Daughter of Fu-Manchu Page 3

  “What!” Weymouth yelled.

  “There isn’t a trace—there isn’t a clue. He’s just been spirited away!”

  “If only Nayland Smith could join us,” said Weymouth.

  Dr. Petrie, looking very haggard in the lamplight, stared at him.

  “The same thought had just crossed my own mind,” he replied. “I am due to sail for England on Thursday. I had been counting the days. He’s meeting me in…”

  I knew that I could never again be present at so singular a scene. The hut was in part a laboratory, one end being devoted to Forester’s special province, and containing a table laden with jars, test tubes, and other chemical paraphernalia. In part it was a museum. There were plans, diagrams, and photographs—Rima’s photographs— pinned on the walls: lumps of stone bearing labels stacked upon the floor; and in open cases were all sorts of fragments found during the earlier stages of our excavation and duly tabulated in the same way.

  There was a very dilapidated mummy case at the further end of the hut, which we had taken over from the Egypt Exploration people and had not troubled to remove. The lid rested against the wall. Then there was a long, bare table, very stoutly built, upon which finds were stacked at the end of the day, examined, and sorted according to their value. This, particularly, was my job. But at the moment, as I have said, the table was empty. When I had seen it last before leaving for Cairo, the body of Sir Lionel Barton lay upon it, covered by a gray blanket.

  Now, in almost complete silence, for twenty minutes or more, I had watched a one-time chief inspector of Scotland Yard carrying out a detailed investigation in that strangest of settings.

  Weymouth had not confined his inquiries to the but alone, but, assisted by a flash-lamp, had examined the lock of the door, the windows, the path outside; but had finally returned and stared at the table.

  Now he fixed his eyes upon me, and:

  “Mr. Greville,” he said, “you are not prejudiced by certain suspicions of mine which are shared by Dr. Petrie. I asked Mr. Forester to see to the comfort of Jameson Hunter because I wanted just the three of us alone here. Now, you look pretty well whacked, but I know how you feel about this thing; so I am going to ask you a few questions.”

  “As many as you like,” I replied.

  Superintendent Weymouth sat down on the bench just beside the door and knitted his brows; then:

  “Where is the headman Ali Mahmoud?” he asked.

  “Forester tells me he sent him across to Luxor tonight with a letter for our friend the manager of the Winter Palace. Forester asked him, in the letter, to call you, Superintendent, in Cairo, and to explain what had happened. Ali should be back, now.”

  Weymouth nodded thoughtfully.

  “Leaving out for the moment the circumstances of Sir Lionel’s death,” said he, “how long a time elapsed between your finding him in his tent and the removal of his body to this hut?”

  “Roughly, two hours,” I replied after a few moments’ thought.

  “During those two hours someone was always in sight of the tent?”

  “Certainly.”

  “When was it decided he should be moved?”

  “When I made up my mind to go to Cairo I gave instructions for his body to be placed in this hut… I am second in command, you know. Forester agreed, although he swore that life was extinct. I personally superintended the job. I locked the hut, handed the keys to Forester, and turned in, hoping for some sleep before starting for Luxor.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “No. I lay awake right up to the time I had to set out.”

  “Did anything unusual occur during the night?”

  I thought hard, and then:

  “Yes,” I replied. “There was a queer howling of dogs. Ali Mahmoud turned out. He said the sound had not been made by dogs. But of course he was rather strung up. We all were. We searched but found nothing.”

  “H’m! What time was this?”

  “I am afraid I can’t tell you. But some time before dawn.”

  “Did you open this hut?”

  “No.”

  “Ah!” said Weymouth meditatively. “That was a pity. And now, Mr. Greville, there’s another point I’m not clear about. You spoke of Sir Lionel’s niece. Where is she and where was she at the time of the tragedy?”

  I had expected the question, of course. Nevertheless I didn’t quite know how to meet it. I saw Dr. Petrie regarding me curiously, and at last:

  “I don’t know where she is!” I replied—and recognized how strange the words must sound.

  “What!” Weymouth exclaimed. “But I thought she was official photographer?”

  “She is. But… Well! We had a quarrel. She went across to Luxor on Tuesday at midday. I haven’t seen her since!”

  “Oh, I see,” said Weymouth. “Forgive me. I hadn’t grasped the position. Sir Lionel knew of her absence?”

  “He treated it as a joke. That was his way. She often stayed in Luxor and worked here during the day.”

  “Did he approve of the—understanding?”

  “Yes. At least I think so.”

  “I suppose, as she hasn’t come back, that she doesn’t know what’s happened?”

  “I suppose so. But I am very anxious…”

  “Naturally.” Weymouth looked suddenly grave; and then:

  “Perhaps, Mr. Greville,” he said, “you would ask Forester to come in?”

  I opened the door and walked out in the dense shadow of the wâdi. A new atmosphere invested it, an atmosphere to which, even mentally, I didn’t like to give a name, but which nevertheless was an atmosphere of terror.

  What was the meaning of the disappearance of Sir Lionel’s body? Whom could it benefit? Most damnable mystery of all—what was the information clearly shared by Weymouth and Petrie which they were suppressing?

  So my thoughts ran as I walked through the shadows. The moon was out of sight from the wâdi but the stars were wonderful. And suddenly the natural law of things had its way. I began to think of Rima, to the exclusion of everything else. Her empty tent—the tent which she occupied when she spent the night in camp—was on the slope directly ahead. Moonlight touched it at one point, but the front was in shadow.

  “If I am in the way,” I seemed to hear her voice saying again, “I can go—”

  If she was in the way! What had she meant? I had had no chance to find out. She had gone. Undoubtedly she was labouring under some strange delusion. But where was she—and did she know what had happened?

  I was abreast of her tent, now, and something—an empty longing, no doubt—prompted me to peep inside. As I did so, an incredible thing happened—or, rather, two incredible things.

  The mournful howling of a dog arose, apparently quite close to the camp. And in the darkness of the tent something stirred!

  I suppressed a cry, bent forward with outstretched arms… and found a slim soft body in my embrace.

  Even then, I couldn’t believe what was true, couldn’t appreciate the nature of my capture, until:

  “Shan! Shan!” came a stifled cry. “You’re hurting me dreadfully!”

  “Rima!” I exclaimed—and wondered if my heart or hers throbbed the more wildly.

  I said not another word. Stooping, I kissed her with a desperation which probably sprang from a submerged fear that she would never give me an opportunity of kissing her again.

  But, thank heaven, that doubt was groundless. She threw her arms around my neck, as the mournful howling died away, and:

  “Shan,” she said, “I’m terrified, Shan dear!”

  But her kisses had given me the right to console her, and when we presently reverted to sanity:

  “When did you arrive, darling?” I asked.

  “I came back with Ali. He told me—everything about it. So, of course, I had to come.”

  “But what made you go?”

  She nestled her adorable little tousled head against me.

  “I won’t be scolded,” she said—“although I am to b
lame! No, please, Shan. I truly meant what I said. I did really think I was in the way.”

  “In whose way?”

  “If you talk to me like that I won’t answer. Besides, there isn’t time now. I should have come back tonight even if I had had to come alone. I have something most extraordinary to tell you…”

  But now came the sound of voices.

  “I tell you it wasn’t a dog,” I heard Forester say.

  “It wasn’t either!” Rima whispered. “But you must go, Shan. I’m all right, now. Who is in the big hut?”

  “Dr. Petrie and Superintendent Weymouth—”

  “They were old friends… weren’t they—”

  “Yes, darling. Don’t despair. It sounds absurd to say so, but they have a theory that the chief—”

  “Please tell me.”

  “It’s hardly fair, Rima. I don’t believe it, myself. But they think he may be alive!”

  She clung to me very tightly, and then:

  “But I think so, too!” she whispered.

  “Do you know, Greville,” said Forester. “I never liked this job. Lafleur’s Tomb has a bad name.”

  We were walking back to the hut.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know as much as I do. Nobody has tackled it since Lafleur’s time. But old Zeitland was planning to come out.”

  “He died recently in London.”

  “I know! And what about the Frenchman—”

  “Do you mean Lafleur?”

  “Yes, somewhere in 1908—or 1909, wasn’t it? Well, I may be wrong”—Forester halted just as we reached the hut—“but didn’t Lafleur disappear?”

  I racked my memory for some moments. Lafleur was before my time and the facts were hazy. But at last:

  “Yes,” I replied slowly. “I believe there was some mystery, Forester. Though oddly enough it had never occurred to me before.”

  “It never occurred to me until we made that astounding discovery tonight. Why should it? But in view of what’s happened, it’s more than odd, don’t you think?”

  “We must tell Weymouth.”

  We went into the hut. Weymouth was sitting where I had left him, his brows still wrinkled in thought… Dr. Petrie was pacing slowly up and down. As we entered, Weymouth raised his kindly blue eyes to Forester, and:

  “Did you catch that dog?” he asked.

  “No,” said Forester, staring hard. “Did it sound like a dog to you?”

  “It wasn’t a dog,” Weymouth replied simply. “This camp is being watched! Has anything occurred which might account for this signaling?”

  “Yes,” I broke in. “Ali Mahmoud has returned—and Rima Barton is with him.”

  “Ah!” Weymouth murmured. “I am glad to hear it…”

  “Greville and I have been thinking—” Forester began, when:

  “One moment!” Weymouth raised his hand. “We shall get muddled. You can help me most, Forester, by letting me plod through the inquiry in my own way. I have the facts up to the time Mr. Greville left last night; now I want to know what happened afterwards.”

  “It’s painfully simple,” Forester replied. “Everything we might be likely to want was moved from here, naturally; so there was no occasion for anyone to enter the place. But deaths, of course, in the climate up here ought to be notified and dealt with promptly.”

  Weymouth nodded.

  “Greville got me to agree to be quiet for the present, and nobody else knew, except Ali.”

  “You’re sure nobody else knew? What about the men?”

  “They live in Kûrna. None were in camp. We removed the chief in the darkness—didn’t we, Greville?—and next morning I gave out that he had gone across to Luxor with Greville, here, and was proceeding down to Cairo. I stopped all work, of course.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “At about dusk tonight—I should say last night—I thought it advisable to—er—inspect the body.”

  “Quite!”

  “I opened the door, looked in, and… the hut was as you see it now.”

  “What about the blanket?”

  “The blanket had disappeared, as well as the body.”

  “You’re sure the door was locked?”

  “Perfectly sure. I unlocked it.”

  “The window?”

  “Fastened on the inside as you found it.”

  “Thank you,” said Weymouth quietly. He stared across at Dr. Petrie and there was a silence of some seconds’ duration; a very odd silence, in which I sensed a mental communion going on between these two men, based upon some common knowledge which Forester and I didn’t share. But at last it was broken by Dr. Petrie.

  “Strangely like his handiwork!”

  I began to be a bit ruffled. I thought the time had come for pooling the known facts. Indeed I was about to say so, when Weymouth spoke again.

  “Was there anyone in the habit of visiting this camp?”

  “No,” said Forester. “The chief wouldn’t allow a soul past the barriers.” He stared across at me. “I except Madame Ingomar,” he added. “But Greville can tell you more about the lady than I can.”

  “Why do you say that?” I cried angrily.

  “Evidently because he thinks so,” said Weymouth in a stern voice. “This is no time, gentlemen, for personal matters. You are assisting at an official inquiry.”

  “I am sorry,” Forester replied. “My remark was quite out of place. The truth is, Superintendent, that neither Greville nor I know very much about Madame Ingomar. But she seemed to favour Greville’s society, and we used to pull his leg about it…”

  My thoughts began to stray again. Had I been blind? And where I had been blind, had Rima seen?

  “Who is this woman?”

  Weymouth’s tense query brought me back to the job in hand.

  Forester laughed dryly, and:

  “A question I have often put to Greville,” he replied, “but which I know he was no more able to answer than anyone else, except the chief.”

  “Oh, I see. A friend of Sir Lionel’s?”

  I nodded. Weymouth was staring in my direction.

  “What nationality?”

  I shook my head blankly.

  “I always said Hungarian,” Forester declared. “Simply because of her name. Greville thought she was Japanese.”

  “Japanese!” Dr. Petrie rapped the word out with startling suddenness. “Why Japanese?”

  “Well,” said Forester, “it wasn’t an unreasonable guess, because her eyes did slant slightly.’

  Weymouth exchanged a rapid glance with Dr. Petrie and stood up.

  “An attractive woman—young?” he challenged—for the words were spoken almost like a challenge.

  “Undoubtedly,” I replied. “Smart, cultured, and evidently well-to-do.”

  “Dark?”

  “Very.”

  “What coloured eyes?”

  “Jade-green,” said Forester.

  Again I detected a rapid exchange of glances between Petrie and Weymouth.

  “Tall?” asked the former.

  “Yes, unusually tall.”

  “An old friend of Sir Lionel’s?”

  “We were given to understand,” said Forester, “that she was the widow of a certain Dr. Ingomar whom the chief knew well at one time.”

  “Was she staying at one of the Luxor hotels?” Weymouth asked.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” I replied. “She wasn’t staying at the Winter Palace.”

  “You mean neither of you know. Does Miss Barton know?”

  “I have never asked her.”

  “When was she last here?”

  “On Monday,” Forester answered promptly—“the day the chief switched the quarters around and put up barricades.”

  “But did Sir Lionel never speak of her?” asked Dr. Petrie.

  “No,” I said. “He was a man who gave few confidences, as you are aware.”

  “Was there any suggestion of intimacy between them?” Weymouth was
the speaker. “Did Sir Lionel show any jealousy, for instance?”

  “Not that I ever noticed,” Forester replied. “He treated her as he treated everybody—with good-humoured tolerance! After all, the chief must have said good-bye to sixty, Weymouth!”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Petrie commented dryly. “I think, Weymouth, our next step is to establish the identity of this Madame Ingomar. Do you agree with me?”

  “I do,” said Weymouth, “absolutely”—and his expression had grown very grim.

  He stared from me to Forester, and:

  “You’re both getting annoyed,” he said. ‘I can see it. You know that the doctor here and I have a theory which we haven’t shared with you. Very well, you shall know the facts. Ask Rima Barton to join us, and arm Ali Mahmoud. Tell him to mount guard and shoot anything he sees moving!”

  “What on earth does this mean?” Forester demanded.

  “It means,” said Petrie, “that we are dealing with agents of Dr. Fu-Manchu…”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu! When that story was told, the story which Weymouth unfolded in the hut in the wâdi, whilst I can’t answer for Forester, personally I was amazed beyond belief.

  Rima’s sweet face, where she sat half in shadow, was a fascinating study. She had ridden up from Kûrna with Ali Mahmoud. In the tent, when I had found her in my arms, she had worn riding kit; but now she had changed into a simple frock and had even made some attempt to straighten the tangle of her windblown hair. The night ride had whipped a wild colour into her tanned cheeks; her grave Irish eyes seemed even brighter than usual as she listened spellbound.

  Some of the things Weymouth spoke of aroused echoes in my memory. I had been too young at the time to associate these events one with another. But I remembered having heard of them. I was considering the advantages of a legal calling when the war disturbed my promising career. The doings of this great and evil man, some of whose history I learned that morning, had reached me merely as rumours in the midst of altogether more personal business.

  But now I grasped the fact that if these two clever and experienced men were correct in their theories, a veritable plague was about to be loosed upon the world.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  “Sir Lionel and I,” said Dr. Petrie, “and Nayland Smith were last of those on the side of the angels to see him alive. It’s possible he survived, but I am not prepared to believe it. What I am prepared to believe is that someone else may be carrying on his work. What was a Dacoit—probably a Burman—a professional robber and murderer, doing in the courtyard of my house in Cairo last night? We know now, Greville, he was following you. But the cry points to an accomplice. He was not alone! The old net, Weymouth”—he turned to the latter— “closing round us again! Then—this camp is watched.”