by Sax Rohmer
“How are you, Fey?” said Petrie; “feeling better, I see. Let me help you up. I want you to drink this.”
Fey sat up and swallowed the contents of the glass which Petrie held to his lips. Looking about him in a dazed way, he began sniffing.
“Funnily enough,” he replied, “I feel practically all right. But I can still smell that awful stuff. Miss Fleurette?” He jumped to his feet, then sat down again. “She’s safe, sir? She’s safe?”
Fleurette had ceased to sing but could be heard moving about in the inner room.
“She’s in her room, Fey,” said Nayland Smith, shortly.
Fey’s glance wandered to the large clock on the mantelpiece:
“Good God! sir,” he muttered. “I’ve been asleep for two hours!”
“It’s not your fault, Fey,” replied Dr. Petrie. “We all understand. What we are anxious to hear is exactly what happened.”
“Yes, sir,” Fey replied. “I can understand that—” he paused, listening.
That lighthearted, sweet voice had reached him from the inner room. He glanced at Dr. Petrie:
“Miss Fleurette, sir?”
“Yes, Fey. But please go ahead with your story.”
“I’d just made up my menu, sir.” He glanced at Nayland Smith, who had begun restlessly to walk up and down the carpet. “I mean, I had worked out a little dinner which I thought would meet with your approval, and gone to the telephone in the lobby to talk to the chef down below. I was just about to take up the instrument when the door bell rang.”
“Stop, Fey,” snapped Nayland Smith. “Did you hear the lift gate open?”
“No, sir—of that I am positive.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m beginning to see light,” growled Gallaho.
“One moment Fey,” Nayland Smith interrupted; “this would be, I take it, some ten to twenty minutes after our departure?”
“Exactly, sir. I thought it might be one of the staff who had come up in the service lift which can’t be heard from here, or old Ibrahim, Mrs. Crossland’s butler—”
“You know this man, Ibrahim?” said Gallaho.
“Yes, sir. He’s an Egyptian. He’s traveled a lot, as I have. He’s a funny old chap; we sometimes have a yam together. Anyway, I opened the door.”
He paused. He was a man of orderly mind. He was obviously endeavoring to find words in which exactly to express what had occurred. He went on again.
“There was a tall man standing outside the door, sir. He wore an overcoat with the collar turned up, and a black felt hat with the brim pulled down. The only light in the lobby was the table lamp beside the telephone, so that I couldn’t make out his features.”
“How tall was this man?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“Well, unusually tall, sir. Taller than yourself.”
“I see.”
“He held what looked like a camera in his hand, and as I opened the door he just stood there, watching me.”
“‘Yes?’ I said.
“And then without moving his head, which he held down, so that I never had more than a glimpse of his features, he raised this thing and something puffed right out into my face.”
“Something?” growled Gallaho. “What sort of thing?”
“Vapor, sir, with a most awful smell of mimosa. It blinded me—it staggered me. I fell back into the lobby, gasping for breath. And the tall man followed me in. I collapsed on the carpet where you found me, I suppose. And I remember his bending over me.”
“Describe this man’s hands,” Nayland Smith directed.
“He wore gloves.”
“As he bent over you,” said Dr. Petrie, eagerly, “just before you became quite unconscious, did you form no impression of his features?”
“Yes, sir, I did. But I may have been dreaming. I thought it was the devil bending over me, sir. He had long, green eyes, that gleamed like emeralds.”
“We know, now,” said Sir Denis, continuing to walk up and down, “roughly what occurred. But I don’t understand... I don’t understand.”
Fleurette in the inner room sang a bar or two with the happy abandon of a child, and Fey glanced uneasily from Sir Denis to Dr. Petrie.
“What don’t you understand, Smith?” the latter asked, sadly.
“Either this deathless fiend, who is harder to kill than an earwig, has employed one of his unique drugs or he has hypnotically dominated Fleurette. Which ever is the true explanation, what is his purpose, Petrie?”
There came a moment of silence. Fleurette, ceasing to sing, might be heard moving about; then:
“I think I see what you mean, Smith,” Petrie replied, slowly. “He could have taken her away or he could have—”
“Exactly,” snapped Sir Denis. “Why has he left her... and in this condition?”
“Who are you talking about, sir?” growled Gallaho.
“Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“What! Do you really mean he has been here tonight?”
“Beyond any shadow of doubt.”
“But what for?”
“That’s what we are trying to work out, Gallaho.” Nayland Smith was the speaker. “Frankly, it has me beaten.”
“There’s one line of enquiry,” Gallaho replied, “which with your permission I propose to take up without delay.”
“What’s that?” Petrie asked.
“This tall lad, with the box of poison gas, according to the gentleman with all the medals downstairs, hasn’t come into Westminster Mansions tonight and hasn’t gone out. You say yourself, Fey—” he stared at the man, chewing vigorously—“that the lift wasn’t used? My conclusion is this, sir.” He turned to Nayland Smith: “Dr. Fu-Manchu is somewhere in this building.”
Smith glanced at Petrie.
“Go and take a look at her,” he said. “She’s been quiet for some time. I am very anxious.”
Petrie nodded, and went out.
“If the evidence of the watchman we interviewed tonight can be relied upon,” Sir Denis continued—“and personally, I have no doubt on the point—”
“Nor have I, sir.”
“Very well. All the men who were in that place called the Sailors’ Club at the time of the tragedy, escaped by some means we don’t know about. But, evidently, into a main sewer—”
“One seems to have been missing, sir!”
“Yes!—and I’m glad he is!” snapped Nayland Smith viciously. “The Burmese killer evidently met his end there. But that the tall man described by the witness is Dr. Fu-Manchu, personally I cannot doubt.”
“It certainly looks like it. But how did he get into this building? And where is he hiding?”
Dr. Petrie returned. His eyes were very sorrowful.
“Is she all right?”
He nodded.
“That yellow conjurer has got her under control,” he said between clenched teeth. “I know the symptoms. I have suffered them myself. God help us! What are we going to do?”
“What I’m going to do,” Gallaho growled, picking up his bowler from the armchair where he had thrown it, “is this: I am going to step along to Mrs. Crossland’s flat and have a serious chat with your friend—” he glanced at Fey—“Ibrahim.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
IBRAHIM
“I have never met Mrs. Crossland,” said Nayland Smith irritably, “nor her husband. One can live in a block of London flats for years and never know one’s neighbors. But I am acquainted with them by sight, and also with their Egyptian servant, Ibrahim.”
“What do you think of him, sir?” growled Gallaho.
“Perfectly normal, and probably very trustworthy. But it doesn’t follow that he hasn’t been for all his life a member of the Si-Fan.”
“This Si-Fan business, sir, is beyond me.”
“It has proved to be beyond me,” said Nayland Smith, shortly.
Gallaho gave voice to an idea.
“It must be very unpleasant,” he said, “to be the unknown husband of a well-known woman.”
They reached
the door of Mrs. Crossland’s flat. Gallaho pressed the bell.
An elderly Egyptian in native dress opened the door. He was a very good Arab type and a highly ornamental servant. He stared uncomprehendingly at Inspector Gallaho, and then bowed to Sir Denis.
“This is Mrs. Crossland’s flat, I believe?” said the detective.
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Crossland is abroad.”
“A crime has been committed in this building tonight,” Gallaho went on, in his threatening way, “and I want to ask you a few questions.”
The Egyptian did not give way; he stood squarely in the doorway. It was a type of situation which has defeated many a detective officer. Gallaho knew that his ankles were tied by red tape; that he dared not, if intrusion should prove to have been unjustified, cross the threshold against the will of the man who held it.
Nayland Smith solved the situation.
Stepping past Gallaho, he gently but firmly pushed the Egyptian back, and entered the lobby.
“There are questions I want to ask you, Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic, “and I wish my friend to be present.” He turned. “Come in, Gallaho.”
The lobby of Mrs. Crossland’s flat resembled the entrance to a harem. It was all müshrabîyeh work and perforated brass lanterns. There were chests of Damascus ware, and slender Persian rugs upon the polished floors. Ibrahim’s amiable face changed in expression; his dark eyes glared dangerously.
“You have no right to come into this place,” he said in English.
And Nayland Smith, noting that he spoke in English even in this moment of excitement, recognized an unusual character; for he had spoken in Arabic.
Gallaho entered behind Sir Denis. He knew that the latter was not trammeled as he was trammeled; that he was strong enough to trample upon regulations.
“Close the door, Gallaho,” snapped Sir Denis; and, turning to the Egyptian: “Lead the way in. I want to talk to you.”
Ibrahim’s expression changed again. He bowed, smiled, and indicating with an outstretched arm an apartment similar in shape to Nayland Smith’s sitting-room, led the way.
Gallaho and Sir Denis found themselves in an apartment queerly exotic. The bay window which in Smith’s room admitted waves of sunlight, here was obstructed by a müshrabîyeh screen. Dim light from shaded lanterns illuminated the place. It was all divans and brassware, rugs and cushions; a stage-setting of an Oriental interior. Mrs. Crossland’s reputation and financial success rested upon her inaccurate pictures of desert life; of the loves of sheiks and their Western mistresses.
Nayland Smith looked about him.
Ibrahim stood by the door leading into the room in an attitude of humility, eyes lowered. But Sir Denis had sized up the man and knew that the task before them was no easy one.
“You have a Chinese friend, O Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic—“a tall, distinguished Chinese friend.”
Nothing in Ibrahim’s attitude indicated that the words had startled him, but:
“I have no such Chinese friend, effendim,” he replied, persistently speaking in English.
“You belong to the Si-Fan.”
“I do not even know what you mean, effendim.”
“Tell me. You may as well speak now—” Sir Denis had abandoned Arabic—“since you will be compelled to speak later if necessary. How long have you been in the service of Mrs. Crossland?”
“For ten years, effendim.”
“And here, in this flat?”
“My lady and gentleman live here for five years.”
“I suggest that Mrs. Crossland or her husband has a tall, distinguished Chinese friend, who sometimes visits here.”
“I am not acquainted with such a person, effendim.”
Nayland Smith tugged at his ear, whilst Gallaho watched him anxiously. It was a situation of some delicacy; because, always, there was a possibility that they were wrong.
The sinister visitor with the camera-case might have been working from some other base.
“There are no other resident servants?”
“None, effendim.”
It was an impasse. Failing some more definite clue Nayland Smith recognized the fact that despite his contempt for red tape where a major case was concerned he could not possibly force this perfect servant to give him access to the other rooms of the apartment.
He stood there tugging at his ear, and staring from object to object. The very air was impregnated with pseudo Orientalism. It held a faint tang of ambergris. He wished, now, that Petrie had been with him; for Petrie sometimes had queer intuitions. But of course, it had been impossible to leave Fleurette alone.
He glanced at Gallaho.
The latter took the cue immediately, and:
“A mistake, sir, I suppose?” he growled; and to Ibrahim: “Sorry to have troubled you.”
They returned to the lobby: Gallaho had actually gone out into the corridor, when:
“This is a very fine piece, Ibrahim,” said Sir Denis.
He stood before an Egyptian sarcophagus half hidden in a recess.
“So I am told, effendim.”
“Has Mrs. Crossland had it long?”
“No, effendim.” At last, the Egyptian’s deadly calm was disturbed. “It was bought by Mr. Crossland in Egypt, recently. It was delivered less than a week ago.”
“Beautiful example of late eighteenth,” murmured Nayland Smith. “Shipped through to London, I suppose?”
“Yes, effendim.”
They were bowed out by the Egyptian. The door was closed.
“Call to the Yard the moment we reach my flat!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Have this entire block covered.”
“Very good, sir. I was thinking the same thing.”
“We weren’t wrong—but our hands are tied.”
“My idea exactly, sir.”
Fey opened the door in response to their ring.
“How is Miss Petrie?” Nayland Smith challenged.
“The doctor is with her, sir.”
They went in and Gallaho took up the telephone. Sir Denis walked on into the sitting-room, pacing the carpet restlessly.
Gallaho’s gruff voice could be heard as he spoke to someone at Scotland Yard. Presently, Dr. Petrie came in. He shook his head.
“No change, Smith,” he reported. “She declines to leave her room. She is packing, methodically, but refuses all assistance. The idea has been implanted upon her mind that a call to leave here is coming shortly. God help us if we can’t find the man who imposed that thing upon her!”
“What would it mean?” snapped Smith.
“It would mean, I fear, that she would remain in this condition to the end of her life.”
“The poisonous swine! He is very powerful!”
“He has the greatest brain in the world today, Smith.”
Gallaho completed his directions at the telephone and came into the room. All idea of dinner had been brushed from their minds. There was a moment of awkward silence. Sounds of faint movement reached them: Fleurette was still engaged in her packing.
Then, the telephone bell rang.
There was something in this call coming at that moment which seemed to possess a special significance. All three waited. All three listened to Fey’s voice, out in the lobby.
And presently, Fey came in.
He had quite recovered his normal self. There was nothing in his appearance or in his behavior to suggest that he had passed through an amazing ordeal. He bowed slightly to Dr. Petrie.
“Someone wishes to speak to you, sir.”
“What name?”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu was the name, sir.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
A CALL FOR PETRIE
As Petrie crossed the lobby, Nayland Smith turned to Gallaho. “Do you realize, Inspector,” he said, “that the greatest menace to the peace of the world who has come on earth since the days of Attila the Hun, is at the other end of that line?”
“I am beginning to realize that what you say about this man is true, sir,” Gall
aho replied. “But I think we can trace him by this call.”
“Wait and see.”
He kept glancing towards the door which communicated with Fleurette’s room. There was silence there. He wondered what she was doing. In this, perhaps, the incomprehensible plan of Dr. Fu-Manchu reached its culmination. Nayland Smith walked to the lobby door and listened to Petrie’s words.
These did not help him much, consisting principally of “yes” and “no.” At last, Petrie replaced the receiver, stood up, and faced Smith.
His features were very drawn. Smith recognized how the last year had aged him.
“What am I to do?” he said, speaking almost in a whisper. “What am I to do?”
“Come in here,” said Sir Denis quickly. “Gallaho wants to use the line.”
Gallaho sprang to the telephone as Dr. Petrie and Nayland Smith walked into the sitting-room. They faced one another, and:
“What are his terms?” said Smith.
Petrie nodded.
“I knew you would understand.”
He dropped into an armchair and stared straight before him into the embers of the open fire.
“He wants something,” Nayland Smith went on, evenly, “and he demands acceptance of his terms, or—” he pointed in the direction of the door beyond which Fleurette’s room lay...
Petrie nodded again.
“What am I to do? What am I to do?”
“Give me the facts. Perhaps I can help you.”
“It was Dr. Fu-Manchu at the end of the line,” said Petrie, in a monotonous voice. “Any doubts I may have had, disappeared the moment I heard that peculiar intonation. He apologized for troubling me; his courtesy never fails except in moments of madness—”
“I agree,” murmured Nayland Smith.
“He admitted, Smith, that you had made things pretty warm for him, assisted by the English and French police. Access to agents of the Si-Fan in England was denied to him—his financial resources were cut off. Of this he spoke frankly.”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu is always frank,” said Smith, drily.
“Finally, he reached the point at which he had been aiming. He regretted that it had been necessary to make a clandestine call at this apartment; but Fleurette, the woman he had chosen for his bride,” (Petrie spoke in almost a monotone) “had been torn from him. Matters of even greater urgency demanded...”