by Sax Rohmer
The Marquis Chang Hu seated himself behind the Italian table and Sir Betram dropped back into his armchair. He had never heard a voice quite like that of Chang Hu. It was harsh, but imperious. He spoke perfect English. Long after this strange interview, Sir Bertram recognized that the impres-siveness of the Marquis’s lightest words was due to one peculiarity:— Sir Bertram was old enough to have heard John Henry Newman speak; and in the diction of this majestic Chinaman he recognized later, the unalloyed beauty of our language as the poet-cardinal had spoken it.
“It is not my wish, Sir Bertram,” said his strange host, “to detain you any longer than is necessary.”
Sir Bertram’s chair was set very near to the big table, and Chang Hu, bending courteously across that glittering expanse, placed an ingot of metal in his visitor’s hand.
“You will have observed that I have some small facilities here. If you wish to make any tests, I shall be happy to assist you.”
Sir Bertram glanced at the ingot and then looked up. He closed his eyes swiftly. He had met a glance unlike any he had ever known. The eyes of Madame Ingomar were fascinating, hypnotic; the eyes of the Marquis, her father, held a power which was shattering.
Looking down again at the ingot in his hand:
“In the case of a man of my experience,” he replied, “tests are unnecessary. This is pure gold.”
CHAPTER 21
GALLAHO AND STERLING SET OUT
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith through the speaking tube. “Back into the lane we have just passed on the right.”
The driver of the C.I.D. car checked immediately, stopped and reversed. There was no trace of fog on this outskirt of London. The night was limpidly clear. The big car was backed into the narrow lane which Nayland Smith had indicated.
“Good,” growled Gallaho; “but what’s the next move, sir?”
“It’s almost certain,” said Sterling excitedly, “that this is Dr. Fu Manchu’s new base. It’s almost certain . . . that Fleurette is here.”
“Go easy.” Sir Denis grasped his shoulder. “We must think. A mistake, now, would be fatal.”
“I am wondering,” said Gallaho, “what madness brought Sir Bertram Morgan here to-night?”
“The madness,” Smith replied, “which has brought many men to disaster ... a woman.”
“Yes,” Gallaho admitted; “she’s a good looker. But I should have thought he was getting past it.”
“Sir Denis . . .” Sterling’s voice trembled. “We’re wasting time.”
They tumbled out of the car. They had sponged the makeup from their faces, but were still in the matter of dress, two rough-looking citizens. Smith stood there in the dusk of that silent by-way, tugging at the lobe of his left ear; then:
“I am wondering” he murmured. “Including the driver, Gallaho, we are only a party of four. . . .”
“What have you got in mind, sir?”
“I have this in mind. I propose to raid Rowan House.”
“While Sir Bertram Morgan is there?”
“Yes. Unless he comes out very soon.”
“You think . . . ?”
“I think nothing. I know. Dr. Fu Manchu is in that house! If Sir Bertram Morgan is in danger or not I cannot say, but the man we want is there. I take it you have the warrant in your pocket, Inspector?”
Chief detective-inspector Gallaho coughed loudly.
“You may take it that I have, sir,” he replied.
Nayland Smith grasped his arm in the darkness.
“I didn’t mean what you’re thinking, Inspector,” he said, “but we are so tied by red tape that any absurd formality overlooked might mean the wreck of the case.”
Gallaho replied almost apologetically.
“Thank you, sir; I entirely agree with you. Perhaps I was rather forgetting the fact that you have suffered from red tape as much as I have. But I take it you mean, sir, that we may meet with opposition.”
Sterling, clenching and unclenching his fists, was walking up and down in a fever of excitement, and:
“Sir Denis!” he exclaimed, “why are we delaying? Surely, with a woman’s life at stake . . . ?”
“Listen, Sterling,” snapped Sir Denis. “I understand and sympathize—but I’m in charge of this party, and you belong to it.”
“I am sorry,” said Sterling hoarsely.
The driver of the car, seated at the wheel, was watching the trio expectantly, and then:
“Listen, Gallaho,” said Nayland Smith, rapidly: “how far are we from a call-box?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. This is rather outside my area. Do you know?” addressing his question to the driver.
“No, sir. The last one we passed was at the crossroads.”
“Drive back,” Nayland Smith instructed. “It’s your job to put a call through to local headquarters.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I want a raid squad here within twenty minutes. When you know where to go, drive there to pick ‘em up.”
“Very good, sir.”
Silently and smoothly the big car moved out of the lane.
“In moments of excitement,” said Nayland Smith, “I am afraid I relapse into Indian police terms, Do you think your man can manage it, Gallaho?”
“Certainly, sir.” Gallaho replied. “The Flying Squad’s pretty efficient. We shall have all the men you want inside twenty minutes.”
“My fault,” said Nayland Smith, “not to have had a radio car.”
“They’re all on duty, sir.”
“One could have been recalled. We had time.”
“What now, sir?”
“We must look for vulnerable points, and keep well under cover. I don’t want Sir Bertram’s driver to see us. I trust nobody where Dr. Fu Manchu is concerned. Come on!”
He led the way towards the tree-shadowed drive of Rowan House. Their cautious footsteps seemed loudly to disturb the damp silence of the avenue, but they pressed on till the lights of Sir Bertram’s Rolls, drawn up before the porch of the squat residence, brought them to a halt.
“Sterling!” Nayland Smith’s voice was low, but urgent. “Through the shrubbery here, and right around that wing on the left. You are looking for a way in, preferably a French window, of course. But any point where an entrance can be made quickly. If you meet anybody, tackle him, and then sing out. Are you armed?”
‘Yes; it’s become a habit since I met Dr. Fu Manchu.”
“Good. Walk right around the house until you meet Gallaho, then return by the more convenient route, and this point is to be our meeting place. And now, you, Gallaho, stick to the shadow of that lawn, there, and work around the right of the house till you meet Sterling. I am going to direct my attention to obtaining a glimpse of Sir Bertram’s chauffeur. His appearance and behaviour will tell me much. We meet here in five minutes.”
Gallaho and Sterling set out.
CHAPTER
22
GALLAHO RUNS
Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho started his voyage of exploration under conditions rather more difficult than those which confronted Sterling.
The west wing of the house was closely invested by shrubbery; and although there were a number of windows, some of which were lighted, it was impossible to approach near enough to take advantage of any chink in the curtains. Some of the shrubs, which were of varieties unfamiliar to the inspector, remained in full leaf, others displayed flowers; and there was a damp, sweet, but slightly miasmatic smell about the place.
He remembered that the house had belonged for some years to the eccentric explorer, archeologist and author, Sir Lionel Barton. No doubt this freak vegetation had been imported by him. Gallaho, who was no floriculturist, did not quite approve of shrubs which flowered in mid-winter.
Pressing on, walking on wet grass, he presently reached a gate in a wall which threatened to terminate his journey. He tried the gate—it was unlocked; he opened it. It communicated with a paved yard. Out-buildings indicated that this had fo
rmerly been the stables of Rowan House.
Gallaho stood still, looking about him suspiciously.
He was satisfied that no horses were kept; the place was very silent. In the windows of the main building visible from where he stood, no light showed. This was not surprising at such an hour in the morning. The domestic staff might be expected to have retired. It was the sort of place, however, in which an experienced man expected to meet a watch-dog.
Gallaho, holding the door ajar, assured himself that there was no dog, before proceeding across the yard. He examined doors and windows, and came out presently into a neglected garden. He pulled up to take his bearings.
From somewhere a long way off came the wail of a train whistle; and . . . was that a muffled crash?
He had made a half-circuit of the house, which was not large. Sterling should have met him at about this point.
Gallaho stood still, listening.
Except for that vague murmuring which makes London audible for twenty miles beyond the city’s boundaries, the night was still.
It was very queer.
Gallaho had noted that all windows in the domestic quarters were fastened. The ideal point of entrance had not presented itself. He pushed on. What had become of Sterling?
Weed-grown flower beds bordered the wall of the house. There was nothing of interest to tempt him to approach nearer.
Suddenly, he stopped, fists clenched.
Somewhere—somewhere inside the house, he thought . . . a woman had screamed!
He began to run. He ran in the direction of an out-jutting wing. It was very dark here, but Gallaho found gravel beneath his feet. He raced around the abutment and found himself staring at a French window.
There was no light in the room to which it belonged. Gallaho could see that heavy curtains were drawn. But there was no indication that the interior was illuminated. Nevertheless—from that room the cry might well have come.
He ran forward.
His first discovery was a dramatic one. A glass pane immediately above the lock had been shattered!
The absence of Sterling was now becoming inexplicable. Gallaho could only suppose that he had made some discovery which he had felt to be of such importance as to justify his returning and reporting to Sir Denis. Otherwise, palpably they must have met some considerable time before this.
Gallaho slipped his hand through the opening in the glass, encountering velvet draperies, groped about and found the lock.
There was no key in it.
Yet there was something very sinister about this broken window—that dim scream.
Searching his memory, he seemed to recall that at one point in his fruitless journey, just after he had crossed the stable yard, at about the same time that a distant train whistle had disturbed the silence, he had imagined that he heard a muffled crash. Here, perhaps, was the explanation.
But where was Sterling?
He ran on to the corner of this wing of the house; and now, through close growing but leafless trees, could see the tunnel-like drive along which they had come. Sterling was not in sight, nor could he see Sir Denis. . . .
CHAPTER
23
FLEURETTE
Alan Sterling was fully alive to the selfishness of his own motives. Nayland Smith was working for the welfare of humanity, striving to defend what we call Civilization from the menace which Dr. Fu Manchu represented. Gallaho officially assisted him. But he, Sterling, hard though he might fight to thrust personal interest into the background, to seek the same goal, knew in his heart that his present objective was the rescue ofFleurette—if she lived—from the clutches of the Chinese doctor.
Through long days and all but unendurable hours of sleepless nights, since the message of Dr. Petrie, her father, had reached him, he had known this yearning for the truth, dreadful though it might be. Was she dead or alive? If alive, to what condition of mindless slavery—to what living death—had she been subjected by the brilliant devilish master other destiny?
He forced his way through damp shrubbery; thorny bushes obstructing his path. He was anxious to avoid making any unnecessary noise. Frequently he glanced towards the porch of Rowan House before which the long, lithe outlines of Sir Bertram’s Rolls glittered dimly in reflected light. The headlamps had been turned off, but the sleek body was clearly visible.
Scratches were not to be avoided. At last he was clear of the shrubbery, and found himself upon the damp soil of a flowerbed. He ploughed forward, aiming for a dimly seen path, reached it and felt hard gravel beneath his feet. He was now out of sight from the porch. Glancing back swiftly, he crossed the path and found himself in shelter from the point of view of anyone watching from the front of the house.
He became aware of an oppressive, sickly sweet perfume. He saw a long, dead wall upon which some kind of creeper grew, despite the wintry season, bearing small yellow flowers. Heavy of limb, it climbed almost to the eaves of this wing of Rowan House.
One dark window he saw, high above his head, marked it, but knew that it could only be reached by means of a ladder. He pressed on.
In all directions vegetation hemmed the place in; until, through a chink in heavy curtains drawn behind a French window having small leaded panes, a spear of light shot across the damp gravel path, revealing many weeds, and was lost in shadowy shrubbery. Sterling crept forward cautiously, step by step, until at last he could peer into the room to which this French window belonged.
He found himself looking into a sort of small library. At first, all that he could see was shelf upon shelf laden with faded, well-worn volumes. Cautiously, he moved nearer to the pane, and now was able to enlarge his field of vision.
Intensely he was excited, so excited that he distrusted himself. He was breathing rapidly.
He saw more bookshelves, and, craning his neck still further, saw a floor plainly carpeted. There was little furniture in the place. He could not see the source of the illumination: he could see books, books, books: one or two Oriental ornaments; a coffee table with an open volume upon it; and a number of cushions.
A shadow fell across the carpet.
Sterling watched intently, fists clenched.
The shadow grew more dense, shortened—and then the person who occasioned it walked slowly into view, head lowered in the act of reading a small, very faded-looking volume.
It was Fleurette—his Fleurette! Petrie’s daughter!
Sterling experienced a wave of exultation which swept everything else from his mind. Nayland Smith’s instructions were forgotten—the chief purpose of the expedition, the apprehension of Dr. Fu Manchu, was forgotten . . . Fleurette was alive—only a few panes of glass separated them.
And how beautiful she was!
The hidden light, gleaming upon her wonderful hair, made it glow and shimmer in living loveliness. She was so slender— so divinely graceful; that rarest creation of nature, as the Chinese doctor had once declared, a perfect woman.
He rapped urgently upon the window.
Fleurette turned. The book dropped from her hand. Her eyes, opened widely, were fixed upon the gap in the curtains.
Sterling’s heart was beating wildly as he pressed his face upon the glass. Surely in the light shining out from the room she could see him?
But she stood motionless, startled, gazing, but giving no sign.
“Fleurette!” Sterling spoke in a low voice, yet loudly enough for the girl in the room to hear him. “It’s Alan. Open the window, darling—open the window!”
But she gave no sign.
“Fleurette! Can you hear me? It’s Alan. Open the window.”
He had found the handle. The strangeness of his reception by this girl who only a few days before had lain trembling in his arms because three or four weeks of separation pended, was damping that glad exultation, chilling the hot blood dancing through his veins.
The window was locked, as he had assumed it would be. He could see the key inside.
“Fleurette, darling! For God’s sake open
the window. Let me in. Don’t you understand? It’s Alan! It’s Alan!”
Fleurette shook her head, and turning, walked across the room.
Surely she had recognized him? In spite of his rough dress, could Fleurette, his Fleurette, fail to recognize him?
Pressing his face against the glass, Sterling, astounded, saw her take up a pencil and a writing-block from a dimly seen bureau. He could endure no more. Premature action might jeopardize the success of Nayland Smith’s plans, but there were definite limits to Sterling’s powers of endurance. These had been reached.
Stepping back a pace he raised his right foot, and crashed the heel of his shoe through the small leaded pane of glass just above the lock of the French window.
He had expected an echoing crash; in point of fact the sound made was staccato and oddly muffled. He paused for a second to listen . . . Somewhere in the distance a train whistle shrieked.
Thrusting his hand through the jagged opening, he turned the key, pushed the French window open and stepped into the room. Three swift strides and he had Fleurette in his arms.
She had turned at the crash of his entrance—eyes widely opened, and a look of fear upon her beautiful face.
“My darling, my darling!”—he crushed her against him and kissed her breathlessly. “What has happened? Where have you been? Above all, why didn’t you open the window?”
Fleurette’s eyes seemed to be looking through him—beyond him—at some far distant object. She made a grimace of pain— good God! Of contempt. Leaning back, continuing to look not at him, but through him, and wrenching one arm free, she brushed it across her lips as if something loathsome had touched them!
Sterling released her.
He had read of one’s heart growing cold, but was not aware that such a phenomenon could actually occur. Where there had been mystery—there was mystery no more. Fleurette’s love for him was dead. Something had killed it.
With a tiny handkerchief she was wiping her lips, watching him, watching him all the time. There was absolute silence in the room, and absolute silence outside. He found time to wonder if Gallaho had heard the crash, if those inside the house had heard it.
