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.