The Trail of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Divisional-inspector Watford was a gray-haired, distinguished looking man of military bearing. He sat behind a large desk looking alternately from one to the other of his two visitors. Of these, one, Chief-inspector Gallaho, of the C.I.D., was well known to every officer in the Metropolitan police force. A thick-set, clean-shaven man, of florid coloring and truculent expression, buttoned up in a blue overcoat and wearing a rather wide-brimmed bowler hat. He stood, resting one elbow upon the mantelpiece and watching the man who had come with him from Scotland Yard.

  The latter, tall, lean, and of that dully dark complexion which tells of long residence in the tropics, wore a leather overcoat over a very shabby tweed suit. He was hatless, and his close-cropped, crisply waving gray hair excited the envy of the district inspector. His own hair was of that color but had been deserting him for many years. The man in the leather overcoat was smoking a pipe, and restlessly walking up and down the office floor.

  The divisional inspector was somewhat awed by his second visitor, who was none other than ex-Assistant Commissioner Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Something very big was afoot. Suddenly pulling up in front of the desk, Sir Denis took his pipe from between his teeth, and:

  “Did you ever hear of Dr. Fu-Manchu?” he jerked, fixing his keen eyes upon Watford.

  “Certainly, sir,” said the latter, looking up in a startled way. “My predecessor in this division was actually concerned in the case, I believe, a number of years ago. For my own part”—he smiled slightly—“I have always regarded him as a sort of name—what you might term a trade-mark.”

  “Trade-mark?” echoed Nayland Smith. “What do you mean? That there’s no such person?”

  “Something of the kind, sir. I mean, isn’t Fu-Manchu really the name for a sort of political organization, like the Mafia—or the Black Hand?”

  Nayland Smith laughed shortly, and glanced at the man from Scotland Yard.

  “He is chief of such an organization,” he replied, “but the organization itself has another name. There is a Dr. Fu-Manchu—and Dr. Fu-Manchu is in London. That’s why I’m here tonight.”

  The inspector stared hard for a moment, and then:

  “Indeed, sir!” he murmured. “And may I take it that there’s some connection between this Fu-Manchu and Professor Ambroso?”

  “I don’t know,” Nayland Smith snapped, “but I intend to find out tonight. What can you tell me about the professor? He lives in your area.”

  “He does, sir.” The inspector nodded. “He has a large house and studio on the North Side of the Common. We have had orders for several days to afford him special protection.” Nayland Smith nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth.

  “Personally, I’ve never seen him, and I’ve never seen any of his work. He’s a bit outside my province. But I understand that although he’s an Italian by birth, he is a naturalized British subject. What he wants protection for, is beyond me. In fact, I should be glad to know, if anyone can tell me.”

  Sir Denis glanced at the Scotland Yard man.

  “Bring the inspector up-to-date,” he directed; “he’s evidently rather in the dark.”

  Watford, resting his arms on the table, stared at the celebrated detective, enquiringly.

  “Well, it’s like this,” Gallaho began in a low, rumbling voice. “If it means anything to you, I’ll begin by admitting that it means nothing to me. Professor Ambroso has been abroad for some time supervising the making of a new kind of statue at the Sevres works, outside Paris. It’s a life-sized figure, I understand, and more or less colored. Since the matter was brought to my notice, I have been looking up newspaper reports and it appears that the thing has created a bit of a sensation in artistic circles. Well, the professor took it down to an international exhibition held in Nice. This exhibition closed a week ago, and the figure, which is called ‘The Sleeping Venus,’ was brought back to Paris, and from Paris to London.”

  “Did the professor come along, too?”

  “Yes. And in Paris he asked for police protection.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t ask me—I’m asking you. The French sent a man down to Boulogne on the train in which the thing was transported—then we took over on this side. There’s a man on duty outside his house now, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. And the fog’s so dense it’s impossible to relieve him.” Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again; but now:

  “He can be relieved when the other car arrives,” he jerked, glancing back over his shoulder. “I should have pushed straight on, but there is someone I am anxious to interrogate. I have arranged for him to be brought here.”

  That the speaker was in a state of high nervous tension, none could have failed to recognize. He was a man oppressed by the cloud of some dreadful doubt.

  “That’s the story,” Gallaho added. “The professor and his statue arrived by the Golden Arrow on Friday evening, just as the fog was beginning. He had two assistants, or workmen—foreigners, anyway, with him—and he had hired a small lorry. A plain-clothes man covered the proceedings, and the case containing the statue arrived at the professor’s house about nine o’clock on Friday night, I understand.” Then, unconsciously he echoed the ideas of Police Constable Ireland. “What the devil anybody wants to steal a statue for, is beyond me.”

  “It’s so far beyond me,” Nayland Smith said rapidly, “that I am here tonight to inspect that work of art.”

  Watford’s expression was pathetically blank.

  “It doesn’t seem to mean anything,” he confessed.

  “No,” said Gallaho, grimly, “it doesn’t. It will seem to mean less when I tell you that we had a wire from the Italian police this evening—advising us that Professor Ambroso had been seen in the garden of his villa in Capri yesterday morning.”

  “What?”

  “Sort that out,” growled Gallaho. “It looks as though we’ve been giving protection to the wrong man, doesn’t it?”

  “Good Lord!” Watford’s face registered the blankest bewilderment. “Is it your idea, sir—?” he turned to Nayland Smith—“I mean, you don’t think that Professor Ambroso—”

  “Well,” growled Gallaho—“go ahead.”

  “No, of course, if he’s been seen alive! Good Lord!” But again he turned to Sir Denis, who was pacing more and more rapidly up and down the floor. “Where does Fu-Manchu come in?”

  “That’s a long story,” Smith replied, “and until I have interviewed the professor, or the person posing as the professor, I cannot be certain that he comes in at all.”

  There was a rap on the door, and a uniformed constable came in.

  “The other car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and there’s a Mr. Preston here, asking for Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

  “Show him in,” said Watford.

  A few moments later a young man came into the office bringing with him a whiff of the fog outside. He wore a heavy tweed overcoat and white muffler, and carried a soft hat He had a fresh-colored face and light blue, twinkling eyes—very humorous and good-natured. He sneezed several times, and smiled apologetically.

  “My name is Nayland Smith,” said Sir Denis. “Won’t you please sit down?”

  “Thank you, sir,” and Preston sat down. “It’s a devil of a night to bring a bloke out, but I’ve no doubt it’s very important.”

  “It is,” Nayland Smith snapped. “I will detain you no longer than possible.”

  Gallaho turned in his slow fashion and fixed his observant eyes upon the newcomer. Divisional-inspector Watford watched Nayland Smith.

  “I understand that you were on duty,” the latter continued, “At Victoria on Friday when the Paris-London service known as the Golden Arrow, arrived?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “It is customary on this service to inspect baggage at Victoria?”

  “It is.”

  “One of the passengers was Professor Pietro Ambroso, accompanied by two servants or workmen, and having with him a large c
ase or crate containing a statue. Did you open this case?”

  “I did.” Preston’s merry eyes twinkled. He sneezed, blew his nose and smiled apologetically. “There was a detective on special duty who had traveled across with the professor, and who seemed anxious to get the job over. He suggested that examination was unnecessary. “But—” he grinned—“I wanted to peep at the statue. The professor was inclined to be peevish, but—”

  “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 mustache. 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 color of his eyes?”

  Preston shook his head, suppressing a sneeze.

  “He seemed to be 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 colored, 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 coloring 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 THREE

  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 for him 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 his 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 other 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 overwrought 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 Gallaho. “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 fiancée. 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, a
n appreciative look in his gray eyes, watched him. “How long elapsed between your saying goodbye 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 deck, and actually left at the last moment.”

  “Fleurette asked you to leave her?” jerked Nayland Smith.

  “Yes. She was terribly keyed-up. She thought it would be easier if we said good-bye in the cabin. I rejoined her father on deck, and—”

  “One moment, sir,” Gallaho’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.”

  “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?” jerked Nayland Smith.

  “No, but Fleurette did.”

  “Where did you stay on the way out?”

  “At the Chatham—a favorite 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 dispatched on the previous evening. It was from Petrie 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 effected the transference. He has been put on to a Dutch liner, due into Marseilles tonight.” The telephone bell rang. Inspector Watford took up the instrument on his table and: