THE SINS OF SUMURU - 3

THE SINS OF SUMURU
SAX ROHMER

(  INSTALMENT  3  )


CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1

A SCOTLAND YARD car pulled up immediately opposite the house which displayed an Embassy flag. That constable whom Donovan had noted, not so long before, directing an American airman, stepped to the door. Inspector Ives sprang out.

“You are positive, Thompson, that no one has left?”

“No one, Chief Inspector. The woman—a very elegant person, and Mr. Donovan, got out of the car. It was the Embassy Rolls. The chauffeur drove away. Denby followed. The woman opened the door with a key and she and Mr. Donovan went in.”

“Good. Stay out of sight, Doctor, while I try the bell.”

White-haired, bespectacled, Maitland lay back in a corner of the car.

Ives crossed to the house and rang the bell.

There was no response.

An ornamental knocker attracted his attention, and he banged this vigorously—then rang the bell again.

Nothing happening, he gave it up, and returned to the car. Maitland leaned out.

“Waste no time, Ives!” he snapped— “and don't call me 'doctor'! You have your authority. Get a man to smash that lower window, and we can be in before a crowd gathers.”

Ives turned to Thomson as another, plain clothes man, got out.

“Smash the window, Thomson, and open the catch.”

“Very good, sir.”

Thomson, wearing the expression of a mischievous schoolboy, extracted the heavy crank from its place, crossed over and shattered a large pane of plate glass. He knocked dangerous fragments away before inserting his arm and forcing the catch.

This proceeding quite naturally assembled an excited audience.

“There's a crowd gathering,” said Maitland, alighting. “Sooner we are in, the better.”

He ran across as Thomson climbed in at the window.

“Open the front door!”

Thomson nodded, and disappeared. A few moments later he reappeared at the street door.

“Come on, Ives.”

Maitland and Ives entered close together. Two more police had come up, and Ives paused to give them instructions.

“Move on any loiterers—and grab anybody who tries to come out.”

Thomson, the driver and the other man, who had ridden beside him, entered the house behind the inspector. The last man in closed the door. They found themselves in the stripped lobby from which a bleak marble staircase led to floors above.

“You two,” rapped Ives, “search the upper rooms. Thomson stay with me.”

The pair ran up and the echo of their footsteps might soon be heard as they crossed uncarpeted floors of empty rooms. Meanwhile, Maitland had entered the apartment dominated by an Adam mantelpiece. He noted the smashed window and the mahogany desk, its lamp green-shaded. But a glance was enough to convince him that no one was there.

Nor was there another door. Nevertheless, he detected something.

There was a faint, pleasant, but quite unmistakable perfume—a perfume he must always associate, to the end of his days, with Sumuru ...

He turned to Ives, who was staring about him critically.

“Do you notice a faint perfume?”

Ives nodded.

“No one uses that perfume—or no one I have ever met—but one woman—”

“Sumuru?”

“Sumuru! She has been in this room—and recently!”

“Funny you should remember it. It's hardly perceptible.”

“I can smell it,” said Thomson. “But is it very faint.”

“Sumuru,” Maitland assured him, “is an artist in all things. She doesn't reek of scent. But this elusive something—I have no idea what it is—might be described as her signature. She has been in here.”

“Come on!” Ives shouted. “Spread out. All the downstairs rooms ...”

They went to work methodically.

“This place has been stripped,” Thomson said.

“They got everything out while we were held up by red tape,” Maitland replied bitterly. “Red tape is strangling civilisation ...”

And now, searchers began to shout from floor to floor.

“Nobody up here, sir!”

“Nothing in the basement ...”

“House is empty ...”

Maitland stood in the lobby, leaning wearily against the newel post at the foot of the marble stair.

“Of course the house is empty. God knows what's become of poor Donovan. I shall never forgive myself.” He turned haggard eyes in Ives's direction. “We may hunt for ever, Ives. We are hunting a phantom ...”

2

Donovan knew nothing of all this.

At about the same time that Maitland expressed that gloomy opinion, Donovan found himself standing in a narrow recess from which he had an excellent view of part of George Street. He had submitted to the old-fashioned routine of being blindfolded with his own pocket handkerchief and led to this spot. The handkerchief had been removed, from behind, and he had honourably kept his eyes closed whilst he counted ten.

He looked over his shoulder quickly.

What he saw was a commonplace wooden gate, badly in need of a coat of paint, which evidently communicated with the back premises, and was used by tradesmen delivering goods. It was locked, or bolted. No one seemed to have noted his sudden appearance. He set out, walking more or less at random.

He had said good-bye to Claudette ... had it meant good-bye forever? He had found love, and now, it seemed, he was putting love behind him.

What to do next he had no idea. Should he call up Inspector Ives and give him the news that he had been inside the suspected house? He was under no obligation to remain silent on this point. But, if he did so, what would happen? The house would be raided ...

Donovan was certain as if Sumuru had told him, that this possibility had been foreseen. Neither Sumuru nor Claudette would be found there.

To return to work was quite out of the question. His brain was seething with confused ideas, sweet memories, futile regrets. And all the time Donovan was walking on through London's busy streets without having the slightest notion where he was going.

Vaguely, he remembered, later, passing his own door, pausing, and then staring back over his shoulder, possessed by a sudden conviction that he was followed. Except for a policeman strolling in his direction, there was no one of a suspicious character in sight.

He went on past the expanse of Berkeley Square, and again forgot his surroundings ...

How could he get in touch with Maitland? Where was he, and when would he return? If he were to retain sanity, certainly he must discuss the situation with somebody.

One thing, slowly, was becoming clear. He must not go to the official police. To do so would mean disaster, for himself and for Claudette.

Donovan was heading, at this time, across Hyde Park, roughly in the direction of Lancaster Gate. He pulled up to light a cigarette. A constable appeared walking over the grass, not far behind him. That resolution, newly formed, not to take the police into his confidence, subconsciously impelled a change of route.

He set out again, bearing off left—and twenty yards on, saw another constable coming along a path which crossed the one he was following.

Although Donovan was no great distance from Hyde Park Police Station, it occurred to him, all the same, that he had never before seen so many police in the park. This reflection soon passed from his mind, however, and he became occupied again with confusing thoughts regarding his future procedure.

It was the apparition of a third constable, almost at his elbow, which brought his to his senses. Quite obviously, this man intended to stop him!

Donovan glanced to the left, and then behind. Directly in front of him, now, was the police station. And he saw that he was surrounded! One man was immediately on his heels, another closing in on his left, and a third standing beside him.

It was the third man who spoke.

“Mr. Mark Donovan?”

“I am Mark Donovan. Yes.”

“I must ask you to step into the station, Mr. Donovan, to answer a few questions.”

The truth became inescapable. He had been arrested!

3

This state of affairs was due to the prompt action of Detective-sergeant Thomson. This officer was disguised, temporarily, as a constable—a favourite trick of Ives's, who maintained that whilst almost any other loiterer might be suspected of being a detective, nobody ever suspected a constable.

Thomson, coming out of the ex-Embassy during that futile search, had received a report which led his steps to an establishment just around the corner—the shop of a fashionable modiste, trading as Rubaix.

He saw Mark Donovan, with whose appearance he was acquainted, walking rapidly away—and he noted that Donovan's manner was markedly distrait.

All had strict orders to keep the American journalist under observation, but not to let him suspect this, and Thomson took immediate steps to insure that he be shadowed. This done, he reported back to Inspector Ives.

“Thank God!” said Maitland.

“He may have been got at!” growled Ives. “Shepherd him into the first police station he comes near to and let me know when he's in ... Do you agree, Doctor?”

Maitland nodded.

“Yes—and I should be glad if you would agree not to call me 'doctor'!”

“Sorry! Clumsy of me ... What is this about a dress shop, Thomson?”

It appeared that the car in which Mark Donovan and the woman had driven up, had been taken around the corner and pulled in before Maison Rubaix. This car had been trailed for some time and was rarely out of observation. It belonged to Madame Druse, wife of the departed diplomat, and remained in London in charge of a chauffeur. It was garaged off Farm Street—was actually back in its garage now.

Thomson had interviewed this chauffeur quite recently. He was shortly rejoining his employers abroad. They had returned to the Continent at short notice, apparently, and a butler (his name was Currie) who had been engaged by the minister's wife, had stayed behind to supervise removal of personal belongings and so on.

This man, an Englishman of good character and accustomed to high class service, had also received a visit from Thomson. And it was largely owing to what Thomson learned from Currie that the long awaited authority to search the house had been obtained.

Currie said that after the family left, he had attended to the requirements of a lady known to him as Mrs. Windsor, a guest of Madame Druse, who had arranged to stay on until her own flat should be ready for occupation. Mrs. Windsor had a lady companion, Miss St. Claude. Sometimes, servants of Mrs. Windsor came in if there were visitors and also on Currie's evenings out, but invariably left at night. They were foreigners. Madame Druse's car was put at Mrs. Windsor's disposal.

The butler's duties were finished, however, and he was living in temporary retirement in rooms in Chelsea—where, in fact, Thomson had called upon him. Now, it was reported, only a few minutes before, a white-haired lady had come out of Maison Rubaix, accompanied by a nurse, was saluted by the chauffeur, and driven off to Victoria. A detective who followed on a motor cycle phoned to say that the old lady and her companion booked first-class tickets to Reigate and joined the train. The chauffeur then returned the car to its garage.

“I'll step round and have a look at this Rubaix woman,” said Ives.

“I must keep out of sight,” Maitland remarked. “So, go easy. Don't alarm these people. I am chiefly worried about Donovan. He may have been drugged and given some sort of 'instructions'...”

Madame Rubaix was interrogated tactfully by the soldierly-looking Ives.

Monsieur was mistaken in thinking that the client was his sister. She was Lady Donelly, and being in poor health, always travelled with a trained nurse.

It may be noted here that later that day it was learned that a Lady Donelly actually lived in the Reigate area. She was called by phone—and she confirmed Madame Rubaix's statement! Was she a friend of Madame Druse, Scotland Yard inquired. Yes, by arrangement with “dear Mrs. Windsor” she had borrowed Madame Druse's car that afternoon.

Interviewed by the Surrey police, Lady Donelly and her resident nurse stuck to their story. Further inquiries concerning “Mrs. Windsor” led nowhere. The chauffeur, a Rumanian, declared that he had never driven that lady to the flat spoken of by Currie ...

Maitland was given this information by Ives over the phone, towards evening. He had retired to a quiet hotel at which rooms had been engaged for him as “Mr. Sandford,” undoubtedly members of this damnable order,” said Maitland on a note of desperation. “Madame Rubaix is another of them. I should be disposed to hazard a guess that the missing Madame Druse is a fourth.” He paused, muttering what sounded like smothered curses. “Don't you agree?”

“Yes—you are probably right,” Ives replied. “Any further news of Donovan? Still fighting mad?”

“No. But I'm going along there, now. I don't think there's any doubt he knows something. But he has sworn secrecy or some such rot. Probably the girl was hidden there. So far, Doctor, our net has caught no fish!”

4

What, then, had happened to Donovan when he was conducted into Hyde Park Police Station, to make him fighting mad?

After being kept waiting for some time, he was invited to enter a dim office, where he found an inspector seated behind a high desk. As Donovan came in, a constable beside him, the inspector waved to the man to withdraw. He did so, closing the door behind him. Donovan noted, though, that there was another door beside the desk, half open, and throughout he had an impression that someone stood behind it, listening.

The inspector looked up.

“Mr. Mark Donovan?”

“I am Mark Donovan. What can I do for you?”

“Well—” the inspector tapped his desk with a pencil—

“you were recently seen to leave a certain house. We have been watching this house. So we should be glad if you would answer a few questions concerning the people who live there.”

It had come! Here were the crossroads. Just what Donovan had hoped to avoid had happened. If only he could have discussed his position with Steel Maitland before being called upon to give evidence to the police!

However, he answered, quietly enough.

“Certainly. What do you want to know?”

“Well—” the inspector glanced down at some note—“I should like to know if you went there alone, or with someone else.”

“With someone else.”

“May I ask his name?”

“I went with a woman. I have never learned her real name. I know her as Sumuru.”

Donovan was sure that the inspector glanced rapidly aside —through the doorway.

“Sumuru. Unusual Is it a professional name?”

“In a sense, I suppose it is. She is probably the most dangerous criminal at present at large in Great Britain.”

“Indeed. Then this is where you are in a position to help us. Tell me, Mr. Donovan, was this woman in the house when you left?”

“To the best of my knowledge. That is, I didn't see her leave.”

“Anyone else?”

Now, he was squarely up against it! What Claudette had told him about the organisation he was bound in honour not to divulge. That he had met her at the house he was at liberty to report if he chose. But the result, if he did so, would almost certainly be that which Claudette had foreseen. He made a quick decision.

“There are reasons. Inspector, why I don't want to answer that question.”

“Say just one reason, Mr. Donovan,” came a loud voice ... and Ives stepped into the office! “Call it Miss Claudette Duquesne—and we shall all understand one another!”

“Good God!” The words were jerked out of Donovan explosively. “What's the meaning of this?”

He was furiously angry. Ives shook his head, watching him.

“Sorry, Mr. Donovan. But you have been carefully shepherded all day, I assure you. I'm responsible to Dr. Maitland, you see. When a report came in that you had a beautiful visitor, we took prompt action. To arrest her was out of the question. We haven't a case. But we have good grounds to suspect those premises. I quite expected you to come away in a peculiar frame of mind. You know what I mean?”

Donovan nodded, but continued to stare angrily.

“So you were watched—and your behaviour rather suggested that you were hardly yourself. We had you carefully rounded up. I wanted to judge for myself if you had been tampered with. As soon as I was sure you hadn't, I dropped the play acting.”

“I am deeply obliged!” said Donovan—for it certainly appeared to him that he had been used as a stooge. “If this is Maitland's idea, send him my thanks and best wishes.”

And this time it was Ives who glanced aside through the doorway...


CHAPTER SIXTEEN

1

MORE than a week elapsed, and nothing happened. It was a period of mental agony for Mark Donovan. He kept in constant touch with Scotland Yard, and sometimes saw inspector Ives; but for all that he could learn to the contrary, the case might have been at a standstill. Those crimes ascribable to Sumuru which had been given publicity—and the public did not even suspect the whole truth—were already half forgotten.

A world inured to mass violence no longer dwelled upon one or two mysterious murders. It was true that successive deaths from rigor Kubus had stirred up a spate of newspaper correspondence, and at one time there was a threat of panic. Some people feared that this thing might be a form of plague .

Of Sumuru he had heard no more. Of Claudette it was torture to think.

Maitland's silence he found unaccountable. But Ives assured him that Maitland was safe.

Zest for life had left Donovan. He spent his spare hours adding to the account he was preparing of Sumuru's activities. To this task he bent his troubled mind.

That he was covered, tirelessly, by Scotland Yard day and night, he knew quite well. But, rather than deriving assurance from this, he was disposed to resent it. His mood was a black one, and he cherished a grievance against Maitland for keeping him thus in the dark.

Seated at his typewriter one day plunged in a depression deeper than usual (he was writing about Claudette), he heard the phone bell and crossed to take the call.

“Hullo ... Mark Donovan here.”

“Hullo, Donovan!”

The voice was Maitland's!

“Maitland! By God! I'm glad to hear from you at last!” All Donovan's resentment left him. “It's been the very devil not knowing what had became of you—and Scotland Yard either couldn't, or wouldn't, give me any information. Where are you? What's happened?”

He heard Maitland laugh.

“Lots. I'm at the Hotel Morgan—not to be confused with the pirate of that name. A reasonable and peaceful abode, where I am known as Mr. Sandford, a solicitor from the North.”

“But I thought you were in the North! What's the idea?”

Resentment began to return.

“The idea is to save my life, Donovan! Sumuru also thinks I'm in the North, so that there hasn't been an attempt to murder me for nearly twenty-four hours—that I can recall. I want to see you—”

“And I want to see you!”

“As a decoy-duck you have proved a failure, Donovan—”

Donovan's resentment returned in full force.

“I did my best for you,” he said bitterly. “Mismanagement on your side balled the thing up.”

“Oh!” said Maitland. “Perhaps you're right. Well, anyway, I'm most anxious to see you. Listen. Take a taxi to, say, Paddington. Then make sure—if you can—that you're not followed. Take a bus back to Charing Cross—and then walk. Do you know where this hotel is?”

“Yes—I think I know.”

“Ask for Mr. Sandford, and give your name as Marks. Come as soon as you can ... Good-bye.”

When Donovan set out a few minutes later, he found that he was in a mood happier than he had known for a long time. Above all, he welcomed a chance of action. He hailed a taxi.

“Savoy,” he said, and got in.

As the man started off, Donovan looked out of the rear window, and grinned delightedly. This was good fun again!

A motor cyclist—appearing from nowhere—was threading a sinuous route through the traffic, behind.

Scotland Yard!

When they came to the big hotel in the Strand, Donovan knew that the cyclist was hot on his track. But of any other tracker there was no evidence.

Donovan's next appearance was at a service door on the Embankment side. He walked a few paces, and then boarded a tramcar. He was taking a boyish delight in defeating the agents of law and order. As he paid his fare, a motor-cycle spurted past the tram.

Scotland Yard had won, so far!

“Now, how did he figure that out?” Donovan muttered.

However it was 'figured out,' when, at last, Donovan entered the lobby of the Hotel Morgan, he congratulated himself on having thrown the shadower off his track. There was no sign of the motor-cyclist.

This was one of those discreet, family hotels, of which few outside the limited and select clientele had ever heard. The receptionist, a capable looking woman, smiled at Donovan interrogatively.

“Is Mr. Sandford in, do you know?”

“I will find out, sir. What name?”

Donovan hesitated for a moment.

“Er—Marks.”

Donovan waited, feeling awkward.

“Oh, Mr. Sandford, Mr. Marks is asking for you. Yes, very well .... the third floor, Mr. Marks—Number 38.”

Donovan, uneasily, crossed to the lift and was taken up to the third floor.

“Fourth door to the right,” the liftman directed, and Donovan approached this door and rang the bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by a tall, white-haired man, of pale complexion, who wore spectacles.

“Er—is Mr. Sandford ...” Donovan glanced again at the number, wondering if he had made a mistake.

The white-haired man laughed loudly and shot out a welcoming hand.

“You give me new confidence, Donovan! Come right in!”

“Maitland!”

Donovan paused, holding the outstretched hand, and staring, amazed. But Maitland pulled him in and closed the door, then began to pace about the small room.

“What has become of my Naval beard, you inquire? Why is my hair white? Why do I wear spectacles? Well, you can't have forgotten my former interest in amateur theatricals. Here I am, at it again! Sit down.”

“This is simply fantastic!”

“It's pretty grim, too.”

In his rapid, staccato fashion, Maitland outlined those facts not known to Donovan—and Donovan's simmering anger gave place to a growing sense of guilt. His passion for Claudette had put him in a false position ...

“My stand-in, or substitute,” Maitland concluded, “who is posing as myself, up in Scotland, has had one very narrow squeak!”

“You mean that Sumuru—”

“Yes. She has swallowed the bait, hook and all! Someone tried to gas him in his own room only last night.”

“Good God!”

Maitland nodded shortly.

“But he's alive—and so am I—”

The phone buzzed, and Maitland took up the instrument, listened, said, “Thanks. All correct” —and replaced the receiver.

“Scotland Yard reporting you have just arrived!” he explained dryly. “And now, I have a bone to pick with you—”

“I know, Maitland!” Donovan stood up, restless, irresolute. “I feel—”

“My dear fellow, I can guess how you feel. You have seen Claudette, and she has told you that you will never see her again unless you—belong to the murder gang! Am I right?”

“No, Maitland. Even Claudette doesn't belong to it, yet.”

“Good, Donovan—excellent. For, faced with such wheels within wheels one feels inclined to give the thing up. It's a new kind of organisation. Heaven knows how high up the social scale it goes. Almost anybody might turn out to be a member. We don't know friend from foe. It's staggering.”

“At least we know that Sumuru directs the whole horrible thing.”

“Quite so. But who is she?”

“Furthermore, a Spanish girl, Dolores, poisoned Tristram, for Sumuru told me so ”

“She may have told you so,” Maitland snapped irritably. “But that's not evidence. And in any case, who is Dolores? Where is she? Even if we found her and had her detained, we should find that she could produce a faultless alibi. An ex-Commissioner said recently that there have been many murder cases in which the police have known the criminal but failed to find evidence sufficient to ensure a conviction. The present case is an outstanding example.”

“It is,” Donovan agreed miserably. “If I can get no news of Claudette, I think I shall go mad.”

He found it almost impossible to believe that nearly two weeks had gone by since he had spent those golden moments with Claudette, harder still to accept the fact that all the resources of Scotland Yard and the Secret Service had failed to trace her. No arrest had been made in connection with the deaths of Sir Miles Tristram and Ian Forrester, and, since the coroner's jury had returned ambiguous verdicts, public interest already had waned.

Maitland stood up and stared out of the window. It offered a prospect of a blank wall.

“I quite understand, Donovan.” Irritation had gone from his voice: he spoke with deep sympathy. “Of course, I know you saw her that day—and no doubt certain inducements (I can guess their nature) were put forward to win your support. In return for some sort of information you had to promise secrecy, I suppose. Well—you can do nothing about that. But I hope sincerely it wasn't information which I should have.”

Donovan was touched by his manner.

“I give you my word it could be of little use, Maitland. It merely confirmed what you have just been saying—that the thing is a world organisation, that influential people belong to it.”

Maitland nodded.

“You were very sticky with Inspector Ives when he questioned you. I was listening behind the door... Don't glare! But Ives put two and two together. Too late, he discovered the private exit by means of which Sumuru slipped through our fingers. Oh! I understand! I understand! No one expects a man to sacrifice the woman he loves. There are no reproaches coming, Donovan—although you were taking desperate chances with my life.”

Donovan's mercurial spirits sank again.

“Maitland—I feel like the lowest insect that crawls. But what could I do? What could I do? If it comes to that, what can any of us do, with an organisation that has members all over the world? Important people, socially and politically. It's a fearful thing. We have no means of knowing who belongs to it, and who doesn't.”

“As I have said, the Nazis all over again, Donovan, but this time international—and with a woman Fuehrer! Hitler, in the art of winning disciples, was a child beside Sumuru. She knows every move in the game. She has the brain of a genius, the courage of a tigress. For my peace of mind, tell me one thing:—You have not bound yourself in any way to Claudette—or to those people?”

“In no way. But anything I do against Sumuru will react upon Claudette!”

“Stay out of it, then,” said Maitland shortly. “I am by no means certain that Sumuru is still in London, but there is one line of inquiry from which I hope for some result.”

“What is that?”

Maitland dropped on to the side of the bed and lighted a cheroot.

“The Baroness Rikter, President of the St. Erik Ambulance Corps.”

“But the baroness—”

“Has her headquarters in one of the few houses in London which might contain that amazing apartment where you and I once interviewed Sumuru—”

Donovan experienced sudden excitement.

“The marble room, with the lily pond and the banks of mimosa? The silk curtained recess? The—”

“Just so,” said Maitland quietly. “Lorimer House, the former home of Sir Martin Lorimer, the Victorian painter. The house to which Jean Barlow went ... I have been studying the history of the baroness, Donovan. And I find that she nursed the Baron—one of the wealthiest men in Sweden—during his final illness. Their marriage was a death-bed ceremony—a gesture of appreciation.”

“Who was she, before, then?”

“A nursing sister from a well-known Stockholm hospital. We have been unable to learn any more about her.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“That's where the solicitor business comes in! And that's what I've been waiting for. I am at last empowered by a prominent patron of St. Erik's to inquire what is to be done with their vast surplus funds. I am taking Detective-sergeant Locker along with me in the capacity of my managing clerk. He is highly observant and intelligent. I have an appointment with the baroness for that purpose, at five o'clock this evening!”

“And I can't come?”

“And you can't come!”

2

My Lady sat at her large, workmanlike desk in her small, workmanlike office. She wore nurse's uniform—silver grey with scarlet facings. A uniform cape was draped over a chair. Philo, standing before her, rested one muscular hand on the back of this chair.

“My Lady?”

“All is ready for our departure, Philo?”

The golden voice was calm, untroubled.

“All is ready, Madonna—and the sooner we depart the better.”

Sumuru's eyes opened widely for a moment—and Philo's glance fell.

“That is for me to decide. My orders concerning Dr. Steel Maitland were bungled. Those responsible will report to Paris and await me there.”

“They left this morning, My Lady.”

“He is still in Scotland?”

“According to latest reports, he is.”

Sumuru's eyes became nearly closed.

“We can never be safe whilst this man remains at large. But all I came to England to do I have done—except that one thing. No, perhaps another. What of the American, Donovan?”

“I have no one to watch his movements, Madonna. And it is impossible for me to perform so many duties at the same time. But he has kept in constant touch with Scotland Yard.”

My Lady began to arrange a number of papers on her desk.

“And how is the little Claudette?”

“She is very unhappy, Madonna. Always, she weeps. Dear My Lady! you take too many risks! This solicitor who is coming here—”

She looked up, sharply.

“Silence, Philo. For such work as mine, I need vast capital. Most of my own I have expended. This man, Sandford, comes to inquire about the disposal of surplus St. Erik funds. I must satisfy him. Then—we shall go.”

“Ah!”

That deep note conveyed otherwise inexpressible relief.

“The golden orfe from the lily pool have been safely forwarded?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Sumuru smiled.

“Remain out of sight whilst the lawyer is here. Let one of the regular St. Erik's nurses admit him and show him into the office adjoining the Arab lobby.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Philo bowed low, and retired ...

3

“If you will wait a moment, Mr. Sandford, I will take your card to the baroness.”

Maitland, professionally attired, and carrying rolled umbrella and a black hat, bowed stiffly. He had been cultivating a slow and hesitant style of speech for the role, although the girl, a sturdy and competent looking nursing sister, was too characteristic to merit guile.

“She is expecting me?”

“Yes, I believe so ”

“Thank you, nurse.”

The girl went out, partly closing the door of this small, cedar-panelled room; and Maitland spoke in a low voice.

“This is like the inside of an Arabian palace. Did you notice those wonderful mushrabiyeh windows?”

Sergeant Locker nodded.

“I believe it's known as the Arab Court, sir. Were you never here before?”

“Er—” Maitland hesitated—“I'm not sure. But, if so, I have forgotten it.”

“It was in this Court that Sir Martin Lorimer painted his famous picture 'The Slave Girl,' I believe. For years the house has been a show place—until St. Erik's took it over during the late war.”

“Indeed.” Maitland was staring around at the panelled walls. “Do you happen to remember if there is a marble room in Lorimer House?”

Locker frowned thoughtfully.

“Not in the part once open to the public. But I think I have heard that the studio, upstairs, is a reproduction of some Roman villa.”

“H'm—very curious.” Maitland was haunted by evasive memories. “You tell me that you have never met the baroness?”

“No, sir. But I have seen her. An old lady of sixty or so, with silver hair. Carries an ebony stick and leans on it when she walks.”

“I see,” Maitland murmured abstractedly ... “Ah! here comes the nurse.”

The girl threw the door open and stood aside.

“Will you please come this way, Mr. Sandford. The baroness will join you in a few moments.”

They followed her across the Arab Court and up a short stair to a small, workmanlike office in which there was a large, workmanlike desk.

“If you don't mind waiting here.”

They sat down, and again the nurse left them.

“So far, all very businesslike,” Maitland commented. “St. Erik's run a fleet of ambulances, don't they?”

“Yes, Dr. Maitland—”

“Damn it! Don't use that name!”

“Sorry!” Locker flushed guiltily. “A slip on my part. Yes —they got them to most of the battle fronts during the war. But I understand they have all been returning to Sweden recently—hullo!”

They both detected the sound of a tapping stick, approaching.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

1

BARONESS RIKTER wore a grey, caped uniform faced with scarlet. In one hand (silk mittened) the baroness carried an ebony cane with a scrutched silver handle. She stooped slightly, leaning on her stick, as she entered. Her small, chiselled features were of an ivory pallor and her beautifully dressed hair, worn short, was silver like the crutch of her cane. Slightly tinted spectacles enhanced the venerable appearance. Cleanness perhaps was the dominant note, and her garments exhaled a faint but not unpleasant odour of antiseptic.

She halted, looking from face to face.

“Mr. Sandford?”

“I am George Sandford ... My managing clerk, John Wilkes, madam.”

“Ah!”

The baroness spoke labouredly and with a marked accent. As Maitland placed a chair for her:

“Thank you, Mr Sandford,” she said wearily. “My own labours have not lightened my years. Sit there, Mr. Sandford, and tell me what you want to know.”

But Maitland had grown temporarily distrait. His mind was questing in the past, forcibly striving to hunt down that elusive memory, now suddenly taunting him again.

As he had bent solicitously over the aged lady, this memory—or a part of it—had leapt to life ... the baroness's features, in profile, conjured up the image of a Greek cameo.

Where, in some hazy past, had he glanced aside at a woman and thought that she resembled a Greek cameo?

There was moonlight in the memory—and silence—and some quality recently conjured up by the Arab apartment through which they had come ...

He remembered his assumed mission.

“Certainly,” he said. “I don't wish to waste an unnecessary moment of your time. I realise how hard you work in an admirable cause. The position, however, is quite simple. My distinguished client instructs me to give him a personal report of your intentions regarding the future of the St. Erik's Ambulance Corps. This should be easy enough?”

Covertly, but eagerly, he studied her, mittened hands resting on the top of the stick.

“It is quite easy. There is more need in desolated Europe today for the aid which we bring to the sick and the hungry than existed during war. My staff will be even more busy than before. But we are giving up our London headquarters.”

Even in repose, this woman radiated tremendous authority ...

“I see ... No doubt, Baroness, you have prepared a complete statement of accounts to date, and a prospectus of your probable outlay in the future?”

She tapped her stick on the floor peremptorily.

“But certainly, Mr. Sandford. Is my integrity in dispute?”

Her sudden vehemence was startling.

“No, no! Please don't misunderstand me. I speak simply as a man of business—”

The baroness stood up—a swift, surprisingly lithe movement.

“If I had foreseen that statistics were called for, I should have come provided with them! Be good enough to excuse me for a few minutes. Mr. Sandford, and I will return with my secretary—”

She began to cross the room.

“Really, it is not—”

The baroness glanced back—so that again Maitland had a glimpse of that pure profile.

“I wish you to interview my secretary.”

Locker opening the door, she went out. The tap—tap— tap of her stick receded into silence ...

Steel Maitland, his fists clenching, stood staring at that half opened door.

Tap ... tap ... tap ...

His own obtuseness appalled him. Perhaps same hypnotic quality in the eyes had, hitherto, stifled memory. Obscured by lenses, this quality might not assert itself. But something he had tried, long enough, to recall, something which persistently had eluded him, now, amazing to himself, had crashed into recognition ...

He walked again from Mena House along the path to the Great Pyramid ... moaning of a dance band faded ... he heard the rhythmic beating of an Arab drum ... Beside him glided a beautiful woman ... In the clear moonlight he saw that her profile was of Grecian purity.

The desert reached out to touch them silently. Her golden voice was hypnotic. He remembered how it appeared, at the time, to blend with the music of an Arab pipe someone was playing in the village. Now, every word of that extraordinary conversation repeated itself like a record of the past ...

“I suppose you are a naval surgeon?”

He had not replied immediately, but at last:

“I am tempted to suppose that you are a reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes. How did you arrive at your conclusion?”

“Is it correct?”

“Yes.”

She had laughed, that soft, trilling laugh, which possessed a quality akin to the note of a nightingale.

“Your budding beard and your blue socks.”

It was a plausible explanation, but he had hesitated to accept it. He was becoming fascinated, knew it, and resented it. He had wondered at the time if the tradition of the “beautiful spy” had perhaps a solid foundation.

“You are keenly observant. The beard is conspicuous, but I thought I had contrived to conceal the socks. Are you living in Egypt?”

“Only temporarily. I have a certain portion of my job to finish here—and then I shall go.”

“War job?”

“No—like job. You see—the war will never end.”

“Never end?”

“Never—this time. It will simply merge imperceptibly into the next.”

“Cheery outlook!”

“Isn't it!”

And all the time they were walking on and on towards the frontiers of the desert.

“I hope you are wrong.”

“I fear I am not ... If you have walked far enough, Commanders, please say so.”

“Do you mean you want to go back?”

“I am not going back. I was thinking of you.”

“Not going back!” He had been amazed.

She had spoken previously of the spirit of the Pyramid. Perhaps she had meant the legendary Woman of the Pyramid —that ageless siren who lured men to destruction. What did she mean when she said she was not going back? He knew of no house beyond, and she couldn't possibly be living in the Arab village!

“No. I merely called at the hotel to see a friend.”

“But you can't go wandering about here, alone, at night!”

Again, that laughter, that tinkling laughter of bells.

“I shall not be alone. Look—here are two of my servants to take care of me.”

He lived it all over again—how he had turned, sharply ... Was it a trap?

Two white-robed, muffled figures—apparently a pair of Bedawi—stood immediately behind him!

“What's this? Where have they come from?”

“They have been following us all the time, Commander. I have greatly enjoyed our chat. I hope you weren't bored? Thank you so much ... Good night.”

She nodded, smiling—or so Maitland thought—and resumed her leisurely, graceful walk. The Arabs, never glancing in his direction, followed a few paces behind.

She never once glanced back .

Now, he knew! He saw the same woman stretched on a cushioned divan, fanning herself. Her tones, when she spoke, were those of a magic lute ...

“What is it, sir?” Locker spoke anxiously. “What's happened? Have I missed something?”

Maitland laughed, unmirthfully.

“Good God, Locker! You don't understand! You don't understand! Missed something? We have been missing everything! The Baroness Rikter is—Sumuru!”

2

Tap ... tap ... tap ...

Philo came, with those panther steps, down the marble stairs, to stand at their foot, one large, hairy hand resting on the bronze sphinx which ornamented the newel post. The beautiful apartment had been almost completely dismantled.

Baroness Rikter entered through an arched opening formerly closed by heavy draperies. She stood there, watching him. Her spectacles she had discarded.

Philo bowed his head.

“Look down, Philo. Look down! For that is wise!”

“My Lady! You return! What is it?”

“What is it, Philo? What is it, you ask me? It is that the 'Mr. Sandford' who sits down there is—Steel Maitland! Steel Maitland, who, you tell me, is in Scotland!”

“My Lady!”

She held the ebony stick between her mittened hands, a grotesque parody of age—and, suddenly, it snapped.

“How well I am served, Philo! How wonderful is my information! The arch-enemy—the one opponent I fear—is allowed openly to enter my doors! How much does he suspect? How much does he know? Can the man delude himself to believe that bleached hair, removing his beard, wearing a pair of spectacles, could deceive me? Pah!”

She cast aside the broken ebony fragments. Philo stood mute.

“But can I delude myself to believe that similar devices will fool him? No! At first, he doubted. He never once betrayed himself ... but, now, he knows!”

“My Lady! My Lady! What shall we do?”

Philo's voice conveyed deep emotion—fear for one venerated, adored.

“My Lady, My Lady!”

“Would to heaven Ariosto were here—Abdul—any of them—but you! ... Be silent. Let me think.”

Philo bowed his head, humbly.

“There is no one now in Lorimer House, except Claudette and Sister Clair who attends her, who knows me other than as Baroness Rikter?”

“None, My Lady—no one who has ever been in your private apartments.”

Sumuru, sinking down into an ornate Arab chair which almost alone remained, began to laugh. That exquisite laughter echoed weirdly around the denuded room.

“My private apartment! Yes—I have lived in the midst of my enemies and watched them combing London for me! I have received them in this room as an empress receiving subjects. Yet they have never suspected! Had I been well served, they would never have known... Let me think.”

She rested her chin in one delicate hand, closing her eyes. It was an oddly masculine pose...

“I must hold them here—if only for a few precious minutes. I must have time to get well upon my road before the hue and cry is raised ... With all to be won, or lost, something must be sacrificed ... Dr. Arlington! ... Telephone Dr. Arlington at once. He will be at the hospital in Kensington near-by. Put him through to me, here. Dr. Arlington is a man of keen wit—and my good friend ...”

3

In the small and orderly office below, Steel Maitland paced to and fro, to and fro, constantly watching the half open door. Suddenly, he pulled up.

Sergeant Locker came in, ostentatiously carrying a large brief-case.

Maitland spoke in low, eager tones.

“You got through to the inspector?”

“Yes, sir,” was the equally guarded reply. “Three cars are on the way ... Ssh!”

Crisp footsteps heralded the return of the nurse who had received them.

“The baroness asks me to apologise for this delay, Mr. Sandford. She will not detain you long, though.”

“That is quite all right, thank you, nurse,” Maitland assured her—and the girl retired, closing the door. Allowing a moment to elapse!

“The Division has been notified, Locker? No one will be allowed to leave?” Maitland asked.

Locker nodded.

“Chief Inspector Ives is arranging that, sir. Unless she's gone already, she won't go, now.”

“H'm!” Maitland resumed his promenade. “I'm not so sure! You don't know Sumuru! If only I had foreseen it—if only I had provided for such a thing! But the sheer daring of the woman took me completely by surprise. Good God! How she has been laughing at us all!”

“Do you think she suspects, then?”

Maitland stopped—stared.

“Suspects? She knew me at the very moment she entered this room! My disguise was not intended to stand up to the X-ray eyes of Sumuru!”

“Then,” Locker exclaimed excitedly, “we may be too late already!”

“Even so—what can we do? We have not warrant to arrest the Baroness Rikter! We can only wait and question her in the usual way. Invite her to remove that wonderful silver wig, for instance... What's going on?”

Upon the strange, pregnant silence of the great house had intruded a murmur of voices and shuffle of hurried footsteps.

“Perhaps the Chief Inspector has arrived!” said Locker, and threw the door open... “No—someone going upstairs... Looks like a doctor...” He stepped out, calling, “Oh, nurse, is anything wrong?”

Maitland stood by the open door. The nursing sister paused on her way upstairs, looking back.

“Unfortunately, yes. The baroness has been taken ill. Dr. Arlington has just gone up to her room. Our own medical staff is dispersed, you see.”

She hurried on and out of sight. Steel Maitland snapped his fingers irritably.

“This is some damned trick, Locker! It's a trick!”

Locker scratched his chin.

“If she's still upstairs, I don't see what she hopes to gain by it, anyway. You don't suppose that girl's in it, do you, sir?”

“The nurse? Possibly not. But one never knows. I imagine the scheme involved a sort of inner organisation, of the existence of which the rest of the staff were ignorant... Hell! Where the devil is Ives?”

“I can't believe,” Locker declared, “that anybody could impersonate the Baroness Rikter for years and not be—”

“There was no impersonation!” Maitland rapped. “This woman is the Baroness Rikter! That's why we've been all at sea! Who else she is we have yet to find out... Hullo! is this Ives, at last! Run and see, Locker—”

4

It was almost at this moment, as far as, afterwards, could be ascertained, that Mark Donovan, staring dejectedly out of his window into Bruton Street, where dusk was falling, heard the phone bell. He crossed and lifted the receiver.

“Hullo! Yes—this is Mark Donovan ... What?”

He found himself to be clutching the instrument with quivering fingers.

“I called you just to say good-bye, Mr. Donovan ...”

He spoke in a whisper.

“Sumuru!”

“Herself! I had hopes, at one time, that you would recognise the truth, and consent to work for it But—for the present—I fear I must leave you in your ignorance, leave you in your own ugly world—”

Donovan thought she was gone. His heart throbbed madly.

“Stop! Stop! Claudette! ...”

He heard the soft laughter. There was a pause.

“For her, too, I had dreamed ambitious dreams. But it was not to be—yet. And so. I have an order for you—”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Go at once,” the golden, imperious voice continued—“at once to Lorimer House. You will find your friend, Steel Maitland, there. Give him this message from Sumuru:— 'My Lady never forgets.' You understand? 'My Lady never forgets' ...”


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1

IN the Arab Court at Lorimer House an altercation was being waged, the nursing sister stubbornly disputing Inspector Ives's right to interview Baroness Rikter. With every moment that passed in this way, Maitland was becoming more and more resigned to defeat.

“It rests with you, Ives. Officially, at the present moment, I am helpless. I am plain Mr. Sandford!”

Ives was growing angry.

“You have my card. Sister, and you know that I am a police officer—”

“Certainly, Inspector. But I cannot imagine what you are doing here, and I cannot consent, without—”

“I am here,” Ives interrupted her, “to question a dangerous criminal whom I have good reason to believe to be on these premises—”

“But how can this possibly concern Baroness Rikter?”

The girl, unruffled, was calmly determined.

“That I must find out. Therefore—I must see the baroness, at once.”

“But I have tried to explain to you that she has been taken ill. Dr. Arlington is with her, now. Unless he consents, I can do nothing. Surely, you see?”

Ives's endeavours to restrain himself became more and more obvious.

“Yes—I see ... Is this Dr. Arlington the baroness's usual medical adviser?”

The girl shook her head emphatically.

“No. She called him, I understand, because he has a first class reputation and was near-by.”

Locker exchanged glances with Maitland, and then:

“Who else is with the patient, miss?” he asked.

“One of our nurses—Sister Clair—who often assists the baroness in her private apartments. She was with her when the baroness was taken ill.”

A disturbance, subdued but persistent, proclaimed itself. The sounds seemed to come from the entrance lobby.

“What the devil's happening now?” growled Ives, suspiciously...

“But I say he is here! And I must see him!” a distant voice asserted.

“There is no Dr. Maitland here, sir—”

This, in a woman's tones.

“Then I must see the Baroness Rikter ...”

“Ives!” said Maitland urgently, “am I dreaming, or is that Donovan?”

That he did not dream was made clear almost immediately—as Donovan burst into the Arab Court ...

“Maitland!”

“Good God! Donovan! What are you doing here? And why do you bawl my name—”

The nurse looked from face to face in growing bewilderment. Another sister ran in from the lobby.

“Maitland! Maitland!” Donovan went out—“She—Sumuru —called me on the phone, and—”

“What do you say?” Ives shouted.

“What!”

The exclamation came from Maitland's lips like a pistol shot.

“She told me you were here and to come along at once—”

“How long ago?” Ives demanded. “How long ago?”

“Less than ten minutes. I—”

Maitland turned swiftly, and grasped the nurse's arm in a firm but kindly grip.

“Sister! Be good enough to lead the way to the baroness's room! My name is Maitland—Dr. Steel Maitland—and I will take full responsibility. Come on, Ives!”

The second nurse had joined them, and now looked on.

“But, really—Mr. Sandford—or—Dr. Maitland! ...”

“Lead the way!” snapped Ives peremptorily. “Or you'll be obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty—”

2

The bedroom of Baroness Rikter was approached through a charmingly feminine little apartment evidently used as a boudoir. But it seemed to Maitland, looking around, that the place held nothing revealing, nothing intimate. Further inspection enabled him to account for this impression. His forebodings grew blacker.

It has been partly stripped. Of this fact he detected several items of evidence.

The nursing sister now quite composed again, crossed to a door beyond. She had accepted an inexplicable situation.

“If you will wait for a moment, gentlemen, I will speak to Dr. Arlington.”

She rapped on the closed door.

“Come in.”

The voice was high-pitched, irascible. The nurse went in.

“I'm laying ten to one against us!” Maitland murmured.

The nurse stepped out again.

“Please come in.” She spoke in hushed tones. “But don't make a noise.”

Maitland signalled to Donovan and Locker to remain. He went in with Ives—and was confronted by a grey-haired, choleric man who glared uncompromisingly.

“Dr Arlington?” he said quietly. “My name is Steel Maitland—a brother practitioner. Your patient?”

But Dr. Arlington continued to glare.

“I don't recall asking for a second opinion, Dr. Maitland—much less a third—”

The bedroom struck that same note of incompleteness. The divan bed, a dainty thing of cane and lacquer, stood remote from the door, a heavily shaded lamp alight beside it. Dr. Arlington persistently obstructed any direct view of its occupant.

Suddenly, Ives spoke.

“Where is this Sister Clair, Doctor?”

“If you refer to the nurse who was here when I arrived, sir, she left me some time ago on an errand to the nearest chemist, and I regret to say has not returned. Why? Are you also a medical man?”

“No, Doctor, I'm not! I'm a police officer!”

“A police officer!”

But Maitland's patience was nearing breaking point.

“It is rather gloomy by the bed, Dr. Arlington,” he said coldly. “And I am anxious to examine the baroness. Please forgive me. I know it must seem like a vulgar intrusion. But I am, in fact, acting for the Foreign Office.”

“The Foreign Office!” Dr. Arlington echoed again. “What the devil has the Foreign Office—”

“It is all most regrettable.” Maitland pushed past him to the bed. “May I ask: Are you well acquainted with Baroness Rikter?”

“I had never previously met her, sir.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to tilt the lamp shade—so that the light shines on the patient's features—”

“My patient is suffering from an indiscreet use of sleeping tablets, Dr. Maitland. Sister Clair, her regular attendant, informed me that insomnia—”

But Maitland, bending over the bed, apparently did not hear him. He was so absorbed indeed that he did not straighten up until a cry came from Ives.

“That woman's wearing a wig!”

“I was already aware of the fact that my patient wore a wig, sir—”

That Dr. Arlington was in any way implicated in this extraordinary matter would not have crossed the mind of one in a thousand. Not until later, in fact, did it cross the mind of Steel Maitland ...

“And it doesn't fit, either!” Ives added.

Maitland looked at him steadily, expressionlessly.

“Because it wasn't made for her! ... This is not the Baroness Rikter—”

“What do you say, sir?” Dr. Arlington demanded. “What do you say?”

“I say, Dr. Arlington, that this is not the Baroness Rikter! You have been tricked. We have all been tricked.” He spoke bitterly now, and raising his voice, called, “Donovan!”

Donovan came in from the outer room.

“Yes, Maitland! What is it?”

“See for yourself!”

A moment later, Donovan was on his knees beside the bed, a man transfigured.

“Claudette! Claudette! Maitland—it's Claudette!”

Maitland was holding himself tightly in hand.

“So I had observed, Donovan,” he replied tonelessly ...

“What is the meaning of all this?” Dr. Arlington cried.

“Claudette, darling! Claudette ... Oh! she's not—”

At which moment Claudette opened her eyes. Her pupils dilated and contracted queerly; but with the sigh of a contented child she placed her arms around Mark Donovan and drew his head down beside her own on the pillow. Then, she fell asleep again ...

“I repeat. Dr. Maitland—what is the meaning of all this?”

Dr. Arlington was very red in the face.

“The meaning is, Dr. Arlington, that Sumuru—whom you may not know—has slipped out of the net again. This lady is Miss Claudette Duquesne.”

“Well, I'm damned!” said Ives.

Claudette, without opening her eyes, murmured dreamily:

“Listen! Listen! Don't you hear ... that tapping ...”

3

When, at last, Steel Maitland stood once more in the famous marble studio where half the notabilities of Victoria's reign had been entertained, he looked about him with a grimly bleak expression.

He was a man disillusioned—a man disappointed in himself. There was the recess, approached by three steps, where she had reclined, like a pagan empress. There was the lily pond. He looked around at the beautiful Oriental pillars which supported the painted ceiling—at the bronze sphinx guarding the staircase. He turned to Ives.

“What blind fools we have been,” he said.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN

1

“WE are two short at this strictly informal conference, Dr. Maitland,” said Colonel Stayton briskly.

He had the lean figure of a horseman and those light blue eyes which suggest that they have been bleached by an Indian sun. His office, with its book-lined walls and homely appointments, large windows commanding a view of the Thames, signally lacked the austerity which marked that allotted to Chief Inspector Ives in the same building. Perhaps Ives was considering the point; for he was there, if somewhat subdued by the presence of the Assistant Commissioner and a Superintendent.

“Yes, Colonel Stayton.” Maitland stood up. “But I think I hear them, now.”

There was a rap on the door and a man announced:

“Miss Claudette Duquesne and Mr. Mark Donovan, sir.”

The door closed behind them as they entered. Donovan looked like a man who had secured long leave of absence from hell. Claudette was pale, but lovely.

“Ah, Claudette!” Maitland greeted her—“This is the Assistant Commissioner, Colonel Stayton—”

The colonel shook hands.

“Welcome to Scotland Yard, Miss Duquesne!”

“Ominous words!” said Maitland laughingly. “Mr. Donovan represents the Alliance Press of New York.”

“Let me remind you, sir, that whatever takes place in this office is off the record!”

“Sure, Colonel!” Donovan replied, glancing aside at Claudette—and there was a new gaiety in voice and manner.

Inspector Ives was known to all, so that when Superintendent Mason had been introduced, the party was ready for business.

Colonel Stayton cleared his throat, adjusted reading glasses, and glanced over a page of typed notes. He looked up.

“Now—1 believe that every one of you has something to add to my information concerning this woman known as Sumuru,” he began briskly. “A long list of crimes stands against her name. These crimes include abduction—and murder. But Scotland Yard is in the unhappy position of having no adequate evidence upon which to secure a conviction. That's our first difficulty.”

He glanced around interrogatively, and then continued.

“Our second is even greater. We don't know who this woman is! No one can describe her. She is variously reputed to be the widow of a Japanese marquis and the widow of the Swedish millionaire, Baron Rikter, founder and first president of the St. Erik Ambulance Corps. She may quite conceivably be both, of course. But one of these ladies is said to be a young and singularly attractive person—namely, the Marquise Sumuru—whilst the other, Baroness Rikter, is old. When I add that the baroness has disappeared I have indicated our third, and greatest difficulty. Miss Duquesne —I appeal to you:—Are the Baroness Rikter and Sumuru one and the same person?”

Claudette looked swiftly at Mark Donovan, and then replied:

“Yes!”

There came a momentary silence, broken by Maitland.

“I can confirm this,” he said.

Colonel Stayton cleared his throat again.

“We have therefore to accept the astonishing fact that the baroness—well known and respected for her many charities—lived continually in disguise!”

“It was a simple disguise, Colonel Stayton,” Claudette interrupted composedly. “Merely a silver wig—you have seen it—but wonderfully made, slightly tinted spectacles (you have those, too) and an appearance of age.”

“But the change of voice and of facial expression was astounding,” Maitland declared. “If Sumuru were not the world's greatest criminal, she would be the stage's finest ornament.”

“She is not a criminal,” Claudette murmured.

This quietly confident statement created a curious impression upon her listeners. Colonel Stayton laid his reading glasses on his desk.

“Possibly I misunderstood you, Miss Duquesne. You say that a woman who had you abducted, a woman who has abducted numberless victims; a woman who has committed murder ... really!”

Words failed the Assistant Commissioner. But Claudette maintained her point.

“Those she abducted were not her victims, Colonel Stayton. If they failed to see her point of view, no coercion was used—no physical coercion—”

But Donovan's adoration could no longer silence his plain common sense.

“What about the mental coercion?” he demanded. “Why, that woman just plays on human emotions like someone playing on a harp!”

“Even if we pass that point, Claudette,” came support from Maitland, “we can hardly condone the murders of Miles Tristram and Ian Forrester!”

Claudette shook her head.

“I don't condone them. I understand that it may be better for a few to die—however innocent—than that a great cause should be ruined. If, as she believes, the world can be brought to outlaw war, and greed, and all ugliness, nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of such a crusade.”

Donovan cast an embarrassed glance at Maitland. Ives glared uncomprehendingly.

“H'm!” Colonel Stayton, elbows resting on the desk, pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Er—I begin to realise the extraordinary influence which this woman wields. To pass on:—How did the Baroness contrive to deceive everyone in her social contacts?”

He addressed Claudette.

“She had few social contacts. She lived a retired life. She was represented, to the outside world, by a secretary—a very beautiful woman—Mrs. Chezzington-Hay.”

“This is new to me!” Maitland exclaimed. “Who is Mrs. Chezzington-Hay?”

“You know her as Sumuru!”

Ives stood up suddenly.

“What do you say? What do you say?... Pardon me, sir!”

“Certainly, Chief Inspector.” Colonel Stayton glanced aside at him. “I share your amazement. Are you telling me, Miss Duquesne, that this woman posed as her own secretary?”

Claudette nodded.

“Yes. She went everywhere for St. Erik's—all over the world, I believe—and, naturally, had full authority from the president.”

“Naturally!” Maitland laughed. “Good God! How many other identities has Sumuru? She is not, by chance, a popular film star, or a well-known woman novelist, for instance?”

But the forced gaiety in his voice awoke no echoes amongst his audience. Claudette, alone, smiled, a little sadly.

“I don't know, Dr. Maitland. You could hardly expect her to allow me to find out anything she didn't want me to tell you.”

From the Assistant Commissioner's desk came a subdued buzzing.

“Yes?” He bent to the instrument—“speaking ... Very well ... An urgent call for you, Dr. Maitland—”

Maitland stood up, and crossed.

“Thank you ... Hullo! Steel Maitland here ... Merciful heaven!”

His whole expression changed. Amazement had all but overpowered him...

“Have I surprised you, Dr. Maitland?” a musical voice inquired.

He turned to Colonel Stayton, signalling to him to listen-in, and at the same time with his lips he silently framed the name: Sumuru.

“Good God!” cried Donovan.

But Claudette no more than whispered the words:

“Ah! No, no!”

Colonel Stayton, intent upon the message, said aside to Ives, in a low voice:

“Hold this call, Chief Inspector.”

Ives left the office. Donovan, Claudette, and Superintendent Mason stood studying the faces of Colonel Stayton and Steel Maitland as they listened...

“Please tell Claudette not to be frightened. She is safe in Scotland Yard. And tell Mr. Donovan, who is with you, that the little one is my parting gift to him. You might add that the beauty of woman is a double-edged sword. Let the scabbard be strong. I shall watch over their future, and hope to attend the wedding. I am giving up my presidency of St. Erik's. The corps has served my purpose. It is now entirely free of my personal influence. Its present members are ignorant of the private use which I made of its facilities. See that they are not molested. Give my regards to Colonel Stayton. His wife is an old friend of mine. Au revoir, Dr. Maitland ...”

Before Maitland, who stood nearest, could stir a hand, Colonel Stayton slumped back in his chair, his florid colour tinged with grey. Superintendent Mason sprang to his side. “What is it, sir? What is it? Are you unwell?” But the Colonel forced a smile and waved a hand reassuringly.

“Forgive me—this weakness ... It will pass—”

“But, Colonel——” Maitland began solicitously. “My wife left me—disappeared—six years ago! ... I had given her up for dead.”

“Colonel Stayton! You have my deepest sympathy.” The Assistant Commissioner was rapidly regaining grip of himself.

“She went—she must have gone—to that woman! And I searched the world for her!” He stood up, steadily. Much of his normal colour returned. “Superintendent—trace that call ... If this she-devil's in England, we'll get her!”

2

Chief Inspector Ives was in luck in the matter of the phone call. From Scotland Yard's private switchboard where the incoming line had been held, Whitehall Exchange traced the origin of the call. Their investigations showed it to have come via Tamdem. From this centre, inquiries were directed yet further afield, and, a few minutes later, a Hertford operator reported that it was made from a call-box on the Great North Road.

All police cars in the district and all police cyclists were interrogated. It was a cyclist who provided the first clue ...

Sumuru had actually been in the call box when he passed. The man was still in sight when she came out. Philo, wearing a blue livery, awaited her beside an inconspicuous American car which, in fact, was super-engined.

Sumuru wore a smart tweed suit beneath a mink cape. Few people acquainted with My Lady—or with Baroness Rikter—would have recognised this dark-browed, open-air woman who looked as though she spent much of her time in the saddle.

“My Lady!” Philo was agitated. “A police cyclist passed while you were talking! We must hurry.”

My Lady settled herself in the front seat beside her dangerous-looking chauffeur. Philo moved off at a speed which betrayed the secret engine.

“You would rob me of my sport, Philo. I love to give the hounds a run! Now, already, they will be in full cry. My wits against Scotland Yard—and the Secret Service. How easily I could have vanished—like a mirage, and left no trace. How undramatic to do so! We shall be reported back to London from every town through which we pass—”

“And sooner or later—stopped,” Philo added.

Sumuru laughed gaily. Her laughter resembled a peal of fairy bells.

“We should be, if we ran straight, Philo. But here is an old and wary fox. We shall confuse the hounds ... Ah! This is life!”

3

Many lines vibrated with urgent voices ...

“Superintendent Dimes, speaking from Hertford ... Yes, sir ... the call was undoubtedly made from a call-box on the Great North Road ... All cars are being stopped and examined, sir. Yes, one of my men reports passing a stationary car near a box at that time ... very good, sir ...”

“All drivers being interrogated entering St. Albans from the south, sir. All available cars and cycle patrols are spread out to intercept ”

“The car is almost certainly a Buick, sir. Chauffeur driven. One lady passenger. It is reported as having passed through Hatfield ten minutes ago ...

“Looks as though they are doubling, sir. I have just had a report from Lower Porlock. A car answering to description—one woman passenger—went through the village at racing speed. A constable signalled the driver to stop, but was ignored, nearly run down ...”


CHAPTER TWENTY

1

“NOTHING more come through, Thomson, since the report from Porlock?”

“No, sir. Radio's dead.”

The police car began to slow down.

“This is Lower Porlock ahead, now,” said Ives.

“And mist is rapidly developing into fog, Ives?” Maitland added ruefully— “Ah! there's a patrol! Stop, Thomson!”

With a ghoulish shrieking of brakes, the car was pulled up almost beside a police cyclist ...

“Hullo, Sergeant! What news?”

“Very little, sir, I'm afraid,” the man reported. “The Buick seems to have melted into thin air.”

“What in hell are you talking about?” Ives asked harshly. “Which way was the car coming when it was sighted?”

The police sergeant flushed confusedly.

“From the direction of Hatfield, sir. It's quite clear they have been doubling around the district to escape us. But I was on the main road leading out of Lower Porlock, and there's a trap at the cross-road at the other end.”

Maitland quietly took up the interrogation.

“You mean that the car came into the village, but didn't go out?”

“Well—it looks like it!”

“That should simplify matters. Evidently, they have turned into a private drive somewhere. How many men have you within call?”

The sergeant considered this.

“Well—I could get one from the police car at the crossroads, and—”

“Get him. How many drives open on the stretch of road between your post and the cross-roads?”

Again the local man paused.

“Er... One—two ... There are three, sir.”

“Including the one which I can see from here?”

“Yes, sir. That's Porlock Park, the residence of Lady Carradale.”

“Is Lady Carradale at home?” growled Ives.

“Away, I am told, sir,” was the answer. “A housekeeper in charge.”

“Right.” Ives stepped out. “Thomson, relieve the sergeant. Stand by with the car. Stop everybody. You, Sergeant, get the other man and examine the two places you mentioned—”

“And we,” said Maitland, “will call on Lady Carradale's housekeeper.”

“Very good, sir ”

The sergeant kicked his engine into sputtering life and went racing away.

2

Moisture dripped mournfully from the leaves of great elms which guarded a winding, gravelled drive. Visibility grew steadily worse.

“This is the house we want, Ives!” Maitland's voice held a note of controlled excitement. “You may recall that we have come across Lady Carradale before? She played a mysterious part in the death of poor Ian Forrester. You remember?”

“I remember well enough!” Ives was in a particularly black mood. “But all our inquiries led us nowhere.”

He tramped on stolidly through drenching mist.

“All the same, you must have found out something about her.”

“We did. But nothing of any interest. She's the widow of Lord Carradale—”

“Widow?”

“Widow,” Ives repeated with emphasis. “Oh! I see your point! But Sumuru can't have married all these men!”

He pulled up, to stare at Maitland.

“Well—they are all dead!” Maitland commented dryly. “Was Carradale a wealthy man?”

As they resumed their tramp along the drive:

“Very wealthy,” Ives assured him. “He was killed in an air crash, early in the war. Why, at that time, she would have been married to Baron Rikter!”

Maitland permitted himself a chuckle.

“Sumuru has never considered trifles of that kind, or allowed them to stand in her way, Inspector! ... At the time that I interviewed Lady Carradale—very briefly and in a poor light—I had not entirely appreciated Sumuru's astonishing powers as a mimic. By gad! I believe I'm right! It was her silhouette, against the stage lights!”

“What? I don't know what you mean—”

“Forgive me. I was thinking aloud. But my thoughts amount to this: Sumuru is not only the reputed widow of the Marquis of that name. She is, we know for a fact, also the widow of Baron Rikter. And, damn it! I believe she's the widow of Lord Carradale into the bargain!”

A pillared porch, grey and forbidding, with an iron-scrolled door hiding in its shadows, came into view.

“If that's true,” said Ives, “it's time I resigned. This life is getting too complex for a simple man.”

“Never mind, Ives Try the bell.”

As Ives pressed a bell set in the masonry beside the iron-scrolled door:

“No sign of a car,” Maitland commented. “But you will note that the drive swings on right around the house ... Hullo!”

A white-haired butler, sad of expression, had opened the door.

“Is Lady Carradale at home?' 'Maitland asked.

The butler looked at him intently for a moment.

“I will inquire, sir. What is the name?”

“Dr. Steel Maitland ... Oh, and by the way, whose car was that—do you know—which drove up a while ago?”

The butler's sad expression remained undisturbed. “I was unaware that a car had been driven up, sir. Her ladyship has had no callers. Perhaps you would wait for a moment in the lobby ”

The lobby of Porlock Park was bleak, sad as the butler. But the armchairs were comfortable. When they found themselves alone:

“A shot in the dark, Ives!” Maitland murmured.

“But it hit nothing, Doctor!”

Maitland shook his head. He was rapidly losing confidence.

“No. The devil of it is, we dare not trust anyone in this business. He seems like a respectable old fashioned family servant, for instance. But is he?”

“H'm!” coughed Ives.

The butler had returned.

“Her ladyship has apparently gone out, sir. Possibly only into the grounds. But I have been unable to find her. Would you care to leave a card, sir? Or could you call back later?”

Maitland stood up.

“Thanks. I'll call later, if possible.”

“But.” Ives began in a low voice—

“No—we haven't time, now. Come on.”

Maitland steered him tactfully towards the door, which the butler opened.

“Good day, sir.”

“Good day.”

As they crossed the porch and their feet began to crunch on wet gravel, Ives stopped, turned to Maitland.

“Listen, Doctor! Your methods are your own—but mine are mine! This case has been assigned to me by the Assistant Commissioner in person. It's a murder case, and purely C.I.D. business. Now—”

Maitland flashed a tired smile—the ghost of his real one.

“Sorry, Ives! I should hate you to think I'm being uppish. But it's far bigger than a mere murder case—”

“A mere murder case!”

Ives's indignation was unassumed.

“Yes. This woman represents a greater menace to world peace than the men of the Kremlin. We dare not make any mistakes ... Tell me, what is the extent of this property—Porlock Park?”

But Ives, glaring, was not to be mollified.

“I don't know—”

A motor cyclist was roaring around the bends of the drive.

“What's this?” Maitland muttered.

The cyclist swept into view.

“One of the local patrols,” said Ives.

Ives was thinking hard. He glanced aside at Maitland, beginning to regret his outburst.

The cyclist stopped, rested one foot on the gravel, and saluted. He had a red face and round, blue, ingenious eyes.

“Well, Constable?” said Ives.

“No car has entered either of those drives, sir—”

“I see.” Ives glanced again at Maitland. “Well, tell me something. What's the size of Lady Carradale's property?”

“I don't know the acreage, but it's one of the biggest properties this side of St. Albans,” the man replied promptly, his eyes becoming even rounder. “But—”

“Is it! Must extend to several high roads!”

“It does, sir. But I have an urgent report from Sergeant Thomson.”

Ives almost jumped.

“Why didn't you say so?” he snapped. “What is it?”

“The wanted car has been found, sir—”

Now, it was Maitland's turn to light up.

“What's that? What do you say?”

“Two miles away, sir—on the other side of Porlock Park—abandoned in a lane!”

“Abandoned!” Ives shouted.

“Yes, sir. It's low-lying down there, and getting foggy. One of our chaps nearly ran into it.”

“Damnation!” Ives growled—and began to run towards the gate lodge.

3

In a damp and misty lane which formed the north-east boundary of Porlock Park, visibility did not extend to more than ten paces. Out of the mist came, faintly, the sound of a queerly modulated whistle.

“This way, Philo ...”

An interval, and then—the whistle was repeated, nearer.

“Bear more to your left. The gate is here ...”

My Lady stood by the gate in question, peering into the mist. Out of it, presently, silent as a jungle creature, came the forbidding figure of Philo.

“My Lady!” His deep voice was husky. “It was a close thing. I had not left the car for more than a minute when a police cyclist rode up and found it!”

My Lady nodded.

“No matter. A minute was long enough. But, now, we must act quickly. I went into the house by the side door, but I was seen by old Haley, the butler, as I crossed the dining room—”

“Then it's too late! We are finished!”

“Be silent.” The glorious voice was calm, but imperious. “He is accustomed to my unannounced comings and goings. But—”

“If anyone inquires at Porlock Park—”

“Haley will go to look for me—naturally. And someone will inquire. The police have been busy in this neighbourhood. Moreover, there are only three places into which we could have disappeared. Yes—we must act swiftly.”

“But this fog—this accursed fog, Madonna!”

“It may help rather than retard. Come. This is the way. Use your flashlamp.”

She moved away.

“The light will be seen.”

“It cannot be seen far in the mist. We must find the stile ... Your flashlamp, fool.”

4

“This car's no Buick,” growled Ives. “It's got a Rolls engine. It's a proper gangster's outfit, built for a quick getaway.”

“A getaway it is, Ives,” Maitland agreed. “She's burning her boats. It's more than possible that she had another car waiting here, and has transferred to it.”

But there was no hope of tyre marks on that drenched and gravelly surface.

“I'd bet a pound to a penny,” said Ives, “that the masked Rolls was driven right across Porlock Park and out by some gate near here. We've lost her! Damn this fog!”

Out of the fog so anathematised came a faint hail:

“Hi!”

Maitland and Ives stood still, listening. A sound of running footsteps became audible. And presently the round-eyed constable manifested out of mist.

“There's a stile back there, sir,” he reported—“and I've found a fragment of some kind of fur stuck to a splinter on the rail!”

Maitland grabbed the man's arm.

“Show me! Lead the way!”

A short sprint brought them to the stile.

“I haven't moved it. There it is, right under my light.”

Maitland stooped.

“Mink! It's mink ... And Sumuru often wore mink!”

Ives pressed forward.

“Let me look!”

As the two peered down at this alien fragment adhering to ancient timber:

“You see?” Maitland said rapidly. “Few women possess mink coats in these parts, I assume. Fewer still would climb a stile wearing one! Come on! Over we go! Along this footpath!” And, as they all scrambled over: “Where does this path lead, Constable?”

“So far as I know, sir, to Jenkins's Farm and then out into Spinney Lane.”

“Where does Spinney Lane lead to?” Ives demanded breathlessly.

“East, to a secondary road between Hatfield and Lower Porlock; west—main road to London.”

On they went.

“She had another car waiting, Ives!” Maitland said. “That's it! She's slipping away!”

“She won't slip far unless this fog lifts!” was Ives's reply. “And the chief is flat out for her now! That discovery about his wife set him on fire. Whatever road she takes will be patrolled by this time—but I wish we could get the news through, all the same ... listen!”

All three halted, listening.

A discordant choir of farm creatures, familiar to and beloved by country dwellers, gave voice in unrhythmic music. A dog—a large dog—was the soloist.

“Someone passing through the farmyard!” Maitland muttered. “Double up, Ives! Perhaps we're not too late!”

They blundered along an ill-defined path—to be confronted by an angry Alsatian. The animal appeared to be there on business, and an awkward situation was averted by the local constable.

“All right, Tiger! You know me, old boy!”

Fortunately, the dog acknowledged the acquaintance, and they proceeded amongst misty outlines of farm buildings.

“Hi!” Maitland shouted. “Is there anyone about?”

The Alsatian seconded his efforts, and presently a woman came out, middle-aged and stout, wiping her hands on her apron.

“What is it?” She peered from face to face ... “Oh, Constable Sims—is that you?”

“It's me right enough, Mrs. Jenkins, and—”

But Ives broke in impatiently.

“Excuse me—but did a lady pass through here a few minutes ago?”

Mrs. Jenkins was flustered.

“I don't rightly know, sir. I was in my kitchen. But Tiger set up a fearful row, so it's likely somebody did walk through.”

“Thank you,” said Maitland. “Come on, Ives.”

They doubled off, leaving the woman standing by the farm door, bewildered.

“Is anything the matter?” she called after them.

“Nothing to worry you, ma'am,” Constable Sims shouted back.

“Here's the other stile.”

Ives was breathing hard. Mist was no longer the word to define atmospheric conditions, Maitland thought as he scrambled over. This was real fog.

“Now the question is,” Ives panted—“which way?”

They stood there, as in a wet blanket. Farm sounds grew dim behind them.

“We're hot on her heels, Ives!” Maitland declared.

“We mustn't make a mistake ... Listen!”

They stood alert, listening ...

“Not a sound in the lane ... Do we turn east, or west?”

5

“They are right behind us!” came a hoarse whisper.

“Which means that we are still in front, Philo ... Be silent. We must listen. They will divide into two parties, one searching east, and the other west. When they set out, we can move ... Listen!”

My Lady rested a gloved hand upon a ladder propped against the buttressed, ancient brick wall. A second ladder, which had enabled them to scale the wall from the lane, now lay at the foot of a fig tree. Philo had drawn it up after him.

And, as they stood there, Inspector Ives's voice reached them from the lane beyond ...

“There's a high wall for half a mile, so she must have gone along the road ... Constable! You and Dr. Maitland try east. I'll go west ...”

“I said so!” Sumuru murmured. “If Dr. Maitland had been going alone, we might have balanced our accounts, even now—”

“My Lady!”

“S'sh! Be silent. It was but a passing thought ...”

“If you find anything,” Ives's voice grew faint as he moved off—“blow your whistle, Constable.”

“Right, sir.”

Sumuru laughed softly.

“The possibility of our having ladders placed for our convenience has never occurred to any of them!” She stepped out on to the path and crossed it to a plantation of fruit bushes. “Now, Philo, through here. They have gone too far to hear our movements. But step softly.”

“In this fog, My Lady, it will be impossible—”

“The impossible is the refuge of cowards, Philo. I have never admitted its existence. It was glorious! Other impossibilities lie before us.”

Her golden tones were joyous, but still imperious.

“I meant, Madonna, that Silvestre—”

“Silvestre has my orders. When I join him, he will obey them—”

“But the fog—”

“So will you.”

6

The flat note of a police whistle seemed to be beaten down, absorbed, by the mist.

“Will the Inspector hear it through this fog, Constable?” Maitland asked anxiously.

“He'll answer if he does, sir. I'll blow again.”

The whistle was repeated ... came a breathless interval ... and a distant reply.

“He's heard it!” said Constable Sims. “I didn't expect to find this door open. There's a big orchard inside.”

“To whom does it belong?”

“To Lady Carradale ...”

And whilst Maitland was considering the significance of this fact, Ives came running up.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“There's a heavy door in the wall here,” Maitland explained, “—and it's open! Constable Sims tells me that it's usually bolted. She probably went in here ... The orchard belongs to Lady Carradale!”

“In that case, come on!”

“It's a poor chance. She has a good start, now.”

But they ran along a muddy, wheel-rutted track beyond the gate, lost it by a row of wooden sheds and paused where a footpath carried on in roughly the same direction.

“Which way now?” said Ives, desperately.

“And where the devil can she be going?”

“We have to suppose, across the orchard,” Maitland replied. “See, here's a path of sorts. It heads straight ahead ...” He paused; stood staring. “Am I imagining it, or is there a dim light coming through the fog?”

It was Constable Sims who answered the question.

“May be the light of Carda Airfield, sir. We're headed that way.”

“Carda Airfield?” snapped Ives. “Never heard of it.”

“It's a testing ground, sir. We've got two men on special duty there today. They were to try out the new Super-Hornet. But the weather will have stopped 'em. Fastest jet plane in the world, they say.”

Whereupon, revelation burst, a great white light, upon Ives's mind.

“By heavens!” he shouted—“I see it all! I've been blind! To think that I said, 'where the devil can she be going!' But we've got her! We've got her!”

“I don't follow at all.” Maitland confessed.

Ives had begun to run, stumblingly, through the trees ...

“The Super-Hornet is made by Carradale's! Carda Airfield must belong to the firm!”

“It does, sir,” the Constable panted.

“And Lady Carradale is the biggest shareholder! Nothing but this fog, which we've been cursing, has prevented her getting away! Oh! I've been deaf, dumb and blind! But we've got her! We've got her!”

Maitland, too, now tingled with excitement. The bits of the puzzle began to fit themselves together at last. Why Sumuru —unless in a mood of bravado—had betrayed her route out of London, he could not imagine. But, resting upon his theory that Sumuru was known as Lady Carradale, only one conclusion could be drawn.

She had planned a getaway by plane ... the fog had trapped her!

And during this time he and his fellow hunters had blundered through a neglected orchard, being tripped by thorny undergrowth and delayed by low branches.

Constable Sims was leading them to the nearest entrance to the airfield. He led, once clear of the orchard, along a bridle-path and out on to a secondary road. A final spurt Drought them to a wide drive over which extended a metal sign bearing the words:—

Carradale Ltd ...

“Look at all the lights,” Ives panted, “on the runway... Here we are—”

A man stepped out from a box and interrupted the breathless three.

“Just a minute! Just a minute! Your passes?”

But Ives was in no mood for interruption. He hurled the man aside.

“Police business ... Detective Inspector Ives of Scotland Yard ... My assistants ... out of the way! Don't argue!”

They ran on towards those distant rays piercing smokily through the fog. Behind them, the doorkeeper was shouting—and they heard a muffled bell.

In sight of a batlike shape outlined by powerful lights and surrounded by moving figures, Maitland stopped dead, clutching Ives's arm.

“My God! Look! Look!”

Heralded by a shattering crash followed instantly by a fiendish howling which resembled that of massed sirens, the great bat rose from the ground, dipped, rose again, and climbing like a rocket, shot up into the pall of fog, and was gone!

Its eerie shriek died in remote distance. A hush of consternation claimed all ...

The door-keeper had caught up with them. Another man accompanied him—a burly man of authoritative bearing.

“It's suicide,” Maitland groaned—“deliberate suicide!” He turned, as the new arrival touched him on the shoulder. “You, sir! I am from the Foreign Office. Be good enough to tell me—for God's sake what has happened? My name is Dr. Steel Maitland ... Chief Inspector Ives of Scotland Yard, here.”

The burly man hesitated for a moment—but the presence of a constable in uniform evidently convinced him.

“I can't imagine what has brought you to Carda field, gentlemen. My name in Colonel Elton ... As to what has happened, that's tragically simple. The top-secret Carradale Super-Hornet was to be tested today and stood ready on the runway. One of our best pilots, a Frenchman—Squadron-Leader Silvestre—was standing by with a ground crew. I was compelled, however, to order the flight to be cancelled, and we were only awaiting the arrival of Lady Carradale, who had arranged to inspect the craft before the take-off. A few minutes ago she came in—delayed by the fog—with her chauffeur. Both stepped into the Super-Hornet—”

“Both? Yes, yes! But—”

“Before anyone knew what had happened, Silvestre gave the order. Sheer madness ... temporary insanity, beyond doubt. The men obeyed ... and the Hornet was airborne—with Lady Carradale on board! God help them all ... we shall never see one of them again!”

Steel Maitland glanced at Ives's grim face. “I wonder!” he said.


END