SILVER PEACOCK

Originally published in All Detective Magazine, May 1933.

As the clock in the living room of Glenn Farrell’s summer home at Pass Christian struck five, old Isaac, the negro handyman, punctual to the minute, emerged from the kitchen and placed on the tabouret beside Farrell’s chair a large copper tray. On the tray was a tall, mint-garnished glass, and a stack of mail that Isaac had brought from the post office.

Judged by the post marks and return addresses, the lot would be uninteresting. While waiting for the glass to blossom out with a white frost, Farrell opened the first of the stack.

As he read the brief, typed message, he sat bolt upright in his chair. His gray eyes narrowed, and a frown furrowed his forehead as he re-read the note. A dozen years of hunting men, minerals, and beasts had accustomed Farrell to surprises, pleasant and otherwise; but Isaac had brought in a masterpiece.

Isaac, hearing Farrell’s exclamation of wrath and incredulity, started, stared for a moment, then retired to witness the storm from cover.

Bring one hundred thousand dollars in new, unmarked hundred dollar bills to the L.&N. Railroad bridge at midnight of the twentieth. A boat will be waiting for you. Do not fail, and do not attempt any trickery or resistance. The penalty will be death.

In lieu of a signature there was a spot of red wax stamped with a peacock. The seal was obviously the impression of a signet ring.

“Well, I’ll be everlastingly double-damned!” exploded Farrell as he emerged from his chair with a fluent motion that made the tawny, striped tiger’s skin on the hearth seem like evidence of fratricide. Then he frowned, and stroked the long white scar that seamed his right cheek; a claw mark of the great cat that had almost succeeded. For a moment Farrell’s eyes peered through, and past the note in his hand.

“Peacock…hmmm…” he muttered, as the symbol stamped on the seal recalled memories of the fanatic Yezidees of Kurdistan, who worship Satan, and represent him as a peacock. “One hundred thousand, or else—! And they’ll be waiting with a boat to pick it up?”

He paced the length of the Boukhara rug, and back again. Then his frown relaxed into an amiable grin that contradicted the steel-gray glitter of his eyes.

“I’ll be waiting with a boat myself. Oh, there, Isaac! Lay out my clothes! Right away!”

Farrell’s voice rang through the drowsy, afternoon silence like a bugle.

“Yassuh, Mistah Glenn, yassuh!”

Farrell stepped into his bedroom, inspected and loaded a Colt .45.

“Now roll out the wagon, Isaac,” he directed as he stripped off his lounging pajamas and put on a suit of tropicals. Then (as he thrust the pistol into his shoulder holster) “Damn it, he would lay out this of all ties!”

He corrected Isaac’s selection of neckwear. And a few minutes later, Farrell’s Hispano was a glittering flash and a high-pitched scream that streaked across the bridge toward Bay Saint Louis, and thence down the highway toward New Orleans.

Farrell realized that there was no need for haste. The enemy had given him three days in which to prepare a counter-attack—or, as they doubtless thought, to raise a hundred thousand dollars; but Farrell’s swift trip to New Orleans was expressive of impatience to take the initiative, rather than any need to hurry the simple preparations he had in mind.

An hour and a quarter later, the Hispano drew up before police head-quarters in New Orleans. Farrell strode into the smoke clouded office of the chief of the Detective Bureau.

“Evening, Baker,” he greeted, then glanced about. “Where’s the chief?”

“Out now, Mr. Farrell,” replied the sergeant. “Anything I can do for you?”

Farrell slid the extortion letter and a long cigar across the desk.

“Stuff that in your face, and give Healy that love-letter, if you don’t mind.” Then, as Baker reached for the cigar and bit off the tip, “Tell the chief I’m staying at the Union Club tonight, in case he wants to get in touch with me. And if not, I’ll see him in the morning. If you want to, you can take a peep at that letter yourself. You’ll hear plenty before we’re through.”

Without waiting for Baker’s comment, Farrell left the office and drove to the club.

* * * *

Although he dined alone that evening, Farrell’s thoughts were sufficient company. Even a perfectly grilled guinea hen and a bottle of Chablis did not suffice to divert him from his plan of campaign. While equipping his speedboat with a pair of machine guns, and bolting boiler plate to the cabin would be a simple procedure, Farrell did not underestimate the enemy’s possibilities. The exultation of the warpath was diluted by flashes of misgiving, such as assail all but the foolhardy when in the face of peril.

He finally decided that his plans would be none the worse for a fresh start in the morning. As he thrust aside his demitasse, and wondered as to the best disposition of the evening, the waiter approached with a portable telephone, set it on his table and plugged it in.

“Farrell speaking… Hi, there, Burnham… How’d you know I was in town?… Sorry, but I can hardly understand you. Bum connection… Better now… Uh-huh… Sure, I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Plaza, right after the show. But better than that—”

A sharp click. Farrell jiggled the instrument. The line was dead.

“Want to call back, sir?” wondered the waiter.

Farrell shook his head.

“Take it away—just a minute, I’ll sign my check, too.” Then, as he took his hat, “Guess Burnham was in a hurry and was satisfied when he heard me say I’d be there; but he might have asked me to join him. Funny egg, Burnham. Never could dope him out. And why meet me in the lobby instead of here at the club?”

Whereupon Farrell dismissed the query, paused at the desk to leave word as to his destination, and strode down Canal Street, toward the Plaza.

The theatre, however, did not prove to be the diversion that Farrell had anticipated. The peacock was not to be dismissed so lightly. After burning his way through the better part of a pack of cigarettes, Farrell left the smoking room, and stepped out into the lobby a few minutes before the conclusion of the performance.

The usher who opened the door regarded him for a moment, then said, “Mr. Farrell? Mr. Burnham will be looking for you at the box office.”

Before Farrell could question the usher, the latter vanished in the darkness of a side aisle.

“What in the hell’s eating Burnham?” muttered Farrell as he took his post. He loosened the pistol in his shoulder holster, then reflected, “I’m jumpy, that’s all. No point in anyone putting me on the spot. It’s money they want, not my hide.”

* * * *

A moment later, the show was over. Farrell, standing at the box-office, surveyed the crowd that was advancing down the long, narrow, sloping floor. And just as the head of the chattering procession reached the sidewalk, Farrell saw Burnham in the middle of the lobby. He was lifting his leghorn hat, and mopping his bald head with a handkerchief. Burnham, it seemed, had enjoyed the performance no more than Farrell. His pale, heavy face was worried and haggard. Two men were accompanying him. One edged closer and whispered a word into Burnham’s ear. Farrell recognized them; plainclothes men. He frowned perplexedly.

“Wonder if he’s in a jam, and they caught up with him. Maybe he’s short in his accounts…”

Just behind Burnham were two men who wore colored glasses of the kind favored by those susceptible to eyestrain caused by the semi-tropical glare of New Orleans: a detail that Farrell later recalled.

Burnham was now but a few paces distant.

“Looks like the devil on horseback,” was Farrell’s thought. “Hi, Burnham!”

Burnham’s companions, catching Farrell’s voice clearly above the chatter of the crowd, regarded Farrell intently. Burnham started. Farrell wondered at his expression of surprised recognition.

Farrell repeated his hail and stepped forward from the box office. At that same instant an arm shot up cut of the crowd midway between Burnham and Farrell, and his voice was drowned in a surging, gusty roar that was accompanied by a blinding flash which blazed from the upward reaching arm. A wave of blistering heat singed Farrell’s eyelashes and scorched his cheeks. Two splotches of bluish-white flame danced before his dazzled eyes as the chatter of the crowd roared into gasps of dismay and bewilderment, and shrill screams of fright, and—Farrell caught it distinctly—a single cry of mortal anguish.

“Steady, there! Quit shovin’!— Just a flashlight! Man hurt—stop him! Grab him!”

The lobby was a bawling, milling confusion.

Farrell plunged headlong toward that point where, a split instant ago, he had seen an arm rise in a gesture that ended in a sheet of flame. He heard a grunt, and a metallic clatter. His arms, reaching out instinctively, closed about someone who eluded his grasp before he could get a firm hold. A knife raked his ribs lightly; and he heard a low, guttural exclamation in a language he had not heard for years.

“The Peacock!” flashed through his mind.

“Get back and stay back!” roared a commanding voice. “Sam, don’t let anyone out of this lobby!”

The panic subsided almost as suddenly as it began. Above the bedlam of protests and inquiries, Farrell heard the scream of a siren. The alarm had reached police headquarters. And then Farrell’s eyes, more severely dazzled than those who had not looked directly at the flash, began to function. He saw one of the detectives who had accompanied Burnham kneeling beside a man who lay sprawled on the tiled floor. A stream of blood trickled redly across the white tiles. The hilts of two daggers, driven home to the guards, projected from his back. It was Burnham.

The plainclothes man looked up and shook his head.

“Finished,” he declared.

And then the massive bulk of John Healy, chief of the Detective Bureau, plunged through the crowd that was detained by the police cordon.

“I might have known I’d find you right in the midst of the mess!” he exclaimed as he recognized Farrell. Then, seeing that Farrell’s coat was slashed, and that blood was staining the light tropical cloth, “Hell’s fire, did they get you, too?”

“Just an accident. I grabbed someone. That damned flashlight powder blinded me, and—but what makes you think—”

“Plenty! Burnham got the same kind of letter you left on my desk. He didn’t pay off last night, like they told him to. And here he is—knifed right under our noses! Of all the slick tricks. What are you going to do? Payoff?”

Farrell’s laugh was mirthless. His eyes answered Healy before he spoke.

“I came to town to declare open season on peacocks, John. And I’m paying Burnham’s account along with my own. By the way, did they shake him down for the same amount?”

Healy nodded.

“Then,” declared Farrell, after a moment’s thought, “this whole show was a plant to show me what’ll happen if I don’t pay off. Burnham could no more raise a hundred thousand cash than a hundred million. I know. I was in on a couple of deals with him. And if that doesn’t convince you—” Farrell outlined the telephone strategy whereby he had been induced to wait for Burnham in the lobby; then, as he turned to leave, “If you want me tonight, or in the morning, I’ll be at the club. Night, John.”

CHAPTER II

Lydia and the Silver Peacock

The following afternoon Farrell returned to Pass Christian with his borrowed machine guns. Up to the time of his departure, the police had made no progress in solving the case. The assassins had escaped during that moment when everyone, that is, everyone but two men wearing colored glasses, was blinded by the blast of photographer’s flashlight powder. The clues were more colorful than helpful: two antique daggers, so the evening papers stated, of Persian workmanship; and the peacock seal which had taken the place of a signature on the extortion letter mailed to Burnham several days previous. As an afterthought, and by way of incongruous contrast, a battered flashlight gun, and two pairs of colored spectacles were listed.

That night Farrell’s sleep was interrupted by the persistent ringing of the doorbell.

“If anyone’s waking me up to offer me a drink I’ll kick him into the Gulf,” he muttered sleepily. He heard the purr of a powerful motor idling in the drive in front of the house. “Hmmm…that engine sounds like class. Maybe a distinguished visitor.”

The doorbell rang again, a long, persistent ring, followed by several staccato jerks. Someone was impatient and eager.

“Keep your shirt on, brother,” Farrell shouted as he found his slippers. Then through his sleepiness came the recollection of his being hunted. He picked his Colt .45 from the dresser.

Farrell strode silently across the thick carpet, yanked the door suddenly. As he leaped clear, he covered the entrance with his pistol. Then he stared for a moment, and lowered his automatic. His caller was an uncommonly pretty girl. As Farrell snapped on the gallery light, he noted with approval the costly simplicity of her sports costume.

“Oh, Mr. Farrell!” she exclaimed, her greenish eyes widening in dismay. “Don’t shoot!”

She laughed softly at Farrell’s embarrassment, but despite her amusement, she was agitated. She was nervously fingering the handle of a circular hat box that she had picked up and was holding in her arms as though guarding something fragile and precious.

“I beg your pardon,” said Farrell. “I wasn’t expecting a lady at this hour. And—” He glanced at the pistol in his hand. “I’m awfully nervous, you know, alone in a big house like this.”

“You look it,” the girl retorted. She laughed and glanced over her shoulder. The green eyes shifted to the tightly clutched hat box. “They’re on my trail, and I can’t shake them. I hate to ask you to take—”

“Step in and tell me about it, Miss—”

“Lydia Wilson,” she said as she entered.

“Wonder what’s eating her?” was Farrell’s thought as he saw her start violently as the door clicked closed behind her. “She’s got ’em, and got ’em bad!”

As he gestured toward a chair, Farrell regarded the long lashed eyes and copper tinged hair.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Lydia answered as she opened the hat box.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Farrell as she removed the silver image of a peacock with outspread fan. The body of the bird was scarcely larger than a spring chicken. “Are you by any chance calling to remind me of that hundred thousand? Now, if they’d sent you in the first place,” he continued, dividing his glance between the exquisite Persian workmanship of the peacock, and the loveliness of the girl, “I’d have coughed up in a minute.”

“Why—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” countered Lydia, obviously puzzled.

“Oh, well, never mind. I’ve just got a private grudge against peacocks. But what’s it all about? And how come you’re picking on me?”

“It’s for Hillman Parr, in New Orleans. They’ve been after me ever since I left Pensacola. I hate to ask you to take such a terrible risk—”

“I take risks for fun, money, or marbles,” assured Farrell. “But why elect me?”

“Heard of you—spent a summer on the Gulf Coast, once. But call me at the Cortez tomorrow morning. I simply can’t stop to explain. You will, won’t you?” she pleaded, then thrust the peacock into his hands as though she feared that he might refuse. “Hillman Parr, the collector. Everyone knows him. And do be on your guard!”

She fairly ran to the door as she uttered her warning.

“Hey, wait a minute—” protested Farrell as he turned and set the peacock on the table, then started after her. The door clicked in his face. As he fumbled with the latch, he heard the door of her car slam. “Steady, there!” he called, as he opened the house door and cleared the gallery with a bound, “Hold on a minute!”

But Lydia stepped on the accelerator. Farrell caught a glimpse of a New York license plate, and her hand waving him farewell as she cleared the gatepost by a hair.

“Afraid I’d turn her down and make her carry her own jewelry—” Then, as he heard the roar of the motor, “Going like the hammers of hell! But if she was so scared, why didn’t she stay here?” he wondered as he retraced his steps and entered the living room.

Farrell grinned at his reflection in the mirror.

“Did my map scare her out, or was she afraid of compromising me?”

He picked up the silver peacock which had been forced on him for delivery to Hillman Parr. On the breast was a medallion engraved in obsolete, angular Arabic script.

The work of the Servant of the Angel, Abdannar, Emir of the Faithful, may our Lord be well pleased with him.

“Pretty thick; the Peacock assassinates Burnham just to serve as a good example to me, and does it right before my eyes! And now this nice looking red-head comes charging up in a high flurry. Where does she fit into this, or does she? Persian daggers jammed into Burnham, and now this hoodoo all bespattered with inscriptions—”

He glared at the bird for a moment.

“And where does Hillman Parr come in on this? Probably stolen property and he knows it. Never saw a collector yet that’d turn down a hot work of art.”

Farrell grinned knowingly and glanced at some of his own collection; rich old rugs from Persian palaces, scimitars, kreeses, kampilans; bits of jade, and Japanese lacquer. But all of the arms that were grouped on the wall in clusters were not antiques. Some of them were mementos of their owners, indiscreet fellows who had hunted Farrell.

Farrell opened his wall safe and made room for the silver peacock. As he spun the dial, he heard a car thundering past, throttle wide open. He heard the savage scream of brakes as it slowed down to make the sharp turn in the road that crossed the L.&N. tracks and led to the highway bridge. For a moment he thought that he was listening to another example of more speed than brains.

“That bird’s in more of a hurry than she was.”

And with that thought, Farrell’s march to his bedroom halted abruptly.

“By God, that might be someone chasing her! Naturally they’d keep on her trail, not knowing she’d stopped here and left the peacock with me. And if they overtake her and find she’s not got it, they’ll take it out of her hide—”

Farrell slipped trousers over his pajamas.

“Let’s go! Trouble always follows these red-headed women.”

He slipped a pistol into his hip pocket, dashed to the garage, and in another moment the Hispano was justifying Farrell’s affectionate boasting.

“Gangway!” he cried above the roar of the motor as he charged up the grade to the two-mile highway bridge and jammed the accelerator home. He crossed the bridge in a shade more than ninety seconds. The Hispano was a blur and a high-pitched whine as it flashed through Bay Saint Louis toward Waveland and another sharp turn.

“That jane has more nerve than sense,” reflected Farrell as he slowed down out of deference to the loose gravel leading out of Waveland. “Leading the pursuit away from the peacock. Or else,” Farrell smiled sourly. “Or she’s playing me for a sap. She knew entirely too much about my weaknesses and meddlesome habits, even allowing for the rotogravure section and press notices. Wouldn’t take such a gigantic intellect to dope it out that I’d take a tumble and follow her, to see her safe to New Orleans. Rather nice, the way she checked out without giving me a chance to say aye, yes, or no.

“And now all they’ve got to do is to yank a decrepit flivver across the road, some place where I won’t be able to pull up in time, knock my bus end for appetite, pick me out of the wreckage, and haul me to a boat waiting at the Rigolets Pass. Then they can keep me filed for reference, and be sure I’ll pay off the money Mr. Peacock wants. Borrowing those machine guns probably tipped them off. Probably been watching me all day. Such a nice looking girl, too…”

And having the ambush plotted out in advance, Glenn Farrell played true to form; he crowded the Hispano to the limit. Until the pursuit reached the road fork at Slidell, there was but one route suitable for fast travel to New Orleans.

As Farrell passed the Pearl River Bridge, he saw that he had made a surprisingly accurate guess. A car, hall athwart the road, was waiting, ready to halt or wreck him. He jammed on the brakes and came to a smoking halt.

“Didn’t figure my bus would stop that quick,” he muttered. “That crabs their game. And if they try to rush me—”

Farrell drew his .45.

“Clear moonlight, and damned nice shooting!”

He waited for a moment to see if the assault would materialize. But instead of a rush of dark figures and the crackle of pistols, there was a curse of exasperation, and a woman’s scream. Two men emerged from the swampy depression that flanked the road. They half carried, half dragged a struggling, sobbing woman toward the car that was partly headed into the highway.

One of the woman’s captors shouted. Someone in the car replied. The engine raced as the driver stepped on the gas, preparing for a fast getaway.

Farrell leaped to the road.

“What’s this monkey work?” he demanded as his pistol rose into line.

No answer. One of the men took complete charge of the woman. Farrell saw his fist smack home. The other as he released his hold on the captive drew and fired at Farrell. The bullet smashed through the windshield of the Hispano as Farrell’s .45 roared. The enemy staggered, recovered, fired again.

Then, pistol flaming, Farrell charged the rear guard, fearing to risk a shot at the woman’s captor. But as his second shot drove the gunman into a heap on the running board, an arm from within dragged him into the car as it took off with a bound and soared down the road. A farewell bullet from the fugitives gipped harmlessly overhead. It was a gesture of derision to which Farrell did not reply.

“Damn his hide,” Farrell growled as he noted the blood splashes on the paved road, “his wild shooting kept me dodging enough to give the other guy a chance to make the bus. Well, we’ll ride some more!”

As Farrell turned toward his own car he saw the wreck from which the girl had been carried. The New York license plate identified it as Lydia’s machine. He saw at a glance that the gas tank had been ripped open, and the upholstery slashed. They had looked for something, presumably the peacock, in every conceivable place of concealment; and now they were taking her away to be sweated until she told them what she had done with the silver image.

In another moment Farrell was on his way down the highway.

“Come on, sister, we’ve not started yet!” he declared as he opened the Hispano wide. “If we can’t overtake ’em, we’ll make their arrival in town conspicuous.”

At all events, Farrell reflected, as mile after mile of darkness slipped past, Lydia’s story had been bona fide, even though the whole affair was decidedly shady. Something, he decided, was absolutely off-color: else, why had the peacock been shipped by messenger, instead of by express?

Farrell flashed through Slidell unchallenged by highway patrolmen. If any were on duty, they would be in pursuit of the car ahead. At the road fork just beyond Slidell, Farrell turned to the left, reasoning that the fugitives would avoid the Pontchartrain Bridge in order to keep from being observed by the toll keeper.

Several miles beyond Slidell, the guess seemed justified. Far ahead of him, Farrell caught a glimpse of a tail light. Farrell was slowly gaining.

“Shake it up, sister, we got to catch ’em!”

But the car ahead was no sluggard, and the start from the Pearl River Bridge was more than could be overcome in a few miles. Farrell, however, persisted in the chase instead of halting to telephone ahead to New Orleans. He finally observed that he had gained appreciably on the tail light ahead.

They were approaching the railroad crossing near Gentilly. Farrell heard the scream of the limited, and caught the long beam of its headlight.

The enemy was slowing down to make the sharp turn just before the road crossed the tracks. Farrell unlimbered his pistol. Four shots left, but enough.

“Should have brought an extra clip!” he muttered in disgust. “One bum play after another…”

The limited was bearing down on the crossing.

“Got ’em sewed up!” he exulted. “Can’t slow down to make the turn, and then pick up enough to beat the train—crazy if they even think of it—”

Farrell held his breath for an instant, swallowed his heart, and jammed his own brakes. He expected to see the car smashed to fragments by the onrushing locomotive.

Then he slumped back against the cushions.

“Made it—Good Lord!”

He sighed wearily, and became aware of the violent trembling that shook him, and made him try a second time to holster his pistol.

“Red Head, you sure came near getting yours…”

After a seemingly interminable delay the crossing was clear. As he let in the clutch and crossed the tracks in the wake of the train, Farrell realized that further pursuit was useless. The enemy would by now be well into the suburbs, driving at a moderate pace, and secure against all but the most remote chance of being overtaken or recognized.

* * * *

Farrell halted at the first filling station to telephone police headquarters.

“Glenn Farrell speaking…trace black Cadillac sedan…no, couldn’t get the number…three men, one of them with at least two bullet holes in him. One girl, red hair, green eyes, beige sports costume…looks exactly what the well dressed woman will wear…yeah, that’s the type!… Hell, I’m no good at weights or dimensions, but I’d say she must be about twenty four-five… And tell John Healy I’ve got a hunch this job ties in with the knifing of Burnham…no, can’t explain it, but you tell him. And I’ll see him later in the day.”

Farrell hung up and paused to consider his next move.

He could continue on into New Orleans and spend the remainder of the night at the Union Club, or else he could return to Pass Christian and get the peacock.

While Farrell was not acutely concerned about the disposition of Hillman Parr’s property, the last move was obviously the best, since the silver image would give him an immediate opportunity of investigating the possibility that Hillman Parr was in some way connected with the death of Burnham. Therefore, after having his tank refilled, Farrell set out for Pass Christian, albeit at a more moderate pace than he had taken during the vain pursuit of Lydia.

CHAPTER III

Mr. Parr is Embarrassed

It was close to sunrise when Farrell arrived at his estate, which fronted the highway that follows the Gulf Coast from Bay Saint Louis to Biloxi. He summoned old Isaac and called for coffee. Then, while awaiting the brewing of the black, chicory-tinctured eye-opener, Farrell opened the wall safe. The silver peacock awaited his inspection.

In order to be prepared for his call on Parr, Farrell felt that he should be fairly conversant with the inscription whose translation he had not completed. He therefore renewed his study of the engraved medallion. He had read the first line at sight; but on closer scrutiny he saw that those which followed were made up of characters worked into an intricate arabesque pattern whose deciphering would require considerable study: several days, perhaps.

“Hell with that!” he exclaimed, and set about making several pencil and paper rubbings of the medallion, to be studied at his leisure. “I’ll sink Parr with a good bluff on the lines I do know.”

Then, as Isaac served his coffee, “Lay out my gray checkered suit. And stuff this bird into a cardboard box. I’m damned sick of peacocks, and I want it out of my sight before it spoils my breakfast.”

“Yassuh, Mistah Glenn,” agreed the negro as he carefully set aside the penciled note and secured them with a paper weight, “peacocks is bad luck.”

“And that’s only half of it,” muttered Farrell glumly, thinking again of Burnham, his own prospects, and the kidnapping of the charming Lydia.

But with a coffee, a shave, and a fresh suit of tropicals, Farrell’s spirits revived. And thus, after issuing a few instructions to Isaac, Farrell reloaded his .45, stuffed a handful of cigars into his breast pocket, and resumed the wheel of the Hispano.

An hour and a half later, Farrell drew up at Parr’s house on Saint Charles Avenue. He presented his card, and without delay was ushered into the dusky solitude of the high ceiled library. Parr’s desk was an island in a broad expanse of hardwood floor. The dark visaged bronzes that rose, here and there, from their marble pedestals, were lonely as lighthouses. Farrell resisted the temptation to hang his hat on a bust of Napoleon, and gravely set the cardboard box on the scholar’s desk.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Farrell,” began Parr in his oratorical manner which always left the listener wondering whether Parr addressed an individual or a historical society. “This is indeed a pleasure.”

He paused impressively for a moment, then resumed, “A rare pleasure, Mr. Farrell. At times I fancy that the solitude of my study tends to repel visitors.”

He carefully fitted his fingers tip to tip, beamed at Farrell with a trace of condescending cordiality, and permitted himself a glance at the none too neatly wrapped parcel that marred the orderly desk top.

Farrell cut the string and pulled the silver peacock from its newspaper swaddling.

“A young lady asked me to deliver this,” remarked Farrell casually as though being drafted as a messenger were part of his daily routine.

“Er-r, most unusual, Mr. Farrell,” declaimed the scholar. His eyes widened perceptibly. Parr was plainly at loss.

Farrell wondered if Parr realized how truly extraordinary the transaction had been. The morning papers of course had not contained a word concerning the kidnapping. Farrell knew that despite Parr’s evident discomfort, that bland, pompous little man, whose bachelor of oratory diploma held a place of honor among his collection of framed dignities and degrees, would be a slippery customer. And seeing that Parr was itching to be alone with the peacock, Farrell lost no time in making himself a nuisance.

“Mr. Parr,” he began, giving an acceptable rendition of the orator’s formality, “I took the liberty of closely scrutinizing that unusual example of the silversmith’s art. Very closely scrutinizing it, I might say.”

He paused impressively, noted the increasing concern on his host’s pale features, he resumed, “And while I certainly can not lay claim to learning even remotely approaching your own, I was nevertheless convinced—”

The pauses were driving Parr’s consternation to the surface; therefore he indulged in an elaborate gesture, smiled engagingly.

“Convinced that this effigy has an unusual history. The inscription, ‘The work of the Slave of the Angel, Abdannar, emir of the faithful, may our Lord be well pleased with him,’ reminds me of a certain episode a number of years ago, while I was in Kurdistan. However, that which follows—”

Parr, having reached the end of his endurance, interrupted.

“Might I suggest, if you grasp my meaning, but what I intended to convey was that that inscription is figurative? One of those obscure Oriental plays on words. Exceedingly ambiguous, you understand—”

As Parr paused, not for dramatic effect, but to collect his wits, Farrell, convinced beyond all doubt that he was on the right trail, drove home.

“Right you are!” he declared in his usual decisive tone. “And a solution does tax one’s ingenuity. Otherwise, I would have delivered it last night. And now that I’m here, I want to know where you got this, and why it was necessary to have it carried to New Orleans by special courier. And why did it leave Mount Lalesh, in the Sinjar Hills?”

“I’m sure I don’t quite know what you mean,” replied Parr. His hand trembled, and his fingers played nervously with the severed cords of the cardboard box.

“I mean,” explained Farrell, “why did you smuggle it into the United States?”

Parr’s perceptibly protruding eyes evaded Farrell’s intent gaze.

“Where did you get it, and what’s behind it?” demanded Farrell as he planted his hands on Parr’s desk and leaned forward to fire his questions directly at the disconcerted scholar. “It’s none of my business, but I don’t think that you’re in any position to tell me so!”

“I bought it in Paris,” replied Parr. “From a dealer who insisted—”

“I understand,” countered Farrell with significant emphasis, and a nod of his head. “I’ve bought things myself from dealers who wanted the transaction kept confidential, only I took better precautions than you did. All right?”

“I picked up a XVI Century Persian manuscript,” continued Parr. “A most unusual document which referred to this very image. And by a happy chance I found the image itself, a week or so later—”

“Uh-huh. I got it,” said Farrell with an amiable smile.

“And in view of the unusual circumstances, I assure you, the dealer did not fully explain—it was necessary—”

“To smuggle it into this country and have it delivered by courier. Now open up and tell me the rest of it.” Farrell paused, then essayed a shot in the dark: “Or would you rather talk to Federal agents?”

Parr started. His pale face became white.

“There is absolutely nothing more to say, Mr. Farrell. I assure you nothing at all,” he replied in a low voice. “But may I ask what your interest might be?”

“You may. And if you remember something, later on, you might phone me and tell me about it, particularly when I tell you that this silver peacock ties you up with the murder of William Burnham!”

“Oh, I say, Mr. Farrell—” gasped Parr, and then stopped short.

But Farrell did not pause to await Parr’s regaining the power of speech.

“Let him simmer,” reflected Farrell as the door closed behind him. “Longer he thinks, the more he’ll cough up when I hear from him. And if he is messed up with the killing—well, we’ll see.”

He drove down Saint Charles Avenue.

“Better stop at the bank and ask Goodman to round up a hundred thousand in new bills, according to the peacock’s prescription. Humor ’em till I can open up with that pair of Brownings and let ’em smell hell!”

Farrell’s conference with a friend who occupied an inside desk at the First Trust was brief, and involved no more than a request to have the desired quantity and denomination at Farrell’s disposal. This done, he resumed his drive down town, toward police headquarters.

“Hi, there, Glenn,” greeted Healy as Farrell stepped into the office of the Chief of Detectives. “Been trying to get you all day. Now give me an earful about the red-headed girl. How’d you happen to get in on that job, and what’s it got to do with Burnham’s death? We’ve not found as much as a tire track of the car they kidnapped her in.”

Farrell briefly outlined the entry of the silver peacock.

“She checked out,” he concluded, “before I could make her stay. She was too rattle brained to think that the gang would chase her, as they’d naturally not know she’d left the peacock with me. And when I heard a car roaring by like the hammers of hell, just a few minutes later, and the brakes squealing like a locomotive whistle as they made the turn toward the L.&N., I knew business was picking up, so I started out. Could have been a bunch of merry drunks, but I had a hunch.”

“A hunch,” admitted Healy, “is better’n a lot of good sense. But where does the bird fit in? All I know so far is that she was some girl, or you’d told her to chase herself and her peacock. Musta been the kind you buy fur coats for—”

“Nuts!” countered Farrell. “Not that kind at all. Nice girl, and I’ll tell—”

“Pipe down, pipe down,” grumbled Healy. “I know she musta been a knockout, making you forget your hide and a hundred grand. I’m interested in peacocks, now.”

“All right,” agreed Farrell, “here you go: first, there are too many peacocks in the picture all at once. Second, the engraving on the peacock.”

He quoted the first line of the inscription.

“Without going into details, that peacock and as much of the inscription as I could translate, convinces me there is a crew of devil worshippers—”

“Eh, what’s that?” demanded Healy, removing his feet from his desk.

“Devil worshippers, John,” repeated Farrell. “A tribe called Yezidees. Hang out in Kurdistan, a district in Western Persia. They worship Satan, represent him as a peacock, and call him Malik Tawus.”

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed Healy. “Do you mean there’s a bunch of heathen rats of that kind runnin’ around town, worshippin’ Satan? And—” he added as an afterthought, “killing and blackmailing.”

“Looks a lot like it,” replied Farrell. “Understand this is just a hunch, and the case isn’t proved. But I’ve been in Kurdistan and I know ’em. They have a temple in the Sinjar Hills. They let me into it, although I couldn’t go beyond a certain point.”

Healy regarded Farrell askance.

“I’ve a notion to run you in as a dangerous and suspicious character,” he muttered, still trying to reconcile the fact that a rational man had associated with devil worshippers.

Farrell laughed.

“Don’t worry, John, I didn’t spend any time worshipping Old Nick, but I did learn a few things. For instance, that it’s even forbidden to pronounce the name of Satan—Shaytan—in their dialect. The penalty is death, then and there, for using the holy name. So they say Malik Tawus instead.”

“Well, where does Parr come in?” wondered Healy.

“Don’t know, exactly,” admitted Farrell. “He went straight up in the air when I blatted right out that I knew he’d smuggled the bird into the country, and that he was tying in pretty close with the murder of Burnham. The learned doctor is worried and plenty.”

“Hell!” scoffed Healy. “He may have smuggled some antiques, but he can’t be mixed up in murder.” Then as Farrell rose to leave, “And in the meanwhile, be watching your own hide.”

“That,” countered Farrell, pausing at the door, “is something I’m giving an uncommon amount of thought. I’ll be at the Howard Memorial this afternoon, getting a bit of dope on puzzling out the rest of that peacock inscription. And this evening you can get me at the Union Club, if anything turns up. Be seeing you!”

CHAPTER IV

Nuri Plays a Stack

That evening, not more than an hour after dinner, Farrell received a telephone call from Healy. In response to the urgent summons, Farrell went immediately to headquarters, where he found the chief of detectives impatiently awaiting his arrival.

“Take a ride with me,” he began as Farrell entered the office. “We’re going to make a pinch, right away!”

“The devil you say!” exclaimed Farrell, as he turned back toward the door, to follow Healy and two plainclothes men to the police department car that was waiting at the curbing. “Where do I come in on this show?”

“You seem pretty well posted on peacocks,” replied Healy as then, headed toward Canal Street. “And this kinda checks in with what you told me this afternoon.”

“Parr, you mean?” wondered Farrell. “Or—”

“Wait and see,” evaded Healy. “I know you’re all eaten up about that red-headed girl, but we’ve not got a thing in that quarter, so far.”

They left Canal Street and drove several blocks into the French Quarter, where they parked. Then they proceeded on foot toward Decatur Street, crossed, and picked their way through a series of alleys. They finally halted in the shadow of a warehouse which faced the River Café, a speak-easy that masqueraded as a soft drink parlor and lunch counter.

Several minutes later a laborer, drunken and mumbling, lurched past their point of observation.

“That’s Bronson,” whispered Healy. “That boy can stage a drunk in anything, starting with coveralls and working up to soup and fish, with a gold headed cane. He’ll cover the joint from the inside.”

The drunken Bronson had successfully passed the side door of the speak-easy. The doors were still swinging, although not as violently as at first, when a cab drew up at the main entrance.

“Look! By God, it’s working!” exclaimed Healy. “A Liberty cab! Just like they said.”

A small, slightly stooped man emerged from the cab. He carried a square cardboard box nestled in the crook of his left arm. After pausing a moment to peer nervously about him, he entered the speak-easy.

“Hillman Parr!” whispered Farrell.

“Right,” assented Healy. Then, to the plainclothes men, “Alcide, you and Johnson cover the side door. Farrell, you follow me. All right, get set.”

They shifted their holsters, and loosened their pistols. The two plain-clothes men were tense, and ready to charge. Healy’s broad red face was set and scowling. He lifted his hat, wiped his forehead, jammed his hat firmly down to his ears.

“Look out you don’t pop old man Parr,” cautioned Healy. “But don’t take any chances on anyone else. Pour it to ’em first and question—”

A crash of glass and a yell interrupted his remark. The quartet leaped from concealment and dashed across the narrow street. As they crashed through the swinging doors, they saw the no longer drunken Bronson covering three men with a pistol that wavered no more than the muzzle of a siege gun.

“Don’t shoot!” quavered Parr. But when Healy flashed his shield, Parr regained his courage.

“Gentlemen, this is an outrage,” he protested.

“Take those two birds away!” directed Healy, indicating Parr’s companions. And then, “Mr. Parr, I’d like to have you accompany us.”

“But I protest against this outrage!” exclaimed Parr. “These two men and I were meeting here on purely private business. I assure you—”

“Sorry. Mr. Parr,” replied Healy with courteous deference to the learned man’s substantial position in the city, “but we’ll need you as a material witness. Farrell, you and Mr. Parr take a cab and meet us at headquarters.”

“Okay,” assented Farrell. And before the collector could begin an address: “Mr. Parr, as far as I know, no Federal men are interested.”

Farrell smiled at Parr’s sigh of relief.

* * * *

The detectives had departed with their prisoners and were escorting them toward Chartres Street, where the squad car was parked. Farrell and Parr were waiting at the curbing near the side door of the speakeasy.

“Come to think of it,” remarked Farrell as he looked down the dark, narrow street, “there aren’t many cabs cruising along here. Maybe I’d better phone for one.”

Farrell stepped back into the speak-easy and glanced about him.

“That little guy left his package lying here in the mix-up,” said the proprietor, as Farrell stepped toward the phone booth.

Farrell picked up the parcel and tucked it under his arm.

“Parr must be up in the air, forgetting that precious bird,” he said to himself as he dropped a nickel into the coin box. “Main 7400—”

But the call was not completed. Farrell heard a suddenly stifled cry of alarm, then an agonized groan, and gasping. He drew his pistol, and dashed from the telephone booth toward the side entrance. Parr lay on the paving, groaning and clutching at his chest.

“Call an ambulance!” Farrell shouted as the proprietor, following him, stopped short as he saw the body lying on the paving. Farrell fired at the figure he saw disappearing into an entrance several doors down the dark side street.

As Farrell reached the entrance into which the fugitive had vanished, he heard a door slam and a latch click in the darkness. The assassin had blocked pursuit. Moreover. Parr’s remarks, if he could make any, would be worth more than anything that could be expected of blundering into the darkness. Farrell accordingly retraced his steps.

Parr’s pale face was grayish, and the bland, suave features were drawn with pain. A red foam flecked his lips.

“Do you know who stabbed you?” began Farrell as he knelt beside the dying man.

“Nuri…that peacock…”

The rest of his speech was unintelligible.

“Nuri?” repeated Farrell. “That his name? Nuri?”

Parr was incapable of speech; but he made a successful effort to nod.

“And curtains!” said Farrell a moment later. “Dead as Julius Caesar.”

Farrell stepped back into the speak-easy. The cardboard box was still lying where he had dropped it in his haste to run to the attack on the sidewalk. He seized the box, hefted it and noted that it was not empty.

“Phone police headquarters,” Farrell directed.

The proprietor complied. Farrell, pistol drawn, stood guard by the body, wondering when or if a hit and run assassin would emerge from the shadows to make a clean sweep.

* * * *

A squad car arrived before the ambulance. Two patrolmen were left to watch the body. Farrell accompanied the corporal back to headquarters, and went directly to Healy’s office.

“Give me the low-down,” began Healy as they took seats at his desk. “Every detail as closely as you can remember.” Farrell complied.

“And now,” resumed Healy, at the end of the recital, “give me your guesses. All of ’em. I don’t care how wild they are. Now what was the name Parr pronounced before he croaked?”

“Nuri.”

“Huh! Don’t make much sense,” remarked Healy.

“Man’s name in Arabic,” countered Farrell.

“More of those damned Turks!” interpolated Healy. “All right?”

“Parr was stabbed in the chest, so he had a chance to recognize his assailant. And he named him,” continued Farrell. “The box contained the peacock. I peeped on my way up here; and here’s the bird, on your desk.

“Either Nuri struck before he noticed that Parr didn’t have the box, or else he didn’t want the box. If it was just the box he wanted, he could have nailed Parr later, instead of striking right under our noses.

“We do know that two men did want the peacock, and met Parr to pick it up. You’ve got them. Somebody else—Nuri—wanted Parr’s hide, and he got it. Now dope it out.”

Healy glared at the silver bird on his desk.

“That damned hoodoo! I thought your line about devil worshippers was pure hooey, but if the devil isn’t messed up in this, I’m a monkey’s uncle!”

“Who tipped you off to make that raid?” asked Farrell.

“Anonymous. Couldn’t trace it. Said Parr was being shaken down by the same outfit that got Burnham. And—”

The entrance of a clerk cut further discussion of the call.

“Look at what we found in Parr’s inside coat pocket,” he said as he laid a sheet of paper on the desk.

“Hell’s bells!” exclaimed Healy, as he recognized the familiar red wax and its sinister signet. “That anonymous caller sure knew what he was talking about.” It was a short note:

Take the peacock to the River Café on Decatur Street at 8:30 and give it to Gordon and Rubenstein. Do not go in your own car but call a Liberty cab. Do not notify the police. Obey orders or follow Burnham.

“Boy, this is hot! We got ’em now—Rubenstein and Gordon are the guys we pinched. Nothin’ to do but hang ’em for knifing Burnham!” Healy shifted his cigar stump, leaned back in his chair, and beamed with satisfaction. Farrell, however, did not share his enthusiasm.

“Maybe, and maybe not,” he objected. “There’s still something fishy about this.”

“Fishy, hell!” exclaimed Healy. “And I’m going to put ’em over the hurdles myself and find out what all this peacock stuff is about!”

“See you in the morning, John,” said Farrell as he stepped to the door. “And never mind having me tailed. No one’s going to pop me off until after pay day!”

CHAPTER V

Inside the Peacock

Dubois, the clerk at the desk, greeted Farrell as he stepped from the elevator to the main floor of the Union Club, the morning following the death of Parr.

“A gentleman left a message for you about half an hour ago.”

“Thanks, Dubois,” acknowledged Farrell. He opened the envelope.

Good work, making arrangements to raise that money. Remember Burnham and Parr, and forget this nonsense about chasing us with machine guns.

The peacock-seal authenticated the message beyond any doubt. The brazen assurance of the enemy was shaking Farrell, despite his determination to fight it to a finish. The assassination of Burnham and Parr had savored of executions rather than murders. And this was the morning of the twenty-first. One hundred thousand by midnight or else—!

Before leaving New Orleans, Farrell stopped at police headquarters to get the overnight developments that had resulted from the arrest of Gordon and Rubenstein.

“Another souvenir for you,” Farrell replied to Healy’s greeting, and presented the morning’s reminder from the peacock.

“Hell’s hinges!” exclaimed Healy, as he read the note. “They are watching you closely. Are you paying off, or will you smoke ’em out?”

“So far, I’m still for shooting it out,” declared Farrell, “even though they’re wise to my plan. But what’s really eating at me is what’s happened to Lydia Wilson. She knows too much and they’re going to cut her throat, just on general principles.”

Farrell shook his head, bit the tip off a cigar, and sank into a chair.

“What did Gordon and Rubenstein have to say about Nuri?”

“A page full,” affirmed Healy. “But they’ve got the guts to claim they don’t know anything about those peacock notes! And that’s only half the rich story. They handed us a hot one about the peacock being stuffed full of pearls smuggled in from the other side. Said they were trying to get the pearls, and later, return the peacock to Parr. I ask you, ain’t that a hot one?”

“The devil you say!” exclaimed Farrell, sitting bolt upright and regarding Healy intently. “That ties in with my hunch on Parr, right from the start. Did you open the bird?”

“They opened it,” answered Healy. “Funny hocus-pocus work, twisting its neck, and feeling around for hidden catches and the like, and click! It split right in half—though looking at it, you couldn’t have seen a sign of a seam anywhere—”

“But the pearls?” persisted Farrell.

“Empty!” grunted Healy. “What did you expect?”

“Wait a minute!” countered Farrell. “Maybe there was something in it. Parr was squirming like he had worms, the minute I got him believing I read the inscription. You see, it may be the combination for opening the peacock. Get it?”

“Uh-uh…maybe,” admitted Healy. “But where’n hell’s the pearls? They couldn’t have been taken at any time after Parr stepped out of the taxi, in front of the River Cafe, and you didn’t snitch them on your way to headquarters.”

Farrell smiled.

“I might have, if I’d known how to open the damned bird. But that the pearls weren’t in it when Gordon & Company opened it doesn’t prove there never were any.

“It’s a cinch Gordon and Rubinstein didn’t keep that engagement just for their health. They believed it contained something they wanted. And then the unknown Mr. Nuri kills Parr the minute my back is turned. If he had wanted the peacock, he could have waylaid Parr on his way home, but Nuri didn’t want the peacock, because he knew it was empty. Parr was killed to keep him from talking to the police.”

“Yeah, that’s reasonable,” agreed Healy. “But what of it? What’s that got to do with killing Burnham, and shaking you down for a hundred grand?”

“That,” declared Farrell, “means that Nuri is higher up in this crew than Rubenstein and Gordon. Nuri is the guy that pulled the strings. Get him and you’ll know something. By the way, where did Gordon and his buddy say Nuri hung out?”

“They didn’t know for sure,” replied Healy. “But they suspected it was at a Syrian restaurant on Decatur Street, not far from the River Café. Aswad’s place, they called it, whatever kind of name that is.”

“Better and better!” exulted Farrell. “Did you raid the joint?”

“Yeah, and drew a blank. All blanks!” growled Healy from the right of his cigar. Then he gave a detailed account of Aswad’s restaurant, patronized by Syrians and Armenians, for the sake of its native cooking, served on the ground floor, and the highly alcoholic ’araki served upstairs.

“These winding passages in back of the main room wouldn’t fool anyone. We just had to break down a few doors, and even at that, the poor saps didn’t get all their liquor ditched.”

Farrell pondered for a moment, and regarded his cigar ash.

“That peacock gang,” he finally remarked, “know all about me arming my boat. And with what you’ve just told me, I’m going to spring a surprise they won’t have time to dope out.”

“I’ll go to Pass Christian tonight, to establish my presence. After dark, I’ll run my boat into the Gulf and come ashore at Waveland in a canoe. You pick me up there and drive me back to New Orleans, and I’ll start the show.”

Healy frowned, and scratched his head.

“Where’s the surprise?” he demanded.

“I’m going to Aswad’s disguised as a native,” replied Farrell, “and while they are hunting me all over New Orleans or Pass Christian to knife me for not paying off, I’ll be in the safest place in the world: right in their own hangout. You pick me up half an hour after sunset, right where the road leaves the seawall.”

CHAPTER VI

Yezidee Den

Shortly before sunset, Farrell cruised about in the neighborhood of Cat Island. After tossing empty oil cans overboard, he turned the wheel over to old Isaac, then with bursts of machine gun fire riddled them. But as the sun approached the horizon, Farrell abandoned his target practice and set to work with a razor. A few strokes removed his moustache. With tweezers he began shaping his eyebrows until they rose from a thin line to decided points at the middle.

As they headed out toward Waveland, Farrell stained his entire body.

“Not bad, not half bad,” he commented, as he regarded his make-up in the mirror. “Now for the last touch.”

Farrell’s four front teeth matched their mates perfectly. His dentist had been a master of his profession, and had fashioned a removable bridge that was a work of art. Farrell plucked the platinum anchors between thumb and forefingers, removed the bridge, and for a moment considered the craftsmanship which so neatly camouflaged a gap left by a pistol butt in the course of a heated argument in Mexico.

“Isaac,” he pronounced painstakingly, “take these teeth and put ’em in my dresser. And now unlash that canoe. I’m going over the side. You’d better leave the house and spend the next few days with friends. Lay low until I come back. Understand?”

“Yassah. Mistah Glenn. Yo’all’s takin’ a trip fo’ yo’ health an’ ain’t nobody s’posed to know,” replied the old negro with a knowing grin.

Whereupon Farrell went over the side and into the canoe. As he paddled toward Waveland, Isaac started up the motors and headed back toward the pier at Pass Christian.

Farrell, when he came within wading depth of the breakwater that lines the coast for miles, set the canoe adrift and started ashore. A glance at his watch assured him that he had timed his maneuvers so that Healy, if he was on time, would pass within a few minutes.

His machine gun practice, Farrell reflected as he seated himself on the breakwater, should have given any observers the impression that he was determined to shoot it out. At all events, they would scarcely expect to find him in their midst, and disguise, being a matter of gesture and mannerism rather than striking external changes, did not particularly worry Farrell.

A car was approaching the turn in the road that leads at right angles away from the breakwater.

“Hi, buddy, give me a lift!” Farrell hailed, jerking his thumb.

“I’m stopping at Waveland,” said the man at the wheel as he slowed down and glanced about him. The driver was John Healy.

“That’s all right,” countered Farrell. “Gimme a lift that far. Been hiking all day. Ain’t et since yester-day.”

Healy tossed him a quarter.

“Get yourself some grub and beat it!” he growled.

“Thanks, John, but I’d rather ride,” insisted Farrell.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Healy. “That ought to fool them.”

“It’d better,” said Farrell as he stepped into the car. “My hide if it doesn’t.”

* * * *

As they cleared Waveland, Farrell continued, “Aswad’s has to be the right place. That raid of yours was too easy. They serve liquor on the ground floor. Why bother with that back room? There’s a chance that your raid last night carried you through a maze of passages and into the building next door.”

“That’s possible!” admitted Healy.

As they drove toward New Orleans, Farrell continued his argument.

“Another thing I checked up with the Public Service, just before I left town this afternoon. I found out there’s been a sudden increase in the amount of power they use at Aswad’s—something behind the scenes. Meter spinning like a top, and hardly any lights burning in front. Get it?

“And finally, Aswad’s is the only low class Syrian joint in town. In other words, the only place a gang like that could use as a front. Any place else they’d be too conspicuous, coming and going.”

As they drove into New Orleans, and drew up along the curbing of upper Magazine Street, Farrell concluded the outline of his plans.

“You cover the joint from the outside, but don’t try to crash it until I start the circus. They’re likely to cut that girl’s throat at the first sign of trouble. She knows too much. Camp on the job. I may be in there a couple of days.”

“Hell’s fire, you may be there a lot longer,” was Healy’s pessimistic farewell as he grasped Farrell’s hand. “But here’s luck.”

Farrell watched the tail light of Healy’s car disappear around the corner. Then he inspected his pistol, and shifted into a handier position the sheaths of the pair of long bladed knives at his belt. They were similar in design to those that had stabbed Burnham.

Half an hour’s brisk walk brought Farrell to Canal Street, beyond whose bright lights lay the black shadows of Decatur Street, and the French Quarter.

Aswad’s place, less than half a block from the River Café, was in the blackest of shadows cast by the warehouses across the street. It was on the ground floor of an old, dilapidated stone building. The one on its right had been recently razed.

Farrell entered and took his place at a vacant table.

The air was dense with the fumes of half a dozen gurgling, bubbling water-pipes the Syrian hangers-on were smoking. Backgammon and pinochle games were in progress. The players chattered and gesticulated with an enthusiasm entirely in contradiction of home-grown ideas on Oriental poise.

Farrell called for coffee and a water-pipe, slouched back in his chair, and gazed about. At the rear of the dining room were two doors. One led to the lavatory. The other, presumably led to the back room which Healy’s men had vainly raided.

Half an hour passed.

Aswad’s place was grimy, dingy, greasy—but so far, it showed no sign of the sinister habitués that Farrell expected to encounter. His arrival had been scarcely noticed, just another stranger seeking a pipe and coffee, and an evening of idleness.

“Ya Aswad! Shewayya ’araki!” roared a burly, ruddy faced fellow at Farrell’s right, indicating with a gesture that all at his table were to be served with more of the fiery liquor whose milky dregs still clouded their glasses.

“Sell liquor openly enough,” reflected Farrell. “That supposed drinking room on the second floor must be a plant to side-track raiding parties looking for something else—peacocks, for instance. And sooner or later, someone will go in or out of that door to the right of the lavatory.”

Farrell settled down to maintain a close watch on the unused door. He ordered more coffee, and called for fresh charcoal to complete the burning of the tobacco that was still in his pipe. He picked up and glanced at an Arabic newspaper lying on a vacant table.

The sudden lull in the chatter of the natives startled Farrell. He glanced about and saw a newcomer stalk majestically across the room, and pause to greet the proprietor, oily, hook-nosed Aswad.

“Business is picking up!” was Farrell’s thought. “That lad’s no Syrian merchant or Armenian pedlar. Looks like a Kurd and talks like one.”

The proprietor paid his respectful compliments. The Kurd bowed, acknowledged the salutations of several of the patrons, then stalked toward the door.

Farrell forced himself to continue drawing languidly at the mouthpiece of his pipe. He called for more coffee. As it was being served, he remarked, “I am a Kurd, and a stranger.”

Then he paused and made a quick gesture with his left hand, and a sign with his fingers.

“Do you know if any of the brethren will recognize me?”

The proprietor’s eyebrows rose.

“Allah alone is wise, all-knowing,” he evaded as his eyes shifted for a passing glance at the door.

Farrell realized that his conclusions were far from certainty. In the last analysis he would have to trust to American bluff with Oriental trimmings. And entering whatever rooms lay beyond the door might be very much easier than leaving them.

Farrell drank his coffee, rose, and approached the door. He tapped. He felt that every eye in the dining room was regarding him. The chattering of the players ceased, and the pipes no longer bubbled and gurgled. The door opened. As Farrell stepped into the dimly illuminated cubicle, a figure emerged from the shadows and challenged him.

“A slave of the peacock and a servant of the fire,” he replied in Arabic.

The guardian, whose features Farrell could barely distinguish, muttered a phrase of assent. The door behind Farrell closed; bolts clicked into place; and before he could gain a clear picture of the cubicle, the lights flashed out, leaving him in absolute darkness. A hand urged him to his left. Farrell heard a grating, sliding sound as of panels moving.

Then a switch clicked, and Farrell saw that he was in a passageway of brick. There was no sign of the maze that Healy had described. Farrell’s guide led the way up a flight of stairs.

The door at the head of the stairs opened to admit them. His guide stepped aside, leaving Farrell to confront a bulky, pock-marked man who sat at a desk which commanded the entrance to what seemed to be an anteroom. Again Farrell heard a lock click, and a bolt slide home behind him, but he returned the unwavering scrutiny of the swarthy, unpleasant features of the inner guardian.

Finally the man at the desk addressed Farrell in Arabic.

“Whom do you seek?”

“The Master, and the keeper of the Silver Peacock,” replied Farrell as he repeated the gesture with which he had accosted Aswad, the proprietor of the restaurant. Then he continued, quoting, “God created of fire seven bright spirits, even as a man lights seven tapers one after another; and the chief of these was Malik Tawus, to whom—”

“No good!” snapped the man at the desk, interrupting with a peremptory gesture Farrell’s quotation from the Yezidee’s Al Yalvah. “You’re in the wrong place.”

The speech was equivocal: it might either signify that Farrell had not yet satisfactorily established his identity as a servant of the Peacock, or, what increased his peril, that he was not in a rendezvous of Yezidees.

Retreat was impossible, unless Farrell leaped to the doorkeeper’s desk and plunged through the fanlight in the wall behind it. Farrell advanced a pace. He heard the whirr of a buzzer. After an interval of a few seconds came an answering buzzer-note.

“Tell Hassan about it,” directed the man at the desk, indicating with a gesture the opening that was revealed by the sliding aside of a panel.

Farrell stepped across the threshold and into the sultry glare of a great bronze lamp that hung from the ceiling. He glanced about him and saw along the walls a dozen men sitting cross legged on the floor. Their features were as devoid of animation as though they were in a trance. They were dressed in the tropical worsteds worn at that season in New Orleans, which, with their alien features and posture was an incongruity that was heightened by the white turban and kaftan worn by the old man who sat on a cushioned platform at the further end of the room. Farrell advanced along the narrow carpet that led from the entrance to the dais of Hassan, the master of the show.

“I heard your recital to Zayd,” began the old man with disconcerting abruptness as Farrell halted. “You have made a serious error in coming here. Our interest in peacocks is not what you think. We are not Yezidees.”

Hassan’s eyes regarded Farrell with feline fierceness.

Farrell knew then that his peril was acute. An impostor who ventures into a sanctuary of the Yezidees does so at the risk of his life; but it is equally dangerous for a Yezidee to mingle with fanatic Moslems. Hassan’s smile as he stroked his beard was no omen of a happy ending.

“Prolonged of Life,” said Farrell with a nonchalance that he achieved with considerable effort, “Since I am intruding, give me your blessing and I will leave.”

But Hassan gave neither his blessing nor his consent, which according to Oriental etiquette Farrell required before he might leave. Instead, Hassan spoke a single word, a fatal word that Farrell as a Yezidee could not ignore: Shaytan, the forbidden true name of Malik Tawus, the Lord Peacock, which no Yezidee might hear pronounced in his presence, and permit the speaker to live.

If Farrell did not strike, he would be branding himself as an impostor; and if he struck, those along the wall would overwhelm him. Farrell was neatly trapped by his own cleverness.

There was no retreat. He drew his knife. Hassan smiled. Despite his age, he radiated a consuming energy and fierceness.

“Steady!” he warned in a low, mocking voice, “they will kill you before you reach me.”

“No matter,” retorted Farrell, “you have pronounced the Forbidden Name.”

Farrell sensed that if he retreated from his stand, the end would be more disastrous than if he drove through to a finish. Those who sat along the wall had risen to their feet and drawn long, curved knives.

Hassan’s smile was whimsical, and sinister.

Farrell lunged full to the chest. Hassan chuckled as he recoiled before the impact. The blade snapped and tinkled to the floor. Hassan, it seemed, very prudently wore a shirt of chain mail beneath his white kaftan.

“And now that you’ve made a very fair attempt,” he purred, “can you let well enough alone, or must you attempt to tear me to pieces with your bare hands?” He gestured to his henchmen, who retreated. Then he resumed, “Suppose you forget your Lord Peacock. You have courage, although your wits are rather dull. You might have known that every silver peacock is not attended by priests from the Sinjar Hills.”

Hassan’s voice was now gently mocking, as though he were with exceptional broadmindedness letting a pagan peacock-worshipper live instead of having him cut to pieces.

“Now tell me what you’re doing here, blustering into this rather private place and quoting from a book whose very mention is enough to tempt any true Moslem to cut your throat?”

“The peacock,” improvised Farrell, “was stolen from Mount Lalesh. I heard, in one way and another, that it is here. And to assure my friends that it is in good hands—”

Farrell shrugged, and gestured. Hassan nodded and smiled.

“In this city,” he counseled, “the less you know of peacocks, the better. It is not here, and never was. Now, since you were so ready to stab an unarmed old man who had pronounced a forbidden word, I think that if we can settle our religious difference we might come to an understanding. Ay, wallah! Stab an unarmed old man—and in the face of a dozen armed retainers… Hmmmm…not bad…

“Who are you?”

Farrell started at the abrupt question that had popped at him from the old man’s musing.

“Ayyub the son of Yusuf,” he replied promptly, assuming a name that he had used, years ago, in his wanderings as a native.

“Very well, Ayyub bin Yusuf,” said Hassan, again stroking his white beard. “In spite of your outrageous beliefs, there is a place prepared for you in Paradise.”

Hassan’s smile was as ambiguous as his speech. Farrell’s glance shifted at the armed retainers along the wall. A dozen thirsty blades—place in Paradise, indeed!

Then a familiar memory began clamoring for recognition. Those staring eyes with their dilated pupils—

Hassan’s smile widened.

“La, billah!” he reassured as he noted Farrell’s side glance. “That’s not the road I had in mind. You still think that because you stabbed an unarmed old man, I am resentful. By no means, ya Ayyub! To the contrary.”

He extended his hand, palm up, toward Farrell.

“I hold Paradise in the hollow of my hand,” he said in his rich, sonorous Arabic. “Yea, even al-jannat. I am the keeper of the gateway. You have but to believe, and abandon your infidel heresies.”

An old familiar exhortation, and Farrell recollected those he had seen in Syria and Egypt who had dilated eyes that stared at sights and wonders that were not perceptible to the un-drugged. Hasheesh! The riddle was being resolved.

Farrell stared at the inscrutable eyes of Hassan, but could not guess whether the old man was leading up to some monstrous, fatal jest, or whether in his extravagant Oriental figures of speech he was seeking a recruit to his entourage of hasheesh addicts.

“And to convince you, you shall see the place that is prepared for true believers. A glimpse of its coolness and its fountains. I, even I, Hassan, am keeper of the gateway, and I will let you see for yourself.”

Farrell’s increasing interest was unfeigned. He concealed, however, his determination to plunge through to the end, and instead pretended to have doubts.

“While we believe in Muhammed, upon whom be the Peace, and in the One True God—whose name be exalted—it is not well to slight Malik Tawus, Lord of the World and all its evils! But, nevertheless…” Farrell paused, perplexed and indecisive.

Hassan’s smile became more assuring.

“Try and see, ya Ayyub…rich wine and the lovely brides of the garden, and coolness to the eyes. And if you still refuse, why, then, you refuse.”

“Done!” agreed Farrell. “Provided that no one pronounces the Forbidden Name in my presence, until—”

“I understand,” said Hassan. “That will be arranged. These stubborn Yezidees!”

Hassan clapped his hands.

“Ya Abbas!” he shouted.

A panel at the left of the dais opened and a tall negro entered.

“Ayyub is our new brother. Take him to the Gateway!”

* * * *

The negro led Farrell to a narrow, high ceiled reception hall along whose walls extended a low platform, about two feet wide and covered with rugs and cushions, on which half a dozen Syrian Arabs lay stretched out in a drugged stupor.

Abbas, the negro, returned presently with a tray of sweetmeats and a pitcher of wine. History was repeating itself: the fanatic Ismailian sect of Islam was blossoming out in New Orleans under the guidance of a master criminal. Farrell knew that he was expected to drink himself into a stupor; then, overcome by the hasheesh drugged wine, he would be carried into a synthetic paradise which to the distorted perceptions of an addict would seem real. After an interval in paradise, he would again be drugged, and upon awakening would find himself in the ante-room again, having supposedly returned from what might be called a week-end excursion to the Moslem paradise.

Then Hassan, if he had not in the meantime learned Farrell’s true identity, would give him a knife, and name a victim whose death would be the price of a return to the delights of the garden. For several centuries, during the Crusades, the Ismailians, or Assassins, as they were called, were the plague of Syria, Egypt, and Persia; and now, in modern guise, they were invading New Orleans to practice extortion from wealthy business men instead of from emirs and sultans as they had in the old days.

Farrell tasted the wine. It reeked with hasheesh. He knew not what eyes might be regarding him. Hassan’s ready acceptance might have been to submit him to the test of wits upset by drugs, and a will conquered by the hypnotic power of the infusion of hasheesh. Yet such a trap could not be evaded. Farrell therefore drained the pitcher without taking it from his lips; and as he gulped the drugged wine, he contemplated a trick that might in a measure counter-act the full effect of its insidious poison.

“Ya Abbas!” he yelled drunkenly as he set down the empty pitcher. “Shewayya khamr! More wine!”

He lurched and reeled about the room. Then he began singing bawdy songs in Turki. He tossed sweetmeats at his unconscious comrades, and finally sent the serving tray sailing against the wall.

Abbas came running.

“More wine!” demanded Farrell.

And more wine he received. He had already taken enough to drug two men, but he had drunk so rapidly that its effect had not enough time to develop.

“Hold on,” he muttered to himself as he gritted his teeth. “Can’t pass out! Got to stay safe and sane; one boner, and it’s lights out! And if she’s alive, she’s in that hell’s hole of a garden.”

Farrell shuddered at the possibility—worse, probability, that Lydia was in Hassan’s synthetic paradise, and at the mercy of Hassan’s drugged assassins.

He drank more. He reeled, staggered, and dropped into a corner. His actions would establish him as a Kurd gone mad with wine to which he was not accustomed.

“A bit of mustard and warm water would help,” he reflected. “And I’d give a thousand bucks for ten cents worth of syrup of ipecac…oh, hell, or even a feather…”

But Farrell’s improvised emetic worked famously. Neither his companions, even if their unconsciousness was feigned, nor watcher from the outside could have suspected the trick. He rose, relieved of his excessive draughts of wine, then, consistently, howled for more. He seized the pitcher that Abbas brought, tripped, fell flat, spilling the drugged wine over himself, the couch, and the floor.

“Good camouflage,” he said to himself. “Now fake passing out…damn it, hope I’ve not soaked up enough of the stuff to make it real.”

Farrell was alarmed; for he did feel the effect of the drug. His heart beat seemed very slow and heavy, with incredible pauses when it seemed to have stopped entirely. In the dim light he regarded his outstretched hand, still clutching at the pitcher. He marveled at the monstrous fingers. The room alternately contracted to the size of a match-box, and expanded to rival the dome of the Capitol. But despite these and other disturbing illusions, Farrell knew that he had established himself without having become soddenly drugged. And he understood how an ignorant, fanatical Moslem, passing from hasheesh illusions into sleep, and thence to an awakening in a synthetic paradise, could scarcely do other than believe that he had by special dispensation been translated alive to a true paradise.

CHAPTER VII

The Garden of Evil

While Farrell retained consciousness, his perception of time became as distorted as the fixtures of the room. Thus he did not have any idea of how much time had elapsed before someone turned a light full on his face, seized him, and carried him away. For a moment Farrell wondered if the sudden transition from the New Orleans humidity to the dim coolness into which he had been dropped was not, like the distortions of time and space, another illusion. He heard faint, sobbing music as from a great distance. He sensed that others were being carried into the coolness after him.

At times Farrell’s senses left him. He knew not whether the blank intervals had been five second or five hours, yet it seemed that his unconscious moments were fleeting. Someone was supporting his head and offering him a cold, sour drink that refreshed him and cleared his rambling wits and reeling senses. His head sank back upon a cushion before he could catch more than a glimpse of a gracious, feminine form disappearing around a cluster of broad leafed plantains.

Then Farrell saw stars twinkling in a blue vault above him. His mind was now clear enough to realize that the paradise into which he had been translated had an artificial dome and an efficient cooling system; but to Hassan’s thoroughly drugged followers the miniature celestial vault and the “coolness to the eyes” would be miraculous.

A fountain sprayed mistily in the neon-bluish twilight. The air was fragrant with the heavy sweetness of cape jasmine and the fumes of burning myrrh. Faint, wailing music and the purr of a tom-tom came from somewhere in the shadows. This fantastic reality, blending into the wild illusions of hasheesh intoxication would indeed seem to be an awakening in the Prophet’s paradise, al-jannat. Hassan had devised well.

Half a dozen or more Syrian girls with great languorous eyes emerged from the further end of the garden to greet Hassan’s guests. They approached with tinkling anklets and undulant, swaying pace as they sought their hasheesh muddled companions to revive them with chilled drinks and warm caresses.

Farrell seized the flagon a slender, black haired girl offered him, drained its pungent draft, then thrust her aside. He had not seen Lydia’s red-gold hair; he hoped, and he feared to find her in the den of illusion. Farrell clambered to his knees, rose, then splashed heavily into the fountain. She laughed and passed on to the next guest. He reeled dizzily about the dim court and past the rows of shrubbery that screened the further end of the garden. There he saw that the walls were pierced with low archways that led to small alcoves carpeted with rugs and strewn with cushions.

One alcove had an occupant. She lay on a silken rug. Her face was buried in a heap of cushions. Farrell’s heart stopped for a moment as he perceived that her hair was reddish, and that her arms were white. He shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Ya sitti,” he began in Arabic, for he dared not risk a word in English until he knew who she was.

She shivered and emerged from her cushions. Her laugh terrified Farrell more than the thirsty blades of the assassins. It was Lydia, exotically arrayed for the entertainment of the hasheesh drugged guests of the garden. Her fingers closed about the stem of a heavy goblet at her side. Farrell jerked his head aside but the glass struck him a glancing blow. He recovered and seized her in his arms.

“I’m Glenn Farrell,” he whispered into her ear. “Pull yourself together.”

She laughed hysterically.

“Glenn—”

He stopped her further utterance by laying his hand across her lips. The mention of his name would be fatal to them both, if pronounced audibly.

“Glenn Farrell,” he whispered. “Don’t you remember me?”

She regarded him, wide eyed and incredulous, then recognized him.

“Oh, they’ll kill you, those devils!”

“Not a word!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Pull yourself together.”

He heard the approaching footsteps of someone who paused from time to time as he advanced, apparently seeking someone or something. It was the firm tread of a sober man, not a hasheesh drugged assassin.

Hassan, perhaps, inspecting his synthetic paradise; death seeking an impostor.

“Kiss me!” he whispered. “Play it up, or we’re finished!”

And as her arms encircled him, he murmured extravagant endearments to her in Arabic, thankful that she could not understand the Oriental frankness.

Desperate love-making, indeed! Farrell had to ignore the approach of the visitor and carry on in his role of a recruit having his first glimpse of the luxury of the garden. But when the footsteps halted at the entrance of the alcove, Lydia screamed. Her mock embrace closed on Farrell in terror.

“Ah, you have finally accepted the attentions of the Brethren?” murmured a suave voice in English almost free of accent. “That is excellent—and prudent.”

Farrell extricated himself from Lydia’s arms and confronted the intruder.

The speaker continued his stare for a moment, smiled thinly, and passed on.

Farrell’s first glance had sufficed to identify Hassan’s second in command as the Kurd whose entrance into Aswad’s dining room had been greeted with such marked respect. A door closed, and a lock clicked as the Kurd left the garden.

“Who’s that bird?” whispered Farrell.

“Nuri,” replied Lydia.

“What?” gasped Farrell, though he had understood clearly. He had been right; perhaps fatally right.

“Nuri,” she repeated. “Oh, this terrible place. I don’t know what you must be thinking after I left you that night—”

“I know,” interrupted Farrell. “I exchanged a few shots and then chased them to the L.&N. crossing. Good Lord, I thought that train would smack you into the middle of next week!

“But who are Gordon and Rubenstein?”

“Oh, then you know—well, they were the agents I worked for in New York. They asked me to carry the peacock to New Orleans. Their story was plausible, and I asked no questions. I was badly in need of money and they paid well. They spoke of their partner, Nuri. And here I am in this terrible den. And those drunken beasts… Good Lord!”

Farrell began to see how the disjointed fragments would fit together. Nuri, Gordon, and Rubenstein, smuggling the peacock to Parr; and Nuri, one of Hassan’s assassins, had double crossed his partners.

“Tell me about this dump,” Farrell demanded, abandoning his speculations in favor of action. “How long do I stay here in this hop-head’s paradise?”

“They’ll bring in some drugged wine that lays the visitors out cold. And then that big negro drags them out. But what kind of an awful place is this?”

Farrell explained very briefly about the Ismailians of the time of the Crusades, and of the terror they had spread throughout the Near East with their extortion and assassination.

“And here we are,” he concluded with a wry smile, “in a modern version of the original hasheeshin heaven. This place must be artificially cooled. There must be air ducts leading from a refrigeration unit, and an exhaust line for stale air. We might work our way through the exhaust. Let’s go!”

Farrell took her by the hand.

“Pretend you’re looking for something,” he whispered.

He led the way, searching the garden and muttering in Arabic about a bracelet. He stopped at times to shake one of the brethren and demand the adornment. But they were too far gone in intoxication and too interested in their companions to pay any attention. Farrell continued his mutterings and went on, making a circuit of the wall.

“Look!” he finally exclaimed as he found the outlet and indicated a sheet metal lined shaft that pierced the wall of the garden. “I can crawl through! Just barely make it. You can go through easily. Go back to your alcove and see if you can find anything we can use to make a rope. Hurry, it’s our only chance!”

Farrell crawled into the ventilating shaft. Ahead of him, as he cleared a turn, he saw a barred window, and across the street, a light. He was on the third floor of the building. Below, on the second, was an iron railed balcony.

Farrell drew his remaining knife and set to work picking at the mortar of the bricks in which the bars were embedded. For a moment he thought of firing a shot to attract the patrol of detectives that Healy should have posted. But he would not be able to fight his way back through Hassan’s audience hall, through the ante room, and finally, through the barred doors that opened into the restaurant. With a rope, however, they could drop from the air shaft to the balcony, even though the latter was somewhat out of line.

A brick yielded to his attack.

Then he heard Lydia’s voice, low but anxious, calling him.

He backed out of the air shaft.

“Got a rope ready?” he demanded.

“You’ve got to leave,” she replied. “The negro is passing the knock-out drops. If you’re missing they’ll suspect.”

Farrell handed her the knife.

“Talk about breaks!” he growled, “Well, take this. If anyone recognizes me, I’m finished. So you get busy and work on the bars. Let yourself down the rope, and swing until you pass the balcony railing, then drop.”

He seized her in his arms and resumed his endearments in Arabic. The negro filled the glass that Farrell had picked up. Then, as the cupbearer made his way among the guests, Farrell poured the wine into the fountain. He watched his comrades so as to time his feigned unconsciousness to accord with their real stupor.

One lone survivor was still chanting drowsily. It was a bawdy song about the forty daughter of the sultan. And then he slumped in a heap.

Abbas dragged Farrell out of the garden. One by one he laid the brethren on the floor of the waiting room. Though feigning unconsciousness, Farrell finally fell into a troubled, nightmarish sleep.

* * * *

His drugged companions were stirring. He heard a murmur of voices from beyond the door that led into Hassan’s hall of audience. Then Nuri walked down the line, helping to their feet those who had freshly returned from Paradise. They steadied themselves and then filed after him into the audience hall, where Hassan sat on his dais, under the glare of the one great red lamp that glowed like a satanic moon in that firmament of hell.

One of the brethren stood before the dais, reporting to Hassan.

“We searched his house but he was not there.”

In spite of his peril, Farrell relished the irony of the situation indicated by this obvious discussion of him.

“What proof have you?” demanded Hassan as those returned from Paradise took their seats along the wall.

“Nothing important. Except—”

The speaker fumbled in his pocket.

“Except four teeth, mounted in gold, with hooks of silver.”

“Wallahi!” exclaimed Hassan. “When we hunt him, we’ll have to remember that his front teeth are missing.”

“He may have another set,” suggested Nuri. “According to the custom of some of these wealthy infidels. These may have been left to fool us.”

“True,” admitted Hassan. “But nevertheless he may have discarded his teeth as part of a disguise. We’ll hunt him right away! Habib! Suleiman! Musa!”

Three assassins advanced from the wall as their names were called. They would seek Farrell with daggers, as they had sought Burnham and Parr.

Farrell saw his chance. The grim humor of it appealed to him. He leaped to his feet.

“Ya sidi,” he exclaimed, “let me hunt the infidel!”

Hassan smiled.

“Well said, Ayyub. Your zeal does you credit. Take Habib’s place.”

It was too perfect to be true, walking out, cracking his two companions across the head with a pistol butt, then calling Healy and raiding the place. But before Farrell could derive much satisfaction from his fortunate stroke, Nuri interposed. Catlike, cunning, sinister Nuri, the predatory Kurd from the mountains.

“Master,” he said, “Ayyub is a recruit, and this is a perilous mission. He’d better wait for further training.” He paused. His smile was ominous and his eyes gleamed with menace as he continued, “Ayyub’s toothless smile seemed to please that red-haired wench who wouldn’t look at the rest of the boys. How much more he could please her if he had those splendid teeth, gold mounted and fit for a toothless king!”

Farrell saw at a glance that though he dropped a man with each shot of his automatic, the survivors would still suffice to overwhelm him and cut him to pieces. Then he heard Hassan’s voice of doom.

“Meestair Farrell, in spite of your stupid moments, you are clever. Mashallah! That was magnificent, seeking our hospitality, where you would be least of all expected, and then volunteering to be your own executioner. What a hasheeshin you would make,” he concluded with ungrudging admiration.

Then he clapped his hands. The impact sounded like a crash of thunder in the silence that had suddenly fallen over the assembly.

“Ya Abbas! Pen and ink!” Then, to Farrell, “I am sorry that we must accept such a low ransom. I would really prefer your services. If I could only convert you!

“But be pleased to sign an order for the sum we demanded.”

CHAPTER VIII

Gleaming Blades

Out of the corner of his eye Farrell saw the assassins gathering in a half circle that gleamed with blades. One word of command would send them forward, stabbing as they leaped. But Farrell knew that they would not strike until he had signed; perhaps not until the check had been cashed.

“Oh, very well,” said Farrell. “Doubtless I will sign. And I will pay as much again if you release the red-headed girl. The second payment to be made when she is safe and free. Fair, is it not?”

“Praise God for the red-headed girl,” said Hassan piously. “And I regret that we can’t let you live.” Farrell seated himself on the edge of the dais and began writing a check. He handed it to Hassan.

“Read, and see that I have not written a trap for your men.”

“You won’t trifle. Not when she is our security,” replied Hassan as he took the paper and beckoned to Nuri.

The security that the assassin gained from their numbers, and the recollection that Farrell had drawn a knife to punish Hassan’s use of the forbidden word, Shaytan, made them discount any possibility that he had other weapons.

As the two leaders glanced at the ransom check, Farrell drew his pistol and fired, not at the enemy, but at the great red globe that illuminated the room.

Nuri, though taken by surprise, drew and returned the fire. Farrell whirled and shot at the flash. He heard the Kurd drop. Hassan yelled an order. There was a click, and a grating, sliding sound.

In the darkness Farrell could just distinguish the white turban and white kaftan of the Master as he turned toward the panel that had opened in back of the dais. Hassan was retiring to give a clear field for the ring of blades that was closing in from all sides.

Farrell knew that he could not shoot his way out. But there was one resource left. He holstered his pistol and lunged toward Hassan, clutching him in his arms and halting his departure. Then he seized the chief assassin and pitched him headlong into the midst of his own killers, whose blades flickered in the trace of illumination that leaked in from the ante-room.

Despite the old man’s shirt of mail, his hasheesh crazed butchers would slash his throat or finally hack him to pieces in the darkness unless he dispersed them.

“Back, fools!” Hassan shrieked. “Back! It is I, the Master!”

And as they retreated in bewilderment, Farrell dashed straight ahead toward the thread of light that came in from the doorkeeper’s room.

But before Farrell had half reached his goal, the door of the outer room opened, admitting a flood of light. He saw that the assassins, obedient to Hassan’s yell of dismay as he landed in their midst, were retreating toward the walls. They stared, for a moment confused. Then Hassan’s cry urged them to the attack.

Zayd the doorkeeper barred Farrell’s exit. He leveled a pistol and fired. Farrell dropped flat as the weapon flashed, and from the floor returned the fire, catching Zayd full in the chest. But as Farrell regained his feet the assassins were closing in.

He emptied his pistol into the advance. The enemy fell back, riddled by the well directed fire. During that moment’s respite, Farrell saw that the fanlight in Zayd’s guardroom was not barred. He leaped to the desk, seized a chair, and swept the window clean a stroke. And as the assassins re-formed and charged, he cleared the window, dropping into the foundations and rubbish of a recently razed building.

Farrell picked himself up from the refuse, wondering by what fortune he was able to move. He saw a file of men with drawn pistols entering the ground floor of Aswad’s place. Healy was leading the raid.

“Hey, John!” he yelled. “Give me a gun and I’ll show you the way.”

Hobbling as best he could with his twisted ankle, he joined the attack.

By sheer weight they took the first two floors by assault. Then they charged into the audience hall. Foot by foot they fought their way down the room, clubbing and shooting. A squad of patrolmen joined the skirmish.

Farrell recognized Hassan, pistol in hand, rallying his assassins.

“Get that guy with the beard!” he shouted as he fired and missed.

Farrell’s pistol jammed before he could make good the error. But Healy’s .38 cracked as Hassan turned toward his private exit.

“Got him, by God!” grunted Healy “Now give ’em hell!”

The police drove through. The survivors were clubbed into submission. They found the garden empty of all save its dark eyed, richly adorned girls who due to the insulation of the walls, had not heard the disturbance.

“Be Jaysus!” muttered Healy as Farrell led the way into the dim coolness, “if this ain’t the flossiest dive I’ve ever seen!”

Farrell went directly to the air outlet.

“Lydia,” he called. “Come out. All clear.”

“Thank God,” they heard her say. Healy eyed the red-haired girl in her bedraggled costume, and wondered at the dagger in her hand.

“I pried enough bricks loose to clear two more bars,” she explained. “And I found enough odds and ends to make a rope.” Then, as she saw Healy lift his hat and rub his head. “Oh, did some of that mortar hit you?”

“It sure did,” said Healy with a grin. “So that was you, wig-wagging at me with a scarf after you beaned me. That wasn’t mortar, that was a brick!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” exclaimed Lydia. Then she laughed as she saw the twinkle in Healy’s blue eyes.

“So that’s how come you started the raid, eh, John?” asked Farrell.

“Yeah. No woman can toss bricks at me from the third floor and get away with it!”

“Well, I’ll take her into custody myself,” said Farrell as he took Lydia by the hand. “I’m the worse for wear, and my teeth are somewhere out in the battlefield.”

As Farrell and Lydia entered the audience hall, they heard a patrolman exclaim, “Jeez, what ritzy teeth!”

“Officer,” said Farrell, “let me try them on. If they’re not mine, they’re close enough a match to have nearly cost me my hide a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, with all your monkey work,” interpolated Healy, who had returned from the garden, “it took a red-headed girl heaving bricks to start the fireworks. Now where’s this fellow Nuri?”

“Here he is,” said Farrell. “Right where I plugged him.”

Healy stooped to examine the body that lay beside the dais.

“Peacock ring on his finger! That cinches it. We’ll hang every last man alive in this dump. Accessory before the fact.”

“And that lets Gordon and Rubenstein out of it, after all,” continued Healy. “Here’s the line-up. The day you gave Parr the peacock, Nuri told Gordon and Rubenstein to meet Parr at the River Café, saying he’d persuaded Parr to give it up. The seal this bozo’s wearing shows that he must have sent Parr that threatening note. And of course, he must have tipped us off to make the pinch.

“We went through Parr’s papers and found lots of dope on that holy peacock. That, and the story Gordon and Rubenstein put out cleared up most of the loose ends,” continued Healy. “Nuri called on Parr and removed the pearls before Parr could take the peacock to the River Café. The way he worked it was simple.

“Remember, that note ordered Pars to ride in a Liberty cab? That’s a new company that just opened up, so he had to ask information for the number. And the telephone is in back of the library, which gave Nuri plenty of time to pinch the pearls, and then snap the peacock closed again. He sent the shakedown note by messenger, and timed his own arrival so everything would click.

“Looks like Parr was the goat all around. The peacock was planted and so was the old manuscript. The idea was to sting Parr with the holy relic and later blackmail him for smuggling it into the country. He never knew anything about the pearls.

“Then when Nuri framed his partners he had to kill Parr, so he couldn’t squawk when Gordon and Rubenstein spilled their story after they were pinched. Naturally enough, nobody’d believe they weren’t mixed up in the Burnham killing, and so of course they’d take the rap.

“But now that I’ve spoken my piece,” concluded Healy, “supposing you open up with some of your monumental learning and tell me what kind of a dive this is.”

“I’ll tell you later,” countered Farrell. “As I said, I’m taking this young lady into custody for heaving a brick at you. Let’s go, Lydia.”

Then, as Farrell led the way to the street: “You’d better let me take you to the Delano, and wait until I can find you some suitable clothes. They have a private entrance there, and you’ll not have to pass through the lobby. Though that costume is becoming!”

“Oh, but you think of everything,” murmured Lydia. “Now do tell me what you were saying to me in Arabic, when Nuri came in.”

Farrell regarded the smiling green eyes for a moment, then nodded.

“I’ll do that—and you’d better like the translation!”