I was awakened by Colonel Correnti. Those reflected rays through my shutters which I had not closed told me the truth.
It was sunset, I had slept for many hours.
“What news?”
Instantly I was wide awake, a cloak or sorrow already draped about me.
He shook his head.
“None, I fear.”
“The luncheon party on the yacht took place, I suppose? Sir Denis feared that some attempt might be made there.”
“Rudolf Adion was present, yes. He is known on these occasions as Major Baden. My men report that nothing of an unusual nature took place. The dictator is safely back at the Palazzo da Rosa where he will be joined tomorrow by Pietro Monaghani. There is no evidence of any plot.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I do? Officially, I am not supposed to know that the chancellor is here. Of Sir Denis no trace can be found. What can I do?”
His perplexity was no greater than mine. What, indeed, could any of us do?
I forced myself to eat a hasty meal. The solicitude of the management merely irritated me. I found myself constantly looking aside, constantly listening, for I could not believe it possible for a man so well known as Nayland Smith to vanish like a mirage.
Of Ardatha I dared not think bat all.
To remain there inert was impossible. I could do nothing useful, for I had no plan, but at least I could move, walk the streets, search the cafes, stare up at the windows. With no better object than this in view, I set out.
Before St Mark’s I pulled up abruptly. The magic of sunset was draping the facade in wonderful purple shadows. I was torn between two courses. If I lost myself in this vain hunt through the streets of Venice, I might be absent when news came. In a state of indecision I stood there before the doors of that ornate, ancient church. What news could come? News that Smith was dead!
From these ideas I must run away, must keep moving. Indeed I found myself incapable of remaining still, and now a reasonable objective occurred to me. Since Rudolph Adion was staying at the Palazzo da Rosa this certainly would be the focus of Dr Fu Manchu’s attention. Actually, of course I was seeking some excuse for action, something to distract my mind from the ghastly contemplation of Nayland Smith’s fate.
I hurried back to the hotel and learned from the hall porter that no message had been received for me. Thereupon I walked out and chartered a motorboat.
A gondola was too slow for my humor.
“Go along the Grand Canal,” I directed, “and show me the Palazzo da Rosa.”
We set out, and I endeavored to compose myself and to submit without undue irritation to the informative remarks of the man who drove the motorboat. He wished to take me to the Rialto Bridge, to the villa where Richard Wagner had died, to the Palace of Gabriel d’Annunzio; but finally, with a great air of mystery, slowing his craft:
“Yonder,” he said, “where I am pointing, is the Palazzo da Rosa. It is here, sir, that Signer Monaghani, himself, stays sometimes when he is in Venice. Also it is whispered, but I do not know, that the great Adion is there.”
“Stop awhile.”
Dusk had fallen and light streamed from nearly all the windows of the palace. I observed much movement about the water gate, many gondolas crowded against the painted posts, there was a stir and bustle which told of some sort of entertainment taking place.
A closed motorboat, painted black, and apparently empty, passed almost silently between us and the steps.
“The police!”
We moved on . . .
Two seagoing yachts were at anchor, and out on the lagoon we met a freshening breeze. One of the yachts belonged to an English peer, the other. Silver Heels, was Brownlow Wilton’s beautiful white cruiser, built on the lines of an ocean greyhound. All seemed to be quiet on board, and I wondered if the celebrated American was being entertained at the Palazzo da Rosa.
“Where to now, sir?”
“Anywhere you like,” I answered wearily.
The man seemed to understand my mood. I believe he thought I was a dejected lover whose mistress had deserted him. Indeed, he was not far wrong.
We turned into a side canal where there were ancient windows, walls and trellises draped in clematis and passion flower, a spot, as I saw at a glance, perpetuated by many painters. In the dusk it had a ghostly beauty. Here the motorboat seemed a desecration, and I wished that I had chartered a gondola. Even as the thought crossed my mind, one of those swan-like crafts, carrying the bearings of some noble family, and propelled by a splendidly uniformed gondolier, swung silently around a comer, heralded only by the curious cry of the man at the oar.
My fellow checked his engine.
“From the Palazzo da Rosa!” he said and gazed back fascinatedly.
Idly, for I was not really interested, I turned and stared back also. There was but one passenger in the gondola . . .
It was Rudolf Adion!
“Stop!” I ordered sharply as the man was about to restart his engine. “I want to watch.”
For I had seen something else.
On the balcony of a crumbling old mansion, once no doubt the home of a merchant prince but now falling into ruin, a woman was standing. Some trick of reflected light from across the canal made her features clearly visible. She wore a gaily-colored showl which left one arm and shoulder bare.
She was leaning on the rail of the balcony, staring down at the passing gondola—and as I watched, eagerly, almost breathlessly, I saw that the gondolier had checked his graceful boat with that easy, sweeping movement which is quite beyond the power of an amateur oarsman. Rudolph Adion was standing up, his eyes raised. As I watched, the woman dropped a rose to which, I was almost sure, a note was attached!
Adion caught it deftly, kissed his fingers to the beauty on the balcony and resumed his seat. As the gondola swung on and was lost in deep shadows of a tall, old palace beyond:
“Ah!” sighed the motor launch driver—and he also kissed his fingers to the balcony—”a tryst—how beautiful!”
She who had made the assignation had disappeared. But there was no possibility of mistake. She was the woman I had seen with Ardatha—the woman whom Nayland Smith had described as “a corpse moving among the living—a harbinger of death!” The chief of police hung up the telephone.
“Major Baden is in his private apartments,” he said, “engaged on important official business. He has given orders that he is not to be disturbed. And so”—he shrugged his shoulders—”what can I do?”
I confess I was growing weary of those oft-repeated words.
“But I assure you,” I cried excitedly, “that he is not in his private apartments! At least he was not there a quarter of an hour ago!”
“That is possible, Mr. Kerrigan. I have said that some of the great men who visit Venice incognito have sometimes other affairs than affairs of State. But since, in the first place, I am not supposed to know that Rudolf Adion is at the Palazzo at all what steps can I take? I have one of my best officers on duty there and this is his report. What more can I do?”
“Nothing!” I groaned!
“In regard to protecting this minister, nothing, I fear. But the other matter—yes! This woman whom you describe is known to be an accomplice of these people who seek the life of Rudolf Adion?”
“She is.”
“Then we shall set out to find her, Mr. Kerrigan! I shall be ready in five minutes.”
Complete darkness had come when we reached the canal in which I had passed the dictator, but the light of a quarter moon painted Venice with silver. I travelled now in one of those sinister-looking black boats to which my attention had been drawn earlier.