Dope, Sax Rohmer [good books to read for adults txt] 📗

chandu cigarettes,” she said, speaking in a low tone which, nevertheless, failed to disguise her harsh voice, and with a very marked accent.

“I am the offender, dear Lola,” said Kilfane, dreamily waving his cigarette towards her. “I have managed to make the last hundred spin out. You have brought me a new supply?”

“Oh no, indeed,” replied Mrs. Sin, tossing her head in a manner oddly reminiscent of a once famous Spanish dancer. “Next Tuesday you get some more. Ah! it is no good! You talk and talk and it cannot alter anything. Until they come I cannot give them to you.”

“But it appears to me,” murmured Kilfane, “that the supply is always growing less.”

“Of course. The best goes all to Edinburgh now. I have only three sticks of Yezd left of all my stock.”

“But the cigarettes.”

“Are from Buenos Ayres? Yes. But Buenos Ayres must get the opium before we get the cigarettes, eh? Five cases come to London on Tuesday, Cy. Be of good courage, my dear.”

She patted the sallow cheek of the American with her jewelled fingers, and turned aside, glancing about her.

“Yes,” murmured Kilfane. “We are all present, Lola. I have had the room prepared. Come, my children, let us enter the poppy portico.”

He opened a door and stood aside, waving one thin yellow hand between the first two fingers of which smouldered the drugged cigarette. Led by Mrs. Sin the company filed into an apartment evidently intended for a drawing-room, but which had been hastily transformed into an opium divan.

Tables, chairs, and other items of furniture had been stacked against one of the walls and the floor spread with rugs, skins, and numerous silk cushions. A gas fire was alight, but before it had been placed an ornate Japanese screen whereon birds of dazzling plumage hovered amid the leaves of gilded palm trees. In the centre of the room stood a small card-table, and upon it were a large brass tray and an ivory pedestal exquisitely carved in the form of a nude figure having one arm upraised. The figure supported a lamp, the light of which was subdued by a barrel-shaped shade of Chinese workmanship.

Mollie Gretna giggled hysterically.

“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” she cried to Rita, dropping down upon a heap of cushions stacked in a recess beside the fireplace. “I am going to take off my shoes. The last time, Cyrus, when I woke up my feet were quite numb.”

“You should come down to my place,” said Mrs. Sin, setting the leather case on the little card-table beside the lamp. “You have there your own little room and silken sheets to lie in, and it is quiet—so quiet.”

“Oh!” cried Mollie Gretna, “I must come! But I daren't go alone. Will you come with me, dear?” turning to Rita.

“I don't know,” was the reply. “I may not like opium.”

“But if you do—and I know you will?”

“Why,” said Rita, glancing rapidly at Pyne, “I suppose it would be a novel experience.”

“Let me arrange it for you,” came the harsh voice of Mrs. Sin. “Lucy will drive you both down—won't you, my dear?” The shadowed eyes glanced aside at Sir Lucien Pyne.

“Certainly,” he replied. “I am always at the ladies' service.”

Rita Dresden settled herself luxuriously into a nest of silk and fur in another corner of the room, regarding the baronet coquettishly through her half-lowered lashes.

“I won't go unless it is my party, Lucy,” she said. “You must let me pay.”

“A detail,” murmured Pyne, crossing and standing beside her.

Interest now became centred upon the preparations being made by Mrs. Sin. From the attache case she took out a lacquered box, silken-lined like a jewel-casket. It contained four singular-looking pipes, the parts of which she began to fit together. The first and largest of these had a thick bamboo stem, an amber mouthpiece, and a tiny, disproportionate bowl of brass. The second was much smaller and was of some dark, highly-polished wood, mounted with silver conceived in an ornate Chinese design representing a long-tailed lizard. The mouthpiece was of jade. The third and fourth pipes were yet smaller, a perfectly matched pair in figured ivory of exquisite workmanship, delicately gold-mounted.

“These for the ladies,” said Mrs. Sin, holding up the pair. “You”—glancing at Kilfane—“have got your own pipe, I know.”

She laid them upon the tray, and now took out of the case a little copper lamp, a smaller lacquered box and a silver spatula, her jewelled fingers handling the queer implements with a familiarity bred of habit.

“What a strange woman!” whispered Rita to Pyne. “Is she an oriental?”

“Cuban-Jewess,” he replied in a low voice.

Mrs. Sin carefully lighted the lamp, which burned with a short, bluish flame, and, opening the lacquered box, she dipped the spatula into the thick gummy substance which it contained and twisted the little instrument round and round between her fingers, presently withdrawing it with a globule of chandu, about the size of a bean, adhering to the end. She glanced aside at Kilfane.

“Chinese way, eh?” she said.

She began to twirl the prepared opium above the flame of the lamp. From it a slight, sickly smelling vapor arose. No one spoke, but all watched her closely; and Rita was conscious of a growing, pleasurable excitement. When by evaporation the chandu had become reduced to the size of a small pea, and a vague spirituous blue flame began to dance round the end of the spatula, Mrs. Sin pressed it adroitly into the tiny bowl of one of the ivory pipes, having first held the bowl inverted for a moment over the lamp. She turned to Rita.

“The guest of the evening,” she said. “Do not be afraid. Inhale—oh, so gentle—and blow the smoke from the nostrils. You know how to smoke?”

“The same as a cigarette?” asked Rita excitedly, as Mrs. Sin bent over her.

“The same, but very, very gentle.”

Rita took the pipe and raised the mouthpiece to the lips.