He paused, pushed down the smoldering tobacco with his thumb and lighted a second match.
“At that party, Rudolf Adion meets the woman known as Korean!. He is attracted. She makes it her business to see that he shall be attracted; and of this art, Kerrigan, she is a past mistress. She promises him an appointment, but stresses the danger and difficulty in order to prepare Adion for the journey through those filthy passages . . . No doubt she posed as an unhappily married woman.”
“It’s logical enough.”
“Adion, now enslaved, slips away from the Palazzo da Rosa and goes to the spot at which she has promised to confirm their meeting. In the interval she has consulted Doctor Fu Manchu and the nature of Adion’s reception has been arranged. Luckily, you saw the message delivered. Adion keeps the appointment. . . We know what happened.”
His pipe now well alight, he began to walk across and across the floor.
“But, Smith,” I said, watching him fascinatedly, for his succinct summing up of the facts revealed again the clarity of his mind, “you mean that Brownlow Wilton has been ignorant of this from first to last?”
He paused for a moment, surrounding himself with clouds of smoke, and then:
“Hard to believe, I agree,” he snapped, “but at the moment there is no other solution. Wilton, as you probably know, is an eccentric and a chronic invalid—in fact a dying man. Although he entertains lavishly, he often secludes himself from his guests. We have found out that his decision to leave for Villefranche was made suddenly, but the party was a small one. Two, I think, we have identified.”
I nodded.
There was little doubt that Ardatha had been one of Brownlow Wilton’s guests, according to the account of a police officer who had been on board. His description of the only other female member of the party made it clear that this was Korêani. Paulo’s account of the women tallied.
“It had been most cunningly arranged,” Smith went on, speaking rapidly and resuming his restless promenade. “No doubt Brownlow Wilton met them under circumstances which prompted the invitation. After all, they are both charming women!”
“You think they flew from Paris and joined the yacht party?”
“Undoubtedly. They were under Si-Fan orders, but Brownlow Wilton did not know it. Where he met them no doubt we shall learn. But the facts are obvious, I think.”
“They cannot possibly have sailed in Silver Heels?”
“No—evidently Doctor Fu Manchu had other plans for them and for himself. But I know, in my very bones I know, that Wilton is in danger. He may even be running away from that danger now . . .”
The Adriatic was behaving badly from the point of view of a naval cutter, when presently we cleared the land and set out to overtake Silver Heels. I thought that the chief of police was not easy as our small craft rolled and pitched in a moderately heavy sea.
However, the storm was subsiding, and a coy moon began to peek through breaking clouds. For my own part I welcomed the storm, for neither the flashes of lightning nor rumbling of distant thunder were out of keeping with my mood.
Unknown to most of its inhabitants, Venice tonight was being combed for one of Europe’s outstanding figures. Reserves of police had been called in from neighboring towns. No representative of a great power was in his bed.
Rudolf Adion had been smuggled out of life.
I think that high-speed dash through angry seas in some way calmed my spirit. Lightning flashed again, and:
“There she is!” came the hail of a lookout.
But from where we sat in the cabin, all of us, I suppose, had seen Silver Heels, bathed in that sudden radiance, a fairy ship, riding a sea bewitched, a white and beautiful thing.
A ladder was down when we drew alongside, but it was no easy matter to get aboard. At last, however, our party assembled on deck. We were received by Brownlow Wilton and the captain of the yacht.
My first glimpse of Brownlow Wilton provoked a vague memory to which I found myself unable to give definite shape.
He wore a beret and a blue rainproof overcoat with the collar turned up, a wizened little man as I saw him in the deck lights, with the sallow complexion of a southerner, peering at us through black-rimmed spectacles.
The captain, whose name was Farazan, had all the appearance of a Portuguese. He, too, was a sallow type; he wore oilskins. The astonishment of the American owner was manifest in his manner and in his eyes, magnified by the lenses of his spectacles.
“Although it is a very great pleasure to have you gentlemen aboard,” he said in a weak, piping voice, “it is also a great surprise. I don’t pretend that I have got the hang of it, but you are very welcome. Let’s all step down to the saloon.”
We descended to a spacious saloon to find a lighted table and a black-browed steward in attendance. I saw a cold buffet, the necks of wine bottles peeping from an ice bucket.
“I thought,” said Wilton, peeling off his coat and his beret, “that on a night like this and at this hour, you might probably be feeling peckish. Just make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I was hauled out of bed myself by the radio message, and I guess a snack won’t do any of us any harm.”
Silver Heels was riding the swell with an easy and soothing movement, but the chief of police stared at the cold fare as a doomed man might stare at the black cap.
“I think, perhaps,” he said, “that a brandy and soda might do me good.”
The attendant steward quietly executed the order, and Brownlow Wilton, seated at the head of the table, dispensed an eager hospitality.
“It was all unexpected,” he explained. “But I feel like a snack myself and I guess all of us could do no better than reinforce.”
He had simple charm, I thought, this man who directed a great chain of newspapers and controlled the United States’ biggest armament works. I had expected nothing so seemingly ingenuous. His reputation, his palace on the Grand Canal, his sea-going yacht, had prepared me, I confess, to meet someone quite different. Only in respect to his state of health did he conform to my expectations. He was a sick man. Despite his protestations, he ate nothing and merely sipped some beverage which looked like barley water.
“A little early in the morning,” said Nayland Smith, “for Kerrigan and myself”—when the efficient but saturnine steward proffered refreshments.
He glanced at me smilingly, but I read in his glance that he meant me to refuse.
“I turned in directly we sailed,” said Wilton; “and when a man has just fallen asleep and then is called up suddenly, I always find it takes him a little while to readjust his poise. But now. Sir Denis Nayland Smith”—he peered across the table in his short-sighted way—”I can ask you a question: What is this all about?”
Nayland Smith glanced around the saloon, in shadow save for that lighted table at which we were seated.
“It is rather difficult,” he replied, “to explain. But, to begin: where are your guests?”
“My guests!” Brownlow Wilton’s magnified eyes opened widely. “I have no guests, sir.”
“What!”
“Those I had staying on board—there were four only—returned by the late express to Paris. I was unexpectedly compelled to break up the party. I am alone with my crew.”
The storm was dying away over the sea, but distant rumbles of thunder reached us from time to time.