The Trail of Fu-Manchu Read online

  This frightful awakening had temporarily robbed him of the power of speech, but now:

  “Who are you?” he demanded, angrily. “Where are you taking me?”

  The Burman, ignoring his words, treating him as he might have treated a heavy sack, grasped Sterling by the middle and threw him over his left shoulder. Stooping, he walked out through the open doorway.

  As he hung limply across the gigantic shoulder, he could have “wept with rage, for his very weakness.

  He, a physically powerful man, as normal men go, had no more chance against this deformed monster than a child would have had against himself. Yet, the horrible Burman, with his thick bandy legs, was all of three inches shorter than Sterling!

  On to those nightmare stairs which led down into the pit, he was carried. From time to time, fitful gleams of light danced on the iron girders, or sent a red glow up into the darkness. He was being carried to his death: every instinct told him so...

  One shaded lamp burned in the pit.

  It hung directly in front of the furnace door. From time to time, at bends in the staircase, through eyes clouded by reason of his unnatural position, Sterling observed squat figures firing the furnace. The heat grew greater and greater. The place quivered and roared as white hot flames were whipped up under a forced draft.

  The bottom reached, his captor and carrier dropped him unceremoniously upon the concrete floor.

  Bruised, dazed, he yet succeeded in rolling over into a position from which he could inspect the shadows surrounding that ring of light in front of the furnace.

  Several things became visible which conjured up horrible possibilities.

  He saw a number of rough wooden trestles, some six feet in length and eighteen inches wide, laid upon the floor in the circle of light.

  What could their purpose be?

  Some inert body lay quite near to him. He strained his eyes to peer through the darkness; but beyond the fact that it appeared to be the body of a man, he could make out no details. Two muscular Chinamen stripped to the waist appeared now under the light. One, he thought he recognized, unless he was greatly mistaken—for to Western eyes Chinese faces are very similar—as a man who had formed one of the fan-tan party on the night that he and Nayland Smith had visited the Sailors’ Club.

  The furnace door crashed open.

  Scorching, blinding heat, poured out. Sterling wrenched his head aside. The Chinese stokers, probably professional firemen, fired the furnace, working mechanically and apathetically, although sweat poured down their faces and bodies like rain.

  The furnace door was clanged into place again.

  Sterling lay so near to it that it had been impossible to take more than quick glances about him during the time that the door had been open, for the heat had seared his eyes. Nevertheless he had seen enough to know that his doom was sealed... perhaps the doom of all who stood in the path of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  The man lying near to him, gagged and bound, was Ali Oke...

  Alone, this discovery would have been sufficient to dash his last hope. But there was worse.

  On the other side of the furnace door and nearly opposite to where he lay, Nayland Smith crouched on one elbow, bound as he was bound. He had glimpsed him searching the place with agonized eyes, as he himself had searched it.

  It was the end.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  DIM ROARING

  “There’s only one thing to do here,” growled Gallaho, banging his fist on the iron door which barred further progress. “There’s a bit of a cavity—so I suppose the hinges are sunk. A couple of dynamite cartridges will shift something.”

  “It might shift too much,” said Forester, who had pushed his way from the rear, and now stood at the speaker’s elbow. “Wouldn’t it be better to send for a blow-torch?”

  “Do you realize how long it would take to blow through this door?” Gallaho demanded. “Are you forgetting who’s inside, and what may be happening?”

  “I’m not forgetting. It was just a suggestion. Anyway, it’s going to take time to get either.”

  “The longer we stand talking here, the longer it’s going to take.”

  Gallaho, in common with many men of action, had a tendency to lose his temper when checked by such a barrier as this iron door.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “May I suggest something, sir?” came a voice.

  “Yes, my man, what is it?”

  “The Kinloch Explosive Works in Silvertown carry on all night. We could get there and back in half an hour in the Squad car, and probably bring someone with us who understands how to employ explosives on a job of this kind.”

  “Good man,” growled Gallaho. “I’d better come along, as they won’t act without authority. Will you take charge, Forester?”

  “Certainly. But if I can get hold of a blow-torch by hook or by crook, I’m going to start.”

  “Good enough. No harm done.”

  Gallaho adjusted his bowler and set out. He disappeared along the corridor lighted only by the torches of the police. Forester turned to Trench.

  “What about getting through to the Yard?” he suggested. “See if it’s possible to get a blow-torch rushed down.”

  “We can try,” Trench agreed. “Leave two men here in case the door happens to open from the other side—and there’s a telephone upstairs in the shop.”

  These dispositions were made, and the remainder of the police tramped up the concrete stairs and the wooden stairs into the premises of Sam Pak.

  The shop blinds had been drawn—all lights put out. A constable was on duty on the pavement outside. At the moment that they reached the shop, the roar of the Flying Squad motor proclaimed itself as Gallaho dashed by on his journey to Silvertown.

  “Here’s the telephone, Inspector,” said one of the men.

  Forester nodded to Trench.

  “This is your department, not mine,” he said. “You know who to call up, no doubt.”

  Trench nodded and stepped behind the counter, taking up the instrument.

  He called Scotland Yard and waited.

  A tense silence descended upon all the men present until the call was answered.

  “Detective-sergeant Trench speaking,” he said, and gave a code word in an undertone. “Thanks.”

  A further interval of silence, and then:

  “Oh, is he, Inspector? Oh, I see... Yes, I suppose so, if those are the orders.”

  Trench placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned. “The Commissioner is standing by for a report on this job!” he whispered. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned up—”

  “Hello, sir. Yes, speaking from there, now. I’m sorry to report, sir, that Sir Denis has disappeared. We have reason to believe that he’s been smuggled into the cellars of this place.”

  An interval of respectful silence, and then:

  “The difficulty is, sir, they’ve got iron doors, here. I am speaking for Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir. He has proceeded in person to Silvertown to try to get an explosive expert to deal with one of the doors below, here... Yes, sir. We thought a blow-torch might do the trick, if it’s possible to get one down in time... Very good, sir. Yes, every exit is covered.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned to Forester.

  “The hell of it is,” he said, “we don’t know what’s going on below, there, and we can do nothing! Our only arrest is Mrs. Sam Pak, and I don’t believe she knows a thing!”

  “Sst!... What’s that?”

  All stood silent, waiting for a repetition of the sound, and presently it came—a muffled cry.

  “It’s one of the men in the passage,” said Trench, and ran off, Forester following, his heavy boots making a booming sound upon the wooden floor. They were halfway down the stairs when the man who had called out, met them. His expression indicated excitement.

  “Come this way, Inspector,” he said, “and listen.”

  Their torch lights moving eerily upon brick and plaster wa
lls, they proceeded to the end of the long passage. Another man was standing with his ear pressed to the iron door. He signaled, and they all approached, standing silently, listening.

  “Do you hear it?”

  Forester nodded, grimly.

  “What the hell is it?” he muttered.

  A dim, but dreadful roaring was perceptible, coming it seemed, from remote deeps beyond the iron door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHINESE JUSTICE

  Sterling realized as the horror in this hell pit rose ever higher that the company of the shadows was now complete.

  Someone else had been borne down those many stairs and thrown like a sack upon the concrete floor. The doors of the furnace were opened again by the Chinese firemen, and again the heat seared his eyes. He tried to take advantage of that white glare; in a measure, he was successful.

  Detective-sergeant Murphy had joined the company of the doomed; trussed and helpless he lay beyond Ali Oke.

  The sweating Chinamen fed the hungry furnace.

  It was the closest reproduction of the traditional hell which he believed could ever have been created. He struggled to his feet: his ankles were bound, his wrists were bound. But in some way to be upright again, though he could not move a step, seemed to reinforce his failing courage. The furnace doors were reclosed.

  “Sir Denis!” he shouted, his voice reverberating in that shadow-haunted shaft. “Sergeant Murphy!”

  In his extremity he spoke with the accent of the Middle West; indeed, his father’s face was before him. He saw the home in which he had been born, Edinburgh University, too, where he had taken his degree; all the happy things of life. And Fleurette! Fleurette! Merciful heaven!—where was Fleurette? He would never see her again!

  Murphy answered.

  “O.K., sir,” he called. “While there’s life there’s...”

  A dull thud, that of a blow, terminated the words.

  “Murphy!” Sterling cried again, and was in that state when he recognized hysteria in his own voice, yet fought against it. Sir Denis, he remembered to have noticed in the glare of the furnace, had a bandage over his mouth. “Murphy!”

  No answer came—but, in silhouette against the light, the gorilla shape of the Burman appeared.

  “You yellow swine!” said Sterling viciously, and bound though he was, launched himself upon the broad, squat figure.

  He received a blow upon the mouth which knocked him backwards. He tasted blood; his lips were split.

  “If I could meet you in the open, you bandy-legged horror,” he shouted, madly, “I’d knock you silly!”

  The Burman, who wore heavy shoes, kicked him in the ribs.

  Sterling groaned involuntarily. The pain of this last brutality threatened to overcome him. The horrible shadowy place began to swim before his eyes.

  His wrists were aching: his hands were numb. Nevertheless he clenched his fists, clenched his teeth. He was writhing with pain; a rib had caved in—he knew it. But his supreme desire was to retain consciousness; to be on the job if any eleventh hour hope should offer.

  “Be silent,” came a musical voice out of the darkness.

  Fah Lo Suee!

  “My friend, you only add more pains to those that are to come.”

  Sterling succeeded in conquering himself. His maltreated body had threatened to master his brain. But his brain won.

  Above the ever increasing roar of the furnace, a voice reached him:

  “I’m here, Sterling, old man—I couldn’t speak before.”

  It was Nayland Smith.

  In some way, the shadows of that dim shaft seemed to possess weight—to bear down on one oppressively. From where he lay, Sterling could not see the mouth of the tunnel, but he was oddly conscious of its presence, somewhere beyond the furnace. There was water above, a great quantity of water, probably the River Thames.

  This sense of depth, of being buried far below the surface, alone was horrifying; with the accompaniments which surrounded him, plus a split lip and a dislocated rib, it stretched endurance to breaking point.

  And then another voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice which, once heard, could never be forgotten: the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  “Sir Denis Nayland Smith: You are, I believe, acting for the Secret Service. You are a legitimate enemy. Detective-sergeant Murphy: You are attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, and therefore entitled to my respect. Mr. Alan Sterling, you have voluntarily thrown yourself into the midst of my affairs, but since your motives are of a kind sometimes termed chivalrous, I shall accord to you also the honors of war.”

  The strange cold voice ceased for a moment.

  Sterling struggled into a crouching position, ignoring the blood dripping from his chin, striving to forget the sharp pain of his injured rib.

  “Tonight may well be a climax in my war against folly and misrule; but if I triumph tonight, my path will be clear. My chief enemy will no longer obstruct me in my work, nor treachery live in my household...”

  That strange, impressive voice ceased—then uttered a short, guttural command.

  The squat Burman appeared in the circle of light, dragging by the heels the inert body of Ali.

  It now became obvious that the Nubian was bound hand and foot, and that a cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. His eyes seemed to bulge from his skull; his face was wet with the sweat of fear.

  The Burman withdrew into the shadows, but appeared again almost immediately swinging a short, curved sword, which he seemed to handle with familiarity.

  “This man is a traitor,” the guttural voice said softly; “I have held my hand too long.”

  A swift, hissing word of command; and during some few, dreadful seconds in which Alan Sterling’s heart seemed to remain still in his breast, the Burmese executioner obeyed.

  Twining the fingers of his left hand into the frizzy, black hair of the Nubian, he jerked him to his feet with a single movement of that long, powerful arm. And, as the man stood there bent forward, swaying—with one mighty, unerring sweep of the scimitar he severed his head from his body!

  “My God!” groaned Sergeant Murphy—“my God!”

  Unconcernedly, the executioner threw the body on to one of the wooden frames, lashed the trunk and feet with lines which were attached to the woodwork, and stood up, glancing into the darkness in the direction from which the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu had come.

  In response to another hissing command, the two Chinese firemen came forward and threw open the furnace door. They raised the head of the framework to which the body was lashed. The Burman seized the other end.

  They began to swing it to and fro, chanting in unison: “Hi yah, hi yah, hi yah!” as they swung.

  Then, with a final shouted “Hi!” they propelled it into the white heart of the furnace.

  They were about to close the door, when the Burman checked them—and stooped...

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE BLUE LIGHT

  “It’s by no means as simple as all that, Inspector,” the chemist in charge assured Gallaho. “Before I attempt a mining operation such as you describe, I should like to know what’s above and what’s below. Also, what’s on the other side of this wall that you want me to blow down. You say it’s a concrete wall?”

  “It appears to be,” growled Gallaho, fretfully; technicians were always an infernal nuisance.

  “We could probably blast a way through the wall, but I’m wondering what that wall supports. We don’t want half Limehouse to fall in on us.”

  “Well, come and see for yourself; but come provided—almost anything may be happening to the people we want to rescue.”

  “I shall certainly come, Inspector. I don’t fancy the responsibility, but it’s not the kind of thing I want to delegate.”

  There were further delays whilst mysterious apparatus was assembled, and Gallaho, seated in the office of the chief chemist, tapped his fingers irritably upon the table, glancing from minute to
minute at a big clock over the mantelpiece. Messengers were scouring the extensive works in search of an expert with the musical name of Schumann. His attendance, according to Mr. Elliott, the chief chemist, was indispensable.

  Gallaho was getting very angry.

  Finally, arrangements were completed. Two workmen who seemed to enjoy this break in their night duties carried mysterious boxes, packages and coils of cable. Schumann, who proved to be a taciturn, bearded German, merely nodded and grunted when the chief chemist explained the nature of the project.

  At long last, they all climbed into the police car, and set out recklessly for Limehouse. Gallaho sat in front with the driver. He was altogether too irritable for conversation, and at a point in their journey not far from their destination:

  “Pull up!” he directed, sharply.

  The brakes were applied, and the car promptly brought to a standstill.

  Inspector Gallaho stared forward and upward, and now, resting his hand on the driver’s shoulder:

  “Look!” he said. “What’s that? Right over the river bank, in a line with the smokestack?”

  The driver looked as directed. And then:

  “Good Lord!” he whispered, “what is it?”

  There was very little mist in the air, but lowering clouds overhung the river; and there, either in reality or reflected upon them as upon a screen, danced that bluish, elfin light; and Gallaho knew that it was directly above the roof of Sam Pak’s.

  “Go ahead!” he growled...

  There was not much evidence of activity in the neighborhood of the restaurant. The night life of Chinatown, such as it is, is a furtive life. A constable was standing on an adjacent corner, but there was little now to indicate that anything unusual had taken place there that evening, except the fact that the store was closed.

  One or two customers who had applied there had gone away much puzzled by this circumstance.

  No doubt there were watchers behind dark windows. No doubt the fact was known throughout the Chinese quarter that Sam Pak’s had been raided and his wife arrested. But those who shared this secret information kept it very much to themselves, and kept themselves carefully out of sight.