My flat had become a theatre of sinister drama. As Smith and I ran from room to room, sharing a common dread, the possibility that we should come upon Barton’s body checked me more than once. It was Smith who opened the big store-cupboard, Smith who explored an old oak wardrobe.
We found no trace.
“Now, the stairs,” he snapped. “We are wasting precious time, but we cannot act without a clue.”
“What do you expect to find?”
“Nobody was dragged from the bedroom. I have satisfied myself on that point. But it may have been carried. The stair-carpet should show traces if any load had been dragged downstairs—Hullo! what’s this?”
A bell had begun to ring.
“Street door!”
“Down you go, Kerrigan. Have you got a gun?”
“No, but I’ll get one.”
I ‘hurried to my desk, slipped a friendly old Colt into my pocket and went down. Smith, using a pocket-torch was already crawling about on the landing peering at the carpet.
When I reached the front door and threw it open, I don’t quite know what I expected to find there. I found a constable,
“Is this your house, sir?” he said gruffly.
“No; but I occupy a flat on the second floor.”
“Well,, then it’s you I want to see. It’s ten minutes after blackout time and you have lights blazing from all your windows!”
As I stared into the darkness beyond—there was no traffic passing at die moment and the night was profoundly still—I realized, anew, the strange power of Dr. Fu Manchu. So completely had the handiwork of that Satanic genius disturbed us that Smith, and I (he, an ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard) had utterly forgotten regulations, and had offended against the Law!
“Good heavens! you’re right,” I exclaimed.“We must be mad.
The fact is, constable, there have been queer happenings here, and—”
“None of my business, sir. If you will go up and draw all the blinds in the first place, I shall then have to take your name, and—“
From behind me came a sound of running footsteps.
“He was not carried out, Kerrigan!” came Smith’s voice. “But there’s blood on the third stair from the bottom and there are spots on the paving—What the devil’s this?”
“A serious business sir,” the constable began, but he stared in a bewildered way. “All the lights—“
Smith muttered something and then produced a card which he thrust into the constable’s hand.
Possibly before your time,” he said rapidly. “But you’ll still remember the name.”
The constable directed his light on to the card, stared at Smith, and then saluted.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, “ifI’ve butted in on something more important; but I was just obeying orders.”
“Good enough,” snapped Smith. “I switched off everything before I came down.” He paused, staring at the stupefied man, and then: “What time did you come on duty?” he asked.
“Half an hour ago, sir.”
“And you have been in sight of/this door, how long?”
The constable stared as if Smith’s question had been a reprimand. I sympathized with the man, a freckled young fellow with straightforward blue eyes, keen on his job, and one to whom the name of Sir Denis Nayland Smith was a name to conjure with. It occurred to me that he had been held up on his patrol and that he believed Smith to be aware of the fact.
“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but I can explain my delay,” he said.
Smith snapped his fingers irritably, and I saw that a hope had died.
“It was the car running on to the pavement in Craven Terrace,” the man went on. “There was something funny about the business and I took full particulars before I let ‘em go.” He delved in a back pocket and produced a notebook. “Here are my notes. It was a Packard—“
Odd are the workings of a human brain. My thoughts as the constable had been speaking, and, it seemed, speaking of matters beside the vital point, had drifted wretchedly to Ardatha. I had been striving to find some explanation of her behaviour which did not mean the shattering of a dream. Now, as he spoke of a Packard, I muttered mechanically: “BXH 77.”
“That’s it, sir!” the constable cried. “That’s the car!”
“One moment,” rapped Smith. “Tell me, Kerrigan, how you happen to know the number of this car.”
I told him that a Packard bearing the number had turned from the main road into Craven Terrace as I had crossed to the door.
“Quick, constable!” He was suddenly on fire. “Your notes. What was suspicious about BXH 77?”
“Well, sir, I have the particulars here.” The man studied his notebook. “The car barged right on to the pavement and pulled up with a jerk about ten yards in front of me. Several people from neighbouring shops ran out. When I arrived I saw that the driver, a foreign looking man, had fainted at the wheel. In some way which I couldn’t make out—because it wasn’t a serious crash—he had broken his arm—“
“Left or right?”
“Left, sir. It was hanging down limp. He was also bleeding from a cut on the head.”
“Good. Go on.”
“In the back I found a doctor and a patient he was removing to hospital. The patient seemed in a bad way—a big powerful man he was, with reddish hair streaked with white; he was only half-conscious and the doctor was trying to soothe him. A mental case—“
“Do you understand, Kerrigan?” cried Smith, his eyes alight. “Do you understand?”
“Good God, Smith—I understand too well!”
“Describe the doctor,” Smith said crisply.
The constable cleared his throat, and then: “He had a very yellow face,” he replied; “as yellow as a lemon. He wore spectacles with black rims, and was a shortish, heavily-built man. He was not English.”
“His name?”
“Here’s his card, sir.”
As Smith took the card: “H’m!” he muttered: “Dr. Rudolph Oster, 101 Wimpole Street, W. 1. Is there such a practitioner?”
“I was on my way to a call-box when I saw all the lights blazing upstairs, sir. I was going to ask this gentleman to allow me to use his phone.”
“Have you got the doctor’s number?”
“Yes, sir: Langham 09365.”
“Efficient work, constable,” said Smith: “I’ll see that it is recognized.”
The man’s freckled face flushed.
“Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you.”
“How did the matter end?” I asked excitedly.
“We got the car back on to the road, and I helped to lift the chauffeur from the driving-seat and put him in the back. That was when I noticed his arm—when he began to come to.”
“How did the patient behave?” Smith asked.
“He just lay back muttering.Dr. Oster explained that it was important to get him to a safe place before he recovered from the effects of an injection he had had to administer.”
Smith uttered a sound like a groan and beat his fist into the palm of his hand.
“A suitcase marked L.B. was beside the driver. It was covered in foreign labels. The doctor took the wheel and drove off—“
“At what time?” snapped Smith.
“According to my watch, sir, at 7:13—that is, exactly five minutes ago.”
CHAPTER III
BXH77
“Stop for nothing,” Smith cried to the driver. “Short of murder! Use your horn. No regulations apply. Move!”
I had had a glimpse of the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police which had been a revelation. Within the last six minutes we had learned that Dr. Oster was a naturalized British subject, a dermatologist, and was not at home; that BXH 77 had been held up, for using an improperly masked headlight, by a constable on duty in Baker Street; that Dr. Oster, who was driving, said that he was taking a patient to a private clinic at North Gate, Regent’s Park. Five motor-cyclists were out, and every police officer and warden in that area had been advised.