The Trail of Fu Manchu f-7
Page 24
He paused, and seemed to be listening.
“I know what you’re listening for,” said Sir Denis. “But I am very happy to be able to tell you, Gallaho, that Miss Petrie is entirely restored. The nurse installed by Dr. Petrie insists that she shall remain in bed. But there isn’t really the slightest occasion for it. Mr. Sterling and the nurse are with her now. She is completely normal.”
“That’s an amazing thing,” growled Gallaho.
Nayland Smith stared past him as if at some very distant object, and then:
“The powers of the mind are amazing,” he said, quietly. “But this theory of yours, Gallaho?”
“Well, sir, my theory is this: that slimy old Arab. Ibrahim, went out this morning and I followed him. I took Murphy along in case we had to split up. He went to West India Dock, and went on board a liner in from Jamaica. He came ashore again, with his employer, Mr. Crossland.”
“I know,” Sir Denis interrupted. “I met them here, as they arrived.”
“Oh, I see. . . .” Gallaho stared very hard. “Well, in my opinion, there’s something funny about it. You see, sir, I had some inquiries made about Mr. Crossland. His wife’s in New York. That’s certain—I mean the woman who writes books. But Mr. Crossland himself was last heard of in Madeira.”
“He might have joined the ship at some port of call.”
“He might,” Gallaho replied. “In fact, he must have done. But it’s very funny. Except the Egyptian, nobody has come out of that flat since we visited it. ... I’m wondering who’s still inside——”
Nayland Smith did not answer for some moments, then:
“You mean, Gallaho,” he said, “that you don’t think the man who is now presumably in Mr. Crossland’s flat, is really Mr. Crossland at all?”
“I suppose I must be mad,” growled Gallaho, almost rubbing his elbow into the mantelpiece. “His passport was obviously in order; he was accepted by the servants downstairs here, and he was met by Ibrahim, who took charge of his baggage. I suppose I must be barmy. But there’s something about it that isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on the weak spot—but I wish I had your authority to barge into Mr. Crossland’s flat. I think I should find something.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down in silence, but at last:
“In my opinion, you are right, Inspector,” he replied. “If my opinion is of any value, I regard you as a man brilliantly equipped for his chosen profession.”
Detective-inspector Gallaho became definitely embarrassed.
“You apparently don’t know the meaning of fear, although you have an active imagination. I owe my life to this singular combination, and this, I shall never forget.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The present Commissioner and myself do not see eye to eye, but I don’t dispute his brilliance as an organizer. What I mean is this, Gallaho; you have hit the nail on the head.”
Gallaho, watching the speaker, was chewing assiduously, and now:
“Am I to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you agree with my view of this case?”
“I do.”
“You mean you have reason to suppose, as I have reason to suppose, that the proper course, in the interests of justice, would be to secure powers to examine the flat of Mr. Crossland?”
“Exactly.”
There was a further interval of silence. Tramcars rocked upon their way, far below. Some vague hint of activity upon the river reached that high apartment.
“I take it, sir, you are officially in charge?”
“I have told you so.”
“And you don’t wish Mr. Crossland’s apartment to be searched?”
“Definitely, I forbid the step.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gallaho’s eyes strayed in the direction of the door which communicated with the room occupied by Fleurette.
“You see,” said Nayland Smith, “you are not dealing with a common criminal. You are dealing with the Emperor of Lawbreakers. Dr. Petrie and myself have worked side by side for many years, opposing this man’s monstrous plans. I have never succeeded in bringing him to justice. There are reasons why I can do nothing at the moment—nothing whatever. ...”
He fixed his keen eyes upon Inspector Gallaho.
“I understand, sir. When do I get the O.K.?”
“When Dr. Petrie rejoins us.”
CHAPTER 62
COMPANION CROSSLAND
Into the oriental bedroom dusk had crept. Long ago Ibrahim had turned the lamps on.
Petrie had lost identity: he was merely a physician battling with the most difficult case ever entrusted to him. He sat beside Dr. Fu Manchu, holding the lean, yellow wrist and registering the pulse; watching the mummy-like face, wondering if he had committed any error, and hoping—yes, hoping—that success would crown his hours of effort!
Under no obligation whatever, for no man who had ever met him had doubted the word ofFu Manchu, he was battling to save the life of this monster, this octopus whose tentacles, stretching out from some place in Asia, touched, it seemed, the races of the world. He was cherishing a plague, fanning into life again an intellect so cold, so exact, that the man in whose body it was set could sacrifice his own flesh and blood in the interests of his giant, impersonal projects.
For one insane moment, the glamour of the Si-Fan swamped common-sense. Petrie found himself questioning his own ideals; challenging standards which he believed to be true. Definitely, the world was awry; perhaps it was possible that this amazing man—for that he was an outstanding genius, none could deny—had a plan to adjust the scheme of things “nearer to the heart’s desire”.
How could he know?
Weighed in the balance with the mandarin doctor, he was a negligible quantity. Perhaps the redemption of mankind, the readjustment of poise, could only be brought about by a remorseless, steely intellect such as that of Dr. Fu Manchu. Perhaps he was a fool to fight against the Si-Fan . . . Perhaps the Si-Fan was right, and the Western world wrong!
Night had come, and upon its wings had descended again that demon Fog. Wisps streaked the room. . . .
And the night wore on—until ghostly spears of dawn broke through the shaded windows.
Dr. Fu Manchu suddenly opened his eyes.
Their brilliant greeness was oddly filmed; a husky whisper reached Petrie’s ears:
“Success!”
He had never believed that he could touch without loathing the person of the Chinese physician, but now, again, he tested his pulse, and as he did so:
“You observe the change?” the weak voice continued. “I have challenged Fate, Dr. Petrie, but again I have won. The crisis is past.”
Petrie stated at him in amazement. Not only his pulse, but his voice, indicated a phenomenal return of vitality.
“The life property—which is the sun.” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “revivifies swiftly. You are surprised.”
The queer film left his eyes. It appeared to the amazed stare of Petrie that the hollows in those yellow cheeks already were filling out. . . .
“Of the Western physicians whom chance has thrown in my path, I have not yet met your peer. You are a modest man, Dr. Petrie. True healers are rare—but you are one of these. If ever you join me it will be voluntarily. From this day onward you have nothing to fear from any plans I may deem necessary to undertake.”
The treatment which Dr. Petrie had administered to Fu Manchu was one which, personally, he should have described as imbecile. The B. M. A. would have disowned any physician employing such measures. He had been unable to discover any element of sanity, any trace of unity in the drugs which he had been directed to assemble.
The queer oil, with its faint violet tinge, was the only element in the strange prescription which he could not identify. Yes; it was magic!—something transcending the knowledge of the Western world!
Dr. Fu Manchu was growing younger, hour by hour. . . .
“You are amazed, Dr. Petrie.” The harsh voice was beginning to regain its normal
quality. “Any physician of Europe or America would be amazed. Perhaps you do not realize, even yet, that the old herbalists were not all mad. There is an essential oil—you have used it to-night—which contains those properties the alchemists sought. It is the other ingredients, and they are simple, which convert it into that elixir vitae found only once in the Middle Ages.”
He sat up!
Petrie started back. Before the Fu Manchu against whom he had fought for so many years, the vital, powerful Fu Manchu, he found himself an enemy. He faced a menace which had all but wrecked his own happiness; which yet might wreck the structure of Western society.
“My compliments, Dr. Petrie. I had not overestimated your accomplishments.”
Ten years—twenty years—a hundred years—had been shed by the speaker, as a snake discards its old skin. The man who now sat upright in the bed fixing the gaze of his green eyes upon Dr. Petrie, was a phenomenon; the Phoenix had arisen from its ashes.
A vision of what this might mean to the world crossed Petrie’s mind:—a battle-piece red with blood and violence; a ghastly picture of death and destruction.
“You have played your part honourably,” said Dr. Fu Manchu.
He reached out a long, yellow hand, and pressed a bell. Ibrahim entered—and, realizing the miracle which had taken place, prostrated himself upon the carpet and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving.
There were sounds of movement in the corridor outside. Vaguely, Petrie recalled that a similar disturbance had occurred during the previous evening—but it had reached him as through a fog.
Ibrahim was followed by a man wearing morning dress—a clean-shaven man whose lined face seemed out of keeping with his jet black hair. At Dr. Petrie—who still wore the make-up imposed by Mr. Yusaki—this man stared amazedly.
“This is Companion Grassland,” said Dr. Fu Manchu sibi-lantly. “His counterfeit presentment intrigues him. Companion Crossland has resigned his place in the world which knew him. I am ready.”
He moved towards the door.
“Ibrahim will assist you to resume your normal appearance. I ask for your word that you will remain here until Ibrahim tells you it is time to go.”
“I agree.”
“Dr. Petrie, I salute you—and bid you farewell. . . .”
CHAPTER
63
A LACQUER CABINET
Relays of detectives had been on duty all night, watching every exit from the building. Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the sitting-room when Gallaho was announced. He had paced up and down all night. Fleurette, ignoring the orders of the nurse, had joined him. She was curled up in the big armchair. Alan Sterling had ‘phoned twice.
“Any news, sir?”
“No.”
Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf.
“It’s beginning to occur to me that we may be wrong.”
“Always a possibility, Gallaho. . . .”
The detective taking reports from the men on duty, had observed that the remainder of the incoming tenant’s furniture was being delivered. A secretary, wearing smart morning dress, had taken charge of operations. One of Staple’s large green vans was outside the service entrance; a smaller one was drawn up behind it.
“Those mahogany chairs,” the secretary had said as Gallaho had lingered for a moment, “and the large lacquer cabinet are to be brought down again. There is no room for them. Put them on the small van. . . .”
“I mean,” Gallaho went on doggedly, “we may have been barking up the wrong tree. There’s the possibility . . .”
The door bell had been ringing, but Gallaho had failed to hear it. Fey had opened the front door. And now:
“Darling!” cried Fleurette—
She leapt from the armchair and threw herself into her father’s arms. . . .
For Dr. Petrie had walked in!
Fleurette broke down completely.
She was still crying like a little child, but crying happily, when a small covered van which had left the building some ten minutes before was pulled up in a builder’s yard in Chelsea.
A man wearing a morning suit and a soft black hat got down from his place beside the driver and ran around to the rear of the van. Its load consisted of a set of mahogany chairs and a tall blue lacquer Japanese cabinet.
Climbing into the van, he opened the door of this Cabinet.
Dr. Fu Manchu stepped out.
“Companion Grassland,” he said, “you have earned merit—”
The End
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