the Jasper vacuum charger?”
* * *
“I am disposed to believe that what Ardatha told you was true,” said Nayland Smith.
He was standing staring down reflectively at something resting in his extended palm: the bullet which had made a hole in my wall. The cut in his ear had bled furiously, but now had succumbed to treatment and was decorated with a strip of surgical plaster.
“This attempt, for instance”—he held up the bullet—”somehow does not seem to be in the doctor’s handwriting. In spite of its success I doubt if the ‘silencing’ of General Diesler was directed by Fu Manchu. If there is really trouble in the Council of Seven it may mean salvation. Assuming that I live to see it, I think I shall know, without other evidence, when Doctor Fu Manchu is deposed.”
“In what way?” I asked curiously.
“Remind me to tell you if it occurs, Kerrigan. Ah! may I put the light out?”
“Certainly”
He did so, then glanced from my study window.
“Here are our escorting cars, I think. Yes! I can see Gallaho below.”
He turned and began to reload his pipe.
‘Tonight’s near-triumph, Kerrigan, was made possible by the remarkable efficiency of Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho. Gallaho will go far. He obtained evidence to show that none other than Lord Weimer, the international banker, is a member of the Si-Fan . . .”
“What!”
I cried the word incredulously.
“Yes—astounding, I admit. In fact, it almost appears that his house in Surrey is the temporary headquarters of Si-Fan representatives at present in England. I obtained a search warrant, paid a surprise visit during Weimer’s absence in the city, and went over the place with a microscope. I experienced little difficulty—such a violent procedure had not been foreseen. Nevertheless, although the staff was kept under observation, news of the raid reached Weimer. . . He has disappeared.”
“But, Lord Weimer—a member of the Si-Fan!”
“He is. And a document involving even greater names was there as well. Even as I held it in my hand (I had time for no more than a glance) I wondered if I should ever get through alive with such evidence in my possession. I was not there in my proper person. You know what I looked like when I returned. The proceedings, officially, were in charge of Gallaho, but I adopted a precautionary measure.”
His pipe filled, he now lighted it with care. I saw a grim smile upon his face: “I sent Detective Sergeant Cromer back to Scotland Yard. He travelled in a Green Line bus, accompanied by one other police officer—and between them they carried evidence to upset the chancelleries of Europe! One idea led to another. I took it for granted that I should be followed, that attempts would be made to intercept me. I led the trail to your door, hoping for a big haul. I had one. But there was a hole in the net.”
“What do we do now?”
“We are going to Number I0 Downing Street.”
“What!”
“This discovery means an international situation. The Prime Minister has returned from Chequers and is meeting us there. The commissioner is bringing the documents from Scotland Yard, in person. Here is something for your notes, Kerrigan. I promised you a bigger story than any you had ever had. Come on!”
Indeed I had never expected to be one of such a gathering. There were three cars, one leading, then that in which I travelled with Nayland Smith, and a third bringing up the rear. The leading car, belonging to the flying squad, was driven at terrific speed through the streets. Under the circumstances I confess I was not surprised that we arrived at our destination without any attempt being made upon us. So vast were the issues at stake that even my fear for Ardatha was numbed.
Despairingly, I had come to the conclusion that I should never see her again . . .
In a room made familiar by many published photographs I found the Premier and some other members of the Cabinet. Sir James Clare, the home secretary whom I had met before, was there and two ambassadors representing foreign powers. An air of dreadful apprehension seemed common to all. Somewhat awed by the company, I looked at Nayland Smith.
He was pacing up and down in his usual restless manner, glancing at his wrist watch.
“Sir William Bard is late,” murmured the Prime Minister.
Nayland Smith nodded. Sir William Bard, commissioner of metropolitan police, of all those summoned to this meeting was the only one who had not appeared.
“Until his arrival, sir,” said Smith,”we can do nothing.”
But even as he spoke came a rap on the door, and a voice announced:
“Sir William Bard.”
What Happened In Downing Street
“A trifle late, Sir William,” said the Prime Minister genially.
“Yes sir—I must offer my apologies,” The commissioner bowed perfunctorily to everyone present. “I think the circumstances will explain my delay.”
A slightly built, alert man with a short jet-black moustache, he had a precision of manner and intonation which suggested, as was the fact, that his training, like that of the home secretary, had been for the legal profession. He laid a bulging portfolio upon the table. The Premier continued to watch him coldly but genially. Everyone else in the room became very restless, as Bard continued:
“Just as my car was about to turn out of Whitehall, a girl, a lady from her dress and bearing I judged, stepped out almost under my front wheel, and as my chauffeur braked furiously, sprang back again, but tripped and fell on the pavement.”
“In these circumstances,” said the home secretary, one eye on the rugged brow of the Prime Minister, “your delay is of course explained.”
“Exactly,” Sir William continued. “I pulled up, of course, and hurried back. Quite a crowd gathered, as always occurs, among them, fortunately, a doctor. The only injury was a sprained ankle. The lady, although one must confess it was her own fault, proved to live in Buckingham Gate, and naturally I gave her a lift home, Doctor Atkin accompanying her to that address. However, sir”—turning to the Prime Minister—
“Certainly, Bard, certainly. Anyone would have done the same.”
Now quite restored, we sat down around the big table, the commissioner produced his keys and glanced at Nayland Smith.
“A strange attire for so formal an occasion, Smith!” he commented. “But it may be forgiven, I think, in view”—he tapped the portfolio—”of the information which is here. I had had time merely to glance over it, but I may say”—looking solemnly about him—”that in dealing with the facts revealed, the astonishingly unpleasant facts, our united efforts will be called for. And even when we have done our best . . .”
He shrugged his shoulders. He appeared to find some difficulty in fitting the key to the lock. We were all on tiptoes and all very impatient. I saw a sudden shadow creep over Sir William Bard’s face as he glanced at his own initials stamped on the leather. He shrugged and persevered with the key.
There was no result.
“Might I suggest,” snapped Nayland Smith, beginning to tug at his ear but desisting when he detected the presence of the plaster, “that you borrow a pair of stout scissors and force the catch, Sir William?”
“Always impatient, Smith!” The commissioner looked up, but his expression was not easy. “I don’t understand this.”
He tried again and then made an angry gesture.
“I locked it myself before I left Scotland Yard.”
“Since time is our enemy,” said the Prime Minister drily, “I think Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s suggestion is a good one.”
He rang a bell, and to a man who entered gave curt orders . . .
The lock proved to be more obstinate than we had anticipated, but with the aid of a pair of office scissors and
