CHAPTER
2
THE PORCELAIN
VENUS
That phenomenal fog which over a great part of Europe heralded and ushered in the New Year, was responsible for many things that were strange and many that were horrible. Amongst the latter the wreck of the Paris-Strasbourg express and the tragic crash of an Imperial Airways liner. The triumphant fog demon was responsible, also, for the present predicament of PC. Ireland.
A big car belonging to the Flying Squad of Scotland Yard, and provided with special fog lights, stood outside Wandsworth police station. And in the divisional-inspector’s office a conversation was taking place which, could PC. Ireland have heard it, would have made that intelligent officer realize the importance of his solitary vigil.
Divisional-inspector Watford was a grey-haired, distinguished looking man of military bearing. He sat behind a large desk looking alternately from one to the other of his two visitors. Of these, one, Chief-inspector Gallaho, of the C.I.D., was well known to every officer in the Metropolitan police force. A thick-set, clean-shaven man, of florid colouring and truculent expression, buttoned up in a blue overcoat and wearing a rather wide-brimmed bowler hat. He stood, resting one elbow upon the mantelpiece and watching the man who had come with him from Scotland Yard.
The latter, tall, lean, and of that dully dark complexion which tells of long residence in the tropics, wore a leather overcoat over a very shabby tweed suit. He was hatless, and his close-cropped, crisply waving grey hair excited the envy of the district inspector. His own hair was of that colour but had been deserting him for many years. The man in the leather overcoat was smoking a pipe, and restlessly walking up and down the office floor.
The divisional inspector was somewhat awed by his second visitor, who was none other than ex-Assistant Commissioner Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Something very big was afoot.
Suddenly pulling up in front of the desk, Sir Denis took his pipe from between his teeth, and:
“Did you ever hear of Dr. Fu Manchu?” he jerked, fixing his keen eyes upon Watford.
“Certainly, sir,” said the latter, looking up in a startled way. “My predecessor in this division was actually concerned in the case, I believe, a number of years ago. For my own part”—he smiled slightly—”I have always regarded him as a sort of name—what you might term a trade-mark.”
“Trade-mark?” echoed Nayland Smith. “What do you mean? That there’s no such person?”
“Something of the kind, sir. I mean, isn’t Fu Manchu really the name for a sort of political organization, like the Mafia—or the Black Hand?”
Nayland Smith laughed shortly, and glanced at the man from Scotland Yard.
“He is chief of such an organization,” he replied, “but the organization itself has another name. There is a Dr. Fu Manchu—and Dr. Fu Manchu
The inspector, stared hard for a moment, and then:
“Indeed, sir!” he murmured. “And may I take it that there’s some connection between this Fu Manchu and Professor Ambrose?”
“I don’t know,” Nayland Smith snapped, “but I intend to find out to-night. What can you tell me about the professor? He lives in your area.”
“He does, sir.” The inspector nodded. “He has a large house and studio on the North Side of the Common. We have had orders for several days to afford him special protection.”
Nayland Smith nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth.
“Personally, I’ve never seen him, and I’ve never seen any of his work. He’s a bit outside my province. But I understand that although he’s an Italian by birth, he is a naturalized British subject. What he wants protection for, is beyond me. In fact, I should be glad to know, if anyone can tell me.”
Sir Denis glanced at the Scotland Yard man.
“Bring the inspector up-to-date,” he directed; “he’s evidently rather in the dark.”
Watford, resting his arms on the table, stared at the celebrated detective, enquiringly.
“Well, it’s like this,” Gallaho began in a low, rumbling voice. “If it means anything to you, I’ll begin by admitting that it means nothing to me. Professor Ambrose has been abroad for some time supervising the making of a new kind of statue at the Sevres works, outside Paris. It’s a life-sized figure, I understand, and more or less life coloured. Since the matter was brought to my notice, I have been looking up newspaper reports and it appears that the thing has created a bit of a sensation in artistic circles. Well, the professor took it down to an international exhibition held in Nice. This exhibition closed a week ago, and the figure, which is called ‘The Sleeping Venus’, was brought back to Paris, and from Paris to London.”
“Did the professor come along too?”
“Yes. And in Paris he asked for police protection.”
“What for?”
“Don’t ask me—I’m asking you. The French sent a man down to Boulogne on the train in which the thing was transported—then we took over on this side. There’s a man on duty outside his house now, isn’t there?”
“Yes. And the fog’s so dense it’s impossible to relieve him.”
Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again; but
now:
“He can be relieved when the other car arrives,” he jerked, glancing back over his shoulder. “I should have pushed straight on, but there is someone I am anxious to interrogate. I have arranged for him to be brought here.”
That the speaker was in a state of high nervous tension none could have failed to recognize. He was a man oppressed by the cloud of some dreadful doubt.
“That’s the story,” Gallaho added. “The professor and his statue arrived by Golden Arrow on Friday evening, just as the fog was beginning. He had two assistants, or workmen—foreigners, anyway, with him—and he had hired a small lorry. A plain-clothes man covered the proceedings, and the case containing the statue arrived at the professor’s house about nine o’clock on Friday night, I understand.” Then, unconsciously he echoed the ideas of Police Constable Ireland. “What the devil anybody wants to steal a statue for, is beyond me.”
“It’s so far beyond me,” Nayland Smith said rapidly, “that I am here to-night to inspect that work of art.”
Watford’s expression was pathetically blank.
“It doesn’t seem to mean anything,” he confessed.
“No”, said Gallaho, grimly, “it doesn’t. It will seem to mean less when I tell you that we had a wire from the Italian police this evening—advising us that Professor Ambrose had been seen in the garden of his villa in Capri yesterday morning.”
“What?”
“Sort that out,” growled Gallaho. “It looks as though we’ve been giving protection to the wrong man, doesn’t it?”
“Good Lord!” Watford’s face registered the blankest bewilderment. “Is it your idea, sir——?” he turned to Nayland Smith—”I mean, you don’t think that Professor Ambrose——”
“Well,” growled Gallaho—”go ahead.”
“No, of course, if he’s been seen alive! Good Lord!” But again he turned to Sir Denis, who was pacing more and more rapidly up and down the floor. “Where does Fu Manchu come in?”
“That’s a long story,” Smith replied, “and until I have interviewed the professor, or the person posing as the professor, I cannot be certain that he comes in at all.”
There was a rap on the door, and a uniformed constable came in.
“The other car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and there’s a Mr. Preston here, asking for Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
“Show him in,” said Watford.
A few moments later a young man came into the office bringing with him a whiff of the fog outside. He wore a heavy tweed overcoat and white muffler, and carried a soft hat. He had a fresh-coloured face and light blue, twinkling eyes—very humorous and good-natured. He sneezed several times, and smiled apologetically.
“My name is Nayland Smith,” said Sir Denis. “Won’t you please sit down?”
“Thank you, sir,” and Preston sat down. “It’s a devil of a night to bring a bloke out, but I’ve no doubt it’s very
