Nude in Mink - Sax Rohmer (fun books to read for adults txt) 📗
- Author: Sax Rohmer
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He began dreaming again about that wondrous meeting with Claudette—Claudette of the deep violet eyes. He put up a silent prayer that she be spared from further harm, and granted happiness—with him.
Then came the rain. It was almost tropical, that sudden downpour. In a matter of seconds the gutters were turned into cataracts. Donovan hurried, to try to reach shelter, and heard someone hurrying behind him. He stepped aside to avoid a collision with this person, who seemed to be running at racing speed—and plunged one foot into three inches of water.
“Damn!” he exclaimed, feeling his trouser leg saturated.
He stepped back on to the sidewalk. A second runner was following the first. And the first, a heavy; squat figure, bore right down upon him. A flash of bluish light shot straight into his eyes from what looked like a flashlamp.
Donovan staggered, stifled a scream of pain, and groped blindly for something to hang on to. Vaguely, he was aware of swift footsteps, in retreat. He grasped an iron railing.
He had been blinded! Someone—for no possible reason —had deliberately blinded him by means of some device carried in a flashlamp.
Clinging to the iron railings—the pain in his eyes was agonising—he tried to think. The rain, now, was a deluge. What could he do? Should he shout for help? And then he became aware of footsteps again—this time, approaching. Next, of a car moving slowly.
“Taxi! Hi! Taxi!” he shouted hoarsely.
Not only could he see nothing; he was beginning to feel faint and dizzy.
His shout was answered by a man’s voice. But it wasn’t the voice of a taxi driver.
“Is something wrong? This isn’t a taxi. But I shall be only too glad to give you a lift…”
More footsteps. He had learnt to know them. A London policeman was coming along. He must think, he must think!
“Constable!” he called.
But that other, suave voice, drowned his own.
“I’m afraid, Constable, this poor fellow has had one over the eight.”
Donovan released his grip on the railings. His hat fell off. He swayed, and clutched widely to recover his hold. The smooth voice went on, as a firm grip steadied him:
“Fortunately, I happen to know his address. It’s in my direction. I’ll drop him home with pleasure. D’you mind lending me a hand, Officer?”
“Very good of you, sir. Okay.”
Donovan’s brain was now swimming. Between pain, frustration, and a deadly nausea, he was beyond speech. He felt himself being lifted into a car. Dimly, he heard:
“What is his address, sir? I ought to have that.”
“Number fourteen, Grosvenor Place, Constable. I live only a block away. Number twenty-four. My name is Worthington…”
A door banged. Donovan knew no more about it.
But the constable stood looking after the departing car and scratching his chin thoughtfully. It was raining as hard as ever and he was drenched, but he paused, looking about him—and saw Donovan’s hat lying a yard away.
He stooped, picked it up, shoot the wet from the brim, and shone a light inside.
On the leather band he read:
“Mark Donovan. Alliance Press Association. Greystone House, Fleet Street…”
3
Caspar stood before My Lady, his lids lowered, but his glance absorbing the scarcely veiled outlines of her perfect body. His sleepy eyes were not asleep.
“My orders concerning Claudette Duquesne have been carried out?”
“Yes, Madonna.”
“Send Philo to me.”
“At once.”
Caspar withdrew, walking like a somnambulist. And presently came echoing calls, diminishing in volume.
“Philo… Philo…”
Then, further away: “Philo… Philo…”
Philo crossed the marble floor with those lithe, catlike steps, to stand, eyes also downcast, before the woman on the dais.
“My Lady?”
“Be seated there, Philo, and make your report.”
Philo sat on an Egyptian stool, inclining his dark head obediently.
“Yes, Madonna. Abdul and I intercepted the American journalist. We used the blue light.”
“He went with Ariosto?”
“He did, My Lady. But a constable helped to get him into the car—where Varro took charge of him.”
“Proper precautions were taken to ensure that the car could not be traced?”
“All precautions. Madonna.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the laboratory, Madonna.”
“Leave me. I shall consider what must be done next…”
DONOVAN’S emotions during that journey he could never afterwards adequately describe. That he was being taken to his own execution he did not doubt. His mental faculties had been rendered vague by the action of that awful blue glare which had been shone into his eyes. His sight had apparently gone for ever.
He was in the hands of Sumuru!
Whether or not rigor Kubus would supervene he had no means of learning. But he feared the worst. It was almost certain, he saw now, that he had been followed to Shepherd Market—and he could not bear to think of the fate of Claudette—nor the fate of Maitland… Maitland’s fearful respect for the genius of Sumuru was justified. If the woman be worthy of her hirelings, then indeed she was a criminal genius.
Even as Donovan sat there in darkness, helpless in the powerful grasp of the man who sat beside him, he found it hard to believe that he had been drugged in a Mayfair street and kidnapped with the assistance of the Metropolitan police!
“Number fourteen, Grosvenor Place… My name is Worthington …”
The cool resourcefulness of the man who called himself Worthington marked him for a highly accomplished rogue. One thing, and one thing only, might turn the tables—the constable might go to the trouble to check up. No doubt he would include this incident in his report. Then—Scotland Yard would move.
But could they move in time?
There came a sort of hiatus, haunted by distant bells… “Number fourteen… ding-dong… Grosvenor Place… ding-dong…” Then followed a sudden, acute keenness of smell. Donovan became aware of an intolerably heavy perfume. But he could not identify it…
He thought that he was facing a long, low wall, a wall covered by a piece of Oriental tapestry. Seeming to observe that its character was changing in some subtle way, he found himself studying this tapestry intently. Its design was conventional Chinese, representing dragons and a pagoda, but, as he watched, these dragons appeared to move, insidiously, and the pagoda to become mysteriously lighted. The gold of the dragon scales glittered like real gold and then grew red as though molten. The pagoda receded into uttermost distance, until, as he continued to gaze, he thought that it stood on the edge of a vast golden plain peopled with fiery dragons and so far away that now it became impossible to make it out even as a pin point.
And as his gaze was drawn on further and further into this moving design, so he, himself, began bodily to follow.
He stepped into the tapestry!
In no other way could he have described what happened. The fiery dragons slithered away before his advancing footsteps, noiselessly, like lizards in the desert sand. The illuminated pagoda no longer seemed inaccessible, for in a few strides he had reached it. Gently tinkling bells greeted his approach and he entered through a cloud of incense to find himself confronting a decorated shrine.
Upon a lacquered couch set upon a dais, a woman reclined, fanning herself. She wore a white robe of Grecian simplicity bordered with gold, and her long fan was composed of white peacock feathers. Donovan knew, without being able to analyse his impressions, that this woman was more wonderful than any he had known. He could not have said why, nor in what way.
“So you are Mark Donovan …”
Had she vanished at that moment he could not have described her. He could never describe her, afterwards; for no one had ever been able to describe the Marquise Sumuru. But he could never forget her voice …
He awoke from this dream (if it had been a dream) to find himself in what looked like a hospital.
And he could see!
The man whom he knew, when he spoke, to be “Worthington,” stood watching him. He wore a white coat.
“Quite restored? Don’t worry about your eyes. The effect of 365 is quite transient.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Still feel a bit swimmy?”
“I feel fit to knock your block off!”
“Ah, well! We shall no doubt get to know one another better.”
“When you get to know me you’ll be surprised,” Donovan snapped. “Is this a private insane asylum you’ve run me into?”
“Not at all.” The man began to remove his white jacket. “It is the experimental laboratory attached to Our Lady’s London headquarters. I am in charge of it. Experiments are proceeding here, Mr. Donovan, which would stagger your American scientists—so called.”
“I bet they would.”
“Humanity is faced with only two alternatives, you see. Complete, and speedy, destruction, or complete, and speedy, reconstruction. Our Lady plans to reconstruct mankind. I regret keeping you under restraint. You have only to give me a promise of good behaviour and I will free you at once.”
“Can’t be done,” said Donovan quietly.
He had discovered that his hands were tied together.
“You owe your present circumstances entirely to your friend Dr. Steel Maitland. This man imagines that he has a sacred mission to destroy the work of Our Lady Sumuru. Others have thought this, Mr. Donovan. They might as well attempt to destroy the Himalayas. But if you will follow me (you insist on keeping your hands tied?—very well?)—you can talk over the position with Dr. Maitland—”
“Maitland! Maitland is here?—” The words were jerked out of Donovan almost against his will.
“You are fellow guests of Our Lady. Please follow me closely. Some of our laboratory equipment is delicate—and dangerous.”
“Dr. Worthington” had replaced the white jacket with a black coat, and was moving towards the shadows. Donovan stood up, and followed…
“A beautiful culture here, Mr. Donovan. It is the minute fungus which produces rigor Kubus… Avoid those tubes. Lower your head. I wish I had time to show you some of our latest experiments… Here we are!” He rapped on a white door, and threw it open. “A friend to see you, Dr. Maitland!”
The door was closed, and locked quietly, and Donovan’s guide departed.
In a small, square room, furnished like a waiting-room, Steel Maitland was standing—facing the doorway.
“Maitland!”
“Donovan! God forgive me!”—he stepped forward; his features were haggard—I dragged you into this!”
“Forget it.” Donovan’s voice sounded slightly unsteady. “I’m the prize fool. I fell into a booby trap a babe in arms would have seen through… and left Claudette at the mercy of these devils! Even now they may have her…”
Indeed, at the moment that Donovan spoke her name, Claudette had sprung to her feet, pale, tense, in Jackie de Lara’s flat. The two girls stared at one another.
“There it is again!” Claudette whispered.
“Ssh! honey! They’ll hear you!”
Someone was knocking, softly but insistently, on the outer door …
“Don’t stir, Jackie!”
Jackie shook her head. “I must get to the phone.”
“Oh, listen! That knocking! If only they would ring—or speak!”
“The bell’s out of order,” said Jackie. ‘The stair light is broken, too.” Knocking continued—a gentle but imperative summons. “Oh! I must get to the phone!”
“But the phone is right by the door, Jackie. They will see you through the letter-box!” All the time the sound continued. It had in it something almost hypnotic. “That knocking! It’s Our Lady, it’s Our Lady! I know it is. She is outside there—waiting for me! Jackie! let me go. It will be best for you…”
“I’ll break your neck it you don’t shut up!” Jackie snapped. “Let me think… It’ll drive me mad, toe, if I can’t stop it. Now, don’t panic, dear. I’m going to put the light out and
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