The Shadow of Fu Manchu

“Allow me to bring these in for you, madame,” said Stein.

His respectful manner was in odd contrast to that with which he addressed Frobisher.

“Thank you, Stein. Lucille has the basket on the back porch.”

She did not mention the fact that Lucille had also cut the flowers.

“Very good, madame.”

As Stein walked towards the door:

“Oh, Stein—there will be seven to luncheon. Dr. and Mrs. Pardoe are coming.”

Stein bowed and went out.

“Who’s the old man?” growled Frobisher, opening a box of cigars which lay on the desk.

“Professor Hoffmeyer. Isn’t it splendid that I got him to come?”

“Don’t know till I see him.”

“He’s simply wonderful. He will amaze you, Mike.”

“Don’t care for amazement at mealtimes.”

“You will fall completely under his spell, dear,” Stella declared, and went fluttering out again. “I must go and assemble my flowers.”

At about this time, Morris Craig was putting a suitcase into the back of his car. As he locked the boot he looked up.

“You know, Smith,” he said, “I’m profoundly conscious of the gravity of this thing—but I begin to feel like a ticket-of-leave man.

There’s a car packed with police on the other side of the street. Do they track me to Falling Waters?”

“They do!” Nayland Smith replied. “As I understand it, you are now going to pick up Miss Navarre?”

“That is the program.” Craig smiled rather unhappily. “I feel a bit cheap leaving Shaw alone, in the circumstances. But—”

“Shaw won’t be alone” Smith rapped irritably. “I think—or, rather, fear—the danger at the laboratory is past. But, to make sure, two carefully selected men will be on duty in your office day and night until you return. Plus two outside.”

“Why not Sam? He’s back.”

“You will need Sam to lend a hand with this radio burglar alarm you tell me about”

“J shall?”

“You will. I can see you’re dying to push off. So—push! I trust you have a happy week-end.”

And when Craig turned into West Seventy-fifth Street, the first thing that really claimed his attention was the presence of a car which had followed him all the way. The second was a figure standing before the door of an apartment house—a door he could never forget.

This figure wore spectacles, a light fawn topcoat, a cerise muffler, and a slate-grey hat with the brim turned up not at the back, but in front . . .

“Morning, boss,” said Sam, opening the door. “Happen to have—”

“I have nothing but a stem demand. It’s this: What the devil are you doing here7.”

“Well”—Sam shook his head solemnly—”it’s like this. Seems you’re carrying valuables, and Sir Denis, he thinks—”

“He thinks what?”

“He thinks somebody ought to come along—see? Just in case.”

Craig stepped out.

“Tell me: Are you employed by Huston Electric or by Nayland Smith?”

Sam tipped his hat further back. He chewed thoughtfully.

“It’s kind of complicated. Doctor. Sir Denis has it figured I’m doing my best for Huston’s if I come along and lend a hand. He figures there may be trouble up there. And you never know.”

Visions of a morning drive alone with Camille vanished.

“All right,” said Craig resignedly “Sit at the back.”

In a very short time he had hurried in. But it was a long time before he came out.

Camille looked flushed, but delightfully pretty, when she arrived at Falling Waters. Her hair was tastefully dressed, and she carried the black-rimmed glasses in her hand. Stella was there to greet her guests.

“My dear Miss Navarre! It’s so nice to have you here at last! Dr. Craig, you have kept her in hiding too long.”

“Not my fault, Mrs. Frobisher. She’s a self-effacing type.” Then, as Frobisher appeared: “Hail, chief! Grim work at—”

Frobisher pointed covertly to Stella, making vigorous negative signs with his head. “Glad to see you, Craig,” he rumbled, shaking hands with both arrivals.

“You have a charming house, Mrs. Frobisher,” said Camille. “It was sweet of you to ask me to come.”

“I’m so glad you like it!” Stella replied. “Because you must have seen such lovely homes in France and in England.”

“Yes,” Camille smiled sadly. “Some of them were lovely.”

“But let me take you along to your room. This is your first visit, but I do hope it will be the first of many.”

She led Camille away, leaving Frobisher and Craig standing in the lobby—panelled in Spanish mahogany from the old Cunard liner, Mauretania. And at that moment Frobisher’s eye rested upon Sam, engaged in taking Craig’s suitcase from the boot, whilst Stein stood by.

“What’s that half-wit doing down here?” Frobisher inquired politely.

“D’you mean Sam? Oh, he’s going to—er—lend me a hand overhauling your burglar system.”

“Probably make a good job of it, between you,” Frobisher commented drily. “When you’ve combed your hair, Craig, come along to my study. We have a lot to talk about. Where’s the plan?”

Craig tapped his chest. He was in a mood of high exaltation.

“On our person, good sir. Only over our dead body could caitiffs win to the treasure.”

And in a room all daintily chintz, with delicate water colors and lots of daffodils, Camille was looking out of an opened window, at an old English garden, and wondering if her happiness could last.

Stein tapped at the door, placed Camille’s bag inside, and retired.

“Don’t bother to unpack, my dear,” said Stella. “Flora, my maid, is superlative.”

Camille turned to her, impulsively.

“You are very kind, Mrs. Frobisher. And it was so good of you to make that appointment for me with Professor Hoffmeyer,”

“With Professor Hoffmeyer? Oh! my dear! Did I, really? Of course”—seeing Camille’s strange expression—”I must have done. It’s queer and it’s absurd, but, do you know, I’m addicted to the oddest lapses of memory.”

“You are7” Camille exclaimed; then, as it sounded so rude, she added, “I mean lam, too.”

“You are?” Stella exclaimed in turn, and seized both her hands. “Oh, my dear, I’m so glad! I mean, I know I sound silly, and a bit horrid. What I wanted to say was, it’s such a relief to meet somebody else who suffers in that way. Someone who has no possible reason for going funny in the head. But tell me—what did you think of him?”

Camille looked earnestly into the childish but kindly eyes.

“I must tell you, Mrs. Frobisher—impossible though it sounds— that I have no recollection whatever of going