Dope - Sax Rohmer

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Whiteleaf,” he said. “Mr. Gray's evidence throws no light on the matter at all.”

      “Very well, sir,” was the reply; “we have the warrant, and have given the usual notice to whoever may be hiding inside. Burton!”

      The Sergeant stepped forward, placed the leather bag on the floor, and stooping, opened it, revealing a number of burglarious-looking instruments.

      “Shall I try to cut through the panel?” he asked.

      “No, no!” cried Monte Irvin. “Waste no time. You have a crowbar there. Force the door from its hinges. Hurry, man!”

      “It doesn't work on hinges!” Gray interrupted excitedly. “It slides to the right by means of some arrangement concealed under the mat.”

      “Pass that lantern,” directed Burton, glancing over his shoulder to Gunn.

      Setting it beside him, the Sergeant knelt and examined the threshold of the door.

      “A metal plate,” he said. “The weight moves a lever, I suppose, which opens the door if it isn't locked. The lock will be on the left of the door as it opens to the right. Let's see what we can do.”

      He stood up, crowbar in hand, and inserted the chisel blade of the implement between the edge of the door and the doorcase.

      “Hold steady!” said the Inspector, standing at his elbow.

      The dull metallic sound of hammer blows on steel echoed queerly around the well of the staircase. Brisley and Gunn, standing very close together on the bottom step of the stair to the third floor, watched the police furtively. Irvin and Gray found a common fascination in the door itself, and Seton, cheroot in mouth, looked from group to group with quiet interest.

      “Right!” cried the Sergeant.

      The blows ceased.

      Firmly grasping the bar, Burton brought all his weight to bear upon it. There was a dull, cracking sound and a sort of rasping. The door moved slightly.

      “There's where it locks!” said the Inspector, directing the light of a lantern upon the crevice created. “Three inches lower. But it may be bolted as well.”

      “We'll soon get at the bolts,” replied Burton, the lust of destruction now strong upon him.

      Wrenching the crowbar from its place he attacked the lower panel of the door, and amid a loud splintering and crashing created a hole big enough to allow of the passage of a hand and arm.

      The Inspector reached in, groped about, and then uttered an exclamation of triumph.

      “I've unfastened the bolt,” he said. “If there isn't another at the top you ought to be able to force the door now, Burton.”

      The jimmy was thrust back into position, and:

      “Stand clear!” cried Burton.

      Again he threw his weight upon the bar—and again.

      “Drive it further in!” said Monte Irvin; and snatching up the heavy hammer, he rained blows upon the steel butt. “Now try.”

      Burton exerted himself to the utmost.

      “Take hold up here, someone!” he panted. “Two of us can pull.”

      Gray leapt forward, and the pair of them bent to the task.

      There came a dull report of parting mechanism, more sounds of splintering wood … and the door rolled open!

      A moment of tense silence, then:

      “Is anyone inside there?” cried the Inspector loudly.

      Not a sound came from the dark interior.

      “The lantern!” whispered Monte Irvin.

      He stumbled into the room, from which a heavy smell of perfume swept out upon the landing. Quentin Gray, snatching the lantern from the floor, where it had been replaced, was the next to enter.

      “Look for the switch, and turn the lights on!” called the Inspector, following.

      Even as he spoke, Gray had found the switch, and the apartment of Kazmah became flooded with subdued light.

      A glance showed it to be unoccupied.

      Gray ran across to the mushrabiyeh cabinet and jerked the curtains aside. There was no one in the cabinet. It contained a chair and a table. Upon the latter was a telephone and some papers and books. “This way!” he cried, his voice high pitched and unnatural.

      He burst through the doorway into the inner room which he had seen Mrs. Irvin enter. The air was laden with the smell of frankincense.

      “A lantern!” he called. “I left one on the divan.”

      But Monte Irvin had caught it up and was already at his elbow. His hand was shaking so that the light danced wildly now upon the carpet, now upon the green walls. This room also was deserted. A black gap in the curtain showed where the material had been roughly torn. Suddenly:

      “My God, look!” muttered the Inspector, who, with the others, now stood in the curious draped apartment.

      A thin stream of blood was trickling out from beneath the torn hangings!

      Monte Irvin staggered and fell back against the Inspector, clutching at him for support. But Sergeant Burton, who carried the second lantern, crossed the room and wrenched the green draperies bodily from their fastenings.

      They had masked a wooden partition or stout screen, having an aperture in the centre which could be closed by means of another of the sliding doors. A space some five feet deep was thus walled off from this second room. It contained a massive ebony chair. Behind the chair, and dividing the second room into yet a third section, extended another wooden partition in one end of which was an ordinary office door; and immediately at the back of the chair appeared a little opening or window, some three feet up from the floor. The sound of a groan, followed by that of a dull thud, came from the outer room.

      “Hullo!” cried Inspector Whiteleaf. “Mr. Irvin has fainted. Lend a hand.”

      “I am here,” replied the quiet voice of Seton Pasha.

      “My God!” whispered Gray. “Seton! Seton!”

      “Touch nothing,” cried the Inspector from outside, “until I come!”

      And now the narrow apartment became filled with all the awe-stricken company, only excepting Monte Irvin, and Brisley, who was attending to the swooning man.

      Flat upon the floor, between the door and the ebony chair, arms extended and eyes staring upward at the ceiling, lay Sir Lucien Pyne, his white shirt front redly dyed. In the hush which had fallen, the footsteps of Inspector Whiteleaf sounded loudly as he opened the final door, and swept the interior of an inner room with the rays of the lantern.

      The room was barely furnished as an office. There was another half-glazed door opening on to a narrow corridor. This door was locked.

      “Pyne!” whispered Gray, pale now to the lips. “Do you understand, Seton? It's Pyne! Look! He has been stabbed!”

      Sergeant Burton knelt down and gingerly laid his hand upon the stained linen over the breast of Sir Lucien.

      “Dead?” asked the Inspector, speaking from the inner doorway.

      “Yes.”

      “You say, sir,” turning to Quentin Gray, “that this is Sir Lucien Pyne?”

      “Yes.”

      Inspector Whiteleaf rather clumsily removed his cap. The odor of Seton's cheroot announced itself above the oriental perfume with which the place was laden.

      “Burton!”

      “Yes?”

      “See if this

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