The Island of Fu-Manchu Read Free Page B

ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard) had utterly forgotten regulations, and had offended against the Law!
    “Good heavens! you’re right,” I exclaimed. “We must be mad. The fact is, constable, there have been queer happenings here, and—”
    “None of my business, sir. If you will go up and draw all the blinds in the first place, I shall then have to take your name, and—”
    From behind me came a sound of running footsteps.
    “He was not carried out, Kerrigan!” came Smith’s voice. “But there’s blood on the third stair from the bottom and there are spots on the paving—What the devil’s this?”
    “A serious business sir,” the constable began, but he stared in a bewildered way. “All the lights—”
    Smith muttered something and then produced a card which he thrust into the constable’s hand.
    “Possibly before your time,” he said rapidly. “But you’ll still remember the name.”
    The constable directed his light on to the card, stared at Smith, and then saluted.
    “Sorry, sir,” he said, “if I’ve butted in on something more important; but I was just obeying orders.”
    “Good enough,” snapped Smith. “I switched off everything before I came down.” He paused, staring at the stupefied man, and then: “What time did you come on duty?” he asked.
    “Half an hour ago, sir.”
    “And you have been in sight of this door, how long?”
    The constable stared as if Smith’s question had been a reprimand. I sympathized with the man, a freckled young fellow with straightforward blue eyes, keen on his job, and one to whom the name of Sir Denis Nayland Smith was a name to conjure with. It occurred to me that he had been held up on his patrol and that he believed Smith to be aware of the fact.
    “I know what you’re thinking, sir, but I can explain my delay,” he said.
    Smith snapped his fingers irritably, and I saw that a hope had died.
    “It was the car running on to the pavement in Craven Terrace,” the man went on. “There was something funny about the business and I took full particulars before I let ’em go.” He delved in a back pocket and produced a notebook. “Here are my notes. It was a Packard—”
    Odd are the workings of a human brain. My thoughts as the constable had been speaking, and, it seemed, speaking of matters beside the vital point, had drifted wretchedly to Ardatha. I had been striving to find some explanation of her behaviour which did not mean the shattering of a dream. Now, as he spoke of a Packard, I muttered mechanically:
    “BXH 77.”
    “That’s it, sir!” the constable cried. ‘That’s the car!”
    “One moment,” rapped Smith. “Tell me, Kerrigan, how you happen to know the number of this car.”
    I told him that a Packard bearing the number had turned from the main road into Craven Terrace as I had crossed to the door.
    “Quick, constable!” He was suddenly on fire. “Your notes. What was suspicious about BXH 77?”
    “Well, sir, I have the particulars here.” The man studied his notebook. “The car barged right on to the pavement and pulled up with a jerk about ten yards in front of me. Several people from neighbouring shops ran out. When I arrived I saw that the driver, a foreign looking man, had fainted at the wheel. In some way which I couldn’t make out—because it wasn’t a serious crash—he had broken his arm—”
    “Left or right?”
    “Left, sir. It was hanging down limp. He was also bleeding from a cut on the head.”
    “Good. Go on.”
    “In the back I found a doctor and a patient he was removing to hospital. The patient seemed in a bad way—a big powerful man he was, with reddish hair streaked with white; he was only half-conscious and the doctor was trying to soothe him. A mental case—”
    “Do you understand, Kerrigan?” cried Smith, his eyes alight. “Do you understand?”
    “Good God, Smith—I understand too well!”
    “Describe the doctor,” Smith said crisply.
    The constable cleared his throat, and