President Fu Manchu f-8

by Sax Rohmer

  “I remember. But a long night’s work was wasted.”

  “Part of our trade,” rapped Nayland Smith dryly. “You will notice, Hepburn—there is ample reflected light—two trunks upon the top of a chest of drawers set against the wall on your left. Climb up and hide yourself behind the trunks—I have placed a chair for the purpose. Your job is to watch the windows but not to be seen——”

  “Good God!” Hepburn whispered, and clutched Smith’s arm.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s someone in your bed!”

  “There’s no one in my bed, Hepburn, nor is there any time to waste. This job is life or death. Get to your post.”

  Mark Hepburn rallied his resources: that shock of discovering the apparent presence of someone in the bed had shaken him. But now he was icily cool again, cool as Nayland Smith. He climbed on to the chest of drawers, curled up there behind the trunks, although space was limited, in such a manner that he had a view of the windows while remaining invisible from anyone in the room. This achieved:

  “Where are you, Sir Denis?” he asked, speaking in a low voice.

  “Also entrenched, Hepburn. Do nothing until I give the word. And now listen. . . .”

  Mark Hepburn began to listen. Clearly he sensed that the menace came from the windows, although its nature was a mystery to him. He heard the hooting of taxis, the eerie wail which denotes that the Fire Department is out, the concerted whine of motor engines innumerable. Then, more intimately, these sounds becoming a background, he heard something else. . . .

  It was a very faint noise but a very curious one; almost it might have been translated as the impact of some night bird, or of a bat, against the stone face of the building. . . .

  He listened intently, aware of the fact that his heartbeats had accelerated. He allowed his glance to wander for a moment in quest of Nayland Smith. Presently, accustomed now to the peculiar light of the room, he detected him. He was crouching on a glass-topped bureau, set just right of the window, holding what Hepburn took to be a sawn-off shot-gun in his hand.

  Then again Hepburn directed the whole of his attention to the windows.

  Clearly outlined against a sullen sky he could see one of New York’s tallest buildings. Only three of its many windows showed any light; one at the very top, just beneath the cupola, and two more in the dome itself which crowned the tall, slender structure. Tensed as he was, listening, waiting, for what was to come, the thought flashed through his mind: Who lived in those high, lonely rooms—who was awake there at this hour?

  Another curious light was visible from where he lay—a red glow somewhere away to the left towards the river; a constantly changing light of which he could see only the outer halo. Then a moving blur appeared far below, and a rumbling sound told him that a train was passing. . . .

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, a sharp silhouette obscured much of this dim nocturne. . . .

  Something out of that exotic background belonging to the man who, alone, shared this vigil to-night, had crept up between the distant twinkling lights and Mark Hepburn’s view.

  Vaguely he realized that the phenomenon was due to the fact that someone, miraculously, had climbed the face of the building, or part of it, and now, as he saw, was supporting himself upon the ledge. There was a moment of tense silence. It was followed by activity on the part of the invader perched perilously outside. A light, yellow-muffled, shone into the room, its searching ray questing around, to rest finally for a moment upon the bed.

  Mark Hepburn held his breath; almost, he betrayed his presence.

  The appearance of the disordered bed suggested that a sleeper, sheets drawn up right over his head, lay there!

  “Dr. Fu Manchu has become a slave of routine”—Nayland Smith’s words echoed in Hepburn’s mind. “It is almost a habit with him to test his death-agents upon someone else, and if the result is satisfactory to try them on me.”

  The shadowy silhouette perched upon the window ledge projected some kind of slender telescopic rod into the room. It stretched out towards the bed. . . . Upon it depended what looked like a square box. The rod was withdrawn. The visitor accomplished this with a minimum of noise. Hepburn, his ears attuned for the welcome word of command, watched. An invisible line was wound in, tautened, and jerked.

  Suddenly came a loud and insistent hissing, and:

  “Shoot!” snapped the voice of Nayland Smith. “Shoot that man, Hepburn!”

  in

  The shadowy shape at the window had not moved from that constrained, crouching attitude—two enormous hands, which appeared to be black, rested on the window ledge—when Mark Hepburn fired—once, twice. . . . The sinister silhouette disappeared; that strange hissing continued; the muted roar of New York carried on.

  Yet, automatic dropped beside him, fist clenched, he listened so intently, so breathlessly, that he heard it. . . .

  A dull thud in some courtyard far below.

  “Don’t move, Hepburn,” came Nayland Smith’s crisp command. “Don’t stir until I give the word!”

  An indeterminable odour became perceptible—chemical, nauseating. . . .

  “Sir Denis!”

  It was the voice of Fey.

  “Don’t come in, Fey!” cried Nayland Smith. “Don’t open the door!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Only a very keen observer would have recognized the note of emotion in Fey’s almost toneless voice.

  The hissing noise continued.

  “This is terrible!” Hepburn exclaimed. “Sir Denis! What has happened?”

  The hissing ceased: Hepburn had identified it now.

  “There’s a switch on your right,” came swiftly. “See if you can reach it, but stay where you are.”

  Hepburn, altering his position, reached out, found the switch, and depressed it. Lights sprang up. He turned—and saw Nayland Smith poised on top of the bureau. The strange weapon which vaguely he had seen in the darkness proved to be a large syringe fitted with a long nozzle.

  The air was heavy with a sickly sweet smell suggesting at once iodine and ether.

  He looked towards the bed . . . and would have sworn that a figure lay under the coverlet—a sheet drawn up over its face! On the pillow and beside the place where the sleeper’s head seemed to lie rested a small wooden box no more than half the size of those made to contain cigars. One of the narrow sides—that which faced him—was open.

  There seemed to be a number of large black spots upon the pillow. . . .

  “It’s possible,” said Nayland Smith, staring across the room, “that I missed the more active. I doubt it. But we must be careful.”

  Above the muted midnight boom of New York, sounds of disturbance, far below, became audible.

  “I’m glad you didn’t miss our man, Hepburn!” rapped Nayland Smith, dropping on to the carpeted floor.

  “I have been trained to shoot straight,” Mark Hepburn replied monotonously.

  Nayland Smith nodded.

  “He deserved all that came to him. I faked the bed when I heard his approach. . . . Jump into a suit and rejoin me in the sitting-room. We shall be wanted down there at any moment. . . .”

  Three minutes later they both stood staring at a row of black insects laid upon a sheet of white paper. The reek of iodine and ether was creeping in from the adjoining bedroom. Fey, at a side table, prepared whiskies imperturbably. He was correctly dressed except for two trifling irregularities: his collar was that of a pyjama jacket, and he wore bedroom slippers.

  “This is your province, Hepburn,” said Nayland Smith. “These things are outside my experience. But you will note that they are quite dead, with their legs curled up. The preparation I used in the syringe is a simple formula by my old friend Petrie: he found it useful in Egypt . . . . Thank you, Fey.”

  Mark Hepburn studied the dead insects through a hand-lens. Shrunken up as they were by the merciless spray which had destroyed them, upon their dense black bodies he clearly saw vivid scarlet spots—”Scarlet s
pots”—the last words spoken by James Richet!

  “What are they, Hepburn?”

  “I’m not sure. They belong to the genus Latrodectus. The malmignatte of Italy is a species, and the American Black Widow spider; but these are larger. Their bite is probably deadly”

  “Their bite is certainly deadly!” rapped Nayland Smith. “An attack by two or more evidently results in death within three minutes—also a characteristic vivid scarlet rash. You know, now, what was in the cardboard box which James Richet opened in the taxi-cab! No doubt he had orders to open it at the moment that he reached the hotel. One of the Doctor’s jests. I take it they are tropical?”

  “Beyond doubt.”

  “Once exposed to the frosty air, and their deadly work done, they would die. You know, now, why I provided myself with that”—he pointed to the syringe. “I have met other servants of Fu Manchu to whom a stone-faced building was a grand staircase.”

  “Good God!” Mark Hepburn said hoarsely. “This man is a fiend—a sadistic madman——”

  “Or a genius, Hepburn! If you will glance at the receptacle which our late visitor deposited on my pillow, you will notice that it is made from a common cigar box. One side lifts shut-terwise: there is a small spring. It was controlled, you see, by this length of fine twine, one end of which still rests on the window ledge. This hook on top was intended to enable the Doctor’s servant to lift it into the room on the end of the tele-scopic rod. The box is lightly lined with hay. You may safely examine it. I have satisfied myself that there is nothing alive inside. . . .”

  “This man is the most awful creature who has ever appeared in American history,” said Hepburn. “The situation was tough enough, anyway. Where does he get these horrors? He must have agents all over the world.”

  Nayland Smith began to walk up and down, twitching at the lobe of his ear.

  “Undoubtedly he has. In my experience I have never felt called upon to step more warily. Also, I begin to think that my powers are failing me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For years, Hepburn, for many years, a palpable fact has escaped me. There is a certain very old Chinaman whose records I have come across in all parts of the world; in London, in Liverpool, in Shanghai, in Port Said, Rangoon and Calcutta. Only now, when he is in New York (and God knows how he got here!), have I realized that this dirty old barkeeper is Dr. Fu Manchu’s chief of staff!”

  Mark Hepburn stared hard at the speaker, and then:

  “This accounts for all the men at work in Chinatown,” he said slowly. “The man you mean is Sam Pak?”

  “Sam Pak—none other,” snapped Nayland Smith. “And the truth respecting this ancient reprobate”—he indicated the writing-table—”reached me in its entirety only a few hours ago. If you could see him you would understand my amazement. He is incredibly old, and—so much for my knowledge of the East—I had always set him down as one step above the mendicant class. Yet, in the days of the empress, he was governor of a great province; in fact, he was Dr. Fu Manchu’s political senior! He was one of the first Chinamen to graduate at Cambridge, and he holds a science degree of Heidelberg.”

  “Yet in your knowledge of him he has worked in slums in Chinatown—been a barkeeper?”

  “It might occur in Russia to-morrow, Hepburn There are princes, grand dukes—I am not speaking of gigolos or soi-disant noblemen—spread about the world who, the right man giving the word, would work as scavengers, if called upon, to restore the Tsars.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “And so, you see, we have got to find this aged Chinaman. I suspect that he has brought with him an arsenal of these unpleasant weapons which the doctor employs so successfully—Hullo! There’s the phone. We are wanted to identify the climber. . . .”

  Chapter 15

  THE SCARLET BRIDES (concluded)

  Old Sam Pak was performing his nightly rounds of Base 3. Two Chinese boys were in attendance.

  Up above, political warfare raged; the newspapers gave prominence to the Washington situation in preference to love, murder, or divorce. Dr. Orwin Prescott was reported to be “resting up before the battle.” Harvey Bragg was well in the news. Other aspirants to political eminence might be found elsewhere: “Bluebeard of the Backwoods” was front-page stuff. America was beginning to take Harvey Bragg seriously.

  But in the mysterious silence of Base 3, old Sam Pak held absolute sway. Chinatown can keep its secrets. Only by exercise of a special sense, which comes to life after years of experience in the ways of the Orient, may a Westerner know when something strange is afoot. Sidelong glances;

  sudden silences; furtive departures as the intruder enters. Police officers in Mott Street area had been reporting such trivial occurrences recently. Those responsible for diagnosing Asiatic symptom had deduced the arrival in New York of a Chinese big-shot.

  Their diagnosis was correct. By this time every Chinaman from coast to coast knew that one of the Council of Seven controlling the Si-Fan, most dreaded secret society in the East, had entered America.

  Sam Pak pursued his rounds. The place was a cunning maze of passages and stairs; a Chinese rabbit warren. One narrow passage, below the level of the room of the seven-eyed goddess, had a row of six highly-painted coffins ranged along its wall. They lay on their sides. Lids had been removed and plate glass substituted. This ghastly tunnel was vile with the smell of ancient rottenness.

  One of Sam Pak’s attendant Chinamen switched on a light. The old mandarin, who had known nearly a century of vicissitudes, carried a great bunch of keys. In his progress he had tried door after door. He now tested the small traps set in the sides of the six coffins. In the sudden glare, insidious nocturnal things moved behind glass. . . .

  There was a big iron door in the wall; it possessed three locks, all of which proved to be fastened. Here at once was part of that strange arsenal which Nayland Smith suspected to have been imported , and a secret sally-port the existence of which police headquarters would have given much to know about. It communicated with an old subterranean passage which led to the East River. . . .

  On a floor above, Sam Pak opened a grille and looked into a neatly appointed bedroom. Dr. Orwin Prescott lay there sleeping. His face was very white.

  A dim whirring sound broke the underground silence. Sam Pak handed the bunch of keys to one of the boys and shuffled slowly upstairs to the temple of the green-eyed goddess. It was in semi-darkness; the only light came through the coloured silk curtain draped before one of the stone cubicles.

  Sam Pak crossed, drew the curtain aside, and spoke in Chinese:

  “I am here, Master.”

  “You grow old, my friend,” the cold, imperious tones of Dr. Fu Manchu replied. “You keep me waiting. I regret that you have refused to accept my offer to arrest your descent to the tomb.”

  “I prefer to join my ancestors, marquis, when the call reaches me. I fear your wisdom. While I live I am with you body and soul in our great aims. When my hour comes I shall be glad to die.”

  Silence fell. Old Sam Pak, withered hands tucked in wide sleeves, stooping, waited. . . .

  “I will hear your own report on the matter which I entrusted to you.”

  “You know already, Master, that the man, Peter Carlo, failed. I cannot say what evidence he left behind. But your orders regarding the other, Blondie Hahn, were carried out. He brought the man Carlo to Wu King’s Bar, and I interviewed them in the private room. I instructed Carlo, and he set out. I then paid Hahn his price. It was a waste of good money, but I obey. Ah Fu and Chung Chow did the rest . . . there are now only three Scarlet Brides left to us. . . .”

  It was an hour after dawn when Nayland Smith and Mark Hepburn stood looking down at two stone slabs upon which two bodies lay.

  One of the departed in life had been a small but very muscular Italian with uncommonly large, powerful hands. He presented a spectacle, owing to his many injuries, which must have revolted all but the toughest. There was a sound of dripping wa
ter.

  “You have prepared your report, Doctor?” said Nayland Smith, addressing a plump, red-faced person who was smiling amiably at the exhibits as though he loved them.

  “Certainly, Mr. Smith,” the police doctor returned cheerily. “It is quite clear that Number One, here (I call him Number One because he was brought in an hour ahead of the other), died as the result of a fall from a great height——”

  “Very great height,” rapped Nayland Smith. “Fortieth floor of the Regal Tower.”

  “So I understand. Remarkable. He has two bullet wounds:

  one in his right hand and one in his shoulder. These would not have caused death, of course. It was the fall which killed him—quite naturally. I believe he was wearing black silk gloves. An electric torch and a telescopic rod of very bright metal were found near the body.”

  Nayland Smith turned to a police officer who stood at his elbow.

  “I am told, Inspector, that you have now checked up on this man’s history: there is no doubt about his identity?”

  “None at all,” drawled the inspector, who was chewing gum. “He’s Peter Carlo, known as ‘The Fly’—one of the most expert upper-storey men in New York. He could have climbed the outside of the Statue of Liberty if there’d been anything worth stealing at the top. He always wore a black silk mask and silk gloves. The rod was to reach into rooms he couldn’t actually enter. He was so clever he could lift a lady’s ring from a dressing-table fifteen feet away!”

  “I don’t doubt it,” muttered Mark Hepburn. “So much for Peter Carlo. And now . . .”

  He turned to the second slab.

  Upon it lay the body of a huge blond man of Teutonic type. His hands were so swollen that two glittering diamonds which adorned them had become deeply embedded in the puffy fingers. Sodden garments clung to his great frame. Scarlet spots were discernible on both of the hairy hands, and there was a scarlet discolouration on his throat. The glare of his china-blue eyes set in that bloated caricature of what had been a truculently strong face afforded a sight even more dreadful than that of the shattered body of Peter Carlo.