by Sax Rohmer
That sort of rumour which electrifies a population was creeping about Paris. Delibes, the rumour ran, had planned a political coup which, if it failed in its purpose, would mean that before a new day dawned France would be plunged into war.
“The grounds may be guarded, Smith,” I said, looking about me. “But Delibes takes no other precautions.”
I indicated the widely opened windows.
Smith nodded grimly.
“We have here, Kerrigan,” he replied, “another example of that foolhardy courage which has already brought so many distinguished heads under the axe of Doctor Fu-Manchu.”
He took up the table telephone and examined it carefully, then shook his head.
“No! He has been warned of the Green Death, a fact of which the Si-Fan is undoubtedly aware. If only the fool would face facts—if only he would give me his confidence! He knows, he has been told, of the fate of his predecessors who have defied the Council of Seven! He is a gallant man in more senses than one”—Smith nodded in the direction of the many photographs. “I must know what he plans to do and I must know what time the Si-Fan has given him in which to change his mind.”
“His peril is no greater than yours!”
“Perhaps not—but I don’t happen to be the political master of France! You are thinking of the letter which awaited me at the hotel desk?”
“I am.”
“Yes”—he nodded—“the second notice!”
“But, Smith—”
“About one thing I am determined, Kerrigan—and I come provided to see it through: M. Delibes must accept my advice. Another Si-Fan assassination would paralyse European statesmanship. It would mean submission to a reign of terror—”
Marcel Delibes came in, handsome, grey-haired; and I noted the dark eyebrows and moustache which had proved such a boon to French caricaturists. He wore a blue carnation in his buttonhole; he was charmingly apologetic.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you come at an hour so vital in the history of France that I think I may be forgiven.”
“So I understand, sir,” said Nayland Smith curtly. “But what I do not understand is your attitude in regard to the Si-Fan.”
Delibes seated himself at his desk, assumed a well-known pose, and smiled.
“You are trying to frighten me, eh? Fortunately for France, I am not easily frightened. You are going to tell me that General Quinto, Rudolf Adlon, Diesler—oh, quite a number of others—died because they refused to accept the order of this secret society! You are going to say that Monaghani has accepted and this is why Monaghani lives! Pouf! A bogey, my friend! A cloud comes, the sky is darkened, when the end of a great life draws near. So much the Romans knew, and the Greeks before them. And this scum, this red-hand gang, which calls itself Si-Fan, obtains spectacular success by sending these absurd notices… But how many have they sent in vain?”
He pulled open a drawer of his desk and tossed three sheets of paper onto the blotting pad. Nayland Smith stepped forward and with no more than a nod of apology picked them up.
“Ah! The final notice!”
“Yes—the final notice!” Delibes had ceased to smile. “To me! Could anything be more impudent?”
“It gives you, I see, until half past eleven tonight.”
“Exactly. How droll!”
“Yet, Lord Aylwin has seen you, and Railton was sent by the Foreign Office with the special purpose of impressing upon you the fact that the power of the Si-Fan is real. I see, sir, that you are required to lower and then to raise the lights in this room three times, indicating that you have destroyed an order to Marshal Brieux. That distinguished officer is now in your lobby. I had a few words with him as I came in. As a privileged visitor, may I ask you the exact nature of this order?”
“It is here, signed.” Delibes opened a folder and drew out an official document. “The whole of France, you see, as these signatures testify, stands behind me in this step which I propose to take tonight. You may read it if you please, for it will be common property tomorrow.”
With a courteous inclination of the head he handed the document to Nayland Smith.
Smith’s steely eyes moved mechanically as he glanced down the several paragraphs, and then:
“Failing a message from Monaghani before eleven-fifteen,” he said, “this document, I gather, will be handed to Marshal Brieux? It calls all Frenchmen to the Colours. This will be construed as an act of war.”
“Not necessarily, sir.” The Minister drew down his heavy brows. “It will be construed as evidence of the unity of France. It will check those who would become the aggressors. At three minutes before midnight, observe, Paris will be plunged into darkness—and we shall test our air defences under war conditions.”
Smith began to pace up and down the thick Persian carpet. “You are described in the first notice from the Si-Fan,” he went on, “as one of seven men in the world in a position to plunge Europe into war. It may interest you to know, sir, that the first warning of this kind with which I became acquainted referred to fifteen men. This fact may be significant?”
Delibes shrugged his shoulders.
“In roulette the colour red may turn up eighteen times,” he replied. “Why not a coincidence of eight?”
We were interrupted by the entrance of a secretary.
* * *
“No vulgar curiosity prompts my inquiry,” said Nayland Smith, as the Minister stared angrily at him. “But you have two photographs in your charming collection of a lady well known to me.”
“Indeed, sir?” Delibes stood up. “To which lady do you refer?”
Smith took the two photographs from their place and set them on the desk.
Both were of the woman called Korêani: one was a head and shoulders so fantastically like the bust of Nefertiti as to suggest that this had been one of her earlier incarnations; the other showed her in the revealing dress of a Korean dancer.
Delibes glanced at them and then stared under his brows at Nayland Smith.
“I trust, Sir Denis, that this friendship does not in any way intrude upon our affairs?”
“But certainly not—although I have been acquainted with this lady for some years.”
“I met her during the time she was appearing here. She is not an ordinary cabaret artiste, as you are aware. She belongs to an old Korean family and in performing the temple dances, has made herself an exile from her country.”
“Indeed,” Smith murmured. “Would it surprise you to know that she is also one of the most useful servants of the Si-Fan?… That she was personally concerned in the death of General Quinto, and in that of Rudolf Adlon?—to mention but two! Further, would it surprise you to know that she is the daughter of the president of the Council of Seven?”
Delibes sat down again, still staring at the speaker.
“I do not doubt your word—but are you sure of what you say?”
“Quite sure.”
“Almost, you alarm me.” He smiled again. “She is difficult, this Korêani—but most, most attractive. I saw her only last night. Today, for she knows my penchant, she sent me blue carnations.”
“Indeed! Blue carnations, you say? Most unusual.”
He began looking all about the room.
“Yes, but beautiful—you see them in those three vases.”
“I have counted thirty-five,” snapped Smith.
“The other, I wear.”
Smith sniffed at one cautiously.
“I assume that they came from some florist known to you?”
“But certainly, from Meurice frères.”
Smith stood directly in front of the desk, staring down at Delibes, then:
“Regardless of your personal predilection, sir,” he said, “I have special knowledge and special facilities. Since the peace of France, perhaps of the world is at stake, may I ask you, when these carnations arrived?”
“At some time before I was awake this morning.”
“In one box or in several?”
“T
o this I cannot reply, but I will make inquiries. Your interests are of an odd nature.”
Nevertheless, I observed that Delibes was struggling to retain his self-assurance. As he bent aside to press a bell, surreptitiously he removed the blue carnation from his buttonhole and dropped it in a wastebasket…
Delibes’ valet appeared: his name was Marbeuf.
“These blue carnations,” said Nayland Smith, “you received them from the florist this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
Marbeuf’s manner was one of masked alarm.
“In one box or in a number of boxes?”
“In a number, sir.”
“Have those boxes been destroyed?”
“I believe not, sir.”
Smith turned to Delibes.
“I have a small inquiry to make,” he said, “but I beg that you will spare me a few minutes when I return.”
“As you wish, sir. You bring strange news, but my purpose remains undisturbed…”
We descended with the valet to the domestic quarters of the house. The lobby buzzed with officials; there was an atmosphere of pent-up excitement, but we slipped through unnoticed. I was studying Marbeuf, a blond, clean-shaven fellow with the bland hypocrisy which distinguishes some confidential manservants.
“There are four boxes here,” said Smith rapidly and stared at Marbeuf. “You say you received them this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
“Here, in this room?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I placed them on that table, sir, for such presents frequently arrive for Monsieur. Then I sent Jacqueline for vases, and I opened the boxes.”
“Who is Jacqueline?”
“The parlourmaid.”
“There were then nine carnations in each box?”
“No sir. Twelve in each box, but one box was empty.”
“What!”
“I was surprised, also.”
“Between the time that these boxes were received from the florist and placed on the table, and the time at which you began to open them, were you out of the room?”
“Yes. I was called to the telephone.”
“Ah! By whom?”
“By a lady, but when I told her that Monsieur was still sleeping she refused to leave a message.”
“How long were you away?”
“Perhaps, sir, two minutes.”
“And then?”
“Then I returned and began to open the boxes.”
“And of the four, one contained no carnations?”
“Exactly, sir; one was empty.”
“What did you do?”
“I telephoned to Meurice frères, and they assured me that not three, but four dozen carnations had been sent by the lady who ordered them.”
Smith examined the four boxes with care but seemed to be dissatisfied. They were cardboard cartons about 18 inches long and 6 inches square, stoutly made and bearing the name of the well-known florist upon them. His expression, however, became very grave, and he did not speak again until we had returned to the study.
As Delibes stood up, concealing his impatience with a smile:
“The time specified for the reply from Monaghani has now elapsed,” said Smith. “Am I to take it, sir, that you propose to hand that document to Marshal Brieux?”
“Such is my intention.”
“The time allotted to you by the Si-Fan expires in fifteen minutes.”
Delibes shrugged his shoulders.
“Forget the Si-Fan,” he said. “I trust that your inquiries regarding Korêani’s gift were satisfactory?”
“Not entirely. Would it be imposing on your hospitality to suggest that Mr Kerrigan and myself remain here with you until those fifteen minutes shall have expired?”
“Well”—the Minister stood up, frowned, then smiled. “Since you mention my hospitality, if you would drink a glass of wine with me, and then permit me to leave you for a few moments since I must see Marshal Brieux, it would of course be a pleasure to entertain you.”
He was about to press a bell, but changed his mind and went out.
On the instant of his exit Smith did an extraordinary thing. Springing to the door, he depressed a switch—and all the lights went out!
“Smith!”
The lights sprang up again.
“Wanted to know where the switch was! No time to waste.”
He began questing about the room like a hound on a strong scent. Recovering myself, I too began looking behind busts and photographs, but:
“Don’t touch anything, Kerrigan!” he snapped. “Some new agent of death has been smuggled into this place by Fu-Manchu! God knows what it is! I have no clue, but it’s here. It’s here!” He had found nothing when Delibes returned…
The Minister was followed by Marbeuf. The valet carried an ice bucket which contained, a bottle of champagne upon a tray with three glasses.
“You see, I know your English taste!” said Delibes. “We shall drink, if you please to France—and to England.”
“In that case,” Nayland Smith replied, “if I may ask you to dismiss Marbeuf, I should esteem it a privilege to act as server—for this is a notable occasion.”
At a nod from Delibes, Marbeuf, having unwired the bottle, went out. Smith removed the cork and filled three glasses to their brims. With a bow he handed one to the statesman, less ceremoniously a second to me, then, raising his own:
“We drink deep,” he said—his eyes glittered strangely, and the words sounded oddly on his lips—“to the peace of France and of England—and so, to the peace of the world!”
He drank nearly the whole of the contents of his glass. Delibes, chivalrously, did the same. Never at home with champagne, I endeavoured to follow suit, but was checked—astounded—by the behaviour of Delibes.
Standing upright, a handsome military figure, he became, it seemed, suddenly rigid! His eyes opened widely as though they were starting from his head. His face changed colour. Naturally pallid, it grew grey. His wineglass fell upon the Persian carpet, the remainder of its contents spilling. He clutched his throat and pitched forward!
Nayland Smith sprang to his side and lowered him gently to the floor.
“Smith! Smith!” I gasped, “he’s poisoned! They have got him!”
“Ssh!” Smith stood up. “Not a word, Kerrigan!”
Amazed beyond understanding, I watched. He crossed to the meticulously neat desk, took up the document with those imposing signatures which lay there, and tore it into fragments!”
“Smith!”
“Quiet—or we’re lost!”
Crossing to the switch beside the door, he put out all the lights. It is mortifying to remember now that at the time I doubted his sanity. He raised them again, put them out… In the second darkness came comprehension:
He was obeying the order of the Si-Fan!
“Help me, Kerrigan. In here!”
A curtained alcove, luxuriously appointed as the bedroom of a screen star, adjoined the study. We laid Delibes upon a cushioned divan. And as we did so and I raised inquiring eyes, there came a sound from the room outside which made me catch my breath.
It resembled a guttural command, in a tongue unknown to me. It was followed by an odd scuffling, not unlike that of a rat… It seemed to flash a message to Nayland Smith’s brain. With no glance at the insensible man upon the divan he dashed out.
I followed—and all I saw was this:
Some thing—I could not otherwise define it, nor can I say if it went on four or upon two legs—merged into the shadow on the balcony!
Smith pistol in hand, leapt out.
There was a rustling in the clematis below. The rustling ceased.
His face a grim mask in the light of the moon, Smith turned to me.
“There went death to Marcel Delibes!” he said, “but here”—he pointed to the torn-up document, on the carpet—“went death to a million Frenchmen.”
“But the voice, Smith, the vo
ice! Someone spoke—and there’s nobody here!”
“Yes—I heard it. The speaker must have been in the garden below.”
“And in heaven’s name what was the thing we saw?”
“That, Kerrigan, is beyond me. The garden must be searched, but I doubt if anything will be found.”
“But…” I stared about me apprehensively. “We must do something! Delibes may be dead!”
Nayland Smith shook his head.
“He would have been dead if I had not saved him.”
“I don’t understand at all!”
“Another leaf from the book of Doctor Fu-Manchu. Tonight I came prepared for the opposition of Delibes. I had previously wired to my old friend Doctor Petrie in Cairo. He is a modest genius. He cabled a prescription; Lord Moreton endorsed it; and it was made up by the best firm of druggists in London. A rapidly soluble tablet, Kerrigan. According to Petrie, Delibes will be insensible for eighteen hours but will suffer no unpleasant after-effects—nor will he recall exactly what occurred.”
I could think of no reply.
“We will now ring for assistance,” Smith continued, “report that the document was torn up in our presence, and express our proper regret for the sudden seizure of M. Delibes.”
He poured water from the ice bucket into the glass used by Delibes, and emptied it over the balcony. He then partly refilled the glass.
“Having advised Marshal Brieux that Paris may sleep in peace, we can return to our hotel.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
ARDATHA’S MESSAGE
I think the bizarre drama of those last few minutes in the house of Marcel Delibes did more than anything else I could have accomplished to dull the agony of bereavement which even amid the turmoil of this secret world war shadowed every moment of my life.
Ardatha was lost to me… She belonged to the Si-Fan.
Once too often she had risked everything in order to give me warning. Her punishment was to work henceforth under the eye of the dreadful Dr. Fu-Manchu. Perhaps, as Smith believed, he was no longer president. But always while he lived I knew that he must dominate any group of men with whom he might be associated.
Leaving no less than four helpless physicians around the bed of the insensible Minister, we returned to our hotel. Gallaho was with us, and Jussac of the French police. As in London one car drove ahead and another followed.
