Nayland Smith looked hard at me.
“You are noting these facts, no doubt, Kerrigan? You see how Mr. Wilton has been used for a dreadful purpose, a purpose which I fear has succeeded.”
For some time past, faintly I had heard the crackling of radio, and now came hurrying footsteps. A police officer ran in carrying a message which he handed to the chief.
Colonel Correnti adjusted a powerful monocle and read it. Then he looked up, his hitherto pale face flushed with excitement.
“It is from headquarters,” he exclaimed . . . “A body has been found in the canal!”
“What!”
Smith sprang to his feet.
“They cannot be certain but they think—”
“Merciful heaven! This is terrible! What does it mean?”
Wilton, also, had stood up and was staring at the colonel’s pale face.
“It means, Mr. Wilton,” snapped Smith, “that something intended to avert war has happened tonight which, instead, may lead to it.”
“Why should we be silent,” the colonel cried, “about that which the world must know tomorrow! Mr. Wilton, a terrible thing has happened in Venice. Rudolf Adion, a short time after he left this yacht, disappeared completely!”
“What do you say?”
Wilton dropped back into his chair.
“Those are the facts,” said Nayland Smith sternly. “You were used to bring together Adion and the woman known to you as Countess Boratov under circumstances which would enable them to meet again secretly. This meeting took place—you have heard the result.”
“But there may be a mistake! I find myself quite unable to believe it!”
* * *
“Catch him, Kerrigan—he has collapsed!”
Just as he stepped out onto the deck, we both saw Wilton stagger and clutch blindly for support . . . I caught him as he fell. In the deck light his face appeared ghastly.
“This murderous farce”—he spoke in a mere whisper—”has taken more out of me than I realized. Now I know why it was planned, the thing that has happened—I guess I’m through!”
Colonel Correnti was already on board the cutter, although it had proved no simple task to transfer his portly form from the moving ladder. I could see him staring up through a cabin window. We had all planned to return immediately, leaving the crew to bring Silver Heels back to port with two police on board.
Now I realized that our plans would have to be changed.
“My cabin is just forward,” Brownlow Wilton muttered. “If I may lean on you I think I can make it.”
Smith and I took him forward to his cabin. It was commodious, with up-to-date equipment, and having laid him on the bed:
“My small medical knowledge does not entitle me to prescribe,” said Nayland Smith, “but would some stimulant—”
Lopez, the steward, appeared in the doorway. Behind him I saw the Carabinieri uniforms of the two men detailed to remain on board. In light shining out of the cabin, I disliked the steward’s appearance more than ever.
“If you will leave Mr. Wilton to me, gentlemen,” he said, “I think I can take care of him.”
Brownlow Wilton’s face was now contorted; he appeared to be in agony.
“What is it?” I asked aside.
“Angina pectoris, sir. The excitement. I am afraid he is in for another attack. There are some tablets . . .”
“Good God! don’t you travel with a doctor?”
“No sir. Mr. Wilton has a regular physician in Venice, but I don’t think he felt any symptoms of an attack until this present moment.”
Nayland Smith was staring down at the sick man, and somehow from his expression I deduced what he was thinking. Dr Fu Manchu, he had told me on one occasion, could reproduce the symptoms of nearly every disease known to medical science . . .
“I will take no drugs—”
The sick man had forced himself upright—Smith sprang forward to assist him.
“Is this wise, Mr. Wilton?”
“Be so good as to give me your arm—as far as that chair. Lopez! I have found that a small glass of old Bourbon whisky never does any harm at these times. If you abstemious gentlemen would join me, why that would hasten the cure!”
His pluck was so admirable that to refuse would have been churlish. Lopez went to find the old Bourbon and Nayland Smith, going out on deck, hailed the cutter.
“Head for port! Don’t delay. I am remaining on board. Silver Heels will put about and follow . . .”
At the small cabin table I presently found myself seated, the invalid on my left and Nayland Smith, too restless to relax, leaning against an elaborate washbowl with which the room was equipped. Behind me Lopez poured out the drinks.
“Pardon,” Smith muttered, and turning, began to wash his hands. “Grimy from the journey.”
When he turned to take the glass which Lopez handed to him, I had a glimpse of Smith’s face in the mirror which positively startled me. His eyes shone like steel; his jaws were clenched. Almost, I doubted my senses—for as he fronted us again he was smiling!
Lopez withdrew quietly, leaving the cabin door open. I could hear the cutter moving off. There were shouted orders, and now I detected vibration. Silver Heels was being put about.
“To the future, gentlemen!”
Brownlow Wilton raised his glass, when:
“Good God! Look! Doctor Fu Manchu!”
Nayland Smith snapped out the words and glared across the cabin!
Brownlow Wilton, setting his glass unsteadily on the table (I had not touched mine), shot up from his chair with astounding agility and we both stared at the open door. I was up, too.
The deck outside was empty!
I turned with a feeling of dismay to Smith. He was draining his glass. He set it down.
“Forgive me, Mr. Wilton”—he spoke with a nervousness I had never before detected in him—”that bogey is beginning to haunt me! It was only the shadow of a cloud.”
“Well”—Wilton’s high voice quavered—”you certainly startled me—although I don’t know whom you thought you saw.”
“Forget it, Mr. Wilton. I’m afraid the strain is telling. But that whisky has done me good. Finish your drink, Kerrigan. Perhaps I might rest awhile, if there’s an available cabin?”
“Why certainly!” Brownlow Wilton pressed a bell. “Your very good health, gentlemen!”
He drank his Bourbon like a man who needed it, and as Lopez came in silently I finished mine.
“Lopez—show Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Mr. Kerrigan to cabin A. It is at your disposal, gentlemen. We have an hour’s sailing ahead of . . .”
I glanced swiftly at Smith. The shock of his strange outcry had provoked another spasm of Wilton’s dread ailment. His features were convulsed. He lay back limply in his chair!
“All right, sir!” said Lopez as I stooped and raised the frail body. “If he lies down I hope he will recover—”
I laid the sick man on his bed. His eyes were staring past me at Lopez. He tried to speak—but not a word came.
“Here’s your next patient, Kerrigan,” Nayland Smith spoke thickly . . . he was swaying!
I ran to him.
“This way sir.”
Lopez remained imperturbable. As I clutched Smith’s arm and the steward led us along the deck, I cannot even attempt to depict my frame of mind . . .
What ailed Nayland Smith?
Lightning flickered far away over the sea; thunder sounded like rolling drums . . . The police cutter was already out of sight. Silver Heels swung slowly about.
As Smith reeled along the deserted deck:
“Take your cue from me!” he whispered in my ear. “When I lie on the bed drop down beside me in a chair—anywhere—but as near as you can! Begin to stagger . . .”