The Drums of Fu-Manchu (4 page)

“Was he dead?”

“So far as I was able to judge, he was.”

T
o that expression of agonised surprise upon the dead man’s face was now added, almost momentarily, a deepening of the greenish tinge. A fingerprint expert and a photographer from Scotland Yard had come and gone. After a longish interview, Nayland Smith had released Lord Moreton and Dr. Sims. He put a call through on the desk telephone which General Quinto had found defective. Smith found it in perfect order. He examined the adjoining bedroom and the bathroom beyond and pointed out that it was just possible, although there was no evidence to confirm the theory, that someone might have entered through the bathroom window during the time that the general was alone in the study.

“I don’t think that’s how it was done,” he said, “but it is a possibility. This dispatch box must be opened, and if Mr Bascombe can’t find the key we must force it. In the meantime, Kerrigan, you have a nose for news. I have observed that quite a number of people remain outside the house. Slip out the back way, go around and join the crowd. Ask stupid questions and study every one of them. It would not surprise me to learn that there is someone there waiting
to hear of the success or failure of tonight’s plot.”

“Then you are satisfied that General Quinto was—murdered?”

“Entirely satisfied, Kerrigan.”

When presently I came out into the square I found that Lord Moreton’s car had gone. Smith’s, that of the home secretary and a Yard car were still standing there. Ten or twelve people were hanging about, attracted by that almost psychic awareness of tragedy which ahead of radio or newspaper in some mysterious way creeps through.

I examined them all carefully and selected several for conversation. Apart from the fact that they had heard that “something had happened,” I gathered little news of value.

Then standing apart from the main group, I saw a girl.

This was a dark night but suddenly the house door was opened to admit someone who had driven up in a taxi. In the light from the doorway, I had a glimpse of her face. She was dressed like a working girl, wearing a light raincoat which, however, did not disguise the lines of her slim, trim figure. She wore a brown beret. But her face, as the light shone fully upon it, was so really lovely—a word which rarely can be applied—that I was astonished. In the shadows she looked like a brunette; in the swift light I saw red glints in her tightly waved hair beneath the beret, exquisitely modelled features, lips parted in what I can only describe as an expectant smile. She turned and stared at the departing taxi as I strolled in her direction.

“Any idea what’s going on here?” I asked casually.

She raised her eyes in a startled way (they were wonderful eyes of a most unusual colour; they set me thinking of amethysts) keeping her hands tucked in the pockets of her coat.

“Someone told me”—she spoke broken English—“that something terrible had happened in this house.”

“Really! I couldn’t make out what the crowd was about. So that’s it! Who’s the owner of the house? Do you know?”

“Someone told me Sir Malcolm Locke.”

“Oh yes—he writes books, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know. They told me Sir Malcolm Locke.”

She glanced up again and smiled. She had a most adorable, provocative smile. I could not place her, but I thought that with that face and figure she might be a mannequin or perhaps a show girl in a cabaret.

“Do you know Sir Malcolm Locke?” she asked, suddenly growing serious.

“No”—her change of manner had quite startled me—“except by name.”

“May I speak truly to you? You look”—she hesitated—“sensible.” There was a caressing note in her voice. “I know someone, who is in that house. Do you understand?”

Nayland Smith had made the right move. Here was a spy of the enemy. Whatever my personal predilection, this charming young lady should be in the hands of Detective Inspector Leighton without delay.

“That’s very interesting. Who is it?”

“Just someone I know. You see”—she laid her hand on my arm, and inclined ever so slightly towards me—“I saw you come out of the side entrance! You know—and so, if you please, tell me. What has happened in that house?”

Satisfied that I should not let her out of my sight:

“A gentleman known as Mr Victor has died.”

“He is dead?”

“Yes.”

Her slim fingers closed on my arm with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Thank you.” Dark lashes were raised; she flashed up at me an enigmatical glance. “Good night!”

“Just a moment!” I grasped her wrist. “Please don’t run away so quickly.”

At which she lifted her voice:

“Let me go! How dare you! Let me go!”

Two men detached themselves from the group of loiterers and dashed in our direction. But the behaviour of my beautiful captive, who was struggling violently, was certainly remarkable. Pressing her lips very close to my ear:

“Please let me go!” she whispered. “They will kill you. Let me go! It’s no use!”

I released her and turned to meet the attack of two of the most ferocious-looking ruffians I had ever encountered. They were of Mongolian type with an incredible shoulder span in proportion to their height. I had noticed them in the group about the door but had not seen their faces. Viewed from the rear with their glossy black hair they might have been a pair of waiters from some neighbouring hotel. Seen face to face they were altogether more formidable.

The first on the scene feinted and then by a trick, which fortunately I knew, tried to kick me off my feet. I stepped back. The second was upon me. Other loiterers were surrounding us now and I knew that I was on the unpopular side. But I threw discretion to the winds. Until I could turn my face from these two enemies I had no means of knowing what had become of the girl. I led off with a straight left against my second opponent.

He ducked it perfectly. The first sprang behind me and seized my ankles. The house door was thrown open and Inspector Leighton raced down the steps. Fey came up at the double, so did the driver of the police car. The attack ceased. I spun around, and
saw the black-haired men sprinting for the corner.

“After that pair,” cried Leighton gruffly. “Don’t lose ’em!”

The police driver and Fey set out.

“ ’E was maulin’ ’er about!” growled one of the loiterers. “They was in the right. I ’eard ’er cry out.”

But the girl with the amethyst eyes had vanished…

“
S
he has got clear away,” said Nayland Smith, “thanks to her bodyguard.”

We stood in the library, Smith, myself, Mr Bascombe and Inspector Leighton. Sir James Clare was seated in an armchair watching us. Now he spoke:

“I understand, Smith, why General Quinto came from Africa to the house of his old friend, secretly, and asked me to recall you for a conference. This is a very deep-laid scheme. You are the only man who might have saved him—”

“But I failed.”

Nayland Smith spoke bitterly. He turned and stared at me. “It appears, Kerrigan, that your charming acquaintance who so unfortunately has escaped—I am not blaming you—differs in certain details from Mr Bascombe’s recollections of the general’s visitor. However, it remains to be seen if they are one and the same.”

“You see,” the judicial voice of the home secretary broke in, “it is obviously impossible to hush this thing up. A post-mortem examination is unavoidable. We don’t know what it will reveal.
The fact that a very distinguished man, of totally different political ideas from our own, dies here in London under such circumstances is calculated to produce international results. It’s deplorable—it’s horrible. I cannot see my course clearly.”

“Your course, Sir James,” snapped Nayland Smith, “is to go home. I will call you early in the morning.” He turned. “Mr Bascombe, decline all information to the press.”

“What about the dead man, sir?” Inspector Leighton interpolated.

“Remove the body when the loiterers have dispersed. Report to me in the morning, Inspector.”

It was long past midnight when I found myself in Sir Denis’ rooms in Whitehall. I had not been there for some time, and from my chair I stared across at an unusually elaborate radio set with a television equipment.

“Haven’t much leisure for amusement, myself,” said Smith, noting the direction of my glance. “Television I had installed purely to amuse Fey! He is a pearl above price, and owing to my mode of life is often alone here for days and nights.”

Standing up, I began to examine the instrument. At which moment Fey came in.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “electrician from firm requests no one touch until calls again, sir.”

Fey’s telegraphic speech had always amused me. I nodded and sat down, watching him prepare drinks. When he went out:

“Our return journey was quite uneventful,” I remarked. “Why?”

“Perfectly simple,” Smith replied, sipping his whisky and soda and beginning to load his pipe. “My presence tonight threatened to interfere with the plot, Kerrigan. The plot succeeded. I am no longer of immediate interest.”

“I don’t understand in the least, Smith. Have you any theory as to
what caused General Quinto’s death?”

“At the moment, quite frankly, not the slightest. That indefinable perfume is of course a clue, but at present a useless clue. The autopsy may reveal something more. I await the result with interest.”

“Assuming it to be murder, what baffles me is the purpose of the thing. The general’s idea that he could hear drums rather suggests a guilty conscience in connection with some action of his in Africa—a private feud of some kind.”

“Reasonable,” snapped Smith, lighting his pipe and smiling grimly. “Nevertheless, wrong.”

“You mean”—I stared at him—“that although you don’t know
how
you do know
why
General Quinto was murdered?”

He nodded, dropping the match in an ash tray.

“You know of course, Kerrigan, that Quinto was the right-hand man of Pietro Monaghani. His counsels might have meant an international war.”

“It hangs on a hair I agree, and I suppose that Quinto, as Monaghani’s chief adviser, might have precipitated a war—”

“Yes—undoubtedly. But what you don’t know (nor did I until tonight) is this: General Quinto had left Africa on a mission to Spain. If he had gone I doubt if any power on earth could have preserved international peace! One man intervened.”

“What man?”

“If you can imagine Satan incarnate—a deathless spirit of evil dwelling in an ageless body—a cold intelligence armed with knowledge so far undreamed of by science—you have a slight picture of Doctor Fu-Manchu.”

In my ignorance I think I laughed.

“A name to me—a bogey to scare children. I had never supposed such a person to exist.”

“Scotland Yard held the same opinion at one time, Kerrigan. But you will remember the recent suicide of a distinguished Japanese diplomat. The sudden death of Germany’s foremost chemist, Erich Schaffer, was frontpage news a week ago. Now—General Quinto.”

“Surely you don’t mean—”

“Yes, Kerrigan, the work of one man! Others thought him dead, but I have evidence to show that he is still alive. If I had lacked such evidence—I should have it now. I forced the general’s dispatch box, we failed to find the key. It contained three sheets of note paper—nothing else. Here they are.” He handed them to me. “Read them in the order in which I have given them to you.”

I looked at the top sheet. It was embossed with a hieroglyphic which I took to be Chinese. The letter, which was undated, was not typed, but written in a squat, square hand. This was the letter:

FIRST NOTICE

The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan has decided that at all costs another international war must be averted. There are only fifteen men in the world who could bring it about. You are one of them. Therefore, these are the Council’s instructions: You will not enter Spain but will resign your commission immediately, and retire to your villa in Capri.

President of the Seven

I looked up.

“What ever does this mean?”