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 Prefet 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 Prefet’s coldness towards Sir Denis. He resented the action of Paris. Sir Denis realised 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 characterised 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 manouevres so generally popular in European society.
To the unconcealed surprise ofM. 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.
When presently he replaced the receiver and sprang to his feet, the effect upon M. Chamrousse was notable.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he said, “I congratulate you— but you fully realise that in this matter I was indeed helpless!”
Sir Denis shook his hand.
“Please say no more! Of course I understand. But if you would accept my advice, it would be this: proceed personally to Ste Claire, and when you have realised the difficulties of the situation there, you will be in a position to deal with it.”
Some more conversation there was, the gist of which I have forgotten, and then we were out in the car again and speeding along those tortuous roads headed for Monaco.
“Much time has been wasted,” rapped Nayland Smith;
“only luck can help us now. Failing a message from some ship which has sighted the yacht Lola, it’s impossible to lay a course. Probably the Lola has a turn of speed which will tax the warship in any event. But lacking knowledge of her position, we can’t even start.
“I don’t doubt she will have been sighted. There’s a lot of shipping in those waters.”
“Yes, but the bulk of it is small craft, and many of them carry no radio. However, we are doing all that lies in our power to do.”
chapter forty-fifth
ON THE DESTROYER
from the bridge of the destroyer I looked over a blue and sail-less sea. The speed of the little warship was exhilarating, and I could see from the attitude other commander beside me that this break in peace-time routine was welcome rather than irksome.
I glanced towards the port wing of the bridge where Nayland Smith was staring ahead through raised glasses.
Somewhere astern of where I stood, somewhere in the slender hull, full out and quivering on this unexpected mission, I knew there were police officers armed with a warrant issued by the Boulevard du Palais for the arrest of Dr. Fu Manchu.
And as the wine of the morning began to stir my blood, hope awakened. The history of Fleurette lay open before me like a book. And all that had seemed incomprehensible in her character and her behaviour, lover-like, now I translated and understood. She had been cultivated as those plants in the forcing houses had been cultivated.
The imprint of Dr. Fu Manchu was upon her.
Yet through it all the real Fleurette had survived, defying the alchemy of the super-scientist: she was still Petrie’s daughter, beautiful, lovable, and mine, if I could find her....
I set doubt aside. Definitely, we should overtake the South American yacht. News had- come from a cruising liner ten minutes before we had reached Monaco Harbour: the Lola, laid on a southerly course, was less than twenty miles ahead.
But, since the Lola also must have picked up the message, we realised that the course of the motor yacht would in all probability have been changed. Nevertheless, ultimate escape was next to impossible.
Yet again that damnable thought intruded: the Lola might prove to be a will o’ the wisp; Fu Manchu, Fleurette, and Petrie not on board!
It appeared to me that the only thing supporting Nayland Smith’s theory and his amazing reaction to it was the fact that the Lola had not answered those messages sent out by the French authority.