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“Yes,” Maitland murmured. “I see.” He began to walk about again. “Oddly enough, Ives, the idea of disappearing had already occurred to me!”
“Really?”
“Yes. I thought it might help to extend my span of life. What I had in mind was this: All my friends, yourself included, have commented upon the beard which I grew in the Navy. Well—I propose to remove it. If, secondly, I can get my hair bleached, the result, if not attractive, should be striking! The bother is the intermediate stage—”
“Easy enough!” Ives declared. “Do what the attendants at Drury Lane Theatre used to do: rub in wet pipeclay and let it dry.”
Maitland paused and stared.
“H’m. Messy—but, I suppose, effective. I have discovered a bearded Naval Lieutenant—through Naval Intelligence—who could pass for me anywhere—that is, by sight. I thought if he went up to Edinburgh to look into the disappearance of those two Ross girls who vanished last week, I might, as you suggest, tuck my new self away somewhere—”
“We should have to keep a close watch on the lieutenant,” Ives broke in anxiously.
“That is understood. He will have full instructions as to his behaviour whilst in Scotland, where accommodation has been arranged in the name of Dr. Maitland. But—what about Donovan?”
“I don’t think Mr. Donovan should know anything about it. Not because I doubt him for a moment, but because—”
“He is far too naive to be a convincing actor? I agree. Deluding Donovan is going to be a beastly business, but I think it must be done, all the same …”
2
The taxi was rattling through morning mist. Mark Donovan felt unhappy. He glanced anxiously at Maitland.
Maitland was muffled up in his check travelling coat, the collar raised and the brim of his hat pulled down so that it cast a shadow on his face.
“You look none too well, Maitland. You’re quite pale. Whatever started you off on this sudden journey North?”
“Well—I suppose it was a sudden decision, Donovan. Two girls, sisters, and famous beauties in Edinburgh, disappeared, leaving no trace. Both were highly cultured, and held degrees —one, of Arts, the other, of Science. It looks like Sumuru’s work!”
“Sure. It does. But I’m sorry you decided to go, personally, all the same. You are certain, Maitland, that you will be well taken care of?”
“Certain. For yourself, Donovan, take no chances. We are nearly at the station, and there’s an important question I have to ask: Did you ever, during your interviews with Claudette Duquesne, notice her ankles?”
Donovan stared, perturbed by an idea that Maitland might be running a temperature.
“Her ankles!”
Maitland laughed.
“Sounds odd, I know. But one of the few things I have learned about the Order of Our Lady (for so it is known) is that members of the gang have a design representing a snake with its tail in its mouth, delicately tattooed around the left ankle. I believe I have mentioned this before? It’s done so lightly as to be practically invisible through even the finest stocking. But it’s always there.”
“And you are suggesting that Claudette—”
“I don’t say so. It was merely a conjecture. Hullo! Here we are!”
The taxi pulled up amongst many others discharging passengers at the great terminus. Donovan glanced at the station clock.
“You have run it pretty close, Maitland.”
“Yes.” Maitland was looking about him alertly. “But I have a reserved compartment… Here you are, porter—”
The porter took a suitcase which Maitland handed to him.
“No heavy baggage, sir?”
“No, that’s the lot.”
They followed the porter in to the platform and proceeded along the train to a compartment marked “Reserved.” Evidently, this was Maitland’s.
“It’s none of my business,” said Donovan. “But doesn’t it rather draw attention to your journey to travel in a reserved compartment with the blinds down?”
Maitland, scanning every face within range, laughed and turned.
“I have my reasons, Donovan! Don’t worry about me.”
The door was unlocked and Maitland stepped into the darkened interior.
“Shall I put this case on the rack, sir?”
“No, thanks. I’ll take it… Here you are, porter.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The guard blew his whistle.
“Take care of yourself, Donovan—”
Maitland closed the door.
“Cut it mighty fine, sir,” said a voice in the shadowy compartment.
“Had to, Lieutenant.”
Whereupon, Maitland threw off his topcoat and hat, stripped the false beard from his face, which was heavily powdered to obscure a sharp frontier of tan broken by lighter skin where the beard had grown. His hair was close-cut and greyish white.
A man who had been seated just inside the door, put on the check travelling coat and Maitland’s hat. He was a dark, bearded young man—unmistakably a sailor in mufti—and he bore a really marked resemblance to Maitland.
Maitland, meanwhile, had thrown open the further door of the compartment and was looking out. An empty train stood alongside the Scottish express. The door of the compartment facing him was open. Maitland stepped across and entered the other train.
“Good-bye. Good luck. Don’t forget to wave to my friend!”
The express began to pull out.
On the platform, Donovan was standing and wondering what had became of Maitland… Now, a window was lowered—and a bearded face looked out.
“Good-bye, Maitland! Take great care of yourself!”
The man at the window waved …
3
Sumuru wore a perfectly tailored grey suit. She sat at a large and workmanlike desk in a small but workmanlike Office. For all her elusive but arresting beauty, she might have, been mistaken for a capable secretary. Indeed, later events were to reveal the fact that she was a capable secretary, amongst other things.
Philo, livery discarded, and dressed in tweed, stood before the desk. He resembled a formidable strong-arm-man. No doubt he was.
“My Lady?”
She watched him intently.
“Sit there, Philo… What have you to report?”
Philo seated himself uneasily in a high-backed chair.
“Dr. Maitland has left for Scotland.”
My Lady laughed—gentle, musical laughter.
“He hopes to trace the Ross girls! He never will! Continue, Philo.”
“His American friend, Donovan, who saw him off, has gone to his club.”
She nodded.
“Report to me directly he returns to his apartment in Bruton Street. I must know this immediately.”
“You shall, My Lady.”
“And has Paris reported that all the members of our party have arrived there safely?”
“All, Madonna. Ariosto arrived last. Does My Lady permit me to speak?”
“Speak on, Philo.”
Philo stood up. His strange eyes burned with fanaticism.
“You take too many risks, My Lady. Now—we are alone. I, with no one to assist me, am responsible for your safety. At any hour, at any moment, we shall be visited here by the police, and—”
Sumuru raised her hand.
“Philo—listen to me. I demand services from my people which call for high initiative, great intelligence, and complete rejection of fear. Such devotion can be won only by example. I, myself, must be fearless—and infallible. Nor can I afford to idle in luxury behind the screen which has been thrown about me. I, too, must labour and run supreme risks, if I am to be worthy of the devotion of my followers. And so, in this crisis, I remain—with you—”
“Dear My Lady!”
“Danger is best conquered by rejecting it, Philo. Send a message to Claudette, and order the Embassy car to be ready in ten minutes …”
HAVING spent some hours at the office, Donovan returned, after lunch, to Bruton Street and sat down to bring up-to-date his chronicle of experiences from the time that the woman known as Sumuru had appeared in London. That it would ever achieve publication he doubted: that its contents, should it be printed, would be believed by anyone, he knew to be out of the question.
But he assembled his notes and went to work.
All this took place on one of those misty, gloomy afternoons which it seemed to Donovan might be expected at any season in England. He had wondered more than once, reading of plans afoot to attract tourists, what steps the responsible parties had in mind to correct (a) the liquor licensing laws; (b) the climate.
He got well going on the chapter dealing with that midnight chase to Marble Arch, and soon, as is the way of a professional writer who loves his job, forgot everything but the narrative of those crazy events. So deeply was he immersed in his story, so continuous the rattle of his typewriter, that it is at least possible he may have become for a time immune to outside interference.
Donovan welcomed immersion in work. By no other means could he forget Claudette, forget that he stayed inert while she struggled hopelessly against the inexorable power which held her…
He paused once, thinking that he had heard someone at the door, but could detect nothing, and went on typing…
Again he paused, vaguely puzzled, and turned.
Sumuru stood behind his chair!
Donovan sprang up as if propelled from a catapult. He was dumbfounded. He stood there staring at her as a man might stare at an apparition.
Sumuru was smilingly composed.
She presented a model of all that an exquisitely groomed woman should be, in her plain tailored suit and a waist-length fur cape. Her suit was grey; her shoes, gloves and hat were black, and to the hat was attached a diaphanous veil through which Sumuru’s wonderful eyes watched him as through a mist.
She spoke first.
“Still reluctant to meet me. Am I so repulsive?”
The note of light raillery, a smile on her lips, completed Donovan’s stupification.
Here stood a dangerous criminal for whom, at this very moment, police were combing London. Here stood a murderess, self-confessed—and a new type of white slave trafficker as well.
He confronted her—still wordless.
“I took the liberty of letting myself in, you see,” she murmured.
Donovan swallowed audibly.
“During the time that Dr. Maitland was my guest, I had a duplicate made of the key which he carried.”
Donovan clenched his hands, strove to remain control. Then, he moved.
“Where are you going?”
And, at last, words came—hot, angry words.
“Can you doubt where I’m going? Straight to the phone! You walked into my apartment like a burglar. You’ll walk out a prisoner. This will be better than a month’s vacation for Inspector Ives!”
“You are grotesquely uncouth. But perhaps this foggy morning has upset your liver. Am I not a model of all that a well-groomed woman should be? Surely you admit that I am attractive?”
“I admit that you are a dangerous criminal, a murderess, a slave-trafficker.”
She laughed gently.
“You are a rough fellow, Mark Donovan.”
He stood, fists clenched, watching her.
“Maybe I am a rough fellow. But I don’t fight with women o—as a rule. In your case. I have often asked myself if you are really a woman at all—or a female demon!”
“I have heard that some female demons are uncommonly alluring.”
“Demon or woman, you go from here to gaol! We know you murdered Sir Miles Tristram, and we know you murdered Ian Forrester!”
“Another of poor Dr. Maitland’s theories, I suppose? Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Sit down by all means—while I call Scotland Yard!”
Sumuru seated herself in Maitland’s favourite chair.
“I see that you are determined to be unsociable. But, before you hand me over to the police, surely you want to know if Claudette is well?”
Donovan groaned.
Those few words had turned his world upside down, made right of wrong, and wrong of right. Sumuru, and Sumuru alone, could restore Claudette to him. He clenched his teeth —ground them together.
“My God!… Why do you say that?
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