The Hand of Fu Manchu (5 page)

The man was a stranger to the hall-porter, and he was not one of the
taximen who habitually stood upon the neighboring rank; no one seemed
to have noticed the number of the cab.

And now my mind began to play with strange doubts and fears. The driver,
I recollected, had been a small, dark man, possessing remarkably
well-cut olive-hued features. Had he not worn spectacles he would
indeed have been handsome, in an effeminate fashion.

I was almost certain, by this time, that he had not been an Englishman;
I was almost certain that some catastrophe had befallen Smith. Our
ceaseless vigilance had been momentarily relaxed—and this was the
result!

At some large bank branches there is a resident messenger. Even
granting that such was the case in the present instance, I doubted if
the man could help me, unless, as was possible, he chanced to be
familiar with my friend's appearance, and had actually seen him there
that day. I determined, at any rate, to make the attempt; reentering
the call-box, I asked for the bank's number.

There proved to be a resident messenger, who, after a time, replied to
my call. He knew Nayland Smith very well by sight, and as he had been
on duty in the public office of the bank at the time that Smith should
have arrived, he assured me that my friend had not been there that day!

"Besides, sir," he said, "you say he came to deposit valuables of some
kind here?"

"Yes, yes!" I cried eagerly.

"I take all such things down on the lift to the vaults at night, sir,
under the supervision of the assistant manager—and I can assure you
that nothing of the kind has been left with us to-day."

I stepped out of the call-box unsteadily. Indeed, I clutched at the
door for support.

"What is the meaning of Si-Fan?" Detective-sergeant Fletcher had asked
that morning. None of us could answer him; none of us knew. With a
haze seeming to dance between my eyes and the active life in the lobby
before me, I realized that the Si-Fan—that unseen, sinister power—
had reached out and plucked my friend from the very midst of this
noisy life about me, into its own mysterious, deathly silence.

"It's no easy matter," said Inspector Weymouth, "to patrol the vicinity
of John Ki's Joy-Shop without their getting wind of it. The entrance,
as you'll see, is a long, narrow rat-hole of a street running at right
angles to the Thames. There's no point, so far as I know, from which
the yard can be overlooked; and the back is on a narrow cutting
belonging to a disused mill."

I paid little attention to his words. Disguised beyond all chance of
recognition even by one intimate with my appearance, I was all
impatience to set out. I had taken Smith's place in the night's
program; for, every possible source of information having been tapped
in vain, I now hoped against hope that some clue to the fate of my poor
friend might be obtained at the Chinese den which he had designed to
visit with Fletcher.

The latter, who presented a strange picture in his make-up as a sort
of half-caste sailor, stared doubtfully at the Inspector; then—

"The River Police cutter," he said, "can drop down on the tide and lie
off under the Surrey bank. There's a vacant wharf facing the end of
the street and we can slip through and show a light there, to let you
know we've arrived. You reply in the same way. If there's any
trouble, I shall blaze away with this"—he showed the butt of a
Service revolver protruding from his hip pocket—"and you can be
ashore in no time."

The plan had one thing to commend it, viz., that no one could devise
another. Therefore it was adopted, and five minutes later a taxi-cab
swung out of the Yard containing Inspector Weymouth and two ruffianly
looking companions—myself and Fletcher.

Any zest with which, at another time, I might have entered upon such
an expedition, was absent now. I bore with me a gnawing anxiety and
sorrow that precluded all conversation on my part, save monosyllabic
replies, to questions that I comprehended but vaguely.

At the River Police Depot we found Inspector Ryman, an old acquaintance,
awaiting us. Weymouth had telephoned from Scotland Yard.

"I've got a motor-boat at the breakwater," said Ryman, nodding to
Fletcher, and staring hard at me.

Weymouth laughed shortly.

"Evidently you don't recognize Dr. Petrie!" he said.

"Eh!" cried Ryman—"Dr. Petrie! why, good heavens, Doctor, I should
never have known you in a month of Bank holidays! What's afoot,
then?"—and he turned to Weymouth, eyebrows raised interrogatively.

"It's the Fu-Manchu business again, Ryman."

"Fu-Manchu! But I thought the Fu-Manchu case was off the books long
ago? It was always a mystery to me; never a word in the papers; and
we as much in the dark as everybody else—but didn't I hear that the
Chinaman, Fu-Manchu, was dead?"

Weymouth nodded.

"Some of his friends seem to be very much alive, though" he said.
"It appears that Fu-Manchu, for all his genius—and there's no denying
he was a genius, Ryman—was only the agent of somebody altogether
bigger."

Ryman whistled softly.

"Has the real head of affairs arrived, then?"

"We find we are up against what is known as the Si-Fan."

At that it came to the inevitable, unanswerable question.

"What is the Si-Fan?"

I laughed, but my laughter was not mirthful. Inspector Weymouth shook
his head.

"Perhaps Mr. Nayland Smith could tell you that," he replied; "for the
Si-Fan got him to-day!"

"Got him!" cried Ryman.

"Absolutely! He's vanished! And Fletcher here has found out that John
Ki's place is in some way connected with this business."

I interrupted—impatiently, I fear.

"Then let us set out, Inspector," I said, "for it seems to me that we
are wasting precious time—and you know what that may mean." I turned
to Fletcher. "Where is this place situated, exactly? How do we proceed?"

"The cab can take us part of the way," he replied, "and we shall have
to walk the rest. Patrons of John's don't turn up in taxis, as a rule!"

"Then let us be off," I said, and made for the door.

"Don't forget the signal!" Weymouth cried after me, "and don't venture
into the place until you've received our reply...."

But I was already outside, Fletcher following; and a moment later we
were both in the cab and off into a maze of tortuous streets toward
John Ki's Joy-Shop.

With the coming of nightfall the rain had ceased, but the sky remained
heavily overcast and the air was filled with clammy mist. It was a
night to arouse longings for Southern skies; and when, discharging
the cabman, we set out afoot along a muddy and ill-lighted
thoroughfare bordered on either side by high brick walls, their
monotony occasionally broken by gateways, I felt that the load of
depression which had settled upon my shoulders must ere long bear me
down.

Sounds of shunting upon some railway siding came to my ears; train
whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were,
too, for we were close beside the Thames, that gray old stream which
has borne upon its bier many a poor victim of underground London. The
sky glowed sullenly red above.

"There's the Joy-Shop, along on the left," said Fletcher, breaking in
upon my reflections. "You'll notice a faint light; it's shining out
through the open door. Then, here is the wharf."

He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside
which we were standing; and a moment later—

"All right—slip through," he said.

I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the
gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low
arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going
on the opposite bank.

"Go steady!" warned Fletcher. "It's only a few paces to the edge of
the wharf."

I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.

"Here is my electric lamp," I said. "It will serve the purpose better."

"Good," muttered my companion. "Show a light down here, so that we
can find our way."

With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting
timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river,
but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible
to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These,
without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain;
along the water level lay a belt of darkness.

"Let me give them the signal," said Fletcher, shivering slightly and
taking the lamp from my hand.

He flashed the light two or three times. Then we both stood watching
the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore. The tide lapped
upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling
sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash
from somewhere below and behind us.

"There goes a rat," said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze
from the darkness under the distant shore. "It's gone into the cutting
at the back of John Ki's."

He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times. Then, all
at once out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked
a little eye of light—once, twice, thrice it winked at us from low
down upon the oily water; then was gone.

"It's Weymouth with the cutter," said Fletcher; "they are ready ...
now for Jon Ki's."

We stumbled back up the slight acclivity beneath the archway to the
street, leaving the ruinous gates as we had found them. Into the
uninviting little alley immediately opposite we plunged, and where
the faint yellow luminance showed upon the muddy path before us,
Fletcher paused a moment, whispering to me warningly.

"Don't speak if you can help it," he said; "if you do, mumble any old
jargon in any language you like, and throw in plenty of cursing!"

He grasped me by the arm, and I found myself crossing the threshold of
the Joy-Shop—I found myself in a meanly furnished room no more than
twelve feet square and very low ceiled, smelling strongly of paraffin
oil. The few items of furniture which it contained were but dimly
discernible in the light of a common tin lamp which stood upon a
packing-case at the head of what looked like cellar steps.

Abruptly, I pulled up; for this stuffy little den did not correspond
with pre-conceived ideas of the place for which we were bound. I was
about to speak when Fletcher nipped my arm—and out from the shadows
behind the packing-case a little bent figure arose!

I started violently, for I had had no idea that another was in the
room. The apparition proved to be a Chinaman, and judging from what I
could see of him, a very old Chinaman, his bent figure attired in a
blue smock. His eyes were almost invisible amidst an intricate map of
wrinkles which covered his yellow face.

"Evening, John," said Fletcher—and, pulling me with him, he made for
the head of the steps.

As I came abreast of the packing-case, the Chinaman lifted the lamp
and directed its light fully upon my face.

Great as was the faith which I reposed in my make-up, a doubt and a
tremor disturbed me now, as I found myself thus scrutinized by those
cunning old eyes looking out from the mask-like, apish face. For the
first time the Chinaman spoke.

"You blinger fliend, Charlie?" he squeaked in a thin, piping voice.

"Him play piecee card," replied Fletcher briefly. "Good fellow, plenty
much money."

He descended the steps, still holding my arm, and I perforce followed
him. Apparently John's scrutiny and Fletcher's explanation respecting
me, together had proved satisfactory; for the lamp was replaced upon
the lid of the packing-case, and the little bent figure dropped down
again into the shadows from which it had emerged.

"Allee lightee," I heard faintly as I stumbled downward in the wake
of Fletcher.

I had expected to find myself in a cellar, but instead discovered that
we were in a small square court with the mist of the night about us
again. On a doorstep facing us stood a duplicate of the lamp upon the
box upstairs. Evidently this was designed to indicate the portals of
the Joy-Shop, for Fletcher pushed open the door, whose threshold
accommodated the lamp, and the light of the place beyond shone out
into our faces. We entered and my companion closed the door behind us.

Before me I perceived a long low room lighted by flaming gas-burners,
the jets hissing and spluttering in the draught from the door, for
they were entirely innocent of shades or mantles. Wooden tables,
their surfaces stained with the marks of countless wet glasses, were
ranged about the place, café fashion; and many of these tables
accommodated groups, of nondescript nationality for the most part.
One or two there were in a distant corner who were unmistakably
Chinamen; but my slight acquaintance with the races of the East did
not enable me to classify the greater number of those whom I now saw
about me. There were several unattractive-looking women present.

Fletcher walked up the center of the place, exchanging nods of
recognition with two hang-dog poker-players, and I was pleased to note
that our advent had apparently failed to attract the slightest
attention. Through an opening on the right-hand side of the room, near
the top, I looked into a smaller apartment, occupied exclusively by
Chinese. They were playing some kind of roulette and another game
which seemed wholly to absorb their interest. I ventured no more than
a glance, then passed on with my companion.

"
Fan-tan!
" he whispered in my ear.

Other forms of gambling were in progress at some of the tables; and
now Fletcher silently drew my attention to yet a third dimly lighted
apartment—this opening out from the left-hand corner of the
principal room. The atmosphere of the latter was sufficiently
abominable; indeed, the stench was appalling; but a wave of choking
vapor met me as I paused for a moment at the threshold of this inner
sanctuary. I formed but the vaguest impression of its interior; the
smell was sufficient. This annex was evidently reserved for
opium-smokers.