CHAPTER XXIV
THE WIZARD'S WINDOW
THROUGH room after room Trepniak passed, looking about him from right to left; through apartments orange and blue, purple and aquamarine. Some seemed to have been inspired by Babylonian memories; others resembled a film producer's conception of Sodom or Gomorrah. Few people had been privileged to make such a tour of the house; fewer still, so privileged, could have failed to be touched with vague horror.
The ridiculous, transcended, becomes the grotesque, and since genius is sometimes grotesque, one viewing this succession of unique abnormalities must have recognized himself to be in the house of a grotesque genius. The Golden House of Nero must have struck such a note. The mad, when endowed with millions, may so express their madness as to make the beholder share in it; as to create something tangible which proclaims: "This is madness," so that any one brought in contact with it becomes conscious of the taint.
Such was the peculiar property of Trepniak's house.
He met no servant upon his tour. He might have been the only living creature in all that nightmare abode. Room after room—each wild as a hashish dream—he entered and left, encountering no one. Some of the rooms were locked, some were windowless; but lighting no lamps, he passed from point to point, locking and unlocking doors and examining midnight interiors with the assurance of familiarity.
At last before a heavy door he paused, keys in hand. He was listening. But no sound came from the room beyond and he passed on. Whatever or whomsoever he had sought, he had failed to find, and, presently returning to the main staircase, he stood for a moment looking down into the hallway.
It was empty; the big building was silent. Sounds of traffic in Park Lane were clearly audible, but within the house nothing stirred, no voice spoke. Trepniak mounted the stairs, passed along a narrow corridor, and in a sort of little lobby or anteroom stopped, stood still, and listened. Then he crossed to a door, tried the handle unavailingly, and rapped.
"Krauss!" he called.
There was no reply, and once again, banging with his fists, "Krauss!" he repeated, a high note of anger in his voice.
No one answered him. His sense of hearing was acute, but, standing there in the lobby, he could detect 'not the slightest sound from the rooms beyond, so that finally he turned and descended again to the library. Crossing to the high, gleaming mantel—an example of some kind of lacquer work—he pressed a bell beside it, and then, hands clasped behind him, stood upon the rug before the hearth—waiting.
Almost immediately a heavily built man wearing a blue serge suit came in.
"You wanted me?" he asked, and his manner, whilst in a sense respectful, was scarcely that of a servant.
"I did, Teak," Trepniak replied. "Has Mr. Krauss gone out?"
Teak stared uncomprehendingly.
"I should hardly think so," he replied. "It isn't usual."
"It is most unusual. Teak; but he does not appear to be in his rooms."
"Really!" Teak exclaimed. "You don't think"
"No." Trepniak spoke with assurance. "I am certain that he would not dare to return to Limehouse now. Nevertheless, I am deeply concerned. I learn that two men are on duty at the corner of Mount Street, whereas formerly there was only one."
"Yes," Teak nodded. "There were two last night."
"Ah!" Trepniak murmured. "And you have seen nothing and heard nothing to suggest that"
He left the sentence unfinished, but:
"No," Teak replied. "It's something I don't pretend to understand, but it's got me jumping—even worse than Mr. Krauss."
Trepniak interrupted.
"Speaking of Mr. Krauss," he said, "presently I shall ask you to endeavour to find him." He paused, glancing toward the curtained space between the bookcases. "Are you aware that he has duplicates of my private keys?"
"What!" Teak stared harder than ever. "Since when?"
"I cannot say. Teak, but he was here to-night, listening to my conversation."
"With?"
"A lady who called upon me."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
Teak smiled in his quick, grim fashion.
"He's asking for trouble," he said.
"All trouble must be avoided."
"Right enough. But I take it you're not going to stand for being spied upon?"
"I am not. Teak, and I wish to tell him so."
"Of course"—Teak squared his shoulders and set his feet widely apart as if he stood upon the bridge of a rolling ship—"I can understand that he is anxious. A word now, in a certain quarter, and—well—if I may say so, we should all be in the same cart."
"Yes." Trepniak fixed his gaze upon the speaker. "Possibly, Teak, you will endeavour to find Mr. Krauss."
The imperative note had returned to his voice, and Teak, who had something of the bully in his composition, bowed to the greater personality.
"Very good," he replied, turned, and went out.
Assured of his departure, Trepniak crossed to that panel in the wall of which Muir Torrington had spoken, inserted a key in the lock, and entered the room beyond. Closing the door, he seated himself at the glass-covered table which had been the scene of the vivisection of the lizard.
A number of papers were littered upon it, bearing columns of figures and rough diagrams. Trepniak switched on a table lamp and began closely to study these manuscripts. After a time he lay back in his chair, reflecting. The room was absolutely silent, so chat it might have been situate not in the midst of a busy city, but in the heart of a desert.
Free from observation, he became a different man. His eyes lost something of their hypnotic quality and became very tired-looking, as if weariness constantly urged them to close. A certain flair, a genius for showmanship which distinguished Trepniak, the Trepniak who had dazzled the world of London, was missing in these moments of retirement. He was reflecting deeply, concentrating upon some intimate problem, and at last, standing up, he walked around the table and opened that heavy door which had afforded Muir Torrington a unique experience.
He mounted the staircase to the little tower room above, switched on one of the lights, and stood looking about him.
The incredible laboratory presented its usual aspect. Trepniak seated himself in a revolving chair, the only chair in the room, and turned it about, looking up at the great globe, spinning ceaselessly, miraculously, upon its mystic axis. Save for the humming of this glittering phenomenon the place was silent.
Trepniak pressed a switch and there was darkness. Vaguely, as if illuminated from within, the outline of the ever-moving beryl might be discerned. The strange blue light increased in power until, framed in the darkness of the laboratory, the globe resembled a patch of tropical sky.
There was a faint movement, suggesting that someone might have entered, or have left the room, and then silence except for the ceaseless humming sound.
And now, magically, like miniature fragments projected by some exquisite cinematograph, figures and groups, landscapes, interiors, appeared shadowily, grew seemingly concrete, animated with life, and faded again, one after another, within that globe of mystery. Following a succession of such scenes, which rose and almost instantly faded again, came one of a well but sparsely appointed bed-chamber, such as may be found in any of the principal London hotels. Madame Sabinov, wearing a loose robe, was seated before the dressing table brushing her hair.
The picture grew sharper and sharper, the effect being similar to that seen in the focussing screen of a camera. In fact, it was almost more vivid than reality; and at this moment the circular blue frame surrounding it, created by that strange light in the crystal, disappeared, leaving, as if suspended in mid-air, a minute apartment, the tiny, doll-like, but living figure seated in a chair before the mirror.
A voice spoke, a voice low but vibrant.
"I am here. Obey me."
The miniature Madame Sabinov laid her brush listlessly upon the table, stared for a while into the mirror, and then turned her chair around, as a picture actress might have done when directed to face the camera. Her expression was perfectly vacant—the expression of a sleep-walker. Her robe slipped unheeded from her shoulders, and she lay back in the chair looking like a beautiful model posing for some classical picture.
The voice spoke again:
"Find paper, pen, and ink."
Madame Sabinov rose, clutching her falling draperies, and crossed the room to a side table. From a little rack she took a sheet of paper and picked up a fountain pen which lay there.
"Write," the voice continued, "the name of the consultant you have recently visited."
Madame Sabinov, dropping upon one knee, wrote.
"Blot what you have written, enclose it in an envelope, and address the envelope to Benjamin Teak, Weissler & Company, Narrow Street, Limehouse, E. 14."
Madame Sabinov obeyed.
"Now," the voice directed, "pull your wrap about your shoulders and ring the bell."
The tiny figure responded to the command, ringing a bell beside the door.
"To the waiter or chambermaid who will come," the inexorable voice went on, "give the order that the letter is to be stamped by the hall porter and posted immediately."
A chambermaid came in, took her instructions, and went out with the letter.
"Return to the dressing table," the voice commanded. Madame Sabinov did so. "Take up your brush. Forget—forget—and awake."
The blue halo began to grow around the tiny picture; it grew more vivid, and, with its coming, the scene faded, until it was gone completely, and the globe showed again as a disk of tropical sky.
Almost immediately a second picture began to form. It was that of a cellar in which were a camp bed, a chair, and a plain table. Upon the table appeared the remains of a substantial meal, and upon the bed a man was seated, his elbows resting upon his knees, his head lowered into his hands.
The picture became focussed sharply; whereupon, as before, the blue revolving globe in which it was framed disappeared. The man dropped his hands and raised his head, revealing the haggard features of Mr. Michael. He looked up and from side to side, as one who urgently taxes his memory. He rose, took three strides—and paused, looking about him.
He nodded his handsome head, as who should say, "Of course, I had forgotten. I am imprisoned." He returned and dropped again wearily upon the bed.
"I am here," came the commanding voice. "Obey me.
There was no perceptible response. Michael threw himself upon the bed, casting his arms abroad, as a man in despair who only asks for sleep.
"I am here," the vibrant voice repeated. "Obey me."
Michael, uninfluenced, turned over, lying prone, his head pillowed upon his arm.
In the laboratory something stirred—whereupon, instantly, magically, the picture vanished; only the glittering crystal was visible. But in the next instant came the faint click of an electric switch depressed. A high voice spoke—a frenzied voice:
"Who's there? Who are you? My God! Who are you?"