by Sax Rohmer
“You also thought you recognized her, Sir Denis,” I went on, “and evidently you were not wrong. I can’t believe I shall ever see her again, but, if you know, tell me: who is she?”
He drew a deep breath.
“You told me, I think, that you had never met Karâmanèh— Petrie’s wife?”
“Never.”
“She was formerly a member of the household of Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“It seems impossible!”
“It does, but it’s a fact, nevertheless. I seem to remember telling you that she was the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
“You did.”
“On one side she’s of pure Arab blood, of the other I am uncertain.”
“Arab?”
“Surely. She was selected for certain qualities, of which her extraordinary beauty was not the least, by Dr. Fu-Manchu. Petrie upset his plans in that direction. Now, it is necessary for you to realize, Sterling, that Petrie, also, is a man of very good family—of sane, clean, balanced stock.”
“I am aware of this, Sir Denis; my father knows him well.”
Sir Denis nodded and went on:
“Dr. Fu-Manchu has always held Petrie in high esteem. Very few people are aware of what I am going to tell you—possibly even your father doesn’t know. But a year after Petrie’s marriage to Karâmanèh, a child was born.”
“I had no idea of this.”
“It was so deep a grief to them, Sterling, that they never spoke of it.”
“A grief?”
“The child, a girl, was born in Cairo. She died when she was three weeks old.”
“Good heavens! Poor old Petrie! I have never heard him even mention it.”
“You never would. They agreed never to mention it. It was their way of forgetting. There were curious features about the case to which, in their sorrow, they were blind at the time. But when, nearly a year later, the full facts came into my possession, a truly horrible idea presented itself to my mind.”
“What do you mean, Sir Denis?”
“Naturally, I whispered no word of it to Petrie. It would have been the most callous cruelty to do so. But privately, I made a number of enquiries; and while I obtained no evidence upon which it was possible to act, nevertheless, what I learned confirmed my suspicion...
“Dr. Fu-Manchu is patient, as only a great scientist can be.”
He paused, watching me, a question in his eyes. But as I did not speak:
“When I entered that room, which I described to you as the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty, I received one of the great shocks of my life. Do you know what I thought as I looked at Fleurette asleep?”
“I am trying to anticipate what you are going to tell me.”
“I thought that it was Karâmanèh—Petrie’s wife!”
“You mean—”
“I mean that, even with her eyes closed, the likeness was uncanny, utterly beyond the possibility of coincidence. Then, when you described to me their unusual quality—and Karâmanèh’s eyes are her crowning beauty—I knew that I could not be mistaken.”
Positively I was stricken dumb—I could only sit and stare at the speaker. No words occurred to me.
“Therefore, poor Petrie’s recognition does not surprise me. It may seem amazing, Sterling, almost incredible, that a child less than three weeks old could be subjected to that treatment upon which much of Fu-Manchu’s monumental knowledge rests: the production of artificial catalepsy; but a fact which by now must have dawned upon you. He is not only the greatest physician alive today, he is probably the greatest physician who has ever been.”
“Sir Denis—”
The car was just pulling up before the police headquarters.
“There’s no doubt whatever, Sterling!” He grasped my arm firmly. “Think of what the doctor has told you about her—think of what she has told you about herself—so much as she knows. There isn’t a shadow of doubt. Fleurette is Petrie’s daughter, and Karâmanèh is her mother! Buck up, old chap, I know how you must feel about it—but we haven’t abandoned hope yet.”
He sprang out and ran in at the door, brushing past an officer who stood on duty there.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
OFFICER OF THE PREFÉT
In the large but frigid office of M. Chamrousse, Préfet of the Department, that sedate, grey-bearded official spoke rapidly on the telephone and made a number of notes upon a writing block; Sir Denis snapping his fingers impatiently and pacing up and down the carpet.
I had no idea of his plan, of what he hoped for. My state of mental chaos was worse than before. Fleurette Petrie’s daughter! From tenderest infancy she had lived as those others lived whom he wanted for his several purposes: a dream-life!
And now—Petrie himself...
In upon my thoughts broke the magisterial voice of the man at the big table.
“Here is the complete list, Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said. “You will see that the only private vessel of any tonnage which has cleared a neighbouring port during the last twelve hours is this one.”
He rested the point of his pencil on the paper. Nayland Smith, bending eagerly over him, read the note aloud:
“M.Y. Lola, of Buenos Aires; four thousand tons; owned by Santos da Cunha.”
He suddenly stood upright, staring before him.
“Santos da Cunha?” he repeated. “Where have I heard that name?”
“Curiously enough,” said M. Chamrousse, “the villa at Ste Claire was formerly the property of this gentleman, from whom it was purchased by Mahdi Bey.”
Sir Denis dashed his fist into the palm of his hand.
“Sterling!” he cried. “There’s hope yet! There’s hope yet! But I have been blind. This is the Argentine for whose record I am waiting!” He turned to the Préfet. “How long has the Lola been lying in Monaco?”
“Nearly a week, I believe.”
“And she left?”
“Soon after dawn, Sir Denis—as I read in this report.”
“You see, Sterling! You see?” he cried.
He turned again to the Préfet, and:
“The Lola must be traced,” he said rapidly, “without delay. Please give instructions for messages to be sent to all ships in the neighbourhood, notifying position of this motor yacht when sighted.”
“I can do this,” said the other gravely, inclining his head.
“Next, is there a French or British warship in port anywhere along the coast?”
M. Chamrousse raised his eyebrows.
“There is a French destroyer in the harbour of Monaco,” he replied.
“Please notify her commander to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice—in fact, the instant I get on board.”
That peremptory manner, contempt for red tape and routine, which characterized Sir Denis in emergencies, had the effect of ruffling the French official.
“This, sir,” he replied, taking off his spectacles and tapping them on the blotting pad, “I cannot do.”
“Cannot?”
The other shrugged.
“I have no such powers,” he declared. “It is in the province of the naval authority. I doubt if even the Admiral commanding the Mediterranean Fleet could take it upon himself to do what you ask of me.”
“Perhaps,” rapped Nayland Smith, “in these circumstances, you will be good enough to put a call through to the Ministry of Marine in Paris.”
M. Chamrousse shrugged his shoulders and looked mildly surprised.
“Really—” he began.
“My authority from the British Foreign Office,” said Sir Denis, with a sort of repressed violence, “is such that any delay you may cause must react to your own discredit. The interests of France as well as those of England are involved in this matter. Damn it, M. Chamrousse! I am here in the interests of France! Must I go elsewhere, or will you do as I ask?”
The Préfet resignedly took up the telephone and gave instructions to the outer office that Paris should be called.
Nayland Smith beg
an again to pace up and down the carpet.
“You know, Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” M. Chamrousse began in his dry, precise voice, “it is perhaps a little unfair to me that I am so badly informed regarding this matter. All the available police have been rushed to Ste Claire and, according to my latest reports, are locked up there. I am in the dark about this—I am tied hand and foot. Paris instructed me to place myself at your disposal, and I have done so, but the reputation of Mahdi Bey, whom I have met several times socially, is quite frankly above suspicion. To me, the whole thing is incomprehensible; and now you demand—”
In this unemotional outburst I saw the reason of the Préfet’s coldness towards Sir Denis. He resented the action of Paris. Sir Denis realized this also; for checking his restless promenade he turned to face the little bearded man.
“Such issues are at stake, M. Chamrousse,” he said, “and my own blunders have so confounded me, that perhaps I have failed in proper courtesy. If so, forgive me. But try to believe that I have every reason for what I do. It is of vital importance that the yacht Lola should be detained.”
“I accept your assurance upon these matters, Sir Denis,” said M. Chamrousse.
But I thought from the tone of his dusty voice that he was somewhat mollified.
Conversation ceased, and unavoidably I dropped back into that valley of sorrowful reflection from which this verbal duel between Sir Denis and the French official had temporarily dragged me.
Fleurette was Petrie’s daughter!
This was the amazing fact outstanding above the mist and discord which ruled my brain. It might be that they were together; but, once Petrie should have fully recovered from his dangerous illness, I did not doubt that he would be forced to accept that Blessing of the Celestial Vision from which I had so narrowly escaped; and then...
If my influence had “not tarnished the mirror”—in Dr. Fu-Manchu’s words—a ghastly union of unknown age and budding youth would be consummated!
I could not face the idea. I found myself clenching my fists and grinding my teeth.
At which moment, the connection with Paris was made; M. Chamrousse stood up, bowed courteously, and handed the receiver to Sir Denis.
The latter—in voluble but very bad French—proceeded to tread heavily on the toes of the Paris official at the other end of the line. I had learned that he, in moments of stress, was prone to exhibit a truculence, an indifference to the feelings of others which underlay and may have been the driving power behind that brusque but never uncourteous manner which characterized him normally.
He was demanding to speak to the Minister in person and refusing to be put off.
“At home and asleep? Be so good as to put me through to his private number at once!”
M. Chamrousse had taken his stand on the carpet upon which Nayland Smith so recently had paced up and down; listening to the conversation, he merely shrugged, took out a cigarette, and lighted it with meticulous care.
However, it must be recorded to the credit of Sir Denis that his intolerant language—which was sometimes frankly rude—achieved its objective.
He was put through to the sleeping Minister...
No doubt there is much to be said for direct methods in sweeping aside ill-informed opposition. In the Middle West of America, my father’s home, I had learned to respect the direct attack as opposed to those circumlocutory manoeuvres so generally popular in European society.
To the unconcealed surprise of M. Chamrousse, Sir Denis’s demands were instantly conceded!
I gathered that authoritative orders would be transmitted immediately to the commander of the destroyer lying in the harbour at Monaco; that every other available unit in the fleet would be despatched in quest of the submarine. In short, it became evident during this brief conversation that Sir Denis wielded an authority greater than even I had suspected.
When presently he replaced the receiver and sprang to his feet, the effect upon M. Chamrousse was notable.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said, “I congratulate you—but you fully realize that in this matter I was indeed helpless!”
Sir Denis shook his hand.
“Please say no more! Of course I understand. But if you would accept my advice, it would be this: proceed personally to Ste Claire, and when you have realized the difficulties of the situation there, you will be in a position to deal with it.”
Some more conversation there was, the gist of which I have forgotten, and then we were out in the car again and speeding along those tortuous roads headed for Monaco.
“Much time has been wasted,” rapped Nayland Smith; “only luck can help us now. Failing a message from some ship which has sighted the yacht Lola, it’s impossible to lay a course. Probably the Lola has a turn of speed which will tax the warship in any event. But lacking knowledge of her position, we can’t even start.”
“I don’t doubt she will have been sighted. There’s a lot of shipping in those waters.”
“Yes, but the bulk of it is small craft, and many of them carry no radio. However, we are doing all that lies in our power to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ON THE DESTROYER
From the bridge of the destroyer I looked over a blue and sail-less sea. The speed of the little warship was exhilarating, and I could see from the attitude of her commander beside me that this break in peacetime routine was welcome rather than irksome.
I glanced towards the port wing of the bridge where Nayland Smith was staring ahead through raised glasses.
Somewhere astern of where I stood, somewhere in the slender hull, full out and quivering on this unexpected mission, I knew there were police officers armed with a warrant issued by the Boulevard du Palais for the arrest of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
And as the wine of the morning began to stir my blood, hope awakened. The history of Fleurette lay open before me like a book. And all that had seemed incomprehensible in her character and her behaviour, lover-like, now I translated and understood. She had been cultivated as those plants in the forcing houses had been cultivated.
The imprint of Dr. Fu-Manchu was upon her.
Yet through it all the real Fleurette had survived, defying the alchemy of the super-scientist: she was still Petrie’s daughter, beautiful, lovable, and mine, if I could find her.
I set doubt aside. Definitely, we should overtake the South American yacht. News had come from a cruising liner ten minutes before we had reached Monaco Harbour: the Lola, laid on a southerly course, was less than twenty miles ahead.
But, since the Lola also must have picked up the message, we realized that the course of the motor yacht would in all probability have been changed. Nevertheless, ultimate escape was next to impossible.
Yet again, that damnable thought intruded: the Lola might prove to be a will o’ the wisp; Fu-Manchu, Fleurette, and Petrie not on board!
It appeared to me that the only thing supporting Nayland Smith’s theory and his amazing reaction to it was the fact that the Lola had not answered those messages sent out by the French authority.
At which moment, Sir Denis dropped the glasses into their case and turned.
“Nothing!” he said grimly.
“It is true,” the commander replied; “but they have a good start.”
A man ran up to the bridge with a radio message. The commander scanned it.
“They are clever,” he reported. “But all the same they have been sighted again! They are still on their original course.”
“Who sends the report?” asked Nayland Smith.
“An American freighter.”
“The Air Arm is strangely silent.”
“We must be patient. Only two planes have been despatched; they are looking also for a submarine—and there are many miles of sea to search.”
He took up the glasses. Nayland Smith, hands thrust in his pockets, stared straight ahead.
The destroyer leaped and quivered under the lash of her merciless engines, a living, feverish thing. And this reflectio
n crossed my mind: that the Chinese doctor, wherever he might be at that moment, was indeed a superman; for he is no ordinary criminal against whom warships are sent out...
Another message was brought to the bridge; this one from a flying officer. The Lola was laid to, less than five miles off and nearly dead on our course!
“What does this mean?” rapped Nayland Smith. “I don’t like it a bit.”
I was staring ahead, straining my eyes to pierce the distance... And now, a speck on the skyline, I saw an airplane flying towards me.
“Coming back to pilot us,” said the commander; “they know the game is up!”
A further message arrived. The Lola was putting a launch off at the time that the airman had headed back to find us. No submarine had been sighted.
“By heavens!” cried Nayland Smith, “I was right. His underwater craft is waiting for him in the event of just such an emergency as this! Instruct the plane to hurry back!”
The order was despatched.
I saw the pilot bank, go about, and set off again on a course slightly westward of our own.
The commander spoke a few more orders rapidly, and we crept into line behind the swiftly disappearing airman. We must have been making thirty-five knots or more, for it was only a matter of minutes before I saw the yacht—dead ahead.
“The launch is putting back!” said Nayland Smith. “Look!”
The little craft was just swinging around the stern of the yacht! And now we were so near that I could see the lines of the Lola, a beautiful white-and-silver ship, with a low, graceful hull and one squat, yellow funnel with a silver band.
“By heavens!” I shouted, “we’re in time!”
The naval air pilot was circling now above the yacht. That submarine was somewhere in the neighbourhood it seemed reasonable to suppose, unless it had been the purpose of the launch’s crew to head back for shore: a possibility. But no indication of an underwater craft disturbed the blue mirror of the Mediterranean.
The commander of the destroyer rang off his engines.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX