“Don’t move, Fu Manchu! The game’s up this time!”
Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu Manchu.
ButDr. Fu Manchu was not there!
“Good God!”
Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu Manchu speaking, Fu Manchu was not in the room . . . .
At the moment that Barton began to utter inarticulate sounds, Smith raised his automatic and fired a shot into the china cabinet.
A crash of glass followed; then, as he ran forward: “Release Barton!” he cried. “Quick!”
I slipped my Colt into my pocket and bent over the table. Smith had wrenched open the glazed door I heard a further crashing of glass I tore the bandage from Barton’s mouth he stared up at me his florid face purple.
“Behind the cabinet!” he gasped. “Get him. Smith—the yellow rat is behind the cabinet!”
As I pulled out a pocket-knife to cut the lashings came a second shot—more crashing.
“He’s gone this way!” Smith shouted. “Cut Barton loose and follow!”
As Sir Lionel rose unsteadily and swung his feet clear of the table, something fell to the carpet. It was the hypodermic syringe, the point of which had just touched his skin at the moment that I had fired. Barton rested against the table for a moment, breathing heavily and looking down at the dead man.
“Good shot, Kerrigan. Thank you,” he said.
The sound of a third report, more distant, echoed through the house and, turning, I saw that the china cabinet was a camouflaged door. A gap now yawned beyond.
“I’ll follow, Kerrigan. Find Smith.”
Good old Barton! I had no choice.
Stumbling over shattered china, I entered the hidden doorway. A flash of my torch showed me that I stood in a large, unfurnished room. A second door was open, although no glimmer shone beyond. I ran across and out. I found myself back in the lobby, but the lights were all off!
“Smith!” I cried. “Smith! Where are you?”
From far behind a sound of crunching footsteps reached me. Barton was coming through. Near by, in the shadows, the grandfather clock ticked solemnly. I stepped to the newel post and moved all the switches which I found there.
Nothing happened. The current had been cut off from some main control.
Knowing that the house, only a matter of minutes before, had been occupied by members of the most dangerous criminal group in the world, I stood quite still for a moment, glancing up carpeted stairs. The scent of hyacinths grew overpowering; a foreboding—almost, it seemed, a pre-knowledge of disaster—bore down upon me.
“Kerrigan!” came Barton’s voice, “the damned lights have gone out!”
“This way!” I cried, and was about to step back to guide him, when I saw something.
One of the flower-bowls lay smashed on the floor. A draught of cold, damp air bore the exotic scent of the blooms to my nostrils. The door by which we had entered, the door to the garden, was wide open; and now from out of the blackness beyond came the wail of a police whistle.
“Make your way through to the garden!” I shouted. “Smith is out there—and he needs help!”
Something in the scent of the hyacinths, in the atmosphere of the house, spoke to me of that Eastern mist out of which Dr. Fu Manchu had materialized. It was a commonplace London house, but it had sheltered the Chinese master of evil, and his aura lay heavy upon it. I ran out into the garden as one escaping. Dimly the words reached my ears: “Go ahead! I can take care of myself . . . . ”
The skirl of the whistle had died away, but it had seemed to come from a point far to the right of the route which Smith and I had followed when we had approached the house. Now, using my torch freely, I saw that a gravelled path led from the door in that direction: a short distance ahead there were glasshouses.
I grasped a probable explanation; the garage. Fu Manchu was making for the car. Smith had followed!
As I ran down the path—it sloped sharply—I was mentally calculating the time that had elapsed since Sims, the Yard driver, had gone for a raid squad, and asking myself, over and over again, if Smith had been ambushed. I was by no means blind to my own danger; the friendly Colt was ready in my hand as I passed the glass-houses. Beyond them I pulled up.
Except for a dismal dripping of moisture from the trees the night was uneasily still. I could hear no sound from Barton; but I had heard another sound, and this it was which had pulled me up sharply . . . a low whistle on three minor notes.
Switching off my light, I stood there waiting. The whistle was repeated, from somewhere nearer; I heard footsteps. And now came a soft call: I could not catch the words.
Then, a faint glimmer of light showed in the darkness. A high, red-bricked wall surrounded the garden; the forcing-houses were built against it. There was an arched opening, in which perhaps at some time there had been a gate.
There, where reflected rays from the lamp she held struck witch fires from her disordered hair, stood Ardatha!
Certainly, I had never known, nor have known since, any wild conflict of emotions such as that which shook me. The expression in those wonderful eyes, their deep blue seeming lustrous black in the darkness, was so compounded of terror and of appeal that I knew I must act quickly. I had given my heart to a soulless wanton—and she held it still.
She had seen me, and at the moment that she extinguished the lamp I saw that she carried what looked like a shawl. She turned to run, but I was too swift for her. A vigour not wholly of heaven drove me tonight; things witnessed in that hyacinth-scented house, the ghastly face of Dr. Oster (for whose end I experienced not one jot of remorse)—these had taught me the meaning of “seeing red”.
I leapt through the archway, seized the hooded cape streaming out behind as she ran. She slipped free of it. I stumbled—sprang again—and had her!
As I locked my arms around her she quivered and panted like a wild creature trapped; her head was drumming against mine.
“Let me go!” she cried; “let me go!” and beat at me with clenched fists, nor were the blows light ones.
But I held her remorsely, perhaps harshly; for her struggles ceased and her words ended on a sound like a sob. She lay, lithe, slender and helpless in my grip. My heart-throbs matched her own as I crushed her to me so that my face touched her hair—and its fragrance intoxicated me.
“Ardatha—Ardatha!” I groaned. “My God, how I love you! How could you do it!”
That beating heart drummed hard as ever, but I detected a relaxation of tensed muscles. No effort of acting could have simulated the agony in my voice: Ardatha knew, but she did not speak.
“I searched the world for you, Ardatha, after you left me in Paris. For weeks I rarely slept. I couldn’t believe, even if you had changed, why you should torture me. And so I thought you must be dead. I came very near to madness. I went to Greece—hoping to die.”
She looked up at me. To this hour I have no idea what lay beyond the brick arch, what surrounded us as we stood there. But, either I saw her psychically, or some faint light reached the spot; for I knew that there were tears on her lashes.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “Because, you must mean—some other Ardatha.”
Every quaint inflection of that elusive accent, the sympathy in her musical voice, tortured me. I turned my head aside. I could no longer trust myself. She spoke as the Ardatha I adored, the Ardatha I had lost; her pretence, her actions, spoke another
language.
“There is only one Ardatha. I was the fool, to believe in her. Where is Fu Manchu? Where is Nayland Smith?”
“Please don’t hurt me.” I had tightened my hold automatically. “I would, indeed, help you if I could. Nayland
