The Trail of Fu Manchu f-7

by Sax Rohmer

  “She’s hysterical,” came a growling voice beyond Sir Denis. “Something that has happened here to-night has unbalanced her.”

  It was Gallaho.

  Nayland Smith exchanged a rapid glance with Dr. Petrie. Petrie, his expression indicating that he was exercising a tremendous effort of control, shook his head. He released Fleurette and forced a smile.

  “By all means go on, dear,” he said. “Let me know if you want anything.”

  Fleurette looked up at him questioningly.

  “You are so nice,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come, but I don’t want anything, thank you.”

  Petrie signalled to Smith to go out. They returned to the lobby, Petrie leaving the door ajar. And as they entered it, that same singing, uncanny, now, was renewed.

  “There’s no other way out of this flat except through the front door, here, is there?” asked Petrie.

  “No.” Sir Denis shook his head. “Except through a window.”

  Petrie glanced at Nayland Smith; agony peeped out of his eyes.

  “I don’t think it’s likely,” he said. “That is not what I fear.”

  “Doctor,” growled Gallaho, “this is a frightful blow. Something so horrible happened here to-night that the poor girl has lost her reason.”

  “Something horrible—yes,” said Petrie, slowly; “but. . . she hasn’t lost her reason.”

  Gallaho stared uncomprehendingly. Nayland Smith turned to him, and:

  “If you knew all that I know of the powers of Dr. Fu Manchu,” he said, “you would know that not only is he alive, but. . .”

  “What, sir?”—for the speaker had paused.

  “He has been here to-night. I don’t understand.” He began to walk up and down feverishly—”I don’t understand. . . .”

  CHAPTER 54

  GALLAHO EXPLORES FURTHER

  “Have you been on duty all night?”

  Chief detective-inspector Gallaho stood in the hall porter’s office. The hall porter, a retired sergeant-major of the Black Watch, rather resented his presence and his manner.

  “Certainly; I’ve been on duty all night.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you hadn’t,” growled Gallaho. “I was merely asking a question.”

  “Well, the answer is: Yes,”

  “The answer is ‘Yes’. Good. Now I’m going to ask you a few more questions.”

  The sergeant-major recognized a character at least as truculent as his own; when Gallaho was in difficulties, Gallaho’s manner was far from soothing. The hall porter glanced him up and down with disfavour, and turning to a side-table, began to arrange a stack of letters which lay there.

  “You might as well know that I’m a police officer,” Gallaho went on, “and your answers to the questions I am going to ask you may be required in evidence. So make ‘em snappy and to the point.”

  The porter tuned: he was no longer so sure of himself.

  “Has something happened here to-night?” he asked.

  “You are the man that should know that,” said Gallaho; “so you’re the man I’ve come to. Listen—he leaned on the flap of the half-door; “how many apartments are there on the floor where Sir Denis Nayland Smith lives?”

  “Four. Sir Denis’s and three others.”

  “Who are the occupiers of the three others?”

  “One is vacant at the moment. Another belongs to Major General Sir Rodney Orme; the third to Mrs. Crossland, the novelist.”

  “Are these people at home?”

  “Neither of them, as a matter of fact. The General is in the south of France, and his flat is shut up; and Mrs. Crossland has been in America for some time.”

  “I suppose her place is shut up, too?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. But their Egyptian servant lives up there, cleans the rooms and looks after correspondence. He has been with them, I believe, for many years.”

  “Egyptian servant?”

  “Yes, Egyptian servant.”

  “Is he up there now?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have you seen him to-night?”

  “No.”

  “Are there any apartments above that?”

  “No; only some storerooms. The lift goes no further than Sir Denis’s floor.”

  “I see.” Gallaho chewed invisible gum. “Now, has anybody been up to or down from that floor in the last few hours?”

  “No. A gentleman called and asked for the General, but I told him he was abroad.”

  “So no one has gone up to the top floor, or come down from the top floor during the past few hours?”

  “No one.”

  “People have been moving about on the other floors, of course?”

  “Two or three have come down and two or three have gone up. But no one I haven’t seen before. I mean they were either residents, friends of residents or tradespeople.”

  “Quite.”

  Gallaho turned, and went lounging in the direction of the lift. He paused, however, turned, and:

  “Where are the kitchens?” he called; “in the basement?”

  “Yes. You have to use the service lift if you want to go down there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the passage on the right.”

  A few minutes later, Gallaho had stepped into a small elevator, controlled by a very pert boy.

  “Kitchens,” he growled.

  “What d’you mean, kitchens?” the boy inquired. “The kitchens is private.”

  “My lad,” said Gallaho—”when a detective-inspector says to you—’kitchens’—do you know what you do?”

  “No, sir,” the boy replied, suddenly awed.

  “You take him there, and you jump to it.”

  Gallaho presently found himself in a place inhabited by men in high white caps, a hot place informed by savoury smells. His appearance created mild surprise.

  “Who’s in charge, here?” he demanded, sharply.

  “I am a police officer, and I have some questions to ask.”

  A stout man whose cap was higher and whiter than the others, came forward.

  “I hope nothing’s wrong, Inspector,” he said.

  “Something is wrong, but it’s not your fault. I only want to know one thing. You are of course acquainted with Fey, Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did he order dinner to be prepared for a party to-night?”

  “He didn’t. He ordered some sandwiches just before seven o’clock and they were taken up.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Certain.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gallaho lounged back to the lift.

  The outrage must have taken place shortly after their departure. Otherwise, it was almost certain that Fey would have made arrangements with the chef for dinner. It seemed probable, but not certain, that no stranger had gone up to the top floor, or come down from it. But although the sergeant-major claimed to be acquainted with all those who had visited other floors, Gallaho realized that the evidence on this point was not conclusive, and:

  “Have you been on duty all night?” he asked the man running the residents’ lift.

  “I came on at six o’clock, sir.”

  “Have you taken any strangers up or down during the evening?”

  “Strangers, sir?”

  They had reached the top floor, and the man opened the gate, and stood there, considering.

  “There were guests came to dinner at number fourteen, and a gentleman I hadn’t seen before went up this evening with another resident, but they went out together about half-past seven.”

  “Nobody else?” “Nobody at all, sir.”

  When Sir Denis opened the door to Gallaho, the latter could hear Fleurette singing in the inner room.

  chapter

  55

  MIMOSA

  “I’ve adopted somewhat unusual methods, Smith,” said Petrie, with the ghost of a smile, glancing up from where he sat beside the uncons
cious Fey.

  “I hope to heaven they succeed,” snapped Smith. “He may or may not be able to throw some light upon this business.”

  “During the time that I was a guest of Dr. Fu Manchu”—— Petrie was obviously talking with the idea of distracting his mind from the sound of that sweet voice singing snatches of songs in an adjoining room—the Doctor was good enough to impart to me some particulars of his preparation, Mimosa 3— probably the most remarkable anaesthetic ever invented by man. He claims for it that there are practically no evil aftereffects, and of this you yourself have had evidence in the past. The patient may also be readily revived by those means which you have just seen me adopt.”

  And even as he spoke the words, Fey raised his drooping eyelids, staring vaguely from face to face.

  “How are you, Fey?” said Petrie; “feeling better, I see. Let me help you up. I want you to drink this.”

  Fey sat up and swallowed the contents of the glass which Petrie held to his lips. Looking about him in a dazed way, he began sniffing.

  “Funnily enough,” he replied, “I feel practically all right. But I can still smell that awful stuff. Miss Fleurette?” He jumped to his feet, then sat down again. “She is safe, sir? She’s safe?”

  Fleurette had ceased to sing but could be heard moving about in the inner room.

  “She’s in her room, Fey,” said Nayland Smith, shortly.

  Fey’s glance wandered to the large clock on the mantelpiece:

  “Good God! Sir,” he muttered. “I’ve been asleep for two hours!”

  “It’s not your fault, Fey,” replied Dr. Petrie. “We all understand. What we are anxious to hear is exactly what happened.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fey replied. “I can understand that——” he paused, listening.

  That lighthearted, sweet voice had reached him from the inner room. He glanced at Dr. Petrie:

  “Miss Fleurette, sir?”

  “Yes, Fey. But please go ahead with your story.”

  “I’d just made up my menu, sir.” He glanced at Nayland Smith, who had begun restlessly to walk up and down the carpet. “I mean, I had worked out a little dinner which I thought would meet with your approval, and gone to the telephone in the lobby to talk to the chef down below. I was just about to take up the instrument when the door bell rang.”

  “Stop, Fey,” snapped Nayland Smith. “Did you hear the lift gate open?”

  “No, sir—of that I am positive.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m beginning to see the light,” growled Gallaho.

  “One moment, Fey,” Nayland Smith interrupted; “this would be, I take it, some ten to twenty minutes after our departure?”

  “Exactly, sir. I thought it might be one of the staff who had come up in the service lift, which can’t be heard from here, or old Ibrahim, Mrs. Crossland’s butler——”

  “You know this man, Ibrahim?” said Gallaho.

  “Yes, sir. He’s an Egyptian. He’s travelled a lot, as I have. He’s a funny old chap; we sometimes have a yarn together. Anyway, I opened the door.”

  He paused. He was a man of orderly mind. He was obviously endeavouring to find words in which exactly to express what had occurred. He went on again.

  “There was a tall man standing outside the door, sir. He wore an overcoat with the collar turned up, and a black felt hat with the brim pulled down. The only light in the lobby was the table lamp beside the telephone, so that I couldn’t make out his features.”

  “How tall was this man?” jerked Nayland Smith.

  “Well, unusually tall, sir. Taller than yourself.”

  “I see.”

  “He held what looked like a camera in his hand, and as I opened the door he just stood there, watching me.”

  ‘“Yes?’ I said.

  “And then without moving his head, which he held down, so that I never had more than a glimpse of his features, he raised this thing and something puffed right out into my face.”

  “Something?” growled Gallaho. “What sort of thing?”

  “Vapour, sir, with a most awful smell of mimosa. It blinded me—it staggered me. I fell back into the lobby, gasping for breath. And the tall man followed me in. I collapsed on the carpet where you found me, I suppose. And I remember his bending over me.”

  “Describe this man’s hands,” Nayland Smith directed.

  “He wore gloves.”

  “As he bent over you,” said Dr. Petrie, eagerly, “just before you became quite unconscious, did you form no impression of his features?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. But I may have been dreaming. I thought it was the devil bending over me, sir. He had long, green eyes, that gleamed like emeralds.”

  “We know, now,” said Sir Denis, continuing to walk up and down, “roughly what occurred. But I don’t understand. ... I don’t understand.”

  Fleurette in the inner room sang a bar or two with the happy abandon of a child, and Fey glanced uneasily from Sir Denis to Dr. Petrie.

  “What don’t you understand, Smith?” the latter asked, sadly.

  “Either this deathless fiend, who is harder to kill than an earwig, has employed one of his unique drugs or he has hypnotically dominated Fleurette. Whichever is the true explanation, what is his purpose, Petrie?”

  There came a moment of silence. Fleurette, ceasing to sing, might be heard moving about; then:

  “I think I see what you mean, Smith,” Petrie replied, slowly. “He could have taken her away or he could have——”

  “Exactly,” snapped Sir Denis. “Why has he left her . . . and in this condition?”

  “Who are you talking about, sir?” growled Gallaho.

  “Dr. Fu Manchu.”

  “What! Do you really mean he has been here to-night?”

  “Beyond any shadow of doubt.”

  “But what for?”

  “That’s what we are trying to work out, Gallaho.” Nayland Smith was the speaker. “Frankly, it has me beaten.”

  “There’s one line of enquiry,” Gallaho replied, “which with your permission I propose to take up without delay.”

  “What’s that?” Petrie asked.

  “This tall lad, with the box of poison gas, according to the gentleman with all the medals downstairs, hasn’t come into Westminster Mansions to-night, and hasn’t gone out. You say yourself, Fey—” he stared at the man, chewing vigorously— “that the lift wasn’t used? My conclusion is this, sir.” He turned to Nayland Smith: “Dr. Fu Manchu is somewhere in this building.”

  Smith glanced at Petrie.

  “Go and take a look at her,” he said. “She’s been quiet for some time. I am very anxious.”

  Petrie nodded, and went out.

  “If the evidence of the watchman we interviewed to-night can be relied upon,” Sir Denis continued—”and personally, I have no doubt on the point——”

  “Nor have I, sir.”

  “Very well. All the men who were in that place called the Sailors’ Club at the time of the tragedy, escaped by some means we don’t know about. But, evidently, into a main sewer—”

  “One seems to have been missing, sir!”

  ‘Yes!—and I’m glad he is!” snapped Nayland Smith viciously. “The Burmese killer evidently met his end there. But that the tall man described by the witness is Dr. Fu Manchu, personally I cannot doubt.”

  “It certainly looks like it. But how did he get into this building? And where is he hiding?”

  Dr. Petrie returned. His eyes were very sorrowful.

  “Is she all right?”

  He nodded.

  “That yellow conjurer has got her under control,” he said between clenched teeth. “I know the symptoms. I have suffered them myself. God help us! What are we going to do?”

  “What I’m going to do,” Gallaho growled, picking up his bowler from the armchair where he had thrown it, “is this: I am going to step along to Mrs. Crossland’s flat and have a serious chat with your friend——” he glanced at Fey— “Ibrahim.”<
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  CHAPTER

  56

  IBRAHIM

  “I have never met Mrs. Crossland,” said Nayland Smith irritably, “nor her husband. One can live in a block of London flats for years and never know one’s neighbours. But I am acquainted with them by sight, and also with their Egyptian servant, Ibrahim.”

  “What do you think of him, sir?” growled Gallaho.

  “Perfectly normal, and probably very trustworthy. But it doesn’t follow that he hasn’t been for all his life a member of the Si-Fan.”

  “This Si-Fan business, sir, is beyond me.”

  “It has proved to be beyond me,” said Nayland Smigh, shortly.

  Gallaho gave voice to an idea.

  “It must be very unpeasant,” he said, “to be the unknown husband of a well-known woman.”

  They reached the door of Mrs. Crossland’s flat. Gallaho pressed the bell.

  An elderly Egyptian in native dress opened the door. He was a very good Arab type and a highly ornamental servant. He stared uncomprehendingly at Inspector Gallaho, and then bowed to Sir Denis.

  “This is Mrs. Crossland’s flat, I believe?” said the detective.

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Crossland is abroad.”

  “A crime has been committed in this building to-night,” Gallaho went on, in his threatening way, “and I want to ask you a few questions.”

  The Egyptian did not give way; he stood squarely in the doorway. It was a type of situation which has defeated many a detective officer. Gallaho knew that his ankles were tied by red tape; that he dared not, if intrusion should prove to have been unjustified, cross the threshold against the will of the man who held it.

  Nayland Smith solved the situation.

  Stepping past Gallaho, he gently but firmly pushed the Egyptian back, and entered the lobby.

  “There are questions I want to ask you, Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic, “and I wish my friend to be present.” He turned. “Come in, Gallaho.”

  The lobby of Mrs. Crossland’s flat resembled the entrance to a harem. It was all mushrabiyeh work and perforated brass lanterns. There were chests of Damascus ware, and slender Persian rugs upon the polished floors. Ibrahim’s amiable face changed in expression; his dark eyes glared dangerously.

  “You have no right to come into this place,” he said in English.