in:
“Have you had any dinner?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“No, sir. I haven’t had time to think about eating.”
“I thought not. There’s a cold buffet in the dining-room, as I gather we may be late to-night. Am I right?”
“Quite probably, sir.”
“Excellent.”
Sterling had charged his pipe from the tobacco jar, and now Nayland Smith pulled out a tangle of broad-cut mixture and began stuffing it into the hot bowl of his own cracked briar.
“Help yourself to whisky and soda, Inspector,” he said; “it’s on the side table there. Please go ahead.”
Gallaho nodded, took a glass and helped himself to a modest drink, then:
“The dead man has been identified by Detective-sergeant Pether, ofK Division,” he went on. “What Pether doesn’t know about the Asiatics isn’t worth knowing. Can I help you, sir?” indicating the decanter.
“Thanks, Inspector—and one for Mr. Sterling while you’re there.”
Gallaho, officiating as butler, continued:
“His real nationality, Pether doesn’t know, but he’s probably Burmese. He always passed for a lascar at Sam Pak’s——”
“Sam Pak’s?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“You’re a bit out of touch with Limehouse, sir,” said Gallaho, handing a tumbler to Sir Denis and one to Sterling. “But Sam Pak’s is a small restaurant frequented by seamen from ships docking in the river. It’s generally known that opium and hashish can be got there. But as its use seems to be confined to the Asiatics, we have never moved. There have been no complaints. Well—” he took a sip of his whisky and soda—”It seems that the dead man was known as ‘Charlie’— apparently he had no other name; and sometimes he used to act as a waiter for Sam Pak.”
“Highly important,” murmured Nayland Smith, beginning to walk up and down. “A very strong link. Gallaho. The doctor’s on the run. His available servants are few, and he’s back in his old haunts. Very significant. Could you give me a brief character sketch of this Sam Pak?”
“I can try, sir. Pether knows him better than I do, but I didn’t bother to bring him along. Let me see . . .” He chewed imaginary gum, staring up at the ceiling, then: “Sam Pak is a small, old, very wrinkled Chinaman. He might be any age up to, say, a hundred. He has a voice like a tin whistle, and speaks pidgin English.”
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Detective-sergeant Fletcher of K Division retired some years ago didn’t he?”
“He did, sir,” Gallaho replied, rather startled. “He’s landlord of the George and Dragon in Commercial Road. I happen to know him well.”
“Get through to the George and Dragon,” Nayland Smith directed. “Find out if Fletcher is home, and if so ask him to come on the line.”
“Very good, sir. . . . Now?”
“You might as well; I want to think. You can use the telephone in the lobby.”
“Very good, sir.”
Inspector Gallaho went out, carrying his tumbler, and:
“You know,” said Nayland Smith, turning and staring at Sterling, “I have an idea that I know Sam Pak. I believe he is a certain John Ki, who disappeared from Chinatown some years ago. He was one of Fu Manchu’s people, Sterling. I should like to be sure.”
Sterling had lighted his pipe and had dropped back into the big armchair, but his mood was far from restful. He sat there, clutching the arms, watching Sir Denis pacing up and down the carpet. Suddenly:
“On your word of honour, Sir Denis,” he said, “do you think she’s alive?”
Nayland Smith turned and fixed an unflinching gaze upon the speaker.
“On my word of honour,” he replied, “I do.”
“Thank God!” Sterling murmured. “You’re a rock of refuge!”
“He’s well on the run,” Sir Denis continued, grimly, the cold grey-blue eyes alight with suppressed excitement. “He has doubled back to his riverside haunts. He’s finding it difficult to raise funds. The police of Europe are on his tail. He’s a cornered rat, and dangerous. The Mandarin Prince has become the common criminal. I wonder if it’s to be his fate, Sterling, that having threatened the safety of nations, he is to fall. That would be poetic justice, indeed. In the past, he has shown them scant mercy.”
Sterling watched the speaker fascinatedly. He radiated vitality; the force within him vibrated through one’s nerves. Only a man who had known Dr. Fu Manchu, as Sterling knew him, could have doubted that the Chinaman’s fate was sealed. But knowing, and appreciating, the genius of the great Eastern physician, Sterling, with optimism crying out for recognition in his heart, was forced to admit that the betting was even. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would have been an impossible adversary for any normal man to pit himself against, but Dr. Fu Manchu was
The silence which fell was only broken by faint ringings of a telephone bell and the distant rumbling of the voice of Inspector Gallaho. Nayland Smith walked up and down. Sterling smoked, and clutched the arms of the chair. Then, Gallaho, still carrying his glass which now was empty, returned.
“I’ve found him, sir,” he reported, “and by great good luck, got him on the ‘phone.”
CHAPTER
12
LONDON RIVER
A constable patrolling the Embankment pulled up and stared suspiciously at a pair of dangerous-looking loafers, possibly sailors, of a type rarely seen in the Westminster area; very dark-skinned fellows wearing greasy caps and smoking cigarettes. To that lurching walk that belongs to the sea, a certain furtive quality seemed to have been added. Some of these foreign sailormen had other jobs when they were ashore, and the officer didn’t like the way in which this pair kept staring up towards a certain lighted window in a block of expensive residential flats.
A strong westerly breeze had sprung up, driving banks of fog before it, so that in certain areas, temporarily, the night was clear enough. Such a lucidity prevailed now in this part of Westminster. The face of Big Ben was clearly visible, no great distance away, and the many lighted windows of New Scotland Yard. But whereas most of the windows in the block of flats were shaded, that one which seemed to interest the pair of watchers, a large, bay window, had neither curtains nor blinds drawn.
From time to time a man, apparently tall and thin, who might have been in evening dress, appeared in this window. One would have supposed that he was pacing up and down the room to which it belonged. He was smoking a pipe.
Yes, the officer was certain, it was this window or this man, or both, that the loafers were watching. He determined upon action. Quickly retracing his steps:
“What are you two up to?” He demanded, gruffly.
The shorter of the pair started and turned. He had deep-set, very bright eyes, and a truculence of manner which the constable regarded as suspicious. His companion grasped his arm, and:
“Leitak sa’ida,” he said.
The officer could not be expected to know. that the man had wished him good-night in Arabic.
The pair moved off slouchingly.
“Don’t hang about here,” the constable continued, following them up.
“Khatrak!” replied the taller man.
The constable watched them lurching away, unaware that the word meant “good-bye”. They did not loiter again, but went on their way. The officer, retracing his steps, glanced up at the lighted window. The tall man smoking a pipe became visible for a moment, then turned and disappeared.
As the two foreign sailormen whose language was presumably Arabic proceeded on their way:—
