Читать книгу Trail of Fu Manchu - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 5
ОглавлениеSTERLING’S STORY
Alan Sterling burst into the room. He was a lean young man, marked by an intense virility. His features were too irregular for him to be termed handsome, but he had steadfast Scottish eyes, and one would have said that tenacity of purpose was his chief virtue. His skin was very tanned, and one might have mistaken him for a young Army officer. His topcoat flying open revealing a much-worn flannel suit, and, a soft hat held in his hand, he was a man wrought-up to the verge of endurance. His haggard eyes turned from face to face. Then he saw Sir Denis, and sprang forward:
“Sir Denis!” he said, “Sir Denis——” and despite his Scottish name, a keen observer might have deduced from his intonation that Sterling was a citizen of the United States. “For God’s sake, tell me you have some news? Something—anything! I’m going mad!”
Nayland Smith grasped Sterling’s hand, and put his left arm around his shoulders.
“I am glad you’re here,” he said, quietly. “There is news, of a sort.”
“Thank God!”
“Its value remains to be tested.”
“You think she’s alive? You don’t think——?”
“I am sure she’s alive, Sterling.”
The other three men in the room watched silently, and sympathetically. Gallaho, alone, seemed to comprehend the inner significance of Sterling’s wild words.
“I must leave you for a moment,” Nayland Smith went on. “This is Divisional-inspector Watford, and Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, of Scotland Yard. Give them any information in your possession. I shall not be many minutes.” He turned to Preston. “If you will give me five minutes’ conversation before you go,” he said, “I shall be indebted.”
He went out with Preston. Sterling dropped into the chair which the latter had vacated, and ran his fingers through his disordered hair, looking from Gallaho to Watford.
“You must think I am mad,” he apologized. “But I’ve been through hell—just real hell!”
Gallaho nodded, slowly.
“I know something about it, sir,” he said, “and I can sympathize.”
“But you don’t know Fu Manchu!” Sterling replied, wildly. “He’s a fiend—a demon—he bears a charmed life.”
“He must,” said Watford, watching the speaker. “It’s a good many years since he first came on the books, sir, and if as I understand he’s still going strong—he must be a bit of a superman.”
“He’s the Devil’s agent on earth,” said Sterling, bitterly. “I would give ten years of my life and any happiness that may be in store for me, to see that man dead!”
The door opened, and Nayland Smith came in.
“Give me the details quickly, Sterling,” he directed. “Action is what you want—and action is what I’m going to offer you.”
“Good enough, Sir Denis.” Sterling nodded. He was twisting his soft hat between his hands. It became apparent from moment to moment, how dangerously overwrought he was. “Really—there’s absolutely nothing to tell you.”
“I disagree,” said Nayland Smith, quietly. “Odd facts pop up, if one reviews what seemed at the time to be meaningless. We have two very experienced police officers here and since they are now concerned in the case, I should be indebted if you would outline the facts of your unhappy experience.”
“Good enough. From the time you saw me off in Paris?”
“Yes.” Nayland Smith glanced at Watford and Gallaho. “Mr. Sterling,” he explained, “is engaged to the daughter of an old mutual friend, Dr. Petrie. Fleurette—that is her name—spent a great part of her life in the household of that Dr. Fu Manchu, whom you, Inspector Watford, seem disposed to regard as a myth.”
“Funny business in the south of France, some months ago,” Gallaho growled. “The French press hushed it up, but we’ve got all the dope at the Yard.”
“Sir Denis and I,” Sterling continued, “went to Paris with Dr. Petrie and his daughter, my fiancée. They were returning to Egypt—Dr. Petrie’s home is in Cairo. Sir Denis was compelled to hurry back to London, but I went on to Marseilles and saw them off in the Oxfordshire of the Bibby Line.”
“I only have the barest outline of the facts, sir,” Gallaho interrupted. “But may I ask if you went on board?”
“I was one of the last visitors to leave.”
“Then I take it, sir, you waved to the young lady as the ship was pulling out?”
“No,” Sterling replied, “I didn’t, as a matter of fact, Inspector. I left her in the cabin. She was very disturbed.”
“I quite understand.”
“Dr. Petrie was on the promenade deck as the ship pulled out, but Fleurette, I suppose, was in her cabin.”
“The point I was trying to get at, sir, was this,” Gallaho persisted, doggedly, whilst Nayland Smith, an appreciative look in his grey eyes, watched him. “How long elapsed between your saying good-bye to the young lady in her cabin, and the time the ship pulled out?”
“Not more than five minutes. I talked to the doctor—her father—on deck, and actually left at the last moment.”
“Fleurette asked you to leave her?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“Yes. She was terribly keyed-up. She thought it would be easier if we said good-bye in the cabin. I rejoined her father on deck, and——”
“One moment, sir,” Gallaho’s growling voice interrupted again. “Which side of the deck were you on? The seaward side, or the land side?”
“The seaward side.”
“Then you have no idea who went ashore in the course of the next five minutes?”
“No. I am afraid I haven’t.”
“That’s all right, sir. Go ahead.”
“I watched the Oxfordshire leave,” Sterling went on, “hoping that Fleurette would appear; but she didn’t. Then I went back to the hotel, had some lunch, and picked up the Riviera Express in the afternoon, returning to Paris. I was hoping for a message at the Hotel Meurice but there was none.”
“Did Petrie know you were staying at the Meurice?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“No, but Fleurette did.”
“Where did you stay on the way out?”
“At the Chatham—a favourite pub of Petrie’s.”
“Quite. Go on.”
“I dined, and spent the evening with some friends who lived in Paris, and when I returned to my hotel, there was still no message. I left for London this morning, or rather—since it’s well after midnight—yesterday morning. A radio message was waiting for me at Boulogne. It had been despatched on the previous evening. It was from Petrie on the Oxfordshire ...” Sterling paused, running his fingers through his hair.... “It just told me that Fleurette was not on board; urged me to get in touch with you, Sir Denis, and finally said the doctor was hoping to be transferred to an incoming ship.”
“A chapter of misadventures,” Nayland Smith murmured. “You see, we were both inaccessible, temporarily. I have later news, however. Petrie has effected the transference. He has been put on to a Dutch liner, due into Marseilles to-night.”
The telephone bell rang. Inspector Watford took up the instrument on his table and:
“Yes,” he said, listened for a moment, and then: “Put him through to me here.”
He glanced at Nayland Smith.
“The constable on duty outside Professor Ambroso’s house,” he reported, a note of excitement discernible in his voice.
Some more moments of silence followed during which all watched the man at the desk. Smith smoked furiously. Sterling, haggard under his tan, glanced from face to face almost feverishly. Chief Dectective-inspector Gallaho removed his bowler, which fitted very tightly, and replaced it at a slightly different angle. Then:
“Hello, yes—officer in charge speaking. What’s that? ...” The vague percussion of a distant voice manifested itself. “You say you are in the house? Hold on a moment.”
The inspector looked up, his eyes alight with excitement.
“The officer on duty heard a cry for help,” he explained; “found his way through the fog to the house; the door was open, and he is now in the lobby. The house is deserted, he reports.”
“We are too late!” It was Nayland Smith’s voice. “He has tricked me again! Tell your man to stand by, Inspector. Gather up all the men available and pack them into the second car. Come on, Gallaho. Sterling, you join us!”
