The Trail of Fu-Manchu Page 5

  Nayland Smith returned to the armchair. A man of vision and dynamic energy, he always experienced, in the proximity of Sir Harold Sims, an all but unconquerable urge to pick up His Majesty’s Secretary and to shake him until his teeth rattled.

  “There are times, Sir Harold,” he said, quietly, “when one can afford to dispense with formalities. In this case, your consent is necessary; hence my intrusion.”

  “You know—” Sims was scanning the documents suspiciously— “this bugbear of yours, this obsession with the person known as Fu-Manchu, has created a lot of unpleasant feeling.”

  This was no more than a statement of fact. Sir Denis’s retirement from the Metropolitan Police had coincided fairly closely with the appointment of Sir Harold to the portfolio which he still held.

  “You may term it an obsession if you like—perhaps it is. But you are fully aware, Sir Harold, of the extent of my authority. I am not alone in this obsession. The most dangerous man living in the world today is here, in England, and likely to slip through our fingers. Any delay is dangerous.” Sir Harold nodded, setting one document aside and beginning to read another.

  “I shall be bothered by the Roman Catholic authorities,” he murmured; “you know how troublesome they can be. If you could give me two or three days, in order that the matter might be regularized...”

  “It is tonight, or never,” snapped Nayland Smith, suddenly standing up.

  “Really...”

  Sir Harold began to shake his head again.

  “It is perhaps unfair of me to remind you that I can bring pressure to bear.”

  Sir Harold looked up.

  “You are not suggesting that you would bother the Prime Minister with this trivial but complicated affair?” he asked pathetically.

  “I am suggesting nothing. I only ask for your signature. I should not be here if the matter were as trivial as you suppose.”

  “Really—really, Smith...”

  The light-blue eyes peering through spectacle lens were caught and arrested by the gaze of eyes deep-set, steely and penetrating. Sir Harold hated this man’s driving power—hated his hectoring manner, the force of a personality which brooked no denial...

  Five minutes later the police car was stealing through a mist, yellow, stifling, which closed in remorselessly, throttling London.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE TOMB OF THE DEMURASES

  “You are sure there is no other means of access to the cemetery?”

  “Quite, sir.”

  The quavering voice of the old attendant was in harmony with his venerable but wretched appearance. He seemed to belong to the clammy mist; to the phantom monuments which peered through it. He might have been an exhalation from one of the ancient tombs. His straggling gray beard, his watery, nearly sightless eyes, his rusty black garb. A mental vision of Fleurette appeared before Alan Sterling—young, tall, divinely vigorous, an exquisite figure of health and beauty; yet perhaps she lay here, stricken down inscrutably in the bloom and fullness of spring, whilst such shadowy, unhappy beings as this old mortuary keeper survived, sadly watching each fallen bud returning to earth, our common mother, who gives us life, in whose arms we sleep.

  “I’ve got men at both gates, sir,” Gallaho growled, “and two more patrolling. Anybody suspicious, they have orders to hold. A rather queer thing has been reported: may have no bearing on the case, but—”

  “What?” Nayland Smith asked.

  “A small head-stone has been stolen!”

  “A small head-stone?”

  “Yes, Sir Denis. From a child’s grave. Seems a useless sort of theft, doesn’t it?”

  “Possibly not!” he snapped. “I’m glad you mentioned this, Inspector.”

  He nodded to the old man.

  A dim light shone out from the door of the lodge. It was difficult to imagine the domestic life of this strange creature whose home was amongst sepulchres; all but impossible to believe that he knew anything of human happiness; that joy had ever visited that ghastly habitation.

  “Mr. Roberts?”

  A young man wearing a dark, waisted overcoat and a muffler conceived in Eton colors, stepped languidly forward out of veiling mists. He wore a soft black hat of most fashionable shape; his small, aristocratic features registered intense boredom. From a pocket of his overcoat he produced a number of documents, and handed them to the old man, gingerly, as if offering a fish to a seal.

  “Everything is in order,” he said; “you need not trouble to look them over.”

  “There’s no need to waste time,” growled Gallaho. “Let’s have the key.” He raised his voice. “Dorchester!” he shouted.

  A uniformed constable appeared, carrying a leather bag, as:

  “I suppose it’s all right,” quivered the old mortuary keeper, looking down blindly at the papers in his hand. “But I shall have to enter it all up, you know.”

  “You can do that while we’re on the job,” said Gallaho. “The keys.”

  When, presently, led by a constable carrying a red lantern they proceeded in silence along a narrow path around which ghostly monuments clustered, it might have been noted, save that the light was poor, that Mr. Roberts, Sir Harold Sims’ representative, looked unusually pale. To the left they turned, along another avenue of tombs, and then to the right again, presently penetrating to the oldest part of the cemetery. Gray and awesome, fronted by sentinel cypress trees, ill-nourished and drooping, a building resembling a small chapel loomed out of the fog. There was a little grassy forecourt fronted by iron railings, and a stained glass window right and left of a massive teak door intricately studded with iron nails. A constable in plain clothes was standing there.

  “This is the Demuras vault, sir,” he reported.

  The company pulled up and stood for a moment looking at the building. Despite the chill of the night, Alan Sterling became aware of the fact that perspiration was trickling down his ribs. He glanced at Gallaho who held a bunch of keys in his hand, one separated from the others. The pugnacious face of the detective registered no emotion whatever. Nayland Smith turned to the plain clothes officer, and: “There may be someone hiding among the monuments,” he said, sharply. “You have seen nothing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If you see or hear anything, while we are inside—sing out, and do your best to make a capture.”

  “Very good, sir; you can leave it to me.”

  “Go ahead, Gallaho.”

  Gallaho opened the little gate, which was not locked, and advanced up three steps to the massive teak door. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it. It was very stiff; it creaked dismally, but responded—and the detective pushed the door open...

  When at last the party stood in the vault of the Demuras, dimly lighted by two police lamps and a red lantern, the fog had entered behind them, touching every man with phantom fingers. The dweller amongst the tombs arrived, belated, coming down the stone steps pantingly, and seeming a fitting occupant of this ghastly place.

  “I understand,” snapped Nayland Smith, “that this is the one we want.” He pointed, then turned to Mr. Roberts. “Is it quite in accordance with the wishes of the Home Office that I should open this shell?”

  Mr. Roberts drew a handkerchief from an inner pocket and delicately wiped his forehead. He had removed his black hat. “Quite all right, Sir Denis. This is really rather distressing.”

  “I am sorry, but much is at stake.”

  Constable Dorchester came forward. He had discarded his helmet, revealing a closely cropped head of brilliantly red and vigorously upstanding hair. His hazel eyes glittered excitedly.

  “Shall I start, sir?”

  “Yes, carry on...”

  Inspector Gallaho, twirling his wide-brimmed bowler in stubby muscular hands, chewed phantom gum. The old sexton stood at the foot of the steps in an attitude which might have been that of prayer. Alan Sterling turned aside, looking anywhere but at the new and brightly polished sarcophagus which had been removed from its ni
che and which might contain...

  A cracked bell in the mortuary chapel dimly chimed the hour.

  “Do you mind if I wait outside?” said Mr. Roberts. “The fog seems to be settling in this place. It’s following us in—look—it’s coming down the steps in waves.”

  “Quite all right,” growled Gallaho; “everything is in order, sir.”

  Mr. Roberts ascended the steps, brushing almost hastily past the ancient warden who stood head bowed, at their foot.

  The squeak of the screws was harrowing. Long trailers of mist wavered fantastically in the dim opening. Generations of Demurases seemed to stir in their happy vineyards and to look down upon the intruders. It was a desecration of their peace—Nayland Smith knew it. By what means, he was unable to guess, but by some means, Dr. Fu-Manchu had secured access to this mausoleum.

  “Do you mind lending me a hand, sir?”

  Constable Dorchester, the handyman of the party, addressed Alan Sterling. The latter turned, clenched his teeth, and:

  “O.K.” he replied. “How can I help?”

  “Just get hold of that end, sir, and ease it a bit. I’ll get hold of this.”

  “Right.”

  Nayland Smith seemed to be listening for sounds from above. The watcher of the dead, hands clasped, was apparently praying. Chief-inspector Gallaho, from time to time, jerked out words of advice, and then resumed his phantom chewing.

  The lid was removed. Sterling dropped back, raising his arms to his eyes.

  “Steady!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Keep your grip, Sterling.”

  “May God forgive them, whoever they were,” came the sepulchral voice of the old sexton.

  The leaden shell had been sawn open and its top removed...

  “Who lies there?” Sterling whispered: “who is it?”

  None answered. Complete silence claimed the tomb of the Demurases, until:

  “Look!” said Nayland Smith.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE MARK OF KALI

  “Shall I lock the door?” Inspector Gallaho inquired, jangling the keys.

  Nayland Smith had been last to leave the tomb of the Demurases. That great fog which with brief intervals was destined to prevail for many days, already had claimed this city of the dead. They were a phantom company enveloped in a mist which might have been smoke of the Ultimate Valley. Alan Sterling was restraining an intense excitement.

  Mr. Roberts, the Home Office representative, loomed up out of darkness.

  “I understand that the shell was empty, Sir Denis?”

  Nayland Smith came down the three steps.

  “Not empty,” he replied. “It was weighted with a head-stone stolen from near by!”

  The old guardian of sepulchres stood by the open door. Bewilderment had lent that gray and sorrowful face a haunted expression, which might have belonged to the spirit of some early Demuras disturbed in the mausoleum.

  Thereupon, Nayland Smith did a very odd thing. He stooped and began to remove his shoes!

  “I say, Sir Denis—”

  An upraised hand checked Alan Sterling at those first few words.

  “Shut up, Sterling,” Sir Denis snapped. “Listen, everybody.” He discarded his leather coat. “I am going back down there.”

  “Alone?” Gallaho asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good God!”

  “As soon as I’ve slipped in, partly close the door. Sing out in a loud voice, ‘Here are the keys, Sir Denis’, or anything you like to convey the idea that I am with you. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Gallaho answered gruffly. “But if you suspect there’s anybody hidden there, it’s rather a mad move, isn’t it, sir?”

  “I can think of no other. Don’t really lock the door,” said Nayland Smith in a low voice. “Turn the key, but leave the door slightly ajar—”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Soft-footed, Nayland Smith re-entered the tomb, turned and signaled with his hand. Gallaho began to close the heavy teak door.

  “This is ghastly,” Mr. Roberts muttered. “What does he expect to find?”

  Gallaho rattled the keys, and:

  “Shall I lock up, Sir Denis?” he said in his deep, gruff voice, paused a moment, and then: “Very good, sir. You go ahead; I’ll follow.”

  He shot the lock noisily. The door was not more than an inch ajar.

  “Silence!” he whispered. “Everybody stand by.”

  Beyond that ghostly door, guarded by sentinel cypresses, Nayland Smith was creeping down the stone steps, silently, stealthily. Gallaho had played his part well. All too familiar with red tape, Smith knew that short of sand-bagging the man from the Home Office, to have attempted to disturb the repose of another Demuras would have resulted in an adjournment of the investigation. Alone, and uninterrupted, he must convince himself that the queer impression of something which lived and moved in an ancient shell in a stone niche, must be confirmed or disproved by himself alone.

  He reached the vault without having made a sound. His feet were chilled by the stone paving. Imagination charged the fog-laden atmosphere with odors of mortal decay. The darkness was intense. Looking up the steps down which he had come, no more than a vague blue indicated the presence of the stained glass windows. On hands and knees he moved cautiously, right, and then crouched down against the wall and directly beneath the niche which contained the mortal remains of Isobel Demuras—or so the inscription stated.

  Complete silence prevailed for fully a minute. He could detect no repetition of that furtive movement which he had heard, or imagined he had heard. Turning slowly and cautiously, he looked up...

  He saw a thing which for a moment touched him with awe.

  The stone recess above had become vaguely illuminated, as if some spiritual light were thrown out from the shell of Isobel Demuras!

  There came a vague shuffling—the same which he had detected when, last to leave, he had paused for a moment at the foot of the steps. Then... a ray of light shot across the vault, touching the further wall, where it rested upon a brass plate. The inscription upon this he remembered to have read: HERE LAY TRISTAN DEMURAS, FOUNDER OF THE ENGLISH BRANCH OF THE FAMILY.

  The noise above became louder. To it was added a squeaking sound. The ray disappeared from the opposite wall, but the niche above became more brightly illuminated. Nayland Smith on hands and knees crept to the corner of the vault. He had not vacated his former position more than three seconds when light poured down upon the pavement. He was just outside its radius.

  The light disappeared; complete darkness fell. There came a renewed and a louder creaking, then a soft thud upon the floor beside him.

  In that instant Nayland Smith sprang.

  “Gallaho!” he shouted. “Sterling!”

  The teak door was opened with a crash. Gallaho shining his torch ahead of him came cluttering down the steps, Sterling close behind.

  “The light... here, Gallaho—quick!” Nayland Smith spoke hoarsely. “Get his knife!”

  “My God!”

  Sterling sprang forward.

  A lithe yellow man, his eyes on fire with venomous hatred, was struggling in Nayland Smith’s grasp! Sir Denis had him by the throat, but with his left hand he clutched the man’s lean, muscular wrist. A knife, having a short, curved blade, was grasped in the sinewy fingers. For all Nayland Smith’s efforts, its point was creeping nearer and nearer, driven by the maniacal strength which animated the tigerish body. The left arm of the yellow man was thrown around his captor, seeking to drag him down upon the quivering blade...

  Gallaho twisted the weapon from the man’s grasp, and Nayland Smith stood up, breathing heavily. Two constables had joined them now, their lamps reinforcing the illumination.

  “Who’s got bracelets?” growled Gallaho.

  None of the party had handcuffs, but Constable Dorchester, of the spiky red hair, grabbed the prisoner and ran him up the steps.

  Outside, held by Dorchester and another, his back against the teak door, he grinned f
iendishly, but uttered no word whilst Nayland Smith resumed his shoes and put on his leather overcoat. Gallaho shone the light of a torch on to the face of the captive.

  The man wore a soft shirt and no tie; a cheap flannel suit; his ankles were bare, and his lean feet were encased in rubber-soled shoes. His teeth gleamed in that fixed grin of hatred; his sunken eyes held a reddish, smoldering fire. Disordered oily black hair hung down over his forehead. He was panting and wet with perspiration.

  Nayland Smith raised the damp hair from the man’s brow, revealing a small mark upon parchment-like skin.

  “The mark of Kali,” he said. “I thought so... One of the Doctor’s religious assassins.”

  “What ever is the meaning of all this?” Mr. Roberts demanded in a high, quavering voice.

  Nayland Smith turned in the speaker’s direction, so that from Sterling’s point of view, the keen, angular profile was clearly visible against the light of a lamp held by one of the constables.

  “It means,” Sir Denis began...

  Something hummed like a giant insect past Sterling’s ear, missed Nayland Smith by less than an inch as he sprang back, fists clenched, glittered evilly in the lantern light, and... the man whose brow was branded with the mark of Kali gurgled, and became limp in the grip of his two big captors.

  A bloody foam appeared upon his lips.

  He was pinned to the door by a long, narrow-bladed knife, which had completely pierced his throat and had penetrated nearly an inch into the teak against which he stood!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SAM PAK OF LIMEHOUSE

  Nayland Smith walked up and down his study in Whitehall. Heavy blue curtains were drawn before the windows. Alan Sterling from the depths of an armchair watched him gloomily.

  “I am satisfied that the other shells in that vault were occupied by deceased Demurases,” said Sir Denis. “How long the group has had access to that mausoleum, is something we are unlikely ever to know. But doubtless it has served other purposes in the past. The supposed sarcophagus of Isobel Demuras, as I showed you, was no more than a trick box or hiding-place, having a spy-hole by means of which one concealed there could watch what was going on below. It is certain that I have been covered closely for some days past. We were followed to Dr. Norton’s house this evening, and later I was followed to the Home Secretary’s. To make assurance doubly sure, the Doctor planted a spy in the mausoleum.”