These queer memories often claimed my mind at the most unlikely moments. We had been absent from England more than a year and had brought back a stack of stuff to be disposed of and catalogued. This tedious business, the chief invariably left to me.
I was three deep in appointments with British Museum authorities, the Royal Society, and others too numerous to mention.
The bloodstained relics of Mokanna occupied a case to themselves in the famous Museum Room at Bruton Street. Sir Lionel had several properties in England, one of which, however, he had recently sold. His collection was distributed among the others, but the gems were in London.
Already, as I had anticipated, he had opened his campaign of publicity for the wedding. With characteristic disregard for the conventions, he had insisted that I must put up at his house. And during the past few days, almost every time I had gone out with Rima I had found our path beset by Press photographers. On more than one occasion I had bolted—to save myself from committing an assault.
Rima and the chief left by an eleven o’clock train for Norfolk, and, a busy day’s work now concluded, I looked forward to a dull evening. However, by chance I picked up an old acquaintance at the club; we did a show together and then went on to supper, killing time quite agreeably. For a few hours, at any rate, I forgot my more or less constant longing for Rima.
She was already swamped in appointments with costumiers, hat makers, and others, and had gone to Norfolk to rest, specifying that she would be absent for only two days. She would have refused to go at all, I am sure, under ordinary circumstances; but Mrs. Petrie was meeting her there. Petrie and Sir Denis were already homeward bound, and the chief had planned the return to Norfolk to synchronise with their arrival in London.
If Sir Lionel ever enters paradise, it is beyond doubt that he will reorganise the angels....
I parted from my friend at the top of the Haymarket in the neighbourhood of one o’clock and decided to walk back to Bruton Street. As I set out, going along deserted Piccadilly, a panorama of the recent years unrolled itself before my mind. The giant shadow ofFu Manchu lay over all my memories.
There had been a time, and this not so distant, when I should have hesitated to walk alone along Piccadilly at one o’clock in the morning; but in some queer fashion my feelings in regard to Dr. Fu Manchu had undergone a change.
Since that unforgettable interview in the Great Pyramid, I had formed an impression of his greatness which, oddly enough, gave me a sense of security. This may be difficult to understand, but what I mean is that I believed him too big to glance aside at one so insignificant as myself. If ever I stood in his way, he would crush me without hesitation; at the moment he had nothing to gain by intruding upon my humble existence.
So I mused, staring about me as I walked. His resources, I realised, were enormous, apparently inexhaustible, as the daring robbery from the Indramatra on the high seas had shown; but the motive which had actuated this could inspire Dr. Fu Manchu no longer.
There had been a short paragraph in The Times that mom-ing (confirming the latest news from Sir Denis) which indicated that the Mokanna rising, or threat of a rising, sometimes referred to as the “Coming of the New Mahdi,” had subsided almost as suddenly as it had arisen. The explanation of the Times correspondent was that the leader of the movement, whose identity remained unknown, had proved to be an impostor.
There was a fair amount of traffic in Piccadilly, but there were few pedestrians. I lighted my pipe. Crossing to the corner of Bond Street I saw a constable patiently testing the fastenings of shop doors. My thoughts flashed back to the many market streets ofthe East I had known....
I began to feel pleasantly sleepy. Another busy day was before me; the chief was preparing a paper dealing with Mokanna relics which he would read before the Royal Society. Embodying, as it did, the truth about the abortive rising of the Masked Prophet, it was calculated to create a tremendous sensation, doubtless involving Notes between the Persian Legation and the Foreign Office. This, of course, which any normal man must have wished to avoid, was frankincense and myrrh in the nostrils of Sir Lionel.
At eleven o’clock four famous experts had been invited to examine the relics: Hall-Ramsden ofthe British Museum; Dr. Brieux of Paris; Professor Max Eisner—Germany’s greatest Orientalist; and Sir Wallace Syms of the Royal Society.
I think the chief’s hasty departure had something to do with this engagement. He avoided his distinguished contemporaries as one avoids a pestilence. I had rarely known such a meeting which had not developed into a fight.
“Better wait for the Royal Society night, Greville,” he had said. “Then I can go for the lot of ‘em together!”
Turning into Bruton Street, I saw it deserted as far as Berkeley Square. Sir Lionel’s house was one of the few not converted to commercial use; for this once favoured residential district is being rapidly absorbed into the shopping zone. He had had tempting oners for the property; but the mere fact that others were so anxious to buy was sufficient to ensure his refusal to sell. The gloomy old mansion, which he rarely occupied, but where a staff of servants was maintained, cost him somewhere in the neighbourhood of two thousand a year to keep empty.
I was in sight of the entrance, guarded by two miniature obelisks, and was already fumbling for my key when an odd thing occurred.
The adjoining house had been up for sale ever since I could remember. It was unoccupied and plastered all over with auctioneers’ boards—a pathetically frequent sight in Mayfair. And as I passed the iron railing guarding the area ofthe basement—indeed, had my foot on Sir Lionel’s steps—a voice called me by name.
“Shan!”
The voice came from the basement ofthe empty house!
It was a woman’s voice; not loud, but appealing. My heart leapt wildly. In tone it was not unlike the voice of Rima!
I turned back, staring down into the darkness below. An illusion, I thought. Yet I could have sworn it was a human voice. And as I stood there looking down: “Shan!” it came again, more faintly.
It chilled me! it was uncanny—but investigate I must I looked up and down the street; not a soul was in sight. Then, pushing open the iron gate, I descended the steps to the little sunken forecourt.
There was no repetition of the sound, and it was very dark down there in the area. But I could see that a window of the empty house had been taken out, and it occurred to me that the call had come from someone inside. Standing by the frameless window:
“Who’s there?” I cried.
There was no reply.
Yet I knew that a second time I could not have been mistaken. Someone had called my name. I must learn the truth My pipe gripped firmly between my teeth, and, ignoring accumulated dust on the ledge, I climbed over a low sill and dropped into the gloom of the deserted house. I put my hand into my topcoat pocket in search of matches.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOURTH
“THIS WAS THE ONLY WAY...”
A paralysing grip seized my ankles; my arms were pinioned behind me, and an impalpable something was pressed over my mouth! I experienced a sudden sharp pain in my arm, as though something had seared the flesh. Then...I realised that, struggle as I might, I was helpless—helpless as a child!