by Sax Rohmer
I had discovered that my cabin door possessed a key—which is unusual in English ships. I locked it, went quietly along the alleyway, and mounted the stairs. Not a soul was about. Both entrances were closed, but the sound had seemed to come from the port side, and therefore I opened the port door and stepped out on deck.
It was a clear, starry night. And as I looked upward and aft my theory was confirmed.
Some kind of heavy aircraft, to judge from the deep drone of her propellers, was flying on a parallel course and rapidly overtaking the Indramatra. I went up the ladder to the boat deck, thinking I could obtain a better view. In this I was right.
She was, I thought, a seaplane, but by reason of her position in relation to the ship, and the darkness of the night, I could not be sure of this. I glanced forward to the bridge.
The officer of the watch was out on the port wing, his glasses directed upwards; and I had time to wonder if the rigid discipline of the Dutch Mercantile Marine necessitated his logging the occurrence.
I turned and went back to my cabin. The seaplane, for such I now clearly saw it to be, had passed the ship, and was some little distance ahead of us.
About to pass the alleyway communicating with the chief’s suite, I pulled up in doubt. The light was bad, but I could not see the wooden crate which formerly had contained the relics of the prophet.
I tiptoed along, to make sure. Undoubtedly, the crate was gone!
This, of course, might have been accounted for in several ways; yet I was practically certain that the crate had been there when I turned in. I entered my own cabin, and automatically plunged my hand in the golf-bag. The Sword of God was safe. I felt the pendulous pocket of my Burberry in the wardrobe—and the New Creed remained in its hiding place.
I had just slipped into my pyjamas when again came a knocking on the cabin door.
From the jump which I gave, I knew how badly my nerves had suffered.
“Who is it?” I cried.
“Very sorry, Mr. Greville! Marconi again.”
I opened the door.
“It’s all right,” I said, smiling without effort, for frankly I was relieved. “What is it this time?”
“It’s another urgent message. It looks as though we had a crook aboard!”
“What!”
I took the radiogram and read:
NO MP NAME OF KENNINGTON IN PRESENT COMMONS STOP ADVISE PURSER AT ONCE AND INTERROGATE PASSENGER
NAYLAND SMITH
Looking up, I met the glance of the operator.
“It’s queer, isn’t it?” he commented. “But I don’t see much point in waking the purser at this time of night. Are you by any chance connected with the English police, sir?”
“No. My correspondent is.”
“Oh, I see. Well if you want to wake the purser, I can show you his room.”
“I’ll think it over,” I replied. “I know where to find you if I decide to see him.”
“Right aft on the boat deck,” he said, and turned.
“Goodnight!”
“Goodnight.”
I had just reclosed the door, and sitting down was considering Nayland Smith’s second message when there came a sudden lull; a queer stillness. At first, I could not account for it. Then, I knew what had happened.
The engines had been rung off.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A RUBBER BALL
In much the same way, I suppose, as the stopping of a clock will awake a sleeper, the stoppage of the propellers awakened many passengers in the Indramatra. As I pulled on a dressing gown and hurried out into the alleyway, voices and movements were audible all about me.
Then, staring across the yawning black gap of the dining saloon, I saw Rima, dishevelled, but adorably dishevelled, endeavouring to adjust a hastily grasped bathrobe. Her glance met mine from the opposite gallery.
“Oh, Shan!” she cried. “What’s happened? I didn’t get to sleep until about half an hour ago; I thought I heard knocking and voices…”
“I don’t know, darling. I’m going to find out.”
No sound came from the chief’s cabin: doubtless he was fast asleep. Rima and I apparently were the only two passengers sufficiently curious about the stoppage of the engines to have left our rooms. As I joined her at the foot of the staircase the Indramatra got under way again but was putting about, as I could plainly detect.
“We’re turning back!” exclaimed Rima. “Let’s go up and see what’s happening.”
We went up, and having fought with the fastenings of the starboard door, finally got out on deck. The night was clear enough, and I could see no sign of any craft ahead.
We mounted the ladder to the boat deck. I saw the commander, a seaman of the old school, who, with his fine face and pointed gray beard, might have posed for Vandyck, going forward to the bridge, muffled in a top coat.
Holding Rima tightly as we craned over between two boats, I saw what had happened.
The seaplane floated on an oily swell about three lengths away from us. Assuming her to be in difficulties, the officer of the watch had put the ship about. And now, the Indramatra’s searchlight cast a sudden dazzling glare upon the sea; and I saw something else:
An object which looked like a big football was moving in the direction of the seaplane in the wake of a swimmer wearing a life jacket, who, striking out lustily, was apparently towing the ball behind him!
“Whatever’s that?” Rima whispered.
From the bridge of the Indramatra came a roar through a megaphone; the commander doubtless: but since he spoke in Dutch, I could not follow his words. The engines were rung off again. We lay-to very near the sea-and-air craft; but no reply came from her crew.
The swimmer, towing his singular burden, grasped one of the floats. I saw that a ladder had been thrown down to assist him, and as I watched, he began to clamber up. At which moment:
“Greville!” came a hoarse voice. “What the hell’s happening?”
I turned, still holding Rima tightly—and there was the chief, wrapped in his untidy dressing gown.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’m glad you’re here. I have news for you—”
Another challenge came from the bridge—and brought forth no response. The swimmer climbed on board the seaplane. All that I could make out of him was that he wore bathing kit and had a cap upon his head. The light touched him momentarily.
That object which resembled a football was hauled up; and, as we watched, I saw the propellers started. There was some commotion before they cleared away. Men were climbing aboard, clearly visible in the glare of the searchlight. Then the seaplane was off, skimming over the surface of the Mediterranean like a seagull; presently to take to the air, rise, bank sharply and sweep back for the coast of Egypt.
I heard, dimly, a bell, and the engines came to life again. The Indramatra was being put back on her course.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE PURSER’S SAFE
As we regained the main deck, it became evident that something extraordinary was afoot. The purser, in uniform, but wearing a white muffler in lieu of a collar, was standing by the door of his room with the second engineer and another officer. He looked very pale, I thought, and as Sir Lionel came in Voorden fixed a rather wild gaze upon him.
Before he had time to speak, the captain also hastily dressed, appeared from an alleyway and joined the group.
“Something’s wrong!” Rima whispered.
A sort of embarrassed hush descended when we came down; then:
“Sir Lionel Barton, I believe?” said the captain, stepping forward. “Your name is well known in my country. But I have not before had the pleasure of meeting you. My name is Vanderhaye.”
“How d’you do, Captain,” growled the chief, and shook hands. “What’s the trouble?”
The captain glanced at the purser and shrugged helplessly.
“I’m afraid, sir,” said the latter, addressing Sir Lionel, “that you have suffered a heavy loss.”
>
“What!”
“It is,” explained Captain Vanderhaye, his steady blue eyes fixed upon the chief, “a case of minor piracy. Nothing of the kind has ever occurred to me in the forty years I have been at sea. I regret your loss. Sir Lionel, more deeply because it has happened in my ship. But here are the facts: you may judge if I or my officers are to blame.”
He stepped to the door of the purser’s room, which, as I saw now, was open, and indicated the keyhole with an outstretched finger. The chief, Rima and I, grouped around him, and as I bent forward I saw a really amazing thing.
Where the keyhole had been, as the fitting belonging to a brass flap clearly indicated, was a jagged hole, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter, going clean through the door!
It was sufficiently obvious that such a tunnel must have destroyed the lock, leaving the door at the mercy of any intruder.
“This,” said the captain, “is strange enough. How such a thing could be done silently I cannot explain. But be good enough to step inside.”
He entered the office. The chief’s face was very grim, but, knowing him, I could see that he was stifling a smile. Rima stayed very close to me.
“Look!”
Captain Vanderhaye was pointing to the big safe. The pale-faced purser stood beside him, watching us almost pathetically. And, as I looked, I wondered; looking longer—my wonder grew.
In one hand the commander held a lock, with the other he pointed to a gap, roughly square and some six or seven inches across, in the steel door of the safe.
“This steel,” he said, and tapped the lock, “has been cut through like a piece of cheese. No blow lamp could have been used—it would have taken too long and would have aroused some of the people in neighbouring cabins. But see—”
He ran his forefinger along the edge of the cut-out lock. The frayed steel crumbled away like biscuit!
Placing the lock on the purser’s table, he shrugged his broad shoulders.
“It is magic!” he declared. “A safebreaker armed with some new thing of science. What can I say? He sprang overboard with his booty and was picked up by that strange seaplane.” He swung the door widely open. “Look for yourselves. Nothing has been disturbed, except…”
“Your three sealed parcels, Sir Lionel,” said the purser huskily, “which were here, in the bottom of the safe. They are gone!”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE VOICE IN BRUTON STREET
In the absence of Rima and the chief, the big gloomy house in Bruton Street overpowered me. But with characteristic disregard of my personal wishes Sir Lionel that morning had carried Rima off to Norfolk—true, for two days only. But London, much as I had longed to see it again, can be a lonely spot for a man with few friends.
By common consent, that most singular episode on the high seas had been hushed up as far as possible. It took its place, of course, in the ship’s log.
Examination of the cabin occupied by the pseudo-Member of Parliament revealed the fact that two of his three trunks were empty, and that the third contained discarded clothing—and a pneumatic pump. A life jacket was missing from its place; and the crate which had once held the relics (broken open) was discovered in his bathroom. He had taken the precaution of examining this first, thereby exhibiting a knowledge of Sir Lionel’s methods!
That the floating ball had contained the sealed packages stolen from the purser’s safe was beyond dispute. He had brought this remarkable piece of equipment for that purpose. It was, I suppose, a large rubber bag in two sections which could be hermetically screwed together and then inflated by means of a pump, when, assuming its contents to be not too heavy, it would float.
The method employed in opening the safe, as the captain had said, was a new development in burglary. Later, looking back upon my profound mystification, the genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu has positively awed me; for I know now, although I did not know then, that he himself, with that sardonic humour peculiarly his own, had demonstrated this very process in that untraceable house outside Cairo!
Who was the man posing as “Mr. Kennington”?
Obviously his appearance was due to a cunning disguise. My impression of the swimmer who had climbed into the seaplane was that of a slender, athletic figure. He had been a wonderful actor, too, admirably chosen for his role, since by drawing attention to himself at the outset he had completely lulled everyone’s suspicion—even deceiving Nayland Smith…
These queer memories often claimed my mind at the most unlikely moments. We had been absent from England more than a year and had brought back a stack of stuff to be disposed of and catalogued. This tedious business, the chief invariably left to me.
I was three deep in appointments with British Museum authorities, the Royal Society, and others too numerous to mention.
The bloodstained relics of Mokanna occupied a case to themselves in the famous Museum Room at Bruton Street. Sir Lionel had several properties in England, one of which, however, he had recently sold. His collection was distributed among the others, but the gems were in London.
Already, as I had anticipated, he had opened his campaign of publicity for the wedding. With characteristic disregard for the conventions, he had insisted that I must put up at his house. And during the past few days, almost every time I had gone out with Rima I had found our path beset by Press photographers. On more than one occasion I had bolted—to save myself from committing an assault.
Rima and the chief left by an eleven o’clock train for Norfolk, and, a busy day’s work now concluded, I looked forward to a dull evening. However, by chance I picked up an old acquaintance at the club; we did a show together and then went on to supper, killing time quite agreeably. For a few hours, at any rate, I forgot my more or less constant longing for Rima.
She was already swamped in appointments with costumiers, hat makers, and others, and had gone to Norfolk to rest, specifying that she would be absent for only two days. She would have refused to go at all, I am sure, under ordinary circumstances; but Mrs. Petrie was meeting her there. Petrie and Sir Denis were already homeward bound, and the chief had planned the return to Norfolk to synchronise with their arrival in London.
If Sir Lionel ever enters paradise, it is beyond doubt that he will reorganise the angels…
I parted from my friend at the top of the Haymarket in the neighbourhood of one o’clock and decided to walk back to Bruton Street. As I set out, going along deserted Piccadilly, a panorama of the recent years unrolled itself before my mind. The giant shadow of Fu-Manchu lay over all my memories.
There had been a time, and this not so distant, when I should have hesitated to walk alone along Piccadilly at one o’clock in the morning; but in some queer fashion my feelings in regard to Dr. Fu-Manchu had undergone a change.
Since that unforgettable interview in the Great Pyramid, I had formed an impression of his greatness which, oddly enough, gave me a sense of security. This may be difficult to understand, but what I mean is that I believed him too big to glance aside at one so insignificant as myself. If ever I stood in his way, he would crush me without hesitation; at the moment he had nothing to gain by intruding upon my humble existence.
So I mused, staring about me as I walked. His resources, I realised, were enormous, apparently inexhaustible, as the daring robbery from the Indramatra on the high seas had shown; but the motive which had actuated this could inspire Dr. Fu-Manchu no longer.
There had been a short paragraph in The Times that morning (confirming the latest news from Sir Denis) which indicated that the Mokanna rising, or threat of a rising, sometimes referred to as the “Coming of the New Mahdi,” had subsided almost as suddenly as it had arisen. The explanation of The Times correspondent was that the leader of the movement, whose identity remained unknown, had proved to be an impostor.
There was a fair amount of traffic in Piccadilly, but there were few pedestrians. I lighted my pipe. Crossing to the corner of Bond Street I saw a constable patiently testing the fastenings of shop door
s. My thoughts flashed back to the many market streets of the East I had known…
I began to feel pleasantly sleepy. Another busy day was before me; the chief was preparing a paper dealing with Mokanna relics which he would read before the Royal Society. Embodying, as it did, the truth about the abortive rising of the Masked Prophet, it was calculated to create a tremendous sensation, doubtless involving Notes between the Persian Legation and the Foreign Office. This, of course, which any normal man must have wished to avoid, was frankincense and myrrh in the nostrils of Sir Lionel.
At eleven o’clock four famous experts had been invited to examine the relics: Hall-Ramsden of the British Museum; Dr. Brieux of Paris; Professor Max Eisner—Germany’s greatest Orientalist; and Sir Wallace Syms of the Royal Society.
I think the chief’s hasty departure had something to do with this engagement. He avoided his distinguished contemporaries as one avoids a pestilence. I had rarely known such a meeting which had not developed into a fight.
“Better wait for the Royal Society night, Greville,” he had said. “Then I can go for the lot of ’em together!”
Turning into Bruton Street, I saw it deserted as far as Berkeley Square. Sir Lionel’s house was one of the few not converted to commercial use; for this once favoured residential district is being rapidly absorbed into the shopping zone. He had had tempting offers for the property; but the mere fact that others were so anxious to buy was sufficient to ensure his refusal to sell. The gloomy old mansion, which he rarely occupied, but where a staff of servants was maintained, cost him somewhere in the neighbourhood of two thousand a year to keep empty.
I was in sight of the entrance, guarded by two miniature obelisks, and was already fumbling for my key when an odd thing occurred.
