by Sax Rohmer
As Delibes stood up, concealing his impatience with a smile:
“The time specified for the reply from Monaghani has now elapsed,” said Smith. “Am I to take it, sir, that you propose to hand that document to Marshal Brieux?”
“Such is my intention.”
“The time allotted to you by the Si-Fan expires in fifteen minutes.”
Delibes shrugged his shoulders.
“Forget the Si-Fan,” he said. “I trust that your inquiries regarding Korêani’s gift were satisfactory?”
“Not entirely. Would it be imposing on your hospitality to suggest that Mr. Kerrigan and myself remain here with you until those fifteen minutes shall have expired?”
“Well”—the Minister stood up, frowned, then smiled. “Since you mention my hospitality, if you would drink a glass of wine with me, and then permit me to leave you for a few moments since I must see Marshal Brieux, it would of course be a pleasure to entertain you.”
He was about to press a bell, but changed his mind and went out.
On the instant of his exit Smith did an extraordinary thing. Springing to the door, he depressed a switch—and all the lights went out!
“Smith!”
The lights sprang up again.
“Wanted to know where the switch was! No time to waste.”
He began questing about the room like a hound on a strong scent. Recovering myself, I too began looking behind busts and photographs, but:
“Don’t touch anything, Kerrigan!” he snapped. “Some new agent of death has been smuggled into this place by Fu Manchu! God knows what it is! I have no clue, but it’s here. It’s here!”
He had found nothing when Delibes returned . . .
The Minister was followed by Marbeuf. The valet carried an ice bucket which contained a bottle of champagne upon a tray with three glasses.
“You see, I know your English taste!” said Delibes. “We shall drink, if you please, to France—and to England.”
“In that case,” Nayland Smith replied,”if I may ask you to dismiss Marbeuf, I should esteem it a privilege to act as server—for this-is a notable occasion.”
At a nod from Delibes, Marbeuf, having unwired the bottle, went out. Smith removed the cork and filled three glasses to their brims. With a bow he handed one to the statesman, less ceremoniously a second to me, then, raising his own:
“We drink deep,” he said—his eyes glittered strangely, and the words sounded oddly on his lips—”to the peace of France and of England—and so, to the peace of the world!”
He drank nearly the whole of the contents of his glass. Delibes, chivalrously, did the same. Never at home with champagne, I endeavored to follow suit, but was checked—astounded—by the behavior of Delibes.
Standing upright, a handsome military figure, he became, it seemed, suddenly rigid! His eyes opened widely as though they were starting from his head. His face changed color. Naturally pallid, it grew grey. His wineglass fell upon the Persian carpet, the remainder of its contents spilling. He clutched his throat and pitched forward!
Nayland Smith sprang to his side and lowered him gently to the floor.
“Smith! Smith!” I gasped,”he’s poisoned! They have got him!”
“Ssh!” Smith stood up. “Not a word, Kerrigan!”
Amazed beyond understanding, I watched. He crossed to the meticulously neat desk, took up the document with those imposing signatures which lay there, and tore it into fragments!
“Smith!”
“Quiet—or we’re lost!”
Crossing to the switch beside the door, he put out all the lights. It is mortifying to remember now that at the time I doubted his sanity. He raised them again, put them out . . .
In the second darkness came comprehension:
He was obeying the order of the Si-Fan!
“Help me, Kerrigan. In here!”
A curtained alcove, luxuriously appointed as the bedroom of a screen star, adjoined the study. We laid Delibes upon a cushioned divan. And as we did so and I raised inquiring eyes, there came a sound from the room outside which made me catch my breath.
It resembled a guttural command, in a tongue unknown to me. It was followed by an odd scuffling, not unlike that of a rat . . . It seemed to flash a message to Nayland Smith’s brain. With no glance at the insensible man upon the divan he dashed out.
I followed—and all I saw was this:
Some thing—I could not otherwise define it, nor can I say if it went on four or upon two legs—merged into the shadow on the balcony!
Smith pistol in hand, leapt out.
There was a rustling in the clematis below. The rustling ceased.
His face a grim mask in the light of the moon. Smith turned to me.
“There went death to Marcel Delibes!” he said, “but here”—he pointed to the torn-up document on the carpet—”went death to a million Frenchmen.”
“But the voice. Smith, the voice! Someone spoke—and there’s nobody here!”
“Yes—I heard it. The speaker must have been in the garden below.”
“And in heaven’s name what was the thing we saw?”
“That, Kerrigan, is beyond me. The garden must be searched, but I doubt if anything will be found.”
“But . . .” I stared about me apprehensively. “We must do something! Delibes may be dead!”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“He would have been dead if I had not saved him.”
“I don’t understand at all!”
“Another leaf from the book of Doctor Fu Manchu. Tonight I came prepared for the opposition of Delibes. I had previously wired to my old friend Doctor Petrie in Cairo. He is a modest genius. He cabled a prescription; Lord Moreton endorsed it; and it was made up by the best firm of druggists in London. A rapidly soluble tablet, Kerrigan. According to Petrie, Delibes will be insensible for eighteen hours but will suffer no unpleasant after-effects—nor will he recall exactly what occurred.”
I could think of no reply.
“We will now ring for assistance,” Smith continued, “report that the document was torn up in our presence, and express our proper regret for the sudden seizure of M. Delibes.”
He poured water from the ice bucket into the glass used by Delibes, and emptied it over the balcony. He then partly refilled the glass.
“Having advised Marshal Brieux that Paris may sleep in peace, we can return to our hotel.”
Ardatha’s Message
I think the bizarre drama of those last few minutes in the house of Marcel Delibes did more than anything else I could have accomplished to dull the agony of bereavement which even amid the turmoil of this secret world war shadowed every moment of my life.
Ardatha was lost to me . . . She belonged to the Si-Fan.
Once too often she had risked everything in order to give me warning. Her punishment was to work henceforth under the eye of the dreadful Dr Fu Manchu. Perhaps, as Smith believed, he was no longer president. But always while he lived I knew that he must dominate any group of men with whom he might be associated.
Leaving no less than four helpless physicians around the bed of the insensible Minister, we returned to our hotel. Gallaho was with us, and Jussac of the French police. As in London one car drove ahead and another followed.
As we entered the hotel lobby:
“This sudden illness of M. Delibes,” said Jussac, “is a dreadful thing. He would be a loss to France. But for myself”—he brushed his short moustache reflectively—”since you tell me that before his seizure he changed his mind, why, if this was due to a rising temperature, I am not sorry!”
Smith was making for the lift, and I was following when something drew my attention to the behavior of a girl who had been talking to the reception clerk. She was hurrying away, and the man’s blank expression told me that she had abruptly broken off the conversation.
Already she was disappearing across a large, partially lighted lounge beyond which lay the entrance from the Rue de Rivoli.
Without a word to my companions I set off in pursuit. Seeing me, she made as if to run out, but I leapt forward and threw my arms around her.
“Not this time, Ardatha—darling!”
The amethyst eyes glanced swiftly right and left and then flamed into sudden revolt. But beyond the flame I read a paradox.
“Let me go!”
I did not obey the words, for her eyes were bidding me to hold her fast. I crushed her against me.
“Never again, Ardatha.”
“Bart,” she whispered close to my ear, “call to your English policeman . . . Someone is watching us—”
At that, she began to struggle furiously!
“Hullo, Kerrigan! A capture, I see—”
Nayland Smith stood at my elbow.
“Gallaho,” he called, “a prisoner for you!”
I glared at him, but:
“Bart!”—I loved the quaint accent with which she pronounced my name—”he is right. I must be arrested—I want to be arrested!”
Gallaho hurried up. His brow remained decorated with plaster.
“Who’s this?”
“She is known as Ardatha, Inspector,” said Smith. “There are several questions which she may be able to answer.”
“You are wanted by Scotland Yard”—said Gallaho formally, “to give information regarding certain inquiries. I must ask you to be good enough to come with me.”
Smith glanced swiftly around. Jussac joined the party. Two men, their backs to us, stood talking just outside in Rue de Rivoli.
“I won’t!” blazed Ardatha, “unless you force me to!”
Gallaho clearly was nonplussed. To Jussac:
“Grab that pair outside the door!” said Smith rapidly. “Lock them up for the night. If I’m wrong I’ll face the consequences. Inspector, this lady is in your charge. Bring her upstairs . . .”
Jussac stepped outside and whistled. I did not wait to see what happened. Ardatha, between Inspector Gallaho and Nayland Smith, was walking towards the lift . . .
Having reached our apartment and switched all lights up:
“Inspector,” said Smith, “examine the lobby and the smaller bedroom and bathroom. I will search the others.”
In the sitting room he looked hard at Ardatha: “I am going to have you locked in the end room,” he remarked, “as soon as Inspector Gallaho reports that it is a safe place.”
He went out. No sooner was the door closed than I had Ardatha in my arms.
She seemed to search me with her glance: it was the look which a woman gives a man before she stakes all upon her choice.
“I have run away, Bart—to you. I was followed, but they could do nothing while I stood there at the desk. Now they have seen me arrested, and if ever he gets me back, perhaps this may save me—”
“No one shall get you back!”
“You do not understand!” She clutched me convulsively. “Shall I never make you understand that unless we can get away from Paris, nothing can save us—nothing!” She clenched her hands and stared like a frightened hare as Nayland Smith came in. “It is the order of the Council. I do not know if there is anywhere in the world you can hide from them—but this place you must leave at once!”
“Listen to me, Ardatha,” Smith grasped her shoulders. “Have you any knowledge, any whatever, of the Si-Fan plans for tonight?”
She faced him fearlessly; her hands remained clenched.
“If I had, I could not tell you. But I have no knowledge of these plans. As I hope for mercy, it is true. Only I know that you are to die.”
“How do you know?”
Ardatha from her handbag took out a square envelope.
“I was ordered to leave this at the desk and not allow myself to be recognized. I waited until I knew . . . I had been recognized!”
Final notice
Lower and raise the lights in your sitting room slowly twice, to indicate that you are prepared to take instructions. You have until midnight.
PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL
The Thing With Red Eyes
The apartments faced upon a courtyard. There were a number of police in the hotel under Jussac’s orders, and the passports of all residents had been scrutinized. Some of the rooms around the courtyard were empty; the occupants of the others were supposedly above suspicion. But Ardatha’s terror-stricken face haunted me. When she had realized that she was to be locked in the end room to await the hour of midnight, a fear so overwhelming had come upon her that my own courage was threatened.
Gallaho was in the lobby outside her door. And now I heard the clocks of Paris chiming . . .
It was a quarter to twelve.
We had curtained all the windows, although if one excepted opposite rooms, no point commanded them. The atmosphere was stale and oppressive. Paris vibrated with rumors and counter-rumors. By some it was believed that France already was at war;
another story ran that Delibes was dead. But to the quiet old courtyard none of this penetrated. Instead a more real, a more sinister menace was there. The shadow of Fu Manchu lay upon us.
A hopeless fatalism began to claim me. Already I looked upon Nayland Smith as a dead man.
From Ardatha came no sound. Her eyes had been unnaturally bright when we had left her: I had seen that splendid composure, that proud fearless spirit, broken. I knew that if she prayed, she prayed for me; and I thought that now she would be in tears -tears of misery, despair—waiting, listening . . . for what?
“Have your gun ready, Kerrigan!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to search every inch of this room.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know! But you remember the black streak that went over Delibes’ balcony? That thing, or another, similar thing, is here!”
I took a grip of failing nerves and stepped up to a walnut cabinet containing many cupboards, but:
“Touch nothing!” Smith snapped. “Leave the search to me. Just stand by.”
He began to walk from point to point about the room, sparsely furnished in the manner of a continental hotel. No drawer was left unopened, no nook or cranny unsearched.
But he found nothing.
The electric clock registered seven minutes to midnight. And now came a wild cry, for which I knew that subconsciously I had been waiting.
“Let me out! For God’s sake—let me out! I want to be with you—I can’t bear it!”
“Go and pacify her, Kerrigan. We dare not have her in here.”
“I won’t budge!”
“Let me out—let me out—I shall go mad!”
Smith threw the door open.
“Allow her to join you in the lobby, Gallaho. On no account is she to enter this room.”
“Very good, Sir Denis.”
As Smith released the door, I heard the sound of a lock turned. I heard Ardatha’s running footsteps . . .
“Come out there! Dear God, I beg of you—come out!”
Gallaho’s growing tones reached me as he strove to restrain her.
“If you are so sure, Smith”—my voice was not entirely under control—”that the danger is here, why should we stay?”
“I have asked you to leave,” he replied coldly.
“Not without you.”
“It happens to be my business, Kerrigan, to investigate the instruments of murder employed by Doctor Fu Manchu, but it is not yours. I believe some death agent to be concealed in this room, and I am determined to find out what it is.”
“Smith! Smith!” I spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“What?”
“For heaven’s sake don’t move—but look where I am looking. There, under the cornice!”
The apartment had indirect lighting so that there was a sort of recess running around three of the walls directly below the ceiling.
From the darkness of a corner where there were no lamps, two tiny fiery eyes—they looked red—glared down at us.
“My God!”
“What
is it, Smith? In heaven’s name, what is it?”
Those malignant eyes remained immovable; they possessed a dreadful, evil intelligence. It might have been an imp of hell crouching there, watching . . . Raising my repeater, I fired, and . . . all the lights went out!
“Drop flat, Kerrigan!”
The urgency of Smith’s order booked no denial. I threw myself prone on the carpet. I heard Smith fall near by . . .
There came a moaning cry, then a roar from Gallaho:
“What’s this game? What’s happened?”
The door behind me burst open. I became aware of a pungent odor.
“No lights, Gallaho ―and don’t come in! Make for the door, Kerrigan!”
I groped my way across the room. The awareness of that unknown thing somewhere in the darkness afforded one of the most terrifying sensations I had ever known. But I got to the door and into the lobby. Gallaho stretched out his hand and grasped my shoulder.
“Where’s Sir Denis?”
“I am here.”
There were sounds of movement all about, of voices.
“It’s the big black-out,” came Smith’s voice incisively, “ordered by Delibes to take place tonight. Whoever is in charge of the air defenses of Paris has received no orders to cancel it. This saved us—for I’m afraid you missed, Kerrigan!”
“Ardatha!” I said shakily, “Ardatha!”
“She fainted, Mr. Kerrigan, when the shot came . . .”
The Thing With Red Eyes (Concluded)
“Open this door.”
We stood before a door bearing the number 36. It was that of a room which adjoined our apartments. Lights had been restored. An alarmed manager obeyed.
“Stand by outside, Gallaho. Come on, Kerrigan.”
I found myself in a single bedroom which did not appear to be occupied. There was an acrid smell, and the first object upon which my glance rested was a long, narrow cardboard box labeled: “Meurice Freres.”
I glanced at an attached tab and read:
Mme Hulbert:
To be placed in number 36 to await Mme Hulbert’s arrival.
“Don’t touch that thing!” snapped Smith. “I’m not sure, yet—Hullo!”