“I understand that you were on duty,” the latter continued, “at Victoria on Friday when the Paris-London service known as the Golden Arrow, arrived?”
“I was, sir.”
“It is customary on this service to inspect baggage at Victoria?”
“It is.”
“One of the passengers was Professor Pietro Ambrose, accompanied by two servants or workmen, and having with him a large case or crate containing a statue. Did you open this case?”
“I did.” Preston’s merry eyes twinkled. He sneezed, blew his nose and smiled apologetically. “There was a detective on special duty who had travelled across with the professor, and who seemed anxious to get the job over. He suggested that examination was unnecessary. “But—” he grinned—”I wanted to peep at the statue. The professor was inclined to be peevish, but——”
“Describe the professor,” snapped Nayland Smith.
Preston stared in surprise for a moment, and then:
“He’s a tall old man, very stooped, with a white beard and moustache. Wears pince-nez, a funny black, continental cape coat, and a wide-brimmed black hat. He speaks with a slight Italian accent, and he’s very frightening.”
“Admirable thumb-nail sketch,” Nayland Smith commented, his penetrating stare fixed almost feverishly upon the speaker. “Thank God for a man who can see straight. Do you remember the colour of his eyes?”
Preston shook his head, suppressing a sneeze.
“He seemed half blind. He peered, keeping his eyes nearly closed.”
“Good. Go on. Statue.”
Preston released the pent-up sneeze. Then, grinning in his cheerful way:
“It was the devil of a game getting the lid off,” he went on.
“But I roped off a corner to keep the curious away, and had the thing opened. Whew!” he whistled. “I got a shock. The figure was packed in on a sort of rest—and there was a second glass lid. I had the shock of my life!”
“Why?” growled Gallaho.
“Well, I’d read about the ‘Sleeping Venus’ in the papers. But I wasn’t quite prepared for what I saw. Really—it’s uncanny, and if I may say so, a bit shocking.”
“In what way?” jerked Nayland Smith.
“Well, it’s the figure of a beautiful girl, asleep. It isn’t shiny, as I expected, hearing that it was made of porcelain—it looks just like a living woman. And it’s coloured, to represent nature. I mean, finger nails and toe-nails and everything. By gosh!”
“Sounds worth seeing,” growled Gallaho.
Nayland Smith dived into some capacious pocket within the leather overcoat, and produced a large mounted photograph. He set it upright on the inspector’s desk, right under the lamp. Preston stood up and Gallaho approached the table. Wisps of fog floated about the room, competing for supremacy with the tobacco smoke from Nayland Smith’s briar. The photograph was that of a nude statue, such as Preston had described; an exquisite figure relaxed, as if in sleep.
“Do you recognize it?” jerked Nayland Smith.
Preston bent forward, peering closely.
“Yes,” he said, “That’s her—I mean, that’s it. At least, I think so.” He peered closer yet. “Damn it! I’m not so sure.”
“What difference do you notice?” Nayland Smith asked, eagerly.
“Well . . .” Preston hesitated. “I suppose it was the colouring that did it. But the statue was far more beautiful than this photograph.”
There came a rap on the door, and the uniformed constable came in.
“The third car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and a Mr. Alan Sterling is here.”
CHAPTER
3
STERLING’S STORY
Alan Sterling burst into the room. He was a lean young man, marked by an intense virility. His features were too irregular to be termed handsome, but he had steadfast Scottish eyes, and one would have said that tenacity of purpose was his chief virtue. His skin was very tanned, and one might have mistaken him for a young Army officer. His topcoat flying open revealing a much-worn flannel suit, and, a soft hat held in hand, he was a man wrought-up to the verge of endurance. His haggard eyes turned from face to face. Then he saw Sir Denis, and sprang forward:
“Sir Denis!” he said, “Sir Denis——” and despite his Scottish name, a keen observer might have deduced from his intonation that Sterling was a citizen of the United States. “For God’s sake, tell me you have some news? Something— anything! I’m going mad!”
Nayland Smith grasped Sterling’s hand, and put his left arm around his shoulders.
“I am glad you’re here,” he said, quietly. “There is news, of a sort.”
“Thank God!”
“Its value remains to be tested.”
“You think she’s alive? You don’t think——?
“I am sure she’s alive, Sterling.”
The three men in the room watched silently, and sympathetically. Gallaho, alone, seemed to comprehend the inner significance of Sterling’s wild words.
“I must leave you for a moment,” Nayland Smith went on. “This is Divisional-inspector Watford, and Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, of Scotland Yard. Give them any information in your possession. I shall not be many minutes.” He turned to Preston. “If you will give me five minutes’ conversation before you go,” he said “I shall be indebted.”
He went out with Preston. Sterling dropped into the chair which the latter had vacated, and ran his fingers through his disordered hair, looking from Gallaho to Watford.
“You must think I am mad,” he apologized. “But I’ve been through hell—just real hell!”
Gallaho nodded, slowly.
“I know something about it, sir,” he said, “and I can sympathize.
“But you don’t know Fu Manchu!” Sterling replied, wildly. “He’s a fiend—a demon—he bears a charmed life.”
“He must,” said Watford, watching the speaker. “It’s a good many years since he first came on the books, sir, and if as I understand he’s still going strong—he must be a bit of a superman.”
“He’s the Devil’s agent on earth,” said Sterling, bitterly. “I would give ten years of my life and any happiness that may be in store for me, to see that man dead!”
The door opened, and Nayland Smith came in.
“Give me the details quickly, Sterling,” he directed. “Action is what you want—and action is what I’m going to offer you.”
“Good enough, Sir Denis.” Sterling nodded. He was twisting his soft hat between his hands. It became apparent from moment to moment, how dangerously over-wrought he was. “Really—there’s absolutely nothing to tell you.”
“I disagree,” said Nayland Smith, quietly. “Odd facts pop up, if one reviews what seemed at the time to be meaningless. We have two very experienced police officers here and since they are now concerned in the case, I should be indebted if you would outline the facts of your unhappy experience.”
“Good enough. From the time you saw me off in Paris?”
“Yes.” Nayland Smith glanced at Watford and Gellaho. “Mr. Sterling,” he explained, “is engaged to the daughter of an old mutual friend, Dr. Petrie. Fleurette—that is her name—spent a great part of her life in the household of that Dr. Fu Manchu, whom you, Inspector Watford, seem disposed to regard as a myth.”
“Funny business in the south of France, some months ago,” Gallaho growled. “The French press hushed it up, but we’ve got all the dope at the Yard.”
“Sir Denis and I,” Sterling continued, “went to Paris with Dr. Petrie and his daughter, my fiancee. They were returning to Egypt—Dr. Petrie’s home is in Cairo. Sir Denis was compelled to hurry back to London, but I went on to Marseilles and saw them off in the Oxfordshire of the Bibby Line.”