by Sax Rohmer
I tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but found sleep to be impossible. Sir George Herbert called at ten o’clock, an old young man with foreign office stamped indelibly upon him. His expression was grave.
“This is a great blow, Mr Kerrigan,” he said. “I can see how it has affected you. To me, it is disastrous. These threats to Rudolf Adlon, who is here incognito, as you know, are backed by an organisation which does not threaten lightly. General Quinto has been assassinated — why not Rudolf Adlon?”
“I agree. But I know nothing of Smith’s plans to protect him.”
“Nor do I!” He made a gesture of despair. “It had been arranged for him to go on board Mr Wilton’s yacht during today’s luncheon, but what he hoped to accomplish I have no idea.”
“Nor I.”
I spoke the words groaningly, dropped on to a chair and stared I suppose rather wildly at Sir George.
“The Italian authorities are sparing no effort. Their responsibility is great, for more than the reputation of the chief of police is at stake. If any news should reach me I will advise you immediately, Mr Kerrigan. I think you would be wise to rest.”
CHAPTER THIRTY. A WOMAN DROPS A ROSE
The human constitution is a wonderfully adjusted instrument. I had no hope, indeed no intention, of sleeping. Venice, awakened, lived gaily about me. Yet, after partially undressing, within five minutes of Sir George’s departure I was fast asleep.
I was awakened by Colonel Correnti. Those reflected rays through my shutters which I had not closed told me the truth.
It was sunset, I had slept for many hours.
“What news?”
Instantly I was wide awake, a cloak of sorrow already draped about me.
He shook his head.
“None, I fear.”
“The luncheon party on the yacht took place, I suppose? Sir Denis feared that some attempt might be made there.”
“Rudolf Adlon was present, yes. He is known on these occasions as Major Baden. My men report that nothing of an unusual nature took place. The dictator is safely back at the Palazzo da Rosa where he will be joined tomorrow by Pietro Monaghani. There is no evidence of any plot.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I do? Officially, I am not supposed to know that the chancellor is here. Of Sir Denis no trace can be found. What can I do?”
His perplexity was no greater than mine. What, indeed, could any of us do?
I forced myself to eat a hasty meal. The solicitude of the management merely irritated me. I found myself constantly looking aside, constantly listening, for I could not believe it possible for a man so well known as Nayland Smith to vanish like a mirage.
Of Ardatha I dared not think at all.
To remain there inert was impossible. I could do nothing useful, for I had no plan, but at least I could move, walk the streets, search the cafes, stare up at the windows. With no better object than this in view, I set out.
Before St Mark’s I pulled up abruptly. The magic of sunset was draping the façade in wonderful purple shadows. I was torn between two courses. If I lost myself in this vain hunt through the streets of Venice, I might be absent when news came. In a state of indecision I stood there before the doors of that ornate, ancient church. What news could come? News that Smith was dead!
From these ideas I must run away, must keep moving. Indeed I found myself incapable of remaining still, and now a reasonable objective occurred to me. Since Rudolf Adlon was staying at the Palazzo da Rosa this certainly would be the focus of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s attention. Actually, of course, I was seeking some excuse for action, something to distract my mind from the ghastly contemplation of Nayland Smith’s fate.
I hurried back to the hotel and learned from the hall porter that no message had been received for me. Thereupon I walked out and chartered a motorboat.
A gondola was too slow for my humour.
“Go along the Grand Canal,” I directed, “and show me the Palazzo da Rosa.”
We set out, and I endeavoured to compose myself and to submit without undue irritation to the informative remarks of the man who drove the motorboat. He wished to take me to the Rialto Bridge, to the villa where Richard Wagner had died, to the Palace of Gabriel d’Annunzio; but finally, with a great air of mystery, slowing his craft:
“Yonder,” he said, “where I am pointing, is the Palazzo da Rosa. It is here, sir, that Signor Monaghani, himself, stays sometimes when he is in Venice. Also it is whispered, but I do not know, that the great Adlon is there.”
“Stop awhile.”
Dusk had fallen and light streamed from nearly all the windows of the palace. I observed much movement about the water gate, many gondolas crowded against the painted posts, there was a stir and bustle which told of some sort of entertainment taking place.
A closed motorboat, painted black, and apparently empty, passed almost silently between us and the steps.
“The police!”
We moved on…
Two seagoing yachts were at anchor, and out on the lagoon we met a freshening breeze. One of the yachts belonged to an English peer, the other, Silver Heels, was Brownlow Wilton’s beautiful white cruiser, built on the lines of an ocean greyhound. All seemed to be quiet on board, and I wondered if the celebrated American was being entertained at the Palazzo da Rosa.
“Where to now, sir?”
“Anywhere you like,” I answered wearily.
The man seemed to understand my mood. I believe he thought I was a dejected lover whose mistress had deserted him. Indeed, he was not far wrong.
We turned into a side canal where there were ancient windows, walls and trellises draped in clematis and passion flower, a spot, as I saw at a glance, perpetuated by many painters. In the dusk it had a ghostly beauty. Here the motorboat seemed a desecration, and I wished that I had chartered a gondola. Even as the thought crossed my mind, one of those swan-like crafts, carrying the bearings of some noble family, and propelled by a splendidly uniformed gondolier, swung silently around a corner, heralded only by the curious cry of the man at the oar.
My fellow checked his engine.
“From the Palazzo da Rosa!” he said and gazed back fascinatedly.
Idly, for I was not really interested, I turned and stared back also. There was but one passenger in the gondola…
It was Rudolf Adlon!
“Stop!” I ordered sharply as the man was about to restart his engine. “I want to watch.”
For I had seen something else.
On the balcony of a crumbling old mansion, once no doubt the home of a merchant prince but now falling into ruin, a woman was standing. Some trick of reflected light from across the canal made her features clearly visible. She wore a gaily coloured shawl which left one arm and shoulder bare.
She was leaning on the rail of the balcony, staring down at the passing gondola — and as I watched, eagerly, almost breathlessly, I saw that the gondolier had checked his graceful boat with that easy, sweeping movement which is quite beyond the power of an amateur oarsman. Rudolf Adlon was standing up, his eyes raised. As I watched; the woman dropped a rose to which, I was almost sure, a note was attached!
Adlon caught it deftly, kissed his fingers to the beauty on the balcony and resumed his seat. As the gondola swung on and was lost in deep shadows of a tall, old palace beyond:
“Ah!” sighed the motor launch driver — and he also kissed his fingers to the balcony— “a tryst — how beautiful!”
She who had made the assignation had disappeared. But there was no possibility of mistake. She was the woman I had seen with Ardatha — the woman whom Nayland Smith had described as “a corpse moving among the living — a harbinger of death!”
* * * *
The chief of police hung up the telephone.
“Major Baden is in his private apartments,” he said, “engaged on important official business. He has given orders that he is not to be disturbed. And so” — he shrugged his shoulders— “what can I do?”
I confess I was growin
g weary of those oft-repeated words.
“But I assure you,” I cried excitedly, “that he is not in his private apartments! At least he was not there a quarter of an hour ago!”
“That is possible, Mr Kerrigan. I have said that some of the great men who visit Venice incognito have sometimes other affairs than affairs of State. But since, in the first place, I am not supposed to know that Rudolf Adlon is at the Palazzo at all what steps can I take? I have one of my best officers on duty there and this is his report. What more can I do?”
“Nothing!” I groaned!
“In regard to protecting this minister, nothing, I fear. But the other matter — yes! This woman whom you describe is known to be an accomplice of these people who seek the life of Rudolf Adlon?”
“She is.”
“Then we shall set out to find her, Mr Kerrigan! I shall be ready in five minutes.”
Complete darkness had come when we reached the canal in which I had passed the dictator, but the light of a quarter moon painted Venice with silver. I travelled now in one of those sinister-looking black boats to which my attention had been drawn earlier.
“There is the balcony,” I said, “directly over us.”
Colonel Correnti looked up and then stared at me quite blankly.
“I find it very difficult to believe, Mr Kerrigan,” he said. “Do not misunderstand me — I am not doubting your word. I am only doubting if you have selected the right balcony.”
“There is no doubt about it,” I said irritably.
“Then the matter is certainly very strange.”
He glanced at the two plain-clothes police officers who accompanied us. I had met them before, one, Stocco, was he who spoke good English.
“Why?”
“Because this is the back of the old Palazzo Mori. It is the property of the Mori family, but as you see it is in a state of dilapidation. It has not been occupied, I assure you, for many, many years. I know for a fact that it is unfurnished.”
“This does not interest me,” I replied, now getting angry. “What I have stated is fact. Great issues are at stake, and I suggest that we obtain a key and search this place.”
He turned with a despairing gesture to his subordinates. “Where are the keys of the Palazzo Mori?”
There was a consultation, in which the man who drove the motor launch took part.
“The Mori family, alas, is ruined,” said Correnti, “and its remaining members are spread all over the world. I do not know where. The keys of the palazzo are with the lawyer Borgese, and it would be difficult, I fear, to find him tonight.”
“Also a waste of time,” I replied, for I knew what Nayland Smith would, have done in the circumstances. “From the balustrade of the steps there to that lower iron balcony is an easy matter for an active man. We are all active men, I take it? Even from here one can see that the latchet of the window is broken. Here is our way in. Why do we hesitate?”
The chief of police seemed to have doubts, but recognising, I suppose, what a terrible responsibility rested upon his shoulders, finally, although reluctantly, he consented.
The police boat was drawn up beside the steps, and I, first in my eagerness, clambered on to the roof of the cabin, from there sprang to the decaying stonework of the balustrade and climbed to the top. Balancing somewhat hazardously and reaching up, I found that I could just grasp the ornamental ironwork which I had pointed out.
“Give me a lift,” I directed Stocco, who stood beside me.
He did so. The boat rocked, but he succeeded in lifting me high enough to enable me to release my left hand and to grasp the upper railing. The rest was easy.
Colonel Correnti, as Stocco in turn was hoisted up beside me, cried out some order.
“We are to go,” said the detective, “down to the main door, open it if possible and admit the chief.”
I put my shoulder to the broken lattice, and it burst open immediately. Out of silvery moonlight I stepped into complete darkness. My companion produced a flashlamp.
I found myself in a room which at some time had been a bedroom. It was quite denuded of furniture, but here and there remained fragments of mouldy tapestry. And on the once-polished floor I detected marks to show where an old-fashioned four-poster bed had rested.
“Let us hope the doors are not locked,” said Stocco.
However, this one at least was not.
“Upstairs first!” I said eagerly, as we stepped out on to the landing.
Looking over a heavily carved handrail, in the light of the flashlamp directed downwards I saw the sweep of a marble staircase lost in Gothic gloom. A great shadowy hall lay below, with ghostly pillars amid which our slightest movement echoed eerily. There was a damp, musty smell in the place which I found unpleasantly tomblike. But we paused here for scarcely a moment. We went hurrying upstairs, our footsteps rattling uncannily upon marble steps. Here for a moment we hesitated on a higher landing, flashing the light of the lamp about.
“This is the room,” I said, and indicated a closed door.
Stocco tried the handle; the door opened. Right ahead of me across the room beyond I saw a half-opened lattice. A moment later I was on the balcony from which the mysterious woman had dropped a rose to Rudolf Adlon.
“This is where she stood!”
The detective shone a light all about us. The room was choicely panelled in some light wood and possessed what had once been a painted ceiling, now no more than a series of damp blotches where minute fungus grew.
“Shine the light down here,” I ordered excitedly.
On the heavy dust of a parquet floor were slight but unmistakable marks of high-heeled shoes!
“God’s mercy, you were right!” Stocco exclaimed.
Yes, I was right. This house was a tomb. Rudolf Adlon had made an appointment with a creature of another world, a zombie, a human corpse brought to life! And here indeed was a fitting abode for such a creature!
No doubt the place was partly responsible, but as I stood there staring at my companion, and remembered how Nayland Smith had been smuggled out of life by the master magician called Dr. Fu-Manchu, I was prepared to believe that a dead woman moved among the living.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE. PALAZZO MORI
We admitted the chief of police by the main door. It was heavily bolted but not locked. He was at least as nonplussed as I when the marks of little heels were pointed out to him in the room above.
“This,” he said, “is supernatural.”
Although disposed to agree with him I was determined to leave no stone unturned in my efforts to solve the mystery. Discounting her sorcerous origin for the moment and therefore her magical powers, how had Dr. Fu-Manchu’s accomplice got into this place, and how had she got out?
“Merely supernormal perhaps,” I suggested. “Everything has an explanation, after all.” I was trying desperately to restore my own self-confidence. “You know the history of these old buildings better than I do. Have you any explanation to offer of how a person could enter and leave the Palazzo Mori as undoubtedly someone entered and left it tonight?”
“I have no explanation to offer, Mr Kerrigan,” said Colonel Correnti. His expression was almost pathetic. “None whatever.”
The second detective began to speak urgently and rapidly, and as a result:
“This officer tells me,” the colonel continued, “that at one time, but very, very long ago, there was an entrance to this old palace from the other side of the canal — I mean the Rio Mori, from which we entered.”
“I don’t think I follow you.”
“A passage — they were not uncommon in old days — under the Rio Mori, which of course is quite shallow. It seems that the boathouse of the family was on the opposite bank in those days, and for the convenience of the gondoliers this passage was made. It has been blocked up for at least a century.”
“That hardly seems to help us!”
“No, not at all. I think I know the place — an old stone shed.” He spoke rapidly to
his subordinate who replied with equal rapidity. “It was used, I am told, as a store by a house decorator for a time but is now empty again. No, my friend, this is useless. We must seek elsewhere for the solution of our mystery.”
Of our search of the old palace it is unnecessary that I give any account. It yielded nothing. Apart from those footprints in the upper room there was no evidence whatever to show that anyone had entered the building for many years. Certainly below the grand salon, where patches on the walls from which paintings had been removed, pathetically told of decayed grandeur, there were locked rooms.
To these we were unable to gain access, and it seemed pointless to attempt it. Examination of the locks clearly indicated that they had not been recently used. At this stage of the search I had given up hope.
We returned to police headquarters. There was no news. I turned aside to hide my despair. An officer who had remained in constant touch with the detectives in the Palazzo da Rosa reported that “Major Baden” had joined the guests for half an hour and had then excused himself on the grounds of urgent business, and had retired again to his own apartment.
“You see?” Colonel Correnti shrugged his shoulders. “We can do nothing.”
I tried to control my voice when I spoke:
“Do you really understand what is at stake? An ex-commissioner of Scotland Yard has been kidnapped, probably murdered. He is one of the highest officials of the British Secret Service. The most prominent figure in European politics, and I do not except Pietro Monaghani, is, beyond any shadow of doubt, in deadly peril. Are you sure, Colonel, that every available man is straining himself to the utmost that every possible place has been searched, every suspect interrogated?”
“I assure you, Mr Kerrigan, that every available man in Venice is either searching or watching tonight. I can do no more…”
I think during the next hour I must have plumbed the uttermost deeps of despair. I wandered about the gay streets of Venice like a ghost at a banquet, staring at lighted windows, into the faces of the passers-by, until I began to feel that I was attracting public attention. I returned to the hotel, went to my room and sat down on that settee where Ardatha had bewitched me with kisses.
