The Drums of Fu-Manchu Read Free Page A

which showed evidence of someone’s recent activities. But my attention was immediately focussed upon a settee in an arched recess upon which lay the body of a man. One glance was sufficient—for I had seen him many times in Africa.
    It was General Quinto. But his normally sallow aquiline features displayed an agonised surprise and had acquired a sort of ghastly greenish hue. I cannot better describe what I mean than by likening the effect to that produced by green limelight.
    A man whose features I could not distinguish was kneeling beside the body, which he appeared to be closely examining. A second man looked down at him; and as we entered the first stood up and turned.
    It was Lord Moreton, the king’s physician.
    Introductions revealed that the other was Dr. Sims, the divisional police surgeon.
    “This is a very strange business,” said the famous consultant, removing his spectacles and placing them in a pocket of his dress waistcoat. “Do you know”—he looked from face to face, with a sort of naive astonishment—“I have no idea what killed this man!”
    “This is really terrible,” declared Sir James Clare. “Personal considerations apart, his death here in London under such circumstances cannot fail to set ugly rumours afloat. I take it that you mean, Lord Moreton, that you are not prepared to give a certificate of death from natural causes?”
    “Honestly,” the physician replied, staring intently at him, “I am not. I am by no means satisfied that he did die from natural causes.”
    “I am perfectly sure that he didn’t,” the police surgeon declared.
    Nayland Smith, who had been staring down at the body of the dead soldier, now began sniffing the air suspiciously.
    “I observe, Sir Denis,” said Lord Moreton, “that you havedetected a faint but peculiar odour in the atmosphere?”
    “I have. Had you noticed it?”
    “At the very moment that I entered the room. I cannot identify it; it is something outside my experience. It grows less perceptible—or I am becoming used to it.”
    I, too, had detected this strange but not unpleasant odour. Now, apparently guided by his sense of smell, Nayland Smith began to approach the writing desk. Here he paused, sniffing vigorously. At this moment the door opened and Inspector Leighton came in.
    “I see you are trying to trace the smell, sir. I thought it was stronger by the writing desk than elsewhere, but I could find nothing to account for it.”
    “You have searched thoroughly?” Smith snapped.
    “Absolutely, sir. I think I may say I have searched every inch of the room.”
    Nayland Smith stood by the desk tugging at the lobe of his ear, a mannerism which indicated perplexity, as I knew; then:
    “Do these gentlemen know the identity of the victim?” he asked the minister.
    “Yes.”
    “In that case, who actually saw General Quinto last alive?”
    “Mr Bascombe, Sir Malcolm’s private secretary.”
    “Very well. I have reasons for wishing that Mr Kerrigan should be in a position to confirm anything that I may discover in this matter. Where was the body found?”
    “Where it lies now.”
    “By whom?”
    “By Mr Bascombe. He phoned the news to me.”
    Smith glanced at Inspector Leighton.
    “The body has been disturbed in no way, Inspector?”
    “In no way.”
    “In that case I should like a private interview with Mr Bascombe. I wish Mr Kerrigan to remain. Perhaps, Lord Moreton and Doctor Sims, you would be good enough to wait in the library with Sir James and the Inspector…”
    * * *
    Mr Bascombe was a tall fair man, approaching middle age. He carried himself with a slight stoop, although I learned that he was a Cambridge rowing Blue. His manner was gentle to the point of diffidence. As he entered the study he glanced in a horrified way at the body on the settee.
    “Good evening, Mr Bascombe,” said Nayland Smith, who was standing before the writing table, “I thought it better that I should see you privately. I gather from