by Sax Rohmer
There was no light in the room to which it belonged. Gallaho could see that heavy curtains were drawn. But there was no indication that the interior was illuminated. Nevertheless—from that room the cry might well have come.
He ran forward.
His first discovery was a dramatic one. A glass pane immediately above the lock had been shattered!
The absence of Sterling was now becoming inexplicable. Gallaho could only suppose that he had made some discovery which he had felt to be of such importance as to justify his returning and reporting to Sir Denis. Otherwise, palpably they must have met some considerable time before this.
Gallaho slipped his hand through the opening in the glass, encountering velvet draperies, groped about and found the lock.
There was no key in it.
Yet there was something very sinister about this broken window— that dim scream.
Searching his memory, he seemed to recall that at one point in his fruitless journey, just after he had crossed the stable yard, at about the same time that a distant train whistle had disturbed the silence, he had imagined that he heard a muffled crash. Here, perhaps, was the explanation.
But where was Sterling?
He ran on to the corner of this wing of the house; and now, through close growing but leafless trees, could see the tunnel-like drive along which they had come. Sterling was not in sight, nor could he see Sir Denis...
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FLEURETTE
Alan Sterling was fully alive to the selfishness of his own motives. Nayland Smith was working for the welfare of humanity, striving to defend what we call Civilization from the menace which Dr. Fu-Manchu represented. Gallaho officially assisted him. But he, Sterling, hard though he might fight to thrust personal interest into the background, to seek the same goal, knew in his heart that his present objective was the rescue of Fleurette—if she lived—from the clutches of the Chinese doctor.
Through long days and all but unendurable hours of sleepless nights, since the message of Dr. Petrie, her father, had reached him, he had known this yearning for the truth, dreadful though the truth might be. Was she dead or alive? If alive, to what condition of mindless slavery—to what living death—had she been subjected by the brilliant devilish master of her destiny?
He forced his way through damp shrubbery; thorny bushes obstructed his path. He was anxious to avoid making any unnecessary noise. Frequently he glanced towards the porch of Rowan House, before which the long, lithe outline of Sir Bertram’s Rolls glittered dimly in reflected light. The headlamps had been turned off, but the sleek body was clearly visible.
Scratches were not to be avoided. At last he was clear of the shrubbery, and found himself upon the damp soil of a flower-bed. He ploughed forward, aiming for a dimly seen path, reached it and felt hard gravel beneath his feet. He was now out of sight from the porch. Glancing back swiftly, he crossed the path and found himself in shelter from the point of view of anyone watching from the front of the house.
He became aware of an oppressive, sickly sweet perfume. He saw a long, dead wall upon which some kind of creeper grew, despite the wintry season, bearing small yellow flowers. Heavy of limb, it climbed almost to the eaves of Rowan House.
One dark window he saw, high above his head, marked it, but knew that it could only be reached by means of a ladder. He pressed on.
In all directions vegetation hemmed the place in; until, through a chink in heavy curtains drawn behind a French window having small, leaded panes, a spear of light shot across the damp gravel path, revealing many weeds, and was lost in shadowy shrubbery. Sterling crept forward cautiously, step by step, until at last he could peer into the room to which this French window belonged.
He found himself looking into a sort of small library. At first, all that he could see was shelf upon shelf laden with faded, well-worn volumes. Cautiously, he moved nearer to the pane, and now was able to enlarge his field of vision.
Intensely he was excited, so excited that he distrusted himself. He was breathing rapidly.
He saw more bookshelves, and, craning his neck still further, saw a floor plainly carpeted. There was little furniture in the place. He could not see the source of the illumination: he could see books, books; one or two Oriental ornaments; a coffee table with an open volume upon it; and a number of cushions.
A shadow fell across the carpet.
Sterling watched intently, fists clenched.
The shadow grew more dense, shortened—and then the person who occasioned it walked slowly into view, head lowered in the act of reading a small, very faded-looking volume.
It was Fleurette—his Fleurette! Petrie’s daughter!
Sterling experienced a wave of exultation which swept everything else from his mind. Nayland Smith’s instructions were forgotten— the chief purpose of the expedition, the apprehension of Dr. Fu-Manchu, was forgotten... Fleurette was alive—only a few panes of glass separated them.
And how beautiful she was!
The hidden light, gleaming upon her wonderful hair, made it glow and shimmer in living loveliness. She was so slender—so divinely graceful; that rarest creation of nature, as the Chinese doctor had once declared, a perfect woman.
He rapped urgently upon the window.
Fleurette turned. The book dropped from her hand. Her eyes, opened widely, were fixed upon the gap in the curtains.
Sterling’s heart was beating wildly as he pressed his face upon the glass. Surely in the light shining out from the room she could see him?
But she stood motionless, startled, gazing, but giving no sign.
“Fleurette!” Sterling spoke in a low voice, yet loudly enough for the girl in the room to hear him. “It’s Alan. Open the window, darling—open the window!”
But she gave no sign.
“Fleurette! Can you hear me? It’s Alan. Open the window.”
He had found the handle. The strangeness of his reception by this girl who only a few days before had lain trembling in his arms because three or four weeks of separation pended, was damping that glad exultation, chilling the hot blood dancing through his veins.
The window was locked, as he had assumed it would be. He could see the key inside.
“Fleurette, darling! For God’s sake open the window. Let me in. Don’t you understand? It’s Alan! It’s Alan!”
Fleurette shook her head, and turning, walked across the room.
Surely she had recognized him? In spite of his rough dress, could Fleurette, his Fleurette, fail to recognize him?
Pressing his face against the glass, Sterling, astounded, saw her take up a pencil and a writing-block from a dimly seen bureau. He could endure no more. Premature action might jeopardize the success of Nayland Smith’s plans, but there were definite limits to Sterling’s powers of endurance. These had been reached.
Stepping back a pace he raised his right foot, and crashed the heel of his shoe through the small leaded pane of glass just above the lock of the French window.
He had expected an echoing crash; in point of fact the sound made was staccato and oddly muffled. He paused for a second to listen... Somewhere in the distance a train whistle shrieked...
Thrusting his hand through the jagged opening, he turned the key, pushed the French window open and stepped into the room. Three swift strides and he had Fleurette in his arms.
She had turned at the crash of his entrance—eyes widely opened, and a look of fear upon her beautiful face.
“My darling, my darling!”—he crushed her against him and kissed her breathlessly. “What has happened? Where have you been? Above all, why didn’t you open the window?”
Fleurette’s eyes seemed to be looking through him—beyond him—at some far distant object. She made a grimace of pain—good God! of contempt. Leaning back, continuing to look not at him, but through him, and wrenching one arm free, she brushed it across her lips as if something loathsome had touched them!
Sterling released her.
He had rea
d of one’s heart growing cold, but was not aware that such a phenomenon could actually occur. Where there had been mystery—there was mystery no more. Fleurette’s love for him was dead. Something had killed it.
With a tiny handkerchief she was wiping her lips, watching him, watching him all the time. There was absolute silence in the room, and absolute silence outside. He found time to wonder if Gallaho had heard the crash, if those inside the house had heard it.
But this thought was a mere undercurrent.
All of him that was real, all of him that lived, was concentrated upon Fleurette. And now, looking him up and down, with a glance of such scornful anger as he had never sustained in his life from man or woman:
“You are just a common blackguard, then?” she said, in that musical voice which he adored, and yet again raised the fragment of cambric to her lips. “I hate you for this.”
“Fleurette, darling!”
His own voice was flat and toneless.
“If you ever had a right to call me Fleurette, you have that right no longer.”
Her scorn was like a lash. Alan Sterling writhed under it. But although she stared straightly at him, he could not arrest that strange, far-away gaze. She turned suddenly, and walked towards the bureau. Over her shoulder:
“Get out!” she said. “I am going to call the servants, but I will give you this chance.”
“Fleurette, dear!” he extended his arms distractedly. “My darling! What has happened? What wrong have I done?”
He followed her, but she turned and waved him away, fiercely.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, her eyes flashing murderously. “If you touch me again, you will regret it.”
She picked up a pencil and began to write.
Sterling, quivering in muscle and nerve, stood close beside her. Whoever had interfered between himself and Fleurette, upon one point he was determined. She should not remain here, in this house. Explanations could come later. But he proposed to pick her up, regardless of protests, and carry her out to the police car.
Slowly he moved nearer, making up his mind just how he should seize her. There was a silk-shaded lamp on the bureau and in its light he was able quite clearly to read the words which Fleurette was writing upon the pad.
As he read, he stood stock still, touched by a sort of supernatural horror. This is what he read:—
“Alan darling. If you touch me I shall try to kill you. If I speak to you I shall tell you I hate you. But I can write my real thoughts. Save me, darling! Save me!”
Came a flash of inspiration—Alan Sterling understood.
Fleurette was the victim of some devilish device of the Chinese physician. He had induced in her either by drugs or suggestion, a complete revulsion of feeling in regard to those she had formerly loved. But because of some subtlety of the human brain which he had overlooked, although, as in some cases of amnesia, she could not express her real thoughts in words, she could express them in writing!
“My darling!”
Sterling bent forward and tore the page from the writing-block.
Whereupon Fleurette turned, her face contorted.
“Don’t touch me! I detest you!”—she glared at him venomously; “I detest you!”
Sterling stooped, threw his left arm around her waist and his right under her knees. He lifted her. She screamed wildly and struck at him.
He forced her head down upon his shoulder to stifle her cries, and carried her towards the open window...
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE LACQUER ROOM
Gallaho by now very breathless pulled up, watching the porch of Rowan House.
The front door was open; this dimly, he could divine; but there seemed to be no light in the entrance hall.
The headlamps of Sir Bertram’s Rolls gleamed dimly, but the inside lights were turned off. Evidently, Sir Bertram was leaving— after a very brief visit.
Why was there no light in the entrance hall?
Gallaho’s bewilderment was growing by leaps and bounds. To the problems of the scream, the broken window and Sterling’s absence now was added that of Sir Denis’s disappearance. Gallaho’s own inclination, for he was a man of forthright action, was to run up the drive quite openly to the porch, and to demand to see the occupier of the house.
But Sir Denis was in charge tonight. He could not act without his authority, and his last instruction had been: “Do nothing, until I give the word.”
A muted bang told him that the door of Sir Bertram’s car had been closed. Who had entered it he didn’t know. Suddenly the headlights cleaved a lane through darkness, illuminating the gravel drive, depicting trees of elfin shapes in silhouette, goblin trees. The entrance to Rowan House was transformed magically into a haunted forest.
The Rolls moved off, turned, and entered the drive. Gallaho darted half right into the shrubbery, crouched down, and watched...
Someone was seated beside the chauffeur. The fleeting impression which Gallaho derived conveyed to his mind the idea of a native servant of some kind. This surely meant that Sir Bertram was not returning home, but was proceeding elsewhere?
And there was no means of following! The Flying Squad car was presumably at the local police station, picking up a party of men to raid Rowan House!
The Rolls purred swiftly by. Of its occupants, Gallaho had never a glimpse. But as it passed he sprang to his feet and stepped out on to the drive.
“Where in hell has everybody got to?” he growled.
The door of the house was open. He could see the black gap which it made in the dingy gray frontage of the pillared porch. Something very strange was happening here—had already happened; and now:
“Gallaho!” came a distant voice, “Gallaho!”
It was Nayland Smith!
“Where are you, sir?” Gallaho shouted.
He raced towards the porch of the house from which the cry had seemed to come, throwing precaution to the winds now, for there was urgency in Nayland Smith’s voice.
And as he reached the steps he saw him...
Sir Denis was standing in the open doorway, the lobby behind him in darkness.
“He’s slipped us, I think, Gallaho. We’re too late. But my main concern at the moment is not with him... show a light here. I am looking for the switch.”
Gallaho’s torch flashed in the darkness of that strange Assyrian hall.
“There it is, sir.”
The lights were switched on. It was a queer looking place, of pillars and bas-reliefs, a freak of the former eccentric owner of Rowan House. There was no sound. They might have been alone in the building.
“What the devil has become of Mr. Sterling?” Gallaho’s face looked very lined and grim. “And I thought I heard a woman scream.”
“I did hear a woman scream,” snapped Smith. “I started around the house in the direction you had taken. Did you notice a door in a sort of archway which opens into the stable yard?”
“Yes, it was locked.”
“Not when I reached it,” Smith replied grimly. “I went in, venturing to use my torch. It communicated with an absolutely unfurnished passage, which I followed, and found myself here, looking out of the open front door—just as Sir Bertram’s car disappeared down the drive. Ssh! What’s that?”
From somewhere within the recesses of the silent house, a faint sound of movement had come...
Slowly and with extreme caution, in order not to rattle the rings, Inspector Gallaho drew aside a curiously patterned curtain which hung in one of the square openings of the Assyrian hall. It was from behind this curtain that the slight sound had come.
A thickly carpeted passage appeared, dimly lighted. There was a door at the further end immediately facing them and one to the right. That at the further end—apparently a sliding door—was ajar... and light shone out from the room beyond.
Nayland Smith exchanged a significant glance with the detective, and the two tip-toed along the corridor. Their footsteps made next to no sound upon the thick ca
rpet. Outside the door, both paused, listening.
In the room beyond, someone was walking up and down, restlessly, ceaselessly.
Gallaho displayed an automatic in his open palm. Smith nodded, and drew the door open.
He found himself in a fairly large room which was a combination of a library and a laboratory. It was a type of room with which he had become familiar during the long years that he had battled with Dr. Fu-Manchu. There were preserved snakes and reptiles in jars upon a high shelf. Many queer looking volumes in orderly rows appeared behind a big table upon which, in addition to evidence of literary activity, there was a certain amount of chemical paraphernalia. Lacquer was the dominant note.
At the moment of Nayland Smith’s entrance, the man who had been promenading the room turned, startled, and stared at the intruders.
It was Sir Bertram Morgan, Governor of the Bank of England.
“Well I’m damned!”—the growling words came from Gallaho.
“Sir Bertram!” Nayland Smith exclaimed.
Sir Bertram Morgan experienced a not unnatural difficulty in recognizing Smith, whom he had met socially, in his present attire; but at last:
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith, I believe?” he replied. The financier had quite recovered his poise. He was a man of remarkably cool nerve. “The Marquis Chang Hu did not inform me that I should have the pleasure of meeting you here tonight.”
Gallaho exchanged glances with Sir Denis and then stood by the open door, listening—listening for the Scotland Yard car and the raiding party. Sir Denis twitched the lobe of his ear, staring all about him, and then:
“I fear, Sir Bertram,” he said, “that you have been decoyed here under false pretenses.”
“Decoyed...?”
Sir Bertram assumed his well-known expression which has appeared in so many Press photographs, his bushy eyebrows slightly raised in the center.
“I said ‘decoyed’ advisedly. You came with a woman. She is half Chinese. By what name you know her I cannot say. I have known her by several.”
