The Hand of Dr. Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

Nayland Smith’s eyes were blazing with suppressed excitement; he was pacing quickly up and down the floor, tugging at the lobe of his left ear.

  “She is—different in some way from any other woman I have ever seen in the place. She’s a Eurasian and good-looking, after a tigerish fashion. I have done my best”—he smiled slightly—“to get in her good books, and up to a point I’ve succeeded. I was there last night, and Zarmi asked me if I knew what she called a ‘strong feller.’

  “’These,’ she informed me, contemptuously referring to the rest of the company, ‘are poor weak Johnnies!’

  “I had nothing definite in view at the time, for I had not then heard about your return to London, but I thought it might lead to something anyway, so I promised to bring a friend along tonight. I don’t know what we’re wanted to do, but ...”

  “Count on me!” snapped Smith. “I will leave all details to you and to Weymouth, and I will be at New Scotland Yard this evening in time to adopt a suitable disguise. Petrie”—he turned impetuously to me—“I fear I shall have to go without you; but I shall be in safe company, as you see, and doubtless Weymouth can find you a part in his portion of the evening’s program.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Ah! I must be off. If you will oblige me, Petrie, by putting the brass box into my smaller portmanteau, whilst I slip my coat on, perhaps Weymouth, on his way out, will be good enough to order a taxi. I shall venture to breathe again once our unpleasant charge is safely deposited in the bank vaults!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SI-FAN MOVE

  A slight drizzling rain was falling as Smith entered the cab which the hall-porter had summoned. The brown bag in his hand contained the brass box which actually was responsible for our presence in London. The last glimpse I had of him through the glass of the closed window showed him striking a match to light his pipe—which he rarely allowed to grow cool.

  Oppressed with an unaccountable weariness of spirit, I stood within the lobby looking out upon the grayness of London in November. A slight mental effort was sufficient to blot out that drab prospect and to conjure up before my mind’s eye a balcony overlooking the Nile—a glimpse of dusty palms, a white wall overgrown with purple blossoms, and above all the dazzling vault of Egypt. Upon the balcony my imagination painted a figure, limning it with loving details, the figure of Kâramaneh; and I thought that her glorious eyes would be sorrowful and her lips perhaps a little tremulous, as, her arms resting upon the rail of the balcony, she looked out across the smiling river to the domes and minarets of Cairo—and beyond, into the hazy distance; seeing me in dreary, rain-swept London, as I saw her, at Gezîra beneath the cloudless sky of Egypt.

  From these tender but mournful reflections I aroused myself, almost angrily, and set off through the muddy streets towards Charing Cross; for I was availing myself of the opportunity to call upon Dr. Murray, who had purchased my small suburban practice when (finally, as I thought at the time) I had left London.

  This matter occupied me for the greater part of the afternoon, and I returned to the New Louvre Hotel shortly after five, and seeing no one in the lobby whom I knew, proceeded immediately to our apartment. Nayland Smith was not there, and having made some changes in my attire I descended again and inquired if he had left any message for me.

  The booking-clerk informed me that Smith had not returned; therefore I resigned myself to wait. I purchased an evening paper and settled down in the lounge where I had an uninterrupted view of the entrance doors. The dinner hour approached, but still my friend failed to put in an appearance. Becoming impatient, I entered a call-box and rang up Inspector Weymouth.

  Smith had not been to Scotland Yard, nor had they received any message from him. Perhaps it would appear that there was little cause for alarm in this, but I, familiar with my friend’s punctual and exact habits, became strangely uneasy. I did not wish to make myself ridiculous, but growing restlessness impelled me to institute inquiries regarding the cabman who had driven my friend. The result of these was to increase rather than to allay my fears.

  The man was a stranger to the hall-porter, and he was not one of the taximen who habitually stood upon the neighboring rank; no one seemed to have noticed the number of the cab.

  And now my mind began to play with strange doubts and fears. The driver, I recollected, had been a small, dark man, possessing remarkably well-cut olive-hued features. Had he not worn spectacles he would indeed have been handsome, in an effeminate fashion.

  I was almost certain, by this time, that he had not been an Englishman; I was almost certain that some catastrophe had befallen Smith. Our ceaseless vigilance had been momentarily relaxed—and this was the result!

  At some large bank branches there is a resident messenger. Even granting that such was the case in the present instance, I doubted if the man could help me, unless, as was possible, he chanced to be familiar with my friend’s appearance, and had actually seen him there that day. I determined, at any rate, to make the attempt; re-entering the call-box, I asked for the bank’s number.

  There proved to be a resident messenger, who, after a time, replied to my call. He knew Nayland Smith very well by sight, and as he had been on duty in the public office of the bank at the time that Smith should have arrived, he assured me that my friend had not been there that day!

  “Besides, sir,” he said, “you say he came to deposit valuables of some kind here?”

  “Yes, yes!” I cried eagerly.

  “I take all such things down on the lift to the vaults at night, sir, under the supervision of the assistant manager—and I can assure you that nothing of the kind has been left with us today.”

  I stepped out of the call-box unsteadily. Indeed, I clutched at the door for support.

  “What is the meaning of Si-Fan?” Detective-Sergeant Fletcher had asked that morning. None of us could answer him; none of us knew. With a haze seeming to dance between my eyes and the active life in the lobby before me, I realized that the Si-Fan—that unseen, sinister power—had reached out and plucked my friend from the very midst of this noisy life about me, into its own mysterious, deathly silence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHINATOWN

  “It’s no easy matter,” said Inspector Weymouth, “to patrol the vicinity of John Ki’s Joy-Shop without their getting wind of it. The entrance, as you’ll see, is a long, narrow rat-hole of a street running at right angles to the Thames. There’s no point, so far as I know, from which the yard can be overlooked; and the back is on a narrow cutting belonging to a disused mill.”

  I paid little attention to his words. Disguised beyond all chance of recognition even by one intimate with my appearance, I was all impatience to set out. I had taken Smith’s place in the night’s program; for, every possible source of information having been tapped in vain, I now hoped against hope that some clue to the fate of my poor friend might be obtained at the Chinese den which he had designed to visit with Fletcher.

  The latter, who presented a strange picture in his make-up as a sort of half-caste sailor, stared doubtfully at the inspector; then—

  “The River Police cutter,” he said, “can drop down on the tide and lie off under the Surrey bank. There’s a vacant wharf facing the end of the street and we can slip through and show a light there, to let you know we’ve arrived. You reply in the same way. If there’s any trouble, I shall blaze away with this”—he showed the butt of a Service revolver protruding from his hip pocket—“and you can be ashore in no time.”

  The plan had one thing to commend it, viz., that no one could devise another. Therefore it was adopted, and five minutes later a taxi-cab swung out of the Yard containing Inspector Weymouth and two ruffianly looking companions—myself and Fletcher.

  Any zest with which, at another time, I might have entered upon such an expedition, was absent now. I bore with me a gnawing anxiety and sorrow that precluded all conversation on my part, save monosyllabic replies, to questions that I comprehended but vaguely.
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br />   At the River Police Depot we found Inspector Ryman, an old acquaintance, awaiting us. Weymouth had telephoned from Scotland Yard.

  “I’ve got a motor-boat at the breakwater,” said Ryman, nodding to Fletcher, and staring hard at me.

  Weymouth laughed shortly.

  “Evidently you don’t recognize Dr. Petrie!” he said.

  “Eh!” cried Ryman—“Dr. Petrie! why, good heavens, Doctor, I should never have known you in a month of bank holidays! What’s afoot, then?”—and he turned to Weymouth, eyebrows raised interrogatively.

  “It’s the Fu-Manchu business again, Ryman.”

  “Fu-Manchu! But I thought the Fu-Manchu case was off the books long ago? It was always a mystery to me; never a word in the papers; and we as much in the dark as everybody else—but didn’t I hear that the Chinaman, Fu-Manchu, was dead?”

  Weymouth nodded.

  “Some of his friends seem to be very much alive, though,” he said. “It appears that Fu-Manchu, for all his genius—and there’s no denying he was a genius, Ryman—was only the agent of somebody altogether bigger.”

  Ryman whistled softly.

  “Has the real head of affairs arrived, then?”

  “We find we are up against what is known as the Si-Fan.”

  At that it came to the inevitable, unanswerable question.

  “What is the Si-Fan?”

  I laughed, but my laughter was not mirthful. Inspector Weymouth shook his head.

  “Perhaps Mr. Nayland Smith could tell you that,” he replied; “for the Si-Fan got him today!”

  “Got him!” cried Ryman.

  “Absolutely! He’s vanished! And Fletcher here has found out that John Ki’s place is in some way connected with this business.”

  I interrupted—impatiently, I fear.

  “Then let us set out, Inspector,” I said, “for it seems to me that we are wasting precious time—and you know what that may mean.” I turned to Fletcher. “Where is this place situated, exactly? How do we proceed?”

  “The cab can take us part of the way,” he replied, “and we shall have to walk the rest. Patrons of John’s don’t turn up in taxis, as a rule!”

  “Then let us be off,” I said, and made for the door.

  “Don’t forget the signal!” Weymouth cried after me, “and don’t venture into the place until you’ve received our reply....”

  But I was already outside, Fletcher following; and a moment later we were both in the cab and off into a maze of tortuous streets toward John Ki’s Joy-Shop.

  With the coming of nightfall the rain had ceased, but the sky remained heavily overcast and the air was filled with clammy mist. It was a night to arouse longings for Southern skies; and when, discharging the cabman, we set out afoot along a muddy and ill-lighted thoroughfare bordered on either side by high brick walls, their monotony occasionally broken by gateways, I felt that the load of depression which had settled upon my shoulders must ere long bear me down.

  Sounds of shunting upon some railway siding came to my ears; train whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were, too, for we were close beside the Thames, that gray old stream which has borne upon its bier many a poor victim of underground London. The sky glowed sullenly red above.

  “There’s the Joy-Shop, along on the left,” said Fletcher, breaking in upon my reflections. “You’ll notice a faint light; it’s shining out through the open door. Then, here is the wharf.”

  He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside which we were standing; and a moment later—

  “All right—slip through,” he said.

  I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going on the opposite bank.

  “Go steady!” warned Fletcher. “It’s only a few paces to the edge of the wharf.”

  I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.

  “Here is my electric lamp,” I said. “It will serve the purpose better.”

  “Good,” muttered my companion. “Show a light down here, so that we can find our way.”

  With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river, but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These, without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain; along the water level lay a belt of darkness.

  “Let me give them the signal,” said Fletcher, shivering slightly and taking the lamp from my hand.

  He flashed the light two or three times. Then we both stood watching the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore. The tide lapped upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash from somewhere below and behind us.

  “There goes a rat,” said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze from the darkness under the distant shore. “It’s gone into the cutting at the back of John Ki’s.”

  He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times. Then, all at once out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked a little eye of light—once, twice, thrice it winked at us from low down upon the oily water; then was gone.

  “It’s Weymouth with the cutter,” said Fletcher; “they are ready ... now for Jon Ki’s.”

  We stumbled back up the slight acclivity beneath the archway to the street, leaving the ruinous gates as we had found them. Into the uninviting little alley immediately opposite we plunged, and where the faint yellow luminance showed upon the muddy path before us, Fletcher paused a moment, whispering to me warningly.

  “Don’t speak if you can help it,” he said; “if you do, mumble any old jargon in any language you like, and throw in plenty of cursing!”

  He grasped me by the arm, and I found myself crossing the threshold of the Joy-Shop—I found myself in a meanly furnished room no more than twelve feet square and very low ceiled, smelling strongly of paraffin oil. The few items of furniture which it contained were but dimly discernible in the light of a common tin lamp which stood upon a packing-case at the head of what looked like cellar steps.

  Abruptly, I pulled up; for this stuffy little den did not correspond with pre-conceived ideas of the place for which we were bound. I was about to speak when Fletcher nipped my arm—and out from the shadows behind the packing-case a little bent figure arose!

  I started violently, for I had had no idea that another was in the room. The apparition proved to be a Chinaman, and judging from what I could see of him, a very old Chinaman, his bent figure attired in a blue smock. His eyes were almost invisible amidst an intricate map of wrinkles which covered his yellow face.

  “Evening, John,” said Fletcher—and, pulling me with him, he made for the head of the steps.

  As I came abreast of the packing-case, the Chinaman lifted the lamp and directed its light fully upon my face.

  Great as was the faith which I reposed in my make-up, a doubt and a tremor disturbed me now, as I found myself thus scrutinized by those cunning old eyes looking out from the mask-like, apish face. For the first time the Chinaman spoke.

  “You blinger fliend, Charlie?” he squeaked in a thin, piping voice.

  “Him play piecee card,” replied Fletcher briefly. “Good fellow, plenty much money.”

  He descended the steps, still holding my arm, and I perforce followed him. Apparently John’s scrutiny and Fletcher’s explanation respecting me, together had proved satisfactory; for the lamp was replaced upon the lid of the packing-case, and the little bent figure dropped down again into the shadows from which it had emerged.

  “Allee lightee,” I heard faintly as I stumbled downward in the wake of Fletcher.

  I had expected to find myself in a cellar, but instead discovered that we were in a small square court with the mist of the ni
ght about us again. On a doorstep facing us stood a duplicate of the lamp upon the box upstairs. Evidently this was designed to indicate the portals of the Joy-Shop, for Fletcher pushed open the door, whose threshold accommodated the lamp, and the light of the place beyond shone out into our faces. We entered and my companion closed the door behind us.

  Before me I perceived a long low room lighted by flaming gas-burners, the jets hissing and spluttering in the draught from the door, for they were entirely innocent of shades or mantles. Wooden tables, their surfaces stained with the marks of countless wet glasses, were ranged about the place, café fashion; and many of these tables accommodated groups, of nondescript nationality for the most part. One or two there were in a distant corner who were unmistakably Chinamen; but my slight acquaintance with the races of the East did not enable me to classify the greater number of those whom I now saw about me. There were several unattractive-looking women present.

  Fletcher walked up the center of the place, exchanging nods of recognition with two hang-dog poker-players, and I was pleased to note that our advent had apparently failed to attract the slightest attention. Through an opening on the right-hand side of the room, near the top, I looked into a smaller apartment, occupied exclusively by Chinese. They were playing some kind of roulette and another game which seemed wholly to absorb their interest. I ventured no more than a glance, then passed on with my companion.

  “Fan-tan!” he whispered in my ear.

  Other forms of gambling were in progress at some of the tables; and now Fletcher silently drew my attention to yet a third dimly lighted apartment—this opening out from the left-hand corner of the principal room. The atmosphere of the latter was sufficiently abominable; indeed, the stench was appalling; but a wave of choking vapor met me as I paused for a moment at the threshold of this inner sanctuary. I formed but the vaguest impression of its interior; the smell was sufficient. This annex was evidently reserved for opium-smokers.