The Bride of Fu-Manchu (28 page)

He suddenly dashed his fist into the palm of his left hand.

“What, Sir Denis?”

“He may have had a yacht standing by! He got away from England in that manner on one occasion.”

“It is also just possible,” I began...

“I know,” Sir Denis groaned. “My theory lacks solid foundation— he may have joined the submarine?”

“Exactly.”

“His delay might be due merely to his sense of the dramatic— which is strong. Get in, Sterling.”

He turned to the sergeant in charge of the car.

“Officer of the Préfet,” he rapped and jumped in behind me.

To endeavour to reconstruct the ideas which passed through my mind during that early morning drive would be futile, since they consisted of a taunting panorama of living dead men; the flowerlike face of Fleurette appearing again and again before that ghostly curtain, and set in an expression of adoration which formed my most evil memory. I could not banish the image of Petrie, could not accept the fact that he had joined the phantom army of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

Nayland Smith sat grimly silent, until at last:

“Sir Denis,” I said, “this is not time to talk of my personal affairs, but—something which happened in Petrie’s room has been puzzling me.”

“What is that?” he snapped.

“Fleurette kept watch at the door—she had led me there—while I slipped in to see him. Just before I left, he caught a glimpse of her, and—”

“Yes?” said Sir Denis, with a sudden keen interest in his eyes. “What did he do?”

“He sat up in bed as though he had seen an apparition. He asked in a most extraordinary voice who it was that had looked into the room. I had to leave—it was impossible to stay. But there is no doubt whatever that he recognized her!—although, as she told me afterwards, she had never seen Petrie in her life.”

I paused, meeting his eager regard; and then:

“You also thought you recognized her, Sir Denis,” I went on, “and evidently you were not wrong. I can’t believe I shall ever see her again, but, if you know, tell me: who is she?”

He drew a deep breath.

“You told me, I think, that you had never met Karâmanèh— Petrie’s wife?”

“Never.”

“She was formerly a member of the household of Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

“It seems impossible!”

“It does, but it’s a fact, nevertheless. I seem to remember telling you that she was the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

“You did.”

“On one side she’s of pure Arab blood, of the other I am uncertain.”

“Arab?”

“Surely. She was selected for certain qualities, of which her extraordinary beauty was not the least, by Dr. Fu-Manchu. Petrie upset his plans in that direction. Now, it is necessary for you to realize, Sterling, that Petrie, also, is a man of very good family—of sane, clean, balanced stock.”

“I am aware of this, Sir Denis; my father knows him well.”

Sir Denis nodded and went on:

“Dr. Fu-Manchu has always held Petrie in high esteem. Very few people are aware of what I am going to tell you—possibly even your father doesn’t know. But a year after Petrie’s marriage to Karâmanèh, a child was born.”

“I had no idea of this.”

“It was so deep a grief to them, Sterling, that they never spoke of it.”

“A grief?”

“The child, a girl, was born in Cairo. She died when she was three weeks old.”

“Good heavens! Poor old Petrie! I have never heard him even mention it.”

“You never would. They agreed never to mention it. It was their way of forgetting. There were curious features about the case to which, in their sorrow, they were blind at the time. But when, nearly a year later, the full facts came into my possession, a truly horrible idea presented itself to my mind.”

“What do you mean, Sir Denis?”

“Naturally, I whispered no word of it to Petrie. It would have been the most callous cruelty to do so. But privately, I made a number of enquiries; and while I obtained no evidence upon which it was possible to act, nevertheless, what I learned confirmed my suspicion...

“Dr. Fu-Manchu is patient, as only a great scientist can be.”

He paused, watching me, a question in his eyes. But as I did not speak:

“When I entered that room, which I described to you as the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty, I received one of the great shocks of my life. Do you know what I thought as I looked at Fleurette asleep?”

“I am trying to anticipate what you are going to tell me.”

“I thought that it was Karâmanèh—Petrie’s wife!”

“You mean—”

“I mean that, even with her eyes closed, the likeness was uncanny, utterly beyond the possibility of coincidence. Then, when you described to me their unusual quality—and Karâmanèh’s eyes are her crowning beauty—I knew that I could not be mistaken.”

Positively I was stricken dumb—I could only sit and stare at the speaker. No words occurred to me.

“Therefore, poor Petrie’s recognition does not surprise me. It may seem amazing, Sterling, almost incredible, that a child less than three weeks old could be subjected to that treatment upon which much of Fu-Manchu’s monumental knowledge rests: the production of artificial catalepsy; but a fact which by now must have dawned upon you. He is not only the greatest physician alive today, he is probably the greatest physician who has ever been.”

“Sir Denis—”

The car was just pulling up before the police headquarters.

“There’s no doubt whatever, Sterling!” He grasped my arm firmly. “Think of what the doctor has told you about her—think of what she has told you about herself—so much as she knows. There isn’t a shadow of doubt. Fleurette is Petrie’s daughter, and Karâmanèh is her mother! Buck up, old chap, I know how you must feel about it—but we haven’t abandoned hope yet.”

He sprang out and ran in at the door, brushing past an officer who stood on duty there.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I
n the large but frigid office of M. Chamrousse, Préfet of the Department, that sedate, grey-bearded official spoke rapidly on the telephone and made a number of notes upon a writing block; Sir Denis snapping his fingers impatiently and pacing up and down the carpet.

I had no idea of his plan, of what he hoped for. My state of mental chaos was worse than before. Fleurette Petrie’s daughter! From tenderest infancy she had lived as those others lived whom he wanted for his several purposes: a dream-life!

And now—Petrie himself...

In upon my thoughts broke the magisterial voice of the man at the big table.

“Here is the complete list, Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said. “You will see that the only private vessel of any tonnage which has cleared a neighbouring port during the last twelve hours is this one.”

He rested the point of his pencil on the paper. Nayland Smith, bending eagerly over him, read the note aloud:

“M.Y.
Lola,
of Buenos Aires; four thousand tons; owned by Santos da Cunha.”

He suddenly stood upright, staring before him.

“Santos da Cunha?” he repeated. “Where have I heard that name?”

“Curiously enough,” said M. Chamrousse, “the villa at Ste Claire was formerly the property of this gentleman, from whom it was purchased by Mahdi Bey.”

Sir Denis dashed his fist into the palm of his hand.

“Sterling!” he cried. “There’s hope yet! There’s hope yet! But I have been blind. This is the Argentine for whose record I am waiting!” He turned to the Préfet. “How long has the
Lola
been lying in Monaco?”

“Nearly a week, I believe.”

“And she left?”

“Soon after dawn, Sir Denis—as I read in this report.”

“You see, Sterling! You see?” he cried.

He turned again to the Préfet, and:

“The
Lola
must be traced,” he said rapidly, “without delay. Please give instructions for messages to be sent to all ships in the neighbourhood, notifying position of this motor yacht when sighted.”

“I can do this,” said the other gravely, inclining his head.

“Next, is there a French or British warship in port anywhere along the coast?”

M. Chamrousse raised his eyebrows.

“There is a French destroyer in the harbour of Monaco,” he replied.

“Please notify her commander to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice—in fact, the instant I get on board.”

That peremptory manner, contempt for red tape and routine, which characterized Sir Denis in emergencies, had the effect of ruffling the French official.

“This, sir,” he replied, taking off his spectacles and tapping them on the blotting pad, “I cannot do.”

“Cannot?”

The other shrugged.

“I have no such powers,” he declared. “It is in the province of the naval authority. I doubt if even the Admiral commanding the Mediterranean Fleet could take it upon himself to do what you ask of me.”

“Perhaps,” rapped Nayland Smith, “in these circumstances, you will be good enough to put a call through to the Ministry of Marine in Paris.”

M. Chamrousse shrugged his shoulders and looked mildly surprised.

“Really—” he began.

“My authority from the British Foreign Office,” said Sir Denis, with a sort of repressed violence, “is such that any delay you may cause must react to your own discredit. The interests of France as well as those of England are involved in this matter. Damn it, M. Chamrousse! I am here in the interests of France! Must I go elsewhere, or will you do as I ask?”

The Préfet resignedly took up the telephone and gave instructions to the outer office that Paris should be called.

Nayland Smith began again to pace up and down the carpet.

“You know, Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” M. Chamrousse began in his dry, precise voice, “it is perhaps a little unfair to me that I am so badly informed regarding this matter. All the available police have been rushed to Ste Claire and, according to my latest reports, are locked up there. I am in the dark about this—I am tied hand and foot. Paris instructed me to place myself at your disposal, and I have done so, but the reputation of Mahdi Bey, whom I have met several times socially, is quite frankly above suspicion. To me, the whole thing is incomprehensible; and now you demand—”

In this unemotional outburst I saw the reason of the Préfet’s coldness towards Sir Denis. He resented the action of Paris. Sir Denis realized this also; for checking his restless promenade he turned to face the little bearded man.

“Such issues are at stake, M. Chamrousse,” he said, “and my own blunders have so confounded me, that perhaps I have failed in proper courtesy. If so, forgive me. But try to believe that I have every reason for what I do. It is of vital importance that the yacht
Lola
should be detained.”

“I accept your assurance upon these matters, Sir Denis,” said M. Chamrousse.

But I thought from the tone of his dusty voice that he was somewhat mollified.

Conversation ceased, and unavoidably I dropped back into that valley of sorrowful reflection from which this verbal duel between Sir Denis and the French official had temporarily dragged me.

Fleurette was Petrie’s daughter!

This was the amazing fact outstanding above the mist and discord which ruled my brain. It might be that they were together; but, once Petrie should have fully recovered from his dangerous illness, I did not doubt that he would be forced to accept that Blessing of the Celestial Vision from which I had so narrowly escaped; and then...

If my influence had “not tarnished the mirror”—in Dr. Fu-Manchu’s words—a ghastly union of unknown age and budding youth would be consummated!

I could not face the idea. I found myself clenching my fists and grinding my teeth.

At which moment, the connection with Paris was made; M. Chamrousse stood up, bowed courteously, and handed the receiver to Sir Denis.

The latter—in voluble but very bad French—proceeded to tread heavily on the toes of the Paris official at the other end of the line. I had learned that he, in moments of stress, was prone to exhibit a truculence, an indifference to the feelings of others which underlay and may have been the driving power behind that brusque but never uncourteous manner which characterized him normally.

He was demanding to speak to the Minister in person and refusing to be put off.

“At home and asleep? Be so good as to put me through to his private number at once!”

M. Chamrousse had taken his stand on the carpet upon which Nayland Smith so recently had paced up and down; listening to the conversation, he merely shrugged, took out a cigarette, and lighted it with meticulous care.

However, it must be recorded to the credit of Sir Denis that his intolerant language—which was sometimes frankly rude—achieved its objective.

He was put through to the sleeping Minister...

No doubt there is much to be said for direct methods in sweeping aside ill-informed opposition. In the Middle West of America, my father’s home, I had learned to respect the direct attack as opposed to those circumlocutory manoeuvres so generally popular in European society.

To the unconcealed surprise of M. Chamrousse, Sir Denis’s demands were instantly conceded!

I gathered that authoritative orders would be transmitted immediately to the commander of the destroyer lying in the harbour at Monaco; that every other available unit in the fleet would be despatched in quest of the submarine. In short, it became evident during this brief conversation that Sir Denis wielded an authority greater than even I had suspected.