The Trail of Fu Manchu

“There were guests came to dinner at number fourteen, and a gentleman I hadn’t seen before went up this evening with another resident, but they went out together about half-past seven.”

“Nobody else?” “Nobody at all, sir.”

When Sir Denis opened the door to Gallaho, the latter could hear Fleurette singing in the inner room.

chapter

55

MIMOSA

“I’ve adopted somewhat unusual methods, Smith,” said Petrie, with the ghost of a smile, glancing up from where he sat beside the unconscious Fey.

“I hope to heaven they succeed,” snapped Smith. “He may or may not be able to throw some light upon this business.”

“During the time that I was a guest of Dr. Fu Manchu”—— Petrie was obviously talking with the idea of distracting his mind from the sound of that sweet voice singing snatches of songs in an adjoining room—the Doctor was good enough to impart to me some particulars of his preparation, Mimosa 3— probably the most remarkable anaesthetic ever invented by man. He claims for it that there are practically no evil aftereffects, and of this you yourself have had evidence in the past. The patient may also be readily revived by those means which you have just seen me adopt.”

And even as he spoke the words, Fey raised his drooping eyelids, staring vaguely from face to face.

“How are you, Fey?” said Petrie; “feeling better, I see. Let me help you up. I want you to drink this.”

Fey sat up and swallowed the contents of the glass which Petrie held to his lips. Looking about him in a dazed way, he began sniffing.

“Funnily enough,” he replied, “I feel practically all right. But I can still smell that awful stuff. Miss Fleurette?” He jumped to his feet, then sat down again. “She is safe, sir? She’s safe?”

Fleurette had ceased to sing but could be heard moving about in the inner room.

“She’s in her room, Fey,” said Nayland Smith, shortly.

Fey’s glance wandered to the large clock on the mantelpiece:

“Good God! Sir,” he muttered. “I’ve been asleep for two hours!”

“It’s not your fault, Fey,” replied Dr. Petrie. “We all understand. What we are anxious to hear is exactly what happened.”

“Yes, sir,” Fey replied. “I can understand that——” he paused, listening.

That lighthearted, sweet voice had reached him from the inner room. He glanced at Dr. Petrie:

“Miss Fleurette, sir?”

“Yes, Fey. But please go ahead with your story.”

“I’d just made up my menu, sir.” He glanced at Nayland Smith, who had begun restlessly to walk up and down the carpet. “I mean, I had worked out a little dinner which I thought would meet with your approval, and gone to the telephone in the lobby to talk to the chef down below. I was just about to take up the instrument when the door bell rang.”

“Stop, Fey,” snapped Nayland Smith. “Did you hear the lift gate open?”

“No, sir—of that I am positive.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m beginning to see the light,” growled Gallaho.

“One moment, Fey,” Nayland Smith interrupted; “this would be, I take it, some ten to twenty minutes after our departure?”

“Exactly, sir. I thought it might be one of the staff who had come up in the service lift, which can’t be heard from here, or old Ibrahim, Mrs. Crossland’s butler——”

“You know this man, Ibrahim?” said Gallaho.

“Yes, sir. He’s an Egyptian. He’s travelled a lot, as I have. He’s a funny old chap; we sometimes have a yarn together. Anyway, I opened the door.”

He paused. He was a man of orderly mind. He was obviously endeavouring to find words in which exactly to express what had occurred. He went on again.

“There was a tall man standing outside the door, sir. He wore an overcoat with the collar turned up, and a black felt hat with the brim pulled down. The only light in the lobby was the table lamp beside the telephone, so that I couldn’t make out his features.”

“How tall was this man?” jerked Nayland Smith.

“Well, unusually tall, sir. Taller than yourself.”

“I see.”

“He held what looked like a camera in his hand, and as I opened the door he just stood there, watching me.”

‘“Yes?’ I said.

“And then without moving his head, which he held down, so that I never had more than a glimpse of his features, he raised this thing and something puffed right out into my face.”

“Something?” growled Gallaho. “What sort of thing?”

“Vapour, sir, with a most awful smell of mimosa. It blinded me—it staggered me. I fell back into the lobby, gasping for breath. And the tall man followed me in. I collapsed on the carpet where you found me, I suppose. And I remember his bending over me.”

“Describe this man’s hands,” Nayland Smith directed.

“He wore gloves.”

“As he bent over you,” said Dr. Petrie, eagerly, “just before you became quite unconscious, did you form no impression of his features?”

“Yes, sir, I did. But I may have been dreaming. I thought it was the devil bending over me, sir. He had long, green eyes, that gleamed like emeralds.”

“We know, now,” said Sir Denis, continuing to walk up and down, “roughly what occurred. But I don’t understand. ... I don’t understand.”

Fleurette in the inner room sang a bar or two with the happy abandon of a child, and Fey glanced uneasily from Sir Denis to Dr. Petrie.

“What don’t you understand, Smith?” the latter asked, sadly.

“Either this deathless fiend, who is harder to kill than an earwig, has employed one of his unique drugs or he has hypnotically dominated Fleurette. Whichever is the true explanation, what is his purpose, Petrie?”

There came a moment of silence. Fleurette, ceasing to sing, might be heard moving about; then:

“I think I see what you mean, Smith,” Petrie replied, slowly. “He could have taken her away or he could have——”

“Exactly,” snapped Sir Denis. “Why has he left her . . . and in this condition?”

“Who are you talking about, sir?” growled Gallaho.

“Dr. Fu Manchu.”

“What! Do you really mean he has been here to-night?”

“Beyond any shadow of doubt.”

“But what for?”

“That’s what we are trying to work out, Gallaho.” Nayland Smith was the speaker. “Frankly, it has me beaten.”

“There’s one line of enquiry,” Gallaho replied, “which with your permission I propose to take up without delay.”

“What’s that?” Petrie asked.

“This tall lad, with the box of poison gas, according to the gentleman with all the medals downstairs, hasn’t come into Westminster Mansions to-night, and hasn’t gone out. You say yourself, Fey—” he stared at the man, chewing vigorously— “that the lift wasn’t used? My conclusion is this, sir.” He turned to Nayland Smith: “Dr. Fu Manchu is somewhere in this building.”

Smith glanced at Petrie.

“Go and take a look at her,” he said. “She’s been quiet for some time. I am very anxious.”