The Mystery of Fu Manchu Page 6

  “Smith, where is she?” I cried. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “She’s given us the slip, Doctor,” said Inspector Weymouth, as a fire-engine came swinging around the corner of the narrow lane. “So has Mr. Singapore Charlie—and, I’m afraid, somebody else. We’ve got six or eight all-sorts, some awake and some asleep, but I suppose we shall have to let ’em go again. Mr. Smith tells me that the girl was disguised as a Chinaman. I expect that’s why she managed to slip away.”

  I recalled how I had been dragged from the pit by the false queue, how the strange discovery which had brought death to poor Cadby had brought life to me, and I seemed to remember, too, that Smith had dropped it as he threw his arm about me on the ladder. Her mask the girl might have retained, but her wig, I felt certain, had been dropped into the water.

  It was later that night, when the brigade still were playing upon the blackened shell of what had been Shen-Yan’s opium-shop, and Smith and I were speeding away in a cab from the scene of God knows how many crimes, that I had an idea.

  “Smith,” I said, “did you bring the pigtail with you that was found on Cadby?”

  “Yes. I had hoped to meet the owner.”

  “Have you got it now?”

  “No. I met the owner.”

  I thrust my hands dreep into the pockets of the big pea-jacket lent to me by Inspector Ryman, leaning back in my corner.

  “We shall never really excel at this business,” continued Nayland Smith. “We are far too sentimental. I knew what it meant to us, Petrie, what it meant to the world, but I hadn’t the heart. I owed her your life—I had to square the account.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  REDMOAT

  Night fell on Redmoat. I glanced from the window at the nocturne in silver and green which lay beneath me. To the west of the shrubbery, with its broken canopy of elms and beyond the copper beech which marked the centre of its mazes, a gap offered a glimpse of the Waveney where it swept into a broad. Faint bird-calls floated over the water. These, with the whisper of leaves, alone claimed the ear.

  Ideal rural peace, and the music of an English summer evening; but to my eyes, every shadow holding fantastic terrors; to my ears, every sound a signal of dread. For the deathful hand of Fu-Manchu was stretched over Redmoat, at any hour to loose strange, Oriental horrors upon its inmates.

  “Well,” said Nayland Smith, joining me at the window, “we had dared to hope him dead, but we know now that he lives!”

  The Rev. J. D. Eltham coughed nervously, and I turned, leaning my elbow upon the table, and studied the play of expression upon the refined, sensitive face of the clergyman.

  “You think I acted rightly in sending for you, Mr. Smith?”

  Nayland Smith smoked furiously.

  “Mr. Eltham,” he replied, “you see in me a man groping in the dark. I am today no nearer to the conclusion of my mission than upon the day when I left Mandalay. You offer me a clue; I am here. Your affair, I believe, stands thus. A series of attempted burglaries, or something of the kind, has alarmed your household. Yesterday, returning from London with your daughter, you were both drugged in some way, and, occupying a compartment to yourselves, you both slept. Your daughter awoke, and saw someone else in the carriage—a yellow-faced man who held a case of instruments in his hands.”

  “Yes. I was, of course, unable to enter into particulars over the telephone. The man was standing by one of the windows. Directly he observed that my daughter was awake, he stepped towards her.”

  “What did he do with the case in his hands?”

  “She did not notice—or did not mention having noticed. In fact, as was natural, she was so frightened that she recalls nothing more, beyond the fact that she strove to arouse me, without succeeding, felt hands grasp her shoulders—and swooned.”

  “But someone used the emergency cord, and stopped the train.”

  “Greba has no recollection of having done so.”

  “H’m! Of course no yellow-faced man was on the train. When did you awake?”

  “I was aroused by the guard, but only when he had repeatedly shaken me.”

  “Upon reaching Great Yarmouth you immediately called up Scotland Yard? You acted very wisely, sir. How long were you in China?”

  Mr. Eltham’s start of surprise was almost comical.

  “It is perhaps not strange that you should be aware of my residence in China, Mr. Smith,” he said; “but my not having mentioned it may seem so. The fact is”—his sensitive face flushed in palpable embarrassment—“I left China under what I may term an episcopal cloud. I have lived in retirement ever since. Unwittingly—I solemnly declare to you, Mr. Smith, unwittingly—I stirred up certain deep-seated prejudices in my endeavours to do my duty—my duty. I think you asked me how long ago I was in China? I was there from 1896 until 1900—four years.”

  “I recall the circumstances, Mr. Eltham,” said Smith, with an odd note in his voice. “I have been endeavouring to think where I had come across the name, and a moment ago I remembered. I am happy to have met you, sir.”

  The clergyman blushed again like a girl, and slightly inclined his head, with its scanty, fair hair.

  “Had Redmoat, as its name implies, a moat around it? I was unable to see in the dusk.”

  “It remains. Redmoat—a corruption of Round Moat—was formerly a priory, disestablished by the eighth Henry in 1536.” His pedantic manner was quaint at times. “But the moat is no longer flooded. In fact, we grow cabbages in part of it. If you refer to the strategic strength of the place”—he smiled, but his manner was embarrassed again—“it is considerable. I have barbed-wire fencing, and—other arrangements. You see, it is a lonely spot,” he added apologetically. “And now, if you will excuse me, we will resume these gruesome inquiries after the more pleasant affairs of dinner.”

  He left us.

  “Who is our host?” I asked, as the door closed.

  Smith smiled.

  “You are wondering what caused the ‘episcopal cloud’?” he suggested. “Well, the deep-seated prejudices which our reverend friend stirred up culminated in the Boxer Risings.”

  “Good heavens, Smith!” I said; for I could not reconcile the diffident personality of the clergyman with the memories which those words awakened.

  “He evidently should be on our danger list,” my friend continued quickly; “but he has so completely effaced himself of recent years that I think it probable that someone else has only just recalled his existence to mind. The Rev. J. D, Eltham, my dear Petrie, though he may be a poor hand at saving souls, at any rate has saved a score of Christian women from death—and worse.”

  “J.D. Eltham—” I began.

  “Is ‘Parson Dan’!” rapped Smith, “the ‘Fighting Missionary’, the man who with a garrison of a dozen cripples and a German doctor held the hospital at Nan-Yang against two hundred Boxers. That’s who the Rev. J. D. Eltham is! But what he is up to now, I have yet to find out. He is keeping something back—something which has made him an object of interest to Young China!”

  During dinner the matters responsible for our presence there did not hold priority in the conversation. In fact, this, for the most part, consisted in light talk of books and theatres.

  Greba Eltham, the clergyman’s daughter, was a charming young hostess, and she, with Vernon Denby, Mr. Eltham’s nephew, completed the party. No doubt the girl’s presence, in part, at any rate, led us to refrain from the subject uppermost in our minds.

  These little pools of calm dotted along the torrential course of the circumstances which were bearing my friend and myself onward to unknown issues form pleasant, sunny spots in my dark recollections.

  So I shall always remember, with pleasure, that dinner-party at Redmoat, in the old-world dining-room; it was so very peaceful, so almost grotesquely calm. For I, within my very bones, felt it to be the calm before the storm.

  When, later, we men passed to the library, we seemed to leave that atmosphere
behind us.

  “Redmoat,” said the Rev. J. D. Eltham, “has latterly become the theatre of strange doings.”

  He stood on the hearthrug. A shaded lamp upon the big table and candles in ancient sconces upon the mantelpiece afforded dim illumination. Mr. Eltham’s nephew, Vernon Denby, lolled smoking on the window-seat, and I sat near to him. Nayland Smith paced restlessly up and down the room.

  “Some months ago, almost a year,” continued the clergyman, “a burglarious attempt was made upon the house. There was an arrest, and the man confessed that he had been tempted by my collection.” He waved his hand vaguely towards the several cabinets about the shadowed room.

  “It was shortly afterwards that I allowed my hobby for—playing at forts, to run away with me.” He smiled an apology. “I virtually fortified Redmoat—against trespassers of any kind, I mean. You have seen that the house stands upon a kind of large mound. This is artificial, being the buried ruins of a Roman outwork; a portion of the ancient castrum.” Again he waved indicatively, this time towards the window.

  “When it was a priory it was completely isolated and defending by its environing moat. Today it is completely surrounded by barbed-wire fencing. Below this fence, on the east, is a narrow stream, a tributary of the Waveney; on the north and west, the highroad, but nearly twenty feet below, the banks being perpendicular. On the south is the remaining part of the moat—now my kitchen garden; but from there up to the level of the house is nearly twenty feet again, and the barbed wire must be counted with.

  “The entrance, as you know, is by way of a kind of cutting. There is a gate of the foot of the steps (they are some of the original steps of the priory, Dr. Petrie), and another gate at the head.”

  He paused, and smiled around upon us boyishly.

  “My secret defences remain to be mentioned,” he resumed; and, opening a cupboard, he pointed to a row of batteries, with a number of electric bells upon the wall behind. “The more vulnerable spots are connected at night with these bells,” he said triumphantly. “Any attempt to scale the barbed wire or to force either gate would set two or more of these ringing. A stray cow raised one false alarm,” he added, “and a careless rook threw us into a perfect panic on another occasion.”

  He was so boyish—so nervously brisk and acutely sensitive—that it was difficult to see in him the hero of the Nan-Yang hospital. I could only suppose that he had treated the Boxers’ raid in the same spirit wherein he met would-be trespassers within the precincts of Redmoat. It had been an escapade, of which he was afterwards ashamed, as, faintly, he was ashamed of his “fortifications”.

  “But,” rapped Smith, “it was not the visit of the burglar which prompted these elaborate precautions.”

  Mr. Eltham coughed nervously.

  “I am aware,” he said, “that, having invoked official aid, I must be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Smith. It was the burglar who was responsible for my continuing the wire fence all around the grounds, but the electrical contrivance followed, later, as a result of several disturbed nights. My servants grew uneasy about some one who came, they said, after dusk. No one could describe this nocturnal visitor, but certainly we found traces. I must admit that.

  “Then—I received what I may term a warning. My position is a peculiar one—a peculiar one. My daughter, too, saw this prowling person, over by the Roman castrum, and described him as a yellow man. It was the incident in the train, following closely upon this other, which led me to speak to the police, little as I desired to—er—court publicity.”

  Nayland Smith walked to a window, and looked out across the sloping lawn to where the shadows of the shrubbery lay. A dog was howling dismally somewhere.

  “Your defences are not impregnable, after all, then?” he jerked. “On our way up this evening Mr. Denby was telling us about the death of his collie a few nights ago.”

  The clergyman’s face clouded.

  “That, certainly, was alarming,” he confessed. “I had been in London for a few days, and during my absence Vernon came down, bringing the dog with him. On the night of his arrival it ran, barking, into the shrubbery yonder, and did not come out. He went to look for it with a lantern, and found it lying among the bushes, quite dead. The poor creature had been dreadfully beaten about the head.”

  “The gates were locked,” Denby interrupted, “and no one could have got out of the grounds without a ladder and someone to assist him. But there was no sign of a living thing about. Edwards and I searched every corner.”

  “How long has that other dog taken to howling?” inquired Smith.

  “Only since Rex’s death,” said Denby quickly.

  “It is my mastiff,” explained the clergyman, “and he is confined in the yard. He is never allowed on this side of the house.”

  Nayland Smith wandered aimlessly about the library.

  “I am sorry to have to press you, Mr. Eltham,” he said, “but what was the nature of the warning to which you referred, and from whom did it come?”

  Mr. Eltham hesitated for a long time.

  “I have been so unfortunate,” he said at last, “in my previous efforts, that I feel assured of your hostile criticism when I tell you that I am contemplating an immediate return to Ho-Nan!”

  Smith jumped round upon him as though moved by a spring.

  “Then you are going back to Nan-Yang?” he cried. “Now I understand! Why have you not told me before? That is the key for which I have been vainly seeking. Your troubles date from the time of your decision to return?”

  “Yes, I must admit it,” confessed the clergyman diffidently.

  “And your warning came from China?”

  “It did.”

  “From a Chinaman?”

  “From the Mandarin Yen Sun Yat.”

  “Yen Sun Yat! My good sir! He warned you to abandon your visit? And you reject his advice? Listen to me.” Smith was intensely excited now, his eyes bright, his lean figure curiously strung up, alert. “The Mandarin Yen Sun Yat is one of the Seven!”

  “I do not follow you, Mr. Smith.”

  “Possibly. China today is not the China of ’98. It is a huge secret machine, and Ho-Nan one of its most important wheels! But if, as I understand, this official is a friend of yours, believe me, he has saved your life! You would be a dead man now if it were not for your friend in China! My dear sir, you must accept his counsel.”

  Then, for the first time since I had made his acquaintance, “Parson Dan” showed through the surface of the Rev. J.D. Eltham.

  “No, sir!” replied the clergyman—and the change in his voice was startling. “I am called to Nan-Yang. Only One may deter my going.”

  The admixture of deep spiritual reverence with intense truculence in his voice was dissimilar from anything I ever had heard.

  “Then only One can protect you,” cried Smith, “for by heaven, no man will be able to do so! Your presence in Ho-Nan can do no possible good at present. It must do harm. Your experience in 1900 should be fresh in your memory.”

  “Hard words, Mr. Smith.”

  “The class of missionary work which you favour, sir, is injurious to international peace. At the present moment, Ho-Nan is a barrel of gunpowder; you would be the lighted match. I do not willingly stand between any man and what he chooses to consider his duty, but I insist that you abandon your visit to the interior of China!”

  “You insist, Mr. Smith?”

  “As your guest, I regret the necessity for reminding you that I hold authority to enforce it.”

  Denby fidgeted uneasily. The tone of the conversation was growing harsh and the atmosphere of the library portentous with brewing storms.

  There was a short, silent interval.

  “This is what I had feared and expected,” said the clergyman. “This was my reason for not seeking official protection.”

  “The phantom Yellow Peril,” said Nayland Smith, “today materializes under the very eyes of the Western world.”

  “The ‘Yellow Peril’!”


  “You scoff, sir, and so do others. We take the proffered right hand of friendship but do not inquire if the hidden left holds a knife? The peace of the world is at stake, Mr. Eltham. Unknowingly, you tamper with tremendous issues.”

  Mr. Eltham drew a deep breath, thrusting both hands in his pockets.

  “You are painfully frank, Mr. Smith,” he said; “but I like you for it. I will reconsider my position and talk this matter over again with you tomorrow.”

  Thus, then, the storm blew over. Yet I had never experienced such an overwhelming sense of imminent peril—of a sinister presence—as oppressed me at that moment. The very atmosphere of Redmoat was impregnated with Eastern devilry; it loaded the air like some evil perfume. And then through the silence cut a throbbing scream—the scream of a woman in direst fear.

  “My God, it’s Greba!” whispered Mr. Eltham.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE THING IN THE SHRUBBERY

  In what order we dashed down to the drawing-room I cannot recall. But none was before me when I leapt over the threshold and saw Miss Eltham prone by the French windows.

  These were closed and bolted, and she lay, with hands outstretched, in the alcove which they formed. I bent over her. Nayland Smith was at my elbow.

  “Get my bag,” I said. “She has swooned. It is nothing serious.”

  Her father, pale and wide-eyed, hovered about me, muttering incoherently, but I managed to reassure him; and his gratitude when, I having administered a simple restorative, the girl sighed shudderingly and opened her eyes, was quite pathetic.

  I would permit no questioning at that time, and on her father’s arm she retired to her own rooms.

  It was some fifteen minutes later that her message was brought to me. I followed the maid to a quaint little octagonal apartment, and Greba Eltham stood before me, the candlelight caressing the soft curves of her face and gleaming in the meshes of her rich brown hair.

  When she had answered my first question she hesitated in pretty confusion.