The Mask of Fu Manchu

ROAD TO CAIRO (continued)

Sir Denis forming the head of the wedge, the four of us fought our way out of the caf6 to the street, Petrie and I acting as Rima’s bodyguard.

The hostility of the crowd was now becoming nasty. The mystery of the thing had literally turned me cold. Then, to crown it all, as we gained the open, I was just in time to see the chief, standing beside Petrie’s car, deliver a formidable drive to the jaw of a big Nubian and to see the Negro sprawl upon his back.

“A frame-up. Smith!” came his great voice, as he sighted us. “To me, Cavaliers! We’re in the hands of the Roundheads!”

So strange a plot I could never have imagined, but its significance was all to obvious. The chief’s cry was characteristic of the man’s entire outlook on life. He was a throwback to days when personal combat was a gentleman’s recreation. His book History and Art of the Rapier might have been written by a musketeer, so wholly was the spirit of the author steeped in his bloodthirsty subject. This boyish diablerie it was which made him lovable, but perhaps as dangerous a companion as any man ever had.

One thing, however, I could not find it in my heart to forgive him: that he should expose Rima to peril consequent upon his crazy enthusiasms. I had come to want her near me in every waking moment. Yet now, with that threatening crowd about us and with every evidence that a secret enemy had engineered this hold-up, I found myself wishing that she, as well as Mrs. Petrie, had been safe in England.

How we should have fared, and how that singular episode would have ended, I cannot say. It was solved by the appearance of a member of one of the most efficient organisations in the world: a British-Egyptian policeman, his tarbush worn at a jaunty angle, his blue tunic uncreased as though it had left the tailor’s only that morning. His khaki breeches were first class, and his very boots apparently unsoiled by the dust. He elbowed his way into the crowd—aloof, alone, self-contained, all powerful.

I had seen the same calm official intrusion on the part of a New York policeman, and I had witnessed it with admiration in London. But never before had I welcomed it so as at the appearance of this semi-military figure that night on the outskirts of Cairo.

Gesticulating Egyptians sought to enlist his sympathy and hearing. He was deaf. It dawned upon me that the casual onlookers had been deceived as completely as ourselves. We were regarded as the slayers of the poor old mendicant. But the appearance of that stocky figure changed everything.

As we reached Barton:

“Is the case safe?” snapped Nayland Smith, glancing down at the Negro, now rapidly getting to his feet.

“It is,” the chief replied grimly. “That’s what they were after.”

Sir Denis nodded shortly and turned to the police officer.

“Your car, sir?” asked the latter. “What’s the trouble?”

“Remains to be investigated! You turned up at the right moment. My name is Nayland Smith. Have you been advised?”

The man started—stared hard, and then:

“Yes, sir.” He saluted. “Two days ago. Carry on, sir. I’ll deal with all this.”

“Good. You’re a smart officer. What’s your name?”

“John Banks, sir, on special duty here to-night.”

“I’ll mention you at headquarters....”