by Sax Rohmer
Madame Ingomar touched Sir Bertram’s hand. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them rapturously.
“Please, please,” she pleaded. “I will not allow you to make love to me, while you doubt me so much. If I did, I should feel like a courtesan.”
Sir Bertram drew back, watching her. She dropped her wrap and turned away from him, glancing back over her right shoulder.
“You are a man of honor,” she said, the gaze of those magnetic eyes fixed upon him suddenly, overpoweringly. “I need your assistance; but you will never understand me until you know something of the dangers of my life.”
She slipped her shoulders free of the green frock. Sir Bertram suppressed an exclamation.
That ivory back was wealed with the marks of a lash!
He stared fascinatedly, fists clenched. With a graceful, almost indolent movement of her slender arms, Madame Ingomar readjusted her dress, pulled her fur wrap about her, and lay back in the corner, watching him under lowered lashes.
“What fiend did that to you?” he muttered. “What devil incarnate could deface that ivory skin?”
He was bending over her, one knee upon the floor of the car, a supplicant, literally at her feet. But she stared straight before her. When he seized her hands, they lay listless in his grasp.
“Tell me!”—the hoarseness of his own voice surprised him: “I want to know—I must know.”
“It would be useless,” she replied, her tones so low that he could only just catch the words. “In this you cannot assist me. But—” she looked down at him, twining her fingers in his—“I wanted you to know that what I have told you of my life is not a lie.”
Sir Bertram kissed her hands, kissed her arms, and quite intoxicated by the beauty of this maddening, incomprehensible woman, would have kissed her lips, but a slender hand, two of the fingers jeweled, intervened between his lips and hers.
Gently, she thwarted him, for her half-closed eyes were not unkind.
“Please... not yet,” she said. “I have told you that you make me feel like a wanton.”
Sir Bertram recovered himself. Seated, staring straight ahead, his teeth very tightly clenched, he tried to analyze his emotions.
Was he in the toils of the most talented adventuress who had ever crossed his path? Did these waves of insane passion which from time to time swept him away, mean that where Madame Ingomar was concerned, self-control had gone? If she was what she claimed to be, what were his intentions about her?
He taxed himself—was he prepared to marry her?
Beside him, she remained silent. He was conscious of the strangest urges. Not since his Oxford days had he experienced anything resembling these. Undeterred by that gentle rebuff, he wanted to grasp Madame Ingomar in his arms and silence her protests with kisses. He wanted to demand, as a lover’s right, the real explanation of those marks upon her shoulders. He wanted to kill the man who had caused them, and it was his recognition of this homicidal desire which checked, in a measure, the tumult of his brain.
Was it possible, that he, at his age, holding his place in the world, could be driven quite mad by a woman? He wrenched his head aside and looked at her.
She lay back against the cushions. Through half-closed eyes she stared before her abstractedly, and Sir Bertram captured that fugitive memory.
It was the profile of Queen Nefertiti, that exquisite mystery whose portrait by an unknown artist has been the subject of so much dispute.
Deserted streets offered no obstacles to the chauffeur. The outskirts of London reached, the police car behind had great difficulty in keeping Sir Bertram’s Rolls in sight.
“I can’t make this out at all,” growled Gallaho. “Where the devil is she going?”
“I haven’t been in this neighborhood for some time,” snapped Nayland Smith. “But it brings back curious memories. It was in an ancient house in a sort of backwater near Sutton, that I first met Sir Lionel Barton.”
“The explorer?”
“Yes. He inherited a queer old place somewhere in this neighborhood. It was the scene of very strange happenings at the beginning of the Fu-Manchu case. And... by heaven, as I live, that is just the direction we are heading now!”
In the leading car, the blind having been raised again, Madame Ingomar was giving instructions to the chauffeur. And presently, so guided, the Rolls turned into a darkly shadowed avenue which in summer must have been a veritable tunnel. At the end of it, through the temporary clearness of the night, one saw Rowan House, a long, squat building, hemmed in by trees and shrubs.
When presently Sir Bertram found himself in the entrance hall, he recognized the hand of the brilliant, but eccentric explorer and archeologist who had been the former owner of Rowan House. The place was a miniature Assyrian hall, and the present occupier had not disturbed this scheme. Animal skins and one or two exotic rugs alone disturbed the expanse of polished floor; and in the opening hung curtains of some queerly figured material which resembled that represented in ancient wall paintings.
The exterior of the house, Sir Bertram had noted, presented an unpleasantly damp and clammy appearance. And now as he stood looking about him, but glancing from time to time at the Oriental servant who had opened the door, he became aware at once of a curious perfume, almost like that of incense, yet having an overpowering quality about it which gave him the impression that Rowan House was not exactly a healthy abode.
Madame Ingomar was speaking rapidly to the butler who had admitted them, a squat Burman, dressed in white, and possessing an incredible width of shoulder. They spoke in a language which Sir Bertram did not understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY
GOLD
The room to which Madame Ingomar presently conducted Sir Bertram was astonishing in many respects.
“I will tell my father you are here,” she said—and he found himself alone.
From the lacquer armchair in which he sat, Sir Bertram surveyed his surroundings. He saw a room Orientally elegant, having entrances closed with sliding doors. Two shaded lanterns swung from the ceiling, illuminating the room warmly, and a number of brightly colored cushions were strewn about the floor. There were tapestries in which red and gold ran riot, so that one lost the head of a dragon and failed to recover it again in endeavoring to trace his tail. Rich carpets and cushioned divans; a number of handsome cabinets containing fine pottery; a battalion of books in unfamiliar bindings arranged upon shelves which, conforming to the scheme of the room, were of dull red lacquer.
At the end remote from that where Sir Bertram sat, in a deep tiled hearth, a small chemical furnace threw its red glow into the room. On a shelf just above this furnace there was a row of jars which contained preserved lizards, snakes and other small reptiles; there was a large table, apparently of Italian workmanship, magnificently inlaid, upon which were some open faded volumes and a number of scientific instruments.
One of the lacquer doors slid noiselessly open and a man came in. Sir Bertram hesitated for a moment and then stood up.
The newcomer was a singularly tall Chinaman who wore a plain yellow robe which accentuated the gaunt lines of his figure. A black cap surmounted by a bead crowned his massive skull. Introductions were superfluous: Sir Bertram Morgan knew that he stood in the presence of the Marquis Chang Hu.
The man radiated authority. He was impressive to a degree exceeding Sir Bertram’s experience. Perhaps the similarity of the profile of Madame Ingomar to that of the long-dead, beautiful Egyptian queen subconsciously prompted the image, but Sir Bertram thought, as others had thought before him, that the aged, ageless, majestic face of the man in the yellow robe resembled the face of the Pharaoh Seti I whose power, unexercised for four thousand years, may still be felt by anyone who bends over the glass case in Cairo which contains the mummy of that mighty king.
“You are welcome, Sir Bertram.” The tall Chinaman advanced, bowing formally. “Please be seated. I honor my daughter for arranging this interview.”
“It is a pleasure to
me, too, sir.”
Sir Bertram spoke sincerely. He was used to nobilities and to the off-shoots of imperial trees, but this survivor of the royal Manchus was a Prince indeed.
He wondered what he was doing in England. Knowing something of the situation in China, he wondered if the charming and promising adventure with Madame Ingomar had been no more than a lead-up to this; an attempt to enlist him in some hopeless campaign, financially to readjust the hopeless muddle which had taken the place of the once great Chinese Empire.
The Marquis Chang Hu seated himself behind the Italian table and Sir Bertram dropped back into his armchair. He had never heard a voice quite like that of Chang Hu. It was harsh, but imperious. He spoke perfect English. Long after this strange interview, Sir Bertram recognized that the impressiveness of the Marquis’s lightest words was due to one peculiarity:—Sir Bertram was old enough to have heard John Henry Newman speak; and in the diction of this majestic Chinaman he recognized later, the unalloyed beauty of our language as the poet-cardinal had spoken it.
“It is not my wish, Sir Bertram,” said his strange host, “to detain you any longer than is necessary.”
Sir Bertram’s chair was set very near to the big table, and Chang Hu, bending courteously across that glittering expanse, placed an ingot of metal in his visitor’s hand.
“You will have observed that I have some small facilities here. If you wish to make any tests, I shall be happy to assist you.”
Sir Bertram glanced at the ingot and then looked up. He closed his eyes swiftly. He had met a glance unlike any he had ever known. The eyes of Madame Ingomar were fascinating, hypnotic; the eyes of the Marquis, her father, held a power which was shattering.
Looking down again at the ingot in his hand:
“In the case of a man of my experience,” he replied, “tests are unnecessary. This is pure gold.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
GALLAHO AND STERLING SET OUT
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith through the speaking tube. “Back into that lane we have just passed on the right.”
The driver of the C.I.D. car checked immediately, stopped and reversed. There was no trace of fog on this outskirt of London. The night was limpidly clear. The big car was backed into the narrow lane which Nayland Smith had indicated.
“Good,” growled Gallaho; “but what’s the next move, sir?”
“It’s almost certain,” said Sterling excitedly, “that this is Dr. Fu-Manchu’s new base. It’s almost certain... that Fleurette is here.”
“Go easy.” Sir Denis grasped his shoulder. “We must think. A mistake, now, would be fatal.”
“I am wondering,” said Gallaho, “what madness brought Sir Bertram Morgan here tonight?”
“The madness,” Smith replied, “which has brought many men to disaster... a woman.”
“Yes,” Gallaho admitted; “she’s a good looker. But I should have thought he was getting past it.”
“Sir Denis...” Sterling’s voice trembled. “We’re wasting time.”
They tumbled out of the car. They had sponged the make-up from their faces, but were still in the matter of dress, two rough-looking citizens. Smith stood there in the dusk of that silent byway, tugging at the lobe of his left ear; then: “I am wondering,” he murmured. “Including the driver, Gallaho, we are only a party of four...”
“What have you got in mind, sir?”
“I have this in mind. I propose to raid Rowan House.”
“While Sir Bertram Morgan is there?”
“Yes. Unless he comes out very soon.”
“You think...?”
“I think nothing. I know. Dr. Fu-Manchu is in that house! If Sir Bertram is in danger or not I cannot say, but the man we want is there. I take it you have the warrant in your pocket, Inspector?”
Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho coughed loudly.
“You may take it that I have, sir,” he replied.
Nayland Smith grasped his arm in the darkness.
“I didn’t mean what you’re thinking, Inspector,” he said, “but we are so tied by red tape that any absurd formality overlooked might mean the wreck of the case.”
Gallaho replied almost apologetically.
“Thank you, sir; I entirely agree with you. Perhaps I was rather forgetting the fact that you have suffered from red tape as much as I have. But I take it you mean, sir, that we may meet with opposition.”
Sterling, clenching and unclenching his fists, was walking up and down in a fever of excitement, and:
“Sir Denis!” he exclaimed, “why are we delaying? Surely, with a woman’s life at stake...?”
“Listen, Sterling,” snapped Sir Denis. “I understand and sympathize—but I’m in charge of this party, and you belong to it.”
“I am sorry,” said Sterling hoarsely.
The driver of the car, seated at the wheel, was watching the trio expectantly, and then:
“Listen, Gallaho,” said Nayland Smith, rapidly: “how far are we from a call-box?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. This is rather outside my area. Do you know?” addressing his question to the driver.
“No, sir. The last one we passed was at the crossroads.”
“Drive back,” Nayland Smith instructed. “It’s your job to put a call through to local headquarters.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I want a raid squad here within twenty minutes. When you know where to go, drive there to pick ’em up.”
“Very good, sir.”
Silently and smoothly the big car moved out of the lane.
“In moments of excitement,” said Nayland Smith, “I am afraid I relapse into Indian police terms. Do you think your man can manage it, Gallaho?”
“Certainly, sir,” Gallaho replied. “The Flying Squad’s pretty efficient. We shall have all the men you want inside twenty minutes.”
“My fault,” said Nayland Smith, “not to have had a radio car.”
“They’re all on duty, sir.”
“One could have been recalled. We had time.”
“What now, sir?”
“We must look for vulnerable points, and keep well under cover. I don’t want Sir Bertram’s driver to see us. I trust nobody where Dr. Fu-Manchu is concerned. Come on!”
He led the way towards the tree-shadowed drive of Rowan House. Their cautious footsteps seemed loudly to disturb the damp silence of the avenue, but they pressed on till the lights of Sir Bertram’s Rolls, drawn up before the porch of the squat residence, brought them to a halt.
“Sterling!” Nayland Smith’s voice was low, but urgent. “Through the shrubbery here, and right around that wing on the left. You are looking for a way in, preferably a French window, of course. But any point where an entrance can be made quickly. If you meet anybody, tackle him, and then sing out. Are you armed?”
“Yes; it’s become a habit since I met Dr. Fu-Manchu.”
“Good. Walk right around the house until you meet Gallaho, then return by the more convenient route, and this point is to be our meeting place. And now, you, Gallaho, stick to the shadow of that lawn, there, and work around the right of the house till you meet Sterling. I am going to direct my attention to obtaining a glimpse of Sir Bertram’s chauffeur. His appearance and behavior will tell me much. We meet here in five minutes.”
Gallaho and Sterling set out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GALLAHO RUNS
Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho started his voyage of exploration under conditions rather more difficult than those which confronted Sterling.
The west wing of the house was closely invested by shrubbery; and although there were a number of windows, some of which were lighted, it was impossible to approach near enough to take advantage of any chink in the curtains. Some of the shrubs, which were of varieties unfamiliar to the inspector, remained in full leaf, others displayed flowers; and there was a damp, sweet, but slightly miasmatic smell about the place.
He remembered that the hous
e had belonged for some years to the eccentric explorer, archeologist and author, Sir Lionel Barton. No doubt this freak vegetation had been imported by him. Gallaho, who was no floriculturist, did not quite approve of shrubs which flowered in mid-winter.
Pressing on, walking on wet grass, he presently reached a gate in a wall which threatened to terminate his journey. He tried the gate—it was unlocked; he opened it. It communicated with a paved yard. Outbuildings indicated that this had formerly been the stables of Rowan House.
Gallaho stood still, looking about him suspiciously.
He was satisfied that no horses were kept; the place was very silent. In the windows of the main building visible from where he stood, no light showed. This was not surprising at such an hour in the morning. The domestic staff might be expected to have retired. It was the sort of place, however, in which an experienced man expected to meet a watch-dog.
Gallaho, holding the door ajar, assured himself that there was no dog, before proceeding across the yard. He examined the doors and windows, and came out presently into a neglected garden. He pulled up to take his bearings.
From somewhere a long way off came the wail of a train whistle; and... was that a muffled crash?
He had made a half-circuit of the house, which was not large. Sterling should have met him at about this point.
Gallaho stood still, listening.
Except for that vague murmuring which makes London audible for twenty miles beyond the city’s boundaries, the night was still.
It was very queer.
Gallaho had noted that all windows in the domestic quarters were fastened. The ideal point of entrance had not presented itself. He pushed on. What had become of Sterling?
Weed-grown flower beds bordered the wall of the house. There was nothing of interest to tempt him to approach nearer.
Suddenly, he stopped, fists clenched.
Somewhere—somewhere inside the house, he thought... a woman had screamed!
He began to run. He ran in the direction of an outjutting wing. It was very dark here, but Gallaho found gravel beneath his feet. He raced around the abutment and found himself staring at a French window.
