The Hand of Fu Manchu (18 page)

"They have the man Ismail, but ..."

A hollow crash drowned the end of the sentence. A shower of sparks
shot up into the night's darkness high above our heads.

"That's the platform gone!"

One night early in the following week I sat at work upon my notes
dealing with our almost miraculous escape from the blazing hashish
house when the clock of St. Paul's began to strike midnight.

I paused in my work, leaning back wearily and wondering what detained
Nayland Smith so late. Some friends from Burma had carried him off to
a theater, and in their good company I had thought him safe enough;
yet, with the omnipresent menace of Fu-Manchu hanging over our heads,
always I doubted, always I feared, if my friend should chance to be
delayed abroad at night.

What a world of unreality was mine, in those days! Jostling, as I did,
commonplace folk in commonplace surroundings, I yet knew myself removed
from them, knew myself all but alone in my knowledge of the great and
evil man, whose presence in England had diverted my life into these
strange channels.

But, despite of all my knowledge, and despite the infinitely greater
knowledge and wider experience of Nayland Smith, what did I know, what
did he know, of the strange organization called the Si-Fan, and of its
most formidable member, Dr. Fu-Manchu?

Where did the dreadful Chinaman hide, with his murderers, his poisons,
and his nameless death agents? What roof in broad England sheltered
Kâramaneh, the companion of my dreams, the desire of every waking hour?

I uttered a sigh of despair, when, to my unbounded astonishment, there
came a loud rap upon the window pane!

Leaping up, I crossed to the window, threw it widely open and leant out,
looking down into the court below. It was deserted. In no other window
visible to me was any light to be seen, and no living thing moved in
the shadows beneath. The clamor of Fleet Street's diminishing traffic
came dimly to my ears; the last stroke from St. Paul's quivered through
the night.

What was the meaning of the sound which had disturbed me? Surely I
could not have imagined it? Yet, right, left, above and below, from the
cloisteresque shadows on the east of the court to the blank wall of the
building on the west, no living thing stirred.

Quietly, I reclosed the window, and stood by it for a moment listening.
Nothing occurred, and I returned to the writing-table, puzzled but in
no sense alarmed. I resumed the seemingly interminable record of the
Si-Fan mysteries, and I had just taken up my pen, when ... two loud
raps sounded upon the pane behind me.

In a trice I was at the window, had thrown it open, and was craning
out. Practical joking was not characteristic of Nayland Smith, and I
knew of none other likely to take such a liberty. As before, the court
below proved to be empty....

Some one was softly rapping at the door of the chambers!

I turned swiftly from the open window; and now, came
fear
.
Momentarily, the icy finger of panic touched me, for I thought myself
invested upon all sides. Who could this late caller be, this midnight
visitor who rapped, ghostly, in preference to ringing the bell?

From the table drawer I took out a Browning pistol, slipped it into my
pocket and crossed to the narrow hallway. It was in darkness, but I
depressed the switch, lighting the lamp. Toward the closed door I looked
—as the soft rapping was repeated.

I advanced; then hesitated, and, strung up to a keen pitch of fearful
anticipation, stood there in doubt. The silence remained unbroken for
the space, perhaps of half a minute. Then again came the ghostly rapping.

"Who's there?" I cried loudly.

Nothing stirred outside the door, and still I hesitated. To some who
read, my hesitancy may brand me childishly timid; but I, who had met
many of the dreadful creatures of Dr. Fu-Manchu, had good reason to
fear whomsoever or whatsoever rapped at midnight upon my door. Was I
likely to forget the great half-human ape, with the strength of four
lusty men, which once he had loosed upon us?—had I not cause to
remember his Burmese dacoits and Chinese stranglers?

No, I had just cause for dread, as I fully recognized when, snatching
the pistol from my pocket, I strode forward, flung wide the door, and
stood peering out into the black gulf of the stairhead.

Nothing, no one, appeared!

Conscious of a longing to cry out—if only that the sound of my own
voice might reassure me—I stood listening. The silence was complete.

"Who's there?" I cried again, and loudly enough to arrest the attention
of the occupant of the chambers opposite if he chanced to be at home.

None replied; and finding this phantom silence more nerve-racking than
any clamor, I stepped outside the door—and my heart gave a great leap,
then seemed to remain inert, in my breast....

Right and left of me, upon either side of the doorway, stood a dim
figure: I had walked deliberately into a trap!

The shock of the discovery paralyzed my mind for one instant. In the
next, and with the sinister pair closing swiftly upon me, I stepped
back—I stepped into the arms of some third assailant, who must have
entered the chambers by way of the open window and silently crept up
behind me!

So much I realized, and no more. A bag, reeking of some hashish-like
perfume, was clapped over my head and pressed firmly against mouth
and nostrils. I felt myself to be stifling—dying—and dropping into
a bottomless pit.

When I opened my eyes I failed for some time to realize that I was
conscious in the true sense of the word, that I was really awake.

I sat upon a bench covered with a red carpet, in a fair-sized room,
very simply furnished, in the Chinese manner, but having a two-leaved,
gilded door, which was shut. At the further end of this apartment was
a dais some three feet high, also carpeted with red, and upon it was
placed a very large cushion covered with a tiger skin.

Seated cross-legged upon the cushion was a Chinaman of most majestic
appearance. His countenance was truly noble and gracious and he was
dressed in a yellow robe lined with marten-fur. His hair, which was
thickly splashed with gray, was confined upon the top of his head by
three golden combs, and a large diamond was suspended from his left
ear. A pearl-embroidered black cap, surmounted by the red coral ball
denoting the mandarin's rank, lay upon a second smaller cushion
beside him.

Leaning back against the wall, I stared at his personage with a
dreadful fixity, for I counted him the figment of a disarranged mind.
But palpably he remained before me, fanning himself complacently, and
watching me with every mark of kindly interest. Evidently perceiving
that I was fully alive to my surroundings, the Chinaman addressed a
remark to me in a tongue quite unfamiliar.

I shook my head dazedly.

"Ah," he commented in French, "you do not speak my language."

"I do not," I answered, also in French, "but since it seems we have
one common tongue, what is the meaning of the outrage to which I have
been subjected, and who are you?"

As I spoke the words I rose to my feet, but was immediately attacked
by vertigo, which compelled me to resume my seat upon the bench.

"Compose yourself," said the Chinaman, taking a pinch of snuff from a
silver vase which stood convenient to his hand. "I have been compelled
to adopt certain measures in order to bring about this interview. In
China, such measures are not unusual, but I recognize that they are
out of accordance with your English ideas."

"Emphatically they are!" I replied.

The placid manner of this singularly imposing old man rendered proper
resentment difficult. A sense of futility, and of unreality, claimed
me; I felt that this was a dream-world, governed by dream-laws.

"You have good reason," he continued, calmly raising the pinch of
snuff to his nostrils, "good reason to distrust all that is Chinese.
Therefore, when I despatched my servants to your abode (knowing you
to be alone) I instructed them to observe every law of courtesy,
compatible with the Sure Invitation. Hence, I pray you, absolve me,
for I intended no offense."

Words failed me altogether; wonder succeeded wonder! What was coming?
What did it all mean?

"I have selected you, rather than Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith,"
continued the mandarin, "as the recipient of those secrets which I am
about to impart, for the reason that your friend might possibly be
acquainted with my appearance. I will confess there was a time when I
must have regarded you with animosity, as one who sought the
destruction of the most ancient and potent organization in the world—
the Si-Fan."

As he uttered the words he raised his right hand and touched his
forehead, his mouth, and finally his breast—a gesture reminiscent of
that employed by Moslems.

"But my first task is to assure you," he resumed, "that the activities
of that Order are in no way inimical to yourself, your country or your
King. The extensive ramifications of the Order have recently been
employed by a certain Dr. Fu-Manchu for his own ends, and, since he
was (I admit it) a high official, a schism has been created in our
ranks. Exactly a month ago, sentence of death was passed upon him by
the Sublime Prince, and since I myself must return immediately to China,
I look to Mr. Nayland Smith to carry out that sentence."

I said nothing; I remained bereft of the power of speech.

"The Si-Fan," he added, repeating the gesture with his hand, "disown
Dr. Fu-Manchu and his servants; do with them what you will. In this
envelope"—he held up a sealed package—"is information which should
prove helpful to Mr. Smith. I have now a request to make. You were
conveyed here in the garments which your wore at the time that my
servants called upon you." (I was hatless and wore red leathern
slippers.) "An overcoat and a hat can doubtless be found to suit you,
temporarily, and my request is that you close your eyes until
permission is given to open them."

Is there any one of my readers in doubt respecting my reception of
this proposal? Remember my situation, remember the bizarre happening
that had led up to it; remember, too, ere judging me, that whilst I
could not doubt the unseen presence of Chinamen unnumbered surrounding
that strange apartment with the golden door, I had not the remotest
clue to guide me in determining where it was situated. Since the
duration of my unconsciousness was immeasurable, the place in which I
found myself might have been anywhere, within say, thirty miles of
Fleet Street!

"I agree," I said.

The mandarin bowed composedly.

"Kindly close your eyes, Dr. Petrie," he requested, "and fear nothing.
No danger threatens you."

I obeyed. Instantly sounded the note of a gong, and I became aware
that the golden door was open. A soft voice, evidently that of a
cultured Chinaman, spoke quite close to my ear—

"Keep your eyes tightly closed, please, and I will help you on with
this coat. The envelope you will find in the pocket and here is a
tweed cap. Now take my hand."

Wearing the borrowed garments, I was led from the room, along a
passage, down a flight of thickly carpeted stairs, and so out of the
house into the street. Faint evidences of remote traffic reached my
ears as I was assisted into a car and placed in a cushioned corner.
The car moved off, proceeded for some distance; then—

"Allow me to help you to descend," said the soft voice. "You may open
your eyes in thirty seconds."

I was assisted from the step on to the pavement—and I heard the car
being driven back. Having slowly counted thirty I opened my eyes, and
looked about me. This, and not the fevered moment when first I had
looked upon the room with the golden door, seemed to be my true
awakening, for about me was comprehensible world, the homely streets
of London, with deserted Portland Place stretching away on the one
hand and a glimpse of midnight Regent Street obtainable on the other!
The clock of the neighboring church struck one.

My mind yet dull with wonder of it all, I walked on to Oxford Circus
and there obtained a taxicab, in which I drove to Fleet Street.
Discharging the man, I passed quickly under the time worn archway
into the court and approached our stair. Indeed, I was about to ascend
when some one came racing down and almost knocked me over.

"Petrie! Petrie! Thank God you're safe!"

It was Nayland Smith, his eyes blazing with excitement, as I could
see by the dim light of the lamp near the archway, and his hands, as
he clapped them upon my shoulders, quivering tensely.

"Petrie!" he ran on impulsively, and speaking with extraordinary
rapidly, "I was detained by a most ingenious trick and arrived only
five minutes ago, to find you missing, the window wide open, and signs
of hooks, evidently to support a rope ladder, having been attached
to the ledge."

"But where were you going?"

"Weymouth has just rung up. We have indisputable proof that the
mandarin Ki-Ming, whom I had believed to be dead, and whom I know for
a high official of the Si-Fan, is actually in London! It's neck or
nothing this time, Petrie! I'm going straight to Portland Place!"

"To the Chinese Legation?"

"Exactly!"

"Perhaps I can save you a journey," I said slowly. "I have just come
from there!"

Nayland Smith strode up and down the little sitting-room, tugging
almost savagely at the lobe of his left ear. To-night his increasing
grayness was very perceptible, and with his feverishly bright eyes
staring straightly before him, he looked haggard and ill, despite the
deceptive tan of his skin.

"Petrie," he began in his abrupt fashion, "I am losing confidence in
myself."