Ardatha drew back from that tall cloaked figure—back and back—until she came to the wall behind her; and there, arms outstretched, she stood. The color was draining from her cheeks, her expression was one of utter despair.
“Look at me, Ardatha”—Dr Fu Manchu spoke softly.
As she raised her eyes to the majestic evil of his face I thought of a hare and a cobra.
“I am satisfied”—his voice was little more than a whisper—”that your motives have been as you say, but I can no longer employ you in my personal service. Mr. Kerrigan”—it was a harsh command. He raised the Ericksen tube—”be good enough to look out of your window and to report to me what you see.”
Without hesitation I obeyed, stepping forward to the window so that Dr Fu Manchu stood behind me.
“Draw the curtain aside.”
I did so. Immediately I recognized the fact that the house was invested by the forces of the Si-Fan!
Two men over by the closed park gate unmistakably were watching the windows. Two others lingered in conversation near the door below. A big car was drawn up on the comer, and another pair were engaged in peering under the bonnet.
“Be good enough, Mr. Kerrigan, to raise your hand. The signal will be understood.”
Automatically, I was about to obey . . . when a number of strange things happened.
A car coming from the direction of Marble Arch swung out sharply against oncoming traffic. It was pulled up by a skilful driver almost directly at my door. Another, approaching from the opposite direction, stopped with a great shrieking of brakes almost at the park gate. A third, which apparently had been following the first, checked dead on the comer of Porchester Terrace.
In a matter of seconds twelve or fifteen men were disgorged into Bayswater Road . . . Without a moment’s hesitation they hurled themselves upon the loiterers!
My heart leapt madly. It was the flying squad!
One warning came; and one only—a weird, minor, wailing cry—but I knew that it was meant for Dr Fu Manchu. Its effect was immediate. From behind me he spoke in a changed voice, harsh, gutteral:
“What has occurred? Answer.”
“The police, I think. Three cars.”
“Stay where you are. Don’t stir. Ardatha—with me.”
I stood still, fists clenched, watching the melee below.
“Bart! Bart!” Ardatha cried my name despairingly.
“Be silent! Precede me.”
I heard them hurrying along the passage. But he had said “Don’t stir,” and I did not stir. I made no move until the opening and closing of the door told me that they were gone. Then I sprang around.
Footsteps were bounding up the stairs. I could hear excited voices—and an amazing, an all but unbelievable fact dawned upon me:
Dr Fu Manchu was trapped!
Pursuing A Shadow
“Kerrigan! Kerrigan!”
Nayland Smith was banging on the door.
I ran to open it. He sprang in, his eyes gleaming excitedly. He had removed the synthetic beard but still wore his shabby suit. Beside him was Inspector Gallaho, head bandaged beneath a soft hat which took the place of his usual tight-fitting bowler. Four or five plainclothes police came crowding up behind.
“Where is he?”
“Gone! He went at the moment that I heard you on the stair!”
“What!”
“That’s not possible,” growled Gallaho, staring at me in a questioning way. “No one passed us, that I’ll swear.”
“Lights on that upper stair!” snapped Smith. “Stay where you are, Gallaho—you men, also.”
He examined me intently.
“I know what you’re thinking. Smith,” I said, “but I am quite myself. Ardatha and Fu Manchu were here two minutes ago. He held me up with a thing which disintegrates whatever it touches.”
“Ericksen’s Ray?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Good God! But it’s a cumbersome affair!”
“No larger than a fountain pen. Smith! He has perfected it, so he says. But—where is he?”
Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his ear.
“You say the girl went with him?”
“Yes.”
“Who lives above?”
“A young musician, Basil Acton—but he’s abroad at present.”
“Sure?”
He began to run upstairs, crying out over his shoulder:
“Gallaho and two men! The others stand by where they are.”
We reached the top landing and paused before my neighbor’s closed door.
Gallaho rang the bell, but there was no response.
“Hello!”
Smith stooped.
I had switched on the landing light, and now I saw what had attracted his attention. Also I became aware of a queer acrid smell.
Where a Yale lock had been there was nothing but a hole, some two inches in diameter, drilled clean through the door!
“It’s bolted inside,” said Gallaho.
“But they are trapped!” I cried excitedly. “There is no other way out!”
“Unfortunately,” growled Gallaho,”there is no other way in. Down to the tool chest, somebody.”
There came a rush of footsteps on the stair, an interval during which Gallaho tried to peer through the hole in the door and Nayland Smith, ear pressed to a panel, listened but evidently heard nothing. To the high landing window which overlooked Bayswater Road rose sounds of excited voices from the street below.
“Seven black beauties roped in there,” said Gallaho grimly,”but it remains to be seen if we’ve got anything on them.”
One of the flying squad men returning with the necessary implements, it was a matter of only a few minutes to break the door down. I had been in my neighbour’s flat on one or two occasions, and when we entered I switched the lights up, for we found it in darkness.
“Is there anyone here?” called Gallaho.
There was no reply.
We entered the big, untidy apartment which, sometimes to my sorrow, I knew that Acton used as a music room. It had something of the appearance of a studio. Bundles of music were littered on chairs and settees. The grand piano was open. An atmosphere stale as that inside a pyramid told of closed windows. Knowing his careless ways, I doubted if Acton had made arrangements to have his flat cleaned or aired during his absence. There was no one there.
“How many rooms, Kerrigan?” Smith snapped.
“Four, and a kitchenette.”
“Three men stay on the landing!” shouted Gallaho.
We explored every foot of the place, and the only evidence we found to show that Dr Fu Manchu and Ardatha had entered was the hole drilled through the front door, until:
“What’s this?” cried one of the searchers.
We hurried into the kitchenette which bore traces of a meal prepared at some time but not cleared up. The man had opened a big cupboard in which I saw an ascending ladder.
“The cisterns are up there,” I explained. “This is an old house converted.”
