choleric character.
“Listen!” he shouted—”It’s you I’m talkin’ to, Sheriff! I’ve had more’n enough o’ this for one night. Money ain’t ev’rything when a man has to buy a new boat.”
“But listen, Clutterbuck——”
Nayland Smith stepped forward.
“Mr. Clutterbuck,” he said—”I gather that this is your name—we are government officers. We regret disturbing you, but we have our duty to perform.”
“A boat’s a boat, an’ money ain’t ev’rything.”
“So you have already assured us. Explain what you mean.”
Farmer Clutterbuck found himself to be strangely subdued by the cold authority of the speaker’s voice.
“Well, it’s this way,” he said. (Two windows above were opened, and two heads peered out.) “I’m a league man, see? This is a league farm. Can’t alter that, can I? An’ I’m roused up to-night when I’m fast asleep—that’s enough to annoy a man, ain’t it? I think the war’s started. Around these parts we all figure on it. I take my gun an’ I look out o’ the window. What do I see? Listen to me, Sheriff—what do I see?”
“Forget the sheriff,” said Nayland Smith irritably; “address you remarks to me. What did you see?”
“Oh, well! all right. I see three men standin’ right here outside—right here where we stand now. One’s old, with white whiskers an’ white hair; another one, some kind of a coloured man, I couldn’t just see prop’ly; but the third one—him that’s lookin’ up” he paused—”well . . .”
“Well?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“He’s very tall, see? As tall as me, I guess; an’ he wears a coat with a fur collar an’ his eyes—listen to this, Sheriff—his eyes ain’t brown, an’ his eyes ain’t blue, an’ they ain’t grey:
they’re green!”
“Quick, man!” Nayland Smith cried. “What happened. What did he want.”
“He wants my motor-boat.”
“Did he get it?”
“Listen, mister! I told you I’m a league man, didn’t I? Well, this is a league official, see? Shows me his badge. He buys the boat. I didn’t have no choice, anyway—but I’d been nuts to say no to the price. Trouble is, now I got no boat; an’ money ain’t ev’rything when a man loses his boat!”
“Fu Manchu knows the game’s up. They had a radio in the plane!” said Smith to Hepburn in a low tone vibrant with excitement.
“Then God help Salvaletti!”
“Amen. We know he has agents in Chicago. But by heaven we must move, Hepburn: the Doctor is making for Canada!”
At roughly about this time, those who had listened to Patrick Donegal and who now were listening to radio topics received a further shock. . . .
“Tragic news has just come to hand from Chicago,” they heard. “A woman known as Mrs. Valetti occupied Apartment 36 in the Doric Building on Lakeside. She was a beautiful brunette, and almost her only caller was a man believed to be her husband who frequently visited there. About 8.30 this evening, Miss Lola Dumas, whose marriage to Paul Salvaletti has been arranged to take place next month, came to the apartment. She had never been there before. She failed to get any reply to her ringing but was horrified to hear a woman’s scream. At her urgent request the door was opened by the resident manager, and a dreadful discovery was made.
“Mrs. Valetti and the man lay side by side upon the day-bed in the sitting-room. On the woman’s arms and on the man’s neck there were a number of blood-red spots. They were both dead, and a window was wide open. Miss Dumas collapsed on recognizing the man as her fiance, Paul Salvaletti. She is alleged to have uttered the words, ‘The Scarlet Bride’—which the police engaged on the case believe to relate to the dead woman. But Miss Dumas to whom the sympathy of the entire country goes out in this hour of her unimaginable sorrow, is critically ill and cannot be questioned.
“The crisis which this tragedy will create in political circles it would be impossible to exaggerate. . . .”
Chapter 40
“THUNDER OF WATERS”
“They’re just landing!” cried the man in the bows of the Customs launch—“at the old Indian Ferry.”
“Guess those Canadian bums showed ‘emselves,” growled another voice. “We had ‘em trapped, if they’d gone ashore where they planned.”
Nayland Smith, standing up and peering through night-glasses, saw a tall, dark figure on the rock-cut steps. It was unmistakable. It was Fu Manchu! He saw him beckon to the second passenger on the little motor-boat; and the other, a man whose hair shone like silver in the moonlight, joined him on the steps. A third remained in the boat at the wheel . Dr. Fu Manchu, arms folded, stood for a moment looking out across the river. He did not seem to be watching the approaching Customs craft so swiftly bearing down upon him, but rather to be studying the shadowed American bank, the frontier of the United States.
It came to Nayland Smith, as they drew nearer and nearer to the motionless figure, that Dr. Fu Manchu was bidding a silent farewell to the empire he had so nearly won. . . .
Just as words of command trembled on Smith’s lips Fu Manchu spoke to the occupant of the boat, turned, and with his white-haired companion strode up the steps—steps hewn by the Red man in days before any white traveller had seen or heard “The Thunder of Waters.”
The motor-boat spluttered into sudden life and set off down-stream.
“Stop that man!” rapped Nayland Smith.
