“You are so nice,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve come, but I don’t want anything, thank you.”
Petrie signalled to Smith to go out. They returned to the lobby, Petrie leaving the door ajar. And as they entered it, that same singing, uncanny, now, was renewed.
“There’s no other way out of this flat except through the front door, here, is there?” asked Petrie.
“No.” Sir Denis shook his head. “Except through a window.”
Petrie glanced at Nayland Smith; agony peeped out of his eyes.
“I don’t think it’s likely,” he said. “That is not what I fear.”
“Doctor,” growled Gallaho, “this is a frightful blow. Something so horrible happened here to-night that the poor girl has lost her reason.”
“Something horrible—yes,” said Petrie, slowly; “but. . . she hasn’t lost her reason.”
Gallaho stared uncomprehendingly. Nayland Smith turned to him, and:
“If you knew all that I know of the powers of Dr. Fu Manchu,” he said, “you would know that not only is he alive, but. . .”
“What, sir?”—for the speaker had paused.
“He has been here to-night. I don’t understand.” He began to walk up and down feverishly—”I don’t understand. . . .”
CHAPTER 54
GALLAHO EXPLORES FURTHER
“Have you been on duty all night?”
Chief detective-inspector Gallaho stood in the hall porter’s office. The hall porter, a retired sergeant-major of the Black Watch, rather resented his presence and his manner.
“Certainly; I’ve been on duty all night.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you hadn’t,” growled Gallaho. “I was merely asking a question.”
“Well, the answer is: Yes,”
“The answer is ‘Yes’. Good. Now I’m going to ask you a few more questions.”
The sergeant-major recognized a character at least as truculent as his own; when Gallaho was in difficulties, Gallaho’s manner was far from soothing. The hall porter glanced him up and down with disfavour, and turning to a side-table, began to arrange a stack of letters which lay there.
“You might as well know that I’m a police officer,” Gallaho went on, “and your answers to the questions I am going to ask you may be required in evidence. So make ‘em snappy and to the point.”
The porter tuned: he was no longer so sure of himself.
“Has something happened here to-night?” he asked.
“You are the man that should know that,” said Gallaho; “so you’re the man I’ve come to. Listen—he leaned on the flap of the half-door; “how many apartments are there on the floor where Sir Denis Nayland Smith lives?”
“Four. Sir Denis’s and three others.”
“Who are the occupiers of the three others?”
“One is vacant at the moment. Another belongs to Major General Sir Rodney Orme; the third to Mrs. Crossland, the novelist.”
“Are these people at home?”
“Neither of them, as a matter of fact. The General is in the south of France, and his flat is shut up; and Mrs. Crossland has been in America for some time.”
“I suppose her place is shut up, too?”
“No. As a matter of fact, it isn’t. But their Egyptian servant lives up there, cleans the rooms and looks after correspondence. He has been with them, I believe, for many years.”
“Egyptian servant?”
“Yes, Egyptian servant.”
“Is he up there now?”
“I suppose so.”
“Have you seen him to-night?”
“No.”
“Are there any apartments above that?”
“No; only some storerooms. The lift goes no further than Sir Denis’s floor.”
“I see.” Gallaho chewed invisible gum. “Now, has anybody been up to or down from that floor in the last few hours?”
“No. A gentleman called and asked for the General, but I told him he was abroad.”
“So no one has gone up to the top floor, or come down from the top floor during the past few hours?”
“No one.”
“People have been moving about on the other floors, of course?”
“Two or three have come down and two or three have gone up. But no one I haven’t seen before. I mean they were either residents, friends of residents or tradespeople.”
“Quite.”
Gallaho turned, and went lounging in the direction of the lift. He paused, however, turned, and:
“Where are the kitchens?” he called; “in the basement?”
“Yes. You have to use the service lift if you want to go down there.”
“Where is it?”
“In the passage on the right.”
A few minutes later, Gallaho had stepped into a small elevator, controlled by a very pert boy.
“Kitchens,” he growled.
“What d’you mean, kitchens?” the boy inquired. “The kitchens is private.”
“My lad,” said Gallaho—”when a detective-inspector says to you—’kitchens’—do you know what you do?”
“No, sir,” the boy replied, suddenly awed.
“You take him there, and you jump to it.”
Gallaho presently found himself in a place inhabited by men in high white caps, a hot place informed by savoury smells. His appearance created mild surprise.
“Who’s in charge, here?” he demanded, sharply.
“I am a police officer, and I have some questions to ask.”
A stout man whose cap was higher and whiter than the others, came forward.
“I hope nothing’s wrong, Inspector,” he said.
“Something is wrong, but it’s not your fault. I only want to know one thing. You are of course acquainted with Fey, Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man?”
“Certainly.”
“Did he order dinner to be prepared for a party to-night?”
“He didn’t. He ordered some sandwiches just before seven o’clock and they were taken up.”
“You are sure?”
“Certain.”
“Thank you.”
Gallaho lounged back to the lift.
The outrage must have taken place shortly after their departure. Otherwise, it was almost certain that Fey would have made arrangements with the chef for dinner. It seemed probable, but not certain, that no stranger had gone up to the top floor, or come down from it. But although the sergeant-major claimed to be acquainted with all those who had visited other floors, Gallaho realized that the evidence on this point was not conclusive, and:
“Have you been on duty all night?” he asked the man running the residents’ lift.
“I came on at six o’clock, sir.”
“Have you taken any strangers up or down during the evening?”
“Strangers, sir?”
They had reached the top floor, and the man opened the gate, and stood there, considering.
