“Thank you,” growled Barton. “You may join the War Office and also go to the devil, with my compliments.”
Through chinks in the blinds early spears of dawn were piercing, cold and grey in contrast with the lamplight.
Tour compliments might prove to be an admirable introduction. But to continue. You, ahead of them all, even ahead of the Si-Fan and Dr. Fu Manchu, got on to the track of the family to whom these clues belong. You traced them by generations. And you ultimately obtained, from the last bearer of the name, certain objects known as The Stewart Luck”; amongst them, Christophe’s chart showing where the bullion lies. I do not inquire how you managed this.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Barton blazed. “I have my own methods. Buried history must be torn remorselessly from its hiding-place and set in the light of day. Once I have established facts, I allow nothing to stand in my way.”
“You are not enlightening me,” said Smith drily. “My experiences with you in Khorassan, in Egypt, and elsewhere had already convinced me of this. Your latest discovery from the Portuguese of da Cunha (you see I did not entirely waste my time in the British Museum) added enormously to your knowledge—“
Sir Lionel appeared to be about to burst into speech. But he restrained himself: he seemed to be bewildered. Smith paused, pulled out a note-case and from it extracted a piece of paper. Switching on the green-shaded lamp on the desk, he read aloud: “Da Cunha says that there is ‘a great and lofty cave in which a fleet might lie hid, save that the way in from the sea, although both deep and wide and high, is below the tide, so that none but a mighty swimmer could compass the passage9. . . . He adds that the one and only entrance from the land has been blocked, but he goes on. Tailing possession of Christophe’s chart no man can hope to reach the treasure9.”
Sir Lionel Barton was standing quite still, staring at Smith as one amazed.
“That quotation from a rare Portuguese MS. in the Manuscript Room,” said Smith, placing the fragment in his case, the case in his pocket, and turning to look at Barton, “you copied. The curator told me that you had borrowed the MS. Since the collection is closed to the public at present you abused your privileges, and were vandal enough to make some pencil marks on the parchment. I said, you will remember, that I was unable find you there. I did not say that I failed to find your tracks.”
Barton did not speak, nor did I, and: “It was knowing what you had discovered,” Smith continued, “which spurred my wild dash to find you. The bother in the Caribbean is explained. There is a plot to bottle up the American Navy. Fu Manchu has played a big card.”
“You are sure it is Fu Manchu?”
“Yes, Barton. He has a secret base in or near Haiti, and he has a new kind of submarine. No one but you—until tonight—knew of this other entrance to the cave. It is shown in that chart which was stolen from you by agents of Fu Manchu.”
“Suppose it is!” cried Barton; “what I should like you to tell me, if you can, is how, if Fu Manchu is using this place as a base, he gets in and out. You don’t suppose he swims? Granting that small submarines can pass through under water, small submarines can’t carry all the gear needed for a young dockyard!”
“That point is one to which I have given some attention,” said Smith. “It suggests that *the one and only entrance from the land’ referred to by da Cunha is not the entrance shown in the chart—“
“You mean there are two?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Then why should these Si-Fan devils go to such lengths to get hold of my chart?”
“Surely that is obvious. They feared an attack from this unknown point. They knew that the Intelligence services of two countries were making intensive inquiries; for whilst that “great and lofty cave’ remains undiscovered it is a menace to us and to the Unites States.”
“It’s to the United States,” said Barton, “that I am offering my services. My own country, as usual, has turned me down.”
“Nevertheless,” rapped Smith, “it is to your own country that you are offering your services. Listen. You retired from the Army with the rank of Major, I believe. Very well, you’re Lieutenant-Colonel.”
“What!” shouted Barton.
“I’ve bought you from the War Office. You’re mine, body and soul. You’re Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Lionel Barton, and you lead the expedition because I shall be in comparatively unfamiliar territory. But remember, you act under my orders.”
“I prefer to act independently.”
“You’ve been gazetted Lieutenant-Colonel and you’re under the orders of the War Office. There’s a Clipper leaves for the United States on Monday from Lisbon. I have peculiar powers. Be good enough to regard me as your commanding officer. Here are your papers.”
CHAPTER XI
THE HOSTAGE
I drew the blinds and stared down at Bayswater Road, dismal in the light of a wet, grey dawn. Sleep was out of the question. Two men stood talking over by the Park gate—the gate at which Ardatha had reappeared in my life. Although I heard no one enter the room behind me, a hand was placed on my shoulder. I started, turned, and looked into the lean, sunbaked face of Nay-land Smith.
“It’s rough on you, Kerrigan,” he said quietly. “Really you need rest. I know what you were thinking. But don’t despair. Gallaho has set a watch on every known point of departure.”
“Do you expect any result?”
He watched me for a moment, compassionately, and then: “No,” he replied, “she is probably already on her way to America.”
I stifled a groan.
“What I cannot understand,” I said, “is how these Journeys are managed. Fu Manchu seems to travel with a considerable company and to travel fast. He was prepared to include Barton and myself in the party. How is it done. Smith?”
“I don’t know! I have puzzled over that very thing more times than enough. He returned from the West Indies ahead of me; yet no liner carried him and no known plane. Granting, it is true, that he commands tremendous financial resources, in war time no private yacht and certainly no private plane could go far unchallenged. I don’t know. It is just another of those mysteries which surround Dr. Fu Manchu.”
“hose two men are watching the house. Smith—“
“It’s their job: Scotland Yard! We shall have a bodyguard up to the moment that we leave Croydon by air for Lisbon. This scheme to isolate the United States Navy is a major move in some dark game. It has a flaw, and Barton has found it!”
“But they have the chart—“
“Apart from the fact that he has copied the chart, Barton has an encyclopaedic memory—hence Fu Manchu’s anxiety to make sure of him.”
London was not awake: it came to me that Nayland Smith and I alone were alive to a peril greater than any which had ever threatened the world. In the silence, for not even the milkmen were abroad yet, I could hear Barton breathing regularly in the spare room—that hardened old campaigner could have slept on Judgement Day.
My phone bell rang.
“What’s this?” muttered Smith.
I opened the communicating door and went into the writing-room. I took up the receiver.
“Hullo,” I said, “Who wants me?”
“Are you Paddington 54321?”
“Yes.”
“Call from Zennor . . . . You’re through, miss.”
My heart began to beat wildly as I glanced towards the open door where Nayland Smith, haggard in grey light, stood watching.