Greystones grew ever greater. With my own eyes I was about to see this harbinger of deathemployed by Dr. Fu-Manchu, finally to convince myself that she was not Ardatha. But indeed little doubt on this point remained.
“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” said Nayland Smith, “you are going to meet for the first time, Kerrigan, an example of a dead woman moving among the living, influencing, fascinating them. I won’t tell you, Inspector Gallaho”—he turned to the Scotland Yard officer—“whom I suspect this woman to be. But she is someone you have met before.”
“Now that I know Doctor Fu-Manchu is concerned in this case,” the inspector growled in his husky voice, “nothing would surprise me.”
We passed along the main street of a village in which all the houses and cottages were in darkness and pulled up before one over which, dimly, I could see a tablet which indicated that this was the local police headquarters. As we stepped out:
“Strange,” murmured Nayland Smith; looking about him—“there’s no car here and only one light upstairs.”
“I don’t like this,” said Gallaho savagely, marching up the path and pressing a bell beside the door.
There was some delay which we all suffered badly. Then a window opened above and I saw a woman looking out. “What do you want?” she called: it was a meek voice.
“I want Constable Isles,” said Gallaho violently. “This is Detective Inspector Gallaho of Scotland Yard. I spoke to the constable twenty minutes ago, and now I’m here to see him.”
“Oh!” said the owner of the meek voice, “I’ll come down.”
A minute later she opened the door. I saw that she wore a dressing gown and looked much disturbed.
“Where’s the woman,” snapped Nayland Smith, “whom the constable was detaining?”
“She’s gone, sir.”
“What!”
“Yes. I suppose he must have been satisfied to have let her go. My husband has had a very hard day, and he’s fast asleep in the parlour. I didn’t like to disturb him.”
“What is the meaning of this?”
Nayland Smith spoke as angrily as he ever spoke to a woman. Accompanied by the hastily attired Mrs Isles, we stood in a little sitting room. A heavily built man who wore a tweed suit was lying on a couch, apparently plunged in deep sleep. Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho chewed ominously and glared at the woman.
“I think it’s just that he’s overtired, sir,” she said. She was a plump, dark-eyed, hesitant sort of a creature, and our invasion seemed to have terrified her. “He has had a very heavy day.”
“That is not the point,” said Smith rapidly. “Inspector Gallaho here sent out a description of a car seen by an A.A. man near a call box on the London Road. All officers, on or off duty, were notified to look out for it and to stop it if sighted. Your husband telephoned to Great Oaks twenty minutes ago saying that he had intercepted this car and that the driver, a woman, was here in his custody. Where is she? What has occurred?”
“I don’t really know, sir. He was just going to bed when the phone rang, and then he got up, dressed, and went out. I heard a car stop outside, and then I heard him bring someone in. When the car drove away again and he didn’t come up I went to look for him and found him asleep here. When he’s like that I never disturb him, because he’s a bad sleeper.”
“He’s drugged,” snapped Smith irritably.
“Oh no!” the woman whispered. Drugged he was, for it took us nearly ten minutes to revive him. When ultimately Constable Islessat up and stared about I thought that I had rarely seen a more bewildered man. Smith had been sniffing suspiciously and had examined the stubs of two cigarettes in an ash tray.
“Hello, Constable,” he said, “what’s the meaning of this? Asleep on duty, I’m afraid.”
Constable Isles sat up, then stood up, clenched his fists and stared at all of us like a man demented.
“I don’t know what’s happened,” he muttered
“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” said Nayland Smith, “you are going to meet for the first time, Kerrigan, an example of a dead woman moving among the living, influencing, fascinating them. I won’t tell you, Inspector Gallaho”—he turned to the Scotland Yard officer—“whom I suspect this woman to be. But she is someone you have met before.”
“Now that I know Doctor Fu-Manchu is concerned in this case,” the inspector growled in his husky voice, “nothing would surprise me.”
We passed along the main street of a village in which all the houses and cottages were in darkness and pulled up before one over which, dimly, I could see a tablet which indicated that this was the local police headquarters. As we stepped out:
“Strange,” murmured Nayland Smith; looking about him—“there’s no car here and only one light upstairs.”
“I don’t like this,” said Gallaho savagely, marching up the path and pressing a bell beside the door.
There was some delay which we all suffered badly. Then a window opened above and I saw a woman looking out. “What do you want?” she called: it was a meek voice.
“I want Constable Isles,” said Gallaho violently. “This is Detective Inspector Gallaho of Scotland Yard. I spoke to the constable twenty minutes ago, and now I’m here to see him.”
“Oh!” said the owner of the meek voice, “I’ll come down.”
A minute later she opened the door. I saw that she wore a dressing gown and looked much disturbed.
“Where’s the woman,” snapped Nayland Smith, “whom the constable was detaining?”
“She’s gone, sir.”
“What!”
“Yes. I suppose he must have been satisfied to have let her go. My husband has had a very hard day, and he’s fast asleep in the parlour. I didn’t like to disturb him.”
“What is the meaning of this?”
Nayland Smith spoke as angrily as he ever spoke to a woman. Accompanied by the hastily attired Mrs Isles, we stood in a little sitting room. A heavily built man who wore a tweed suit was lying on a couch, apparently plunged in deep sleep. Chief Detective Inspector Gallaho chewed ominously and glared at the woman.
“I think it’s just that he’s overtired, sir,” she said. She was a plump, dark-eyed, hesitant sort of a creature, and our invasion seemed to have terrified her. “He has had a very heavy day.”
“That is not the point,” said Smith rapidly. “Inspector Gallaho here sent out a description of a car seen by an A.A. man near a call box on the London Road. All officers, on or off duty, were notified to look out for it and to stop it if sighted. Your husband telephoned to Great Oaks twenty minutes ago saying that he had intercepted this car and that the driver, a woman, was here in his custody. Where is she? What has occurred?”
“I don’t really know, sir. He was just going to bed when the phone rang, and then he got up, dressed, and went out. I heard a car stop outside, and then I heard him bring someone in. When the car drove away again and he didn’t come up I went to look for him and found him asleep here. When he’s like that I never disturb him, because he’s a bad sleeper.”
“He’s drugged,” snapped Smith irritably.
“Oh no!” the woman whispered. Drugged he was, for it took us nearly ten minutes to revive him. When ultimately Constable Islessat up and stared about I thought that I had rarely seen a more bewildered man. Smith had been sniffing suspiciously and had examined the stubs of two cigarettes in an ash tray.
“Hello, Constable,” he said, “what’s the meaning of this? Asleep on duty, I’m afraid.”
Constable Isles sat up, then stood up, clenched his fists and stared at all of us like a man demented.
“I don’t know what’s happened,” he muttered
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