Works of Sax Rohmer Page 29

  The mystery of personality is one which eludes research along the most scientific lines. It is a species of animal magnetism as yet unclassified. Personality is not confined to the individual: it clings to his picture, his garments, his writing; it has the persistency of a civet perfume.

  From this slip of cardboard lying upon Rohscheimer’s famous oval table emanated rays — unseen, but cogent. The magnetic words “Séverac Bablon” seemed to glow upon the walls, as of old those other words had glowed upon a Babylonian wall.

  There were those present to whom the line “Who steals my purse steals trash” appealed, as the silliest ever written. And it was at the purses of these that the blow would be struck — id est, at the most vital and fonder part of their beings.

  “That card” — Julius Rohscheimer moistened his lips— “can’t have dropped from the ceiling!”

  But he looked upward as he spoke; and it was evident that he credited Séverac Bablon with the powers of an Indian fakir.

  “It would appear,” said Antony Elschild, “that a phantom hand appeared in our midst!”

  The incident was eerie; a thousand times more so in that it was associated with Séverac Bablon. Rohscheimer gave orders that the outer door was on no account to be opened, until the house had been thoroughly searched. He himself headed the search party — whilst Mrs. Rohscheimer remained with the guests.

  All search proving futile, Rohscheimer returned and learnt that a new discovery had been made. He was met outside the dining-room door by Baron Hague.

  “Rohscheimer!” cried the latter, “my name on that card, it is underlined in red ink!”

  Rohscheimer’s rejoinder was dramatic.

  “The diamonds!” he whispered.

  Indeed, this latest discovery was significant. Baron Hague had brought with him, for Rohscheimer’s examination, a packet of rough diamonds. Rohscheimer had established his fortunes in South Africa; and, be it whispered, there were points of contact between his own early history and the history of the packet of diamonds which Hague carried to-night. In both records there were I.D.B. chapters.

  The two men stared at each other — and sometimes glanced into the shadows of the corridor.

  “He must be in league with the devil,” continued Rohscheimer, “if he has got to know about those stones! But it certainly looks as though — —”

  “Where can I hide them from him — from this man who I hear cannot be kept out of anywhere?”

  “Hague,” said Rohscheimer, shakily, “you’d be safer at your hotel than here. He’s held people up in my house once before!”

  As may be divined, Rohscheimer’s chiefest fear was that his name, his house, should be associated with another mysterious outrage. He knew Baron Hague to have about his person stones worth a small fortune, and he was all anxiety — first, to save them from Séverac Bablon, the common enemy; second, if Baron Hague must be robbed, to arrange that he be robbed somewhere else!

  “I have not ordered my gar until twelve o’clock,” said the Baron.

  “Mine can be got ready in — —”

  “I won’t wait! Gall me a gab!”

  That proposal fell into line with Rohscheimer’s personal views, and he wasted not a moment in making the necessary arrangements.

  The library door opening, and Adeler, his private secretary, appearing, with a book under his arm, Mr. Rohscheimer called to him:

  “Adeler!”

  Adeler approached, deferentially. His pale, intellectual face was quite expressionless.

  “If you’re goin’ downstairs, Adeler, tell someone to call a cab for the Baron: Heard nothing suspicious while you’ve been in the library, have you?”

  “Nothing,” said Adeler — bowed, and departed.

  The two plutocrats rejoined the guests. Sir Leopold Jesson was standing in a corner engaged in an evidently interesting conversation with Salome Hohsmann.

  “You positively saw the hand?”

  “Positively!” the girl assured him. “It just slipped the card into mine as Mr. Sheard leaned over and asked me if my diamond aigrette had been traced — the one that was stolen from me here, in this house, by Séverac Bablon.”

  Sheard was standing near.

  “I saw you take the card, Miss Hohsmann!” he said; “though I was unable to see from whose hand you took it. Sir Leopold sat on your left, however, and there was no one else near at the time.”

  Sir Leopold Jesson stared hard at Sheard. Sheard stared back aggressively. There was that between them that cried out for open conflict. Yet open conflict was impossible!

  “Now then, you two!” Rohscheimer’s coarse voice broke in, “what’s the good o’ fightin’ about it?”

  But the atmosphere of uneasiness prevailed throughout the gilded salon. Mrs. Rohscheimer, clever hostess though admittedly she was, found herself hard put to it to keep up the spirits of her guests — or those of her guests whose names had appeared upon the mysterious “second notice.”

  Lady Mary Evershed and Sir Richard Haredale sat under a drooping palm behind a charming statuette representing Pandora in the familiar attitude with the casket.

  “It was through that door, yonder,” said Haredale, pointing, “that the masked man came.”

  “Yes,” assented the girl. “I was over there — by the double doors.”

  “You were,” replied Haredale; “I saw you first of all, when I looked up!”

  A short silence fell, then:

  “Do you know,” said Lady Mary, “I cannot sympathise with any of the people who lost their property. They were all of them people who never gave a penny away in their lives! In fact, Mr. Rohscheimer’s particular set are all dreadfully mean! When you come to think of it, isn’t it funny how everybody visits here?”

  When he came to think of it, Haredale did not find it amusing in the slightest degree. Julius Rohscheimer was an octopus whose tentacles were fastened upon the heart of society. Haredale was so closely in the coils that, short of handing in his papers, he had no alternative but to appear as Rohscheimer’s social alter ego. Lord and Lady Vignoles were regular visitors to the house in Park Lane; and although the Marquess of Evershed did not actually visit there, he countenanced the appearance of his daughter, chaperoned by Mrs. Wellington Lacey, at the millionaire’s palace. Moreover, Haredale knew why!

  What a wondrous power is gold!

  Haredale was watching the fleeting expressions which crossed Lady Mary’s beautiful face as, with a little puzzled frown, she glanced about the room.

  Baron Hague came to make his adieux. He was a man badly frightened. When finally he departed, Julius Rohscheimer conducted him downstairs.

  “Take care of yourself, Hague,” he said with anxiety. “First thing in the morning I should put the parcel in safe deposit till it’s wanted.”

  The Baron assured him that he should follow his advice.

  Outside, in Park Lane, a taxi-cab was waiting, and Adeler held the door open. Baron Hague made no acknowledgment of the attention, ignoring the secretary as completely as he would have ignored a loafer who had opened the door for him.

  Adeler seemed to expect no thanks, but turned and walked up the steps to the house again.

  “Good-bye, Hague!” called Rohscheimer. “Don’t forget what I told you about the one with the brown stain!”

  The cab drove off.

  A cloud of apprehension had settled upon the house, it seemed. Several others of the party determined, upon one pretence or another, to return home earlier than they had anticipated doing. From this Julius Rohscheimer did nothing to discourage them.

  A family party was the next to leave, then, consisting of Lord and Lady Vignoles, Mr. J. J. Oppner and Zoe. Mrs. Hohsmann and the Misses Hohsmann followed very shortly. Mrs. Wellington Lacey, with Lady Mary Evershed, departed next, Sir Richard Haredale escorting them.

  “Half a minute, though, Haredale!” called the host.

  Haredale, in the hall-way, turned.

  “I suppose,” continued Rohschei
mer, half closing his eyes from the bottom upward— “you haven’t got any sort of idea how the card trick was done, Haredale? Do you think I ought to let the police know?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” was the reply. “In regard to the police, I should most certainly ring them up at once. Good night.”

  Haredale escaped, well aware that Rohscheimer was seeking some excuse to detain him. Even at the risk of offending that weighty financier he was not going to be deprived of the drive, short though it was, with Mary Evershed, with the possibility of a delightful little intimate chat at the end of it.

  “I endorse what Haredale says,” came Sheard’s voice.

  Rohscheimer turned. A footman was assisting the popular Fleet Street man into his overcoat. Mr. Antony Elschild, already equipped, was lighting a cigarette and evidently waiting for Sheard.

  “What’s the name of the man who has the Séverac Bablon case in hand?” asked the host.

  “Chief Inspector Sheffield.”

  “Right-oh!” said Rohscheimer. “I’ll give him a ring.”

  Upstairs Sir Leopold Jesson was waiting for a quiet talk with Rohscheimer.

  “Come into the library,” said the latter. “Adeler’s finished, so there’s no one to interrupt us.”

  The pair entered the luxuriously appointed library, with its rows of morocco-bound, unopened works. Jesson stood before the fire looking down at Rohscheimer, who had spread himself inelegantly in a deep arm-chair, and lay back puffing at the stump of a cigar.

  “I distrust Sheard!” snapped Jesson suddenly.

  “Eh,” grunted the other. “Pull yourself together! It ain’t likely that a man who gets his livin’, you might say, by keepin’ in with the right people” (he glanced down at his diamond studs) “is goin’ to be mixed up with a brigand like Bablon!”

  “I’m not so sure!” persisted Jesson. “My position is a peculiar one; but I’ll go so far as to say that I don’t trust him, and I won’t go a step farther. I don’t expect you,” he added, “to quote my opinion to anybody.”

  “I shan’t,” said Rohscheimer. “It’s too damn silly! What would he have to gain? He ain’t one of us.”

  “I’ll say no more!” declared Jesson. “But keep your eyes open!”

  “I’ll do that!” Rohscheimer assured him. “I suppose you haven’t any idea who worked the card trick?”

  “As to that — yes! I have an idea — but I can only repeat that I’ll say no more.”

  “I hope Hague is all right,” growled Rohscheimer. “He’s got some good rough stuff on him to-night. Brought it over to show me. I didn’t like that red line under his name. Looked as if he was sort of number one on the list!”

  “That’s how it struck me. By the way, what became of the card?”

  “Don’t know,” was the reply. “Push that bell. I want a whisky and soda.”

  Jesson pressed the bell, and Rohscheimer, tossing the stump into the grate, dipped two fat fingers into his waistcoat pocket in quest of a new cigar. It was his custom to carry two or three stuck therein.

  “Hallo!”

  Jesson turned to him — and saw that he held a card in his hand.

  “Have you got the card?”

  “Yes,” said Rohscheimer, and turned it over.

  Whereupon his face changed colour, and became an unclean grey.

  “What’s the matter?” cried Jesson.

  His hand shaking slightly, Rohscheimer passed him the card. Jesson peered at it anxiously.

  The message which it bore was the same as that borne by the mysterious card which had caused such a panic at the dinner table, but, upon the other side, only one name appeared.

  It was that of Julius Rohscheimer, and it was heavily underlined in red!

  CHAPTER VII

  THE RING

  As the cab containing Baron Hague drove off along Park Lane, the Baron heaved a sigh of relief. This incomprehensible Séverac Bablon who had descended like a simoon upon London was a perturbing presence — a breath of hot fear that parched the mind! And the house in Park Lane, too, recently had been made the scene of a unique outrage by this most singular robber to afford any sense of security.

  The Baron was glad to be away from that house, and, as the cab turned the corner by the Park, was glad to be away from Park Lane. A man with several thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds upon him may be excused a certain nervousness.

  Baron Hague was not intimately acquainted with London; but it seemed to him, now, that the taxi-driver was pursuing an unfamiliar route. Had he made some error? Perhaps that fool Adeler had directed him wrongly.

  The Baron took up the speaking-tube.

  “Hi!” he called. “Hi, you! Is it the Hotel Astoria you take me?”

  No notice did the man vouchsafe; looking neither to right nor to left, but driving straight ahead. Baron Hague snorted with anger. Again he raised the tube.

  A cloud of something seemed to strike him in the face.

  He dropped the tube, and reached out towards a window. Vaguely he wondered to find it immovable. The lights of the thoroughfare — the sound of the traffic, were fading away, farther, farther, to a remote distance. He clutched at the cushions — slipping — slipping ——

  His next impression was of a cell-like room, the floor composed of blocks of red granite, the walls smoothly plastered. An unglazed window made a black patch in one wall; and upon a big table covered with books and papers stood a queer-looking lamp. It was apparently silver, and in the form of a clutching hand. Within the hand rested a globe of light, above which was attached a coloured shade. The table was black with great age, and a carven chair, equally antique, stood by it upon a coarse fibre mat. The place was the abode of an anchorite, save for a rich Damascene curtain draped before a recess at one end.

  The Baron found himself to be in a heavily cushioned chair, gazing across at this table — whereat was seated a very dark and singularly handsome man who wore a garment like an Arab’s robe.

  This stranger had his large, luminous eyes set fixedly upon the Baron’s face.

  “I am dreaming!”

  Baron Hague stood up, unsteadily, raising his hand to his head.

  There was a faint perfume in the air of the room; and now Hague saw that the man who sat so attentively watching him was smoking a yellow-wrapped cigarette. His brain grew clearer. Memory began to return; and he knew that he was not dreaming. Frantically he thrust his hand into the inside breast pocket.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Baron,” the speaker’s voice was low and musical; “the packet of diamonds lies here!”

  And as he spoke the man at the table held up the missing packet.

  Hague started forward, fists clenched.

  “You have robbed me! Gott! you shall be sorry for this! Who the devil are you, eh?”

  “Sit down, Baron,” was the reply. “I am Séverac Bablon!”

  Baron Hague paused, in the centre of the room, staring, with a sort of madness, at this notorious free-booter — this suave, devilishly handsome enemy of Capital.

  Then he turned and leapt to the door. It was locked. He faced about. Séverac Bablon smoked.

  “Sit down, Baron,” he reiterated.

  The head of the great Berlin banking house looked about for a weapon. None offered. The big, carven, chair was too heavy to wield. With his fingers twitching, he approached again, closer to the table.

  Séverac Bablon stood up, keeping his magnetic gaze upon the Baron — seeming to pierce to his brain.

  “For the last time — sit down, Baron!”

  The words were spoken quietly enough, and yet they seemed to clamour upon the hearer’s brain — to strike upon his consciousness as though it were a gong. Again Hague paused, pulled up short by the force of those strange eyes. He weighed his chances.

  From all that he had heard and read of Séverac Bablon, his accomplices were innumerable. Where this cell might be situate he could form no idea, nor by whom or what surrounded. Séverac Bablon apparently was
unarmed (save that his glance was a sword to stay almost any man); therefore he had others near to guard him. Baron Hague decided that to resort to personal violence at that juncture would be the height of unwisdom.

  He sat down.

  “Now,” said Séverac Bablon, in turn resuming his seat, “let us consider this matter of the million pounds!”

  “I will not — —” began Hague.

  Séverac Bablon checked him, with a gesture.

  “You will not contribute to a fund designed to aid in the defence of England? That is unjust. You reap large profits from England, Baron. To mention but one instance — you must draw quite twenty thousand pounds per annum from the firm of Romilis and Imer, Hatton Garden!”

  Baron Hague stared in angry bewilderment.

  “I have nothing to do with Romilis and Imer!”

  “No? Then you can have no objection to my placing in the proper hands particulars — which, you will find, have been abstracted from your notebook — of the manner in which this parcel of diamonds reached Hatton Garden! I have the letter from your agent in Cape Town, addressed to the firm, and I have one signed ‘Geo. Imer,’ addressed to you! Finally, I am a telephone subscriber, and De Beers’ number is Bank 5740! Shall I ring up the London office in the morning and draw their attention to this parcel, and to the interesting correspondence bearing upon it?”

  Baron Hague’s large features grew suddenly pinched in appearance. He leant forward, his hands resting upon his knees. Rôles were reversed. The great banker found himself seeking for a defence — one that might satisfy the rogue for whom the police of Europe were seeking!

  “Why do you make a victim of me?” he gasped. “Antony Elschild is — —”

  “Mr. Antony Elschild is a member of one of the greatest Jewish families in Europe, you would say? And his interests are wholly British? He has recognised that, Baron. I have his cheque for fifty thousand pounds!”

  “For how much?”

  “For fifty thousand pounds! Should you care to see it? I am forwarding it immediately to the Gleaner. Mr. Elschild is my friend. He it was who proposed that this fund be started by the great capitalists so as to stimulate smaller subscribers. His name is never absent from such lists, Baron.”