by Sax Rohmer
A gentle rebuke which I accepted in silence. Dr. Petrie put the whole thing right, for:
“Scotland Yard methods have been pretty harshly criticised,” said he, “generally by those who know nothing about them. But you must agree, Greville, that they don’t fail in thoroughness.”
He paused suddenly, arrested I suppose by my expression. I was staring at a tall Arab who, approaching the hotel, pulled up on sighting our group. His hesitation was momentary. He carried on, swung past us, and went in through the swing doors.
Rima sprang up and grasped my arm.
“The Arab,” she cried, “the Arab who has just passed! It’s the man I saw in camp. The man who ran along the top of the wâdi!”
I nodded grimly.
“Leave him to me!” I said, and, turning to Weymouth: “A clue at last!”
“Is this the mysterious Arab you spoke about?” he said excitedly.
“It is.”
I dashed into the hotel. There was no sign of my man in the lobby, in which only vedettes of the tourist army, mostly American, were to be seen. I hurried across to the reception clerk. He knew me well, and:
“A tall Arab. Just come in,” I said quickly. “Bedoui, Fargâni, or Maazâi, for a guess. Where’s he gone?”
An assistant manager — Edel by name — suddenly appeared behind the clerk and I thought I saw him grip the latter’s shoulder significantly; as:
“You were asking about an Arab who came in, Mr. Greville?” said he.
“I was.”
“He is in the service of one of our guests — a gentleman of the Diplomatic Service.”
“That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s been prowling about Sir Lionel’s camp,” I replied angrily. “There are one or two things I have to say to this Arab.”
Edel became strangely embarrassed. His expression mystified me. He was Swiss and an excellent fellow; but reviewing what I had heard of the methods of Dr. Fu-Manchu I began to wonder if my hitherto esteemed acquaintance might be a servant of that great and evil man!
“What’s the name of this diplomat?” I asked rather shortly. “Do I know him?”
Edel hesitated for a moment; but at last:
“He is a Mr. Fletcher,” he replied. “Please forgive me, my dear Greville, but I have orders in this matter.”
Now definitely angry, but realizing that Edel wasn’t to blame, I turned. Weymouth stood at my elbow.
“I respect your orders, Edel,” I said, “but there can be no possible objection to my interviewing Mr. Fletcher’s Arab servant?”
“May I add,” said Weymouth harshly, “that I entirely agree with what Mr. Greville has said.”
Edel recognized Weymouth; which seemed merely to add to his confusion of mind.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” he murmured, “I shall phone from the private office.”
He withdrew — followed by the reception clerk, who obviously dreaded cross-examination.
I exchanged glances with Weymouth.
“What the devil is this all about?” he said.
There was an interval during which Dr. Petrie came in with Rima. At which moment Edel reappeared, and:
“If Mr. Greville and Dr. Petrie would be good enough to go up to Number 36,” he requested, “Mr. Fletcher will be pleased to see them.”
“God knows we have trouble and enough,” said Petrie, as the lift carried us to the third floor, “without the appearance of this unknown diplomat. I’ve never met a Mr. Fletcher. Can you imagine any reason why he should ask me to accompany you?”
“I can’t,” I admitted, and laughed, but not too mirthfully.
As we reached the third floor the Nubian lift-boy conducted us to the door of Number 36, pressed the bell, and returned to the lift.
The door opened suddenly. I saw a clean-shaven, thickset man, wearing a very well-cut suit of the kind sometimes called “Palm Beach.” With his black brows and heavy jaw, he more closely resembled a retired pugilist than any conception I might have formed of a diplomat.
Petrie stared at him in a very strange fashion; as:
“My name is Fletcher,” he announced. “Dr. Petrie, I believe?” And then to me: “Mr. Greville? Please come in.”
He held the door open and stepped aside. I exchanged glances with Petrie. We walked into the little lobby.
It was a small suite with a sitting room on the left.
Why did Mr. Fletcher open his own door when he employed an Arab servant?
I was gravely suspicious, for the thing was mysterious to a degree, but:
“Come right through!” cried a voice from the sitting room.
Whereupon, to add to my discomfort, Petrie suddenly grasped my arm with a grip which hurt. He stepped through the open doorway, I following close at his heels.
A window opened onto a balcony and to the right of this window stood a writing table. Seated at the table, his back towards us, was the tall Arab whom we were come to interview!
I noted with surprise that he had removed his turban, and that the head revealed was not shaven, as I might have anticipated, but covered with virile, wavy, iron-gray hair.
Fletcher had disappeared.
As we entered, the man stood up and turned. The deep brown color, of his skin seemed in some way incongruous, now that he wore no turban. I noted again the steely eyes which I remembered; the lean, eager face — a face hard to forget once one had seen it
But if I was perplexed, doubtful, my companion had become temporarily paralyzed. I heard the quick intake of his breath — turned… and saw him standing, a man rigid with amazement, positively glaring at the figure of the tall Arab beside the writing table!
At last, in a whisper, he spoke:
“You!” he said, “you, old man! Is this quite fair?”
The Arab sprang forward and grasped Petrie’s hand. Suddenly, seeing the expression in those gray eyes, I felt an intruder. I wanted to look away; but:
“It isn’t!” I heard; “and it hurts to hear you say it. But there was no other way, Petrie. By heaven, it’s good to see you again, though!”…
He turned his searching glance upon me.
“Mr. Greville,” he exclaimed, “forgive this comedy; but there are vast issues at stake.”
“Greville,” said Petrie, continuing to stare at the speaker with an expression almost of incredulity, “this is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
“I felt sure you would recognize Detective-Inspector Fletcher,” Nayland Smith declared. “You once spent a night with him, Petrie — in the Joy Shop, down Limehouse way: Detective-Sergeant Fletcher he was then. Have you placed him?”
Petrie’s puzzled expression suddenly changed, and: “Of course!” he cried. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere — Fletcher! But what on earth is he doing here?”
“Ask what I’m doing here,” snapped Nayland Smith. “One answer covers both questions. Fletcher’s in my department of the Yard, now: you may remember he always specialized in Oriental cases. He’s been posing as the principal, very successfully, whilst I, in the capacity of an Arab with whom he had confidential business, have been at liberty to get on with my job.”
“But I don’t understand,” said I, “just what your job has been. I can’t make out what a senior official of Scotland Yard is doing here in Luxor. It surely isn’t usual? I mean, you’ve been hanging about our camp for some time past, sir.”
Nayland Smith smiled; and — a magic of all rare smiles — my impression of his character was radically altered. I found myself for the first time at my ease with this grim Anglo-Indian. I saw behind the mask and I loved the man I saw.
“Damned unusual,” he admitted, “but so are the circumstances.” He turned to Petrie. “I didn’t recognize Weymouth. I passed you very quickly. We must send for him. Fletcher can go.”
He began to pace up and down the room, when:
“Smith!” Petrie exclaimed. “I don’t understand. We’re all in together. What had you to gain by this secrecy?”
“Do you quite realize, Petrie,” he asked, “with whom we’re dealing?”
“No,” Petrie replied, bluntly, “I don’t.”
Nayland Smith stared at him for a while longer and then turned to me.
“How much do you know of the facts, Mr. Greville?” he snapped.
“I have heard something of the history of Dr. Fu-Manchu,” I replied, “if that’s what you mean! But Fu-Manchu is dead.”
“Possibly,” he agreed, and began to walk up and down again— “quite possibly. But” — he turned to the doctor— “you recognize his methods, Petrie?”
“Undoubtedly. So did poor Barton! By sheer luck, as you know, I had a spot of the antidote. But whilst it has worked the old miracle, there are complications in this case.”
“There are,” said Smith. And stepping to the writing table he began to load a large and very charred briar with coarse-cut mixture from a tin. “It may be that the stuff has lost some of its potency in years — who knows? But one thing is certain, Petrie. I address you also, Mr. Greville.”
He broke two matches in succession, so viciously did he attempt to strike them, but he succeeded with a third.
“All that fiendish armament is about to be loosed on the world again — perhaps reinforced, brought up to date… And that’s why I’m here.”
Neither Petrie nor I made any comment. Nayland Smith, his pipe fuming between his teeth, resumed that restless promenade; and:
“You must know all the facts, Greville,” he said rapidly. “Then we must form a plan of campaign. If only we can strike swiftly enough, the peril may be averted. It seems to be Fate, Petrie, but again I’m too late. Reports reached me from China, then from nearer home; from Cairo; from Moscow; from Paris and finally from London. Doubting everybody, I took personal action. And I definitely crossed swords with her for the first time at a popular supper restaurant in Coventry Street.”
“Crossed swords with whom?” Petrie demanded, voicing a question which I myself had been about to ask.
But Nayland Smith, ignoring Petrie’s question, continued to stride up and down, seemingly thinking aloud.
“New evidence respecting the sudden death of Professor Zeitland, the German Egyptologist, came to hand. I was satisfied that she was concerned. I sent Fletcher to interview her…
“She had disappeared. We lost track of her for more than a week. All inquiries drew blank; until, by a great strike of luck, the French police identified her at Marseilles. She had sailed for Egypt.
“Good enough for me! I set out at once with Fletcher! Perhaps I shall be better understood if I say that the chief commissioner sent me. Since our one and only meeting, further advices from China had opened my eyes to the truth.
“I arrived in Port Said two weeks ago today. I had nothing to go upon — no evidence to justify summary action; only one fact and a theory…”
His pipe went out. He paused to relight it.
“Do I understand, Sir Denis,” I said, “that you’re speaking of Madame Ingomar?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Madame Ingomar? Yes. That’s a nom-de-guerre. Her dossier is filed at Scotland Yard under the name of Fah Lo Suee. You’ll recognize her when you see her, Petrie!”
“What!”
“You met her once, some years ago. She was about seventeen in those days; she’s under thirty, now — and the most dangerous woman living.”
“But who is she?” cried Petrie.
Nayland Smith turned, a lighted match held between finger and thumb.
“Dr. Fu-Manchu’s daughter,” he replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
NAYLAND SMITH EXPLAINS
“The trail led me from Cairo to Luxor,” said Nayland Smith.
“Information with which I was supplied from day to day clearly pointed to some attempt on Sir Lionel Barton.
“Professor Zeitland, I had learned, from facts brought to light after his sudden and mysterious death, had been studying the problem presented to Egyptologists by Lafleur’s Tomb, or the Tomb of the Black Ape. He had contemplated excavations. He deeply resented what he looked upon as Sir Lionel’s intrusion. Did you know this?”
He turned to me suddenly. His skin, as I now realized, had been artificially darkened. Looking out from that brown mask, his eyes were unnaturally piercing.
“Perfectly well.”
Superintendent Weymouth, whose unexpected meeting with Sir Denis had reduced him to an astounded silence, now spoke for the first time since he had entered the room.
“Probably some of the professor’s notes were stolen,” he said.
“They were!” rapped Nayland Smith: “which brings us to Barton. Are his notes intact?”
He shot the question at me with startling rapidity.
“He made few notes,” I replied. “He had a most astounding memory.”
“In short, his memory was his notebook! This explains much…”
He paused for a moment, and then:
“I immediately adopted the device which you know,” he went on. “Fletcher installed himself here, and I used these rooms as my base of operations. I had first to track Fah Lo Suee to her lair. I use the term advisedly, for she is the most dangerous beast of prey which this century has known.”
“I simply cannot understand,” cried Petrie, “why Sir Lionel never suspected this woman!”
Nayland Smith shook his head irritably.
“I think he did — but too late. However — naturally I distrusted everybody, but I decided to take Barton into my confidence. It was on that occasion, Greville, that we met for the first time. I bear you no ill will, but I could have strangled you cheerfully. Short of revealing my identity, I was helpless… and I decided to stick to my disguise…”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I was wrong. The enemy struck. Forthright action might have saved him. I must have failed to do even what little I did do, for all the odds were against me, were it not that that very night I made up my mind to try to get to Sir Lionel secretly whilst the camp was sleeping.
“In one of your workmen, Greville — Said by name — I recognized an old friend! Said was once my groom in Rangoon! I dug him out of his quarters at Kûrna and appointed him my liaison officer.
“Then, with Said in touch, I started. I had found one man I could trust…
“I reached Barton’s tent three minutes too late. He had just scrawled that last message—”
“What!” Weymouth interrupted excitedly. “You actually saw the message?”
“I read it,” Nayland Smith replied quietly. “Barton, awakened by the needle, miraculously realized what had happened. I am prepared to learn that he expected it… that, at last, he had begun to distrust ‘Madame Ingomar.’ It had just dropped from his hand as I entered.
“It was my voice, Greville, not his — that awakened you…”
Nayland Smith ceased speaking, and stepping up to the table, began to knock ash from the steaming bowl of his briar, whilst I watched him in a sort of stupefaction. Petrie and Weymouth were watching him too. Truly, here was a remarkable man.
“I slipped away as quietly as I had come. I watched for developments… then I set out for the head of the wâdi, where Said was watching. And Said had news for me. Someone had passed his hiding place ten minutes before — someone who slipped by rapidly. Said had not dared to follow. His orders were to wait… but I guessed that he had seen the agent of Fah Lo Suee who had entered Barton’s tent ahead of me, and who had done his appointed work…
“‘He was Burmese,’ Said assured me, ‘and I saw the mark of kâli on his brow!’
“In a deep hollow, by the light of my torch, I wrote a message to Fletcher. Said set out for Luxor. I was taking no chances. The result of that message, Petrie, you know — you also, Weymouth. Fletcher despatched two telegrams.
“Then I returned, and from the slope above Sir Lionel’s tent, overheard
the conference. I still distrusted everybody. As early as Lafleur’s time, a certain person was interested in the Tomb of the Black Ape. Of this I am confident. The nature of his interest it remains for us to find out. In the meantime, a member of the family of that great but evil man has penetrated to the Tomb—”
“Smith!” Petrie interrupted. “Some age-old secret — probably a ghastly weapon of destruction — has lain there, for thousands of years!”
Nayland Smith stared hard at the speaker; then:
“Right,” he snapped— “as regards the first part. Wrong as regards the second.”
Giving us no chance to ask him what he meant:
“My point of vantage regained,” he went on rapidly, “I saw all that took place. I saw the hut opened and two lanterns placed inside. I realized that it was proposed to carry Sir Lionel there. I saw the body placed in the hut, and the door locked. I could do no more — for Barton.”
“Since it seemed fairly certain that the objective of these mysterious crimes was the Tomb of the Black Ape, I now made my way round to the enclosure. The door was locked, but I managed to find a spot where I could climb up the fencing and look over. I stared down into the pit and listened intently. In that silence, any movement below must have been clearly audible. But I could not hear a sound.
“I was mystified — utterly mystified. I began to wonder if poor Barton had been mistaken in his own symptoms. I began to think he might really be dead! Perhaps the man whom Said had seen had had no connection with the matter. For I confess I could imagine no object in inducing that form of artificial catalepsy of which we know Dr. Fu-Manchu to have been a master.
“Crawling above the camp like a jackal, I taxed my brain to discover some line of action.
“None of you slept much that night, and I had to watch my steps. It was a nerve-racking business, especially as I suspected that a trained assassin was prowling about somewhere — and possibly covering my movements.
“Failure seemed to threaten me again. I had failed in London. I had failed here. But I was expecting the return of Said at any moment, now, and presently I heard our prearranged signal: the howling of a dog.
