The Trail of Fu Manchu

“Quite,” murmured Nayland Smith.

After which staccato remark he fell into a reverie which he did not break until the great bell of St. Paul’s boomed out from high above their heads.

“Two o’clock,” he murmured, and peered ahead. “Hello! Fleet Street. The game flies West, Gallaho.”

The Street of Ink was filled with nocturnal activity, in contrast to the deserted City thoroughfares along which, hitherto, their route had lain. Into the Strand, across Trafalgar Square and on to Piccadilly, the hunt led; then the Morris turned into Bond Street, and Gallaho broke a long silence.

“I’ve just remembered,” he remarked, “that they’ve got an extension at the Ambassadors’ Club to-night. Funny if that’s where she’s going.”

“H’m!” and Nayland Smith, glancing aside at Sterling, as the light from the window of a picture dealer’s shone into the car. “We sha’n’t be able to obtain admittance!”

“Just what I was thinking,” growled Gallaho. “Yes—look, sir! That is where she’s going!”

The Morris pulled up before the door of the club, and a commissionaire assisted a slender, fur-wrapped figure to alight. Fah Lo Suee, her jade coloured shoes queerly reflected upon the wet pavement, her gossamer frock concealed beneath a white wrap, went in at the lighted doorway.

“I can soon find out who she’s with and what she’s up to,” growled Gallaho. “You two gentlemen had better stay out of sight.”

He stepped out and proceeded in the direction of the club.

By the entrance he paused for a moment as another car pulled up and the be-medalled commissionaire sprang forward to the door. A distinguished looking gentleman who might have been a diplomat, who affected a grey, pointed beard and who wore a monocle, stepped out hurriedly, discarded a French cape and, tossing it back into the car, nodded to the commissionaire and went in. He vibrated nervous energy.

“H’m!” muttered Gallaho, watching the long, fawn and silver car disappearing in the direction of Bruton Street. “Sir Bertram Morgan!”

The last arrival was the newly appointed governor of the Bank of England.

Gallaho was about to turn to the commissionaire, with whom he was acquainted, when, following from the tail of his eye the slim, debonaire figure of the banker, he saw a slender woman dressed in jade green rise from a settee in the lobby and advance with extended hand to meet Sir Bertram.

In the brief glimpse which he had of her, Gallaho recognized the fact that she was the woman they had followed from Limehouse—according to Sir Denis Nayland Smith, the daughter of Dr. Fu Manchu. She was exotically beautiful. The strange pair disappeared.

Gallaho changed his mind.

“Good evening, sir,” said the commissionaire, and was about to salute; then grinned broadly and nodded instead.

“Good,” said Gallaho. “I am glad you remembered. Never salute a plain clothes officer.”

“No, sir.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Gallaho walked on as though his presence there had been merely accidental. Within his limitations he was an artist. It was no uncommon thing for the tracker to be tracked; keen eyes might be watching his every movement.

He crossed to Grafton Street, stood on the corner for a while, and looked back. Accustomed to the ways of spies, he was satisfied that no one was on his trail. He retraced his steps—but on the other side of Bond Street.

CHAPTER 18

“I BELONG TO CHINA”

Sir Bertram Morgan was deeply intrigued with Madame Ingomar. He had met her three years before at the villa of a mutual friend in Cairo. Anglo-Egyptian society is not exactly Bohemian, and Sir Bertram, at first, had been surprised to find an obvious, if beautiful, half-caste a guest at this somewhat exclusive establishment.

She was, it appeared, the widow of a physician. But this alone was not enough. And noting the patrician elegance, almost disdain, which characterized the beautiful widow, Sir Bertram had not been surprised to learn later, that on her father’s side there was royal Manchu blood.

An experienced man of the world is the adventuress’s easiest quarry. Sir Bertram, a widower of almost illimitable means, naturally knew much of women; he thought there was no design whose pattern he had not met with at some time. He distrusted Madame Ingomar. But she attracted him in a way that was almost frightening.

They met again on the Riviera a year later.

Discreetly, and as if telling an Oriental fairy tale, she had spoken of the existence of an hereditary secret in her family, smilingly pointing out that the widow of a brilliant, but penniless physician, could not otherwise dress as she dressed.

Other explanations occurred to Sir Bertram at the time, but just when he had been sharpening his wits to deal with this dazzling cocotte, she had disappeared.

It seemed to be a habit of hers.

Now, she was in London. They had met accidentally, or apparently accidentally, and he, anxious to test her, because she was so desirable, had challenged the claims which she had made in France. The challenge, lightly, had been accepted.

The life of Madame Ingomar was a fascinating mystery. Her appointment at a fashionable dance club, made for two o’clock in the morning, was odd. Sir Bertram was in the toils—he knew it; he was prepared to believe that royal blood of China ran in this woman’s veins; prepared to believe that she was really the widow of a distinguished physician; but he had no means of testing these claims. One, however—the hereditary secret—he could test: it came within his special province. And to-night she had offered him an opportunity.

“My dear Madame Ingomar,” he said, and kissed her hand, for his courtly manners were famous throughout Europe. “This is indeed a very great privilege.”

The maitre d’hotel led the way to that table which was always reserved for Sir Bertram whenever he required it. Madame Ingomar declined supper, but drank a glass of wine.

Sir Bertram having draped her white fur wrap across the back other chair, ivory shoulders and perfectly modelled arms were revealed by a gossamer green frock. She smoked almost continuously, not as other women of his acquaintance smoked, but, and it seemed almost a custom of a bygone generation, using a long jade holder.

Her hands were exquisite, her exotic indolence conjured up visions of vanished empires. She talked brilliantly, and Sir Bertram, watching her, decided she was quite the most attractive woman he had ever known. He sighed. He was uncertain other; and he had reached an age, and a position in the world, when the worst thing that could befall him would be to become laughable.

Madame Ingomar caught his glance, smiled, and held it. Her long, narrow eyes, were brilliantly green. He had never seen such eyes. This was their second meeting since her appearance in London and he had noticed as a man who took an interest in women, that whereas most of those upon the dance floor wore dresses which exposed their backs, in some cases to the waist, Madame Ingomar’s frock was of a different pattern.

She had an uncanny trick—it disturbed him—of answering one’s unspoken thoughts; and:

“My frock is not quite the mode,” she murmured smilingly— her voice had the most soothing quality of any voice to which he had ever listened—”you wonder why?”

“Really, my dear Madame Ingomar, you embarrass me. Your dress is completely charming—everything about you is perfect.”

She placed her cigarette-holder in an ash-tray, glancing swiftly about the room.

“I do not live the sheltered life of other women,” she said tensely; “perhaps you would understand me better if you knew something of the things I have suffered.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

She smiled again, and taking a cigarette from Sir Bertram’s open case, fitted it to the jade holder.