The Drums of Fu Manchu f-9

by Sax Rohmer

  I switched on the bedside lamp and stared about me distractedly.

  He had not undressed!

  I crossed to the shuttered window. The shutters were not fastened but just lightly closed. I pushed them open and stared out. I could see across to the landing stage. The ledge was not more than four feet above the pavement, as was the case in my own room. Why, I asked myself desperately, had he of all men, he, marked down as Enemy Number One by Dr Fu Manchu, exposed himself to such a risk?

  And where was he?

  I pressed the night porter’s bell, crossed to the sitting room and threw the door open. In less than a minute, I suppose, the porter appeared.

  “Can you tell me,” I asked,”if Sir Denis Nayland Smith has gone out tonight?”

  “No sir, he has not gone out.”

  The man looked surprised—in fact, startled.

  “But I suppose he could have gone out without being seen?”

  “No sir. After midnight, except on special occasions, the door is locked. I open it for anyone returning late.”

  “And do you remain in the lobby?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did anyone return late tonight?”

  “No sir. There are few people in the hotel at the moment and all were in before eleven o’clock.”

  “When you came on duty?”

  “When I came on duty, yes sir.”

  “You mean that it is quite impossible for Sir Denis to have gone out without your seeing him?”

  “Quite impossible, sir.”

  Although his room exhibited no evidence whatever of a struggle, one explanation, a ghastly one, alone presented itself to my mind.

  He had been overcome, carried out by way of the window and so to the landing stage! Those movements in the night were explained. My lovely companion’s coolness under circumstances calculated to terrify a normal girl assumed a different aspect . . .

  My friend, the best friend I should ever have, had been fighting for his life while I clung to the lips of Ardatha!

  Venice Claims A Victim

  A police officer was an almost unendurably long time in reaching the hotel. When at last he arrived, a captain of Carabinieri, he brought two detectives with him. His English was defective but fortunately for me one of the men spoke it well.

  When I had made the facts clear and a search of the room had taken place:

  “I fear, sir,” said the English-speaking detective,”that your suspicions are confirmed. I am satisfied that your friend did not leave by the front door of the hotel. As he evidently did not go to bed, however, there is a possibility is there not, that he left of his own free will?”

  “Yes.” I grasped gladly at this straw. “There is! Why had I not thought of that?”

  There was a brief conference in Italian between the three, and then:

  “It has been suggested,” the detective went on,”that if Sir Denis Nayland Smith, for whom a bodyguard had been arranged by order of Colonel Correnti, had decided to go out for any reason, he would probably have awakened you.”

  “I was not asleep,” I said shortly.

  Where did my duty lie? Should I confess that Ardatha had been with me?

  “It makes it all the more strange. You were perhaps reading or writing?”

  “No. I was thinking and staring out of the window.”

  “Did you hear any suspicious sounds?”

  “Yes. What I took to be footsteps and a faint scuffling. But I heard no more.”

  “It is all the more curious,” the man went on,”because we have two officers on duty, one in a gondola moored near the steps, and the other at the back of the hotel. Before coming here I personally interviewed both these officers and neither had seen anything suspicious.”

  The mystery grew deeper.

  “My own room was lighted,” I said. “Are my windows visible from the point of view of the man in the gondola?”

  “We will go and see.”

  We moved along to my room. My feelings as I looked at the divan upon which Ardatha had lain in my arms I find myself unable to describe . . . One of the detectives glanced out of the window and reported that owing to the wall of that little courtyard to which I have referred, this window would be outside the viewpoint of the man in the gondola.

  “But the window of Sir Denis7 room—this he could see.”

  Another idea came.

  “The sitting room!”

  “It is possible. Let us look.”

  We looked—and solely because, I suppose, no one had attached any importance to the sitting room, it now immediately became evident that one shutter was open.

  It had not been open when I had parted from Smith that night!

  “You see!” exclaimed the detective,”here is the story: He was overcome, perhaps drugged, in his room, carried in here and lowered out through that window!”

  “But”—I was thinking now of Ardatha—”how could the kidnappers have got him away without attracting the notice of one of your men?”

  Another consultation took place. All three were becoming wildly excited.

  “I must explain”—a half-dressed and bewildered manager had joined us—”that passing under the window of your own room, Mr. Kerrigan, it is possible—there is a gate there—to reach the bridge over the Rio Banieli—the small canal.”

  “But you say”—I turned to the detective—”that you had a man on duty at the rear of the hotel?”

  “True, but here is dense shadow at this hour of the night. It would be possible—just possible—for one to reach and cross that bridge unnoticed.”

  In my mind I was reconstructing the tragedy of the night. I saw Nayland Smith, drugged, helpless, being carried (probably on the shoulder of one of Dr Fu Manchu’s Thugs) right below my window as I lay there intoxicated by the beauty of Ardatha. I felt myself choked with rage and mortification.

  “But it is simply incredible,” I cried,”that such a crime can be committed here in Venice! We must find Sir Denis! We must find him!”

  “It is understood, sir, that we must find him. This is very bad for the Venice police, because you are under our special protection. The chief has been notified and will shortly be here. It is a tragedy—yes:

  I regret it deeply.”

  Overcome by a sense of the futility of it all, the hopelessness of outwitting that criminal genius who played with human lives as a chess player with pieces, I turned and walked back to the sitting room. I stared dumbly at the open window through which my poor friend had disappeared, probably forever.

  The police left the suite, in deference, I think, to my evident sorrow, and I found myself alone.

  The girl to whom I had lost my heart, my reason was a modern Delilah. Her part had been to lull my suspicions, to detain me there—if need be with kisses—while the dreadful master of the Si-Fan removed an enemy from his path.

  My thoughts tortured me—I clenched my teeth; I felt my brain reeling. In every way that a man could fail, I had failed. I had succumbed to the wiles of a professional vampire and had given over my friend to death.

  There were perhaps issues greater than my personal sorrow. The life of Rudolf Adion hung upon a hair. Nayland Smith was gone!

  Venice, the city of the doges, had claimed one more victim.

  Dawn was creeping gloriously over the city when the first, the only clue, came to hand.

  A Carabinieri patrol returning at four o’clock was subjected, in common with all others who had been on duty that night, to a close examination. He remembered (a fact which normally he would not have reported) that a girl, smartly dressed and wearing a scarf over her hair, had hurried past him at a point not far from the hotel. He had paid little attention to her, except that he remem bered she was pretty, but his description of her dress strongly suggested Ardatha!

  Twenty yards behind and, as he recalled, seeming deliberately to keep in the shadow, he had noticed a man: an Englishman, he was confident, tall, wearing a tweed suit and a soft-brimmed hat.

&nb
sp; The time, as nearly as I could judge, would have corresponded to that at which I had parted from Ardatha . . .

  The detective’s theory had been the right one. Something had drawn Smith’s attention to the presence of the girl. He had not been kidnapped—he had watched and followed her. To where? What had become of him?

  That sense of guilt which weighed heavily upon me became heavier than ever. I was indeed directly responsible for whatever had befallen my friend.

  I was already at police headquarters when this report came in. The man was sent for and through an interpreter I questioned him. Since I knew the two people concerned more intimately than anyone present his answers to my questions removed any possibility of doubt.

  The girl described was Ardatha. Nayland Smith had been following her!

  Even at this stage, frantic as I was with anxiety about Smith, almost automatically I compromised with my conscience when Colonel Correnti asked me:

  “Do you think this girl is someone known to Sir Denis?”

  “Possibly,” I replied. “He may have thought he recognized an accomplice of Doctor Fu Manchu.”

  When I left police headquarters to walk back to the hotel, Venice was bathed in its morning glory. But I moved through the streets and across the canals of that fairy city in a state of such utter dejection that any I passed surely pitied me.

  Of Smith’s plans in regard to the luncheon party on Silver Heels I had very little idea, but I had been fully prepared to go with him. I was anxious to see Rudolf Adion in person. It seemed to me to be pointless to go alone. What he had hoped to learn I could not imagine. James Brownlow Wilton, the New York newspaper magnet, would seem to have no place in this tangled skein. It was a baffling situation and I was hopelessly worn out.

  I tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but found sleep to be impossible. Sir George Herbert called at ten o’clock, an old young man with foreign office stamped indelibly upon him. His expression was

  grave.

  “This is a great blow, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said. “I can see how it has affected you. To me, it is disastrous. These threats to Rudolf Adion, who is here incognito, as you know, are backed by an organization which does not threaten lightly. General Quinto has been assassinated—why not Rudolf Adion?”

  “I agree. But I know nothing of Smith’s plans to protect him.”

  “Nor do I!” He made a gesture of despair. “It had been arranged for him to go on board Mr. Wilton’s yacht during today’s luncheon, but what he hoped to accomplish I have no idea.”

  “Nor I.”

  I spoke the words groaningly, dropped on to a chair and stared I suppose rather wildly at Sir George.

  “The Italian authorities are sparing no effort. Their responsibility is great, for more than the reputation of the chief of police is at stake. If any news should reach me I will advise you immediately, Mr. Kerrigan. I think you would be wise to rest.”

  A Woman Drops A Rose

  The human constitution is a wonderfully adjusted instrument. I had no hope, indeed no intention, of sleeping. Venice, awakened, lived gaily about me. Yet, after partially undressing, within five minutes of Sir George’s departure I was fast asleep.

  I was awakened by Colonel Correnti. Those reflected rays through my shutters which I had not closed told me the truth.

  It was sunset, I had slept for many hours.

  “What news?”

  Instantly I was wide awake, a cloak or sorrow already draped about me.

  He shook his head.

  “None, I fear.”

  “The luncheon party on the yacht took place, I suppose? Sir Denis feared that some attempt might be made there.”

  “Rudolf Adion was present, yes. He is known on these occasions as Major Baden. My men report that nothing of an unusual nature took place. The dictator is safely back at the Palazzo da Rosa where he will be joined tomorrow by Pietro Monaghani. There is no evidence of any plot.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I do? Officially, I am not supposed to know that the chancellor is here. Of Sir Denis no trace can be found. What can I do?”

  His perplexity was no greater than mine. What, indeed, could any of us do?

  I forced myself to eat a hasty meal. The solicitude of the management merely irritated me. I found myself constantly looking aside, constantly listening, for I could not believe it possible for a man so well known as Nayland Smith to vanish like a mirage.

  Of Ardatha I dared not think bat all.

  To remain there inert was impossible. I could do nothing useful, for I had no plan, but at least I could move, walk the streets, search the cafes, stare up at the windows. With no better object than this in view, I set out.

  Before St Mark’s I pulled up abruptly. The magic of sunset was draping the facade in wonderful purple shadows. I was torn between two courses. If I lost myself in this vain hunt through the streets of Venice, I might be absent when news came. In a state of indecision I stood there before the doors of that ornate, ancient church. What news could come? News that Smith was dead!

  From these ideas I must run away, must keep moving. Indeed I found myself incapable of remaining still, and now a reasonable objective occurred to me. Since Rudolph Adion was staying at the Palazzo da Rosa this certainly would be the focus of Dr Fu Manchu’s attention. Actually, of course I was seeking some excuse for action, something to distract my mind from the ghastly contemplation of Nayland Smith’s fate.

  I hurried back to the hotel and learned from the hall porter that no message had been received for me. Thereupon I walked out and chartered a motorboat.

  A gondola was too slow for my humor.

  “Go along the Grand Canal,” I directed, “and show me the Palazzo da Rosa.”

  We set out, and I endeavored to compose myself and to submit without undue irritation to the informative remarks of the man who drove the motorboat. He wished to take me to the Rialto Bridge, to the villa where Richard Wagner had died, to the Palace of Gabriel d’Annunzio; but finally, with a great air of mystery, slowing his craft:

  “Yonder,” he said, “where I am pointing, is the Palazzo da Rosa. It is here, sir, that Signer Monaghani, himself, stays sometimes when he is in Venice. Also it is whispered, but I do not know, that the great Adion is there.”

  “Stop awhile.”

  Dusk had fallen and light streamed from nearly all the windows of the palace. I observed much movement about the water gate, many gondolas crowded against the painted posts, there was a stir and bustle which told of some sort of entertainment taking place.

  A closed motorboat, painted black, and apparently empty, passed almost silently between us and the steps.

  “The police!”

  We moved on . . .

  Two seagoing yachts were at anchor, and out on the lagoon we met a freshening breeze. One of the yachts belonged to an English peer, the other. Silver Heels, was Brownlow Wilton’s beautiful white cruiser, built on the lines of an ocean greyhound. All seemed to be quiet on board, and I wondered if the celebrated American was being entertained at the Palazzo da Rosa.

  “Where to now, sir?”

  “Anywhere you like,” I answered wearily.

  The man seemed to understand my mood. I believe he thought I was a dejected lover whose mistress had deserted him. Indeed, he was not far wrong.

  We turned into a side canal where there were ancient windows, walls and trellises draped in clematis and passion flower, a spot, as I saw at a glance, perpetuated by many painters. In the dusk it had a ghostly beauty. Here the motorboat seemed a desecration, and I wished that I had chartered a gondola. Even as the thought crossed my mind, one of those swan-like crafts, carrying the bearings of some noble family, and propelled by a splendidly uniformed gondolier, swung silently around a comer, heralded only by the curious cry of the man at the oar.

  My fellow checked his engine.

  “From the Palazzo da Rosa!” he said and gazed back fascinatedly.

  Idly, for I was not really interested, I turned and stared back
also. There was but one passenger in the gondola . . .

  It was Rudolf Adion!

  “Stop!” I ordered sharply as the man was about to restart his engine. “I want to watch.”

  For I had seen something else.

  On the balcony of a crumbling old mansion, once no doubt the home of a merchant prince but now falling into ruin, a woman was standing. Some trick of reflected light from across the canal made her features clearly visible. She wore a gaily-colored showl which left one arm and shoulder bare.

  She was leaning on the rail of the balcony, staring down at the passing gondola—and as I watched, eagerly, almost breathlessly, I saw that the gondolier had checked his graceful boat with that easy, sweeping movement which is quite beyond the power of an amateur oarsman. Rudolph Adion was standing up, his eyes raised. As I watched, the woman dropped a rose to which, I was almost sure, a note was attached!

  Adion caught it deftly, kissed his fingers to the beauty on the balcony and resumed his seat. As the gondola swung on and was lost in deep shadows of a tall, old palace beyond:

  “Ah!” sighed the motor launch driver—and he also kissed his fingers to the balcony—”a tryst—how beautiful!”

  She who had made the assignation had disappeared. But there was no possibility of mistake. She was the woman I had seen with Ardatha—the woman whom Nayland Smith had described as “a corpse moving among the living—a harbinger of death!” The chief of police hung up the telephone.

  “Major Baden is in his private apartments,” he said, “engaged on important official business. He has given orders that he is not to be disturbed. And so”—he shrugged his shoulders—”what can I do?”

  I confess I was growing weary of those oft-repeated words.

  “But I assure you,” I cried excitedly, “that he is not in his private apartments! At least he was not there a quarter of an hour ago!”

  “That is possible, Mr. Kerrigan. I have said that some of the great men who visit Venice incognito have sometimes other affairs than affairs of State. But since, in the first place, I am not supposed to know that Rudolf Adion is at the Palazzo at all what steps can I take? I have one of my best officers on duty there and this is his report. What more can I do?”