The Slaves of Sumuru, page 1
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The Slaves of Sumuru
Sax Rohmer
This page formatted 2007 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
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CHAPTER ONE
I
It was a sinister night. Fine drizzle fell. The higher buildings were beheaded by mist. After-theatre traffic had dwindled to nothing. The great metropolis settled down to that uneasy twilight sleep which is the nearest approach to slumber the Manhattan Babylon ever knows.
High up in the mist, in a domed room resembling in proportions a large tent, the note of a silver bell sounded sweetly. The dome, which had no visible windows, was painted sky-blue. It rested on pillars covered in Arab mosaic, and between the pillars its walls were intricately panelled with inlaid designs of ivory and semi-precious stones. The tiled floor was strewn with mink rugs.
There was a round pool in the floor into which a bronze nymph poured a tiny cascade from a jar balanced on one shoulder. It fell amongst the leaves of water-lilies which floated on the pool. Sometimes, large, brilliantly red fish could be seen gliding between the lily-stems.
Banks of mimosa surrounded the pool, giving out an almost overpowering perfume.
A door concealed in one of the panelled walls opened silently and a man came in. His movements were so leisurely as to convey an impression that he walked in his sleep. He wore a black robe, a skull cap and red slippers. His face, seen in the light from four silver mosque lamps hung on chains from the dome, presented a smiling mask of old ivory.
His slippers made a soft shuffling sound on the tiled floor but no sound when they sank into the softness of the mink rugs. He crossed to the dais, which was veiled by pink silk curtains, and went up the steps, drawing the drapes aside. This produced a faint musical tinkling like that of tiny bells. He touched forehead and breast with both hands and stood there, his head bowed in respect.
“Madonna?”
Madonna reclined amongst the cushions on a deep divan which was upholstered in mink of the same rare quality as that of the many rugs spread about the room. She wore the trousered indoor dress of an Eastern woman, of so flimsy a texture that it exposed rather than concealed the contours of a perfect figure. Her hair was entirely hidden by a close-fitting turban. Her eyes, which were superb, were raised to the man's pale face as she spoke, in a voice hauntingly musical but imperious.
“Tell me, Caspar—Ariosto has visited Sister Celeste?”
“He has, my Lady.”
Caspar's voice, like his movements, suggested a sleepwalker.
“No one saw him enter?”
“No one, my Lady. Philo and Sanchez covered his entrance. Shortly after he had gone in, a man, suspected to be the new agent known only as The Major, approached the door. He rang the bell. But no one answered. He presently withdrew—”
“Covered?”
“Covered by Sanchez, Madonna.”
“Has Sanchez reported?”
“Not yet.”
“Does Philo's description help us to identify this man?”
“Philo has not yet returned, my Lady.”
My Lady extended white arms, clenched her hands, and then relaxed again.
“I am not at my ease in this strange and barbarous city, Caspar. The beauty of discipline is hard to enforce where everything is so ugly. It was time for a sharp lesson. This will serve to correct others...”
II
A phantom silhouette seen against street lights, Drake Roscoe crossed to the window of Tony McKeigh's darkened room. He peered down.
“I thought so! The man who tailed me is parked in a doorway over there hoping for something to tip him which apartment I'm in. We won't oblige him for the moment. Let's talk in the kitchen. That faces the other way.”
“As you say,” Tony McKeigh sighed. “Eccentricity in guests should be humoured. Let me get some drinks out before we go.”
But in the kitchenette, Drake Roscoe in the only chair and McKeigh seated on the table, they faced one another—and Tony McKeigh knew that Roscoe had some good reason for his mysterious behaviour. He hadn't lost his tropical tan, which made his frank eyes look the brighter, his hair was streaked with grey. But otherwise Drake Roscoe was a young man.
It was he who broke the silence, twirling his glass of whisky reflectively.
“Lucky I caught you at home, Mac. We haven't seen much of one another since I got to New York, and I didn't want to drag you into this business—but, now, it looks as though you're dragged.”
Tony McKeigh, attached to the New York office of a London newspaper, had been promoted to a captain in World War II and, because of his special training, been posted by the War Office to Intelligence. He had served in the East for a time under Drake Roscoe, who had held a high rank in the American Service.
“Your remarks, though exciting, are obscure. You would make a good announcer, Roscoe; but somebody else would have to write your scripts.”
The once-familiar, rather grim smile showed Drake Roscoe's white lower teeth.
“Listen. Ever hear, in London, about a woman known as Sumuru?”
Tony McKeigh paused in the act of filling his pipe.
“No—never. Odd name. Of course, I have been away from London for more than two years.”
“She horrified England with a series of crimes ranging from abduction to murder which completely defeated Scotland Yard. I don't believe her name actually appeared in connection with these outrages. The reason seems to be that nobody knows what her real name is.”
“You mentioned Sumuru. Japanese damsel?”
“Not a bit of it! No, sir. But I'm told she was married at one time to the Marquis Sumuru—a Japanese diplomat who committed hara-kiri. She also seems to have been married to Baron Rikter, the Swedish millionaire, and to Lord Carradale, a wealthy English peer. They're both dead, by the way. Then there was—”
“Pause! Let me take breath—and refill the glasses. This woman is a female Bluebeard!”
“She's something far more dangerous. And unless the Commissioner at Scotland Yard has gone nuthouse, she is now operating in Manhattan!”
Drake Roscoe stood up and began to pace about in an area five feet by four. His conversation resembled irregular fire. Each sentence was a sharp explosion.
“This woman, Mac, is a greater menace than the atom bomb.”
Tony McKeigh became conscious of growing excitement. He felt that he stood on the verge of strange things...
“The public doesn't have to suspect. But she, or someone working along identical lines, is established right here, in Manhattan! I handled a similar case some years ago. I've been recalled to deal with this one. It's important my identity shouldn't leak out. So I'm known simply as The Major. Remember that.”
He hadn't removed his hat. Under its moist brim, his eyes now looked steely, almost fierce:
“Where had you blown from when you kindly rang my bell just now?”
“I'll tell you. There's a certain Lew Kerrigan, a private eye operating from an office on Broadway. He handles pretty shady cases. We won't call his game blackmail, but—”
“Sounds an interesting squirp.” Roscoe's smile was grim.
“I rather imagine he'll come to a sticky end. For your private information, Sally Obershaw—daughter of William Obershaw, the big railroad man—disappeared last week.”
“Disappeared? But her pictures were on all the society pages. Most beautiful debutante of the season, and so forth.”
“She has vanished! On police advice, it's been kept quiet, so far. But the whole Centre Street outfit has been working day and night on the case. A big reward hangs to it. Roscoe pulled up, stared at Tony McKeigh. “This is the third disappearance of the kind from Manhattan alone quite recently. It's why I'm here!”
“But—”
“All those missing are young girls, and all of them acknowledged beauties.”
Tony groped vaguely for a box of matches.
“How on earth have the news-rooms missed this story?”
“Because it's been hushed up. You see, we know Sally's alive.”
“Some keen businessman in the slave trade (think of the nouveaux riches in the East) is cornering American beauties! What a story!”
Roscoe grasped Tony's shoulder urgently, and his eyes were cold.
“I said, Mac, for your private information! If one paragraph breaks, I'll pin it to you.”
He held out his hand. Tony grasped it. “Count on me, Roscoe.”
“That's fine. You see, I think you may be of use. Listen. Slave traders don't go in for millionaire's daughters! This man Kerrigan got in touch with William Obershaw. He said he had information about the missing Sally. He said he was playing with dynamite, and so—”
“What did Obershaw offer?”
“Obershaw called Headquarters. I was notified and decided to talk to Kerrigan as William Obershaw's representative.”
“An
“Do you know a showy junk shop full of imitation antiques, run by a woman called Celie Artz?”
“Four blocks east of here.”
“That's it. And do you know Celie by sight?”
“I have seen her, in passing. She is a glance-worthy brunette, with a statuesque chassis.”
And Tony McKeigh was soon to be reminded of those words, so lightly spoke at the moment.
“Well, Kerrigan agreed to meet me there at twelve-thirty to-night, for some reason, but I had planned to arrive ahead of time. And I tried.”
“Be more coherent. What do you mean by 'tried'?”
“I mean that somebody has the place covered—”
“Police?”
Roscoe shook his head impatiently.
“When I stepped up to the door—it's in a recess—and rang the bell, I could get no reply. But I kept at it. Then I sensed, rather than saw, someone in the shadows only just behind me.”
“Where did you hit him?”
“I didn't try it! You see, I have a dossier from Scotland Yard which would scare the lights out of a bulldog. This woman Sumuru employs some of the most ghastly weapons ever invented. She's an adept in the use of obscure poisons. Some of her victims have been blinded by a mere puff of powder; others struck dumb. And there's a horrible thing called rigor Kubus, a sort of fungus which invades the system and apparently turns the body to something like stone.”
Tony McKeigh finished his second whisky at a gulp.
“I don't think I'm going to like Sumuru.”
“You won't! I have an official photograph of a man who died of rigor Kubus. It was injected into his neck. I should hate to look like that in a funeral parlour. Where's your phone?”
“Right beside the door in there.”
Drake Roscoe went into the dark room and dialled a number, using his flash lamp. There was an interval, and then:
“Busy signal. Suspicious. Something wrong with Celia Artz' line!” came crisply. “This forces my hand.”
“What's to do?”
“No choice. I'm sending for a police car. We must force the door. I have an uneasy feeling that Sumuru is a move ahead!”
III
A large plaster cast of Queen Nefertiti dominated the windows of Celie Artz's curio store. Cases of scarabs and Ancient Egyptian jewellery glittered attractively in a subdued illumination. The establishment had closed at seven o'clock, but certain lights remained on all night.
There were mandarin robes half hidden in shadow, to suggest lurking Orientals; ivory statuettes and lacquer and silver boxes; amber and jade. Celie Artz's emporium was an Aladdin's cave, synthetic from wall to wall.
A patrolman materialized out of clammy vapour, tested the fasteners of the door, and peered in at the window. He could just see the handrail of a short stair, where shadows gathered darkly. He shook his head and passed on. Officer Murphy had his own ideas about Celie Artz; but it was none of his business.
The time was just twenty-one minutes after midnight.
Weather and the hour had emptied the streets, so that no one was in sight when an ornamental Chrysler, enamelled Fire Department red, glided to a halt before the shop. A man got out, and the car moved silently away.
This man wore a belted white rainproof over dress-clothes, and his dusky features were shaded by the brim of a soft black hat.
He went into the recess and rang a bell beside the door.
In reply, a figure appeared on the shadowy stair. A woman made her way through the art treasures to admit the visitor. The window lights revealed her as a study in voluptuous curves sheathed in a black frock with a generous neckline. A cigarette dangled from her full lips. She opened the door.
“Go right ahead, Lew.”
Lew went right ahead. The woman stayed to refasten the door. The place had an aromatic smell, in which sandalwood predominated. At the top of the dim stair was an office, and here the man shed hat and rainproof and adjusted his black bow.
Lew Kerrigan was a dressy figure, short, stocky, almost Moorish of complexion, with a pencil-line moustache and gleaming, wavy, dark hair.
When the woman rejoined him, he threw a muscular arm around her.
“Frightened?”
She drew away.
“No. I'm not frightened. But—”
“But what? You look kind of shaky.”
“There was a phone call just before you came, but when I answered, the line had gone dead.”
“What about it?”
Kerrigan's keen gaze swept the room. A bottle of whisky stood on a bureau. He saw two empty glasses. He looked up, with narrowed eyes.
“Who's been sampling my thirty years old Bourbon, Celie?”
“Listen, Lew.” Celie dropped down on a long stool, facing him. “Even now—I don't think I can go through with it.”
Lew Kerrigan crossed to a swivel chair set before a desk. Celie sat watching him bite off the tip of a cigar with teeth keen as a terrier's. He didn't look at her. As he lighted up, he spoke.
“Who's been sampling my nine teen-twenty Bourbon?”
“She sent someone to see me.”
Lew Kerrigan laid his newly-lighted cigar in a tray. Now, turning, he looked at Celie. Her glance met his own, and her dark eyes were haunted.
“You haven't tried to double on me, Celie?”
His tone was dangerous, but she shook her head unhappily.
“Why ask me that? When this man rang, I opened the door because I thought it was you. When I saw him, I knew that he came from her —Our Lady.”
Lew Kerrigan banged his fist on the desk.
“Don't talk about her that way! You give me the jitters! She isn't a witch on a broomstick. She's just a female gangster with one hell of a set-up. What Al Capone left behind she plans to pick up. Talk sense. What did this bird say? Is he on to something?”
Celie shook her head again.
“He came to see me about Sally Obershaw—”
“There's nothing on you there! There's no evidence.”
“Maybe not. But Ariosto went back over every visit she made. He knew I had orders from Madonna to teach her. I lent her Tears of Our Lady. It's the first text-book. Then, when the time came, Madonna met her here, and was satisfied that she was suitable.”
“Who's this Ariosto?” Kerrigan growled.
“Our Lady's chief aide. He's a physician.”
“Her boy friend, huh?”
“No. You'll never understand—but he isn't. He's a very clever man, and he scared me to-night. He said there was a nation-wide search for Sally, that a big reward hung on it—”
“You mean he hinted you might be tempted to squeal?” Celie shook her head in a way which suggested resigned despair.
“Not just that. But he did seem to suspect a leakage. The Bourbon was my idea. I felt I needed it.”
“Did he mention my name?”
“No. But it nearly drove me crazy to think what would happen if you or the other one arrived while he was here. Someone kept ringing the street bell. But Ariosto wouldn't let me answer it. He hasn't been gone five minutes. I said I had a headache and must go to bed.”
Lew Kerrigan stood up, stuck the still smouldering cigar between his teeth, and took two clean glasses from the bureau. He walked into an adjoining room and came back with a pitcher of ice-water. Then he mixed two big drinks and handed one to Celie, who hadn't stirred. She was very pale.
“Now tell me what you mean by you can't go through with it! I figure on a hundred thousand for what we're going to sell Obershaw. You're scared stiff of this woman, and so we'll leave for Mexico just as soon as I touch the cash.”
Celie took the glass, but grasped it clumsily as though her fingers were stiff. She looked up at Lew Kerrigan in a vague way.
“You'll never touch the... cash...”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sally is to be offered up—for acceptance—to-morrow...”
“Offered up for acceptance? What's that? Did you go through it? Was that when you got that mark put on your ankle?”
Celie nodded, weakly.
“Once any woman... belongs to Our Lady ... no one... can ever get her... away again ...”
Lew Kerrigan stooped and grasped Celie's shoulders roughly.
“Listen. I don't know how much whisky you've had. But if you're not drunk, you're crazy. I'm going to get somebody away from her. It's you!” He glanced at a gold wrist-watch. “In three minutes our man's due—and we're going to sell him all the information you've passed over to me since the night I first saw that thing tattooed on your ankle...”
