the expenditure of considerable force, ultimately it was snapped open. The man withdrew. We were all standing up, surrounding the commissioner. He opened the portfolio.
I heard a loud cry. For a moment I could not believe Sir William Bard had uttered it. Yet indeed it was he who had cried out . . .
The portfolio was stuffed with neatly folded copies of
One by one with shaking fingers he drew them out and laid them upon the table. Last of all he discovered a square envelope, and from it he drew a single sheet of paper.
There had been such a silence during this time that I could hear nothing but the breathing of the man next to me, a portly representative of a friendly power.
Sir William Bard cast his glance over the sheet which the envelope had contained, and then, his face grown suddenly pallid, laid it before the Prime Minister.
I glanced swiftly at Nayland Smith, and found myself unable to read his expression.
The statesman, imperturbable even in face of this situation, adjusted his spectacles and read; then clearing his throat, he read again, this time aloud:
“First Notice”
“Smith! I am a ruined man!”
Sir William Bard sat in an armchair behind a huge desk laden with official documents, his head sunk in his hands. In that quiet room which was the heart of Scotland Yard, the menace represented by Dr Fu Manchu presented itself more urgently to my tired mind than had been possible in the official sanctum of the British government.
Out of the charivari which had arisen when we had realized that documents calculated to cast down those in high places had been stolen from none other than the commissioner of metropolitan police, only one phrase recurred to me: the Premier’s inquiry:
“Do you consider, Sir Denis, that this is a personal threat?”
Nayland Smith stared at the commissioner, and then, jumping up from his chair: “I don’t think,” he said, “that I should take the thing so seriously. It may be mere arrogance on my part to say so, but with all my experience (and it has been a long one) the particular genius who tricked you tonight has tricked me many times.”
Sir William Bard looked up.
“But how was it done? Who did it?”
“As to how it was done,” Smith replied, “it was a fairly simple example of substitution. As to who did it— Doctor Fu Manchu!”
“I have accepted the existence of Doctor Fu Manchu with great reluctance, as you know, Smith—although I am aware that my immediate predecessor regarded this Chinese criminal with great respect. Are you sure that it was he who was responsible?”
“Perfectly sure,” Smith snapped, then glanced swiftly at me.
“Describe the girl who was nearly run down by your car.”
“I can do so quite easily, for she was a beauty. She had titian red hair and remarkable eyes of a pansy color; a slender girl, not English, a fact I detected from her slight accent.”
I did not groan audibly: it was my spirit that groaned.
“Quite sufficient!” Smith interrupted. “Kerrigan and I know this lady. And the doctor?”
“Neither card means anything,” said Smith grimly. He turned to me. “This grey-haired aristocrat, Kerrigan, seems to play important parts in Fu Manchu’s present drama. I detect a marked resemblance to that Count Boratov who was a guest of Brownlow Wilton, and of course you have recognized Miss Pereira?”
I nodded but did not speak.
“Don’t make heavy weather of it, Kerrigan. Ardatha is in the toils—this task was her punishment.”
He walked across to the wretched man sunk in the armchair and rested his hand upon his shoulder.
“May I take it that you usually carry the missing portfolio?”
The commissioner nodded.
“From my house to Scotland Yard every day, and to important conferences.”
“The Si-Fan had noted this. After all, you are officially their chief enemy in London. I suggest that the duplicate portfolio has been in existence for some time. Tonight an occasion arose for its use. Judging from my own experience, farsighted plans of this character have been made with regard to many notable enemies of the Si- Fan.”
Sir William was watching him almost hopefully.
‘To illustrate my meaning,” Smith went on, “they have duplicate keys of my flat!”
“What!”
“It’s a fact,” I interpolated; “I have seen the keys used myself.”
“Exactly.” Smith nodded. “They even succeeded in installing a special radio in my premises. It would not surprise me to learn that they have a key to Number 10 Downing Street. You must appreciate the fact, Bard, that this organization, once confined to the East, now has its ramifications throughout the West. It is of old standing and has among its members, as the missing documents proved, prominent figures in Europe and the United States. Its financial backing is enormous. Its methods are ruthless. Your car, immediately following the pretended accident, was of course surrounded by a crowd.”
“It was.”
“Those members nearest to the door from which you jumped were servants of the Si-Fan and one of them carried the duplicate portfolio. He was no doubt an adept in his particular province. The substitution was not difficult. The address to which you took Miss Pereira was a block of flats?”
“Yes.”
“Inquiry is useless. She does not live there.”
“Smith!” Sir William Bard sprang up. “Your reconstruction of what took place is perfect—except in one particular. I recall the fact clearly now that Doctor Atkin carried a similar portfolio! The substitution was effected during the short drive to Buckingham Gate!”
“H’m!” Smith glanced at me. “Count Boratov would seem to be a distinct asset to the doctor’s forces!”
“But what can we
“I agree.”
“We can watch these people whose names we have learnt, but it will be necessary to obtain new evidence against them before we can move a finger in such high places.”
“Certainly. But at least we are warned . . . and I may not be too late to save their next victim. We cannot hope to win every point!”
We returned to Nayland Smith’s flat in a flying squad car and two men were detailed to remain on duty in the lobby. Only by a perceptible tightening of Fey’s lips did I recognize the mighty relief which he experienced when he saw us.
He had nothing to report. Smith laughed aloud when he saw me looking at a freshly painted patch on the front door.
“My new lock, Kerrigan!” The merriment in his eyes was good to see. Something of my own burden seemed to be lifted from my shoulders by it. “The lock was fitted under my own supervision, by a locksmith known to me personally. It’s a nuisance to open, being somewhat complicated. But once I am in I think I’m safe!”
In the familiar room with photographs of his old friends about him, he relaxed at last, dropping down into an armchair with a sigh of contentment.
“If there is any place in the civilized world where you would really be safe, a month’s rest would do you good,
