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.