nayland smith leaned against the edge of the dressing-table, attired in pyjamas. the little stateroom was hazy with smoke, and my friend gripped the charred briar between his teeth and watched the blue-gray clouds arising from the bowl, in an abstracted way. i knew that he was thinking hard, and from the fact that he had exhibited no surprise when i had related to him the particular’s of the attack upon karamaneh i judged that he had half anticipated something of the kind. suddenly he stood up, staring at me fixedly.
“your tact has saved the situation, petrie,” he snapped. “it failed you momentarily, though, when you proposed to me just now that we should muster the lascars for inspection. our game is to pretend that we know nothing—that we believe karamaneh to have had a bad dream.”
“but, smith,” i began—
“it would be useless, petrie,” he interrupted me. “you cannot suppose that i overlooked the possibility of some creature of the doctor’s being among the lascars. i can assure you that not one of them answers to the description of the midnight assailant. from the girl’s account we have to look (discarding the idea of a revivified mummy) for a man of unusual height—and there’s no lascar of unusual height on board; and from the visible evidence, that he entered the stateroom through the porthole, we have to look for a man more than normally thin. in a word, the servant of dr. fu-manchu who attempted the life of karamaneh is either in hiding on the ship, or, if visible, is disguised.”
with his usual clarity of vision, nayland smith had visualized the facts of the case; i passed in mental survey each one of the passengers, and those of the crew whose appearances were familiar to me, with the result that i had to admit the justice of my friend’s conclusions. smith began to pace the narrow strip of carpet between the dressing-table and the door. suddenly he began again. “from our knowledge of fu-manchu and of the group surrounding him (and, don’t forget, surviving him)—we may further assume that the wireless message was no gratuitous piece of melodrama, but that it was directed to a definite end. let us endeavor to link up the chain a little. you occupy an upper deck berth; so do i. experience of the chinaman has formed a habit in both of us; that of sleeping with closed windows. your port was fastened and so was my own. karamaneh is quartered on the main deck, and her brother’s stateroom opens into the same alleyway. since the ship is in the straits of messina, and the glass set fair, the stewards have not closed the portholes nightly at present. we know that that of karamaneh’s stateroom was open. therefore, in any attempt upon our quartet, karamaneh would automatically be selected for the victim, since failing you or myself she may be regarded as being the most obnoxious to dr. fu-manchu.”
i nodded comprehendingly. smith’s capacity for throwing the white light of reason into the darkest places often amazed me.
“you may have noticed,” he continued, “that karamaneh’s room is directly below your own. in the event of any outcry, you would be sooner upon the scene than i should, for instance, because i sleep on the opposite side of the ship. this circumstance i take to be the explanation of the wireless message, which, because of its hesitancy (a piece of ingenuity very characteristic of the group), led to your being awakened and invited up to the marconi deck; in short, it gave the would-be assassin a better chance of escaping before your arrival.”
i watched my friend in growing wonder. the strange events, seemingly having no link, took their places in the drama, and became well-ordered episodes in a plot that only a criminal genius could have devised. as i studied the keen, bronzed face, i realized to the full the stupendous mental power of dr. fu-manchu, measuring it by the criterion of nayland smith’s. for the cunning chinaman, in a sense, had foiled this brilliant man before me, whereby, if by nought else, i might know him a master of his evil art.
“i regard the episode,” continued smith, “as a posthumous attempt of the doctor’s; a legacy of hate which may prove more disastrous than any attempt made upon us by fu-manchu in life. some fiendish member of the murder group is on board the ship. we must, as always, meet guile with guile. there must be no appeal to the captain, no public examination of passengers and crew. one attempt has failed; i do not doubt that others will be made. at present, you will enact the role of physician-in-attendance upon karamaneh, and will put it about for whom it may interest that a slight return of her nervous trouble is causing her to pass uneasy nights. i can safely leave this part of the case to you, i think?”
i nodded rapidly.
“i haven’t troubled to make inquiries,” added smith, “but i think it probable that the regulation respecting closed ports will come into operation immediately we have passed the straits, or at any rate immediately there is any likelihood of bad weather.”
“you mean—”
“i mean that no alteration should be made in our habits. a second attempt along similar lines is to be apprehended—to-night. after that we may begin to look out for a new danger.”
“i pray we may avoid it,” i said fervently.
as i entered the saloon for breakfast in the morning, i was subjected to solicitous inquiries from mrs. prior, the gossip of the ship. her room adjoined karamaneh’s and she had been one of the passengers aroused by the girl’s cries in the night. strictly adhering to my role, i explained that my patient was threatened with a second nervous breakdown, and was subject to vivid and disturbing dreams. one or two other inquiries i met in the same way, ere escaping to the corner table reserved to us.
that iron-bound code of conduct which rules the anglo-indian, in the first days of the voyage had threatened to ostracize karamaneh and aziz, by reason of the eastern blood to which their brilliant but peculiar type of beauty bore witness. smith’s attitude, however—and, in a burmese commissioner, it constituted something of a law—had done much to break down the barriers; the extraordinary beauty of the girl had done the rest. so that now, far from finding themselves shunned, the society of karamaneh and her romantic-looking brother was universally courted. the last inquiry that morning, respecting my interesting patient, came from the bishop of damascus, a benevolent old gentleman whose ancestry was not wholly innocent of oriental strains, and who sat at a table immediately behind me. as i settled down to my porridge, he turned his chair slightly and bent to my ear.
“mrs. prior tells me that your charming friend was disturbed last night,” he whispered. “she seems rather pale this morning; i sincerely trust that she is suffering no ill-effect.”
i swung around, with a smile. owing to my carelessness, there was a slight collision, and the poor bishop, who had been invalided to england after typhoid, in order to undergo special treatment, suppressed an exclamation of pain, although his fine dark eyes gleamed kindly upon me through the pebbles of his gold-rimmed pince-nez.
indeed, despite his eastern blood, he might have posed for a sadler picture, his small and refined features seeming out of place above the bulky body.
“can you forgive my clumsiness,” i began—
but the bishop raised his small, slim fingered hand of old ivory hue, deprecatingly.
his system was supercharged with typhoid bacilli, and, as sometimes occurs, the superfluous “bugs” had sought exit. he could only walk with the aid of two stout sticks, and bent very much at that. his left leg had been surgically scraped to the bone, and i appreciated the exquisite torture to which my awkwardness had subjected him. but he would entertain no apologies, pressing his inquiry respecting karamaneh in the kindly manner which had made him so deservedly popular on board.
“many thanks for your solicitude,” i said; “i have promised her sound repose to-night, and since my professional reputation is at stake, i shall see that she secures it.”
in short, we were in pleasant company, and the day passed happily enough and without notable event. smith spent some considerable time with the chief officer, wandering about unfrequented parts of the ship. i learned later that he had explored the lascars’ quarters, the forecastle, the engine-room, and had even descended to the stokehold; but this was done so unostentatiously that it occasioned no comment.
with the approach of evening, in place of that physical contentment which usually heralds the dinner-hour, at sea, i experienced a fit of the seemingly causeless apprehension which too often in the past had harbingered the coming of grim events; which i had learnt to associate with the nearing presence of one of fu-manchu’s death-agents. in view of the facts, as i afterwards knew them to be, i cannot account for this.
yet, in an unexpected manner, my forebodings were realized. that night i was destined to meet a sorrow surpassing any which my troubled life had known. even now i experience great difficulty in relating the matters which befell, in speaking of the sense of irrevocable loss which came to me. briefly, then, at about ten minutes before the dining hour, whilst all the passengers, myself included, were below, dressing, a faint cry arose from somewhere aft on the upper deck—a cry which was swiftly taken up by other voices, so that presently a deck steward echoed it immediately outside my own stateroom:
“man overboard! man overboard!”
all my premonitions rallying in that one sickening moment, i sprang out on the deck, half dressed as i was, and leaping past the boat which swung nearly opposite my door, craned over the rail, looking astern.
for a long time i could detect nothing unusual. the engine-room telegraph was ringing—and the motion of the screws momentarily ceased; then, in response to further ringing, recommenced, but so as to jar the whole structure of the vessel; whereby i knew that the engines were reversed. peering intently into the wake of the ship, i was but dimly aware of the ever growing turmoil around me, of the swift mustering of a boat’s crew, of the shouted orders of the third-officer. suddenly i saw it—the sight which was to haunt me for succeeding days and nights.
half in the streak of the wake and half out of it, i perceived the sleeve of a white jacket, and, near to it, a soft felt hat. the sleeve rose up once into clear view, seemed to describe a half-circle in the air then sink back again into the glassy swell of the water. only the hat remained floating upon the surface.
by the evidence of the white sleeve alone i might have remained unconvinced, although upon the voyage i had become familiar enough with the drill shooting-jacket, but the presence of the gray felt hat was almost conclusive.
the man overboard was nayland smith!
i cannot hope, writing now, to convey in any words at my command, a sense, even remote, of the utter loneliness which in that dreadful moment closed coldly down upon me.
to spring overboard to the rescue was a natural impulse, but to have obeyed it would have been worse than quixotic. in the first place, the drowning man was close upon half a mile astern; in the second place, others had seen the hat and the white coat as clearly as i; among them the third-officer, standing upright in the stern of the boat—which, with commendable promptitude had already been swung into the water. the steamer was being put about, describing a wide arc around the little boat dancing on the deep blue rollers....
of the next hour, i cannot bear to write at all. long as i had known him, i was ignorant of my friend’s powers as a swimmer, but i judged that he must have been a poor one from the fact that he had sunk so rapidly in a calm sea. except the hat, no trace of nayland smith remained when the boat got to the spot.
