“The place will be surrounded in another minute,” snapped Smith irritably. “This door here in the shadow; does it lead to the kitchen?”
“Yes. And that is our way in. It is half glass. Smash it, and if the key is inside, we are through.”
“We could try,” muttered Smith.
We advanced, always in shadow, to the porch.
“Show a light, Kerrigan,” said Smith.
I shone the ray of a torch upon the door—then caught my breath. The glass panel was shattered to fragments, the door half open.
“My God!” groaned Smith, “we’re too late!”
* * *
The kitchen quarters showed no evidence of disturbance.If utensils recently had been in use, someone had cleaned and put everything away. There was a spotless, white-tiled larder. In that immaculate domestic atmosphere the barbaric figure of Flammario, wrapped in her sables, those jungle eyes flashing from point to point, struck a note truly bizarre.
“They are here ahead of us,” she began, in a hoarse whisper. “That mongrel Paulo—”
“Quiet!” Smith said, imperatively yet in a low voice. “I want to listen.”
All the three of us stood there, listening.
Very remotely, sounds from the Canal reached me; shipping sounds which transported my thoughts to the early stages of this ghastly business which had led me to Colon. But immediately about us and inside the house was complete silence. I was about to speak when: “
Tensely I listened—and presently I heard the sound which had arrested his attention. It was a very faint creaking, and it came from somewhere upstairs.
“They are still here!” exploded Flammario. “Have your guns ready!”
With that she raced out of the kitchen into a passage beyond, switching up the lights as she went—a feat which surprised me at first, until I recollected her words about the architect with a one-track mind. I found myself in a dining-room very simply furnished. The curtains were drawn along the whole of one side and to these Flammario darted, wrenching them apart. I saw a garden dappled with molten silver where the moon poured down upon it. There was a terrace outside with cane chairs and tables; but there was no one there.
The atmosphere smelled stale as that of a room unused; and for some reason, in an automatic way, I unfastened the catch of one of the French windows and pulled it open. The perfume of some night-scented flower was borne in upon a light breeze. Even as I did so, I recognized that I was acting irrationally, that the place would be filled with nocturnal insects, and so reclosed the window.
“There it is again!” said Smith.
We fell silent, listening. Unmistakably, there was a sound of movement upstairs.
Smith was already dashing for a door at the other end of the room. Flammario overtook him and switched up a light in a square lobby. He started up a short flight of carpeted stairs so rapidly that I made a bad third. On the landing, the light of which was subdued, three doors offered—and they were all locked.
“This is where we want the copper!” said Flammario, huskily. ‘“Blow that whistle of yours.”
“Quiet!”
I could hear her rapid breathing as she stood beside me in semi-darkness; for the only light was a sort of shaded lantern. One, two, five, ten seconds we waited; but the silence remained unbroken. I pictured Ardatha gagged and bound—I pictured her dead. I think in all my quest of her since she had revealed to me the truth of her slavery to Dr. Fu Manchu, I had experienced no keen sense of longing to hear her voice, of terror that I should never hear it again.
“Blowing a lock out is not so easy in fact as in fiction,” said Smith. “But these are not the good old-fashioned kind of doors—just matchwood and three-ply. See what a hundred and seventy pounds can do with that one, Kerrigan. I’ll tackle this.”
Pushing Flammario aside, I stood back from the door to within a stride of the staircase and then, shoulder down, hurled myself upon it.
A metallic rattle and a faint creak rewarded my first charge. Smith had attacked that immediately facing the staircase. He had had no greater success.
“Kick a panel out, Kerrigan!” he cried. “There may be a key inside.”
I tried, whilst the strange woman from The Passion Fruit Tree urged us on.
“Go to it, boys!” she screamed huskily. “Never weaken» We are here to kill!”
I did some damage to the door, which, although stout, was of unseasoned wood. Failing to break through I cursed under my breath, clenched my teeth and once more standing back hurled my weight upon it. So successful was the second attack that the door crashed open I pitched head first into darkness.
Staggering to my feet, breathing heavily, I groped my way back to the doorway to find the switch. As I turned up the light, a sound of banging and splintering came from the landing outside.
I was in an untidy office. The drawers of a roll-top desk had been broken open and the place showed other evidences of a hasty search. However, it was empty, and it seemed to possess no other door. I ran back on to the landing just as Smith had kicked his right heel through a panel.
Reaching in, he evidently found a key, for a moment later the door was thrown open. I followed him into what proved to be a small suite, sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom, fitted up in an effeminate and luxurious manner.
There were framed pictures of women, mostly cabaret artistes, upon the walls; a deep-cushioned divan; a shaded lamp held aloft by an ivory nymph in a niche behind it. Fine Persian carpets covered the floor: I saw leopard skins and exotic furniture. There was a faint perfume in the place.
“This is Lou’s new nest,” said Flammario breathlessly;“I know his tracks.” She ran into the bedroom. “Not a trace. No one has been here.”
“Where is Ardatha?” muttered Smith. “Come on; the third door.”
But outside we pulled up at a hissed injunction, .and stood a while silent.
“Do you hear it?” cried Flammario. “That rat, Lou, is hiding in the loft!”
“How do we get to the loft?” snapped Smith.
“Through this door. There are two other rooms beyond, and a back stair to the loft.”
Turn and turn about. Smith and I hurled ourselves against the third door until at last with a splintering crash it gave. We crowded into a short passage, rooms right and left: both doors were wide open. In one which had shuttered windows we found the evidence for which we sought.
It was a bedroom with a bathroom attached. The lock of the door had been smashed in. The bed was disordered but the coverlet had not been turned down: in other words, no one had slept in the bed. Smith ran eagerly from point to point like a hound keen on the scent.
“This is where he had her locked up!” he cried.
“Sure!” snarled Flammario. “These cigarettes in the tray were smoked by a woman.”
“You are right! And after the door was crashed in, the woman was dragged out. It is easy enough to reconstruct the scene. And, hello, what have we here?”
I saw something glittering at his feet as, stooping, he picked up a ring—a beautifully-cut scarab of lapis lazuli set in a dull gold band. At sight of it I knew—and what I knew chilled me. No further possibility of doubt remained.
It was Ardatha’s ring.
CHAPTER XXIV
FLAMMARIO’S CLOAK SLIPS
“She was conscious when they carried her off,” said Smith. “This ring was left as a clue. A consolation to know that they did not drug her.”
But Flammario was already out in the passage which, as I saw now, terminated on a landing leading up to a back staircase. The stair ended before a small door.
We ran up. The landing before the door was so narrow as to give little purchase for an attack, but: “There’s no metal surround to this keyhole,” said Smith. “The door is fast. I shall try to shoot the lock out . . . .
