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
“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.”
