accommodated a Ford lorry belonging to a local contractor.
Nayland Smith laughed shortly, pacing up and down the carpet.
“When it comes to making important engagements in an unoccupied house, but one with which in the past— and he never forgets anything—the Doctor has been familiar; when, above all, he condescends to travel in a decorator’s lorry . . .”
He laughed again, and this time it was a joyous, boyish laugh, which magically lifted the years and showed him to be a young man.
“It’s all very funny,” Gallaho agreed, “especially as Sir Bertram, according to his own statement, examined an ingot of pure gold which this Chinese magician offered to sell to him!”
Nayland Smith turned, and stared at the speaker.
“Have you ever realized the difficulty of selling gold, assuming you had any—I mean, in bulk?”
Gallaho scratched his upstanding hair, closed one eye, and cocked the other one up at the ceiling.
“I suppose it would be difficult, in bulk,” he admitted; “especially if the gold merchant was forced to operate under cover.”
“I assure you it would,” said Nayland Smith. “No further clues from Rowan House, I suppose?”
“Nothing. It’s amazing. But it accounts for an appointment at half-past two in the morning. They just dressed the lobby and two rooms of the house like preparing a stage-set for a one-night show.”
“Obviously they did, Gallaho—and it is amazing, as you say. I remember the place very well; I was there on many occasions during the time Sir Lionel Barton occupied it. I remember, particularly, the Chinese Room, with its sliding doors and lacquer appointments. Those decorations which were not Barton relics—I refer to the preserved snakes, the chemical furnace, and so forth—were imported for Sir Bertram Morgan’s benefit.”
“That’s where the Ford lorry came in!”
Nayland Smith dashed his right fist into his left palm.
“Right! You’re right! That’s where the lorry came in! The missing caretaker?”
“He’s just described by local tradesmen as ‘an old foreigner’——”
“Someone employed by, or bought by, Fu Manchu. We shall never trace him.”
Gallaho chewed invisible gum.
“Funny business,” he muttered.
“Rowan House has known even more sinister happenings in the past. However, I will look it over myself— some time today if possible. What about the lorry?”
“I have seen the former owner” Gallaho pulled out a book and consulted some notes. “He sold it on the fourteenth instant. The purchase price was thirty pounds. The purchaser he describes as ‘a foreign bloke.’ I may say, sir—” looking up at Sir Denis—”said contractor isn’t too intelligent; but I gather that the ‘foreign bloke’ was some kind of Asiatic. It was up to the purchaser to remove the lorry at his convenience.”
“How was the payment made?”
“Thirty one-pound notes.”
“Very curious,” murmured Sir Denis. “Very , very curious. I am wondering what the real object could be in the purchase of this lorry. Its use last night was an emergency measure. I think we may take that for granted. Have you traced it?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“Has any constable reported having seen it?”
“No one.”
“What about the Morris out of the yard in Limehouse?”
“I have a short report about that,” Gallaho growled, consulting his notes. “It’s the property of Sam Pak, as we surmised, and various birds belonging to his queer aviary seem to drive it from time to time. My own idea is that he uses it to send drunks home. But it’s for hire, and according to Murphy, who has been on the job down there, it was hired last night, or rather, early in the morning, by a lady who had dined on board a steamer lying in West India Dock.”
“You have the name of the steamer, no doubt?”
“Murphy got it.”
“Did any lady dine on board?”
“The ship mentioned in my notes, sir,” Gallaho replied ill-humouredly, “pulled out when the fog lifted. We have no means of confirming.”
“I see,” snapped Nayland Smith, his briar bubbling and crackling as he smoked furiously. “But the driver?”
“A man called Ah Chuk—he’s a licensed driver; he’s been checked up—who hangs about Sam Pak’s when he’s out of a job. His usual work is that of a stevedore.”
“Has anyone seen this man?”
“Yes—Murphy. He says, and Sam Pak confirms it, that he took the car down to the gates of West India Dock and picked up a lady who was in evening dress. He drove her to the Ambassadors’ Club——” Gallaho was reading from his notes—”dropped her there and returned to Limehouse.”
“Where is the car now?”
“Back in the yard.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down for some time, and then:
“A ridiculous, but a cunning story,” he remarked. “However, Ah Chuk will probably come into our net. Anything of interest in the reports of the men who trailed customers leaving Sam Pak’s?
“Well——” Gallaho’s growl grew deeper—”those that left were just the usual sort. Funny thing, though, is, that some of the customers you reported seeing inside didn’t leave at all!”
“What!”
“Murphy reported seven people, six men and a woman in the ‘Sailors’ Club’. Only three—two men and the woman—had come out at seven o’clock this morning!”
“Very odd,” Nayland Smith murmured.
“There are two things,” said Gallaho, “that particularly worry me, sir.”
He closed his note-book.
“What are they?”
“That funny light, which I had heard of but never seen; and ... Mr. Sterling.”
He stared almost reproachfully at Sir Denis. The latter turned, smiling slightly.
“I can see that you are worrying,” he said. “and quite rightly. He is a splendid fellow—and he was very unhapppy. But an individual described by the hall-porter as a loafer, left this note for me an hour ago.”
He crossed to the writing-table, took up an envelope and handed it to Chief detective-inspector Gallaho. The latter stared at it critically. It was an envelope of poor quality, of a kind which can be bought in packets of a dozen at any cheap stationer’s and upon it in what looked like a child’s handwriting, appeared:—
Nayland Smith No 7 Westminster Court Whitehall
The inscription was in pencil. Gallaho extracted the contents—a small sheet of thin paper torn from a pocket-book. Upon this, also in pencil, the following message appeared:
To;—Nayland Smith N 7 Westminster Court
Whitehall.
In hands ofFu Manchu. In some place where there is a deep pit, a furnace, and a tunnel below water. I know no more. Do your best.
Alan Sterling.
By the same hand which had addressed the envelope, one significant word had been added below the signature:
Limehouse
Gallaho stared across at Sir Denis. Sunshine had temporarily conquered the fog. The room was cheerful and bright. Gallaho found himself looking at a puncture in one of the windows, through which quite recently a message of death had come but had missed its target.
“Is this Mr. Sterling’s writing?”
‘Yes.” Nayland Smith’s eyes were very bright. “What do we know about
