by Sax Rohmer
“Very tall?”
“That’s what I said—Very tall. Another bloke come up next——”
“Also a Chinaman?”
“Likewise Chinese, wearin’ a old jersey and trousers with his ‘ead bare. He bent back like the first bloke had done, and ‘auled up another Chinese——”
“Not another one,” growled Gallaho, acting up to the situation.
“Another one!” the watchman repeated truculently, fixing a ferocious glare upon the speaker, whom instinctively he disliked—”and another old ‘un—” challengingly, the glare unmoved from Gallaho—”and another old ‘un! . . .”
Nayland Smith was apparently making rapid notes; now:
“Was the other old one tall?” he inquired.
“He were not, he was just old.”
“Did you notice what he wore?”
“Listen ...” The night watchman puffed his cigarette and then stood up slowly—”you’re not suggestin’ I’m barmy, are you?”
“You bet I’m not,” snapped Nayland Smith cheerfully. “You’ve given me a grand paragraph.”
“Oh, I see. Well, he wore a seedy kind o’suit like I might wear, and an old soft hat.”
“What did they do?”
“The two younger chinks put the trap back and stamped it down. Then they all crossed the road behind my ‘ut, and that’s all I know about it.”
“Didn’t you see where they went?”
“Listen, mister . . .” The watchman sat down again on his plank seat, refilling his mug from the pot and adding the remainder of the whisky to its contents. “There was nobody about. I ain’t as young as I used to be. If you saw chinks—two of’em tough lookin’ specimens—come up put of a sewer ... see what I mean? Do you know what I done? I pretends to be fast asleep! And now, I’m goin’ to ask you a question. In the circs,—what would you ‘ave done?”
“That’s sense,” growled Gallaho.
“But you reported it to the constable on the beat when he came along?” said Nayland Smith.
“As you say, mister. And he not only give me the bird, he told me I was barmy or blind-oh. It’ll be a long time before I gives information to the bloody police again, whatever I sees—whatever I sees.”
CHAPTER
52
“I AM CALLING YOU”
Fleurette knew that Alan must not be out after dusk in this misty weather. He had developed an unpleasant cough as a result of the injuries he had received; but Fleurette had found a faith almost amounting to worship in the wisdom of Dr. Petrie, her father so newly discovered, but already deeply loved.
He had assured her that this distressing symptom would disappear when the lesion was healed.
She had not wanted Alan to go. Her love for him was a strange thing, impossible to analyse. It had come uncalled for, unwanted; she almost resented the way she felt about Alan.
The curious but meaningless peace of her previous life, her fatalistic acceptance of what she believed to be her destiny, had been broken by this love for Alan. He had represented storm; the discovery of her father had represented calm.
She knew, but nevertheless experienced no resentment of the fact, that she had been used as a pawn in the game of the brilliant man who had dominated her life from infancy. Even now, after her father and Sir Denis had opened her eyes, gently, but surely, to the truth—or what they believed to be the truth—about the Prince (for she always thought of him as the Prince) Fleurette remained uncertain.
Sir Denis was wonderful; and her father—her heart beat faster when she thought of her father—he, of course, was simply a darling. In some way which she could not analyse, her allegiance, she knew, was shared between her father and Alan. It was all very new and very confusing. It had not only changed her life; it had changed her mode of thought—her outlook—everything.
Curled up in the big armchair before the fire, Fleurette tried to adjust her perspective in regard to this new life which opened before her.
Was she a traitor to those who had reared her, so tenderly and so wonderfully, in breaking with the code which had almost become part of herself? Was she breaking with all that was true, and plunging into a false world? Her education, probably unique for a woman, had endowed her with a capacity for clear thinking. She knew that her thoughts of Alan Sterling were inspired by infatuation. Would her esteem for his character, although she believed it to be fine, make life worth while when infatuation was over?
In regard to her father, there was no doubt whatever. Her discovery of him had turned her world upside down. She resettled herself in the chair.
The Prince was fighting for her.
That strange hiatus in her life, about which the doctor had been so reticent, meant that he still had power to claim her. Now, they said he was dead.
It was unbelievable.
Fleurette found it impossible to grasp this idea that Dr. Fu Manchu was dead. She had accepted the fact—it had become part of her life—that one day he would dominate a world in which there would be no misunderstanding, no strife, no ugliness; nothing but beauty. To this great ideal she had consecrated herself, until Alan had come.
“Little Flower ... I am calling you!”
It was his voice—speaking in Chinese!
And Fleurette knew that ancient language as well as she knew French and English.
She sat bolt upright in the armchair. She was torn between two worlds. This normal, clean room, with its simple appointments, its neatness, its homeliness—the atmosphere which belonged to Sir Denis, that generous, boyish-hearted man who was her father’s trusty friend; and a queer, alluring philosophy, cloying, like the smoke of incense, which belonged to the world from which Nayland Smith had dragged her.
“Little Flower—I am calling you.”
Fleurette wrenched her gaze away from the fire.
In the burning logs, the face of Dr. Fu Manchu was forming. She sprang to her feet, and pressed a bell beside the mantelpiece.
There was a rap on the door.
“Come in.”
Fey entered. He brought Western reason, coolness, to her racing brain.
“You rang, miss?”
Fleurette spoke rather wildly; and Fey, although his manner did not betray the fact, was studying her with concern.
“You see, Fey, I arranged to wait dinner until my father and Sir Denis came back. As a matter of fact, I am rather hungry.”
“Quite, miss. Perhaps a little snack? Some caviar and a glass of wine?”
“Oh, no, Fey. Nothing quiet so fattening. But if you would get me just two tiny egg sandwiches with a layer of cress—you know what I mean—and perhaps, yes, a glass of wine . . .”
“Certainly, miss, in a moment.”
Fey went out.
Fleurette pulled the armchair around, so that she did not face the fire. It was a gesture—but a defensive one.
That voice—that voice which could not be denied—”Little Flower I am calling you”—had sounded, she knew, in her subconscious mind only. But because she knew this . . . she feared. If she had not known how this voice had reached her, she would have surrendered, and have been conquered. Because she did know, and was not prepared to surrender, she fought.
They thought he was dead . . He was not dead.
She heard Fey at the telephone giving terse orders. She was really hungry. This was not merely part of a formula designed to combat the subconscious call which had reached her; but it would help. She knew that if she wanted Alan, that if in future she wished to live in the same wholesome world to which her father belonged, she must fight—fight.
She wandered across to a bookshelf and began to inspect the books. One watching her would have said that she smiled almost tenderly. Nayland Smith’s books betrayed the real man.
Those works which were not technical were of a character to have delighted a schoolboy. Particularly Fleurette was intrigued by a hard-bitten copy of Tom Sawyer Abroad which had obviously been read and re-read. Despite his great brain and his formid
able personality, what a simple soul he was at heart!
Fleurette began to read at random.
“. . . But I didn’t care much. I am peaceable and don’t get up no rows with people that ain’t doing nothing to me. I allowed if the paynims was satisfied I was. We would let it stand at that. . .”
She read other passages, wondering why her education had not included Mark Twain; recognizing by virtue of her training that the great humorist had also been one of the world’s great philosophers.
“Your sandwiches, miss.”
Fleurette started.
Fey was placing a tray upon a small table set beside the armchair. Removing the silver cover he revealed some delicately cut sandwiches. With a spoon and fork he adroitly placed two upon a plate, removed a half-bottle of wine from an ice-bucket, uncorked it and poured out a glassful.
He set down the glass beside the plate, adjusted the armchair in relation to the fire with careful consideration, bowed slightly, and went out.
The man was so efficient, so completely sane, that no better antidote could have been prescribed in Fleurette’s present mood. Mark Twain had begun the cure; Fey had completed it.
She began to eat egg sandwiches with great relish. She knew instinctively that the expedition upon which her father had gone to-night, with Sir Denis and that strange character, Inspector Gallaho, would result in the discovery of the fact that Dr. Fu Manchu had survived the catastrophe in the East End, of which she knew very little, for they had withheld details. She was disposed to believe that Gallaho, alone, had faith in the Prince’s death; her father’s manner betrayed doubt; Sir Denis had said nothing, but she divined the fact that until he saw Dr. Fu Manchu dead before him he would never believe that that great intellect had ceased to function.
Fleurette ate three sandwiches, drank a glass of wine, and, in a mood of contemplation, found herself staring again into the fire.
“Little Flower, I am calling you.”
His voice again!
She sprang up. She knew, for she had been trained to know, that no voice really had sounded in the room. It was her subconscious brain. But . . . this she knew also—it was real—it was urgent.
Already she began to see again that glamorous but meaningless life out of which she had climbed, assisted by Alan, as a swimmer clambers out of a tropical sea. She could see it in the fire. There were snow-capped mountains there, melting into palm groves, temples and crowded bazaar streets; a hot smell of decay and perfume—and now, all merged into two long, gleaming eyes.
She watched those eyes fascinatedly; bent closer, falling under their thraldom.
“Little Flower, I am calling. ...”
Her lips parted. She was about to speak in response to that imperious call, when a sound in the lobby snatched her back to the world of reality.
It was the ringing of the door bell.
Fleurette stood up again and walked towards the book case. She pulled out Tom Sawyer Abroad, which she had replaced, and opened it at random. She read, but the words did not register. She could hear Fey crossing the lobby and opening the front door of the apartment. She did not hear any word spoken.
She thought she detected a vague scuffling sound.
Fleurette replaced the book, and stood still, very near to the door communicating with the lobby, listening. The scuffling continued; then came a dull thud.
Silence.
A wave of apprehension swept over her, turning her cold.
“Fey!” she called, and again more urgently, “Fey!”
There was no reply.
She ran to the bell beside the mantlepiece, pushed it and actually heard it ringing. She stood still, hands clenched, watching the door.
No one came.
“Fey!” she called again, and heard with surprise the high note upon which she called.
The door opened. The lobby beyond was in darkness.
A tall man was coming in.
But it was not Fey. . . .
CHAPTER 53
POWERS OF DR. FU MANCHU
“I can’t make this out!” said Nayland Smith.
He, Dr. Petrie and Inspector Gallaho stood before the door of the apartment. Smith had rung twice and there had been no reply.
Smith stared hard at Petrie.
“You’ve got the key, sir, no doubt?” Gallaho growled.
“Yes.” Nayland Smith drew a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. “I have the key, but I am wondering where Fey can have gone.”
They had called on Sterling, the invalid, in his room at the hotel near by, and they had broken the unpleasant news that unless Mr. Samuel Grimes (such was the night watchman’s name) suffered from a singular hallucination, it was almost certain that Dr. Fu Manchu was still alive.
Petrie had attended to his patient, who was of a type difficult to handle; and with a final drink upon which the doctor had frowned severely, they had come away .....
“Dinner for four at eight-thirty was my last order if I remember rightly,” said Nayland Smith. “It’s just possible, of course——” he placed the key in the lock—”that he may have gone down to the kitchen. But why doesn’t Fleurette answer?”
He turned the key and swung the door open.
“Hello!” Gallaho exclaimed, “what’s this?”
“My God!” groaned Petrie.
A heavy smell resembling that of mimosa swept out from the lobby to greet them, and . . . the lobby was in darkness!
Nayland Smith sprang forward, groped for the light, stumbled, and fell.
“Smith!”
Petrie rushed in behind him.
“All right!” came in the staccato fashion which characterized Nayland Smith in moments of tension. “I’ve fallen over . . . somebody.”
Inspector Gallaho switched on the light.
Sir Denis had jumped up. He was staring down, jaws clenched, at an insensible man who lay upon the carpet.
It was Fey.
Petrie raised his hand to his brow and groaned.
“Smith,” he said, in a strangled voice, “Smith! He has got her again!”
“Lend me a hand, Gallaho,” cried Nayland Smith, savagely. “We’ll get him on to the settee in the sitting-room.”
The door being thrown open by Petrie, it was warmly lighted. There was no one there.
Out from that lobby which reeked of mimosa, they carried the insensible man, and laid him upon the settee. He was breathing regularly, but heavily; otherwise, there was complete silence in Nayland Smith’s apartment.
“Can you do anything, Petrie? You know something about this damnable drug of the Doctor’s.”
“I can try,” said Petrie, quietly, and went out to the room which he occupied.
Sir Denis had accommodation for two guests, or, at a pinch, three. Dr. Petrie and his daughter were his guests now; and Fleurette . . . ?
Inspector Gallaho, who had forgotten to remove his bowler, removed it, not without difficulty, showing a red mark where it had been crushed down upon his bullet head.
“This is a hell of a go,” he growled, tossing his hat into an armchair. “It’s easy enough to see what’s happened, sir. This queer smell is one, I take it, you have met with before?”
“I have,” said Sir Denis, grimly.
A powerful anaesthetic?”
“Exactly.”
“Very well. Someone rang the bell, and the moment Fey opened the door, sprang on him with a pad saturated in this stuff—and the rest of the story tells itself.” He began to chew phantom gum. “She’s a lovely girl,” he added. “It’s enough to make a man burst!”
Dr. Petrie came in carrying a medicine case, and kneeling down, began to examine Fey. Gallaho went out into the lobby.
“The smell of this stuff makes my head swim,” he growled.
He was looking for something which might give a clue to the identity ofFey’s assailant. Nayland Smith, tugging at the lobe of his ear, was walking up and down before the open fire, watching Petrie at work; afraid to say what he thought
, but suffering much of the agony of mind which he knew his old friend to be experiencing at this moment.
Some sandwiches and part of a bottle of champagne were on a table beside an armchair.
There came a strange interruption.
Someone who had a fresh, mezzo-soprano voice, began to sing very quietly in an adjoining room!
She sang in French, and one would have said that the singer was happy.
Dr. Petrie came to his feet at a bound.
“Good God, Smith!” He grasped Sir Denis’s arm—”that’s Fleurette!”
Gallaho came running in from the lobby.
“The young lady’s in the flat, sir! What the devil does it mean?”
The song was interrupted from time to time, suggesting that the singer was moving about engaged upon some pleasant task, and singing from sheer lightness of heart. Under Dr. Petrie’s tan it was yet possible to detect how pale he had grown.
“I’ll go, Smith,” he said.
He crossed the lobby, entered a short passage and threw a door open; Sir Denis was close behind him.
Fleurette, dressed as they had left her, was amusing herself with hats and frocks and stockings strewn all over the room, and singing lightly from time to time. She was smoking a cigarette.
“Fleurette, darling!” cried Petrie. “Thank God you are safe. Surely you heard us come in?”
Fleurette turned, a cigarette between her fingers, tossing a little green hat on to the coverlet of the bed, and staring in a vaguely puzzled way at the speaker.
There was no recognition in her eyes.
“I am waiting to be called,” she said; “I may have to leave at any moment. Please let me get on with my packing.”
“Fleurette!” Her father stepped forward and grasped her shoulders. “Fleurette! Look at me. What has happened here to-night?”
Fleurette smiled at him as she might have smiled at a perfect stranger; then looked past him with a puzzled frown to where Nayland Smith stood in the open doorway, his face very grim, and his eyes gleaming.
“Nothing has happened,” she replied. “I don’t know you, but it is very kind of you to ask. May I please go on with my packing?”
