CHAPTER 21
GALLAHO AND STERLING SET OUT
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith through the speaking tube. “Back into the lane we have just passed on the right.”
The driver of the C.I.D. car checked immediately, stopped and reversed. There was no trace of fog on this outskirt of London. The night was limpidly clear. The big car was backed into the narrow lane which Nayland Smith had indicated.
“Good,” growled Gallaho; “but what’s the next move, sir?”
“It’s almost certain,” said Sterling excitedly, “that this is Dr. Fu Manchu’s new base. It’s almost certain . . . that Fleurette is here.”
“Go easy.” Sir Denis grasped his shoulder. “We must think. A mistake, now, would be fatal.”
“I am wondering,” said Gallaho, “what madness brought Sir Bertram Morgan here to-night?”
“The madness,” Smith replied, “which has brought many men to disaster ... a woman.”
“Yes,” Gallaho admitted; “she’s a good looker. But I should have thought he was getting past it.”
“Sir Denis . . .” Sterling’s voice trembled. “We’re wasting time.”
They tumbled out of the car. They had sponged the makeup from their faces, but were still in the matter of dress, two rough-looking citizens. Smith stood there in the dusk of that silent by-way, tugging at the lobe of his left ear; then:
“I am wondering” he murmured. “Including the driver, Gallaho, we are only a party of four. . . .”
“What have you got in mind, sir?”
“I have this in mind. I propose to raid Rowan House.”
“While Sir Bertram Morgan is there?”
“Yes. Unless he comes out very soon.”
“You think . . . ?”
“I think nothing. I know. Dr. Fu Manchu is in that house! If Sir Bertram Morgan is in danger or not I cannot say, but the man we want is there. I take it you have the warrant in your pocket, Inspector?”
Chief detective-inspector Gallaho coughed loudly.
“You may take it that I have, sir,” he replied.
Nayland Smith grasped his arm in the darkness.
“I didn’t mean what you’re thinking, Inspector,” he said, “but we are so tied by red tape that any absurd formality overlooked might mean the wreck of the case.”
Gallaho replied almost apologetically.
“Thank you, sir; I entirely agree with you. Perhaps I was rather forgetting the fact that you have suffered from red tape as much as I have. But I take it you mean, sir, that we may meet with opposition.”
Sterling, clenching and unclenching his fists, was walking up and down in a fever of excitement, and:
“Sir Denis!” he exclaimed, “why are we delaying? Surely, with a woman’s life at stake . . . ?”
“Listen, Sterling,” snapped Sir Denis. “I understand and sympathize—but I’m in charge of this party, and you belong to it.”
“I am sorry,” said Sterling hoarsely.
The driver of the car, seated at the wheel, was watching the trio expectantly, and then:
“Listen, Gallaho,” said Nayland Smith, rapidly: “how far are we from a call-box?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. This is rather outside my area. Do you know?” addressing his question to the driver.
“No, sir. The last one we passed was at the crossroads.”
“Drive back,” Nayland Smith instructed. “It’s your job to put a call through to local headquarters.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I want a raid squad here within twenty minutes. When you know where to go, drive there to pick ‘em up.”
“Very good, sir.”
Silently and smoothly the big car moved out of the lane.
“In moments of excitement,” said Nayland Smith, “I am afraid I relapse into Indian police terms, Do you think your man can manage it, Gallaho?”
“Certainly, sir.” Gallaho replied. “The Flying Squad’s pretty efficient. We shall have all the men you want inside twenty minutes.”
“My fault,” said Nayland Smith, “not to have had a radio car.”
“They’re all on duty, sir.”
“One could have been recalled. We had time.”
“What now, sir?”
“We must look for vulnerable points, and keep well under cover. I don’t want Sir Bertram’s driver to see us. I trust nobody where Dr. Fu Manchu is concerned. Come on!”
He led the way towards the tree-shadowed drive of Rowan House. Their cautious footsteps seemed loudly to disturb the damp silence of the avenue, but they pressed on till the lights of Sir Bertram’s Rolls, drawn up before the porch of the squat residence, brought them to a halt.
“Sterling!” Nayland Smith’s voice was low, but urgent. “Through the shrubbery here, and right around that wing on the left. You are looking for a way in, preferably a French window, of course. But any point where an entrance can be made quickly. If you meet anybody, tackle him, and then sing out. Are you armed?”
‘Yes; it’s become a habit since I met Dr. Fu Manchu.”
“Good. Walk right around the house until you meet Gallaho, then return by the more convenient route, and this point is to be our meeting place. And now, you, Gallaho, stick to the shadow of that lawn, there, and work around the right of the house till you meet Sterling. I am going to direct my attention to obtaining a glimpse of Sir Bertram’s chauffeur. His appearance and behaviour will tell me much. We meet here in five minutes.”
Gallaho and Sterling set out.
CHAPTER
22
GALLAHO RUNS
Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho started his voyage of exploration under conditions rather more difficult than those which confronted Sterling.
The west wing of the house was closely invested by shrubbery; and although there were a number of windows, some of which were lighted, it was impossible to approach near enough to take advantage of any chink in the curtains. Some of the shrubs, which were of varieties unfamiliar to the inspector, remained in full leaf, others displayed flowers; and there was a damp, sweet, but slightly miasmatic smell about the place.
He remembered that the house had belonged for some years to the eccentric explorer, archeologist and author, Sir Lionel Barton. No doubt this freak vegetation had been imported by him. Gallaho, who was no floriculturist, did not quite approve of shrubs which flowered in mid-winter.
Pressing on, walking on wet grass, he presently reached a gate in a wall which threatened to terminate his journey. He tried the gate—it was unlocked; he opened it. It communicated with a paved yard. Out-buildings indicated that this had formerly been the stables of Rowan House.
Gallaho stood still, looking about him suspiciously.
He was satisfied that no horses were kept; the place was very silent. In the windows of the main building visible from where he stood, no light showed. This was not surprising at such an hour in the morning. The domestic staff might be expected to have retired. It was the sort of place, however, in which an experienced man expected to meet a watch-dog.
Gallaho, holding the door ajar, assured himself that there was no dog, before proceeding across the yard. He examined doors and windows, and came out presently into a neglected garden. He pulled up to take his bearings.
From somewhere a long way off came the wail of a train whistle; and . . . was that a muffled crash?
He had made a half-circuit of the house, which was not large. Sterling should have met him at about this
