Mourning millions filed past a guarded dummy lying in state . . .
Next came the retirement from public life of the ruler of Turkey, “a bloodless victory for Fu Manchu” was Nayland Smith’s comment. (Pietro Monaghani, I should mention had failed to keep the appointment with Adion in Venice. He had accepted the orders of the Si-Fan.)
When an astonishing fact became undeniable—the fact that Fu Manchu with all his people, including Ardatha, had vanished from Venice as though they had never entered the City of the Lagoons, I remember that I advocated a secret departure to some base unsuspected by the Chinese doctor. “Will you never realize, Kerrigan,” Nayland Smith had said, “that from the point of view of the organization controlled by Fu Manchu, there is no such thing as a secret base. He knew that Adion was going to be in Venice before the combined intelligence services of Europe knew it. He brought a crew of highly trained criminal specialists to deal with the situation and dispersed them into thin air when their work was done, as a conjurer vanishes a bowl of goldfish. And think of the pack of cutthroats who left Silver Heels in the murder launch. The explosion was heard for miles—we were picked up ten minutes later; but what of the launch? It hasn’t been traced to this day, nor anybody on board!”
And so on one never-to-be-forgotten evening I found myself back at my flat in Bayswater Road.
I stared from my window across the park as dusk gathered and pedestrians moved in the direction of the gates. I had not seen Nayland Smith since the forenoon. At this time, frankly, I was terrified whenever he was out of my sight. That he continued to live while the awful hand of Fu Manchu was extended against him became every hour a miracle more worshipful.
Presently the behavior of a man who had just reached the gate nearly opposite my window began to intrigue me.
He was a tall, rather shabby-looking man, bearded and bespectacled. His wide-brimmed hat suggested a colonial visitor, and he walked with a stoop, leaning heavily upon an ash stick. Under one arm he carried a bulky portfolio. He was accompanied by a park-keeper and a policeman who assisted his every step. But it was something else which had arrested my attention.
He was staring up intently at my window!
Now as I drew the curtain aside and peered out, he raised his stick and lowered it, pointing to the front door!
That he was directing me to go down and admit him was an unmistakable fact, for I saw during a halt in the traffic that he was being shepherded across. I delayed only long enough to slip an automatic into my pocket and then went out and began to descend.
Mrs. Merton, my daily help, had gone, for I was not dining at home. As the flat below remained unoccupied and my upstairs neighbor was away, I confess that my steps to the front door were not unfearful. But I knew that this growing dread of the demoniac Dr Fu Manchu was something I must combat with all my strength. Fear was his weapon.
I threw the door open and stood looking out at the man who waited there.
With a terse nod to his two supporters, he stepped in.
“Shut the door,” he snapped.
It was Nayland Smith!
* * *
“Smith,” I said reproachfully,”you promised you would never go about alone!”
“I was not alone!”
He removed the wide-brimmed hat, the glasses, and straightened bent shoulders.
“I cannot complete the transformation in the best stage tradition,” he said, with a grim smile. “False whiskers, if they are to sustain close scrutiny must be attached with some care.”
“But Smith, I don’t understand!”
“My dramatic appearance, Kerrigan, is easily explained. I was in a flying squad car with Gallaho. Nearly at the top of Sloane Street, just before one reaches Knightsbridge, there is a narrow turning on the right. Out of this at the very moment that we were about to pass, a lorry shot—I use the word advisedly—for the acceleration pointed to an amazing engine. It struck the bonnet of our car, turned us completely around. We capsized—and before the lorry driver could check his mad career, it resulted in the destruction of a taxicab, and, I fear, of the taximan!”
“But, Smith, do you mean—”
That it was deliberate? Of course!” The pipe and pouch came from the pocket of his shabby coat. “Gallaho was knocked out, and I am afraid our driver was badly injured. As you see”—he indicated the side of his skull—”I did not escape entirely.”
I saw a jagged gash which was still bleeding.
“Some iodine, Smith?”
“Later. A scratch.”
“What happened then? How do you come to be here?”
“What happened was this: In spite of my disguise I had been recognized. This was a planned attempt to recover something which I had in my possession! In the tremendous disturbance which followed I climbed out of the window of the overturned car and lost myself in the crowd which began to collect. The casualties were receiving attention. My business was to slip away.”
He paused, stuffing tobacco into the briar bowl and staring at me, familiar grey eyes in that unfamiliar bearded face leaving an odd impression.
“I always carry the badge of a king’s messenger.” He pulled back the lapel of his coat and I saw the silver greyhound. “It ensures prompt official assistance in an emergency without long explanations. I grabbed a constable, told him to come along, and made straight across the park. Here I roped in a parkkeeper. Even so, I kept as much as possible to open spaces and checked up on anybody walking in the same direction.”
He stared through the window across to the darkening park.
“What should you have done if I had not been looking out or if I had not replied?”
“I should have been compelled to ring the bell, meaning delay—which I feared. But I knew you would be at home for I had promised to communicate.”
As I crossed to the dining room for refreshments he dropped into an armchair and began to light his pipe. The big portfolio he set upon the floor beside him. On my return:
“The full facts of the Venice plot are now to hand,” he said bitterly. “Our pursuit of Silver Heels may or may not have been foreseen, but in any event it is certain that they meant to destroy the vessel.”
“Why?”
“The story of engine trouble had been circulated. She was as you know, a Diesel engine ship. By the simple device of blowing her up at sea, everybody on board having first slipped away on the motor launch, the death of James Brownlow Wilton would be satisfactorily explained. I think we may take it for granted that the launch did not make for land. I am postulating, though I may never be able to prove it, some other craft in the neighborhood by which they were picked up.”
“But . . . James Brownlow Wilton?”
“I have the facts—all of them, but the details are unimportant, Kerrigan. James Brownlow Wilton travelled by the Blue Train from London to Monte Carlo to join the yacht—I mean the real James Brownlow Wilton. At some time during the night (the French police think at Avignon) he was smuggled off the train. His double took his place . . .”
“It’s too appalling to think about!”
“His retiring habits made the job a comparatively easy one. He avoided—refused to see—those to whom the real Wilton was well known, and joining the yacht, sailed for Venice. The same procedure was followed there. Rudolf Adion was dealt with, and saving our presence, the death of the millionaire at sea would have concluded the episode.”
“That conclusion has been generally accepted, Smith. The newspapers are full of it.”
“I know. Those who are aware of the real facts have been instructed to remain silent . . . as in the case of Rudolf Adion.”
“Good God! What a ghastly farce!”