One who, whatever his faults, however right or wrong his policy, was yet the idol of a great country, stood in peril of sudden death. Perhaps only one man could save him—Nayland Smith! And upon that man’s head, also, a price had been set by the dreadful Chinese doctor.
I found it impossible to relax. I recalled Smith’s words:
“Do as you please, Kerrigan, but for heaven’s sake don’t show yourself.”
It was impossible, this walking in shadow, distrusting the moonlight, avoiding all places where people congregated, and slinking about like a criminal who feared arrest. I went back to the hotel.
The lounge appeared to be deserted, but I glanced sharply about me before crossing it, making my way to the suite reserved for Smith and myself.
I found the sitting room in darkness, but an odor of tobacco smoke brought me up sharply as I was about to cross the threshold.
“Hello!” I called,”is anyone there?”
“I am here,” came Smith’s voice out of the darkness.
He stood up and switched on the light, and I saw that his pipe was between his teeth. Even before he spoke his grim expression told me all there was to know.
“Have you seen him?”
He nodded.
“What was his attitude?”
“His attitude, you will be able to judge for yourself when you see him on Silver Heels tomorrow. He has gone so far, has risen so high, that I fear he believes himself to be immortal!”
“Megalomania?”
“Hardly that perhaps, but he sets himself above counsel. He admitted reluctantly that he had received the Si-Fan notices—two at least. He merely shrugged his shoulders when I suggested that a third had come to hand.”
He was walking up and down the room now tugging at the lobe of his left ear.
“If Adion is to be saved, he must be saved against himself. If I had the power, Kerrigan, I would kidnap him and transport him from Venice tonight!”
“I count upon you. Colonel,” said Nayland Smith as the chief of police rose to go. “My friend and I will be present on Silver Heels tomorrow. I must have an opportunity of inspecting Mr. Brownlow Wilton’s guests and of seeing in which of them Rudolf Adion is interested.”
When we were alone:
“Have the police obtained any clue?” I asked.
Smith shook his head irritably.
“Very rarely indeed does the doctor leave clues. And this is a major move in his game. I don’t know if Monaghani is marked down, but Adion admits that he is. We have yet to see if Monaghani arrives. But for tonight, I suppose my work is done. Have you any plans?”
“No.”
“I wish I could find Ardatha for you,” he said softly, and went out. “Good night.”
As the door closed and I heard him walking along to his room I dropped down on to a settee and lighted a cigarette. How I wished that J could find her! I had never supposed love to come in this fashion. Quite easily I could count the minutes—had often done so—that I had been in Ardatha’s company. Collectively they amounted to less than an hour. Yet of all the women I had known, she was the one to whom my thoughts persistently turned.
I tried to tell myself that this was an obsession born of the mys tery in which I had met her—an infatuation which would pass—but always the effort failed. No, she haunted me. I knew every expression of her piquant face, every intonation of her voice; I heard her talking to me a thousand times during the day—I dreamed of her, I suspected, throughout the night.
That Nayland Smith was tired I could not doubt, I was tired myself. Yet, although it was long past midnight, any idea of sleep I knew to be out of the question. Outside, divided from the window only by a narrow quay, the Grand Canal lapped its ancient walls. Occasionally, anomalous motorboats passed; at other times I heard the drip of an oar as some ghostly gondola crept upon its way. Once the creaking of a boat, as a belated guest returned to the hotel, reminded me—terrifyingly—of the cellars under the Monks’ Arms where I had so nearly come to an end.
I rang for a waiter and ordered a drink to be brought to my room;
then, extinguishing the lights of the sitting room, I went along the corridor intending to turn in.
However, when my drink arrived and I had lighted another cigarette, I was overcome with recklessness. Crossing to the window I threw open the shutters and looked down upon the oily glittering waters of the canal.
Venice! The picture city, painted in blood and passion. In some way it seemed fitting that Fu Manchu should descend upon Venice;
fitting, too, that Ardatha should be there. The moon had disappeared; mysterious lights danced far away upon the water, beckoning me back to the days of the doges.
From my window I looked down upon a shadowy courtyard, a corner of the platform upon which the hotel (itself an old palace) was built. It could be approached from the steps which led up to the main door, but so far as I could make out in the darkness it formed a sort of cul-de-sac. My window ledge was no more than four feet from the stone paving.
And now, in the shadows, I detected someone moving . . .
I drew back. My hand flew to a pocket in which, always, since I had met Dr Fu Manchu, an automatic rested. Then a voice spoke—a soft voice:
“Please help me up. I must talk to you.”
It was Ardatha!
Ardatha
She sat in a deep, cushioned divan, a Renaissance reproduction, watching me with a half smile.
“You look frightened,” she said. “Do I frighten you?” “No, Ardatha, it isn’t that you frighten me, although I admit your appearance was somewhat of a shock.”
She wore a simple frock and a coat having a fur-trimmed collar, which I recognized as that which I had seen in the car near Hyde Park corner. She had a scarf tied over her hair, and I thought that her eyes were mocking me.
“I am mad to have done this,” she went on,”and now I am wondering—”
I tried to conquer a thumping heart, to speak normally. “You are wondering if I am worth it,” I suggested, and forced myself to move in her direction.
Frankly, I was terrified as I never could have believed myself to be terrified of a woman. My own wild longing had awakened some sort of response in Ardatha! I had called to her and she had come! But as the lover of a girl so complex and mysterious I had little faith in Bart Kerrigan.
Tonight it was my part to claim her—or to lose her forever. Her eyes as well as her words told me that the choice was mine.
I offered her a cigarette and lighted it, then sat down beside her. My impulse was to grab her—hold her—never let her go again. But I took a firm grip upon these primitive urges, and then:
“I saw you at Victoria,” she said.
“What! How could you have seen me?”
“I have eyes and I can see with them.”
She lay back among the cushions, and turning, smiled up at me.
“I had no idea you had seen me.”
“That is why I am here tonight.” Suddenly, seriously: “You must go back! I tell you, you must go back. I came here tonight to tell you this.”
“Is that all you came for, Ardatha?”
“Yes. Do not suppose it means what you are thinking. I like you very much, but do not make the mistake of believing that I love easily”
She spoke with a quiet imperiousness of manner which checked me. My emotions pulled me in various directions. In the first place, this beautiful girl of the amethyst eyes, who, whatever she did, whatever she said, allured, maddened me, was a criminal. In the second place, unless the glance of those eyes be wildly misleading, she wanted me to make love to her. But in the third place, although she said her nocturnal visit had been prompted by friendship, what was her real motive? I clasped my knees tightly and stared aside at her.