Daughter of Fu-Manchu Read Free Page A

fast asleep.
    I was awakened by Dr. Petrie.
    “I prescribe dinner,” he said.
    Feeling peculiarly cheap, I managed to make myself sufficiently presentable for the dining car, and presently sat down facing my friend, of whom I had heard so much and whom the chief had evidently regarded as a safe harbour in a storm.
    A cocktail got me properly awake again and enabled me to define where troubled dreams left off and reality began. Petrie was regarding me with an expression compounded of professional sympathy and personal curiosity; and:
    “You have had a desperately trying time, Greville,” he said. “But you can’t have failed to see that you have exploded a bombshell in my household. Now, before I say any more on the latter point, please bring me up to date. If there’s been foul play, is there anyone you could even remotely suspect?”
    “There is certainly a lot of mystery about our job,” I confessed. “I know for a fact that Sir Lionel’s rivals—I might safely call them enemies—have been watching him closely—notably Professor Zeitland.”
    “Professor Zeitland died in London a fortnight ago.”
    “What!”
    “You hadn’t heard? We had the news in Cairo. Therefore, he can be ruled out.”
    There was a short interval whilst the waiter got busy, and then:
    “As I remember poor Barton,” Petrie mused, “he was always surrounded by clouds of strange servants. Are there any in your camp?”
    “Not a soul,” I assured him. “We’re a very small party. Sir Lionel, myself, Ali Mahmoud, the headman, Forester, the chemist—I have mentioned him before; and the chief’s niece, Rima; who’s our official photographer.”
    I suppose my voice changed when I mentioned Rima; for Petrie stared at me very hard, and:
    “Niece?” he said. “Odd jobs women undertake nowadays.”
    “Yes,” I answered shortly.
    Petrie began to toy with his fish. Clearly his appetite was not good. It was evident that repressed excitement held him—grew greater with every mile of our journey.
    “Do you know Superintendent Weymouth?” he asked suddenly.
    “I’ve met him at the club,” I replied. “Now that you mention it, I believe Forester knows him well.”
    “So do I,” said Petrie, smiling rather oddly. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him all day.” He paused, then:
    “There must be associations,” he went on. “Some of you surely have friends who visit the camp?”
    That question magically conjured up a picture before my mind’s eye—the picture of a figure so slender as to merit the description serpentine, tall, languorous; I saw again the brilliant jade-green eyes, voluptuous lips, and those slim ivory hands nurtured in indolence… Madame Ingomar.
    “There is one,” I began—I was interrupted.
    The train had begun to slow into Wasta, and high above those curious discords of an Arab station, I had clearly detected a cry:
    “Dr. Petrie! A message for Dr. Petrie.”
    He, too, had heard it. He dropped his knife and fork and his expression registered a sudden consternation.
    As Petrie sprang to his feet, a tall figure in flying kit came rushing into the dining car, and:
    “Hunter!” Petrie exclaimed. “Hunter!”
    I, too, stood up in a state of utter bewilderment.
    “What’s the meaning of this?” Petrie went on.
    He turned to me, and:
    “Captain Jameson Hunter, of Imperial Airways,” he explained— “Mr. Shan Greville.”
    He turned again to the pilot.
    “What’s the idea, Hunter?” he demanded.
    “The idea is,” the airman replied, grinning with evident enjoyment, “that I’ve made a dash from Heliopolis to cut you off at Wasta! Jump to it! You’ve got to be clear of the train in two minutes!”
    “But we’re in the middle of dinner!”
    “Don’t blame me. It’s Superintendent Weymouth’s doing. He’s standing by where I landed the bus.”
    “But,” I interrupted, “where are we going?”
    “Same place,” said the airman, grinning delightedly. “But I can get you there