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CHAPTER 2

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THE PORCELAIN VENUS

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That phenomenal fog which over a great part of Europe heralded and ushered in the New Year, was responsible for many things that were strange and many that were horrible. Amongst the latter the wreck of the Paris-Strasbourg express and the tragic crash of an Imperial Airways liner. The triumphant fog demon was responsible, also, for the present predicament of P. C. Ireland.

A big car belonging to the Flying Squad of Scotland Yard, and provided with special fog lights, stood outside Wandsworth police station. And in the divisional-inspector’s office a conversation was taking place which, could P. C. Ireland have heard it, would have made that intelligent officer realize the importance of his solitary vigil.

Divisional-inspector Watford was a grey-haired, distinguished looking man of military bearing. He sat behind a large desk looking alternately from one to the other of his two visitors. Of these, one, Chief-inspector Gallaho, of the C.I.D., was well known to every officer in the Metropolitan police force. A thick-set, clean-shaven man, of florid colouring and truculent expression, buttoned up in a blue overcoat and wearing a rather wide-brimmed bowler hat. He stood, resting one elbow upon the mantelpiece and watching the man who had come with him from Scotland Yard.

The latter, tall, lean, and of that dully dark complexion which tells of long residence in the tropics, wore a leather overcoat over a very shabby tweed suit. He was hatless, and his close-cropped, crisply waving grey hair excited the envy of the district inspector. His own hair was of that colour but had been deserting him for many years. The man in the leather overcoat was smoking a pipe, and restlessly walking up and down the office floor.

The divisional inspector was somewhat awed by his second visitor, who was none other than ex-Assistant Commissioner Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Something very big was afoot. Suddenly pulling up in front of the desk, Sir Denis took his pipe from between his teeth, and:

“Did you ever hear of Dr. Fu Manchu?” he jerked, fixing his keen eyes upon Watford.

“Certainly, sir,” said the latter, looking up in a startled way. “My predecessor in this division was actually concerned in the case, I believe, a number of years ago. For my own part”—he smiled slightly—“I have always regarded him as a sort of name—what you might term a trade-mark.”

“Trade-mark?” echoed Nayland Smith. “What do you mean? That there’s no such person?”

“Something of the kind, sir. I mean, isn’t Fu Manchu really the name for a sort of political organization, like the Mafia—or the Black Hand?”

Nayland Smith laughed shortly, and glanced at the man from Scotland Yard.

“He is chief of such an organization,” he replied, “but the organization itself has another name. There is a Dr. Fu Manchu—and Dr. Fu Manchu is in London. That’s why I’m here to-night.”

The inspector stared hard for a moment, and then:

“Indeed, sir!” he murmured. “And may I take it that there’s some connection between this Fu Manchu and Professor Ambroso?”

“I don’t know,” Nayland Smith snapped, “but I intend to find out to-night. What can you tell me about the professor? He lives in your area.”

“He does, sir.” The inspector nodded. “He has a large house and studio on the North Side of the Common. We have had orders for several days to afford him special protection.”

Nayland Smith nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth.

“Personally, I’ve never seen him, and I’ve never seen any of his work. He’s a bit outside my province. But I understand that although he’s an Italian by birth, he is a naturalized British subject. What he wants protection for, is beyond me. In fact, I should be glad to know, if anyone can tell me.”

Sir Denis glanced at the Scotland Yard man.

“Bring the inspector up-to-date,” he directed; “he’s evidently rather in the dark.”

Watford, resting his arms on the table, stared at the celebrated detective, enquiringly.

“Well, it’s like this,” Gallaho began in a low, rumbling voice. “If it means anything to you, I’ll begin by admitting that it means nothing to me. Professor Ambroso has been abroad for some time supervising the making of a new kind of statue at the Sèvres works, outside Paris. It’s a life-sized figure, I understand, and more or less life coloured. Since the matter was brought to my notice, I have been looking up newspaper reports and it appears that the thing has created a bit of a sensation in artistic circles. Well, the professor took it down to an international exhibition held in Nice. This exhibition closed a week ago, and the figure, which is called ‘The Sleeping Venus,’ was brought back to Paris, and from Paris to London.”

“Did the professor come along, too?”

“Yes. And in Paris he asked for police protection.”

“What for?”

“Don’t ask me—I’m asking you. The French sent a man down to Boulogne on the train in which the thing was transported—then we took over on this side. There’s a man on duty outside his house now, isn’t there?”

“Yes. And the fog’s so dense it’s impossible to relieve him.”

Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again; but now:

“He can be relieved when the other car arrives,” he jerked, glancing back over his shoulder. “I should have pushed straight on, but there is someone I am anxious to interrogate. I have arranged for him to be brought here.”

That the speaker was in a state of high nervous tension, none could have failed to recognize. He was a man oppressed by the cloud of some dreadful doubt.

“That’s the story,” Gallaho added. “The professor and his statue arrived by the Golden Arrow on Friday evening, just as the fog was beginning. He had two assistants, or workmen—foreigners, anyway, with him—and he had hired a small lorry. A plain clothes man covered the proceedings, and the case containing the statue arrived at the professor’s house about nine o’clock on Friday night, I understand.” Then, unconsciously he echoed the ideas of Police Constable Ireland. “What the devil anybody wants to steal a statue for, is beyond me.”

“It’s so far beyond me,” Nayland Smith said rapidly, “that I am here to-night to inspect that work of art.”

Watford’s expression was pathetically blank.

“It doesn’t seem to mean anything,” he confessed.

“No,” said Gallaho, grimly, “it doesn’t. It will seem to mean less when I tell you that we had a wire from the Italian police this evening—advising us that Professor Ambroso had been seen in the garden of his villa in Capri yesterday morning.”

“What?”

“Sort that out,” growled Gallaho. “It looks as though we’ve been giving protection to the wrong man, doesn’t it?”

“Good Lord!” Watford’s face registered the blankest bewilderment. “Is it your idea, sir——?” he turned to Nayland Smith—“I mean, you don’t think that Professor Ambroso——”

“Well,” growled Gallaho—“go ahead.”

“No, of course, if he’s been seen alive! Good Lord!” But again he turned to Sir Denis, who was pacing more and more rapidly up and down the floor. “Where does Fu Manchu come in?”

“That’s a long story,” Smith replied, “and until I have interviewed the professor, or the person posing as the professor, I cannot be certain that he comes in at all.”

There was a rap on the door, and a uniformed constable came in.

“The other car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and there’s a Mr. Preston here, asking for Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

“Show him in,” said Watford.

A few moments later a young man came into the office bringing with him a whiff of the fog outside. He wore a heavy tweed overcoat and white muffler, and carried a soft hat. He had a fresh-coloured face and light blue, twinkling eyes—very humorous and good-natured. He sneezed several times, and smiled apologetically.

“My name is Nayland Smith,” said Sir Denis. “Won’t you please sit down?”

“Thank you, sir,” and Preston sat down. “It’s a devil of a night to bring a bloke out, but I’ve no doubt it’s very important.”

“It is,” Nayland Smith snapped. “I will detain you no longer than possible.”

Gallaho turned in his slow fashion and fixed his observant eyes upon the newcomer. Divisional-inspector Watford watched Nayland Smith.

“I understand that you were on duty,” the latter continued, “at Victoria on Friday when the Paris-London service known as the Golden Arrow, arrived?”

“I was, sir.”

“It is customary on this service to inspect baggage at Victoria?”

“It is.”

“One of the passengers was Professor Pietro Ambroso, accompanied by two servants or workmen, and having with him a large case or crate containing a statue. Did you open this case?”

“I did.” Preston’s merry eyes twinkled. He sneezed, blew his nose and smiled apologetically. “There was a detective on special duty who had travelled across with the professor, and who seemed anxious to get the job over. He suggested that examination was unnecessary. But—” he grinned—“I wanted to peep at the statue. The professor was inclined to be peevish, but——”

“Describe the professor,” snapped Nayland Smith.

Preston stared in surprise for a moment, and then:

“He’s a tall old man, very stooped, with a white beard and moustache. Wears pince-nez, a funny black, continental cape coat, and a wide-brimmed black hat. He speaks with a slight Italian accent, and he’s very frightening.”

“Admirable thumb-nail sketch,” Nayland Smith commented, his penetrating stare fixed almost feverishly upon the speaker. “Thank God for a man who can see straight. Do you remember the colour of his eyes?”

Preston shook his head, suppressing a sneeze.

“He seemed to be half blind. He peered, keeping his eyes nearly closed.”

“Good. Go on. Statue.”

Preston released the pent-up sneeze. Then, grinning in his cheerful way:

“It was the devil of a game getting the lid off,” he went on. “But I roped off a corner to keep the curious away, and had the thing opened. Whew!” he whistled. “I got a shock. The figure was packed in on a sort of rest—and there was a second glass lid. I had the shock of my life!”

“Why?” growled Gallaho.

“Well, I’d read about the ‘Sleeping Venus’ in the papers. But I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw. Really—it’s uncanny, and if I may say so, a bit shocking.”

“In what way?” jerked Nayland Smith.

“Well, it’s the figure of a beautiful girl, asleep. It isn’t shiny, as I expected, hearing that it was made of porcelain—it looks just like a living woman. And it’s coloured, to represent nature. I mean, finger nails and toe-nails and everything. By gosh!”

“Sounds worth seeing,” growled Gallaho.

Nayland Smith dived into some capacious pocket within the leather overcoat, and produced a large mounted photograph. He set it upright on the inspector’s desk, right under the lamp. Preston stood up and Gallaho approached the table. Wisps of fog floated about the room, competing for supremacy with the tobacco smoke from Nayland Smith’s briar. The photograph was that of a nude statue, such as Preston had described; an exquisite figure relaxed, as if in sleep.

“Do you recognize it?” jerked Nayland Smith.

Preston bent forward, peering closely.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s her—I mean, that’s it. At least, I think so.” He peered closer yet. “Damn it! I’m not so sure.”

“What difference do you notice?” Nayland Smith asked, eagerly.

“Well ...” Preston hesitated. “I suppose it was the colouring that did it. But the statue was far more beautiful than this photograph.”

There came a rap on the door, and the uniformed constable came in.

“The third car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and a Mr. Alan Sterling is here.”

Trail of Fu Manchu

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