"Here is the bell, my lady. I shall be waiting for you to come out."
Nayland Smith five minutes before, had pressed the same bell — seven times.
An interval followed, during which nothing happened. Then, there was a faint clicking sound. Realising that it operated mechanically. Smith pushed the door — and found himself in a complete blackout, stuffy, airless. The door closed behind him.
He stood still for a moment, trying to get his bearings in (he dark. But he could see nothing, hear nothing. He wondered what he should do next, thought of Orson's notes — and had an idea.
"Si-Fan. The Seven!" he called.
A mechanical rumbling followed, heavy, dull, thunderous. A second door was being opened. In that utter darkness he saw a panel of faint green light. It enlarged as he watcher, became a wide rectangular gap.
He found himself looking out into a dimly illuminated place which resembled Aladdin's cave. It was the warehouse referred to by Police Captain Rafferty.
This green light came from a solitary lamp far away in cavernous darkness, but coming out of even more complete darkness, Nayland Smith's eyes quickly became accustomed to it. He glanced around — and was amazed.
Here was a fabulous treasure-house.
The distant light was from a silver mosque lamp fitted with green glass; one of the objects of art with which this incredible place was crowded. Piled upon the floor wete rugs and carpets of Kermanshah, of Khorassan, of the looms of China. Here was furniture of lemonwood, ivory, exquisitely inlaid, some of it with semi-precious stones; lacquer and enamel caskets, robes heavy with gold brocades and gems, pagan gods, swords, jars and bowls of delicate porcelain.
He looked back at the door by which he had entered, for he had heard it closing.
It was a metal door, set in a steel frame.
Clearly, Kwang Tsee did not rely on burglary insurance. But, setting aside certain qualms aroused by this unbreakable door, Nayland Smith concentrated upon the next move.
It was highly probable that the real delegates were familiar with the routine, and his only chance of safety lay in divining what this routine was. He hesitated for no more than twenty seconds.
Picking a route along a sort of alleyway amid priceless pieces, some of them fragile, he paused under the green lamp. It was suspended before a drapery of magnificent Chinese tapestry which only partly concealed another metal door. The ingenuity of the scheme, carried out without care for cost, earned his admiration.
These steel doors could be explained readily by the proprietor of such a collection as this. But other than a bank strongroom, no safer place could well be imagined for a meeting of conspirators.
A ticking sound, ominously like that of a time-bomb, drew his glance swiftly upward.
From somewhere in the shadowy roof an object that looked like a lacquered tray, suspended on thin metal chains, was descending slowlyl Lower it came, and lower, until it swung within reach of his hand.
Feverishly, Nayland Smith reviewed the pencilled notes.
Give up card… He might be right, he might be wrong. But to hesitate would certainly be fatal.
Taking from his pocket the card found in Orson's flask, Smith dropped it in the tray and gently twitched the chain.
The tray was wound up again.
A moment after it had been swallowed in the shadows of the roof beams, that now familiar rumbling was repeated. He saw that the halfdraped door had begun to open. When the opening became wide enough, he stepped through.
The rumbling ceased for three seconds, was renewed — and the metal door closed upon his entrance.
He was in a small, square room, unfurnished except for a long couch and a row of pegs on the wall, and lighted by one ceiling lamp. A number of cases and handbags lay on the settee. Two robes, or gowns, rather like those of university bachelors but of a dull green colour, hung on the pegs.
His next step was crystal clear… Mask. Gown.
Taking out the hideous green mask, he removed his glasses and fitted it onto his head. It was contrived so as to cover the hair, and made of some flexible, lightweight material. The mouth aperture was hidden by a sort of grating, but the eyeholes were not obstructed in any way.
Orson's case he laid on the settee, where five others lay already. None of the cases was initialled, he noted. Then he draped one of the two voluminous gowns over his shoulders.
And now came the crucial test:
Seven rings. Sixth bell.
What in the name of reason, did that mean? He inspected the room closely. Apart from the heavy, mechanical door now shutting him off from the world of normal men, he could see no other way in or out. But he saw something else: a narrow board, with seven green buttons. Reaching out, Nayland Smith pressed the button numbered six. He pressed it seven times.
Throughout, no human sound had reached him; but he could not dismiss an impression of being covertly watched. So far, he believed, he had done nothing to betray himself. So that, unless the unseen watcher had recognised him, his course still remained clear.
As for anything which might happen now, he was totally without guidance and must rely on his wits.
His pressure on the bell-push had produced no audible result. Complete silence claimed the small room. He was just beginning to wonder, uneasily, if he had misread Orson's last note, when a second door, camouflaged so cleverly in a wall that he had overlooked it, slid almost noiselessly open.
Nayland Smith stood at the head of a flight of concrete steps.
He was about to enter the secret cellars!
Smiling grimly (from now onward he stood alone against the Si-Fan) he began to go down.
The stairs led to a long, paved passage. It seemed to end before semitransparent green draperies. Evidently green was the Si-Fan colour. Light showed through the drapes.
And then, at last, a silence which had been disturbed only by the sound of his footsteps on the stair, was broken.
It was broken so sharply that he started, clenched his fists.
Six strokes on a deep-toned gong echoed, eerily, from wall to wall of the passage…
Raymond Harkness had just received the report, "The woman has gone in," when he noted a disturbance outside the vard in which the black sedan was parked. He stubbed out a cigarette he had been inhaling and sat quite still to listen.
A bulky figure appeared — and came right up to the open window.
"Who is it?" Harkness asked, sharply.
The glowing end of a big cigar was poked right in.
"Who does it look like?" Burke's growling bass inauired. "Your Aunt Fanny? Suppose I could wear out the seat of my pants with a show like this on? I have all the dope up to Smith going in. What's new since then?"
"The woman has gone in."
"Was she alone?"
"She went in alone. But a girl came out with her."
"Where's this girl?"
"She walked around to Kwang Tsee's store."
"Fine! We know where to find her. Did they come in a car?"
"Yes. But they left it too far away for anybody to pick it up. The car was driven off."
"Lousy!" Burke growled. "Oh, lousy! Nobody tailing it?"
"Rafferty reports there wasn't time. It was off the moment the owner got out."
"I'll talk to Rafferty, later. Is it certain, stone-sure certain, that every possible bolt-hole is plugged up?"
"There's a cordon right around the two blocks. You see, this car stopped outside the netted area—"
"Forget it! How long are we to give Smith to try to find out what we want to know before we go look for him?"
Harkness fitted a cigarette into his holder. "As I'm not in charge tonight, sir, that must rest with you."
Nayland Smith pulled the green draperies aside and stepped into a room which challenged his sanity.