CHAPTER XXI
THE BLACK TUBE
"There's no doubt in my mind," said Inspector Bristol, "that yourexperience was real enough."
The sun was shining into my room now, but could not wholly dispersethe cloud of horror which lay upon it. That I had been drugged wassufficiently evident from my present condition, and that I had beentaken away from my chambers Inspector Bristol had satisfactorilyproved by an examination of the soles of my slippers.
"It was a clever trick," he said. "God knows what it was theypuffed into your face through the letter box, but the devilish artsof ten centuries, we must remember, are at the command of Hassan ofAleppo! The repetition of the trick at the mysterious place youwere taken to is particularly interesting. I should say you won'tbe in a hurry to peer through letter boxes and so forth in thefuture?"
I shook my aching head.
"That accursed yellow room," I replied, "stank with the fumes ofhashish. It may have been some preparation of hashish that wasused to drug me."
Bristol stood looking thoughtfully from the window.
"It was a nightmare business, Mr. Cavanagh," he said; "but itdoesn't advance our inquiry a little bit. The prophecy of the oldman with the white beard--whom you assure me to be none other thanHassan of Aleppo--is something we cannot very well act upon. Heclearly believes it himself; for he has released you after havingcaptured you, evidently in order that you may be at liberty to takeup your duty as trustee of the slipper again. If the slipper reallycomes back to the Museum the fact will show Hassan to be somethinglittle short of a magician. I shan't envy you then, Mr. Cavanagh,considering that you hold the keys of the case!"
"No," I replied wearily. "Poor Professor Deeping thought that heacted in my interests and that my possession of the keys wouldconstitute a safeguard. He was wrong. It has plunged me into thevery vortex of this ghastly affair."
"It is maddening," said Bristol, "to know that Hassan and Companyare snugly located somewhere under our very noses, and that allScotland Yard can find no trace of them. Then to think that Hassanof Aleppo, apparently by means of some mystical light, has knowledgeof the whereabouts of the slipper and consequently of thewhereabouts of Earl Dexter (another badly wanted man) is extremelydiscouraging! I feel like an amateur; I'm ashamed of myself!"
Bristol departed in a condition of irritable uncertainty.
My head in my hands, I sat for long after his departure, with thephantom characters of the ghoulish drama dancing through mybrain. The distorted yellow dwarfs seemed to gibe apish before me.Severed hands clenched and unclenched themselves in my face, andgleaming knives flashed across the mental picture. Predominant overall was the stately figure of Hassan of Aleppo, that benignant,remorseless being, that terrible guardian of the holy relic whodirected the murderous operations. Earl Dexter, The Stetson Man,with his tightly bandaged arm, his gaunt, clean-shaven face anddaredevil smile, figured, too, in my feverish daydream; nor wasthat other character missing, the girl with the violet eyes whosebeautiful presence I had come to dread; for like a sybil announcingdestruction her appearances in the drama had almost invariablypresaged fresh tragedies. I recalled my previous meetings withthis woman of mystery. I recalled my many surmises regarding herreal identity and association with the case. I wondered why in thenot very distant past I had promised to keep silent respecting her;I wondered why up to that present moment, knowing beyond doubt thather activities were inimical to my interests, were criminal, I hadobserved that foolish pledge.
And now my door-bell was ringing--as intuitively I had anticipated.So certain was I of the identity of my visitor that as I walkedalong the passage I was endeavouring to make up my mind how I shouldact, how I should receive her.
I opened the door; and there, wearing European garments but a greenturban ... stood Hassan of Aleppo!
When I say that amazement robbed me of the power to speak, to move,almost to think, I doubt not you will credit me. Indeed, I feltthat modern London was crumbling about me and that I was becomeinvolved in the fantastic mazes of one of those Oriental intriguessuch as figure in the Romance of Abu Zeyd, or with which mostEuropean readers have been rendered familiar by the glowing pagesof "The Thousand and One Nights."
"Effendim," said my visitor, "do not hesitate to act as I direct!"
In his gloved hand he carried what appeared to be an ebony cane.He raised and pointed it directly at me. I perceived that it was,in fact, a hollow tube.
"Death is in my hand," he continued; "enter slowly and I willfollow you."
Still the sense of unreality held me thralled and my brain refusedme service. Like an hypnotic subject I walked back to my study,followed by my terrible visitor, who reclosed the door behind him.
He sat facing me across my littered table with the mysterious tubeheld loosely in his grasp.
How infinitely more terrifying are perils unknown than those knownand appreciated! Had a European armed with a pistol attempted asimilar act of coercion, I cannot doubt that I should have put upsome sort of fight; had he sat before me now as Hassan of Alepposat, with a comprehensible weapon thus laid upon his knees, Ishould have taken my chance, should have attacked him with the lamp,with a chair, with anything that came to my hand.
But before this awful, mysterious being who was turning my lifeinto channels unsuspected, before that black tube with its unknownpotentialities, I sat in a kind of passive panic which I cannotattempt to describe, which I had never experienced before and havenever known since.
"There is one about to visit you," he said, "whom you know, whom Ithink you expect. For it is written that she shall come and suchevents cast a shadow before them. I, too, shall be present at yourmeeting!"
His eagle eyes opened widely; they burned with fanaticism.
"Already she is here!" he resumed suddenly, and bent as onelistening. "She comes under the archway; she crossed thecourtyard--and is upon the stair! Admit her, effendim; I shall be closebehind you!"
The door-bell rang.
With the consciousness that the black tube was directed toward theback of my head, I went and opened the door. My mind was at workagain, and busy with plans to terminate this impossible situation.
On the landing stood a girl wearing a simple white frock whichfitted her graceful figure perfectly. A white straw hat, of the NewYork tourist type, with a long veil draped from the back suited herdelicate beauty very well. The red mouth drooped a little at thecorners, but the big violet eyes, like lamps of the soul, seemedafire with mystic light.
"Mr. Cavanagh," she said, very calmly and deliberately, "there isonly one way now to end all this trouble. I come from the man whocan return the slipper to where it belongs; but he wants his price!"
Her quiet speech served completely to restore my mental balance, andI noted with admiration that her words were so chosen as to commither in no way. She knew quite well that thus far she might appearin the matter with impunity, and she clearly was determined to saynothing that could imperil her.
"Will you please come in?" I said quietly--and stood aside toadmit her.
Exhibiting wonderful composure, she entered--and there, in thebadly lighted hallway came face to face with my other visitor!
It was a situation so dramatic as to seem unreal.
Away from that tall figure retreated the girl with the violeteyes--and away--until she stood with her back to the wall. Even inthe gloom I could see that her composure was deserting her; herbeautiful face was pallid.
"Oh, God!" she whispered, all but inaudible--"You!"
Hassan, grasping the black rod in his hand, signed to her to enterthe study. She stood quite near to me, with her eyes fixed uponhim. I bent closer to her.
"My revolver--in left-hand table drawer," I breathed in her ear."Get it. He is watching me!"
I could not tell if my words had been understood, for, never takingher gaze from the Sheikh of the Assassins, she sidled into the study.I followed her; and Hassan came last of all. Just within thedoorway he sto
od, confronting us.
"You have come," he said, addressing the girl and speaking inperfect English but with a marked accent, "to open your impudentnegotiations through Mr. Cavanagh for the return of the thrice holyrelic to the Museum! Your companion, the man, who is inspired bythe Evil One, has even dared to demand ransom for the slipper fromme!"
Hassan was majestic in his wrath; but his eyes were black withvenomous hatred.
"He has suffered the penalty which the Koran lays down; he has losthis right hand. But the lord of all evil protects him, else erethis he had lost his life! Move no closer to that table!"
I started. Either Hassan of Aleppo was omniscient or he hadoverheard my whispered words!
"Easily I could slay you where you stand!" he continued. "But todo so would profit me nothing. This meeting has been revealed tome. Last night I witnessed it as I slept. Also it has beenrevealed to me by Erroohanee, in the mirror of ink, that the slipperof the Prophet, Salla-'llahu 'ale yhi wasellem! Shall indeed returnto that place accursed, that infidel eyes may look upon it! It isthe will of Allah, whose name be exalted, that I hold my hand, butit is also His will that I be here, at whatever danger to myworthless body."
He turned his blazing eyes upon me.
"To-morrow, ere noon," he said, "the slipper will again be in theMuseum from which the man of evil stole it. So it is written;obscure are the ways. We met last night, you and I, but at thattime much was dark to me that now is light. The holy 'Alee spoketo me in a vision, saying: 'There are two keys to the case in whichit will be locked. Secure one, leaving the other with him whoholds it! Let him swear to be secret. This shall be the price ofhis life!'"
The black tube was pointed directly at my forehead.
"Effendim," concluded the speaker, "place in my hand the key of thecase in the Antiquarian Museum!"
Hands convulsively clenched, the girl was looking from me to Hassan.My throat felt parched, but I forced speech to my lips.
"Your omniscience fails you," I said. "Both keys are at my bank!"
Blacker grew the fierce eyes--and blacker. I gave myself up forlost; I awaited death--death by some awful, unique means--withwhat courage I could muster.
From the court below came the sound of voices, the voices ofpassers-by who so little suspected what was happening near to themthat had someone told them they certainly had refused to credit it.The noise of busy Fleet Street came drumming under the archway, too.
Then, above all, another sound became audible. To this day I findmyself unable to define it; but it resembled the note of a silverbell.
Clearly it was a signal; for, hearing it, Hassan dropped the tubeand glanced toward the open window.
In that instant I sprang upon him!
That I had to deal with a fanatic, a dangerous madman, I knew; thatit was his life or mine, I was fully convinced. I struck out thenand caught him fairly over the heart. He reeled back, and I madea wild clutch for the damnable tube, horrid, unreasoning fear ofwhich thus far had held me inert.
I heard the girl scream affrightedly, and I knew, and felt my heartchill to know, that the tube had been wrenched from my hand! Hassanof Aleppo, old man that he appeared, had the strength of a tiger. Herecovered himself and hurled me from him so that I came to the floorcrashingly 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. Thefront door banged loudly.
Shaken and quivering, I got upon my feet. On the threshold, in astate of pitiable hesitancy, stood the pale, beautiful accompliceof Earl Dexter. One quick glance she flashed at me, then turnedand ran!
Again the door slammed. I ran to the window, looking out into thecourt. The girl came hurrying down the steps, and with never abackward glance ran on and was lost to view in one of the passagesopening riverward.
Out under the arch, statelily passed a tall figure--and InspectorBristol was entering! I saw the detective glance aside as the twoall 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 oneto dash back under the arch and out into Fleet Street.
But Hassan of Aleppo was gone!