The Trail of Fu Manchu

daughter of an old mutual friend, Dr. Petrie. Fleurette—that is her name—spent a great part of her life in the household of that Dr. Fu Manchu, whom you, Inspector Watford, seem disposed to regard as a myth.”

“Funny business in the south of France, some months ago,” Gallaho growled. “The French press hushed it up, but we’ve got all the dope at the Yard.”

“Sir Denis and I,” Sterling continued, “went to Paris with Dr. Petrie and his daughter, my fiancee. They were returning to Egypt—Dr. Petrie’s home is in Cairo. Sir Denis was compelled to hurry back to London, but I went on to Marseilles and saw them off in the Oxfordshire of the Bibby Line.”

“I only have the barest outline of the facts, sir,” Gallaho interrupted. “But may I ask if you went on board?”

“I was one of the last visitors to leave.”

“Then I take it, sir, you waved to the young lady as the ship was pulling out?”

“No,” Sterling replied, “I didn’t, as a matter of fact, Inspector. I left her in the cabin. She was very disturbed.”

“I quite understand.”

“Dr. Petrie was on the promenade deck as the ship pulled out, but Fleurette, I suppose, was in her cabin.”

“The point I was trying to get at, sir, was this,” Gallaho persisted, doggedly, whilst Nayland Smith, an appreciative look in his grey eyes, watched him. “How long elapsed between your saying good-bye to the young lady in her cabin, and the time the ship pulled out?”

“Not more than five minutes. I talked to the doctor—her father—on the deck, and actually left at the last moment.”

“Fleurette asked you to leave her?” jerked Nayland Smith.

“Yes. She was terribly keyed-up. She thought it would be easier if we said good-bye in the cabin. I rejoined her father on deck, and—”

“One moment, sir,” Galllaho’s growling voice interrupted again. “Which side of the deck were you on? The seaward side, or the land side.”

“The seaward side.”

“Then you have no idea who went ashore in the course of the next five minutes?”

“No. I am afraid I haven’t, sir.”

“That’s all right, sir. Go ahead.”

“I watched the Oxfordshire leave,” Sterling went on, “hoping that Fleurette would appear; but she didn’t. Then I went back to the hotel, had some lunch, and picked up the Riviera Express in the afternoon, returning to Paris. I was hoping for a message at the Hotel Meurice but there was none.”

“Did Petrie know you were staying at the Meurice?”

“No, but Fleurette did.”

“Where did you stay on the way out?”

“At the Chatham—a favourite pub of Petrie’s”

“Quite. Go on.”

“I dined, and spent the evening with some friends who lived in Paris, and when I returned to my hotel, there was still no message. I left for London this morning, or rather—since it’s well after midnight—yesterday morning. A radio message was waiting for me at Boulogne. It had been despatched on the Oxfordshire . . .” Sterling paused, running his fingers through his hair. . . . “It just told me that Fleurette was not on board; urged me to get in touch with you, Sir Denis, and finally said the doctor was hoping to be transferred to an incoming ship.”

“A chapter of misadventures,” Nayland Smith murmured. “You see, we were both inaccessible, temporarily. I have later news, however. Petrie has affected the transference. He has been put on to a Dutch liner, due into Marseilles to-night.”

The telephone bell rang. Inspector Watford took up the instrument on his table and:

“Yes,” he said, listened for a moment, and then: “Put him through to me here.”

He glanced at Nayland Smith.

“The constable on duty outside Professor Ambrose’s house,” he reported, a note of excitement discernible in his voice.

Some more moments of silence followed during which all watched the man at the desk. Smith smoked furiously. Sterling, haggard under his tan, glanced from face to face almost feverishly. Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho removed his bowler, which fitted very tightly, and replaced it at a slightly different angle. Then:

“Hello, yes—officer in charge speaking. What’s that? . . .” The vague percussion of a distant vocie manifested itself. “You say you are in the house? Hold on a moment.”

“The officer on duty heard a cry for help,” he explained;

“found his way through the fog to the house; the door was open, and he is now in the lobby. The house is deserted, he reports.”

“We are too late!” It was Nayland Smith’s voice. “He has tricked me again! Tell your man to stand by, Inspector. Gather up all the men available and pack them into the second car. Come on, Gallaho. Sterling, you join us!”

CHAPTER 4

PIETRO AMBROSO’S STUDIO

Even the powerful searchlights attached to the Flying Squad car failed to penetrate that phenomenal fog for more than a few yards. Progress was slow. To any vehicle not so equipped it would have been impossible. A constable familiar with the districts walked ahead, carrying a red lantern. A powerful beam from the leading car was directed upon this lantern, and so the journey went on.

P.C. Ireland in the lobby of Professor Ambrose’s house learned the lesson that silence and solitude can be more terrifying than the wildest riot. His instructions had been to close the door but to remain in the lobby. This he had done.

When he found himself alone in that house of mystery, the strangest promptings assailed his brain. He was not an imaginative man, but sheer common sense told him that something uncommonly horrible had taken place in the house of Professor Ambrose that night.

The fire was burning low in the grate. There were some wooden logs in an iron basket, and Ireland tossed two on the embers without quite knowing why he took that liberty. Red tape bound him. Furtively he watched the stairs which disappeared in shadows, above. He was a man of action; his instinct prompted him to explore this silent house. He had no authority to do so. His mere presence in the lobby—since he could not swear that the cry actually had come from the house—was a transgression. But in this, at least, he was covered; the divisional inspector had told him to stay there. How did they hope to reach him, he argued. They would probably get lost on the way.

Now that the fog was shut out, he began to miss it. The silence which seemed to speak and in which there were strange shapes, had been awful, out there, on the verge of the Common, but the silence of this lighted lobby was even more oppressive.

Always he watched the stair.

Mystery brooded on the dim landing, but no sound broke the stillness. He began to study his immediate surroundings. There were some very strange statuettes in the lobby—queer busts, and oddly distorted figures. The paintings, too, were of a sort to which he was unused. The entire appointments of the place came within the category which P.C. Ireland mentally condemned under the heading of “Chelsea”.

One of the logs which he had placed upon the fire, and which had just begun to ignite, fell into the hearth. He started, as though a shot had been fired.

“Damn!” he muttered, “this place is properly getting on my nerves.”

He rescued the log and tossed it back into place. A cigarette was indicated. He could get rid of it very quickly, if the inspector turned up in person, which he doubted. He discarded his oilskin cape, and produced a little yellow packet, selecting and lighting a cigarette almost lovingly. There was company in a cigarette when a man felt lonely and queer. Always, he watched the stair.

He had finished his cigarette and reluctantly tossed the stub into the fire which now was burning merrily,