The Mystery of Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Silence fell.

  “Quick! This way!”

  Down a thickly carpeted stair we went. Our guide opened a door, and led us along a passage. Another door was opened; and we were in the open air. But the girl never tarried, pulling me along a gravelled path, with a fresh breeze blowing in my face, and along until, unmistakably, I stood upon the river bank. Now, planking creaked to our tread; and, looking downward beneath the handkerchief, I saw the gleam of water beneath my feet.

  “Be careful!” I was warned, and found myself stepping into a narrow boat—a punt.

  Nayland Smith followed, and the girl pushed the punt off and poled out into the stream.

  “Don’t speak!” she directed.

  My brain was fevered; I scarce knew if I dreamed and was waking, or if the reality ended with my imprisonment in the clammy cellar, and this silent escape, blindfolded, upon the river, with a girl for our guide, who might have stepped out of the pages of The Arabian Nights, were fantasy—the mockery of sleep.

  Indeed, I began seriously to doubt if this stream whereon we floated, whose waters splashed and tinkled about us, were the Thames, the Tigris, or the Styx.

  The punt touched a bank.

  “You will hear a clock strike in a few minutes,” said the girl, with her soft, charming accent, “but I rely upon your honour not to remove the handkerchiefs until then. You owe me this.”

  “We do!” said Smith fervently.

  I heard him scrambling to the bank, and a moment later a soft hand was placed in mine, and I too was guided on to terra firma. Arrived on the bank, I still held the girl’s hand, drawing her toward me.

  “You must not go back,” I whispered. “We will take care of you. You must not return to that place.”

  “Let me go!” she said. “When, once, I asked you to take me from him, you spoke of police protection; that was your answer, police protection! You would let them lock me up—imprison me—and make me betray him! For what? For what?” She wrenched herself free. “How little you understand me. Never mind. Perhaps one day you will know! Until the clock strikes!”

  She was gone. I heard the creak of the punt, the drip of the water from the pole. Fainter it grew, and fainter.

  “What is her secret?” muttered Smith, beside me. “Why does she cling to that monster?”

  The distant sound died away entirely. A clock began to strike; it struck the half-hour. In an instant my handkerchief was off, and so was Smith’s. We stood upon a towing-path. Away to the left the moon shone upon the towers and battlements of an ancient fortress.

  It was Windsor Castle.

  “Half-past ten,” cried Smith. “Two hours to save Graham Guthrie!”

  We had exactly fourteen minutes in which to catch the last train to Waterloo; and we caught it. But I sank into a corner of the compartment in a state bordering upon collapse. Neither of us, I think, could have managed another twenty yards. With a lesser stake than a human life at issue, I doubt if we should have attempted that dash to Windsor Station.

  “Due at Waterloo at eleven fifty-one,” panted Smith. “That gives us thirty-nine minutes to get to the other side of the river and reach his hotel.”

  “Where in heaven’s name is that house situated? Did we come up or down stream?”

  “I couldn’t determine. But at any rate, it stands close to the riverside. It should be merely a question of time to identify it. I shall set Scotland Yard to work immediately; but I am hoping for nothing. Our escape will warn him.”

  I said no more for a time, sitting wiping the perspiration from my forehead and watching my friend load his cracked briar with the broad-cut Latakia mixture.

  “Smith,” I said at last, “what was that horrible wailing we heard, and what did Fu-Manchu mean when he referred to Rangoon? I noticed how it affected you.”

  My friend nodded and lighted his pipe.

  “There was a ghastly business there in 1908 or early in 1909,” he replied. “An utterly mysterious epidemic. And this beastly wailing was associated with it.”

  “In what way? And what do you mean by an epidemic?”

  “It began, I believe, at the Palace Mansions Hotel, in the cantonments. A young American, whose name I cannot recall, was staying there on business connected with some new iron buildings. One night he went to his room, locked the door, and jumped out of the window into the courtyard. Broke his neck, of course.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Apparently. But there was singular features in the case. For instance, his revolver lay beside him, fully loaded!”

  “In the courtyard?”

  “In the courtyard!”

  “Was it murder by any chance?”

  Smith shrugged his shoulders.

  “His door was found locked from the inside; had to be broken in.”

  “But the wailing business?”

  “That began later, or was only noticed later. A French doctor, named Lafitte, died in exactly the same way.”

  “At the same place?”

  “At the same hotel; but he occupied a different room. Here is the extraordinary part of the affair: a friend shared the room with him, and actually saw him go!”

  “Saw him leap from the window?”

  “Yes. The friend—an Englishman—was aroused by the uncanny wailing. I was in Rangoon at the time, so that I know more of the case of Lafitte than of that of the American. I spoke to the man about it personally. He was an electrical engineer, Edward Martin, and he told me that the cry seemed to come from above him.”

  “It seemed to come from above when we heard it at Fu-Manchu’s house.”

  “Martin sat up in bed; it was a clear, moonlit night—the sort of moonlight you get in Burma. Lafitte, for some reason, had just gone to the window. His friend saw him look out. The next moment, with a dreadful scream, he threw himself forward—and crashed down into the courtyard!”

  “What then?”

  “Martin ran to the window and looked down. Lafitte’s scream had aroused the place, of course, but there was absolutely nothing to account for the occurrence. There was no balcony, no ledge, by means of which anyone could reach the window.”

  “But how did you come to recognize the cry?”

  “I stopped at the Palace Mansions for some time; and one night this uncanny howling aroused me. I heard it quite distinctly, and am never likely to forget it. It was followed by a hoarse yell. The man in the next room, an orchid hunter, had gone the same way as the others!”

  “Did you change your quarters?”

  “No. Fortunately for the reputation of the hotel—a first-class establishment—several similar cases occurred elsewhere, both in Rangoon, in Prome and in Moulmein. A story got about the native quarter, and was fostered by some mad fakir, that the god Siva was reborn and that the cry was his call for victims; a ghastly story, which led to an outbreak of dacoity and gave the District Superintendent no end of trouble.”

  “Was there anything unusual about the bodies?”

  “They all developed marks after death, as though they had been strangled! The marks were said all to possess a peculiar form, though it was not appreciable to my eye; and this, again, was declared to be the five heads of Siva.”

  “Were the deaths confined to Europeans?”

  “Oh no. Several Burmans and others died in the same way. At first there was a theory that the victims had contracted leprosy and committed suicide as a result; but the medical evidence disproved that. The Call of Siva became a perfect nightmare throughout Burma.”

  “Did you ever hear it again, before this evening?”

  “Yes. I heard it on the Upper Irrawaddy one clear, moonlit night, and a Collasie—a deck-hand—leapt from the top deck of the steamer aboard which I was travelling! My God! to think that the fiend Fu-Manchu has brought that to England!”

  “But brought what, Smith?” I cried, in perplexity. “What has he brought? An evil spirit? A mental disease? What is it? What can it be?”

  “A new agent of death, Petrie! So
mething born in a plague-spot of Burma—the home of much that is unclean and much that is inexplicable. Heaven grant that we be in time, and are able to save Guthrie.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE CALL OF SIVA

  The train was late, and as our cab turned out of Waterloo Station and began to ascend to the bridge, from a hundred steeples rang out the gongs of midnight, the bell of St. Paul’s raised above them all to vie with the deep voice of Big Ben.

  I looked out from the cab window across the river to where, towering above the Embankment, that place of a thousand tragedies, the lights of some of London’s greatest caravanserais formed a sort of minor constellation. From the subdued blaze that showed the public supper-rooms I looked up to the hundreds of starry points marking the private apartments of those giant inns.

  I thought how each twinkling window denoted the presence of some bird of passage, some wanderer temporarily abiding in our midst. There, floor piled upon floor above the chattering throngs, were these less gregarious units, each something of a mystery to his fellow-guests, each in his separate cell; and each as remote from real human companionship as if that cell were fashioned, not in the bricks of London, but in the rocks of Hindustan!

  In one of those rooms Graham Guthrie might at that moment be sleeping, all unaware that he would awake to the Call of Siva, to the summons of death. As we neared the Strand, Smith stopped the cab, discharging the man outside Sotheby’s auction-rooms.

  “One of the Doctor’s watch-dogs may be in the foyer,” he said thoughtfully, “and it might spoil everything if we were seen to go to Guthrie’s rooms. There must be a back entrance to the kitchens, and so on?”

  ‘There is,” I replied quickly. “I have seen the vans delivering there. But have we time?”

  “Yes. Lead on.”

  We walked up the Strand and hurried westward. Into that narrow court, with its iron posts and descending steps, upon which opens a well-known wine-cellar, we turned. Then, going parallel with the Strand, but on the Embankment level, we ran around the back of the great hotel, and came to double doors which were open. An arc lamp illuminated the interior and a number of men were at work among the casks, crates, and packages stacked about the place. We entered.

  “Hallo!” cried a man in a white overall, “where d’you think you’re going?”

  Smith grasped him by the arm.

  “I want to get to the public part of the hotel without being seen from the entrance hall,” he said. “Will you please lead the way?”

  “Here—” began the other, staring.

  “Don’t waste time!” snapped my friend, in that tone of authority which he knew so well how to assume. “It’s a matter of life and death. Lead the way, I say!”

  “Police, sir?” asked the man civilly.

  “Yes,” said Smith, “hurry!”

  Off went our guide without further demur. Skirting sculleries, kitchens, laundries and engine-rooms, he led us through those mysterious labyrinths which have no existence for the guest above, but which contain the machinery that renders these modern khans the Aladdin’s palaces they are. On a second-floor landing we met a man in a tweed suit, to whom our cicerone presented us.

  “Glad I met you, sir. Two gentlemen from the police.”

  The man regarded us with a suspicious smile.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “You’re not from Scotland Yard, at any rate!”

  Smith pulled out a card and thrust it into the speaker’s hand.

  “If you are the hotel detective,” he said, “take us without delay to Mr. Graham Guthrie.”

  A marked change took place in the other’s demeanour on glancing at the card in his hand.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said deferentially, “but, of course, I didn’t know who I was speaking to. We all have instructions to give you every assistance.”

  “Is Mr. Guthrie in his room?”

  “He’s been in his room for some time, sir. You will want to get there without being seen? This way. We can join the lift on the third floor.”

  Off we went again, with our new guide. In the lift:

  “Have you noticed anything suspicious about the place tonight?” asked Smith.

  “I have!” was the startling reply. That accounts for you finding me where you did. My usual post is in the lobby. But about eleven o’clock, when the theatre people began to come in, I had a hazy sort of impression that some one or something slipped past in the crowd—something that had no business in the hotel.”

  We got out of the lift.

  “I don’t quite follow you,” said Smith. “If you thought you saw something entering, you must have formed a more or less definite impression regarding it.”

  “That’s the funny part of the business,” answered the man doggedly. “I didn’t! But as I stood at the top of the stairs I could have sworn that there was something crawling up behind a party—two ladies and two gentlemen.”

  “A dog, for instance?”

  “It didn’t strike me as being a dog, sir. Anyway, when the party passed me, there was nothing there. Mind you, whatever it was, it hadn’t come in by the front. I have made inquiries everywhere, but without result.” He stopped abruptly. “No. 189—Mr. Guthrie’s door, sir.”

  Smith knocked.

  “Hallo!” came a muffled voice, “what do you want?”

  “Open the door! Don’t delay; it is important.”

  He turned to the hotel detective.

  “Stay right there where you can watch the stairs and the lift,” he instructed, “and note everyone and everything that passes this door. But whatever you see or hear, do nothing without my orders.”

  The man moved off, and the door was opened. Smith whispered in my ear:

  “Some creature of Dr. Fu-Manchu is in the hotel!”

  Mr. Graham Guthrie, British Resident in North Bhutan, was a big, thick-set man—grey-haired and florid, with widely opened eyes of the true fighting blue, a bristling moustache, and prominent shaggy brows. Nayland Smith introduced himself tersely, proffering his card and an open letter.

  “Those are my credentials, Mr. Guthrie,” he said; “so no doubt you will realize that the business which brings me and my friend, Dr. Petrie, here at such an hour is of the first importance.”

  He switched off the light.

  “There is no time for ceremony,” he explained. “It is now twenty-five minutes past twelve. At half-past an attempt will be made upon your life!”

  “Mr. Smith,” said the other, who, arrayed in his pyjamas, was seated on the edge of the bed, “you alarm me very greatly. I may mention that I was advised of your presence in England this morning.”

  “Do you know anything respecting the person called Fu-Manchu—Dr. Fu-Manchu?”

  “Only what I was told today—that he is the agent of an advanced political group.”

  “It is opposed to his interests that you should return to Bhutan. A more gullible agent would be preferable. Therefore, unless you implicitly obey my instructions, you will never leave England!”

  Graham Guthrie breathed quickly. I was growing more used to the gloom, and I could dimly discern him, his face turned toward Nayland Smith, whilst with his hand he clutched the bed-rail. Such a visit as ours, I think, must have shaken the nerve of any man.

  “But, Mr. Smith,” he said, “surely I am safe enough here! The place is full of American visitors at present, and I have had to be content with a room right at the top; so that the only danger I apprehend is that of fire.”

  “There is another danger,” replied Smith. “The fact that you are at the top of the building enhances that danger. Do you recall anything of the mysterious epidemic which broke out in Rangoon in 1908—the deaths due to the Call of Siva?”

  “I read of it in the Indian papers,” said Guthrie uneasily. “Suicides, were they not?”

  “No!” snapped Smith. “Murders!”

  There was a brief silence.

  “From what I recall of the cases,” said Guthrie, “that seems i
mpossible. In several instances the victims threw themselves from the windows of locked rooms—and the windows were quite inaccessible.”

  “Exactly,” replied Smith; and in the dim light his revolver gleamed dully, as he placed it on the small table beside the bed. “Except that your door is unlocked, the conditions tonight are identical. Silence, please; I hear a clock striking.”

  It was Big Ben. It struck the half-hour, leaving the stillness complete. In that room, high above the activity which yet prevailed below, high above the supping crowds in the hotel, high above the starving crowds on the Embankment, a curious chill of isolation swept about me. Again I realized how, in the very heart of the great metropolis, a man may be as far from aid as in the heart of a desert. I was glad that I was not alone in that room—marked with the death-mark of Fu-Manchu; and I am certain that Graham Guthrie welcomed his unexpected company.

  I may have mentioned the fact before, but on this occasion it became so peculiarly evident to me that I am cons trained to record it here—I refer to the sense of impending danger which invariably preceded a visitor from Fu-Manchu. Even had I not known that an attempt was to be made that night, I should have realized it, as, strung to high tension, I waited in the darkness. Some invisible herald went ahead of the dreadful Chinaman, proclaiming his coming to every nerve in one’s body. It was like a breath of astral incense, announcing the presence of the priests of death.

  A wail, low but singularly penetrating, falling in minor cadences to a new silence, came from somewhere close at hand.

  “My God!” hissed Guthrie, “what was that?”

  “The Call of Siva,” whispered Smith. “Don’t stir, for your life!”