The path was one of those which would not have appalled a hardened climber, but mountaineering had never been my enthusiasm. One thing was certain: Dr. Fu Manchu and his party had never come this way.
It wound round and round great gnarled crags, creeping higher and ever higher. I was glad to be wearing rubber-soled shoes, although I am aware that experienced mountaineers reject them.
At one point it led us fully a mile inland, climbing very near to the rim of a deep gorge and at an eerie height above the sea. It was a mere tracing, much better suited to a goat than to a human being. Never once did it touch any practicable road, but now led seaward again, until we found ourselves high up on the side of a dizzy precipice, sheer above the blue Mediterranean.
“Heavens!” muttered Nayland Smith, clutching at the rocky wall at his right hand. “This is getting rather too exciting!”
“I agree, Sir Denis.”
At a point which was no more than eighteen inches wide, I was tempted to shut my eyes, but knew that I must keep them open and go on.
“Heaven knows who uses such a path as this,” he muttered.
We rounded the bluff and saw that our way lay inland again. The slope below was less steep, and there was dense vegetation upon its side. Nayland Smith pulled up, and under one upraised hand, stared hard.
“It is difficult to recognise from this point,” he said, “but here is the bay of Ste Claire, as I suspected.”
And now that crazy path began to descend, leading us lower and lower.
It was very still there, and the early morning air possessed champagne-like properties. And suddenly Sir Denis turned to me:
“Do you hear it. Sterling?” he snapped.
Distinctly, in the silence, although it seemed to come from a long way off, I had detected the sound to which he referred—a distant shouting, and an almost incessant booming sound.
“It seems incredible,” he continued, “but they are evidently still trying to force a way into the house! Come on, let’s hurry—there’s much to do, and very little time to do it.”
We ran down the remaining few yards of the path and found ourselves upon the beach—that beach of which I had dreamed so often—but always with the dainty, sun-browned figure of Fleurette seated upon it.
Sir Denis, whose powers of physical endurance were little short of phenomenal, ran across, making for that corresponding path upon the other side which led to the seven flights of steps communicating with the terrace of the villa....
We mounted at the double.
I saw that the main door had been forced and the shutters torn from an upper window against which a ladder rested.
The booming sound, which had grown louder as we approached, was caused by the efforts of a party of men under a bewildered police officer endeavouring to force the first of the section doors at the top of the steps which led down to the radio research room.
Sir Denis made himself known to the man—who had not been a member of the original party. And we learned the astounding fact that with the exception of four, the whole of that party, including the Chief of Police, remained locked inside the house—nor had any sound or message come from them!!
A man was at work with a blow-lamp, supported by others with crowbars.
Expert reinforcements were expected at any moment;
and—a curious feature of the situation—although there was a telephone in the villa, no message had come over it from within, nor had any reply been received when the number was called....
chapter forty-third
KARAMANEH’S DAUGHTER
in the course of the next few minutes I had my first sight of Ste Claire de la Roche.
A paved path circled the house. There were ladders against several windows; ways had been forced into the outer rooms, and the villa proper was in possession of the police. But I knew that the real establishment was far below, and that it was much more extensive than that more or less open to inspection.
Crashing and booming echoed hollowly from within.
The front of the villa, by which I mean that part which faced towards the distant road, was squat and unimpressive. An entrance had been forced from this point also, and there were a number of police hurrying about.
A little cobbled street, flanked by a house with an arched entrance, presented itself. Beside the house, in a cavern-like opening, a steep flight of steps disappeared into blackness. The top of a ladder projected above the parapet on my right, and, looking over, I saw that part of the glass roof of one of the forcing houses visible at this point had been smashed and a ladder lowered through the gap.
Dim voices reached me from far below. I wondered if any of the raiding party had been found in that section.
But Nayland Smith was hurrying on down the slope. And now we came to a long, sanded drive. There was a wall on the left, beyond which I thought lay a kitchen garden and a sheer drop on the right.
• Sweeping around in a northerly direction, the drive led to gates of ornate iron scrollwork, which were closed, and I saw that two police officers were on duty there.
The gates were opened in response to a brief order, and we hurried out into a narrow, sloping lane. I remembered this lane. It wandered down to the main road; for I had penetrated to it in my earliest attempt to explore Ste Claire de la Roche, and had been confronted with a “No thoroughfare” sign.
“There’s a police car at the comer,” said Nayland Smith;
“we must take that.”
No cars had been found in the stone garage attached to the villa, and I wondered what had become of that which had once belonged to Petrie, and which must have been hidden on the night of my encounter with the dacoit on the Comiche road.
A sergeant of police was standing by the car. He reported that a motorcyclist patrol had just passed. All cars using both roads had been challenged and searched throughout the night in accordance with Sir Denis’s instructions. But no one had been detained.
Nayland Smith stood there twitching at the lobe of his ear;
and my heart sank, for I thought that he was about to admit defeat.
“He may have gone by sea down to Italy,” he said; “it is a possibility which must not be overlooked. Or, by heavens!—”
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 Prefet,” 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——”