“No, sir. The last one we passed was at the crossroads.”
“Drive back,” Nayland Smith instructed. “It’s your job to put a call through to local headquarters.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I want a raid squad here within twenty minutes. When you know where to go, drive there to pick ‘em up.”
“Very good, sir.”
Silently and smoothly the big car moved out of the lane.
“In moments of excitement,” said Nayland Smith, “I am afraid I relapse into Indian police terms, Do you think your man can manage it, Gallaho?”
“Certainly, sir.” Gallaho replied. “The Flying Squad’s pretty efficient. We shall have all the men you want inside twenty minutes.”
“My fault,” said Nayland Smith, “not to have had a radio car.”
“They’re all on duty, sir.”
“One could have been recalled. We had time.”
“What now, sir?”
“We must look for vulnerable points, and keep well under cover. I don’t want Sir Bertram’s driver to see us. I trust nobody where Dr. Fu Manchu is concerned. Come on!”
He led the way towards the tree-shadowed drive of Rowan House. Their cautious footsteps seemed loudly to disturb the damp silence of the avenue, but they pressed on till the lights of Sir Bertram’s Rolls, drawn up before the porch of the squat residence, brought them to a halt.
“Sterling!” Nayland Smith’s voice was low, but urgent. “Through the shrubbery here, and right around that wing on the left. You are looking for a way in, preferably a French window, of course. But any point where an entrance can be made quickly. If you meet anybody, tackle him, and then sing out. Are you armed?”
‘Yes; it’s become a habit since I met Dr. Fu Manchu.”
“Good. Walk right around the house until you meet Gallaho, then return by the more convenient route, and this point is to be our meeting place. And now, you, Gallaho, stick to the shadow of that lawn, there, and work around the right of the house till you meet Sterling. I am going to direct my attention to obtaining a glimpse of Sir Bertram’s chauffeur. His appearance and behaviour will tell me much. We meet here in five minutes.”
Gallaho and Sterling set out.
CHAPTER
22
GALLAHO RUNS
Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho started his voyage of exploration under conditions rather more difficult than those which confronted Sterling.
The west wing of the house was closely invested by shrubbery; and although there were a number of windows, some of which were lighted, it was impossible to approach near enough to take advantage of any chink in the curtains. Some of the shrubs, which were of varieties unfamiliar to the inspector, remained in full leaf, others displayed flowers; and there was a damp, sweet, but slightly miasmatic smell about the place.
He remembered that the house had belonged for some years to the eccentric explorer, archeologist and author, Sir Lionel Barton. No doubt this freak vegetation had been imported by him. Gallaho, who was no floriculturist, did not quite approve of shrubs which flowered in mid-winter.
Pressing on, walking on wet grass, he presently reached a gate in a wall which threatened to terminate his journey. He tried the gate—it was unlocked; he opened it. It communicated with a paved yard. Out-buildings indicated that this had formerly been the stables of Rowan House.
Gallaho stood still, looking about him suspiciously.
He was satisfied that no horses were kept; the place was very silent. In the windows of the main building visible from where he stood, no light showed. This was not surprising at such an hour in the morning. The domestic staff might be expected to have retired. It was the sort of place, however, in which an experienced man expected to meet a watch-dog.
Gallaho, holding the door ajar, assured himself that there was no dog, before proceeding across the yard. He examined doors and windows, and came out presently into a neglected garden. He pulled up to take his bearings.
From somewhere a long way off came the wail of a train whistle; and . . . was that a muffled crash?
He had made a half-circuit of the house, which was not large. Sterling should have met him at about this point.
Gallaho stood still, listening.
Except for that vague murmuring which makes London audible for twenty miles beyond the city’s boundaries, the night was still.
It was very queer.
Gallaho had noted that all windows in the domestic quarters were fastened. The ideal point of entrance had not presented itself. He pushed on. What had become of Sterling?
Weed-grown flower beds bordered the wall of the house. There was nothing of interest to tempt him to approach nearer.
Suddenly, he stopped, fists clenched.
Somewhere—somewhere inside the house, he thought . . . a woman had screamed!
He began to run. He ran in the direction of an out-jutting wing. It was very dark here, but Gallaho found gravel beneath his feet. He raced around the abutment and found himself staring at a French window.
There was no light in the room to which it belonged. Gallaho could see that heavy curtains were drawn. But there was no indication that the interior was illuminated. Nevertheless—from that room the cry might well have come.
He ran forward.
His first discovery was a dramatic one. A glass pane immediately above the lock had been shattered!
The absence of Sterling was now becoming inexplicable. Gallaho could only suppose that he had made some discovery which he had felt to be of such importance as to justify his returning and reporting to Sir Denis. Otherwise, palpably they must have met some considerable time before this.
Gallaho slipped his hand through the opening in the glass, encountering velvet draperies, groped about and found the lock.
There was no key in it.
Yet there was something very sinister about this broken window—that dim scream.
Searching his memory, he seemed to recall that at one point in his fruitless journey, just after he had crossed the stable yard, at about the same time that a distant train whistle had disturbed the silence, he had imagined that he heard a muffled crash. Here, perhaps, was the explanation.
But where was Sterling?
He ran on to the corner of this wing of the house; and now, through close growing but leafless trees, could see the tunnel-like drive along which they had come. Sterling was not in sight, nor could he see Sir Denis. . . .
CHAPTER
23
FLEURETTE
Alan Sterling was fully alive to the selfishness of his own motives. Nayland Smith was working for the welfare of humanity, striving to defend what we call Civilization from the menace which Dr. Fu Manchu represented. Gallaho officially assisted him. But he, Sterling, hard though he might fight to thrust personal interest into the background, to seek the same goal, knew in his heart that his present objective was the rescue ofFleurette—if she lived—from the clutches of the Chinese doctor.
Through long days and all but unendurable hours of sleepless nights, since the message of Dr. Petrie, her father, had reached him, he had known this yearning for the truth, dreadful though it might be. Was she dead or alive? If alive, to what condition of mindless slavery—to what living death—had she been subjected by the brilliant devilish master other destiny?
He forced his way through damp shrubbery; thorny bushes obstructing his path. He was anxious to avoid making any unnecessary noise. Frequently he glanced towards the porch of Rowan House before which the long, lithe outlines of Sir Bertram’s Rolls glittered dimly in reflected light. The headlamps had been turned off, but the sleek body was clearly visible.
Scratches were not to be avoided. At last he was clear of the shrubbery, and found himself upon the damp soil of a flowerbed. He ploughed forward, aiming for a dimly seen path, reached it and felt hard gravel beneath his feet. He was now out of sight from the porch. Glancing back swiftly, he crossed the path and found himself in shelter from the point of view of anyone watching from the front of the house.