Nude in Mink by Sax Rohmer (top reads .TXT) 📕

Maitland found his voice.

“What would you do—assassinate them?”

“Assassinate them?” She waved her white fan languidly. “When one of your officers orders his troops to take a strongpoint held by the enemy, and all the defenders are killed, do you say that he has assassinated them? No. Dr. Maitland. I do not propose to assassinate; I propose to remove the ungracious, as by the surgeon’s knife, before it can spread and corrupt whole nations. But while greed, lust of power, big business, sway the destinies of men, there can be no peace. Only perfect minds in perfect bodies are fit for leadership. When beauty rules, serenity will return.”

Again Maitland heard his own voice, speaking as if from a long way off.

“This is a dream.”

“Our present conversation—or my ideals? Neither are dreams. You are trying to recall where you have met me before. One day, perhaps, I will tell you …”

A mist began to gather before Maitland’s eyes, so that he no longer saw clearly the dais or the woman with the fan. The siren voice came to his ears from further and further away.

“If you continue to obstruct my plans, I shall be forced to deal with you as I deal with all obstacles. For by doing this, you will have become discordant. And it is the holy mission of beauty to destroy ugliness …”

Maitland became aware of a confused clamour like that of distant shouting …

“You must come and see me again, Dr. Maitland—or perhaps I will come and see you. But cease to interfere with my plans. Sir Miles Tristram, you know, was a man of evil life. He was wholly unlovely. You must not allow his removal to disturb you. In order that a tree shall attain to perfect harmony, it is often necessary to cut away many disfiguring branches. There is no sin but ugliness. And death can sometimes be the one graceful act in an otherwise ugly life…”

Then the musical tones which had enthralled Maitland faded like those of an Aeolian harp, and were gone. There was a floating mist before his eyes—that, he thought, of the incense which now filled the space on the dais. It was clearing, however, by slow but perceptible degrees …

2

“Maitland!” Donovan hardly recognised his own voice. “Maitland! Are you there? … Maitland …”

Donovan groped in darkness. Presently, he stumbled over something—and created a clatter of empty cans.

“Where the devil am I!” he muttered. “It was that damnable … perfume… Maitland!” His voice rose to a harsh cry. “Maitland!”

But there was no reply.

Quite apart from the fact that he remained wildly uncertain about what had happened, in what dark place he now groped, there was something, something urgent, which he must do first… Claudette! Beyond doubt he had been followed to Jackie de Lara’s flat. Since his departure, what had occurred there?

Donovan found himself in a twilight sleep. What was fact —what mirage? Perhaps the things which had temporarily robbed him of sight, possessed the further property of making one peculiarly prone to hypnotic suggestion. Wherever the truth might lie, he was perfectly satisfied that he had neither dreamed nor imagined that unforgettable vision of Sumuru —for that the woman with the peacock fan was Sumuru he had no doubt whatever.

Then, he had found himself in a large laboratory—with “Dr. Worthington”—and then, with Maitland, in a small, square room… Maitland had been taken away.

What happened next?

He could not remember! It was appalling. But he could not remember!

Was he still a prisoner?

He assured himself that his hands were free. He determined to grope his way to a wall, and then to follow it round until he came to a door. There was a strong smell of petrol. He set out—then stood still.

“Is there anyone there?” came a distant cry.

“Who’s that?” Donovan asked, huskily.

“I think I heard an answer, Inspector.”

Donovan’s heart gave a jump.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

“Mr. Donovan! Is that you? Inspector Ives here!”

“Ives? Thank God!”

“Are you free to move?”

“Yes—but swimmy.”

“Can you find the door, sir?”

“I’ll try. But it’s pitch dark…”

Donovan clutched his head. He must keep calm. What was it he had set out to do? Ah! of course—to find a wall and follow it until he came to a door.

He set out cautiously—stumbled again—groped around some obstacle, a cupboard, went on in the direction from which muffled voices came, and found a door.

“I’ve found the door. But it’s locked!”

“All right, Mr. Donovan,” came Ives’s gruff assurance. “Stand clear. We’ll soon have it open!”

Began a sound of wrenching and splintering, over which Donovan made his voice heard:

“Is Dr. Maitland there?”

“No, sir, he’s not.”

“My God! They’ve got him!”

“Stand clear. Here goes the door!”

Wrenching and splintering reached a crescendo, and the door gaped open to reveal a ring of police lamps, as if several giant cats crouched out here in the darkness. Inspector Ives stepped forward.

“Thank heavens, Mr. Donovan! I didn’t expect—er—”

“I didn’t expect to be alive either! Thank you for this.”

“It’s Constable Kent, here, you have to thank—not me.”

Donovan shaded his eyes, peering from face to face.

“Why—Constable!” he exclaimed. “Are you the man who helped me into Dr. Worthington’s car?”

Constable Kent grinned apologetically.

“It was you dropping your hat that did it, Mr. Donovan. I may as well admit I wasn’t satisfied with the whole thing, anyway. But when I phoned through, the inspector happened to be at the station. We got a move on!”

“Thank God you did,” said Donovan. “I feel like a fly that has escaped from the web of a particularly dangerous spider! But—where am I? And what time is it?”

“It’s almost exactly four a.m., sir.” Ives replied. “As to where we are; we’re in the garage of a damaged and condemned house on Clapham Common! I had every division for miles around looking for that car in which you were carried off. Of course, there’s no Worthington at the address in Grosvenor Place!”

“You’re telling me!”

“No trace was found until about half an hour ago. Then, a constable on duty on the Common noticed a car answering to the description pull up near here. He was too far away to see just what happened, and before he got here, the car had gone. The garage was locked—but he heard groans… We soon got busy.”

“Inspector! That woman has Maitland! If we pull London down, we must find him!… Tell me—Miss Duquesne?”

There was a perceptible pause before Ives answered.

“Sorry, Mr. Donovan! She left Miss de Lara’s flat shortly after you did—”

“What!”

“I’ve interviewed Miss de Lara and she has described what occurred. It seems that shortly after you went—of course, you fell into a trap: no one on my staff phoned you—they heard knocking on the door—”

“Surely they didn’t open—”

“No, they didn’t. But Miss de Lara crept to the phone— and found it was dead.”

“Line cut?”

“Not at all. Much simpler.” Whoever phoned you just left his receiver off the hook. That’s all that’s necessary to cut a line out! Well, the knocking stopped. There was a scurry on the stairs, and then a voice, which Miss de Lara described as ‘gentlemanly,’ called out, ‘Don’t be alarmed. This is Dr. Maitland’.”

“Good heavens! I begin to understand. She described this man?”

“Certainly. A tall man in a black overcoat, with a white muffler and wearing a soft black hat. ‘A bit of a dark ‘tache’ she said—and very keen eyes’.”

“Stop! stop!” Donovan, now, was nearly frantic. “Do you mean that Claudette went away with this man?”

“Of course she did. Why not? She thought he was your friend.”

“God help us!” He grasped Ives’s arm. “Do you recognise this person from his description?”

“I do, Mr. Donovan!” said Constable Kent.

“She has gone away with the man who posed as ‘Worthington’! Sumuru has Claudette, now—as well as Maitland!”