The Quest of the Sacred Slipper
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Sax Rohmer >> The Quest of the Sacred Slipper
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12 The Quest of the Sacred Slipper
by Sax Rohmer
CONTENTS
I. THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR.
II. THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES
III. "HASSAN OF ALEPPO"
IV. THE OBLONG BOX
V. THE OCCUPANT OF THE BOX
VI. THE RING OF THE PROPHET
VII. FIRST ATTEMPT ON THE SAFE
VIII. THE VIOLET EYES AGAIN
IX. SECOND ATTEMPT ON THE SAFE
X. AT THE BRITISH ANTIQUARIAN MUSEUM
XI. THE HOLE IN THE BLIND
XII. THE HASHISHIN WATCH
XIII. THE WHITE BEAM
XIV. A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT
XV. A SHRIVELLED HAND
XVI. THE DWARF
XVII. THE WOMAN WITH THE BASKET
XVIII. WHAT CAME THROUGH THE WINDOW
XIX. A RAPPING AT MIDNIGHT
XX. THE GOLDEN PAVILION
XXI. THE BLACK TUBE
XXII. THE LIGHT OF EL-MEDINEH
XXIII. THE THREE MESSAGES
XXIV. I KEEP THE APPOINTMENT
XXV. THE WATCHER IN BANK CHAMBERS
XXVI. THE STRONG-ROOM
XXVII. THE SLIPPER
XXVIII. CARNETA
XXIX. WE MEET MR. ISAACS
XXX. AT THE GATE HOUSE
XXXI. THE POOL OF DEATH
XXXII. SIX PATCHES
XXXIII. HOW WE WERE REENFORCED
XXXIV. MY LAST MEETING WITH HASSAN OF ALEPPO
THE QUEST OF THE SACRED SLIPPER
CHAPTER I
THE PHANTOM SCIMITAR
I was not the only passenger aboard the S.S. Mandalay who perceived
the disturbance and wondered what it might portend and from whence
proceed. A goodly number of passengers were joining the ship at
Port Said. I was lounging against the rail, pipe in mouth, lazily
wondering, with a large vagueness.
What a heterogeneous rabble it was!--a brightly coloured rabble,
but the colours all were dirty, like the town and the canal. Only
the sky was clean; the sky and the hard, merciless sunlight which
spared nothing of the uncleanness, and defied one even to think
of the term dear to tourists, "picturesque." I was in that kind
of mood. All the natives appeared to be pockmarked; all the
Europeans greasy with perspiration.
But what was the stir about?
I turned to the dark, bespectacled young man who leaned upon the
rail beside me. From the first I had taken to Mr. Ahmad Ahmadeen.
"There is some kind of undercurrent of excitement among the natives,"
I said, "a sort of subdued Greek chorus is audible. What's it all
about?"
Mr. Ahmadeen smiled. After a gaunt fashion, he was a handsome man
and had a pleasant smile.
"Probably," he replied, "some local celebrity is joining the ship."
I stared at him curiously.
"Any idea who he is?" (The soul of the copyhunter is a restless
soul.)
A group of men dressed in semi-European fashion--that is, in
European fashion save for their turbans, which were green--passed
close to us along the deck.
Ahmadeen appeared not to have heard the question.
The disturbance, which could only be defined as a subdued uproar,
but could be traced to no particular individual or group, grew
momentarily louder--and died away. It was only when it had
completely ceased that one realized how pronounced it had been
--how altogether peculiar, secret; like that incomprehensible
murmuring in a bazaar when, unknown to the insular visitor, a
reputed saint is present.
Then it happened; the inexplicable incident which, though I knew
it not, heralded the coming of strange things, and the dawn of a
new power; which should set up its secret standards in England,
which should flood Europe and the civilized world with wonder.
A shrill scream marked the overture--a scream of fear and of pain,
which dropped to a groan, and moaned out into the silence of which
it was the cause.
"My God! what's that?"
I started forward. There was a general crowding rush, and a darkly
tanned and bearded man came on board, carrying a brown leather case.
Behind him surged those who bore the victim.
"It's one of the lascars!"
"No--an Egyptian!"
"It was a porter--?"
"What is it--?"
"Someone been stabbed!"
"Where's the doctor?"
"Stand away there, if you please!"
That was a ship's officer; and the voice of authority served to
quell the disturbance. Through a lane walled with craning heads
they bore the insensible man. Ahmadeen was at my elbow.
"A Copt," he said softly. "Poor devil!" I turned to him. There
was a queer expression on his lean, clean-shaven, bronze face.
"Good God!" I said. "His hand has been cut off!"
That was the fact of the matter. And no one knew who was
responsible for the atrocity. And no one knew what had become of
the severed hand! I wasted not a moment in linking up the story.
The pressman within me acted automatically.
"The gentleman just come aboard, sir," said a steward, "is Professor
Deeping. The poor beggar who was assaulted was carrying some of the
Professor's baggage." The whole incident struck me as most odd.
There was an idea lurking in my mind that something else--something
more--lay behind all this. With impatience I awaited the time
when the injured man, having received medical attention, was conveyed
ashore, and Professor Deeping reappeared. To the celebrated
traveller and Oriental scholar I introduced myself.
He was singularly reticent.
"I was unable to see what took place, Mr. Cavanagh," he said. "The
poor fellow was behind me, for I had stepped from the boat ahead of
him. I had just taken a bag from his hand, but he was carrying
another, heavier one. It is a clean cut, like that of a scimitar.
I have seen very similar wounds in the cases of men who have
suffered the old Moslem penalty for theft."
Nothing further had come to light when the Mandalay left, but I
found new matter for curiosity in the behaviour of the Moslem party
who had come on board at Port Said.
In conversation with Mr. Bell, the chief officer, I learned that
the supposed leader of the party was one, Mr. Azraeel. "Obviously,"
said Bell, "not his real name or not all it. I don't suppose
they'll show themselves on deck; they've got their own servants with
them, and seem to be people of consequence."
This conversation was interrupted, but I found my unseen fellow
voyagers peculiarly interesting and pursued inquiries in other
directions. I saw members of the distinguished travellers'
retinue going about their duties, but never obtained a glimpse
of Mr. Azraeel nor of any of his green-turbaned companions.
"Who is Mr. Azraeel?" I asked Ahmadeen.
"I cannot say," replied the Egyptian, and abruptly changed the
subject.
Some curious aroma of mystery floated about the ship. Ahmadeen
conveyed to me the idea that he was concealing something. Then,
one night, Mr. Bell invited me to step forward with him.
"Listen," he said.
From somewhere in the fo'c'sle proceeded low chanting.
"Hear it?"
"Yes. What the devil is it?"
"It's the lascars," said Bell. "They have been behaving in a most
unusual manner ever since the mysterious Mr. Azraeel joined us. I
may be wrong in associating the two things, but I shan't be sorry
to see the last of our mysterious passengers."
The next happening on board the Mandalay which I have to record was
the attempt to break open the door of Professor Deeping's stateroom.
Except when he was actually within, the Professor left his room door
religiously locked.
He made light of the affair, but later took me aside and told me a
curious story of an apparition which had appeared to him.
"It was a crescent of light," he said, "and it glittered through
the darkness there to the left as I lay in my berth."
"A reflection from something on the deck?"
Deeping smiled, uneasily.
"Possibly," he replied; "but it was very sharply defined. Like
the blade of a scimitar," he added.
I stared at him, my curiosity keenly aroused. "Does any explanation
suggest itself to you?" I said.
"Well," he confessed, "I have a theory, I will admit; but it is
rather going back to the Middle Ages. You see, I have lived in the
East a lot; perhaps I have assimilated some of their superstitions."
He was oddly reticent, as ever. I felt convinced that he was
keeping something back. I could not stifle the impression that the
clue to these mysteries lay somewhere around the invisible
Mohammedan party.
"Do you know," said Bell to me, one morning, "this trip's giving me
the creeps. I believe the damned ship's haunted! Three bells in the
middle watch last night, I'll swear I saw some black animal crawling
along the deck, in the direction of the forward companion-way."
"Cat?" I suggested.
"Nothing like it," said Mr. Bell. "Mr. Cavanagh, it was some
uncanny thing! I'm afraid I can't explain quite what I mean, but
it was something I wanted to shoot!"
"Where did it go?"
The chief officer shrugged his shoulders. "Just vanished," he said.
"I hope I don't see it again."
At Tilbury the Mohammedan party went ashore in a body. Among them
were veiled women. They contrived so to surround a central figure
that I entirely failed to get a glimpse of the mysterious Mr.
Azraeel. Ahmadeen was standing close by the companion-way, and I
had a momentary impression that one of the women slipped something
into his hand. Certainly, he started; and his dusky face seemed to
pale.
Then a deck steward came out of Deeping's stateroom, carrying the
brown bag which the Professor had brought aboard at Port Said.
Deeping's voice came:
"Hi, my man! Let me take that bag!"
The bag changed hands. Five minutes later, as I was preparing to
go ashore, arose a horrid scream above the berthing clamour. Those
passengers yet aboard made in the direction from which the scream
had proceeded.
A steward--the one to whom Professor Deeping had spoken--lay
writhing at the foot of the stairs leading to the saloon-deck. His
right hand had been severed above the wrist!
CHAPTER II
THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES
During the next day or two my mind constantly reverted to the
incidents of the voyage home. I was perfectly convinced that the
curtain had been partially raised upon some fantasy in which
Professor Deeping figured.
But I had seen no more of Deeping nor had I heard from him, when
abruptly I found myself plunged again into the very vortex of his
troubled affairs. I was half way through a long article, I
remember, upon the mystery of the outrage at the docks. The poor
steward whose hand had been severed lay in a precarious condition,
but the police had utterly failed to trace the culprit.
I had laid down my pen to relight my pipe (the hour was about ten
at night) when a faint sound from the direction of the outside
door attracted my attention. Something had been thrust through
the letter-box.
"A circular," I thought, when the bell rang loudly, imperatively.
I went to the door. A square envelope lay upon the mat--a
curious envelope, pale amethyst in colour. Picking it up, I found
it to bear my name--written simply--
"Mr. Cavanagh."
Tearing it open I glanced at the contents. I threw open the door.
No one was visible upon the landing, but when I leaned over the
banister a white-clad figure was crossing the hall, below.
Without hesitation, hatless, I raced down the stairs. As I crossed
the dimly lighted hall and came out into the peaceful twilight of
the court, my elusive visitor glided under the archway opposite.
Just where the dark and narrow passage opened on to Fleet Street
I overtook her--a girl closely veiled and wrapped in a long coat
of white ermine.
"Madam," I said.
She turned affrightedly.
"Please do not detain me!" Her accent was puzzling, but pleasing.
She glanced apprehensively about her.
You have seen the moon through a mist? --and known it for what it
was in spite of its veiling? So, now, through the cloudy folds
of the veil, I saw the stranger's eyes, and knew them for the most
beautiful eyes I had ever seen, had ever dreamt of.
"But you must explain the meaning of your note!"
"I cannot! I cannot! Please do not ask me!"
She was breathless from her flight and seemed to be trembling.
From behind the cloud her eyes shone brilliantly, mysteriously.
I was sorely puzzled. The whole incident was bizarre--indeed, it
had in it something of the uncanny. Yet I could not detain the girl
against her will. That she went in apprehension of something, of
someone, was evident.
Past the head of the passage surged the noisy realities of Fleet
Street. There were men there in quest of news; men who would
have given much for such a story as this in which I was becoming
entangled. Yet a story more tantalizingly incomplete could not
well be imagined.
I knew that I stood upon the margin of an arena wherein strange
adversaries warred to a strange end. But a mist was over all.
Here, beside me, was one who could disperse the mist--and would
not. Her one anxiety seemed to be to escape.
Suddenly she raised her veil; and I looked fully into the only
really violet eyes I had ever beheld. Mentally, I started. For
the face framed in the snowy fur was the most bewitchingly lovely
imaginable. One rebellious lock of wonderful hair swept across
the white brow. It was brown hair, with an incomprehensible
sheen in the high lights that suggested the heart of a blood-red
rose.
"Oh," she cried, "promise me that you will never breathe a word
to any one about my visit!"
"I promise willingly," I said; "but can you give me no hint?"
"Honestly, truly, I cannot, dare not, say more! Only promise that
you will do as I ask!"
Since I could perceive no alternative--
"I will do so," I replied.
"Thank you--oh, thank you!" she said; and dropping her veil again
she walked rapidly away from me, whispering, "I rely upon you. Do
not fail me. Good-bye!"
Her conspicuous white figure joined the hurrying throngs upon the
pavement beyond. My curiosity brooked no restraint. I hurried to
the end of the courtway. She was crossing the road. From the
shadows where he had lurked, a man came forward to meet her. A
vehicle obstructed the view ere I could confirm my impression; and
when it had passed, neither my lovely visitor nor her companion
were anywhere in sight.
But, unless some accident of light and shade had deceived me, the
man who had waited was Ahmad Ahmadeen!
It seemed that some astral sluice-gate was raised; a dreadful sense
of foreboding for the first time flooded my mind. Whilst the girl
had stood before me it had been different--the mysterious charm of
her personality had swamped all else. But now, the messenger gone,
it was the purport of her message which assumed supreme significance.
Written in odd, square handwriting upon the pale amethyst paper,
this was the message--
Prevail upon Professor Deeping to place what he has in the brown
case in the porch of his house to-night. If he fails to do so,
no power on earth can save him from the Scimitar of Hassan.
A FRIEND.
CHAPTER III
"HASSAN OF ALEPPO"
Professor Deeping's number was in the telephone directory,
therefore, on returning to my room, where there still lingered the
faint perfume of my late visitor's presence, I asked for his number.
He proved to be at home.
"Strange you should ring me up, Cavanagh," he said; "for I was
about to ring you up."
"First," I replied, "listen to the contents of an anonymous letter
which I have received."
(I remembered, and only just in time, my promise to the veiled
messenger.)
"To me," I added, having read him the note, "it seems to mean
nothing. I take it that you understand better than I do."
"I understand very well, Cavanagh!" he replied. "You will recall
my story of the scimitar which flashed before me in the darkness
of my stateroom on the Mandalay? Well, I have seen it again! I
am not an imaginative man: I had always believed myself to possess
the scientific mind; but I can no longer doubt that I am the object
of a pursuit which commenced in Mecca! The happenings on the
steamer prepared me for this, in a degree. When the man lost his
hand at Port Said I doubted. I had supposed the days of such things
past. The attempt to break into my stateroom even left me still
uncertain. But the outrage upon the steward at the docks removed
all further doubt. I perceived that the contents of a certain brown
leather case were the objective of the crimes."
I listened in growing wonder.
"It was not necessary in order to further the plan of stealing the
bag that the hands were severed," resumed the Professor. "In fact,
as was rendered evident by the case of the steward, this was a
penalty visited upon any one who touched it! You are thinking of
my own immunity?"
"I am!"
"This is attributable to two things. Those who sought to recover
what I had in the case feared that my death en route might result
in its being lost to them for ever. They awaited a suitable
opportunity. They had designed to take it at Port Said certainly,
I think; but the bag was too large to be readily concealed, and,
after the outrage, might have led to the discovery of the culprit.
In the second place, they are uncertain of my faith. I have long
passed for a true Believer in the East! As a Moslem I visited
Mecca--"
"You visited Mecca!"
"I had just returned from the hadj when I joined the Mandalay at
Port Said! My death, however, has been determined upon, whether
I be Moslem or Christian!"
"Why?"
"Because," came the Professor's harsh voice over the telephone, "of
the contents of the brown leather case! I will not divulge to you
now the nature of these contents; to know might endanger you. But
the case is locked in my safe here, and the key, together with a
full statement of the true facts of the matter, is hidden behind
the first edition copy of my book 'Assyrian Mythology,' in the
smaller bookcase--"
"Why do you tell me all this?" I interrupted.
He laughed harshly.
"The identity of my pursuer has just dawned upon me," he said. "I
know that my life is in real danger. I would give up what is
demanded of me, but I believe its possession to be my strongest
safeguard."
Mystery upon mystery! I seemed to be getting no nearer to the heart
of this maze. What in heaven's name did it all mean? Suddenly an
idea struck me.
"Is our late fellow passenger, Mr. Ahmadeen, connected with the
matter?" I asked.
"In no way," replied Deeping earnestly. "Mr. Ahmadeen is, I
believe, a person of some consequence in the Moslem world; but I
have nothing to fear from him."
"What steps have you taken to protect yourself?"
Again the short laugh reached my ears.
"I'm afraid long residence in the East has rendered me something of
a fatalist, Cavanagh! Beyond keeping my door locked, I have taken
no steps whatever. I fear I am quite accessible!"
A while longer we talked; and with every word the conviction was
more strongly borne in upon me that some uncanny menace threatened
the peace, perhaps the life, of Professor Deeping.
I had hung up the receiver scarce a moment when, acting upon a
sudden determination, I called up New Scotland Yard, and asked for
Detective-Inspector Bristol, whom I knew well. A few words were
sufficient keenly to arouse his curiosity, and he announced his
intention of calling upon me immediately. He was in charge of the
case of the severed hand.
I made no attempt to resume work in the interval preceding his
arrival. I had not long to wait, however, ere Bristol was ringing
my bell; and I hurried to the door, only too glad to confide in one
so well equipped to analyze my doubts and fears. For Bristol is no
ordinary policeman, but a trained observer, who, when I first made
his acquaintance, completely upset my ideas upon the mental
limitations of the official detective force.
In appearance Bristol suggests an Anglo-Indian officer, and at the
time of which I write he had recently returned from Jamaica and his
face was as bronzed as a sailor's. One would never take Bristol
for a detective. As he seated himself in the armchair, without
preamble I plunged into my story. He listened gravely.
"What sort of house is Professor Deeping's?" he asked suddenly.
"I have no idea," I replied, "beyond the fact that it is somewhere
in Dulwich."
"May I use your telephone?"
"Certainly."
Very quickly Bristol got into communication with the superintendent
of P Division. A brief delay, and the man came to the telephone
whose beat included the road wherein Professor Deeping's house was
situated.
"Why!" said Bristol, hanging up the receiver after making a number
of inquiries, "it's a sort of rambling cottage in extensive grounds.
There's only one servant, a manservant, and he sleeps in a detached
lodge. If the Professor is really in danger of attack he could not
well have chosen a more likely residence for the purpose!"
"What shall you do? What do you make of it all?"
"As I see the case," he said slowly, "it stands something like this:
Professor Deeping has . . . "
The telephone bell began to ring.
I took up the receiver.
"Hullo! Hullo."
"Cavanagh!--is that Cavanagh?"
"Yes! yes! who is that?"
"Deeping! I have rung up the police, and they are sending some
one. But I wish . . . "
His voice trailed off. The sound of a confused and singular uproar
came to me.
"Hullo!" I cried. "Hullo!"
A shriek--a deathful, horrifying cry--and a distant babbling alone
answered me. There was a crash. Clearly, Deeping had dropped the
receiver. I suppose my face blanched.
"What is it?" asked Bristol anxiously.
"God knows what it is!" I said. "Deeping has met with some
mishap--"
When, over the wires--
"Hassan of Aleppo!" came a dying whisper. "Hassan . . . of
Aleppo . . . "
CHAPTER IV
THE OBLONG BOX
"You had better wait for us," said Bristol to the taxi-man.
"Very good, sir. But I shan't be able to take you further back than
the Brixton Garage. You can get another cab there, though."
A clock chimed out--an old-world chime in keeping with the
loneliness, the curiously remote loneliness, of the locality. Less
than five miles from St. Paul's are spots whereto, with the
persistence of Damascus attar, clings the aroma of former days.
This iron gateway fronting the old chapel was such a spot.
Just within stood a plain-clothes man, who saluted my companion
respectfully.
"Professor Deeping," I began.
The man, with a simple gesture, conveyed the dreadful news.
"Dead! dead!" I cried incredulously.
He glanced at Bristol.
"The most mysterious case I have ever had anything to do with,
sir," he said.
The power of speech seemed to desert me. It was unthinkable that
Deeping, with whom I had been speaking less than an hour ago,
should now be no more; that some malign agency should thus
murderously have thrust him into the great borderland.
In that kind of silence which seems to be peopled with whispering
spirits we strode forward along the elm avenue. It was very dark
where the moon failed to penetrate. The house, low and rambling,
came into view, its facade bathed in silver light. Two of the
visible windows were illuminated. A sort of loggia ran along one
side.
On our left, as we made for this, lay a black ocean of shrubbery.
It intruded, raggedly, upon the weed-grown path, for neglect was
the keynote of the place.
We entered the cottage, crossed the tiny lobby, and came to the
study. A man, evidently Deeping's servant, was sitting in a chair
by the door, his head sunken in his hands. He looked up,
haggard-faced.
"My God! my God!" he groaned. "He was locked in, gentlemen! He
was locked in; and yet something murdered him!"
"What do you mean?" said Bristol. "Where were you?"
"I was away on an errand, sir. When I returned, the police were
knocking the door down. He was locked in!"
We passed him, entering the study.
It was a museum-like room, lighted by a lamp on the littered
table. At first glance it looked as though some wild thing had
run amok there. The disorder was indescribable.
"Touched nothing, of course?" asked Bristol sharply of the officer
on duty.
"Nothing, sir. It's just as we found it when we forced the door."
"Why did you force the door?"
"He rung us up at the station and said that something or somebody
had got into the house. It was evident the poor gentleman's nerve
had broken down, sir. He said he was locked in his study. When
we arrived it was all in darkness--but we thought we heard sounds
in here."
"What sort of sounds?"
"Something crawling about!"
Bristol turned.
"Key is in the lock on the inside of the door," he said. "Is that
where you found it?"
"Yes, sir!"
He looked across to where the brass knob of a safe gleamed dully.
"Safe locked?"
"Yes, sir."
Professor Deeping lay half under the table, a spectacle so ghastly
that I shall not attempt to describe it.
"Merciful heavens!" whispered Bristol. "He's nearly decapitated!"
I clutched dizzily at the mantelpiece. It was all so utterly,
incredibly horrible. How had Deeping met his death? The windows
both were latched and the door had been locked from within!
"You searched for the murderer, of course?" asked Bristol.
"You can see, sir," replied the officer, "that there isn't a spot
in the room where a man could hide! And there was nobody
in here when we forced the door!"
"Why!" cried my companion suddenly. "The Professor has a chisel
in his hand!"
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