by Sax Rohmer
“Snapped his fingers?”
“Yes, it’s queer, isn’t it? However—he was found dead in the morning.”
“And no trace?”
“None. But I have a hazy suspicion that those in charge of the investigation didn’t know where to look. However, the next victim was a German—undoubtedly a German agent. He died in exactly that way.”
“At that same place?”
“The same hotel, but not in the same room. But the case of the German differed in one respect; someone else heard the Snapping Fingers!”
Inside the speeding car was a fog of tobacco smoke; outside, the lights of New York flashed by like a flaming ribbon.
“Who heard it?”
“Kennard Wood! He occupied the next room. I had just reached Port au Prince at the time, although I was putting up elsewhere; so that I know more about the case of Schonberg—that was the German’s name. After Schonberg had retired that night, it appears that Kennard Wood became curious about what he was doing. From the end of one balcony to another was not a difficult climb; and with the exercise of a little ingenuity it is easy to peep through a slatted shutter. He crept along. The German’s room was in darkness. He was about to climb back, when he heard a sound like that of someone snapping his fingers!”
“From inside the room?”
“Yes. It was repeated several times, but no light was switched on. Kennard Wood returned. Schonberg was found dead in the morning. His door was locked; his shutters were still closed.”
‘‘What did you do when you heard of this?”
“I went along at once. I have a pretty strong stomach, but the sight of that heavy Teutonic frame quite drained of blood—ugh! Fortunately for the hotel a number of cases occurred elsewhere, not only in Port au Prince but as far north as Cap Haitien. A story got about amongst the coloured population that it was Voodoo, that someone they call the Queen Mamaloi (a fabulous woman supposed to live in the interior) was impatient for sacrifices. A perfect state of panic developed; no one dared to sleep. My God! to think that the fiend, Fu Manchu, has brought that horror to New York!”
“But what is it. Smith? What can it be?”
“Just another agent of death, Kerrigan. Some unclean thing bred in a tropical swamp—”
CHAPTER XIII
WHAT HAPPENED IN SUTTON PLACE
“It is more than I can bear. Smith,” I whispered, and turned away, “Although I didn’t know Longton, it is more than I can bear.”
“Probably painless, Mr. Kerrigan,” said Inspector Hawk. “Cheer up, sir.”
But there was nothing cheerful in his manner, his appearance, or his voice. He was a tall, angular, gloomy person, depressingly taciturn; and he gave to each of his rare remarks the value of a biblical quotation. Under the harsh light of suspended lamps Longton lay on a stone slab. In life he had been slightly built; had had scanty fair hair and a small blond moustache. There was a sound of dripping water.
“What have you got to say, doctor?” asked Smith, addressing a stout, red-faced man who beamed amiably through green-rimmed spectacles.
“A very unusual case,” the police doctor replied breezily. ‘‘Very unusual. Observe the irregular rose-coloured spots, the evidences of pernicious, or aplastic, anaemia. A malarial subject, beyond doubt; but the actual cause of death remains obscure.”
“Quite,” snapped Smith; “most obscure. I am sorry to seem to check your diagnosis, doctor, but James Longton had not suffered from malaria; and a month ago he was freshly-coloured as yourself. Have you heard, by chance, of the minor epidemic which recently appeared in the Canal Zone and later in Haiti?”
“Some short account was published in the newspapers, but I don’t believe medical circles paid much attention to it. In any case, there can be no parallel here.”
“I fear I must disagree again: the parallel is exact. I suggest that anaemia, however advanced, could never produce this result. The body is drained like that of a fly after a spider has gorged its fill.” Smith turned abruptly to Inspector Hawk. “The man is nude. How was he found, and where?”
“Found just as you see,” the gloomy voice replied. “Brought in from West Channel, right below Queensborough Bridge. Kind of caught up on something; shone in the moonlight and a river patrol made contact. I was once detailed to take care of Mr. Longton: recognized him right away.”
“How long dead?” Smith asked the doctor.
“Well,” he replied—and I detected a note of resentment—”if my views are of any value, I should say no more than four hours. Hypnostasis had only just appeared and there is little rigidity.”
“I agree,” said Smith.
“Thank you.”
Some further formalities there were, and then once more we sped through the bright lights of New York. Smith was plunged in such a mood of dejection that I did not care to interrupt it. We were almost in sight of the Regal Athenian before he spoke.
“Where did Longton die?” he exclaimed. “Why was he in New York without my being notified? And where is Kennard Wood?”
“It’s all a dreadful mystery to me. Smith.”
There was a momentary pause; we were whirling, issuing warning blasts, past busy night traffic, when Smith suddenly leaned forward.
“Slow down,” he cried.
Our speed was checked; the police driver leaned back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go to 39B Sutton Place—“
“Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”
“Yes. Move.”
We were off again.
“But what is this. Smith?”
“A theory—and a hope,” he replied. “Longton’s body was found below Queensborough Bridge. Making due allowances for its unusual condition, I assume that it was thrown in near that spot some time tonight. Now, how was a body transported and thrown into the river in that state; I suggested to myself that there must have been special conditions—and then I thought of Mrs. Mendel Hammett—”
“Who is Mrs. Mendel Hammett?”
“She is a relic of the past, Kerrigan, an institution; a patron of promising talent, and a distant relation of poor Longton. I suddenly remembered his telling me that he had an apartment in her home which he was at liberty to occupy at any time. Now, the garden of 39B Sutton Place runs down to the river; Queens-borough Bridge is immediately below!”
* * *
“You need not watch me so anxiously. Sir Denis,” said Mrs. Mendel Hammett. “I am a crippled and weak-bodied old woman but not a weak-minded old woman. May I trouble you to light my cigarette.”
She lay stretched on a couch in a sitting-room whose furnishings indicated the world traveller. The bright hazel eyes shadowed by heavy brows were those of a young girl; her skin retained its freshness: so that snow-white, curling hair suggested the period of powder and patches.
“You are a wonderful woman, Mrs. Mendel Hammett.”
“I belong to a tough race,” she replied, puffing at her cigarette; “and in the company of my late husband I have been in some tough places. So Jim is dead? Well, if I can help you find out who killed him, count on me.”
“In the first place,” said Smith, speaking very gently, “I gathered from Miss Dinsford, your secretary, that James Longton was not expected; that he arrived about six o’clock this evening and stated that he wished to use his apartments.”
“He did, sir,” the vibrant voice replied. “He had come by air from Havana and he said it was important that no one should know that he was here.”
“He went up to his rooms,” Smith continued, “particularly requesting that he should not be disturbed—”
“He said he was going to take a bath and lie down until dinner time, as he was tired out.”
“Quite so. That is most important. Since then, I believe, you had not seen him?”
“I had not.”
“Did he bring much baggage?”
“One light suitcase and a large portfolio.”
“ho took them up?”
“He to
ok them up himself.”
“Then no one else entered his apartments?”
“No one. They were always kept ready for use. Later, a maid would have turned down the bed and prepared the room—”
Momentarily, the bright eyes clouded; Mrs. Mendel Hammett knocked ash from her cigarette.
“People used to find a marked resemblance between Jim and Kennard Wood. I never saw it, myself, although they were cousins on Jim’s mother’s side.”
“I had certainly noted it,” murmured Smith. “And, now that this catastrophe has occurred, I must look to the Colonel’s safety. Before I go up to examine these apartments, Mrs. Mendel Hammett, may I ask if James Longton told you anything of Kennard Wood’s whereabouts?”
“He told me that they had planned to arrive together; that they had an important conference with you and some Washington people at the Regal Athenian in the morning. They were on the point of leaving Havana by special government plane when Kennard Wood was overtaken by a messenger from the United States Minister—”
“So Longton came alone?”
“He came alone. Kennard Wood was to follow as soon as possible, and Jim intended to ring up his hotel directly he—awoke. For some reason they were travelling in great secrecy.”
“I know the reason!” said Smith grimly. “If you will be good enough to excuse us. Come on, Kerrigan.”
A grey-haired coloured manservant led the way upstairs, knocked upon, and then unlocked, a door. He switched on the light inside.
“Mr. James’s apartment, sir,” he murmured.
One analytical stare Smith directed upon the man’s face, and then: “You may go,” he said.
We entered James Longton’s rooms. The first of these was a sitting-room, furnished in a manner that betrayed the hand of a woman. Some of the pictures, however, were obvious autobiographical, and there were college groups and a collection of pipes on the desk.
Nayland Smith, standing Just inside the door, which he had closed, began sniffing.
“Do you notice any unusual small, Kerrigan?”
At that I also directed my attention to the atmosphere of the place, and: “Yes,” I replied, “there is faint, but very unpleasant smell. I am trying to place it.”
“I have placed it!” said Smith. “I have come across it before. Now for the bedroom—”
He opened a door, found the switch, and led the way into a small but adequately-equipped bedroom. Beyond, on the right, I saw a curtained recess in which presumably there was a bath. The place had a Spartan quality which may have reflected the character of the dead man; so that, noting a handsome Chinese casket on a table beside a bed—an item which seemed out of place—I was about to examine it, when: “Don’t touch it!” snapped Smith. “Touch nothing. I am walking in the dark, and taking no chances. The unusual smell is more marked here?”
Startled by his abrupt order I turned from the box.
“Yes; it certainly seems to be. You have seen that the bed is much disarranged?”
“I have seen something else.”
He crossed to the draped recess, went in, and came out again.
“Longton undressed in the bathroom,” he said; “his clothes are there. He had a bath and then lay down. It is clear that he was tired out His suitcase you see there on a chair, unopened. He just got into bed as he was and fell into a deep sleep. Now, you note a chill in the air?”
“Yes.”
“Unless I am on a wrong track we shall find a window open.”
He crossed and jerked the draperies aside. I saw moonlight glittering on water.
“Wide open!” he exclaimed; “a balcony outside.”
And as he stood there peering out and flashing a torch, in a moment of perhaps psychic clarity I saw him against a different background. I saw the bloody horror of Poland, the sullen sorrow of Czecho-Slovakia, the abasement of France, that grand defiance of Greece which I had known; and I saw guns blazing around a once peaceful English countryside. An enemy pounded at the gates of civilization; but Nayland Smith was here: therefore, here, and not in Europe, the real danger must lie.
Smith turned and stared at the disordered bed.
“Observe anything unusual?” he snapped.
“It is all terribly untidy.”
“Really, Kerrigan, as a star reporter you disappoint me. A hostess of Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s calibre does not expect a guest to lie on a blanket. The under sheet is missing!”
“Good God! You’re right!”
He stared at me for a moment.
“They used it to lower his body to the garden,” he said slowly. “I can see the rope marks on the balcony rail! There is an old, strong clematis growing up the wall below. One of Fu Manchu’s thugs climbed it whilst Longton was in the bath: he may or may not have forced open the window. He returned, later, bundled up the body, and lowered it to an assistant waiting in the garden. Miss Dinsford showed me over the ground-floor rooms: unlikely that anyone would hear; these fellows work as silently as stoats.”
“But what killed him?” I cried. “There may be some clues here—”
I had turned to the disordered bed, when: “Stand back, Kerrigan!” Smith said sharply. “Touch nothing. Leave the search to me.”
Arrested by his words, I stood there whilst he stripped the bed, opened the Chinese box (which contained nothing more lethal than cigarettes), explored every bookcase, cabinet, nook, and cranny in the room. He was as painstaking in the other rooms; and from amongst Longton’s possessions he selected the key of the suitcase, opened the case, examined its contents. And all the time he was sniffing—sniffing like a hound on a half-lost scent.
“The smell is fading?” he jerked. “You note this? I can spare no more time. But the room must be sealed: it is imperative. You have no doubt remarked that the large portfolio mentioned by Mrs. Mendel Hammett has disappeared.”
CHAPTER XIV
WE HEAR THE SNAPPING FINGERS
As I hurried past the hall porter’s desk in the main entrance to the Regal Athenian, a boy came running after me. Smith had been detained, but he was anxious that I should establish contact with Sergeant Rorke.
“Urgent message for you,Mr. Kerrigan.”
At the sight of the handwriting on the envelope, my heart skipped a beat; the message was from Ardatha! I tore it open, there where I stood, and read:
Please do not recognize me unless I am alone. I think I have been followed. I am in the main foyer: you can see me as you come up the steps. If there is anyone with me, go up to your apartment and I will try to ring you up.
The note was not signed.
Thrusting it into my pocket, I started up the imposing flight of carpeted stairs which had always reminded me of the palace scene in a Cinderella pantomime, and surveyed the vast foyer. The cosmopolitan atmosphere for which the Regal Athenian was celebrated tonight was absent; but there was a considerable ebb and flow of the after-theatre supper-seekers. I saw Ardatha at once.
She was seated on a divan not five yards away—deep in conversation with a sallow-faced man. She wore a perfectly simple blue evening frock which outlined her slender figure provocatively, exposing her lovely arms and shoulders so that her head, poised proudly, with its crown of gleaming hair set me thinking of a cameo by some great master. She did not so much as glance in my direction. But I knew that she had seen me.
Resolutely I walked along to the elevator and went up to our apartment. The knowledge that the presence of the sallow man alone had denied me at least a few stolen moments with Ardatha was a bitter pill to swallow; I could gladly have strangled him.
I opened the door, to find Sergeant Rorke standing Just inside. recognizing me, his tense attitude relaxed and he beganto chew again.
“Anything to report?”
“No, sir—except that a lady calls up ten minutes ago. She won’t leave her name. I just say you are out,”
“Nothing from Sir Lionel Barton?”
“No, sir. I’m a gladder man when he’s back here. Feeding w
ild animals is no part of a police officer’s duty.” He displayed a bandaged finger. “There’s one dead monkey on the books if I have my way.”
But I went into the sitting-room, lighted a cigarette, and began to walk to and fro beside the telephone. Ardatha was here! She had tried to get in touch with me. She had been followed; but she would try again. That the fact of her presence meant also that of Dr. Fu Manchu could not terrorize me tonight. Ardatha was here: soon, perhaps, I should hear her voice. If I had ever doubted what she meant in my life (and certainly I had known, always; for I had wanted to die when I believed that she had left me) tonight that swift vision of her dainty loveliness, her aloof, always mysterious personality, had confirmed the fact that without her I did not want to go on.
How long I wandered up and down the carpet, how many cigarettes I smoked, I cannot say. But, at last, the phone buzzed.
So utterly selfish was my mood, so completely was I absorbed in my dreams of Ardatha, that had the caller been Smith, or even the missing Kennard Wood, I know that I should have been disappointed. But it was Ardatha.
“Please listen very carefully.” Her adorable accent was unusually marked. “First, for someone else—a man called Colonel Kennard Wood will be killed tonight at some time before twelve o’clock. I cannot tell you how, and I do not know where he is, except that he is in New York. These—murders, horrify me. Try to save this man—”
“Ardatha—”
“Please, I beg of you! At any moment I may be discovered. We are setting out for Cristobal later tonight—as soon, I think, as Colonel Wood is dead. Tell me, now, if you found in London, any trace of Peko,Dr. Fu Manchu’s marmoset. He mourns him as one mourning a lost child.”
“He’s here, darling!We have him!”
“Ah!” the word reached me as a wondering sigh. “Please God you keep him safe! Tell me again. I cannot believe it: you have him?”
“We have him, Ardatha.”
“He may mean escape for me—the end of the living death. Come to Cristobal—Bart. When you reach the Panama Canal—”
