The Trail of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  He set down the glass beside the plate, adjusted the armchair in relation to the fire with careful consideration, bowed slightly, and went out.

  The man was so efficient, so completely sane, that no better antidote could have been prescribed in Fleurette’s present mood. Mark Twain had begun the cure; Fey had completed it.

  She began to eat egg sandwiches with great relish. She knew instinctively that the expedition upon which her father had gone tonight, with Sir Denis and that strange character, Inspector Gallaho, would result in the discovery of the fact that Dr. Fu-Manchu had survived the catastrophe in the East End, of which she knew very little, for they had withheld details. She was disposed to believe that Gallaho, alone, had faith in the Prince’s death; her father’s manner betrayed doubt; Sir Denis had said nothing, but she divined the fact that until he saw Dr. Fu-Manchu dead before him he would never believe that that great intellect had ceased to function.

  Fleurette ate three sandwiches, drank a glass of wine, and, in a mood of contemplation, found herself staring again into the fire.

  “Little Flower, I am calling you.”

  His voice again!

  She sprang up. She knew, for she had been trained to know, that no voice really had sounded in the room. It was her subconscious brain. But... this she knew also—it was real—it was urgent.

  Already she began to see again that glamorous but meaningless life out of which she had climbed, assisted by Alan, as a swimmer clambers out of a tropical sea. She could see it in the fire. There were snow-capped mountains there, melting into palm groves, temples and crowded bazaar streets; a hot smell of decay and perfume—and now, all merged into two long, gleaming eyes.

  She watched those eyes fascinatedly; bent closer, falling under their thraldom.

  “Little Flower, I am calling...”

  Her lips parted. She was about to speak in response to that imperious call, when a sound in the lobby snatched her back to the world of reality.

  It was the ringing of the door bell.

  Fleurette stood up again and walked towards the book case. She pulled out Tom Sawyer Abroad, which she had replaced, and opened it at random. She read, but the words did not register. She could hear Fey crossing the lobby and opening the front door of the apartment She did not hear any word spoken.

  She thought she detected a vague scuffling sound.

  Fleurette replaced the book, and stood still, very near to the door communicating with the lobby, listening. The scuffling continued; then came a dull thud.

  Silence.

  A wave of apprehension swept over her, turning her cold.

  “Fey!” she called, and again more urgently, “Fey!”

  There was no reply.

  She ran to the bell beside the mantelpiece, pushed it and actually heard it ringing. She stood still, hands clenched, watching the door.

  No one came.

  “Fey!” she called again, and heard with surprise the high note upon which she called.

  The door opened. The lobby beyond was in darkness. A tall man was coming in.

  But it was not Fey...

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  POWERS OF DR. FU-MANCHU

  “I can’t make this out!” said Nayland Smith.

  He, Dr. Petrie and Inspector Gallaho stood before the door of the apartment. Smith had rung twice and there had been no reply.

  Smith stared hard at Petrie.

  “You’ve got the key, sir, no doubt?” Gallaho growled.

  “Yes.” Nayland Smith drew a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. “I have the key, but I am wondering where Fey can have gone.”

  They had called on Sterling, the invalid, in his room at the hotel near by, and they had broken the unpleasant news that unless Mr. Samuel Grimes (such was the night watchman’s name) suffered from a singular hallucination, it was almost certain that Dr. Fu-Manchu was alive.

  Petrie had attended to his patient, who was of a type difficult to handle; and with a final drink upon which the doctor had frowned severely, they had come away...

  “Dinner for four at eight-thirty was my last order if I remember rightly,” said Nayland Smith. “It’s just possible, of course—” he placed the key in the lock—“that he may have gone down to the kitchen. But why doesn’t Fleurette answer?”

  He turned the key and swung the door open.

  “Hello!” Gallaho exclaimed, “what’s this?”

  “My God!” groaned Petrie.

  A heavy smell resembling that of mimosa swept out from the lobby to greet them, and... the lobby was in darkness!

  Nayland Smith sprang forward, groped for the light, stumbled and fell.

  “Smith!”

  Petrie rushed in behind him.

  “All right!” came in the staccato fashion which characterized Nayland Smith in moments of tension. “I’ve fallen over... somebody.”

  Inspector Gallaho switched on the light.

  Sir Denis had jumped up. He was staring down, jaws clenched, at an insensible man who lay upon the carpet.

  It was Fey.

  Petrie raised his hand to his brow and groaned.

  “Smith,” he said in a strangled voice, “Smith! He has got her again!”

  “Lend me a hand, Gallaho,” cried Nayland Smith, savagely. “We’ll get him on to the settee in the sitting-room.”

  The door being thrown open by Petrie, it was revealed that the sitting-room was warmly lighted. There was no one there.

  Out from that lobby which reeked of mimosa, they carried the insensible man, and laid him upon the settee. He was breathing regularly, but heavily; otherwise, there was complete silence in Nayland Smith’s apartment.

  “Can you do anything, Petrie? You know something about this damnable drug of the Doctor’s.”

  “I can try,” said Petrie, quietly, and went out to the room which he occupied.

  Sir Denis had accommodation for two guests, or, at a pinch, three. Dr. Petrie and his daughter were his guests now; and Fleurette...?

  Inspector Gallaho, who had forgotten to remove his bowler, removed it not without difficulty, showing a red mark where it had been crushed down upon his bullet head.

  “This is a hell of a go,” he growled, tossing his hat into an armchair. “It’s easy enough to see what’s happened, sir. This queer smell is one, I take it, you have met with before?”

  “I have,” said Sir Denis, grimly.

  “A powerful anesthetic?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Very well. Someone rang the bell, and the moment Fey opened the door, sprang on him with a pad saturated in this stuff—and the rest of the story tells itself.” He began to chew phantom gum. “She’s a lovely girl,” he added. “It’s enough to make a man burst!”

  Dr. Petrie came in carrying a medicine case, and kneeling down, began to examine Fey. Gallaho went out into the lobby.

  “The smell of this stuff makes my head swim,” he growled.

  He was looking for something which might give a clue to the identity of Fey’s assailant. Nayland Smith, tugging at the lobe of his ear, was walking up and down before the open fire, watching Petrie at work; afraid to say what he thought, but suffering much of the agony of mind which he knew his old friend to be experiencing at this moment.

  Some sandwiches and part of a bottle of champagne were on a table beside an armchair.

  There came a strange interruption.

  Someone who had a fresh, mezzo-soprano voice, began to sing very quietly in an adjoining room!

  She sang in French, and one would have said that the singer was happy.

  Dr. Petrie came to his feet at a bound.

  “Good God, Smith!” He grasped Sir Denis’s arm—“that’s Fleurette!”

  Gallaho came running in from the lobby.

  “The young lady’s in the flat, sir! What the devil does it mean?”

  The song was interrupted from time to time, suggesting that the singer was moving about engaged upon some pleasant task, and singing from sheer lightness
of heart. Under Dr. Petrie’s tan it was yet possible to detect how pale he had grown.

  “I’ll go, Smith,” he said.

  He crossed the lobby, entered a short passage and threw a door open; Sir Denis was close behind him.

  Fleurette, dressed as they had left her, was amusing herself with hats and frocks and stockings strewn all over the room, and singing lightly from time to time. She was smoking a cigarette.

  “Fleurette, darling!” cried Petrie. “Thank God you are safe. Surely you heard us come in?”

  Fleurette turned, a cigarette between her fingers, tossing a little green hat on to the coverlet of the bed, and staring in a vaguely puzzled way at the speaker.

  There was no recognition in her eyes.

  “I am waiting to be called,” she said; “I may have to leave at any moment. Please let me get on with my packing.”

  “Fleurette!” Her father stepped forward and grasped her shoulders. “Fleurette! Look at me. What has happened here tonight?”

  Fleurette smiled at him as she might have smiled at a perfect stranger; then looked past him with a puzzled frown to where Nayland Smith stood in the open doorway, his face very grim, and his eyes gleaming.

  “Nothing has happened,” she replied. “I don’t know you, but it is very kind of you to ask. May I please go on with my packing?”

  “She’s hysterical,” came a growling voice beyond Sir Denis. “Something that has happened here tonight has unbalanced her.”

  It was Gallaho.

  Nayland Smith exchanged a rapid glance with Dr. Petrie. Petrie, his expression indicating that he was exercising a tremendous effort of control, shook his head. He released Fleurette and forced a smile.

  “By all means go on, dear,” he said. “Let me know if you want anything.”

  Fleurette looked up at him questioningly.

  “You are so nice,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come, but I don’t want anything, thank you.”

  Petrie signaled to Smith to go out. They returned to the lobby, Petrie leaving the door ajar. And as they entered it, that same singing, uncanny, now, was renewed.

  “There’s no other way out of this flat except through the front door, here, is there?” asked Petrie.

  “No.” Sir Denis shook his head. “Except through a window.”

  Petrie glanced at Nayland Smith; agony peeped out of his eyes.

  “I don’t think it’s likely,” he said. “That is not what I fear.”

  “Doctor,” growled Gallaho, “this is a frightful blow. Something so horrible happened here tonight that the poor girl has lost her reason.”

  “Something horrible—yes,” said Petrie, slowly; “but... she hasn’t lost her reason.”

  Gallaho stared uncomprehendingly. Nayland Smith turned to him, and:

  “If you knew all that I know of the powers of Dr. Fu-Manchu,” he said, “you would know that not only is he alive, but...”

  “What, sir?”—for the speaker had paused.

  “He has been here tonight. I don’t understand.” He began to walk up and down feverishly—“I don’t understand.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  GALLAHO EXPLORES FURTHER

  “Have you been on duty all night?”

  Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho stood in the hall porter’s office. The hall porter, a retired sergeant-major of the Black Watch, rather resented his presence and his manner. “Certainly; I’ve been on duty all night.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you hadn’t,” growled Gallaho. “I was merely asking a question.”

  “Well, the answer is: Yes.”

  “The answer is ‘yes.’ Good. Now I’m going to ask you a few more questions.”

  The sergeant-major recognized a character at least as truculent as his own; when Gallaho was in difficulties, Gallaho’s manner was far from soothing. The hall porter glanced him up and down with disfavor, and turning to a side-table, began to arrange a stack of letters which lay there.

  “You might as well know that I’m a police officer,” Gallaho went on, “and your answers to the questions I am going to ask you may be required in evidence. So make ’em snappy and to the point.”

  The porter turned: he was no longer so sure of himself.

  “Has something happened here tonight?” he asked.

  “You are the man that should know that,” said Gallaho; “so you’re the man I’ve come to. Listen—” he leaned on the flap of the half-door; “how many apartments are there on the floor where Sir Denis Nayland Smith lives?”

  “Four. Sir Denis’s and three others.”

  “Who are the occupiers of the three others?”

  “One is vacant at the moment. Another belongs to Major General Sir Rodney Orme; the third to Mrs. Crossland, the novelist.”

  “Are these people at home?”

  “Neither of them, as a matter of fact. The General is in the south of France, and his flat is shut up; and Mrs. Crossland has been in America for some time.”

  “I suppose her place is shut up, too?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. But their Egyptian servant lives up there, cleans the rooms and looks after correspondence. He has been with them, I believe, for many years.”

  “Egyptian servant?”

  “Yes, Egyptian servant.”

  “Is he up there now?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have you seen him tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Are there any apartments above that?”

  “No; only some storerooms. The lift goes no further than Sir Denis’s floor.”

  “I see.” Gallaho chewed invisible gum. “Now, has anybody been up to or down from that floor in the last few hours?”

  “No. A gentleman called and asked for the General, but I told him he was abroad.”

  “So no one has gone up to the top floor, or come down from the top floor during the past few hours?”

  “No one.”

  “People have been moving about on the other floors, of course?”

  “Two or three have come down and two or three have gone up. But no one I haven’t seen before. I mean they were either residents, friends of residents, or tradespeople.”

  “Quite.”

  Gallaho turned, and went lounging in the direction of the lift. He paused, however, turned, and:

  “Where are the kitchens?” he called; “in the basement?”

  “Yes. You have to use the service lift if you want to go down there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the passage on the right.”

  A few minutes later, Gallaho stepped into a small elevator, controlled by a very pert boy.

  “Kitchens,” he growled.

  “What d’you mean, kitchens?” the boy inquired. “The kitchens is private.”

  “My lad,” said Gallaho—“when a detective-inspector says to you—‘kitchens’—do you know what you do?”

  “No, sir,” the boy replied, suddenly awed.

  “You take him there, and you jump to it.”

  Gallaho presently found himself in a place inhabited by men in high white caps, a hot place informed by savory smells. His appearance created mild surprise.

  “Who’s in charge, here?” he demanded, sharply. “I am a police officer, and I have some questions to ask.”

  A stout man whose cap was higher and whiter than the others, came forward.

  “I hope nothing’s wrong, Inspector,” he said.

  “Something is wrong, but it’s not your fault. I only want to know one thing. You are of course acquainted with Fey, Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did he order dinner to be prepared for a party tonight?”

  “He didn’t. He ordered some sandwiches just before seven o’clock and they were taken up.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Certain.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gallaho lounged back to the lift.

  The outrage must have
taken place shortly after their departure. Otherwise, it was almost certain that Fey would have made arrangements with the chef for dinner. It seemed probable, but not certain, that no stranger had gone up to the top floor, or come down from it. But although the sergeant-major claimed to be acquainted with all those who had visited other floors, Gallaho realized that the evidence on this point was not conclusive, and:

  “Have you been on duty all night?” he asked the man running the residents’ lift.

  “I came on at six o’clock, sir.”

  “Have you taken any strangers up or down during the evening?”

  “Strangers, sir?”

  They had reached the top floor, and the man opened the gate, and stood there, considering.

  “There were guests came to dinner at number fourteen, and a gentleman I hadn’t seen before went up this evening with another resident, but they went out together about half-past seven.”

  “Nobody else?”

  “Nobody at all, sir.”

  When Sir Denis opened the door to Gallaho, the latter could hear Fleurette singing in the inner room.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  MIMOSA

  “I’ve adopted somewhat unusual methods, Smith,” said Petrie, with the ghost of a smile, glancing up from where he sat beside the unconscious Fey.

  “I hope to heaven they succeed,” snapped Smith. “He may or may not be able to throw some light upon this business.”

  “During the time that I was a guest of Dr. Fu-Manchu”— Petrie was obviously talking with the idea of distracting his mind from the sound of that sweet voice singing snatches of song in an adjoining room—“the Doctor was good enough to impart to me some particulars of his preparation, Mimosa 3—probably the most remarkable anesthetic ever invented by man. He claims for it that there are practically no evil after-effects, and of this you yourself have had evidence in the past. The patient may also be readily revived by those means which you have just seen me adopt.” And even as he spoke the words, Fey raised his drooping eyelids, staring vaguely from face to face.