change of dress; and the car is waiting. . . .”
CHAPTER
60
DR. PETRIE’S PATIENT
When the
Shortly after he reached the deck, endeavouring to recall his instructions, an elderly Egyptian, wearing European dress, approached him. The usual scurry characterized the docking of the liner; stewards and porters were rushing about with baggage; visitors were looking for those they had come to meet; cargo was being swung out from the holds; and drizzling rain desended dismally upon the scene.
“Dr. Petrie!”
The man spoke urgently, close to Petrie’s ear.
“Yes.”
“My name is Ibrahim. Please—your dock check.”
Petrie handed the slip to the Egyptian.
“Please wait here. I shall come back.”
He moved along the deck, and presently disappeared amongst a group of passengers crowding towards the gangway.
Petrie felt that he was in a dream. Yet he forced himself to play his part in this grotesque pantomime, the very purpose of which he could not comprehend: the sanity of his daughter was at stake.
Ibrahim rejoined him. He handed him a passport.
“Please see that it is in order,” he said. “You have to pass the Customs.”
Petrie, inured to shock, opened the little book; saw a smaller version of the photograph which Mr. Yusaki had shown him, gummed upon the front page; and learned that he was a Mr. Jacob Edward Crossland, aged fifty-five, of no occupation, and residing at 14, Westminster Mansions!
The extent and the powers of the organization called the Si-Fan were so amazing that he had never succeeded in getting used to them. No society, with the possible exception of the Jesuits, ever had wielded such influence nor had its roots so deeply set in unsuspected quarters.
He could only assume that Mr. Crossland, husband of the well-known woman novelist, was one of these strange brethren: assume, too, that Mr. Crossland would slip ashore as a visitor.
And—what?
Disappear from his place in society? Yusaki had said he was making a great sacrifice for the Cause. It was all very wonderful and very terrifying.
“I have tipped the stewards, effendim—and your baggage is already in Custom House. Will you please follow me? . . .”
Dr. Petrie walked down the ladder wearing a white raincoat which he had acquired at the house of Mr. Yusaki, and a grey hat of a colour and style which he detested.
Apparently, Mr. Crossland travelled light. A small cabin-trunk and a suitcase lay upon the Customs bench. The cabin trunk he was requested to open. Ibrahim produced the necessary key, displaying wearing apparel, a toilet case, books and other odds and ends. The two pieces were passed. The porter hired by Ibrahim carried them out towards the dock gates.
“Be careful, please,” the Egyptian whispered.
Detective-inspector Gallaho and Sergeant Murphy were standing at the gate!
Nothing quite corresponding to this had ever occurred in Petrie’s adventurous life. He had joined the ranks of the law breakers!
He must play his part; so much was at stake. He must deceive his friends, those interested, as he was interested, in apprehending the Chinese physician. If his nerve, or the art of Mr. Yusaki should fail him now—all would be lost!
The critical gaze of Gallaho was fixed upon him for a moment, then immediately transferred to Ibrahim.
Petrie passed the detective, forcing himself not to look in his direction. A taxicab was waiting upon which the pieces of baggage were loaded, under the supervision of Ibrahim. Petrie observed with admiration that his own suitcase had already been placed inside.
He knew now where his course lay, and his amazement rose by leaps and bounds.
The presence of Gallaho at the dock gates was explained. The police were covering the Crossland flat. The man, when he had left that morning, had naturally been followed. He was regarded as a factor so important in the case that Gallaho had covered in person. Gallaho would be disappointed. The cunning of the group surrounding Dr. Fu Manchu exceeded anything in Petrie’s experience.
He glanced at the placid, elderly Egyptian seated beside him,and:
“How long have you belonged to the Si-Fan?” he asked, speaking in Arabic.
Ibrahim shrugged his shoulders.
“Sir,” he replied in the same language, “it is not possible for me to reply to your questions. Silence is my creed.”
“Very sound,” Petrie murmured, and gave it up.
His sentiments when he reached Westminster, and was greeted respectfully by the hall porter as Mr. Crossland, were of a kind inexpressible in any language known to man.
Then, as he stepped out of the elevator—Nayland Smith was standing on the landing!
Petrie suppressed an exclamation. One piercing stare of those blue-grey eyes had told him that he was recognized.
But Smith gave no sign, merely bowing and stepping aside as Ibrahim busied himself with the baggage.
Three mintues later, Dr. Petrie stood in the pseudo-Oriental atmosphere of the Crossland flat, and Ibrahim closed the door behind him.
“Please wait a moment.”
The Egyptian walked through the harem-like apartment which opened out of the lobby, and disappeared.
Petrie had time to wonder if the authoress of the celebrated novels of desert love also was a member of the Si-Fan, or if this must be counted a secret of her husband’s life which she had never shared. He wondered what part this man normally played in their activities, and doubted the nationality of Crossland.
Surely no man entitled to his name could link himself with a monstrous conspiracy to subject the Western races to domination by the East?
Above all, to what reward did Crossland look which should make good the loss of his place in the world of decent men?
“If you will please come this way, sir.”
Ibrahim, who had carried out the precious suitcase, now returned without it, and stood bowing before Petrie.
Petrie nodded and followed the Egyptian across that shaded room with its mushrabiyeh windows, and through a doorway beyond, which, in spite of the Oriental camouflage, he recognized to correspond with one in Nayland Smith’s apartment.
He found himself in a large bedroom.
The Eastern note persisted. The place, viewed from the doorway, resembled a stage-set designed by one of the more advanced Germans for a scene in Scheherazade. The bed stood upon a dias; its posts were intricately carved and inlaid, and a canopy of cloth of gold overhung its head. A low couch he saw, too, and a long, inlaid table of Damascus work. Upon this table chemical apparatus appeared, striking a strange note in that apartment. He noted that the contents of his suitcase had been added to the other materials upon the table.
And, in the bed, Dr. Fu Manchu lay. . . .
Petrie stared, and stared again, unable to accept the evidence of his own senses.
Less than two months had elapsed since he had seen the Chinese doctor. In those two months, Fu Manchu had aged incredibly.
He was shrunken; his strange, green eyes were buried in his skull; his long hands lying on the silk coverlet
