Despairingly, I had come to the conclusion that I should never see her again . . .
In a room made familiar by many published photographs I found the Premier and some other members of the Cabinet. Sir James Clare, the home secretary whom I had met before, was there and two ambassadors representing foreign powers. An air of dreadful apprehension seemed common to all. Somewhat awed by the company, I looked at Nayland Smith.
He was pacing up and down in his usual restless manner, glancing at his wrist watch.
“Sir William Bard is late,” murmured the Prime Minister.
Nayland Smith nodded. Sir William Bard, commissioner of metropolitan police, of all those summoned to this meeting was the only one who had not appeared.
“Until his arrival, sir,” said Smith,”we can do nothing.”
But even as he spoke came a rap on the door, and a voice announced:
“Sir William Bard.”
What Happened In Downing Street
“A trifle late, Sir William,” said the Prime Minister genially.
“Yes sir—I must offer my apologies,” The commissioner bowed perfunctorily to everyone present. “I think the circumstances will explain my delay.”
A slightly built, alert man with a short jet-black moustache, he had a precision of manner and intonation which suggested, as was the fact, that his training, like that of the home secretary, had been for the legal profession. He laid a bulging portfolio upon the table. The Premier continued to watch him coldly but genially. Everyone else in the room became very restless, as Bard continued:
“Just as my car was about to turn out of Whitehall, a girl, a lady from her dress and bearing I judged, stepped out almost under my front wheel, and as my chauffeur braked furiously, sprang back again, but tripped and fell on the pavement.”
“In these circumstances,” said the home secretary, one eye on the rugged brow of the Prime Minister, “your delay is of course explained.”
“Exactly,” Sir William continued. “I pulled up, of course, and hurried back. Quite a crowd gathered, as always occurs, among them, fortunately, a doctor. The only injury was a sprained ankle. The lady, although one must confess it was her own fault, proved to live in Buckingham Gate, and naturally I gave her a lift home, Doctor Atkin accompanying her to that address. However, sir”—turning to the Prime Minister—”I trust I am excused?”
“Certainly, Bard, certainly. Anyone would have done the same.”
Now quite restored, we sat down around the big table, the commissioner produced his keys and glanced at Nayland Smith.
“A strange attire for so formal an occasion, Smith!” he commented. “But it may be forgiven, I think, in view”—he tapped the portfolio—”of the information which is here. I had had time merely to glance over it, but I may say”—looking solemnly about him—”that in dealing with the facts revealed, the astonishingly unpleasant facts, our united efforts will be called for. And even when we have done our best . . .”
He shrugged his shoulders. He appeared to find some difficulty in fitting the key to the lock. We were all on tiptoes and all very impatient. I saw a sudden shadow creep over Sir William Bard’s face as he glanced at his own initials stamped on the leather. He shrugged and persevered with the key.
There was no result.
“Might I suggest,” snapped Nayland Smith, beginning to tug at his ear but desisting when he detected the presence of the plaster, “that you borrow a pair of stout scissors and force the catch, Sir William?”
“Always impatient, Smith!” The commissioner looked up, but his expression was not easy. “I don’t understand this.”
He tried again and then made an angry gesture.
“I locked it myself before I left Scotland Yard.”
“Since time is our enemy,” said the Prime Minister drily, “I think Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s suggestion is a good one.”
He rang a bell, and to a man who entered gave curt orders . . .
The lock proved to be more obstinate than we had anticipated, but with the aid of a pair of office scissors and the expenditure of considerable force, ultimately it was snapped open. The man withdrew. We were all standing up, surrounding the commissioner. He opened the portfolio.
I heard a loud cry. For a moment I could not believe Sir William Bard had uttered it. Yet indeed it was he who had cried out . . .
The portfolio was stuffed with neatly folded copies of The Times!
One by one with shaking fingers he drew them out and laid them upon the table. Last of all he discovered a square envelope, and from it he drew a single sheet of paper.
There had been such a silence during this time that I could hear nothing but the breathing of the man next to me, a portly representative of a friendly power.
Sir William Bard cast his glance over the sheet which the envelope had contained, and then, his face grown suddenly pallid, laid it before the Prime Minister.
I glanced swiftly at Nayland Smith, and found myself unable to read his expression.
The statesman, imperturbable even in face of this situation, adjusted his spectacles and read; then clearing his throat, he read again, this time aloud:
“The Council of Seven of the Si-Fan is determined to preserve peace in Europe. Some to whom this message is addressed share these views—some do not. The latter would be well advised to reconsider their policies, and to confine their attentions to their proper occasions.
PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL
“First Notice”
“Smith! I am a ruined man!”
Sir William Bard sat in an armchair behind a huge desk laden with official documents, his head sunk in his hands. In that quiet room which was the heart of Scotland Yard, the menace represented by Dr Fu Manchu presented itself more urgently to my tired mind than had been possible in the official sanctum of the British government.
Out of the charivari which had arisen when we had realized that documents calculated to cast down those in high places had been stolen from none other than the commissioner of metropolitan police, only one phrase recurred to me: the Premier’s inquiry:
“Do you consider, Sir Denis, that this is a personal threat?”
Nayland Smith stared at the commissioner, and then, jumping up from his chair: “I don’t think,” he said, “that I should take the thing so seriously. It may be mere arrogance on my part to say so, but with all my experience (and it has been a long one) the particular genius who tricked you tonight has tricked me many times.”
Sir William Bard looked up.
“But how was it done? Who did it?”
“As to how it was done,” Smith replied, “it was a fairly simple example of substitution. As to who did it—Doctor Fu Manchu!”
“I have accepted the existence of Doctor Fu Manchu with great reluctance, as you know, Smith—although I am aware that my immediate predecessor regarded this Chinese criminal with great respect. Are you sure that it was he who was responsible?”
“Perfectly sure,” Smith snapped, then glanced swiftly at me.
“Describe the girl who was nearly run down by your car.”
“I can do so quite easily, for she was a beauty. She had titian red hair and remarkable eyes of a pansy color; a slender girl, not English, a fact I detected from her slight accent.”
I did not groan audibly: it was my spirit that groaned.
“Quite sufficient!” Smith interrupted. “Kerrigan and I know this lady. And the doctor?”
“A tall man, grey-haired, of distinguished appearance, Doctor Maurice Atkin. I have his card here, and also Miss Pereira’s.”