by Sax Rohmer
“In person?”
“In person! Won’t bore you with it now. Here we are!”
The car was pulled up in its own length.
“How did you get on my track?”
“Later, Kerrigan. Come on.”
He dragged me into the station. A vigorous towelling before the open fire and a piping hot grog quite restored me. The scratch on my shoulder was no more than skin deep — a liberal application of iodine soon staunched the bleeding. Wearing borrowed shoes and underwear and the uniform of a district inspector (which fitted me very well) I felt game again for anything. Smith was now wild with excitement to be off; he could not stand still.
“What you tell me unties my hands, Kerrigan. This hide-out of Fu-Manchu’s is an old warehouse, marked by the local authorities for demolition but still containing a certain amount of stock. Lacking clear evidence I dared not break in. The manager of the concern, a young German known to the police (he is compelled to report here at regular intervals) may or may not be a creature of the Doctor’s. In either case he has the keys. Point is, that the officer who keeps the alien register is off duty; he has taken it home to do some work on it, and nobody knows the German’s address!”
“But surely—”
“I have done that, Kerrigan! A police cyclist set out half an hour ago to find Sergeant Wyckham. But now I need not wait. You agree with me, inspector?”
For a moment I failed to understand, until the laughter of the real inspector who had supervised my grooming reminded me of the fact that I was in uniform.
“For my part,” said the police officer, “I don’t think this man, Jacob Bohm, is a member of the gang. I think, though, that he suspected there was something funny going on.”
“Why?” snapped Smith, glancing irritably at the clock.
“Well, the last time he came in, so Sergeant Wyckham told me, he hinted that he might shortly have some valuable information to offer us. He said that he was collecting evidence which wasn’t complete yet, but—”
A phone buzzed; he took up the instrument on his desk.
“Hullo — yes? Speaking. That you, Wyckham?” He glanced at Smith. “Found him, sir… Yes, I’ll jot it down.” He wrote. “Jacob Bohm, 39b Felling Street, Limehouse. And you say his landlady’s name is Mullins? Good. The matter’s of some importance, sergeant. What was that you mentioned last week about the man?… Oh, he said he was putting the evidence in writing? He thought that what?… That there were cellars of which he had no keys, but which were used after dark? I see.
“Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “feel up to a job?”
“Anything you say, Smith.”
“There’s a police car outside, as well as that from the Yard. Dash across to Felling Street — the driver will know it — and get Jacob Bohm. I’m off. I leave this job to you. Bring him back here: I will keep in touch.”
He turned whilst the inspector was still talking on the phone; but I grabbed his arm.
“Smith — did you find any trace — ?”
“No.” He spoke over his shoulder. “But Ardatha called me two minutes after Fu-Manchu. She was responsible for your finding me where you found me tonight. Jump to it, Kerrigan. This German may have valuable information.”
He had reached the office door, the inspector had hung up the receiver and was staring blankly after him, when again the phone buzzed. The inspector took up the instrument, said, “Yes — speaking,” and then seemed to become suddenly tensed.
“One moment, sir!” he cried after Smith. “One moment!”
Smith turned, tugging at the lobe of his ear.
“Well — what is it?”
“River Police, sir. Excuse me for a second.”
He began to scribble on a pad, then:
“Yes — I follow. Nothing on him in the way of evidence? No — I will act at once. Good-bye.”
He hung up again, staring at Smith.
“They have just hauled Jacob Bohm out of the river off Tilbury,” he said. “A ship’s anchor caught him. He was sewn up in sailcloth. Both hands had been amputated.”
CHAPTER NINE. 39B PELLING STREET
Of my drive to Felling Street, a short one, I remember not one detail, except that of a searchlight which, as we turned a corner, suddenly clove the dark sky like a scimitar. I had thought that the man’s death rendered the visit unnecessary: Smith had assured me that it rendered it more than ever important.
“He was putting the evidence in writing, Kerrigan. We want his notes…”
I mused in the dark. It was Ardatha who had saved me! This knowledge was a burning inspiration. In some way she had become a victim of the evil genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu; her desertion had not been a voluntary one. Then, as the police driver threaded a way through streets which all looked alike, I found myself considering the fate of Jacob Bohm; the strange mutilation of Dr. Oster; those ghastly exhibits in the glass case somewhere below the old warehouse.
“Note the yellow hands” — I heard that harsh, guttural voice plainly as though it had spoken in my ear— “They were contributed by a blond Bavarian…” Could I doubt, now, that the blond Bavarian was Jacob Bohm? I should have been Fu-Manchu’s next ember thrown to the Moloch of science before whom he immolated fellow men as callously as the Aztec priests offered human sacrifices to Quetzacotl.
Number 39B was identical in every way with its neighbours. All the houses stood flush to the pavement; so much I could make out: all were in darkness. In response to my ring Mrs. Mullins presently opened the door. A very dim light showed (I saw that some sort of black-out curtain hung behind her) but it must have enabled her to discern my uniform.
“Oh good God!” she exclaimed. “Have the Germans landed?”
Her words reminded me of the part I had to play.
“No ma’am,” I replied gruffly. ‘I am a police inspector—”
“Oh, inspector, I haven’t shown a peep of light! Truly I haven’t. When them sirens started howling I put out every light in the house. Even when I heard the all-clear, I only used candles.”
“There’s no complaint. Are you Mrs. Mullins?”
“That’s my name, sir.”
“It’s about your lodger, Jacob Bohm, that I’m here.”
The portly figure, dimly seen, appeared to droop.
“Oh!” she whispered, “I always expected it.”
I went in. Mrs. Mullins closed the door, dropped the curtain, which I recognized for an old counterpane, and turned to face me in a little sitting-room, candle lighted, which was clean, tidy, and furnished in a way commemorated by Punch artists of the Edwardian era. She was a stout, grey-haired woman and no toper, but tonight her abode spoke of gin. She extended her hands appealingly.
“Don’t say Little Jake was a spy, sir!” she exclaimed. “He was like a son to me. Don’t tell me—”
“When did you see him last?”
“Ah, that’s it! He didn’t come home last night and I thought to myself, that’s funny. Then tonight, when the young lady from the firm called and explained it was all right—”
“What young lady — someone you know?”
“Oh, no, sir — I’ve never seen her before. But she was sure he’d be back later and went up to wait for him. Then that air-raid warning came, and—”
“Where is this—”
I ceased speaking. A faint sound had reached my ears, coming from beyond a half-opened door. Someone was stealing downstairs!
In one bound I reached the door, threw it open, and looked up. Silhouetted against faint light from above, a woman’s figure turned and dashed back! With springs in my heels I followed, leapt into a room a pace behind her, and stood squarely in the doorway.
She had run towards a curtained window, and I saw her in the light of a fire, sole illumination of the room, and that which had shone down the stair. She wore a dark raincoat and a small close-fitting hat from beneath which the glory of her hair cascaded in iridescent waves. Dancing firelight touched her face, more pale than usual, and struck amethyst glints
from her lovely eyes. But my heart had already prepared me to meet “the young lady from the firm.”
“It seems I came just in time, Ardatha,” I said, and succeeded in speaking coolly.
She faced me, standing quite still.
“You!” she whispered. “So you are of the police! I thought so!”
“You are wrong; I am not. But this is no time to explain.” I had formed a theory of my own to account for her apparent ignorance of all that had passed between us, and I spoke gently. “I owe you my life, Ardatha, and it belongs to you with all else I have. You said you would try to understand. You must help me to understand, too. What are you doing here?”
She took a step forward, her eyes half fearful, her lips parted.
“I am obeying orders which I must obey. There are things which you can never understand. I believe you mean all you say, and I want to trust you.” Prompted by some swift impulse, she came up to me and rested her hands upon my shoulders, watching me with eyes in which I read a passionate questioning. “God knows how I want to trust you.”
Almost, I succumbed; her charm intoxicated me. As her accepted lover I had the right to those sweet, tremulous lips. But I had read the riddle in my own way, and clenching my teeth I resisted that maddening temptation.
“You may trust me where you cannot trust yourself, Ardatha,” I said quietly. “I am yours here and hereafter. Shake off this horrible slavery. Come with me now. The laws of England are stronger than the laws of Dr. Fu-Manchu. You will be safe, Ardatha, and I will teach you to remember all you have forgotten.”
But I kept my hands tightly clenched at my sides; for, once in my arms, all those sane resolutions regarding her would have been swept away, and I knew it.
“Perhaps I want to do so — very much,” she whispered. “Perhaps—” she glanced swiftly up at me and swiftly down again— “this is remembrance. But if such a thing is ever to be, first I must live. If I came with you now I should die within one month—”
“That is nonsense!” I spoke hotly and regretted my violence in the next breath. “Forgive me! I would see that you were safe — even from him.”
Ardatha shook her head. The firelight, which momentarily grew brighter, played wantonly in dancing curls.
“It is only with him that I can be safe,” she replied in a low voice. “He is well served because no one of the Si-Fan dare desert him—”
“Why? Whatever do you mean?”
Her hands clutched me nervously: she hid her face.
“There is an injection. It produces a living death — catalepsy. But there is an antidote too, which must be used once each two weeks. I have enough for one month more of life. Then I should be buried for dead. Perhaps he would dig up my body: he has done such things before. No one else could save me — only Dr. Fu-Manchu. And so, you see, with so many others I am just his helpless slave. Now, do you begin to understand?”
Begin to understand? My blood was boiling; yet my heart was cold. I remembered how I had tried to kill the Chinese ghoul, and realized that had I succeeded Ardatha would have been lost to me for ever; that she… But sanity forbade my following that train of thought to its dreadful conclusion.
Such a wild yearning overcame me, so mad a desire to hold and protect her from horrors unnameable, that, unwilled, mechanically, my arm went about her shoulders. She trembled slightly, but did not resist.
“You see” — the words were barely audible— “you must let me go. Forget Ardatha. Except by the will of Dr. Fu-Manchu I can be nothing to you or to any man: I can only try to prevent him harming you.” She raised her eyes to me. “Please let me go.”
But I stood there, stricken motionless, gripped by anguish such as I had never known. My very faith in a just God was shaken by this revelation, by recognition of the fact that a fiend could use this perfect casket of a human soul as a laboratory experiment, reduce a beautiful woman, meant for love and happiness, to the level of a beast of burden — and escape the wrath of Heaven. I wondered if any lover since the world began had suffered such a moment.
Yet, Fu-Manchu was mortal. There must be a way.
“I shall let you go, my dearest. But don’t accept the idea that it is for good. What has been done by one man can be undone by another.” I continued to speak quietly, and as I would have spoken to a frightened child. “Tell me first, why you came here?”
“For Jacob Bohm’s notes that he was making to give to the police,” she answered simply. “I have burned everything. Look — you can see the ashes on the fire.”
As she spoke, I understood why the fire had burned up so brightly. A glance was sufficient to convince me that not a fragment could be recovered.
“And when you leave here, where are you going?”
“It is impossible for me to tell you that. But there are servants of the Si-Fan watching this house.” (I thought of the yellow faced man whom we had nearly run down.) “Even if you were cruel enough to try, you could not get me away. I think” — she hesitated, glanced swiftly up— “that tonight or in the early morning we leave for America.”
“America!”
“Yes.” She slipped free — for I had kept my arm about her shoulders. “I just could not bear to… say good-bye. Please, look away for only a moment — if you really care for my happiness: I beg of you!”
There was abandonment, despair, in her pleading voice. No man could have refused; and after all I was not a police officer. I looked long and hungrily into those eyes which tonight were like twin amethysts, and walked across to the fire.
“I will try, I will try to see you again — to speak to you.”
Only the faintest sound, a light tread on the stair, told me that Ardatha was gone…
CHAPTER TEN. BARTON’S SECRET
“I don’t blame you, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith; “in fact I cannot see what else you could have done.”
“Damn it, nor can I!” growled Barton.
We were back in my flat, after a night of frustration for which, in part, I held myself responsible. Barton had admitted us. He had returned an hour earlier, having borrowed my key. The police had forced a way into the old warehouse; they were still searching it when I rejoined the party. The room, the very bench on which Dr. Oster’s corpse had lain, fragments of twine, they had found, but nothing else. The River was being dragged for the body.
That laboratory which smelt like the Morgue was below water level: it had been flooded. Only by means of elaborate pumping operations could we hope to learn what evidence still remained there of the nature of the Doctor’s mysterious, and merciless, experiments.
“Infernally narrow escape for both of us, Kerrigan,” said Sir Lionel; and crossing to the buffet he replenished his glass. “Good shot, that of yours.” He squirted soda water from a syphon. “I owe my life to you: you owe yours to Ardatha. Gad! there’s a girl! But what an impossible situation!”
Smith stood up, and passing, grasped my shoulder.
“Even worse situations have been dealt with,” he said. “I am wondering, Kerrigan, if you have recognised the clue to Ardatha’s loss of memory?”
As he began to pace to and fro across my dining-room:
“I think so!” I replied. “That yellow devil decided to reclaim her, and it was he who destroyed her memory!”
“Exactly — as he has done before, with others. I said to you some time ago, ‘Fu-Manchu once had a daughter—’”
“Smith!” I interrupted excitedly, “it was not until I saw Ardatha in Pelling Street that the meaning of those words came to me. If he did not hesitate in the case of his own flesh and blood to efface all memories of identity, why should he hesitate in the case of Ardatha?”
“He didn’t! Ardatha remembers only that she is called Ardatha. Fu-Manchu’s daughter, whom once I knew by her childish name of Fah-lo-Suee, became Koreâni. You can bear me out, Kerrigan: you have met her.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ardathas and Koreânis are rare. Fu-Manchu has always employed beaut
y as one of his most potent weapons. His own daughter he regarded merely as a useful instrument when he saw that she was beautiful. He found Ardatha difficult to replace; therefore, he recalled her. Oh! she had no choice. But she has the proud spirit of her race — and so he bound her to him by this damnable living death from which there is no escape!”
He was pacing the carpet at an ever-increasing speed, his pipe bubbling furiously; and something which emanated from that vital personality gave me new courage. I was not alone in my fight to save Ardatha from the devil doctor.
“Smith,” said Sir Lionel, leaning back against the buffet — for even his tough constitution had suffered in the night’s work and he was comparatively subdued— “this infernal thing means that if I saw Fu-Manchu before me, now, I couldn’t shoot him!”
“It does,” Smith replied. “He was prepared to hold Kerrigan as a hostage. He overlooked the fact that whilst Kerrigan lived, Ardatha served the same purpose.”
Barton plunged his hands in his trouser pockets and became lost in reflection. His deep-set blue eyes danced queerly.
“We both know the Chinese,” he murmured. ‘‘I don’t think I should give up hope, Kerrigan. There may be a way.”
“I’m sure there is — there must be!” I broke in. “Dr. Fu-Manchu is subject, after all, to human laws. He is supernormal, but not immortal. We all have our weaknesses. Mine, perhaps, is my love for Ardatha. He must have his. Smith, we must find Koreâni!”
“I found her two months ago.”
“What!”
“She was then in Cuba. Where she is now I cannot say. But if you suppose that Fu-Manchu would turn a hair’s breadth from his path to save his daughter, you are backing the wrong horse. Assuming that we could capture her, well — as an exchange for Ardatha (freed from the living death; for I have known others who have suffered it but who live today) she would be a worthless hostage. He would sacrifice Koreâni without a moment’s hesitation!”
I was silent.
“Buck up, Kerrigan,” said Sir Lionel. “I said there might be a way, and I stick to it.”
Smith stared at him curiously, and then: