The Trail of Fu Manchu

Petrie nodded, and went out.

“If the evidence of the watchman we interviewed to-night can be relied upon,” Sir Denis continued—”and personally, I have no doubt on the point——”

“Nor have I, sir.”

“Very well. All the men who were in that place called the Sailors’ Club at the time of the tragedy, escaped by some means we don’t know about. But, evidently, into a main sewer—”

“One seems to have been missing, sir!”

‘Yes!—and I’m glad he is!” snapped Nayland Smith viciously. “The Burmese killer evidently met his end there. But that the tall man described by the witness is Dr. Fu Manchu, personally I cannot doubt.”

“It certainly looks like it. But how did he get into this building? And where is he hiding?”

Dr. Petrie returned. His eyes were very sorrowful.

“Is she all right?”

He nodded.

“That yellow conjurer has got her under control,” he said between clenched teeth. “I know the symptoms. I have suffered them myself. God help us! What are we going to do?”

“What I’m going to do,” Gallaho growled, picking up his bowler from the armchair where he had thrown it, “is this: I am going to step along to Mrs. Crossland’s flat and have a serious chat with your friend——” he glanced at Fey— “Ibrahim.”

CHAPTER

56

IBRAHIM

“I have never met Mrs. Crossland,” said Nayland Smith irritably, “nor her husband. One can live in a block of London flats for years and never know one’s neighbours. But I am acquainted with them by sight, and also with their Egyptian servant, Ibrahim.”

“What do you think of him, sir?” growled Gallaho.

“Perfectly normal, and probably very trustworthy. But it doesn’t follow that he hasn’t been for all his life a member of the Si-Fan.”

“This Si-Fan business, sir, is beyond me.”

“It has proved to be beyond me,” said Nayland Smigh, shortly.

Gallaho gave voice to an idea.

“It must be very unpeasant,” he said, “to be the unknown husband of a well-known woman.”

They reached the door of Mrs. Crossland’s flat. Gallaho pressed the bell.

An elderly Egyptian in native dress opened the door. He was a very good Arab type and a highly ornamental servant. He stared uncomprehendingly at Inspector Gallaho, and then bowed to Sir Denis.

“This is Mrs. Crossland’s flat, I believe?” said the detective.

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Crossland is abroad.”

“A crime has been committed in this building to-night,” Gallaho went on, in his threatening way, “and I want to ask you a few questions.”

The Egyptian did not give way; he stood squarely in the doorway. It was a type of situation which has defeated many a detective officer. Gallaho knew that his ankles were tied by red tape; that he dared not, if intrusion should prove to have been unjustified, cross the threshold against the will of the man who held it.

Nayland Smith solved the situation.

Stepping past Gallaho, he gently but firmly pushed the Egyptian back, and entered the lobby.

“There are questions I want to ask you, Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic, “and I wish my friend to be present.” He turned. “Come in, Gallaho.”

The lobby of Mrs. Crossland’s flat resembled the entrance to a harem. It was all mushrabiyeh work and perforated brass lanterns. There were chests of Damascus ware, and slender Persian rugs upon the polished floors. Ibrahim’s amiable face changed in expression; his dark eyes glared dangerously.

“You have no right to come into this place,” he said in English.

And Nayland Smith, noting that he spoke in English even in this moment of excitement, recognized an unusual character; for he had spoken in Arabic.

Gallaho entered behind Sir Denis. He knew that the latter was not trammelled as he was trammelled; that he was strong enough to trample upon regulations.

“Close the door, Gallaho,” snapped Sir Denis; and, turning to the Egyptian: “Lead the way in. I want to talk to you.”

Ibrahim’s expression changed again. He bowed, smiled, and indicating with an outstretched arm an apartment similar in shape to Nayland Smith’s sitting-room, led the way.

Gallaho and Sir Denis found themselves in an apartment queerly exotic. The bay window which in Smith’s room admitted waves of sunlight, here was obstructed by a mushrabiyeh screen. Dim light from shaded lanterns illuminated the place. It was all divans and brassware, rugs and cushions; a stage-setting of an Oriental interior. Mrs. Crossland’s reputation and financial success rested upon her inaccurate pictures of desert life; of the loves of sheiks and their Western mistresses.

Nayland Smith looked about him.

Ibrahim stood by the door leading into the room in an attitude of humility, eyes lowered. But Sir Denis had sized up the man and knew that the task before them was no easy one.

“You have a Chinese friend, 0 Ibrahim,” he said in Arabic— “a tall, distinguished Chinese friend.”

Nothing in Ibrahim’s attitude indicated that the words had startled him, but:

“I have no such Chinese friend, effendim,” he replied, persistently speaking in English.

“You belong to the Si-Fan.”

“I do not even know what you mean, effendun.”

“Tell me. You may as well speak now——” Sir Denis had abandoned Arabic—”since you will be compelled to speak later if necessary. How long have you been in the service of Mrs. Grassland?”

“For ten years, effendun.”

“And here, in this flat?”

“My lady and gentleman live here for five years.”

“I suggest that Mrs. Crossland or her husband has a tall distinguished Chinese friend, who sometime visits here.”

“I am not acquainted with such a person, effendim.”

Nayland Smith tugged at his ear, whilst Gallaho watched him anxiously. It was a situation of some delicacy; because, always, there was a possibility that they were wrong.

The sinister visitor with the camera-case might have been working from some other base.

“There are no other resident servants?”

“None, effendim.”

It was an impasse. Failing some more definite clue Nayland Smith recognized the fact that despite his contempt for red tape where a major case was concerned he could not possibly force this perfect servant to give him access to the other rooms of the apartment.

He stood there tugging at his ear, and staring from object to object. The very air was impregnated with pseudo Orientalism. It held a faint tang of ambergris. He wished, now, that Petrie had been with him; for Petrie sometimes had queer intuitions. But of course, it had been impossible to leave Fleurette alone.

He glanced at Gallaho.

The latter took the cue immediately, and:

“A mistake, sir, I suppose?” he growled; and to Ibrahim:

“Sorry to have troubled you.”

They returned to the lobby: Gallaho had actually gone out into the corridor, when:

“This is a very fine piece, Ibrahim,” said Sir Denis.

He stood before an Egyptian sarcophagus half hidden in a recess.

“So I am told, effendim.”

“Has Mrs. Crossland had it long?”