imagination.
“I’m glad to meet you, Dr. Petrie” he said extending a very large hand. “I know and admire your work and I understand why you asked to see me tonight.”
“Thank you,” said Petrie. “It was good of you to spare me the time. May I ask for the latest news?”
He dropped into an armchair which the Commissioner indicated, and stared at the latter, curiously. He knew that his words had not been prompted by courtesy. In matters of exact information, the man’s brain had the absorbing power of a sponge—and he had the memory of an elephant.
“I was about to call for the last report, Dr. Petrie. Normally, I am not here at this hour. It is the Fu Manchu case which has detained me. Excuse me a moment—I thoroughly understand your anxiety.”
He took up one of the several telephones upon the large desk, and:
“Faversham,” he said, “bring the latest details of the Fu Manchu case to my room.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Dr. Petrie.
“I am naturally in a state of intense anxiety about my daughter,” said Petrie. “But first, tell me—where is Nayland Smith?”
The Commissioner pulled at his moustache and stared down at the blotting-pad before him; then: “The last report I had left some little doubt upon that point,” he replied, finally, fixing penetrating blue eyes upon the visitor. “As to your daughter, Dr. Petrie, in the opinion of Sir Denis she is somewhere in London.” He paused, picking a drooping violet from the bowl between a large finger and thumb, snipping off a piece of the stem and replacing it carefully in water. “The theory of the means by which she was brought here is one I do not share—it is too utterly fantastic—; but Sir Denis’s record shows that in the past——” he frowned in a puzzled way— “he has accomplished much. At the moment, as you may know, he is very highly empowered;
in fact——” he smiled, and it was a kindly smile, “in a way— in regard to this case, I mean he is, in a sense, my senior.”
The Commissioner’s weakness for parentheses was somewhat bewildering, but Petrie, who grasped his meaning, merely nodded.
“I am very anxious about Sir Denis at the moment,” the Commissioner added.
There was a rap on the door, and in response to a gruff “Come in,” a youngish man entered, immaculately turned out in morning dress; a somewhat unexpected apparition so long after midnight. He carried a cardboard folder under his arm.
“This is Wing Commander Faversham,” the Commissioner explained, staring vaguely at the newcomer, as though he had only just recognized him. “Dr. Petrie’s name will be familiar to you, Faversham. This is Dr. Petrie.”
Faversham bowed formally, and laid the folder open upon the table. Although the Commissioner’s manner seemed to invite familiarity, it was a curious fact that none of his subordinates ever accepted that illusive lead.
“Ah!” said the Commissioner, and adjusting spectacles, bent and read.
“This brings us up to date, Dr. Petrie,” he said in a few moments, looking up and removing his glasses. “Sir Denis, and Detective-sergeant Murphy—attached to the Criminal Investigation Department—visited a restaurant in Lime-house to-night, posing as sailormen. Sir Denis——” he added, in parentheses,—”has a gift for make-up. For my own part I don’t believe in disguise at any time or in any circumstances. However—Chief detective-inspector Gallaho, one of the best men we have here—you agree with me, Faversham?—”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Chief detective-inspector Gallaho was in charge of raiding operations, assisted by . . .” there was a momentary pause, but the wonderful,memory functioned . . . “Inspector Forester of the River Police branch.”
“So I understand,” said Petrie eagerly, “but what happened?”
“The agreed signal was given,” said the Commissioner, slowly, “and the party entered the premises. But the suspects had slipped into some underground cellar, and I regret to say—for no such report has ever reached me— that an iron door was encountered.”
“An iron door?”
“I was notified by Detective-sergeant Trench, at——” he readjusted his glasses and turned over a page in the folder— “11.49 p.m. Detective-sergeant Trench,” he added, laying his glasses upon the blotting-pad, “is attached to the Flying Squad—that Gallaho was proceeding to the Kinloch Works in Silvertown in order to secure expert advice upon the forcing by explosives of this iron door, or of the wall adjoining it.”
“You will notice, sir,” said Faversham coughing respectfully, “that a party with chemical equipment according to your instructions, left at 12.15.”
The Commissioner nodded.
“I have noted this,” he replied. “The latest news, then, Dr. Petrie——” he fixed his rather tired looking blue eyes upon the latter—”is this: Sir Denis Nayland Smith, presumably accompanied by Detective-sergeant Murphy is, we must assume, a prisoner in the cellars of this place; and according to a report received not more than ten minutes ago, from Chief detective-inspector Gallaho, experts from the explosive works were about to blast a way through the concrete wall, adjoining the iron door. The party to which wing Commander Faversham refers had not then arrived.”
He paused, folded up his spectacles and placed them in a green leather case.
“I am strongly disposed,” he said, slowly, “since this is a case of major importance, to proceed to Limehouse myself;
unless definite news is received within the next five minutes. Should you care to accompany me, Dr. Petrie?”
CHAPTER 45
THE MATCH SELLER
Fey stared reflectively down from the bay window to where beyond the misty Embankment, the Thames flowed. A small steamer was passing, and Fey found himself calculating how long a time must elapse before that steamer would be traversing Limehouse Reach.
To-night, he was assured, his monotonous duty was also a useless duty. These yellow devils knew that Sir Denis was in Limehouse, but stoically Fey continued to smoke the large briar, and to walk up and down in accordance with orders. Dr. Petrie had set out for Scotland Yard not long before. It was trying, even to so patient a man, to stand so near the edge of the arena and yet be unable to see what was going on.
Fey was worried.
He had not said anything to the doctor, but through glasses from a darkened bedroom window, he had been studying an old match seller whose place of business on the Embankment almost immediately faced these flats.
Sir Denis, before leaving on that mysterious affair which still occupied him, had told Fey to watch this man and to note what he did. The man did nothing for five minutes or so, merely remaining seated against the parapet. Then he stood up.
Since Fey had assumed him to be a cripple, this was a surprise. But almost immeditately, the match vendor sat down again.
Fey continued to watch.
One of those derelicts who haunt this riverside thoroughfare came shuffling along, paused for a moment, talking to the man seated on the pavement, and then retraced his steps.
Fey had been wondering, right up to the time of Dr. Petrie’s arrival, if this had been a mere coincidence, or if it had been a signal to a second watcher that there was something to report. For the entrance to the mansions was visible from that point, and Fey was disposed to believe that Sir Denis, in spite of his disguise, had been recognized as he went out that way, and that the news of his departure had been passed on.
His theory was confirmed shortly after Dr. Petrie’s departure.
At about the time that the doctor would have been walking down the steps, the match seller stood up again . . . and again the derelict shuffled along, spoke to him and disappeared.
The match seller was in his usual position again, now, but Fey from time to time slipped into the adjoining room and inspected him through binoculars. Had orders not forbidden it he would have slipped out and had a closer look at this suspicious character. However, he had discovered something.
The apartment was under close observation—and to-night the enemy was aware that Sir Denis was not at
