by Sax Rohmer
“Go easy, Mr. Kerrigan,” he spluttered. “Gee! What’s doing?”
“Quick! it’s important, sergeant! Did someone come out just ahead of me?”
“Come out? No, sir. I’ll say someone goes in! I wake up — oh. I’m asleep all right — and I get a hunch there’s another door to these apartments. Seems to be kind of something doing along here. I move right away. I see the door shut just as I step up to it. Then it opens again and you come out like the Gestapo’s after you.”
“But you are sure” — I grasped his arm— “that the door opened before I opened it?”
He resumed chewing, regarding me stolidly.
“That goes in my report Mr. Kerrigan.”
“Thank God!” I whispered. “Because, you see, Sergeant Rorke, no one came in. I was just behind the door. And you know that no one came out!”
“Someone is coming out!” a snappy voice announced. “It’s impossible to sleep through all this chatter!”
Turning, I saw Nayland Smith.
“Smith!” I exclaimed, “I did not want to wake you; but something very strange is going on,”
“So I gather.”
Rapidly, in a very gabble of words, I told him of the incident of the padding footsteps, of the remarkable behaviour of the marmoset, and of the opening door.
“And I’ll say,” Rorke interpolated, “that nobody comes out.”
“As you say,” Smith murmured thoughtfully, “no one comes out.”
He stared at me very hard, and in the sudden silence I knew that he was listening.
“I shall be glad,” he added, “when the conference is over, Kerrigan. In New York we are besieged by enemies who fight with strange weapons.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. CHRISTOPHE’S CHART
“I shall be obliged, Sir Lionel,” said Mr. Hannessy, “if you will tell us now in your own way the circumstances which have led you to believe that you hold a clue to what may prove to be a secret submarine base in the Caribbean. We are told by our Navy — represented here by Commander Ingles — that allowing for underwater craft belonging to belligerent nations, there is still a big surplus around those waters belonging to no nation which so far we have been able to identify. Valuable lives have been lost in trying to plumb the mystery. One” — he glanced at Kennard Wood— “right here in New York, only last night. The credentials borne by Sir Denis Nayland Smith” — he nodded in Smith’s direction— “are sufficient proof that your theory has a concrete basis. We are all anxious to hear the facts.”
We sat around a long table in our sitting-room. On my right, at one end of the table was Nayland Smith; facing me, Commander Ingles and Kennard Wood; on my left the celebrated Mr. Wilber Ord, expert adviser to the White House on international relations. Facing Wilber Ord, John Hannessy, the speaker, white-haired, fresh-coloured, vigorous, stood for that monument which is sometimes called Republican and sometimes Democratic but which always stands for freedom. From the other end of the table Sir Lionel Barton dominated everybody. The steel box lay before him.
He was in his element. Those dancing blue eyes under shaggy brows told how much he was enjoying himself. He glanced around at everybody, and then:
“I might remark, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Hannessy, “that the credentials borne by myself are a sufficient proof that my theory has a concrete basis. But I will not stress the point. To be brief. There had been for many years an heirloom in a branch of the Stewart family known as The Stewart Luck. It consisted of a silver-mounted pistol to which a small object was attached by a piece of catgut.”
He paused, looking about again from face to face.
“The family met with misfortune. I had great difficulty in tracing the survivor — last of the Stewarts of that branch. From her — she is a very old woman — I acquired the Stewart Luck.” Opening the steel box, Barton took out an old duelling pistol.
“This,” he said, “with the object attached, is the Stewart Luck. Now, this pistol was almost certainly manufactured in Edinburgh about 1810–14. The fact is significant. It is fitted with a Forsyth percussion lock, an early example. It was designed, of course, to fire a ball. How it came into the possession of that remarkable character to whom I am about to introduce you, I leave to you, gentlemen, to decide. Myself, I think I know. But this crest was added by a later hand.”
He pointed to a crest engraved upon the mouting.
“The ‘attached object’ — a piece of silver resembling a small pencil case — called for my special skill. For a long time it defeated me. Only by identifying the monogram on the pistol was I enabled to grasp the real character of this mysterious object. After many failures, I deciphered the monogram. The monogram mystery solved, my next conclusion was obvious. The small silver object was almost certainly the first conical bullet ever used in the history of arms!”
Sir Lionel was warming to his subject. His great voice boomed around the room: he no longer looked at us in stressing his points; he glared.
“My discovery was revolutionary. I had satisfied myself that the device, monogram, or crest, embodied a date in Roman numerals. That date was A.D. 1811. Together with the monogram and the silver bullet it was sufficient. This pistol had been the property of Christophe — that great Negro who built the Citadel, perhaps the most majestic fortress in the world; who expelled Napoleon’s troops; who made of cowering slaves from the interior of Africa prosperous and useful citizens. Yes, gentlemen — Henry Christophe, crowned in 1811 King of Haiti!”
No one interrupted. Barton had his audience enthralled.
“King Christophe, that noble Negro, at the height of his power was betrayed, deserted; and it is common knowledge that he fired a silver bullet into his own brain!”
John Hannessy stared around, nodding in confirmation to the others present.
“The first conical bullet in history was fired into the brain of King Christophe by his own hand. He was a negro genius; possibly the bullet was of his own invention, made for him by some skilled workmen brought to Haiti for the purpose. This point of my inquiry reached — what did I ask myself?”
“I cannot imagine, sir,” said John Hannessy in a hushed voice.
“The question I asked myself was this: — Why should so many persons — myself included — incur great risk and expense to recover the pistol and the bullet with which King Christophe possibly committed suicide? I replied: A great treasure — jewels, bullion, variously estimated at five to seven million pounds sterling — was hidden by the Negro king during his lifetime, searched for after his death — but never found!”
By now I was keyed up as tensely as the others. This strange story was not wholly new to me; but I understood at last the importance of the steel box which Sir Lionel had guarded so jealously from the outset. I was not prepared, however, for what was to follow.
Barton continued: “I found myself to be much intrigued by the fragment of catgut which formerly had attached the bullet to the pistol. Catgut is uncommon stuff. It suggested (a) a fiddler; (b) a surgeon—”
“I don’t believe, sir,” John Hannessy burst in, “re catgut, that catgut ligatures were in use circa 1811.”
“And I don’t care a damn, sir! Some later owner may have tied the bullet to the pistol. But I had my clue! You see, I knew that King Christophe had a resident medical attendant — Duncan Stewart, Scots physician.”
“Good heavens!” Smith murmured. “You certainly know your own game, Barton.”
“I knew that he, Dr. Stewart, was probably the last man to see the black king alive. Later, the body was thrown into a pit in the courtyard of Christophe’s great fortress, the Citadel, on the crest of the mountain. But” — he spoke slowly and emphatically, punctuating periods with a bang of his fist on the table— “before that event took place, Dr. Stewart had extracted the bullet and had seized the pistol, which I suspect to have been his own present to the black king.
“We must assume that Dr. Stewart was ignorant of the secret, assume that he retained these grue
some relics for purely sentimental reasons. It remained for me to discover that the historical silver bullet was hollow. I submitted it to a microscopical examination. It was one of the most beautifully made things I have handled — the work of an expert gunsmith. There was a pin in the base. This being removed, it became possible to unscrew the shell — for a shell it was. I extracted a roll of some tough vegetable fibre, no larger than a wooden match.”
Nayland Smith was staring hard at Sir Lionel, who had now taken from the steel box a tiny piece of papyrus set under glass. The expression upon Barton’s sun-wrinkled, truculent face was ironical.
“I should be glad, Mr. Hannessy,” he said, “if you would examine this and then pass it on.”
He handed the fragment to John Hannessy.
“A glance was enough. Christophe had had a chart — a minute chart — made of his treasure cave and had hidden it in his own skull at the instant of death!”
There was a momentary silence, an awed silence, as Mr. Hannessy passed the chart to Commander Ingles.
“It can be read only by aid of a powerful lens,” Barton went on; “but it shows an enormous cavern, in which the cache is marked by a red cross. Further inquiry — you know something about it, Smith — led to the discovery that this cavern, which has an underwater outlet to the sea, was big enough to hide a battle fleet.”
“I am prepared to hear, Sir Lionel,” said Commander Ingles, studying the chart through a magnifying glass, “that you have identified the location of this cave. You know its exact bearings?”
“Commander Ingles — I know my way there as well as I know my way from my town house (now sold) to my club. And listen, Smith. The passage from da Cunha’s manuscript in the British Museum was copied by Dr. Fu-Manchu, in person, so long as a year ago. I have evidence to prove that. But I have beaten him to it this time. Wilton of Drury Lane, the best manuscript faker in Europe, made me a duplicate of Christophe’s chart. Wilton’s duplicate was exact in every particular — except that the treasure cache and the precise bearings of the entrances to the cave from land and sea were slightly altered. It was Wilton’s chart that was stolen by Dr. Fu-Manchu. This is the original!”
Nayland Smith was tugging at one ear.
“There’s your secret submarine base, gentlemen. It will be my privilege to—”
“Who’s there?” cried Commander Ingles and glanced back over his shoulder.
He had been absorbed in study of the chart. Now, his lens clattered on to the table.
“I heard nothing,” snapped Nayland Smith.
“Nor did I. But, nevertheless, something touched me!”
“Touched you?” Barton began to chuckle. “Perhaps it was my story!”
“I insist that someone bent over my shoulder whilst I was examining the chart.”
We all sat perfectly still, listening. Commander Ingles was not a man whose self-possession is easily ruffled, but it was plain to see that he was disturbed.
The ceaseless voice of the city came up to us from the streets far below, dazzling sunshine shone in at the windows. Yet I, my brain working feverishly, became possessed of an uncanny sense that something, some supernormal thing, had joined our council. Then:
“Who opened that door?” Nayland Smith demanded sharply. Those with their backs to the door indicated turned in a flash. We all looked in that direction.
The door leading to my room was half-open — and, now, the marmoset, in Barton’s quarters beyond began to whistle shrilly!
Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and then sprang up. He reached the open door first but I was not far behind him. Everybody was up. As we dashed through to Sir Lionel’s room I saw at a glance that the outer door, that which led into the hotel corridor, was wide open.
Smith muttered something under his breath and went running out. We came behind in a pack.
The corridor outside was bare from end to end. Neither elevator was moving. Several of the party began to talk at once.
“Silence!” rapped Smith angrily. “I want to listen.”
Silence fell, save for the whistling chatter of the monkey, and we all listened.
We all heard it:
Pad, pad, pad…
Soft footsteps were moving along the corridor, far away to the left. But no living thing was visible.
“Rush to that staircase, Kerrigan!” cried Smith. “Bar the way of anything — visible or invisible.”
And as I dashed off, a conviction seized my mind that he, too, had grasped the possibility, hitherto incredible, which indeed I had regarded as inadmissible, that some thing — some thing which we could not see, had been amongst us and not for the first time.
I raced headlong to the end of the corridor, trusting to my considerable poundage to sweep anything from my path. However, nothing obstructed me.
Coming to the head of the staircase which forty floors below gave access to the foyer, I stood still breathing heavily and listening.
Smith’s snappy orders had followed me in my rush: —
“You, Barton — that way. Watch all the doors. If one opens, rush for it. Commander, cover both elevators. Allow no one and nothing to enter, whoever comes out…”
Fists clenched, I stood listening.
That sound of padded footsteps was no longer audible. No elevator was moving, and apart from a buzz of excited voices from our party along the passage, I could hear nothing; so that as I stood there the seeming insanity of the thing burst upon me, irresistibly. We were all victims of some illusion, some trick. Its object must have been to get us out of the apartment. As this idea seized me I turned from the head of the staircase and began to run back.
“Smith!” I shouted, “it’s a ruse! Someone should have stayed in the room.”
“Don’t worry.” Smith was standing there on guard. “I have stuck here and Barton’s door is locked.”
But we found no one and heard no one. The shadow had come — and gone.
Completely baffled, we reassembled in the sitting-room and resumed our places about the table. Nayland Smith solemnly deposited before Barton the ancient pistol, the silver bullet and the chart.
“You left them behind. I picked them up for safety.”
We stared rather blankly at one another for a moment, and then:
“It seems to me, gentlemen,” said John Hannessy, “that the experience which we have just shared calls for a consultation.”
Everybody was in tacit agreement with the speaker. Commander Ingles replied in his crisp way:
“I give my testimony here and now without hesitation, that something, something palpable, touched my shoulder at the moment that I called out. Something or someone we could not see was in the room at that time. We all know that a door was open which had not been open when this session began. We all know that the communicating doors were closed. And I think I am right” — he looked around— “in saying that we all heard the sound of soft footsteps outside.”
He paused suddenly, staring down at some notes on the table before him. His silence was so unexpected, and his expression so strange, that:
“What’s wrong?” growled Barton, leaning forward. “What have you found there?”
Commander Ingles looked round from face to face, and I saw that he held a sheet of paper in his hand.
“Just this… I will read out what is written here:
“‘FIRST NOTICE’—”
“What!” snapped Smith, and was on his feet in a moment.
“I will repeat: ‘FIRST NOTICE.
“‘The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan is aware of the aims of an expedition led by Sir Lionel Barton and Sir Denis Nayland Smith. In view of the fact that the Council is in a position to negotiate with the Government of the United States regarding a matter of first importance, this is a warning, both to the Government of the United States and to Sir Denis Nayland Smith and those associated with him. The mobility of the United States Navy is seriously threatened, but the Council is in a position to nullify the activities both
of a certain eastern neighbour and also those of a western power. This is to notify all whom it may concern, that you have two weeks in which to decide. An advertisement in a daily newspaper consisting of the words “Negotiate. Washington” will receive prompt attention.
“‘President of the Seven’.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. ZAZIMA
“Better luck today, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I can do with it.”
Cristobal! — I was at last in Cristobal (or more exactly in Colon) where I had confidently expected to meet Ardatha again. Yet for two days and the greater part of one night I had combed the towns and their environs without success. Recollections of how that last conversation with Ardatha had been abruptly terminated, haunted my mind. Had Fu-Manchu detected her in the act of phoning to me — and changed his plans?
The essential clue had been partially lost as the line was disconnected, but at least I knew that news of her was to be had at the shop of someone whose name began with Z. Although Z is comparatively unusual as the index letter of a surname, my quest had led me nowhere.
I sat beside Smith in a cane rocking-chair on the terrace of the hotel. An avenue of mast-like coconut palms stretched away before us to the gate. The hotel was crowded; even at this early hour nearly all the chairs were, occupied. There were elderly men studying guide books, younger men reading newspapers, but looking up whenever a new arrival passed along the terrace: one kindly old lady there was who made a point of conversing with everybody; and there were several very pretty women who all seemed to be travelling alone. The major languages of Europe were represented.
“Never in a long government career,” said Smith, glancing at a dark-eyed Spanish girl who seemed willing to be talked to, “have I met with so many political agents in any one building.”
“How do you explain it?”
“I explained it a long time ago when I mentioned the fact that the Panama Canal has two ends. Kennard Wood, as you know, found indisputable evidence pointing to a plot by a certain power to close the Canal at an opportune moment. We sit on a potential front line, Kerrigan. All the advance units are here.”