by Sax Rohmer
That low, musical voice was speaking rapidly—but not in English, nor in any language with which I was familiar. It was some tongue containing strange gutturals. But even these could not disguise the haunting music of the speaker’s tone.
The woman called Fah Lo Suee was outside in the lobby.
Then I heard a man’s voice, a snarling, hideous voice, replying to her; and, I thought, a second. But of this I could not be sure.
They were dragging a heavy body out on to the verandah. There came a choking cough. Such was my mood that I could have cheered aloud. One of the skulking rats had had his medicine!
As these movements proceeded in accordance with rapidly spoken orders in that unforgettable voice, I turned to considerations of my own safety. Tiptoeing across the room and endeavouring to avoid those obstacles the position of which I could remember, I mounted on to the writing table.
Slipping the automatic into my pocket I felt for the catch of the window, found it, and threw the window open: the shutters, I knew, I could burst with a blow, for they were old, and the fastener was insecure.
I moved farther forward, resting upon one knee, and raised my hands.
As I did so, a ghastly thing happened—a thing unforeseen. I was faced by a weapon against which I had no defence.
Pouring down through the slats of the shutters came a cloud of vapour. I was drenched, saturated, blinded by mimosa! A faint hissing sound accompanied the discharge; and as I threw one arm across my face in a vain attempt to shield myself from the deadly vapour, this hissing sound was repeated.
I fell on to both knees, rolled sideways, and tried to throw myself back.
But the impalpable abomination seemed to follow me. I was enveloped in a cloud of it. I tried to cry out—I couldn’t breathe—I was choking.
A third time I heard the hissing sound, and then I think I must have rolled from the table on to the floor. My impression at the time was of falling—falling into dense, yellow banks of cloud, reeking of mimosa...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FORMULA
“Sterling, Sterling! Wake up, man! You’re all right now.”
I opened my eyes as directed, and apart from a feeling of pressure on the temples, I experienced no discomfort.
I was in my own bed at the Villa Jasmin!
Nayland Smith was standing beside me, and a bespectacled, bearded young man whom I recognized as one of Dr. Cartier’s juniors was bending down and watching me anxiously.
Without any of that mental chaos which usually follows unconsciousness, I remembered instantly all that had happened, up to the moment that I had rolled from the table.
“They drugged me, Sir Denis,” I said, “but I can tell you all that happened.”
“The details, Sterling. I have already reconstructed the outline.” He turned to the doctor. “You see, this drug apparently has no after-effects.”
The medical man felt my pulse, then turned in amazement to Sir Denis.
“It is truly astounding,” he admitted. “I know of no property in any species of mimosa which could explain this.”
“Nevertheless,” rapped Sir Denis, “the smell of mimosa is still perceptible in the sitting room.”
The French doctor nodded in grave agreement. Then, as I sat up—for I felt as well as I had ever felt in my life—
“No, please,” he insisted, and laid his hand upon my shoulder: “I should prefer that you lie quiet for the present.”
“Yes, take it easy, Sterling,” said Nayland Smith. “There was another victim here last night.”
“The man in the laboratory?”
“Yes; but he’s none the worse for it. He dozed off on the couch, he tells me, and they operated in his case, I have discovered, by inserting a tube through the ventilator in the wall above. He sprang up at the first whiff, but never succeeded in getting to his feet.”
“Please tell me,” I interrupted excitedly, “is there any blood in the lobby?”
Sir Denis shook his head grimly.
“I take it that you are responsible for the shot-hole through the door?”
“Yes, and I scored a bull!”
“The lobby is tiled. They probably took the trouble to remove any stains. Apart from several objects and documents which they have taken away, they have left everything in perfect order. And now, Sterling—the details.”
Sir Denis looked very tired; his manner was unusually grave; and:
“Before I begin,” I said rapidly, “Petrie? Is there any change?”
The Frenchman shook his head.
“I am very sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Sterling,” he replied, “that Dr. Petrie is sinking rapidly.”
“No? Good God! Don’t say so!”
“It’s true!” snapped Nayland Smith. “But tell me what I want to know—I haven’t a minute to waste.”
Filled with a helpless anger, and with such a venomous hatred growing in my heart for the cruel, cunning devil directing these horrors, I outlined very rapidly the events of the night.
“Even now,” said Nayland Smith savagely, “we don’t know if they have it.”
“The formula for ‘654’?”
He nodded.
“It may have been in Rorke’s study in Wimpole Street, or it may not; and it may have been here. In the meantime, Petrie’s case is getting desperate, and no one knows what treatment to pursue. Fah Lo Suee’s kindness towards yourself, following a murderous assault upon one of her servants, suggests success. But it’s merely a surmise. I must be off!”
“But where are you going, Sir Denis?” I asked, for he had already started towards the door. “What are my orders?”
He turned.
“Your orders,” he replied, “are to stay in bed until Dr. Brisson gives you permission to get up. I am going to Berlin.”
“To Berlin?”
He nodded impatiently.
“I spent some time with the late Sir Manston Rorke,” he went on rapidly, “at the School of Tropical Medicine, as I have already told you. And I formed the impression that Rorke’s big reputation was largely based upon his friendship with Professor Emil Krus, of Berlin, the greatest living authority upon Tropical Medicine.
“I suspected that Rorke almost invariably submitted proposed treatments to the celebrated German, and I hope—I only hope—that Petrie’s formula ‘654’ may have been sent on to the Professor for his comments. I have already been in touch by telephone with Berlin, but Dr. Emil Krus proved to be inaccessible.
“The French authorities have placed a fast plane and an experienced pilot at my service, and I leave in twenty minutes for the Tempelhof aerodrome.”
I was astounded—I could think of no words; but:
“It is Dr. Petrie’s only chance,” the Frenchman interrupted. “His condition is growing hourly worse, and we have no idea what to do. It is possible that the great Krus”—there was professional as well as national jealousy in his pronunciation of the name—“may be able to help us. Otherwise—”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You see, Sterling?” said Nayland Smith. “Take care of yourself.”
He ran out.
I looked up helplessly into the bespectacled face of Dr. Brisson. Dawn was breaking, and I realized that I must have been insensible for many hours.
“Such friendship is a wonderful thing, doctor,” I said.
“Yes. Sir Denis Nayland Smith is a staunch friend,” Brisson replied; “but in this—there is more than friendship. The south of France, the whole of France, Europe, perhaps the world, is threatened by a plague for which we know of no remedy. The English doctor Petrie has found means to check it. If we knew what treatment should follow the injection of his preparation ‘654,’ we could save his life yet.”
“Is it, then, desperate?”
“It is desperate. But as surely you can appreciate, we could also save other lives. If a widespread epidemic should threaten to develop, we could inoculate. I do not understand, but it seems that there is someo
ne who opposes science and favours the plague. This is beyond my comprehension, but one thing is clear to me: only Dr. Petrie, who is dying, and Professor Krus—perhaps—know how to fight this thing. You see? It may be that the fate of the world is at stake.”
Indeed I saw, and all too plainly.
“Have the police been informed of the outrages here last night?” I asked.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and his bearded face registered despair.
“In this matter I am distracted,” he declared, “and I have ceased even to think about it. Sir Denis Nayland Smith, it seems, has powers from Paris which override the authorities of Nice. The Department is in his hands.”
“You mean that no inquiry will be made?”
“Nothing—as I understand. But as I confessed to you, I do not understand—at all.”
I sprang up in bed—my brain was superactive.
“This is awful!” I exclaimed. “I must do something—I must do something!”
Dr. Brisson rested his hands upon my shoulders.
“Mr. Sterling,” he said, and his eyes, magnified by the powerful lenses of his spectacles, were kindly yet compelling: “what you should do—if you care to take my advice, is this: you should rest.”
“How can I rest?”
I sank back on the pillows, while he continued to watch me.
“It is difficult, I know,” he went on. “But what I tell you, Dr. Cartier would tell you, and your friend Dr. Petrie, also. You are a very strong man, full of vigour, but you have recently recovered from some severe illness. This I can see. The Germans are very clever—but we in France are not without knowledge. For at least four hours, you should sleep.”
“How can I sleep?”
“There is nothing you can do to help your friend. All that experience has taught us, we are doing. I offer you my advice. An orderly from the hospital is in the lobby, and will remain there until he is relieved. Your housekeeper, Mme Dubonnet, will be here at eight o’clock. Please take a small cachet which I have in my bag, and resign yourself to sleep.”
I don’t know to what extent the doctor’s kindly and deliberate purpose influenced me, but as he spoke I recognized how weary I was.
The hiatus induced by that damnable mimosa drug had rested me not at all: my brain was active as from the moment that I had succumbed to it. My body was equally weary.
“I agree with you, doctor,” I said, and grasped his hand. “I don’t think I need your cachet. I am dead tired. I can sleep without any assistance.”
He nodded, and smiled.
“Better still,” he declared. “Nature is always right. I shall close the shutters and leave you. Ring for your coffee when you awake. By then, if Sir Denis’s instructions have been carried out, the telephone will have been repaired, and you can learn the latest news about Dr. Petrie.”
I remember seeing him close the shutters and walk quietly out of the room. I must have been very tired... for I remember no more.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN MONTE CARLO
I woke late in the afternoon.
Body, brain, and nerves had been thoroughly exhausted; but now I realized that my long sleep had restored me.
Mme Dubonnet was in the kitchen, looking very unhappy. The telephone had been repaired that morning, she told me, but it was all so mysterious. The house had been disturbed, and there were many things missing. And the poor dear doctor! They had told her, only two hours before, that there was no change in his condition.
I turned on the bath taps and then went to the telephone. Dr. Brisson was at the hospital. In answer to my anxious inquiry, he said in a strained, tired voice that there was nothing to report. He could not conceal his anxiety, however.
Something told me that dear old Petrie’s hours were numbered. Sir Denis Nayland Smith had not been in touch.
“I trust that he arrived safely,” he concluded, “and succeeded in finding Dr. Emil Krus.”
“I shall be along in about an hour.”
“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Sterling, I beg of you. It would only add to our embarrassment. You can do nothing. If you would consent to take my advice again, it would be this: drive out somewhere to dinner. Try to forget this shadow, which unfortunately you can do nothing to dispel. Tell the housekeeper where you intend to go, so that we can trace you, should there be news—good or bad.”
“It’s impossible,” I replied; “I feel I must stand by.”
But the tired, soothing voice at the other end of the line persisted. A man would relieve Mme Dubonnet at the villa just before dusk. “And,” Brisson concluded, “it is far better that you should seek a change of scene, if only for a few hours. Dr. Petrie would wish it. In a sense, you know, you are his patient.”
In my bath, I considered his words. Yes, I suppose he was right. Petrie had been insistent that I should not overdo things—mentally or physically. I would dine in Monte Carlo, amid the stimulating gaiety of the strangest capital in the world.
I wanted to be at my best in this battle with an invisible army. I owed it to Petrie—and I owed it to Nayland Smith.
In spite of my determination, it was late before I started out. The orderly from the hospital had arrived. He had nothing to report. Sir Denis was of the opinion, I learned, that there was just a possibility of a further raid upon the Villa Jasmin being attempted, and the man showed me that he was armed.
He seemed to welcome this strange break in his normal duties. I told him that I proposed to dine at Quinto’s Restaurant. I was known there, and he could get in touch, or leave a message, at any time.
Then, heavy-hearted, but glad in a way to escape, if only for a few hours, from the spot where Petrie had been stricken down by his remorseless, hidden enemy, I set out for Monaco.
Some new and strange elements had crashed into my life. It was good to get away to a place dissociated from these things and endeavour to see them in their true perspective.
The route was pathetically familiar.
It had been Petrie’s custom on two or three evenings in the week to drive into Monte Carlo, dine and spend an hour or so in the Casino. He was no gambler—nor am I—but he was a very keen mathematician, and he got quite a kick out of pitting his wits against the invulnerable bank.
I could never follow the principle of his system. But while, admittedly, we had never lost anything, on the other hand, we had not gained.
My somewhat morbid reflections seemed to curtail the journey. I observed little of the route, until I found myself on the long curve above Monte Carlo. Dusk had fallen, and that theatrical illumination which is a feature of the place had sprung into life.
I pulled up for a moment, looking down at the unique spectacle— wonderful, for all its theatricality. The blazing colour of the flower beds, floodlighted from palm tops; the emerald green of terraced lawns falling away to that ornate frontage of the great Casino.
It is Monte Carlo’s one and only “view”, but in its garish way it is unforgettable.
I pushed on down the sharp descent to the town, presently halting before the little terrace of an unpretentious restaurant. Tables were laid under the awning, and already there were many diners.
This was Quinto’s, where, without running up a ruinous bill, one may enjoy a perfect dinner and the really choice wines of France.
The genial Maître d’hôtel met me at the top of the steps, extending that cosmopolitan welcome which lends a good meal an additional savour. Your true restaurateur is not only an epicure; he is also a polished man of the world.
Yes, there was a small table in the corner. But I was alone tonight! Was Dr. Petrie busy?
I shook my head.
“I am afraid he is very ill,” I replied cautiously.
Hitherto the authorities had succeeded in suppressing the truth of this ghastly outbreak so near to two great pleasure resorts. I had to guard my tongue, for an indiscreet word might undo all their plans of secrecy.
“Something serious?” he asked, with
what I thought was real concern: everybody loved Petrie.
“A serious chill. The doctors are afraid of pneumonia.”
Quinto raised his hands in an eloquent southern gesture.
“Oh, these chilly nights!” he exclaimed. “They will ruin us! So many people forget to wrap themselves up warmly in the Riviera evenings. And then”—he shrugged—“they say it is a treacherous climate!”
He conducted me to a table in an angle of the wall, and pointed out, as was his custom, notabilities present that evening.
These included an ex-Crown Prince, Fritz Kreisler, and an internationally popular English novelist residing on the Côte d’Azur. The question of what I should eat and what I should drink was discussed as between artists; for the hallmark of a great Maître d’hôtel is the insidious compliment which he conveys to his patron in conceding the latter’s opinions to be worthy of the master’s consideration.
When the matter was arranged and the wine-waiter had brought me a cocktail, I settled down to survey my fellow guests.
My survey stopped short at a table in the opposite corner.
A man who evidently distrusted the chill of the southern evenings sat there, his back towards me. He wore a heavy coat, having an astrakhan collar; and, what was more peculiar at dinner, he wore an astrakhan cap. From my present point of view he resembled pictures I had seen of Russian noblemen of the old regime.
Facing him across the small square table was Fleurette! Over one astrakhan-covered shoulder of her companion our glances met. Dim light may have created the illusion, but I thought that the flower-like face turned pale, that the blue eyes opened very wide for a moment.
I was about to stand up, when a slight, almost imperceptible movement of Fleurette’s head warned me unmistakably not to claim the acquaintance.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FAIRY TRUMPET
I asked myself the question: had the gesture been real, or had I merely imagined it?
