by Sax Rohmer
There were rustlings and subdued cries from the upper part of the house. Carter came in out of the darkness, carefully stepping over the recumbent figure; and the three of us stood there in the lighted hall looking down at Slattin.
“Help me to move him back,” directed Smith tensely; “far enough to close the door.”
Between us we accomplished this, and Carter fastened the door. We were alone with the shadow of Fu-Manchu’s vengeance; for as I knelt beside the body on the floor, a look and a touch sufficed to tell me that this was but clay from which the spirit had fled!
Smith met my glance as I raised my head, and his teeth came together with a loud snap; the jaw muscles stood out prominently beneath the dark skin; and his face was grimly set in that old, half-despairful expression which I knew so well but which boded so ill for whomsoever occasioned it.
“Dead, Petrie — already?”
“Lightning could have done the work no better. Can I turn him over?”
Smith nodded.
Together we stooped and rolled the heavy body on its back. A flood of whispers came sibilantly from the stairway. Smith spun around rapidly, and glared upon the group of half-dressed servants.
“Return to your rooms!” he rapped imperiously: “let no one come into the hall without my orders.”
The masterful voice had its usual result; there was a hurried retreat to the upper landing. Burke, shaking like a man with an ague, sat on the lower step, pathetically drumming his palms upon his uplifted knees.
“I warned him, I warned him!” he mumbled monotonously, “I warned him, oh, I warned him!”
“Stand up!” shouted Smith, “stand up and come here!”
The man, with his frightened eyes turning to right and left, and seeming to search for something in the shadows about him, advanced obediently.
“Have you a flask?” demanded Smith of Carter.
The detective silently administered to Burke a stiff restorative.
“Now,” continued Smith, “you, Petrie, will want to examine him, I suppose?” He pointed to the body. “And in the meantime I have some questions to put to you, my man.”
He clapped his hand upon Burke’s shoulder.
“My God!” Burke broke out, “I was ten yards from him when it happened!”
“No one is accusing you,” said Smith less harshly; “but since you were the only witness, it is by your aid that we hope to clear the matter up.”
Exerting a gigantic effort to regain control of himself, Burke nodded, watching my friend with a childlike eagerness. During the ensuing conversation, I examined Slattin for marks of violence; and of what I found, more anon.
“In the first place,” said Smith, “you say that you warned him. When did you warn him, and of what?”
“I warned him, sir, that it would come to this—”
“That what would come to this?”
“His dealings with the Chinamen!”
“He had dealings with Chinamen?”
“He accidentally met a Chinaman at an East End gaming-house, a man he had known in ‘Frisco — a man called Singapore Charlie—”
“What! Singapore Charlie!”
“Yes, sir, the same man that had a dope-shop, two years ago, down Ratcliffe way—”
“There was a fire—”
“But Singapore Charlie escaped, sir.”
“And he is one of the gang?”
“He is one of what we used to call, in New York, the Seven Group.”
Smith began to tug at the lobe of his left ear, reflectively, as I saw out of the corner of my eye.
“The Seven Group!” he mused. “That is significant. I always suspected that Dr. Fu-Manchu and the notorious Seven Group were one and the same. Go on, Burke.”
“Well, sir,” the man continued more calmly, “the lieutenant—”
“The lieutenant!” began Smith; then: “Oh! of course; Slattin used to be a police lieutenant!”
“Well, sir, he — Mr. Slattin — had a sort of hold on this Singapore Charlie, and two years ago, when he first met him, he thought that with his aid he was going to pull off the biggest thing of his life—”
“Forestall me, in fact?”
“Yes, sir; but you got in first with the big raid — and spoiled it.”
Smith nodded grimly, glancing at the Scotland Yard man, who returned his nod with equal grimness.
“A couple of months ago,” resumed Burke, “he met Charlie again down East, and the Chinaman introduced him to a girl — some sort of an Egyptian girl.”
“Go on!” snapped Smith. “I know her.”
“He saw her a good many times — and she came here once or twice. She made out that she and Singapore Charlie were prepared to give away the boss of the Yellow gang—”
“For a price, of course?”
“I suppose so,” said Burke; “but I don’t know. I only know that I warned him.”
“H’m!” muttered Smith. “And now, what took place to-night?”
“He had an appointment here with the girl,” began Burke.
“I know all that,” interrupted Smith. “I merely want to know what took place after the telephone call.”
“Well, he told me to wait up, and I was dozing in the next room to the study — the dining-room — when the ‘phone bell aroused me. I heard the lieutenant — Mr. Slattin — coming out, and I ran out too, but only in time to see him taking his hat from the rack—”
“But he wears no hat!”
“He never got it off the peg! Just as he reached up to take it, he gave a most frightful scream, and turned around like lightning as though some one had attacked him from behind!”
“There was no one else in the hall?”
“No one at all. I was standing down there outside the dining-room just by the stairs, but he didn’t turn in my direction, he turned and looked right behind him — where there was no one — nothing. His cries were frightful.” Burke’s voice broke, and he shuddered feverishly. “Then he made a rush for the front door. It seemed as though he had not seen me. He stood there screaming; but, before I could reach him, he fell....”
Nayland Smith fixed a piercing gaze upon Burke.
“Is that all you know?” he demanded slowly.
“As God is my judge, sir, that’s all I know, and all I saw. There was no living thing near him when he met his death.”
“We shall see,” muttered Smith. He turned to me. “What killed him, Petrie?” he asked shortly.
“Apparently something which occasioned a minute wound on the left wrist,” I replied, and, stooping, I raised the already cold hand in mine.
A tiny, inflamed wound showed on the wrist; and a certain puffiness was becoming observable in the injured hand and arm. Smith bent down and drew a quick, sibilant breath.
“You know what this is, Petrie?” he cried.
“Certainly. It was too late to employ a ligature and useless to inject ammonia. Death was practically instantaneous. His heart....”
There came a loud knocking and ringing.
“Carter!” cried Smith, turning to the detective, “open that door to no one — no one. Explain who I am—”
“But if it is the inspector — ?”
“I said, open the door to no one!” snapped Smith. “Burke, stand exactly where you are! Carter, you can speak to whoever knocks through the letter-box. Petrie, don’t move for your life! It may be here, in the hall way!...”
CHAPTER IX
THE CLIMBER
Our search of the house of Abel Slattin ceased only with the coming of the dawn and yielded nothing but disappointment. Failure followed upon failure; for, in the grey light of the morning, our own quest concluded, Inspector Weymouth returned to report that the girl, Kâramanèh, had thrown him off the scent.
Again he stood before me, the big, burly friend of old and dreadful days: a little greyer above the temples, which I set down for a record of former horrors; but deliberate, stoical, thorough, as ever. His blue eyes melted in the old
generous way as he saw me, and he gripped my hand in greeting.
“Once again,” he said, “your dark-eyed friend has been too clever for me, doctor. But the track, as far as I could follow, leads to the old spot. In fact” — he turned to Smith, who, grim-faced and haggard, looked thoroughly ill in that grey light— “I believe Fu-Manchu’s lair is somewhere near the former opium-den of Shen-Yan— ‘Singapore Charlie’!”
Smith nodded.
“We will turn our attention in that direction,” he replied, “at a very early date.”
Inspector Weymouth looked down at the body of Abel Slattin.
“How was it done?” he asked softly.
“Clumsily for Fu-Manchu,” I replied. “A snake was introduced into the house by some means—”
“By Kâramanèh!” rapped Smith.
“Very possibly by Kâramanèh,” I continued firmly. “The thing has escaped us.”
“My own idea,” said Smith, “is that it was concealed about his clothing. When he fell by the open door it glided out of the house. We must have the garden searched thoroughly by daylight.”
“He” — Weymouth glanced at that which lay upon the floor— “must be moved; but otherwise we can leave the place untouched, clear out the servants, and lock the house up!”
“I have already given orders to that effect,” answered Smith. He spoke wearily and with a note of conscious defeat in his voice. “Nothing has been disturbed” — he swept his arm around comprehensively— “papers and so forth you can examine at leisure.”
Presently we quitted that house upon which the fateful Chinaman had set his seal, as the suburb was awakening to a new day. The clank of milk-cans was my final impression of the avenue to which a dreadful minister of death had come at the bidding of the death lord. We left Inspector Weymouth in charge and returned to my rooms, scarcely exchanging a word upon the way.
Nayland Smith, ignoring my entreaties, composed himself for slumber in the white cane chair in my study. About noon he retired to the bath-room and, returning, made a pretence to breakfast; then resumed his seat in the cane armchair. Carter reported in the afternoon, but his report was merely formal. Returning from my round of professional visits at half-past five, I found Nayland Smith in the same position; and so the day waned into evening, and dusk fell uneventfully.
In the corner of the big room by the empty fireplace, Nayland Smith lay, his long, lean frame extended in the white cane chair. A tumbler, from which two straws protruded, stood by his right elbow, and a perfect continent of tobacco smoke lay between us, wafted towards the door by the draught from an open window. He had littered the hearth with matches and tobacco ash, being the most untidy smoker I had ever met; and save for his frequent rappings out of his pipe bowl and perpetual striking of matches, he had shown no sign of activity for the past hour. Collarless and wearing an old tweed jacket, he had spent the evening, as he had spent the day, in the cane chair, only quitting it for some ten minutes, or less, to toy with dinner.
My several attempts at conversation had elicited nothing but growls; therefore, as dusk descended, having dismissed my few patients, I busied myself collating my notes upon the renewed activity of the Yellow Doctor, and was thus engaged when the ‘phone bell disturbed me. It was Smith who was wanted, however; and he went out eagerly, leaving me to my task.
At the end of a lengthy conversation, he returned from the ‘phone and began, restlessly, to pace the room. I made a pretence of continuing my labours, but covertly I was watching him. He was twitching at the lobe of his left ear, and his face was a study in perplexity. Abruptly he burst out:
“I shall throw the thing up, Petrie! Either I am growing too old to cope with such an adversary as Fu-Manchu, or else my intellect has become dull. I cannot seem to think clearly or consistently. For the Doctor, this crime, this removal of Slattin, is clumsy — unfinished. There are two explanations. Either he, too, is losing his old cunning, or he has been interrupted!”
“Interrupted!”
“Take the facts, Petrie.” Smith clapped his hands upon my table and bent down, peering into my eyes. “Is it characteristic of Fu-Manchu to kill a man by the direct agency of a snake and to implicate one of his own damnable servants in this way?”
“But we have found no snake!”
“Kâramanèh introduced one in some way. Do you doubt it?”
“Certainly Kâramanèh visited him on the evening of his death, but you must be perfectly well aware that even if she had been arrested, no jury could convict her.”
Smith resumed his restless pacings up and down.
“You are very useful to me, Petrie,” he rapped; “as a counsel for the defence you constantly rectify my errors of prejudice. Yet I am convinced that our presence at Slattin’s house last night prevented Fu-Manchu from finishing off this little matter as he had designed to do.”
“What has given you this idea?”
“Weymouth is responsible. He has rung me up from the Yard. The constable on duty at the house where the murder was committed, reports that some one, less than an hour ago, attempted to break in.”
“Break in!”
“Ah! you are interested? I thought the circumstance illuminating, also!”
“Did the officer see this person?”
“No; he only heard him. It was some one who endeavoured to enter by the bath-room window, which, I am told, may be reached fairly easily by an agile climber.”
“The attempt did not succeed?”
“No; the constable interrupted, but failed to make a capture or even to secure a glimpse of the man.”
We were both silent for some moments; then —
“What do you propose to do?” I asked.
“We must not let Fu-Manchu’s servants know,” replied Smith, “but to-night I shall conceal myself in Slattin’s house and remain there for a week or a day — it matters not how long — until that attempt is repeated. Quite obviously, Petrie, we have overlooked something which implicates the murderer with the murder! In short, either by accident, by reason of our superior vigilance, or by the clumsiness of his plans, Fu-Manchu for once in an otherwise blameless career has left a clue!”
CHAPTER X
THE CLIMBER RETURNS
In utter darkness we groped our way through into the hall of Slattin’s house, having entered, stealthily, from the rear; for Smith had selected the study as a suitable base of operations. We reached it without mishap, and presently I found myself seated in the very chair which Kâramanèh had occupied; my companion took up a post just within the widely opened door.
So we commenced our ghostly business in the house of the murdered man — a house from which, but a few hours since, his body had been removed. This was such a vigil as I had endured once before, when, with Nayland Smith and another, I had waited for the coming of one of Fu-Manchu’s death agents.
Of all the sounds which one by one now began to detach themselves from the silence, there was a particular sound, homely enough at another time, which spoke to me more dreadfully than the rest. It was the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece; and I thought how this sound must have been familiar to Abel Slattin, how it must have formed part and parcel of his life, as it were, and how it went on now — tick-tick-tick-tick — whilst he, for whom it had ticked, lay unheeding — would never heed it more.
As I grew more accustomed to the gloom, I found myself staring at the office chair; once I found myself expecting Abel Slattin to enter the room and occupy it. There was a little China Buddha upon a bureau in one corner, with a gilded cap upon its head, and as some reflection of the moonlight sought out this little cap, my thoughts grotesquely turned upon the murdered man’s gold tooth.
Vague creakings from within the house, sounds as though of stealthy footsteps upon the stairs, set my nerves tingling; but Nayland Smith gave no sign, and I knew that my imagination was magnifying these ordinary night sounds out of all proportion to their actual significance. Leaves rustled faintly outside the window at my
back: I construed their sibilant whispers into the dreaded name — Fu-Manchu — Fu-Manchu — Fu-Manchu!
So wore on the night; and, when the ticking clock hollowly boomed the hour of one, I almost leapt out of my chair, so highly strung were my nerves, and so appallingly did the sudden clangour beat upon them. Smith, like a man of stone, showed no sign. He was capable of so subduing his constitutionally high-strung temperament, at times, that temporarily he became immune from human dreads. On such occasion he would be icily cool amid universal panic; but, his object accomplished, I have seen him in such a state of collapse, that utter nervous exhaustion is the only term by which I can describe it.
Tick-tick-tick-tick went the clock, and, my heart still thumping noisily in my breast, I began to count the tickings; one, two, three, four, five, and so on to a hundred, and from one hundred to many hundreds.
Then, out from the confusion of minor noises, a new, arresting sound detached itself. I ceased my counting; no longer I noted the tick-tick of the clock, nor the vague creakings, rustlings and whispers. I saw Smith, shadowly, raise his hand in warning — in needless warning; for I was almost holding my breath in an effort of acute listening.
From high up in the house this new sound came — from above the topmost rooms, it seemed, up under the roof; a regular squeaking, oddly familiar, yet elusive. Upon it followed a very soft and muffled thud; then a metallic sound as of a rusty hinge in motion; then a new silence, pregnant with a thousand possibilities more eerie than any clamour.
My mind was rapidly at work. Lighting the topmost landing of the house was a sort of glazed trap, evidently set in the floor of a loft-like place extending over the entire building. Somewhere in the red-tiled roof above, there presumably existed a corresponding skylight or lantern.
So I argued; and, ere I had come to any proper decision, another sound, more intimate, came to interrupt me.
This time I could be in no doubt; some one was lifting the trap above the stairhead — slowly, cautiously, and all but silently. Yet to my ears, attuned to trifling disturbances, the trap creaked and groaned noisily.