by Sax Rohmer
His pipe filled, he now lighted it with care. I saw a grim smile upon his face:
“I sent Detective Sergeant Cromer back to Scotland Yard. He travelled in a Green Line bus, accompanied by one other police officer—and between them they carried evidence to upset the chancelleries of Europe! One idea led to another. I took it for granted that I should be followed, that attempts would be made to intercept me. I led the trail to your door, hoping for a big haul. I had one. But there was a hole in the net.”
“What do we do now?”
“We are going to Number 10 Downing Street.”
“What!”
“This discovery means an international situation. The Prime Minister has returned from Chequers and is meeting us there. The commissioner is bringing the documents from Scotland Yard, in person. Here is something for your notes, Kerrigan. I promised you a bigger story than any you had ever had. Come on!”
Indeed I had never expected to be one of such a gathering. There were three cars, one leading, then that in which I travelled with Nayland Smith, and a third bringing up the rear.
The leading car, belonging to the flying squad, was driven at terrific speed through the streets. Under the circumstances I confess I was not surprised that we arrived at our destination without any attempt being made upon us. So vast were the issues at stake that even my fear for Ardatha was numbed. Despairingly, I had come to the conclusion that I should never see her again…
In a room made familiar by many published photographs I found the Premier and some other members of the Cabinet. Sir James Clare, the home secretary whom I had met before, was there and two ambassadors representing foreign powers. An air of dreadful apprehension seemed common to all. Somewhat awed by the company, I looked at Nayland Smith.
He was pacing up and down in his usual restless manner, glancing at his wrist watch.
“Sir William Bard is late,” murmured the Prime Minister.
Nayland Smith nodded. Sir William Bard, commissioner of metropolitan police, of all those summoned to this meeting was the only one who had not appeared.
“Until his arrival, sir,” said Smith, “we can do nothing.”
But even as he spoke came a rap on the door, and a voice announced:
“Sir William Bard.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
WHAT HAPPENED IN DOWNING STREET
“A trifle late, Sir William,” said the Prime Minister genially.
“Yes sir—I must offer my apologies.” The commissioner bowed perfunctorily to everyone present. “I think the circumstances will explain my delay.”
A slightly built, alert man with a short jet-black moustache, he had a precision of manner and intonation which suggested, as was the fact, that his training, like that of the home secretary, had been for the legal profession. He laid a bulging portfolio upon the table. The Premier continued to watch him coldly but genially. Everyone else in the room became very restless, as Bard continued:
“Just as my car was about to turn out of Whitehall, a girl, a lady from her dress and bearing I judged, stepped out almost under my front wheel, and as my chauffeur braked furiously, sprang back again, but tripped and fell on the pavement.”
“In these circumstances,” said the home secretary, one eye on the rugged brow of the Prime Minister, “your delay is of course explained.”
“Exactly,” sir William continued. “I pulled up, of course, and hurried back. Quite a crowd gathered, as always occurs, among them, fortunately, a doctor. The only injury was a sprained ankle. The lady, although one must confess it was her own fault, proved to live in Buckingham Gate, and naturally I gave her a lift home, Doctor Atkin accompanying her to that address. However, sir”—turning to the Prime Minister—“I trust I am excused?”
“Certainly, Bard, certainly. Anyone would have done the same.”
Now quite restored, we sat down around the big table, the commissioner produced his keys and glanced at Nayland Smith.
“A strange attire for so formal an occasion, Smith!” he commented. “But it may be forgiven, I think, in view”—he tapped the portfolio—“of the information which is here. I had had time merely to glance over it, but I may say”—looking solemnly about him—“that in dealing with the facts revealed, the astonishingly unpleasant facts, our united efforts will be called for. And even when we have done our best…”
He shrugged his shoulders. He appeared to find some difficulty in fitting the key to the lock. We were all on tiptoes and all very impatient. I saw a sudden shadow creep over Sir William Bard’s face as he glanced at his own initials stamped on the leather. He shrugged and persevered with the key.
There was no result.
“Might I suggest,” snapped Nayland Smith, beginning to tug at his ear but desisting when he detected the presence of the plaster, “that you borrow a pair of stout scissors and force the catch, Sir William?”
“Always impatient, Smith!” The commissioner looked up, but his expression was not easy. “I don’t understand this.”
He tried again and then made an angry gesture.
“I locked it myself before I left Scotland Yard.”
“Since time is our enemy,” said the Prime Minister drily, “I think Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s suggestion is a good one.”
He rang a bell, and to a man who entered gave curt orders…
The lock proved to be more obstinate than we had anticipated, but with the aid of a pair of office scissors and the expenditure of considerable force, ultimately it was snapped open. The man withdrew. We were all standing up, surrounding the commissioner. He opened the portfolio.
I heard a loud cry. For a moment I could not believe. Sir William Bard had uttered it. Yet indeed it was he who had cried out…
The portfolio was stuffed with neatly folded copies of The Times!
One by one with shaking fingers he drew them out and laid them upon the table. Last of all he discovered a square envelope, and from it he drew a single sheet of paper.
There had been such a silence during this time that I could hear nothing but the breathing of the man next to me, a portly representative of a friendly power.
Sir William Bard cast his glance over the sheet which the envelope had contained, and then, his face grown suddenly pallid, laid it before the Prime Minister.
I glanced swiftly at Nayland Smith, and found myself unable to read his expression.
The statesman, imperturbable even in face of this situation, adjusted his spectacles and read; then clearing his throat, he read again, this time aloud:
“The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan is determined to preserve peace in Europe. Some to whom this message is addressed share these views—some do not. The latter would be well advised to reconsider their policies, and to confine their attentions to their proper occasions.”
“President of the Council”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“FIRST NOTICE”
“Smith! I am a ruined man!”
Sir William Bard sat in an armchair behind a huge desk laden with official documents, his head sunk in his hands, in that quiet room which was the heart of Scotland Yard, the menace represented by Dr. Fu-Manchu presented itself more urgently to my tired mind than had been possible in the official sanctum of the British government.
Out of the charivari which had arisen when we had realised that documents calculated to cast down those in high places had been stolen from none other than the commissioner of metropolitan police, only one phrase recurred to me: the Premier’s inquiry:
“Do you consider, Sir Denis, that this is a personal threat?”
Nayland Smith stared at the commissioner, and then, jumping up from his chair: “I don’t think,” he said, “that I should take the thing so seriously. It may be mere arrogance on my part to say so, but with all my experience (and it has been a long one) the particular genius who tricked you tonight has tricked me many times.”
Sir William Bard looked up.
“But how was it done? Who did it?”<
br />
“As to how it was done,” Smith replied, “it was a fairly simple example of substitution. As to who did it—Doctor Fu-Manchu!”
“I have accepted the existence of Doctor Fu-Manchu with great reluctance, as you know, Smith—although I am aware that my immediate predecessor regarded this Chinese criminal with great respect. Are you sure that it was he who was responsible?”
“Perfectly sure,” Smith snapped, then glanced swiftly at me. “Describe the girl who was nearly run down by your car.”
“I can do so quite easily, for she was a beauty. She had titian red hair and remarkable eyes of a pansy colour; a slender girl, not English, a fact I detected from her slight accent.”
I did not groan audibly: it was my spirit that groaned.
“Quite sufficient!” Smith interrupted. “Kerrigan and I know this lady. And the doctor?”
“A tall man, grey-haired, of distinguished appearance, Doctor Maurice Atkin. I have his card here, and also Miss Pereira’s.”
“Neither card means anything,” said Smith grimly. He turned to me. “This grey-haired aristocrat, Kerrigan, seems to play important, parts in Fu-Manchu’s present drama. I detect a marked resemblance to that Count Boratov who was a guest of Brownlow Wilton, and of course you have recognised Miss Pereira?”
I nodded but did not speak.
“Don’t make heavy weather of it, Kerrigan. Ardatha is in the toils—this task was her punishment.”
He walked across to the wretched man sunk in the arm-chair and rested his hand upon his shoulder.
“May I take it that you usually carry the missing portfolio?”
The commissioner nodded.
“From my house to Scotland Yard every day, and to important conferences.”
“The Si-Fan had noted this. After all, you are officially their chief enemy in London. I suggest that the duplicate portfolio has been in existence for some time. Tonight an occasion arose for its use. Judging from my own experience, farsighted plans of this character have been made with regard to many notable enemies of the Si-Fan.”
Sir William was watching him almost hopefully.
‘To illustrate my meaning,” Smith went on, “they have duplicate keys of my flat!”
“What!”
“It’s a fact,” I interpolated; “I have seen the keys used myself.”
“Exactly.” Smith nodded. “They even succeeded in installing a special radio in my premises. It would not surprise me to learn that they have a key to Number 10 Downing Street. You must appreciate the fact, Bard, that this organisation, once confined to the East, now has its ramifications throughout the West. It is of old standing and has among its members, as the missing documents proved, prominent figures in Europe and the United States. Its financial backing is enormous. Its methods are ruthless. Your car, immediately following the pretended accident, was of course surrounded by a crowd.”
“It was.”
“Those members nearest to the door from which you jumped were servants of the Si-Fan and one of them carried the duplicate portfolio. He was no doubt an adept in his particular province. The substitution was not difficult. The address to which you took Miss Pereira was a block of flats?”
“Yes.”
“Inquiry is useless. She does not live there.”
“Smith!” Sir William Bard sprang up. “Your reconstruction of what took place is perfect—except in one particular. I recall the fact clearly now that Doctor Atkin carried a similar portfolio! The substitution was effected during the short drive to Buckingham Gate!”
“H’m!” Smith glanced at me. “Count Boratov would seem to be a distinct asset to the doctor’s forces!”
“But what can we do?” groaned the commissioner. “Lacking the authority of those damning signatures, we dare not take action.”
“I agree.”
“We can watch these people whose names we have learnt, but it will be necessary to obtain new evidence against them before we can move a finger in such high places.”
“Certainly. But at least we are warned… and I may not be too late to save their next victim. We cannot hope to win every point!”
* * *
We returned to Nayland Smith’s flat in a flying squad car and two men were detailed to remain on duty in the lobby. Only by a perceptible tightening of Fey’s lips did I recognise the mighty relief which he experienced when he saw us.
He had nothing to report. Smith laughed aloud when he saw me looking at a freshly painted patch on the front door.
“My new lock, Kerrigan!” The merriment in his eyes was good to see. Something of my own burden seemed to be lifted from my shoulders by it. “The lock was fitted under my own supervision, by a locksmith known to me personally. It’s a nuisance to open, being somewhat complicated. But once I am in I think I’m safe!”
In the familiar room with photographs of his old friends about him, he relaxed at last, dropping down into an armchair with a sigh of contentment.
“If there is any place in the civilised world where you would really be safe, a month’s rest would do you good, Smith.”
He stared at me. Already he was groping for his pipe.
“Can any man rest till his task is finished?” he asked quietly. “I doubt it. Since Doctor Fu-Manchu has tricked all the normal laws of life—will my task ever end?”
Fey served drinks and silently retired.
“I had a bad shock tonight, Smith,” I said awkwardly. “Ardatha was instrumental in the theft of the commissioner’s portfolio.”
Smith nodded, busily filling his pipe.
“She had no choice,” he snapped. “As I said at the time it was her punishment. At least she was not concerned in a murder, Kerrigan. Probably she had to succeed or die. I wonder if this really remarkable achievement has reinstated the doctor in the eyes of the Council.”
“Is it a fact, Smith, that the names of the Council were actually in your possession?”
“Yes. Some I had suspected, nor would their identity convey anything to the public. But three of the Seven are as well known to the world as Bernard Shaw. Even to me, those names came as a surprise. But lacking the written evidence, as the commissioner says, we dare not move. Ah well! the doctor has obtained a firm footing in the Western world since he first began operating from Limehouse.”
He took up a bundle of letters which Fey had placed on a table near the armchair. He tossed them all aside until presently he came upon one at which he frowned queerly.
“Hello!” he murmured, “what’s this?”
He examined the writing, the post office stamp—and finally tore open the envelope. He glanced at the single sheet of paper which it contained. His face remained quite motionless as he bent forward and passed it to me…
I stared, and my heart missed a beat as I read:
FIRST NOTICE
The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan has decided that you are an obstruction to its policy. Its present purpose being the peace of the world, a purpose to which no sane man can be opposed, you are given a choice of two courses. Remain in London tonight and the Council guarantees your safety and will communicate with you by telephone. We are prepared for an honourable compromise. Leave, and you will receive a second notice.
President of the Council
I don’t know why these words written in a square heavy hand, on thick paper embossed with a Chinese hieroglyphic, should so have chilled me, but they did. It was no novelty for Nayland Smith to go in peril of his life, but knowing its record, frankly the dictum of the Council of Seven touched me with an icy hand.
“What do they mean, Smith, about leaving London?” I asked in a hoarse voice. “I suspected some new move when you spoke to the commissioner about saving the next victim.”
“Marcel Delibes, the French statesman, has received two warnings. Copies were among the papers I found in Lord Weimer’s house!”
“Well?”
“You may also recall that I promised to tell you when Doctor Fu-Manchu ceased to be preside
nt?”
“Yes.”
“He has ceased to be president!”
“How can you possibly know?”
He held up the first notice.
“Doctor Fu-Manchu’s delicate sense of humour would never permit him to do such a thing! Surely you realise, Kerrigan, that this means I am safe until the second notice arrives?”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I have made arrangements to leave for Paris tonight. Gallaho is coming, and—”
“So am I!”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
BLUE CARNATIONS
“This is the sort of atmosphere in which Doctor Fu-Manchu finds himself at home!”
We stood in the workroom of Marcel Delibes, the famous French statesman. He had been unavoidably detained but requested us to wait. Two windows opened onto a long balcony which I saw to be overgrown with clematis. It looked down on a pleasant and well-kept garden. Beyond one saw the Bois. The room, religiously neat as that of some Mother Superior, was brightened along its many bookshelves by those attractively light bindings affected by French publishers; and a further note of colour was added by the presence of bowls and vases of carnations.
The perfume of all these flowers was somewhat overpowering, so that the impression I derived during my stay in the apartment was of carnations and of photographs of beautiful women.
There was a nearly full moon; the windows were wide open; and with Smith I examined the balcony outside. Our translation in a Royal Air Force plane from London had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that I was still in a mood to ask myself: Is this really Paris?
Yes, that carnation-scented room, dimly lighted except for one green-shaded lamp upon the writing desk, with photographs peeking glamorously from its shadows was, as Nayland Smith had said, an ideal atmosphere for Dr. Fu-Manchu.
Gallaho was downstairs with Jussac of the Sûreté Générale, and I knew that the house was guarded like a fortress. Even at this hour messengers were coming and going, and a considerable crowd had collected in the Bois outside, invisible and inaudible from the house by reason of its embracing gardens.
