by Sax Rohmer
“The facts of that zombie business are not too clear to me, either,” I confessed.
“If, as I suspect,” said Smith rapidly, “Haiti or its neighbourhood prove to be the Doctor’s new headquarters, it is possible, Kerrigan, that you may learn more of this matter in the near future.”
His gaze became abstracted again.
“What were you thinking about, Smith,” I asked eagerly, “with regard to the internal troubles of the Si-Fan?”
“I was thinking,” he replied, and spoke with unwonted slowness, “of the woman feared by the whole of the Negro population of Haiti, the woman known as Queen Mamaloi.”
“There has been a thorough check-up on this man Cabot,” said Beecher of the Zone Police. Captain Jacob Beecher was tall, had a square frame and a square face. He looked efficiently dangerous. “We have a considerable dossier Cabot already. In fact, at one time there was a movement to throw him out of the area.”
“What for?” asked Smith.
“Well, in that gin cellar of his he’s sitting pretty to pick up information, and it was thought — but it couldn’t be proved — that he was Fifth Column man for one of the dictator teams. Personally, I still think he is. He has a lot of money and substantial interests around Panama; but although The Passion Fruit Tree is a dividend-maker, I don’t believe all his money comes from there.”
“Where does this bird roost?” asked Barton.
“Well, sir, he has Ritzy quarters right on the premises, and I guess the villa where Flammario lives (she’s his partner) is Lou’s property, anyway.”
“But,” I asked, “where is he now? Have you any information on that point?”
“No, sir. We know he went to New York beginning of last week, and there’s some evidence that he came back two or three days ago. But he hasn’t been seen in The Passion Fruit or in any of his usual haunts. One thing is fairly certain: his girl friend has soured on him.”
“You are sure of this?” snapped Smith.
“Certain. Some of my boys who keep an eye on the place — it’s right enough in its way, but at times they’ve sailed pretty close to the rocks — report that there’s another dame in the case. Flammario is out for murder.” He looked about with his cold, unwinking eyes. “I may add, gentlemen, that although we have never had that pretty on the books, it’s known that she doesn’t stick at trifles.”
“Is the man an American Citizen?” I asked.
“Yes, they are both Americans by adoption. Makes it kind of difficult, you see. But whatever the truth may be about Cabot, I have always held that the woman has nothing to do with his political work — if he is really engaged on political work.”
“Have you ever heard of a society known as the Si-Fan?” asked Smith.
“Sure. One of the Chinese Tongs, isn’t it? When I was in the Philippines I came across them once in a while, but, except maybe in the Chinese quarter, I don’t think they figure in the Canal Zone.”
“Indeed!” murmured Smith. “But I assume you have had no occasion to pursue such an inquiry?”
“None whatever — how would I? It isn’t the Chinese we worry about around here…”
“Nor is the Si-Fan exclusively Chinese,” said Smith. “But since you can give me no information on this point, we will not pursue it. Let us make our plans for the evening.”
“My plans are made,” said Barton. “We’ve been taking chances here. What about the charts? The steel box is in the hotel safe. What about damned monkey? One of us has always got to be in this apartment until we leave. I don’t like missing the fun — but I’ll stay on guard tonight.”
“As you wish, Barton,” said Smith. “I entirely agree with you. And now Captain Beecher, the position is this: we have to find Lou Cabot, and this woman Flammario has undertaken to tell us tonight where he is hiding.”
“If anyone can find out, she can,” murmured the police officer. “The Passion Fruit scouts know every sewer in the town.”
“Very well. Mr. Kerrigan and I propose to go along there immediately. Is the place a restaurant, a cabaret or a club?”
“All three,” was the reply, “and plenty expensive. There’s a cover charge of five dollars a head, paid as you go in, whether you want supper or not. If you like, I’ll come along with you. But I rather thought of standing by, with a few of the boys, in case any quick action should be called for.”
“That would be best,” said Smith. “Merely give me full particulars regarding the place, and be somewhere within sight of the entrance if I should want you.”
“All ready,” said Police Captain Beecher. “As the idea is to get in touch with Flammario I suggest, when you go in, that you sit at a table outside the bar — the balcony, see. Don’t go down on to the dance floor. The bar opens right out of the lobby. If you want to leave in a hurry, that’s the best place. One of my boys who knows you by sight will be right outside. Maybe I’ll come, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. THE PASSION FRUIT TREE
I cannot vouch for the accuracy of my notes regarding The Passion Fruit Tree. The bare idea of Ardatha being in the power of the man Lou Cabot, of whose private life I had heard much before our arrival, had made me long to have my fingers around his throat. The primary appeal of the resort was to tourists. That puritan spirit which governs the Canal Zone disapproved of the impression which might be carried away by visitors to The Passion Fruit, which twice had been closed and twice reopened again under ostensibly new management.
It did not present a dazzling façade to the world; merely a shadowy doorway above which in illuminated letters appeared the words “The Passion Fruit Tree”. A cloudless sky thickly studded with stars dimmed the glamour of the appeal. It was a hot, still night, and a murderous pulse was beating in my temples.
On entering I discovered the lobby to be painted with murals representing jungle scenes, and from a reception office trellised with flowering vines a shrewd-looking old coloured woman peered out. A powerful mulatto in uniform was in attendance, and everywhere one saw pictures of Flammario. We paid the extortionate entrance fee and walked through to the bar. The strains of a dance band reached my ears, and now I saw that one side of the bar opened upon a balcony which overlooked the dance-floor.
Subdued lighting prevailed throughout, as did the jungle scheme of decoration. I was dimly aware of the presence of people at tables on the balcony, but Smith and I alone sat at the bar over which a coloured attendant presided. When he had ordered drinks:
“I am naturally suspicious,” said Smith in a low voice, “when we are dealing with the Si-Fan. Even now I am not satisfied that this may not be a trap of some kind.”
“But, Smith, no attempt is likely to be made here!”
“I was thinking more particularly of Barton and of Ardatha.”
Our drinks were served, he paid the man, and the latter walked to a chair at one end of the bar.
“Regarding Barton, I see what you mean. It might be an elaborate plan to split up the party?”
Smith nodded.
“But,” he added, “Barton is an old campaigner and as we know, very well capable of taking care of himself. Furthermore, although I have not notified him of the fact, there is a police officer on duty outside our apartment tonight.”
“But Ardatha?”
“I am disposed to think” — he spoke in a very low voice— “that she is actually in Colon. All this may be a red herring designed to get us out of the way whilst she is smuggled elsewhere. But in the circumstances we can do nothing but wait for some sign from this woman Flammario.”
“I still believe,” said I, “that she is sincere.”
“Possibly,” Smith replied. “At least in her passionate hatred of Cabot. Let us hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes to midnight. Suppose we go in and survey the scene.”
We went out on to the balcony, a place heavy with tobacco smoke and a reek of stale perfume. There were three men at an end table and two women at another. The women were obviously dancing p
artners. They were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee: after a momentary professional glance in our direction, they resumed a bored conversation. The men, I thought, looked harmless enough; probably passengers from a ship passing through the Canal, out visiting the high spots of Colon. We looked down at the dancing-floor.
An orchestra concealed under the balcony was serving out swing music, pianissimo and at a very slow tempo. Only three pairs were dancing, and these also bore unmistakable evidence of being passengers ashore for the night. There were supper tables set along a sort of arcade on the left of the floor, but not more than half were occupied. Except for the persistent jungle note, it was a scene which had its duplicate in almost any city in the world. A hot irritation possessed me.
“Smith,” I said, “this somnolent booze-shop is going to get on my nerves. Whenever I think what we are up against — of the fate of Ardatha — this awful inactivity drives me mad.”
“The calm before the storm,” he answered, in a low voice. “Observe the two men at a supper table right at the other end; the table with the extinguished lamp.”
I looked in the direction indicated. Two stocky Asiatics, whose evening clothes could not disguise their tremendously powerful torsos, were seated there. Slit-like eyes betrayed no indication of where or at whom they were looking. But although individually I had never seen the men before, they were of a type with which I had become painfully familiar in the past.
“Good God, Smith!” I exclaimed. “Surely a pair of Fu-Manchu’s thugs.”
“Certainly.”
“Then you were right — it is a trap. They are waiting for us!”
“Somehow, I don’t think so,” he replied. “I regard their presence as distinctly encouraging. In my opinion they are waiting for Lou Cabot. Our night will not be a dull one, Kerrigan.”
* * * *
The band ceased, the dancers returned to their places.
All the lights went out and then a drum began to beat with all the rhythm of a darabukkeh. A lime, directed through a trap in the roof, shone across the empty floor and upon the figure of Flammario.
Her costume did not interfere in any way with appreciation of her beauty, and as she stood there for a moment motionless, none could have denied that the gods had endowed her with a splendid form. Her brilliant eyes were raised to the balcony, and although I doubted if she could see because of the beam of light, I was convinced that she was looking for us.
To the drum beat was added a monotonous reed melody, and Flammario began to dance. It was one of those African dances which, for my part, I regard as definitely unpleasant, but judging from the rapt silence of a now invisible audience I may have been in the minority. She moved languorously along the edge of the arcade where the supper tables were set, until at last she was directly beneath us. There for a moment she paused, raised her eyes, and:
“Yes!” she said.
The deep-toned, slightly hoarse voice was clearly audible above the throb of the music, and into that one word Flammario had injected triumph — and a barbaric hatred. As she continued her dance, proceeding now towards the entrance through which she had made her appearance, Smith bent to my ear.
“She has found him! The woman wins. There is not a moment to waste if we are to get there ahead of Fu-Manchu’s thugs. Now to establish contact.”
To a frenzied crescendo the dancer finished. She stood for a moment arms upraised and then stepped back into the shadow behind the limelight. Smith and I were up, tense, ready for action. But the almost complete darkness remained unbroken, and as we waited Flammario reappeared, wearing a silk wrap. She acknowledged the applause of her audience. Again she retired, and as the lights sprang up, instinctively I stared in the direction of the end supper table.
The two yellow men had gone.
“Good God!” snapped Smith, “it’s going to be touch and go. Somehow, Kerrigan, they have got hold of the information!”
He had started back towards the bar when he was intercepted by a strange figure entering. It was that of a hunchback negro, emaciated as with long illness, his small, cunning eyes so deeply set in his skull as to be almost invisible.
“Mr. Kerrigan, please?”
He looked from face to face.
“Yes,” snapped Smith, “this is Mr. Kerrigan. What do you want?”
“Follow, if you please. Hurry.”
We required no stimulus, but followed the stooping figure. As we came into the bar I saw that the attendant had the flap raised at the further end. We hurried through a doorway beyond: the door was closed behind us. Down a flight of stairs we ran and along a corridor not too well lighted. At the end I saw Flammario. She wore a long sable cloak and as we hurried forward I realized that she stood at the door of a small but luxuriously furnished dressing-room.
“Quick!” she cried. Her eyes were gleaming madly. “You are ready to start?”
“Yes. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith. You have found Cabot?”
“I told you I had found him. I tell you now we must hurry.”
“Two agents of the Si-Fan were here a few moments ago,” said Smith rapidly. “Did you see them?”
She shrugged impatiently and the fur fell away from one bare shoulder. She snatched it back into place.
“I have to dance again in half an hour,” she explained simply. “Of course I saw them.” She stepped forward, forcing a way between Smith and myself. “Paulo!” she cried.
I turned and looked along the empty passage. The hunchback negro had disappeared.
“Do you think they have got the information?” jerked Smith.
“There is no time to think,” cried Flammario. “I tell you we must act. My car is outside. I know the way.”
“A police car would be faster,” said Smith on an even note. “One is waiting.”
Flammario was already running along the passage.
“Any damn car you like!” she shouted, “but hurry! I have only half an hour and I want to see him killed. Hurry! I show you where he is — and the girl is with him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE. THE CLUE OF THE RING
Police Captain Jacob Beecher was waiting beside a Police Department car not three paces from the side entrance to The Passion Fruit Tree.
“All set,” he said, as we ran out. “Where to?”
“Listen, Big Jake,” cried Flammario hoarsely, “this is my night and I give the orders.”
Even in this side-turning to which moonlight did not penetrate I could see the flash of her eyes.
“I am listening,” growled Beecher.
“This is a gentleman’s agreement and I have two gentlemen with me. You and your boys just cover us. Leave the rest to me and my friends.”
“But where in hell are we going?” growled Beecher. “Tell me and I’ll make arrangements.”
“We are going right to Santurce, and we are moving fast. Do you know the home that used to belong to Weisman, the engineer they fired from the Canal service — eh?”
“Sure I know it.”
“That is where we go.”
“It was hired to somebody else.”
“Somebody else we are looking for.”
Then, Nayland Smith and a police driver in front and I and Flammario at the back, we set out through a velvety tropical darkness sharply cut off where a brilliant moon splashed it into silver patches. Santurce, as a residential suburb, I had deliberately overlooked in my recent quest for the shop of Zazima, so that soon, leaving more familiar parts of Colon behind, I found myself upon strange ground Flammario clutched my arm, pressed her head against my shoulder and poured out a torrent of words.
“It is Paulo who finds him. Paulo can find anyone or any thing in the Canal Zone. But Paulo is of the Si-Fan. You understand — eh?”
“Yes. I expected it.”
“Although he would do anything for me, he is terrified of them. Why does he run away tonight? Where do those two thugs go? What do you think?”
“I think he gave them the information.”
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br /> “It seems that way to me.” She nestled closer. I was aware of a musky perfume. “You are right about your girl friend. He has her locked up. But give Lou time and he sets an iceberg on fire. No, please, do not be angry. I tell you. I can overlook so much — why not? But all the town knows he leave me flat — me, Flammario. Queer, eh, how a woman feels about a thing like this? Just as hard as I used to love him — I hate him now.” She slipped a bare arm about my shoulder. “You will kill him, won’t you?”
With a sincerity which was not assumed, I replied: “Given half a chance, I absolutely undertake to do so.”
Flammario’s heavily painted lips were pressed to my left ear. On the corner of a street in which there were detached villas, each surrounded by its own garden, a big black saloon car was drawn up with no lights on. We passed it and swung into a street beyond,
A moment later we too pulled up. I had now quite lost my bearings. White-fronted houses with their shuttered windows, young palms shooting slender masts out of banks of foliage, made a restful picture in the tropical moonlight, a picture bearing no relation to the facts which had brought us there. As we scrambled out, Flammario ahead of all, a police officer detached himself from the shadows of a high wall.
“Squad all ready,” he reported. “What orders?”
“Do nothing until we are in,” Smith replied rapidly, “and keep well out of sight. The signal will be a blast on my police whistle — or shooting. The men are standing by?”
