The Quest of the Sacred Slipper

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I heard the girl scream affrightedly, and I knew, and felt my heart
chill to know, that the tube had been wrenched from my hand! Hassan
of Aleppo, old man that he appeared, had the strength of a tiger. He
recovered himself and hurled me from him so that I came to the floor
crashingly half under my writing-table!

Something he cried back at me, furiously--and like an enraged animal,
his teeth gleaming out from his beard, he darted from the room. The
front door banged loudly.

Shaken and quivering, I got upon my feet. On the threshold, in a
state of pitiable hesitancy, stood the pale, beautiful accomplice
of Earl Dexter. One quick glance she flashed at me, then turned
and ran!

Again the door slammed. I ran to the window, looking out into the
court. The girl came hurrying down the steps, and with never a
backward glance ran on and was lost to view in one of the passages
opening riverward.

Out under the arch, statelily passed a tall figure--and Inspector
Bristol was entering! I saw the detective glance aside as the two
all but met. He stood still, and looked back!

"Bristol!" I cried, and waved my arms frantically.

"Stop him! Stop him! It's Hassan of Aleppo!"

Bristol was not the only one to hear my wild cry--not the only one
to dash back under the arch and out into Fleet Street.

But Hassan of Aleppo was gone!

CHAPTER XXII

THE LIGHT OF EL-MEDINEH

Bristol and I walked slowly in the direction of the entrance of the
British Antiquarian Museum. It was the day following upon the
sensational scene in my chambers.

"There's very little doubt," said Bristol, "that Earl Dexter has
the slipper and that Hassan of Aleppo knows where Dexter is in
hiding. I don't know which of the two is more elusive. Hassan
apparently melted into thin air yesterday; and although The Stetson
Man has never within my experience employed disguises, no one has
set eyes upon him since the night that he vanished from his lodgings
off the Waterloo Road. It's always possible for a man to baffle
the police by remaining closely within doors, but during all the
time that has elapsed Dexter must have taken a little exercise
occasionally, and the missing hand should have betrayed him."

"The wonder to me is," I replied, "that he has escaped death at the
hands of the Hashishin. He is a supremely daring man, for I should
think that he must be carrying the slipper of the Prophet about
with him!"

"I would rather he did it than I!" commented Bristol. "For sheer
audacity commend me to The Stetson Man! His idea no doubt was to
use you as intermediary in his negotiations with the Museum
authorities, but that plan failing, he has written them direct,
thoughtfully omitting his address, of course!"

We were, in fact, at that moment bound for the Museum to inspect
this latest piece of evidence.

"The crowning example of the man's audacity and cleverness," added
my companion, "is his having actually approached Hassan of Aleppo
with a similar proposition! How did he get in touch with him? All
Scotland Yard has failed to find any trace of that weird character!"

"Birds of a feather--" I suggested.

"But they are not birds of a feather!" cried Bristol. "On your own
showing, Hassan of Aleppo is simply waiting his opportunity to
balance Dexter's account forever! I always knew Dexter was a clever
man; I begin to think he's the most daring genius alive!"

We mounted the steps of the Museum. In the hallway Mostyn, the
curator, awaited us. Having greeted Bristol and myself he led the
way to his private office, and from a pigeon-hole in his desk took
out a letter typewritten upon a sheet of quarto paper.

Bristol spread it out upon the blotting pad and we bent over it
curiously.

SIR--

I believe I can supply information concerning the whereabouts of
the missing slipper of Mohammed. As any inquiry of this nature
must be extremely perilous to the inquirer and as the relic is a
priceless one, my fee would be 10,000 pounds. The fanatics who
seek to restore the slipper to the East must not know of any
negotiations, therefore I omit my address, but will communicate
further if you care to insert instructions in the agony column
of Times.

Faithfully,
EARL DEXTER

Bristol laughed grimly.

"It's a daring game," he said; "a piece of barefaced impudence quite
characteristic.

"He's posing as a sort of private detective now, and is prepared for
a trifling consideration to return the slipper which he stole
himself! He must know, though, that we have his severed hand at
the Yard to be used in evidence against him."

"Is the Burton Room open to the public again?" I asked Mostyn.

"It is open, yes," he replied, "and a quite unusual number of
visitors come daily to gaze at the empty case which once held the
slipper of the Prophet."

"Has the case been mended?"

"Yes; it is quite intact again; only the exhibit is missing."

We ascended the stairs, passed along the Assyrian Room, which seemed
to be unusually crowded, and entered the lofty apartment known as
the Burton Room. The sunblinds were drawn, and a sort of dim,
religious light prevailed therein. A group of visitors stood around
an empty case at the farther end of the apartment.

"You see," said Mostyn, pointing, "that empty case has a greater
attraction than all the other full ones!"

But I scarcely heeded his words, for I was intently watching the
movements of one of the group about the empty case. I have said
that the room was but dimly illuminated, and this fact, together
no doubt with some effect of reflected light, enhanced by my
imagination, perhaps produced the phenomenon which was occasioning
me so much amazement.

Remember that my mind was filled with memories of weird things,
that I often found myself thinking of that mystic light which
Hassan of Aleppo had called the light of El-Medineh--that light
whereby, undeterred by distance, he claimed to be able to trace the
whereabouts of any of the relics of the Prophet.

Bristol and Mostyn walked on then; but I stood just within the
doorway, intently, breathlessly watching an old man wearing an
out-of-date Inverness coat and a soft felt hat. He had a gray
beard and moustache, and long, untidy hair, walked with a stoop,
and in short was no unusual type of Visitor to that institution.

But it seemed to me, and the closer I watched him the more
convinced I became, that this was no optical illusion, that a faint
luminosity, a sort of elfin light, played eerily about his head!

As Bristol and Mostyn approached the case the old man began to walk
toward me and in the direction of the door. The idea flashed
through my mind that it might be Hassan of Aleppo himself, Hassan
who had predicted that the stolen slipper should that day be
returned to the Museum!

Then he came abreast of me, passed me, and I felt that my
surmise had been wrong. I saw Bristol, from farther up the room,
turn and look back. Something attracted his trained eye, I suppose,
which was not perceptible to me. But he suddenly came striding
along. Obviously he was pursuing the old man, who was just about
to leave the apartment. Seeing that the latter had reached the
doorway, Bristol began to run.

The old man turned; and amid a chorus of exclamations from the
astonished spectators, Bristol sprang upon him!

How it all came about I cannot say, cannot hope to describe; but
there was a short, sharp scuffle, the crack of a well-directed
blow . . . and Bristol was rolling on his back, the old man,
hatless, was racing up the Assyrian Room, and everyone in the place
seemed to be shouting at once!

Bristol, with blood streaming from his face, staggered to his feet,
clutching at me for support.

"After him, Mr. Cavanagh!" he cried hoarsely. "It's your turn
to-day! After him! That's Earl Dexter!"

Mostyn waited for no more, but went running quickly through the
Assyrian Room. I may mention here that at the head of the stairs
he found the caped Inverness which had served to conceal Dexter's
mutilated arm, and later, behind a piece of statuary, a wig and
a very ingenious false beard and moustache were discovered. But
of The Stetson Man there was no trace. His brief start had enabled
him to make good his escape.

As Mostyn went off, and a group of visitors flocked in our
direction, Bristol, who had been badly shaken by the blow, turned
to them.

"You will please all leave the Burton Room immediately," he said.

Looks of surprise greeted his words; but with his handkerchief
raised to his face, he peremptorily repeated them. The official
note in his voice was readily to be detected; and the wonder-stricken
group departed with many a backward glance.

As the last left the Burton Room, Bristol pointed, with a rather
shaky finger, at the soft felt hat which lay at his feet. It had
formed part of Dexter's disguise. Close beside it lay another
object which had evidently fallen from the hat--a dull red thing
lying on the polished parquet flooring.

"For God's sake don't go near it!" whispered Bristol. "The room
must be closed for the present. And now I'm off after that man.
Step clear of it."

His words were unnecessary; I shunned it as a leprous thing.

It was the slipper of the Prophet!

CHAPTER XXIII

THE THREE MESSAGES

I stood in the foyer of the Astoria Hotel. About me was the pulsing
stir of transatlantic life, for the tourist season was now at its
height, and I counted myself fortunate in that I had been able to
secure a room at this establishment, always so popular with American
visitors. Chatting groups surrounded me and I became acquainted
with numberless projects for visiting the Tower of London, the
National Gallery, the British Museum, Windsor Castle, Kew Gardens,
and the other sights dear to the heart of our visiting cousins.
Loaded lifts ascended and descended. Bradshaws were in great
evidence everywhere; all was hustle and glad animation.

The tall military-looking man who stood beside me glanced about him
with a rather grim smile.

"You ought to be safe enough here, Mr. Cavanagh!" he said.

"I ought to be safe enough in my own chambers," I replied wearily.
"How many of these pleasure-seeking folk would believe that a man
can be as greatly in peril of his life in Fleet Street as in the
most uncivilized spot upon the world map? Do you think if I told
that prosperous New Yorker who is buying a cigar yonder, for
instance, that I had been driven from my chambers by a band of
Eastern assassins founded some time in the eleventh century, he
would believe it?"

"I am certain he wouldn't!" replied Bristol. "I should not have
credited it myself before I was put in charge of this damnable case."

My position at that hour was in truth an incredible one. The sacred
slipper of Mohammed lay once more in the glass case at the
Antiquarian Museum from which Earl Dexter had stolen it. Now, with
apish yellow faces haunting my dreams, with ghostly menaces dogging
me day and night, I was outcast from my own rooms and compelled, in
self-defence, to live amid the bustle of the Astoria. So wholly
nonplussed were the police authorities that they could afford me no
protection. They knew that a group of scientific murderers lay
hidden in or near to London; they knew that Earl Dexter, the foremost
crook of his day, was also in the metropolis--and they could make no
move, were helpless; indeed, as Bristol had confessed, were hopeless!

Bristol, on the previous day, had unearthed the Greek cigar merchant,
Acepulos, who had replaced the slipper in its case (for a monetary
consideration). He had performed a similar service when the
bloodstained thing had first been put upon exhibition at the Museum,
and for a considerable period had disappeared. We had feared that
his religious pretensions had not saved him from the avenging
scimitar of Hassan; but quite recently he had returned again to his
Soho shop, and in time thus to earn a second cheque.

As Bristol and I stood glancing about the foyer of the hotel, a
plain-clothes officer whom I knew by sight came in and approached
my companion. I could not divine the fact, of course, but I was
about to hear news of the money-loving and greatly daring
Graeco-Moslem.

The detective whispered something to Bristol, and the latter started,
and paled. He turned to me.

"They haven't overlooked him this time, Mr. Cavanagh," he said.
"Acepulos has been found dead in his room, nearly decapitated!"

I shuddered involuntarily. Even there, amid the chatter and laughter
of those light-hearted tourists, the shadow of Hassan of Aleppo was
falling upon me.

Bristol started immediately for Soho and I parted from him in the
Strand, he proceeding west and I eastward, for I had occasion that
morning to call at my bank. It was the time of the year when London
is full of foreigners, and as I proceeded in the direction of Fleet
Street I encountered more than one Oriental. To my excited
imagination they all seemed to glance at me furtively, with menacing
eyes, but in any event I knew that I had little to fear whilst I
contrived to keep to the crowded thoroughfares. Solitude I dreaded
and with good reason.

Then at the door of the bank I found fresh matter for reflection.
The assistant manager, Mr. Colby, was escorting a lady to the door.
As I stood aside, he walked with her to a handsome car which waited,
and handed her in with marks of great deference. She was heavily
veiled and I had no more than a glimpse of her, but she appeared to
be of middle age and had gray hair and a very stately manner.

I told myself that I was unduly suspicious, suspicious of everyone
and of everything; yet as I entered the bank I found myself wondering
where I had seen that dignified, grayhaired figure before. I even
thought of asking the manager the name of his distinguished customer,
but did not do so, for in the circumstances such an inquiry must
have appeared impertinent.

My business transacted, I came out again by the side entrance which
opens on the little courtyard, for this branch of the London County
and Provincial Bank occupies a corner site.

A ragged urchin who was apparently waiting for me handed me a note.
I looked at him inquiringly.

"For me?" I said.

"Yes, sir. A dark gentleman pointed you out as you was goin' into
the bank."

The note was written upon a half sheet of paper and, doubting if it
was really intended for me, I unfolded it and read the following--

Mr. Cavanagh, take the keys of the case containing the holy slipper
to your hotel this evening without fail.
HASSAN.

"Who gave you this, boy?" I asked sharply.

"A foreign gentleman, sir, very dark--like an Indian."

"Where is he?"

"He went off in a cab, sir, after he give me the note."

I handed the boy sixpence and slowly pursued my way. An idea was
forming in my mind to trap the enemy by seeming acquiescent. I
wondered if my movements were being watched at that moment. Since
it was more than probable, I returned to the bank, entered, and
made some trivial inquiry of a cashier, and then came out again and
walked on as far as the Report office.

I had not been in the office more than five minutes before I
received a telegram from Inspector Bristol. It had been handed in
at Soho, and the message was an odd one.

CAVANAGH, Report, London.
Plot afoot to steal keys. Get them from bank and join me 11 o'clock
at Astoria. Have planned trap.
BRISTOL.

This was very mysterious in view of the note so recently received by
me, but I concluded that Bristol had hit upon a similar plan to that
which was forming in my own mind. It seemed unnecessarily hazardous,
though, actually to withdraw the keys from their place of safety.

Pondering deeply upon the perplexities of this maddening case, I
shortly afterward found myself again at the bank. With the manager
I descended to the strong-room, and the safe was unlocked which
contained the much-sought-for keys of the case at the Antiquarian
Museum.

"There are the keys, quite safe!--and by the way, this is my second
visit here this morning, Mr. Cavanagh," said the manager, with whom
I was upon rather intimate terms. "A foreign lady who has recently
become a customer of the bank deposited some valuable jewels here
this morning--less than an hour ago, in fact."

"Indeed," I said, and my mind was working rapidly. "The lady who
came in the large blue car, a gray-haired lady?"

"Yes," was the reply, "did you notice her, then?"

I nodded and said no more, for in truth I had no more to say. I
had good reason to respect the uncanny powers of Hassan of Aleppo,
but I doubted if even his omniscience could tell him (since I had
actually gone down into the strong-room) whether when I emerged I
had the keys, or whether my visit and seeming acceptance of his
orders had been no more than a subterfuge!

That the Hashishin had some means of communicating with me at the
Astoria was evident from the contents of the note which I had
received, and as I walked in the direction of the hotel my mind
was filled with all sorts of misgivings. I was playing with fire!
Had I done rightly or should I have acted otherwise? I sighed
wearily. The dark future would resolve all my doubts.

When I reached the Astoria, Bristol had not arrived. I lighted a
cigarette and sat down in the lounge to await his coming. Presently
a boy approached, handing me a message which had been taken down
from the telephone by the clerk. It was as follows--

Tell Mr. Cavanagh, who is waiting in the hotel, to take what I am
expecting to his chambers, and say that I will join him there in
twenty minutes.
INSPECTOR BRISTOL.

Again I doubted the wisdom of Bristol's plan. Had I not fled to
the Astoria to escape from the dangerous solitude of my rooms? That
he was laying some trap for the Hashishin was sufficiently evident,
and whilst I could not justly suspect him of making a pawn of me
I was quite unable to find any other explanation of this latest move.

I was torn between conflicting doubts. I glanced at my watch. Yes!
There was just time for me to revisit the bank ere joining Bristol
at my chambers! I hesitated. After all, in what possible way could
it jeopardize his plans for me merely to pretend to bring the keys?

"Hang it all!" I said, and jumped to my feet. "These maddening
conjectures will turn my brain! I'll let matters stand as they
are, and risk the consequences!"

I hesitated no longer, but passed out from the hotel and once more
directed my steps in the direction of Fleet Street.

As I passed in under the arch through which streamed many busy
workers, I told myself that to dread entering my own chambers at
high noon was utterly childish. Yet I did dread doing so! And as
I mounted the stair and came to the landing, which was always more
or less dark, I paused for quite a long time before putting the
key in the lock.

The affair of the accursed slipper was playing havoc with my nerves,
and I laughed dryly to note that my hand was not quite steady as I
turned the key, opened my door, and slipped into the dim hallway.

As I closed it behind me, something, probably a slight noise, but
possibly something more subtle--an instinct--made me turn rapidly.

There facing me stood Hassan of Aleppo.

CHAPTER XXIV

I KEEP THE APPOINTMENT

That moment was pungent with drama. In the intense hush of the
next five seconds I could fancy that the world had slipped away
from me and that I was become an unsubstantial thing of dreams.
I was in no sense master of myself; the effect of the presence of
this white-bearded fanatic was of a kind which I am entirely unable
to describe. About Hassan of Aleppo was an aroma of evil, yet of
majesty, which marked him strangely different from other men--from
any other that I have ever known. In his venerable presence,
remembering how he was Sheikh of the Assassins, and recalling his
bloody history, I was always conscious of a weakness, physical and
mental. He appalled me; and now, with my back to the door, I stood
watching him and watching the ominous black tube which he held in
his hand. It was a weapon unknown to Europe and therefore more
fearful than the most up-to-date of death-dealing instruments.

Hassan of Aleppo pointed it toward me.

"The keys, effendim," he said; "hand me the keys!"

He advanced a step; his manner was imperious. The black tube was
less than a foot removed from my face. That I had my revolver in
my pocket could avail me nothing, for in my pocket it must remain,
since I dared to make no move to reach it under cover of that
unfamiliar, terrible weapon.

The black eyes of Hassan glared insanely into mine.

"You will have placed them in your pocketcase," he said. "Take it
out; hand it to me!"

I obeyed, for what else could I do? Taking the case from my pocket,
I placed it in his lean brown hand.

An expression of wild exultation crossed his features; the eagle
eyes seemed to be burning into my brain. A puff of hot vapour
struck me in the face--something which was expelled from the
mysterious black tube. And with memories crowding to my mind of
similar experiences at the hands of the Hashishin, I fell back,
clutching at my throat, fighting for my life against the deadly,
vaporous thing that like a palpable cloud surrounded me. I tried
to cry out, but the words died upon my tongue. Hassan of Aleppo
seemed to grow huge before my eyes like some ginn of Eastern lore.
Then a curtain of darkness descended. I experienced a violent blow
upon the forehead (I suppose I had pitched forward), and for the
time resigned my part in the drama of the sacred slipper.

CHAPTER XXV

THE WATCHER IN BANK CHAMBERS

At about five o'clock that afternoon Inspector Bristol, who had
spent several hours in Soho upon the scene of the murder of the
Greek, was walking along Fleet Street, bound for the offices of the
Report. As he passed the court, on the corner of which stands a
branch of the London County and Provincial Bank, his eye was
attracted by a curious phenomenon.

There are reflectors above the bank windows which face the court,
and it appeared to Bristol that there was a hole in one of these,
the furthermost from the corner. A tiny beam of light shone from
the bank window on to the reflector, or from the reflector on to
the window, which circumstance in itself was not curious. But
above the reflector, at an acute angle, this mysterious beam was
seemingly projected upward. Walking a little way up the court he
saw that it shone through, and cast a disc of light upon the
ceiling of an office on the first floor of Bank Chambers above.

It is every detective's business to be observant, and although
many thousands of passersby must have cast their eyes in the same
direction that day, there is small matter for wonder in the fact
that Bristol alone took the trouble to inquire into the mystery
--for his trained eye told him that there was a mystery here.

Possibly he was in that passive frame of mind when the brain is
particularly receptive of trivial impressions; for after a futile
search of the Soho cigar store for anything resembling a clue, he
was quite resigned to the idea of failure in the case of Hassan and
Company. He walked down the court and into the entrance of Bank
Chambers. An Inspection of the board upon the wall showed him that
the first floor apparently was occupied by three firms, two of them
legal, for this is the neighbourhood of the law courts, and the
third a press agency. He stepped up to the first floor. Past the
doors bearing the names of the solicitors and past that belonging
to the press agent he proceeded to a fourth suite of offices.
Here, pinned upon the door frame, appeared a card which bore the
legend--

THE CONGO FIBRE COMPANY

Evidently the Congo Fibre Company had so recently taken possession
of the offices that there had been no time to inscribe their title
either upon the doors or upon the board in the hall.

Inspector Bristol was much impressed, for into one of the rooms
occupied by the Fibre Company shone that curious disc of light
which first had drawn his attention to Bank Chambers. He rapped
on the door, turned the handle, and entered. The sole furniture
of the office in which he found himself apparently consisted of
one desk and an office stool, which stool was occupied by an office
boy. The windows opened on the court, and a door marked "Private"
evidently communicated with an inner office whose windows likewise
must open on the court. It was the ceiling of this inner office,
unless the detective's calculation erred, which he was anxious to
inspect.

"Yes, sir?" said the boy tentatively.

Bristol produced a card which bore the uncompromising legend: John
Henry Smith.

"Take my card to Mr. Boulter, boy," he said tersely. The boy
stared.

"Mr. Boulter, sir? There isn't any one of that name here."

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