The Hand of Dr. Fu Manchu Page 10

  “I could not have lasted out another thirty seconds, Petrie!” he whispered. “The events which led up to it had exhausted my nerves and I had no reserve to call upon. If that last ...”

  He broke off, the sentence uncompleted, and eagerly seized the tumbler containing brandy and soda, which the beautiful, wicked-eyed Eurasian passed to him. She turned, and prepared a drink for me, with the insolent insouciance which had never deserted her.

  I emptied the tumbler at a draught.

  Even as I set the glass down I realized, too late, that it was the first drink I had ever permitted to pass my lips within an abode of Dr. Fu-Manchu....

  I started to my feet.

  “Frazer!” I muttered—“we’ve been drugged! we ...”

  “You sit down,” came Zarmi’s husky voice, and I felt her hands upon my breast, pushing me back into my seat. “You very tired ... you go to sleep....”

  “Petrie! Dr. Petrie!”

  The words broke in through the curtain of unconsciousness. I strove to arouse myself. I felt cold and wet. I opened my eyes—and the world seemed to be swimming dizzily about me. Then a hand grasped my arm, roughly.

  “Brace up! Brace up, Petrie—and thank God you are alive! ...”

  I was sitting beside Sir Baldwin Frazer on a wooden bench, under a leafless tree, from the ghostly limbs whereof rain trickled down upon me! In the gray light, which, I thought, must be the light of dawn, I discerned other trees about us and an open expanse, tree-dotted, stretching into the misty grayness.

  “Where are we?” I muttered—“Where ...”

  “Unless I am greatly mistaken,” replied my bedraggled companion, “and I don’t think I am, for I attended a consultation in this neighborhood less than a week ago, we are somewhere on the west side of Wandsworth Common!”

  He ceased speaking; then uttered a suppressed cry. There came a jangling of coins, and dimly I saw him to be staring at a canvas bag of money which he held.

  “Merciful heavens!” he said, “am I mad—or did I really perform that operation? And can this be my fee? ...”

  I laughed loudly, wildly, plunging my wet, cold hands into the pockets of my rain-soaked overcoat. In one of them, my fingers came in contact with a piece of cardboard. It had an unfamiliar feel, and I pulled it out, peering at it in the dim light.

  “Well, I’m damned!” muttered Frazer—“then I’m not mad, after all!”

  It was the Queen of Hearts!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “ZAGAZIG”

  Fully two weeks elapsed ere Nayland Smith’s arduous labors at last met with a slight reward. For a moment, the curtain of mystery surrounding the Si-Fan was lifted, and we had a glimpse of that organization’s elaborate mechanism. I cannot better commence my relation of the episodes associated with the Zagazig’s cryptogram than from the moment when I found myself bending over a prostrate form extended upon the table in the inspector’s room at the River Police Depot. It was that of a man who looked like a Lascar, who wore an ill-fitting slop-shop suit of blue, soaked and stained and clinging hideously to his body. His dank black hair was streaked upon his low brow; and his face, although it was notable for a sort of evil leer, had assumed in death another and more dreadful expression.

  Asphyxiation had accounted for his end beyond doubt, but there were marks about his throat of clutching fingers, his tongue protruded, and the look in the dead eyes was appalling.

  “He was amongst the piles upholding the old wharf at the back of the Joy-Shop?” said Smith tersely, turning to the police officer in charge.

  “Exactly!” was the reply. “The in-coming tide had jammed him right up under a cross-beam.”

  “What time was that?’

  “Well, at high tide last night. Hewson, returning with the ten o’clock boat, noticed the moonlight glittering upon the knife.”

  The knife to which the inspector referred possessed a long curved blade of a kind with which I had become terribly familiar in the past. The dead man still clutched the hilt of the weapon in his right hand, and it now lay with the blade resting crosswise upon his breast. I stared in a fascinated way at this mysterious and tragic flotsam of old Thames.

  Glancing up, I found Nayland Smith’s gray eyes watching me.

  “You see the mark, Petrie?” he snapped.

  I nodded. The dead man upon the table was a Burmese dacoit!

  “What do you make of it?” I said slowly.

  “At the moment,” replied Smith, “I scarcely know what to make of it. You are agreed with the divisional surgeon that the man—unquestionably a dacoit—died, not from drowning, but from strangulation. From evidence we have heard, it would appear that the encounter which resulted in the body being hurled in the river, actually took place upon the wharf-end beneath which he was found. And we know that a place formerly used by the Si-Fan group—in other words, by Dr. Fu-Manchu—adjoins the wharf. I am tempted to believe that this”—he nodded towards the ghastly and sinister object upon the table—“was a servant of the Chinese doctor. In other words, we see before us one whom Fu-Manchu has rebuked for some shortcoming.”

  I shuddered coldly. Familiar as I should have been with the methods of the dread Chinaman, with his callous disregard of human suffering, of human life, of human law, I could not reconcile my ideas—the ideas of a modern, ordinary middle-class practitioner—with these Far Eastern devilries which were taking place in London.

  Even now I sometimes found myself doubting the reality of the whole thing; found myself reviewing the history of the Eastern doctor and of the horrible group of murderers surrounding him, with an incredulity almost unbelievable in one who had been actually in contact not only with the servants of the Chinaman, but with the sinister Fu-Manchu himself. Then, to restore me to grips with reality, would come the thought of Kâramaneh, of the beautiful girl whose love had brought me seemingly endless sorrow and whose love for me had brought her once again into the power of that mysterious, implacable being.

  This thought was enough. With its coming, fantasy vanished; and I knew that the dead dacoit, his great curved knife yet clutched in his hand, the Yellow menace hanging over London, over England, over the civilized world, the absence, the heart-breaking absence, of Kâramaneh—all were real, all were true, all were part of my life.

  Nayland Smith was standing staring vaguely before him and tugging at the lobe of his left ear.

  “Come along!” he snapped suddenly. “We have no more to learn here: The clue to the mystery must be sought elsewhere.”

  There was that in his manner whereby I knew that his thoughts were far away, as we filed out from the River Police Depot to the cab which awaited us. Pulling from his overcoat pocket a copy of a daily paper—

  “Have you seen this, Weymouth?” he demanded.

  With a long, nervous index finger he indicated a paragraph on the front page which appeared under the heading of “Personal.” Weymouth bent frowningly over the paper, holding it close to his eyes, for this was a gloomy morning and the light in the cab was poor.

  “Such things don’t enter into my sphere, Mr. Smith,” he replied, “but no doubt the proper department at the Yard have seen it.”

  “I know they have seen it!” snapped Smith; “but they have also been unable to read it!”

  Weymouth looked up in surprise.

  “Indeed,” he said. “You are interested in this, then?”

  “Very! Have you any suggestion to offer respecting it?”

  Moving from my seat I, also, bent over the paper and read, in growing astonishment, the following:—

  ZAGAZIG—Z,—a—•g•—a;—z:—I—g,z,—a,—g•—a,z;—I;—g:—z•a•g•A—z;i—:g;—Z,—a;—g•a•z•i;—G;—z—,a•g—:a•—z•I;—g:—z•—a•g;—a—:Z—,i•g:z,a•g,—a:z,i—:g•

  “This is utterly incomprehensible! It can be nothing but some foolish practical joke! It consists merely of the word ‘Zagazig’ repeated six or seven times—which can have no possible significance!”


  “Can’t it!” snapped Smith.

  “Well,” I said, “what has Zagazig to do with Fu-Manchu, or to do with us?”

  “Zagazig, my dear Petrie, is a very unsavory Arab town in Lower Egypt, as you know!”

  He returned the paper to the pocket of his overcoat, and, noting my bewildered glance, burst into one of his sudden laughs.

  “You think I am talking nonsense,” he said; “but, as a matter of fact, that message in the paper has been puzzling me since it appeared—yesterday morning—and at last I think I see the light.”

  He pulled out his pipe and began rapidly to load it.

  “I have been growing careless of late, Petrie,” he continued; and no hint of merriment remained in his voice. His gaunt face was drawn grimly, and his eyes glittered like steel. “In future I must avoid going out alone at night as much as possible.”

  Inspector Weymouth was staring at Smith in a puzzled way; and certainly I was every whit as mystified as he.

  “I am disposed to believe,” said my friend, in his rapid, incisive way, “that the dacoit met his end at the hands of a tall man, possibly dark and almost certainly clean-shaven. If this missing personage wears, on chilly nights, a long tweed traveling coat and affects soft gray hats of the Stetson pattern, I shall not be surprised.”

  Weymouth stared at me in frank bewilderment.

  “By the way, Inspector,” added Smith, a sudden gleam of inspiration entering his keen eyes—“did I not see that the S.S. Andaman arrived recently?”

  “The Oriental Navigation Company’s boat?” inquired Weymouth in a hopeless tone. “Yes. She docked yesterday evening.”

  “If Jack Forsyth is still chief officer, I shall look him up,” declared Smith. “You recall his brother, Petrie?”

  “Naturally; since he was done to death in my presence,” I replied; for the words awoke memories of one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s most ghastly crimes, always associated in my mind with the cry of a night-hawk.

  “The divine afflatus should never be neglected,” announced Nayland Smith didactically, “wild though its promptings may seem.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE NOTE ON THE DOOR

  I saw little of Nayland Smith for the remainder of that day. Presumably he was following those “promptings” to which he had referred, though I was unable to conjecture whither they were leading him. Then, towards dusk he arrived in a perfect whirl, figuratively sweeping me off my feet.

  “Get your coat on, Petrie!” he cried; “you forget that we have a most urgent appointment!”

  Beyond doubt I had forgotten that we had any appointment whatever that evening, and some surprise must have shown upon my face, for—

  “Really you are becoming very forgetful!” my friend continued. “You know we can no longer trust the phone. I have to leave certain instructions for Weymouth at the rendezvous!”

  There was a hidden significance in his manner, and, my memory harking back to an adventure which we had shared in the past, I suddenly glimpsed the depths of my own stupidity.

  He suspected the presence of an eavesdropper! Yes! incredible though it might appear, we were spied upon in the New Louvre; agents of the Si-Fan, of Dr. Fu-Manchu, were actually within the walls of the great hotel!

  We hurried out into the corridor, and descended by the lift to the lobby. M. Samarkan, long famous as mâitre d’hôtel of one of Cairo’s fashionable khans, and now principal of the New Louvre, greeted us with true Greek courtesy. He trusted that we should be present at some charitable function or other to be held at the hotel on the following evening.

  “If possible, M. Samarkan—if possible,” said Smith. “We have many demands upon our time.” Then, abruptly, to me: “Come, Petrie, we will walk as far as Charing Cross and take a cab from the rank there.”

  “The hall-porter can call you a cab,” said M. Samarkan, solicitous for the comfort of his guests.

  “Thanks,” snapped Smith; “we prefer to walk a little way.”

  Passing along the Strand, he took my arm, and speaking close to my ear—

  “That place is alive with spies, Petrie,” he said; “or if there are only a few of them they are remarkably efficient!”

  Not another word could I get from him, although I was eager enough to talk; since one dearer to me than all else in the world was in the hands of the damnable organization we knew as the Si-Fan; until, arrived at Charing Cross, he walked out to the cab rank, and—

  “Jump in!” he snapped.

  He opened the door of the first cab on the rank.

  “Drive to J—Street, Kennington,” he directed the man.

  In something of a mental stupor I entered and found myself seated beside Smith. The cab made off towards Trafalgar Square, then swung around into Whitehall.

  “Look behind!” cried Smith, intense excitement expressed in his voice—“look behind!”

  I turned and peered through the little square window.

  The cab which had stood second upon the rank was closely following us!

  “We are tracked!” snapped my companion. “If further evidence were necessary of the fact that our every movement is watched, here it is!”

  I turned to him, momentarily at a loss for words; then—

  “Was this the object of our journey?” I said. “Your reference to a ‘rendezvous’ was presumably addressed to a hypothetical spy?

  “Partly,” he replied. “I have a plan, as you will see in a moment.”

  I looked again from the window in the rear of the cab. We were now passing between the House of Lords and the back of Westminster Abbey ... and fifty yards behind us the pursuing cab was crossing from Whitehall! A great excitement grew up within me, and a great curiosity respecting the identity of our pursuer.

  “What is the place for which we are bound, Smith?” I said rapidly.

  “It is a house which I chanced to notice a few days ago, and I marked it as useful for such a purpose as our present one. You will see what I mean when we arrive.”

  On we went, following the course of the river, then turned over Vauxhall Bridge and on down Vauxhall Bridge Road into a very dreary neighborhood where gasometers formed the notable feature of the landscape.

  “That’s the Oval just beyond,” said Smith suddenly, “and—here we are.”

  In a narrow cul-de-sac which apparently communicated with the boundary of the famous cricket ground, the cabman pulled up. Smith jumped out and paid the fare.

  “Pull back to that court with the iron posts,” he directed the man, “and wait there for me.” Then: “Come on, Petrie!” he snapped.

  Side by side we entered the wooden gate of a small detached house, or more properly cottage, and passed up the tiled path towards a sort of side entrance which apparently gave access to the tiny garden. At this moment I became aware of two things; the first, that the house was an empty one, and the second, that someone—someone who had quitted the second cab (which I had heard pull up at no great distance behind us) was approaching stealthily along the dark and uninviting street, walking upon the opposite pavement and taking advantage of the shadow of a high wooden fence which skirted it for some distance.

  Smith pushed the gate open, and I found myself in a narrow passageway in almost complete darkness. But my friend walked confidently forward, turned the angle of the building and entered the miniature wilderness which once had been a garden.

  “In here, Petrie!” he whispered.

  He seized me by the arm, pushed open a door and thrust me forward down two stone steps into absolute darkness.

  “Walk straight ahead!” he directed, still in the same intense whisper, “and you will find a locked door having a broken panel. Watch through the opening for any one who may enter the room beyond, but see that your presence is not detected. Whatever I say or do, don’t stir until I actually rejoin you.”

  He stepped back across the floor and was gone. One glimpse I had of him, silhouetted against the faint light of the open door, then the door was gently clos
ed, and I was left alone in the empty house.

  Smith’s methods frequently surprised me, but always in the past I had found that they were dictated by sound reasons. I had no doubt that an emergency unknown to me dictated his present course, but it was with my mind in a wildly confused condition, that I groped for and found the door with the broken panel and that I stood there in the complete darkness of the deserted house listening.

  I can well appreciate how the blind develop an unusually keen sense of hearing; for there, in the blackness, which (at first) was entirely unrelieved by any speck of light, I became aware of the fact, by dint of tense listening, that Smith was retiring by means of some gateway at the upper end of the little garden, and I became aware of the fact that a lane or court, with which this gateway communicated, gave access to the main road.

  Faintly, I heard our discharged cab backing out from the cul-de-sac; then, from some nearer place, came Smith’s voice speaking loudly.

  “Come along, Petrie!” he cried; “there is no occasion for us to wait. Weymouth will see the note pinned on the door.”

  I started—and was about to stumble back across the room, when, as my mind began to work more clearly, I realized that the words had been spoken as a ruse—a favorite device of Nayland Smith’s.

  Rigidly I stood there, and continued to listen.

  “All right, cabman!” came more distantly now; “back to the New Louvre—jump in, Petrie!”

  The cab went rattling away ... as a faint light became perceptible in the room beyond the broken panel.

  Hitherto I had been able to detect the presence of this panel only by my sense of touch and by means of a faint draught which blew through it; now it suddenly became clearly perceptible. I found myself looking into what was evidently the principal room of the house—a dreary apartment with tatters of paper hanging from the walls and litter of all sorts lying about upon the floor and in the rusty fireplace.