The Drums of Fu Manchu

“No larger than a fountain pen. Smith! He has perfected it, so he says. But—where is he?”

Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his ear.

“You say the girl went with him?”

“Yes.”

“Who lives above?”

“A young musician, Basil Acton—but he’s abroad at present.”

“Sure?”

He began to run upstairs, crying out over his shoulder:

“Gallaho and two men! The others stand by where they are.”

We reached the top landing and paused before my neighbor’s closed door.

Gallaho rang the bell, but there was no response.

“Hello!”

Smith stooped.

I had switched on the landing light, and now I saw what had attracted his attention. Also I became aware of a queer acrid smell.

Where a Yale lock had been there was nothing but a hole, some two inches in diameter, drilled clean through the door!

“It’s bolted inside,” said Gallaho.

“But they are trapped!” I cried excitedly. “There is no other way out!”

“Unfortunately,” growled Gallaho,”there is no other way in. Down to the tool chest, somebody.”

There came a rush of footsteps on the stair, an interval during which Gallaho tried to peer through the hole in the door and Nayland Smith, ear pressed to a panel, listened but evidently heard nothing. To the high landing window which overlooked Bayswater Road rose sounds of excited voices from the street below.

“Seven black beauties roped in there,” said Gallaho grimly,”but it remains to be seen if we’ve got anything on them.”

One of the flying squad men returning with the necessary implements, it was a matter of only a few minutes to break the door down. I had been in my neighbour’s flat on one or two occasions, and when we entered I switched the lights up, for we found it in darkness.

“Is there anyone here?” called Gallaho.

There was no reply.

We entered the big, untidy apartment which, sometimes to my sorrow, I knew that Acton used as a music room. It had something of the appearance of a studio. Bundles of music were littered on chairs and settees. The grand piano was open. An atmosphere stale as that inside a pyramid told of closed windows. Knowing his careless ways, I doubted if Acton had made arrangements to have his flat cleaned or aired during his absence. There was no one there.

“How many rooms, Kerrigan?” Smith snapped.

“Four, and a kitchenette.”

“Three men stay on the landing!” shouted Gallaho.

We explored every foot of the place, and the only evidence we found to show that Dr Fu Manchu and Ardatha had entered was the hole drilled through the front door, until:

“What’s this?” cried one of the searchers.

We hurried into the kitchenette which bore traces of a meal prepared at some time but not cleared up. The man had opened a big cupboard in which I saw an ascending ladder.

“The cisterns are up there,” I explained. “This is an old house converted.”

“At last!” Smith’s eyes glinted. “That’s where he is hiding!”

Before I could restrain him he had darted up the ladder, shining the light of a flashlamp ahead. Gallaho followed and I came next.

We found ourselves under the sloping roof in an attic containing several large tanks, unventilated, and oppressively stuffy.

There was no one there.

“Doctor Fu Manchu is a man of genius,” said Smith, “but not a spirit. He must be somewhere in this building.”

“Not so certain, sir!” came a cry.

One of the Scotland Yard men was directing light upon lath and plaster at that side of the attic furthest from the door. It revealed a ragged hole—and now we all detected a smell of charred wood.

“What’s beyond there?” Gallaho demanded.

“The adjoining house, at the moment in the hands of renovators. It is being converted into modern flats.”

But already Smith, stooping, was making his way through the aperture—and we all followed.

We found ourselves in an attic similar to that which we had quitted. We crossed it and climbed down a ladder. At the bottom was a room smelling strongly of fresh paint, cluttered up with decorators’ materials, in fact almost impassable. We forced a way through onto the landing, to discover planks stretched across a staircase, scaffolding, buckets of whitewash . . .

Nayland Smith ran down the stairs like a man demented, and even now in memory I can recapture the thud of our hammering feet as we followed him. It drummed around that empty, echoing house; the lights of our lamps danced weirdly on stripped walls, bare boards and half-painted woodwork. We came to the lobby. Smith flung open the front door.

It opened not on Bayswater Road as in the case of the adjoining house, but upon a side street, Porchester Terrace. He raced down three steps and stood there looking to right and to left.

Dr Fu Manchu had escaped . . .

* * *

“The biggest failure of my life, Kerrigan.”

Nayland Smith was pacing up and down my study; he had even forgotten to light his pipe. His face was wan—lined.

“I don’t think I follow, Smith. It’s amazing that you arrived here in the nick of time. His escape is something no one could have anticipated. He has supernormal equipment. This disintegrating ray which he carried defeats locks, bolts and bars. How could any man have foreseen it?”

“Yet I should have foreseen it,” he snapped angrily. “My arrival in the nick of time had been planned.”

“What!”

“Oh, I didn’t know Ardatha was coming. For this I had not provided. But my visit to you earlier in the evening, my leaving here, or pretending to leave, the most vital piece of evidence on which I have ever laid my hands, was a leaf torn from Doctor Fu Manchu’s own book!”

“What do you mean?”

“I was laying a trail. I was doing what he has done so often. He knew that I had those incriminating signatures, he knew that failing their recovery, the break-up of the Council of Seven was at least in sight. You are aware of how closely I was covered, how narrowly I escaped death. What I didn’t tell you at the time was this: In spite of my disguise, I had been followed from Sloane Street right to the door of your flat.”

“Are you sure?”

“I made sure. I intended to be followed.”

“Good heavens!”

“I had not hoped, I confess, for so big a fish as the doctor in person, but that you would be raided by important members of the Si-Fan shortly after my departure was moderately certain. They were watching. I saw them as I left in the Yard car. I gave them every opportunity to note that although I had arrived with a bulky portfolio, I was leaving without it!”

“But, Smith, you might have given me your confidence!”

Anger, mortification, both were in my tones, but instantly Nayland Smith had his hands on my shoulders. His steady eyes sobered me.

“Remember the Green Death, Kerrigan. Oh, I’m not reproaching you! But Doctor Fu Manchu can read a man’s soul as you and I read a newspaper. I had men posted in the park (closed at that time), and I had a key of your front door—”

“Smith!”

“You were well protected. The arrival of Ardatha presented a new problem. I had not counted on Ardatha—”

“Nor had I!”

“But when no fewer than seven suspicious characters were massed in front of the house, and a tall thin man wearing a cloak was reported as having entered—(your front door, apparently being open)—I gave the signal. You know what followed.”

“I understand now, Smith, how crushing the disappointment must be.”

“Crushing indeed! I had King Shark in my net—and he bit his way out of it!”

“But the Ericksen Ray?”

“He has held the secret of the Ericksen Ray for many years. Doctor Ericksen, its inventor, died or is reported to have died in 1914. As a matter of fact, he (with God knows how many other men of genius) has been working in Doctor Fu Manchu’s laboratories probably up to the present moment!”

“But this is incredible! You have hinted at it before, but I have never been able to follow your meaning.”

Automatically Nayland Smith’s hand went to the pocket of his dilapidated coat and out came the briar and the big pouch.

“He can induce synthetic catalepsy, Kerrigan. I was afraid when I found you in Whitehall the other day that for some reason he had practised this art upon you. Except in cases where I have been notified, these wretched victims have been buried alive.”

“Good God!”

“Later, at leisure, his experts disinter them, and they are smuggled away to work for the Si-Fan!”

“And to where are they smuggled?”

“I have no idea. Once his base was in Honan. It is no longer there. He has had others, some as near home as the French Riviera. His present headquarters are unknown to me. His genius lies not only in his own phenomenal brain, but in his astonishing plan of accumulating great intellects and making them his slaves. This is the source of his power. He wastes nothing. You see already, as General Diesler’s death proves, he is employing the Jasper vacuum charger. I think we both know the name of the man who invented the television apparatus which you have seen in action. But probably we don’t want to talk about it . . .”

Up and down the carpet he paced, up and down, restless, over-tensed, and stared out of the window.

“There lies London,” he said, “in darkness, unsuspecting the presence in its midst of a man more than humanly equipped, a man who is almost a phantom—who is served by phantoms!”

A second later I sprang madly to his side.

Heralded by no other sound, there came a staccato crash of glass . . . then I was drenched in fragments of plaster!

A bullet had come through the window and had buried itself in the wall . . .

“Smith! Smith!”

He had not moved, but he turned now and looked at me. I saw blood and was overcome by a sudden, dreadful nausea. I suppose I grew pale, for he shook his head and grasped my shoulder.

“No, Kerrigan. It was the tip of my ear. Good shooting. The whizz of the bullet was deafening.”

“But there was no sound of a shot!”

He moved away from the window.

“Diesler was killed at a range of three thousand odd yards,” he said. “You remember we were talking about the Jasper vacuum charger?”

* * *

“I am disposed to believe that what Ardatha told you was true,” said Nayland Smith.

He was standing staring down reflectively at something resting in his extended palm: the bullet which had made a hole in my wall. The cut in his ear had bled furiously, but now had succumbed to treatment and was decorated with a strip of surgical plaster.

“This attempt, for instance”—he held up the bullet—”somehow does not seem to be in the doctor’s handwriting. In spite of its success I doubt if the ‘silencing’ of General Diesler was directed by Fu Manchu. If there is really trouble in the Council of Seven it may mean salvation. Assuming that I live to see it, I think I shall know, without other evidence, when Doctor Fu Manchu is deposed.”

“In what way?” I asked curiously.

“Remind me to tell you if it occurs, Kerrigan. Ah! may I put the light out?”

“Certainly”

He did so, then glanced from my study window.

“Here are our escorting cars, I think. Yes! I can see Gallaho below.”

He turned and began to reload his pipe.

‘Tonight’s near-triumph, Kerrigan, was made possible by the remarkable efficiency of Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho. Gallaho will go far. He obtained evidence to show that none other than Lord Weimer, the international banker, is a member of the Si-Fan . . .”

“What!”

I cried the word incredulously.

“Yes—astounding, I admit. In fact, it almost appears that his house in Surrey is the temporary headquarters of Si-Fan representatives at present in England. I obtained a search warrant, paid a surprise visit during Weimer’s absence in the city, and went over the place with a microscope. I experienced little difficulty—such a violent procedure had not been foreseen. Nevertheless, although the staff was kept under observation, news of the raid reached Weimer. . . He has disappeared.”

“But, Lord Weimer—a member of the Si-Fan!”

“He is. And a document involving even greater names was there as well. Even as I held it in my hand (I had time for no more than a glance) I wondered if I should ever get through alive with such evidence in my possession. I was not there in my proper person. You know what I looked like when I returned. The proceedings, officially, were in charge of Gallaho, but I adopted a precautionary measure.”

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 I0 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.”

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

“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 realized 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?”

“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 color; 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 recognized 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 armchair 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 organization, 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 recognize 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 civilized 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 honorable 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 Nay land 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 president?”

“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 humor would never permit him to do such a thing! Surely you realize, 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!”

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 color 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 Surete Generale, 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.

That sort of rumor 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 paralyze 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 Adion, 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 Colors. 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 defenses 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 color 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 Korean!: 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 Rudolph Adion?—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 Korean!—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 Freres.”

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?”

“To 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 man-servants.

“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 parlor-maid.”

“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 Freres, 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 I8 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 endeavored to follow suit, but was checked—astounded—by the behavior 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 color. 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 voice! 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.”

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.

As we entered the hotel lobby:

“This sudden illness of M. Delibes,” said Jussac, “is a dreadful thing. He would be a loss to France. But for myself”—he brushed his short moustache reflectively—”since you tell me that before his seizure he changed his mind, why, if this was due to a rising temperature, I am not sorry!”

Smith was making for the lift, and I was following when something drew my attention to the behavior of a girl who had been talking to the reception clerk. She was hurrying away, and the man’s blank expression told me that she had abruptly broken off the conversation.

Already she was disappearing across a large, partially lighted lounge beyond which lay the entrance from the Rue de Rivoli.

Without a word to my companions I set off in pursuit. Seeing me, she made as if to run out, but I leapt forward and threw my arms around her.

“Not this time, Ardatha—darling!”

The amethyst eyes glanced swiftly right and left and then flamed into sudden revolt. But beyond the flame I read a paradox.

“Let me go!”

I did not obey the words, for her eyes were bidding me to hold her fast. I crushed her against me.

“Never again, Ardatha.”

“Bart,” she whispered close to my ear, “call to your English policeman . . . Someone is watching us—”

At that, she began to struggle furiously!

“Hullo, Kerrigan! A capture, I see—”

Nayland Smith stood at my elbow.

“Gallaho,” he called, “a prisoner for you!”

I glared at him, but:

“Bart!”—I loved the quaint accent with which she pronounced my name—”he is right. I must be arrested—I want to be arrested!”

Gallaho hurried up. His brow remained decorated with plaster.

“Who’s this?”

“She is known as Ardatha, Inspector,” said Smith. “There are several questions which she may be able to answer.”

“You are wanted by Scotland Yard”—said Gallaho formally, “to give information regarding certain inquiries. I must ask you to be good enough to come with me.”

Smith glanced swiftly around. Jussac joined the party. Two men, their backs to us, stood talking just outside in Rue de Rivoli.

“I won’t!” blazed Ardatha, “unless you force me to!”

Gallaho clearly was nonplussed. To Jussac:

“Grab that pair outside the door!” said Smith rapidly. “Lock them up for the night. If I’m wrong I’ll face the consequences. Inspector, this lady is in your charge. Bring her upstairs . . .”

Jussac stepped outside and whistled. I did not wait to see what happened. Ardatha, between Inspector Gallaho and Nayland Smith, was walking towards the lift . . .

Having reached our apartment and switched all lights up:

“Inspector,” said Smith, “examine the lobby and the smaller bedroom and bathroom. I will search the others.”

In the sitting room he looked hard at Ardatha: “I am going to have you locked in the end room,” he remarked, “as soon as Inspector Gallaho reports that it is a safe place.”

He went out. No sooner was the door closed than I had Ardatha in my arms.

She seemed to search me with her glance: it was the look which a woman gives a man before she stakes all upon her choice.

“I have run away, Bart—to you. I was followed, but they could do nothing while I stood there at the desk. Now they have seen me arrested, and if ever he gets me back, perhaps this may save me—”

“No one shall get you back!”

“You do not understand!” She clutched me convulsively. “Shall I never make you understand that unless we can get away from Paris, nothing can save us—nothing!” She clenched her hands and stared like a frightened hare as Nayland Smith came in. “It is the order of the Council. I do not know if there is anywhere in the world you can hide from them—but this place you must leave at once!”

“Listen to me, Ardatha,” Smith grasped her shoulders. “Have you any knowledge, any whatever, of the Si-Fan plans for tonight?”

She faced him fearlessly; her hands remained clenched.

“If I had, I could not tell you. But I have no knowledge of these plans. As I hope for mercy, it is true. Only I know that you are to die.”

“How do you know?”

Ardatha from her handbag took out a square envelope.

“I was ordered to leave this at the desk and not allow myself to be recognized. I waited until I knew . . . I had been recognized!”

Final notice

Lower and raise the lights in your sitting room slowly twice, to indicate that you are prepared to take instructions. You have until midnight.

PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL

The Thing With Red Eyes

The apartments faced upon a courtyard. There were a number of police in the hotel under Jussac’s orders, and the passports of all residents had been scrutinized. Some of the rooms around the courtyard were empty; the occupants of the others were supposedly above suspicion. But Ardatha’s terror-stricken face haunted me. When she had realized that she was to be locked in the end room to await the hour of midnight, a fear so overwhelming had come upon her that my own courage was threatened.

Gallaho was in the lobby outside her door. And now I heard the clocks of Paris chiming . . .

It was a quarter to twelve.

We had curtained all the windows, although if one excepted opposite rooms, no point commanded them. The atmosphere was stale and oppressive. Paris vibrated with rumors and counter-rumors. By some it was believed that France already was at war;

another story ran that Delibes was dead. But to the quiet old courtyard none of this penetrated. Instead a more real, a more sinister menace was there. The shadow of Fu Manchu lay upon us.

A hopeless fatalism began to claim me. Already I looked upon Nayland Smith as a dead man.

From Ardatha came no sound. Her eyes had been unnaturally bright when we had left her: I had seen that splendid composure, that proud fearless spirit, broken. I knew that if she prayed, she prayed for me; and I thought that now she would be in tears -tears of misery, despair—waiting, listening . . . for what?

“Have your gun ready, Kerrigan!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am going to search every inch of this room.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know! But you remember the black streak that went over Delibes’ balcony? That thing, or another, similar thing, is here!”

I took a grip of failing nerves and stepped up to a walnut cabinet containing many cupboards, but:

“Touch nothing!” Smith snapped. “Leave the search to me. Just stand by.”

He began to walk from point to point about the room, sparsely furnished in the manner of a continental hotel. No drawer was left unopened, no nook or cranny unsearched.

But he found nothing.

The electric clock registered seven minutes to midnight. And now came a wild cry, for which I knew that subconsciously I had been waiting.

“Let me out! For God’s sake—let me out! I want to be with you—I can’t bear it!”

“Go and pacify her, Kerrigan. We dare not have her in here.”

“I won’t budge!”

“Let me out—let me out—I shall go mad!”

Smith threw the door open.

“Allow her to join you in the lobby, Gallaho. On no account is she to enter this room.”

“Very good, Sir Denis.”

As Smith released the door, I heard the sound of a lock turned. I heard Ardatha’s running footsteps . . .

“Come out there! Dear God, I beg of you—come out!”

Gallaho’s growing tones reached me as he strove to restrain her.

“If you are so sure, Smith”—my voice was not entirely under control—”that the danger is here, why should we stay?”

“I have asked you to leave,” he replied coldly.

“Not without you.”

“It happens to be my business, Kerrigan, to investigate the instruments of murder employed by Doctor Fu Manchu, but it is not yours. I believe some death agent to be concealed in this room, and I am determined to find out what it is.”

“Smith! Smith!” I spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“What?”

“For heaven’s sake don’t move—but look where I am looking. There, under the cornice!”

The apartment had indirect lighting so that there was a sort of recess running around three of the walls directly below the ceiling.

From the darkness of a corner where there were no lamps, two tiny fiery eyes—they looked red—glared down at us.

“My God!”

“What is it, Smith? In heaven’s name, what is it?”

Those malignant eyes remained immovable; they possessed a dreadful, evil intelligence. It might have been an imp of hell crouching there, watching . . . Raising my repeater, I fired, and . . . all the lights went out!

“Drop flat, Kerrigan!”

The urgency of Smith’s order booked no denial. I threw myself prone on the carpet. I heard Smith fall near by . . .

There came a moaning cry, then a roar from Gallaho:

“What’s this game? What’s happened?”

The door behind me burst open. I became aware of a pungent odor.

“No lights, Gallaho ―and don’t come in! Make for the door, Kerrigan!”

I groped my way across the room. The awareness of that unknown thing somewhere in the darkness afforded one of the most terrifying sensations I had ever known. But I got to the door and into the lobby. Gallaho stretched out his hand and grasped my shoulder.

“Where’s Sir Denis?”

“I am here.”

There were sounds of movement all about, of voices.

“It’s the big black-out,” came Smith’s voice incisively, “ordered by Delibes to take place tonight. Whoever is in charge of the air defenses of Paris has received no orders to cancel it. This saved us—for I’m afraid you missed, Kerrigan!”

“Ardatha!” I said shakily, “Ardatha!”

“She fainted, Mr. Kerrigan, when the shot came . . .”

The Thing With Red Eyes (Concluded)

“Open this door.”

We stood before a door bearing the number 36. It was that of a room which adjoined our apartments. Lights had been restored. An alarmed manager obeyed.

“Stand by outside, Gallaho. Come on, Kerrigan.”

I found myself in a single bedroom which did not appear to be occupied. There was an acrid smell, and the first object upon which my glance rested was a long, narrow cardboard box labeled: “Meurice Freres.”

I glanced at an attached tab and read:

Mme Hulbert:

To be placed in number 36 to await Mme Hulbert’s arrival.

“Don’t touch that thing!” snapped Smith. “I’m not sure, yet—Hullo!”

He was staring up at part of the wall above the wardrobe. There was a jagged hole, perhaps six inches in diameter, which I could only suppose to penetrate to the adjoining apartment.

Smith dragged a chair forward, stood on it and examined the top of the wardrobe.

“Apologize, Kerrigan! You didn’t miss after all . . . There’s blood here!”

Down he came and began questing all about the floor.

“Here’s a fresh stain, Smith!”

“Ah! Near the window! By gad! I believe it’s escaped! I’m going to pull the curtains open. If you see anything move, don’t hesitate—shoot!”

Colt in hand I watched him as he dragged the heavy curtains apart. The window was open about four inches at the bottom.

“Stains here, look!”

Standing beside him, I saw on the ledge bloodstains of so strange a character that comment failed me. They were imprints of tiny hands!

“Singular!” murmured Smith

He stared out right and left and down into the courtyard. The building was faced with ornamental stone blocks.

“Smith—”I began.

“A thing as small as that could climb down such a wall,” he rapped, “and into an open window—assuming its wound not to be serious.”

“But, Smith—this is the print of a human hand!”

“I know!” He ran to the door. “Gallaho! Instruct Jussac to search all rooms opening on this courtyard and to make sure that nothing—not even a small parcel—leaves any of them. Come on, Kerrigan.”

Picking up the florist’s box, he returned to our locked apartments. Ardatha was in a room nearby, in charge of a sympathetic housekeeper. As we entered the sitting room, I pulled up, staring . . .

At the moment of my firing at that thing up under the cornice, Smith, just behind me, had been standing in front of a walnut cabinet.

The top of the cabinet had disappeared!

“Merciful heaven!” I whispered, “you escaped death by a fraction of a second!”

“Yes! Ericksen’s Ray! The thing with the red eyes has at least elementary intelligence to be entrusted with such a weapon. This creature, or one like it, had been smuggled into Delibes’ house, but made its escape. In the present case the same device of the flower box was used, an adjoining room having been reserved by a mythical Mme Hulbert. During our absence this evening, by means of the ray, that hole was bored through the wall.”

“But the box remains unopened!”

“So do the boxes, apparently, used by stage magicians. I think we may risk it now!”

“Is all well in there, Sir Denis?” came Gallaho’s husky voice from the lobby.

“All’s well, Inspector.”

He cut the string and opened the box.

It was empty.

“Assuming a thinking creature small enough to get into such a box, for it to get out again would be a simple matter: merely necessary to draw these two end flaps and replace them without unfastening the string . . .”

I cannot say, I shall never know, what drew my attention away from the trick box, but I found myself staring fixedly into the shadows beneath the bureau. This bureau stood almost immediately below the hole high up under the cornice. Some dully shining object lay upon the carpet.

As I stepped forward to pick it up, indeed, all but had my hand upon it, I recognized it for what it was—just such a tube as I had seen in the possession of Dr Fu Manchu.

And as this recognition came I saw the thing with the red eyes!

“Quick! Grab it for your life, Kerrigan!”

Wounded, the creature had dropped the silver tube in that sudden darkness, had sought to escape, and then for some reason had returned for the day. It crouched now beside the bureau, a black dwarf no more than fifteen inches high, naked save for a loincloth also black: a perfectly formed human being!

Its features, which were Negroid, contorted in animal fury, its red eyes glaring like those of a rabid dog, it sprang up the tube.

But I snatched it in the nick of time . . .

That which happened next threatens to defeat my powers of description. Smith, who had been maneuvering for a shot fired—but as I made that frenzied grab, stumbling onto my knees, my fingers closed upon a sort of trigger in the butt end of the tube.

Smith’s bullet buried itself in the wall. I experienced a tingling sensation. The thing with the red eyes which crouched before me, disappeared!

My last recollection is that of the bureau crashing down upon my head.

* * *

“Bart, dearest, are you better?”

I lay propped on cushions. Ardatha’s arms were around me. My head buzzed like a wasps’ nest, and a man whom I took to be a surgeon was bathing a painful cut on my brow.

“Yes, he is better,” said the surgeon, smiling. “No serious damage.” He turned to Nayland Smith who stood watching. “It must have been a heavy blow, nevertheless.”

“It was!” Smith assured him. “Fortunately, he has a thick skull.”

When the medical man was gone and I felt capable of sitting up and observing my surroundings, I realized that I had been moved to another room.

“Explanation of what had occurred would have been too difficult,” Smith declared. “So we brought you in here.”

And now came the memory of the black dwarf who had disappeared . . .

“Smith—he was disintegrated!”

“So was a portion of the bureau,” Smith replied, “hence your being knocked out. It toppled before I had a chance to get at it. I have the mysterious tube, Kerrigan, Exhibit A, which resolves matter into its particles; but I don’t propose to experiment further. We should be grateful for the fact that it was not ourselves who were dispersed!”

Ardatha held my hand tightly, and a swift glad wave of happiness swept over me. The unbelievable had come true.

“I am by no means sure how long this peaceful interlude will last,” Smith continued. “My taking forcible means to save Marcel Delibes may be construed, however, as a triumph for the Si-Fan. In this case our interests were identical. Possibly we shall be granted a reprieve!”

“We deserve one!” I was staring at something which lay upon a side table. It resembled a small watch but I knew that I had never seen it before. “What have you there, Smith?”

“Exhibit B!” He smiled. “It must have been in the possession of the dwarf—the smallest and also the most malignant human being I have ever come across. Gallaho found it in the cavity between the two rooms, so that I assume the dwarf intended to return, having recovered the silver tube, and to make his escape by way of the window of number 36.I suspect that this possibility had been provided for.”

“But what is it?”

Ardatha’s grasp on my hand tightened.

“It is a radiophone,” she said. “Sometimes—not often—those carrying out Si-Fan instructions are given one. In this way they are kept directly in contact with whoever is directing them.”

I turned my aching head and looked into her eyes.

“Did you ever use one, Ardatha?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, “when I was sent to get the portfolio of the police commissioner in London!”

“You understand now, Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “that voice which we both heard in the study of M. Delibes? I am going to ask you, Ardatha, to show me how to get ‘directly in contact’!”

Ardatha released my hand and stood up. She was supremely graceful in all her movements. Her poise was perfect, and I knew now that that momentary despair had been for me . . .

“I will do so if you wish. Nothing may happen. You can only listen: you cannot reply.”

She took the tiny instrument which Smith handed to her and made some adjustments. We both watched closely. Paris lay about us, not sleeping, but seething with rumors of war. But in that room was silence—silence in which we waited.

It was broken.

A guttural voice spoke rapidly in a tongue unknown to me. It ceased. Ardatha adjusted the instrument.

“To move it to there,” she said—but her tones were not steady—”means ‘I do not understand.’“

And now (I confess that my heart leapt uncomfortably) that guttural voice spoke in English . . . and I knew that the speaker was Dr Fu Manchu!

“Can it be Sir Denis who calls me?”

Ardatha’s fingers moved.

“Indeed! I rejoice that you live, Sir Denis. I suspect that Ardatha is with you. Any information which she may be able to impart you will find of small value. I assume that one of my three Negritos pygmies is lost. But this is no more than just. Your work in regard to M. Delibes resulted in the cancelling of the grotesque order for your removal. I welcome your co-operation . . . I regret my dwarf. Such a specimen represents twenty years’ culture. Destroy the Ericksen tube: it is dangerous. Those who use it do not live long. The radiophone I commend to you. Waste no time seeking me . . .”

That unique voice faded away. Ardatha was trembling in my arms.

The End