The Hand of Fu Manchu (4 page)

Faintly to my ears came the booming of London's clocks, beating out
the hour of four. But still I sat beside the mysterious coffer,
indisposed to awaken my friend any sooner than was necessary,
particularly since I felt in no way sleepy myself.

I was to learn a lesson that night: the lesson of strict adherence to
a compact. I had arranged to awaken Nayland Smith at four; and because
I dallied, determined to finish my pipe ere entering his bedroom,
almost it happened that Fate placed it beyond my power ever to awaken
him again.

At ten minutes past four, amid a stillness so intense that the
creaking of my slippers seemed a loud disturbance, I crossed the room
and pushed open the door of Smith's bedroom. It was in darkness, but
as I entered I depressed the switch immediately inside the door,
lighting the lamp which swung form the center of the ceiling.

Glancing towards the bed, I immediately perceived that there was
something different in its aspect, but at first I found this
difference difficult to define. I stood for a moment in doubt. Then
I realized the nature of the change which had taken place.

A lamp hung above the bed, attached to a movable fitting, which
enabled it to be raised or lowered at the pleasure of the occupant.
When Smith had retired he was in no reading mood, and he had not even
lighted the reading-lamp, but had left it pushed high up against the
ceiling.

It was the position of this lamp which had changed. For now it swung
so low over the pillow that the silken fringe of the shade almost
touched my friend's face as he lay soundly asleep with one
lean brown hand outstretched upon the coverlet.

I stood in the doorway staring, mystified, at this phenomenon; I might
have stood there without intervening, until intervention had been too
late, were it not that, glancing upward toward the wooden block from
which ordinarily the pendant hung, I perceived that no block was
visible, but only a round, black cavity from which the white flex
supporting the lamp swung out.

Then, uttering a horse cry which rose unbidden to my lips, I sprang
wildly across the room ... for now I had seen something else!

Attached to one of the four silken tassels which ornamented the
lamp-shade, so as almost to rest upon the cheek of the sleeping man,
was a little corymb of bloom ... the
Flower of Silence!

Grasping the shade with my left hand I seized the flex with my right,
and as Smith sprang upright in bed, eyes wildly glaring, I wrenched
with all my might. Upward my gaze was set; and I glimpsed a yellow
hand, with long, pointed finger nails. There came a loud resounding
snap; an electric spark spat venomously from the circular opening
above the bed; and, with the cord and lamp still fast in my grip, I
went rolling across the carpet—as the other lamp became instantly
extinguished.

Dimly I perceived Smith, arrayed in pyjamas, jumping out upon the
opposite side of the bed.

"Petrie, Petrie!" he cried, "where are you? what has happened?"

A laugh, little short of hysterical, escaped me. I gathered myself up
and made for the lighted sitting-room.

"Quick, Smith!" I said—but I did not recognize my own voice. "Quick—
come out of that room."

I crossed to the settee, and shaking in every limb, sank down upon it.
Nayland Smith, still wild-eyed, and his face a mask of bewilderment,
came out of the bedroom and stood watching me.

"For God's sake what has happened, Petrie?" he demanded, and began
clutching at the lobe of his left ear and looking all about the room
dazedly.

"The Flower of Silence!" I said; "some one has been at work in the top
corridor.... Heaven knows when, for since we engaged these rooms we
have not been much away from them ... the same device as in the case
of poor Hale.... You would have tried to brush the thing away ..."

A light of understanding began to dawn in my friend's eyes. He drew
himself stiffly upright, and in a loud, harsh voice uttered the words:
"Sâkya Mûni"—and again: "Sâkya Mûni."

"Thank God!" I said shakily. "I was not too late."

Nayland Smith, with much rattling of glass, poured out two stiff pegs
from the decanter. Then—

"
Ssh!
what's that?" he whispered.

He stood, tense, listening, his head cast slightly to one side.

A very faint sound of shuffling and tapping was perceptible, coming,
as I thought, from the incomplete stairway communicating with the upper
corridor.

"The man with the limp!" whispered Smith.

He bounded to the door and actually had one hand upon the bolt, when
he turned, and fixed his gaze upon the brass box.

"No!" he snapped; "there are occasions when prudence should rule.
Neither of us must leave these rooms to-night!"

"What is the meaning of Si-Fan?" asked Detective-sergeant Fletcher.

He stood looking from the window at the prospect below; at the trees
bordering the winding embankment; at the ancient monolith which for
unnumbered ages had looked across desert sands to the Nile, and now
looked down upon another river of many mysteries. The view seemed to
absorb his attention. He spoke without turning his head.

Nayland Smith laughed shortly.

"The Si-Fan are the natives of Eastern Tibet," he replied.

"But the term has some other significance, sir?" said the detective;
his words were more of an assertion than a query.

"It has," replied my friend grimly. "I believe it to be the name, or
perhaps the sigil, of an extensive secret society with branches
stretching out into every corner of the Orient."

We were silent for awhile. Inspector Weymouth, who sat in a chair near
the window, glanced appreciatively at the back of his subordinate, who
still stood looking out. Detective-sergeant Fletcher was one of
Scotland Yard's coming men. He had information of the first importance
to communicate, and Nayland Smith had delayed his departure upon an
urgent errand in order to meet him.

"Your case to date, Mr. Smith," continued Fletcher, remaining with
hands locked behind him, staring from the window, "reads something like
this, I believe: A brass box, locked, contents unknown, has come into
your possession. It stands now upon the table there. It was brought
from Tibet by a man who evidently thought that it had something to
do with the Si-Fan. He is dead, possibly by the agency of members of
this group. No arrests have been made. You know that there are people
here in London who are anxious to regain the box. You have theories
respecting the identity of some of them, but there are practically no
facts."

Nayland Smith nodded his head.

"Exactly!" he snapped.

"Inspector Weymouth, here," continued Fletcher, "has put me in
possession of such facts as are known to him, and I believe that I
have had the good fortune to chance upon a valuable one."

"You interest me, Sergeant Fletcher," said Smith. "What is the nature
of this clue?"

"I will tell you," replied the other, and turned briskly upon his heel
to face us.

He had a dark, clean-shaven face, rather sallow complexion, and
deep-set, searching eyes. There was decision in the square, cleft chin
and strong character in the cleanly chiseled features. His manner was
alert.

"I have specialized in Chinese crime," he said; "much of my time is
spent amongst our Asiatic visitors. I am fairly familiar with the
Easterns who use the port of London, and I have a number of useful
acquaintances among them."

Nayland Smith nodded. Beyond doubt Detective-sergeant Fletcher knew
his business.

"To my lasting regret," Fletcher continued, "I never met the late Dr.
Fu-Manchu. I understand, sir, that you believe him to have been a high
official of this dangerous society? However, I think we may get in
touch with some other notabilities; for instance, I'm told that one
of the people you're looking for has been described as 'the man with
the limp'?"

Smith, who had been about to relight his pipe, dropped the match on
the carpet and set his foot upon it. His eyes shone like steel.

"'The man with the limp,'" he said, and slowly rose to his feet—"what
do you know of the man with the limp?"

Fletcher's face flushed slightly; his words had proved more dramatic
than he had anticipated.

"There's a place down Shadwell way," he replied, "of which, no doubt,
you will have heard; it has no official title, but it is known to
habitués as the Joy-Shop...."

Inspector Weymouth stood up, his burly figure towering over that of
his slighter confrère.

"I don't think you know John Ki's, Mr. Smith," he said. "We keep all
those places pretty well patrolled, and until this present business
cropped up, John's establishment had never given us any trouble."

"What is this Joy-Shop?" I asked.

"A resort of shady characters, mostly Asiatics," replied Weymouth.
"It's a gambling-house, an unlicensed drinking-shop, and even worse—
but it's more use to us open than it would be shut."

"It is one of my regular jobs to keep an eye on the visitors to the
Joy-Shop," continued Fletcher. "I have many acquaintances who use the
place. Needless to add, they don't know my real business! Well,
lately several of them have asked me if I know who the man is that
hobbles about the place with two sticks. Everybody seems to have
heard him, but no one has seen him."

Nayland Smith began to pace the floor restlessly.

"I have heard him myself," added Fletcher, "but never managed to get
so much as a glimpse of him. When I learnt about this Si-Fan mystery,
I realized that he might very possibly be the man for whom you're
looking—and a golden opportunity has cropped up for you to visit the
Joy-Shop, and, if our luck remains in, to get a peep behind the scenes."

"I am all attention," snapped Smith.

"A woman called Zarmi has recently put in an appearance at the
Joy-Shop. Roughly speaking, she turned up at about the same time as
the unseen man with the limp...."

Nayland Smith's eyes were blazing with suppressed excitement; he was
pacing quickly up and down the floor, tugging at the lobe of his left
ear.

"She is—different in some way from any other woman I have ever seen
in the place. She's a Eurasian and good-looking, after a tigerish
fashion. I have done my best"—he smiled slightly—"to get in her good
books, and up to a point I've succeeded. I was there last night, and
Zarmi asked me if I knew what she called a 'strong feller.'

"'These,' she informed me, contemptuously referring to the rest of the
company, 'are poor weak Johnnies!'

"I had nothing definite in view at the time, for I had not then heard
about your return to London, but I thought it might lead to something
anyway, so I promised to bring a friend along to-night. I don't know
what we're wanted to do, but ..."

"Count on me!" snapped Smith. "I will leave all details to you and to
Weymouth, and I will be at New Scotland Yard this evening in time to
adopt a suitable disguise. Petrie"—he turned impetuously to me—"I
fear I shall have to go without you; but I shall be in safe company,
as you see, and doubtless Weymouth can find you a part in his portion
of the evening's program."

He glanced at his watch.

"Ah! I must be off. If you will oblige me, Petrie, by putting the
brass box into my smaller portmanteau, whilst I slip my coat on,
perhaps Weymouth, on his way out, will be good enough to order a taxi.
I shall venture to breathe again once our unpleasant charge is safely
deposited in the bank vaults!"

A slight drizzling rain was falling as Smith entered the cab which
the hall-porter had summoned. The brown bag in his hand contained the
brass box which actually was responsible for our presence in London.
The last glimpse I had of him through the glass of the closed window
showed him striking a match to light his pipe—which he rarely allowed
to grow cool.

Oppressed with an unaccountable weariness of spirit, I stood within
the lobby looking out upon the grayness of London in November. A
slight mental effort was sufficient to blot out that drab prospect and
to conjure up before my mind's eye a balcony overlooking the Nile—a
glimpse of dusty palms, a white wall overgrown with purple blossoms,
and above all the dazzling vault of Egypt. Upon the balcony my
imagination painted a figure, limning it with loving details, the
figure of Kâramaneh; and I thought that her glorious eyes would be
sorrowful and her lips perhaps a little tremulous, as, her arms resting
upon the rail of the balcony, she looked out across the smiling river
to the domes and minarets of Cairo—and beyond, into the hazy distance;
seeing me in dreary, rain-swept London, as I saw her, at Gezîra
beneath the cloudless sky of Egypt.

From these tender but mournful reflections I aroused myself, almost
angrily, and set off through the muddy streets towards Charing Cross;
for I was availing myself of the opportunity to call upon Dr. Murray,
who had purchased my small suburban practice when (finally, as I
thought at the time) I had left London.

This matter occupied me for the greater part of the afternoon, and I
returned to the New Louvre Hotel shortly after five, and seeing no one
in the lobby whom I knew, proceeded immediately to our apartment.
Nayland Smith was not there, and having made some changes in my attire
I descended again and inquired if he had left any message for me.

The booking-clerk informed me that Smith had not returned; therefore I
resigned myself to wait. I purchased an evening paper and settled down
in the lounge where I had an uninterrupted view of the entrance doors.
The dinner hour approached, but still my friend failed to put in an
appearance. Becoming impatient, I entered a call-box and rang up
Inspector Weymouth.

Smith had not been to Scotland Yard, nor had they received any message
from him. Perhaps it would appear that there was little cause for alarm
in this, but I, familiar with my friend's punctual and exact habits,
became strangely uneasy. I did not wish to make myself ridiculous,
but growing restlessness impelled me to institute inquiries regarding
the cabman who had driven my friend. The result of these was to
increase rather than to allay my fears.