The Mask of Fu Manchu

THE HAND OF FU MANCHU

The night porter, who knew me well, stared like a man who sees a ghost.

“Good heavens, Mr. Greville!”

I saw that the lobby was in the hands of an army of cleaners, removing traces of the night’s festivities. A man standing over by the hall porter’s desk turned and then came forward quickly.

“Where is Sir Lionel Barton?” I had begun when:

“Are you Mr. Shan Greville?” the stranger asked. He was an alert-looking man wearing dinner kit and carrying a soft felt hat. There was something about him which was vaguely familiar.

“I am,” I replied.

The hall porter had stepped back as the newcomer arrived upon the scene, but he continued to stare at me, in a half-frightened way.

“My name is Hewlett. I’m in charge of police headquarters in the absence of Superintendent Weymouth. I was never more pleased to see a man in my life than I am to see you, Mr. Greville.”

I shook his hand mechanically, noting that he was looking at me in a a queer fashion; and then:

“Where is Sir Denis?” I asked rapidly, “and Miss Barton?” Hewlett continued to look at me, and I have since learned that I presented a wild-eyed and strange appearance.

“All your friends, Mr. Greville,” he replied, “are out with the search party, operating from Bab el-Khalk. I came back here ten minutes ago for news. I’m glad I did.” “Where are they searching?” I asked dazedly. “All around the neighbourhood of the Bab ez-Zuwela—acting on information supplied by the taxi-man who drove you there.”

“Of course,” I muttered; “he returned here and reported my absence, I suppose?”

Hewlett nodded. His expression had changed somewhat, had become very grave.

“You look completely whacked,” he said. “But, nevertheless, I’m afraid I must ask you to come along and join Sir Denis. My car is just round the comer.”

My confusion of mind was such that I thought the search (which presumably had been for me) would now be continued in the hope of discovering the hiding place of Fah Lo Suee.

“Very well,” I replied wearily. “I should like a long drink before we start, and then I shall be entirely at your service.”

“Very well, Mr. Greville.”

I gave the necessary orders to the night porter, whose manner still remained strange, and dropped upon a lounge. Hewlett sat down beside me.

“In order that we don’t waste one precious moment,” he went on, “suppose you tell me exactly what happened to-night?”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, “but I fear it’s not going to help very much.”

“What? How can that be?”

“Because the most important period is a complete blank.”

Whereupon I related my movements in the garden that night: how I had seen a woman, whom I was convinced was none other than the daughter of Fu Manchu, going out by that gate of the garden which I had supposed always to be locked. How I had run through to the front of the hotel just in time to see her entering a car which waited upon the other side of the street.

“Describe this car,” said Hewlett eagerly.

I did so to the best of my ability, stressing its conspicuous yellow colour.

“I have no doubt that my driver’s account is more accurate than mine,” I continued. “He knew the names of all the streets into which we turned, with the exception of the last.”

“He led us there,” said Hewlett with a certain impatience, “but we drew a complete blank. What I want you to tell me, Mr. Greville, is into which house you went in that street.”

I smiled wryly, as the night porter appeared, bearing refreshments on a tray.

“I warned you that my evidence would be a disappointment,” I reminded him. “From that point up to the moment when I found myself standing outside Shepheard’s, here, my memory is a complete blank.”

Hewlett’s expression became almost incredulous. “But what happened?” he demanded. “The man tells us that he saw you run into a narrow turning on the left, as the yellow car—your description of which tallies with his—was driven off. He followed you a moment later and found no trace

whatever. For heaven’s sake, tell me, Mr. Greville, what happened?”

“I had fallen into a trap,” I replied wearily. “I was drenched with some kind of anaesthetic. I don’t know how it was applied. Perhaps a cloth saturated in it was thrown over my head. Unconsciousness was almost instantaneous. Beyond telling you that this drug, which was used in the murder of Dr. Van Berg in Persia, has a smell resembling that of mimosa, I can tell you nothing more—absolutely nothing!”

“Good heavens!” groaned Hewlett, “this is awful. Our last hope’s gone!”

My brain seemed to be spinning. I was conscious of most conflicting ideas; and suddenly:

“Wait a moment!” I cried. “There is one other thing. At some time—I haven’t the faintest idea when, but at some time during the night I heard the words, ‘He will be crowned in Damascus’!”

“By whom were they spoken?”

I shook my head impatiently.

“I have no recollection that they were spoken by anybody. I merely remembered them, just before I came up the steps a little while ago. When and where I heard them I haven’t the slightest idea. But I’m ready, Mr Hewlett. I’m afraid I can’t be of the least assistance, but all the same I’m at your service.”

He stood up, and I detected again that queer expression upon his face.

“I suppose,” I added, “Miss Barton is in her room?” Hewlett bit his lip and glanced swiftly aside. He was a man

suddenly and deeply embarrassed. In a grave voice which he

tried to make sympathetic:

“It’s hard to have to tell you, Mr. Greville,” he replied, “but it’s for Miss Barton we are searching.” “What!”

I had turned, already heading for the door, when those words fell upon my ears. I grasped the speaker by both shoulders and, staring into his eyes like a madman, I suppose:

“Miss Barton! What do you mean? What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Go steady, Mr. Greville,” said Hewlett, and gripped my forearms tightly, reassuringly. “Above all things, keep your nerve.”

“But—” my voice shook almost hysterically—”she was with Reggie Humphreys, the Airways pilot...I left her dancing with him!”

“That was a long time ago, Mr. Greville,” was the reply, spoken gently. “Half an hour after the time you mention, there was a perfect hue and cry because you had disappeared. The hotel was searched, and finally Sir Denis got through to my office. Then the cabman turned up reporting your disappearance and where it had taken place. He reported to the central police station, first, and then came on here.”

“But,” I began, “but when——”

“I know what you’re going to ask, but I can’t answer you, because nobody seems to know. There’s only one scrap of evidence. An Egyptian chauffeur brought a note to one of the servants here and requested him to give it to Miss Barton. He telephoned to her room, found her there, and she immediately came down. From that moment the man (I have examined him closely) lost sight of her. But his impression, unconfirmed, is that she ran out onto the terrace. From which moment, Mr. Greville, I regret to say, nothing has been seen or heard of her.”