resembled the hands of a mummy. The outline of his teeth could be seen beneath drawn lips. To the keen scrutiny of the physician, the truth was apparent.
Dr. Fu Manchu was dying!
“ ‘0 mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low?’“ came sibilantly through parched lips. “I observe, Dr. Petrie, that this beautiful passage from an otherwise dull play is present in your mind . . . You honour me.”
Petrie started, felt his fists clenching. The body of Fu Manchu was in dissolution, but that phenomenal brain had lost none of its power. The man still retained his uncanny capacity for reading one’s unspoken thoughts.
“I must harbour what little strength remains to me,” the painful whisper continued. “For your daughter’s health of mind and body, you need have no fear. I was compelled, since there is still work for me if I can do it, to impose a command upon her. It nearly exhausted my powers, which are dwindling minute by minute.”
The whispering voice ceased.
Petrie watched that strange face, but no words came to him. In it he had seen, as others had seen, a likeness to the Pharaoh, Seti I—but the Pharaoh as one imagined him in his prime. Now, the resemblance to the mummy which lies in Cairo was uncanny.
Ideas which his scientific mind rejected as superstitious, danced mentally before him. . . .
What was the real age of this man?
“I have removed the command which I imposed upon her,” the whistling voice continued, “because I have accepted your word, as you have always accepted mine. Your daughter, Dr. Petrie, is restored to you as you would wish her to be. I shall never again intrude upon her life in any way.”
“Thank you!” said Petrie—and wondered why he spoke so emotionally.
He was thanking this cold-blooded, murderous criminal for promising to refrain from one of his many crimes! Perhaps the secret of his sentiment lay in the fact hat he knew the criminal to be one whose word was inviolable.
“I have taken these steps——” Fu Manchu’s voice sank lower—”because with all your great skill, which I respect, your assistance may have come too late.”
He paused again. Petrie watched him fascinatedly.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith has succeeded for the . . . first time in his life in sequestering me from most of those resources upon which normally ... I can draw. ... In these circumstances I was compelled to forego one ... of the periodical treatments upon which my continued . . . vitality depends. ... I was then cut off from the material. My present condition is outside my experience ... I cannot say if restoration ... is possible. . . .”
Complete resignation sounded in the weak voice.
“In the absence of Dr. Yamamata . . . who usually acts for me, but who unfortunately at present is in China . . . there is no other physician known to me who could possibly . . . assist—in any way. I shall be obliged, Dr. Petrie, if you will give the whole of your attention to ... the written formula which lies . . . upon the table. Any error would be fatal. . . . Only one portion of the essential oil remains in the phial contained in the steel casket. ...”
He ceased speaking and closed his eyes.
His hands had never moved; it was like listening to a dead man speaking from the grave.
CHAPTER
61
THE CROSSLAND’S FLAT
“Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir,” Fey announced.
It was approaching evening when Gallaho called on Nayland Smith; and, entering the lobby, he wrenched his bowler off, threw it on to a chair and walked into the sitting-room.
“Hullo, Gallaho!” said Sir Denis. “A devil of a row going on in the corridor?”
“Yes, sir. The vacant flat has been let—to an Indian Army gentleman, I believe. His stuff is being moved in.”
“You’ve checked up, I see!”
“Well——” Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf— “I’ve got a man posted at each of the four exits, and I’ve sized up the workmen from Staple’s depository on the job. Nobody is going to slip out in the confusion—that is, nobody over six feet in height that I don’t know!”
“Efficient work, Inspector.”
Gallaho stared, chewing invisible gum.
“I have come to a certain conclusion, sir,” he declared. “What I do about it depends upon your answer to a question I am going to ask.”
“What’s the question?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“It’s just this, sir: who’s in charge of this Fu Manchu case?”
“I am.”
“Good enough. That means I am under your orders, definitely.”
“Definitely”
“That saves me a lot of trouble,” sighed Gallaho, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Because I have certain theories, and I can’t act upon them without your instructions.”
He paused, and seemed to be listening.
“I know what you’re listening for,” said Sir Denis. “But I am very happy to be able to tell you, Gallaho, that Miss Petrie is entirely restored. The nurse installed by Dr. Petrie insists that she shall remain in bed. But there isn’t really the slightest occasion for it. Mr. Sterling and the nurse are with her now. She is completely normal.”
“That’s an amazing thing,” growled Gallaho.
Nayland Smith stared past him as if at some very distant object, and then:
“The powers of the mind
“Well, sir, my theory is this: that slimy old Arab. Ibrahim, went out this morning and I followed him. I took Murphy along in case we had to split up. He went to West India Dock, and went on board a liner in from Jamaica. He came ashore again, with his employer, Mr. Crossland.”
“I know,” Sir Denis interrupted. “I met them here, as they arrived.”
“Oh, I see. . . .” Gallaho stared very hard. “Well, in my opinion, there’s something funny about it. You see, sir, I had some inquiries made about Mr. Crossland. His wife’s in New York. That’s certain—I mean the woman who writes books. But Mr. Crossland himself was last heard of in Madeira.”
“He might have joined the ship at some port of call.”
“He might,” Gallaho replied. “In fact, he must have done. But it’s very funny. Except the Egyptian, nobody has come out of that flat since we visited it. ... I’m wondering who’s still inside——”
Nayland Smith did not answer for some moments, then:
“You mean, Gallaho,” he said, “that you don’t think the man who is now presumably in Mr. Crossland’s flat, is really Mr. Crossland at all?”
“I suppose I must be mad,” growled Gallaho, almost rubbing his elbow into the mantelpiece. “His passport was obviously in order; he was accepted by the servants downstairs here, and he was met by Ibrahim, who took charge of his baggage. I suppose I must be barmy. But there’s something about it that isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on the weak spot—but I wish I had your authority to barge into Mr. Crossland’s flat. I think I should find something.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down in silence, but at last:
“In my opinion, you are right, Inspector,” he replied. “If my opinion is of any value, I regard you as a man brilliantly equipped for his chosen profession.”
Detective-inspector Gallaho became definitely embarrassed.
“You apparently don’t know the meaning of fear, although you have an active imagination. I owe my life to this singular combination, and this, I shall never forget.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The present Commissioner and myself do not see eye to eye, but I don’t dispute his brilliance as an organizer. What I mean is this, Gallaho; you have hit the nail on the head.”
Gallaho, watching the speaker, was chewing assiduously, and now:
“Am I to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you agree with my view of this case?”
