We stood in the workroom of Marcel Delibes, the famous French statesman. He had been unavoidably detained but requested us to wait. Two windows opened onto a long balcony which I saw to be overgrown with clematis. It looked down on a pleasant and well-kept garden. Beyond one saw the Bois. The room, religiously neat as that of some Mother Superior, was brightened along its many bookshelves by those attractively light bindings affected by French publishers; and a further note of color was added by the presence of bowls and vases of carnations.
The perfume of all these flowers was somewhat overpowering, so that the impression I derived during my stay in the apartment was of carnations and of photographs of beautiful women.
There was a nearly full moon; the windows were wide open; and with Smith I examined the balcony outside. Our translation in a Royal Air Force plane from London had been so rapid, so dreamlike, that I was still in a mood to ask myself: Is this really Paris?
Yes, that carnation-scented room, dimly lighted except for one green-shaded lamp upon the writing desk, with photographs peeking glamorously from its shadows was, as Nayland Smith had said, an ideal atmosphere for Dr Fu Manchu.
Gallaho was downstairs with Jussac of the Surete Generale, and I knew that the house was guarded like a fortress. Even at this hour messengers were coming and going, and a considerable crowd had collected in the Bois outside, invisible and inaudible from the house by reason of its embracing gardens.
That sort of rumor which electrifies a population was creeping about Paris. Delibes, the rumour ran, had planned a political coup which, if it failed in its purpose, would mean that before a new day dawned France would be plunged into war.
“The grounds may be guarded, Smith,” I said, looking about me. “But Delibes takes no other precautions.”
I indicated the widely opened windows.
Smith nodded grimly.
“We have here, Kerrigan,” he replied, “another example of that foolhardy courage which has already brought so many distinguished heads under the axe of Doctor Fu Manchu.” He took up the table telephone and examined it carefully, then shook his head.
“No! He has been warned of the Green Death, a fact of which the Si-Fan is undoubtedly aware. If only the fool would face facts—if only he would give me his confidence! He knows, he has been told, of the fate of his predecessors who have defied the Council of Seven! He is a gallant man in more senses than one”—Smith nodded in the direction of the many photographs. “I must know what he plans to do and I must know what time the Si-Fan has given him in which to change his mind.”
“His peril is no greater than yours!”
“Perhaps not—but I don’t happen to be the political master of France! You are thinking of the letter which awaited me at the hotel desk?”
“I am.”
“Yes”—he nodded—”the second notice!”
“But, Smith—”
“About one thing I am determined, Kerrigan—and I come provided to see it through: M. Delibes must accept my advice. Another Si-Fan assassination would paralyze European statesmanship. It would mean submission to a reign of terror . . .”
Marcel Delibes came in, handsome, grey-haired; and I noted the dark eyebrows and moustache which had proved such a boon to French caricaturists. He wore a blue carnation in his buttonhole; he was charmingly apologetic.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you come at an hour so vital in the history of France that I think I may be forgiven.”
“So I understand, sir,” said Nayland Smith curtly. “But what I do not understand is your attitude in regard to the Si-Fan.”
Delibes seated himself at his desk, assumed a well-known pose, and smiled.
“You are trying to frighten me, eh? Fortunately for France, I am not easily frightened. You are going to tell me that General Quinto, Rudolf Adion, Diesler—oh, quite a number of others—died because they refused to accept the order of this secret society! You are going to say that Monaghani has accepted and this is why Monaghani lives! Pouf! a bogey, my friend! A cloud comes, the sky is darkened, when the end of a great life draws near. So much the Romans knew, and the Greeks before them. And this scum, this red-hand gang, which calls itself Si-Fan, obtains spectacular success by sending these absurd notices . . . But how many have they sent in vain?”
He pulled open a drawer of his desk and tossed three sheets of paper onto the blotting pad. Nayland Smith stepped forward and with no more than a nod of apology picked them up.
“Ah! The final notice!”
“Yes—the final notice!” Delibes had ceased to smile. “To me! Could anything be more impudent?”
“It gives you, I see, until half past eleven tonight.”
“Exactly How droll!”
“Yet, Lord Aylwin has seen you, and Railton was sent by the Foreign Office with the special purpose of impressing upon you the fact that the power of the Si-Fan is real. I see, sir, that you are required to lower and then to raise the lights in this room three times, indicating that you have destroyed an order to Marshal Brieux. That distinguished officer is now in your lobby. I had a few words with him as I came in. As a privileged visitor, may I ask you the exact nature of this order?”
“It is here, signed.” Delibes opened a folder and drew out an official document. “The whole of France, you see, as these signatures testify, stands behind me in this step which I propose to take tonight. You may read it if you please, for it will be common property tomorrow.”
With a courteous inclination of the head he handed the document to Nayland Smith.
Smith’s steely eyes moved mechanically as he glanced down the several paragraphs, and then: “Failing a message from Monaghani before eleven-fifteen,” he said, “this document, I gather, will be handed to Marshal Brieux? It calls all Frenchmen to the Colors. This will be construed as an act of war.”
“Not necessarily sir.” The Minister drew down his heavy brows. “It will be construed as evidence of the unity of France. It will check those who would become the aggressors. At three minutes before midnight, observe, Paris will be plunged into darkness—and we shall test our air defenses under war conditions.”
Smith began to pace up and down the thick Persian carpet.
“You are described in the first notice from the Si-Fan,” he went on, “as one of seven men in the world in a position to plunge Europe into war. It may interest you to know, sir, that the first warning of this kind with which I became acquainted referred to fifteen men. This fact may be significant?”
Delibes shrugged his shoulders.
“In roulette the color red may turn up eighteen times,” he replied. “Why not a coincidence of eight?”
We were interrupted by the entrance of a secretary.
“No vulgar curiosity prompts my inquiry,” said Nayland Smith, as the Minister stared angrily at him. “But you have two photographs in your charming collection of a lady well known to me.
“Indeed, sir?” Delibes stood up. “To which lady do you refer?”
Smith took the two photographs from their place and set them on the desk.
Both were of the woman called Korean!: one was a head and shoulders so fantastically like the bust of Nefertiti as to suggest that this had been one of her earlier incarnations; the other showed her in the revealing dress of a Korean dancer.
Delibes glanced at them and then stared under his brows at Nayland Smith.
“I trust. Sir Denis, that this friendship does not in any way intrude upon our affairs?”
“But certainly not—although I have been acquainted with this lady for some years.”
“I met her during the time she was appearing here. She is not an ordinary cabaret artiste, as you are aware. She belongs to an old Korean family and in performing the temple dances, has made herself an exile from her country…