THE SINS OF SUMURU - 1

THE SINS OF SUMURU
SAX ROHMER

(  INSTALMENT 1  )


CHAPTER ONE

1

“DON'T turn. Don't stop. This is Maitland behind you. Just go right ahead. Tell me where you live and stand by to let me in the moment I get there.”

Mark Donovan didn't turn, and he didn't stop; he went straight on through the darkness of a foggy night. He had recognised that tense voice. The speaker was Dr. Steel Maitland right enough—whom he had last seen in Cairo! But his heart began to beat a shade faster when he spoke: Maitland was no more than a pace to the rear.

“One-twenty-three Bruton Street. First floor. Walk straight up.”

“Expect me any time, Donovan. Don't fail.”

He had an impression that Maitland had fallen back but Donovan pressed on. His brain became a whirligig. The vapoury masses about him which were Bond Street whispered menaces. What, in reason's name, had happened to Maitland? Why must he not stop, but go right ahead?

There was little traffic when, crossing, he continued on his way. The blanket-like hush of foggy London had become in a moment a mysterious hush, an ominous hush: it bore down upon him. That rara avis (in fog) a taxi, passed every now and again; pedestrians materialised out of yellow shadow, phantoms preceded by the glow of a cigarette, and merged into shadow again.

He grew conscious of distrust. Amongst these ships that passed in the night some might be enemies.

Bruton Street, former abode of fashion, sounded empty right to Berkeley Square. Donovan's footsteps hollowly disturbed a ghostly silence where, once, dance bands had played, sleekly gowned women come and gone under striped awnings; where, in times yet earlier, bucks of the Regency had supped, and gambled, and fought.

From here the present Queen had been borne away in a Cinderella coach to her wedding in Westminster Abbey: here, streams of traffic had congested the fairway when society entertained; here, long ago, linkboys had steered the drunken reveller home.

Where were the fairy coach, the cars, the linkboys?

Lost, to live again only in the pages of history. This was the London which the Nazis had made; and Steel Maitland had said, “Go right ahead. Stand by to let me in the moment I get there.”

As Donovan pushed the door open he stood for a moment listening, before allowing it to swing to again. The hush of Bruton Street was broken by a solitary tread. He waited. The measured steps drew nearer. A light was flashed upon him.

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Constable.”

He closed the door and went upstairs. On the landing he paused, listening again.

There was no sound.

Once inside his own apartment, the lobby lights up, he heaved a sigh of relief. A moment later he was laughing at himself. Undoubtedly, he needed a rest. Not since he had landed with an American task force at a selected point, to find enemy guns raining bullets on the spot, had he been so frightened: his heart was still beating ridiculously!

Those modest belongings which Donovan had distributed around the apartment struck a note of reassuring familiarity. For the rest, its appointments were strictly utilitarian. The owner, from whom he leased it, had removed all but essentials. A whisky and soda restored him, and he sat down to consider the question: What was it all about?

Lighting a cigarette, Donovan turned this problem over in his mind, and realising the urgency in Maitland's voice, came to the conclusion that some mysterious but potent danger must threaten him. He went out and opened the door, leaving it ajar. No sound reached him from the stairs.

He sat down again in a deep, red leathern armchair and waited.

How long he waited he could not, afterwards, say (probably less than five minutes) before anything occurred. He listened to the silence of Mayfair around him, and throughout that time nothing disturbed it but a rare footstep, and once the passing of a taxi.

Then, he heard something else.

Someone was coming upstairs—softly, hesitantly.

Donovan's first impulse was to hurry out to greet the new arrival. His second, oddly enough, was to close the door.

He could never account, then or later, for that nervous premonition which claimed him. Of his neighbours he knew nothing. The person coming upstairs might be a fellow resident. But of one thing he felt assured: It was not Steel Maitland.

And so what he did was this:

He remained seated in the red armchair, staring across the lobby at the partly open door. Those soft, almost furtive footsteps, drew nearer.

On the landing they ceased. Whoever stood there had been arrested by the light shining out.

He sat quite still. And as he sat there he saw the door slowly open wider. A panel of blackness which represented the unlighted landing increased in width. There was no sound, now.

Putting his cigarette in a tray. Donovan was leaning forward, gripping the chair arms, and prepared to spring to his feet, when the door opened fully ... and a girl took one faltering step into the lobby!

2

Donovan did not spring up; he rose slowly, watching her where she stood. Her face was in partial shadow, so that he could not determine the colour of a mass of distractingly curly hair; but of the fact that his visitor was of quite unusual beauty there could be no doubt whatever. Her eyes were magnificent, fixed wildly in a stare of dreadful perplexity; her lips were slightly parted. With one hand she held about her a wrap or cloak which Donovan recognised as that lure of souls, mink, and which therefore must have been worth several thousand pounds. Slim legs (revealed, as he thought at the time, in gossamer stockings of a quality no longer purchasable in London) were of equally patrician elegance, but he was puzzled to note that she wore blue slippers trimmed around the ankles with white fur.

These impressions he derived in one swift glance as he stood up. Then, trying to speak gently:

“I hope I have not alarmed you,” he said.

Her expression changed scarcely at all. She shrank back to the door, upon which one hand still rested; and as the upraised arm was bare, Donovan assumed that his mysterious caller wore evening dress. She moistened her lips, and drew the fur wrap more closely around her.

“No,” she whispered; “it is ... my fault.”

And as she stood there, watching him in that distraught way, Donovan saw that she trembled violently. He realised that this beautiful mystery was in a state of acute terror, of exhaustion, was, in fact, on the verge of collapse. He took a step forward.

“Please sit down and rest. You are quite safe here. What has frightened you?”

She shrank away yet further. Indeed, perhaps she would have tried to escape, if, as she retreated, the door had not been closed by her own movement, so that she was left standing with her back to it.

“Thank you—no. I ... quite understand.” Her words were barely audible; her expression was that of a trapped animal. Not unnaturally, perhaps, Donovan misconstrued her terror, and, frankly, resented it; but when he spoke again he still spoke gently.

“I shouldn't have left the door ajar. And when I heard you outside I shouldn't have remained silent. I was just expecting someone else—that's all. Surely you can see its simply a mistake?”

But she repelled him, pressing back against the panels wildly.

“I can see,” she whispered, “that you were expecting me ... Waiting for me. I might have known she would guess. Very well. Take me back.”

Donovan's original resentment left him. This girl's terror—anguish—lay deeper than he had suspected. She had grown alarmingly pale. He determined to make a final effort. “Please try to be calm. How could I be expecting you when I have never seen you in my life before?” She sought to control her trembling lips. “This is my aunt's flat,” she panted—“although all her things are not here now. If She had not sent you, how could you be here?”

“She?” (Donovan began, now, to doubt the girl's sanity. To whom did her words refer? The appalling idea occurred to him that him that she had escaped from a mental clinic.) “I can't even imagine what you mean. This is certainly Lady Orpsley's flat...”

“Lady Orpsley is my aunt.”

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, and experienced a welcome wave of relief. “Now I see it all! You didn't know? Well, sit down No, please don't look so frightened. This flat was leased for me by a mutual friend. I have occupied it just three days. I am Mark Donovan, of the Alliance Press Association, and I only returned to England last Thursday. Surely you understand?”

And as he talked, striving desperately to put his visitor at her ease, those great haunted eyes studied him, and he thought that she was beginning to lose some of her terror; but she held her place by the door, clasping the fur wrap about her with white fingers which trembled.

“Oh,” she murmured, “can it be true.” There was that in her glance, now, which he could only have described as beseeching.

“It is true. Try to understand that you have nothing to be afraid of. Try to tell me what has happened. Let me help you.”

A moment longer she watched him. All colour had fled from her cheeks, and she swayed as she stood there.

“Oh, my God!” she whispered, “what shall I do ...”

Then, almost before he could grasp and support her, she swayed right forward and collapsed in a swoon!

Donovan's frame of mind became indescribable; his brain was in a tumult. First, he thought that he would carry her to the couch in the living room; then, he decided that he would put a cushion under her head where she lay on the rug, and bring brandy, of which he had a small stock.

Stooping over her (the beauty of her pale face was exquisite, black lashes drooping motionless on white cheeks) he became aware of a faint but pleasant perfume exhaled by the fur; and as he moved her in order to put the cushion in place, her wrap fell away from her shoulders.

Swiftly, Donovan rearranged it. Then he came upright at a bound.

He had made a staggering discovery!

Accounting himself, as he did, a fairly complete cosmopolitan, for he had lived in many of the world's capitals, the fact remained that up to fourteen he had never moved more than ten miles from a New England farm—and this tells. To that very moment he remained subject to attacks of harrowing embarrassment; and he had one now.

He hurried into his bedroom where he had concealed his two remaining bottles of French brandy (distrusting the daily help who looked after the apartment). Beyond question, he was overwrought, and he couldn't find the key of the case in which the cognac was locked. A swooning woman always got him jumpy, in any event, and he cursed his shaky nerves when he discovered the missing key in his pocket.

Then he ran into the bathroom, and back again for a corkscrew; so that perhaps three minutes had elapsed before he returned to the lobby carrying a glass of brandy and water.

The lobby was empty!

Noting the door ajar, he set the glass down and raced out on to the landing. He could hear and see nothing.

“Hullo! Where are you? ... Don't run out ... like that ... Come back!”

He ran downstairs, calling, and out into Bruton Street. There he stood, looking right and left, and listening.

But there was not a sound.

Out of the mystery of foggy Mayfair she had come; the mystery of foggy Mayfair had swallowed her up again.

And under her mink wrap she was perfectly nude!


CHAPTER TWO

1

SOME uneasy idea that he had failed in a plain duty, that he had bungled, and bungled badly, a job which Fate had tossed into his hands, held him there in the darkness ...

Someone bumped into him.

“Hi! look out!”

“In you go, Donovan. No need to wait out here. Quick as you like. Dodged 'em this time!”

A tall, hatless figure, arrayed in a blue waterproof, materialised at Donovan's elbow. Unceremoniously, his arm was grasped and he was swept in.

“Maitland!”

“What's left of him. First try to our side. Lead the way.”

Followed so swiftly that he felt himself pursued, Donovan hurried upstairs. As he entered the lobby, Steel Maitland kicked aside the cushion which lay there.

“What's the idea? Put there for visitors to fall over?”

“As a matter of fact—”

But before Donovan had time to say more, Maitland was in the living room, his glance resting on a tray which stood beside the red armchair.

“Whisky and soda? Good idea, Donovan. Gad! What a night I've had!”

Dropping the raincoat on the carpet, he revealed himself in a notably shabby suit, and wearing a muffler in lieu of a tie. His appearance had undergone another startling change; for the incipient whiskers which Donovan remembered in Cairo had developed into a formidable black beard. When Maitland smiled, and he had a gay, quick smile, his teeth gleamed brilliantly in that hirsute frame.

“You look that way,” Donovan commented, pouring out a drink as he dropped into the armchair. “When I last saw you in Cairo—was it really three years ago?—you were Lieutenant Commander Steel Maitland, a respected medical officer. What are you supposed to be now?”

Maitland's clear blue eyes were raised as he took the tumbler from Donovan's hand.

“Hunted man!” he replied. “It has taken me more than an hour since I left my hotel to get as far as this.”

“As far as this? Then where are you going?”

“Charles Street.”

“But Charles Street is only just across the Square.”

Having taken a long drink, Maitland set his glass down.

“Very likely. But, many places that are just across the Square may be damned hard to get to all the same.”

“Suppose,” Donovan suggested, carrying his own glass over to the couch, “you lift the veil slightly. Are you fired? Wanted for debt? Spy hunting? Are the police after you?”

Maitland shook his head rather grimly, extracting from a case one of those abominable cheroots resembling dried twigs which come from Burma. This thing alight, he spoke again.

“No. I am trying to save a man's life. But as a matter of fact I was nearly arrested half an hour ago. It might have taken me some time to establish my identity at a local police station. I'm no longer in the Navy. I was seconded more or less indefinitely just after you left Egypt, and what used to be a hobby is now a full-time job ...”

“Amateur theatricals?”

“Something rather like it.” He removed his cheroot and stared meditatively at its narrow, smouldering cone. “We fondly imagined, once, that when we had stamped out Hitler & Co., we should be in clover. Now, what about Stalin & Co.? And has it ever occurred to you that the beastly cauldron of war may have brewed even fouler things—as corruption breeds fungus? We have seen some of the horrors that lay hidden behind the mists of the East, for instance, but we haven't seen all—yet.”

Donovan stared at him intently. So deeply had his strange manner, and the stranger manner of his arrival, impressed him, that even his own remarkable experience was set aside as of small consequence.

“Perhaps I don't quite follow.”

“No.” Suddenly Maitland stood up. “Nor have we a moment to waste. My chance sight of you in misty Bond Street (by the light of a passing flashlamp) may have saved the situation. I have been trying, as I said just now, to beat into Charles Street for more than an hour—and I have had some narrow shaves.”

“Narrow shaves?”

“Very. In fact the conclusion was forced upon me that if I persisted, alone, I should in all probability be liquidated. Quite a number of people get run over in the fog, you know. Therefore, Donovan, I am going to ask you to come along. It's harder to garrote two than one. In return I will give you a story (but not for release until I say 'shoot') which will make your reputation with the Alliance for good and all.”

At that, Donovan, also, stood up.

“Are you serious?”

Maitland nodded shortly. “Tell me, Donovan, in your many wanderings have you ever heard of a woman known to some by the title of My Lady, and to others as Sumuru?”

“Sumuru?”

2

At about the time that Mark Donovan echoed that peculiar name, a strange scene was taking place in a room even more strange. On entering it one might have supposed that he had journeyed by time-machine from democratic London back to Imperial Rome. There were pillars of varied characters, pillars from Egypt, Syria and Greece, supporting a painted ceiling. Oriental rugs and skins of animals were strewn about the marble floor. Beside a square pool guarded by a figure of Pan, banks of mimosa flowered and filled the air with their heavy swooning perfume.

There was a semi-circular recess, like a shrine, approached by three marble steps and veiled by silk curtains of rosy pink.

The existence of this singular apartment was destined to arouse keen curiosity in certain quarters (and before long) and to provoke equally keen incredulity in others.

A high, sweet note, that of a bell or of a silver gong, split the hushed silence, hitherto unbroken except for faint stirrings of lily leaves in the pool when one of several large golden orfe swimming there disturbed them.

Almost noiselessly, a bronze door was opened at the head of a short flight of marble steps. The handrail also was bronze, terminating in a newel post representing a sphinx. A man came down, slowly. He was a man of slight and graceful build. His leisurely movements were those of an Arab, and he wore a sort of Arab dress, a black robe, resembling a djibbeh, a skull cap, and red slippers. But his face, a smiling mask of old ivory, was not the face of an Arab.

His red slippers made a faint shuffling sound on the pavement as he crossed to the recess and mounted the three steps. He drew the pink curtain aside, and the rings on which it hung emitted a musical tinkling like that of tiny bells. He saluted with both hands, and stood there, head lowered.

“Madonna?”

The woman addressed lay curled up comfortably on a low divan, propped amongst many cushions. She wore a sort of Eastern indoor dress, and sandals. Her hair was entirely concealed by a close fitting turban. On a table beside her were books, writing materials and an ivory box half full of cigarettes. But no normal man would have noticed any of these things which surrounded the woman on the divan, or, noting them, must have noted them subconsciously. His attention would have been arrested, and held, by her eyes. Her eyes were superb, except that they seemed to be too large for that small, delicate, vital face; but when she spoke, the magic of her voice almost rivalled their witchery. It contained those delicate tones which the harp, alone amongst musical instruments, can breathe.

“Well, Caspar—has she been brought back?”

Caspar, of the set smile, answered without raising his head. “No, Madonna. The men could find no trace of her in the fog.” His unctuous, caressing voice afforded a marked contrast to the golden tones of the woman. He spoke as one who speaks in his sleep. “Abdul is searching, now.”

There was silence for a few moments. Only that faint lapping of leaves disturbed in the pool intruded upon it.

“I am informed that Dr. Steel Maitland is endeavouring to reach the house in Charles Street before our own agent. Are his movements covered?”

“Closely, My Lady.”

“You may go, Caspar. Send Sister Jean to me.”

“I hear you, my Lady.”

Caspar repeated the deep obeisance, stepped back and closed the curtain so that the rings tinkled again sweetly. He glided, smiling, to a draped archway, drew the drapery aside and called: “Sister Jean is wanted by Our Lady.”

From somewhere beyond, another voice cried, “Sister Jean ...”

A third, further off, took, up the call: “Sister Jean ...”

And presently, heralded by hesitant footsteps, a girl came out, as Caspar, holding the curtain aside until she entered, dropped it behind her. She was an exceptionally pretty girl, her hair almost Titian red, but her grey-green eyes were frightened eyes, and her hands opened and closed nervously.

Caspar, in silence, led the way to the curtained dais, went up the steps and opened the pink curtains. His oily calm voice mingled with their musical tinkling.

“My Lady—Sister Jean is here.”

He saluted and withdrew, the sibilance of his slippers dying away as he crossed the marble floor.

Long before he had reached the bronze door, Sister Jean threw herself on her knees and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, My Lady—My Lady! What can I say? What can I do?”

Unmoved, the reclining woman watched her. “Kneel there.”

“Madonna!”

“Kneel, child—but look at me.”

One might have thought of a rabbit and a serpent as the frightened girl raised her eyes to that lovely, expressionless face. “Yes, Madonna.”

“You brought Claudette to me. It was well done. I accepted her. She has beauty and intelligence, and birth. Tonight, I left her in your charge. She has gone. Her clothes are found in your room. A further cape of mine is missing. Be good enough to explain this matter.”

In a voice stifled by sobs the girl replied.

“Madonna, forgive me! I had only just returned to England, and I wanted so desperately, so desperately, to see—someone. Claudette was asleep—I thought for hours. To make more sure, I removed her clothes from her room, and—went out.”

Sobs checked her words entirely.

“Well, continue, Jean. I have not spoken.”

“My Lady, My Lady! I was gone only ten minutes, and when I returned ...”

“The length of your absence is of no consequence. You were absent without my leave. For the women of our Order there are no someones. They live the lives of cloistered nuns until I choose a someone for them. My wishes must be obeyed. I do not mar my penitents with whips. I have other methods. Claudette must be found—and we must meet this interfering someone, Jean. His name, child?”

“My Lady! Dear My Lady! I swear he—”

“His name, child?”

“Please, Madonna—please, I beg of you!—don't punish him for—”

3

And in Donovan's apartment in Bruton Street, Steel Maitland was saying, “Yes, Donovan—Sumuru. A woman who sets no more value on human life than that.” He crushed a cone of ash in the tray beside him. “There's a lot to be said for her system. After all, certain governments we know have got a long way with similar methods.”

But Donovan, his habitually good-humoured face a mask of perplexity, asked, 'Then what are her methods?”

“Well”—Maitland smoked reflectively—“women are her chief victims. For instance, I am trying to find out what became of Claudette, the daughter of Marcel Duquesne, the Paris journalist, who disappeared on her way home from Algiers. And she is only one of many. But we're wasting precious time. Do you know Sir Miles Tristram?”

Donovan considered the name for a moment, and then, “Yes,” he replied. “Used to be in your Indian Civil Service, and afterwards for a while was an Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard.”

“That's my man. His unsavoury private life led to his retirement, although he was, professionally, a brilliant success. Well, he lives in Charles Street. I had hoped to save him. But the fact that all approaches to his house are efficiently patrolled leads me to fear the worst—”

“The police—”

“Police my grandmother! He has been marked down by one of the few first class brains in the world. The entire Force couldn't save him! There's just one chance, and its success depends upon my getting at Tristram personally.”

“This thing sounds—”

“Like lunacy? It does. But it's real,” Maitland picked up his waterproof. 'They don't know where I have gone. So, with fair luck we may get across Berkeley Square, now the railings are down, without being spotted. Once in Charles Street the fun begins!—What's that?”

He paused abruptly, the blue coat over his arm. He listened, and Donovan, stricken motionless in turn listened also.

Footsteps in the otherwise silent street, of which vaguely both had been aware, had stopped immediately below the windows. Donovan stood there, questioning Maitland with his eyes.

The footsteps passed on.

“Only someone pausing to strike a light.”

Maitland nodded. “Maybe. Mustn't get jumpy. Listen, Donovan. Tristram's one resident servant—a man called Harper—is standing by to open the door the moment I get there. (Same arrangement that I made with you.) Jump into this waterproof.”

“What! Why?”

“I am prepared to learn from the enemy. Those cunning devils tried to get me arrested by a passing policeman! You might be mistaken for a plain clothes man anywhere. Haven't got a bowler hat, I suppose?”

“I have not,” Donovan replied, as Maitland forcibly helped him into the coat.

“Soft brim one, then. If anyone tries to stop us, just say 'Police force. Stand aside'—they won't spot your American accent—and hang on to my arm as if you had me in custody. They will think their trick has worked after all and that you are taking me to the lock-up. If they don't”—he thrust an automatic into Donovan's hand—“show 'em that! Come on. Where's your hat?”

4

Of that nightmare scurry along Bruton Street and across Berkeley Square, Donovan's impressions were hazy, except that, aided by the now friendly fog which hemmed them in like a prison wall, it represented, later, a crossing of the borderline; it had swept him from a rather weary world he knew into a world whose existence he had never even suspected, a world of horrors unimagined.

At the corner of Charles Street: “Here they are!” breathed Maitland. “Grab my arm. Play up.” Then, raising his voice, “I tell you, my man,” he shouted, “that you are making a damn fool of yourself. I am a British officer. My business here is urgent ”

“You can either come quietly or have the bracelets on,” Donovan replied in a loud gruff voice.

Two short, stocky figures had manifested from somewhere, and loomed threateningly just ahead. Donovan pushed Maitland forward.

“I warn you, constable,” Maitland exclaimed. “I am known to your superiors. This will mean back to the beat for you.”

“Move on there!” Donovan ordered the skulking pair, who seemed to be closing in. “I am a police officer.”

Both fell back as they passed, and Donovan had never a glimpse of their faces.

“I demand to be taken to ...”

“You'll be taken where I take you!”

“Next door but one,” murmured Maitland. “Pray heaven Harper is standing by!”

A moment later he plunged suddenly to the left and Donovan heard a muffled bell ringing behind same invisible door. It rang three times quickly and then twice slowly. A narrow oblong, dimly luminous in the darkness, became visible.

“All lights out, Harper! In you come, Donovan.”

Donovan hurled himself at the vague doorway, fell over an unseen obstacle, and sprawled on the carpet. He heard the door bang. It silenced racing footsteps which swept up behind. Then came a crashing blow on the door. Someone shot a bolt into place, and as Donovan stood up, a voice right beside him said, nervously:

“Dr. Steel Maitland, sir?”

“Here,” came Maitland's voice. “You all right, Donovan?”

“I think so!”

“Is there any other way in, Harper?”

“No, sir. May I turn on the light?”

“Yes.”

A switch clicked and they found themselves in a miniature panelled entrance hall, doors right and left, and a stairway ahead. Harper, the manservant, proved to be a flabby type, pallid (but this was no cause for wonder) and having the heavy sensual jowl of a tired Silenus. He stood staring at them, his lips twitching.

“Sir Miles?” Maitland asked sharply.

“Is in his study, sir. He requested that I should not disturb him.”

“I imagine the clatter of our arrival will have done so, however. He is well?”

“He was his usual self when I was last in the study, sir.”

Maitland's teeth glittered through his black beard as he turned to Donovan. “Second try to our side: Lead the way, Harper.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Harper, quite obviously, had been reduced to a state of utter bewilderment: his expression was pathetic. Ascending to the first floor of this cramped little house, he rapped on a door, opened it, and announced:

“Dr. Steel Maitland, sir, and another gentleman.”

Harper stood aside as Maitland and Donovan entered—and never, to the end of their days, did Donovan or Maitland forget the study of Sir Miles Tristram.

It was a small oblong room with a low ceiling, and its atmosphere struck one as unpleasantly stuffy. This was due in part to the presence of heavy window curtains, in part to that indefinable smell which belongs to ancient volumes, old furniture, to certain kinds of relics—and in part to something else.

Several shelves bulged with books, almost exclusively of an erotic Character. There were some reproductions of Pompeian frescoes, and the available wall space was otherwise filled with figure studies of a more than startling character.

There were a number of statuettes which would have shocked the most liberal-minded observer and some framed photographs of an artistic depravity which certainly shocked Donovan.

Indian antiques, chiefly sadistic in design, crowded a glazed cabinet: and the room was strangely still.

At its further end, an old carved walnut desk was placed in a book-lined recess. Immediately above the chair behind it hung a square oil painting which the American journalist decided he could not attempt to describe in print otherwise than to say that it represented a grotesque god seated cross-legged on a golden dais, obese and leering, laved in the smoke of incense, to whom votaries male and female made obscene offerings.

Upon the desk, in addition to an untidy mass of papers, they saw an open jewel-case as large as a painter's portfolio, containing the most wonderfully graded collection of Oriental sapphires which either had ever set eyes upon. The range of colour was amazing, the manner of their disposition worthy of a great artist. Under the light of a reading lamp which burned on the desk they glowed with the magic of Arabian fable.

And in the chair, hunched forward, one podgy hand clenched on the desk, and the other resting on a Chinese snuff-box, was Sir Miles Tristram, a vast carnal figure, his face that of an aged satyr, his several chins bulging over the collar of his dinner jacket; lascivious god of the picture incarnated in gross flesh.

Something peculiar in his appearance brought Donovan up with a start as he crossed the threshold. Staring hard, he saw what it was. Tristram had a watchmaker's glass screwed into his right eye. He was uncannily still.

“Good evening, Tristram.”

Steel Maitland spoke clearly, indeed loudly. But Sir Miles Tristram did not move. Maitland stepped forward.

“You were expecting me, I believe?”

But the man hunched over the desk never stirred. Some slight draught set up in that stagnant air by their entrance crept around the recess; it fluttered a few straggling hairs upon the nearly bald massive bowed head.

“Maitland!” Donovan whispered, “he is unnaturally still. See! He never moves ... and he is clutching something in his hand!”

“Stand back, Donovan! Don't touch him. Stand back. Leave it to me.”

In two long strides Maitland was behind the desk, bending over the seated man. He grasped those heavy, slumped shoulders and pulled. The figure remained immovable. Donovan heard Maitland's teeth snap together as he clenched his jaws.

He pulled again, then desisted—and slowly straightened himself. His eyes, when he stared across at Donovan, shone brightly as two of Sir Miles's gems.

“I was wrong, Donovan,” he said quietly. “The second try was not to us.”


CHAPTER THREE

1

“ENDEAVOUR to be quite exact, Harper. Omit no detail.”

In a constricted but perfectly formal dining-room, Harper faced Maitland and Donovan. Here, were no traces of that pathological eroticism which fouled Sir Miles's sanctum. The manservant looked more flabby and fishlike than ever. He knew that his master was dead, but Maitland had not permitted him to enter the study. That ghastly spectacle, and recognition of the astounding rigidity of Tristram's body, had induced a sudden nausea in Donovan's case, from which he was by no means fully recovered.

Harper moistened twitching lips.

“At the time that you phoned, sir, and I answered your call, the lady I have mentioned was with Sir Miles.”

“How long had she been there?”

“Not more than five minutes.”

“Was she present when you delivered my message?”

“She was, sir.”

“What was she doing?”

“She was sitting facing Sir Miles across the desk, and a green sapphire lay between them. Her finger was touching it as I came in.”

“What exactly, did you say?”

“I said—” Harper closed his eyes in an effort of concentration—“Dr. Steel Maitland has just phoned, sir, and requests that you will remain at home until he arrives. Just what you told me—ahem—to say.”

“Exactly. What did he reply?”

“Nothing, sir. He simply nodded and handed me his snuff-box—which I took away and refilled.”

Steel Maitland, who had been swaying from foot to foot as though the floor were a moving deck, stood stock still.

“You did what?”

“Refilled Sir Miles's snuff-box, sir. It was one of my duties.”

Maitland stared so hard that Harper ceased speaking as he watched him. “Had you forgotten to fill it, then?”

“Not at all, sir—at least—not to the best of my recollection. But Sir Miles used a large quantity of snuff, and when I went to give him your message, he held out his snuff-box and said (I report—ahem—his exact words): 'Why the hell haven't you filled my snuff-box?' I therefore carried it down, cleaned it, as is my custom, refilled it and took it back. That was the last time—I saw him, sir.”

Something oddly like emotion moved Harper, and Steel Mainland's manner underwent a subtle change.

“I am obliged to you, Harper. I am to understand, then, that to the best of your knowledge Sir Miles's snuff-box had been filled as usual, but that when he handed it to you it was empty?”

“I couldn't say exactly empty, sir. There was just a little dust at the bottom, but not sufficient for—ahem—a pinch.”

“You say you cleaned the box. In what way?”

“I washed it out thoroughly, and dried it with a clean leather before refilling it.”

Steel Maitland nodded. “Bad luck. Had you ever seen this woman before?”

“No, sir. But I believe she had phoned. I think I recognised the voice. She probably wished to remain—incognito. I imagine she came to dispose of the green sapphire.”

“Quite so! Describe her.”

“Very pretty, sir.” Harper rolled his eyes rapturously. “Smartly dressed. Uncommonly handsome—shoulders. Her frock was decollete, sir, so I couldn't help noticing. Ahem.”

“But what was she like? Dark or fair? Tall or short?”

“I couldn't swear to the exact colour of her hair, sir. She wore a sort of gold net over it. She was young—”

“How young?”

“I should have said in her early twenties. Sir Miles did not escort her to the door—which surprised me. She came down alone, and informed me that he did not wish to be disturbed.”

And then Steel Maitland asked what Donovan thought, at the time, to be a singular question.

“Did you notice her ankles?”

Harper's expression was indescribably complicated.

“Her ankles, sir?”

“Exactly: her ankles.”

“Well—ahem—they were very well turned, if I may say so.”

“Did she wear a bangle on either, for instance?”

“A bangle on her ankle, sir? Not to the best of my recollection.”

“Oh. Had she a car waiting?”

“No, sir. I offered to obtain a taxi—if possible; but she declined.”

There was a momentary silence. The house, and the street outside, seemed to be unnaturally hushed. Donovan thought of that gross, immovable body slumped in the chair upstairs. He wondered what awful thing had reduced a massive frame to dead, but gruesomely solid, flesh, in so short a time...

When Chief Inspector Ives arrived, with others, the inspector stared hard at Steel Maitland and then shot out a large, muscular hand.

“Dr. Maitland! Why—this is like old times!”

“Glad to see you, Ives.” Mainland's teeth glittered through his black beard.

He had been a divisional police surgeon before the war and had more than once solved problems strictly outside his professional province. This was a real reunion.

“Do you know the cause of death, Doctor?—or, let me see, isn't it Commander now?”

“Plain 'Doctor' once more. Yes—I know what killed Sir Miles, and I propose to be present at the autopsy. When I have gone over the ground with you, Ives, I should be obliged for the loan of your car. My friend and I are—too tired to walk back ...”

2

Caspar was crossing the marble floor, that eternal smile upon his thin lips. When he drew the tinkling curtains, the woman reclining upon the couch did not seem to have altered her position in any way. But her eyes were nearly closed, so that they glinted through heavy lashes with an effect of smouldering fire.

“Sister Dolores is here, My Lady.”

“Send her to me. What news of Claudette?”

“None, My Lady.”

“Has Sister Jean confessed the name of her friend?”

“Not yet, My Lady.”

“You know what to do. You may go.”

Caspar performed his profound obeisance, closed the curtains and glided away on whispering slippers. He drew aside the heavy drapery in an arched opening and called.

“Sister Dolores is wanted by Our Lady.”

And those other voices, beyond, took up the call.

“Sister Dolores...”

When the girl who was summoned, appeared, she proved to be a brilliant brunette, quite evidently Spanish. She wore an evening toilette which did full justice to perfectly moulded shoulders, and her dark hair was confined in a jewelled golden net. She carried a metal despatch box, and appeared to be intensely agitated.

Caspar having conducted her to the recess and retired, pent-up emotion overwhelmed the girl.

“Madonna!” she whispered—“Madonna!”

Sister Dolores had a fascinating accent.

“Kneel there, child, where I can see your eyes. You are trembling.”

From those golden tones the girl seemed to draw strength; but: “Oh, dear My Lady, it is—dreadful!” she said brokenly.

“What is dreadful, child? Did he die horribly?”

“No, no.”

“You replaced the snuff? You are sure that you spilled none when you emptied the box into your handbag?”

“None—no. He is out of the room. He has gone to bring his case of sapphires. I replace the—other stuff—in the box, and put the box back on his desk. When he returns ... he takes some. And then—it is dreadful.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“His man comes in with a message! He hands this man the box and tell him to refill it! The man goes—and I am waiting—waiting—and watching the other one until the man returns!”

“Did this man notice anything?”

“No, Madonna, although, already—the other is quite still. When—it is finished, I have to leave the sapphire you give me to sell to him.”

“It is of no consequence. But why did you leave it?”

Dolores struggled to regain self-possession.

“His hand is clutching it—and I cannot move it! But I take his keys, as you order, and open the drawer in his desk. Here is the steel box. I carry it out under my cloak.”

She placed the metal box on an inlaid coffee-table beside the couch. She was still trembling violently—but listening for the music of that wonderful voice.

“You have done well, Dolores. But why are you trembling? It is better that one man—an ugly man, ugly in mind and body and soul—should die, than that our plans for a beautiful world should suffer. Here, in this box you bring, are details of our Order which only he possessed. Tonight, he meant to show them to someone else. I honoured you with the task of removing this danger. You have done well. Just think what the world might have been spared if one such as I had removed Adolf Hitler before his scheme to wreck civilization had come to pass. Look at me, Dolores. Your eyes are lovely behind their veil of tears. You have done well. Let me see you smile, child.”

“Yes ... dear My Lady—”

3

“You are naturally anxious to know,” said Steel Maitland, lolling in the red armchair and lighting a cheroot, “what killed Sir Miles Tristram. Well, the answer is: he died of rigor Kubus—so called because its first recorded appearance was among the Kubus, a primitive tribe in Sumatra. It was described by the Dutch physician, Van Voorden, in 1923. He traced these cases to a secondary infection following the sting of a species of scorpion sometimes found in the neighbourhood. You noted (in fact, you turned quite pale) that Tristram's body was like granite to the touch. Whatever is clutched in his hand we shall never be able to recover— except with a chisel. The jeweller's glass is also immovable— and indeed they will have to bury him like a sitting idol.”

Donovan emptied his tumbler, and crossing to the buffet, refilled it.

“But—Sumatra! Tristram died right here in London!”

“I know—where I feared he would die. This thing operates like black magic, Donovan ... and unless I am greatly mistaken, it is operated by a woman!”

“A woman!” Donovan stared incredulously. “You must mean a she-devil!”

“She-devil if you prefer it. No doubt you will ask: What is her object? I reply: Just what I am here to find out. One thing I know already. She is that most formidable of all creatures, a fanatic of genius. Her range of knowledge is stupendous, and exact. She never hesitates to employ it.”

“And in a sweet, gentle way!”

“You have witnessed merely one trivial incident; the removal of an obstacle. Women, as I have said, are her chief victims. In addition to Claudette, the daughter of Marcel Duquesne, why did Mrs. Orlington, the young wife of the Air Vice-Marshal, notify her husband that she had obtained permission to join him in Cyprus, and then fail to meet the plane by which she was to travel from England? Where did she go? What has become of her? Where is Claudette Duquesne?”

It suddenly occurred to Donovan that he was gaping like a village idiot.

“If I were to show you the list of missing women which has now been compiled, it would appall you. I don't suggest that all have gone to her; but it is certain that a large proportion has.”

“White slave traffic on a major scale?”

“Yes—but with a different motive driving it. As for Sir Miles Tristram, although he was officially unrecognised, I may tell you in confidence that he was sometimes employed on intricate investigations. He had a uncanny flair for such work: they found that out when he was at Scotland Yard. Certain incidents in North Africa led to his being sent out there. I gave him all the information then in my possession, and he vanished into the blue. That was more than two years ago—just after I saw you in Cairo. It was an inquiry after his own heart. He reappeared in London and I came here to meet him. He had made many discoveries, and so had I. There's a stout steel box in my baggage. Which contains all the evidence I have managed to accumulate to date. I dare not try to get it here tonight, but it's safe enough where I left it. Together with Tristram's discoveries it might have led us somewhere. Now—we shall never know what Tristram knew.”

“But, Maitland!” Donovan exclaimed—“who is this woman?”

Maitland shook his head.

“I confess myself to be on uncertain ground. She was the subject of an unfinished sonnet left by Romain Ravillac, the young French poet who jumped overboard from a liner two years after the war. In it, among other things, he refers to her hair as 'clarte du soleil entrelacee,' which I take to mean woven sunshine. On the other hand, a stolid Russian diplomat, who met her in Paris, speaks of her as dark, sombre, and also a 'a deep, secret well.' That she is a woman of unusual personal beauty seems to be established. In all other respects, accounts differ. But if you can imagine one possessing the arts of Circe and the allurements of Calypso, the brains of Winston Churchill and the soul of a Himmler, you will have formed a rough impression of the Marquise Sumuru.”

“Japanese?”

Again Steel Maitland shook his head.

“I have no idea of her nationality. But she is reputed amongst other things to be the widow of a Japanese marquis who committed hara-kiri, shortly after the first bombing of Tokyo. As Japanese aristocrats usually married in their own class, she may be Japanese.”

A score of questions, doubts, suspicions, flocked to Donovan's mind; what he said—and he spoke in a hushed voice —was: “But rigor Kubus? What causes this frightful thing?”

Maitland took a sip of whisky.

“It is caused by the spores of a minute fungus. It invades the lymphatic membranes and multiplies incredibly. As it moves on, it first produces complete paralysis and then brings about a blood change which converts living tissue to something as hard as marble. A lot depends on the point of infection, and I actually had with me a vaccine (Van Voorden's preparation) which, ordinarily, might have saved him. However—not only did I arrive too late, but nothing could have saved him.”

“Why?” Donovan stood by the buffet watching Maitland, a thin spiral of smoke coiling up from his cheroot.

“Infection can occur by swallowing the spores. In this case the onset of the awful symptoms is deferred—sometimes for hours. It can be injected. This method is swift. But Tristram had inhaled a tremendous shot of the stuff, and it went straight to the higher nerve centres. He probably lost consciousness a few minutes after Harper left him.”

“Inhaled it?”

“Of course. Surely that's plain: Tristram, when absorbed, was curiously absent-minded. Someone (unseen by him) emptied the snuff from his box and replaced it by some heavily impregnated with the poison spores.”

“Why not merely have added the spores to what was already there?”

“Analysis would have discovered it. We are dealing with a lady who leaves nothing to chance. When he found the box to be empty, he told Harper to take it away and refill it.”

“But what devil ...”

“We haven't far to look, Donovan! A she-devil. The agent who performed the conjuring trick with the snuff-box was that glamorous damsel ('uncommonly handsome shoulders' you may recall) who came to sell Sir Miles the green sapphire.”

“Good God, Maitland! You mean that this girl committed a cold-blooded and loathsome murder?”

“No doubt about it. He must have known, even before my message, that he was in danger; but Tristram, even if he stood on the scaffold, would never have denied himself the visit of a pretty woman. His second interest in life was sapphires, his collection of which is famed throughout Europe. A neat scheme.”

“I suppose she took it away?”

“Unless that's what he holds clasped in his hand.”

“But, Maitland—” Donovan moved forward, and none too steadily—“why was this horror perpetrated? And why had you some of the vaccine with you?”

Maitland tapped a slender grey cone into a tray and turned, looking up at Donovan.

“As well ask why I'm here, when where I want to be is at sea. You know how I always managed to keep a small sailing craft? Well, the war gave me a chance I had waited for: a chance to go to sea in earnest. Why do you suppose I retired? Needn't have done so. There's no one dependent upon me. And why would nothing short of physical force induce me to budge outside your door tonight?”

“I can answer the last point, but not the others.”

“Then I'll tell you. Two cases of rigor Kubus occurred in North Africa, just before our last meeting in Cairo, and one of them came into my hands. Knowing, as I did, that the rare fungus which produces it cannot grow there, I decided that these deaths (both victims died, having become practically fossilized) had been brought about by human agency. I obtained special leave in order to make inquiries. One of the victims was a distinguished diplomat. These inquiries, Donovan, led me to a horrible, but quite unavoidable conclusion. A new and deathly menace was in being. The Marquise Sumuru was loosed upon the world!”

“But I cannot imagine how she contrives to move about. Surely, with all the present restrictions ...”

“It is just these restrictions which have made it possible! The aftermath of war has given her this opportunity. Women of all classes, from the highest to the displaced persons class, are constantly travelling.”

“And where do you think she is at present?”

Steel Maitland's reply reduced Donovan to temporary, numbed silence:

“Here in London! Sir Miles Tristram was sufficiently important to warrant her personal attention. In fact, it would not surprise me to learn that the visitor who tampered with his snuff-box, the Medusa who turned Tristram to stone, was Sumuru in person!”

“Maitland—Maitland—Good God!”

“Have I surprised you?” Maitland looked up; then he stood up. “Donovan, what's the matter?”

“Maitland—heaven forgive me—in the pandemonium I had no chance to tell you. But I believe Sumuru has been right here, in this apartment—tonight!”

4

That portion of Steel Maitland's face which was not bearded, perceptibly paled as Donovan told the story of his mysterious caller. He spoke disconnectedly, and once raised his glass to his lips.

Maitland sprang forward, and took it from Donovan's hand: his eyes gleamed in a fierce way.

“Are you mad!” he said quietly. “We were seen, and heard, speaking together in Bond Street. She followed you.”

And his words added a new terror—one, perhaps unaccountably, which Donovan had overlooked. Maitland had said that the ghastly thing called rigor Kubus could be produced by swallowing the spores—when the onset was deferred, “sometimes for hours”... The visitor had been alone whilst Donovan had searched for the missing key. The whisky decanter had stood on a buffet just inside the living-room ... and both he and Maitland had drunk from it since!

“Try to recall even the most trivial details, Donovan. Both our lives may depend upon it.”

“I am doing my best. And the more I think about her the more I believe that she was not Sumuru—nor any agent of Sumuru's. No woman could have simulated such fear, such despair. She convinced me, absolutely.”

Steel Maitland, who was swaying from foot to foot, and whose features had grown grimly set, forced a smile.

“Sumuru could convince the Archbishop of Canterbury that she was St. Cecilia! However, tell me—what was the colour of her hair?”

But that simple question was one which Donovan found himself unable to answer. He recalled, with some astonishment, that owing to the placing of the light he had never, from first to last, succeeded in making up his mind on that point!

“There are you! You may remember that Harper's evidence was equally useless, in this connection, regarding Sir Miles's visitor. Ravillac's 'woven sunshine' and the Russian's 'dark, sombre' all over again! Did you notice her ankles?”

That singular question—the question which Maitland had put to Harper and which now he fired, catapult fashion, at Donovan, produced a return of that embarrassment to which the American journalist was subject.

“I could not well avoid doing so, Maitland. They were—shapely.”

“Anything else?”

Donovan shook his head.

“You will remember that she wore rather high legged slippers trimmed with fur. But our suspicions are groundless. She was too young—”

“I have no idea of Sumuru's age. Whilst you continue, Donovan, permit me to check your pulse. My own is normal. But we may have to take swift action.”

Moving forward, Donovan extended his wrist.

“Her pallor,” we went on, “which at the end had become alarming, could not possibly have been induced by any acting. Finally ...”

Maitland raised his eyes from his watch and dropped Donovan's wrist. “Well—finally!”

“The most amazing thing of all. Except for her fur cape, which I have tried to describe, and the blue slippers ... she was completely nude!”


CHAPTER FOUR

1

DONOVAN glanced at the clock, then out of a window into darkness. Useless to ignore facts. It was growing late and Maitland had not turned up.

“Don't leave the street door open tonight,” he had advised. “You may have another queer visitor. I'll be all right now that I have a spare key. If I'm detained after dark, I shall pick up a convoy.”

The fact that they had come to no harm, had led Maitland reluctantly to accept Donovan's view that the girl who had appeared and disappeared so mysteriously was neither Sumuru nor one of her agents. “But,” said Maitland, “she may be one of her victims. Her singular behaviour certainly points in that direction. We have a promising clue to work upon there—Lady Orpsley—your landlady. Do you know where she has gone?”

All Donovan knew was that she had gone to Switzerland, but he gave Maitland an introduction to the mutual friend who had leased the apartment for him during his absence, and Maitland had set out.

His baggage had been transferred, by a roundabout route, to Donovan's apartment, which Maitland had proposed to make his base of operations against this formidable enemy. His parting words had been:

“Look out for yourself, Donovan. Get in early. She may have you on her list. And—oh, look out for your naked friend!”

How grotesque it seemed, this frame of mind, this fear for a man in the heart of London, when Donovan thought of perils survived—bullets and bombs! Yet, he had seen enough of the methods of Sumuru, whoever Sumuru might be, to convince him that London offered no sanctuary to those who stood in her path.

Death by rigor Kubus was not a pleasant death.

“Whilst certain scientists have been exploring the properties of penicillin,” Maitland had remarked, “others have been employed, you see, on almost parallel experiments aimed at a different target.”

What should he do? Was it his duty to wait for Maitland? On the whole, he thought it was. On the other hand, with imagination on fire, to induce feverish restlessness, the prospect of such a lonely vigil appalled him. He yearned for human contacts. Of that all but incredible menace which overhung their lives he was bound in honour not to speak, but a fellow newspaper man whom he had met at the office that morning had suggested a drink at his club around this time and Donovan was inclined to walk across.

In the end inclination won.

He met the porter-handyman downstairs, and:

“Oh,” he said, “if Dr. Steel Maitland comes in, tell him I shall be back in half an hour.”'

“Well—I'm just going off duty, Mr. Donovan. But I'll tell him if I see him. Good night.”

“Good night.”

It was fairly dark, for although yesterday's fog had dispersed, the sky was cloudy when he opened the door and stepped out into Bruton Street, so that he almost bumped into a woman who stood there.

“Oh, is it Mr. Donovan?” she asked.

Her voice possessed an ingratiating quality, and, bad as was the lighting, Donovan could see by the faint glow of a lamp in the hallway behind him, that her face was heavily made up. Now, during the time that London had accommodated so many overseas troops, it was a fact that Bond Street and Conduit Street, both less than a hundred yards from his door, had earned an unenviable after-dark reputation. This they had maintained. And although he could not imagine how this girl had learned his name, he drew the not unnatural conclusion that she was a lady of the town.

“Why do you ask?” he replied, perhaps somewhat stiffly.

“Oh, I'm not trying to get off with you,” she snapped. “Don't be afraid of that. I may look a bit suspicious, but it's because I didn't stop to take off my make-up. I've run all the way.”

“I'm sorry.” Her manner, indeed, had gone far to change Donovan's mind. “You have run all the way from where?”

“From the Colombe d'Or Theatre. I'm in the new show there. I was just going to ring the bell when you came out.”

Her story hung together well, for he had noted that she seemed to be somewhat breathless. The Colombe d'Or presented revue featuring strip and innuendo, and the evening performance, Donovan estimated, would already have ended. The theatre was well patronised by London's floating population.

“I'm sorry if I seemed abrupt. As a matter of fact you rather startled me. Yes, I am Mark Donovan! Can I be of any service?”

“Well—I hope so. I'm Jackie de Lara. Maybe you've seen me at the Colombe d'Or?”

“I have only just got back to London, Miss de Lara. I have been nowhere yet.”

“Let's hurry,” she urged, and taking Donovan's arm began to walk swiftly along Bruton Street towards Berkeley Square.

He had observed, now, that Jackie de Lara (who had a marked North Country accent) wore no hat, although her fair hair, dressed in the modish manner, was rather badly groomed. She was wrapped in a fur coat of a not notably prosperous appearance.

“But where are we going?”

“To my place in Shepherd Market. It's no distance. You're an American, aren't you?”

“I certainly come from the United States, Miss de Lara.”

“Oh, everybody calls me Jackie. Listen Mark: This is urgent. Your girl friend is hiding in my flat.”

Now, this simple statement, confidently made, had a remarkable effect upon Mark Donovan. He was uneasily conscious of the fact that his mysterious visitor of the night before had left upon his mind an impression which he feared would be a lasting one. She was, by far, the loveliest girl he had ever set eyes upon; and in her voice, her manner, her helpless appeal in acute distress, Donovan had found something quite irresistible. His heart gave a jump.

“Why do you say that—er—Jackie? Did she tell you so?”

“Tell me!” Jackie exclaimed, all the time hurrying him along. “Didn't she fall into my arms right outside your door last night? I'm not asking what the row was about, Mark. It's no business of mine. But some girls are extra sensitive. You've just got to make it up.”

Onto the thrill which had set his heart jumping there was now superimposed a fit of that acute embarrassment to which he was subject. By means of what peculiar reticence his visitor had led Jackie to infer that her predicament was due to a lover's quarrel he could not imagine. But the idea, for all its implications, was oddly gratifying.

“She spent the night with you, then?”

“She wouldn't leave me, Mark—and I wouldn't have let her go if she'd wanted to. I never saw a girl so scared— not in my whole life. I was afraid she was going mad. She just clung to me like a frightened baby and wouldn't tell me where she lived or who I should call up. I stayed in with her all today until I had to go to the theatre.”

“You mean she was terribly afraid of something?”

“Afraid! My! What had you done to her?” Jackie pulled up (they were right on the borders of Shepherd Market) and stared at Donovan in the semi-darkness. “You don't look like a brute. I nearly had her persuaded to let me go and fetch you just before I left, but not quite. She locked herself in when I came away, and then, an hour ago, she called me up at the theatre and asked me to find you and bring you along. Here we are!”

The entrance to Jackie's apartment proved to be up a narrow stair beside a greengrocer's shop.

“Bit dark here,” Donovan muttered—

There came a suppressed scream from Jackie. And something—a formless shadow—slipped out into the street, and was gone!

“What the devil's that?” Donovan cried. “Quick! The switch! Where's the switch?”

“Bottom of the stairs ... Someone was hiding! Rushed right past me. Can't you find the switch?”

Donovan took a torch from his pocket. “Here we are— eh? What?”

Jackie stared hard at a jagged rent in the woodwork. “Well! Would you believe it? The switch has gone! Someone's pinched the whole blessed fitting! What will they be pinching next?”

“Quick, Jackie! Quick! Which floor are you on? This isn't just an ordinary theft——”

“Top. But what do you mean?”

“Come on!”

He raced upstairs, Jackie following, and directed a ray of light on to a neat brass plate inscribed:

Miss Jackie de Lara.

Jackie rang the bell and then, stooping to the letter-box, called: “Claudette! Open the door, honey! It's me—Jackie. I've brought him!”

Standing behind her on the landing, tiptoes with expectation, Donovan still had time to ask himself where he had heard, and recently, that name, Claudette. Then, he detected a sound of movement, the slipping of a bolt—and the door was opened.

2

She stood before him, the mystery girl.

Donovan was quite frank in his report—published later— of those extraordinary events which marked Sumuru's appearance in London, and at this point he confesses that, quite irrationally, he had an impulse to take the girl in his arms—this complete stranger who had materialised out of the night—and kiss her.

Claudette (as he supposed her name to be) wore an elaborate and somewhat revealing rest-robe trimmed with fur, which Donovan suspected must belong to Jackie. He knew, now, that her curly hair was of a glorious shade of chestnut, that her eyes were deep blue. He had no time for further consideration of this, provoking vision for:

“In you go!” said Jackie, and seizing Donovan's arm, pushed him inside. “Don't mind me. I understand.”

“Thank God you're safe!” said Donovan. “So it really is you?”

“Yes ... Please forgive me for—”

“There's nothing to forgive. Tell me—did anyone knock or ring here a moment ago?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No—”

Donovan found himself in a tiny living-room, quite tastefully furnished, a minute kitchenette opening out of it. As he went in, and Claudette, a faint flush sweeping over her-face, timidly entered with him, Jackie, throwing her coat on a settee, to reveal the fact that she wore a one-piece dress and no stockings, grasped each by an arm, threw open a door, and:

“Go on!” she exclaimed. “What does it matter anyway? Let bygones be bygones.” Her painted face, which Donovan found to be by no means unattractive, positively radiated goodwill and her eyes were happily moist. “Never bear malice. Get in there and make it up, while I take this grease off and fry some bacon and eggs.”

With which she shoved the pair of them unceremoniously into the only other room, her bedroom, and slammed the door!

Donovan had enough presence of mind left to notice a large wardrobe, a commodious bed, a settee, two armchairs and a dressing-table when his attention was claimed by a number of photographs of Jackie de Lara in her stage “costume.” His constitutional embarrassment rose to boiling point; he grew hot all over—and he remembered the message he had left for Maitland.

“Pardon me one moment,” he muttered and opened the door. “You are an angel, Jackie, but I must call my apartment—immediately.”

Jackie, who was pulling on a large pair of wash-leather gloves, regarded him without visible enthusiasm.

“You're the most cold-blooded American I've met yet! I thought the girl friend always came first! There it is, in that cubby-hole. Fire away.”

“Thank you. Believe me, the girl friend does come first. But this call is most urgent.”

As he crossed the little lobby and dialled his own number, Jackie whispered to Claudette:

“Make it up with him, honey! Be a good girl. He's crazy about you!”

Two doors closed quietly as Maitland's voice came over the line.

“Hullo—that you, Maitland?”

“Glad to hear from you, Donovan. Was getting alarmed. Your hall porter said half an hour.”

“Listen, Maitland—I can't speak too loudly. But I've traced the girl! She's right here with me, in this building!”

There was a perceptible change in Maitland's voice when he replied, “You mean the girl who ran into your flat here last night, pretended to faint, and then disappeared?”

“Sure! That's who I mean—and I'm not so certain she was pretending. I'm at 98 Shepherd Market, top floor. I think you're quite wrong about her, Maitland. I'm convinced that this girl is four-square. I found her here locked in and terrified. She's evidently hiding from someone.”

There was a slight pause, and then:

“What's her name? Has she mentioned anything?”

“I haven't had time to question her yet. I rang you immediately. Someone has traced me here, I believe, Maitland.”

“I should be surprised if someone hadn't! I know you are being covered. Stay right where you are—and whatever you do, keep a tight hold on that girl—”

“I aim to do so!”

“Watch you step! I'll call Inspector Ives now. Directly he gets here from the Yard, we'll be straight along—98 Shepherd Market ...”

3

Some two minutes later, a girl at a switchboard in the big building on the Embankment, said for perhaps the hundredth time that night:—

“Scotland Yard.”

“Dr. Steel Maitland here. Put me through immediately to Chief Inspector Ives.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, and then:

“Chief Inspector Ives, here.”

“Steel Maitland speaking. Listen, Ives—Mr. Donovan appears to have blundered on to the track of the woman, Sumuru! He has just rung me up from an address in Shepherd Market. He's standing by with a very important witness—or it may be the woman herself! Pick me up at Mr. Donovan's flat in Bruton Street. Bring two good men—right away.”

“Be with you in eight minutes, sir!”

“Good! Someone's ringing away at this door-bell. Expect you in eight minutes.”

And in fact little more than that time had elapsed when a police car came whirling into Bruton Street and was pulled up at Donovan's door. Inspector Ives jumped out.

“Stand by here, Ford. I'll be right down.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ives raced up to the first landing and rang. He repeated this ringing three times. Then, he stooped to the letter-box and called.

“Hullo there, Dr. Maitland! Open the door, sir! Inspector Ives here.”

But no one answered; and the inspector, kneeling, peered in through the narrow slot ... and saw something. He sprang upright.

“H'm! Looks bad!”

He raced downstairs and out into the street in a matter of seconds. Scotland Yard was on its mettle in these days.

“Quick, Ford! Something's wrong ... We shall have to take a chance and break the door open if necessary. Can't get any reply. He may be dead inside. Signs of a struggle. Stand by the car, Foster. Come on, Ford.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sergeant Ford followed Ives into the building.

“Rouse out the porter, Ford. He's probably asleep. He may have a pass-key. Then follow me up, quickly.”

“Right, sir.”

4

The sweet note of a silver gong was still echoing around that marble room as Caspar crossed and drew the rose coloured curtains apart. The woman before whom he bowed low sat upright, now—and she was dressed in a filmy Grecian robe, violet in hue. She resembled Circe, exacting homage.

“Your orders, My Lady?”

“Send Philo to me.”

“At once, My Lady.”

“And Caspar, I must reprove you. See to it that I am not offended any longer by the presence of a fish white with fungus in the mimosa pool. You will remove this distressing creature and procure one of similar colour and size, in order that the harmony of my pool shall remain undisturbed.”

Caspar bowed ever lower.

“If it is possible, dear My Lady, it shall be done.”

“The execution of my orders, Caspar, is not only possible, it is unavoidable. Nothing is impossible. Everything can be Preserve the harmony of the mimosa pool. In contemplating it I find peace. Send Philo to me ”

“My Lady—forgive me. I will send Philo to you.”

He withdrew, the whispering of his red slippers fading into silence.

“Philo! Our Lady is waiting ...”

“Philo ... Philo ...”

The sibilant slippers returned.

“Philo is here. Madonna.”

The man who entered now, and behind whom Caspar drew the tinkling curtains, must have offered a puzzling problem to any student of humanity.

He wore a chauffeur's livery, with black top-boots which displayed the possession of bulging muscular calves. His shoulder span was phenomenal, although he was a man of no more than average height, so that these mighty shoulders as well as his long arms seemed out of all proportion. Thick black hair grew low on his forehead and the pale, lined face might have belonged to a sheer ruffian if it were not for a pair of hazel eves sparkling with intelligence.

His walk was a silent lope—the movement of a leopard, or of a puma. His eyes burned with passionate devotion.

He stood motionless, silent, until that exquisite voice uttered an order.

“Sit there, Philo, and answer me.”

“Yes, My Lady,” the man replied in deep, vibrant tones, and obeyed. He spoke with a faint but indefinable accent.

“Draw the stool nearer. Look at me.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

But the worshipful eyes resembled those of a dog fearing the whip—as they strove to sustain the scrutiny of the unfathomable eyes which watched them.

“No man has anything to fear if his duty has been performed to the best of his ability. Look down only if you would lie. It is easier. Tell me: what occurred at the flat in Bruton Street?”

“The journalist, Mark Donovan ...”

“The interfering American. Continue.”

“He left his apartment—and was followed. Shortly afterwards, Dr. Steel Maitland returned and let himself in. The porter went off duty. I, Abdul and Varro, stole up the stairs to the landing. We heard Dr. Maitland speaking on the telephone. We rang the door-bell ...”

“Why was he not taken in the street?”

“There were passers-by. It would have been dangerous.”

“Well?”

“He opened the door. We seized him.”

The woman shuddered slightly.

“There was—violence?”

“My Lady, he struck Varro insensible. What could we do? It was fortunate that the neighbouring tenants were absent, for Abdul and I had to carry two men down to the car—”

“Be silent. Let me think. You are such coarse blunderers.” She raised a slender white hand and covered her eyes. “Claudette Duquesne is still with the actress woman in Shepherd Market?”

“Yes, My Lady. Mark Donovan is with her.”

“Ah! This is interesting. Remember, no violence with this wayward child. I shall direct you personally with regard to her ... Is Dr. Maitland here?”

“He is here, My Lady.”

“In whose charge?”

“Abdul's, My Lady.”

“Is Dr. Maitland ... injured?”

“Dear My Lady, what could we do?”

At which the storm broke.

“Ah! this ugliness! Be silent! Excuses do not heal. They make fresh wounds. Why are your ways so ugly? Is he conscious?”

“Abdul is endeavouring to revive him ... Madonna!”

She had sprung upright, fists clenched.

“Abdul! ... Abdul! ... A man with hands less delicate than the hooves of a mule! Are you mad? Rise up! Up, I say! Bring the physician Ariosto to him. Hurry! Hurry! When he has seen him, let Ariosto report to me.”

Philo had risen from the Egyptian stool upon which he had been seated, had drawn back so that he all but touched the rose tinted curtain.

“My Lady, forgive me if I have failed in this. I am afraid ...”

Then the woman laughed. Her laughter was divine music—with a counter melody of hell interwoven.

“There is nothing to be afraid of when a duty has been performed to the best of one's ability ...”

5

In Jackie de Lara's flat Claudette had dropped down on to the settee and, her hands clasped in her lap, was watching Donovan. As their glances met, that provocative flush swept again over her cheeks.

“Whatever do you think of me?” she asked. “How can I hope to excuse myself for—interfering with you like this?”

Perhaps Donovan's ardent sincerity carried conviction, for Claudette smiled, although ever so slightly. It was the first time he had seen her smile, and he thought that a man who knew how to win such a smile as Claudette's should be a very happy man indeed.

“I am Claudette Duquesne. My father is Marcel Duquesne, the Paris journalist.”

Marcel Duquesne! It all came back to Donovan—where he had heard the name—Claudette. “For instance,” Maitland had said, “what became of Claudette, the daughter of Marcel Duquesne, who disappeared on her way home from Algiers?”

“I begin to understand. You speak perfect English?”

“I was educated here, and my mother was English, or rather, Irish. She came from Donegal. I speak French, also, of course.”

Donovan shook hands with himself for his bearing in this particularly awkward interview, for Claudette had attained a composure which was truly remarkable. Alone with him —a stranger—in that oddly decorated bedroom, she seemed so much at ease that she put Donovan at ease too; no simple achievement.

“So you are really Claudette Duquesne, who disappeared on the way home from Algiers? The French newspapers were full of the story. But you father?”

“My poor father! I ... I can't bear to speak about him.”

“I'm sorry. Truly sorry,” Donovan assured her penitently. “Please don't let me upset you. Just let's forget that part and thank heaven that your own troubles are over—that you're safe, now.”

“Oh!” Claudette whispered, “if I could only believe it! If I dared to think that She could never find me! But she is terrible. I am so terrified. That was why I ran away from your flat last night—from you. I'm afraid I fainted, but I must have recovered pretty quickly. I thought you were one of Our Lady's men.”

“Our Lady's men?”

“It must sound strange, because I know now that you are not. But you are—well, good looking, and she seems to employ no one who is not good-looking.”

“You flatter me,” Donovan replied, awkwardly. “If you mean a biggish fellow, you probably mean what a friend of mine meant when he said that anybody would take me for a policeman.”

Claudette shook her head.

“It isn't just that. But I was so distrustful, of everybody, that I was afraid to move, or even to try to get in touch with the police. For one thing, I didn't think they would believe me. I remembered your name, though, and remembered your saying you were with the Alliance Press Association. This evening, in desperation, I rang them up and asked for you. They said you had been there but had gone. That was when I phoned Jackie to try to find you. I knew you were really—you! But I feel terribly guilty, as though I'm dragging you into something—something awful—something which may ruin your life, too!”

But Donovan was thinking, as he watched her, that he would, very gladly, have crossed two continents just for the happiness of seeing her again. His thoughts, in fact, rather frightened him, and so he said:

“Now that you know that you are safe, try to forget your troubles, and try to explain to me just what happened. There is something more than mere chance in our meeting. I feel that we are going to be very real, firm friends. Steel Maitland spoke to me only last night about your disappearance. Don't you think that's odd, when here we are talking together tonight?”

Claudette's eyes opened widely. “Was that—after I had been at—your flat?”

“Yes. Naturally I had no reason to suspect that you were Claudette Duquesne.”

A cheerful rattle of pans and a smell of coffee came from the next room, where Jackie was humming snatches of songs, possibly from the Colombe d'Or revue.

“Wasn't it amazing good luck that I ran into her?” said Claudette. “I felt utterly, hopelessly, lost. She was simply splendid. She's a darling. She came up to me, you know, and took me home as one would a poor, stray thing. I shall never be able to repay Jackie.”

“And now I've found you again, I shall never be able to repay her either, Claudette ... May I call you Claudette?”

“But of course! I love your New England courtesy so much—Mr. Donovan! And may I call you—”

“That makes me very happy. I guess, maybe, I am a little shy. My name is Mark. What I can't understand is how you came to be in the hands of this awful woman. Who is she? What is she? and how did you meet her?”

And this is what Claudette Duquesne told Mark Donovan.


CHAPTER FIVE

1

WHEN Marcel Duquesne came from Paris to London to take up work in connection with General de Gaulle's organisation, Claudette, newly from a convent school in Derbyshire, was staying with her aunt, Lady Orpsley, in Bruton Street. (Lady Orpsley was her late mother's sister.) Claudette also obtained employment at French headquarters, and later, went out to Algiers with her father.

When she bad been there for some time, Marcel Duquesne was recalled to France, temporarily, but Claudette remained. It was during his absence that she renewed her friendship with a former schoolfellow, Jean Barlow, a newly-arrived co-worker in the propaganda department.

“Jean had always been an odd girl,” Claudette said. “Quite pretty, and terribly brainy. I think she spoke five languages fluently. She had gone to Oxford, and taken houours—that sort of girl. But I was very fond of her and she seemed equally glad to see me. I have wondered, since—”

Claudette had notably beautiful hands, which she used in an elusive, graceful way. This, and a trick of nearly closing her eyes and shrugging slightly, alone betrayed the French strain in her blood. She moved those slender hands, now, and the gesture spoke more eloquently than words.

It seemed that Jean Barlow had become a rabid feminist; not, Claudette was sure, because of a love disappointment, but by way of pure reasoning. She used to talk to Claudette by the hour on the subject of men's mismanagement of world affairs.

“I began to suffer from constant headaches,” said Claudette. “I have thought, since, that it wasn't the climate of Algiers, as I supposed, but that Jean was sapping my vitality—trying to impose her will upon me.”

“Do you mean trying to exercise some evil influence?”

“Well, in a way. She would read to me at night from a book called Tears of Our Lady. At first I though it was a religious work of some kind. It was in French with no publisher's imprint. Then I found that 'Our Lady' was the name by which the author was known, and, at first, what she had to write about really shocked me. Yes. I began to be horrified; then, in some way, I became fascinated. It was an evil book. I am quite sure of that, now. But it was dangerously clever.”

“And what was it about?”

She hesitated, as if seeking for words, moving her hands characteristically.

“In a sense, it was about sex; but there was nothing really objectionable in it as far as this was concerned. It was entirely different from any book I had ever read. Even now, I can't explain in what way. But it conveyed the idea that women, as what Our Lady called 'the vessels of the soul,' had been degraded for generations to the place of—oh, mere implements. And, somehow, it made the fact quite clear that men, really, should take that place, if humanity was to become sane, and that women must direct them ...”

Jean told her that the new world now in the throes of fiery birth, called for women of talent, women of beauty and of character whose horizon was not bounded by marriage to some man or another. Jean had enjoyed the supreme honour of meeting Our Lady—“the greatest woman ever born.”

She promised to present Claudette; but Claudette was unwilling, indeed afraid, to meet the writer of that strange book. So that, when Jean was moved to Paris, no definite arrangement had been made.

“I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from me. I could breathe more freely ...”

Then came a cable recalling her to London. Her father had been taken dangerously ill, and he had obtained permission for Claudette to join him. She was granted leave, for she was still in the French service, but told to proceed first to Tunis.

When she arrived—Jean was there to meet her! 'Duquesne! Duquesne!' I heard someone shouting.

“'Here! ... here! I am Claudette Duquesne!'

“Lady to meet you, please. Some luggage, lady, please?'

“And then, racing along the platform, I saw Jean! She was asking 'Which coach?... Oh! Claudette, Claudette, dear! I heard you were arriving, and I just had to meet you! I've fixed everything! We are both going to England at the same time! Isn't it tremendous luck? Come on. I've got a car waiting—' ”

They travelled by land and sea, and finally by air. Claudette was obsessed with the fear that she would not get to her father in time, so that there came a moment when she cried excitedly, “The white cliffs! England!”

“'We shall be in London in half an hour!' said Jean. 'Oh! Isn't it wonderful—at last! Claudette, dear—cheer up! Don't make yourself unhappy. You'll find it won't be so bad as you fear.”

“Then, when the plane touched down, I found a wonderful car—a Phantom Rolls—waiting there.

“ 'This is our car, Claudette!' Jean told me. 'Isn't it smart? Reserved for lucky girls like us...' ”

“Well, of course, it seemed like a dream to me. And when, at last, we reached the outskirts, Jean shouted, 'London—good old London! I can hardly believe it, Claudette, can you?'

“'No,' I told her, 'except that it's so foggy! I don't know where we are at all. And there's something that has puzzled me very much, Jean. Why were we given new passports at that place?'

“ 'Official red tape, I expect, dear!'

“ 'Official red tape? But the war's long over and done with. Why the new passports? You have carried them both. I have never seen mine. What do they say?'

“Jean stared for a moment, and then said, 'Nothing much, Claudette. They must be in order. We got through everywhere without trouble, didn't we?'

“That was true enough, and so I said no more. Presently, the car pulled up before quite an imposing mansion, and the chauffeur, a very dark and very powerful man, with simply enormous shoulders, was joined by someone I supposed to be an Arab butler. He had a face as though it had been carved out of ivory, and a perpetual smile.”

Claudette gave a convincing imitation of this man's voice and mannerisms ...

“ 'Be pleased to follow me, ladies ...'

“I said aside to Jean, 'What an extraordinary looking creature! He appears to be walking in his sleep! Is he—a sort of butler?'

“ 'I suppose so,' Jean said.

“ 'Your things will be taken to your rooms, ladies,' he intoned. 'You must be exhausted after your tiring journey. Allow me to offer you cocktails—or a glass of wine?'

“ 'Oooh!' Jean squealed, (she appeared to be terribly excited) 'Champagne?'

“Well, we had the champagne, and I must say it was delightful. I heard Jean say, 'We have evidently come to the right place!' and then, her words seemed to be echoed—over and over again.

“ 'To the right place ...

“ 'Right place ...

“ 'Come to the right place...'

“I remember whispering, 'Jean! Jean! I feel ill! I believe I am going to ...'

“And Jean's voice went on, 'The right place ... right place ... right place ...'

“I simply can't remember a thing after that; and I can't truly say if I dreamed or only half-dreamed what happened next. But I heard, or I imagined that I heard, Jean's voice saying, 'Here she is, Our Lady. Was I right about her?'

“Two eyes were looking at me.” Claudette extended her hands in a gesture which implied bewilderment. “I don't know if I can make you understand what I mean. But all I could see (or all I can remember) was just two eyes. They were wonderful eyes, but they seemed to hurt me, to hurt something deep, deep inside me—perhaps my spirit. I felt— because I couldn't really see—that those eyes were examining me all over, from head to foot. And then I heard another voice made me really wake up. But I know, now, that I was wondering if Sarah Bernhardt, whom my father raved about, had spoken like that. It said:

“ 'You were right, child. She is accepted. I leave her in your charge ...'

“I thought at the time that the sound of this glorious voice made me really wake up. But I know, now, that I must have wakened some time later. I found myself in bed, in a charming little room—with not a shred of clothing on!”

Again that faint blush touched Claudette's cheeks and was gone.

“There was only one bedside lamp burning, and the house seemed quite still. I got up and searched for my frock, my shoes, my stockings. But there was nothing of the kind in the room; only a pair of fur-trimmed slippers. At first, this seemed incomprehensible—and then I grasped the idea. It was to prevent my attempting to go out!

“Well—I got angry. The door was not locked. I suppose she thought this unnecessary. I looked out on to a landing.

“It was empty.

“I went along to the end and looked down into the entrance hall, which I remembered. There was no one there, and I could hear no sound. What I should have done next I don't know, but, thrown over the post at the foot of the stair I saw a magnificent mink cape. Then, I made up my mind.

“I crept down and wrapped myself in the cape. It's in Jackie's wardrobe, now. (It has a strange but very faint perfume which I never smelled before.) I opened the front door. I was afraid to close it behind me when I slipped out as I should have had to bang it.

“I just turned to the right, and ran!”

Claudette caught her breath and clenched her hands.

“Were you followed?”

“Yes. I hadn't gone far (I don't quite know where I was) when I heard someone running after me. I groped along, and felt iron railings, and presently a gate. I pushed it open —and nearly fell down the area steps to which it led! But this saved me.

“A man—a heavy man—I think it was the chauffeur— went racing past. I came out and ran across the street. I was beginning to feel dreadfully swimmy. It was the effects of whatever they had given me. I moved along, struggling to walk steadily, and presently I heard regular, heavy footsteps. Their sound reassured me: I was certain they were not the steps of any of Our Lady's men.

“I was right. A constable came up. I tried to speak naturally when I asked him to direct me to Bruton Street. I knew that Aunt Margaret's flat could not be far away, but I was hopelessly confused. He showed me I was at the corner of George Street, and so no distance from it. When I got there, I found the outside door open, and—”

“Come on, you two love birds!” cried Jackie. “Supper's ready. If you don't want to eat, I do!”

And even as she spoke, Donovan remembered—as a man awakened from trance recalls reality.

“Good heavens! Look at the time! I had no idea. Jackie. I just hate to seem ungrateful, but there is something wrong! Maitland should have been here hours ago ...”

He hurried across to the phone and dialled his own number.

“Come on, Claudette!” snapped Jackie. “Leave him to his old 'phoning!”

“Hullo! Hullo! Maitland? Donovan here ... What's that? ... Is that Inspector Ives?”

And Ives's voice replied, “It is, sir! Thank the Lord you phoned. We didn't know where you were, except Shepherd Market ...”

“But—Dr. Maitland—”

“We've just broken into the flat, sir. He's not here. But there are signs of a tremendous struggle in the lobby—

Then, Donovan knew, and his voice became a groan.

“My God! Sumuru has got Maitland!”

2

Donovan was dazed momentarily, by recognition of that appalling fact—Sumuru had Maitland. His first impulse was to cry the bad news aloud; his second, to repress it—for Claudette's sake. He recovered his composure, and rejoined the two girls. “Maitland isn't back, yet,” was all he said.

Then a hundred doubts, regrets, projects, jostling one another in his brain, he made a pretence of eating.

The phone bell rang.

“Oooh!” Jackie exclaimed. “Made me jump!”

“It may be for me, Jackie,” said Donovan, quietly.

Jackie put down her coffee cup and went out into the lobby.

“I'll see, Mark.” They heard her voice, muffled in the cubby-hole, then: “Yes! It is for you. It's the police!”

Donovan stood up, avoiding Claudette's glance, and went over to the phone.

“Right. Thanks, Jackie.” He raised the receiver. “Mark Donovan here. Is that Inspector Ives? Line isn't too clear. What name? Sergeant Bettes? Speaking for Inspector Ives? I see.”

He listened in a puzzled way to the message.

“But surely it would be unwise for me to return to Bruton Street and leave Miss Duquesne and her friend here alone, wouldn't it? ... Oh, I see what you mean ... The men are already posted? Well—I suppose I must, if that's Inspector Ives's plan ... Right. Good-bye.”

He replaced the receiver and walked back, as Jackie was saying: “But, Claudette, who is this woman, Sumuru? And what's her game?”

“I don't know what she is, Jackie. But she has great secret influence—”

Then, as Donovan came in, both girls turned to him, and Jackie asked, “What's up, Mark? Has something gone wrong?”

“It isn't,” Claudette whispered—“Dr. Maitland? They haven't found—”

“There's no news of him, Claudette, yet. But Inspector Ives has changed his plan. Now, please listen carefully. This building is surrounded by the police! It seems that some of Sumuru's people are in the neighbourhood—but well hidden. I am to set out for my flat in Bruton Street, and Ives hopes that when I'm seen to leave they will come out into the open. Do you follow?”

“Do you mean,” Claudette asked, “leave us here ...?”

“We can lock ourselves in,” Jackie remarked.

“That's true,” Donovan agreed. “But all the same you don't know, as poor Claudette knows, just what we are up against. It's because Sumuru is hot on her trail that the police are surrounding this building now. Sumuru knows Claudette is here!”

“Mark! It's terrifying ...”

“Shucks!” Jackie cut in—“I'm not scared. The inspector is counting on you, Mark, so finish your coffee and off you go. I'll bolt the door after you. I seem to have walked into the middle of another war!”

“Thank you, Jackie—and Claudette—for heaven's sake be very careful. On no account open the door to anyone except to Inspector Ives.” He took his hat and coat. “Thank you again, Jackie. You're a brick. Shut the door the moment I'm out.”

And with one long, hungry look at Claudette, Mark Donovan went out—and heard the door closed and bolted behind him.

He groped his way down the dark stair and out into the street.

“Who's there?”

A dim figure was discernible some three paces away.

“Quiet, sir! Push on! Police!”

“Thank God for that!” Donovan murmured, and went on his way with renewed confidence.

He was a man with a mission in life. Whilst Maitland's remarkable statements and the ghastly death of Sir Miles Tristram had gone far to convince him that some rare evil threatened civilisation, the impact of these grotesque happenings had, at the same time, deadened imagination. The menace of Sumuru had remained remote, abstract. Now, it was intimate, vital.

Not only Maitland, but Claudette lay in the toils of this incalculable woman—and so Sumuru was become Donovan's personal enemy. (Although Claudette had never heard that name, there could be little room for doubt regarding the identity of “Our Lady.”) What lay behind it all, what ultimate aim Sumuru held in view, Donovan found it impossible even to guess.

But—Maitland was missing: Claudette was marked down. This was sufficient.

Fired with that holy rage which once had fired the Crusaders, Donovan set out for Bruton Street. He had something to tell Ives which would surprise him. Clearly enough, Sumuru already had a considerable organisation. How, otherwise, could she have abducted Claudette from under the noses of the French authorities, and, quietly eliminating her identity, have had her safely transferred to a house in London?

She had agents in unsuspected quarters; witness, the behaviour of the girl called Jean Barlow. And that very night Donovan determined, the house in question should be raided by Scotland Yard: small trouble to find it, in spite of Claudette's hazy memory on this point.

So that he had plenty to think about, but a hopeful heart as he strode along the streets. He did not believe that Sumuru would dare to harm Maitland.

Pedestrians seemed to be even fewer in number than usual. Perhaps this was because of threatening rain-clouds which had come banking from the West. Donovan looked up.

A plane was crossing almost directly overhead. He could see its navigation lights. He thought of the nights he had known in London, when the sound of a plane would almost certainly have meant that soon there would be rainfall—a rainfall of bombs.

The atmosphere was vaporous. The lights looked like a veiled eye peering through the mist ...

He began dreaming again about that wondrous meeting with Claudette—Claudette of the deep violet eyes. He put up a silent prayer that she be spared from further harm, and granted happiness—with him.

Then came the rain. It was almost tropical, that sudden downpour. In a matter of seconds the gutters were turned into cataracts. Donovan hurried, to try to reach shelter, and heard someone hurrying behind him. He stepped aside to avoid a collision with this person, who seemed to be running at racing speed—and plunged one foot into three inches of water.

“Damn!” he exclaimed, feeling his trouser leg saturated.

He stepped back on to the sidewalk. A second runner was following the first. And the first, a heavy; squat figure, bore right down upon him. A flash of bluish light shot straight into his eyes from what looked like a flash-lamp.

Donovan staggered, stifled a scream of pain, and groped blindly for something to hang on to. Vaguely, he was aware of swift footsteps, in retreat. He grasped an iron railing.

He had been blinded! Someone—for no possible reason —had deliberately blinded him by means of some device carried in a flashlamp.

Clinging to the iron railings—the pain in his eyes was agonising—he tried to think. The rain, now, was a deluge. What could he do? Should he shout for help? And then he became aware of footsteps again—this time, approaching. Next, of a car moving slowly.

“Taxi! Hi! Taxi!” he shouted hoarsely.

Not only could he see nothing; he was beginning to feel faint and dizzy.

His shout was answered by a man's voice. But it wasn't the voice of a taxi driver.

“Is something wrong? This isn't a taxi. But I shall be only too glad to give you a lift ...”

More footsteps. He had learnt to know them. A London policeman was coming along. He must think, he must think!

“Constable!” he called.

But that other, suave voice, drowned his own.

“I'm afraid, Constable, this poor fellow has had one over the eight.”

Donovan released his grip on the railings. His hat fell off. He swayed, and clutched widely to recover his hold. The smooth voice went on, as a firm grip steadied him:

“Fortunately, I happen to know his address. It's in my direction. I'll drop him home with pleasure. D'you mind lending me a hand, Officer?”

“Very good of you, sir. Okay.”

Donovan's brain was now swimming. Between pain, frustration, and a deadly nausea, he was beyond speech. He felt himself being lifted into a car. Dimly, he heard:

“What is his address, sir? I ought to have that.”

“Number fourteen, Grosvenor Place, Constable. I live only a block away. Number twenty-four. My name is Worthington...”

A door banged. Donovan knew no more about it.

But the constable stood looking after the departing car and scratching his chin thoughtfully. It was raining as hard as ever and he was drenched, but he paused, looking about him—and saw Donovan's hat lying a yard away.

He stooped, picked it up, shoot the wet from the brim, and shone a light inside.

On the leather band he read:

“Mark Donovan. Alliance Press Association. Greystone House, Fleet Street ...”

3

Caspar stood before My Lady, his lids lowered, but his glance absorbing the scarcely veiled outlines of her perfect body. His sleepy eyes were not asleep.

“My orders concerning Claudette Duquesne have been carried out?”

“Yes, Madonna.”

“Send Philo to me.”

“At once.”

Caspar withdrew, walking like a somnambulist. And presently came echoing calls, diminishing in volume.

“Philo ... Philo ...”

Then, further away: “Philo ... Philo ...”

Philo crossed the marble floor with those lithe, catlike steps, to stand, eyes also downcast, before the woman on the dais.

“My Lady?”

“Be seated there, Philo, and make your report.”

Philo sat on an Egyptian stool, inclining his dark head obediently.

“Yes, Madonna. Abdul and I intercepted the American journalist. We used the blue light.”

“He went with Ariosto?”

“He did, My Lady. But a constable helped to get him into the car—where Varro took charge of him.”

“Proper precautions were taken to ensure that the car could not be traced?”

“All precautions. Madonna.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the laboratory, Madonna.”

“Leave me. I shall consider what must be done next ...”


CHAPTER SIX

1

DONOVAN'S emotions during that journey he could never afterwards adequately describe. That he was being taken to his own execution he did not doubt. His mental faculties had been rendered vague by the action of that awful blue glare which had been shone into his eyes. His sight had apparently gone for ever.

He was in the hands of Sumuru!

Whether or not rigor Kubus would supervene he had no means of learning. But he feared the worst. It was almost certain, he saw now, that he had been followed to Shepherd Market—and he could not bear to think of the fate of Claudette—nor the fate of Maitland ... Maitland's fearful respect for the genius of Sumuru was justified. If the woman be worthy of her hirelings, then indeed she was a criminal genius.

Even as Donovan sat there in darkness, helpless in the powerful grasp of the man who sat beside him, he found it hard to believe that he had been drugged in a Mayfair street and kidnapped with the assistance of the Metropolitan police!

“Number fourteen, Grosvenor Place ... My name is Worthington ...”

The cool resourcefulness of the man who called himself Worthington marked him for a highly accomplished rogue. One thing, and one thing only, might turn the tables—the constable might go to the trouble to check up. No doubt he would include this incident in his report. Then—Scotland Yard would move.

But could they move in time?

There came a sort of hiatus, haunted by distant bells ... “Number fourteen ... ding-dong ... Grosvenor Place ... ding-dong ...” Then followed a sudden, acute keenness of smell. Donovan became aware of an intolerably heavy perfume. But he could not identify it...

He thought that he was facing a long, low wall, a wall covered by a piece of Oriental tapestry. Seeming to observe that its character was changing in some subtle way, he found himself studying this tapestry intently. Its design was conventional Chinese, representing dragons and a pagoda, but, as he watched, these dragons appeared to move, insidiously, and the pagoda to become mysteriously lighted. The gold of the dragon scales glittered like real gold and then grew red as though molten. The pagoda receded into uttermost distance, until, as he continued to gaze, he thought that it stood on the edge of a vast golden plain peopled with fiery dragons and so far away that now it became impossible to make it out even as a pin point.

And as his gaze was drawn on further and further into this moving design, so he, himself, began bodily to follow.

He stepped into the tapestry!

In no other way could he have described what happened. The fiery dragons slithered away before his advancing footsteps, noiselessly, like lizards in the desert sand. The illuminated pagoda no longer seemed inaccessible, for in a few strides he had reached it. Gently tinkling bells greeted his approach and he entered through a cloud of incense to find himself confronting a decorated shrine.

Upon a lacquered couch set upon a dais, a woman reclined, fanning herself. She wore a white robe of Grecian simplicity bordered with gold, and her long fan was composed of white peacock feathers. Donovan knew, without being able to analyse his impressions, that this woman was more wonderful than any he had known. He could not have said why, nor in what way.

“So you are Mark Donovan ...”

Had she vanished at that moment he could not have described her. He could never describe her, afterwards; for no one had ever been able to describe the Marquise Sumuru. But he could never forget her voice ...

He awoke from this dream (if it had been a dream) to find himself in what looked like a hospital.

And he could see!

The man whom he knew, when he spoke, to be “Worthington,” stood watching him. He wore a white coat.

“Quite restored? Don't worry about your eyes. The effect of 365 is quite transient.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Still feel a bit swimmy?”

“I feel fit to knock your block off!”

“Ah, well! We shall no doubt get to know one another better.”

“When you get to know me you'll be surprised,” Donovan snapped. “Is this a private insane asylum you've run me into?”

“Not at all.” The man began to remove his white jacket. “It is the experimental laboratory attached to Our Lady's London headquarters. I am in charge of it. Experiments are proceeding here, Mr. Donovan, which would stagger your American scientists—so called.”

“I bet they would.”

“Humanity is faced with only two alternatives, you see. Complete, and speedy, destruction, or complete, and speedy, reconstruction. Our Lady plans to reconstruct mankind. I regret keeping you under restraint. You have only to give me a promise of good behaviour and I will free you at once.”

“Can't be done,” said Donovan quietly.

He had discovered that his hands were tied together.

“You owe your present circumstances entirely to your friend Dr. Steel Maitland. This man imagines that he has a sacred mission to destroy the work of Our Lady Sumuru. Others have thought this, Mr. Donovan. They might as well attempt to destroy the Himalayas. But if you will follow me (you insist on keeping your hands tied?—very well?)—you can talk over the position with Dr. Maitland—”

“Maitland! Maitland is here?—” The words were jerked out of Donovan almost against his will.

“You are fellow guests of Our Lady. Please follow me closely. Some of our laboratory equipment is delicate—and dangerous.”

“Dr. Worthington” had replaced the white jacket with a black coat, and was moving towards the shadows. Donovan stood up, and followed ...

“A beautiful culture here, Mr. Donovan. It is the minute fungus which produces rigor Kubus ... Avoid those tubes. Lower your head. I wish I had time to show you some of our latest experiments ... Here we are!” He rapped on a white door, and threw it open. “A friend to see you, Dr. Maitland!”

The door was closed, and locked quietly, and Donovan's guide departed.

In a small, square room, furnished like a waiting-room, Steel Maitland was standing—facing the doorway.

“Maitland!”

“Donovan! God forgive me!”—he stepped forward; his features were haggard—I dragged you into this!”

“Forget it.” Donovan's voice sounded slightly unsteady. “I'm the prize fool. I fell into a booby trap a babe in arms would have seen through ... and left Claudette at the mercy of these devils! Even now they may have her ...”

Indeed, at the moment that Donovan spoke her name, Claudette had sprung to her feet, pale, tense, in Jackie de Lara's flat. The two girls stared at one another.

“There it is again!” Claudette whispered.

“Ssh! honey! They'll hear you!”

Someone was knocking, softly but insistently, on the outer door ...

“Don't stir, Jackie!”

Jackie shook her head. “I must get to the phone.”

“Oh, listen! That knocking! If only they would ring—or speak!”

“The bell's out of order,” said Jackie. 'The stair light is broken, too.” Knocking continued—a gentle but imperative summons. “Oh! I must get to the phone!”

“But the phone is right by the door, Jackie. They will see you through the letter-box!” All the time the sound continued. It had in it something almost hypnotic. “That knocking! It's Our Lady, it's Our Lady! I know it is. She is outside there—waiting for me! Jackie! Let me go. It will be best for you ...”

“I'll break your neck it you don't shut up!” Jackie snapped. “Let me think ... It'll drive me mad, too, if I can't stop it. Now, don't panic, dear. I'm going to put the light out and creep to the phone.”

There was a click as Jackie moved the switch, and complete darkness.

“Oh! be careful, Jackie—be careful!”

Claudette became aware of furtive movements.

“Jackie! where are you?”

“Ssh! keep quiet ... I'm in the lobby.”

Claudette was trembling—and the knocking had ceased. Those furtive stirrings continued.

“Jackie! ... it that you?”

“Aye”—in a whisper—“it's me... I'm back again.” She drew a deep breath. “The phone's gone dead, too!”

“Oh, Jackie, dear, what are we going to do?”

“Stay in the dark. But if that knocking starts again I'm going to open the window and let out a yell that'll wake all London!”

4

And in the small waiting-room, Donovan and Maitland had fallen into a momentary silence. From the laboratory outside, no sound reached them. One hanging lamp lighted the room, a room in which there was no furniture other than a bare oak table on which a copy of Punch was lying, three office chairs and an umbrella-stand.

“Well,” Donovan breathed, “thank God you're alive, Maitland. We have to face this thing calmly.” He glanced down at his hands. “Just unfasten my hands, will you, and maybe we can do something.”

Maitland's teeth flashed queerly in the bearded face. It was a grim smile.

“Easily said, Donovan! Look at my own!”

He held up his wrists. They were tied together by a slender green cord.

“Good God! I never realised it! But why don't you snap free?”

Maitland smiled again. “Why don't you? Just try it. But go easy ... There!”—as Donovan suppressed an exclamation—“all the stress comes on the thumbs. That's how it's tied. A purely Eastern trick—which is significant in a way.”

“What in hell is it made of?” growled Donovan, examining a cut on his thumb caused by his attempt to jerk the line apart.

“A very thin steel wire covered with silk. But, tell me, Donovan, how on earth do you come to be there?”

“That can wait. What's bothering me is where are we? This appears to be a huge place. It can't be in London.”

“M'no ... but it may not be far away. How were you brought here? How long did the journey take?”

“Couldn't say. I passed out in the back of a car—held in the grip of a fellow who must be related to Samson.”

“Dressed like a chauffeur?”

“I don't know how he was dressed, I was temporarily blind.”

“I think I have had the privilege of meeting him—on the landing outside your door! He was accompanied by a hairy monster of even more forbidding appearance, whom I had the pleasure of knocking backwards down half a flight of stairs! But the chauffeur thug got me with a rubber truncheon ... Ssh! Someone coming!”

Whispering footsteps approached the door. It was unlocked and a smiling man in Arab dress bowed on the threshold.

“Dr. Steel Maitland, will you be good enough to follow me?”

His voice was gently unctuous.

“What of my friend?” Maitland demanded.

“He will be good enough to remain here.”

Maitland and Donovan exchanged glances, then: “I suppose there is nothing for it, Donovan,” Maitland murmured. “Don't be rash. We haven't a chance, even if our hands were free ... Hope to rejoin you shortly.”

The smiling attendant stood aside, bowing deeply. “This way, if you please, Dr. Maitland.”

For a moment Maitland hesitated. “Where are we going?”

“Our Lady will receive you, sir.”

“Very sweet of her, I'm sure.” He glanced back. “Well, Donovan—wish me luck!”

Maitland heard the door being relocked in the semi-darkness as he came out. The man in Arab dress stepped to his side.

“This way, if you please, Dr. Maitland.”

Silently, Maitland walked along with his smiling companion, fringing the laboratory, its equipment discernible only in the form of specks of light reflected from glass vessels. Another door was opened—and closed behind them. They went up a short stair, and came out through a carpeted passage into a lofty marble-floored place which reminded Maitland of a Roman temple.

He noted a number of antique pillars supporting a painted ceiling, rugs and skins strewn about the marble floor. A stair led up to a bronze door. There was a square pool into which there peered a figure of Pan as it seeking some hidden nymph. A bank of mimosa bloomed beside it, and the heated air was heavy with perfume ...

“Will you be good enough to wait here whilst I announce you.”

The red-slippered feet of his guide whispered across to a semi-circular recess, a sort of shrine, approached by three marble steps and veiled by pink gauzy curtains. He mounted the steps and drew the curtains apart. They emitted a sound resembling tiny bells.

“My Lady, Dr. Steel Maitland is here ...”


CHAPTER SEVEN

1

“I HAVE been anxious to make your acquaintance, Dr. Maitland.” It was a magic voice; mystic melody. Of this commonplace it created music like that of harps softly played. “I find you unaccountably reluctant to meet me. Most men are provokingly persistent.” She gestured with a white peacock fan. “Wont you please sit down. I trust the perfume of mimosa does not disturb you?”

“Not at all,” said Maitland. “But you do.”

“Perhaps you are thinking that I am dressed in this—barbaric—manner in order to seduce you from what you probably regard as your duty. But you are wrong. This is my customary dress—when I am at home. But please sit down.”

The second invitation was in fact an order, an order which Maitland obeyed. The tip of the white peacock plume indicated where he should sit—beside that graceful, reclining figure. Yet, even as he moved forward, and now, in intimate proximity, he never seemed to remove his gaze from those compelling eyes.

Maitland was haunted by a memory, or the ghost of a memory which refused to materialise. Some trick of lighting or an artifice in the use of her long lashes, made it impossible to identify the colour of her eyes; but, somewhere, at some time, perhaps years ago, he had seen this woman before ...

“Allow me to unfasten your wrists. Such tricks as these are out of date.”

“I promise nothing if you do.”

“It is unnecessary.”

With a pair of tiny scissors she snipped the steel wire and freed Maitland's hands.

“You must not make the fatal mistake of joining my enemies. Indeed, I know you will not want to, when I have explained my motives. It was in order that I might do so that I sent for you. But please don't permit me to bore you. I will try to be brief.”

Bore him! Her voice played a symphony to which he could have listened, enraptured, for hours.

“You see, Dr. Maitland, our world has been brought to the edge of disaster by ugliness. Ugliness of body and ugliness of mind. If, like the old Greeks, we had worshipped beauty, do you suppose that the horrors of the recent war with Germany, the present threat of Soviet Russia, could ever have fallen upon us?”

“Perhaps—” Maitland hesitated—“perhaps I don't understand you?”

“Few do understand me. Few men and women alive today are capable of understanding me. Those few that are, I try to find, try to make them listen. Men so hideous as Hitler and Himmler, deformed in body and warped in mind, should never have been permitted to rule any country. Consider the ape-like war lords of Japan—that land of exquisite refinements; consider those who, today, rule Holy Russia, and tell me if such as these should be allowed to disfigure the world. The West must control the East—or perish.”

“But I thought—”

“You thought, perhaps, that I was Japanese!” She laughed. Her laughter resembled a peal of fairy bells... “Dr. Steel Maitland, in this as in many other things, you were wrong. You have been misled by my association with the unhappy Marquis. Look at me. Inspect me as closely as you please. I am not sensitive.”

And in some way the spell of her unfathomable eyes was lifted, so that Maitland found himself free to look at her, unfettered. She raised her arms, so that the peacock plumes waved far above her head.

“Did the dark womb of Japan ever produce skin as white as mine? Am I shaped like a geisha?” She extended herself languidly on the couch, raised and painted one slender foot clad in a gold sandal, revealing curves, classical but unendurable. 'The Japanese are a short limbed race. Are my lips the lips of an Oriental woman?”

But he was afraid to answer, afraid to trust himself. This woman was a sorceress. He closed his eyes and clenched his hands and was silent. She laughed again, very softly; fairy bells in the distance.

“Yes, men desire me. Once, it might have amused me to permit those bearded lips to humble themselves upon my body; but I conquered such impulses long, long ago. I sometimes surrender myself, out of curiosity or to gain my ends. That ancient Roman who exhausted his passion upon an ivory statue experienced at least as much rapture as my lovers ... You may open your eyes. I have finished tempting you.”

Lightly, she brushed his cheek with the peacock fan.

Maitland opened his eyes—and his soul was lost again in the dark pools of her own.

“You may consider it remarkable that a woman so desirable as myself (Oh, I am free from false modesty) should possess any brains, much less the scientific knowledge which is mine. Woman scientists in your own country are so plain and stuffy, don't you think?”

And Maitland later blushed to recall that he did not rise up in their defence.

“There was in Greece a great man called Plato. No doubt—” (a note of mockery faintly disturbed the harmony of her voice)—“as a physician and a trusted agent of British Intelligence, you are familiar with his work? You will remember that he postulated a governing class bred for their high office. Above greed, immune from passion, undisturbed by those lusts, those ambitions, which lure lesser men from the path of duty, these leaders of his ideal republic would work unswervingly for peace, for beauty, for perfection.”

She paused, but Maitland said nothing, and presently she continued.

“We have fallen far below Plato's ideal with our so-called civilisation. So far below, Dr. Maitland, that only drastic measures can save mankind from total destruction. I have been at work on such measure for, oh, ever so many years. The outburst of discord which you called the world war, interrupted me. Yet, I bent events to my purpose. I have resumed my task. It is no easy one. You see, mere virtue is not enough. Virtue is sometimes ugly. Wars are not brought about by nations. They are brought about by a small group of warped men. If the virtuous leaders of other states but recognised their ugliness, they would not permit them to live—and there would be no wars.”

Maitland remained silent, spellbound.

“Great armies are not necessary for my purpose. I concern myself only with those who dream of employing them. And whilst such as these have been playing with rockets capable of carrying atomic bombs across the Atlantic, with lethal gas to destroy whole populations, with absurd planes to fly at ridiculous speeds, I have been busy in the directions. My warfare is intensive, but equally scientific. I can control those destructive brains as no Charter could control them. If I wish, I can remove them altogether. There are sciences higher than those of explosives. Those things are unseemly. Those things must be effaced. There is no room for beauty where such ugliness exists. Destructive individuals must not be. Consider the hideous experiment known as splitting the atom. This was performed, quite successfully, ever so long ago. In fact, Atlantis disappeared shortly afterwards. Those who work for destruction must themselves be destroyed.”

Maitland found his voice.

“What would you do—assassinate them?”

“Assassinate them?” She waved her white fan languidly. “When one of your officers orders his troops to take a strongpoint held by the enemy, and all the defenders are killed, do you say that he has assassinated them? No. Dr. Maitland. I do not propose to assassinate; I propose to remove the ungracious, as by the surgeon's knife, before it can spread and corrupt whole nations. But while greed, lust of power, big business, sway the destinies of men, there can be no peace. Only perfect minds in perfect bodies are fit for leadership. When beauty rules, serenity will return.”

Again Maitland heard his own voice, speaking as if from a long way off.

“This is a dream.”

“Our present conversation—or my ideals? Neither are dreams. You are trying to recall where you have met me before. One day, perhaps, I will tell you ...”

A mist began to gather before Maitland's eyes, so that he no longer saw clearly the dais or the woman with the fan. The siren voice came to his ears from further and further away.

“If you continue to obstruct my plans, I shall be forced to deal with you as I deal with all obstacles. For by doing this, you will have become discordant. And it is the holy mission of beauty to destroy ugliness ...”

Maitland became aware of a confused clamour like that of distant shouting ...

“You must come and see me again, Dr. Maitland—or perhaps I will come and see you. But cease to interfere with my plans. Sir Miles Tristram, you know, was a man of evil life. He was wholly unlovely. You must not allow his removal to disturb you. In order that a tree shall attain to perfect harmony, it is often necessary to cut away many disfiguring branches. There is no sin but ugliness. And death can sometimes be the one graceful act in an otherwise ugly life...”

Then the musical tones which had enthralled Maitland faded like those of an Aeolian harp, and were gone. There was a floating mist before his eyes—that, he thought, of the incense which now filled the space on the dais. It was clearing, however, by slow but perceptible degrees ...

2

“Maitland!” Donovan hardly recognised his own voice. “Maitland! Are you there? ... Maitland ...”

Donovan groped in darkness. Presently, he stumbled over something—and created a clatter of empty cans.

“Where the devil am I!” he muttered. “It was that damnable perfume ... Maitland!” His voice rose to a harsh cry. “Maitland!”

But there was no reply.

Quite apart from the fact that he remained wildly uncertain about what had happened, in what dark place he now groped, there was something, something urgent, which he must do first ... Claudette! Beyond doubt he had been followed to Jackie de Lara's flat. Since his departure, what had occurred there?

Donovan found himself in a twilight sleep. What was fact —what mirage? Perhaps the things which had temporarily robbed him of sight, possessed the further property of making one peculiarly prone to hypnotic suggestion. Wherever the truth might lie, he was perfectly satisfied that he had neither dreamed nor imagined that unforgettable vision of Sumuru —for that the woman with the peacock fan was Sumuru he had no doubt whatever.

Then, he had found himself in a large laboratory—with “Dr. Worthington”—and then, with Maitland, in a small, square room ... Maitland had been taken away.

What happened next?

He could not remember! It was appalling. But he could not remember!

Was he still a prisoner?

He assured himself that his hands were free. He determined to grope his way to a wall, and then to follow it round until he came to a door. There was a strong smell of petrol. He set out—then stood still.

“Is there anyone there?” came a distant cry.

“Who's that?” Donovan asked, huskily.

“I think I heard an answer, Inspector.”

Donovan's heart gave a jump.

“Who's there?” he shouted.

“Mr. Donovan! Is that you? Inspector Ives here!”

“Ives? Thank God!”

“Are you free to move?”

“Yes—but swimmy.”

“Can you find the door, sir?”

“I'll try. But it's pitch dark ...”

Donovan clutched his head. He must keep calm. What was it he had set out to do? Ah! of course—to find a wall and follow it until he came to a door.

He set out cautiously—stumbled again—groped around some obstacle, a cupboard, went on in the direction from which muffled voices came, and found a door.

“I've found the door. But it's locked!”

“All right, Mr. Donovan,” came Ives's gruff assurance. “Stand clear. We'll soon have it open!”

Began a sound of wrenching and splintering, over which Donovan made his voice heard:

“Is Dr. Maitland there?”

“No, sir, he's not.”

“My God! They've got him!”

“Stand clear. Here goes the door!”

Wrenching and splintering reached a crescendo, and the door gaped open to reveal a ring of police lamps, as if several giant cats crouched out here in the darkness. Inspector Ives stepped forward.

“Thank heavens, Mr. Donovan! I didn't expect—er—”

“I didn't expect to be alive either! Thank you for this.”

“It's Constable Kent, here, you have to thank—not me.”

Donovan shaded his eyes, peering from face to face.

“Why—Constable!” he exclaimed. “Are you the man who helped me into Dr. Worthington's car?”

Constable Kent grinned apologetically.

“It was you dropping your hat that did it, Mr. Donovan. I may as well admit I wasn't satisfied with the whole thing, anyway. But when I phoned through, the inspector happened to be at the station. We got a move on!”

“Thank God you did,” said Donovan. “I feel like a fly that has escaped from the web of a particularly dangerous spider! But—where am I? And what time is it?”

“It's almost exactly four a.m., sir.” Ives replied. “As to where we are; we're in the garage of a damaged and condemned house on Clapham Common! I had every division for miles around looking for that car in which you were carried off. Of course, there's no Worthington at the address in Grosvenor Place!”

“You're telling me!”

“No trace was found until about half an hour ago. Then, a constable on duty on the Common noticed a car answering to the description pull up near here. He was too far away to see just what happened, and before he got here, the car had gone. The garage was locked—but he heard groans ... We soon got busy.”

“Inspector! That woman has Maitland! If we pull London down, we must find him! Tell me—Miss Duquesne?”

There was a perceptible pause before Ives answered.

“Sorry, Mr. Donovan! She left Miss de Lara's flat shortly after you did—”

“What!”

“I've interviewed Miss de Lara and she has described what occurred. It seems that shortly after you went—of course, you fell into a trap: no one on my staff phoned you—they heard knocking on the door—”

“Surely they didn't open—”

“No, they didn't. But Miss de Lara crept to the phone— and found it was dead.”

“Line cut?”

“Not at all. Much simpler.” Whoever phoned you just left his receiver off the hook. That's all that's necessary to cut a line out! Well, the knocking stopped. There was a scurry on the stairs, and then a voice, which Miss de Lara described as 'gentlemanly,' called out, 'Don't be alarmed. This is Dr. Maitland'.”

“Good heavens! I begin to understand. She described this man?”

“Certainly. A tall man in a black overcoat, with a white muffler and wearing a soft black hat. 'A bit of a dark 'tache' she said—and very keen eyes'.”

“Stop! stop!” Donovan, now, was nearly frantic. “Do you mean that Claudette went away with this man?”

“Of course she did. Why not? She thought he was your friend.”

“God help us!” He grasped Ives's arm. “Do you recognise this person from his description?”

“I do, Mr. Donovan!” said Constable Kent.

“She has gone away with the man who posed as 'Worthington'! Sumuru has Claudette, now—as well as Maitland!”


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