Chapter 3

“HASSAN OF ALEPPO”

Professor Deeping’s number was in the telephone directory, therefore,
on returning to my room, where there still lingered the faint perfume
of my late visitor’s presence, I asked for his number. He proved to be
at home.

“Strange you should ring me up, Cavanagh,” he said; “for I was about to
ring you up.”

“First,” I replied, “listen to the contents of an anonymous letter
which I have received.”

(I remembered, and only just in time, my promise to the veiled
messenger.)

“To me,” I added, having read him the note, “it seems to mean nothing.
I take it that you understand better than I do.”

“I understand very well, Cavanagh!” he replied. “You will recall my
story of the scimitar which flashed before me in the darkness of my
stateroom on the Mandalay? Well, I have seen it again! I am not an
imaginative man: I had always believed myself to possess the scientific
mind; but I can no longer doubt that I am the object of a pursuit which
commenced in Mecca! The happenings on the steamer prepared me for this,
in a degree. When the man lost his hand at Port Said I doubted. I had
supposed the days of such things past. The attempt to break into my
stateroom even left me still uncertain. But the outrage upon the
steward at the docks removed all further doubt. I perceived that the
contents of a certain brown leather case were the objective of the
crimes.”

I listened in growing wonder.

“It was not necessary in order to further the plan of stealing the bag
that the hands were severed,” resumed the Professor. “In fact, as was
rendered evident by the case of the steward, this was a penalty visited
upon any one who touched it! You are thinking of my own immunity?”

“I am!”

“This is attributable to two things. Those who sought to recover what I
had in the case feared that my death en route might result in its being
lost to them for ever. They awaited a suitable opportunity. They had
designed to take it at Port Said certainly, I think; but the bag was
too large to be readily concealed, and, after the outrage, might have
led to the discovery of the culprit. In the second place, they are
uncertain of my faith. I have long passed for a true Believer in the
East! As a Moslem I visited Mecca—”

“You visited Mecca!”

“I had just returned from the hadj when I joined the Mandalay at Port
Said! My death, however, has been determined upon, whether I be Moslem
or Christian!”

“Why?”

“Because,” came the Professor’s harsh voice over the telephone, “of the
contents of the brown leather case! I will not divulge to you now the
nature of these contents; to know might endanger you. But the case is
locked in my safe here, and the key, together with a full statement of
the true facts of the matter, is hidden behind the first edition copy
of my book ‘Assyrian Mythology,’ in the smaller bookcase—”

“Why do you tell me all this?” I interrupted.

He laughed harshly.

“The identity of my pursuer has just dawned upon me,” he said. “I know
that my life is in real danger. I would give up what is demanded of me,
but I believe its possession to be my strongest safeguard.”

Mystery upon mystery! I seemed to be getting no nearer to the heart of
this maze. What in heaven’s name did it all mean? Suddenly an idea
struck me.

“Is our late fellow passenger, Mr. Ahmadeen, connected with the
matter?” I asked.

“In no way,” replied Deeping earnestly. “Mr. Ahmadeen is, I believe, a
person of some consequence in the Moslem world; but I have nothing to
fear from him.”

“What steps have you taken to protect yourself?”

Again the short laugh reached my ears.

“I’m afraid long residence in the East has rendered me something of a
fatalist, Cavanagh! Beyond keeping my door locked, I have taken no
steps whatever. I fear I am quite accessible!”

A while longer we talked; and with every word the conviction was more
strongly borne in upon me that some uncanny menace threatened the
peace, perhaps the life, of Professor Deeping.

I had hung up the receiver scarce a moment when, acting upon a sudden
determination, I called up New Scotland Yard, and asked for
Detective-Inspector Bristol, whom I knew well. A few words were
sufficient keenly to arouse his curiosity, and he announced his
intention of calling upon me immediately. He was in charge of the case
of the severed hand.

I made no attempt to resume work in the interval preceding his arrival.
I had not long to wait, however, ere Bristol was ringing my bell; and I
hurried to the door, only too glad to confide in one so well equipped
to analyze my doubts and fears. For Bristol is no ordinary policeman,
but a trained observer, who, when I first made his acquaintance,
completely upset my ideas upon the mental limitations of the official
detective force.

In appearance Bristol suggests an Anglo-Indian officer, and at the time
of which I write he had recently returned from Jamaica and his face was
as bronzed as a sailor’s. One would never take Bristol for a detective.
As he seated himself in the armchair, without preamble I plunged into
my story. He listened gravely.

“What sort of house is Professor Deeping’s?” he asked suddenly.

“I have no idea,” I replied, “beyond the fact that it is somewhere in
Dulwich.”

“May I use your telephone?”

“Certainly.”

Very quickly Bristol got into communication with the superintendent of
P Division. A brief delay, and the man came to the telephone whose beat
included the road wherein Professor Deeping’s house was situated.

“Why!” said Bristol, hanging up the receiver after making a number of
inquiries, “it’s a sort of rambling cottage in extensive grounds.
There’s only one servant, a manservant, and he sleeps in a detached
lodge. If the Professor is really in danger of attack he could not well
have chosen a more likely residence for the purpose!”

“What shall you do? What do you make of it all?”

“As I see the case,” he said slowly, “it stands something like this:
Professor Deeping has...”

The telephone bell began to ring.

I took up the receiver.

“Hullo! Hullo.”

“Cavanagh!—is that Cavanagh?”

“Yes! yes! who is that?”

“Deeping! I have rung up the police, and they are sending some one. But
I wish...”

His voice trailed off. The sound of a confused and singular uproar came
to me.

“Hullo!” I cried. “Hullo!”

A shriek—a deathful, horrifying cry—and a distant babbling alone
answered me. There was a crash. Clearly, Deeping had dropped the
receiver. I suppose my face blanched.

“What is it?” asked Bristol anxiously.

“God knows what it is!” I said. “Deeping has met with some mishap—”

When, over the wires—

“Hassan of Aleppo!” came a dying whisper. “Hassan ... of Aleppo...”