IN THE FOG
"But, Smith," I began, as my friend hurried me along the corridor, "you
are not going to leave the box unguarded?"
Nayland Smith tugged at my arm, and, glancing at him, I saw him
frowningly shake his head. Utterly mystified, I nevertheless
understood that for some reason he desired me to preserve silence for
the present. Accordingly I said no more until the lift brought us down
into the lobby and we had passed out from the New Louvre Hotel,
crossed the busy thoroughfare and entered the buffet of an
establishment not far distant. My friend having ordered cocktails--
"And now perhaps you will explain to me the reason for your mysterious
behavior?" said I.
Smith, placing my glass before me, glanced about him to right and left,
and having satisfied himself that his words could not be overheard--
"Petrie," he whispered, "I believe we are spied upon at the New Louvre."
"What!"
"There are spies of the Si-Fan--of Fu-Manchu--amongst the hotel
servants! We have good reason to believe that Dr. Fu-Manchu at one
time was actually in the building, and we have been compelled to draw
attention to the state of the electric fitting in our apartments, which
enables any one in the corridor above to spy upon us."
"Then why do you stay?"
"For a very good reason, Petrie, and the same that prompts me to
retain the Tûlun-Nûr box in my own possession rather than to deposit
it in the strong-room of my bank."
"I begin to understand."
"I trust you do, Petrie; it is fairly obvious. Probably the plan is a
perilous one, but I hope, by laying myself open to attack, to
apprehend the enemy--perhaps to make an important capture."
Setting down my glass, I stared in silence at Smith.
"I will anticipate your remark," he said, smiling dryly. "I am aware
that I am not entitled to expose _you_ to these dangers. It is _my_
duty and I must perform it as best I can; you, as a volunteer, are
perfectly entitled to withdraw."
As I continued silently to stare at him, his expression changed; the
gray eyes grew less steely, and presently, clapping his hand upon my
shoulder in his impulsive way--
"Petrie!" he cried, "you know I had no intention of hurting your
feelings, but in the circumstances it was impossible for me to say less."
"You have said enough, Smith," I replied shortly. "I beg of you to say
no more."
He gripped my shoulder hard, then plunged his hand into his pocket and
pulled out the blackened pipe.
"We see it through together, then, though God knows whither it will
lead us."
"In the first place," I interrupted, "since you have left the chest
unguarded----"
"I locked the door."
"What is a mere lock where Fu-Manchu is concerned?"
Nayland Smith laughed almost gaily.
"Really, Petrie," he cried, "sometimes I cannot believe that you mean
me to take you seriously. Inspector Weymouth has engaged the room
immediately facing our door, and no one can enter or leave the suite
unseen by him."
"Inspector Weymouth?"
"Oh! for once he has stooped to a disguise: spectacles, and a muffler
which covers his face right up to the tip of his nose. Add to this a
prodigious overcoat and an asthmatic cough, and you have a picture of
Mr. Jonathan Martin, the occupant of room No. 239."
I could not repress a smile upon hearing this description.
"No. 239," continued Smith, "contains two beds, and Mr. Martin's
friend will be joining him there this evening."
Meeting my friend's questioning glance, I nodded comprehendingly.
"Then what part do _I_ play?"
"Ostensibly we both leave town this evening," he explained; "but I
have a scheme whereby you will be enabled to remain behind. We shall
thus have one watcher inside and two out."
"It seems almost absurd," I said incredulously, "to expect any member
of the Yellow group to attempt anything in a huge hotel like the New
Louvre, here in the heart of London!"
Nayland Smith, having lighted his pipe, stretched his arms and stared
me straight in the face.
"Has Fu-Manchu never attempted outrage, murder, in the heart of London
before?" he snapped.
The words were sufficient. Remembering black episodes of the past (one
at least of them had occurred not a thousand yards from the very spot
upon which we now stood), I knew that I had spoken folly.
Certain arrangements were made then, including a visit to Scotland
Yard; and a plan--though it sounds anomalous--at once elaborate and
simple, was put into execution in the dusk of the evening.
London remained in the grip of fog, and when we passed along the
corridor communicating with our apartments, faint streaks of yellow
vapor showed in the light of the lamp suspended at the further end.
I knew that Nayland Smith suspected the presence of some spying
contrivance in our rooms, although I was unable to conjecture how this
could have been managed without the connivance of the management. In
pursuance of his idea, however, he extinguished the lights a moment
before we actually quitted the suite. Just within the door he helped
me to remove the somewhat conspicuous check traveling-coat which I
wore. With this upon his arm he opened the door and stepped out into
the corridor.
As the door slammed upon his exit, I heard him cry: "Come along,
Petrie! we have barely five minutes to catch our train."
Detective Carter of New Scotland Yard had joined him at the threshold,
and muffled up in the gray traveling-coat was now hurrying with Smith
along the corridor and out of the hotel. Carter, in build and features,
was not unlike me, and I did not doubt that any one who might be
spying upon our movements would be deceived by this device.
In the darkness of the apartment I stood listening to the retreating
footsteps in the corridor. A sense of loneliness and danger assailed
me. I knew that Inspector Weymouth was watching and listening from the
room immediately opposite; that he held Smith's key; that I could
summon him to my assistance, if necessary, in a matter of seconds.
Yet, contemplating the vigil that lay before me in silence and
darkness, I cannot pretend that my frame of mind was buoyant. I could
not smoke; I must make no sound.
As pre-arranged, I cautiously removed my boots, and as cautiously
tiptoed across the carpet and seated myself in an arm-chair. I
determined there to await the arrival of Mr. Jonathan Martin's friend,
which I knew could not now be long delayed.
The clocks were striking eleven when he arrived, and in the perfect
stillness of that upper corridor. I heard the bustle which heralded
his approach, heard the rap upon the door opposite, followed by a
muffled "Come in" from Weymouth. Then, as the door was opened, I heard
the sound of a wheezy cough.
A strange cracked voice (which, nevertheless, I recognized for Smith's)
cried, "Hullo, Martin!--cough no better?"
Upon that the door was closed again, and as the retreating footsteps
of the servant died away, complete silence--that peculiar silence
which comes with fog--descended once more upon the upper part of the
New Louvre Hotel.