Her wish to change the subject was so unmistakable that Thurston had no choice but that of following her lead. So that when (he party broke up, although he knew that the Communists in the Dutch Indies were worse than the Japanese, he knew no more about Mrs van Roorden than he had ever known.
But he wondered very much why she had steered him off the subject of Nayland Smith…
During belated dinner, an urgent message came for the purser. He excused himself and hurried out.
Thurston, later, passing his door and finding it open, rapped and went in.
Burns was sitting in an armchair, smoking his pipe.
"Sit down, old man. There's something very queer going on aboard this ship."
"Why — what's happened?"
Thurston sat down.
"Well, the steward who generally looks after the room occupied by Mrs van Roorden nearly ran into her as she rushed out into the alleyway. She said that a thief had been in there!"
"What!"
"Fact. The man reported to Jenkins, and Jenkins sent for me. I went along. Mrs van Roorden opened the door when I knocked. She was as cool as an icicle, but those eyes of hers were just blazing. She stuck to the story, but said that she didn't intend to make an official complaint. Insisted, in fact."
"This is all very strange."
"There's more to come. This man of hers, who I believe acts as her bodyguard as much as anything else, was found in his cabin — insensible!"
"You mean — he'd been assaulted?"
"Rubber truncheon, the doctor thinks! This is all off the record. Not a word. The cops would hold us up for hours if they got on to it."
"But, what—"
"Yes." Burns stood up. "That's what I'm wondering. Let's have a drink."
Landing was delayed the next day by unexpected mist which blanketed East River. Thurston, taking a final look into closets and drawers, heard a rap on the door, and supposed his steward had come for the baggage.
"All ready!"
Mr Fordwich entered, leaning on his stick.
"Thought I might catch you," he said, smiling. "The fact is, I owe you a drink, and I don't know a better time to balance the account than when the bars are sealed on a foggy morning!"
From his pockets he produced a large flask and a bottle of soda water.
"That's a pleasant sight," Thurston confessed. "I admit my own reserve is exhausted. Thought we'd be ashore by now."
Fordwich mixed two tepid drinks and glanced around. His eyes rested on a well-filled golf bag.
"I see you're a golfer? Expect to get much play?"
"Well, I'm spending a week with a friend in Connecticut who lives near a good course. I'm no plus man. Never got below eighteen!"
They talked about golf and other things. Thurston gave Fordwich the name of his New York hotel and Fordwich promised to call him later. He wondered if Fordwich knew what had happened to Mrs van Roorden and her Burmese servant, but, although burning with curiosity, he was bound to silence.
Another rap on the door interrupted them. A page came in.
"Mr Thurston?"
"I am Mr Thurston."
"Note for you, sir."
Thurston glanced at the scribbled chit. It said, "Please call at Purser's office immediately."
"Excuse me." He turned to Fordwich. "Make yourself comfortable. Shan't be a minute."
He went out and along the alleyway to the office. Pandemonium reigned in that area, but Thurston managed to catch the eye of an assistant whom he knew.
"Want to see me?" he asked.
He handed in the note.
The assistant purser stared at it, with a puzzled frown, then went away. He wasn't gone long.
"There must be some mistake, Mr Thurston. I can find no one who sent you this thing."
Deeply mystified, Thurston returned to his room, when he had a second surprise.
The silver flask and the soda water remained on the table, but Mr Fordwich had disappeared. Thurston concluded that he had been called away and would return, but as the steward came at that moment to collect his things, he put the flask in his pocket and left the room.
Up to the time that the Lauretania docked, he never had a glimpse of Mr Fordwich, nor, which disappointed him more, of Mrs van Roorden. As he waited under the letter T for his steward with the baggage, he watched all the passengers in sight, but failed to find either of those he was looking for.
He was quietly clear of the Customs, for he carried only a suitcase, a valise and his golf bag. These he gave to a porter and headed for the exit. This route took him past the letter F, and here he pulled up.
Fordwich, leaning on his heavy stick, was explaining something to two Customs officers bending over an open handbag.
Thurston's insatiable curiosity prompted him to draw nearer. Across the shoulder of an interested bystander he saw what lay in the bag.
It was a grotesque green mask of Eastern workmanship. He had a hazy idea that it should be described as a devil mask. He could hear Fordwich's voice:
"I picked it up in Java. It's of small intrinsic value. Merely a curiosity… "
Thurston moved on. He didn't want to appear to be eavesdropping. But his glimpse of the green mask had given him an uncomfortable, and indescribable sensation. Who was this man, Fordwich? He had felt all along there was something mysterious about him. And what lay behind the raid on Mrs van Roorden's cabin and the assault on her servant? Above all, why had she declined an official inquiry?
If, at about the time the Lauretania had reached mid-ocean, Thurston could have been transported to that old Arab mansion near the Mosque of El Ashraf, he might now have held a clue to some of these riddles.
It was midnight, and the lofty saloon was dimly lighted by a number of hanging lamps of perforated brass. The screen had been moved from the mushrabiyeh window. Dr Fu Manchu, seated in a chair of native inlay workmanship, bent over the padded basket in which the tiny monkey lay.
He had been seated there for four hours.
It was literally true that vast issues hung upon the life or death of a marmoset.
Native Cairo slumbered. No sound came from the narrow street upon which the gate of a tree-shaded courtyard opened. Inside the house there was unbroken silence. And Dr Fu Man-chu never stirred.
His elbows resting on the chair arms, his long fingers pressed together, he watched, tirelessly. An emerald signet ring which he wore glittered in the light of a shaded lamp. He was so still that a marked resemblance which his gaunt features bore to those of the mummy of Seti I in the Cairo Museum became uncannily increased. It was as if the dead Pharoah had awakened from his age-long sleep.
Sometimes the strange green eyes filmed over queerly, as if from great weariness. Then at the appearance of some symptom so slight as to be visible only to the inspired physician, they glowed again like living gems.
But when the great change came, it was unmistakable.
Peko moved his tiny arms, almost exactly like a human baby waking up, yawned, stretched and opened beady eyes.
Fu Manchu's lips moved, but no sound issued from them. A spot of perspiration trickled from under the black cap and crept down his high forehead. Peko looked up at him, chattered furiously, and then sprung in one bound onto the bowed shoulders.
There the little creature perched, slapping the yellow face of his master in an ecstasy either of rage or of happiness. Only Dr Fu Manchu could know.
Rising and stepping down into (he saloon, Fu Manchu struck a silver gong. Peko responded with a sound like a shrill whistle and leapt onto a brass lamp hanging directly overhead. Here he swung, looking down and chattering volubly.
Matsukata came in from the laboratory.
"Triumph!"
Dr Fu Manchu pointed to the swinging marmoset.
Matsukata bowed deeply.
"I salute the genius of the master scientist."