“I am prepared to believe that it is a receiving-set and not some kind of hypnotic machine,” growled Barton, “when I have actually heard it for myself. It isn’t connected up in any way: it’s just an empty box—except, of course, for the shrivelled head.”
“No doubt I should be as sceptical as you,” Smith admitted, “if I had not had previous experience of this amazing apparatus. The head, of course, has nothing to do with the matter. Fu Manchu lacks a true sense of humour; but he has a strong sense of the baroque. Some time when you are in London and have an hour to spare, I must take you along to Scotland Yard Museum. One of these receivers is there. European experts have overhauled the mechanism and have unanimously declared it to be without equipment for receiving and transmitting sound waves—yet it did, as Kerrigan can testify. My dear Barton, Dr. F*u Manchu is many generations ahead of others in nearly all the sciences. I have never been able to make you understand that he has at his disposal many first class brains other than his own.”
“The facts of that zombie business are not too clear to me, either,” I confessed.
“If, as I suspect,” said Smith rapidly, “Haiti or its neighbourhood prove to be the Doctor’s new headquarters, it is possible, Kerrigan, that you may learn more of this matter in the near future.”
His gaze became abstracted again.
“What were you thinking about. Smith,” I asked eagerly, “with regard to the internal troubles of the Si-Fan?”
“I was thinking,” he replied, and spoke with unwonted slowness, “of the woman feared by the whole of the Negro population of Haiti, the woman known as Queen Mamaloi.”
“There has been a thorough check-up on this man Cabot,” said Beecher of the Zone Police. Captain Jacob Beecher was tall, had a square frame and a square face. He looked efficiently dangerous. “We have a considerable dossier Cabot already. In fact, at one time there was a movement to throw him out of the area.”
“What for?” asked Smith.
‘‘Well, in that gin cellar of his he’s sitting pretty to pick up information, and it was thought—but it couldn’t be proved—that he was Fifth Column man for one of the dictator teams. Personally, I still think he is. He has a lot of money and substantial interests around Panama; but although The Passion Fruit Tree is a dividend-maker, I don’t believe all his money comes from there.”
“Where does this bird roost?” asked Barton.
“We”, sir, he has Ritzy quarters right on the premises, and I guess the villa where Flammario lives (she’s his partner) is Lou’s property, anyway.”
“But,” I asked, “where is he now? Have you any information on that point?”
“No, sir. We know he went to- New York beginning of last week, and there’s some evidence that he came back two or three days ago. But he hasn’t been seen in The Passion Fruit or in any of his usual haunts. One thing is fairly certain: his girl friend has soured on him.”
“You are sure of this?” snapped Smith.
“Certain. Some of my boys who keep an eye on the place—it’s right enough in its way, but at times they’ve sailed pretty close to the rocks—report that there’s another dame in the case. Plammario is out for murder.” He looked about with his cold, unwinking eyes. “I may add, gentlemen, that although we have never had that pretty on the books, it’s known that she doesn’t stick at trifles.”
“Is the man an American Citizen?” I asked.
“Yes, they are both Americans by adoption. Makes it kind. of difficult, you see. But whatever the truth may be about Cabot, I have always held that the woman has nothing to do with his political work—if he is really engaged on political work.”
“Have you ever heard of a society known as the Si-Fan?” asked Smith.
“Sure. One of the Chinese Tongs, isn’t it? When I was in the Philippines I came across them once in a while, but, except maybe in the Chinese quarter, I don’t think they figure in the Canal Zone.”
“Indeed!” murmured Smith. “But I assume you have had no occasion to pursue such an inquiry?”
“None whatever—how would I? It isn’t the Chinese we worry about around here . . .”
“Nor is the Si-Fan exclusively Chinese,” said Smith. “But since you can give me no information on this point, we will not pursue it. Let us make our plans for the evening.”
“My plans are made,” said Barton. “We’ve been taking chances here. What about the charts? The steel box is in the hotel safe. What about damned monkey? One of us has always got to be in this apartment until we leave. I don’t like missing the fun—but I’ll stay on guard tonight.”
“As you wish. Barton,” said Smith. “I entirely agree with you. And now Captain Beecher, the position is this: we have to find Lou Cabot, and this woman Flammario has undertaken to tell us tonight where he is hiding.”
“If anyone can find out, she can,” murmured the police officer. “The Passion Fruit scouts know every sewer in the town.”
“Very well. Mr. Kerrigan and I propose to go along there immediately.Is the place a restaurant, a cabaret or a club?”
“All three,” was the reply, “and plenty expensive. There’s a cover charge of five dollars a head, paid as you go in, whether you want supper or not. If you like, I’ll come along with you. But I rather thought of standing by, with a few of the boys, in case any quick action should be called for.”
“That would be best,” said Smith. “Merely give me full particulars regarding the place, and be somewhere within sight of the entrance if I should want you.”
“All ready,” said Police Captain Beecher. “As the idea is to get in touch with Flammario I suggest, when you go in, that you sit at a table outside the bar—the balcony, see. Don’t go down on to the dance floor. The bar opens right out of the lobby. If you want to leave in a hurry, that’s the best place. One of my boys who knows you by sight will be right outside. Maybe I’ll come, too.”
CHAPTER XXII
THE PASSION FRUIT TREE
I cannot vouch for the accuracy of my notes regarding The Passion Fruit Tree. The bare idea of Ardatha being in the power of the man Lou Cabot, of whose private life I ha4 heard much before our arrival, had made me long to have my fingers around his throat. The primary appeal of the resort was to tourists. That puritan spirit which governs the Canal Zone! disapproved of the impression which might be carried away by visitors to The Passion Fruit, which twice had been closed and twice reopened again under ostensibly new management.
It did not present a dazzling facade to the world; merely a shadowy doorway above which in illuminated letters appeared the words “The Passion Fruit Tree”. A cloudless sky thickly studded with stars dimmed the glamour of the appeal. It was a hot, still night, and a murderous pulse was beating in my temples.
On entering I discovered the lobby to be painted with murals representing jungle scenes, and from a reception office trellised with flowering vines a shrewd-looking old coloured woman peered out. A powerful mulatto in uniform was in attendance, and everywhere one saw pictures of Flammario. We paid the extortionate entrance fee and walked through to the bar. The strains of a dance band reached my ears, and now I saw that one side of the bar opened upon a balcony which overlooked the dance-floor.
Subdued lighting prevailed throughout, as did the Jungle scheme of decoration. I was dimly aware of the presence of people at fables on the balcony, but Smith and I alone sat at the bar over which a coloured attendant presided. When he had ordered drinks: “I am naturally suspicious,” said Smith in a low voice, “hen we are dealing with the Si-Fan. Even now I am not satisfied that this may not be a trap of some kind.”