He ceased speaking and closed his eyes.
His hands had never moved; it was like listening to a dead man speaking from the grave.
CHAPTER
61
THE CROSSLAND’S FLAT
“Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir,” Fey announced.
It was approaching evening when Gallaho called on Nayland Smith; and, entering the lobby, he wrenched his bowler off, threw it on to a chair and walked into the sitting-room.
“Hullo, Gallaho!” said Sir Denis. “A devil of a row going on in the corridor?”
“Yes, sir. The vacant flat has been let—to an Indian Army gentleman, I believe. His stuff is being moved in.”
“You’ve checked up, I see!”
“Well——” Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf— “I’ve got a man posted at each of the four exits, and I’ve sized up the workmen from Staple’s depository on the job. Nobody is going to slip out in the confusion—that is, nobody over six feet in height that I don’t know!”
“Efficient work, Inspector.”
Gallaho stared, chewing invisible gum.
“I have come to a certain conclusion, sir,” he declared. “What I do about it depends upon your answer to a question I am going to ask.”
“What’s the question?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“It’s just this, sir: who’s in charge of this Fu Manchu case?”
“I am.”
“Good enough. That means I am under your orders, definitely.”
“Definitely”
“That saves me a lot of trouble,” sighed Gallaho, leaning upon the mantelpiece. “Because I have certain theories, and I can’t act upon them without your instructions.”
He paused, and seemed to be listening.
“I know what you’re listening for,” said Sir Denis. “But I am very happy to be able to tell you, Gallaho, that Miss Petrie is entirely restored. The nurse installed by Dr. Petrie insists that she shall remain in bed. But there isn’t really the slightest occasion for it. Mr. Sterling and the nurse are with her now. She is completely normal.”
“That’s an amazing thing,” growled Gallaho.
Nayland Smith stared past him as if at some very distant object, and then:
“The powers of the mind are amazing,” he said, quietly. “But this theory of yours, Gallaho?”
“Well, sir, my theory is this: that slimy old Arab. Ibrahim, went out this morning and I followed him. I took Murphy along in case we had to split up. He went to West India Dock, and went on board a liner in from Jamaica. He came ashore again, with his employer, Mr. Crossland.”
“I know,” Sir Denis interrupted. “I met them here, as they arrived.”
“Oh, I see. . . .” Gallaho stared very hard. “Well, in my opinion, there’s something funny about it. You see, sir, I had some inquiries made about Mr. Crossland. His wife’s in New York. That’s certain—I mean the woman who writes books. But Mr. Crossland himself was last heard of in Madeira.”
“He might have joined the ship at some port of call.”
“He might,” Gallaho replied. “In fact, he must have done. But it’s very funny. Except the Egyptian, nobody has come out of that flat since we visited it. ... I’m wondering who’s still inside——”
Nayland Smith did not answer for some moments, then:
“You mean, Gallaho,” he said, “that you don’t think the man who is now presumably in Mr. Crossland’s flat, is really Mr. Crossland at all?”
“I suppose I must be mad,” growled Gallaho, almost rubbing his elbow into the mantelpiece. “His passport was obviously in order; he was accepted by the servants downstairs here, and he was met by Ibrahim, who took charge of his baggage. I suppose I must be barmy. But there’s something about it that isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on the weak spot—but I wish I had your authority to barge into Mr. Crossland’s flat. I think I should find something.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down in silence, but at last:
“In my opinion, you are right, Inspector,” he replied. “If my opinion is of any value, I regard you as a man brilliantly equipped for his chosen profession.”
Detective-inspector Gallaho became definitely embarrassed.
“You apparently don’t know the meaning of fear, although you have an active imagination. I owe my life to this singular combination, and this, I shall never forget.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The present Commissioner and myself do not see eye to eye, but I don’t dispute his brilliance as an organizer. What I mean is this, Gallaho; you have hit the nail on the head.”
Gallaho, watching the speaker, was chewing assiduously, and now:
“Am I to understand, sir,” he asked, “that you agree with my view of this case?”
“I do.”
“You mean you have reason to suppose, as I have reason to suppose, that the proper course, in the interests of justice, would be to secure powers to examine the flat of Mr. Crossland?”
“Exactly.”
There was a further interval of silence. Tramcars rocked upon their way, far below. Some vague hint of activity upon the river reached that high apartment.
“I take it, sir, you are officially in charge?”
“I have told you so.”
“And you don’t wish Mr. Crossland’s apartment to be searched?”
“Definitely, I forbid the step.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gallaho’s eyes strayed in the direction of the door which communicated with the room occupied by Fleurette.
“You see,” said Nayland Smith, “you are not dealing with a common criminal. You are dealing with the Emperor of Lawbreakers. Dr. Petrie and myself have worked side by side for many years, opposing this man’s monstrous plans. I have never succeeded in bringing him to justice. There are reasons why I can do nothing at the moment—nothing whatever. ...”
He fixed his keen eyes upon Inspector Gallaho.
“I understand, sir. When do I get the O.K.?”
“When Dr. Petrie rejoins us.”
CHAPTER 62
COMPANION CROSSLAND
Into the oriental bedroom dusk had crept. Long ago Ibrahim had turned the lamps on.
Petrie had lost identity: he was merely a physician battling with the most difficult case ever entrusted to him. He sat beside Dr. Fu Manchu, holding the lean, yellow wrist and registering the pulse; watching the mummy-like face, wondering if he had committed any error, and hoping—yes, hoping—that success would crown his hours of effort!
Under no obligation whatever, for no man who had ever met him had doubted the word ofFu Manchu, he was battling to save the life of this monster, this octopus whose tentacles, stretching out from some place in Asia, touched, it seemed, the races of the world. He was cherishing a plague, fanning into life again an intellect so cold, so exact, that the man in whose body it was set could sacrifice his own flesh and blood in the interests of his giant, impersonal projects.
For one insane moment, the glamour of the Si-Fan swamped common-sense. Petrie found himself questioning his own ideals; challenging standards which he believed to be true. Definitely, the world was awry; perhaps it was possible that this amazing man—for that he was an outstanding genius, none could deny—had a plan to adjust the scheme of things “nearer to the heart’s desire”.
How could he know?
Weighed in the balance with the mandarin doctor, he was a negligible quantity. Perhaps the redemption of mankind, the readjustment of poise, could only be brought about by a remorseless, steely intellect such as that of Dr. Fu Manchu. Perhaps he was a fool to fight against the Si-Fan . . . Perhaps the Si-Fan was right, and the Western world wrong!