by Sax Rohmer
“Yes,” he said; “put him through to me, please.”
He turned around to Sterling.
“Police constable Waterlow,” he said, “on duty outside Professor Ambroso’s house. Hello!—yes?” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “Here...”
Police constable Waterlow proved to be speaking from a call-box somewhere in Brixton.
“After P.C. Ireland relieved me, sir, and I went off duty, I began thinking. I don’t know if I should have reported it—my orders were a bit vague-like. But talking it over with the missis, I came to the conclusion that you ought to know, sir. Divisional-inspector Watford gave me permission to speak to you, and gave me your number.”
“Carry on, Constable. I’m all attention.”
“Well, sir, the inspector didn’t seem to think there was anything in it. But he said that you might like to know. There was a funeral next door to Professor Ambroso’s house this afternoon—”
“What!”
“From a ground-floor flat, sir, in the next house. I can’t tell you much about it, because I don’t know. But it was a Miss Demuras—has been living there for about a month, I understand. I never thought of mentioning it to Ireland when he took over from me, but my missis says, ‘This is a murder case, and here’s a funeral next door: ring up the inspector.’ I did it, and he said he had instructions to put me straight through to you.”
“Who was in charge of the funeral, Constable?”
Alan Sterling sprang to his feet; fists clenched, quivering, he stood watching Nayland Smith at the telephone.
“The London Necropolis Company, sir.”
“At what time did it take place?”
“At four o’clock this afternoon.”
“Were there any followers?”
“Only one, sir. A foreign gentleman.”
“You don’t know who was attending the patient?”
“Yes, sir; as it happens, I do. A Dr. Norton, who lives on South Side. He was my own doctor, sir, when I lived in Clapham.”
“Thanks, Constable. I wish you had reported this earlier. But it’s not your fault.”
Nayland Smith turned to Sterling.
“Don’t look like that,” he pleaded. “It may mean nothing or it may be a red herring. But whilst I pick up one or two things that I want in the other room, get Gallaho at Scotland Yard, and ask him to join us here with a fast car.”
CHAPTER SIX
DR. NORTON’S PATIENT
Dr. Norton was surprised, somewhat annoyed and obviously perturbed by the invasion of Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Chief-inspector Gallaho and Alan Sterling. His consultations were finished, and he had hastily changed into evening kit. Clearly, he had a dinner appointment. He was a man approaching middle age, of sanguine complexion—West Country, as Nayland Smith recognized at a glance, and clever without being brilliant.
As his three visitors were shown into the upstairs study and made themselves known to Dr. Norton, Nayland Smith’s behavior was somewhat peculiar. Watched by the others, he walked around the room inspecting the bookcases, the pictures, and even the window, smiling in a manner that was almost sad.
“This is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting you, Sir Denis,” said Dr. Norton, “but we have a mutual friend.”
“I know.” Nayland Smith turned, and stared at him. “You bought this practice from Petrie.”
“I’ve stuck it ever since, although it isn’t particularly profitable.”
Nayland Smith nodded and glanced at Gallaho. The celebrated detective-inspector, on this occasion, had removed his bowler, revealing a close-cropped head, and graying, dark hair.
“You must have observed, Inspector, during your great experience of human life, that things move in circles.”
“I have often noticed it, sir.”
“Many years have elapsed, and much history has been made since Dr. Fu-Manchu first visited England. But it was in this very room—” he turned to Dr. Norton—“that the Mandarin Fu-Manchu made his second attempt upon my life.”
“What!”
Dr. Norton could not conceal his astonishment. “I know something, but very little, from Petrie, of the queer matters to which you refer, Sir Denis, but I hadn’t recognized—”
“You hadn’t recognized the existence of the circle,” snapped Nayland Smith. “No, I suppose we have to live many lives before we do. It’s a law, but it always strikes me as odd when I come in contact with it. It was here, in this very room, that Petrie, from whom you bought this practice, came to an understanding with the beautiful woman who is now his wife. It was here that Dr. Fu-Manchu endeavored to remove me by means of the Zayat Kiss. Ah!—” he looked about him, and then pulled his pipe and his pouch from the pocket of his tweed jacket. “The circle narrows. I begin to hope again.”
Dr. Norton’s interest in his dinner engagement was evidently weakening. The magnetic personality of Nayland Smith was beginning to dominate.
“Of course, Sir Denis, one has heard of Fu-Manchu. I haven’t seen Petrie since he settled in Cairo; but odd things crop up in the Press from time to time. Am I to understand that you gentlemen have called this evening with regard to this mythical monster?”
“That’s it,” said Gallaho; “the circle to which Sir Denis referred has roped you in now, Doctor.”
“I am afraid I don’t understand.”
“Naturally,” rapped Nayland Smith.
“May I suggest whiskies and soda,” said the physician. “It doesn’t run to cocktails.”
“It’s a suggestion,” Gallaho replied, “that doesn’t leave me unmoved.”
Dr. Norton dispensed drinks for his unexpected visitors, and then:
“My recognition of the fact,” said Nayland Smith, “that fate had brought me back to Petrie’s old quarters, with their many associations, rather took me off the track. The point of our visit is this, Doctor—” He fixed his penetrating eyes upon their host: “You have been attending a Miss Demuras, who lived on the North Side of the Common—”
“Yes.” Dr. Norton visibly started. “I regret to say that she died yesterday, and was buried today.”
“Without recourse to your case-book,” Nayland Smith went on, “what roughly were the symptoms which led to her end?”
Dr. Norton passed his hand over his face, and then brushed his fair mustache. He was considering his reply, but finally: “It was a case of pernicious anemia,” he replied. “Miss Demuras had resided in the tropics. She was practically alone in the world, except for a brother—with whom she requested me to communicate, and who appeared in time to take charge of the funeral arrangements.”
“Pernicious anemia,” Nayland Smith murmured. “It’s a rather obscure thing, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“As its name implies, and I have used its popular name, it is— pernicious. It’s difficult to combat. She was in an advanced stage when I first attended her.”
“She occupied a ground-floor flat?”
“Yes.”
“Had she any personal servants?”
“No; it was a service flat.”
“I see. When did she actually die, Doctor?”
“Just before dawn yesterday. A popular hour for death, Sir Denis.”
“I know. There was a nurse in attendance, of course.”
“Yes. A very experienced woman from the local Institute.”
“She called you, I take it, to the patient, fearing that she was in extremis?”
“Yes. It was a painful surprise. I hadn’t expected it...”
“Quite. But her sudden death was consistent with her symptoms?”
“Undoubtedly. It happens that way in certain cases.”
“Had you taken any other opinion?”
“Yes. I called in Havelock Wade only last week.”
Gallaho was following the conversation eagerly, his sullen-looking eyes turning from speaker to speaker. Sterling, sitting in an armchair, had abandoned hope of mastering his intense anxiety. He didn’t know, and couldn’t grasp, what this inqui
ry portended. But wholly, horribly, his mind was filled with the idea that Fleurette was dead and had been buried.
“Forgive me if I seem to pry into professional secrets,” Nayland Smith went on; “but would you mind describing your late patient?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Norton replied. He began again to brush his mustache. His expression, Nayland Smith decided, was that of an unhappy man. “She was, I think, a Eurasian. I don’t know very much of the East; I have never been there. But she was some kind of half-caste—there was Eastern blood in her. Her skin was of a curiously dull, ivory color. I may as well say, Sir Denis, that she was a woman of great beauty. This uniform ivory hue of her skin was fascinating. To what extent this characteristic was due to heredity, and to what extent to her ailment, I never entirely determined...”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LASH MARKS
“I quite understand, Sir Denis,” Dr. Norton said.
“Please regard any information I can give you as yours. I venture to believe you are wrong in supposing that Miss Demuras was an associate of this group, to which you refer, but I am entirely at your disposal. I will admit here and now, that I was growing infatuated with my patient. Her death, which I had not anticipated, was a severe blow.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down, tugging at the lobe of his ear, glancing at the titles of the books, staring about the room; then:
“I suggest that Miss Demuras’s eyes were long, narrow, and very beautiful?”
“Very beautiful.”
“Of a most unusual green color, at times glittering like emeralds?”
“It occurs to me that you were acquainted with her?” said Dr. Norton, staring hard at the speaker.
“It occurs to me,” Nayland Smith replied grimly, glancing at Alan Sterling, “that both Mr. Sterling and I from time to time have come in contact with Miss Demuras! Do you agree, Sterling?”
The young American botanist fixed a pathetically eager gaze upon the face of Nayland Smith; it was taut, grim, a fighting glint in deep-set eyes.
“My God! the net’s closing in on us again!” he whispered. “You seem to have an extra sense, Sir Denis, where this man and his people are concerned. It’s uncanny... but it may be a coincidence.”
Inspector Gallaho had resumed his favorite pose. He was leaning on the mantelshelf, moving his thin-lipped mouth as if chewing phantom gum. He was out of his depth, but nothing in his expression revealed this fact.
“I suggest that Miss Demuras was tall, and very slender?” Nayland Smith continued. “She had exquisite hands, slenderfingered and indolent—patrician hands with long, narrow, almond nails, highly varnished?”
“You are right. I see you knew her.”
“Her voice was very soothing—almost hypnotic?”
Dr. Norton started violently, and stood up.
“This is either clairvoyance,” he declared, “or you knew her better than I knew her. The implication is that Demuras is not her name. Don’t tell me that she was a criminal...”
“There still remains a margin of doubt,” said Nayland Smith, rapidly. He suddenly turned and stared at Sterling. “I have just recalled something that you told me—something that you witnessed in Ste. Claire de la Roche... When the Chinese punish, they punish severely. There’s just a chance.”
He twisted about again, facing Dr. Norton. But the latter had construed the meaning of his words. His sanguine color had ebbed; he was become pale.
“Ah!” cried Nayland Smith, “I see that you understand me!”
Norton nodded, and dropped back into his chair.
“There is no further room for doubt,” he acknowledged. “Whoever my patient was, clearly you knew her. Throughout the time that I attended her, nearly two weeks, she definitely declined to permit me to make a detailed examination. By which I mean that she objected to exposing her shoulders. In this she was adamant. My curiosity was keenly aroused. She had no other physical reticences. Indeed, her mode of dress and her carriage, might almost be described as provocative. But she would never permit me to apply my stethoscope to her back. By means of a trick, as I frankly confess, and which need not be described, I succeeded in obtaining a glimpse of her bare shoulders. She was unaware of this...”
He paused, looking from face to face. He was beginning to regain his naturally fresh color. He was beginning to realize that his beautiful patient had not been what she seemed.
“There were great weals on her delicate skin—healed, but the scars were still visible. At some time, and not so long ago, she had been lashed—mercilessly lashed.”
He clenched his fists, staring up at Nayland Smith.
The latter nodded, and resumed his restless promenade of the carpet; then:
“Do you understand, Sterling?” he snapped.
Sterling was up—his restlessness was feverish.
“I understand that Fah Lo Suee is dead—that she died alone, in that flat.”
“Dead!”
“Sir Denis!” Dr. Norton stood up. “I have been frank with you: be equally frank with me. Who was this woman?”
“I don’t know her real name,” Nayland Smith replied, “but she is known as Fah Lo Suee. She is the daughter of Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“What?”
“And it was he, her father, who in exercising his parental prerogative left the scars to which you refer.”
“My God!” groaned Dr. Norton—“the fiend!—the merciless fiend! A delicate, tenderly nurtured woman!—and an ailing woman at that!”
“Possibly,” snapped Nayland Smith. “Delicately nurtured—yes. I am anxious, doctor, to protect your professional reputation. Your certificate was given in good faith. There is no man on the Register who would not have done the same in the circumstances. Of this, I assure you. But—” he paused—“I must have a glimpse of the body of your late patient.”
“Why?”
“I think it can be arranged, sir,” growled Gallaho. “I put a few inquiries through this evening after Mr. Sterling phoned me at the Yard, and I found that the deceased lady has been buried in a family vault in the old part of the Catholic Cemetery.”
“That is correct,” Dr. Norton interrupted. “Her only surviving relative, a brother, Manoel Demuras, with whom she had requested the nurse to get into communication, came from Lisbon, as I understand, and the somewhat hurried funeral was due to his time being limited.”
“Can you describe this man?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“His ugliness was almost as noticeable as his sister’s beauty. The yellow streak was very marked.”
“You mean he might almost have passed for a Chinaman?”
“Not a Chinaman...” Dr. Norton stroked his mustache and stared up at the ceiling. “But perhaps a native of Burma—or at least, as I should picture a native of Burma to look.”
“There was Eastern blood of some sort in the Demurases,” growled Gallaho. “They settled in London nearly a century ago, and at one time had a very big business as importers of Madeira wine. The firm has been extinct for twenty years. But there’s a family vault in the old Catholic Cemetery, and that’s where the body lies.”
“I see.”
And thereupon Nayland Smith did a singular thing... Crossing the room, he jerked the curtain aside, and threw up the window!
All watched him in mute astonishment. Waves of fog crept in, like the tentacles of some shadowy octopus. He was staring down in the direction of the street. He turned, reclosed the window and readjusted the curtain.
“Forgive me, Doctor,” he said, smiling; and that rare smile, breaking through the grim mask, almost resembled the smile of an embarrassed schoolboy. “A liberty, I admit. But I had a sudden idea—and I was right.”
“What?” growled Gallaho, ceasing the chewing operation, and shooting out his jaw.
“We’ve been followed. Somebody is watching the house...”
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOG IN HIGH PLACES
That phenomenal fog was getting its grip upon London again when t
he party set out. But in the specially equipped car, fair headway was made. At the mysterious, deserted house of Professor Ambroso, Gallaho and Sterling were dropped. The detective had certain important inquiries to make there relative to the accessibility of the adjoining ground-floor flat from the studio of Pietro Ambroso. Nayland Smith went on alone.
He had established contact by telephone from Dr. Norton’s house with the man he was going to see. He knew this man, his lack of imagination, his oblique views of life. He knew that the task before him was no easy one. But he had attempted and achieved tasks that were harder.
The slow progress of the car was all but unendurable. Nayland Smith snapped his fingers irritably, peering out first from one window, then from another. In the brightly lighted West End streets better going was made, and at last the car pulled up before a gloomy, stone-porched house a few paces from Berkeley Square.
In a coldly forbidding library, a man sat behind a vast writing-table. Its appointments were frigidly correct. His white tie, for he was in evening dress, was a miracle of correctness. He did not stand up as Sir Denis was shown in by a butler whose proper occupation was that of an undertaker.
“Ah! Smith.” He nodded and pointed to an armchair. “Just in time.” He glanced at a large marble clock. “I have only five minutes.”
Nayland Smith’s nod was equally curt.
“Good evening, Sir Harold,” he returned, and sat down in the hard, leather-covered chair.
Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s relations with His Majesty’s Secretary for Home Affairs had never been cordial. Indeed it is doubtful if Sir Harold Sims, in the whole course of his life, had ever known either friendship or love. Nayland Smith, staring at the melancholy face with its habitual expression of shocked surprise, thought that Sir Harold’s scanty hair bore a certain resemblance to red tape chopped up. From a pocket of his tweed suit, Nayland Smith took out several documents, opened them, glanced at them, and then, standing up, placed them on the large, green blotting-pad before Sir Harold Sims.
“You know,” said the latter, adjusting a pair of spectacles, and glancing down at the papers, “your methods have always been too fantastic for me, Smith. I mean, they were when you were associated with the Criminal Investigation Department. This thing, which you are asking me to do, is irregular—wholly irregular.”
