“Who was in charge of the funeral, Constable?”
Alan Sterling sprang to his feet; fists clenched, quivering, he stood watching Nayland Smith at the telephone.
“The London Necropolis Company, sir.”
“At what time did it take place?”
“At four o’clock this afternoon.”
“Were there any followers?”
“Only one, sir. A foreign gentleman.”
“You don’t know who was attending the patient?”
“Yes, sir; as it happens, I do. A Dr. Norton, who lives on South Side. He was my own doctor, sir, when I lived in Clapham.”
“Thanks, Constable. I wish you had reported this earlier. But it’s not your fault.”
Nayland Smith turned to Sterling.
“Don’t look like that,” he pleaded. “It may mean nothing or it may be a red herring. But whilst I pick up one or two things that I want in the other room, get Gallaho at Scotland Yard, and ask him to join us here with a fast car.”
CHAPTER
6
DR. NORTON’S PATIENT
Dr. Norton was surprised, somewhat annoyed and obviously perturbed by the invasion of Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Chief-inspector Gallaho and Alan Sterling. His consultations were finished, and he had hastily changed into evening kit. Clearly, he had a dinner appointment. He was a man approaching middle age, of sanguine complexion —West Country, as Nayland Smith recognized at a glance, and clever without being brilliant.
As his three visitors were shown into the upstairs study and made themselves known to Dr. Norton, Nayland Smith’s behaviour was somewhat peculiar. Watched by the others, he walked around the room inspecting the bookcases, the pictures, and even the window, smiling in a manner that was almost sad.
“This is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting you, Sir Denis,” said Dr. Norton, “but we have a mutual friend.”
“I know,” Nayland Smith turned and stared at him. “You bought this practice from Petrie.”
“I’ve stuck it ever since, although it isn’t particularly profitable.”
Nayland Smith nodded and glanced at Gallaho. The celebrated detective-inspector, on this occasion, had removed his bowler, revealing a close-cropped head, and greying, dark hair.
“You must have observed, Inspector, during your great experience of human life, that things move in circles.”
“I have often noticed it, sir.”
“Many years have elapsed, and much history has been made since Dr. Fu Manchu first visited England. But it was in this very room—” he turned to Dr. Norton—”that the Mandarin Fu Manchu made his second attempt on my life.”
“What!”
Dr. Norton could not conceal his astonishment. “I know something, but very little, from Petrie, of the queer matters to which you refer, Sir Denis, but I hadn’t recognized——”
“You hadn’t recognized the existence of the circle,” snapped Nayland Smith. “No, I suppose we have to live many lives before we do. It’s a law, but it always strikes me as odd when I come in contact with it. It was here, in this very room, that Petrie, from whom you bought this practice, came to an understanding with the beautiful woman who is now his wife. It was here that Dr. Fu Manchu endeavoured to remove me by means of the Zayat Kiss. Ah——” he looked about him, and then pulled his pipe and his pouch from the pocket of his tweed jacket. “The circle narrows, I begin to hope again.”
Dr. Norton’s interest in his dinner engagement was evidently weakening. The magnetic personality of Nayland Smith was beginning to dominate.
“Of course, Sir Denis, one has heard of Fu Manchu. I haven’t seen Petrie since he settled in Cairo; but odd things crop up in the Press from time to time. Am I to understand that you gentlemen have called this evening with regard to this mythical monster?”
“That’s it,” said Gallaho; “the circle to which Sir Denis referred has roped you in now. Doctor.”
“I am afraid I don’t understand.”
“Naturally,” rapped Nayland Smith.
“May I suggest whiskies and soda,” said the physician. “It doesn’t run to cocktails.”
“It’s a suggestion,” Gallaho replied, “that doesn’t leave me unmoved.”
Dr. Norton dispensed drinks for his unexpected visitors, and then:
“My recognition of the fact,” said Nayland Smith, “that fate had brought me back to Petrie’s old quarters, with their many associations, rather took me off the track. The point of our visit is this, Doctor——” He fixed his penetrating eyes upon their host: ‘You have been attending a Miss Demuras, who lived on the North Side of the Common——”
‘Yes.” Dr. Norton visibly started. “I regret to say that she died yesterday, and was buried to-day.”
“Without recourse to your case-book,” Nayland Smith went on, “what roughly were the symptoms which led to her end?”
Dr. Norton passed his hand over his face, and then brushed his fair moustache. He was considering his reply, but finally:
“It was a case of pernicious anaemia,” he replied. “Miss Demuras had resided in the tropics. She was practically alone in the world, except for a brother—with whom she requested me to communicate, and who appeared in time to take charge of the funeral arrangements.”
“Pernicious anaemia,” Nayland Smith murmured. “It’s a rather obscure thing, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“As its name implies, and I have used its popular name, it is—pernicious. It’s difficult to combat. She was in an advanced stage when I first attended her.”
“She occupied a ground-floor flat?”
“Yes.”
“Had she any personal servants?”
“No; it was a service flat.”
“I see. When did she actually die, doctor?”
“Just before dawn yesterday. A popular hour for death, Sir Denis.”
“I know. There was a nurse in attendance, of course.”
“Yes. A very experienced woman from the local Institute.”
“She called you, I take it, to the patient, fearing that she was in extremis?”
“Yes. It was a painful surprise. I hadn’t expected it. . .”
“Quite. But her sudden death was consistent with her symptoms?”
“Undoubtedly. It happens that way in certain cases.”
“Had you taken any other opinion?”
“Yes. I called in Havelock Wade only last week.”
Gallaho was following the conversation eagerly, his sullen-looking eyes turning from speaker to speaker. Sterling, sitting in an armchair, had abandoned hope of mastering his intense anxiety. He didn’t know, and couldn’t grasp, what this inquiry portended. But wholly, horribly, his mind was filled with the idea that Fleurette was dead and had been burried.
“Forgive me if I seem to pry into professional secrets,” Nayland Smith went on; “but would you mind describing your late patient.
“Not at all,” Dr, Norton replied. He began again to brush his moustache. His expression, Nayland Smith decided, was that of an unhappy man. “She was, I think, a Eurasian. I don’t know very much of the East; I have never been there. But she was some kind of half-caste—there was Eastern blood in her. Her skin was of a curiously dull, ivory colour. I may as well say, Sir Denis, that she was a woman of great beauty. This uniform ivory hue of her skin was fascinating. To what extent this characteristic was due to heredity, and to what extent to her ailment, I
