“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 Karamaneh— 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 realise, 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 Karamaneh, 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 Karamaneh—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 Karamaneh’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 to-day, 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 Karamaneh 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-fourth
OFFICER OF THE PREFET
in the large but frigid office of M. Chamrousse, Prefet 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 Prefet. “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 Prefet, 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 characterised 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.”