Around a large square table in a room at New Scotland Yard stood agroup of men, all of whom looked more or less continuously atsomething that lay upon the polished deal. One of the party, noneother than the Commissioner himself, had just finished speaking,and in silence now we stood about the gruesome object which hadfurnished him with the text of his very terse address.
I knew myself privileged in being admitted to such a conference atthe C.I.D. headquarters and owed my admission partly to InspectorBristol, and partly to the fact that under the will of the lateProfessor Deeping I was concerned in the uncanny business we weremet to discuss.
Novelty has a charm for every one; and to find oneself immersed ina maelstrom of Eastern devilry, with a group of scientific murderersin pursuit of a holy Moslem relic, and unexpectedly to be made atrustee of that dangerous curiosity, makes a certain appeal to theadventurous. But to read of such things and to participate in themare widely different matters. The slipper of the Prophet and thedreadful crimes connected with it, the mutilations, murders, theuncanny mysteries which made up its history, were filling my worldwith horror.
Now, in silence we stood around that table at New Scotland Yardand watched, as though we expected it to move, the ghastly "clue"which lay there. It was a shrivelled human hand, and about thethumb and forefinger there still dryly hung a fragment of lintwhich had bandaged a jagged wound. On one of the shrunken fingerswas a ring set with a large opal.
Inspector Bristol broke the oppressive silence.
"You see, sir," he said, addressing the Commissioner, "this marksa new complication in the case. Up to this week although,unfortunately, we had made next to no progress, the thing wasstraightforward enough. A band of Eastern murderers, working alonglines quite novel to Europe, were concealed somewhere in London.We knew that much. They murdered Professor Deeping, but failed torecover the slipper. They mutilated everyone who touched itmysteriously. The best men in the department, working night andday, failed to effect a single arrest. In spite of the mysteriousactivity of Hassan of Aleppo the slipper was safely lodged in theBritish Antiquarian Museum."
The Commissioner nodded thoughtfully.
"There is no doubt," continued Bristol, "that the Hashishin werewatching the Museum. Mr. Cavanagh, here"--he nodded in mydirection--"saw Hassan himself lurking in the neighbourhood. Wetook every precaution, observed the greatest secrecy; but inspite of it all a constable who touched the accursed thing losthis right hand. Then the slipper was taken."
He stopped, and all eyes again were turned to the table.
"The Yard," resumed Bristol slowly, "had information that EarlDexter, the cleverest crook in America, was in England. He wasseen in the Museum, and the night following the slipper was stolen.Then outside the place I found--that!"
He pointed to the severed hand. No one spoke for a moment. Then--
"The new problem," said the Commissioner, "is this: who took theslipper, Dexter or Hassan of Aleppo?"
"That's it, sir," agreed Bristol. "Dexter had two passages bookedin the Oceanic: but he didn't sail with her, and--that's his hand!"
"You say he has not been traced?" asked the Commissioner.
"No doctor known to the Medical Association," replied Bristol, "isattending him! He's not in any of the hospitals. He has completelyvanished. The conclusion is obvious!"
"The evident deduction," I said, "is that Dexter stole the slipperfrom the Museum--God knows with what purpose--and that Hassan ofAleppo recovered it from him."
"You think we shall next hear of Earl Dexter from the river police?"suggested Bristol.
"Personally," replied the Commissioner, "I agree with Mr. Cavanagh.I think Dexter is dead, and it is very probable that Hassan andCompany are already homeward bound with the slipper of the Prophet."
With all my heart I hoped that he might be right, but an intuitionwas with me crying that he was wrong, that many bloody deeds wouldbe, ere the sacred slipper should return to the East.