The Trail of Fu Manchu

No one came.

“Fey!” she called again, and heard with surprise the high note upon which she called.

The door opened. The lobby beyond was in darkness.

A tall man was coming in.

But it was not Fey. . . .

CHAPTER 53

POWERS OF DR. FU MANCHU

“I can’t make this out!” said Nayland Smith.

He, Dr. Petrie and Inspector Gallaho stood before the door of the apartment. Smith had rung twice and there had been no reply.

Smith stared hard at Petrie.

“You’ve got the key, sir, no doubt?” Gallaho growled.

“Yes.” Nayland Smith drew a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. “I have the key, but I am wondering where Fey can have gone.”

They had called on Sterling, the invalid, in his room at the hotel near by, and they had broken the unpleasant news that unless Mr. Samuel Grimes (such was the night watchman’s name) suffered from a singular hallucination, it was almost certain that Dr. Fu Manchu was still alive.

Petrie had attended to his patient, who was of a type difficult to handle; and with a final drink upon which the doctor had frowned severely, they had come away .....

“Dinner for four at eight-thirty was my last order if I remember rightly,” said Nayland Smith. “It’s just possible, of course——” he placed the key in the lock—”that he may have gone down to the kitchen. But why doesn’t Fleurette answer?”

He turned the key and swung the door open.

“Hello!” Gallaho exclaimed, “what’s this?”

“My God!” groaned Petrie.

A heavy smell resembling that of mimosa swept out from the lobby to greet them, and . . . the lobby was in darkness!

Nayland Smith sprang forward, groped for the light, stumbled, and fell.

“Smith!”

Petrie rushed in behind him.

“All right!” came in the staccato fashion which characterized Nayland Smith in moments of tension. “I’ve fallen over . . . somebody.”

Inspector Gallaho switched on the light.

Sir Denis had jumped up. He was staring down, jaws clenched, at an insensible man who lay upon the carpet.

It was Fey.

Petrie raised his hand to his brow and groaned.

“Smith,” he said, in a strangled voice, “Smith! He has got her again!”

“Lend me a hand, Gallaho,” cried Nayland Smith, savagely. “We’ll get him on to the settee in the sitting- room.”

The door being thrown open by Petrie, it was warmly lighted. There was no one there.

Out from that lobby which reeked of mimosa, they carried the insensible man, and laid him upon the settee. He was breathing regularly, but heavily; otherwise, there was complete silence in Nayland Smith’s apartment.

“Can you do anything, Petrie? You know something about this damnable drug of the Doctor’s.”

“I can try,” said Petrie, quietly, and went out to the room which he occupied.

Sir Denis had accommodation for two guests, or, at a pinch, three. Dr. Petrie and his daughter were his guests now; and Fleurette . . . ?

Inspector Gallaho, who had forgotten to remove his bowler, removed it, not without difficulty, showing a red mark where it had been crushed down upon his bullet head.

“This is a hell of a go,” he growled, tossing his hat into an armchair. “It’s easy enough to see what’s happened, sir. This queer smell is one, I take it, you have met with before?”

“I have,” said Sir Denis, grimly.

A powerful anaesthetic?”

“Exactly.”

“Very well. Someone rang the bell, and the moment Fey opened the door, sprang on him with a pad saturated in this stuff—and the rest of the story tells itself.” He began to chew phantom gum. “She’s a lovely girl,” he added. “It’s enough to make a man burst!”

Dr. Petrie came in carrying a medicine case, and kneeling down, began to examine Fey. Gallaho went out into the lobby.

“The smell of this stuff makes my head swim,” he growled.

He was looking for something which might give a clue to the identity ofFey’s assailant. Nayland Smith, tugging at the lobe of his ear, was walking up and down before the open fire, watching Petrie at work; afraid to say what he thought, but suffering much of the agony of mind which he knew his old friend to be experiencing at this moment.

Some sandwiches and part of a bottle of champagne were on a table beside an armchair.

There came a strange interruption.

Someone who had a fresh, mezzo-soprano voice, began to sing very quietly in an adjoining room!

She sang in French, and one would have said that the singer was happy.

Dr. Petrie came to his feet at a bound.

“Good God, Smith!” He grasped Sir Denis’s arm—”that’s Fleurette!”

Gallaho came running in from the lobby.

“The young lady’s in the flat, sir! What the devil does it mean?”

The song was interrupted from time to time, suggesting that the singer was moving about engaged upon some pleasant task, and singing from sheer lightness of heart. Under Dr. Petrie’s tan it was yet possible to detect how pale he had grown.

“I’ll go, Smith,” he said.

He crossed the lobby, entered a short passage and threw a door open; Sir Denis was close behind him.

Fleurette, dressed as they had left her, was amusing herself with hats and frocks and stockings strewn all over the room, and singing lightly from time to time. She was smoking a cigarette.

“Fleurette, darling!” cried Petrie. “Thank God you are safe. Surely you heard us come in?”

Fleurette turned, a cigarette between her fingers, tossing a little green hat on to the coverlet of the bed, and staring in a vaguely puzzled way at the speaker.

There was no recognition in her eyes.

“I am waiting to be called,” she said; “I may have to leave at any moment. Please let me get on with my packing.”

“Fleurette!” Her father stepped forward and grasped her shoulders. “Fleurette! Look at me. What has happened here to-night?”

Fleurette smiled at him as she might have smiled at a perfect stranger; then looked past him with a puzzled frown to where Nayland Smith stood in the open doorway, his face very grim, and his eyes gleaming.

“Nothing has happened,” she replied. “I don’t know you, but it is very kind of you to ask. May I please go on with my packing?”

“She’s hysterical,” came a growling voice beyond Sir Denis. “Something that has happened here to-night has unbalanced her.”

It was Gallaho.

Nayland Smith exchanged a rapid glance with Dr. Petrie. Petrie, his expression indicating that he was exercising a tremendous effort of control, shook his head. He released Fleurette and forced a smile.

“By all means go on, dear,” he said. “Let me know if you want anything.”

Fleurette looked up at him questioningly.