“Try thinkee where you go,” the driver shouted angrily. “Hop-head!”
And we were off again.
“Barton made the only capture of the night—“
“What?”
“Dr. Fu Manchu’s marmoset!It was for the marmoset Ardatha came back, Kerrigan. While we were searching the house—and little enough we found—the phone rang. I answered it . . . andDr. Fu Manchu issued his ultimatum—”
“In person?”
“In person! Won’t bore you with it now. Here we are!”
The car was pulled up in its own length.
“How did you get on my track?”
“Later, Kerrigan. Come on.”
He dragged me into the station. A vigorous towelling before the open fire and a piping hot grog quite restored me. The scratch on my shoulder was no more than skin deep—a liberal application of iodine soon staunched the bleeding. Wearing borrowed shoes and underwear and the uniform of a district inspector (which fitted me very well) I felt game again for anything. Smith was now wild with excitement to be off, he could not stand still.
“What you tell me unties my hands, Kerrigan. This hide-out of Fu Manchu’s is an old warehouse, marked by the local authorities for demolition but still containing a certain amount of stock. Lacking clear evidence I dared not break in. The manager of the concern, a young German known to the police (he is compelled to report here at regular intervals) may or may not be a creature of the Doctor’s. In either case he has the keys. Point is, that the officer who keeps the alien register is off duty; he has taken it home to do some work on it, and nobody knows the German’s address!”
“But surely—”
“I have done that, Kerrigan! A police—cyclist set out half an hour ago to find Sergeant Wyckham. But now I need not wait. You agree with me, inspector?”
For a moment I failed to understand, until the laughter of the real inspector who had supervised my grooming reminded me of the fact that I was in uniform.
“For my part,” said the police officer, “I don’t think this man, Jacob Bohm, is a member of the gang. I think, though, that he suspected there was something funny going on.”
“Why?” snapped Smith, glancing irritably at the clock.
“Well, the last time he came in, so Sergeant Wyckham told me, he hinted that he might shortly have some valuable information to offer us. He said that he was collecting evidence which wasn’t complete yet, but—“
A phone buzzed; he took up the instrument on his desk.
“Hullo—yes? Speaking. That you, Wyckham?” He glanced at Smith. “Found him, sir, . . . Yes, I’ll jot it down.” He wrote. “Jacob Bohm, 39b Pelting Street, Limehouse. And you say his landlady’s name is Mullins? Good. The matter’s of some importance, sergeant. What was that you mentioned last week about the man? . . . Oh, he said he was putting the evidence in writing? He thought that what? , . . That there were cellars of which he had no keys, but which were used after dark? I see . . . . ”
“Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “feel up to a job?”
“Anything you say. Smith.”
“There’s a police car outside, as well as that from the Yard. Dash across to Felling Street—the driver will know it—and get Jacob Bohm. I’m off. I leave this job to you. Bring him back here: I will keep in touch.”
He turned whilst the inspector was still talking on the phone; but I grabbed his arm.
“Smith—did you find any trace—?”
“No.” He spoke over his shoulder, “But Ardatha called me two minutes after Fu Manchu. She was responsible for your finding me where you found me tonight. Jump to it, Kerrigan. This German may have valuable information.”
He had reached the office door, the inspector had hung up the receiver and was staring blankly after him, when again the phone buzzed. The inspector took up the instrument, said, “Yes—speaking,” and then seemed to become suddenly tensed.
“One moment, sir!” he cried after Smith.“One moment!”
Smith turned, tugging at the lobe of his ear.
“Well-what is it?”
“River Police, sir. Excuse me for a second.”
He began to scribble on a pad, then: “Yes—I follow. Nothing on him in the way of evidence? No—I will act at once. Good-bye.”“
He hung up again, staring at Smith.
“They have just hauled Jacob Bohm out of the river off Tilbury,” he said. “A ship’s anchor caught him. He was sewn up in sailcloth. Both hands had been amputated,”
CHAPTER IX
39B FELLING STREET
Of my drive to Felling Street, a short one, I remember not one detail, except that of a searchlight which, as we turned a corner, suddenly clove the dark sky like a scimitar. I had thought that the man’s death rendered the visit unnecessary: Smith had assured me that it rendered it more than ever important.
“He was putting the evidence in
I mused in the dark. It was Ardatha who had saved me! This knowledge was a burning inspiration. In some way she had become a victim of the evil genius of Dr. Fu Manchu; her desertion had not been a voluntary one. Then, as the police driver threaded a way through streets which all looked alike, I found myself considering the fate of Jacob Bohm; the strange mutilation of Dr. Oster; those ghastly exhibits in the glass case somewhere below the old warehouse.
“Note the yellow hands”—I heard that harsh, guttural voice plainly as though it had spoken in my ear—”They were contributed by a blond Bavarian . . . . ” Could I doubt, now, that the blond Bavarian was Jacob Bohm? I should have been Fu Manchu’s next ember thrown to the Moloch of science before whom he immolated fellow men as callously as the Aztec priests offered human sacrifices to Quetzacotl.
Number 39B was identical in every way with its neighbours. All the houses stood flush to the pavement; so much I could make out: all were in darkness. In response to my ring Mrs. Mullins presently opened the door. A very dim light showed (I saw that some sort of black-out curtain hung behind her) but it must have enabled her to discern my uniform.
“Oh good God!” she exclaimed. “Have the Germans landed?”
Her words reminded me of the part I had to play.
“No ma’am,” I replied gruffly. “I am a police inspector—”
“Oh, inspector, I haven’t shown a peep of light! Truly I haven’t. When the sirens started howling I put out every light in the house. Even when I heard the all-clear, I only used candles.”
“There’s no complaint. Are you Mrs. Mullins?”
“That’s my name, sir.”
“It’s about your lodger, Jacob Bohm, that I’m here.”
The portly figure, dimly seen, appeared to droop. “Oh!” she whispered, “I always expected it.”
I went in. Mrs. Mullins closed the door, dropped the curtain, which I recognized for an old counterpane, and turned to face me in a little sitting-room, candle lighted, which was clean, tidy, and furnished in a way commemorated by
“Don’t say Little Jake was a spy, sir!” she exclaimed. “He was like a son to me. Don’t tell me—”
“When did you see him last?”
“Ah, that’s it! He didn’t come home last night and I thought to myself, that’s funny. Then tonight, when the young lady from the firm called and explained it was all right—”
“What young lady—someone you know?”
“Oh, no, sir—I’ve never seen her before. But she was sure he’d be back later and went up to wait for him. Then that air-raid warning came, and—“
