The Persian continued to smile.
“And in this aim it would seem that the conspirators have been successful.”
“They certainly managed to smuggle the box out of the mosque,” Nayland Smith admitted grimly, “although one of the pair was wounded, as I know for a fact.”
Our visitor stood up.
“Some sort of rough justice has been done,” he said. “The actual assassin of your poor friend Dr. Van Berg has met his deserts, as has his most active accomplice. The green box, I believe, contained valuable records of your recent inquiries in Khorassan....”
His very intonation told me unmistakably that he believed nothing of the kind....
“I feel, Sir Lionel, that this may represent a serious loss to Oriental students—nor can I imagine of what use these— records can be to those who have resorted to such dreadful measures to secure them.”
The chief clapped his hands, and Alt Mahmoud came in. The Persian official stooped and kissed Rima’s fingers, shook hands with the rest of us, and went out. There was silence for a few moments, and then:
“You know. Barton,” said Nayland Smith, pacing up and down rapidly, “Ispahan, though quite civilised, is rather off the map; and frankly—local feeling is against you. I mean this Mokanna movement is going to play hell in Persia if it goes on. As you started it—you’re not popular.”
“Never have been,” growled the chief; “never expect to be.”
“Not the point,” rapped Smith. “There’s going to be worse to come—when they know.”
A silence followed which I can remember more vividly than many conversations. Rima squeezed my arm and looked up at me in a troubled way. Sir Denis was not a man to panic. But he had made it perfectly clear that he took a grave view of the situation.
Sir Lionel had fenced with the local authorities throughout, knowing that they could have no official information regarding the relics—since, outside our own party (and now Captain Woodville and Stratton Jean), nobody but Amir Khan knew we had found them.
At the cost of one life in our camp and two in their own the enemy had secured the green box...but the green box was empty! I knew now why the chief had been so conscience-stricken by the death of Van Berg; I knew that the relics had never been where we all supposed them to be from the time that we came to Ispahan.
Van Berg had died defending an empty box....Sir Lionel began to laugh in his boisterous fashion. “We’ve scored over them. Smith!” he shouted, and shook his clenched fist. They had Van Berg—but we got a pair of the swine to-night! Topping it all—they’ve drawn a blank!”
His laughter ceased, and that wonderful, lined old face settled down again into the truculent mask which was the front Sir Lionel Barton showed to the world.
“It’s a poor triumph,” he added, “to pay for the loss of Van Berg.”
Nayland Smith ceased his promenade at the window and stood with his back to all of us, staring out.
“I don’t know where you’ve hidden the relics. Barton,” he said slowly, “but I may have to ask you to tell me. One thing I do know. This part of the East is no longer healthy for any of us. The second attempt has failed—but the third...”
“What are you suggesting?” Sir Lionel growled; “that I give ‘em up? Suppose it came to that. Who am I dealing with?” Nayland Smith did not turn. But:
“I believe I can tell you,” he answered quietly. “Then tell me! Don’t throw out hints. Speak up, man!” At that, Nayland Smith turned and stared at the speaker, remaining silent for some moments. At last:
“I flew here in a two-seater from Basra,” he replied. “There was no other aircraft available in the neighbourhood. I have already made arrangements, however. Imperial Airways have lent us a taxi. You must realise. Barton, the position is serious.” Something in his manner temporarily silenced the chief; unticlass="underline"
“I do realise it,” he admitted grudgingly. “Some organiser has got hold of this wave of fanaticism which my blowing up of El Mokanna’s tomb started, and he realises—I suppose that’s what you’re driving at?—that production of the actual relics would clinch the matter. Am I right?”
“You are!” said Nayland Smith. “And I must ask you to consider one or two facts. The drug which was used in the case of Van Berg, and again last night, is, I admit unfamiliar. But the method of employment is not. You see what I mean?”
Rima’s grip on my arm tightened; and:
“Shan,” she said, looking up at me, “it was what happened two years ago in England!”
The chief’s face was a study. Under tufted eyebrows he was positively glaring at Nayland Smith. The latter continued:
“Rima begins to realise what I mean. The device for passing from house to house without employing the usual method of descending to the street is also familiar to me. It was experience, and nothing else, that enabled me to deal with the affair of last night.”
He paused, and I found my mind working feverishly. Then, bringing that odd conversation to a dramatic head, came a husky query from Sir Lionel.
“Good God! Smith!” he said. “He can’t be behind this?”
The emphasis on “he” resolved my final doubt.
“You’re not suggesting, Sir Denis,” I asked, “that we are up against Dr. Fu Manchu?”
Rima clutched me now convulsively. Once only had she met the stupendous genius, Dr. Fu Manchu, but the memory of that one interview would remain with her to the end of her days, as it would remain with me.
“If I had had any doubts. Barton,” said Nayland Smith, “your identification of the murderer and his accomplice would have settled them. They belong, you tell me, to a secret society on the Slave Coast.”
He paused, staring hard at Sir Lionel.
“I believe that there is no secret society of this character, however small or remote, which is not affiliated to the organisation known as the Si-Fan. That natives of the Pacific Islands are indirectly controlled by this group, I know for a fact; why not Negroes of West Africa? Consider the matter from another angle. What are natives of the Slave Coast doing in Persia? Who has brought them here?
“They are instruments, Barton, in the hands of a master schemer. For what object they were originally imported, we shall probably never know, but their usefulness in the present case has been proved. There can be no association between this West African society and the survivors of the followers of El Mokanna. These Negroes are in the train of some directing personality.”
It was morning, and the East is early afoot. From a neighbouring market street came sounds of movement and discords human and animal. Suddenly Sir Denis spoke again.
“If any doubt had remained in my mind. Barton, it would have been removed last night. You may recall that just before the first signal came, someone passed slowly along the street below?”
“Yes! I heard him—but I couldn’t see him.”
“I heard him, too!” I cried....
“I both heard him and saw him,” Nayland Smith continued—”from my post on the minaret. Action was impossible— unfortunately—in the circumstances. But the man who walked along the street last night just before the second attempt on the green box...was Dr. Fu Manchu!”
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH
ROAD TO CAIRO
Weary though I was of all the East, nevertheless, Cairo represented civilisation. I think I have never felt a greater wave of satisfaction than at the moment when, completing the third and longest stage of our flight from Ispahan, we climbed down upon the sands of Egypt.
Dr. Petrie was there to meet us; and the greeting between himself and Sir Denis, while it had all the restraint which characterises our peculiar race, was nevertheless so intimate and affectionate that I turned away and helped Rima down the ladder.