The Bride of Fu Manchu

“I mean that, even with her eyes closed, the likeness was uncanny, utterly beyond the possibility of coincidence. Then, when you described to me their unusual quality—and Karamaneh’s eyes are her crowning beauty—I knew that I could not be mistaken.”

Positively I was stricken dumb—I could only sit and stare at the speaker. No words occurred to me.

Therefore, poor Petrie’s recognition does not surprise me. It may seem amazing, Sterling, almost incredible, that a child less than three weeks old could be subjected to that treatment upon which much of Fu Manchu’s monumental knowledge rests: the production of artificial catalepsy; but a fact which by now must have dawned upon you. He is not only the greatest physician alive to-day, he is probably the greatest physician who has ever been.”

“Sir Denis——”

The car was just pulling up before the police headquarters.

“There’s no doubt whatever. Sterling!” He grasped my arm firmly. “Think of what the doctor has told you about her—think of what she has told you about herself—so much as she knows. There isn’t a shadow of doubt. Fleurette is Petrie’s daughter, and Karamaneh is her mother! Buck up, old chap, I know how you must feel about it—but we haven’t abandoned hope yet.”

He sprang out and ran in at the door, brushing past an officer who stood on duty there.

chapter forty-fourth

OFFICER OF THE PREFET

in the large but frigid office of M. Chamrousse, Prefet of the Department, that sedate, grey-bearded official spoke rapidly on the telephone and made a number of notes upon a writing block. Sir Denis snapping his fingers impatiently and pacing up and down the carpet.

I had no idea of his plan, of what he hoped for. My state of mental chaos was worse than before. Fleurette Petrie’s daughter! From tenderest infancy she had lived as those others lived whom he wanted for his several purposes: a dream-life!

And now—Petrie himself...

In upon my thoughts broke the magisterial voice of the man at the big table.

“Here is the complete list, Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said. “You will see that the only private vessel of any tonnage which has cleared a neighbouring port during the last twelve hours is this one.”

He rested the point of his pencil on the paper. Nayland Smith, bending eagerly over him, read the note aloud:

“M. Y. Lola, of Buenos Aires; four thousand tons; owned by Santos da Cunha.”

He suddenly stood upright, staring before him.

“Santos da Cunha?” he repeated. “Where have I heard that name?”

“Curiously enough,” said M. Chamrousse, “the villa at Ste Claire was formerly the property of this gentleman, from whom it was purchased by Mahdi Bey.”

Sir Denis dashed his fist into the palm of his hand.

“Sterling!” he cried—”there’s hope yet! there’s hope yet! But I have been blind. This is the Argentine for whose record I am waiting!” He turned to the Prefet. “How long has the Lola been lying in Monaco?”

“Nearly a week, I believe.”

“And she left?”

“Soon after dawn, Sir Denis—as I read in this report.”

“You see, Sterling! you see?” he cried.

He turned again to the Prefet, and:

“The Lola must be traced,” he said rapidly—”without delay. Please give instructions for messages to be sent to all ships in the neighbourhood, notifying position of this motor yacht when sighted.”

“I can do this,” said the other gravely, inclining his head.

“Next, is there a French or British warship in port anywhere along the coast?”

M. Chamrousse raised his eyebrows.

“There is a French destroyer in the harbour of Monaco,” he replied.

“Please notify her commander to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice—in fact, the instant I get on board.”

That peremptory manner, contempt for red tape and routine, which characterised Sir Denis in emergencies, had the effect of ruffling the French official.

“This, sir,” he replied taking off his spectacles and tapping them on the blotting pad, “I cannot do.”

“Cannot?”

The other shrugged.

“I have no such powers,” he declared. “It is in the province of the naval authority. I doubt if even the admiral commanding the Mediterranean Fleet could take it upon himself to do what you ask of me.”

“Perhaps,” rapped Nayland Smith, “in these circumstances, you will be good enough to put a call through to the Ministry of Marine in Paris.”

M. Chamrousse shrugged his shoulders and looked mildly surprised.

“Really——” he began.

“My authority from the British Foreign Office,” said Sir Denis, with a sort of repressed violence, “is such that any delay you may cause must react to your own discredit. The interests of France as well as those of England are involved in this matter. Damn it, M. Chamrousse! I am here in the interests of France! Must I go elsewhere, or will you do as I ask?”

The Prefet resignedly took up the telephone and gave instructions to the outer office that Paris should be called.

Nayland Smith began again to pace up and down the carpet.

“You know. Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” M. Chamrousse began in his dry, precise voice, “it is perhaps a little unfair to me that I am so badly informed regarding this matter. All the available police have been rushed to Ste Claire and, according to my latest reports, are locked up there. I am in the dark about this—I am tied hand and foot. Paris instructed me to place myself at your disposal, and I have done so, but the reputation of Mahdi Bey, whom I have met several times socially, is quite frankly above suspicion. To me the whole thing is incomprehensible; and now you demand——”

In this unemotional outburst I saw the reason of the Prefet’s coldness towards Sir Denis. He resented the action of Paris. Sir Denis realised this also; for checking his restless promenade he turned to face the little bearded man.

“Such issues are at stake, M. Chamrousse,” he said, “and my own blunders have so confounded me, that perhaps I have failed in proper courtesy. If so, forgive me. But try to believe that I have every reason for what I do. It is of vital importance that the yacht Lola should be detained.”

I accept your assurance upon these matters, Sir Denis,” said M. Chamrousse.

But I thought from the tone of his dusty voice that he was somewhat mollified.

Conversation ceased, and unavoidably I dropped back into that valley of sorrowful reflection from which this verbal duel between Sir Denis and the French official had temporarily dragged me.

Fleurette was Petrie’s daughter!

This was the amazing fact outstanding above the mist and discord which ruled my brain. It might be that they were together; but, once Petrie should have fully recovered from his dangerous illness, I did not doubt that he would be forced to accept that Blessing of the Celestial Vision from which I had so narrowly escaped; and then...

If my influence had “not tarnished the mirror,” in Dr. Fu Manchu’s words—a ghastly union of unknown age and budding youth would be consummated!

I could not face the idea. I found myself clenching my fists and grinding my teeth.

At which moment, the connection with Paris was made; M. Chamrousse stood up, bowed courteously, and handed the receiver to Sir Denis.

The latter—in voluble but very bad French—proceeded to tread heavily on the toes of the Paris official at the other end of the line. I had learned that he, in moments of stress, was prone to exhibit a truculence, an indifference