The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5670]
Clutching the side of his head, which throbbed and tingled as though from the blow of an open hand, Stuart struggled to his feet. There was smoke in the room, a smell of burning and of fusing metal. He glared at the table madly.
The mouthpiece of the telephone had vanished!
"My God!" he groaned again, and clutched at the back of the chair.
His dictionary was smouldering slowly. It had a neat round hole some three inches in diameter, bored completely through, cover to cover! The fire in the grate was flaring up the chimney!
He heard the purr of a motor in the lane beside the house. The room was laden with suffocating fumes. Stuart stood clutching the chair and striving to retain composure--sanity. The car moved out of the lane.
Someone was running towards the back gate of the house ... was scrambling over the hedge ... was racing across the lawn!
A man burst into the study. He was a man of somewhat heavy build, clean-shaven and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about his lips and jaw lent added vigour to a flexible but masterful mouth. His dark hair was tinged with grey, his dark eyes were brilliant with excitement. He was very smartly dressed and wore light tan gloves. He reeled suddenly, clutching at a chair for support.
"Quick! quick!" he cried--"the telephone! ... Ah!"
Just inside the window he stood, swaying and breathing rapidly, his gaze upon the instrument.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he cried--"what has happened, then!"
Stuart stared at the new-comer dazedly.
"Hell has been in my room!" he replied. "That's all!"
"Ah!" said the stranger--"again he eludes me! The telephone was the only chance. _Pas d'blaque!_ we are finished!"
He dropped into a chair, removed his light grey hat and began to dry his moist brow with a fine silk handkerchief. Stuart stared at him like a man who is stupefied. The room was still laden with strange fumes.
"_Blimey!_" remarked the new-comer, and his Whitechapel was as perfect as his Montmatre. He was looking at the decapitated telephone. "This is a knock-out!"
"Might I ask," said Stuart, endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, "where you came from?"
"From up a tree!" was the astonishing reply. "It was the only way to get over!"
"Up a tree!"
"Exactly. Yes, I was foolish. I am too heavy. But what could I do! We must begin all over again."
Stuart began to doubt his sanity. This was no ordinary man.
"Might I ask," he said, "who you are and what you are doing in my house?"
"Ah!" The stranger laughed merrily. "You wonder about me--I can see it. Permit me to present myself--Gaston Max, at your service!"
"Gaston Max!" Stuart glared at the speaker incredulously. "Gaston Max! Why, I conduct a _post mortem_ examination upon Gaston Max tomorrow, in order to learn if he was poisoned!"
"Do not trouble, doctor. That poor fellow is not Gaston Max and he was not poisoned. You may accept my word for it. I had the misfortune to strangle him."
PART II
STATEMENT OF GASTON MAX
I. THE DANCER OF MONTMARTRE
CHAPTER I
ZARA EL-KHALA
The following statement which I, Gaston Max, am drawing up in duplicate for the guidance of whoever may inherit the task of tracing "The Scorpion"--a task which I have begun--will be lodged--one copy at the Service de Surete in Paris, and the other copy with the Commissioner of Police, New Scotland Yard. As I apprehend that I may be assassinated at any time, I propose to put upon record all that I have learned concerning the series of murders which I believe to be traceable to a certain person. In the event of my death, my French colleagues will open the sealed packet containing this statement and the English Assistant Commissioner of the Special Branch responsible for international affairs will receive instructions to open that which I shall have lodged at Scotland Yard.
This