The Drums of Fu-Manchu (27 page)

Brownlow Wilton’s face was now contorted; he appeared to be in agony.

“What is it?” I asked aside.

“Angina pectoris, sir. The excitement. I am afraid he is in for another attack. There are some tablets…”

“Good God! don’t you travel with a doctor?”

“No sir. Mr Wilton has a regular physician in Venice, but I don’t think he felt any symptoms of an attack until this present moment.”

Nayland Smith was staring down at the sick man, and somehow from his expression I deduced what he was thinking. Dr. Fu-Manchu, he had told me on one occasion, could reproduce the symptoms of nearly every disease known to medical science…

“I will take no drugs—”

The sick man had forced himself upright—Smith sprang forward to assist him.

“Is this wise, Mr Wilton?”

“Be so good as to give me your arm—as far as that chair. Lopez! I
have found that a small glass of old Bourbon whisky never does any harm at these times. If you abstemious gentlemen would join me, why, that would hasten the cure!”

His pluck was so admirable that to refuse would have been churlish. Lopez went to find the old Bourbon and Nayland Smith, going out on deck, hailed the cutter.

“Head for port! Don’t delay. I am remaining on board. Silver Heels will put about and follow…”

At the small cabin table I presently found myself seated, the invalid on my left and Nayland Smith, too restless to relax, leaning against an elaborate washbowl with which the room was equipped. Behind me Lopez poured out the drinks.

“Pardon,” Smith muttered, and turning, began to wash his hands. “Grimy from the journey.”

When he turned to take the glass which Lopez handed to him, I had a glimpse of Smith’s face in the mirror which positively startled me. His eyes shone like steel; his jaws were clenched. Almost, I doubted my senses—for as he fronted us again he was smiling!

Lopez withdrew quietly, leaving the cabin door open. I could hear the cutter moving off. There were shouted orders, and now I detected vibration. Silver Heels was being put about.

“To the future, gentlemen!”

Brownlow Wilton raised his glass, when:

“Good God! Look!
Doctor Fu-Manchu
!”

Nayland Smith snapped out the words and glared across the cabin!

Brownlow Wilton, setting his glass unsteadily on the table (I had not touched mine), shot up from his chair with astounding agility and we both stared at the open door. I was up, too.

The deck outside was empty!

I turned with a feeling of dismay to Smith. He was draining his
glass. He set it down.

“Forgive me, Mr Wilton”—he spoke with a nervousness I had never before detected in him—“that bogey is beginning to haunt me! It was only the shadow of a cloud.”

“Well”—Wilton’s high voice quavered—“you certainly startled me—although I don’t know whom you thought you saw.”

“Forget it, Mr Wilton. I’m afraid the strain is telling. But that whisky has done me good. Finish your drink, Kerrigan. Perhaps I might rest awhile, if there’s an available cabin?”

“Why certainly!” Brownlow Wilton pressed a bell. “Your very good health, gentlemen!”

He drank his Bourbon like a man who needed it, and as Lopez came in silently I finished mine.

“Lopez—show Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Mr Kerrigan to cabin A. It is at your, disposal, gentlemen. We have an hour’s sailing ahead of…”

I glanced swiftly at Smith. The shock of his strange outcry had provoked another spasm of Wilton’s dread ailment. His features were convulsed. He lay back limply in his chair! “All right, sir!” said Lopez as I stooped and raised the frail body, “If he lies down I hope he will recover—”

I laid the sick man on his bed. His eyes were staring past me at Lopez. He tried to speak—but not a word came.

“Here’s your next patient, Kerrigan,” Nayland Smith spoke thickly… he was swaying!

I ran to him.

“This way, sir.”

Lopez remained imperturbable. As I clutched Smith’s arm and the steward led us along the deck, I cannot even attempt to depict my frame of mind…

What ailed Nayland Smith?

Lightning flickered far away over the sea; thunder sounded like rolling drums… The police cutter was already out of sight. Silver Heels swung slowly about.

As Smith reeled along the deserted deck:

“Take your cue from me!” he whispered in my ear. “When I lie on the bed drop down beside me in a chair—anywhere—but as near as you can! Begin to stagger…”

The steward opened a door and illuminated a commodious cabin, similar to that occupied by Brownlow Wilton.

“In here, sir.”

“Always… poor sailor, I fear,” Smith muttered thickly. “Lie down awhile…”

I assisted him on to one of the two beds, while Lopez removed the coverlet. He lay there with closed eyes, seeming to be trying to speak. An armchair stood near by, and distrusting my acting I slumped suddenly into it. I had ceased trying to think, but trusted Nayland Smith, for he could see where I was blind.

As the steward solicitously removed the coverlet from the neighbouring bed and spread it over me:

“Sorry… whacked!” I muttered and closed my eyes.

The steward went out and shut the cabin door.

“Don’t speak—don’t move!” It was a mere murmur. “Roll over so that you face me, and wait.”

I rolled over on my side and lay still. Now I could see Smith clearly. His eyes, though half closed, were questing about the cabin, particularly watching the door and the two ports which gave upon the deck. Over the creaking and groaning of the ship I heard those distant drums. Something told me to lie still—that we were being watched.

“Speak softly,” said Nayland Smith; “the man Lopez has gone to report. Do you realise what has happened?”

“Not in the least.”

“We have fallen into a trap!”

“What!”

“Lie still. Someone else is probably watching us… I foresaw the danger but still walked into it. I suppose I had no right to bring you with me.”

“I don’t even know what you mean.”

The manoeuvre of turning the ship about had been clumsily accomplished, and I realised that we were now headed back for Venice. There was less creaking and groaning and the sound of thunder drums grew fainter.

“I suspect Fu-Manchu’s plan to be that we shall never return.”

“Good heavens!”

“Ssh! Quiet! Someone at the porthole.”

I lay perfectly still; so did Nayland Smith. Only by the prompting of that extra sense which comes to us in hours of danger did I realise that someone was indeed peering into the cabin. My brain, tired by a whirl of grotesque experiences, obstinately refused to deal with this new problem. Why should we both be overcome? And what were we waiting for?”

“All clear again,” Smith reported in a low voice. “Even if the door is locked, which I doubt, those deck ports are wide enough to enable us to get out.”

“But Smith, what do you suspect?”

“It isn’t a suspicion, Kerrigan; it’s a fact. This yacht is in the hands of servants of Doctor Fu-Manchu from the commander downwards.”

“Good God! Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“But Wilton…”

“In Europe our concern is concentrated upon kings and dictators, but Wilton in the United States wields almost as much power as, shall we say, Goebbels in Germany. His political sympathies are well known, his interests widespread.”

“But Wilton is a dying man.”

“I think you would be nearer the mark, Kerrigan, if you said ‘Wilton is a dead man’!”

* * *

Only the sound of the propellers broke the silence now. I knew instinctively that Nayland Smith was thinking hard, and presently:

“Can you hear me, Kerrigan?” he asked in a low voice. “I dare not speak louder.”

“Yes.”

Those words “Wilton is a dead man” haunted me. I wondered what he meant.

“We should probably be well-advised to make a dash for it; grab those life belts and jump over the side. But there’s a fairly heavy swell and I don’t entirely fancy the prospect.”

“I don’t fancy it at all!”

“Perhaps we can afford to wait until we are rather nearer land. Our great risk at the moment is that they discover we are not insensible.”

“Insensible! But why should we be insensible?”

Of all the strange and horrible memories which I have of this battle to prevent Dr. Fu-Manchu from readjusting the balance of world power, there is none more strange, I think than this muttered interlude, lying there in the cabin of Silver Heels.

“For the simple reason,” the quiet, low voice continued, “that the
drinks we shared with Wilton were drugged. Bourbon whisky was insisted upon for that reason: its marked flavour evidently conceals whatever drug was in it.”

“But, Smith—”

“I switched them, Kerrigan, having created a brief distraction! My own, if you remember, I apparently drained at a draught. It went into the washbowl at my elbow.”

“But mine?”

“There was no alternative in the time at my disposal. Wilton had yours—
you
had Wilton’s.”

“Good God! Do you mean you think he is lying dead there in his cabin?”

“Ssh! Remember we are through if they once suspect us. I mean that he is dead, yes—but not lying in his cabin…”

He lay silent for a while, and I divined the fact that he was listening. I listened also, puzzling my brain at the same time for a clue to the meaning of his words. Then:

“I am wondering why the two police have not—”

My sentence was cut short. I heard a sudden scuffling of feet, a wild cry—and then came silence again, except that very far away I detected a dull rumbling of thunder.

“Smith! Good God, can we do nothing!”

“The murderous swine! It’s too late! I was playing for time—trying to make a plan”—there was an agony of remorse in his low-pitched voice. “Hello!”

The lights went out!

“Now we can move,” snapped Smith, and as he spoke the engines ceased to move. Silver Heels lay rolling idly on the swell.

“This is where we jump to it! Quick, Kerrigan! Have your gun handy!”

I rolled off the bed and made for the door. I was nearer to it than Smith.

“Damnation!” I exclaimed.

The door was locked!

“I didn’t note them do it.”

Dimly I could see Smith trying one of the big rectangular ports which opened onto the starboard deck.

“Hullo! This is more serious than I thought! These are locked, too!”

We stood there for a moment listening to increasing sounds about us.

“They’re getting the launch away,” I muttered, for I had noted that the yacht carried a motor launch. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re going to sink Silver Heels—with ourselves on board!”

“
L
isten, Kerrigan, listen!”

To the sound of voices, running feet, creaking of davits and wheezy turning of chocks, a suggestive silence had succeeded, broken only by the cracking and groaning of the ship’s fabric.

If Nayland Smith’s conclusions were true, and he was rarely wrong, we were trapped like rats, and like rats must drown.

I listened intently.

“You hear it, Kerrigan?”

“Yes. It’s in some adjoining cabin.”

It was a moaning sound; but unlike that which had horrified me in the cellars of Palazzo Brioni, this certainly was human. Even as I listened and wondered what I heard, Nayland Smith had a wardrobe door open. The wardrobe was empty, but in the dim light I saw that he had his ear pressed to the woodwork.

“It’s behind here!” he said. “We daren’t use a torch yet. Noise we must risk. The ship’s noises may drown it, but this boarding has to be stripped. Hello!”

As I joined him I saw that there was a ventilator at the back of
the wardrobe.

“No time and no means to unscrew it,” he muttered, and I saw that he had succeeded in wedging his fingers between two of the bars. “Let’s hope it doesn’t make too much row!”

He wrenched it bodily from the light wood in which it was set. Speaking very close to the gap thus created:

“Anyone there?” he called softly.

A stifled muttering responded.

“Come on, Kerrigan! This is our only chance!”

So far as I could make out, every living soul on board, other than ourselves or whoever might be in the next cabin, had joined the launch. We attacked that job like demons, stripping three-ply woodwork from the back of the wardrobe. Every crack of the shattered fragments sounded in my ears like the shot of a pistol. We made a considerable gap—and no one hindered us.

“If anybody comes in,” snapped Smith, “shoot him down.”

There was a second partition behind, and now that stifled cry reached us more urgently.

“Stand behind me,” said Smith.

He flashed a momentary beam upon this new obstacle.

“Matchboarding,” I muttered. “These rooms once communicated.”

Not awaiting his reply, I hurled myself against it.

I crashed through into a small cabin, as fitful moonlight from a porthole told me. On the floor the two men of the Carabinieri lay bound—bandages tied over their mouths! One was struggling furiously; the other lay still.

“This one first.”