Daughter of Fu-Manchu (8 page)

Rima was almost as ghostly pale as he who had been plucked out of the gates of death. She was staring at Petrie fearfully, as one who glimpses a superman. But my own feelings were oddly compounded of joy and horror—joy because the dear old chief had been given a chance to live; horror, because I recognized a scientific miracle—and suddenly, awfully, appreciated the terrifying genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

At which moment, Sir Lionel opened his eyes—gazed vacantly, and then saw us.

“Cheer up, Rima—child,” he whispered. “God bless you fellows.” And to me: “Thanks for the dash to Cairo. Good scout!”

He closed his eyes again.

“Well, Nurse,” said Petrie, as Rima came out and joined us on the hotel terrace, “what do you think of our patient?”

Rima, a delicious picture in a dainty frock which had taken the place of the rough kit she wore in camp, fixed that grave look of hers on the speaker.

Then she turned swiftly aside, and I saw a threat of tears in her eyes.

“Yes,” Petrie murmured. “I don’t quite know what to make of him. I’m only an ordinary practitioner, Rima, and although I’ve searched every hotel in Luxor, this is an off-season. There isn’t a man in Upper Egypt whose opinion I could take. And the only likely Cairo man, as bad luck would have it, is away on leave.”

Silence fell between us. Sir Lionel Barton—first perhaps of modern Orientalists—lay in his room in a state of unconquerable coma, a mysterious secret locked in his memory. Petrie had rescued him from death—dragged him back, indeed, from the other side of that grim Valley—by virtue of an unnamed drug prepared by the greatest physician the world had ever known.

Strange, tragic, that so mighty a brain as that of Dr. Fu-Manchu should be crooked—that an intellect so brilliant should be directed not to healing but to destruction. He was dead. Yet the evil of his genius lived after him…

In a few weeks now this quiet spot in which we sat would be bustling with busy, international life. The tourist season would have set in. Dragomans, sellers of beads, of postcards and of scarabs would be thick as flies around the doors of the hotels. Thomas Cook’s dahabîyehs would moor at the landing places; fashionable women would hurry here and there, apparently busy, actually idle: white-suited men, black-robed guides—bustle—excitement…

Even now, as I stared across the nearly deserted roadway and beyond old peaceful Nile to where crags and furrows marked the last resting place of the Pharaohs, even now I could scarcely grasp the reality of it all.

What was the secret of the Tomb of the Black Ape? Careful examination had enabled us to prove that Lafleur at the time his excavation was abandoned—that is at the time of his disappearance in 1909—had got within a few yards of the passage leading to the burial chamber. Some unknown hand had completed the work and then had so carefully concealed the opening that later Egyptologists had overlooked it. Or had the hand been that of Lafleur himself?

More astounding still: the inner stone door, or portcullis, had been opened before! And it had been
reclosed
—so cunningly that even the chief had thought it to be intact! We were not the first party to reach it.

Therefore… when had the tomb been emptied? In Lafleur’s time or a week ago whilst I was in Cairo? Who had reclosed it, and why had he done so? Above all—what had it contained?

Maddening to think that poor Sir Lionel might know… but was unable to tell us…

My musings were interrupted.

“Next to Brian Hawkins,” came Petrie’s voice, “of Wimpole Street, there’s one man with whom I’d give half I possess to have ten minutes’ conversation.”

“Who is that?” Rima asked.

“Nayland Smith.”

I looked across.

“Not as a professional consultant,” Petrie added. “But somehow, in the old days, he seemed to find a way.”

“Uncle was always talking about him,” said Rima. “And I’ve hoped we should meet. He’s chief of some department of Scotland Yard, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He finally left Burma five years ago. And I’m looking forward to meeting him in England.”

“Weymouth cabled him,” said I, “but had no reply.”

“I know.” Petrie stared vacantly before him. “It’s rather queer and quite unlike Smith.”

“Is there really
nothing
we can do?” said Rima.

She rested her hand suddenly on Petrie’s arm and I knew she feared that she might have offended him.

“I didn’t mean you’re not doing everything that’s possible—I just mean do you think we’re justified in waiting?”

“I don’t!” he replied honestly; for honesty was the keynote of his character. “But I doubt if either of the men I mentioned could indicate any treatment other than that which we’re following. Physically, Sir Lionel is gaining strength day by day, but his mental condition puzzles me.”

“Is it contrary to your experience, Doctor,” I asked; “I mean your experience of this strange drug which must have been used in his case?”

Petrie nodded.

“Quite contrary,” he assured me. “The crowning triumph of Fu-Manchu’s method was their clean-cut effects. His poisons served their purpose to a nicety. His antidotes restored to normal.”

A thickset figure rounded the corner of the building and bore down upon us.

“Ah, Weymouth!” said Petrie. “You look as though a long drink with a lump of ice in it would fit the bill.”

“It would!” Weymouth confessed, dropping into a cane chair.

He removed his hat and mopped his forehead.

“Any luck?” said I.

Whilst Petrie gave an order to a waiter, Weymouth shook his head sadly.

“Madame Ingomar is known to a number of people in Luxor and neighborhood,” he replied, “but not one of them can tell me where she lives!”

“It’s therefore fairly obvious that she must have been either living in the native quarter or renting a villa!”

Weymouth looked at me with a tolerant smile, and:

“I agree,” he replied. “My best local agent reported this morning, and you can take it for granted that madame has not been living in the native quarter. I have personally just returned from a very tiring inspection of a list of the available villas in and about Luxor. I can state with a fair amount of certainty that she did not occupy any of these.”

A gentle rebuke which I accepted in silence. Dr. Petrie put the whole thing right, for:

“Scotland Yard methods have been pretty harshly criticised,” said he, “generally by those who know nothing about them. But you must agree, Greville, that they don’t fail in thoroughness.”

He paused suddenly, arrested I suppose by my expression. I was staring at a tall Arab who, approaching the hotel, pulled up on sighting our group. His hesitation was momentary. He carried on, swung past us, and went in through the swing doors.

Rima sprang up and grasped my arm.

“The Arab,” she cried, “the Arab who has just passed! It’s the man I saw in camp. The man who ran along the top of the wâdi!”

I nodded grimly.

“Leave him to me!” I said, and, turning to Weymouth: “A clue at last!”

“Is this the mysterious Arab you spoke about?” he said excitedly.

“It is.”

I dashed into the hotel. There was no sign of my man in the lobby, in which only vedettes of the tourist army, mostly American, were to be seen. I hurried across to the reception clerk. He knew me well, and:

“A tall Arab. Just come in,” I said quickly. “Bedoui, Fargâni, or Maazâi, for a guess. Where’s he gone?”

An assistant manager—Edel by name—suddenly appeared behind the clerk and I thought I saw him grip the latter’s shoulder significantly; as:

“You were asking about an Arab who came in, Mr. Greville?” said he.

“I was.”

“He is in the service of one of our guests—a gentleman of the Diplomatic Service.”

“That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s been prowling about Sir Lionel’s camp,” I replied angrily. “There are one or two things I have to say to this Arab.”

Edel became strangely embarrassed. His expression mystified me. He was Swiss and an excellent fellow; but reviewing what I had heard of the methods of Dr. Fu-Manchu I began to wonder if my hitherto esteemed acquaintance might be a servant of that great and evil man!

“What’s the name of this diplomat?” I asked rather shortly. “Do I know him?”

Edel hesitated for a moment; but at last:

“He is a Mr. Fletcher,” he replied. “Please forgive me, my dear Greville, but I have orders in this matter.”

Now definitely angry, but realizing that Edel wasn’t to blame, I turned. Weymouth stood at my elbow.

“I respect your orders, Edel,” I said, “but there can be no possible objection to my interviewing Mr. Fletcher’s Arab servant?”

“May I add,” said Weymouth harshly, “that I entirely agree with what Mr. Greville has said.”

Edel recognized Weymouth; which seemed merely to add to his confusion of mind.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” he murmured, “I shall phone from the private office.”

He withdrew—followed by the reception clerk, who obviously dreaded cross-examination.

I exchanged glances with Weymouth.

“What the devil is this all about?” he said.

There was an interval during which Dr. Petrie came in with Rima. At which moment Edel reappeared, and:

“If Mr. Greville and Dr. Petrie would be good enough to go up to Number 36,” he requested, “Mr. Fletcher will be pleased to see them.”

“God knows we have trouble and enough,” said Petrie, as the lift carried us to the third floor, “without the appearance of this unknown diplomat. I’ve never met a Mr. Fletcher. Can you imagine any reason why he should ask
me
to accompany you?”

“I can’t,” I admitted, and laughed, but not too mirthfully.

As we reached the third floor the Nubian lift-boy conducted us to the door of Number 36, pressed the bell, and returned to the lift.

The door opened suddenly. I saw a clean-shaven, thickset man, wearing a very well-cut suit of the kind sometimes called “Palm Beach.” With his black brows and heavy jaw, he more closely resembled a retired pugilist than any conception I might have formed of a diplomat.

Petrie stared at him in a very strange fashion; as:

“My name is Fletcher,” he announced. “Dr. Petrie, I believe?” And then to me: “Mr. Greville? Please come in.”

He held the door open and stepped aside. I exchanged glances with Petrie. We walked into the little lobby.

It was a small suite with a sitting room on the left.

Why did Mr. Fletcher open his own door when he employed an Arab servant?

I was gravely suspicious, for the thing was mysterious to a degree, but:

“Come right through!” cried a voice from the sitting room.

Whereupon, to add to my discomfort, Petrie suddenly grasped my arm with a grip which hurt. He stepped through the open doorway, I following close at his heels.

A window opened onto a balcony and to the right of this window stood a writing table. Seated at the table, his back towards us, was the tall Arab whom we were come to interview!

I noted with surprise that he had removed his turban, and that the head revealed was not shaven, as I might have anticipated, but covered with virile, wavy, iron-gray hair.

Fletcher had disappeared.

As we entered, the man stood up and turned. The deep brown color, of his skin seemed in some way incongruous, now that he wore no turban. I noted again the steely eyes which I remembered; the lean, eager face—a face hard to forget once one had seen it

But if I was perplexed, doubtful, my companion had become temporarily paralyzed. I heard the quick intake of his breath— turned… and saw him standing, a man rigid with amazement, positively glaring at the figure of the tall Arab beside the writing table!

At last, in a whisper, he spoke:

“You!”
he said, “
you,
old man! Is this quite fair?”

The Arab sprang forward and grasped Petrie’s hand. Suddenly, seeing the expression in those gray eyes, I felt an intruder. I wanted to look away; but:

“It isn’t!” I heard; “and it hurts to hear you say it. But there was no other way, Petrie. By heaven, it’s good to see you again, though!”…

He turned his searching glance upon me.

“Mr. Greville,” he exclaimed, “forgive this comedy; but there are vast issues at stake.”

“Greville,” said Petrie, continuing to stare at the speaker with an expression almost of incredulity, “this is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

“I felt sure you would recognize Detective-Inspector Fletcher,” Nayland Smith declared. “You once spent a night with him, Petrie— in the Joy Shop, down Limehouse way: Detective-Sergeant Fletcher he was then. Have you placed him?”

Petrie’s puzzled expression suddenly changed, and: “Of course!” he cried. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere—Fletcher! But what on earth is he doing
here?”

“Ask what I’m doing here,” snapped Nayland Smith. “One answer covers both questions. Fletcher’s in my department of the Yard, now: you may remember he always specialized in Oriental cases. He’s been posing as the principal, very successfully, whilst I, in the capacity of an Arab with whom he had confidential business, have been at liberty to get on with my job.”

“But I don’t understand,” said I, “just what your job has been. I can’t make out what a senior official of Scotland Yard is doing here in Luxor. It surely isn’t usual? I mean, you’ve been hanging about our camp for some time past, sir.”

Nayland Smith smiled; and—a magic of all rare smiles—my impression of his character was radically altered. I found myself for the first time at my ease with this grim Anglo-Indian. I saw behind the mask and I loved the man I saw.

“Damned
un
usual,” he admitted, “but so are the circumstances.” He turned to Petrie. “I didn’t recognize Weymouth. I passed you very quickly. We must send for him. Fletcher can go.”

He began to pace up and down the room, when:

“Smith!” Petrie exclaimed. “I don’t understand. We’re all in together. What had you to gain by this secrecy?”

Nayland Smith pulled up in front of him, staring down hard, and:

“Do you quite realize, Petrie,” he asked, “with
whom
we’re dealing?”