“But, Smith, no attempt is likely to be made here!”
“I was thinking more particularly of Barton and of Ardatha.”
Our drinks were served, he paid the man, and the latter walked to a chair at one end of the bar.
“Regarding Barton, I see what you mean. It might be an elaborate plan to split up the party?”
Smith nodded, “But,” he added, “Barton is an old campaigner and as we know, very well capable of taking care of himself. Furthermore, although I have not notified him of the fact, there is a police officer on duty outside our apartment tonight.”
“But Ardatha?”
“I am disposed to think”—he spoke in a very low voice—”that she is actually in Colon. All this may be a red herring designed to get us out of the way whilst she is smuggled elsewhere. But in the circumstances we can do nothing but wait for some sign from this woman Flammario.”
“I still believe,” said I, “that she is sincere.”
“Possibly,” Smith replied. “At least in her passionate hatred of Cabot. Let us hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “Three minutes to midnight. Suppose we go in and survey the scene.”
We went out on to the balcony, a place heavy with tobacco smoke and a reek of stale perfume. There were three men at an end table and two women at another. The women were obviously dancing partners. They were smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee: after a momentary professional glance in our direction, they resumed a bored conversation. The men, I thought, looked harmless enough; probably passengers from a ship passing through the Canal, out visiting the high spots of Colon. We looked down at the dancing-floor.
An orchestra concealed under the balcony was serving out swing music, pianissimo and at a very slow tempo. Only three pairs were dancing, and these also bore unmistakable evidence of being passengers ashore for the night. There were supper tables set along a sort of arcade on the left of the floor, but not more than half were occupied. Except for the persistent jungle note, it was a scene which had its duplicate in almost any city in the world. A hot irritation possessed me.
“Smith,” I said, “this somnolent booze-shop is going to get on my nerves. Whenever I think what we are up against—of the fate of Ardatha—this awful inactivity drives me mad.”
“The calm before the storm,” he answered, in a low voice. “Observe the two men at a supper table right at the other end; the table with the extinguished lamp.”
I looked in the direction indicated. Two stocky Asiatics, whose evening clothes could not disguise their tremendously powerful torsos, were seated there. Slit-like eyes betrayed no indication of where or at whom they were looking. But although individually I had never seen the men before, they were of a type with which I had become painfully familiar in the past.
“Good God, Smith!” I exclaimed. “Surely a pair of Fu Manchu’s thugs.”
“Certainly.”
“Then you were right—it is a trap. They are waiting for us!”
“Somehow, I don’t think so,” he replied. “I regard their presence as distinctly encouraging. In my opinion they are waiting for Lou Cabot. Our night will not be a dull one, Kerrigan.”
* * *
The band ceased, the dancers returned to their places.
All the lights went out and then a drum began to beat with all the rhythm of a darabukkeh. A lime, directed through a trap in the roof, shone across the empty floor and upon the figure of Plammario.
Her costume did not interfere in any way with appreciation of her beauty, and as she stood there for a moment motionless, none could have denied that the gods had endowed her with a splendid form. Her brilliant eyes were raised to the balcony, and although I doubted if she could see because of the beam of light, I was convinced that she was looking for us.
To the drum beat was added a monotonous reed melody, and Flammario began to dance. It was one of those African dances which, for my part, I regard as definitely unpleasant, but judging from the rapt silence of a now invisible audience I may have been in the minority. She moved languorously along the edge of the arcade where the supper tables were set, until at last she was directly beneath us. There for a moment she paused, raised her eyes, and: “Yes!” she said.
The deep-toned, slightly hoarse voice was clearly audible above the throb of the music, and into that one word Flammario had injected triumph—and a barbaric hatred. As she continued her dance, proceeding now towards the entrance through which she had made her appearance. Smith bent to my ear.
“She has found him! The woman wins. There is not a moment to waste if we are to get there ahead of Fu Manchu’s thugs. Now to establish contact.”
To a frenzied crescendo the dancer finished. She stood for a moment arms upraised and then stepped back into the shadow behind the limelight. Smith and I were up, tense, ready for action. But the almost complete darkness remained unbroken, and as we waited Flammario re-appeared, wearing a silk wrap. She acknowledged the applause of her audience. Again she retired, and as the lights sprang up, instinctively I stared in the direction of the end supper table.
The two yellow men had gone.
“Good God!” snapped Smith, “it’s going to be touch and go. Somehow, Kerrigan, they have got hold of the information!”
He had started back towards the bar when he was intercepted by a strange figure entering. It was that of a hunchback negro, emaciated as with long illness, his small, cunning eyes so deeply set in his skull as to be almost invisible.
“Mr. Kerrigan, please?”
He looked from face to face.
“Yes,” snapped Smith, “this is Mr. Kerrigan. What do you want?”
“Follow, if you please. Hurry.”
We required no stimulus, but followed the stooping figure. As we came into the bar I saw that the attendant had the flap raised at the further end. We hurried through a doorway beyond: the door was closed behind us. Down a flight of stairs we ran and along a corridor not too well lighted. At the end I saw Flammario. She wore a long sable cloak and as we hurried forward I realized that she stood at the door of a small but luxuriously furnished dressing-room.
“Quick!” she cried. Her eyes were gleaming madly. “You are ready to start?”
“Yes. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith. You have found Cabot?”
“I told you I had found him. I tell you now we must hurry.”
“Two agents of the Si-Fan were here a few moments ago,” said Smith rapidly. “Did you see them?”
She shrugged impatiently and the fur fell away from one bare shoulder. She snatched it back into place.
“I have to dance again in half an hour,” she explained simply. “Of course I saw them.” She stepped forward, forcing a way between Smith and myself. “Paulo!” she cried.
I turned and looked along the empty passage. The hunchback negro had disappeared.
“Do you think they have got the information?” Jerked Smith. “There is no time to think,” cried Flammario. “I tell you we must act. My car is outside. I know the way.”
“A police car would be faster,” said Smith on an even note. “One is waiting.”
Flammario was already running along the passage. “Any damn car you like!” she shouted, “but hurry? I have only half an hour and I want to see him killed. Hurry! I show you where he is—and the girl is with him.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CLUE OF THE RING
Police Captain Jacob Beecher was waiting beside a Police Department car not three paces from the side entrance to The Passion Fruit Tree.
“All set,” he said, as we ran out. “Where to?”
“Listen, Big Jake,” cried Flammario hoarsely, “this is my night and I give the orders.”