The Drums of Fu-Manchu (18 page)

“But you say”—I turned to the detective—“that you had a man on duty at the rear of the hotel?”

“True, but here is dense shadow at this hour of the night. It would be possible—just possible—for one to reach and cross that bridge unnoticed.”

In my mind I was reconstructing the tragedy of the night.

I saw Nayland Smith, drugged, helpless, being carried (probably on the shoulder of one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s Thugs) right below my window as I lay there intoxicated by the beauty of Ardatha. I felt myself choked with rage and mortification.

“But it is simply incredible,” I cried, “that such a crime can be committed here in Venice! We must find Sir Denis! We must find him!”

“It is understood, sir, that we must find him. This is very bad for the Venice police, because you are under our special protection. The chief has been notified and will shortly be here. It is a tragedy—yes: I regret it deeply.”

Overcome by a sense of the futility of it all, the hopelessness of
outwitting that criminal genius who played with human lives as a chess player with pieces, I turned and walked back to the sitting room. I stared dumbly at the open window through which my poor friend had disappeared, probably forever.

The police left the suite, in deference, I think, to my evident sorrow, and I found myself alone.

The girl to whom I had lost my heart, my reason, was a modern Delilah. Her part had been to lull my suspicions, to detain me there—if need be with kisses—while the dreadful master of the Si-Fan removed an enemy from his path.

My thoughts tortured me—I clenched my teeth; I felt my brain reeling. In every way that a man could fail, I had failed. I had succumbed to the wiles of a professional vampire and had given over my friend to death.

There were perhaps issues greater than my personal sorrow. The life of Rudolf Adlon hung upon a hair. Nayland Smith was gone!

Venice, the city of the doges, had claimed one more victim.

* * *

Dawn was creeping gloriously over the city when the first, the only clue, came to hand.

A Carabinieri patrol returning at four o’clock was subjected, in common with all others who had been on duty that night, to a close examination. He remembered (a fact which normally he would not have reported) that a girl, smartly dressed and wearing a scarf over her hair, had hurried past him at a point not far from the hotel. He had paid little attention to her, except that he remembered she was pretty, but his description of her dress strongly suggested Ardatha!

Twenty yards behind and, as he recalled, seeming deliberately to keep in the shadow, he had noticed a man: an Englishman, he was
confident, tall, wearing a tweed suit and a soft-brimmed hat.

The time, as nearly as I could judge, would have corresponded to that at which I had parted from Ardatha…

The detective’s theory had been the right one, something had drawn Smith’s attention to the presence of the girl. He had not been kidnapped—he had watched and followed her. To where? What had become of him?

That sense of guilt which weighed heavily upon me became heavier than ever. I was indeed directly responsible for whatever had befallen my friend.

I was already at police headquarters when this report came in. The man was sent for and through an interpreter I questioned him. Since I knew the two people concerned more intimately than anyone present his answers to my questions removed any possibility of doubt.

The girl described was Ardatha. Nayland Smith had been following her!

Even at this stage, frantic as I was with anxiety about Smith, almost automatically I compromised with my conscience when Colonel Correnti asked me:

“Do you think this girl is someone known to Sir Denis?”

“Possibly,” I replied. “He may have thought he recognised an accomplice of Doctor Fu-Manchu.”

When I left police headquarters to walk back to the hotel, Venice was bathed in its morning glory. But I moved through the streets and across the canals of that fairy city in a state of such utter dejection that any I passed surely pitied me.

Of Smith’s plans in regard to the luncheon party on Silver Heels I had very little idea, but I had been fully prepared to go with him. I was anxious to see Rudolf Adlon in person. It seemed to me to be pointless to go alone. What he had hoped to learn I could not
imagine. James Brownlow Wilton, the New York newspaper magnet, would seem to have no place in this tangled skein. It was a baffling situation and I was hopelessly worn out.

I tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but found sleep to be impossible. Sir George Herbert called at ten o’clock, an old young man with foreign office stamped indelibly upon him. His expression was grave.

“This is a great blow, Mr Kerrigan,” he said. “I can see how it has affected you. To me, it is disastrous. These threats to Rudolf Adlon, who is here incognito, as you know, are backed by an organisation which does not threaten lightly. General Quinto has been assassinated—why not Rudolf Adlon?”

“I agree. But I know nothing of Smith’s plans to protect him.”

“Nor do I!” He made a gesture of despair. “It had been arranged for him to go on board Mr Wilton’s yacht during today’s luncheon, but what he hoped to accomplish I have no idea.”

“Nor I.”

I spoke the words groaningly, dropped on to a chair and stared I suppose rather wildly at Sir George.

“The Italian authorities are sparing no effort. Their responsibility is great, for more than the reputation of the chief of police is at stake. If any news should reach me I will advise you immediately, Mr Kerrigan. I think you would be wise to rest.”

T
he human constitution is a wonderfully adjusted instrument. I had no hope, indeed no intention, of sleeping. Venice, awakened, lived gaily about me. Yet, after partially undressing, within five minutes of Sir George’s departure I was fast asleep.

I was awakened by Colonel Correnti. Those reflected rays through my shutters which I had not closed told me the truth.

It was sunset, I had slept for many hours.

“What news?”

Instantly I was wide awake, a cloak of sorrow already draped about me.

He shook his head.

“None, I fear.”

“The luncheon party on the yacht took place, I suppose? Sir Denis feared that some attempt might be made there.”

“Rudolf Adlon was present, yes. He is known on these occasions as Major Baden. My men report that nothing of an unusual nature took place. The dictator is safely back at the Palazzo da Rosa where he will be joined tomorrow by Pietro Monaghani. There is no
evidence of any plot.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I do? Officially, I am not supposed to know that the chancellor is here. Of Sir Denis no trace can be found. What can I do?”

His perplexity was no greater than mine. What, indeed, could any of us do?

I forced myself to eat a hasty meal. The solicitude of the management merely irritated me. I found myself constantly looking aside, constantly listening, for I could not believe it possible for a man so well known as Nayland Smith to vanish like a mirage.

Of Ardatha I dared not think at all.

To remain there inert was impossible. I could do nothing useful, for I had no plan, but at least I could move, walk the streets, search the cafes, stare up at the windows. With no better object than this in view, I set out.

Before St Mark’s I pulled up abruptly. The magic of sunset was draping the façade in wonderful purple shadows. I was torn between two courses. If I lost myself in this vain hunt through the streets of Venice, I might be absent when news came. In a state of indecision I stood there before the doors of that ornate, ancient church. What news could come? News that Smith was dead!

From these ideas I must run away, must keep moving. Indeed I found myself incapable of remaining still, and now a reasonable objective occurred to me. Since Rudolf Adlon was staying at the Palazzo da Rosa this certainly would be the focus of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s attention. Actually, of course, I was seeking some excuse for action, something to distract my mind from the ghastly contemplation of Nayland Smith’s fate.

I hurried back to the hotel and learned from the hall porter that no message had been received for me. Thereupon I walked out and chartered a motorboat.

A gondola was too slow for my humour.

“Go along the Grand Canal,” I directed, “and show me the Palazzo da Rosa.”

We set out, and I endeavoured to compose myself and to submit without undue irritation to the informative remarks of the man who drove the motorboat. He wished to take me to the Rialto Bridge, to the villa where Richard Wagner had died, to the Palace of Gabriel d’Annunzio; but finally, with a great air of mystery, slowing his craft:

“Yonder,” he said, “where I am pointing, is the Palazzo da Rosa. It is here, sir, that Signor Monaghani, himself, stays sometimes when he is in Venice. Also it is whispered, but I do not know, that the great Adlon is there.”

“Stop awhile.”

Dusk had fallen and light streamed from nearly all the windows of the palace. I observed much movement about the water gate, many gondolas crowded against the painted posts, there was a stir and bustle which told of some sort of entertainment taking place.

A closed motorboat, painted black, and apparently empty, passed almost silently between us and the steps.

“The police!”

We moved on…

Two seagoing yachts were at anchor, and out on the lagoon we met a freshening breeze. One of the yachts belonged to an English peer, the other, Silver Heels, was Brownlow Wilton’s beautiful white cruiser, built on the lines of an ocean greyhound. All seemed to be quiet on board, and I wondered if the celebrated American was being entertained at the Palazzo da Rosa.

“Where to now, sir?”

“Anywhere you like,” I answered wearily.

The man seemed to understand my mood. I believe he thought I was a dejected lover whose mistress had deserted him. Indeed, he was not far wrong.

We turned into a side canal where there were ancient windows, walls and trellises draped in clematis and passion flower, a spot, as I saw at a glance, perpetuated by many painters. In the dusk it had a ghostly beauty. Here the motorboat seemed a desecration, and I wished that I had chartered a gondola. Even as the thought crossed my mind, one of those swan-like crafts, carrying the bearings of some noble family, and propelled by a splendidly uniformed gondolier, swung silently around a corner, heralded only by the curious cry of the man at the oar.

My fellow checked his engine.

“From the Palazzo da Rosa!” he said and gazed back fascinatedly.

Idly, for I was not really interested, I turned and stared back also. There was but one passenger in the gondola…

It was Rudolf Adlon!

“Stop!” I ordered sharply as the man was about to restart his engine. “I want to watch.”

For I had seen something else.

On the balcony of a crumbling old mansion, once no doubt the home of a merchant prince but now falling into ruin, a woman was standing. Some trick of reflected light from across the canal made her features clearly visible. She wore a gaily coloured shawl which left one arm and shoulder bare.

She was leaning on the rail of the balcony, staring down at the passing gondola—and as I watched, eagerly, almost breathlessly, I saw that the gondolier had checked his graceful boat with that easy, sweeping movement which is quite beyond the power of an amateur oarsman. Rudolf Adlon was standing up, his eyes raised.
As I watched; the woman dropped a rose to which, I was almost sure, a note was attached!

Adlon caught it deftly, kissed his fingers to the beauty on the balcony and resumed his seat. As the gondola swung on and was lost in deep shadows of a tall, old palace beyond:

“Ah!” sighed the motor launch driver—and he also kissed his fingers to the balcony—“a tryst—how beautiful!”

She who had made the assignation had disappeared. But there was no possibility of mistake. She was the woman I had seen with Ardatha—the woman whom Nayland Smith had described as “a corpse moving among the living—a harbinger of death!”

* * *

The chief of police hung up the telephone.

“Major Baden is in his private apartments,” he said, “engaged on important official business. He has given orders that he is not to be disturbed. And so”—he shrugged his shoulders—“what can I do?”

I confess I was growing weary of those oft-repeated words.

“But I assure you,” I cried excitedly, “that he is
not
in his private apartments! At least he was not there a quarter of an hour ago!”

“That is possible, Mr Kerrigan. I have said that some of the great men who visit Venice incognito have sometimes other affairs than affairs of State. But since, in the first place, I am not supposed to know that Rudolf Adlon is at the Palazzo at all what steps can I take? I have one of my best officers on duty there and this is his report. What more can I do?”

“Nothing!” I groaned!

“In regard to protecting this minister, nothing, I fear. But the other matter—yes! This woman whom you describe is known to be an accomplice of these people who seek the life of Rudolf Adlon?”