“Undoubtedly it was, and twice as hot at the bar end as at the other.”
“Maybe it’s central heated,” said Gallaho. “I’ll ask Murphy about it.”
“Nothing of the kind,” snapped Nayland Smith. He was still staring up at that spot above the roof of Sam Pak’s where the queer, spirituous flame had appeared. “Certain sects in India burn their dead on burning ghats. Were you ever in India, Gallaho?”
“No sir. But whatever do you mean?”
“You would know what I meant if you had ever seen a burning ghat at night. . . .”
CHAPTER 17
THE GAME FLIES
WEST
“Whichever way the dame comes out,” said Gallaho, “she’s got to pass this corner to get on to the main road. It’s a pound to a penny there’s another way out into that yard which adjoins the restaurant, and I’m told that a car is sometimes garaged there. It may be there to-night.”
“Evidently it is,” said Nayland Smith. “Listen.”
Gallaho ceased speaking and he and Sterling listened intently. Someone had started a car at no great distance away.
“Quick!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Your man’s standing by?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll wait here. I want to see who is in the car. Directly it has passed, pick me up. ...”
Gallaho and Sterling set off down a side-turning. In a narrow opening between a deserted warehouse and the adjoining building, the Flying Squad car was hidden, all lights out. They had no more than reached it, when the car from the yard beside Sam Pak’s passed the head of the street.
The Scotland Yard driver pulled out smartly. On the corner he checked and Nayland Smith jumped in.
“Fah Lo Suee!” he said simply.
Sam Pak’s remained under cover. Anyone leaving would be shadowed to his destination, but Smith’s instructions were urgent upon the point that the suspicions of the old Chinaman must not be aroused. . .
Deserted Commercial Road East reached, the police car drew up closer to the quarry—for at one point a curtain of fog threatened to descend again. Beyond, however, it became clearer.
“What car is it, Gallaho?” Nayland Smith asked. “I can’t quite make out.”
“It’s a Morris, sir, and they’re making it shift a bit.” Nayland Smith laughed shortly.
“Once, it would have been at least a Delage,” he murmured.
Silence fell again as they proceeded along one of the most depressing thoroughfares in Europe. Occasional lorries bound dockward constituted practically the only traffic: pedestrians were very few indeed. The occasional figure of a policeman wearing his waterproof cape brought the reflection to Sterling’s mind that the duties of the Metropolitan Police force would not appeal to every man. Entering the City boundaries, the driver pulled up much closer to the pursued car. By the Mansion House the fog had disappeared altogether. Sterling glanced aside at Sir Denis. The bright light of a street lamp was shining in. He started, then laughed aloud. Shadow came again.
“What is it?” snapped Sir Denis.
“I had forgotten what you looked like,” Sterling explained , “and your appearance was rather a shock.”
“Anyone seeing us,” growled Gallaho, “would take it for granted that I had one of you chained to each wrist.”
He turned to Sir Denis. “I don’t quite understand, sir, why you have handed the Limehouse end of the inquiry over to Forester. You have got definite evidence that it’s the base of this Fu Manchu. Why not raid it? There’s every excuse, if ever we want to do it. It’s only necessary to find a single opium pipe on the premises!”
“I know,” Nayland Smith replied, speaking unusually slowly. “But in dealing with Dr. Fu Manchu, I have found it necessary to follow certain instincts. These may be the result of an intimate knowledge of the Doctor’s methods. But having been inside Sam Pak’s to-night, I am prepared to assert with complete confidence that Dr. Fu Manchu is not there. I think it highly probable that his beautiful and talented daughter is leading us to him now, however.”
“Oh, I see,” Gallaho growled. “You don’t think by any chance that this fly dame spotted you through your disguise, and is making a getaway?”
“I don’t think so. But it is a possibility, nevertheless.”
“I mean,” the detective went on doggedly, “it isn’t clear to me what she was doing down there, unless her job was that of a lookout. You tell me she’s very much the lady, so that her idea of fun wouldn’t be serving beer to drunken sailormen?”
“Quite,” murmured Nayland Smith.
After which staccato remark he fell into a reverie which he did not break until the great bell of St. Paul’s boomed out from high above their heads.
“Two o’clock,” he murmured, and peered ahead. “Hello! Fleet Street. The game flies West, Gallaho.”
The Street of Ink was filled with nocturnal activity, in contrast to the deserted City thoroughfares along which, hitherto, their route had lain. Into the Strand, across Trafalgar Square and on to Piccadilly, the hunt led; then the Morris turned into Bond Street, and Gallaho broke a long silence.
“I’ve just remembered,” he remarked, “that they’ve got an extension at the Ambassadors’ Club to-night. Funny if that’s where she’s going.”
“H’m!” and Nayland Smith, glancing aside at Sterling, as the light from the window of a picture dealer’s shone into the car. “We sha’n’t be able to obtain admittance!”
“Just what I was thinking,” growled Gallaho. “Yes—look, sir! That is where she’s going!”
The Morris pulled up before the door of the club, and a commissionaire assisted a slender, fur-wrapped figure to alight. Fah Lo Suee, her jade coloured shoes queerly reflected upon the wet pavement, her gossamer frock concealed beneath a white wrap, went in at the lighted doorway.
“I can soon find out who she’s with and what she’s up to,” growled Gallaho. “You two gentlemen had better stay out of sight.”
He stepped out and proceeded in the direction of the club.
By the entrance he paused for a moment as another car pulled up and the be-medalled commissionaire sprang forward to the door. A distinguished looking gentleman who might have been a diplomat, who affected a grey, pointed beard and who wore a monocle, stepped out hurriedly, discarded a French cape and, tossing it back into the car, nodded to the commissionaire and went in. He vibrated nervous energy.
“H’m!” muttered Gallaho, watching the long, fawn and silver car disappearing in the direction of Bruton Street. “Sir Bertram Morgan!”
The last arrival was the newly appointed governor of the Bank of England.
Gallaho was about to turn to the commissionaire, with whom he was acquainted, when, following from the tail of his eye the slim, debonaire figure of the banker, he saw a slender woman dressed in jade green rise from a settee in the lobby and advance with extended hand to meet Sir Bertram.
In the brief glimpse which he had of her, Gallaho recognized the fact that she was the woman they had followed from Limehouse—according to Sir Denis Nayland Smith, the daughter of Dr. Fu Manchu. She was exotically beautiful. The strange pair disappeared.
Gallaho changed his mind.
“Good evening, sir,” said the commissionaire, and was about to salute; then grinned broadly and nodded instead.
“Good,” said Gallaho. “I am glad you remembered. Never salute a plain clothes officer.”
“No, sir.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Gallaho walked on as though his presence there had been merely accidental. Within his limitations he was an artist. It was no uncommon thing for the tracker to be tracked; keen eyes might be watching his every movement.
He crossed to Grafton Street, stood on the corner for a while, and looked back. Accustomed to the ways of spies, he was satisfied that no one was on his trail. He retraced his steps—but on the other side of Bond Street.