The Drums of Fu Manchu

“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 Koreani’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