by Sax Rohmer
“Although it is a very great pleasure to have you gentlemen aboard,” he said in a weak, piping voice, “it is also a great surprise. I don’t pretend that I have got the hang of it, but you are very welcome. Let’s all step down to the saloon.”
We descended to a spacious saloon to find a lighted table and a black-browed steward in attendance. I saw a cold buffet, the necks of wine bottles peeping from an ice bucket.
“I thought,” said Wilton, peeling off his coat and his beret, “that on a night like this and at this hour, you might probably be feeling peckish. Just make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I was hauled out of bed myself by the radio message, and I guess a snack won’t do any of us any harm.”
Silver Heels was riding the swell with an easy and soothing movement, but the chief of police stared at the cold fare as a doomed man might stare at the black cap.
“I think, perhaps,” he said, “that a brandy and soda might do me good.”
The attendant steward quietly executed the order, and Brownlow Wilton, seated at the head of the table, dispensed an eager hospitality.
“It was all unexpected,” he explained. “But I feel like a snack myself and I guess all of us could do no better than reinforce.”
He had simple charm, I thought, this man who directed a great chain of newspapers and controlled the United States’ biggest armament works. I had expected nothing so seemingly ingenuous. His reputation, his palace on the Grand Canal, his sea-going yacht, had prepared me, I confess, to meet someone quite different. Only in respect to his state of health did he conform to my expectations. He was a sick man. Despite his protestations, he ate nothing and merely sipped some beverage which looked like barley water.
“A little early in the morning,” said Nayland Smith, “for Kerrigan and myself”—when the efficient but saturnine steward proffered refreshments.
He glanced at me smilingly, but I read in his glance that he meant me to refuse.
“I turned in directly we sailed,” said Wilton; “and when a man has just fallen asleep and then is called up suddenly, I always find it takes him a little while to readjust his poise. But now. Sir Denis Nayland Smith”—he peered across the table in his short-sighted way—”I can ask you a question: What is this all about?”
Nayland Smith glanced around the saloon, in shadow save for that lighted table at which we were seated.
“It is rather difficult,” he replied, “to explain. But, to begin: where are your guests?”
“My guests!” Brownlow Wilton’s magnified eyes opened widely. “I have no guests, sir.”
“What!”
“Those I had staying on board—there were four only—returned by the late express to Paris. I was unexpectedly compelled to break up the party. I am alone with my crew.”
The storm was dying away over the sea, but distant rumbles of thunder reached us from time to time.
“I understand,” said Nayland Smith, “that your four guests were Count and Countess Boratov, Mr. van Dee and Miss Murano.”
“That’s correct.”
Wilton looked surprised.
“Who is Mr. van Dee?”
“A well-known Philadelphia businessman. We have been friends for years.”
“I see. And Miss Murano?”
“A schoolmate of Countess Boratov, very attractive and young. She has lived much in Africa where her family have met with serious misfortune. She has unusually beautiful titian hair.”
I grew hotly unhappy, for I knew that he was describing Ardatha!
“And where did you make this lady’s acquaintance?”
“In London four weeks back.”
“Through the Boratovs I suppose?”
“Surely. I asked her to join us here (she was with the countess in London) and she consented.”
“How long have you known the Boratovs, Mr. Wilton?”
Brownlow Wilton’s sallow face grew lined and stern. As he glanced at Colonel Correnti, that elfin memory peeped out, and then eluded me again. Silver Heels rolled uneasily. Dimly, I heard thunder.
“I appreciate the fact, gentlemen, that you are acting with full authority; but not knowing why I have been favored with your company, perhaps I may ask in what way my friends are of interest?”
“No doubt I have been over-brusque, Mr. Wilton,” said Smith. “But your own future is at stake. A crime which may change the history of Europe was committed at the Palazzo Brioni earlier tonight—”
“What’s that?”
Brownlow Wilton bent forward over the table.
“I have no time for details now. I merely ask for your cooperation. Where did you meet the Boratovs?”
“When they visited America, in the fall of last year.”
“Could you describe the countess?”
“A very lovely woman, sir.” A note of unmistakable admiration had entered the speaker’s high-pitched voice. “Tall, slender, with fascinating eyes: they are brilliantly green—”
Nayland Smith nodded grimly.
“And the count?”
“A distinguished Russian aristocrat, once in the Imperial Guard.”
“And they all left by the Paris express, you say?”
“All of them, yes.”
“You remained alone for some time then at the palace?”
“No sir. We dined here on board. News from England had come which meant I had to get back. Captain Farazan got busy. He secured the necessary clearance papers and we sailed immediately. My guests made the train and are now on their way to Paris.”
Nayland Smith stared hard at James Brownlow Wilton, and then:
“Excuse me,” came a discreet voice.
The steward (his name was Lopez), who had gone out, stood now at Wilton’s elbow, extending a message on a salver. Wilton took it, nodded his apologies, and read the message. The saturnine Lopez went out again.
“Ah!—a personal matter, gentlemen—of no importance.”
But his expression belied his words. Nayland Smith’s face offered me a perplexing study. As Wilton crumpled the scrap of paper in his hand:
“May I ask,” said Smith, “if you used the small study in Palazzo Brioni? I refer to the one distinguished by a very beautiful figure of the Virgin.”
Brownlow Wilton stared hard through his powerful spectacles. I thought he was striving for composure.
“I looked after all my correspondence there, sir. I have always been attracted to that room.”
“Were you aware, or did the agent who negotiated the deal inform you, that there is a disused wing which has been locked for years?”
“I never heard that. This is news to me.”
“I understand that you have a secretary who takes care of most of these details. I am told that he put Silver Heels into commission in Monaco and also came over to Venice to arrange a suitable household for your arrival. What is this gentleman’s name?”
“You mean Hemsley? He has been with me for years. I sent him ahead to London. I am due back there myself, but I want to put the yacht into dry dock before I go. There’s something radically wrong with her engines.”
“He engaged the present crew, I believe?”
“He did—and by and large, very efficient they are.”
“Have any of them worked for you before?”
“Not one. Hemsley believes in a clean slate. The same applies to the staff in Venice. Never saw one of them in my life before.”
Silver Heels (Continued)
Silver Heels rode the swell uneasily. The chief of police continued to look unhappy. He glanced at me from time to time. I could hear the tramping of feet on the deck above, and I knew that the police were going about their work inspecting the papers of the crew. Peering into the shadows at the darkened end of the saloon, I had a momentary impression that someone had been standing there . . . and had disappeared.
The creaking of the ship in a silence which had fallen became to my ears a sinister sound. Nayland Smith’s eyes were fixed intently upon the face of the Americ
an owner. For some reason I was glad when he spoke:
“You entertained Rudolf Adion to lunch on board?”
“I did. I had introductions to him from Pietro Monaghani with whom I am well acquainted.”
“I suggest that Rudolf Adion was much attracted by the countess?”
Brownlow Wilton smiled uneasily, then leaning forward selected a cigar from a box which lay upon the table. As he tore the label:
“Maybe you’re right,” he replied, “and I am not blaming him. But he is a man who makes no attempt to hide his feelings.”
“Herr Adion returned after luncheon to the Palazzo da Rosa?”
“Yes—and I won’t say I was sorry.”
“Did you go ashore to the palace during the afternoon?”
“No, I stayed on board, but most of the party went ashore. They had odd jobs to do, you understand, before leaving for Paris.”
“Did you see them off?”
“No sir. They said good-bye on the yacht and went ashore in the launch. You see, I’m not as active as I used to be. I had a conference with the chief engineer. I wanted to find out if she could make Villefranche under her own steam.”
“So that was the last you saw of your guests?”
“It was. But we are all meeting again in London in three days.”
Again that uncomfortable silence fell, and then:
“You are quite sure, Mr. Wilton, that your reason for breaking up the party was purely engine trouble? I mean you have not, by any chance, received a notice from the Si-Fan?”
At those words, Wilton’s face changed completely. He laid down the cigar which he had just lighted, and the effect was as though he had discarded a mask. His large, dark eyes, magnified by spectacles, gleamed almost feverishly as he glared at Nayland Smith.
“How can you know that?” he asked and clutched the edge of the table. “How can you know that?”
“It may be my business to know, Mr. Wilton.”
“I had two! I got a third while Adion was on board. Yes, I admit it. I was running away. Now you have the truth.”
Nayland Smith nodded.
“I thought as much. You control a great American newspaper, Mr. Wilton. Its sympathies are rather pointedly with Adion and Monaghani. Am I right?”
“Maybe you are.”
“Also, may I suggest that your armament works do a large trade with the governments represented by these gentlemen?”
“You seem to know a lot, sir. But, as you say, maybe it’s your business.”
“How long does the third notice give you?”
“Until noon tomorrow.”
“What are you to do?”
“I was ordered to come here to Venice.” His glance now as he looked about him was that of a hunted man. “And I was ordered to give that lunch on board to Adion. Now I am told to beat it as fast as I can get away. This whole journey has been in obedience to those orders. I will admit it: I am a badly frightened man. I once spent some years in the Orient, and I know enough about the Si-Fan to have done what I have done.”
Nayland Smith looked hard at me.
“You are noting these facts, no doubt, Kerrigan? You see how Mr. Wilton has been used for a dreadful purpose, a purpose which I fear has succeeded.”
For some time past, faintly I had heard the crackling of radio, and now came hurrying footsteps. A police officer ran in carrying a message which he handed to the chief.
Colonel Correnti adjusted a powerful monocle and read it. Then he looked up, his hitherto pale face flushed with excitement.
“It is from headquarters,” he exclaimed . . . “A body has been found in the canal!”
“What!”
Smith sprang to his feet.
“They cannot be certain but they think—”
“Merciful heaven! This is terrible! What does it mean?”
Wilton, also, had stood up and was staring at the colonel’s pale face.
“It means, Mr. Wilton,” snapped Smith, “that something intended to avert war has happened tonight which, instead, may lead to it.”
“Why should we be silent,” the colonel cried, “about that which the world must know tomorrow! Mr. Wilton, a terrible thing has happened in Venice. Rudolf Adion, a short time after he left this yacht, disappeared completely!”
“What do you say?”
Wilton dropped back into his chair.
“Those are the facts,” said Nayland Smith sternly. “You were used to bring together Adion and the woman known to you as Countess Boratov under circumstances which would enable them to meet again secretly. This meeting took place—you have heard the result.”
“But there may be a mistake! I find myself quite unable to believe it!”
* * *
“Catch him, Kerrigan—he has collapsed!”
Just as he stepped out onto the deck, we both saw Wilton stagger and clutch blindly for support . . . I caught him as he fell. In the deck light his face appeared ghastly.
“This murderous farce”—he spoke in a mere whisper—”has taken more out of me than I realized. Now I know why it was planned, the thing that has happened—I guess I’m through!”
Colonel Correnti was already on board the cutter, although it had proved no simple task to transfer his portly form from the moving ladder. I could see him staring up through a cabin window. We had all planned to return immediately, leaving the crew to bring Silver Heels back to port with two police on board.
Now I realized that our plans would have to be changed.
“My cabin is just forward,” Brownlow Wilton muttered. “If I may lean on you I think I can make it.”
Smith and I took him forward to his cabin. It was commodious, with up-to-date equipment, and having laid him on the bed:
“My small medical knowledge does not entitle me to prescribe,” said Nayland Smith, “but would some stimulant—”
Lopez, the steward, appeared in the doorway. Behind him I saw the Carabinieri uniforms of the two men detailed to remain on board. In light shining out of the cabin, I disliked the steward’s appearance more than ever.
“If you will leave Mr. Wilton to me, gentlemen,” he said, “I think I can take care of him.”
Brownlow Wilton’s face was now contorted; he appeared to be in agony.
“What is it?” I asked aside.
“Angina pectoris, sir. The excitement. I am afraid he is in for another attack. There are some tablets . . .”
“Good God! don’t you travel with a doctor?”
“No sir. Mr. Wilton has a regular physician in Venice, but I don’t think he felt any symptoms of an attack until this present moment.”
Nayland Smith was staring down at the sick man, and somehow from his expression I deduced what he was thinking. Dr Fu Manchu, he had told me on one occasion, could reproduce the symptoms of nearly every disease known to medical science . . .
“I will take no drugs—”
The sick man had forced himself upright—Smith sprang forward to assist him.
“Is this wise, Mr. Wilton?”
“Be so good as to give me your arm—as far as that chair. Lopez! I have found that a small glass of old Bourbon whisky never does any harm at these times. If you abstemious gentlemen would join me, why that would hasten the cure!”
His pluck was so admirable that to refuse would have been churlish. Lopez went to find the old Bourbon and Nayland Smith, going out on deck, hailed the cutter.
“Head for port! Don’t delay. I am remaining on board. Silver Heels will put about and follow . . .”
At the small cabin table I presently found myself seated, the invalid on my left and Nayland Smith, too restless to relax, leaning against an elaborate washbowl with which the room was equipped. Behind me Lopez poured out the drinks.
“Pardon,” Smith muttered, and turning, began to wash his hands. “Grimy from the journey.”
When he turned to take the glass which Lopez handed to him, I had a glimpse of Smith’s face in the mirror which positively st
artled me. His eyes shone like steel; his jaws were clenched. Almost, I doubted my senses—for as he fronted us again he was smiling!
Lopez withdrew quietly, leaving the cabin door open. I could hear the cutter moving off. There were shouted orders, and now I detected vibration. Silver Heels was being put about.
“To the future, gentlemen!”
Brownlow Wilton raised his glass, when:
“Good God! Look! Doctor Fu Manchu!”
Nayland Smith snapped out the words and glared across the cabin!
Brownlow Wilton, setting his glass unsteadily on the table (I had not touched mine), shot up from his chair with astounding agility and we both stared at the open door. I was up, too.
The deck outside was empty!
I turned with a feeling of dismay to Smith. He was draining his glass. He set it down.
“Forgive me, Mr. Wilton”—he spoke with a nervousness I had never before detected in him—”that bogey is beginning to haunt me! It was only the shadow of a cloud.”
“Well”—Wilton’s high voice quavered—”you certainly startled me—although I don’t know whom you thought you saw.”
“Forget it, Mr. Wilton. I’m afraid the strain is telling. But that whisky has done me good. Finish your drink, Kerrigan. Perhaps I might rest awhile, if there’s an available cabin?”
“Why certainly!” Brownlow Wilton pressed a bell. “Your very good health, gentlemen!”
He drank his Bourbon like a man who needed it, and as Lopez came in silently I finished mine.
“Lopez—show Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Mr. Kerrigan to cabin A. It is at your disposal, gentlemen. We have an hour’s sailing ahead of . . .”
I glanced swiftly at Smith. The shock of his strange outcry had provoked another spasm of Wilton’s dread ailment. His features were convulsed. He lay back limply in his chair!
“All right, sir!” said Lopez as I stooped and raised the frail body. “If he lies down I hope he will recover—”
I laid the sick man on his bed. His eyes were staring past me at Lopez. He tried to speak—but not a word came.
