The Bride of Fu Manchu

to the feelings of others which underlay and may have been the driving power behind that brusque but never uncourteous manner which characterised him normally.

He was demanding to speak to the Minister in person and refusing to be put off.

“At home and asleep? Be so good as to put me through to his private number at once!”

M. Chamrousse had taken his stand on the carpet upon which Nayland Smith so recently had paced up and down; listening to the conversation, he merely shrugged, took out a cigarette, and lighted it with meticulous care.

However, it must be recorded to the credit of Sir Denis that his intolerant language—which was sometimes frankly rude—achieved its objective.

He was put through to the sleeping Minister....

No doubt there is much to be said for direct methods in sweeping aside ill-informed opposition. In the Middle West of America, my father’s home, I had learned to respect the direct attack as opposed to those circumlocutory manouevres so generally popular in European society.

To the unconcealed surprise ofM. Chamrousse, Sir Denis’s demands were instantly conceded!

I gathered that authoritative orders would be transmitted immediately to the commander of the destroyer lying in the harbour at Monaco; that every other available unit in the fleet would be despatched in quest of the submarine. In short, it became evident during this brief conversation that Sir Denis wielded an authority greater than even I had suspected.

When presently he replaced the receiver and sprang to his feet, the effect upon M. Chamrousse was notable.

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said, “I congratulate you— but you fully realise that in this matter I was indeed helpless!”

Sir Denis shook his hand.

“Please say no more! Of course I understand. But if you would accept my advice, it would be this: proceed personally to Ste Claire, and when you have realised the difficulties of the situation there, you will be in a position to deal with it.”

Some more conversation there was, the gist of which I have forgotten, and then we were out in the car again and speeding along those tortuous roads headed for Monaco.

“Much time has been wasted,” rapped Nayland Smith;

“only luck can help us now. Failing a message from some ship which has sighted the yacht Lola, it’s impossible to lay a course. Probably the Lola has a turn of speed which will tax the warship in any event. But lacking knowledge of her position, we can’t even start.

“I don’t doubt she will have been sighted. There’s a lot of shipping in those waters.”

“Yes, but the bulk of it is small craft, and many of them carry no radio. However, we are doing all that lies in our power to do.”

chapter forty-fifth

ON THE DESTROYER

from the bridge of the destroyer I looked over a blue and sail-less sea. The speed of the little warship was exhilarating, and I could see from the attitude other commander beside me that this break in peace-time routine was welcome rather than irksome.

I glanced towards the port wing of the bridge where Nayland Smith was staring ahead through raised glasses.

Somewhere astern of where I stood, somewhere in the slender hull, full out and quivering on this unexpected mission, I knew there were police officers armed with a warrant issued by the Boulevard du Palais for the arrest of Dr. Fu Manchu.

And as the wine of the morning began to stir my blood, hope awakened. The history of Fleurette lay open before me like a book. And all that had seemed incomprehensible in her character and her behaviour, lover-like, now I translated and understood. She had been cultivated as those plants in the forcing houses had been cultivated.

The imprint of Dr. Fu Manchu was upon her.

Yet through it all the real Fleurette had survived, defying the alchemy of the super-scientist: she was still Petrie’s daughter, beautiful, lovable, and mine, if I could find her....

I set doubt aside. Definitely, we should overtake the South American yacht. News had- come from a cruising liner ten minutes before we had reached Monaco Harbour: the Lola, laid on a southerly course, was less than twenty miles ahead.

But, since the Lola also must have picked up the message, we realised that the course of the motor yacht would in all probability have been changed. Nevertheless, ultimate escape was next to impossible.

Yet again that damnable thought intruded: the Lola might prove to be a will o’ the wisp; Fu Manchu, Fleurette, and Petrie not on board!

It appeared to me that the only thing supporting Nayland Smith’s theory and his amazing reaction to it was the fact that the Lola had not answered those messages sent out by the French authority.

At which moment Sir Denis dropped the glasses into their case and turned.

“Nothing!” he said grimly.

“It is true,” the commander replied; “but they have a good start.”

A man ran up to the bridge with a radio message. The commander scanned it.

“They are clever,” he reported. “But all the same they have been sighted again! They are still on their original course.”

“Who sends the report?” asked Nayland Smith.

“An American freighter.”

“The air arm is strangely silent.”

“We must be patient. Only two planes have been dispatched; they are looking also for a submarine—and there are many miles of sea to search.”

He took up the glasses. Nayland Smith, hands thrust in his pockets, stared straight ahead.

The destroyer leaped and quivered under the lash of her merciless engines, a living, feverish thing. And this reflection crossed my mind: that the Chinese doctor, wherever he might be at that moment, was indeed a superman; for he is no ordinary criminal against whom warships are sent out....

Another message was brought to the bridge; this one from a flying officer. The Lola was laid-to, less than five miles off and nearly dead on our course!

“What does this mean?” rapped Nayland Smith. “I don’t like it a bit.”

I was staring ahead, straining my eyes to pierce the distance....And now, a speck on the skyline, I saw an airplane flying towards me.

“Coming back to pilot us,” said the commander; “they know the game is up!”

A further message arrived. The Lola was putting a launch off at the time that the airman had headed back to find us. No submarine had been sighted.

“By heavens!” cried Nayland Smith, “I was right. His under-water craft is waiting for him in the event of just such an emergency as this! Instruct the plane to hurry back!”

The order was despatched....

I saw the pilot bank, go about, and set off again on a course slightly westward of our own.

The commander spoke a few more orders rapidly, and we crept into line behind the swiftly disappearing airman. We must have been making thirty-five knots or more, for it was only a matter of minutes before I saw the yacht—dead ahead.

“The launch is putting back!” said Nayland Smith. “Look!”

The little craft was just swinging around the stem of the yacht! And now we were so near that I could see the lines of the Lola, a beautiful white-and-silver ship, with a low. graceful hull and one squat yellow funnel with a silver band.