Chapter 15. The Mark of the
Tulwar
"The fed wolf curls by his drowsy mate
In a tight-trod earth; but the lean wolves wait."
Mundy
I sat alone in
John Gordon's apartments and laughed mirthlessly. In spite of the elixir's
stimulus, the strain of the previous night, with its loss of sleep and its
heartrending actions, was telling on me. My mind was a chaotic whirl wherein
the faces of Gordon, Kathulos and Zuleika shifted with numbing swiftness. All the
mass of information Gordon had given to me seemed jumbled and incoherent.
Through
this state of being, one fact stood out boldly. I must find the latest
hiding-place of the Egyptian and get Zuleika out of his hands--if indeed she
still lived.
A
week, Gordon had said--I laughed again - a week and I would be beyond aiding
anyone. I had found the proper amount of elixir to use - knew the minimum
amount my system required - and knew that I could make the flask last me four
days at most. Four days! Four days in which to comb the rat-holes of Limehouse
and Chinatown - four days in which to ferret out, somewhere in the mazes of
East End, the lair of Kathulos.
I
burned with impatience to begin, but nature rebelled, and staggering to a
couch, I fell upon it and was asleep instantly.
Then
someone was shaking me.
"Wake
up, Mr. Costigan!"
I
sat up, blinking. Gordon stood over me, his face haggard.
"There's
devil's work done, Costigan! The Scorpion has struck again!"
I
sprang up, still half-asleep and only partly realizing what he was saying. He
helped me into my coat, thrust my hat at me, and then his firm grip on my arm
was propelling me out of his door and down the stairs. The street lights were
blazing; I had slept an incredible time.
"A
logical victim!" I was aware that my companion was saying. "He should
have notified me the instant of his arrival!"
"I
don't understand -" I began dazedly.
We
were at the curb now and Gordon hailed a taxi, giving the address of a small
and unassuming hotel in a staid and prim section of the city.
"The
Baron Rokoff," he rapped as we whirled along at reckless speed, "a
Russian free-lance, connected with the war office. He returned from Mongolia
yesterday and apparently went into hiding. Undoubtedly he had learned something
vital in regard to the slow waking of the East. He had not yet communicated
with us, and I had no idea that he was in England until just now."
"And
you learned -"
"The
baron was found in his room, his dead body mutilated in a frightful
manner!"
The
respectable and conventional hotel which the doomed baron had chosen for his
hiding-place was in a state of mild uproar, suppressed by the police. The
management had attempted to keep the matter quiet, but somehow the guests had
learned of the atrocity and many were leaving in haste - or preparing to, as
the police were holding all for investigation.
The
baron's room, which was on the top floor, was in a state to defy description.
Not even in the Great War have I seen a more complete shambles. Nothing had
been touched; all remained just as the chambermaid had found it a half-hour
since. Tables and chairs lay shattered on the floor, and the furniture, floor
and walls were spattered with blood. The baron, a tall, muscular man in life,
lay in the middle of the room, a fearful spectacle. His skull had been cleft to
the brows, a deep gash under his left armpit had shorn through his ribs, and
his left arm hung by a shred of flesh. The cold, bearded face was set in a look
of indescribable horror.
"Some
heavy, curved weapon must have been used," said Gordon, "something
like a saber, wielded with terrific force. See where a chance blow sank inches
deep into the windowsill. And again, the thick back of this heavy chair has
been split like a shingle. A saber, surely."
"A
tulwar," I muttered, somberly. "Do you not recognize the handiwork of
the Central Asian butcher? Yar Khan has been here."
"The
Afghan! He came across the roofs, of course, and descended to the window-ledge
by means of a knotted rope made fast to something on the edge of the roof.
About one-thirty the maid, passing through the corridor, heard a terrific
commotion in the baron's room - smashing of chairs and a sudden short shriek
which died abruptly into a ghastly gurgle and then ceased - to the sound of
heavy blows, curiously muffled, such as a sword might make when driven deep
into human flesh. Then all noises stopped suddenly.
"She
called the manager and they tried the door and, finding it locked, and
receiving no answer to their shouts, opened it with the desk key. Only the
corpse was there, but the window was open. This is strangely unlike Kathulos'
usual procedure. It lacks subtlety. Often
his victims have appeared to have
died from natural causes. I scarcely understand."
"I
see little difference in the outcome," I answered. "There is nothing
that can be done to apprehend the murderer as it is."
"True,"
Gordon scowled. "We know who did it but there is no proof - not even a
fingerprint. Even if we knew where the Afghan is hiding and arrested him, we
could prove nothing - there would be a score of men to swear alibis for him.
The baron returned only yesterday. Kathulos probably did not know of his
arrival until tonight. He knew that on the morrow Rokoff would make known his presence
to me and impart what he learned in northern Asia. The Egyptian knew he must
strike quickly, and lacking time to prepare a safer and more elaborate form of
murder, he sent the Afridi with his tulwar. There is nothing we can do, at
least not until we discover the Scorpion's hiding-place; what the baron had
learned in Mongolia, we shall never know, but that it dealt with the plans and
aspirations of Kathulos, we may be sure."
We
went down the stairs again and out on the street, accompanied by one of the
Scotland Yard men, Hansen. Gordon suggested that we walk back to his apartment
and I greeted the opportunity to let the cool night air blow some of the
cobwebs out of my mazed brain.
As
we walked along the deserted streets, Gordon suddenly cursed savagely.
"This
is a veritable labyrinth we are following, leading nowhere! Here, in the very
heart of civilization's metropolis, the direct enemy of that civilization
commits crimes of the most outrageous nature and goes free! We are children,
wandering in the night, struggling with an unseen evil - dealing with an
incarnate devil, of whose true identity we know nothing and whose true ambitions
we can only guess.
"Never
have we managed to arrest one of the Egyptian's direct henchmen, and the few
dupes and tools of his we have apprehended have died mysteriously before they
could tell us anything. Again I repeat: what strange power has Kathulos that
dominates these men of different creeds and races? The men in London with him
are, of course, mostly renegades, slaves of dope, but his tentacles stretch all
over the East. Some dominance is his: the power that sent the Chinaman, Li Kung,
back to kill you, in the face of certain death; that sent Yar
Khan the Moslem over the roofs of
London to do murder; that holds Zuleika the Circassian in unseen bonds of
slavery.
"Of
course we know," he continued after a brooding silence, "that the East
has secret societies which are behind and above all considerations of creeds.
There are cults in Africa and the Orient whose origin dates back to Ophir and
the fall of Atlantis. This man must be a power in some or possibly all of these
societies. Why, outside the Jews, I know of no oriental race which is so
cordially despised by the other Eastern races, as the Egyptians! Yet here we have
a man, an Egyptian by his own word, controlling the lives and destinies of
orthodox Moslems, Hindus, Shintos and devil-worshippers. It's unnatural.
"Have
you ever" - he turned to me abruptly -"heard the ocean mentioned in
connection with Kathulos?"
"Never."
"There is
a widespread superstition in northern Africa, based on a very ancient legend,
that the great leader of the colored races would come out of the sea! And I
once heard a Berber speak of the Scorpion as 'The Son of the Ocean.'"
"That
is a term of respect among that tribe, is it not?"
"Yes;
still I wonder sometimes."
Chapter 16. The Mummy Who Laughed
"Laughing as littered skulls that lie
After lost battles turn to the sky
An everlasting laugh."
Chesterton
"A shop
open this late," Gordon remarked suddenly.
A
fog had descended on London and along the quiet street we were traversing the
lights glimmered with the peculiar reddish haze characteristic of such
atmospheric conditions. Our footfalls echoed drearily. Even in the heart of a
great city there are always sections which seem overlooked and forgotten. Such
a street was this. Not even a policeman was in sight.
The
shop which had attracted Gordon's attention was just in front of us, on the
same side of the street. There was no sign over the door, merely some sort of
emblem, something like a dragon. Light flowed from the open doorway and the
small show windows on each side. As it was neither a cafe nor the entrance to a
hotel we found ourselves idly speculating over its reason for being open.
Ordinarily, I suppose, neither of us would have given the matter a thought, but
our nerves were so keyed up that we found ourselves instinctively suspicious of
anything out of the ordinary. Then something occurred which was distinctly out
of the ordinary.
A
very tall, very thin man, considerably stooped, suddenly loomed up out of the
fog in front of us, and beyond the shop. I had only a glance of him - an
impression of incredible gauntness, of worn, wrinkled garments, a high silk hat
drawn close over the brows, a face entirely hidden by a muffler; then he turned
aside and entered the shop. A cold wind whispered down the street, twisting the
fog into wispy ghosts, but the coldness that came upon me transcended the wind's.
"Gordon!"
I exclaimed in a fierce, low voice; "my senses are no longer reliable or
else Kathulos himself has just gone into that house!"
Gordon's
eyes blazed. We were now close to the shop, and lengthening his strides into a
run he hurled himself into the door, the detective and I close upon his heels.
A
weird assortment of merchandise met our eyes. Antique weapons covered the
walls, and the floor was piled high with curious things. Maori idols shouldered
Chinese josses, and suits of medieval armor bulked darkly against stacks of
rare oriental rugs and Latin-make shawls. The place was an antique shop. Of the
figure who had aroused our interest we saw nothing.
An
old man clad bizarrely in red fez, brocaded jacket and Turkish slippers came
from the back of the shop; he was a Levantine of some sort.
"You
wish something, sirs?"
"You
keep open rather late," Gordon said abruptly, his eyes traveling swiftly
over the shop for some secret hiding-place that might conceal the object of our
search.
"Yes,
sir. My customers number many eccentric professors and students who keep very
irregular hours. Often the night boats unload special pieces for me and very
often I have customers later than this. I remain open all night, sir."
"We
are merely looking around," Gordon returned, and in an aside to Hansen:
"Go to the back and stop anyone who tries to leave that way."
Hansen
nodded and strolled casually to the rear of the shop. The back door was clearly
visible to our view, through a vista of antique furniture and tarnished
hangings strung up for exhibition. We had followed the Scorpion - if he it was -
so closely that I did not believe he would have had time to traverse the full
length of the shop and make his exit without our having seen him as we came in.
For our eyes had been on the rear door ever since we had entered.
Gordon
and I browsed around casually among the curios, handling and discussing some of
them but I have no idea as to their nature. The Levantine had seated himself
cross-legged on a Moorish mat close to the center of the shop and apparently
took only a polite interest in our explorations.
After
a time Gordon whispered to me: "There is no advantage in keeping up this
pretense. We have looked everywhere the Scorpion might be hiding, in the
ordinary manner. I will make known my identity and authority and we will search
the entire building openly."
Even
as he spoke a truck drew up outside the door and two burly Negroes entered. The
Levantine seemed to have expected them, for he merely waved them toward the
back of the shop and they responded with a grunt of understanding.
Gordon
and I watched them closely as they made their way to a large mummy-case which
stood upright against the wall not far from the back. They lowered this to a
level position and then started for the door, carrying it carefully between
them.
"Halt!"
Gordon stepped forward, raising his hand authoritatively.
"I
represent Scotland Yard," he said swiftly, "and have sanction for
anything I choose to do. Set that mummy down; nothing leaves this shop until we
have thoroughly searched it."
The
Negroes obeyed without a word and my friend turned to the Levantine, who,
apparently not perturbed or even interested, sat smoking a Turkish water-pipe.
"Who
was that tall man who entered just before we did, and where did he go?"
"No
one entered before you, sir. Or, if anyone did, I was at the back of the shop
and did not see him. You are certainly at liberty to search my shop, sir."
And
search it we did, with the combined craft of a secret service expert and a
denizen of the underworld - while Hansen stood stolidly at his post, the two
Negroes standing over the carved mummy-case watched us impassively and the
Levantine sitting like a sphinx on his mat, puffing a fog of smoke into the
air. The whole thing had a distinct effect of unreality.
At
last, baffled, we returned to the mummy-case, which was certainly long enough
to conceal even a man of Kathulos' height. The thing did not appear to be
sealed as is the usual custom, and Gordon opened it without difficulty. A
formless shape, swathed in mouldering wrappings, met our eyes. Gordon parted
some of the wrappings and revealed an inch or so of withered, brownish,
leathery arm. He shuddered involuntarily as he touched it, as a man will do at
the touch of a reptile or some inhumanly cold thing. Taking a small metal idol
from a stand nearby, he rapped on the shrunken breast and the arm. Each gave
out a solid thumping, like some sort of wood.
Gordon
shrugged his shoulders. "Dead for two thousand years anyway and I don't
suppose I should risk destroying a valuable mummy simply to prove what we know
to be true."
He
closed the case again.
"The
mummy may have crumbled some, even from this much exposure, but perhaps it did
not."
This
last was addressed to the Levantine who replied merely by a courteous gesture
of his hand, and the Negroes once more lifted the case and carried it to the
truck, where they loaded it on, and a moment later mummy, truck and Negroes had
vanished in the fog.
Gordon
still nosed about the shop, but I stood stock-still in the center of the floor.
To my chaotic and dope-ridden brain I attribute it, but the sensation had been
mine, that through the wrappings of the mummy's face, great eyes had burned
into mine, eyes like pools of yellow fire, that seared my soul and froze me
where I stood. And as the case had been carried through the door, I knew that
the lifeless thing in it, dead, God only knows how many centuries, was
laughing, hideously and silently.
