“Another one!” the watchman repeated truculently, fixing a ferocious glare upon the speaker, whom instinctively he disliked—”and another old ‘un—” challengingly, the glare unmoved from Gallaho—”and another old ‘un! . . .”
Nayland Smith was apparently making rapid notes; now:
“Was the other old one tall?” he inquired.
“He were not, he was just old.”
“Did you notice what he wore?”
“Listen ...” The night watchman puffed his cigarette and then stood up slowly—”you’re not suggestin’ I’m barmy, are you?”
“You bet I’m not,” snapped Nayland Smith cheerfully. “You’ve given me a grand paragraph.”
“Oh, I see. Well, he wore a seedy kind o’suit like I might wear, and an old soft hat.”
“What did they do?”
“The two younger chinks put the trap back and stamped it down. Then they all crossed the road behind my ‘ut, and that’s all I know about it.”
“Didn’t you see where they went?”
“Listen, mister . . .” The watchman sat down again on his plank seat, refilling his mug from the pot and adding the remainder of the whisky to its contents. “There was nobody about. I ain’t as young as I used to be. If you saw chinks—two of’em tough lookin’ specimens—come up put of a sewer ... see what I mean? Do you know what I done? I pretends to be fast asleep! And now, I’m goin’ to ask you a question. In the circs,—what would you ‘ave done?”
“That’s sense,” growled Gallaho.
“But you reported it to the constable on the beat when he came along?” said Nayland Smith.
“As you say, mister. And he not only give me the bird, he told me I was barmy or blind-oh. It’ll be a long time before I gives information to the bloody police again, whatever I sees—whatever I sees.”
CHAPTER
52
“I AM CALLING YOU”
Fleurette knew that Alan must not be out after dusk in this misty weather. He had developed an unpleasant cough as a result of the injuries he had received; but Fleurette had found a faith almost amounting to worship in the wisdom of Dr. Petrie, her father so newly discovered, but already deeply loved.
He had assured her that this distressing symptom would disappear when the lesion was healed.
She had not wanted Alan to go. Her love for him was a strange thing, impossible to analyse. It had come uncalled for, unwanted; she almost resented the way she felt about Alan.
The curious but meaningless peace of her previous life, her fatalistic acceptance of what she believed to be her destiny, had been broken by this love for Alan. He had represented storm; the discovery of her father had represented calm.
She knew, but nevertheless experienced no resentment of the fact, that she had been used as a pawn in the game of the brilliant man who had dominated her life from infancy. Even now, after her father and Sir Denis had opened her eyes, gently, but surely, to the truth—or what they believed to be the truth—about the Prince (for she always thought of him as the Prince) Fleurette remained uncertain.
Sir Denis was wonderful; and her father—her heart beat faster when she thought of her father—he, of course, was simply a darling. In some way which she could not analyse, her allegiance, she knew, was shared between her father and Alan. It was all very new and very confusing. It had not only changed her life; it had changed her mode of thought—her outlook—everything.
Curled up in the big armchair before the fire, Fleurette tried to adjust her perspective in regard to this new life which opened before her.
Was she a traitor to those who had reared her, so tenderly and so wonderfully, in breaking with the code which had almost become part of herself? Was she breaking with all that was true, and plunging into a false world? Her education, probably unique for a woman, had endowed her with a capacity for clear thinking. She knew that her thoughts of Alan Sterling were inspired by infatuation. Would her esteem for his character, although she believed it to be fine, make life worth while when infatuation was over?
In regard to her father, there was no doubt whatever. Her discovery of him had turned her world upside down. She resettled herself in the chair.
The Prince was fighting for her.
That strange hiatus in her life, about which the doctor had been so reticent, meant that he still had power to claim her. Now, they said he was dead.
It was unbelievable.
Fleurette found it impossible to grasp this idea that Dr. Fu Manchu was dead. She had accepted the fact—it had become part of her life—that one day he would dominate a world in which there would be no misunderstanding, no strife, no ugliness; nothing but beauty. To this great ideal she had consecrated herself, until Alan had come.
“Little Flower ... I am calling you!”
It was his voice—speaking in Chinese!
And Fleurette knew that ancient language as well as she knew French and English.
She sat bolt upright in the armchair. She was torn between two worlds. This normal, clean room, with its simple appointments, its neatness, its homeliness—the atmosphere which belonged to Sir Denis, that generous, boyish-hearted man who was her father’s trusty friend; and a queer, alluring philosophy, cloying, like the smoke of incense, which belonged to the world from which Nayland Smith had dragged her.
“Little Flower—I am calling you.”
Fleurette wrenched her gaze away from the fire.
In the burning logs, the face of Dr. Fu Manchu was forming. She sprang to her feet, and pressed a bell beside the mantelpiece.
There was a rap on the door.
“Come in.”
Fey entered. He brought Western reason, coolness, to her racing brain.
“You rang, miss?”
Fleurette spoke rather wildly; and Fey, although his manner did not betray the fact, was studying her with concern.
“You see, Fey, I arranged to wait dinner until my father and Sir Denis came back. As a matter of fact, I am rather hungry.”
“Quite, miss. Perhaps a little snack? Some caviar and a glass of wine?”
“Oh, no, Fey. Nothing quiet so fattening. But if you would get me just two tiny egg sandwiches with a layer of cress—you know what I mean—and perhaps, yes, a glass of wine . . .”
“Certainly, miss, in a moment.”
Fey went out.
Fleurette pulled the armchair around, so that she did not face the fire. It was a gesture—but a defensive one.
That voice—that voice which could not be denied—”Little Flower I am calling you”—had sounded, she knew, in her subconscious mind only. But because she knew this . . . she feared. If she had not known how this voice had reached her, she would have surrendered, and have been conquered. Because she did know, and was not prepared to surrender, she fought.
They thought he was dead . . He was not dead.
She heard Fey at the telephone giving terse orders. She was really hungry. This was not merely part of a formula designed to combat the subconscious call which had reached her; but it would help. She knew that if she wanted Alan, that if in future she wished to live in the same wholesome world to which her father belonged, she must fight—fight.
She wandered across to a bookshelf and began to inspect the books. One watching her would have said that she smiled almost tenderly. Nayland Smith’s books betrayed the real man.
Those works which were not technical were of a character to have delighted a schoolboy. Particularly Fleurette was intrigued by a hard-bitten copy of Tom Sawyer Abroad which had obviously been read and re-read. Despite his great brain and his formidable personality, what a simple soul he was at heart!