be his mistress.
She deliberately avoided looking in my direction again.
Her companion never moved: his immobility was extraordinary. And presently, through the leaves of the shrubs growing in wooden boxes, I saw the black-and-silver Rolls, almost directly opposite the restaurant.
My glance moved upward to the parapet guarding a higher road which here dips down and forms a hairpin bend.
A man stood there watching.
Difficult though it was from where I sat to form a clear impression of his appearance, I became convinced, nevertheless, that he was one of the tribe of the dacoits...either the same, or an opposite number, of the yellow- faced horror I had seen in the garden of the Villa Jasmin!
And at that moment, as my waiter approached, changing the plates in readiness for the first course, I found myself swept back mentally into the ghastly business I had come there to forget. I experienced a sudden chill of foreboding.
If, as I strongly suspected, one of the murderous Burmans were watching the restaurant—did this mean that I had been followed there? If so, with what purpose? I no longer stood between Petrie’s enemies and their objective...but:
I had wounded, probably killed, one of their number. I had heard much of the implacable blood feuds of the Indian thugs;
it was no more than reasonable to suppose that something of the same might prevail among the dacoits of Burma.
I glanced furtively upward again. And there was the motionless figure leaning against the parapet.
In dress there was nothing to distinguish the man from an ordinary Monaco workman, but my present survey confirmed my first impression.
This was one of the yellow men attached to the service of Dr. Fu Manchu.
I cast my memory back over the route I had so recently traversed. Had any car followed me? I could not recollect that it was so. But, on the other hand, I had been much abstracted, driving mechanically....Dusk had fallen before I had reached Monaco. If an attempt were contemplated, why had it not taken place upon the road?
The problem was beyond me....But there stood the watcher, motionless, by the parapet.
And at this very moment, and just as the wine-waiter placed a decanter of my favourite Pommard before me, I had a remarkable experience—an experience so disturbing that I sat quite still for several seconds, my outstretched hand poised in the act of taking up the decanter.
Close beside my ear—as it seemed, out of space, out of nowhere—that same high, indescribable note became audible; that sound which I believe I have already attempted to describe as the call of a fairy trumpet....
Once before, and once only, I had heard it—on the beach of Ste Claire de la Roche.
Some eerie quality in the sound affected me now, as it had affected me then. It was profoundly mysterious; but one thing was certain. Unless the sound were purely a product of my own imagination, or the result of some trouble of the inner ear— possibly an aftermath of illness—it could not be coincidence that on the two occasions that I had heard it Fleurette had been present.
My hand dropped down to the
Her eyes were fixed on the face other companion, who sat with his back to me, in that dreamy, far-away regard which I remembered.
Then her delicate lips moved, and I thought, although I could not hear her words, that she was replying to some question which he had addressed to her.
And, as I looked and realised that she was speaking, that strange sound ceased as abruptly as it had commenced.
I saw Fleurette glance aside; her expression changed swiftly. But her eyes never once turned in my direction. I stared beyond her, up through the leaves of the shrubs and towards the parapet on the other side of the street.
The Burman had disappeared....
chapter sixteenth
THE DACOIT
“You are wanted on the telephone, Mr. Sterling.”
I started as wildly as a man suddenly aroused from sleep. A dreadful premonition gripped me icily. I stood up.
“Do you know who it is?”
“I believe the name was Dr. Cartier, sir.”
In that moment Fleurette and her mysterious companion were forgotten; the lurking yellow man faded from my mind as completely as he had faded from my view. This was news of Petrie; and something told me it could only be bad news.
I hurried through the restaurant to the telephone booth, and snatched up the receiver.
“Hullo, hullo!” I called. “Alan Sterling here. Is that Dr. Cartier?”
Brisson’s voice answered me: his tone prepared me for what was to come.
“I mentioned Dr. Cartier’s name in case you should not be familiar with my own, Mr. Sterling. I would not have disturbed you—for you can scarcely have begun your dinner yet—had I not promised to report any news at once.”
“What is it?” I asked eagerly
“Prepare yourself to know that it is bad.”
“Not...?”
“Alas—yes!”
“My God!”
“There was no final convulsion—no change. ‘654’ might have saved him—if we had known what treatment to pursue after the first injection. But the coma passed slowly into...death.”
As I listened to those words, a change came over my entire outlook on the future. A cold rage, and what I knew to be an abiding rage, took possession of me. The merciless fiends, for no reason that I could possibly hope to imagine, had ended an honourable and supremely useful life; that kindly personality which had lived only to serve had been snatched away, remorselessly.
Very well....It was murder, calculated, callous murder. This was a game that two could play. What I had done once, I could do again, and again—and every time that I got within reach of any of the foul gang!
Dr. Fu Manchu!
If such a person existed, I asked only to be set face to face with him. That moment, I vowed, should be his last—little knowing the stupendous task to which I vowed myself.
Fah Lo Suee—a woman; but one of them. The French had not hesitated to shoot female spies during the World War. Nor should I, now.
I had reached the head of the steps when Victor Quinton touched my shoulder. Details were indefinite, but my immediate objective was plain. One of the Burmans was covering my movements. I planned to find that Burman; and—taking every possible precaution to insure my own getaway—I planned to kill him....
“You have had bad news, M. Sterling?”
“Dr. Petrie is dead,” I said, and ran down the steps.
I suppose many curious glances followed; perhaps Fleurette had seen me. I didn’t care. I crossed the street and walked up the opposite slope. A man was lounging there, smoking a cigarette—a typical working-class Frenchman; and I remembered that he had stood there for part of the time during which the dacoit had watched the restaurant.
“Excuse me.” I said.
The man started and turned.
“Did you chance to see an Oriental who stood near you here a few minutes ago?”
“But yes, m’sieur. Someone I suppose off one of those foreign yachts in the harbour? He had gone only this last two minutes.”
