by Sax Rohmer
“Describe the professor,” snapped Nayland Smith.
Preston stared in surprise for a moment, and then:
“He’s a tall old man, very stooped, with a white beard and moustache. Wears pince-nez, a funny black, continental cape coat, and a wide-brimmed black hat. He speaks with a slight Italian accent, and he’s very frightening.”
“Admirable thumb-nail sketch,” Nayland Smith commented, his penetrating stare fixed almost feverishly upon the speaker. “Thank God for a man who can see straight. Do you remember the colour of his eyes?”
Preston shook his head, suppressing a sneeze.
“He seemed half blind. He peered, keeping his eyes nearly closed.”
“Good. Go on. Statue.”
Preston released the pent-up sneeze. Then, grinning in his cheerful way:
“It was the devil of a game getting the lid off,” he went on.
“But I roped off a corner to keep the curious away, and had the thing opened. Whew!” he whistled. “I got a shock. The figure was packed in on a sort of rest—and there was a second glass lid. I had the shock of my life!”
“Why?” growled Gallaho.
“Well, I’d read about the ‘Sleeping Venus’ in the papers. But I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw. Really—it’s uncanny, and if I may say so, a bit shocking.”
“In what way?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“Well, it’s the figure of a beautiful girl, asleep. It isn’t shiny, as I expected, hearing that it was made of porcelain—it looks just like a living woman. And it’s coloured, to represent nature. I mean, finger nails and toe-nails and everything. By gosh!”
“Sounds worth seeing,” growled Gallaho.
Nayland Smith dived into some capacious pocket within the leather overcoat, and produced a large mounted photograph. He set it upright on the inspector’s desk, right under the lamp. Preston stood up and Gallaho approached the table. Wisps of fog floated about the room, competing for supremacy with the tobacco smoke from Nayland Smith’s briar. The photograph was that of a nude statue, such as Preston had described; an exquisite figure relaxed, as if in sleep.
“Do you recognize it?” jerked Nayland Smith.
Preston bent forward, peering closely.
“Yes,” he said, “That’s her—I mean, that’s it. At least, I think so.” He peered closer yet. “Damn it! I’m not so sure.”
“What difference do you notice?” Nayland Smith asked, eagerly.
“Well . . .” Preston hesitated. “I suppose it was the colouring that did it. But the statue was far more beautiful than this photograph.”
There came a rap on the door, and the uniformed constable came in.
“The third car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and a Mr. Alan Sterling is here.”
CHAPTER
3
STERLING’S STORY
Alan Sterling burst into the room. He was a lean young man, marked by an intense virility. His features were too irregular to be termed handsome, but he had steadfast Scottish eyes, and one would have said that tenacity of purpose was his chief virtue. His skin was very tanned, and one might have mistaken him for a young Army officer. His topcoat flying open revealing a much-worn flannel suit, and, a soft hat held in hand, he was a man wrought-up to the verge of endurance. His haggard eyes turned from face to face. Then he saw Sir Denis, and sprang forward:
“Sir Denis!” he said, “Sir Denis——” and despite his Scottish name, a keen observer might have deduced from his intonation that Sterling was a citizen of the United States. “For God’s sake, tell me you have some news? Something— anything! I’m going mad!”
Nayland Smith grasped Sterling’s hand, and put his left arm around his shoulders.
“I am glad you’re here,” he said, quietly. “There is news, of a sort.”
“Thank God!”
“Its value remains to be tested.”
“You think she’s alive? You don’t think——?
“I am sure she’s alive, Sterling.”
The three men in the room watched silently, and sympathetically. Gallaho, alone, seemed to comprehend the inner significance of Sterling’s wild words.
“I must leave you for a moment,” Nayland Smith went on. “This is Divisional-inspector Watford, and Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, of Scotland Yard. Give them any information in your possession. I shall not be many minutes.” He turned to Preston. “If you will give me five minutes’ conversation before you go,” he said “I shall be indebted.”
He went out with Preston. Sterling dropped into the chair which the latter had vacated, and ran his fingers through his disordered hair, looking from Gallaho to Watford.
“You must think I am mad,” he apologized. “But I’ve been through hell—just real hell!”
Gallaho nodded, slowly.
“I know something about it, sir,” he said, “and I can sympathize.
“But you don’t know Fu Manchu!” Sterling replied, wildly. “He’s a fiend—a demon—he bears a charmed life.”
“He must,” said Watford, watching the speaker. “It’s a good many years since he first came on the books, sir, and if as I understand he’s still going strong—he must be a bit of a superman.”
“He’s the Devil’s agent on earth,” said Sterling, bitterly. “I would give ten years of my life and any happiness that may be in store for me, to see that man dead!”
The door opened, and Nayland Smith came in.
“Give me the details quickly, Sterling,” he directed. “Action is what you want—and action is what I’m going to offer you.”
“Good enough, Sir Denis.” Sterling nodded. He was twisting his soft hat between his hands. It became apparent from moment to moment, how dangerously over-wrought he was. “Really—there’s absolutely nothing to tell you.”
“I disagree,” said Nayland Smith, quietly. “Odd facts pop up, if one reviews what seemed at the time to be meaningless. We have two very experienced police officers here and since they are now concerned in the case, I should be indebted if you would outline the facts of your unhappy experience.”
“Good enough. From the time you saw me off in Paris?”
“Yes.” Nayland Smith glanced at Watford and Gellaho. “Mr. Sterling,” he explained, “is engaged to the daughter of an old mutual friend, Dr. Petrie. Fleurette—that is her name—spent a great part of her life in the household of that Dr. Fu Manchu, whom you, Inspector Watford, seem disposed to regard as a myth.”
“Funny business in the south of France, some months ago,” Gallaho growled. “The French press hushed it up, but we’ve got all the dope at the Yard.”
“Sir Denis and I,” Sterling continued, “went to Paris with Dr. Petrie and his daughter, my fiancee. They were returning to Egypt—Dr. Petrie’s home is in Cairo. Sir Denis was compelled to hurry back to London, but I went on to Marseilles and saw them off in the Oxfordshire of the Bibby Line.”
“I only have the barest outline of the facts, sir,” Gallaho interrupted. “But may I ask if you went on board?”
“I was one of the last visitors to leave.”
“Then I take it, sir, you waved to the young lady as the ship was pulling out?”
“No,” Sterling replied, “I didn’t, as a matter of fact, Inspector. I left her in the cabin. She was very disturbed.”
“I quite understand.”
“Dr. Petrie was on the promenade deck as the ship pulled out, but Fleurette, I suppose, was in her cabin.”
“The point I was trying to get at, sir, was this,” Gallaho persisted, doggedly, whilst Nayland Smith, an appreciative look in his grey eyes, watched him. “How long elapsed between your saying good-bye to the young lady in her cabin, and the time the ship pulled out?”
“Not more than five minutes. I talked to the doctor—her father—on the deck, and actually left at the last moment.”
“Fleurette asked you to leave her?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“Yes. She was terribly keyed-up. She t
hought it would be easier if we said good-bye in the cabin. I rejoined her father on deck, and—”
“One moment, sir,” Galllaho’s growling voice interrupted again. “Which side of the deck were you on? The seaward side, or the land side.”
“The seaward side.”
“Then you have no idea who went ashore in the course of the next five minutes?”
“No. I am afraid I haven’t, sir.”
“That’s all right, sir. Go ahead.”
“I watched the Oxfordshire leave,” Sterling went on, “hoping that Fleurette would appear; but she didn’t. Then I went back to the hotel, had some lunch, and picked up the Riviera Express in the afternoon, returning to Paris. I was hoping for a message at the Hotel Meurice but there was none.”
“Did Petrie know you were staying at the Meurice?”
“No, but Fleurette did.”
“Where did you stay on the way out?”
“At the Chatham—a favourite pub of Petrie’s”
“Quite. Go on.”
“I dined, and spent the evening with some friends who lived in Paris, and when I returned to my hotel, there was still no message. I left for London this morning, or rather—since it’s well after midnight—yesterday morning. A radio message was waiting for me at Boulogne. It had been despatched on the Oxfordshire . . .” Sterling paused, running his fingers through his hair. . . . “It just told me that Fleurette was not on board; urged me to get in touch with you, Sir Denis, and finally said the doctor was hoping to be transferred to an incoming ship.”
“A chapter of misadventures,” Nayland Smith murmured. “You see, we were both inaccessible, temporarily. I have later news, however. Petrie has affected the transference. He has been put on to a Dutch liner, due into Marseilles to-night.”
The telephone bell rang. Inspector Watford took up the instrument on his table and:
“Yes,” he said, listened for a moment, and then: “Put him through to me here.”
He glanced at Nayland Smith.
“The constable on duty outside Professor Ambrose’s house,” he reported, a note of excitement discernible in his voice.
Some more moments of silence followed during which all watched the man at the desk. Smith smoked furiously. Sterling, haggard under his tan, glanced from face to face almost feverishly. Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho removed his bowler, which fitted very tightly, and replaced it at a slightly different angle. Then:
“Hello, yes—officer in charge speaking. What’s that? . . .” The vague percussion of a distant vocie manifested itself. “You say you are in the house? Hold on a moment.”
“The officer on duty heard a cry for help,” he explained;
“found his way through the fog to the house; the door was open, and he is now in the lobby. The house is deserted, he reports.”
“We are too late!” It was Nayland Smith’s voice. “He has tricked me again! Tell your man to stand by, Inspector. Gather up all the men available and pack them into the second car. Come on, Gallaho. Sterling, you join us!”
CHAPTER 4
PIETRO AMBROSO’S STUDIO
Even the powerful searchlights attached to the Flying Squad car failed to penetrate that phenomenal fog for more than a few yards. Progress was slow. To any vehicle not so equipped it would have been impossible. A constable familiar with the districts walked ahead, carrying a red lantern. A powerful beam from the leading car was directed upon this lantern, and so the journey went on.
P.C. Ireland in the lobby of Professor Ambrose’s house learned the lesson that silence and solitude can be more terrifying than the wildest riot. His instructions had been to close the door but to remain in the lobby. This he had done.
When he found himself alone in that house of mystery, the strangest promptings assailed his brain. He was not an imaginative man, but sheer common sense told him that something uncommonly horrible had taken place in the house of Professor Ambrose that night.
The fire was burning low in the grate. There were some wooden logs in an iron basket, and Ireland tossed two on the embers without quite knowing why he took that liberty. Red tape bound him. Furtively he watched the stairs which disappeared in shadows, above. He was a man of action; his instinct prompted him to explore this silent house. He had no authority to do so. His mere presence in the lobby—since he could not swear that the cry actually had come from the house—was a transgression. But in this, at least, he was covered; the divisional inspector had told him to stay there. How did they hope to reach him, he argued. They would probably get lost on the way.
Now that the fog was shut out, he began to miss it. The silence which seemed to speak and in which there were strange shapes, had been awful, out there, on the verge of the Common, but the silence of this lighted lobby was even more oppressive.
Always he watched the stair.
Mystery brooded on the dim landing, but no sound broke the stillness. He began to study his immediate surroundings. There were some very strange statuettes in the lobby—queer busts, and oddly distorted figures. The paintings, too, were of a sort to which he was unused. The entire appointments of the place came within the category which P.C. Ireland mentally condemned under the heading of “Chelsea”.
One of the logs which he had placed upon the fire, and which had just begun to ignite, fell into the hearth. He started, as though a shot had been fired.
“Damn!” he muttered, “this place is properly getting on my nerves.”
He rescued the log and tossed it back into place. A cigarette was indicated. He could get rid of it very quickly, if the inspector turned up in person, which he doubted. He discarded his oilskin cape, and produced a little yellow packet, selecting and lighting a cigarette almost lovingly. There was company in a cigarette when a man felt lonely and queer. Always, he watched the stair.
He had finished his cigarette and reluctantly tossed the stub into the fire which now was burning merrily, when the sharp note of a bell brought him to his feet at a bound. It was the door-bell. P.C. Ireland ran forward and threw the door open.
A man in a leather overcoat, a grey-haired man, with piercing steely-blue eyes, stood staring at him.
“Constable Ireland?” he rapped.
There was unmistakable authority about the new arrival, and:
“Yes, sir,” Ireland replied.
Nayland Smith walked into the lobby, followed by Inspector Gallaho, a figure familiar to every officer in the force. There was a third man, a young, very haggard looking man. But Ireland barely noticed him. The presence of Gallaho told him that in some way which might prove to be profitable to himself, he had become involved in a case of major importance. Fog swept into the lobby. He stood to attention, recognizing several familiar faces, of brother constables, peering in out of the darkness.
“You heard a cry for help?” Nayland Smith went on. His mode of speech reminded the constable of a distant machine gun. “You were then at the gate, I take it?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?” growled Gallaho.
“There was someone moving about in the fog, sir. When I challenged him, he didn’t answer—he just disappeared. At last, I got a glimpse of him, or it, or whatever it was.”
“What do you mean by ‘it’?” Gallaho demanded. “If you saw something—you can describe it.”
“Well, sir, it might have been a man crouching down on his hands and knees—you know what the fog is like—”
‘You mean,” said Nayland Smith, “that you endeavoured to capture this thing—or person—who declined to answer your challenge?”
“Thank you, sir; yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Did you touch him or it?” Gallaho demanded.
“No, sir. But I lost my bearings trying to grab him. I found myself nearly on the other side of the road by the Common, when I heard the cry.”
“Describe this cry,” snapped Nayland Smith.
“It was a woman’s voice, sir; very dim through the fog. And the words were ‘Help! For Go
d’s sake help me!’ I thought it came from this house. I groped my way back, and when I reached the door, found it open. I’ve been here in the lobby, ever since.”
“You say it was a woman’s voice,” Sterling broke in. “Did it sound like a young woman or an old woman?”
“Judging from what I could make out through the fog, sir, I should say, a young woman.”
Sterling clutched his hair distractedly. He felt that madness was not far off.
Gallaho turned to Sir Denis.
“It’s up to you, sir. Do you want the house searched? According to regulations, we are not entitled to do it.”
His tone was ironical.
“Search it from cellar to attic,” snapped Nayland Smith. “Post a man at each end of the drive and split the others up.”
“Good enough, sir.” Gallaho returned to the open doorway. “How many of you have got lanterns—torches are no good in this blasted fog.”
“Two,” came a muffled voice, “and Ireland has a third.”
“The two men with lanterns are to stand at the ends of the drive. Anybody coming out—get him. Jump to it. The rest of you, come in.”
Four constables came crowding into the lobby.
“Isn’t there a garage?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“Yes, sir,” Ireland replied. “It opens on to the left side of the drive-in. But nothing has gone out of it tonight.”
“Have you any idea where the studio is?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been on day duty here. It’s behind the garage—but probably, there’s a way through from the house.”
“Join me, Sterling,” said Nayland Smith. “Gallaho, allot a man to each of the four floors. Close the door again, and post a man in charge here, in the lobby.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Come with me, Ireland. You say the studio lies in this direction?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Sterling.”
They crossed the lobby, approaching a door on the left of the ascending staircase. Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho was re-adjusting his bowler. Police constables were noisily clattering upstairs, their torches flashing as they ran. The door proved to open on to a narrow corridor.