“that was the name in which she crept into the good graces of Sir Lionel Barton in Egypt three years ago. However, all this is beside the point. You have taken a very grave risk, Sir Bertram.”
The banker, unused to that brusque mode of address which characterised Nayland Smith in moments of tension, stared rather coldly.
“Your meaning is not clear to me,” he replied. “I was invited to this house to discuss what I may term a purely professional matter with the Marquis Chang Hu.”
“Chang Hu? Will you describe Chang Hu?”
Sir Bertram was becoming definitely offended with Nayland Smith, largley because the latter’s force was beating him down.
“A tall, distinguished Chinese aristocrat,” he replied quietly.
“Correct. He is tall, he is distinguished, and he is an aristocrat. Pray proceed.”
“A member of a former Royal House of China.”
“Correct. He is.”
“A man, roughly, sixty years of age.”
“Say a hundred and sixty,” snapped Nayland Smith, “and you may be rather nearer the mark! However, I quite understand, Sir Bertram. May I ask you briefly to outline what occurred?”
“Certainly.” Sir Bertram leaned against a bookcase which contained works exclusively Chinese in character. “I met the marquis by appointment. His daughter, Madame Ingomar, had informed me (frankly, I didn’t believe her) that her father, an advanced student of mineralogy, had perfected a system for the transmutation of gold. I know something of gold . . .”
‘You should,” Nayland Smith murmured.
But his smile was so disarming—it was that delightfully ingenious smile which so rarely relieved the ruggedness of his features—that no man seeing it could have held antagonism.
Sir Bertram was mollified. He smiled in return.
“To-night,” he went on impressively, and pointed to the big table, “an ingot of gold was offered to me by the Marquis Chang Hu, together with the assurance that he was prepared to supply any quantity up to three hundred-weights in the course of the next few weeks!”
“What!”
“Sst!”
Gallaho at the open door had raised his hand in warning.
“Listen!”
The purr of an approaching car became audible.
“It’s Markham with the police,” said Gallaho.
He ran out.
Nayland Smith was staring curiously at Sir Bertram.
“It was pure gold?”
“Pure gold.”
“He claimed to be able to make gold,” murmured Smith. “I wonder ... I wonder. May I ask, Sir Bertram, how the interview terminated?”
“Certainly. Madame Ingomar, my host’s daughter, called out from somewhere in the house. The door was closed, and her cry was somewhat indistinct, but her father, naturally, was disturbed.”
“Naturally”
“He excused himself and went to see what had occurred, begging me to remain here.”
“He took the ingot of gold?”
“Apparently he did.”
“He closed the door behind him?”
“He did. I opened it recently, beginning to wonder what had become of the marquis.”
“It may surprise you to learn, Sir Bertram,” said Nayland Smith quietly, “that only three or at the outside four of the rooms in Rowan House are furnished.”
“What!”
“It was a plot. But by a miracle the plotters have been tricked. I regret to say that this is not the worst. I don’t know all the truth, yet, but when the police arrive, I hope to leam it.”
Detective-inspector Gallaho appeared in the open doorway, Sir Bertram’s chauffeur at his heels.
“Preston!” Sir Bertram exclaimed—”what’s this?”
“A very nasty business, sir, if I may say so,” the man replied.
He was an obvious ex-Service man, clean limbed and of decent mentality. His hazel eyes were very angry and his fists clenched.
“Tell me,” Sir Bertram directed, tersely.
“Well, sir,” Preston went on, looking from face to face. “that Burmese butler who opened the door when we arrived, you remember, came out about ten minutes ago, and I naturally thought you were leaving. As I went up to him in the dark he jabbed a pistol in my ribs, and invited me to jump to the wheel. I am sorry, sir, but I did it. . . .”
“Don’t blame you,” growled Gallaho.
“Several people got into the car, sir. I had an impression that one was carried in. Then, the coloured swine beside me gave the order to go.”
“Where did you go to?” asked Nayland Smith.
“To an old mews not three miles from here, sir, where I was told to pull up—and I pulled up. This blasted Burman sat with his gun in my ribs the whole time that the party in the car were getting out. But I had my eye on the reflector and I think there were two women and two men.”
“Any idea of their appearance?” Smith demanded.
“Not the slightest, sir. It was very dark. I’m not sure, even, of their number. But one of the men was very sick, the others seemed to drag him out of the car.”
The roar of the powerful engine of the Flying Squad proclaimed itself; voices were heard.
“Here they are!” said Gallaho.
“Quick!” Sir Denis directed Preston: “What happened then?”
“The Burman jumped off, keeping me under cover. He told me to drive back. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, sir.”
Uniformed police were pouring into Rowan House.
CHAPTER 25
CURARI
“Nothing here!” declared Nayland Smith.
They had searched every foot of the deserted mews.
“A sort of cache?” suggested Sir Bertram Morgan, who had accompanied them, now keenly interested in their quest. “No doubt they kept a car here.”
“There’s evidence that they did,” said Gallaho. “And we’ll know more about it to-morrow. But in the meantime,” he turned to Sir Denis, “what’s the next move, sir?”
Rowan House had proved to be a mere shell, a mockery: the greater part of it unfurnished. The library in Rowan House in which Dr. Fu Manchu had received Sir Bertram, and the corridor leading to it from the Assyrian hall, were the only properly furnished parts of the place. There was a small writing-room on the other side of the house, the glass in the French window of which had been smashed, containing a number of bookshelves, a bureau and one or two other odds and ends. But with the exception of fragmentary belongings of the former tenant, the eccentric Lionel Barton, the place was unfurnished from floor to attic—nor was there a soul in it, although the police had searched it foot by foot.
The property had been sold by Sir Lionel Barton, but the last tenant had left nearly a year before. The books and some of the ornaments in the two furnished rooms, unreadable volumes in Sanskrit, Chinese and Persian, had been left behind by the out-going tenant as they had been left behind by Sir Lionel. The Chinese library, with its sliding doors and lacquer fittings, had been a feature of Rowan House during the time that Barton had occupied it. The place had been baited for the evening; a mouse-trap. The caretaker had vanished.
“They’ve got Sterling!” groaned Nayland Smith. “God knows why they’ve taken him—but they’ve got him!”
Sir Bertram was now keenly interested, tuned up for the hunt; his sentiments in regard to Madame Ingomar had undergone a definite change, yet he knew in his heart, although he could not doubt the assurance of the ex-Assistant Commissioner, that if she beckoned to him again—he would follow. . . .
He wondered how far he would go, to what extent he would fall under the influence of those magnetic eyes, that compelling voice. He shuddered. Perhaps he had had a nearer escape than he realized. But the gold had been . . . gold.
The raiding party returned to the depot in the Yard car, and Sir Denis and Chief detective-inspector Gallaho accepted a lift home in Sir Bertram Morgan’s Rolls.