Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “Is there no other alternative?”

  “None.”

  An order was spoken — one sibilant word. The Burman sprang forward...

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE. CATASTROPHE

  Now events began to move rapidly to that astounding conclusion which, although it was the result of men’s combined efforts, seemed to Sergeant Murphy, a devout Roman Catholic who had begun to pray fervently, to be an intervention by a Higher Power.

  Sir Denis Nayland Smith in the course of his long career as a police officer, had studied assiduously whenever opportunity offered, those branches of practical criminology with which his work had brought him in contact, East and West. He was something of a physician, understanding poisons and antidotes. Lock combinations had no mysteries for him, and there were few locks he could not force if called upon to do so. Knot-tying in all its intricacies, as practiced by the late Harry Houdini, he had studied in Rangoon, his professor being a Chinese malefactor who was a master of the art.

  When the ape-like Burman had come to tie him up, Smith had recognized at a glance that physical resistance was out of the question. It would have called for three powerful men and trained wrestlers at that to deal with him. His peculiar development warned Smith that the man was an expert in the art of jiu-jitsu, which together with his herculean strength, set him in a class apart.

  Fah Lo Suee had gone when the tying took place.

  Nayland Smith submitted, feigning weakness. When he saw the narrow twine that was to be used, he anticipated what was coming, and permitting the man to wrench his arms behind his back, he put into practice a trick whereby many illusionists have mystified their audiences; Chinese in origin, but long well-known to professional magicians of the West.

  The man tied his thumbs, as well as his wrists.

  By means of maintaining a certain muscular stress during this painful operation, the result, though satisfactory to Dr. Fu-Manchu’s private executioner, was also acceptable to Nayland Smith.

  The latter knew that he could withdraw his hands at any moment convenient to him!

  The lashing of his ankles was a different matter. Here, he knew himself to be helpless, and recognized expert handiwork.

  He had preceded Alan Sterling down the stairs of the shaft, slung sackwise across one incredible shoulder of the Burmese killer...

  Now, as he stood, his arms apparently tied behind him, but his ankles unlashed, staring up to where Dr. Fu-Manchu sat veiled in darkness, he was actually a free man. He held the twine which had confined his wrists tightly clenched in his left hand.

  He was calculating his chances — tensing himself for what he must do.

  With the exception of his automatic, his personal possessions had not been disturbed; these included a pocket knife. He had opened its most serviceable blade, and held it now concealed in his right hand. He knew but one mode of attack calculated to give him the slightest chance against his scarcely human enemy.

  If it failed, his fate could be no worse.

  It was not a type of combat which he favored; but having watched this man performing his ghastly work, he found that his scruples had fled.

  As the harsh command was spoken and the monstrous Burman stepped forward, Nayland Smith sprang away, turned — and kicked with all the speed and accuracy of his rugby forward days! He put every ounce of power in his long, lean body into that murderous kick...

  The man uttered a roar not unlike the booming of a wounded gorilla — a creature he closely resembled — doubled up, staggered... and fell.

  A shrill order, maniacal in its ferocity, came out of the darkness above. It was Dr. Fu-Manchu speaking in Chinese. The order was:

  “Shoot him! — shoot him!”

  Smith ducked and darted out of the radius of light into the surrounding shadow where Sterling and Murphy lay. He almost fell over Sterling.

  “Quick, quick!” he panted— “your wrists.”

  “I’m crocked; don’t count on me. Untie Murphy.”

  But Smith cut the twine from Sterling’s wrists and ankles.

  “Stay where you are until I give the word.”

  He bent over Sergeant Murphy.

  “Ankles first... now wrists.”

  “Thank God!” cried the detective. “At least we’ll die fighting!”

  There was a flash in the darkness and a bullet spat on the floor close beside the speaker.

  “Can you walk, Sterling?”

  “Yes.”

  A second shot, and a second bullet whistled by Nayland Smith’s ear. The voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu, high-pitched and dreadful, came again, still speaking in Chinese.

  “The lights, the lights!” he screamed.

  Detective-sergeant Murphy, not too sure of cramped muscles, nevertheless set out through the darkness in the direction from which those stabs of flame had come.

  Light suddenly illuminated the pit...

  Dr. Fu-Manchu stood upon the stairs, his clenched fists raised above his head, his face that of one possessed by devils. A wave of madness, blood lust, the ecstasy of sweeping his enemies from his path, ruled him. That great brain rocked upon its aged throne.

  Murphy saw a Chinaman stripped to the waist not two paces from him. The man held an automatic: the sudden light had dazed him. Murphy sprang, struck, and fell on top of the gunman, holding down the hand which held the pistol. A second Asiatic, similarly armed, was running forward from the foot of the stairs. The Burmese strangler writhed on the floor before the furnace.

  “Kill them! Kill them!” cried the maniacal voice.

  Nayland Smith raced forward and threw himself down beside the struggling men — just as another shot cracked out.

  The bullet grazed Murphy’s shoulder.

  He inhaled sibilantly, but hung on to the Chinaman. Smith wrenched the weapon from the man’s grasp. He pulled the trigger as he released it, but the bullet went wide — registering with a dull thud upon some iron girder far up the shaft.

  The second Chinaman dropped to his knee, took careful aim, and fired again. But he pulled the trigger a decimal point too late.

  Nayland Smith had shot him squarely between the eyes.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu’s mania dropped from him like a scarlet cloak discarded. His face became again that composed, Satanic mask which concealed alike his genius and his cruelty. He descended three steps.

  The place was plunged in darkness.

  Fiery gleams from chinks in the furnace door pierced the gloom; one like an amber spear struck upon the contorted face of the Burman, lying now apparently unconscious where he had fallen.

  Then came the catastrophe.

  A booming explosion shook the place, echoing awesomely from wall to wall of the pit.

  “My God!” cried Murphy, grasping his wounded shoulder. “What’s that?”

  The words were no sooner uttered than, heralded by a terrifying roar, a cataract of water came crashing down the shaft.

  “The river’s broken through!” cried Sterling.

  Above the crash and roar of falling water:

  “Head for the stair!” shouted Nayland Smith. “All head for the stair!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR. AT SCOTLAND YARD

  The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police stood up as Dr. Petrie was shown into his room at New Scotland Yard.

  The Commissioner was a very big man with an amiable and slightly bewildered manner. His room was a miracle of neatness; its hundred and one official appointments each in its correct place. A bowl of violets on his large writing desk struck an unexpected note, but even the violets were neatly arranged. The Commissioner, during a distinguished Army career, had displayed symptoms of something approaching genius as an organizer and administrator. If he lacked anything which the Chief of the Metropolitan Police should possess, it was imagination.

  “I am glad to meet you, Dr. Petrie,” he said, extending a very large hand. “I know and admire your work and I understand why you asked to see me tonight.”

  “Thank you,” said Petrie. “It was
good of you to spare me the time. May I ask for the latest news?”

  He dropped into an armchair which the Commissioner indicated, and stared at the latter, curiously. He knew that his words had not been prompted by courtesy. In matters of exact information, the man’s brain had the absorbing power of a sponge — and he had the memory of an elephant.

  “I was about to call for the last report, Dr. Petrie. Normally, I am not here at this hour. It is the Fu-Manchu case which has detained me. Excuse me a moment — I thoroughly understand your anxiety.”

  He took up one of the several telephones upon the large desk, and:

  “Faversham,” he said, “bring the latest details of the Fu-Manchu case to my room.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned to Dr. Petrie.

  “I am naturally in a state of intense anxiety about my daughter,” said Petrie. “But first, tell me — where is Nayland Smith?”

  The Commissioner pulled at his mustache and stared down at the blotting-pad before him; then:

  “The last report I had left some little doubt upon that point,” he replied, finally, fixing penetrating blue eyes upon the visitor. “As to your daughter, Dr. Petrie, in the opinion of Sir Denis she is somewhere in London.” He paused, picking a drooping violet from the bowl between a large finger and thumb, snipping off a piece of the stem and replacing it carefully in water. “The theory of the means by which she was brought here is one I do not share — it is too utterly fantastic — ; but Sir Denis’s record shows that in the past—” he frowned in a puzzled way— “he has accomplished much. At the moment, as you may know, he is very highly empowered; in fact—” he smiled, and it was a kindly smile, “in a way — in regard to this case, I mean he is, in a sense, my senior.”

  The Commissioner’s weakness for parentheses was somewhat bewildering, but Petrie, who grasped his meaning, merely nodded.

  “I am very anxious about Sir Denis at the moment,” the Commissioner added.

  There was a rap on the door, and in response to a gruff “Come in,” a youngish man entered, immaculately turned out in morning dress; a somewhat unexpected apparition so long after midnight. He carried a cardboard folder under his arm.

  “This is Wing Commander Faversham,” the Commissioner explained, staring vaguely at the newcomer, as though he had only just recognized him. “Dr. Petrie’s name will be familiar to you, Faversham. This is Dr. Petrie.”

  Faversham bowed formally, and laid the folder open upon the table. Although the Commissioner’s manner seemed to invite familiarity, it was a curious fact that none of his subordinates ever accepted that illusive lead.

  “Ah!” said the Commissioner, and adjusting spectacles, bent and read.

  “This brings us up to date, Dr. Petrie,” he said, in a few moments, looking up and removing his glasses. “Sir Denis, and Detective-sergeant Murphy — attached to the Criminal Investigation Department — visited a restaurant in Limehouse tonight, posing as sailormen. Sir Denis—” he added, in parentheses,— “has a gift for make-up. For my own part I don’t believe in disguise at any time or in any circumstances. However — Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, one of the best men we have here — you agree with me, Faversham?—”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho was in charge of raiding operations, assisted by...” there was a momentary pause, but the wonderful memory functioned... “Inspector Forester of the River Police branch.”

  “So I understand,” said Petrie eagerly, “but what happened?”

  “The agreed signal was given,” said the Commissioner, slowly, “and the party entered the premises. But the suspects had slipped into some underground cellar, and I regret to say — for no such report has ever reached me — that an iron door was encountered.”

  “An iron door?”

  “I was notified by Detective-sergeant Trench, at—” he readjusted his glasses and turned over a page in the folder—”11.49p.m. Detective-sergeant Trench,” he added, laying his glasses upon the blotting-pad, “is attached to the Flying Squad — that Gallaho was proceeding to the Kinloch Works in Silvertown in order to secure expert advice upon the forcing by explosives of this iron door, or of the wall adjoining it.”

  “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: