It was Flammario the dancer!
* * *
Brilliant amber eyes looked into mine; they were beautiful; but their beauty was of the jungle.
“Please, no, do not turn up the light. I promise you, I declare to you, that I am here to be of help. It is that your interests are mine. I know that you—look for someone.”
She preceded me into the rapidly-darkening room, for dusk falls swiftly in the Tropics, and seated herself in an armchair, not far from the door. Her movements had a wild animal grace, which might have been a product of her profession or have been hereditary. She was very magnetic; an oddly disturbing figure. I was far from trusting her. And now (she had a velvety, caressing voice): “Will you please promise me something?” s” asked.
“What is it?”
“There are two other ways out of here. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“If Sir Denis Nayland Smith comes, or Sir Lionel Barton, will you help me escape?”
I hesitated. My thirst for knowledge, knowledge that might lead me to Ardatha, prompted me to accept almost any terms, and Flammario had said, “I know that you look for someone.” Yet I distrusted her. I suspected her to be a servant of Dr. Fu Manchu, an instrument, a mouthpiece; otherwise from what source had she gained her knowledge of my companions? But my longing for news of Ardatha tipped the balance.
“Yes, I will do my best. But why are you afraid of them; and how do you come to know their names?”
“I had a friend—he is now my enemy”—the huskily musical voice came to me from a shadowy figure. “He, my friend, is a member of a secret society called the Si-Fan. You know it, eh?”
“Yes. I know it.”
“He told me much about it—far more than he should have told to anyone. And because I seem to know about the Si-Fan, I think that those others might—”
“Might hold you as a suspect?” I suggested.
“Yes.” The word came in a whisper. “It would not be fair. And so”—she had the quaintest accent—”will you promise me that I am not arrested?”
A moment longer I hesitated, and then: “Yes,” I said.
She laughed softly, a trilling, musical laugh.
“You Englishmen are so sweet to women—so are American men. It is foolish; but sometimes it pays.”
She was now a dim shape in the armchair.
“You mean until we have been tricked we expect women to play the game?”
“Yes, perhaps that is it. But I have something to ask you and something to tell you, and the time is short. First you look for a girl called Ardatha?”
“Yes!”
“And you believe that she is withDr. Fu Manchu?”
“Of course—”
“She is not.”
“What do you say?”
“She is with—my friend. Please let me go on. The name of this dear friend of mine is Lou Cabot. He is part owner of The Passion Fruit Tree where I am hostess. He is also the chief agent of the Si-Fan in the Canal Zone. He was sent to New York to bring Ardatha here—”
“Is he a sallow-faced fellow?” I broke in savagely, for I was thinking of the man I had seen with Ardatha in the Regal Athenian—the man of Panama. “Greasy black hair and semi side-whiskers?”
“He might look so, to you; but please listen. The Society, the Si-Fan, is split into two parts; there is a conspiracy against the President, and Lou is of those who plan his ruin. A dangerous game, I told him—and so he will find it! So far so good. But now, if you please, because he is so sure of himself, he has taken her away.”
“What!”
“Please, be patient: she may not have fought so hard; Lou has a charm for women—”
“Enough of that!” I said sharply.
Flammario glided to my side, threw one arm round me and rested her head on my shoulder.
“I am a woman,” she whispered. “Perhaps I know better than you when a man is fascinating to women. I do not think, myself, that her heart has changed about you. But I know—how well I know—that mine has changed! Listen again; my friend has wounded my pride. I know him, now, for a vain fool. He will surely die when the plot is known—”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, but I wish to see him die!” She laughed; it was musical but demoniacal laughter. “And if I can show you these two together I am sure that you will kill him . . .”
Flammario was undeniably beautiful in an exotic way; but as she pronounced those last words I thought of a puma, a sleek, satiny, lithe, dangerous beast.
“I assure you I shall do my best! But where is she? Where is she?”
“I think I know. Later tonight I shall be sure.”
“Then—quickly; what am I to do?”
She drew away from me. It was now nearly quite dark, and she appeared as a phantom.
“I will tell you—for someone must be here soon. You will make your friends promise—about me; and then, be at the Passion Fruit tonight before twelve o’clock. You must be prepared to act—”
“How? Tell me!”
I heard the elevator stop at our floor, heard the gate clang. I saw the phantom figure of Flammario drawn swiftly upright.
“Quick! Which is the better way?”
I hesitated.
“You promised—I trusted you. You can say I was here, but first let me go!”
“This way.”
I led her through to Barton’s room and opened the outer door.
“Tonight, before twelve—I shall expect you . . .”
CHAPTER XX
THE SHRIVELLED HEAD
As I closed the door after Flammario, footsteps passed by out-. side. Whoever had come up in the elevator was not bound for our apartment. In a few more precious moments I might have learned so much; but now it was too late. Ardatha in the hands of the sleek, sallow scoundrel I had seen in Panama! The mere idea made my blood boil. In some way I regarded the Chinese doctor as one might have regarded a disembodied spirit, although a spirit of evil, a sexless supermortal. But Lou Cabot! Could it be true?
Switching up the light, I fumed and looked at a large cage which stood on a side-table. Its occupant lay in the sleeping-box, only a tiny, grey-whiskered head drooping disconsolately out. I saw a bowl of food, untouched, upon the sanded floor. Peko the marmoset was near his end.
I approached the bars, staring in anxiously. Wicked little eyes regarded me, teeth were bared; and there was a faint whistling chatter. Peko might be moribund, but he could still hate all humanity. I returned to the sitting-room, lighted up, and took out the head in its mahogany box.
Shrivelled, hideous thing it was; and upon it (as again overcoming my revulsion, I studied it more closely) there still rested the shadow of a distant agony. Was this no more than a trap? Why should I trust Zazima? Yet, because the fate of Ardatha meant more to me—nor do I deny it—than the success or failure of the expedition upon which I was engaged, I knew that I was prepared to believe in his sincerity, prepared to believe Flammario. I was mad with apprehension.
Opening the case, I peered inside eagerly. I could see nothing concealed there. Perhaps I must remove the head; perhaps some message was hidden in the shrivelled skull itself. But as I held the box by its carved and crudely-coloured base, I made a discovery which induced an even greater excitement. One of the painted knobs moved slightly.
I was about to attempt to pull it from its place when the head began to speak!
When I say that it began to speak, I do not mean that any movement of those wasted features became perceptible; I mean that a low, obscene whispering proceeded from it.