The Hand Of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  E-text prepared by Lisa Miller

  THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU

  Being a New Phase in the Activities of Fu-Manchu, the Devil Doctor

  by

  SAX ROHMER

  THE HAND OF FU MANCHU

  CHAPTER I

  THE TRAVELER FROM TIBET

  "Who's there?" I called sharply.

  I turned and looked across the room. The window had been widely openedwhen I entered, and a faint fog haze hung in the apartment, seeming toveil the light of the shaded lamp. I watched the closed door intently,expecting every moment to see the knob turn. But nothing happened.

  "Who's there?" I cried again, and, crossing the room, I threw open thedoor.

  The long corridor without, lighted only by one inhospitable lamp at aremote end, showed choked and yellowed with this same fog socharacteristic of London in November. But nothing moved to right norleft of me. The New Louvre Hotel was in some respects yet incomplete,and the long passage in which I stood, despite its marble facings, hadno air of comfort or good cheer; palatial it was, but inhospitable.

  I returned to the room, reclosing the door behind me, then for somefive minutes or more I stood listening for a repetition of thatmysterious sound, as of something that both dragged and tapped, whichalready had arrested my attention. My vigilance went unrewarded. Ihad closed the window to exclude the yellow mist, but subconsciously Iwas aware of its encircling presence, walling me in, and now I foundmyself in such a silence as I had known in deserts but could scarcehave deemed possible in fog-bound London, in the heart of the world'smetropolis, with the traffic of the Strand below me upon one side andthe restless life of the river upon the other.

  It was easy to conclude that I had been mistaken, that my nervoussystem was somewhat overwrought as a result of my hurried return fromCairo--from Cairo where I had left behind me many a fondly cherishedhope. I addressed myself again to the task of unpacking mysteamer-trunk and was so engaged when again a sound in the corridoroutside brought me upright with a jerk.

  A quick footstep approached the door, and there came a muffled rappingupon the panel.

  This time I asked no question, but leapt across the room and threw thedoor open. Nayland Smith stood before me, muffled up in a heavytraveling coat, and with his hat pulled down over his brows.

  "At last!" I cried, as my friend stepped in and quickly reclosed thedoor.

  Smith threw his hat upon the settee, stripped off the great-coat, andpulling out his pipe began to load it in feverish haste.

  "Well," I said, standing amid the litter cast out from the trunk, andwatching him eagerly, "what's afoot?"

  Nayland Smith lighted his pipe, carelessly dropping the match-end uponthe floor at his feet.

  "God knows what _is_ afoot this time, Petrie!" he replied. "You and Ihave lived no commonplace lives; Dr. Fu-Manchu has seen to that; butif I am to believe what the Chief has told me to-day, even strangerthings are ahead of us!"

  I stared at him wonder-stricken.

  "That is almost incredible," I said; "terror can have no darkermeaning than that which Dr. Fu-Manchu gave to it. Fu-Manchu is dead,so what have we to fear?"

  "We have to fear," replied Smith, throwing himself into a corner ofthe settee, "the Si-Fan!"

  I continued to stare, uncomprehendingly.

  "The Si-Fan----"

  "I always knew and you always knew," interrupted Smith in his short,decisive manner, "that Fu-Manchu, genius that he was, remainednevertheless the servant of another or others. He was not the head ofthat organization which dealt in wholesale murder, which aimed atupsetting the balance of the world. I even knew the name of one, acertain mandarin, and member of the Sublime Order of the White Peacock,who was his immediate superior. I had never dared to guess at theidentity of what I may term the Head Center."

  He ceased speaking, and sat gripping his pipe grimly between his teeth,whilst I stood staring at him almost fatuously. Then--

  "Evidently you have much to tell me," I said, with forced calm.

  I drew up a chair beside the settee and was about to sit down.

  "Suppose you bolt the door," jerked my friend.

  I nodded, entirely comprehending, crossed the room and shot the littlenickel bolt into its socket.

  "Now," said Smith as I took my seat, "the story is a fragmentary onein which there are many gaps. Let us see what we know. It seems thatthe despatch which led to my sudden recall (and incidentally yours)from Egypt to London and which only reached me as I was on the pointof embarking at Suez for Rangoon, was prompted by the arrival here ofSir Gregory Hale, whilom attache at the British Embassy, Peking. Somuch, you will remember, was conveyed in my instructions."

  "Quite so."

  "Furthermore, I was instructed, you'll remember, to put up at the NewLouvre Hotel; therefore you came here and engaged this suite whilst Ireported to the chief. A stranger business is before us, Petrie, Iverily believe, than any we have known hitherto. In the first place,Sir Gregory Hale is here----"

  "Here?"

  "In the New Louvre Hotel. I ascertained on the way up, but not bydirect inquiry, that he occupies a suite similar to this, andincidentally on the same floor."

  "His report to the India Office, whatever its nature, must have beena sensational one."

  "He has made no report to the India Office."

  "What! made no report?"

  "He has not entered any office whatever, nor will he receive anyrepresentative. He's been playing at Robinson Crusoe in a privatesuite here for close upon a fortnight--_id est_ since the time of hisarrival in London!"

  I suppose my growing perplexity was plainly visible, for Smithsuddenly burst out with his short, boyish laugh.

  "Oh! I told you it was a strange business," he cried.

  "Is he mad?"

  Nayland Smith's gaiety left him; he became suddenly stern and grim.

  "Either mad, Petrie, stark raving mad, or the savior of the IndianEmpire--perhaps of all Western civilization. Listen. Sir Gregory Hale,whom I know slightly and who honors me, apparently, with a belief thatI am the only man in Europe worthy of his confidence, resigned hisappointment at Peking some time ago, and set out upon a privateexpedition to the Mongolian frontier with the avowed intention ofvisiting some place in the Gobi Desert. From the time that he actuallycrossed the frontier he disappeared for nearly six months, to reappearagain suddenly and dramatically in London. He buried himself in thishotel, refusing all visitors and only advising the authorities of hisreturn by telephone. He demanded that _I_ should be sent to see him;and--despite his eccentric methods--so great is the Chief's faith inSir Gregory's knowledge of matters Far Eastern, that behold, here I am."

  He broke off abruptly and sat in an attitude of tense listening. Then--

  "Do you hear anything, Petrie?" he rapped.

  "A sort of tapping?" I inquired, listening intently myself the while.

  Smith nodded his head rapidly.

  We both listened for some time, Smith with his head bent slightlyforward and his pipe held in his hands; I with my gaze upon the bolteddoor. A faint mist still hung in the room, and once I thought Idetected a slight sound from the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness.Smith noted me turn my head, and for a moment the pair of us staredinto the gap of the doorway. But the silence was complete.

  "You have told me neither much nor little, Smith," I said, resumingfor some reason, in a hushed voice. "Who or what is this Si-Fan atwhose existence you hint?"

  Nayland Smith smiled grimly.

  "Possibly the real and hitherto unsolved riddle of Tibet, Petrie," hereplied--"a mystery concealed from the world behind the veil ofLamaism." He stood up abruptly, glancing at a scrap of paper which hetook from his pocket--"Suite Number 14a," he said. "Come along! We have
not a moment to waste. Let us make our presence known to Sir Gregory--the man who has dared to raise that veil."