by Sax Rohmer
“You will notice, sir,” said Faversham, coughing respectfully, “that a party with chemical equipment according to your instructions, left at 12.15.”
The Commissioner nodded.
“I have noted this,” he replied. “The latest news, then, Dr. Petrie—” he fixed his rather tired looking blue eyes upon the latter—“is this: Sir Denis Nayland Smith, presumably accompanied by Detective-sergeant Murphy, is, we must assume, a prisoner in the cellars of this place; and according to a report received not more than ten minutes ago, from Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, experts from the explosive works were about to blast a way through the concrete wall, adjoining the iron door. The party to which Wing Commander Faversham refers had not then arrived.”
He paused, folded up his spectacles and placed them in a green leather case.
“I am strongly disposed,” he said, slowly, “since this is a case of major importance, to proceed to Limehouse myself; unless definite news is received within the next five minutes. Should you care to accompany me, Dr. Petrie?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
THE MATCH SELLER
Fey stared reflectively down from the bay window to where beyond the misty Embankment, the Thames flowed. A small steamer was passing, and Fey found himself calculating how long a time must elapse before that steamer would be traversing Limehouse Reach.
Tonight, he was assured, his monotonous duty was also a useless duty. Those yellow devils knew that Sir Denis was in Limehouse, but stoically Fey continued to smoke the large briar, and to walk up and down in accordance with orders. Dr. Petrie had set out for Scotland Yard not long before. It was trying, even to so patient a man, to stand so near the edge of the arena and yet be unable to see what was going on.
Fey was worried.
He had not said anything to the doctor, but through glasses from a darkened bedroom window, he had been studying an old match seller whose place of business on the Embankment almost immediately faced these flats.
Sir Denis, before leaving on that mysterious affair which still occupied him, had told Fey to watch this man and to note what he did. The man did nothing for five minutes or so, merely remaining seated against the parapet. Then he stood up.
Since Fey had assumed him to be a cripple, this was a surprise. But almost immediately, the match vendor sat down again.
Fey continued to watch.
One of those derelicts who haunt this riverside thoroughfare came shuffling along, paused for a moment, talking to the man seated on the pavement, and then retraced his steps.
Fey had been wondering, right up to the time of Dr. Petrie’s arrival, if this had been a mere coincidence, or if it had been a signal to a second watcher that there was something to report. For the entrance to the mansions was visible from that point, and Fey was disposed to believe that Sir Denis, in spite of his disguise, had been recognized as he went out that way, and that the news of his departure had been passed on.
His theory was confirmed shortly after Dr. Petrie’s departure.
At about the time that the doctor would have been walking down the steps, the match seller stood up again... and again the derelict shuffled along, spoke to him and disappeared.
The match seller was in his usual position again, now, but Fey from time to time slipped into the adjoining room and inspected him through binoculars. Had orders not forbidden it he would have slipped out and had a closer look at this suspicious character. However, he had discovered something.
The apartment was under close observation—and tonight the enemy was aware that Sir Denis was not at home; aware, furthermore, that Dr. Petrie had been and had gone...
Dimly Fey detected the sound made by the opening of the lift gate, and knew from experience that someone was alighting on that floor. He stood still for a moment listening.
The door bell rang.
He went out into the lobby, placing his pipe in an ashtray on a side table, and opened the door.
Fleurette Petrie stood there, her hair wind-blown, her face pale!
He observed that she wore a walking suit with the strange accompaniment of red bedroom slippers. They were combing the slums of Asiatic Limehouse for her, and here she was!
Fey’s heart leapt. But his face betrayed no evidence of his joy.
“Oh, Fey!” she exclaimed, “thank heaven I have got here!”
“Very pleased to see you, Miss,” said Fey composedly.
He stood aside as she entered, noiselessly closing the door. Her excitement intense but repressed, communicated itself to him. Its effect was to impose upon him an almost supernatural calm.
“Is Sir Denis in, Fey?”
“No, Miss. But your father was here less than twenty minutes ago.”
“What!”
Fleurette seized Fey’s arm.
“My father! Oh, Fey, where has he gone? He must be in a frightful state of mind about me. And of course, you had no news for him.”
“Very little, but I tried to reassure him.”
“But where has he gone, Fey?”
“He rang up the Commissioner, Miss, and then went across to interview him.”
“He may still be there. Could you possibly get through for me, Fey?”
“Certainly. I was about to suggest it. But can I get you anything?”
“No, Fey, thank you. I am so anxious to speak to my father.”
Fey bowed and went out into the lobby. Fleurette, tingling with excitement, crossed the room and stared out of the bay window down at the misty Embankment. She retraced her steps, and stood by the lobby door, too anxious even to await Fey’s report. He had just got through to Scotland Yard, and:
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man speaking,” he said. “Would you please put me through to the Commissioner’s office?”
There was an interval which Fleurette found barely endurable, then:
“Yes, sir. Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s man speaking. Dr. Petrie left here recently to call upon the Commissioner, and I have something urgent to report to him.”
“Bad luck,” said a voice at the other end of the wire; it belonged to Faversham, the immaculate private secretary. “Dr. Petrie and the Commissioner proceeded to Limehouse not more than five minutes ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you, sir.”
“What is it?” Fleurette whispered. “Isn’t he there?”
“Just gone out with the Commissioner. But excuse me a moment—” He spoke into the mouthpiece again. “Would it be possible, sir, to reach them at their destination?”
“Yes,” Faversham replied. “It’s some kind of store. I’ll instruct the people downstairs to get in touch with the officer in charge. Do you wish him to give Dr. Petrie any particular message?”
Fey hesitated for a moment, and then:
“Yes, if you don’t mind, sir,” he replied. “Tell Dr. Petrie that his daughter has returned.”
“What!” Faversham exclaimed. “Are you sure? Where is she?”
“She’s here, sir.”
“Good God! I’ll get through immediately; this is splendid news!”
“Thank you, sir.”
Fey replaced the receiver, and came out of the lobby. “Excuse me one moment, Miss,” he said.
He went into the adjoining room and focussed his glasses upon that spot far below where the itinerant match vendor plied his trade.
The man was standing up—and at the very moment that Fey focussed upon him, he sat down again!
The same mysterious pantomime was repeated. The loafer shuffled up, exchanged a few words with the other, then slunk away again.
Fey placed the glasses on the table, and returned to the sitting-room.
Fleurette had thrown herself into an armchair and was lighting a cigarette. She felt that she needed something to steady her nerves. The mystery of that hiatus between her parting from Alan on the steamer and her awakening in that little Surrey cottage, was terrifying.
“Excuse me, Miss,” said Fey. “But did you by any chance go to the window a
moment ago? I mean, just as I went out to the telephone?”
“Yes.” Fleurette nodded. “I did. I remember staring down at the Embankment, thinking how desolate it looked.”
Fey nodded.
“Why do you ask, Fey?”
“I was only wondering. You see I am sort of responsible for you.”
Very thoughtfully, but to Fleurette’s great amazement, he went out into the lobby, took up a large briar pipe, lighted it, and began with an abstracted air to walk up and down the room. Astonishment silenced her for a moment, and then:
“Fey!” she exclaimed. “Are you mad?”
Fey took the pipe from between his teeth, and:
“Sir Denis’s orders, Miss,” he explained.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
GALLAHO EXPLORES
A stifled boom of an explosion snapped the tension which had prevailed in Sam Pak’s shop from the moment that the man from Kinloch’s had finally been satisfied about the position of the charge, to that when, up there on the street level, he had pressed the button.
The time occupied in these methodical preparations had driven Gallaho to the verge of lunacy, and now:
“Come on!” he shouted, making for the head of a descending stairway concealed behind the curtain at the end of the bar. “There’s been time for a hundred murders. Let’s hope we’re not too late!”
The stairway led to a kitchen in which was the ingenious door which in turn communicated with that long underground corridor. The masked door was open now and a length of cable lay along the passage.
“Wait for the fumes to clear,” came a voice from behind.
“Fumes be damned!” growled Gallaho; then: “Hell! what’s that?”
A black jagged hole appeared in the wall beside the iron door. A bluish acrid vapor showed in the torchlight. But at the moment that the party led by Gallaho entered the passage-way, there came from somewhere beyond the iron door a rending crash as if a battering ram had been driven through concrete.
Now, hard upon it, followed an awful sound of rushing waters echoing, roaring down into some unsuspected depth!
Part of the wall above and to the right of the gap collapsed, and water began to spray out into the passage...
“I was afraid of this—did I not warn you?” The voice was Schumann’s. “This place is below tidal level. It is the Thames breaking in!”
“God help them!” groaned Trench, “if they’re down there!” Ignoring the vapor and the drenching spray, Gallaho, shining the ray of his torch ahead, ducked, and peered through the jagged opening.
“Be careful! The whole place may collapse!”
The spectacle before the detective was an awe-inspiring one.
Within a foot of his right hand, a smooth torrent of yellowish water poured out of some unseen gap, crashed upon a dim structure of wood and iron beneath, and from thence leapt out into the darkness of an incredible pit.
His iron nerve was momentarily shaken.
The depth indicated by the tumult of that falling water staggered him. Trench entered behind Gallaho.
“Stand clear of the water!” the latter bellowed in his ear. “It would sweep you off like a fly!”
He shone the powerful light downwards. There were wooden stairs in an iron framework. The torrent was breaking upon the first platform below, and thence descending, a great, shimmering, yellow coil, to unknown depths. Others were pushing through, but:
“Stand back!” Gallaho shouted. “There’s no more room between the water and the edge!”
Trench pressed his lips to Gallaho’s ear.
“This must be the shaft leading down to the tunnel,” he yelled. “But no one could pass that platform where the water is falling.”
Gallaho turned and pushed the speaker back through the opening into the passage. Startled faces watched them climbing through.
“Forester!” he cried. “Up to the room in the wooden outbuilding. We want all the rope and all the ladder you have!”
“Right!” said Forester, whose usually fresh coloring had quite deserted him, and set off at a run.
Gallaho turned to Trench.
“Did you notice the heat coming up from that place?”
Trench nodded, moistening his dry lips.
“And the smell?”
“I don’t like to think about the smell, Inspector,” he said unsteadily.
At which moment:
“Inspector Gallaho!” came a cry, “you’re wanted on the telephone upstairs.”
“What’s this?” growled Gallaho and ran off.
It was possible to make oneself heard in the corridor, and:
“I believe that place leads down to hell,” said Trench. “If so, it will run the Thames dry.”
“What’s the inspector’s idea about a rope ladder, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know, unless he thinks he can swing clear of the waterfall to a lower platform. He’s a braver man than I am if he is going to try it.”
There were muttered questions and doubtful answers; fearful glances cast upward at the roof of the passage. Schumann and the works manager had gone out and around to the river front, to endeavor to locate the spot at which the water was entering the cellars.
And now, came Merton, the ex A.B. trailing a long rope ladder. As he reached the passage-way he pulled up, brushing perspiration from his eyes, and:
“Here I say!” he exclaimed, staring at the spray-masked gap beside the iron door. “I’m not going in there for anybody!”
“You haven’t been asked to,” came Gallaho’s growling voice.
All turned as the detective-inspector came along the dimly lighted passage with his curious, lurching walk.
“Any news?” Trench asked.
“The Old Man’s on his way down.” (The Old Man referred to was the Commissioner of Police.) “Dr. Petrie’s with him—the girl’s father.”
“Whew!” whistled Trench.
“The queer thing is, though, that the girl’s turned up.”
“What!”
“She’s at Sir Denis’s flat; they had the report at the Yard only a few minutes ago.”
He divested himself of his tightly fitting blue overcoat, and turning to Merton:
“I want you to come through here with me,” he said, “because you understand knots and ropes, and I can rely on you. I want you to lash that ladder where I’ll show you to lash it.”
“But I say, Gallaho!” Forester exclaimed...
“Unless, of course,” said Gallaho ironically, “you consider, Inspector Forester, that this properly belongs to your province.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
THE WATERSPOUT
Sterling groped his way through darkness in the direction of the foot of the stairs. The roar of falling water was deafening. At one point he was drenched in spray, and hesitated. A small ray shone through the gloom, hitherto unbroken except for stabs of yellowish light through chinks in the furnace door. He turned sharply, aware from the pain in his chest that he was fit for little more.
The light came nearer and a grip fastened upon his arm. Close to his ear:
“Around this way—we can’t reach the steps direct.”
The voice was Nayland Smith’s.
A pocket torch had been amongst the latter’s equipment, and now it was invaluable. Using it sparingly, Nayland Smith indicated the edge of a great column of water which was pouring down into the pit, so that anywhere within ten feet of it one was drenched in the spray of its fall. A rushing stream was pouring down the tunnel, the entrance to which they were now passing.
Even as Sterling, horrified as he had never been in his life, stared along that whispering gallery, a distant lantern went out, swept away by the torrent.
Then they turned left; and, stumbling onwards, presently Sterling saw the foot of the wooden steps. But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there.
His lips close to Sterling’s ear:
“It’s only a matter of minutes,” shouted Nayland Smith, “before the water reache
s that ghastly furnace. Then... we’re done!”
Spray drenched them—a sort of mist was rising. The booming of the water was awful. Sterling had been along those rock galleries cut beneath Niagara Falls: he was reminded of them now. This was a rivulet compared with the mighty Horseshoe Fall; but, descending from so great a height and crashing upon concrete so near to where they stood, the effect was at least as dreadful.
Into the inadequate light, penetrating spray and mist, of Nayland Smith’s pocket torch there stumbled a strange figure—a drenched, half-drowned figure moving his arms blindly as he groped forward.
It was Murphy!
Suddenly, he saw the light, and sweeping his wet hair back from his forehead, he showed for a moment a white bloodstained face in the ray of the torch.
From that white mask his eyes glared out almost madly.
Nayland Smith turned the light upon his own face, then stepping forward, grasped Murphy’s arm.
Far above, a dim light shone through the mist and spray. It revealed that horror-inspiring shaft with its rusty girders, and the skeleton staircase clinging to its walls: this, eerily, vaguely, as a dream within a dream. But it revealed something else:
That ever-increasing cataract descending from some unseen place, spouted forth remorselessly from one of the upper platforms!
No human being could pass that point...
Nayland Smith staring upward flashed the feeble light of his torch in a rather vain hope that it would be seen by those at the top of the shaft; for that at long last a raiding party had penetrated, he was convinced.
The light above became obscured in ever increasing mist; it disappeared altogether.
Much of that stair which zigzagged from side to side had remained mantled in impenetrable shadow during the few seconds that light had shone through at the head of the pit. If Fu-Manchu and those of his servants who remained alive were on the stairs, they were invisible.
To one memory Nayland Smith clung tenaciously.
Dr. Fu-Manchu at the moment that his killings had been interrupted, had descended three steps and extinguished the lamps. Somewhere, hereabouts, there was a switch.