The one-eyed boy was bending over the counter, placing the mugs on a tray. Sterling watched, and suddenly:
“Sir Denis,” he whispered—”look! That isn’t a boy’s figure.”
“Gimme a drink,” blurted Murphy; then, in a whisper: “It isn’t a boy, sir—it’s a girl...”
CHAPTER
15
A LIGHTED WINDOW
Forester of the River Police had taken charge of the party covering Sam Pak’s from the Thames. His presence, which was unexpected, had infused a new spirit into the enterprise. The fact that he was accompanied by the celebrated Inspector Gallaho of the C.I.D., caused a tense but respectful silence to fall upon the party. Everyone knew now that some very important case lay behind this monotonous duty.
A sort of rumour hitherto submerged, now ran magically from man to man, the presence of the famous detective lending it wings.
“If s the Fu Manchu business—I told you so. . .”
“He’s been dead for years. . . .”
“If you ever have the bad luck to meet him, you’ll . . .”
“Silence on board!” said Forester, in a low but authoritative voice. “This isn’t a picnic: you’re on duty. Listen—isn’t one of you an able-bodied seaman?”
The ex-steward spoke up.
“I was an A.B., sir, before I became a steward.”
“You’re the man I want. You see that lighted window—the one that belongs to Sam Pak’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It isn’t more than three feet below the roof and there’s plenty of foothold. Do you think you could climb it?”
There was a moment of silence, and then:
“To the roof, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I could try. There wouldn’t be much risk if the tide was in, but I’m not so sure of the mud.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I’ll take a chance.”
“Good man,” growled Gallaho. “Inspector Forester has brought a rope ladder. We want you to carry a line up to make the ladder fast. The idea is to get a look in at that lighted window. Bear it in mind. But for the love of Mike, don’t make any row. We are taking chances.”
Merton, the ex-sailor, rather thought that he was the member of the party who was taking chances. He was endeavouring to find suitable words in which to express this idea, when:
“That’s a good man, Inspector,” snapped a voice from the barge. “Always keep your eye on a man who volunteers for dangerous duty.”
Merton looked up as two men who resembled Portuguese deck-hands dropped from the barge into the tail of the cutter. But the speaker’s voice held an unmistakable note. Rumour had spoken truly.
The presence of Inspector Gallaho had started tongues wagging; here was someone vastly senior to Gallaho, and masquerading in disguise. The attitude of the famous C.I.D. detective was sufficient evidence of the seniority of the last speaker.
The River Police craft was eased alongside the rotting piles which supported that excrescence of Sam Pak’s restaurant. Merton swarmed up without great difficulty towards a point just below the lighted window. Here he paused, making signs to the crew below.
“Push out,” snapped Nayland Smith in a low voice.
The little craft was eased away, and Merton, carrying the line, proceeded to the second and more difficult stage of his journey, watched breathlessly by every man aboard the River Police launch. Twice he faltered, and, once, seemed to have lost his hold. But at last a sort of sympathetic murmur ran around the watching party.
He had reached the roof of the wooden structure. He waved, and began to haul in the line attached to the rope ladder.
A stooping figure passed behind the lighted window. . .
Merton, in response to signals from Gallaho, moved further left, so that when the ladder was hauled up it just cleared the window. Some delay followed whilst Merton, disappearing from the view of those below, sought some suitable stanchion to which safely to lash the ladder. This accomplished, he gave the signal that all was fast, and:
“As soon as I’m on the ladder,” said Nayland Smith, “get back to cover. The routine, as arranged, holds good.”
He began to climb . . . and presently he could look in at the lighted window.
CHAPTER16
A BURNING GHAT
A woman attired in scanty underwear was pulling on high-heeled, jade green shoes. She was seated on a cheap dilapidated wooden chair. Depended upon a hanger on the wall behind this chair, was a green frock, which Nayland Smith guessed to be probably a creation of Worth. A dressing-table of a kind which can only be found in the second-hand stores appeared at one end of the small rectangular room. It was set before a window, and this was the window of the wooden superstructure which looked out towards the Surrey bank of the Thames. A flannel suit, a pair of shoes, a muffler, and a Chinese cap, lay upon the floor.
Fascinated and unashamed, Nayland Smith watched the toilet of the woman who squeezed tiny feet into tiny jade green shoes.
She stood up, walked to the mirror, and smeared her face with cream from a glass jar which once had contained potted meat. The features of the one-eyed Chinese waiter became obliterated.
The classic features of Fah Lo Suee, daughter of Dr. Fu Manchu, revealed themselves!
Fah Lo Suee, having cleansed her skin, hurriedly carried the one chair to the dressing-table, and seating herself before a libellous mirror, set to work artistically to make up as a beautiful woman; for that she was.a beautiful woman Nayland Smith had never been able to deny.
Silently, cautiously, he began to descend. The River Police craft was pulled up beneath him. Forester and a member of the crew hung on to the end of the ladder as Nayland Smith came aboard.
“Put me ashore,” he snapped. “Gallaho! Sterling! Then stand by for Merton.”
Sterling grabbed the speaker’s arm. His grip was violent in its intensity.
“Sir Denis!” he said—”for God’s sake tell me—who is up there? What did you see?”
Nayland Smith turned. They were alongside the barge, across the deck of which they had come, and by the same route were returning.
“Your old friend Fah Lo Suee! When I gave the sign to Murphy and came out, I thought you had recognized her, too. I was interested in the fact that she seemed to have a base somewhere upstairs.”
“Fah Lo Suee,” Sterling muttered. “Good heavens! now that you point it out, of course, I realize it was Fah Lo Suee.”
“The Doctor is using her remorselessly: every hour of her day is fully occupied. Late though it is, she has some other duty to perform. She must be followed, Sterling.”
They were crossing the deck of the barge, Gallaho at their heels, his bowler hat jammed on at a rakish angle, when:
“Look!” said Nayland Smith.
With one hand he grabbed the C.I.D. man, with the other he grasped the arm of Sterling.
A wavering blue light, a witch light, an elfin thing, danced against the fog mantle over the house of Sam Pak.
“Good Lord!” Gallaho muttered. “I heard of it for the first time to-night, but I’m damned if I can make out what it is.”
All watched in silence for a while. Suddenly, the mystic light disappeared.
“It looks like something out of hell,” said Gallaho.
“Very possibly it is,” Nayland Smith jerked. He turned to Sterling. “Did you notice anything curious about the air of the Sailors’ Club?”
“It had the usual fuggy atmosphere of places of that kind.”
“Certainly it had, but did anything in the temperature strike you?”
“Temperature . . .?”
“Exactly”
“Now, that you mention it, it was certainly very hot.”
“Exactly.”
“Now that you mention it, it was certainly very hot.”