THE SINS OF SUMURU - 2

THE SINS OF SUMURU
SAX ROHMER

(  INSTALMENT  2  )


CHAPTER EIGHT

1

“COME in.”

“Mr. Mark Donovan, sir.”

Donovan entered a small, neat room, where Chief Inspector Ives sat behind a large, neat desk. The door was closed behind him.

“Glad to welcome you to Scotland Yard, Mr. Donovan. Please sit down. But I'm sorry I have no better news for you.”

Donovan sat down on a hard chair.

“Then—there's no trace of Miss Duquesne? ... Nor of Dr. Maitland?”

“Sorry, Mr. Donovan—”

“Inspector Ives!” Donovan jumped up—'This inaction is driving me mad!”

“We are not inactive, sir, I assure you,” said Ives, watching him sympathetically. “At this present moment, a dozen men are hunting for the house described by Miss Duquesne. It can't have been very far from Bruton Street, as she ran there after her escape—”

“I'm afraid she won't escape a second time!”

Donovan forced himself to sit down again.

“Don't be so low spirited, sir! Scotland Yard can't be defied like this—for long. Here's a woman who commits cold-blooded murder, who abducts people—men as well as girls —and all under the noses of the police! It won't do, Mr. Donovan—it won't do! I can only suppose she's mad.”

“Mad or sane, she's a danger at least as great as Hitler was. If you saw her, heard her voice, you would understand. I have been in what she calls her Headquarters. It's a vast place. I didn't dream it. It's right there—somewhere near London.”

Ives, more nearly resembling an army officer than the traditional detective, rested his hands on the desk.

“M'yes—somewhere near London. That covers a vast area, Mr. Donovan. There's no doubt we are up against a gang that employs new methods. They take chances no ordinary criminal would dream of taking. But they have resources no ordinary criminal has, either. I should say this woman is a fanatical idealist with an enormous financial background.”

“She's a criminal genius.”

“Like enough. She's a genius in a way that may not have occurred to you. I mean that from the point of view of a prosecution, we haven't a scrap of evidence! We have no case!”

“What!”

“It's a fact. In the first place, we don't know who Sumuru is. We have only your testimony—unsupported—and the testimony of Miss Duquesne and Dr. Maitland (both missing) that such a person exists! A man was certainly murdered here in London, you were attacked and taken away to some house, and the others have—disappeared. But you don't know where this house is! As for the garage of the bomb-damaged property where we found you, any common crook could have got hold of a key to fit that. You were intended to be found there. For some reason or another, this woman didn't mean to detain you. If it comes to that, you can't even describe her!”

“I know I can't!” Donovan groaned. “Nobody who has ever seen her has been able to describe Sumuru.”

“That's what I mean. You see how abominably clever, she is? No one can corroborate another's evidence. There's nothing to go to a jury. Then, there's this man who calls himself Worthington—”

“The swine who had me blinded. Plenty of evidence there.”

“Of the outrage, yes. But not of the identity of Mr. Worthington. This man seems to be the same who called for Miss Duquesne, posing as Dr. Maitland—whom she had never met. A dangerous criminal. But who is he? We have no records, here, of such a person. He must be a foreign importation.”

“He is Sumuru's chief chemist. He told me so.”

“Quite. But no one heard him tell you! Bring him in here, and get him to repeat it. Then, we should know what to do!”

“That's your business, isn't it, Inspector?”

“A nasty one! We're doing out best, Mr. Donovan—”

Ives's desk phone purred. He took it up.

“Chief Inspector Ives here ... What's that? A house near Hanover Square, you say? But are you sure of the car? ... We're on dangerous ground there. We can't raid the embassies of friendly nations! ... All right, I'll come along at once.”

He replaced the receiver.

“Any news, Inspector?” Donovan asked eagerly.

“Well—” Ives frowned in a puzzled way. “I hope so. But it's all rather confusing. One of my fellows thinks he has found the house to which your missing friend, Miss Duquesne, was taken when she arrived in London——”

“Yes, yes! Go on!”

“It's certainly in the right neighbourhood. But it belongs to the diplomatic corps of one of the Balkan states! Funny business! I must be off. It's getting late, too. Let me drop you at your flat in Bruton Street. When I've looked into this clue, I'll come along and see you ...”

2

“Caspar! ...”

“Caspar! ... Caspar! ...”

Sibilant slippers crossed a marble floor; there was a musical tinkling as the rose-tinted curtains swung open.

“My Lady?”

“What does Philo report?”

“He reports. My Lady, that the house of the ex-ambassador is being watched by the police—”

There followed a moment of ominous silence—a faint splash from the pool.

“There has been some carelessness! Some outrageous clumsiness! Steps must be taken immediately. This may be dangerous. Proceed, Caspar! Proceed! What of the American journalist?”

“Mark Donovan is away from his apartment, My Lady. It is believed that he is at Scotland Yard—”

“Believed! believed! Am I served by half-wits? Is he at Scotland Yard or is he not?”

Caspar bowed so low that he resembled an inverted L.

“My Lady—I only tell you what is reported to me. I can tell you no more.”

My Lady tapped her long nails on the ivory inlay of an Arab coffee-table.

“Philo's wits grow dull. I must find some means of stimulating them. Perhaps a year in the ruby mines—”

“My Lady! My Lady!” At last, emotion entered into the placid voice. “Spare him that!”

“We must act at once. Those records, photographs and fingerprints may fall into the wrong hands—particularly if the servants at the embassy are interrogated. Varro and Abdul are ready with the car?”

“They await your orders, Madonna.”

“Ariosto knows the plan. Tell him to apply the new preparation, 842, and to send Dr. Maitland to me here.”

“It shall be done, My Lady.”

The curtain rings emitted their bell-like tinkle. The whisper of Caspar's slippers died into silence.

My Lady laughed.

“It is all so simple—if one is wise, and calm ...”

An almost complete stillness fell upon that fantastic room, broken only by occasional faint splashings from the marble pool, when one of the golden orfe disturbed a lily leaf. Then came an angry voice and a scuffle of footsteps ...

“Restrain yourself, Dr. Maitland.” The oily tones were Caspar's. 'This anger is useless. I do not more than to obey Our Lady's orders.”

“Keep your slimy hands off me!” Steel Maitland shouted. “I can walk without support, thank you.”

The rings tinkled as the curtains were drawn open.

“My Lady—Dr. Steel Maitland to see you.”

The rings tinkled again as the curtains were closed. Caspar's slippers went whispering away.

Maitland looked slightly dishevelled. His eyes were hotly angry, and his hands were fastened. He stood there staring at My Lady.

“Ah! I am much obliged to you, madame. First, for having my hands re-tied—which small attention probably saved me from a charge of homicide. Second, for instructing 'Dr. Worthington' to administer an injection which means no doubt that I shall die without having strangled him!”

A ripple of musical laughter checked his words.

“How you exaggerate, Dr. Maitland! Please be seated. I fear you are a nasty, rough fellow—or so Ariosto reports.”

Maitland hesitated, then, with a gesture of resignation, dropped down on to the Egyptian stool set near the divan.

“Who is Ariosto?”

My Lady clasped her hands behind her head, leaning back on a pillar.

“My chief physician—whom you know as Dr. Worthington. A man of great ability.”

“I am aware of his ability!” said Maitland dryly.

“You must bear no malice.” The wonderful eyes were nearly closed. “He merely carries out my orders. And my orders must be obeyed. I ordered Mark Donovan to be set free. He is free now. I had my reasons. One day, he will work for me—voluntarily.”

“You are an optimist! But enough of this nonsense. Scotland Yard is hard on your heels. I suppose you know it?”

Sumuru remained still.

“Scotland Yard can never disturb my serenity. I am beyond the reach of Scotland Yard. Those who are a real danger to my plans, I remove—in a manner to be a warning to others. There is never any evidence, Dr. Maitland. In my home I preserve the traditions of a past grandeur. I go about the world, freely and luxuriously. I maintain the personal staff of a prime minister. I have thousands of followers. But Scotland Yard can never interfere with me.”

Maitland was studying the lovely, provocative face, covertly.

“Am I to suppose,” he asked, “that you do me the honour of regarding me as one who is a real danger? Has your talented Ariosto booked me to a quick or to a slow death?”

Where had he met this woman before?

“You are really absurd!” She smiled slightly. “I assure you I am entirely harmless—if no one interferes with me. No, Dr. Maitland, you will not die. You will merely obey my orders. 842, which Ariosto administered, is a sedative, intended to compose your mind to receive those orders.”

Maitland became aware of a disturbing phenomenon. Either My Lady's features were changing, assuming a wholly different character, or his eyes were playing him tricks ...

“I may be your prisoner, madam, and helpless. But nothing can ever force me to carry out your fantastic plans ...” His voice sounded to his own ears as though it came from a long way off. “Whew! This place is suffocatingly hot!”

“I recall,” My Lady murmured, “that you were overcome on a former occasion, Dr. Maitland. The scent of mimosa is, of course, a heavy one. But you will no doubt become accustomed to it—in time.”

The slim, recumbent body seemed to be floating ... floating nearer. Maitland spoke, hoarsely.

“You ... have ... drugged me ... you she-devil! I am ... suffocating ...”

My Lady's eyes had grown enormous—and they were close to his own.

“You are merely a little faint. This will pass. Look at me! ... I order you to look at me!”

Maitland seemed to be sinking into purple depths, but the beautiful, remorseless voice followed him.

“There is a small steel box locked in the wardrobe at Mark Donovan's flat. It contains evidence which you have collected in the East concerning that Order of which I am the head. I must see this evidence. You will bring it to me. You have the key to the apartment. You are going there now. If you are disturbed, you will say, 'Do not follow me ...' "

Scented purple clouds dosed over Maitland's head.

“... 'Death to follow ...' ”

“... 'Death to follow me...' ”

“...'to follow me ...' ”

3

“Is that you, Inspector?”

Donovan sprang up and turned to the door. He was ridiculously jumpy.

“It is!”

Inspector Ives stepped in, closing the door behind him.—“Phew! My nerve's going!”

“I was right to borrow the key, Mr. Donovan. I left the car well out of sight and took a careful look along Bruton Street. Sure enough, there's a fellow skulking up at the Berkeley Square end! But I tricked him! I waited until a lorry came by, and ran beside it right to your door. I was in before he could have seen me!”

Donovan crossed to the buffet and poured out two drinks.

“Does it matter?” he asked wearily, passing a tumbler to the inspector.

“I think it does. Why is your place being watched? Whatever it means, they don't know I'm here! ... Thanks! This is welcome.”

“What news?”

“Nothing much.” Ives set his glass down. “A car corresponding to the one in which you were carried off, recently, was seen to call at a house not far from here. Unfortunately, this house is outside the jurisdiction of Scotland Yard. All quiet there. Don't quite know what we can do—at least, not tonight.”

Donovan took a deep gulp of whisky.

“Good God! This is awful! And—Claudette may be in that house!”

“She may be, Mr. Donovan,” Ives agreed, and began to fill his pipe. “But if she is, she stays there. A good man is posted now, and will be relieved at daylight by another. In the meantime, I shall try to get the necessary powers.”

Donovan moved about restlessly.

“This house right in Mayfair can't possibly be Sumuru's headquarters,” he said. “But we know for a fact that she uses some other place near by as well. Is there anything otherwise suspicious, to suggest that it might be this Embassy?”

“Nothing much. Except that the diplomatic party who formerly occupied it went away some time ago. There are still servants there I believe, clearing up the heavier baggage, and so on. But while the national flag hangs over the door, my hands are tied.”

Donovan nodded, miserably.

“We have got to accept the fact that Sumuru has tremendous secret influence of some sort. It may be political influence ...”

“That's what I've been thinking!” Ives declared, putting his pouch back in his pocket and lighting his pipe.

“It would account for a lot of things. It would partly explain how she manages her abductions. In fact, there could be a better place to hide a prisoner than inside an Embassy.”

“You're right. It's been done before. But if we're up against a woman who uses diplomatic immunity to cover her crimes, we're also up against a tough proposition!”

“I agree. Why—Maitland might be in that house!”

“He might be, Mr. Donovan. But... Quiet! What's that?”

Ives put his lighted briar in a tray, and stood up.

“What? I heard nothing—”

“S'sh! Listen!”

They stood tense, alert, and then:

“Someone just outside the door!” Donovan whispered.

“Trying a key in the lock! Quick! Where can we hide?”

“There—look—”

“S'sh, Quiet!”

“Behind that painted screen. What's the idea—?”

“Light out, first of all! Slip into the lobby. Quick! Those out too ... not a sound! No rough stuff, mind. Keep your hands in your pockets. I'm in charge ...”

Donovan darted into the lobby, and was back in a matter of seconds.

“That's done!”

“Right! Whoever it is will switch the lights on, I expect. Come on!”

Ives stepped into cover. Donovan depressed both switches and groped his way in beside him. “It may be Maitland,” he whispered.

“Dr. Maitland wouldn't fumble about like that!”

Then, the key was turned in the lock, very slowly. Donovan could hear it turning. A slight draught became perceptible. The door was open. Next, the lobby light sprang up. Ives looked out through one hinge of the screen, Donovan from another. Both commanded a view of the room. Suddenly, a hand appeared in silhouette, and all the lights were switched on. Steel Maitland came in, walking softly!

Donovan was on the point of shouting his name, when, to his amazement, Ives clapped a hand over his mouth!

“Quiet!” he breathed. “Look at his eyes!”

And, as the restraining hand was removed, Donovan looked.

What he saw chilled him.

Steel Maitland, his cheeks, or that part of them visible through his beard, oddly white, stared vacantly about the room with a glassy stare which Donovan thought resembled that of an opium-smoker. Of the keen intelligence, the acute observation, Which normally lighted them, nothing was left. They were the eyes of a man in a trance. Then, in a low voice, Maitland spoke.

“I must not delay for a moment. Someone's life depends upon me. I must take my baggage and go. Don't follow me ... It means death to follow me.”

He went out. Donovan heard the click of the bedroom switch. He heard that monotonous voice: “... not delay for a moment. Someone's life depends upon me. I must take my baggage and go. Don't follow me. It means death to follow me ...”

He was horrified beyond expression. But, dimly, he heard Ives speaking: “I begin to understand what we're up against. That man is under some sort of control. Whoever sent him here, thought the flat would be empty. But that speech was meant for you, in case you were at home.”

“We must get him, Ives! Handcuff him, if necessary! To all intents and purposes, poor Maitland is a madman!”

A strong hand gripped Donovan's arm.

“Go easy! Go easy! I'm in charge of this case. We are not going to interfere with him. We are going to see what he does, and when he goes, we are going to follow him. You may never have seen a somnambulist, but I have. Dr. Maitland is practically walking in his sleep, but he's carrying out specific orders. We want to know what they are!”

Donovan breathed hard, and then, “I think I can guess what they are,” he said. “All his notes on the case are in a steel box in his valise. And the valise is locked in the wardrobe. Somebody requires that material. What shall we do? They are probably waiting below for him.”

“For once in a while, your friend, Sumuru, has been let down by bad staff work. Those who take big chances are open to it. But I have learned something: never to disbelieve a story because it sounds impossible.”

“But what shall we do?”

“You, stand by here. Whatever he does, don't interfere with him. Don't awaken him. He's in a trance, or asleep. When he leaves, follow on. I shall have the police car handy. Run across and jump in.”

And so, Ives having stolen downstairs, Donovan found himself alone in the flat with poor Maitland. He could hear him moving about in the bedroom. He heard him open the drawer in which the wardrobe key was kept and heard him open the wardrobe.

At intervals he muttered, “Must take my baggage and go. Don't follow me ...” It was horrible to listen to ... “means death to follow me ...”

He was through with this job sooner than Donovan had anticipated, and when he came out carrying a suitcase and the valise, Donovan was a second too late to take cover!

He could have cursed himself for a clumsy fool; then he realised that it didn't matter.

Maitland's eyes were turned straight in Donovan's direction. But there was no recognition there, in fact there was no consciousness of any presence! He stared glassily right through Donovan ... “Don't follow me ... It means death to follow me ...”

Donovan didn't stir, and Maitland walked right past him, opened the door, and carrying his baggage, went downstairs.

Donovan followed, some little distance behind, and when Maitland stepped into Bruton Street, slamming the door behind him, Donovan opened it an inch or so and peered out, cautiously.

A car was standing by the corner of the mews across the street, and for this Maitland headed. Donovan saw the driver get down and help with the bags, and trusting to the darkness, he took a quick look, right and left, but failed to see Ives.

Maitland got into the waiting car, and it moved off. Then, Donovan stepped right out.

Where was Ives?

An answer came almost as the query formed itself in his mind. The police car had, evidently, been parked in the mews! Now, it came out. Ives stood on a running-board.

“Jump in, sir! We mustn't lose him!”

Donovan jumped in, and the chase began.

4

“When I saw that car,” Ives explained, “standing there, I didn't know what to do. I knew it might be one belonging to the gang. So I strolled along casually to the corner of Bond Street as if I had merely come out of another of the flats. Once there, I hared around to the other end of the mews. I found my man asleep, but I soon woke him up.”

“You hope this may lead us to Sumuru's headquarters?”

“Well, to some place used by her people, anyway. I had no time to get a squad together, so that, whatever happens, the three of us, you, I, and Thomson, my driver, must deal with it.”

“We may disturb a hornet's nest.”

“It's quite possible. We have evidence to show that your lady friend sticks at nothing. Now, where the devil are they making for?”

At this hour of the morning the West End streets were deserted, so that there was no difficulty in following the mysterious car from point to point. The police driver could easily have overtaken it, but Ives's orders were to drop well behind until the quarry rounded any corner and then to dash forward in order to keep it in sight. He had just performed such a dash as Ives spoke, falling in behind the car as its driver swung right, along Park Lane.

“Marble Arch, apparently.”

“They know they are followed, Mr. Donovan. It was unavoidable in the circumstances. And they know that this Squad car can overhaul them. I wonder what they'll try?”

“Got the number?”

“Yes. But it wouldn't help if they managed to slip away. I'm almost sure it's a private car, used by the gang. In that case they can change the number plate whenever it suits them. Hullo! Go slow, Thomson!”

“They're pulling up! They're pulling up!”

“Easy Thomson, easy! Slow down—”

“They're drawing in to the verge!”

“Where the Park railings used to be!”

“Not another car in sight.”

“Not likely to be, at this hour.”

“Good heavens, Ives! You see! You see! Someone has been flung out!”

Craning forward, Donovan had seen the leading car drawing in on the bend right to where the Park railings had formerly stood. He saw now, the near-side door swing open ... and he saw a man's body topple out!

“Good God! It's Maitland!”

“Open up, Thompson!” The police car leapt forward. “Stop where he lies. You go ahead when we get out. Pass that car and jamb it! Make no mistake. Whoever's inside —bring 'em in ... dead or alive! ...” A shriek of brakes. “Here we are. Jump, Mr. Donovan!” Both sprang out. “Let her go, Thompson. Bring those men in, remember!”

Away streaked the car in the wake of the now racing quarry, and Donovan found himself bending over Steel Maitland where he lay.

“An old trick,” said Ives savagely. “But it rarely fails. We dare not leave him lying there with not a soul about. Is he—”

“He's alive. But he's quite unconscious. Ives, there was someone else hiding in that car.”

“I know. Although he never showed himself when Dr. Maitland got in. Do you think he's been knocked out?”

The inspector shone a ray from his lamp into the pale, bearded face.

“There's no sign of injury. But it might have been a blow on the head.”

“Do what you can. I'll run across to the box on the corner and get a car and a doctor.”

Ives ran off, and Donovan gave a more careful overhaul to Steel Maitland. He was no medical man, but he understood first-aid, which includes at least the rudiments of the business. Maitland lay like a log. But Donovan could find no signs of injury to head or limbs; and all his ribs were intact. He suspected that he might have struck his skull when thrown out of the car, but failed to detect any evidence to support this.

Donovan was uncertain just how late it was, but noted that no one passed that way during all this time, until a constable turned up. His manner bristled with suspicion.

“Hullo! What's this?”

“Someone thrown out of a car, Constable. He happens to be a friend of mine ”

“Does he? Let's have a look at him.”

Donovan stood up, and the Constable stared challengingly into his eyes before stooping over Maitland. Donovan decided to relieve the tension.

“My name is Donovan. Chief Inspector Ives, who was with me at the time, has gone to a police box to call a surgeon. I'm expecting him back at any moment.”

“Chief Inspector Ives? Oh! Are you are friend of his?”

“I know him fairly well. He is an old friend of Dr. Maitland's, here.”

“Dr. Steel Maitland?”

“Yes.”

“Phew! Never saw him before, sir, Sorry to see him like this. But he's well known to the force. Who's the sprinter? ... Oh, it's the inspector.”

Ives came doubling up and was saluted by the constable.

“Never salute a plain clothes officer,” the inspector snapped, irritably. “Devil of a lot of trouble getting that arranged,” he explained apologetically. “Stand by, Constable, to lend us a hand. Excuse my bad temper. They'll be here shortly.” He looked down at Maitland. “Any change?”

“No, I'm sorry to say. He seems to be breathing regularly, too, and—”

“Is that you, Donovan?” came a voice from the ground.

It would have been difficult to say which of the three jumped highest. The voice was the voice of Steel Maitland —and Steel Maitland was sitting up and staring all about him!

“Take it easy, Doctor,” Ives warned.

“Oh, hullo, Ives! You there, too? Now—” he stood up, unsupported—“how the hell did I get here!”

“Go easy,” Donovan urged.

“Thanks—I'm all right. Except for a racking headache ... Gad! it's coming back! Donovan! Donovan! She is there—Claudette! That devil woman has her again!”

“You are sure? You are sure?”

“Sure? I tell you she's there, Donovan—in that damnable place filled with mimosa!”

4

In that fabulous marble apartment for which, already, many men were searching, an ominous stillness reigned. Philo, of the massive shoulders, stood before his beautiful, dreaded mistress, his powerful hands clenched, his head bowed, and dew of perspiration on his low brow.

My Lady sat upright in a high-backed ebony chair which bore the arms of a long dead cardinal. Then, she spoke. “You have failed.”

“My Lady!”

“Silence! Listen. Your information concerning the movements of the American, Donovan, was false. He had returned to his apartment. He was joined there by a Scotland Yard officer—unknown to you! But for the quicker wit of Varro, in the car, all would have fallen into the hands of the police.”

“Dear My Lady, although they had to abandon the car in Bayswater, they saved the steel box. I have it here—”

“The car will set the police on the scent. They had also to abandon Dr. Maitland. By now he will have recovered from the treatment. He is not a Mark Donovan. He is not in love with one of my women. He has all the resources or the Secret Service behind him. You fool! You witless fool!”

Bending, she struck Philo a sharp blow on the cheek. He did not flinch. My Lady laughed.

“You have worked in the ruby mines, Philo—”

Now, he displayed something resembling human emotion.

“Madonna! Not that! Not that!”

“Your great physical strength fits you to endure privations. Your dull, animal brain has become a menace to me. I thought I could train you—for you have certain qualities—”

“My Lady! I beg of you—”

“One more task I shall entrust to you, Philo. It will be the hardest of all. Should you fail—”

“I shall not fail: I shall not fail!”

“Stand upright. Go. Tell Caspar to send Sister Jean to me, here, at once ...”


CHAPTER NINE

1

DAWN was smudging out the lamplight in Donovan's flat and painting a pretty haggard crew before Maitland's story drew to an end. There were many interruptions, too. Telephone reports concerning the mysterious Embassy, and one visit.

Thomson, the police driver, came in to give a personal account of what happened after he had left Ives and Donovan near Marble Arch. The wanted car was speeding along Bayswater Road when he sighted it next, and before he could overtake, its driver swung dangerously off the main road and headed for Westbourne Terrace. Thomson shot past. But he came round fairly smartly and followed.

They had tricked him. He found the car abandoned, empty. But the driver, the other passenger, and the luggage had vanished.

Thomson jumped out and scouted around for a long time. He had no luck. The fugitives might have gone into any one of a dozen houses or blocks of flats in that neighbourhood. He could pick up no trace of them, and there was no passer-by to help him ...

Steel Maitland related how he had set out to find Lady Orpsley's address in Switzerland. He took steps to get in touch with her at the earliest possible moment, then, later, went along to the autopsy on the body of Sir Miles Tristram.

This appalling incident, so far, had merely been reported as a sudden death. The full facts had not been divulged to the newspapers, nor was it intended, at any rate at present, that they should be. Maitland was able to offer valuable information to the Home Office pathologist, who confessed himself utterly at a loss to account for the condition of Tristram's body. No case of rigor Kubus had, hitherto, come under his notice.

A large green sapphire was clenched in his hand ...

Maitland had been delayed in one way and another, and had arrived, as they both knew, at Donovan's flat during the time that Donovan was in Shepherd Market. Of the fight on the landing he gave same graphic details ...

“But just what happened next?” Ives asked.

Steel Maitland ran his hand through his thick black hair and smiled wryly. He had lost the pallor which had alarmed Donovan so much, and was again, so far as manner and appearance went, his normal self.

“A simple question, Inspector, but a hard one to answer. Quite briefly, I don't know!”

“You mean,” Inspector Ives suggested, “that there's a gap in your recollection?”

“There are many gaps, which together must have covered a longish period, as I realise now. It's clear to me that you and Donovan have a strange tale to tell as well, and it may have some bearing on mine. This is so queer that I hardly expect you to believe it.”

“I am prepared to believe anything,” Ives declared, “since what happened to Mr. Donovan. So you may go ahead.”

“Well, here goes. I passed out, there on the stairhead, but recovered to find myself alone in a small room with which I was entirely unfamiliar. There was nothing distinctive about it, except perhaps a piece of Chinese tapestry which hung on one wall—”

“Phew!” Donovan ejaculated. “This is uncanny! I thought I had dreamed about that tapestry! But don't let me interrupt.”

“As, apart from a rather swimmy head, I felt quite restored, I decided to try the door. I was flat out to make a run for it. The room was curiously silent, and it appeared to have no windows. It was lighted by a shaded lamp on a bookcase. But there was nothing in any way alarming about it otherwise. I tried to do as I have stated. The word is tried.”

Maitland paused, and a memory of what Donovan and Ives knew, later, to have been a moment of stark horror, evidently claimed his mind. His whole expression changed.

“I could not stir a limb! As I lay, on my side, and facing the tapestried wall, so I was forced to remain. I learned that I could not reclose my eyes. I could not move a muscle! Even now, at this moment, the mere recollection has covered me with perspiration. I did not, could not, doubt that I was in the second stage of rigor Kubus!”

Ives moved uneasily in his chair, glancing aside at Donovan.

“Help yourself, Inspector,” Donovan said. “We could do with drinks all round, if you don't mind.”

He stood up.

“I don't like the smell of this case,” he declared. “I saw Sir Miles Tristram, too.”

“However,” Maitland went on, “as I lay there fighting against mad panic, the Chinese tapestry was drawn aside and a woman came out into the room, and stood there watching me. She wore a dark cape of some smooth, glossy fur over what I took to be a white evening frock. There were gold sandals on her bare feet, and there was a scarf of Indian silk with a design worked in gold thread, tied over her hair. She was smiling, and her eyes shone like jewels. Even before she spoke, I knew ... that this was Sumuru!”

“One glimpse would be enough,” Donovan whispered.

“Donovan, you will confirm what I am going to say. I didn't believe there was a human being anywhere in the world, who radiated such force! Her spirit so transfigured her flesh, seeming to shine through like a white fire through delicate porcelain, that I lost all awareness of the woman and was conscious of nothing but of the appalling power of her mind. Not that she tried to impress me with pompous words, but simply that I experienced a sensation or being in the presence of something unique, dynamic, dangerous.”

Donovan nodded, but did not interrupt again.

“Her first words were, 'You have no one but yourself to thank for this, Dr. Maitland.' And although her speech seemed effortless. I knew that I listened to a very rare thing: perfect diction. Every word that she spoke registered. 'But I have no wish to torture you. The muscular paralysis will pass. You are not suffering from rigor Kubus.' I hardly expect to be believed—” Maitland looked at Ives and then at Donovan, almost appealingly— “but I never doubted her word.”

“I was about to say,” Ives interrupted, as he served drinks, “that I should like to meet the lady. But on second thoughts, I'm not so sure!”

“She told me very quietly, in that beautiful voice, that I had been closely covered for some months past. They had quite made up their minds that Tristram and I must never compare notes. Tristram, it appears, had got hold of evidence to prove the real identity of Sumuru. By the way, I was wrong about her nationality. Whatever country she belongs to, it isn't Japan. She made no bones about the murder. There are others,' she said, 'who might dream of interfering with me. And, however you may try to hush up the facts, the truth will leak out. No one cares to die of rigor Kubus. Sir Miles's death will serve as a sharp object lesson'.”

“It has!” Donovan remarked, and took a gulp of whisky.

“Sumuru informed me that she had seen Tristram, personally, and that she had outlined the object of her campaign. She described this as the suppression of ugliness. Although she didn't actually say so, I believe, as I suspected, that it was Sumuru who brought the sapphire to Charles Street and who put the poison spores into Tristram's snuffbox. He recognised his visitor, perhaps, and made the mistake of trying to blackmail her. We all know what his terms for silence would be. We have seen how Sumuru replied.”

Apparently, this singular woman insisted that she, alone, could save the world from a Third World War, which would destroy civilisation. She had the financial resources and was building up the necessary organisation for her reign of beauty. It was not and would never be a reign of terror. But she would brook no interference.

“ 'You have accumulated a quantity of material,' she said, 'which, although it could not bring me within reach of your absurd law—I am above the law—might inconvenience me if you placed it before the authorities. Claudette, who is here with me, and your friend, Mr. Donovan, are in great danger whilst this material remains in his charge ...' ”

Those were the last words spoken at this interview which Maitland remembered.

“I had an impression that Sumuru was disappearing like something vaporous. At last, all that I could see of her was her eyes. It's humiliating to confess that one has been hypnotised by a woman, but I believe this is what happened —not only then, but again later. As for my own part in all that followed, I simply can't help you at all. There are a number of hazy memories and others that are crystal clear. Time ceased to exist. I occupied a small but well-appointed suite and was waited upon by some sort of Eurasian butler, wearing Arab dress: a fellow who eternally smiled. On one occasion I was taken to a waiting-room ... and Donovan was brought in!”

Maitland paused, looking bewildered, and then went on:

“I believe that everything I touched was drugged—even the water. Looking back, I realise there are so many gaps. Then comes a clear memory—my meeting with a dark and powerful rascal who said his name was Dr. Worthington.”

“I'll get that bird one day!” growled Donovan.

“Oh! You know him? Well—I wish you luck? He spliced me up in a large and first class laboratory, forced an injection into my spine, and I was hustled into a room like a Roman atrium. I remembered that I had been there before. But I simply couldn't recall (and can't recall now) what had taken place on the earlier occasion ...”

Maitland described his last interview with Sumuru.

“What happened next I cannot say. In a dim way, I seem to remember being here, in this flat, and of looking for a key. Dr. Worthington shares in those memories, too ...”

“I believe he was the other passenger in the car,” said Ives savagely.

“It's quite possible. But I have no recollection of being in a car at all. My next, clear memory is one of finding myself lying on the ground in Hyde Park and of hearing your voice, Donovan!”

2

That they were opposed to an enemy who used strange weapons was a thing beyond dispute. To what extent unfamiliar drugs played a part in Sumuru's campaign and how much of those experiences shared by Maitland and Donovan must be counted due to this woman's personal magnetism, was a problem they found hard to solve. Ives remained obstinately sceptical concerning her hypnotic powers.

“Unless you had been drugged she could have done nothing,” was his verdict.

But there was another queer thing. Maitland and Donovan were unanimous on the point of Sumuru's remarkable beauty. But neither could tell Ives the colour of her eyes or of her hair! Maitland was quite unable to hide the fact that he regarded her with something approaching awe.

“She may be the World's Desire, Donovan; every man's ideal.”

Ives scratched his head. “I suppose you mean Helen of Troy. That would make her something past middle-aged, wouldn't it?” he inquired dryly.

“There's another very queer thing,” Maitland added. “I am positive on one point: At some time, somewhere, I have seen this woman before ...”

Nevertheless, since none of them had any idea of her real identity, speculation alone remained. Ives suggested, ironically, that supposing he were lucky enough to “bring her in,” as he phrased it, neither would be able to identify her.

“On the contrary,” Maitland assured him, “I could identify her in a million. She is absolutely unmistakable.”

“Yet you can't describe her.”

Maitland smiled wanly, and lighted one of his odorous cheroots. “A fact which, of itself, is somewhat extraordinary ...”

3

Donovan's frame of mind during those days he found it hard later to recapture. It was fortunate for him that he had private resources, for his work at this time fully justified the sack. He simply couldn't synchronise the everyday world with that other, shadowy world which he knew to exist, which had ordained death to Sir Miles Tristram, into which Claudette had disappeared.

A shocked coroner's jury had returned a verdict of death from natural causes, brought about through infection by a tropical germ, which suited Ives very well. But, as Sumuru had predicted, sensational reports concerning the state of the body were soon in circulation and someone writing over the signature “Medico” contributed a letter to a daily newspaper pointing out that rigor Kubus was not only a tropical disease, but also a very rare one, and suggesting that further investigation was indicated concerning the manner of infection.

Inspector Ives drew Donovan's attention to this letter.

“I called at the office and saw the original. It was typed on notepaper headed with a Harley Street address, and signed 'Montague Worthington. M.D.'! I was round there ten minutes later. The house is entirely occupied by dental surgeons!”

“Worthington again! That man's impudence passes belief. Of course, it's all part of a plan to notify whomever it may concern that Sumuru has handed out what she probably regards as justice. But, after all, there are several people we know who could identify Dr. Worthington. What are you doing about him?”

Ives sat on the edge of Donovan's desk, looking at him sideways.

“How many tall men with dark moustaches do you suppose there are in London? Am I expected to arrest them all and hold a parade to be inspected by yourself, Constable Kent, and Dr. Maitland?”

“What about this girl Jean Barlow who was Claudette's co-worker in Africa, and who evidently had her kidnapped?”

“Her existence has been confirmed, Mr. Donovan, and her duties in the French service. But both she and Miss Duquesne were relieved of further duties about the time they left Algiers. And they have both disappeared. We are trying to trace Jean Barlow's family. Nothing like this case has ever come my way. As yet. I haven't seen one of the principals. The best I have to go upon is just shadowy descriptions, and most of the people concerned seem to have vanished!”

“Has no clue been picked up at Sir Miles's house?”

“Ask Dr. Maitland. He's working on the thing for the Intelligence people. He knows far more about it than I do.”

Inspector Ives was in a bad humour, and Donovan did not press him further.

During the considerable time which elapsed before he found himself again deeply involved in the mesh of Sumuru's mysterious web, Donovan never entirely threw off a sickly fear that there might be some aftermath of the unknown drugs administered by Dr. Worthington. He knew that Maitland shared this dread. But, in fact, neither suffered any ill effects. Spasmodic pain in the eyes, in Donovan's case, disappeared quickly.

“I knew already,” Maitland told him, “that this formidable woman had gone far ahead of the recognised pharmaceutists. Whether she, herself, is a highly accomplished chemist or whether she employs one, we don't know. But her knowledge of drugs is phenomenal.”

Donovan did not know how Maitland was employed at this period. But he suspected that he deliberately kept his own counsel in order to protect him from Sumuru. That he was afraid of her he was at no pains to disguise. On one occasion he said:

“Although all the powers of law and order are behind me, Donovan, I don't think, frankly, that I have a chance ...”

In his secret heart, Donovan doubted it, too. But overriding every other doubt, every other fear, was his hopeless longing for Claudette. Her image was eternally before him. He recalled each intonation of her voice, and every one of those quaint, graceful gestures which betrayed her French parentage. It is true that the figure of Sumuru haunted his dreams, but as something aloof from his life, not, indeed, of this world, as a vision of Isis unveiled in a secret shrine; lovely but terrible.

He fought against the insupportable idea that he should never see Claudette again. Yet—he hadn't a notion where to look for her! The usual routine of advertising, and circulating photographs Ives had dismissed as worse than useless. “She is in a prison. But we don't know where.”


CHAPTER TEN

1

“WHAT are you writing, Donovan?”

A rattle of typewriter keys ceased abruptly. Mark Donovan looked up from his work.

“An account of the history of Sumuru, Maitland—what I know of it—to date.”

Maitland dropped into his favourite armchair and lighted a cheroot which smelt like a prairie fire.

“Good. Should make fine confused reading.”

“It does.” Donovan stood up and stared out of the window. “It's bewildering. Do you know, sometimes I just can't believe we have really known this woman—seen her— listened to her voice. It beats me. You escaped her clutches by a sheer miracle. But I go through hell every time you are out after dark.”

Maitland nodded.

“I never go far, alone—after dark. Anyway, it's my job, Donovan. I have to take chances. Just think. A prominent man, Miles Tristram, is murdered here in London, by means of the horrible infection called rigor Kubus. So far we have no clue to his murder ... I know what you're going to say, but we have no evidence, Donovan. Claudette Duquesne, the daughter of a famous French writer, is spirited away—”

Donovan clenched his hands.

“Good God! Where is she? Where is she? Sometimes I wonder shall I ever see her again!”

Mainland's expression was sympathetic as he stared at the broad shoulders of the man by the window.

“I know how you feel—I know. But we are all doing our best. We can do no more. And, so far, there's no clue to her whereabouts. I can't guess if there's any connection, but I learn now that her father has vanished from his Paris flat.”

Donovan turned quickly.

“What do you say, Maitland?”

“It's true. He has just—disappeared! Then, we have both been attacked, drugged, and hauled before this amazing criminal. She seems to live in some place like an Eastern palace. She employs highly efficient thugs of various nationalities. She has a private laboratory in charge of a distinguished looking scientist known to you and me as Dr. Worthington—”

Perhaps unconsciously, Donovan tightened his fists again.

“Ha! One day I mean to balance my account with Dr. Worthington!”

“I have a few small points of difference to settle with him myself,” said Maitland dryly. “But the thing is—we don't know the location of this Arabian Nights abode. We don't know how to find Dr. Worthington.”

Donovan stirred restlessly, but didn't turn.

“There's this house recently used as an Embassy. I have hopes that some clue may be found there.”

“It will be too late, Donovan.” Maitland shook his head. “Every possible diplomatic obstacle has been put in our way. By the time the police get permission to investigate, there'll be nothing to see. A more promising line of inquiry is the girl, Jean Barlow——”

“Jean Barlow? You mean Claudette's alleged friend?”

“Yes—the 'friend' who arranged her abduction by Sumuru! We have got in touch at last with Jean's father. He is a country vicar—up in Cumberland. The story Claudette told you is true enough. Both girls were employed in the French propaganda department—”

And now Donovan turned and took a step towards Maitland.

“Well?”

“Well—the Reverend Lawrence Barlow has regular letters from his daughter, it seems. I have seen some of them. Jean states that she is at present employed on a confidential job in London. But the address, Scotland Yard has just reported, is merely an accommodation one—a stationer's shop in Kensington.”

“But—”

“Oh, the next person to call for letters addressed to Jean will be held, I promise you!”

“But the letters themselves?”

“Rather wild. I should say that the missing Jean is desperately unhappy—Hullo!”

The phone bell interrupted him. Donovan crossed and took the call.

“This is Mark Donovan ... Yes, I'll tell him ... Inspector Ives, for you, Maitland.”

“Thanks.” Maitland took Donovan's place. “Hullo, Ives— what is it? ... What? ... Great Scott! that's a bit of luck! ... You want me to come round? Right ... Yes—I'll be along right away ... I am hoping for big things from this ... Good—starting now ... I shall bring Donovan.”

Maitland replaced the receiver and stood staring at Donovan.

“What's happened?”

Maitland smiled grimly.

“An almost incredible slice of luck—at last. Do you know Ian Forrester?”

“Not personally, but many critics think he's the best of the younger actors on the London stage. As a matter of fact, I was assigned to attend his opening tonight in Hamlet. But I passed the job on to a junior. I had no heart for it.”

Maitland's gaze remained fixed upon him.

“Yet—I think you may be there after all, Donovan—'

2

In Chief Inspector Ives's office at Scotland Yard, a man was pacing up and down, up and down, before the large, tidy desk at which the chief inspector remained seated. His dark blue suit was almost too well tailored, for he was of a build and bearing which could have carried rags with distinction. His thick, light brown hair was brushed in a manner deliberately negligent, a manner which accorded well with the pale, classic features.

Ives, who had never met Ian Forrester before, found himself wondering if that ivory pallor was habitual, and if Forrester's blue eyes had always held a haunted expression.

“I understand that it's a painful business, Mr. Forrester, but I must ask you to go right back to your first meeting with Miss Barlow.”

Forrester nodded, squaring his jaw.

“Of course, Inspector.” His voice, which had gone far to make his great reputation, possessed a music rarely heard on the modern stage. “I want to tell you everything that can possibly help us to trace her. Well, it was in Algiers, late in '44. I was touring with an Ensa party, and the French authorities had invited me to contribute an item to a programme—an excerpt from Tartuffe.”

He illustrated the allusion with a Gallic gesture.

“It was at this concert that I met Jean.”

Forrester paused in his promenade, and stood, arms folded, looking out of the window across the Embankment. Ives did not interrupt him. He was trying to make up his mind how deeply Forrester cared and how much of his despair was Thespian ...

“You have never seen her, and so it is hard for me to make you understand. She was employed at that time by the French authorities in some sort of secretarial capacity. She is a remarkable linguist—”

There was a rap on the door.

“Excuse me,” Ives muttered. “Come in.”

A man announced, “Dr. Steel Maitland and Mr. Donovan,” and withdrew as they entered.

Ives made the introductions.

“How do you do, Mr. Forrester?” Donovan said, studying the actor's pale features with sincere sympathy. “I have gathered a rough idea of the facts from my friend Maitland. This is all very disturbing for a man with a big first night to face up to.”

“Oh my God!” Forrester spoke on a note of despair. “I had dreamed for years of playing Hamlet in London, as the realisation of my wildest hopes. Now—I don't give a damn whether I play or don't play!”

“You have all my sympathy, Mr. Forrester,” Maitland assured him. “Inspector Ives has given me a brief outline of the story. Don't give in yet. You are not the only one—is he, Donovan?”

“Mr. Forrester, a girl I—well, I'm crazy about her—has vanished in just the same way!”

“What do you mean? Recently?”

“Quite recently,” Maitland replied, in a deliberately cool way. “And we suspect by the same agency. Now, take it as calmly as you can, and please give me all the facts.”

“I'll do my best. I'm sorry to hear that we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Donovan ... The facts are fairly simple. I have already told Inspector Ives that I met Jean in Algiers, late in '44. She was working for the French propaganda people; and—we grew fond of one another. I may add that, as well as being highly talented, Jean is—lovely.”

“All Sumuru's women are lovely.”

Forrester paused, staring.

“Did you speak, Dr. Maitland?”

“No,” Maitland murmured. “Forgive me. I was thinking aloud.”

“Oh!” Forrester's expression was a puzzled one. “I returned to England some time before Jean. But of course we corresponded. Then, at last, I got a letter to tell me that she was coming home. She gave me no address, but, a week later, I received a telegram. It was rather mysterious. It asked me to meet her in the porch of St. George's Church, Hanover Square, that night at nine o'clock—”

“You hear that, Maitland?” cried Donovan. “It was the very night I met Claudette!”

Maitland nodded.

“It was, Donovan. Go on, Mr. Forrester. The night was a foggy one, I recall.”

“It's amazing you should remember that, Dr. Maitland—but it was. I met Jean. She seemed to be frightened—of something—or of someone. I cant quite describe her mood. She looked wonderful—exquisite, but ...”

And Ian Forrester gave an account of the meeting which was so vivid that no one of the three men present ever forgot it.

3

Fog was so dense by the time that he reached their strange trysting place that at first he failed to discover Jean shrinking in the shadow of a church pillar. She ran to him—threw herself into his arms.

“Ian, darling! It's been just plain hell to be separated from you!”

She was trembling wildly.

“But, Jean! Why this queer meeting—out in the street?”

Some of Jean's secret terror had touched her lover. He was dismayed ...

“Don't ask me, darling! Please don't ask me. I know how odd it must seem. But there's no other way. Just five minutes with you, and then—I must bolt!”

“But, Jean—my dear! Bolt where? What's the urgency? I'm at work like a pack-mule on my Hamlet production at the theatre—but surely we can meet for lunch tomorrow?”

Jean clung to him tightly—as if, he said, she feared that someone would tear her away.

“Ian—it's impossible,” she declared, breathlessly.

“Impossible?”

“Just impossible—”

“You are terribly worried about something, Jean. My darling! What is it? What has gone wrong? Your father doesn't object?”

“Oh, no—my dear! Father would never object to you. It isn't Father—”

“Then what is it?”

But, Jean, slipping from his arms, turned like a trapped thing, staring through the fog.

“Who's that?” she whispered. “Over there? No—opposite the church!”

Forrester began once more to share her singular fears. But he tried to reply calmly.

“Unless I'm mistaken, a passing policeman.”

“Oh! Please forgive me!” She pressed her head against his shoulder. He could feel her heart racing. “I know how queer I must seem. Ian—I will get a note to you at the theatre—tomorrow. Now, I must go!”

He did not release her.

“Go? But where? Why? Can't we cut along and have some supper at Ciro's or somewhere?”

But Jean tore herself away.

“No. Don't ask me why again. I'll try to explain—next time ...”

4

“And,” said Forrester sadly, “she was gone! I did my best to follow her, but I lost her in the fog.”

Forrester dropped into a chair, as if exhausted by his unhappy memories so sharply revived.

There were some moments of silence in Inspector Ives's office before Steel Maitland spoke.

“And where did you see her next, Mr. Forrester?”

“I have met her three times since then, always by appointment made by her on a note sent to the theatre.”

Forrester replied without raising his bowed head. “And where did these meetings take place?”

“In Kensington Gardens. Always, Jean seemed to be terrified—distraught. She watched every passer-by. She refused to tell me where she was staying or how she was employed. But two days ago—our last meeting—I forced a confession from her ... She was in the clutches of some damnable secret society—a society with a world-wide organisation!”

He stood up, confronting the three who listened, an angry, unhappy figure.

“Ah!” Maitland muttered. “Now we're coming to it!”

“She was forbidden to marry without the consent of her superior. This, apparently, had been declined. But Jean was desperate. She asked me to arrange with my sister, who lives in Kent, to put her up and keep her hidden. I was to meet her, with my car, at the Albert Memorial, and drive her straight down there. When we parted, I followed her. It was dusk—”

All listened tensely.

“Yes, yes!” Maitland prompted—“And where did she go?”

“This is the queerest thing of all.” Forrester paused, looking from face to face. “She slipped in at a side entrance to the grounds of Lorimer House!”

“Lorimer House,” said Donovan. “You mean the house that used to belong to Sir Martin Lorimer, the Victorian painter—a show place, nowadays?”

“It was a show place, before the late war, Mr. Donovan,” Ives interrupted. “But during the war and right up to now it has been the headquarters of the St. Erik Ambulance Corps.”

“Is that so?” Donovan looked frankly bewildered. “I ran across units of their outfit on almost every battle front I covered. Highly efficient. Wasn't it founded by the Baroness Rikter—widow of the Swedish millionaire?”

Forrester replied.

“It was. And the Baroness herself—a really strange coincidence—had called on me at the theatre, only about a week before—”

“What's that?” rapped Maitland. “What for?”

“To ask me to donate the first night's box office returns to St. Erik's! With great regret, I was forced to decline. My management wouldn't hear of it. But I promised the old lady a substantial cheque. She is simply charming, of course.”

Steel Maitland stood up suddenly and began to walk about.

“Must be,” he muttered. “H'm! Extraordinary. What did you do?”

“I could think of nothing to do. Besides, Jean had made me promise to do nothing except to make those arrangements until we met again ... Well, she never turned up! I waited until this morning—then phoned Lorimer House. I asked to speak to the Baroness Rikter. They put me through.”

“Well?” Donovan urged, excitedly.

Forrester shook his head.

“The Baroness was most sympathetic. But she assured me that Jean Barlow was quite unknown to her!”

“Phew!” Maitland's promenade grew swifter. “What did you do, then?”

“I came straight here, to Scotland Yard—”


CHAPTER ELEVEN

1

OUR Lady was seated on a cushion beside the marble pool, amusing herself with the golden orfe which lived among the lilies. These fish have vegetarian tastes, and she had some pellets composed of delicacies which experience had proved to be much appreciated by her red-gold pets.

Their tameness (or perhaps her personal magnetism) was distinctly uncanny.

She would hold a pellet over the clear water, between finger and thumb, and some four inches above the surface. The excited fish, swarming to the top, would spring out, one after another, in an attempt to seize these tempting morsels. With her disengaged hand, Our Lady would try to catch each competitor. When she succeeded in capturing one, the fish would lie passively in her palm, accept the pellet from her fingers, and then dive back into the pond, to go swimming around in wild abandon—perhaps in triumph.

Each success Our Lady applauded with a peal of her soft, musical laughter.

Bending over the surface, which reflected her slender arms, white as the petals of the floating flowers, she more nearly resembled a water nymph than a woman of flesh and blood. Perhaps Ariosto, who had entered unannounced, was thinking so as he stood watching her.

Ariosto wore the correct morning dress of a physician, which suited his tall, athletic figure. The saturnine face, too, was that of a clever man. But his strangely brilliant dark eyes might have frightened a nervous patient.

Tiring of her sport, Our Lady dried her hands and leaned back against the figure of Pan beside which she was seated. She laughed up a Ariosto.

He bowed ceremoniously.

“You wished to see me, Madonna?”

“Yes, Ariosto, my friend. Sit there and talk to me.” She indicated another cushion near her own. “I must not be dominated. Talk to me.”

“For ever, Madonna, if you wish.”

Ariosto dropped down beside her. She dabbled white fingers in the pond.

“Forget the courtier, my friend. It is the scientist I wish to consult.” There was a red gleam, followed by a loud splash. “See! One of my golden orfe sprang right over my hand, and plunged back again below the leaves!”

Ariosto bent towards her.

“He was saluting your beauty, Madonna.”

She smiled slightly, watching him under drooping eyelids.

“You are incorrigible. Listen to me. We are in danger greater than any we have known since the bull-headed Nazis invaded our sanctuary in Crete.”

“Yet we survived the invasion of the bull-heads.”

“True. But the pitcher that goes too often to the well ... You have completed your arrangements to leave?”

“Most reluctantly—I have,” Ariosto's deep voice struck a note more deep than usual. “Since you are staying, I—”

“You will leave as arranged. The little sister Jean has brought this upon us. She must pay the penalty. But, unfortunately, so, to some extent, must we. All essentials from the laboratory have been removed?”

“All, Madonna.”

She leaned back against Pan, her eyes nearly closed.

“Abdul and Varro are known by sight to Steel Maitland and to the American. So is Caspar. They will report to Paris tomorrow.”

“They are on their way,” Ariosto replied quietly. “I, too, am known to them—as Dr. Worthington.”

“True ... There must be yet another example, Ariosto, my friend—an example. We left our mark upon the body of the man, Miles Tristram, and by now every member of the Order Will have heard that to attempt to betray me means death by rigor Kubus. I fear that the little Jean failed to read the lesson aright. And so—there may be others who dream—”

“You cannot mean that—Jean ...”

She shook her head, laughing softly.

“Jean was granted every opportunity to repair her lapse of discipline. I exacted no promise from her. I waited—and watched. When she met this man, she was followed. It is because of what the little fool told him that our peace is disturbed.” She dipped her fingers in the water again. “Injure Jean? No, no! She is too beautiful. How shallow your reasoning, Ariosto! So like the boasted wisdom of man! A woman suffers a thousand deaths in her memories of one ...”

“I understand.”

Ariosto averted his eyes.

“You have seen the man of her choice. I have studied him closely. As you know, I visited him at the theatre. He has physical beauty, and a certain poise. But a flexible voice is his only talent. I do not desire to transmit his brains to a future generation. Ian Forrester cannot mate with Jean. We have no use for him.”

“I agree with you, Madonna. But Philo has learned, as you say, that she has confided secrets to this man, which—”

“That was what I meant, Ariosto, when I said that we were in great danger. That is why we are changing our plans. It may be too late—but Ian Forrester must be silenced, and those who know the meaning of a body turned to stone must be warned again. Philo, in this case, works alone. It is his last chance. He has failed me once. You will give him the necessary means—and then make your departure.”

“Dear Madonna!” Ariosto pleaded—“to administer the drug is—”

But the golden voice was inexorable.

“You will instruct him—and then, you will leave.”

Ariosto stood up, and bowed.

“It shall be done. Yet—”

“You have prepared the little Jean?”

“As you instructed me.”

“I will give you the exact time, later. Ian Forrester plays Hamlet tonight. Do you recall the last words spoke in the play by Hamlet, Ariosto? They are, 'the rest is silence'.”

She dipped her fingers in the water.

2

Steel Maitland lay back in the armchair, a cheroot protruding at a truculent angle above his black beard. His eyes were half closed. He had been seated so for a long time, silent in thought.

Donovan typed industriously.

Donovan found the task which he had set himself—that of analysing the character and the motives of Sumuru, of endeavouring to account for her presence in London—a palliative. In some degree, it seemed to him, he was aiding in the quest for this inexplicable woman who had stolen Claudette from him.

The light was getting bad, but he typed on and did not interrupt his flow of ideas by crossing to the switch.

One thing about Sumuru seemed to be clear enough. She was not a petty criminal. She did not belong to the increasing gang of crooks who went out for furs and jewels, for loads of merchandise to sell to the Black Market. Her target was a more distant one. In short, Sumuru was an idealist of sorts.

She despised dictators and dictatorships—apparently because they were what she called “ugly.” She condemned war. She believed, according to available evidence, that she had some super-plan to exile war for ever. Her crimes of violence were presumably directed, and directed exclusively, against those who sought to interfere with the development of this super-plan.

Yet what did it all boil down to, unless to a new dictatorship—a dictatorship of women?

Would the world of selected beauty envisaged by Sumuru be a better world to live in than those of Franco? ... of Stalin? ... of Attlee?

From his own personal point of view, Donovan doubted it.

He did not approve of the types of society favoured by any one of these. But, little as he knew of Sumuru's ideal state, he could find small ground for awarding it higher marks.

She might promise, as other tyrants had promised, a glorious future to citizens of her dream empire, but, once that empire had been established, would her promises be fulfilled?

Analogies came readily to his mind. They were terrifying, exact. Sumuru's manner of dealing with obstacles bore a close resemblance to the ways of Herod, of Nero, of Hitler. Her fanaticism must be accepted. Her ideals, also, perhaps were sincere. But he found it hard to reconcile death by rigor Kubus with any scheme of beauty ...

Who was this woman?

The police and Secret Service of the world had failed to find out.

Her capital expenditure must be enormous.

What were the sources of her revenue?

“You'll strain your eyes.”

The warning growl came from Maitland. Rattling of keys ceased.

“Yes.” Donovan sighed. “Getting mighty dark. Let's light up.”

As he crossed the room, the doorbell rang.

“This will be Ives,” said Maitland.

It was, and a moment later the inspector joined them.

“Any news?” Donovan asked, automatically.

Ives shook his head.

“None on my side.” He stared at Steel Maitland. “Given the job up, Doctor?”

Maitland knocked a short cone of ash from his cheroot.

“It's given me up. I just don't know what move to make! The Paris Surete reported this afternoon that no trace can be found of Marcel Duquesne. Their investigations are at a standstill. But I have been thinking hard for the last hour —and do you know what I have been trying to think out?”

“Can't imagine.”

“I'll tell you. I have been trying to recapture a memory. I have been struggling desperately to recall where and when I first met Sumuru ”

“You have spoken of this several times,” said Donovan. “It puzzles me. Because I can't imagine anyone ever forgetting her.”

“Nor can I,” Maitland agreed. “But I think I can explain the lapse. It's one of those cases of misdirection, as the stage magicians call it. I mean that I must have met her under circumstances which left a totally erroneous impression in some way ... If only I could place that first meeting!”

“It might help, or it might not,” Ives declared dourly. “For my part, I find the whole thing bewildering, and the longer I work on the case the more I feel that I'm fighting with phantoms! Here's Scotland Yard combing London for a woman nobody can describe, who lives in a house like a palace that nobody can find!”

“You must have asked yourself more than once if there is such a person,” Donovan suggested.

“I have! You must remember, there's absolutely no evidence to prove it.”

“So you tell me,” Donovan replied wearily. “What about a drink before we start?”

That curious crowd which assembles before a West End theatre on the occasion of an important first night had dispersed by the time that they arrived. As the car drew in to the kerb:

“I'm not hoping for much,” said Inspector Ives. “Heaven knows, I should be glad of a glimpse of this miracle woman, but I don't expect to find her sitting in the stalls.”

“We shall see,” Maitland murmured. “I am beginning to wish—”

“Beginning to wish what?” Donovan asked.

But Maitland shook his head.

“Too late now, anyway.”

As they went in, the manager hurried forward to meet them.

“Dr. Steel Maitland? ... My name is Granville.”

“Good evening.” Maitland shook hands. “Chief Inspector Ives and Mr. Mark Donovan.”

Mr. Granville, a quietly spoken little man who looked overworked, greeted them with a tired smile.

“There's not a seat in the house, as you may suppose. But you could stand at the back of the pit. The first act is nearly over, and when the house-lights go up you can take a good look around the audience. Most of them will be coming out during the interval.”

“Thanks,” said Ives. “Will you lead the way.”

The way was along a narrow passage. At its end a door was unlocked by Granville.

“Just slip through here,” he whispered. “I will rejoin you when the curtain's down ...”

They found themselves in the darkened theatre.

 “And therefore as a stranger give it welcome,
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
But come—”

Forrester's fine voice dominated a hushed audience ...

Maitland bent to Donovan's ear.

“Am I going mad, Donovan? Can you see that woman in the O.P. stage box? Note the profile—”

“Good God!” Donovan muttered. “Can it be?”

“I could almost swear to it ... Stay where you are! S'sh! We won't get around until the end of the scene ...”

 “Or such ambiguous giving out, to note
That you know aught of me:—this not to do,
So grace and mercy at your most need help you,
Swear.”

“Swear,” the ghostly voice echoed; and Hamlet answered:

“Rest, rest, pertumbed spirit! So, gentlemen,
With all my love I do commend me to you:
And what so poor a man as Hamlet is
May do, to express his love and friending to you,
God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together;
And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.
The time is out of joint:—O cursed spite.
That ever I was born to set it right!
Nay, come, let's go together ...”

The curtain fell, its fall loosing a storm of applause pent up throughout the scene.

“Quick!” Maitland rapped. 'Through here! The way we came! We must get to that box!”


CHAPTER TWELVE

1

ON the stage, that nervous tension prevailed which seizes, like quivering fingers, upon all concerned with a first night. The stage manager perspired abundantly. Those who had appeared in Act One were taking their curtains in appointed order.

Applause was enthusiastic, and sustained.

“Mr. Forrester! ... Mr. Forrester! ... Keep the house light down, George ... Mr. Forrester!”

The moment had come for the star to acknowledge the plaudits of his audience.

But no one could find him.

Now, the audience began to call out.

“Ian Forrester! ... Ian Forrester!”

“What the devil's become of Ian?” one of the actors asked another. “Has he collapsed somewhere?”

“I can't think. He's been frightfully strung up all day—more than normally strung up, I mean.”

Alarmed by the uproar in the gallery, where stamping had started, in time to the reiterated chant, “Ian Forrester—Ian Forrester.” A harassed stage director ran upstairs and threw open the door of Forrester's dressing-room.

“Is Mr. Forrester here, dresser?”

“No, sir. He hasn't come up yet ...”

So matters stood, backstage.

In front of the house. Steel Maitland had found Mr. Granville. As Donovan came up, he heard:

“Well. Dr. Maitland the party in the stage box? Yes—I suppose it could be arranged. Although I can't imagine why you should wish to see Lady Carradale—”

“Lady Carradale, you say?”

“Yes. Lord Carradale was killed in an air crash in the war, you may remember ”

“Oh but she has guests.”

“A gentleman. I believe. No one else. Excuse me—I will see what I can do.”

Granville hurried away.

“You know, Maitland,” said Donovan. “I'm not so sure about that box party. I took another look from the far corner of the pit rail, and I could see no one in there that looked a bit like—”

“I'm sure of that profile!” Maitland answered. “What's more, there's something very queer going on ... Listen to the audience.”

From where they stood, by the door of the office, it reached them, muffled—stamping of feet and the crying of Forrester's name.

“Ian Forrester ...”

“Ian Forrester ...”

“I'll slip through the pass-door,” Ives muttered, “and try to find out what's become of him.”

The inspector poked his head in at the box-office window, and the clerk's voice was heard—“You would have to see the manager—”

“Look at that!” Ives tossed a card on to the glazed plan. “Show me the pass-door.”

The clerk came out, and hurried off, closely followed by Ives.

“Ian Forrester ...”

“Ian Forrester ...”

Granville returned, looking more overworked than ever.

“If you will come this way, Dr. Maitland,” he said nervously—“the audience is getting quite out of hand. I can't imagine why they don't put up the house-lights. Ian Forrester is refusing to take his curtain, for some reason.”

Meanwhile, Inspector Ives was making a room-to-room search, amid a scene of consternation. People were running hither and thither quite aimlessly.

“Put up the house-lights!”

“Where's Granville? We shall want him on the stage ...”

All dressing-room doors were open, and the occupants of the rooms not to be found—with one exception. On this, closed, door Ives rapped sharply.

“Is Mr. Forrester in there?”

“He is not, sir,” a voice replied. “My name is Merrick. I am Ian's understudy—and I have less than four minutes to dress ...”

2

Granville rapped on the door of the box, opened it, and announced:

“Dr. Steel Maitland, who wishes to see you, Lady Carradale.”

Maitland stepped in, followed by Donovan. As the door had been opened, uproar from the auditorium burst upon them like a tempest. Apparently, hope had not been abandoned that the missing actor would be found, for the houselights remained obstinately lowered. But many people were filing out from the stalls. There was a charivari of excited comment. And, from upstairs, there came a concerted and deafening demand for Ian Forrester's appearance.

There were two people in the box: a big, burly man whose grey hair was cropped close to his skull, Teutonic fashion, and who wore tortoiseshell rimmed spectacles; and a woman, lying back in a chair set in the shadow, who surveyed the intruders somewhat superciliously through raised lorgnettes. She was of a dark, Spanish type, her heavily marked eyebrows tending to overpower her features. She wore black.

Maitland bowed, as Granville withdrew.

“I am exceedingly sorry to disturb you, Lady Carradale— and you, sir. But I was under the impression that you had another guest—”

“You were mistaken, Dr. Maitland.” Lady Carradale had a high, rather harsh voice. “A friend of yours, you thought?”

“Well—hardly a friend! My business was official.”

“Indeed! You don't look like a policeman.”

“No. Beards are unusual in the police, Lady Carradale. I can only ask you to forgive me for this unwarranted intrusion.”

“But not at all, Doctor. It is a pleasure. Will you and your friend honour us with your company?”

“Many thanks. My friend—Mr. Donovan—and I are most appreciative—”

The house-lights went up.

All those on their way out, stopped, and turned!—as the tableau curtains were drawn apart, and Granville stepped on to the stage. The gallery became silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

“Forgive me again, Lady Carradale ... I must go. Good night, and thank you.”

Maitland and Donovan hurried from the box. As the door closed:

“Through to the stage!” said Maitland. “We have been tricked, Donovan! She slipped out! There was someone else in that box! We must look up the history of Lady Carradale ... through here!”

On the stage, a nervous hush prevailed. Granville's voice could be heard, explaining to the audience that, owing to the sudden and inexplicable illness of Ian Forrester, the part of Hamlet during the rest of the play would be taken by Mr. Douglas Merrick. In these unhappy circumstances, he was sure, etc. ...

“But where can be possibly have gone?” a woman's voice whispered agitatedly.

And, quietly as possible, stage hands changed the set.

“Is that you, Ives?” Maitland asked suddenly.

Ives elbowed his way through a group and joined Maitland and Donovan.

“It's me right enough. Come outside, where we can talk.”

“What news?”

As they stepped out into a narrow passage inside the stage door, Ives replied:

“He's got the news!”

Ives pointed to a man in his shirt sleeves seated in the door-keeper's box—a stout, red-faced man who had a glass of whisky beside him and who appeared to be the only person in the building unaffected by the night's happenings.

“Door-keeper—what do you know about all this?” Maitland demanded.

The door-keeper leaned through his little window.

“All there is to know, I reckon,” he replied. “Just before the curtain comes down, a chauffeur bloke hands me a note—or rather, two notes. One for me, and one for Mr. Forrester. He says the one in a envelope must be handed to Mr. Forrester the moment he comes off. See? Well, I gets hold of his dresser and tells him to stand by on the side—”

“Describe the chauffeur,” snapped Maitland.

“Big chap. Very hairy.”

“Go on!”

“I've just got back here, and I can tell the curtain's down, and I'm putting on my hat to nip along to the corner, when Mr. Forrester, dressed like he come off, runs past me and out into the street!”

He paused on this dramatic line.

“Well—go on!”

“There ain't no more to go on to. I can see there's a woman in the case, and I don't think a lot about it. I puts my hat on and goes along to the corner—”

“But why the hell didn't you report this before?” Ives growled.

“I've told you, Inspector. When I come back—and I'm not gone more'n three minutes—how am I to know Mr. Forrester ain't in the theatre? Nobody tells me—not till you tell me.”

“My God!” Maitland muttered, and grasped Donovan's arm—“She has got him! Why didn't I realise his danger in time? Why didn't I foresee this Under our very eyes, Donovan! Under our very eyes ...”

3

Night was giving place to morning when a man wearing a grey chauffeur's uniform entered, with almost silent tread, a charmingly feminine little boudoir, furnished in satinwood upholstered in violet, and stood before a long, narrow couch upon which Our Lady reclined.

She wore a loose rest-gown. A tray, with coffee and biscuits, stood beside it. She no more than glanced at the man. He stood, powerful fists clenched, head bowed.

“I am here, My Lady.”

“So I observe, Philo. To report—failure?”

“No, My Lady. Success.”

She sat up; and her remarkable eyes opened widely, so that their beauty became fearful.

“Then you have done well, Philo.” She lay back again, laughing gently. “From my box I saw the note handed to him in the wings as he left the stage. I knew that, so far, all went smoothly ... Sister Jean?”

“Has been prepared for her journey, My Lady.”

“He got into the car without—urging?”

“The moment he saw the little Jean lying back on the cushions, Madonna. I closed the door and drove off.”

“How did he behave?”

“Like a madman, My Lady. But he could open neither of the doors. She was unconscious. On the Heath—at the spot selected—I unlocked the door, and he leapt out and attacked me. In his fury he almost overpowered me. But I tripped him—and silenced him. I gave the injection near the top of the spine, as Ariosto had shown me ... He did not awaken again ”

“And you left him standing, as I ordered?”

“As you ordered, My Lady.”

My Lady laughed again, softly, and extended her hand.

Philo bent and kissed the delicate fingers.

4

The next person to set eyes upon Ian Forrester was a man called Thorndale.

Thorndale was a gardener, one of whose duties was to tend the heating furnace of a house overlooking Reigate Heath. This necessitated his leaving home before six o'clock in the morning and walking from the town across a part of the Heath and golf-course. From a mound dominated by a giant fir he usually obtained his first glimpse of his employer's chimneys, visible from that point above the crowns of encircling trees.

This was a misty, cold morning. In fact, the mist was so dense in patches as to deserve the name of fog.

One such patch occurred in the dip immediately below the mound supporting the King fir, and here, grumbling to himself, Thorndale paused to try to re-light his pipe, which had gone out largely because of lack of tobacco.

However, an artist in coaxing a cinder into a flame, he contrived to get his pipe going again, and resumed his slow tramp, both hands thrust into his topcoat pockets. He climbed up the path to the mound, and to some extent, out of the mist. As he passed the great mast of the tree, he paused for a moment, staring.

Someone appeared to be standing there—a man in black.

“Good morning, sir,” called Thorndale. “Bit foggy like.'

He went on his way—but received no reply.

This simply led him to suppose that the stranger who stood by the big tree was a surly fellow ... then, led him to wonder.

Had there been someone there? Or had he imagined it?

He turned back.

Reclimbing the mound from the other side, he obtained a clear view of the figure. He had not been mistaken. There was a man there right enough. But ...

Thorn dale's pipe fell on to the turf.

A moment later he was running, headlong, even his precious old pipe forgotten, in the direction of a garage fronting the Heath at which as he passed he had seen men at work ...

“What are you talking about, mate? What's the panic?”

An older man, and a daft looking boy, joined the mechanic to whom Thorndale had tried to tell his strange news.

“I'm talking about a ghost!” said Thorndale, breathless, but defiant. “There's a man up there”—he made vague gestures in the direction of the mist wantoning over the Heath—“standing under a tree ... He's all in black—with a dagger in his belt—Jewels on his hands ... A ghost, I tell you!”

The two men and the boy exchanged glances.

“Barmy,” said the boy.

The mechanic aimed a blow at him—which the daft boy ducked.

“No harm done if we go and see.”

“'That's all I'm asking!”

“I'm staying here,” the older man announced, with a suspicious look at Thorndale.

And so a procession of three inquirers set out for the big fir tree.

Within ten paces of it, the mechanic pulled up.

“Blimey!” he remarked.

“What did I tell you?”

It was the daft boy who approached the pallid statue of Hamlet—who touched it—who fell back, shrieking—who ran like a hunted, wild thing across the Heath, directionless, without purpose.

“He's turned to stone!” he shrieked as he ran. “He's turned to stone ...” So was found the body of Ian Forrester.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

1

“NICE view of the Embankment from this part of Scotland Yard, Ives.”

“Yes, Doctor, very nice. Every time I look out I wonder if Sumuru is walking by down there. Because I shouldn't know her if I saw her.”

“M'no. ..” Maitland lighted a cheroot. “This case must be giving you nightmares, Inspector. I hear that the Commissioner has been blowing off steam.”

“He has,” said Ives grimly. 'There was a conference yesterday. You see, although breaking up this organisation, Order, or whatever the gang may be called, is a Secret Service job—and your pidgin—their murders are my job ... and I can make no headway.”

He banged a large, muscular hand on the desk, angrily. Maitland nodded, and:

“The newspapers are getting very sarcastic, too,” he remarked. 'The death of Sir Miles Tristram was passed over without much fuss, but the death of a popular actor is another cup of tea entirely. Then, all these disappearances are beginning to arouse public uneasiness. Questions in the House and so on.”

“Don't I know it!” groaned Ives. “My particular, private hell is due to the fact that I'm perfectly well aware who is responsible for them. But (a) I have no evidence against her; (b) I don't know who she is or where she is!”

Maitland replaced his lighter in his pocket.

“Personally, I never go far without a bodyguard. Sumuru doesn't jib at trifling obstacles, and I'm undoubtedly a nuisance to her. It's true that she recovered all the tangible evidence I possessed, but she can't strangle my memory without strangling me!”

He stood up, and began to pace restlessly about the office.

“You know,” said Ives, slowly, “the death of that poor young actor gave me an idea. I don't know how it'll appeal to you—but I think it's worth considering.”

Maitland paused, looking at him.

“What is it?”

“Well, Ian Forrester was murdered—a spectacular business —merely because of an affair with a girl (who can't be traced) belonging to this female Stalin—I take it, as a sort of warning to others. Very well. What about your American friend—Mr. Donovan?”

“Well, what about him?”

“He's tied up with one of these girls, too, isn't he?”

“Yes—Claudette Duquesne. He's desperate about her. But, of course, she has disappeared!”

“Quite so. But—and I'm working entirely on your own theory here, Doctor—this woman Sumuru may have some use for Mr. Donovan, or think she has. It certainly looks that way to me. So, suppose you were to disappear?”

Maitland walked over to the desk and stood looking down at the inspector. His cheroot assumed a very truculent angle.

“What!”

“It could easily be arranged. Give the impression that Mr. Donovan's movements were no longer under supervision. The gang might take the opportunity to bring him and the girl together again. You see my point?”

Maitland laughed, but not mirthfully.

“Yes—I see your point, Ives. But Donovan is an old friend. I wouldn't dare to expose him to such danger ...”

Ives leaned forward.

“I don't believe the danger would be so great as you think. I could undertake never to let him out of sight of the C.I.D., day or night. And, if we could convince the gang that you were not in London, but really have you tucked away somewhere handy—you see?”

“Yes,” Maitland murmured. “I see.” He began to walk about again. “Oddly enough, Ives, the idea of disappearing had already occurred to me!”

“Really?”

“Yes. I thought it might help to extend my span of life. What I had in mind was this: All my friends, yourself included, have commented upon the beard which I grew in the Navy. Well—I propose to remove it. If, secondly, I can get my hair bleached, the result, if not attractive, should be striking! The bother is the intermediate stage—”

“Easy enough!” Ives declared. “Do what the attendants at Drury Lane Theatre used to do: rub in wet pipeclay and let it dry.”

Maitland paused and stared.

“H'm. Messy—but, I suppose, effective. I have discovered a bearded Naval Lieutenant—through Naval Intelligence—who could pass for me anywhere—that is, by sight. I thought if he went up to Edinburgh to look into the disappearance of those two Ross girls who vanished last week, I might, as you suggest, tuck my new self away somewhere—”

“We should have to keep a close watch on the lieutenant,” Ives broke in anxiously.

“That is understood. He will have full instructions as to his behaviour whilst in Scotland, where accommodation has been arranged in the name of Dr. Maitland. But—what about Donovan?”

“I don't think Mr. Donovan should know anything about it. Not because I doubt him for a moment, but because—”

“He is far too naive to be a convincing actor? I agree. Deluding Donovan is going to be a beastly business, but I think it must be done, all the same ...”

2

The taxi was rattling through morning mist. Mark Donovan felt unhappy. He glanced anxiously at Maitland.

Maitland was muffled up in his check travelling coat, the collar raised and the brim of his hat pulled down so that it cast a shadow on his face.

“You look none too well, Maitland. You're quite pale. Whatever started you off on this sudden journey North?”

“Well—I suppose it was a sudden decision, Donovan. Two girls, sisters, and famous beauties in Edinburgh, disappeared, leaving no trace. Both were highly cultured, and held degrees —one, of Arts, the other, of Science. It looks like Sumuru's work!”

“Sure. It does. But I'm sorry you decided to go, personally, all the same. You are certain, Maitland, that you will be well taken care of?”

“Certain. For yourself, Donovan, take no chances. We are nearly at the station, and there's an important question I have to ask: Did you ever, during your interviews with Claudette Duquesne, notice her ankles?”

Donovan stared, perturbed by an idea that Maitland might be running a temperature.

“Her ankles!”

Maitland laughed.

“Sounds odd, I know. But one of the few things I have learned about the Order of Our Lady (for so it is known) is that members of the gang have a design representing a snake with its tail in its mouth, delicately tattooed around the left ankle. I believe I have mentioned this before? It's done so lightly as to be practically invisible through even the finest stocking. But it's always there.”

“And you are suggesting that Claudette—”

“I don't say so. It was merely a conjecture. Hullo! Here we are!”

The taxi pulled up amongst many others discharging passengers at the great terminus. Donovan glanced at the station clock.

“You have run it pretty close, Maitland.”

“Yes.” Maitland was looking about him alertly. “But I have a reserved compartment ... Here you are, porter—”

The porter took a suitcase which Maitland handed to him.

“No heavy baggage, sir?”

“No, that's the lot.”

They followed the porter in to the platform and proceeded along the train to a compartment marked “Reserved.” Evidently, this was Maitland's.

“It's none of my business,” said Donovan. “But doesn't it rather draw attention to your journey to travel in a reserved compartment with the blinds down?”

Maitland, scanning every face within range, laughed and turned.

“I have my reasons, Donovan! Don't worry about me.”

The door was unlocked and Maitland stepped into the darkened interior.

“Shall I put this case on the rack, sir?”

“No, thanks. I'll take it ... Here you are, porter.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The guard blew his whistle.

“Take care of yourself, Donovan—”

Maitland closed the door.

“Cut it mighty fine, sir,” said a voice in the shadowy compartment.

“Had to, Lieutenant.”

Whereupon, Maitland threw off his topcoat and hat, stripped the false beard from his face, which was heavily powdered to obscure a sharp frontier of tan broken by lighter skin where the beard had grown. His hair was close-cut and greyish white.

A man who had been seated just inside the door, put on the check travelling coat and Maitland's hat. He was a dark, bearded young man—unmistakably a sailor in mufti—and he bore a really marked resemblance to Maitland.

Maitland, meanwhile, had thrown open the further door of the compartment and was looking out. An empty train stood alongside the Scottish express. The door of the compartment facing him was open. Maitland stepped across and entered the other train.

“Good-bye. Good luck. Don't forget to wave to my friend!”

The express began to pull out.

On the platform, Donovan was standing and wondering what had became of Maitland... Now, a window was lowered—and a bearded face looked out.

“Good-bye, Maitland! Take great care of yourself!”

The man at the window waved ...

3

Sumuru wore a perfectly tailored grey suit. She sat at a large and workmanlike desk in a small but workmanlike Office. For all her elusive but arresting beauty, she might have, been mistaken for a capable secretary. Indeed, later events were to reveal the fact that she was a capable secretary, amongst other things.

Philo, livery discarded, and dressed in tweed, stood before the desk. He resembled a formidable strong-arm-man. No doubt he was.

“My Lady?”

She watched him intently.

“Sit there, Philo ... What have you to report?”

Philo seated himself uneasily in a high-backed chair.

“Dr. Maitland has left for Scotland.”

My Lady laughed—gentle, musical laughter.

“He hopes to trace the Ross girls! He never will! Continue, Philo.”

“His American friend, Donovan, who saw him off, has gone to his club.”

She nodded.

“Report to me directly he returns to his apartment in Bruton Street. I must know this immediately.”

“You shall, My Lady.”

“And has Paris reported that all the members of our party have arrived there safely?”

“All, Madonna. Ariosto arrived last. Does My Lady permit me to speak?”

“Speak on, Philo.”

Philo stood up. His strange eyes burned with fanaticism.

“You take too many risks, My Lady. Now—we are alone. I, with no one to assist me, am responsible for your safety. At any hour, at any moment, we shall be visited here by the police, and—”

Sumuru raised her hand.

“Philo—listen to me. I demand services from my people which call for high initiative, great intelligence, and complete rejection of fear. Such devotion can be won only by example. I, myself, must be fearless—and infallible. Nor can I afford to idle in luxury behind the screen which has been thrown about me. I, too, must labour and run supreme risks, if I am to be worthy of the devotion of my followers. And so, in this crisis, I remain—with you—”

“Dear My Lady!”

“Danger is best conquered by rejecting it, Philo. Send a message to Claudette, and order the Embassy car to be ready in ten minutes ...”


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1

HAVING spent some hours at the office, Donovan returned, after lunch, to Bruton Street and sat down to bring up-to-date his chronicle of experiences from the time that the woman known as Sumuru had appeared in London. That it would ever achieve publication he doubted: that its contents, should it be printed, would be believed by anyone, he knew to be out of the question.

But he assembled his notes and went to work.

All this took place on one of those misty, gloomy afternoons which it seemed to Donovan might be expected at any season in England. He had wondered more than once, reading of plans afoot to attract tourists, what steps the responsible parties had in mind to correct (a) the liquor licensing laws; (b) the climate.

He got well going on the chapter dealing with that midnight chase to Marble Arch, and soon, as is the way of a professional writer who loves his job, forgot everything but the narrative of those crazy events. So deeply was he immersed in his story, so continuous the rattle of his typewriter, that it is at least possible he may have become for a time immune to outside interference.

Donovan welcomed immersion in work. By no other means could he forget Claudette, forget that he stayed inert while she struggled hopelessly against the inexorable power which held her ...

He paused once, thinking that he had heard someone at the door, but could detect nothing, and went on typing ...

Again he paused, vaguely puzzled, and turned.

Sumuru stood behind his chair!

Donovan sprang up as if propelled from a catapult. He was dumbfounded. He stood there staring at her as a man might stare at an apparition.

Sumuru was smilingly composed.

She presented a model of all that an exquisitely groomed woman should be, in her plain tailored suit and a waist-length fur cape. Her suit was grey; her shoes, gloves and hat were black, and to the hat was attached a diaphanous veil through which Sumuru's wonderful eyes watched him as through a mist.

She spoke first.

“Still reluctant to meet me. Am I so repulsive?”

The note of light raillery, a smile on her lips, completed Donovan's stupification.

Here stood a dangerous criminal for whom, at this very moment, police were combing London. Here stood a murderess, self-confessed—and a new type of white slave trafficker as well.

He confronted her—still wordless.

“I took the liberty of letting myself in, you see,” she murmured.

Donovan swallowed audibly.

“During the time that Dr. Maitland was my guest, I had a duplicate made of the key which he carried.”

Donovan clenched his hands, strove to remain control. Then, he moved.

“Where are you going?”

And, at last, words came—hot, angry words.

“Can you doubt where I'm going? Straight to the phone! You walked into my apartment like a burglar. You'll walk out a prisoner. This will be better than a month's vacation for Inspector Ives!”

“You are grotesquely uncouth. But perhaps this foggy morning has upset your liver. Am I not a model of all that a well-groomed woman should be? Surely you admit that I am attractive?”

“I admit that you are a dangerous criminal, a murderess, a slave-trafficker.”

She laughed gently.

“You are a rough fellow, Mark Donovan.”

He stood, fists clenched, watching her.

“Maybe I am a rough fellow. But I don't fight with women—as a rule. In your case. I have often asked myself if you are really a woman at all—or a female demon!”

“I have heard that some female demons are uncommonly alluring.”

“Demon or woman, you go from here to gaol! We know you murdered Sir Miles Tristram, and we know you murdered Ian Forrester!”

“Another of poor Dr. Maitland's theories, I suppose? Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Sit down by all means—while I call Scotland Yard!”

Sumuru seated herself in Maitland's favourite chair.

“I see that you are determined to be unsociable. But, before you hand me over to the police, surely you want to know if Claudette is well?”

Donovan groaned.

Those few words had turned his world upside down, made right of wrong, and wrong of right. Sumuru, and Sumuru alone, could restore Claudette to him. He clenched his teeth —ground them together.

“My God! Why do you say that? Why do you tie my hands?”

Sumuru shook her head reprovingly.

“Because I am—what did you call me?—a female demon, I suppose. Really, I begin to despair of you. A beautiful spirit in a beautiful body is so rare—and so many physically fine men are such fools.”

“Where is Claudette?” Donovan spoke threateningly. “Answer me!”

“You shall see her ... if you wish. But please refrain from hurling stupid charges at my head. There can be no evidence to associate me with Miles Tristram, for I never entered his house. I interviewed him elsewhere. He was foolish enough to defy me. I entrusted the matter to Dolores. A pretty girl, and highly accomplished. Ariosto is devoted to her, and she to him. She is Spanish.”

“Are you felling me that this girl poisoned Tristram in cold blood?”

“Spanish blood is never cold, Mr. Donovan. She carried out her orders with natural enthusiasm. Sir Miles, an ugly character, had a steel dispatch box locked in his desk. He was awaiting Dr. Maitland's visits in order to show him its contents. Dolores brought this box away with her—”

“Leaving a dead man and a valuable sapphire behind!”

Sumuru extended her gloved hands.

“Money means little to me, personally ... As for the actor, Forrester, well—your statement is ludicrous. One of my servants called upon him. He was a nuisance. No, I am not interested in money. Yet, one can do so little without a sound financial background. I managed this while still quite young. An attractive girl can, you know, if she keeps her eyes fixed inflexibly upon that objective.”

“Is that so?” Donovan growled.

Sumuru nodded.

“Many men have desired me. But the only men to whom, temporarily, I have given myself, have been unusually wealthy. Love I have never encouraged. Today, I am quite unusually wealthy, too—and free.” She opened her handbag and took out a small onyx case studded with diamonds. “Will you try one of my cigarettes?”

“Thank you: I prefer my own. What brand are yours—Lucrezia Borgia's?”

Sumuru's laughter rippled like a peal of silver bells.

“How absurd you are! I assure you I am entirely harmless, if no one interferes with me. I merely set a different valuation on human life—that's all. Surely the late war must have taught you that to think otherwise than lightly of one brief span of physical existence is mere sentiment?”

She lighted her cigarette with a curious gold lighter which produced no visible flame.

“Is nothing sacred in your eyes?” Donovan asked harshly.

“Many things. Beauty especially. But we live so many lives. Don't you know that? I fear your American education has left you lamentably ignorant. All the things that really matter seem to have been omitted from the curriculum. Am I slandering Harvard or Yale?”

“Neither. You are merely talking rubbish.”

“Sturdy Yankee common sense. Common is the operative word. Not in its implication of vulgarity, for, if gauche, you are never vulgar, but in the sense of superficial knowledge common to all. Plato would have put you in the infants' class—if he had had one!”

“I should have guessed Pluto, rather than Plato, to be your guardian spirit!”

Sumuru laughed again—and her laughter rang with the careless gaiety of that of a young girl.

Donovan knew, in this moment, that Sumuru was ageless. Even as she laughed, he felt his courage oozing away. He grew terribly afraid of her. Her very beauty appalled him. It was the beauty of a poised cobra.

“I begin to despair of you,” she said. “Yet I worship beauty—and you have physical beauty.”

“Do you count assassination beautiful?”

Sumuru sighed.

“It may well be. You see, American and English morality, although they differ so widely in sex matters, are alike in what you call the sanctity of human life. Your police will comb continents for someone who has killed a possibly worthless man or woman. But your airmen will blanket a town with explosives.”

“That's in war!”

“How irrational! You are sentimentalists—but not for the many; only for the few. You allow a Duce to shower death on innocent natives; a Fuehrer to rape his sleeping neighbours; a Comrade to drive thousands into labour camps. The sanctity of human life, I suppose, prohibits your destroying these reptiles? Armies, bombs, wholesale destruction, could be avoided. A sum, less than a war costs daily, would be sufficient to ensure the removal of any such as these.”

A sort of crazy logic in this woman's views, and perhaps the magic of her voice and the witchery which was Sumuru, began to get hold of Donovan. He found himself considering her arguments, seriously; found himself wondering, if perhaps, men's ideas of international amity were all cross-eyed.

He tried to recapture his just anger, to shake off the spell of Sumuru.

“You will do the same again,” she went on, dreamily puffing her cigarette. “You will watch ugliness preparing scientific weapons which, this time, will quite destroy the present phase of European and American civilisation. You will do nothing until it is too late. Your leaders, who may have virtue, will not understand the difference between beauty and ugliness. So, you will be obliterated, together with the ignorant fools who will plan, are planning now, this holocaust. But if I, or anyone else, stepped in and removed the cause before the menace had time to mature, do you know what you would do to me—if you could catch me? Put me on trial for murder!”

She flicked ash into a tray.

“Murder, my dear Mark Donovan—when your soldiers and diplomats would be planning organised slaughter of the entire population dominated by these insane scoundrels! No, my friend: the rulers of the future must be trained from childhood to rule. They must know. They must see. They must be immune from your sloppy sentimentalism, from your common greed, from your snobbish fear of stamping out an evil thing simply because it wears decorations and calls itself a Premier or a Marshal.”

“Stop! I'll listen to no more poisonous nonsense! Where is Claudette?”

Sumuru dropped her half smoked cigarette in the tray, and stood up.

“Shall we go and see her? ... Or would you prefer to send for a policeman?”

2

In Chief Inspector Ives' office at Scotland Yard, a transfigured Maitland faced the inspector across his neat desk.

“I think that was managed very neatly, Ives! My departure for the North was made so spectacular that I don't think it can possibly have been overlooked by Sumuru.”

“I agree,” said Ives. “Although nobody was spotted who might have been on the look-out.”

They grey, clean-shaven, and now bespectacled Maitland, shook his head.

“The gang is too clever for that. But I believe someone was there all the same. Do you think it safe for me to take up my new role, Inspector? Could I possibly be recognised?”

Ives surveyed him critically.

“I doubt it. Clean-shaven, near-white hair, and those spectacles—I should hardly know you, myself, Doctor.”

“Don't call me 'doctor'.” snapped Maitland. “I am plain Mr. Sandford—”

He paused as Ives' telephone buzzed. The inspector bent to the instrument ...

“Inspector Ives here ... What's that? ... Yes! I see ... Hold on ... Listen, Doctor—sorry!—there's something afoot, I think! Mr. Donovan has just driven away from Bruton street with a lady—in a Rolls sedanca de ville!”

“Good God! Is he being covered?”

“Yes. Motor cyclist ... Wait a minute ... Are you there, Thomson? Did this lady arrive in the car? Oh, I see. It drove up when she and Mr. Donovan came out ... Very smart woman, you say, and wearing a hat with a veil ... H'm.”

Maitland was standing at Ives's elbow.

“They are on no account to be stopped, Ives! But we must know ...”

Ives raised his hand ...

“What's that, Thomson? They have driven over to the former Embassy? ... We've got 'em this time, Doctor! We've got 'em! Mr. Donovan and the woman have gone into the house we've been watching for days past—and I got the O.K. from the Foreign Office an hour ago to inspect the premises! If the woman is Sumuru! What do you want us to do now?”

“Nothing—until I get there! Come on! Ives—the trick has worked!”

3

A graceful Rolls sedan stood at the door in charge of a dark-skinned chauffeur. His manner to Sumuru was obsequious. As Donovan followed her in:

“Don't bother to memorise the registration number,” she said. “It isn't mine.”

He became aware, as the car glided smoothly off, of a faint, peculiar perfume which he knew he should never forget. Sumuru seemed to read his thoughts.

“You have noticed that my fur is perfumed with spikenard? The secret of its preparation is supposed to be lost, you know, although it was highly prized in, the days of the Caliphs.”

Donovan did not reply. He was wrestling with his conscience.

The drive was a short one; yet, throughout it, he was keenly conscious of the intense vibrations which emanated from his companion. Her personality was electrical and infinitely disturbing .

He found himself standing before a tall building. A flag hung limply above the door.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought you might like to see the house for which your industrious friend, Inspector Ives, has been searching the neighbourhood. It was occupied, until recently, by members of the embassy staff of what, I suppose, you would call a friendly nation. Officially, it remains theirs, although the occupants actually left a week ago.”

Donovan found nothing to say.

“Shall we go in?” Sumuru asked, in her soft voice. “Or are you still thinking about policemen? I saw one on the corner of George Street.”

Donovan went in.

Sumuru opened the door with a key.

A lobby, in bronze and marble, bore indications of having been stripped of many of its appointments. As Sumuru closed the door Donovan turned and looked at her.

She was smiling.

“Is this another of your borrowed houses?”

“In a sense, it is. Why?”

“I have good reasons for feeling anxious.”

“Yes—I suppose that is true. But you must remember that you came here voluntarily. You are my guest, while you remain. Is it sufficient?”

And looking into those mocking, wonderful eyes, Donovan knew that it was.

As he wrote, afterwards ... “This may be hard to understand. No doubt one who reads will say: What a fool! After such previous experiences, why trust this woman? ... I can only reply: You have not met Sumuru. A criminal I recognised her to be, one outside the law; one having crimes of many of which I knew nothing, chargeable upon her. But her serenity, her calm courage, her consciousness of power, set her high above any criminal I had ever know in my crime reporter days, had ever heard of since. One would as soon think of doubting a commander-in-chief. Her word, I knew, was inviolable. Why?

“I have tried to explain ...”

A marble staircase led up to a balcony. There was evidence to show that a carpet had been removed from it quite recently. As Donovan stared doubtfully around, Sumuru threw a door open.

“Wait in there,” she said. “I will send Claudette to you.” She brought her lips close to Donovan's ear. “Make love to her, Mark. She is made for love. Don't waste the golden moments.”

Sumuru left him closing the door. He heard her fading footsteps on the marble stairs.

He found himself in a small but lofty apartment chiefly notable for a fine Adam mantelpiece. A mahogany desk upon which were writing materials and a lamp with a green glass shade stood before one wall. Several good rugs remained on the polished floor, and he saw two armchairs.

There was nothing else.

Immediately, Donovan crossed and tried the knob. The door had not been locked, and he looked out for a moment into the empty lobby. He was tremendously strung up. His heart was beating too fast. He reclosed the door, went over and stared out of the window, which had no curtains.

The Rolls had disappeared. London looked grey and normal. Just across the street a policeman was directing an American Air Force sergeant, one hand resting on the man's shoulder and the other, outstretched, pointing in the direction of Hanover Square. Quite a fair amount of traffic was about.

“Make love to her, Mark. She is made for love. Don't waste the golden moments ...”

Then, Donovan heard someone opening the door behind him.

He turned—as Claudette came in ...

She wore a plain frock which, however, fitted her slim figure to perfection, and light reflected from the lobby behind her gleamed wonderfully on her hair. As their glances met, she grew suddenly pale and then, as Donovan gripped her hands, that divine flush stained her cheeks—and he knew that her lips were his to claim.

He claimed them.

But although she returned his kisses, he was conscious of a strong reserve which Claudette seemed to be exercising —and now she fumblingly forced a slip of paper between his fingers.

He released her, failed to read some message which she flashed from her eyes, and glanced down at the note so mysteriously offered. He saw a fragment torn from an envelope. On this the following words had been pencilled:

“Be careful. Someone is listening.”

He put the note in his pocket and nodded to indicate that he understood. Then, he spoke, choosing his words.

“Claudette, darling—where have you been?”

Claudette dropped into an armchair and seemed to make a great effort to compose herself. Donovan knelt on the rug, holding her hands again.

“I have been here—most of the time.”

“Here!”

“Yes. I thought I was coming to meet you. But of course—” she shrugged in her own individual way—“I might have known that Our Lady would never allow me to run away.”

“Then—you have seen her? I mean, not in a dream?”

“Yes. At last, I have seen her, spoken to her.”

Something in Claudette's voice, in her expression—one almost of veneration—prompted Donovan to do what must have seemed to an observer, had there been one, a truly singular thing.

He glanced swiftly down at her ankles, those slender patrician ankles.

She wore stockings of spiderweb texture, which he guessed might have been borrowed from the tenderhearted Jackie de Lara on the night of Claudette's departure. When he looked up again, perhaps his expression had changed, for Claudette slightly shook her head.

“No—I am not a member of the Order ... yet.”

“Yet?”

Donovan seated himself on the side of her chair and threw his arm around her shoulders. “What do you mean by 'yet'?”

“I suppose I mean that it's inevitable, sooner or later.”

“Inevitable! Claudette dear, I don't understand at all. I know how you came to be here. I know you were abducted a second time—by that dusky blackguard who calls himself Worthington. But I don't know, I simply can't imagine, why you have stayed here. You had only to run out and claim the protection of the first policeman who passed. Why, it's just a matter of minutes to my own door!”

Claudette raised her eyes to him. Their expression was wistful, almost sad.

“Do you think I ever forgot that?”

Donovan stooped and kissed her hair.

“Darling, why didn't you come?”

“In the first place, because it would not have been of the slightest use. In the second place, because if you had tried to hide me from Our Lady or had attempted to interfere with her, she would have retaliated. I don't know what might have happened to you. Then—there is another reason.”

“What can it be?”

“My father.”

“Your father! But I heard that your father had disappeared—that they have failed to trace him!”

“You mean the police have?” She smiled up at him. “Very likely. He is with the Paris Circle.”

“What do you mean by the Paris Circle?”

“There are Circles in all the chief capitals. Our Lady had begun to form them before 1939. She went on all through the war. She was working against time. She believed that if the atomic experiments succeeded before her plans were complete, civilisation would be destroyed.”

“Does she still think so?”

“Yes, That is why, now, she permits nothing or nobody to stand in her way. I have had a letter from Father. You know, don't you, that he is a very brilliant man? Well—he is not a prisoner, as I am; he is a working member of the Order. And he entreats me to join him!”

For a moment, Donovan was silent, dumbfounded.

Maitland's suspicions were based on solid fact. Sumuru was the head of a powerful secret society having world-wide ramifications. Terror was not her chief weapon, but she never hesitated to employ it when necessary. His heart sank. Recalling the able men and women who had been hypnotised into slavish obedience by such a creature as Hitler, what must be the influence wielded by this dazzling woman who called herself Sumuru? Marcel Duquesne! A name revered in French journalism; that of a patriot and a gentleman. She had won over Marcel Duquesne!

At last:

“Claudette,” he said, “does your father know that this woman whose projects he is working to forward has committed murder? Not once, but God alone knows how many times!”

Claudette clasped her hands between her knees and stared down pensively.

“You should not say that—Mark.” She pronounced his name with delicious hesitancy. “Our Lady knows that to bring about any great change in the present idea of government must involve war of some sort. But she confines her war to individuals, to those who would become responsible for involving others.”

“This is a great change of heart, Claudette. You told me, not so long ago, that the book called Tears of Our Lady was evil.”

“Perhaps I did. But, then, I had not met Our Lady.”

“Does that mean that you believe in her? That you condone her killings? That you approve of her aims?”

Claudette looked up.

“I believe in her implicitly. She is the most wonderful woman in the world. And I approve of her aims. Who could disapprove? She wants to restore peace and beauty to life. But I cannot make up my mind about her methods. She considers that the end justifies the means. She has given me time to think this over.”

“Suppose you decide that you wish to be free—what will happen?”

“I don't know.”

“Would your father suffer?”

“No. I am sure of that. But—”

“Yes,” Donovan prompted, for she hesitated, and he held her close. “But what?”

“But I don't think we should ever see one another again ...”

4

Now, here was a man squarely at the crossroads, suddenly brought face to face with the greatest crisis in his life.

The genius of Sumuru began to appall him.

He recalled how she had said that Ariosto (known as Dr. Worthington) was deeply devoted to the girl who had murdered Sir Miles Tristram. He saw his fate starkly uprise before him. He lost all enmity for the man who had so impudently blinded him on a London street. He found himself thinking of Dr. Worthington as of a companion in misfortune. The chains that bound him to Sumuru were silken chains—but nevertheless unbreakable.

Sumuru employed the beauty of women to secure the serfdom of men!

And already, in spirit, Donovan was stretching out his hands to welcome the same servitude!

In short, he must acknowledge the power of Sumuru or give up Claudette ...

It was finding himself faced with this alternative, no doubt, which restored his naturally combative spirit. Was there no other way? Must he accept the word of Sumuru as final? Must he, a free citizen, bow to the will of a gang leader? For this was what it amounted to.

He stood up and began to pace the floor.

“Listen,” he said. “Who really rents this house?”

“The flag still over the door must have told you.”

“Then what is Sumuru doing here?”

“I never heard that name, Mark, as I have said before. But I suppose it is the name by which you know Our Lady. I am only at liberty to answer if you promise to keep whatever I tell you absolutely secret.”

Another quandary! Yet, the implication, that Sumuru was prepared to accept his word, Donovan found in some way flattering. What use it would be to learn the facts if he were not to use them didn't seem any too clear; but he saw that he had no choice.

“Very well ... I promise.”

“The wife of the minister who lived here is a member of the Order. Our Lady has been her guest, and it was arranged when Madame Druse returned to her own country that Our Lady should retain her rooms for a time.”

This perfectly simple statement let a flood of light into dark places. Donovan began fully to appreciate the size of Maitland's job—and the difficulties which confronted Inspector Ives. A criminal able to claim, and to secure, diplomatic immunity is a tough proposition for any police force. Small wonder they had failed to find “the house near Hanover Square.”

And, meanwhile, here was he, pacing up and down and noting, every time he looked out of the window, the presence of a member of that police force on the other side of the street! The constable who had directed the airman was standing by a pillar-box glancing idly right and left.

Suddenly, Donovan stopped before Claudette, knelt down at her feet and clasped his hands over her knees.

“Claudette! I couldn't go on without you! Love has hit me very suddenly and very hard. Just tell me this: If things could be straightened out, would you marry me?”

“Of course I would, Mark. It came just as suddenly to me. Do you suppose I should have let you kiss me like that if I hadn't cared for you?”

Donovan didn't know what Sumuru, or whoever was listening, heard during the next few minutes, but it wasn't conversation ...

“Who is going to prevent us walking straight out, now?” he asked, presently.

“I don't think anyone would try to prevent us, Mark.”

“Aren't we behaving rather like two frightened children? After all, darling, Sumuru no doubt is a dangerous woman, but we could be in another country before she had time to act. There's a policeman right across the street. We have only to step over and join him and we're safe—even from Sumuru.”

But Claudette shook her head.

“If we did get away, and she left us alone, I should never see Father again.”

“You would see him just as soon as the police had their hands on Sumuru!”

“The police will never have their hands on—” she hesitated, “on Her.'

Claudette spoke the word in a hushed way, and as though it had a capital H.

And, as often happens in such cases, the awe with which Sumuru had impressed Claudette, began to creep over Donovan, too. He seemed to feel her presence, to hear again her thrilling voice. The light banter of which she was capable never for a moment more than masked the powerful personality of the woman; indeed, it revealed it, terrifyingly.

Sumuru, smart as a fashion plate, smiling, gay, who could calmly order a man's secret execution; Sumuru, who had conquered Donovan with her eyes, who had sent Steel Maitland out to deliver into her hands that evidence against her which had taken years to accumulate! Sumuru ...

“What does she want with me, Claudette? Do you know?”

“Yes.” Claudette's eyes were lowered for a moment, a flush swept over her face. “She wants me to be the mother of your children. And she wants you to take charge of her propaganda department. My father is working on it, now.”

Donovan dropped Claudette's hands, jumped up, and began to walk about again.

So this female Dictator had selected him to be her Dr. Goebbels! It was grotesque. It would have been funny if it had not been diabolically tragic. The silken web. Its texture was so like that of the woman who had spun it; light, flexible, inexorable. Words spoken by Inspector Ives flashed, tauntingly, through Donovan's mind.

“I'm trying to point out that we have no case to go to a jury, even if we were sure of the identity of the culprit ...”

“Who is Sumuru?” he asked, abruptly.

“I don't know. No one knows.”

“Is London her headquarters?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“I don't know, Mark. And if I did, I couldn't tell you.” Glances of ever-increasing urgency which Claudette continued to give him brought home, at last, a circumstance of which he had lost sight in the excitement of those golden moments—golden moments of which Sumuru, prophetically, had spoken.

They were overheard; They were caught, helpless flies, in a web from which there seemed to be no escape. What folly to make plans under the eyes of the enemy!

Yet, common sense rejected the apparent reality of the situation. Had they been living under the rule of an undisputed autocrat, then they should have known and must have accepted the fact that their lives were not their own. But they were in England, under a Socialist government. There was a policeman across the street.

But experience told Donovan that if he attempted anything contrary to the wishes of Sumuru he would bitterly, and speedily, regret it.

He groaned aloud.

Claudette stood up and grasped his arm.

“Don't despair, Mark. I believe I know what you are thinking. But for my sake, whatever the police do, or Dr. Maitland does, do nothing yourself. It would only mean ... we should lose one another.”

From somewhere, somewhere far away, came a sound which resembled that of a silver bell ...

“Mark! Mark, dear! You heard it? That means we have to part again—”

“Claudette!” He seized her in his arms -- “Listen to me—”

“Mark! it's no good! You must see that I simply dare not disobey her orders! For my father's sake—for yours.”

Donovan clasped her convulsively.

“Good God! What shall I do!”

“I don't know, my dearest—I don't know,” she whispered. “But you must come with me now, and I will show you the way out. You must go—”

“I know the way ”

“No, no—not that way! Come, please come!”

“Not unless you come with me!”

“For God's sake, if—if you love me—do as I ask! ...”


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