Kitabı oku: «The Golden Scorpion»
Sax Rohmer
The Golden Scorpion
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Inhaltsverzeichnis
Titel
THE SHADOW OF A COWL
THE PIBROCH OF THE M'GREGORS
THE SCORPION'S TAIL
MADEMOISELLE DORIAN
THE SEALED ENVELOPE
THE ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
CONTENTS OF THE SEALED ENVELOPE
THE ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER'S THEORY
THE CHINESE COIN
"CLOSE YOUR SHUTTERS AT NIGHT"
THE BLUE RAY
THE DANCER OF MONTMARTRE ZARA EL-KHALA
CONCERNING THE GRAND DUKE
A STRANGE QUESTION
THE FIGHT IN THE CAFE
"LE BALAFRE" I BECOME CHARLES MALET
BAITING THE TRAP
DISAPPEARANCE OF CHARLES MALET
I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
CONCLUSION OF STATEMENT
AT THE HOUSE OF AH-FANG-FU THE BRAIN-THIEVES
THE RED CIRCLE
MISKA'S STORY
MISKA'S STORY _(concluded)_
THE HEART OF CHUNDA LAL
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
IN THE OPIUM DEN
THE GREEN-EYED JOSS
THE LAIR OF THE SCORPION THE SUBLIME ORDER
THE LIVING DEATH
THE FIFTH SECRET OF RACHE CHURAN
THE GUILE OF THE EAST
WHAT HAPPENED TO STUART
"JEY BHOWANI!"
THE WAY OF A SCORPION
Impressum neobooks
THE SHADOW OF A COWL
The Golden Scorpion
Author: Sax Rohmer
Keppel Stuart, M.D., F. R. S., awoke with a start and discovered
himself to be bathed in cold perspiration. The moonlight shone in at
his window, but did not touch the bed, therefore his awakening could
not be due to this cause. He lay for some time listening for any
unfamiliar noise which might account for the sudden disturbance of
his usually sound slumbers. In the house below nothing stirred. His
windows were widely open and he could detect that vague drumming
which is characteristic of midnight London; sometimes, too, the
clashing of buffers upon some siding of the Brighton railway where
shunting was in progress and occasional siren notes from the Thames.
Otherwise--nothing.
He glanced at the luminous disk of his watch. The hour was half-past
two. Dawn was not far off. The night seemed to have become almost
intolerably hot, and to this heat Stuart felt disposed to ascribe
both his awakening and also a feeling of uncomfortable tension of
which he now became aware. He continued to listen, and, listening
and hearing nothing, recognized with anger that he was frightened.
A sense of some presence oppressed him. Someone or something evil
was near him--perhaps in the room, veiled by the shadows. This
uncanny sensation grew more and more marked.
Stuart sat up in bed, slowly and cautiously, looking all about him.
He remembered to have awakened once thus in India--and to have found
a great cobra coiled at his feet. His inspection revealed the
presence of nothing unfamiliar, and he stepped out on to the floor.
A faint clicking sound reached his ears. He stood quite still. The
clicking was repeated.
"There is someone downstairs in my study!" muttered Stuart.
He became aware that the fear which held him was such that unless he
acted and acted swiftly he should become incapable of action, but he
remembered that whereas the moonlight poured into the bedroom, the
staircase would be in complete darkness. He walked barefooted across
to the dressing-table and took up an electric torch which lay there.
He had not used it for some time, and he pressed the button to learn
if the torch was charged. A beam of white light shone out across the
room, and at the same instant came another sound.
If it came from below or above, from the adjoining room or from
Outside in the road, Stuart knew not. But following hard upon the
mysterious disturbance which had aroused him it seemed to pour ice
into his veins, it added the complementary touch to his panic. For
it was a kind of low wail--a ghostly minor wail in falling
cadences--unlike any sound he had heard. It was so excessively
horrible that it produced a curious effect.
Discovering from the dancing of the torch-ray that his hand was
trembling, Stuart concluded that he had awakened from a nightmare
and that this fiendish wailing was no more than an unusually delayed
aftermath of the imaginary horrors which had bathed him in cold
perspiration.
He walked resolutely to the door, threw it open and cast the beam of
light on to the staircase. Softly he began to descend. Before the
study door he paused. There was no sound. He threw open the door,
directing the torch-ray into the room.
Cutting a white lane through the blackness, it shone fully upon his
writing-table, which was a rather fine Jacobean piece having a sort
of quaint bureau superstructure containing cabinets and drawers. He
could detect nothing unusual in the appearance of the littered table.
A tobacco jar stood there, a pipe resting in the lid. Papers and
books were scattered untidily as he had left them, surrounding a tray
full of pipe and cigarette ash. Then, suddenly, he saw something else.
One of the bureau drawers was half opened.
Stuart stood quite still, staring at the table. There was no sound in
the room. He crossed slowly, moving the light from right to left. His
papers had been overhauled methodically. The drawers had been
replaced, but he felt assured that all had been examined. The light
switch was immediately beside the outer door, and Stuart walked
over to it and switched on both lamps. Turning, he surveyed the
brilliantly illuminated room. Save for himself, it was empty. He
looked out into the hallway again. There was no one there. No sound
broke the stillness. But that consciousness of some near presence
asserted itself persistently and uncannily.
"My nerves are out of order!" he muttered. "No one has touched my
papers. I must have left the drawer open myself."
He switched off the light and walked across to the door. He had
actually passed out intending to return to his room, when he became
aware of a slight draught. He stopped.
Someone or something, evil and watchful, seemed to be very near again.
Stuart turned and found himself gazing fearfully in the direction of
the open study door. He became persuaded anew that someone was hiding
there, and snatching up an ash stick which lay upon a chair in the
hall he returned to the door. One step into the room he took and
paused--palsied with a sudden fear which exceeded anything he had
known.
A white casement curtain was drawn across the French windows ... and
outlined upon this moon-bright screen he saw a tall figure. It was
that of a _cowled man_!
Such an apparition would have been sufficiently alarming had the cowl
been that of a monk, but the outline of this phantom being suggested
that of one of the Misericordia brethren or the costume worn of old
by the familiars of the Inquisition!
His heart leapt wildly, and seemed to grow still. He sought to cry out
in his terror, but only emitted a dry gasping sound.
The psychology of panic is obscure and has been but imperfectly
explored. The presence of the terrible cowled figure afforded a
confirmation of Stuart's theory that he was the victim of a species
of waking nightmare.
Even as he looked, the shadow of the cowled man moved--and was gone.
Stuart ran across the room, jerked open the curtains and stared out
across the moon-bathed lawn, its prospect terminated by high privet
hedges. One of the French windows was wide open. There was no one on
the lawn; there was no sound.
"Mrs. M'Gregor swears that I always forget to shut these windows at
night!" he muttered.
He closed and bolted the window, stood for a moment looking out across
the empty lawn, then turned and went out of the room.
THE PIBROCH OF THE M'GREGORS
Dr. Stuart awoke in the morning and tried to recall what had occurred
during the night. He consulted his watch and found the hour to be six
a. m. No one was stirring in the house, and he rose and put on a
bath robe. He felt perfectly well and could detect no symptoms of
nervous disorder. Bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and
he went out on to the landing, fastening the cord of his gown as he
descended the stairs.
His study door was locked, with the key outside. He remembered having
locked it. Opening it, he entered and looked about him. He was
vaguely disappointed. Save for the untidy litter of papers upon the
table, the study was as he had left it on retiring. If he could
believe the evidence of his senses, nothing had been disturbed.
Not content with a casual inspection, he particularly examined those
papers which, in his dream adventure, he had believed to have been
submitted to mysterious inspection. They showed no signs of having
been touched. The casement curtains were drawn across the recess
formed by the French windows, and sunlight streamed in where,
silhouetted against the pallid illumination of the moon, he had seen
the man in the cowl. Drawing back the curtains, he examined the window
fastenings. They were secure. If the window had really been open in
the night, he must have left it so himself.
"Well," muttered Stuart--"of all the amazing nightmares!"
He determined, immediately he had bathed and completed his toilet, to
write an account of the dream for the Psychical Research Society, in
whose work he was interested. Half an hour later, as the movements of
an awakened household began to proclaim themselves, he sat down at
his writing-table and commenced to write.
Keppel Stuart was a dark, good-looking man of about thirty-two, an
easy-going bachelor who, whilst not over ambitious, was nevertheless
a brilliant physician. He had worked for the Liverpool School of
Tropical Medicine and had spent several years in India studying snake
poisons. His purchase of this humdrum suburban practice had been
dictated by a desire to make a home for a girl who at the eleventh
hour had declined to share it. Two years had elapsed since then, but
the shadow still lay upon Stuart's life, its influence being revealed
in a certain apathy, almost indifference, which characterised his
professional conduct.
His account of the dream completed, he put the paper into a
pigeon-hole and forgot all about the matter. That day seemed to be
more than usually dull and the hours to drag wearily on. He was
conscious of a sort of suspense. He was waiting for something, or for
someone. He did not choose to analyse this mental condition. Had he
done so, the explanation was simple--and one that he dared not face.
At about ten o'clock that night, having been called out to a case, he
returned to his house, walking straight into the study as was his
custom and casting a light Burberry with a soft hat upon the sofa
beside his stick and bag. The lamps were lighted, and the book-lined
room, indicative of a studious and not over-wealthy bachelor, looked
cheerful enough with the firelight dancing on the furniture.
Mrs. M'Gregor, a grey-haired Scotch lady, attired with scrupulous
neatness, was tending the fire at the moment, and hearing Stuart come
in she turned and glanced at him.
"A fire is rather superfluous to-night, Mrs. M'Gregor," he said. "I
found it unpleasantly warm walking."
"May is a fearsome treacherous month, Mr. Keppel," replied the old
housekeeper, who from long association with the struggling
practitioner had come to regard him as a son. "An' a wheen o' dry
logs is worth a barrel o' pheesic. To which I would add that if ye're
hintin' it's time ye shed ye're woolsies for ye're summer wear, all I
have to reply is that I hope sincerely ye're patients are more
prudent than yoursel'."
She placed his slippers in the fender and took up the hat, stick and
coat from the sofa. Stuart laughed.
"Most of the neighbors exhibit their wisdom by refraining from
becoming patients of mine, Mrs. M'Gregor."
"That's no weesdom; it's just preejudice."
"Prejudice!" cried Stuart, dropping down upon the sofa.
"Aye," replied Mrs. M'Gregor firmly--"preejudice! They're no' that
daft but they're well aware o' who's the cleverest physeecian in the
deestrict, an' they come to nane other than Dr. Keppel Stuart when
they're sair sick and think they're dying; but ye'll never establish
the practice you desairve, Mr. Keppel--never--until--"
"Until when, Mrs. M'Gregor?"
"Until ye take heed of an auld wife's advice and find a new
housekeeper."
"Mrs. M'Gregor!" exclaimed Stuart with concern. "You don't mean that
you want to desert me? After--let me see--how many years is it,
Mrs. M'Gregor?"
"Thirty years come last Shrove Tuesday; I dandled ye on my knee, and
eh! but ye were bonny! God forbid, but I'd like to see ye thriving as
ye desairve, and that ye'll never do whilst ye're a bachelor."
"Oh!" cried Stuart, laughing again--"oh, that's it, is it? So you
would like me to find some poor inoffensive girl to share my struggles?"
Mrs. M'Gregor nodded wisely. "She'd have nane so many to share. I
know ye think I'm old-fashioned, Mr. Keppel and it may be I am; but
I do assure you I would be sair harassed, if stricken to my bed--which,
please God, I won't be--to receive the veesits of a pairsonable young
bachelor--"
"Er--Mrs. M'Gregor!" interrupted Stuart, coughing in mock
rebuke--"quite so! I fancy we have discussed this point before, and
as you say your ideas are a wee bit, just a wee bit, behind the times.
On this particular point I mean. But I am very grateful to you, very
sincerely grateful, for your disinterested kindness; and if ever I
should follow your advice----"
Mrs. M'Gregor interrupted him, pointing to his boots. "Ye're no' that
daft as to sit in wet boots?"
"Really they are perfectly dry. Except for a light shower this
evening, there has been no rain for several days. However, I may as
well, since I shall not be going out again."
He began to unlace his boots as Mrs. M'Gregor pulled the white
casement curtains across the windows and then prepared to retire. Her
hand upon the door knob, she turned again to Stuart.
"The foreign lady called half an hour since, Mr. Keppel."
Stuart desisted from unlacing his boots and looked up with lively
interest. "Mlle. Dorian! Did she leave any message?"
"She obsairved that she might repeat her veesit later," replied
Mrs. M'Gregor, and, after a moment's hesitation; "she awaited ye're
return with exemplary patience."
"Really, I am sorry I was detained," declared Stuart, replacing his
boot. "How long has she been gone, then?"
"Just the now. No more than two or three minutes. I trust she is no
worse."
"Worse!"
"The lass seemed o'er anxious to see you."
"Well, you know, Mrs. M'Gregor, she comes a considerable distance."
"So I am given to understand, Mr. Keppel," replied the old lady;
"and in a grand luxurious car."
Stuart assumed an expression of perplexity to hide his embarrassment.
"Mrs. M'Gregor," he said rather ruefully, "you watch over me as
tenderly as my own mother would have done. I have observed a certain
restraint in your manner whenever you have had occasion to refer to
Mlle. Dorian. In what way does she differ from my other lady
patients?" And even as he spoke the words he knew in his heart that
she differed from every other woman in the world.
Mrs. M'Gregor sniffed. "Do your other lady patients wear furs that
your airnings for six months could never pay for, Mr. Keppel?" she
inquired.
"No, unfortunately they pin their faith, for the most part, to gaily
coloured shawls. All the more reason why I should bless the accident
which led Mlle. Dorian to my door."
Mrs. M'Gregor, betraying, in her interest, real suspicion, murmured
_sotto voce_: "Then she _is_ a patient?"
"What's that?" asked Stuart, regarding her surprisedly. "A patient?
Certainly. She suffers from insomnia."
"I'm no' surprised to hear it."
"What do you mean, Mrs. M'Gregor?"
"Now, Mr. Keppel, laddie, ye're angry with me, and like enough I am
a meddlesome auld woman. But I know what a man will do for shining
een and a winsome face--nane better to my sorrow--and twa times have
I heard the Warning."
Stuart stood up in real perplexity. "Pardon my density, Mrs.
M'Gregor, but--er--the Warning? To what 'warning' do you refer?"
Seating herself in the chair before the writing-table, Mrs. M'Gregor
shook her head pensively. "What would it be," she said softly, "but
the Pibroch o' the M'Gregors?"
Stuart came across and leaned upon a corner of the table. "The
Pibroch of the M'Gregors?" he repeated.
"Nane other. 'Tis said to be Rob Roy's ain piper that gives warning
when danger threatens ane o' the M'Gregors or any they love."
Stuart restrained a smile, and, "A well-meaning but melancholy
retainer!" he commented.
"As well as I hear you now, laddie, I heard the pibroch on the day a
certain woman first crossed my threshold, nigh thirty years ago, in
Inverary. And as plainly as I heard it wailing then, I heard it the
first evening that Miss Dorian came to this house!"
Torn between good-humoured amusement and real interest, "If I remember
rightly," said Stuart, "Mlle. Dorian first called here just a week ago,
and immediately before I returned from an Infirmary case?"
"Your memory is guid, Mr. Keppel."
"And when, exactly, did you hear this Warning?"
"Twa minutes before you entered the house; and I heard it again the
now."
"What! you heard it to-night?"
"I heard it again just the now and I lookit out the window."
"Did you obtain a glimpse of Rob Roy's piper?"
"Ye're laughing at an old wife, laddie. No, but I saw Miss Dorian away
in her car and twa minutes later I saw yourself coming round the
corner."
"If she had only waited another two minutes," murmured Stuart. "No
matter; she may return. And are these the only occasions upon which
you have heard this mysterious sound, Mrs. M'Gregor?"
"No, Master Keppel, they are not. I assure ye something threatens. It
wakened me up in the wee sma' hours last night--the piping--an' I lay
awake shaking for long eno'."
"How extraordinary. Are you sure your imagination is not playing you
tricks?"
"Ah, you're no' takin' me seriously, laddie."
"Mrs. M'Gregor"--he leaned across the table and rested his hands upon
her shoulders--"you are a second mother to me, your care makes me feel
like a boy again; and in these grey days it's good to feel like a boy
again. You think I am laughing at you, but I'm not. The strange
tradition of your family is associated with a tragedy in your life;
therefore I respect it. But have no fear with regard to Mlle. Dorian.
In the first place she is a patient; in the second--I am merely a
penniless suburban practitioner. Good-night, Mrs. M'Gregor. Don't
think of waiting up. Tell Mary to show Mademoiselle in here directly
she arrives--that is if she really returns."
Mrs. M'Gregor stood up and walked slowly to the door. "I'll show
Mademoiselle in mysel', Mr. Keppel," she said,--"and show her out."
She closed the door very quietly.
