by Sax Rohmer
“It was.”
“Those members nearest to the door from which you jumped were servants of the Si-Fan and one of them carried the duplicate portfolio. He was no doubt an adept in his particular province. The substitution was not difficult. The address to which you took Miss Pereira was a block of flats?”
“Yes.”
“Inquiry is useless. She does not live there.”
“Smith!” Sir William Bard sprang up. “Your reconstruction of what took place is perfect—except in one particular. I recall the fact clearly now that Doctor Atkin carried a similar portfolio! The substitution was effected during the short drive to Buckingham Gate!”
“H’m!” Smith glanced at me. “Count Boratov would seem to be a distinct asset to the doctor’s forces!”
“But what can we do?” groaned the commissioner. “Lacking the authority of those damning signatures, we dare not take action.”
“I agree.”
“We can watch these people whose names we have learnt, but it will be necessary to obtain new evidence against them before we can move a finger in such high places.”
“Certainly. But at least we are warned . . . and I may not be too late to save their next victim. We cannot hope to win every point!”
We returned to Nayland Smith’s flat in a flying squad car and two men were detailed to remain on duty in the lobby. Only by a perceptible tightening of Fey’s lips did I recognize the mighty relief which he experienced when he saw us.
He had nothing to report. Smith laughed aloud when he saw me looking at a freshly painted patch on the front door.
“My new lock, Kerrigan!” The merriment in his eyes was good to see. Something of my own burden seemed to be lifted from my shoulders by it. “The lock was fitted under my own supervision, by a locksmith known to me personally. It’s a nuisance to open, being somewhat complicated. But once I am in I think I’m safe!”
In the familiar room with photographs of his old friends about him, he relaxed at last, dropping down into an armchair with a sigh of contentment.
“If there is any place in the civilized world where you would really be safe, a month’s rest would do you good, Smith.”
He stared at me. Already he was groping for his pipe.
“Can any man rest till his task is finished?” he asked quietly. “I doubt it. Since Doctor Fu Manchu has tricked all the normal laws of life—will my task ever end?”
Fey served drinks and silently retired.
“I had a bad shock tonight. Smith,” I said awkwardly. “Ardatha was instrumental in the theft of the commissioner’s portfolio.”
Smith nodded, busily filling his pipe.
“She had no choice,” he snapped. “As I said at the time it was her punishment. At least she was not concerned in a murder, Kerrigan. Probably she had to succeed or die. I wonder if this really remarkable achievement has reinstated the doctor in the eyes of the Council.”
“Is it a fact. Smith, that the names of the Council were actually in your possession?”
“Yes. Some I had suspected, nor would their identity convey anything to the public. But three of the Seven are as well known to the world as Bernard Shaw. Even to me those names came as a surprise. But lacking the written evidence, as the commissioner says, we dare not move. Ah well! The doctor has obtained a firm footing in the Western world since he first began operating from Limehouse.”
He took up a bundle of letters which Fey had placed on a table near the armchair. He tossed them all aside until presently he came upon one at which he frowned queerly.
“Hello!” he murmured, “what’s this?”
He examined the writing, the post office stamp—and finally tore open the envelope. He glanced at the single sheet of paper which it contained. His face remained quite motionless as he bent forward and passed it to me . . .
I stared, and my heart missed a beat as I read:
First notice
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan has decided that you are an obstruction to its policy. Its present purpose being the peace of the world, a purpose to which no sane man can be opposed, you are given a choice of two courses. Remain in London tonight and the Council guarantees your safety and will communicate with you by telephone.
We are prepared for an honorable compromise. Leave, and you will receive a second notice.
PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL
I don’t know why these words written in a square heavy hand, on thick paper embossed with a Chinese hieroglyphic, should so have chilled me, but they did. It was no novelty for Nay land Smith to go in peril of his life, but knowing its record, frankly the dictum of the Council of Seven touched me with an icy hand.
“What do they mean. Smith, about leaving London?” I asked in a hoarse voice. “I suspected some new move when you spoke to the commissioner about saving the next victim.”
“Marcel Delibes, the French statesman, has received two warnings. Copies were among the papers I found in Lord Weimer’s house!”
“Well?”
“You may also recall that I promised to tell you when Doctor Fu Manchu ceased to be president?”
“Yes.”
“He has ceased to be president!”
“How can you possibly know?”
He held up the first notice.
“Doctor Fu Manchu’s delicate sense of humor would never permit him to do such a thing! Surely you realize, Kerrigan, that this means I am safe until the second notice arrives?”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I have made arrangements to leave for Paris tonight. Gallaho is coming, and—”
“So am I!”
Blue Carnations
“This is the sort of atmosphere in which Doctor Fu Manchu finds himself at home!”
We stood in the workroom of Marcel Delibes, the famous French statesman. He had been unavoidably detained but requested us to wait. Two windows opened onto a long balcony which I saw to be overgrown with clematis. It looked down on a pleasant and well-kept garden. Beyond one saw the Bois. The room, religiously neat as that of some Mother Superior, was brightened along its many bookshelves by those attractively light bindings affected by French publishers; and a further note of color was added by the presence of bowls and vases of carnations.
The perfume of all these flowers was somewhat overpowering, so that the impression I derived during my stay in the apartment was of carnations and of photographs of beautiful women.
There was a nearly full moon; the windows were wide open; and with Smith I examined the balcony outside. Our translation in a Royal Air Force plane from London had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that I was still in a mood to ask myself: Is this really Paris?
Yes, that carnation-scented room, dimly lighted except for one green-shaded lamp upon the writing desk, with photographs peeking glamorously from its shadows was, as Nayland Smith had said, an ideal atmosphere for Dr Fu Manchu.
Gallaho was downstairs with Jussac of the Surete Generale, and I knew that the house was guarded like a fortress. Even at this hour messengers were coming and going, and a considerable crowd had collected in the Bois outside, invisible and inaudible from the house by reason of its embracing gardens.
That sort of rumor which electrifies a population was creeping about Paris. Delibes, the rumour ran, had planned a political coup which, if it failed in its purpose, would mean that before a new day dawned France would be plunged into war.
“The grounds may be guarded, Smith,” I said, looking about me. “But Delibes takes no other precautions.”
I indicated the widely opened windows.
Smith nodded grimly.
“We have here, Kerrigan,” he replied, “another example of that foolhardy courage which has already brought so many distinguished heads under the axe of Doctor Fu Manchu.” He took up the table telephone and examined it carefully, then shook his head.
“No! He has been warned of the Green Death, a fact of which the Si-Fan is undoubtedly aware. If only the fool would face fac
ts—if only he would give me his confidence! He knows, he has been told, of the fate of his predecessors who have defied the Council of Seven! He is a gallant man in more senses than one”—Smith nodded in the direction of the many photographs. “I must know what he plans to do and I must know what time the Si-Fan has given him in which to change his mind.”
“His peril is no greater than yours!”
“Perhaps not—but I don’t happen to be the political master of France! You are thinking of the letter which awaited me at the hotel desk?”
“I am.”
“Yes”—he nodded—”the second notice!”
“But, Smith—”
“About one thing I am determined, Kerrigan—and I come provided to see it through: M. Delibes must accept my advice. Another Si-Fan assassination would paralyze European statesmanship. It would mean submission to a reign of terror . . .”
Marcel Delibes came in, handsome, grey-haired; and I noted the dark eyebrows and moustache which had proved such a boon to French caricaturists. He wore a blue carnation in his buttonhole; he was charmingly apologetic.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you come at an hour so vital in the history of France that I think I may be forgiven.”
“So I understand, sir,” said Nayland Smith curtly. “But what I do not understand is your attitude in regard to the Si-Fan.”
Delibes seated himself at his desk, assumed a well-known pose, and smiled.
“You are trying to frighten me, eh? Fortunately for France, I am not easily frightened. You are going to tell me that General Quinto, Rudolf Adion, Diesler—oh, quite a number of others—died because they refused to accept the order of this secret society! You are going to say that Monaghani has accepted and this is why Monaghani lives! Pouf! a bogey, my friend! A cloud comes, the sky is darkened, when the end of a great life draws near. So much the Romans knew, and the Greeks before them. And this scum, this red-hand gang, which calls itself Si-Fan, obtains spectacular success by sending these absurd notices . . . But how many have they sent in vain?”
He pulled open a drawer of his desk and tossed three sheets of paper onto the blotting pad. Nayland Smith stepped forward and with no more than a nod of apology picked them up.
“Ah! The final notice!”
“Yes—the final notice!” Delibes had ceased to smile. “To me! Could anything be more impudent?”
“It gives you, I see, until half past eleven tonight.”
“Exactly How droll!”
“Yet, Lord Aylwin has seen you, and Railton was sent by the Foreign Office with the special purpose of impressing upon you the fact that the power of the Si-Fan is real. I see, sir, that you are required to lower and then to raise the lights in this room three times, indicating that you have destroyed an order to Marshal Brieux. That distinguished officer is now in your lobby. I had a few words with him as I came in. As a privileged visitor, may I ask you the exact nature of this order?”
“It is here, signed.” Delibes opened a folder and drew out an official document. “The whole of France, you see, as these signatures testify, stands behind me in this step which I propose to take tonight. You may read it if you please, for it will be common property tomorrow.”
With a courteous inclination of the head he handed the document to Nayland Smith.
Smith’s steely eyes moved mechanically as he glanced down the several paragraphs, and then: “Failing a message from Monaghani before eleven-fifteen,” he said, “this document, I gather, will be handed to Marshal Brieux? It calls all Frenchmen to the Colors. This will be construed as an act of war.”
“Not necessarily sir.” The Minister drew down his heavy brows. “It will be construed as evidence of the unity of France. It will check those who would become the aggressors. At three minutes before midnight, observe, Paris will be plunged into darkness—and we shall test our air defenses under war conditions.”
Smith began to pace up and down the thick Persian carpet.
“You are described in the first notice from the Si-Fan,” he went on, “as one of seven men in the world in a position to plunge Europe into war. It may interest you to know, sir, that the first warning of this kind with which I became acquainted referred to fifteen men. This fact may be significant?”
Delibes shrugged his shoulders.
“In roulette the color red may turn up eighteen times,” he replied. “Why not a coincidence of eight?”
We were interrupted by the entrance of a secretary.
“No vulgar curiosity prompts my inquiry,” said Nayland Smith, as the Minister stared angrily at him. “But you have two photographs in your charming collection of a lady well known to me.
“Indeed, sir?” Delibes stood up. “To which lady do you refer?”
Smith took the two photographs from their place and set them on the desk.
Both were of the woman called Korean!: one was a head and shoulders so fantastically like the bust of Nefertiti as to suggest that this had been one of her earlier incarnations; the other showed her in the revealing dress of a Korean dancer.
Delibes glanced at them and then stared under his brows at Nayland Smith.
“I trust. Sir Denis, that this friendship does not in any way intrude upon our affairs?”
“But certainly not—although I have been acquainted with this lady for some years.”
“I met her during the time she was appearing here. She is not an ordinary cabaret artiste, as you are aware. She belongs to an old Korean family and in performing the temple dances, has made herself an exile from her country…
“Indeed,” Smith murmured. “Would it surprise you to know that she is also one of the most useful servants of the Si-Fan? . . . That she was personally concerned in the death of General Quinto, and in that of Rudolph Adion?—to mention but two! Further, would it surprise you to know that she is the daughter of the president of the Council of Seven?”
Delibes sat down again, still staring at the speaker.
“I do not doubt your word—but are you sure of what you say?”
“Quite sure.”
“Almost, you alarm me.” He smiled again. “She is difficult this Korean!—but most, most attractive. I saw her only last night. Today, for she knows my penchant, she sent me blue carnations.”
“Indeed! Blue carnations, you say? Most unusual.”
He began looking all about the room.
“Yes, but beautiful—you see them in those three vases.”
“I have counted thirty-five,” snapped Smith.
“The other, I wear.”
Smith sniffed at one cautiously.
“I assume that they came from some florist known to you?”
“But certainly, from Meurice Freres.”
Smith stood directly in front of the desk, staring down at Delibes, then:
“Regardless of your personal predilection, sir,” he said, “I have special knowledge and special facilities. Since the peace of France, perhaps of the world is at stake, may I ask you when these carnations arrived?”
“At some time before I was awake this morning.”
“In one box or in several?”
“To this I cannot reply, but I will make inquiries. Your interests are of an odd nature.”
Nevertheless, I observed that Delibes was struggling to retain his self-assurance. As he bent aside to press a bell, surreptitiously he removed the blue carnation from his buttonhole and dropped it in a wastebasket . . .
Delibes’ valet appeared: his name was Marbeuf.
“These blue carnations,” said Nayland Smith, “you received them from the florist this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
Marbeuf’s manner was one of masked alarm.
“In one box or in a number of boxes?”
“In a number, sir.”
“Have those boxes been destroyed?”
“I believe not, sir.”
Smith turned to Delibes.
“I have a small inquiry to make,” he said, “but I beg that you wil
l spare me a few minutes when I return.”
“As you wish, sir. You bring strange news, but my purpose remains undisturbed . . .”
We descended with the valet to the domestic quarters of the house. The lobby buzzed with officials; there was an atmosphere of pent-up excitement, but we slipped through unnoticed. I was studying Marbeuf, a blond, clean-shaven fellow with the bland hypocrisy which distinguishes some confidential man-servants.
“There are four boxes here,” said Smith rapidly and stared at Marbeuf. “You say you received them this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
“Here, in this room?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I placed them on that table, sir, for such presents frequently arrive for Monsieur. Then I sent Jacqueline for vases, and I opened the boxes.”
“Who is Jacqueline?”
“The parlor-maid.”
“There were then nine carnations in each box?”
“No sir. Twelve in each box, but one box was empty.”
“What!”
“I was surprised, also.”
“Between the time that these boxes were received from the florist and placed on the table, and the time at which you began to open them, were you out of the room?”
“Yes. I was called to the telephone.”
“Ah! By whom?”
“By a lady, but when I told her that Monsieur was still sleeping she refused to leave a message.”
“How long were you away?”
“Perhaps, sir, two minutes.”
“And then?”
“Then I returned and began to open the boxes.”
“And of the four, one contained no carnations?”
“Exactly, sir; one was empty.”
“What did you do?”
“I telephoned to Meurice Freres, and they assured me that not three, but four dozen carnations had been sent by the lady who ordered them.”
Smith examined the four boxes with care but seemed to be dissatisfied. They were cardboard cartons about I8 inches long and 6 inches square, stoutly made and bearing the name of the well-known florist upon them. His expression, however, became very grave, and he did not speak again until we had returned to the study.