The Island of Fu-Manchu (2 page)

He took a long drink. I did not speak.

“You”—he lowered his voice—“have a personal interest in the matter. You accepted the assignment to cover the Greek campaign because—”

I nodded.

“Check me when I go wrong and stop me if I’m treading on a corn; there was a girl—wasn’t Ardatha the name? She belonged to the nearly extinct white race (I was the first man to describe them, by the way) which still survives in Abyssinia.”

“Yes, she vanished after Smith and I left Paris, at the end of Fu-Manchu’s battle to put an end to dictators. Nearly two years ago—”

“You—searched?”

“Smith was wonderful. I had all the resources of the Secret Service at my command. But from that hour, Barton, not one word of information reached us, either about Dr. Fu-Manchu, or about—Ardatha.”

“I am told”—he pulled up, his back to me, and spoke over his shoulder—”that Ardatha was—”

“She was lovely and lovable,” I said and stood up.

The struggle in Greece, the wound I had received there, the verdict of Harley Street which debarred me from active service, all these experiences had failed to efface my private sorrow—the loss of Ardatha.

Sir Lionel turned and gave me one penetrating glance which I construed as sympathy. I had known him for many years and had learned his true worth; but he was by no means every man’s man. Ardatha had brought romance into my life such as no one was entitled to expect: she was gone. Barton understood.

He began to pace up and down, smoking furiously; and something in his bearing reminded me of Nayland Smith. Barton was altogether heavier than Smith, but he had the same sun-baked skin, the same nervous vitality: he, also, was a pipe addict. His words had set my brain on fire.

I wondered if an image was before his mental vision, the same vision which was before mine: a tall, lean, cat-like figure; a close-shaven head, a mathematical brow; emerald-green eyes which sometimes became filmed strangely; a voice in its guttural intensity so masterful that Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon might have animated it; Dr. Fu-Manchu, embodiment of the finest intellect in the modern world.

Now, I was wild for news; but deliberately I controlled myself. I refilled Barton’s glass. He belonged to a hard-drinking generation and I never attempted to keep pace with him. I sat down again, and:

“You must realize,” I said, “that you have stirred up—”

“I know, I know! I am the last man to raise hopes which may never materialize. But the fact that Nayland Smith has been in the West Indies practically clinches the matter. I threw myself on your hospitality, Kerrigan, because, to be quite frank, I was afraid to go to a hotel—”

“What!”

“Yes—and my town house as you know, went to the auctioneers on the day war started. Very well. In the small suitcase—all the baggage I carry—is something for which I know Dr. Fu-Manchu has been searching for many years! Since I got hold of it there have been some uncommonly queer happenings up at my place in Norfolk. In fact things got so hot that I bolted!”

I stood up and walked across to the window; excitement grew in my brain by leaps and bounds. There was no man whom I feared as I feared the brilliant Chinese doctor; but if Ardatha lived Fu-Manchu was the one and only link by means of which I might find her.

“Go on,” I said, “I am all attention.”

Grey, wintry dusk was sending over Kensington Gardens. Few figures moved on the path which led from the gate nearly opposite to the Round Pond. At any moment now would come the mournful call of a park-keeper, “All out.” And with the locking of the gates began the long night of black-out.

“I know why Smith has been to the Caribbean,” Barton went on. “There’s something in that bag which would have saved him the journey. The United States government—Hello! what’s wrong?”

A figure was standing at the park gate, looking up at my window; a girl who wore a hooded cape. I suppose I uttered an exclamation as I clutched the ledge and stared across the road.

“What is it, Kerrigan?” cried Barton. “What is it?”

“It’s Ardatha!” I whispered.

I
doubt if any man ever descended a long flight of dark stairs faster than I did. A pulse was throbbing in my head as I dashed along the glass-roofed portico that divided the house from the front door. Yet as I threw the door open and ran out, already the hooded figure had vanished.

Then, as I raced across to the gate, I saw her. She had turned back into the park, and was just passing out of the shadow of a big tree near the corner where a path at right angles crossed that leading to the Round Pond. Normally, Bayswater Road at this hour would have been a race track, but war had muted the song of London and few vehicles were on the road.

In the Park, a grey mist swam in among the trees whose leafless branches reached out like lean and clutching arms menacing the traveller. But there, ahead, was the receding, elusive figure.

I continued to run. My condition was by no means all that it might have been, but I found breath enough to call.

“Ardatha!” I cried, “Ardatha!”

Step by step I was overhauling her. Not another pedestrian was in sight.

“Ardatha!”

I was no more than twenty yards behind her as she paused and looked back. In spirit she was already in my arms, her kiss on my lips—when she turned swiftly and began to run!

For one incalculable moment I stood stock still.

Astonishment, mortification, anger, fought for precedence in my mind. What, in sanity’s name, could be the meaning of her behaviour? I was about to cry out again, but I decided to conserve my resources. Fists clenched and head up, I set out in pursuit.

She had reached the path that surrounds the Pond before I really got into my stride. In Rugby days I had been counted one of the fastest men in the pack; but even allowing for loss of form due to my recent illness, an amazing fact demanded recognition. Ardatha was outrunning me easily: she ran with the speed of a young antelope!

Then, from nearby, came the expected mournful cry—“All out!”

I saw the park-keeper at about the same moment that I accepted defeat in the race. Ardatha had passed him like a flash. He had assumed that she was running to reach a Kensington gate before it closed, and had no more than glanced at her speeding figure. For my part I was determined to keep her in sight; but as I bore down on the man, some suspicion seemed to cross his mind—a suspicion which linked my appearance with that of the flying girl. He glanced back at her for a moment—and then stood squarely in my path, arms outstretched!

“Not this way!” he cried. “Too late. Porchester Gate is the only way out!”

Porchester Gate was the gate by which I had come in, and for one mad moment I weighed my chances of bowling the man over and following Ardatha. I think, disastrous though such an assault must have been, that I should have risked it had I not sighted a constable heading in our direction.

I pulled up, breathing heavily, and shrugged my shoulders. That lithe figure was already a phantom in the misty distance. Such a cloud of despair succeeded to the wild joy I had known at the sight of Ardatha, such a madness of frustration, that frankly I think I was on the verge of tears. I clenched my teeth and turned back.

“One moment, sir.”

The park-keeper was following me. Struggling as I was for self-control, I prompted myself: “Don’t hit him. He is only doing his duty. She ran away. You have no case. Be tactful or you will spend the night in a lock-up.”

I slowed my pace.

“Yes—what is it?”

He ranged up alongside. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the nearing figure of the constable.

“I was just wondering why you was in such a hurry, like.”

We were walking along together, now, and I forced a smile, looking at the man’s lined, ingenuous face. I decided that he was an old gamekeeper.

“I wanted to catch somebody,” I said. “I had had a quarrel with my girl friend and she ran away from me.”

“Oh, is that so?” He continued to regard me doubtfully. “Run away had she? Young lady with a cape?”

“Yes. She was wearing a cape. I have no idea where she has gone.”

“Oh, I see. Neither of you lives over on Kensington side, like? “No—neither of us.”

“Oh, I see.” He had accepted me now. “That’s hard luck, sir. She’s a bit high mettled, like, no doubt.”

“She is.”

“Well, them’s sometimes the best, sir, when it comes to a pinch. I reckon when the paddy’s worn out she’ll come back as sweet as honey.”

“I hope so.”

And indeed the man’s simple philosophy had helped to restore me. I was glad that I had not quarrelled with him—and glad that I had told him the truth.

We walked along together through growing dusk. In the shadows about us nothing stirred. Moisture dripped mournfully from the trees. Already, London grew silent at the touch of night. Of Ardatha I dared not think; only I knew that the mystery of her reappearance, and of her flight, belonged to the greater and darker mystery which was Dr. Fu-Manchu.

A sense of evil impending, of some unwelcome truth fighting for admission, oppressed me. When I left Kensington Gardens and heard the gate locked behind me, I stood for a while looking across at my windows.

There was a light in the writing-room and the blinds were not drawn. Except for a big Packard just turning the corner into Craven Terrace, there was no nearby traffic. As I ran across, fumbling for my keys, subconsciously I noted the number-plate of the car: BXH 77. It was rememberable, and I was in that troubled mood when one notes trivialities.

Opening the door, I hurried upstairs. I had much to tell Barton—and much to learn from him. The whole current of my life had changed. I remember that I banged my front door and dashed into the lighted workroom.

Standing by the desk was a tall, thin man, his face tropically brown, his hair nearly white at the temples and his keen eyes fixed upon me. I pulled up suddenly; I could not accept the fact.

It was Nayland Smith!

“Smith—Smith! I was never so glad to see any man in my life!”

He wrung my hand hard, watching me with those questing eyes; but his expression was stem to grimness.

“What has become of Barton?” I asked.

Smith seemed to grow rigid. He positively glared at me.

“Barton!” he exclaimed—“
Barton!
was Barton here?”

“I left him here.”

He dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“My God, Kerrigan!” he said; “and you left your front door open—for so I found it. I have been searching London for Barton, and now—”

My fears, sorrows, forebodings, in that instant became crystallized in a dreadful certainty.

“Smith, do you mean—”

“I do, Kerrigan!” He spoke in a low voice. “Fu-Manchu is in London… and he has got Barton!”

* * *

Smith went racing into the spare bedroom; in broken syllables I had told my tale. At the threshold, as I switched on the lights, we both pulled up.

The room was in wild disorder!

“You see, Kerrigan, you see!” cried Smith. “It was a ruse to get you out of the house. Poor Barton put up a fight, by heaven! Look at that smashed chair!”

“His bag has gone!”

Smith nodded and began ferreting about among the wreckage. A heavy cloisonné vase lay beside the bed, although its proper place was on the mantel. He examined it carefully, although I could not imagine what evidence he hoped it might afford. Then, I saw something else.

The room was equipped with an old-fashioned open grate, beside which rested tongs and poker. The fire was not laid, for I had not anticipated receiving a guest, but the iron poker lay half under an armchair! Taking if up I uttered an exclamation.

“Smith, look!”

The poker was bent in an unmistakable, significant manner. Smith grabbed it, held it under the bedside lamp—for darkness had fallen—and touched it at several points with the tip of his forefinger. He tossed it on to the bed and began to stare around, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, a mannerism which I knew well.

“Barton is a powerful man,” he said. “Something snapped when that poker was bent! Amazing that no one heard the row.”

“Not at all. The rest of the house is empty, and my daily woman was gone before Barton arrived.”

My voice sounded dull in my ears. Ardatha had lured me away, and my poor friend had been left alone to fight for his life… Ardatha—

“There are other curious features, Kerrigan.”

Smith dropped to his knees and began to examine the disordered carpet with close attention. He crawled as far as the door.

“Assuming, as we might, that Fu-Manchu’s agents entered shortly after you went out, they had come on very urgent business—”

“Barton’s bag! He told me that it contained something which would have saved you a journey to the Caribbean.”

“Ah!” He stood up. “As I expected. They came for the chart. Barton put up a fight. Now—if they killed him, why carry a heavy body down all those stairs and run the risk of meeting a policeman outside? If he survived, where is he?”

“You say the street door was open?”

“Yes. Quick, Kerrigan! Let us examine the stairs. But wait—first, all the cupboards and other possible hiding places.”

Outside, in Bayswater Road, I heard a bus go by. I imagined it to be laden with home-bound City workers anxious to reach their firesides. The black tragedy of war oppressed them; yet, not one, in passing, would suspect that within sight from the bus windows, two of their fellows faced a terror deeper than that of the known enemy.

My flat had become a theatre of sinister drama. As Smith and I ran from room to room, sharing a common dread, the possibility that we should come upon Barton’s body checked me more than once. It was Smith who opened the big store-cupboard. Smith who explored an old oak wardrobe.

We found no trace.

“Now, the stairs,” he snapped. “We are wasting precious time, but we cannot act without a clue.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“No body was
dragged
from the bedroom. I have satisfied myself on that point. But it may have been carried. The stair-carpet should show traces if any load had been dragged downstairs—Hullo! what’s this?”