Daughter of Fu-Manchu (21 page)

My room was on the southwest front of Abbots Hold. It was one of those in the Georgian wing, and an ugly stone balcony stretched along before it. Beneath this balcony ran a sort of arcade behind which iron-barred windows belonging to the domestic quarters faced on sloping lawns. Above were these fine, spacious rooms reserved for guests, and the prospect was magnificent. Next to me was Nayland Smith; then there was a vacant room, and then Rima’s.

On entering I did not turn up the light. There was a private plant in Abbots Hold installed by Sir Lionel. But, groping my way across, I raised the blind and looked out.

Opening the French window, I inhaled the fragrance of moist loam and newly wetted leaves. Away on the right I had a view of a corner of the terrace; directly before me the ground dropped steeply to a belt of trees bordering the former moat; beyond, it rose again, and two miles away, upstanding weirdly beyond distant park land, showed a ruined tower, one of the local landmarks, and a relic of Norman days.

At first
my
survey of the prospect was general and vague; indeed, I had opened the window more to enjoy the coolness of the night air and to think about Rima than for any other reason. But now, suddenly, my entire interest became focused upon the ruined tower rising ghostly above surrounding trees.

Clearly visible against a stormy backing, one little point of light high up in the tower appeared and disappeared like a winking eye!

I clenched my teeth, craning out and watching intently. A code message was being transmitted from the tower! For a while I watched it, but I had forgotten Morse, and the dots and dashes defeated me. Then came inspiration: someone in Abbots Hold must be receiving this message!

Instant upon the birth of the theory, I acted.

The geography of the neighborhood, which I knew fairly well, told me that this message could only be intended for Abbots Hold. Neglectful of the fact that the leaves were drenched with rain, I quickly got astride of the ledge and began to climb down the ivy to the shrubbery beneath.

I dropped into wet bushes without other mishap than the saturating of my dinner kit, and keeping well within the shadow of the house I began to work my way round in the direction of the terrace. I passed the dining room, glancing up at the rooms above it, and proceeded. The whole house was in darkness.

Below the terrace I paused, looking again toward the distant tower.

The top remained just visible above the trees… and there, still coming and going, was the signal light!

I stepped out farther from the building, cautiously, looking upward to the left.

“Ah!” I muttered.

Dropping down upon the sloping lawn, its turf still wet from the recent downpour, I crept farther northward, until I could obtain a clear view of the study window.

The room was in darkness, but the curtains were not drawn. A light, probably that of an electric torch, was coming and going, dot and dash, in
the chief’s study!

I came to the end of the terrace, and taking advantage of a bank of rhododendrons, crept farther away from the house, until I could see, not merely the reflection, but the actual light being operated.

Faintly as it glowed in the darkness, I could detect the figure of one who held it… And at first I was loath to credit what I saw.

The legend of Abbots Hold; Rima’s fears; memories—dreadful memories—of my own, must certainly, I determined, be influencing my imagination.

The man signaling to that other on the distant tower—for a man I assumed the signaler to be—was wrapped in a sort of
cowl…
his head so enveloped in the huge hood that in the dim reflection of the torch it was quite impossible to detect his features.

“Good God!” I muttered. “What does this mean!”

Stooping below the level of the bushes, I turned. Regaining the shelter of the terrace, I ran for twenty paces. Then, leaping into the shrubbery, I located the thick branch of ivy which was a ladder to my window, and began to climb up again, my heart beating very fast, and my thoughts racing far ahead of physical effort.

Scrambling over the stone balustrade, I stepped towards the open French window of my room…

Out of the shadows into the moonlight a figure moved. It was Nayland Smith!

“Ssh! Speak quietly, Greville!”

I stared in amazement, standing there breathing heavily by the open window, then:

“Why?” I asked in a low voice. “What’s happened?”

“Close the window,” said Smith.

I obeyed, and then, turning:

“Did you see me climbing up?” I asked.

“No. I heard you. I was afraid to show myself. I was expecting someone else! But you are bursting with news. Tell me.”

Quickly I told him of the light beyond the valley—of the cowled figure in the study.

“Too late to trap him now, Sir Denis!” I finished, starting for the door.

He grabbed my arm.

“Not too late!” he rapped. “Here he is!”

I threw a quick and startled glance around the room, as:

“Where?” I demanded.

“There!”

Nayland Smith pointed to my bed.

Amazed to the verge of losing control, I stared at the bed. A rough, camel-hair garment lay there… I moved, touched it. Then I knew.

“It’s the robe of a Lama monk!”

Nayland Smith nodded grimly.

“Together with a certain sandbag,” he said, “it has formed part of my baggage since that eventful meeting of the Council of Seven at el-Khârgal.”

“But—”

“Why did I play ghost? Very simple. I suspected that some member of the household was in league with the enemy. I believe, now, I was wrong. But I knew that wherever my private inquiries led me, no one would challenge the hooded monk of Abbots Hold!”

“Good enough,” I admitted. “But you were signaling from the study!”

“I was!” Nayland Smith rapped. “I was signaling to Weymouth who was watching from the tower.”

“To
Weymouth!”

“Exactly! Weymouth reported in that way to me—as had been arranged; and I gave him certain instructions in return.”

I looked him squarely in the face, and:

“Does the chief know that Superintendent Weymouth is standing by?” I asked.

“He does not!” Nayland Smith smiled, and my anger began to melt. “That rather takes the wind out of your angry sails, Greville!” He grasped my shoulder. “I don’t trust Barton!” he added.

“What!”

“I don’t trust
you…
Both have been under the influence of Fah Lo Suee. And tonight I don’t trust Rima!”

I had dropped down onto the bed, but now I started up. Into the sudden silence, like the growling of angry beasts, came an echo of thunder away eastward.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“Ssh!” Nayland Smith restrained me; his gaze was compelling. “You heard me say tonight that I had had my first glimpse of the ghost?”

“Well?”

“It was true. The ‘ghost’ slipped through my fingers. But the ghost was
Fah Lo Suee!…
Don’t raise your voice. I have a reason for this. Just outline to me, without any reservation, what took place from the time that you left Barton’s study to the time that you said goodnight to Rima.”

I stared blankly for a moment, then:

“You are her accepted lover,” he added, “and she is very charming. I congratulate you… and give you my permission to leave out the kisses…”

“Rima was obsessed with the idea,” I said, “that someone was hiding in the big lacquer cabinet. But her frame of mind seems to have been such that she wouldn’t stoop to test this suspicion.”

“Very characteristic,” Nayland Smith commented. “You may remember that I left Barton’s study some time ahead of you?”

“Yes.”

“The cabinet in question stands beside the newel post of the staircase, and as the library was lighted tonight, in deep shadow. It has certain properties, Greville, with which I am acquainted but which may be unfamiliar to you. It’s a very old piece and I had examined it in the past. It has lacquered doors in front and a plain door at the back!”

“Do you mean—”

“Precisely! As I came out of the study, I noticed a curious passivity in Rima’s attitude which aroused my interest. Also, she was not reading, as your account would lead one to suppose—but, twisted around in her chair, was staring rigidly at the French windows! The staircase, you remember, is not visible from outside!”

“Then—”

“Her suspicion—which came later—was based on fact. I was in the cabinet!”

“But when—”

“Did I withdraw? Husband your blushes. I escaped at the moment you entered the room, and slipped unnoticed through the door leading to the servants’ quarters below the staircase. I made my way back to the study
via
the east wing, and waited for Weymouth’s signal. I had another small problem to investigate en route and so I grabbed my useful ghostly disguise!”

“What was the small problem?”

“The cheetah!”

“The cheetah?”

“A tame cheetah, Greville, is more sensitive than any ordinary domestic animal to the presence of
strangers.
He is used to Barton’s guests, but an intruder would provoke howls calculated to rouse the house. I suspected that the cat had been doped.”

“By heaven, you’re right!”

“I know I’m right! When I went round there in my monkish disguise he was snoring like an elephant! But please go on.”

To the best of my ability I outlined what Rima had told me of her mood of passive terror. I tried to explain that I had reassured her and had finally parted from her confident that she was restored to normal; but:

“There’s something wrong,” Nayland Smith rapped irritably; “and time is important. She went out of the library—I’ll swear, to fetch something—just before you came in—and she opened and then reclosed the windows.”

“I’m sorry!” I exclaimed.

“Ssh!”

“I had overlooked it, Sir Denis—although it isn’t of the slightest importance. She had gone to her room to get a scent spray containing eau-de-Cologne.”

Nayland Smith, who had been walking across and across the rug beside the bed, pulled up with a jerk.

“Not of the slightest importance? It’s what I’ve been waiting to hear! At last I understand the strong smell of eau-de-Cologne which I detected on the terrace outside the library… Quick!
You
are privileged… Steal along to Rima’s room. Take your shoes off. Go by the balcony. Her window is open, no doubt. If she’s awake—which I think unlikely—ask her for the eau-de-Cologne bottle. Explain things how you like. If she’s asleep, find it—and bring it to me! Take this torch…”

The strange theft was accomplished without a hitch. Rima slept soundly. Although her dressing table was littered with bottles, I found the spray easily enough—for it was the only one of its kind there. I hurried back to my room.

Nayland Smith took it from my hands as though it had been a live bomb. He opened the door and went out. I heard him turn a tap on in the bathroom. Then he returned—carrying the spray. I saw that it was still half full.

“Take it back,” he directed.

And I replaced it on Rima’s dressing table without arousing her.

“Good,” Smith acknowledged. “Now we enter a province of surmise.”

He began to pace the mat again, deep in thought; then:

“I am the likeliest!” he snapped suddenly; and although I couldn’t imagine what he meant, went on immediately: “Conceal yourself in the south corner of the balcony. The ivy is thick there. Keep your shoes off. We must be silent.”

As the paving was still wet, my prospect was poor; but:

“If anyone moves in Rima’s room,” he continued rapidly, “don’t stir. If anyone comes out onto the balcony—watch. But whoever it is, do nothing. Just watch. If necessary, follow, but don’t speak and don’t be discovered. Off you go, Greville!”

I had already started, when:

“It may be a bit of an ordeal,” he added, “but I count on you.”

Past the open window of Smith’s room I went and past that, closed, which belonged to the vacant room. Then, creeping silently, I went by Rima’s window and crouched down among a tangle of wet ivy in the corner formed by the stone balustrade.

The sky directly above was cloudless again, and part of the balcony gleamed phantomesque in silvery moonlight. But, another part, including the corner in which I lay concealed, was in deep shadow. From somewhere a long way off—perhaps over the sea— came dim drumming of thunder. About me whispered leaves of rain-drenched foliage.

I saw Nayland Smith go into his room.

What
were we waiting for?

Abbots Hold was silent. Nothing stirred, until a soft fluttering immediately above me set my heart thumping.

An owl swept out from the eaves and disappeared in the direction of the big plantation. From some reed bed of the nearby river a disturbed lapwing gave her eerie,
peewit
cry. The cry was repeated; then answered far away. Silence fell once more.

My post was a cold and uncomfortable one. It was characteristic of Nayland Smith that he took no count of such details where either himself or another was concerned. The job in hand overrode in importance any such trivial considerations.

Presently I heard the big library clock strike—and I counted the strokes mechanically.

Midnight.

I reflected that in London, now, folk would just be finishing supper.

Then…
I saw her!

I suppose—I hope—I shall never again experience just the sort of shock which gripped my heart at this moment. Vaguely, I had imagined that our purpose was protective; that I was on guard because Rima’s safety was at stake in some way. To the mystery of Nayland Smith’s words, “
I
am the likeliest,” I had failed all along to discover any solution.

Now, the solution came… hazily at first.

Rima, a fairy gossamer figure in the moonlight, came out barefooted onto the terrace!

Unhesitatingly, she turned right, passed the vacant room and entered the open window of that occupied by Nayland Smith! I could not believe the evidence of my senses. Just in the nick of time I checked her name as it leaped to my lips.

“…You must be silent. It may be a bit of an ordeal—but I count on you…”