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Sax Rohmer

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Herausgeber: Endymion Press
Kategorie: Krimi
Sprache: Englisch
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The scenes of this story are laid in Egypt -- Abu-Tabah, the inscrutable Egyptian, who appears and disappears so mysteriously, is not so blood-curdling a villain as Fu Manchu, but his exploits possess the same breathless interest that characterized the activities of the yellow doctor. In the latter half of the book, notably in the story, "The Valley of the Sorceress," there is an element new in Rohmer's work -- that of the supernatural ...

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Leseprobe

TALES OF SECRET EGYPT

Sax Rohmer

ENDYMION PRESS

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Published by Endymion Press

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

ISBN: 9781531296452

PART I TALES OF ABÛ TABÂH

I THE YASHMAK OF PEARLS

II THE DEATH-RING OF SNEFERU

III THE LADY OF THE LATTICE

IV OMAR OF ISPÂHAN

V BREATH OF ALLAH

VI THE WHISPERING MUMMY

PART II OTHER TALES

I LORD OF THE JACKALS

II LURE OF SOULS

III THE SECRET OF ISMAIL

IV HARÛN PASHA

V IN THE VALLEY OF THE SORCERESS

VI POMEGRANATE FLOWER

PART I TALES OF ABÛ TABÂH

I THE YASHMAK OF PEARLS

THE DUHR, OR NOONDAY CALL to prayer, had just sounded from the minarets of the Mosques of Kalaûn and En-Nasîr, and I was idly noting the negligible effect of the adan upon the occupants of the neighboring shops—coppersmiths for the most part—when suddenly my errant attention became arrested.

A mendicant of unwholesome aspect crouched in the shadow of the narrow gateway at the entrance to the Sûk es-Saîgh, or gold and silver bazaar, having his one serviceable eye fixed in a malevolent stare upon something or someone immediately behind me.

It is part and parcel of my difficult profession to subdue all impulses and to think before acting. I sipped my coffee and selected a fresh cigarette from the silver box upon the rug beside me. In this interval I had decided that the one-eyed mendicant cherished in his bosom an implacable and murderous hatred for my genial friend, Ali Mohammed, the dealer in antiques; that he was unaware of my having divined his bloody secret; and that if I would profit by my accidental discovery, I must continue to feign complete ignorance of it.

Turning casually to Ali Mohammed, I was startled to observe the expression upon his usually immobile face: he was positively gray, and I thought I detected a faint rattling sound, apparently produced by his teeth; his eyes were set as if by hypnosis upon the uncleanly figure huddled in the shadow of the low gate.

“You are unwell, my friend,” I said.

Ali Mohammed shook his head feebly, removed his eyes by a palpable effort from the watcher in the gateway, but almost instantly reverted again to that fixed and terrified scrutiny.

“Not at all, Kernaby Pasha,” he chattered; “not in the least.”

He passed a hand rapidly over a brow wet with perspiration, and moistened his lips, which were correspondingly dry. I determined upon a diplomatic tour de force; I looked him squarely in the face.

“For some reason,” I said distinctly, “you are in deadly fear of the wall-eyed mendicant who is sitting by the gate of the Sûk es-Saîgh, O Ali Mohammed, my friend.”

I turned with assumed carelessness. The beggar of murderous appearance had vanished, and Ali Mohammed was slowly recovering his composure. I knew that I must act quickly, or he would deny with the urbane mendacity of the Egyptian all knowledge of the one-eyed one; therefore—

“Acquaint me with the reason of your apprehensions,” I said, at the same time offering him one of his own cigarettes; “it may be that I can assist you.”

A moment he hesitated, glancing doubtfully in the direction of the gate and back to my face; then—

“It is one of the people of Tîr,” he whispered, bending close to my ear; “of the evil ginn who are the creatures of Abû Tabâh.”

I was puzzled and expressed my doubt in words.

“Alas,” replied Ali Mohammed, “the Imám Abû Tabâh is neither a man nor an official; he is a magician.”

“Indeed! then you speak of one bearing the curious name of Abû Tabâh, who is at once the holder of a holy office and also one who has dealings with the ginn and the Efreets. This is strange, Ali Mohammed, my friend.”

“It is strange and terrible,” he whispered, “and I fear that my path is beset with pitfalls and slopeth down to desolation.” He pronounced the Takbîr, “Alláhu akbar!” and uttered the words “Hadeed! yá mashûm!” (Iron! thou unlucky!), a potent invocation, as the dread of that metal is well known. “There are things of which one may not speak,” he declared; “and this is one of them.”

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