The Drums of Fu Manchu

“You got it from Ardatha?”

“Yes.”

“What of the padlock at the other end?”

“That is unfastened.”

“Which means—someone is expected to go out tonight?”

“Exactly. I leave the identity of that someone to your imagination.”

We groped across the clammy echoing hall. With the key Ardatha had given him, Smith opened the door to that last gruesome tunnel. He locked it behind him.

“That was stipulated,” he explained drily. “It also protects us from the rear.”

We hurried as fast as we could through the fetid passage and up the steps at the end. The trap was open.

As we came out into that black and narrow lane which led to freedom:

“You must be worn to death, Smith,” I said.

“I confess to a certain weariness, Kerrigan. But since frankly I had accepted the fact that I must lose my identity and be transported to some point selected by Doctor Fu Manchu to carry out the duties of another life, this freedom is glorious! But remember: Rudolf Adion!”

“He had an hour—”

“We have less . . . if we are to save him.”

In The Palazzo Brioni

Colonel Correnti sprang up like a man who sees a ghost. Even the diplomatic poise of Sir George Herbert had deserted him. These were the small hours of the morning, but police headquarters hummed with the feverish activity of a hive disturbed.

“The good God be praised!” Correnti cried, and the points of his grey moustache seemed to quiver. “It is Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Mr. Kerrigan!”

“Glad to see you, Smith,” said Sir George drily.

“Quick!” Smith looked from face to face. “The latest news of Adion?”

The chief of police dropped back into his chair and extended his palms eloquently.

“Tragedy!”

“What? Tell me quickly!”

“He disappeared from the suite allotted to him at the palace—it has a private exit—some time during the night. No one can say when. It was certainly a love tryst—for Mr. Kerrigan saw the appointment made. But, he has not returned!”

“He will never return,” said Nayland Smith grimly, “if we waste a moment. I want a party—at least twenty men.”

“You know where he is?” Sir George Herbert was the speaker.

The chief of police sprang up, his eyes mad with excitement.

“I know where he was”

“But where? Tell me!”

“In a room in the Palazzo Brioni—”

“But Palazzo Brioni belongs to Mr. Brownlow Wilton, the American!”

“No matter. Rudolf Adion was there less than half an hour ago.”

As the necessary men were assembled Smith began to issue rapid orders. One party under a Carabinieri captain hurried off to the old stone boathouse. A second party proceeded to the water gate of the Palazzo Mori, a third covered both palaces from the land side. Ourselves, with the main party and the chief of police, set out for the Palazzo Brioni.

It was not clear to me how Smith had determined that this was the scene of our recent horrible adventure, but:

“I counted my paces as I went—and returned—along the passage,” he explained. “There is no shadow of doubt. The room in which we saw Doctor Fu Manchu and Rudolf Adion is in the Palazzo Brioni . . .

Against that keen breeze which shrieked eerily along the Grand Canal, the black police launch headed for the palace. As we slowed up against the water steps, no light showed anywhere; the great door was closed. Persistent ringing and knocking, however, presently resulted in a light springing up in the hallway.

When at last, preceded by the shooting of several bolts, the door opened, I saw a half-clad and very frightened manservant staring out.

“I represent the police,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “I must speak immediately to Mr. James Brownlow Wilton. Be good enough to inform him.”

We all crowded into the hallway, a beautiful old place in which I had glimpses of fine pictures, statuary and furniture, every item of which I recognized to be museum pieces. The man, pulling his dressing gown about him, stared pathetically from face to face.

“But, please, I don’t understand,” he said. He was Italian, but spoke fair English. “What is this? What has happened?”

In that dimly lighted hall as we stood about him, wind howling at the open door, I could well believe that his bewilderment was not assumed.

“First, who are you?” Smith demanded.

“I am the butler here, sir. My name is Paulo.”

“Mr. Wilton is your employer?”

“Yes sir.”

“Where is he?”

“He left tonight, sir.”

“What! Left for where?”

“For his yacht Silver Heels in the lagoon.”

“But what of his guests?”

“They have all gone too.”

“You mean that the house is empty?”

“Except for myself and the staff, sir, yes.”

One of the party said urgently to the chief of police:

“Silver Heels has sailed.”

“Silver Heels must be overtaken!” snapped Smith. “Send someone to make the necessary arrangements. I leave it to you. But I must be one of the party.”

A man, following rapid instructions from Colonel Correnti, went doubling off.

Turning again to the frightened butler:

“How long have you worked here?”

“Only for two weeks, sir. I was engaged by Mr. Wilton’s secretary. But I have worked here before for others who have leased the palace.”

“Lead the way to the tapestry room lighted by four iron candelabra.”

The man stared in almost a horrified manner.

“That room, sir, is part of what is called the Old Palace. It has long been locked up. I have no key.”

“Nor to the room with the lotus floor?”

Nayland Smith was watching him keenly, his unshaven face very grim.

“The room with the lotus floor!” Paulo’s expression grew even more wild. “I have heard of it, sir, but it is also part of the Old Palace. I have never seen it. Those rooms have a very unpleasant reputation, you understand. No one would lease the palace if they knew of them. The doors have not been unlocked for twenty years.”

“Then one must be broken down. Do you know where they are?”

“I know of two.”

“Go ahead.”

As Paulo turned to obey I heard a sound of distant voices.

“What is that?” snapped Smith.

“Some of the other servants, sir, who have been aroused!” Smith glanced at Colonel Correnti.