The Island of Fu-Manchu Read online

  “I had certainly noted it,” murmured Smith. “And, now that this catastrophe has occurred, I must look to the Colonel’s safety. Before I go up to examine these apartments, Mrs. Mendel Hammett, may I ask if James Longton told you anything of Kennard Wood’s whereabouts?”

  “He told me that they had planned to arrive together; that they had an important conference with you and some Washington people at the Regal Athenian in the morning. They were on the point of leaving Havana by special government plane when Kennard Wood was overtaken by a messenger from the United States Minister—”

  “So Longton came alone?”

  “He came alone. Kennard Wood was to follow as soon as possible, and Jim intended to ring up his hotel directly he—awoke. For some reason they were travelling in great secrecy.”

  “I know the reason!” said Smith grimly. “If you will be good enough to excuse us. Come on, Kerrigan.”

  A grey-haired coloured manservant led the way upstairs, knocked upon, and then unlocked, a door. He switched on the light inside.

  “Mr. James’s apartment, sir,” he murmured.

  One analytical stare Smith directed upon the man’s face, and then:

  “You may go,” he said.

  We entered James Longton’s rooms. The first of these was a sitting-room, furnished in a manner that betrayed the hand of a woman. Some of the pictures, however, were obvious autobiographical, and there were college groups and a collection of pipes on the desk.

  Nayland Smith, standing just inside the door, which he had closed, began sniffing.

  “Do you notice any unusual smell, Kerrigan?”

  At that I also directed my attention to the atmosphere of the place, and:

  “Yes,” I replied, “there is faint, but very unpleasant smell. I am trying to place it.”

  “I have placed it!” said Smith. “I have come across it before. Now for the bedroom—”

  He opened a door, found the switch, and led the way into a small but adequately-equipped bedroom. Beyond, on the right, I saw a curtained recess in which presumably there was a bath. The place had a Spartan quality which may have reflected the character of the dead man; so that, noting a handsome Chinese casket on a table beside a bed—an item which seemed out of place—I was about to examine it, when:

  “Don’t touch it!” snapped Smith. “Touch nothing. I am walking in the dark, and taking no chances. The unusual smell is more marked here?”

  Startled by his abrupt order I turned from the box.

  “Yes; it certainly seems to be. You have seen that the bed is much disarranged?”

  “I have seen something else.”

  He crossed to the draped recess, went in, and came out again.

  “Longton undressed in the bathroom,” he said; “his clothes are there. He had a bath and then lay down. It is clear that he was tired out. His suitcase you see there on a chair, unopened. He just got into bed as he was and fell into a deep sleep. Now, you note a chill in the air?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unless I am on a wrong track we shall find a window open.”

  He crossed and jerked the draperies aside. I saw moonlight glittering on water.

  “Wide open!” he exclaimed; “a balcony outside.”

  And as he stood there peering out and flashing a torch, in a moment of perhaps psychic clarity I saw him against a different background. I saw the bloody horror of Poland, the sullen sorrow of Czechoslovakia, the abasement of France, that grand defiance of Greece which I had known; and I saw guns blazing around a once peaceful English countryside. An enemy pounded at the gates of civilization; but Nayland Smith was here: therefore, here, and not in Europe, the real danger must lie.

  Smith fumed and stared at the disordered bed.

  “Observe anything unusual?” he snapped.

  “It is all terribly untidy.”

  “Really, Kerrigan, as a star reporter you disappoint me. A hostess of Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s calibre does not expect a guest to lie on a blanket. The under sheet is missing!”

  “Good God! You’re right!”

  He stared at me for a moment.

  “They used it to lower his body to the garden,” he said slowly. “I can see the rope marks on the balcony rail! There is an old, strong clematis growing up the wall below. One of Fu-Manchu’s thugs climbed it whilst Longton was in the bath: he may or may not have forced open the window. He returned, later, bundled up the body, and lowered it to an assistant waiting in the garden. Miss Dinsford showed me over the ground-floor rooms: unlikely that any one would hear; these fellows work as silently as stoats.”

  “But what killed him?” I cried. “There may be some clues here—”

  I had turned to the disordered bed, when;

  “Stand back, Kerrigan!” Smith said sharply. “Touch nothing. Leave the search to me.”

  Arrested by his words, I stood there whilst he stripped the bed, opened the Chinese box (which contained nothing more lethal than cigarettes), explored every bookcase, cabinet, nook, and cranny in the room. He was as painstaking in the other rooms; and from amongst Longton’s possessions he selected the key of the suitcase, opened the case, examined its contents. And all the time he was sniffing—sniffing like a hound on a half-lost scent.

  “The smell is fading?” he jerked. “You note this? I can spare no more time. But the room must be sealed: it is imperative. You have no doubt remarked that the large portfolio mentioned by Mrs. Mendel Hammett has disappeared.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WE HEAR THE SNAPPING FINGERS

  As I hurried past the hall porter’s desk in the main entrance to the Regal Athenian, a boy came running after me. Smith had been detained, but he was anxious that I should establish contact with Sergeant Rorke.

  “Urgent message for you, Mr. Kerrigan.”

  At the sight of the handwriting on the envelope, my heart skipped a beat; the message was from Ardatha! I tore it open, there where I stood, and read:

  Please do not recognize me unless I am alone. I think I have been followed. I am in the main foyer: you can see me as you come up the steps. If there is anyone with me, go up to your apartment and I will try to ring you up.

  The note was not signed.

  Thrusting it into my pocket, I started up the imposing flight of carpeted stairs which had always reminded me of the palace scene in a Cinderella pantomime, and surveyed the vast foyer. The cosmopolitan atmosphere for which the Regal Athenian was celebrated tonight was absent; but there was a considerable ebb and flow of the after-theatre supper-seekers. I saw Ardatha at once.

  She was seated on a divan not five yards away—deep in conversation with a sallow-faced man. She wore a perfectly simple blue evening frock which outlined her slender figure provocatively, exposing her lovely arms and shoulders so that her head, poised proudly, with its crown of gleaming hair set me thinking of a cameo by some great master. She did not so much as glance in my direction. But I knew that she had seen me.

  Resolutely I walked along to the elevator and went up to our apartment. The knowledge that the presence of the sallow man alone had denied me at least a few stolen moments with Ardatha was a bitter pill to swallow; I could gladly have strangled him,

  I opened the door, to find Sergeant Rorke standing just inside. On recognizing me, his tense attitude relaxed and he began to chew again.

  “Anything to report?”

  “No, sir—except that a lady calls up ten minutes ago. She won’t leave her name. I just say you are out.”

  “Nothing from Sir Lionel Barton?”

  “No, sir. I’m a gladder man when he’s back here. Feeding wild animals is no part of a police officer’s duty.” He displayed a bandaged finger. “There’s one dead monkey on the books if I have my way.”

  But I went into the sitting-room, lighted a cigarette, and began to walk to and fro beside the telephone. Ardatha was here! She had tried to get in touch with me. She had been followed; but she would try again. That the fact of her presence meant also that
of Dr. Fu-Manchu could not terrorize me tonight. Ardatha was here: soon, perhaps, I should hear her voice. If I had ever doubted what she meant in my life (and certainly I had known, always; for I had wanted to die when I believed that she had left me) tonight that swift vision of her dainty loveliness, her aloof, always mysterious personality, had confirmed the fact that without her I did not want to go on.

  How long I wandered up and down the carpet, how many cigarettes I smoked, I cannot say. But, at last, the phone buzzed.

  So utterly selfish was my mood, so completely was I absorbed in my dreams of Ardatha, that had the caller been Smith, or even the missing Kennard Wood, I know that I should have been disappointed. But it was Ardatha.

  “Please listen very carefully.” Her adorable accent was unusually marked. “First, for someone else—a man called Colonel Kennard Wood will be killed tonight at some time before twelve o’clock. I cannot tell you how, and I do not know where he is, except that he is in New York. These—murders, horrify me. Try to save this man—”

  “Ardatha—”

  “Please, I beg of you! At any moment I may be discovered. We are setting out for Cristobal later tonight—as soon, I think, as Colonel Wood is dead. Tell me, now, if you found in London, any trace of Peko, Dr. Fu-Manchu’s marmoset. He mourns him as one mourning a lost child.”

  “He’s here, darling! We have him!”

  “Ah!” the word reached me as a wondering sigh. “Please God you keep him safe! Tell me again. I cannot believe it; you have him?”

  “We have him, Ardatha.”

  “He may mean escape for me—the end of the living death. Come to Cristobal—Bart. When you reach the Panama Canal—”

  “Ardatha! It’s more than I can suffer! Give me the word, and I will see Dr. Fu-Manchu now, and test the value of this hostage!”

  “Stop! It is impossible, I say! Listen: you can get in touch with me at the shop of a—”

  The line was disconnected.

  * * *

  “So much and yet so little!” said Smith.

  He was pacing restlessly up and down, surrounding himself with a smoke screen of pipe fumes.

  “One thing at least is clear,” I declared. “Kennard Wood is doomed!”

  “Don’t say that, Kerrigan! the idea drives me mad. Longton’s gone—and Kennard Wood next, whilst I stay idle! I wish I had been here when Ardatha called you. However, my delay with the police resulted in another clue, but a baffling one.”

  “What clue?”

  “The sheet—the sheet in which Longton’s body was thrown into the river—has been discovered.”

  “Well?”

  “It is bloodstained all over!”

  “But—”

  “Don’t tell me there were stains on the blanket, because I looked for them. Not a trace.” He turned suddenly. “You have noticed no evidence here of the peculiar smell?”

  “None. But I have placed it. I know of what it reminded me—a charnel house!”

  “Exactly. Hullo! Who’s this?”

  The phone had buzzed, and he had the receiver off in a second

  “What! Kennard Wood? Thank God! Quick, man—where are you? At the Hotel Prado. No, no! Listen to me. I cannot explain, now. But you simply must not dream of going to bed! Leave all lights on in your apartment, remain fully dressed and wait until I join you!”

  Running out to the lobby, he gave rapid instructions to Sergeant Rorke.

  “You understand?” he said finally “Inspector Hawk is downstairs. Tell him he is to start now, get this report and stand by at the Prado. Move.”

  As Sergeant Rorke went out, Smith ran to the phone and called Police Headquarters. He was through in a matter of seconds.

  “I want a raid squad outside the Prado in five minutes. They may not be needed, but I want them there. Is it clear? Good.” He hung up, and: “Come on, Kerrigan!” he cried.

  A few minutes later we were hurrying through the foyer; but Ardatha was not there. We ran down the steps. A car belonging to the Police Department was always in attendance, so that without a moment of unnecessary delay we were off for the Hotel Prado. Somewhere a clock was chiming midnight.

  I looked out from the speeding car, striving to obtain a glimpse of the faces of travellers in other cars; of those who entered and left restaurants. Had Ardatha been detected by the spy set to watch her? Had she risked a ghastly punishment in communicating with me? But such speculations were useless, and selfish. Resolutely, I fought to focus my mind on the drama of Kennard Wood.

  Here, amid the supermodernity of New York, surrounded by millions of fellow creatures, a man lay in the shadow of a death which surely belonged to primeval swamps and jungles. Already, in his apartment at the Prado, most up to date and fashionable Park Avenue hotel, Kennard Wood might even now have heard the Snapping Fingers!

  As if he had divined my train of thought:

  “It is possible,” said Smith, “that some other method will be used against Kennard Wood. We cannot be sure. It is also highly probable that the Doctor’s watch-dogs will be in the foyer.” He leaned forward. “I am not familiar with the Prado, driver. Is there a staff entrance?”

  “Sure—right on the corner of the block.”

  “Stop there, but not directly outside.”

  “It’s one-way, so we turn up here.”

  When Smith pushed open a revolving door I followed him into a place tiled and brightly lighted, where a number of men and women in white overalls were moving about busily. I heard the rattle of dishes and in the distance caught sight of a man wearing a chef’s cap. Another man, who wore evening dress, came towards us.

  “Perhaps you have made a mistake—,” he began.

  “No mistake,” rapped Smith. “Police Department. Inspector Hawk should be somewhere in the hotel. Send him a message to stand by near the main entrance, and get me a house detective or anybody who is well acquainted with the building.”

  The authority in Smith’s voice was unmistakable.

  “It will save time if you will follow me, gentlemen.”

  Our guide led us through a maze of service rooms and kitchens which the normal guest at such a hostelry never sees, presently emerging in an office where a big dark-jowled man sat at a desk, smoking a very short fragment of a very black cigar. As this man stood up:

  “Oh, Sergeant Doherty,” said our guide, “these Police officers want a word with you.”

  From under heavy brows suspicious eyes regarded us.

  “My name is Nayland Smith,” explained my friend rapidly, indeed, irritably. “Inspector Hawk is here?”

  A swift change appeared on Doherty’s truculent-looking face. “Why surely, sir! I was puzzled for a moment, but I was here waiting for you. At your service, sir.”

  “Good.” Smith turned to our guide. “Will you take my message to Inspector Hawk at once.”

  “At once.”

  The man went out.

  “Now, Sergeant Doherty, I want to go up to Colonel Kennard Wood’s apartment without entering the public rooms.”

  “Easy enough. The waiters’ elevator is just outside. This way.” As we came out of the office:

  “What is the house detective’s report?” asked Smith.

  Sergeant Doherty closed the elevator door and pressed button 15.

  “It’s kind of funny,” he replied. “The Prado is a smart place for supper these days, and Pannel—the house officer on duty—says that when the supper mob was coming in he got an idea that somebody had a large dog.”

  “Large dog? I don’t follow.”

  “Well, he says he hunted around, thinking some crazy deb, maybe, took a thing like that along to parties—and animals aren’t allowed in the Prado. But, except for that one glimpse, he saw nothing of it again, whatever it was.”

  As we reached the fifteenth floor and stepped out of the elevator:

  “Is Pannel a reliable observer?” asked Smith.

  “Sure.” We were following Doherty along a carpeted passage. “Used to
be with us. Mind you, he doesn’t swear it was a dog and he doesn’t swear he wasn’t mistaken; but what he told me is what I tell you.”

  “When did Colonel Kennard Wood arrive?”

  “He checked in around that time.” Sergeant Doherty pressed a bell. “Colonel Kennard Wood’s apartment.”

  A moment later, as the door was opened:

  “Stay in sight of this room,” Smith ordered.

  Colonel Kennard Wood faced us. He was—a fact for which I had been prepared—superficially like James Longton; but I judged him to be ten years Longton’s senior. In build I could see that the dead man, normally, must closely have resembled his cousin. Kennard Wood was greying, sunburnt, and wore a single eyeglass.

  “Smith! You are very welcome.”

  We went in and the Colonel closed the door. I saw that he bore all the marks of overstrain and deep anxiety; but he placed chairs and proffered drinks.

  “Thank you, but no,” said Smith. “The matter which brings myself and my friend, Bart Kerrigan, here at this hour is one of life and death.”

  “I had hoped,” Kennard Wood confessed wearily, “to enjoy a few hours’ rest. I have had little enough during the past few days. So that the moment I got in, I notified you and proposed to go to sleep—”

  “You would never have awakened,” said Smith grimly. Kennard Wood, dropping into a chair, stared haggardly. “You mean—I have been traced here?”

  Smith nodded.

  “As James will have told you,” the Colonel went on, “I was recalled at the very moment I was about to leave Havana. Some new and startling facts had come to hand. But knowing of tomorrow’s conference I sent James ahead with all material to date. You have this, no doubt?”

  Smith stood up abruptly.

  “I speak to a soldier,” he said, “and so I can be blunt. Your cousin James Longton—”

  “Not—”

  “I am sorry—yes.”

  Kennard Wood crossed to a small buffet and steadily poured out a drink.

  “As I decline to drink alone, Smith,” he said quietly, “no doubt Mr. Kerrigan and yourself will reconsider your decision?”