The Trail of Fu-Manchu Page 11

  “Indeed! You probably refer to Madame Ingomar?”

  Nayland Smith smiled, but without mirth.

  “Fah Lo Suee’s invention is failing her,” he murmured; “that was the name in which she crept into the good graces of Sir Lionel Barton in Egypt three years ago. However, all this is beside the point. You have taken a very grave risk, Sir Bertram.”

  The banker, unused to that brusque mode of address which characterized Nayland Smith in moments of tension, stared rather coldly.

  “Your meaning is not clear to me,” he replied. “I was invited to this house to discuss what I may term a purely professional matter with the Marquis Chang Hu.”

  “Chang Hu? Will you describe Chang Hu?”

  Sir Bertram was becoming definitely offended with Nayland Smith, largely because the latter’s force was beating him down.

  “A tall, distinguished Chinese aristocrat,” he replied quietly.

  “Correct. He is tall, he is distinguished, and he is an aristocrat. Pray proceed.”

  “A member of the former Royal House of China.”

  “Correct. He is.”

  “A man, roughly, sixty years of age.”

  “Say a hundred and sixty,” snapped Nayland Smith, “and you may be rather nearer the mark! However, I quite understand, Sir Bertram. May I ask you briefly to outline what occurred?”

  “Certainly.” Sir Bertram leaned against a bookcase which contained works exclusively Chinese in character. “I met the marquis by appointment. His daughter, Madame Ingomar, had informed me (frankly, I didn’t believe her) that her father, an advanced student of mineralogy, had perfected a system for the transmutation of gold. I know something of gold...”

  “You should,” Nayland Smith murmured.

  But his smile was so disarming—it was that delightfully ingenuous smile which so rarely relieved the ruggedness of his features—that no man seeing it could have held antagonism.

  Sir Bertram was mollified. He smiled in return.

  “Tonight,” he went on impressively, and pointed to the big table, “an ingot of gold was offered to me by the Marquis Chang Hu, together with the assurance that he was prepared to supply any quantity up to three hundred-weights in the course of the next few weeks!”

  “What!”

  “Sst!”

  Gallaho at the open door had raised his hand in warning.

  “Listen!”

  The purr of an approaching car became audible.

  “It’s Markham with the police,” said Gallaho.

  He ran out.

  Nayland Smith was staring curiously at Sir Bertram.

  “It was pure gold?”

  “Pure gold.”

  “He claimed to be able to make gold,” murmured Smith. “I wonder... I wonder. May I ask, Sir Bertram, how the interview terminated?”

  “Certainly. Madame Ingomar, my host’s daughter, called out from somewhere in the house. The door was closed, and her cry was somewhat indistinct, but her father, naturally, was disturbed.”

  “Naturally.”

  “He excused himself and went to see what had occurred, begging me to remain here.”

  “He took the ingot of gold?”

  “Apparently he did.”

  “He closed the door behind him?”

  “He did. I opened it recently, beginning to wonder what had become of the marquis.”

  “It may surprise you to learn, Sir Bertram,” said Nayland Smith quietly, “that only three or at the outside four of the rooms in Rowan House are furnished.”

  “What!”

  “It was a plot. But by a miracle the plotters have been tricked. I regret to say that this is not the worst. I don’t know all the truth, yet, but when the police arrive, I hope to learn it.”

  Detective-inspector Gallaho appeared in the open doorway, Sir Bertram’s chauffeur at his heels.

  “Preston!” Sir Bertram exclaimed—“what’s this?”

  “A very nasty business, sir, if I may say so,” the man replied.

  He was an obvious ex-Service man, clean limbed and of decent mentality. His hazel eyes were very angry and his fists clenched.

  “Tell me,” Sir Bertram directed, tersely.

  “Well, sir,” Preston went on, looking from face to face, “that Burmese butler who opened the door when we arrived, you remember, came out about ten minutes ago, and I naturally thought you were leaving. As I went up to him in the dark he jabbed a pistol in my ribs, and invited me to jump to the wheel. I am sorry, sir, but I did it...”

  “Don’t blame you,” growled Gallaho.

  “Several people got into the car, sir. I had an impression that one was carried in. Then, the colored swine beside me gave the order to go.”

  “Where did you go to?” asked Nayland Smith.

  “To an old mews not three miles from here, sir, where I was told to pull up—and I pulled up. This blasted Burman sat with his gun in my ribs the whole time that the party in the car were getting out. But I had my eye on the reflector and I think there were two women and two men.”

  “Any idea of their appearance?” Smith demanded.

  “Not the slightest, sir. It was very dark. I’m not sure, even, of their number. But one of the men was very sick, the others seemed to drag him out of the car.”

  The roar of the powerful engine of the Flying Squad proclaimed itself; voices were heard.

  “Here they are!” said Gallaho.

  “Quick!” Sir Denis directed Preston: “What happened then?”

  “The Burman jumped off, keeping me under cover. He told me to drive back. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, sir.”

  Uniformed police were pouring into Rowan House.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CURARI

  “Nothing here!” declared Nayland Smith.

  They had searched every foot of the deserted mews.

  “A sort of cache?” suggested Sir Bertram Morgan, who had accompanied them, now keenly interested in their quest. “No doubt they kept a car here.”

  “There’s evidence that they did,” said Gallaho. “And we’ll know more about it tomorrow. But in the meantime,” he turned to Sir Denis, “what’s the next move, sir?”

  Rowan House had proved to be a mere shell, a mockery: the greater part of it unfurnished. The library in Rowan House in which Dr. Fu-Manchu had received Sir Bertram, and the corridor leading to it from the Assyrian hall, were the only properly furnished parts of the place. There was a small writing-room on the other side of the house, the glass in the French window of which had been smashed, containing a number of bookshelves, a bureau and one or two other odds and ends. But with the exception of fragmentary belongings of the former tenant, the eccentric Sir Lionel Barton, the place was unfurnished from floor to attic—nor was there a soul in it, although the police had searched it foot by foot.

  The property had been sold by Sir Lionel Barton, but the last tenant had left nearly a year before. The books and some of the ornaments in the two furnished rooms, unreadable volumes in Sanskrit, Chinese and Persian, had been left behind by the out-going tenant as they had been left behind by Sir Lionel. The Chinese library, with its sliding doors and lacquer fittings, had been a feature of Rowan House during the time that Barton had occupied it. The place had been baited for the evening; a mouse-trap. The caretaker had vanished.

  “They’ve got Sterling!” groaned Nayland Smith. “God knows why they’ve taken him—but they’ve got him!”

  Sir Bertram was now keenly interested, tuned up for the hunt; his sentiments in regard to Madame Ingomar had undergone a definite change, yet he knew in his heart, although he could not doubt the assurance of the ex-Assistant Commissioner, that if she beckoned to him again—he would follow...

  He wondered how far he would go, to what extent he would fall under the influence of those magnetic eyes, that compelling voice. He shuddered. Perhaps he had had a nearer escape than he realized. But the gold had been... gold.

  The raiding party returned to the de
pot in the Yard car, and Sir Denis and Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho accepted a lift home in Sir Bertram Morgan’s Rolls.

  Fog met them in the London suburbs...

  It was at some hour not far removed from that when dawn should have been breaking over London, that Nayland Smith prepared a whisky and soda for Gallaho and passing it to him raised his glass silently.

  “I know sir,” said Gallaho; “it’s been a very bad show for us tonight.”

  “A bad show all along,” snapped Sir Denis. “Cramped, trammeled, cut off from his resources, Fu-Manchu is still powerful. First, he gets Petrie’s daughter, a wonderful hostage, by one of the most amazing tricks in my experience. He smuggles her into England. And now...”

  “That’s the devil of it, sir.”

  “The devil indeed. He’s got Sterling.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “Since he is a friend and a first-class type of man (I have worked with him in the past) I prefer to think, Inspector—alive. I doubt if Dr. Fu-Manchu would burden himself with—”

  “A corpse?”

  “A corpse, yes.”

  Nayland Smith’s gaze became abstracted, and plucking at his ear, he crossed the room and pulled a heavy curtain aside, gazing out upon the foggy Embankment.

  There came a rap on the door.

  “Come in!”

  Fey entered, despite the approach of dawn, immaculate and unperturbed. Nayland Smith was still holding the heavy curtain aside, and:

  “Have you noticed the window, sir?” Fey asked.

  “No.”

  Nayland Smith turned, and examined the window.

  “By gad!” he rapped.

  There was a neat, but slightly jagged hole an inch in circumference in one of the panes! He closed the curtains, and faced Fey. Gallaho, glass in hand, was staring from man to man.

  “While I was walking up and down, sir,” Fey went on coolly, “as you told me to do, earlier tonight, or rather, last night, sir, this came through the window—missed me by no more than an inch.”

  He handed a small feathered dart to Nayland Smith.

  The latter stepped to a lamp and examined it closely.

  “Gallaho,” he said, “I should say that this thing had been fired from an air gun. But examine the point.”

  The Scotland Yard man came forward, eagerly bending over the table.

  “It seems to be covered in gum.”

  “I won’t say curari, but a very brief analysis will settle the point. The cornered rat is showing his teeth... and they are poisoned teeth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DR. FU-MANCHU

  Alan Sterling looked around the cellar in which he lay.

  It was brick-paved; its roof was formed by half an arch. There was a very stout looking door in the corner opposite that in which he found himself. An unshaded electric bulb hung on a piece of flexible cable from the roof. He could trace the cable down the sloping brickwork to a roughly hollowed gap through which it disappeared.

  There was no furniture of any kind in the cellar, but the place was singularly hot, and it seemed to be informed by a ceaseless buzzing which, however, presently he identified with his own skull.

  He had an agonizing headache. Raising his hand, he found a great lump immediately above his left ear.

  The first idea which flashed through his bemused mind was a message of thanksgiving. He must have had a very narrow escape from death. Then came memories—chaotic, torturing.

  He had had Fleurette in his arms: then, something had happened.

  What had happened?

  It was beyond him. He could recall nothing but the fact that she had screamed unnaturally, that he had struggled with her. Then there was a gap, and now... where was this place in which he found himself? Where had he been when he had struggled with Fleurette?

  He clutched his throbbing skull, trying to force thought. Memories began to return to him in fragments; then, as a complete story.

  He tried to stand up. The effort was too much for his strength. He dropped back again upon the stone pavement. By God! He had had a devil of a whack! Gingerly he touched the swelling on his skull, leaning back against the wall and still trying to think.

  Fleurette was alive—thank God for that! But in some way, she had changed towards him. He was not quite clear about it. But for this he must be thankful: that she, whom he had thought was dead—was alive. The minor difficulty, no doubt, would resolve itself.

  Nayland Smith! Of course! He had been with Nayland Smith!... and Gallaho? What had become of Gallaho?

  Above all—where was he? Where was this unfurnished cellar located? He made another attempt to stand up; but it was not entirely successful. He was anxious to find out if that heavy door was locked, or bolted. But the journey, one of four paces, was too much for him.

  He sank down on to the floor again, leaning back against the wall. The throbbing in his head was all but unendurable, and the heat was stifling—unless, like the buzzing, due to internal conditions.

  Separate now from that buzzing which he knew to belong to his injured skull, Sterling became aware of a muted roaring sound. It was somewhere beneath his feet. It was uncanny; when first he accepted the reality of its existence, he was dismayed; for what could it be? From where could it come?

  He was about to make a third attempt to stand up, when the heavy door opened.

  A very tall, gaunt man stood in the opening, looking at him. He wore a long, white linen coat, linen trousers, and white rubber-soled shoes. The coat, tunic fashion, was buttoned to his neck—a lean, sinewy neck supporting a head which might have been that of Dante.

  The brow was even finer than the traditional portraits of Shakespeare, crowned with scanty, neutral colored hair. The face of the white-clad man was a wonderful face, and might once have been beautiful. It was that of a man of indeterminable age, heavily lined, but lighted by a pair of such long, narrow, brilliant green eyes that one’s thoughts flashed to Satan—Lucifer, Son of the Morning: an angel, but a fallen angel. His slender hands, with long, polished nails, were clasped before him. Although no trace of expression crossed that extraordinary face, perhaps a close observer watching the green eyes might have said that the man motionless in the doorway was surprised.

  Alan Sterling succeeded in his third attempt to stand up. He was very unsteady, but by means of supporting himself against the wall with his left hand, he succeeded in remaining upright.

  So standing, he faced Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  “The fact that you are alive—” the words came sibilantly from thin lips which scarcely seemed to move—“surprises me.”

  Sterling stared at the speaker. Every instinct in his mind, his body, his soul, prompted: “Kill him! Kill him!” But Sterling knew something of Dr. Fu-Manchu, and he knew that he must temporize.

  “I am surprised, too,” he said.

  His voice shook, and he hated his weakness.

  The green eyes watched him hypnotically. Sterling, leaning against the wall, wrenched his gaze away.

  “It is not my custom,” the harsh voice continued, “to employ coarse methods. You were, to put it bluntly, bludgeoned in Rowan House. Your constitution, Alan Sterling, must resemble that of a weasel. I had intended to incinerate your body. I am not displeased to find that life survives.”

  “Nor am I,” said Sterling, calculating his chances of a swift spring, and a blow over the heart of this Chinese fiend whom he knew to be of incalculable age; then a hook to that angular jaw—and a way to freedom would be open.

  With the instinct of a boxer he had been watching the green eyes whilst these thoughts had flashed through his mind, and now:

  “You could not strike me over the heart,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu; “I am trained in more subtle arts than the crudities of boxing have ever appreciated. As to your second blow, aimed, I believe, at my jaw, this would not occur—you would be disabled.”

  For a moment, a long moment, Alan Sterling hesitated; in fact, until the uncanny quality of these w
ords had penetrated to his brain. Then he realized, as others had realized before him, that Dr. Fu-Manchu had been reading his thoughts. He stood quite still; he was recovering from the effects of the assault which had terminated his memories of Rowan House, and now was capable of standing unsupported.

  “There is a monastery in Thibet,” the cold voice proceeded; “it is called Rache Churin. Those who have studied under the masters of Rache Churin have nothing to fear from Western violence. Forget your projects. Rejoice only that you live—if you value life.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE PIT AND THE FURNACE

  Alan Sterling stood upon a wooden platform, clutching a rusty iron rail and looking down upon a scene which reminded him of nothing so much as an illustration of Dante’s Inferno.

  Dim figures, inhuman, strangely muffled like animated Egyptian mummies, moved far below. Sometimes they were revealed when the door of some kind of furnace was opened, to disappear again like phantom forms of a nightmare, when the door was closed. A stifling heat rose from the pit.

  “The simile of a mummy has occurred to you,” said the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu out of the darkness, that strange voice which stressed gutturals and lent to sibilants a quality rarely heard in the voice of an English speaker. “You are ignorant of Ancient Egyptian ritual, or other images would occur to you. In point of fact, these workers are protected against the poisonous fumes generated at certain points in the experiment now taking place below. These gases do not reach us here. They are consumed by a simple process and dispersed by means of a ventilation shaft. Pray continue to descend.”

  Sterling, clutching the rusty iron rail, went down more wooden steps.

  To some degree he was regaining mastery of himself, but his brain failed to suggest any plan of action other than to accept the orders of the uncanny being into whose power, once again, he had fallen. Something which Nayland Smith had said, long, long ago—he was quite unable to recall when—came buzzing through his brain like a sort of refrain:

  “Behind a house which we have passed a hundred times, over a hill which we have looked at every morning for months together, on the roof of a building in which we have lived, beneath a pavement upon which we walk daily, there are secret things which we don’t even suspect. Dr. Fu-Manchu has made it his business to seek out these secret things...”