“It makes it all the more strange. You were perhaps reading or writing?”
“No. I was thinking and staring out of the window.”
“Did you hear any suspicious sounds?”
“Yes. What I took to be footsteps and a faint scuffling. But I heard no more.”
“It is all the more curious,” the man went on,”because we have two officers on duty, one in a gondola moored near the steps, and the other at the back of the hotel. Before coming here I personally interviewed both these officers and neither had seen anything suspicious.”
The mystery grew deeper.
“My own room was lighted,” I said. “Are my windows visible from the point of view of the man in the gondola?”
“We will go and see.”
We moved along to my room. My feelings as I looked at the divan upon which Ardatha had lain in my arms I find myself unable to describe . . . One of the detectives glanced out of the window and reported that owing to the wall of that little courtyard to which I have referred, this window would be outside the viewpoint of the man in the gondola.
“But the window of Sir Denis7 room—this he could see.”
Another idea came.
“The sitting room!”
“It is possible. Let us look.”
We looked—and solely because, I suppose, no one had attached any importance to the sitting room, it now immediately became evident that one shutter was open.
It had not been open when I had parted from Smith that night!
“You see!” exclaimed the detective,”here is the story: He was overcome, perhaps drugged, in his room, carried in here and lowered out through that window!”
“But”—I was thinking now of Ardatha—”how could the kidnappers have got him away without attracting the notice of one of your men?”
Another consultation took place. All three were becoming wildly excited.
“I must explain”—a half-dressed and bewildered manager had joined us—”that passing under the window of your own room, Mr. Kerrigan, it is possible—there is a gate there—to reach the bridge over the Rio Banieli—the small canal.”
“But you say”—I turned to the detective—”that you had a man on duty at the rear of the hotel?”
“True, but here is dense shadow at this hour of the night. It would be possible—just possible—for one to reach and cross that bridge unnoticed.”
In my mind I was reconstructing the tragedy of the night. I saw Nayland Smith, drugged, helpless, being carried (probably on the shoulder of one of Dr Fu Manchu’s Thugs) right below my window as I lay there intoxicated by the beauty of Ardatha. I felt myself choked with rage and mortification.
“But it is simply incredible,” I cried,”that such a crime can be committed here in Venice! We must find Sir Denis! We must find him!”
“It is understood, sir, that we must find him. This is very bad for the Venice police, because you are under our special protection. The chief has been notified and will shortly be here. It is a tragedy—yes:
I regret it deeply.”
Overcome by a sense of the futility of it all, the hopelessness of outwitting that criminal genius who played with human lives as a chess player with pieces, I turned and walked back to the sitting room. I stared dumbly at the open window through which my poor friend had disappeared, probably forever.
The police left the suite, in deference, I think, to my evident sorrow, and I found myself alone.
The girl to whom I had lost my heart, my reason was a modern Delilah. Her part had been to lull my suspicions, to detain me there—if need be with kisses—while the dreadful master of the Si-Fan removed an enemy from his path.
My thoughts tortured me—I clenched my teeth; I felt my brain reeling. In every way that a man could fail, I had failed. I had succumbed to the wiles of a professional vampire and had given over my friend to death.
There were perhaps issues greater than my personal sorrow. The life of Rudolf Adion hung upon a hair. Nayland Smith was gone!
Venice, the city of the doges, had claimed one more victim.
Dawn was creeping gloriously over the city when the first, the only clue, came to hand.
A Carabinieri patrol returning at four o’clock was subjected, in common with all others who had been on duty that night, to a close examination. He remembered (a fact which normally he would not have reported) that a girl, smartly dressed and wearing a scarf over her hair, had hurried past him at a point not far from the hotel. He had paid little attention to her, except that he remem bered she was pretty, but his description of her dress strongly suggested Ardatha!
Twenty yards behind and, as he recalled, seeming deliberately to keep in the shadow, he had noticed a man: an Englishman, he was confident, tall, wearing a tweed suit and a soft-brimmed hat.
The time, as nearly as I could judge, would have corresponded to that at which I had parted from Ardatha . . .
The detective’s theory had been the right one. Something had drawn Smith’s attention to the presence of the girl. He had not been kidnapped—he had watched and followed her. To where? What had become of him?
That sense of guilt which weighed heavily upon me became heavier than ever. I was indeed directly responsible for whatever had befallen my friend.
I was already at police headquarters when this report came in. The man was sent for and through an interpreter I questioned him. Since I knew the two people concerned more intimately than anyone present his answers to my questions removed any possibility of doubt.
The girl described was Ardatha. Nayland Smith had been following her!
Even at this stage, frantic as I was with anxiety about Smith, almost automatically I compromised with my conscience when Colonel Correnti asked me:
“Do you think this girl is someone known to Sir Denis?”
“Possibly,” I replied. “He may have thought he recognized an accomplice of Doctor Fu Manchu.”
When I left police headquarters to walk back to the hotel, Venice was bathed in its morning glory. But I moved through the streets and across the canals of that fairy city in a state of such utter dejection that any I passed surely pitied me.
Of Smith’s plans in regard to the luncheon party on Silver Heels I had very little idea, but I had been fully prepared to go with him. I was anxious to see Rudolf Adion in person. It seemed to me to be pointless to go alone. What he had hoped to learn I could not imagine. James Brownlow Wilton, the New York newspaper magnet, would seem to have no place in this tangled skein. It was a baffling situation and I was hopelessly worn out.
I tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but found sleep to be impossible. Sir George Herbert called at ten o’clock, an old young man with foreign office stamped indelibly upon him. His expression was
grave.
“This is a great blow, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said. “I can see how it has affected you. To me, it is disastrous. These threats to Rudolf Adion, who is here incognito, as you know, are backed by an organization which does not threaten lightly. General Quinto has been assassinated—why not Rudolf Adion?”
“I agree. But I know nothing of Smith’s plans to protect him.”
“Nor do I!” He made a gesture of despair. “It had been arranged for him to go on board Mr. Wilton’s yacht during today’s luncheon, but what he hoped to accomplish I have no idea.”
“Nor I.”
I spoke the words groaningly, dropped on to a chair and stared I suppose rather wildly at Sir George.
“The Italian authorities are sparing no effort. Their responsibility is great, for more than the reputation of the chief of police is at stake. If any news should reach me I will advise you immediately, Mr. Kerrigan. I think you would be wise to rest.”
A Woman Drops A Rose
The human constitution is a wonderfully adjusted instrument. I had no hope, indeed no intention, of sleeping. Venice, awakened, lived gaily about me. Yet, after partially undressing, within five minutes of Sir George’s departure I was fast asleep.