The Wrath of Fu Manchu

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"By your leave, sir."

Thurston stepped quickly to the side of the carpeted alleyway, as a steward, pushing a trolley stocked with baggage, went past. His traveller's eye noted Dutch Airlines labels on some of the pieces. But he was more interested in a man who followed the trolley.

He was of thickset, shortish figure and wore a chauffeur's uniform. His yellow, pock-pitted face and sunken eyes were vaguely menacing and his walk more nearly resembled a lope, catlike and agile.

"What a dangerous looking brute," was the thought which crossed Thurston's mind. He asked himself by which of the passengers now joining the Lauretania at Cherbourg this forbidding servant could be employed.

He hadn't long to wait for an answer.

A Chinese cook (or Thurston thought he was Chinese) hurried along just ahead of him in the direction of the square before the purser's office. He carried something on a tray, wrapped in a white napkin. There was no one else in the alleyway until a woman turned into it and began to saunter in Thurston's direction.

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