Free The Island of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

important.
    “He was putting the evidence in
writing
, Kerrigan. We want his notes…”
    I mused in the dark. It was Ardatha who had saved me! This knowledge was a burning inspiration. In some way she had become a victim of the evil genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu; her desertion had not been a voluntary one. Then, as the police driver threaded a way through streets which all looked alike, I found myself considering the fate of Jacob Bohm; the strange mutilation of Dr. Oster; those ghastly exhibits in the glass case somewhere below the old warehouse.
    “Note the yellow hands”—I heard that harsh, guttural voice plainly as though it had spoken in my ear—”They were contributed by a blond Bavarian…” Could I doubt, now, that the blond Bavarian was Jacob Bohm? I should have been Fu-Manchu’s next ember thrown to the Moloch of science before whom he immolated fellow men as callously as the Aztec priests offered human sacrifices to Quetzacotl.
    Number 39 B was identical in every way with its neighbours. All the houses stood flush to the pavement; so much I could make out: all were in darkness. In response to my ring Mrs. Mullins presently opened the door. A very dim light showed (I saw that some sort of black-out curtain hung behind her) but it must have enabled her to discern my uniform.
    “Oh good God!” she exclaimed. “Have the Germans landed?”
    Her words reminded me of the part I had to play.
    “No ma’am,” I replied gruffly. ‘I am a police inspector—”
    “Oh, inspector, I haven’t shown a peep of light! Truly I haven’t. When them sirens started howling I put out every light in the house. Even when I heard the all-clear, I only used candles.”
    “There’s no complaint. Are you Mrs. Mullins?”
    “That’s my name, sir.”
    “It’s about your lodger, Jacob Bohm, that I’m here.”
    The portly figure, dimly seen, appeared to droop.
    “Oh!” she whispered, “I always expected it.”
    I went in. Mrs. Mullins closed the door, dropped the curtain, which I recognized for an old counterpane, and turned to face me in a little sitting-room, candle lighted, which was clean, tidy, and furnished in a way commemorated by
Punch
artists of the Edwardian era. She was a stout, grey-haired woman and no toper, but tonight her abode spoke of gin. She extended her hands appealingly.
    “Don’t say Little Jake was a spy, sir!” she exclaimed. “He was like a son to me. Don’t tell me—”
    “When did you see him last?”
    “Ah, that’s it! He didn’t come home last night and I thought to myself, that’s funny. Then tonight, when the young lady from the firm called and explained it was all right—”
    “What young lady—someone you know?”
    “Oh, no, sir—I’ve never seen her before. But she was sure he’d be back later and went up to wait for him. Then that air-raid warning came, and—”
    “Where is this—”
    I ceased speaking. A faint sound had reached my ears, coming from beyond a half-opened door. Someone was stealing downstairs!
    In one bound I reached the door, threw it open, and looked up. Silhouetted against faint light from above, a woman’s figure turned and dashed back! With springs in my heels I followed, leapt into a room a pace behind her, and stood squarely in the doorway.
    She had run towards a curtained window, and I saw her in the light of a fire, sole illumination of the room, and that which had shone down the stair. She wore a dark raincoat and a small close-fitting hat from beneath which the glory of her hair cascaded in iridescent waves. Dancing firelight touched her face, more pale than usual, and struck amethyst glints from her lovely eyes. But my heart had already prepared me to meet “the young lady from the firm.”
    “It seems I came just in time, Ardatha,” I said, and succeeded in speaking coolly.
    She faced me, standing quite still.
    “You!” she whispered. “So you
are
of the police! I thought so!”
    “You are wrong; I am not. But this is no time to