Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “Where do you estimate we stand, Corrigan?” he snapped.

  “I should say about under Bayard and East Broadway. It’s a guess — but I don’t think I’m far out.”

  “Detail men to watch this junction.”

  * * * *

  “Stand on the foot of the ladder, Finney,” Hepburn directed.

  The detective inspector gingerly took his place.

  “Now, you,” indicating another man, “stand underneath and hold the rungs; and you,” to a third, “hang on to the side so that it doesn’t topple over. All set?”

  The ladder, a short one, had been discovered in the warehouse yard and brought up on to the roof. Now, held by the three men, it perilously overhung a yawning gap, a gulley at the bottom of which, seen through a curtain of mist, were lights moving and stationary. Human voices distorted by the fog, muted sounds of movement were audible; but the characteristic hooting of taxicabs was missing, for this was one of the barricaded streets: the entrance to Wu King’s Bar lay immediately beneath.

  “All ready, Captain.”

  Mark Hepburn cautiously began to climb the ladder. He moved in the shadow of the top story of Wu King’s apartment house. It was a dizzy proceeding: at the cold, starry sky which seemed to beckon to him from the right of the building he could not trust himself to look, nor downward into the misty chasm of the street. Rung by rung he mounted — his objective that lighted window still some six feet above. Upward he climbed.

  And, presently, standing two rungs from the top, he could rest his hands upon the ledge and look into the room to which this window belonged.

  He saw a sight so strange that at first he could not fathom its significance.

  An oddly appointed sitting-room was visible, its character and the character of the lamps striking a definite Oriental note. Brightly colored rugs were strewn upon the floor, and he saw that there, were divans against two of the walls. The predominant color scheme of illumination seemed to be purple, so that he found great difficulty in making out what was taking place at the farther end.

  A window there was widely opened, and two Chinamen seemed to be engaged in hauling upon a line. This in itself was singular, but the third and only other figure in the room struck an ultimate note of the bizarre. It was that of a man wearing a black cowled robe. The cowl entirely covered his face, but was provided with two eye-holes, so that save for the color of his dress he resembled one of the Misericordia Brethren!

  He was standing quite still just behind the Chinamen, who, as Mark Hepburn watched, hauled in at the open window an equipment resembling a bosun’s chair. Even now the significance of what was going on had not fully penetrated to his mind. The cowled man, clutching his robe about, his legs and assisted by one of the Chinamen took his place in the chair. Again they began hauling.

  The black figure disappeared through the window…

  Now the truth burst upon him. Nayland Smith’s raid of the water-gate had succeeded… This was an emergency exit from the surrounded block!

  How many had gone before? How many were yet to come? It was clear enough. A ropeway had been thrown across the street to some tall building on the opposite side, and above the very heads of the patrolling police the wanted men were being wound across to safety!

  He moved his foot, urgent to descend. It was not too late to locate that other building…

  Then he paused.

  As the two Chinamen bore upon the line, from a curtained opening left of the room another figure entered.

  It was that of a tall man wearing a yellow robe; a man whose majestic features conveyed a sense of such power that Hepburn’s movement was arrested. Tightly clutching the ledge, he watched — watched that high-shouldered, imposing figure standing motionless in the curtained entrance. Perhaps his regard became so intense as to communicate a sense of his presence to the majestic newcomer.

  Slowly the massive head was turned. Hepburn, through the glass of the window, met the regard of a pair of vivid green eyes which seemed to be looking directly into his own… Never in his life had he seen such eyes. If, under the circumstances, he was actually visible from inside the room he could not be sure; but of one fact, one astounding fact, he was certain:

  This was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE. SIEGE OF CHINATOWN (CONCLUDED)

  Mark Hepburn, keyed up by the immensity of the moment, ventured to the very top of the swaying ladder. He clutched a hook on one side of the window, placed there for the convenience of window-cleaners, and crashed his right heel through a pane of glass.

  Stooping, he thrust his automatic through the opening, and:

  “Hands up, Fu-Manchu!” he shouted, his voice rising from syllable to syllable upon notes of excitement.

  The sea mist continued its insidious invasion of the streets of Chinatown. One by one it blotted out the lights below. A voice spoke from the leads at the foot of the ladder:

  “Go easy, Captain; we can’t catch you if you fall!”

  Hepburn scarcely heeded the cry: his entire interest was focused upon the uncanny being who stood in the curtained opening. The two men straining on the rope were wonderfully trained servants; for at the glass crash and harsh words of command they had not started, had not turned, but had continued to perform mechanically the duty allotted to them!

  Slowly, the perturbing regard of those green eyes never wavering, the tall Chinaman raised his hands. If he could not see the speaker, he could see the barrel of the automatic. From below:

  “Bear left!” came urgently. “We can’t hold the ladder.”

  During one irrevocable moment Hepburn tore his attention away. In that moment, the room became plunged in darkness!

  Clutching at the hook he fired in the direction of the curtained doorway… and the flash showed it to be empty. Further shots would be wasted. He craned downward.

  “Pass the word there’s a ropeway across the street. This damnable fog has helped them. Have the house opposite covered and searched.”

  Now came shouted orders, sounds of running, muffled cries from the police below…

  “Arrest everyone in Wu King’s. Search the place from roof to cellar.”

  He fired again in the direction of the distant window, aiming over the heads of the Chinamen. Craning forward, he heard scurrying footsteps; then came silence. Perilously, but aided by a high exaltation which had come to him in the moment when he knew that he actually stood in the presence of the all but fabulous Dr. Fu-Manchu, he found his foothold on the ladder and descended to the roof. Finney, one arm thrown out, hauled him back from the parapet upon which the ladder was poised, and:

  “What’s up there, Captain?” he demanded hoarsely. “I feel a fool glued down here to the ladder.”

  “A getaway across the street. Get busy. We must hurry.”

  But already, delegating to a competent junior the matter of Wu King’s and of those inside it, Lieutenant Johnson had entered the building indicated.

  It consisted of a dry-goods store which had been closed half an hour before, and of apartments above. (Investigations were to prove that the landlord was none other than Wu King). Employing those methods peculiar to the police responsible for the good conduct of Chinatown, entrance was forced to every apartment and every room right to the top. Here a hitch occurred.

  On the top story was a lodge of the Hip Sing Tong. No key was forthcoming, and the door defied united attack.

  As a precautionary measure every man, woman and child found in the building had been arrested. Laden police wagons were taking them to the Tombs when Hepburn came racing up to the landing. The work of the demolition of the door of the Tong temple had commenced. It was proving a tough job when a cry came:

  “Make way there!”

  A grim-faced policeman appeared from below, holding an elderly Chinaman by the scruff of the neck.

  “He’s got the key,” he explained laconically.

  A moment later the door was thrown open. Light was searched for and found, and the g
arishly decorated place revealed.

  It was permeated by a curious odor of stale incense wafted in their direction by a draft from a window overhanging the street. Tackle lay upon the floor; a pulley had been rigged to one of the beams which crossed the ceiling. It was to this spot that escape had been made from, the top story of Wu King’s building.

  The Tong temple was empty from wall to wall…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. THE SILVER BOX

  In his tower study Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke softly. Two points of light glowed upon the switchboard on the table.

  “It was well done, my friend, but the rest is merely a question of time; Base 3 must be vacated. It is regrettable that the representative from Egypt should have been arrested, but steps have been taken to ensure his release. Of Wu Chang’s silence we are certain; other representatives are safe. You are short of helpers, therefore many splendid specimens must be sacrificed. But make good your own escape, leaving nothing behind that might act as a clue for the enemy.”

  “I hear, Master,” the voice of old Sam Pak replied as though he stood in the room. “I shall see to these matters.”

  “Instinct is greater than wit,” the guttural voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu continued. “By instinct Enemy Number One has smelled us out. I hear you hiss, my friend. We shall see. I have a plan.”

  “Do you desire, Marquis, that the way be made easy?”

  “Such is my wish. Give them this hollow triumph: it will blind their eyes. Base 3 is of no further service: move in this matter, my friend.”

  Long fingers manipulated switches. The two lights became extinguished, but another appeared upon the board.

  “Report,” Dr. Fu-Manchu directed, “of Number covering Base 3.”

  “Report to hand,” the Teutonic tones of the Memory Man replied, “timed 11.36. Wu King’s Bar was raided at 11.05 and everyone on the premises, including Wu King and members of his family, arrested by police. Emergency exit is also in their hands; many other arrests — some forty invalid. The barricades have been raised, and everything is normal except that the area is being heavily patrolled. Government agent in charge of operations tonight identified as Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C. Captain Hepburn has left the area — covered. Report ends. From Number 37.”

  There was a moment of silence; the long fingers resting upon the lacquered table were so still that they might have been wrought of smoked ivory.

  “Report,” the voice directed, “of Number responsible for protection of representatives.”

  “Report of Protection Bureau to hand,” the Memory Man replied, “timed 11.50. All are safely returned to their hotels or places of residence, with the exception of Egyptian representative. He was arrested at Entrance 4 together with one Wu Chang who was in his company. This arrest was the subject of an earlier report.”

  “Latest report of Number covering Exit 4.”

  “To hand, time 11.38. The raiding party believed to be in charge of Police Captain Corrigan has withdrawn, leaving men estimated at seven to nine covering the point. Report ends. This from Number 49.”

  “Prepare coast-to-coast reports. I shall require you to relay them in the order received, in one hour.”

  Amber light prevailed again in the domed room where the man of miraculous memory worked upon his endless task of fashioning that majestic Chinese head. And at the moment that the light reappeared, the long bony fingers of Dr. Fu-Manchu reached out to the silver box. Raising the lid, he extracted the delicate equipment for opium smoking which this receptacle contained.

  * * * *

  “What’s the idea, Hepburn?” rapped Nayland Smith.

  The New York Times propped up against a coffee-pot, he was sitting at a frugal breakfast as Hepburn came into the sitting-room. Save for a suggestion of shadows beneath his keen eyes, there was little in that bronzed face to show the state of sustained nervous tension in which Nayland Smith had been during the past forty-eight hours. Automatically filling his pipe, he stared at Hepburn.

  The moustache and beard had vanished. Mark Hepburn was again his clean-shaven self. He smiled in his almost apologetic way.

  “Wasn’t it your friend Kipling who said that women and elephants never forget?” he asked. “I guess he might have included Dr. Fu-Manchu. Anyway, I was shot at twice last night!”

  Nayland Smith nodded.

  “You’re right,” he said rapidly; “I had forgotten momentarily that he saw you at the window. Yes, the bearded newspaperman must disappear.”

  Fey entered from the kitchenette bearing silver-covered dishes upon a tray; an appetizing odor accompanied him. Fey’s behavior was that of a well-trained servant in a peaceful English home.

  “I am making fresh coffee, sir,” he said to Hepburn. “It will be ready in a moment.”

  He uncovered the dishes and withdrew.

  “I am rapidly coming to the conclusion,” said Nayland Smith while Hepburn explored under the covers, “that we have outstayed our welcome here. It’s only a question of time for one or both of us to be caught either going out or coming in.”

  Hepburn did not reply. Nayland Smith struck a match, lighted his pipe and continued:

  “So far we have been immoderately lucky, although both of us have had narrow squeaks. But we know that this place is covered night and day. It would be wise, I think, if we made other arrangements.”

  “I am disposed to agree with you,” said Mark Hepburn slowly.

  “The papers” — Nayland Smith indicated a score of loose sheets upon the carpet beside him— “are reticent about our abortive raid. A washout, Hepburn! Impossible to hold either of the prisoners. We have no evidence against them.”

  “I know it.”

  Fey entered with coffee and then withdrew to his tiny sanctum.

  “It is merely a question of time,” Smith went on, unconsciously echoing the words of Dr. Fu-Manchu, “for us to find this Chinese rabbit warren. I attended the line-up this morning but it’s a waste of breath to interrogate a Chinaman. This fact undoubtedly accounts for the survival of torture in their own country. Wu King, as I anticipated, fell back on the story of Tong warfare. Centre Street is beginning to regard me as a tiresome fanatic. Yet” — he brought his palm sharply down upon the table— “I was right about the Chinatown base. It’s there, but by the time we find it it will be deserted. An impasse, Hepburn, and our next move in doubt.”

  He pointed to the newspaper propped up against the coffee-pot.

  “I begin to see the hand of Fu-Manchu everywhere. Although I wore glasses and my clerical dress (upon which you have complimented me) I nearly came to grief on the corner right outside here this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “A heavy lorry, ignoring signals, drove at me hell-for-leather! Only the skill of my driver saved me. The man said his brakes had failed… The lorry belonged to the Lotus Corporation.”

  “But Smith—”

  “We must expect it. Our enemy is a man of genius. Our small subterfuges probably amuse him! Consider what’s at stake! Have you glanced at the Abyssinian situation, for instance? Dr. Fu-Manchu’s triumph here would mean the end of Italy’s ambition.”

  “You think so?”

  Hepburn looked up sharply.

  “I know it,” Nayland Smith returned.

  “The map of the world is going to be altered, Hepburn, unless we can check what is going on in this country. Have you given due thought to the fact that almost overnight Paul Salvaletti has become a national figure?”

  “Yes; I can’t fit him into the picture.”

  “There is one very curious point…”

  “To what do you refer?”

  “Lola Dumas is with Salvaletti. She is frequently in the news with him.”

  “Is that so strange? She has always been associated with the League of Good Americans.”

  “The League of Good Americans is merely another name for Dr. Fu-Manchu,” rapped Nayland Smith, standing up and beginning to pace the floor. “It is a point of very great interest: it
implies that Dr. Fu-Manchu is backing Salvaletti; in other words, that Salvaletti is not an opportunist who has sprung into the breach—”

  “Good heavens!” Hepburn laid down his fork, “the breach was prepared for him?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “The pattern begins to become apparent. We have been looking too closely at one small piece of it. I have read the report upon Salvaletti. Even now it is far from complete but it would appear that his training throughout has tended inevitably in one direction. Thank heaven that Abbot Donegal is safe. I have said it before, I say it again: that priest’s life is valuable. He may yet be called upon to stem the tide. Look at the papers…”

  In his restless promenade he stirred the loose sheets with his foot.

  “The grave problems facing the Old World are allotted but little space. The nervous collapse (as such it is accepted) of Orwin Prescott merely occurs as a brief bulletin from Weaver’s Farm. The several murders which have decorated the Doctor’s visit to the United States are falling into the background. Even our Chinatown raid is granted scant honors. No, Harvey Bragg, the Martyr, continues to dominate the news — his name now coupled with that of Paul Salvaletti. And — a significant fact, as I have said — Lola Dumas is creeping in.”

  There was a short silence interrupted only by the buzzing of the telephone, the subdued voice of Fey answering in an adjoining room. Evidently none of the messages was of sufficient importance to demand the presence of Nayland Smith or Hepburn. But Fey would be making careful notes. Smith, staring out of the window, saw that all trace of fog had disappeared; that icily clear visibility which sometimes characterizes New York City in the winter months was prevailing.

  “Are you looking at the Stratton Building, Smith?” Hepburn asked.

  “Yes,” snapped Smith. “Why?”

  “You remember what I told you about the strange man who lives up there at the top — as reported by Robbie Adair?”