was seated with her back

to the window, talking to a grey-haired old lady--probably the

doctor's housekeeper. Impatiently I waited for this old lady to depart,

and the moment that she did so, the visitor stood up, turned and ...

it was _Zara el-Khala!_

It was only with difficulty that I restrained the cry of triumph which

arose to my lips. On the instant that the study door closed, Zara

el-Khala began to try a number of keys which she took from her handbag

upon the various drawers of the bureau!

"So!" I said--"they are uncertain of the drawer!"

Suddenly she desisted, looking nervously at the open windows; then,

crossing the room, she drew the curtains. I crept out into the road

again and by the same roundabout route came back to the empty house.

Feeling my way in the darkness of the shrubbery, I found the motor

bicycle which I had hidden there and I wheeled it down to the further

gate of the drive and waited.

I could see the doctor's door, and I saw him returning along the road.

As he appeared, from somewhere---I could not determine from where--came

a strange and uncanny wailing sound, a sound that chilled me like an

evil omen.

Even as it died away, and before Dr. Stuart had reached his door I

knew what it portended--that horrible wail. Some one hidden I knew not

where, had warned Zara el-Khala that the doctor returned! But stay!

Perhaps that some one was the dark-skinned chauffeur!

How I congratulated myself upon the precautions which I had taken to

escape observation. Evidently the watcher had placed himself somewhere

where he could command a view of the front door and the road.

Five minutes later the girl came out, the old housekeeper accompanying

her to the door. The car emerged from the lane, Zara el-Khala

entered it and was driven away. I could see no one seated beside the

chauffeur. I started my "Indian" and leapt in pursuit.

As I had anticipated, the route was Eastward, and I found myself

traversing familiar ground. From the south-west to the east of London

whirled the big car of mystery--and I was ever close behind it.

Sometimes, in the crowded streets, I lost sight of my quarry for a

time, but always I caught up again, and at last I found myself whirling

along Commercial Road and not fifty yards behind the car.

Just by the canal bridge a drunken sailor lurched out in front of my

wheel, and only by twisting perilously right into a turning called, I

believe, Salmon Lane, did I avoid running him down.

_Sacre nom!_ how I cursed him! The lane was too narrow for me to turn

and I was compelled to dismount and to wheel my "Indian" back to the

highroad. The yellow car had vanished, of course, but I took it for

granted that it had followed the main road. At a dangerous speed,

pursued by execrations from the sailor and all his friends, I set off

east once more turning to the right down West India Dock Road.

Arriving at the dock, and seeing nothing ahead of me but desolation

and ships' masts, I knew that that inebriated pig had spoiled

everything! I could have sat down upon the dirty pavement and wept,

so mortified was I! For if Zara el-Khala had secured the envelope I

had missed my only chance.

However, _pardieu!_ I have said that despair is not permitted by the

Bureau. I rode home to my hotel, deep in reflection. Whether the girl

had the envelope or not, at least she had escaped detection by the

doctor; therefore if she had failed she would try again. I could sleep

in peace until the morrow.

Of the following day, which I spent as I had spent the preceding one,

I have nothing to record. At about the same time in the evening the

yellow car again rolled into view, and on this occasion I devoted all

my attention to the dark-skinned chauffeur, upon whom I directed my

glasses.

As the girl alighted and spoke to him for a moment, he raised the

goggles which habitually he wore and I saw his face. A theory which I

had formed on the previous night proved correct. The chauffeur was the

Hindu, Chunda Lal! As Zara el-Khala walked up the steps he backed

the car into the narrow lane and I watched him constantly. Yet, watch

as closely as I might, I could not see where he concealed himself in

order to command a view of the road.

On this occasion, as I know, Dr. Stuart was at home. Nevertheless, the

girl stayed for close upon half an hour, and I began to wonder if some

new move had been planned. Suddenly the door opened and she came out.

I crept through the bushes to my bicycle and wheeled it on to the

drive. I saw the car start; but Madame Fortune being in playful mood,

my own engine refused to start at all, and when ten minutes later I

at last aroused a spark of life in the torpid machine I knew that

pursuit would be futile.

Since this record is intended for the guidance of those who take up

the quest of "The Scorpion" either in co-operation with myself or,

in the event of my failure, alone, it would be profitless for me to

record my disasters. Very well, I had one success. One night I pursued

the yellow car from Dr. Stuart's house to the end of Limehouse

Causeway without once losing sight of it.

A string of lorries from the docks, drawn by a traction engine, checked

me at the corner for a time, although the yellow car passed. But I

raced furiously on and by great good luck overtook it near the Dock

Station. From thence onward pursuing a strangely tortuous route, I

kept it in sight to Canning Town, when it turned into a public garage.

I followed--to purchase petrol.

Chunda Lal was talking to the man in charge; he had not yet left his

seat. But the car was empty!

At first I was stupid with astonishment. _Par la barbe du prophete!_ I

was astounded. Then I saw that I had really made a great discovery.

The street into which I had injudiciously followed "Le Balafre" lay

between Limehouse Causeway and Ropemaker Street, and it was at no great

distance from this point that I had lost sight of the yellow car. In

that street, which according to my friend the policeman was "nearly

all Chinese," Zara el-Khala had descended; in that street was "The

Scorpion's" lair!

CHAPTER V

CONCLUSION OF STATEMENT

I come now to the conclusion of this statement and to the strange

occurrence which led to my proclaiming myself. The fear of imminent

assassination which first had prompted me to record what I knew of

"The Scorpion" had left me since I had ceased to be Charles Malet. And

that the disappearance of "Le Balafre" had been accepted by his

unknown chief as evidence of his success in removing _me_, I did not

doubt. Therefore I breathed more freely ... and more freely still when

my body was recovered!

Yes, my body was recovered from Hanover Hole; I read of it--a very

short paragraph, but it is the short paragraphs that matter--in my

morning paper. I knew then that I should very shortly be dead indeed--

officially dead. I had counted on this happening before, you

understand, for I more than ever suspected that "The Scorpion" knew me

to be in England and I feared that he would "lie low" as the English

say. However, since a fortunate thing happens better late than never,

I say in this paragraph two things: (1) that the enemy would cease to

count upon Gaston Max; (2) that the Scotland Yard Commissioner would

be authorised to open Part First of this Statement which had been

lodged at his office two days after I landed in England--the portion

dealing with my inquiries in Paris and with my tracking of "Le

Balafre" to Bow Road Station and observing that he showed a golden

scorpion to the chauffeur of the yellow car.

This would happen because Paris would wire that the identification

disk found on the dead man was that of Gaston Max. Why would Paris do

so? Because my reports had been discounted since I had ceased to be

Charles Malet and Paris would be seeking evidence of my whereabouts.

My reports had discontinued because I had learned that I had to do

with a criminal organization of whose ramifications I knew nothing.

Therefore I took no more chances. I died.

I return to the night when Inspector Dunbar, the grim Dunbar of

Scotland Yard, came to Dr. Stuart's house. His appearance there

puzzled me. I could not fail to recognize him, for as dusk had fully

come I had descended from my top window and was posted among the

bushes of the empty house from whence I commanded a perfect view of

the doctor's door. The night was unusually chilly--there had been some

rain--and when I crept around to the lane bordering the lawn, hoping

to see or hear something of what was taking place in the study, I

found that the windows were closed and the blinds drawn.

Luck seemed to have turned against me; for that night, at dusk, when I

had gone to a local garage where I kept my motor bicycle, I had

discovered the back tire to be perfectly flat and had been forced to

contain my soul in patience whilst the man repaired a serious puncture.

The result was of course that for more than half an hour I had not had

Dr. Stuart's house under observation. And a hundred and one things

can happen in half an hour.

Had Dr. Stuart sent for the Inspector? If so, I feared that the

envelope was missing, or at any rate that he had detected Zara

el-Khala in the act of stealing it and had determined to place the

matter in the hands of the police. It was a maddening reflection.

Again--I shrewdly suspected that I was not the only watcher of Dr.

Stuart's house. The frequency with which the big yellow car drew up

at the door a few moments after the doctor had gone out could not be

due to accident. Yet I had been unable to detect the presence of this

other watcher, nor had I any idea of the spot where the car remained

hidden--if my theory was a correct one. Nevertheless I did not expect

to see it come along whilst the Inspector remained at the house--

always supposing that Zara el-Khala had not yet succeeded. I

wheeled out the "Indian" and rode to a certain tobacconist's shop at

which I had sometimes purchased cigarettes.

He had a telephone in a room at the rear which customers were allowed

to use on payment of a fee, and a public call-box would not serve my

purpose, since the operator usually announces to a subscriber the fact

that a call emanated from such an office. The shop was closed, but I

rang the bell at the side door and obtained permission to use the

telephone upon pleading urgency. I had assiduously cultivated a natural

gift for mimicry, having found it of inestimable service in the

practice of my profession. It served me now. I had worked in the past

with Inspector Dunbar and his subordinate Sergeant Sowerby, and I

determined to trust to my memory of the latter's mode of speech.

I rang up Dr. Stuart and asked for the Inspector, saying Sergeant

Sowerby spoke from Scotland Yard. "Hullo!" he cried, "is that you,

Sowerby?"

"Yes," I replied in Sowerby's voice. "I thought I should find you

there. About the body of Max.."

"Eh!" said Dunbar--"what's that? Max?"

I knew immediately that Paris had not yet wired, therefore I told him

that Paris _had_ done so, and that the disk numbered 49685 was that of

Gaston Max. He was inexpressibly shocked, deploring the rashness of

Max in working alone.

"Come to Scotland Yard," I said, anxious to get him away from the house.

He said he would be with me in a few minutes, and I was racking my

brains for some means of learning what business had taken him to Dr.

Stuart when he gave me the desired information spontaneously.

"Sowerby, listen," said he: "It's 'The Scorpion' case right enough!

That bit of gold found on the dead man is not a cactus stem; it's a

scorpion's tail!"

So! they had found what I had failed to find! It must have been

attached, I concluded, to some inner part of "Le Balafre's" clothing.

There had been no mention of Zara el-Khala; therefore, as I rode

back to my post I permitted myself to assume that she would come

again, since presumably she had thus far failed. I was right.

_Morbleu!_ quick as I was the car was there before me! But I had not

overlooked this possibility and I had dismounted at a good distance

from the house and had left the "Indian" in someone's front garden.

As I had turned out of the main road I had seen Dr. Stuart and

Inspector Dunbar approaching a rank upon which two or three cabs

usually stood.

I watched _la Bell_ Zara enter the house, a beautiful woman most

elegantly attired, and then, even before Chunda Lal had backed the

car into the lane I was off ... to the spot at which I had abandoned

my motor bicycle. In little more than half an hour I had traversed

London, and was standing in the shadow of that high, blank wall to

which I have referred as facing a row of wooden houses in a certain

street adjoining Limehouse Causeway.