The Sins of Séverac Bablon

Sax Rohmer

• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN: 9781504075725
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

A modern-day Robin Hood outsmarts London's elite in this 1925 crime novel by the author of the Fu Manchu novels.

Jewish criminal mastermind Séverac Bablon is on a mission to combat the negative stereotypes of his people by blackmailing wealthy Jews into giving to charity. Like a modern-day Robin Hood, he steals in the name of the poor and outcast, inspiring philanthropy with the barrel of a gun.

As the rich go to greater and greater lengths to stop him, Bablon and his loyal followers always remain one step ahead. Even Scotland Yard's Chief Inspector Sheffield finds himself driven to the limit of his abilities. But Gleaner reporter Tom Sheard is there to catch every twist and turn . . .

Chapter I

To Introduce Mr. Julius Rohscheimer

“There’s half a score of your ancestral halls,” said Julius Rohscheimer, “that I could sell up tomorrow morning!”

Of the quartet that heard his words no two members seemed quite similarly impressed.

The pale face of Adeler, the great financier’s confidential secretary, expressed no emotion whatever. Sir Richard Haredale flashed contempt from his grey eyes—only to veil his scorn of the man’s vulgarity beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke. Tom Sheard, of the Gleaner, drew down a corner of his mouth and felt ashamed of the acquaintance. Denby, the music-hall comedian, softly whistled those bars of a popular ballad set to the words, “I stood in old Jerusalem.”

“Come along to Park Lane with me,” continued Rohscheimer, fixing his dull, prominent eyes upon Sheard, “and you’ll see more English nobility than you’d find inside the House of Lords!”

“What’s made him break out?” the comedian whispered, aside, to Adeler. For it was an open secret that this man, whose financial operations shook the thrones of monarchs, whose social fêtes were attended by the smartest people, was subject to outbursts of the kind which now saw him seated before a rapidly emptying magnum in a corner of the great restaurant. At such times he would frequent the promenades of music-halls, consorting with whom he found there, and would display the gross vulgarity of a Whitechapel pawnbroker or tenth-rate variety agent.

“S-sh!” replied the secretary. “A big coup! It is always so with him. Mr. Rohscheimer is over-wrought. I shall induce him to take a holiday.”

“Trip up the Jordan?” suggested Denby, with cheery rudeness.

The secretary’s drooping eyelids flickered significantly, but no other indication of resentment displayed itself upon that impassive face.

“A good Jew is proud of his race—and with reason!” he said quietly. “There are Jews and Jews.”

He turned, deferentially, to his employer—that great man having solicited his attention with the words, “Hark to him, Adeler!”

“I did not quite catch Mr. Sheard’s remark,” said Adeler.

“I merely invited Mr. Rohscheimer to observe the scene upon his right,” explained Sheard.

The others turned their eyes in that direction. Through a screen of palm leaves the rose-shaded table lights, sparkling silver, and snowy covers of the supper room were visible. Here a high-light gleamed upon a bare shoulder; there, a stalwart male back showed, blocked out in bold black upon the bright canvas. Waiters flitted noiselessly about. The drone of that vocal orchestra filled the place: the masculine conversation, the brass and woodwind—the sweeter tones of women, the violins; their laughter, tremolo passages.

“I’m observing it,” growled Rohscheimer. “Nobody in particular there.”

“There is comfort, luxury, there,” said Sheard.

The financier stared, uncomprehensively.

“Now look out yonder,” continued the other.

It was a different prospect whereto he directed their eyes.

The diminuendo of the Embankment lamps, the steely glitter of the waters beyond, the looming bulk of the bridge, the silhouette shape of the On monolith: these things lay below them, dimly to be seen from the brilliant room. Within was warmth, light, and gladness; without, a cold place of shadows, limned in the grey of discontent and the black of want and desolation.

“Every seat there,” continued Sheard, as the company gazed vaguely from the window, “has its burden of hopelessness and misery. Ranks of homeless wretches form up in the arch yonder, awaiting the arrival of the Salvation Army officials. Where, in the whole world, can misery in bulk be found thus side by side with all that wealth can procure?”

There was a brief silence. Sheard was on his hobby-horse, and there were few there disposed to follow him. The views of the Gleaner are not everybody’s money.

“What sort of gas are you handing us out?” asked Rohscheimer. “Those lazy scamps don’t deserve any comfort; they never worked to get it! The people here are moneyed people.”

“Just so!” interrupted Sheard, taking up the challenge with true Gleaner ardour. “Moneyed people! That’s the whole distinction in two words!”

“Well, then—what about it?”

“This—that if every guest now in the hotel would write a cheque for an amount representing I per cent, of his weekly income, every man, woman, and child under the arch yonder would be provided with board and lodging for the next six months!”

“Why do it?” demanded Rohscheimer, not unreasonably. “Why feed ’em up on idleness?”

“Their idleness may be compulsory,” replied Sheard. “Few would employ a starving man while a well-nourished one was available.”

“Cut the Socialist twaddle!” directed the other coarsely. “It gets on my nerves! You and your cheques! Who’d you make ’em payable to? Editor of the Gleaner?”

“I would suggest,” said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling, “to Séverac Bablon.”

“To who?” inquired Rohscheimer, with greater interest than grammar.

“Séverac Bablon,” said, Sheard, informatively, “the man who gave a hundred dollars to each of, the hands discharged from the Runek Mill, somewhere in Ontario. That’s whom you mean, isn’t it, Haredale?”

“Yes,” assented the latter. “I was reading about it to-day.”

“We had it in this morning,” continued Sheard. “Two thousand men.”

“Eh?” grunted Rohscheimer hoarsely.

“Two thousand men,” repeated Sheard. “Each of them received notes to the value of a hundred dollars on the morning after the mill closed down, and a card, ‘With the compliments of Séverac Bablon.’”

“Forty thousand pounds!” shouted the millionaire. “I don’t believe it!”

“It’s confirmed by Reuter to-night.”

“Then the man’s a madman!” pronounced Rohscheimer conclusively.

“Pity he doesn’t have a cut at London!” came Denby’s voice.

“Is it?” growled the previous speaker. “Don’t you believe it! A maniac like that would mean ruination for business if he was allowed to get away with it!”

“Ah, well!” yawned Sheard, standing up and glancing at his watch, “you may be right. Anyway, I’ve got a report to put in. I’m off!”

“Me, too!” said the financier thickly. “Come on, Haredale. We’re overdue at Park Lane! It’s time we were on view in Park Lane, Adeler!”

The tide of our narrative setting in that direction, it will be well if we, too, look in at the Rohscheimer establishment. We shall find ourselves in brilliant company.

Julius’s harshest critics were forced to concede that the house in Park Lane was a focus of all smart society. Yet smart society felt oddly ill at ease in the salon of Mrs. Julius Rohscheimer. Nobody knew whether the man to whom he might be talking at the moment were endeavouring to arrange a mortgage with Rohscheimer; whether the man’s wife had fallen in arrears with her interest—to the imminent peril of the family necklace; or whether the man had simply dropped in because others of his set did so, and because, being invited, he chanced to have nothing better to do.

These things did not add to the gaiety of the entertainments, but of their brilliancy there could be no possible doubt.

Jewish society was well represented, and neither at Streeter’s nor elsewhere could a finer display of diamonds be viewed than upon one of Mrs. Rohscheimer’s nights. The lady had enjoyed some reputation as a hostess before the demise of her first husband had led her to seek consolation in the arms (and in the cheque-book) of the financier. So the house in Park Lane was visited by the smartest people—to the mutual satisfaction of host and hostess.

“Where’s the Dook?” inquired the former, peering over a gilded balustrade at the throng below. They had entered, unseen, by a private stair.

“I understand,” replied Haredale, that the Duke is unfortunately indisposed.”

“Never turns up!” growled Rohscheimer.

“Never likely to!” was Haredale’s mental comment; but, his situation being a delicate one, he diplomatically replied, “We have certainly been unfortunate in that respect.”

Haredale—one of the best-known men in town—worked as few men work to bring the right people to the house in Park Lane (and to save his commission). This arrangement led Mr. Rohscheimer to rejoice exceedingly over his growing social circle, and made Haredale so ashamed of himself that, so he declared to an intimate friend, he had not looked in a mirror for nine months, but relied implicitly upon the good taste of his man.

“Come up and give me your opinion of the new waistcoats,” said Rohscheimer. “I don’t fancy my luck in ’em, personally.”

Following the financier to his dressing-room, Haredale, as a smart maid stood aside to let them pass, felt the girl’s hand slip a note into his own. Glancing at it, behind Rohscheimer’s back, he read: “Keep him away as much as ever you can.”

“She has spotted him!” he muttered; and, in his sympathy with the difficulties of poor Mrs. Rohscheimer’s position, he forgot, temporarily, the difficulties of his own.

“By the way,” said Rohscheimer, “did you bring along that late edition with the details of the Runek Mill business?”

“Yes,” said Haredale, producing it from his overcoat pocket.

“Just read it out, will you?” continued the other, “while I have a rub down.”

Haredale nodded, and, lighting a cigarette, sank into a deep arm-chair and read the following paragraph:

“A FAIRY GODMOTHER IN ONTARIO

“(From our Toronto Correspondent)

“The identity of the philanthropist who indemnified the ex-employees of the Runek Mill still remains a mystery. Beyond the fact that his name, real or assumed, is Séverac Bablon, nothing whatever is known regarding him. The business was recently acquired by J. J. Oppner, who will be remembered for his late gigantic operation on Wall Street, and the whole of the working staff received immediate notice to quit. No reason is assigned for this wholesale dismissal. But each of the 2,000 men thus suddenly thrown out of employment received at his home, in a plain envelope, stamped with the Three Rivers postmark, the sum of one hundred dollars, and a typed slip bearing the name,

‘Séverac Bablon.’ Mr. Oppner has been approached, but is very reticent upon the subject. There is a rumour circulating here to the effect that he himself is the donor. But I have been unable to obtain confirmation of this.”

“It wouldn’t be Oppner,” spluttered Rohscheimer, appearing, towel in hand. “He’s not such a fool! Sounds like one of these ‘Yellow’ fables to me.”

Haredale shrugged his shoulders, dropping the paper on the rug.

“A man at once wealthy and generous is an improbable, but not an impossible being,” he said.

Rohscheimer stared dully. There were times when he suspected Haredale of being studiously rude to him. He preserved a gloomy silence throughout the rest of the period occupied by his toilet, and in silence descended to the ballroom.

The throng was considerable, and the warmth oppressive at what time Mrs. Rohscheimer’s ball was in full swing. Scarcely anyone was dancing but the walls were well lined and the crush about the doors suggestive of a cup tie.

“Who’s that tall chap with the white hair?” inquired Rohscheimer from the palmy comer to which Haredale discreetly had conveyed him.

“That is the Comte de Noeue,” replied his informant; “a distinguished member of the French diplomatic corps.”

“We’re gettin’ on!” chuckled the millionaire. “He’s a good man to have, isn’t he, Haredale?”

“Highly respectable!” said the latter dryly.

“We don’t seem to get the dooks, and so on?”

“The older nobility is highly conservative!” explained Haredale evasively. “But Mrs. Rohscheimer...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• CONTENTS
• 1. TO INTRODUCE MR. JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER
• 2. “THIRTY MEN WHO WERE ALL ALIKE”
• 3. MIDNIGHT—AND THE MAN
• 4. THE HEAD OF CÆSAR
• 5. A MYSTIC HAND
• 6. THE SHADOW OF SÉVERAC BABLON
• 7. THE RING
• 8. IN THE DRESSING-ROOM
• 9. ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS
• 10. KIMBERLEY
• 11. MR SANRACK VISITS THE HOTEL ASTORIA
• 12. LOVE, LUCRE AND MR ALDEN
• 13. THE LISTENER
• 14. ZOE DREAMS
• 15. AT “THE CEDARS”
• 16. THE LAMP AND THE MASK
• 17. THE DAMASCUS CURTAIN
• 18. A WHITE ORCHID
• 19. THREE LETTERS
• 20. CLOSED DOORS
• 21. A CORNER IN MILLIONAIRES
• 22. THE TURKISH YATAGHAN
• 23. M. LEVI
• 24. “V-E-N-G-E-N-C-E”
• 25. AN OFFICIAL CALL
• 26. GRIMSDYKE
• 27. YELLOW CIGARETTES
• 28. AT THE PALACE—AND LATER
• Copyright