by Sax Rohmer
Smith’s reaction was strictly positive.
Running forward, he dropped down on his knees and scrutinized the carpet under the round table.
“Water spilled here!” he reported.
Springing up, he stepped to one of the windows and craned out. He appeared to be looking down into the Avenue. Then, twisting sideways, I saw him staring upward, and suddenly: “Hang on to me, Kerrigan!” he cried.
Frantically, I leapt forward and grasped him. I thought that violent vertigo threatened his precarious balance. But before I could speak and at the moment that I gripped him, he leaned right out and raised his arm. I saw the flash of his pistol in the moonlight.
He fired twice, upward and to the left.
Hot on the second shot came a high, thin scream which seemed to grow swiftly nearer and then to fade away into silence. From far below there arose a muted uproar; cries; a cessation of the immediate traffic hum: a shrill whistle . . . .
We rushed out no more than a few moments after the police had dragged something on to the sidewalk. They were holding back a crowd of morbid onlookers, many in evening dress. Inspector Hawk elbowed a way in for us. A heavy truck was drawn up nearby and the driver, an Italian, was excitedly explaining to a stolid policeman that he had had not a chance to pull up.
“I tella you he falla from the sky I” he was shouting. We stood hushed, looking down at what had been a small, browned-skinned man.
“As I thought,” said Smith. “One of the Doctor’s devils.” And as he spoke, and I turned away—for the spectacle was horrifying—a suspicion crossed my mind that here lay the origin of the strange story told by the house detective. The dead brown man wore a kind of jersey almost of the same hue as his skin, and trousers of similar colouring: his footgear consisted of rope sandals. But the outstanding characteristic was his disproportionately long arms: he had the arms of a baboon. One broad tyre of the truck had crushed him as he fell right in front of the moving vehicle.
“He was dead when he landed. Inspector,” said the patrolman to Hawk. “Must have come a long way down. He had some kind of satchel hung over his shoulder and it was filled with glass or something. The front tyre just ground it all to powder . . .”
CHAPTER XVI
PADDED FOOTSTEPS
“Kennard Wood is safe—for the time being.”‘
Smith faced me in our sitting-room. He was smoking at top speed. Wood was asleep in an apartment nearby, a man worn out. Rorke remained on duty in the lobby but would be relieved at four o’clock.
“Now that Wood has got in touch with you,” I said, “the mischief is done—from Fu Manchu’s point of view. Probably he will leave him alone.”
“I agree. In this case, Fu Manchu has failed. Wood has much to tell me, but he is too desperately tired for further exertion tonight. By the same token, we have failed, too.”
“How? It’s true that poor Longton died a horrible death; but you saved Kennard Wood.”
“And when I shot the Negrito I lost the only clue to the Snapping Fingers! Yes, it was one of the Doctor’s pygmies, whether from the Andamans or Sumatra I cannot say. You have had some experience of these little devils, Kerrigan. Undoubtedly he slipped in tonight amongst the crowd. The man Pannel, the house detective, evidently had a glimpse of him, but these creatures move like shadows and go as swiftly on all fours as upright.”
“But why did he come?”
“He brought the Snapping Fingers! Then he slipped out of the window and crouched somewhere outside to await the end. Anywhere an ape can climb a Negrito can climb. When I saw him he was swarming up an apparently smooth wall from ledge to ledge, making for the roof. He would have come down the fire ladders.”
“He carried a satchel—”
“To accommodate whatever causes the Snapping Fingers. When Wood was dead it was the pygmy’s job to remove the evidence. He saw that plans had miscarried and so made sure that no trace of the attempt should remain. The thing—whatever it is—was in that flower vase! I failed there, badly.”
I was silent for a while, watching him pacing up and down.
“The—characteristic smell was missing,” I said.
Smith turned and stared at me.
“The characteristic smell is present not before, but after the feast,” he replied. “Now I am going to bed. This delay is madly irritating, and I know just how you feel about it; but we have to meet the government representatives in the morning, and there is no escape. Kennard Wood is on the spot, and Barton is returning with the people from Washington. Take my advice and turn in.”
It was sound advice and, having bade Smith good night, I tried to act upon it.
But I found that sleep was not for me. The quiet which comes upon New York only in the very late small hours had fallen now. Dawn was not far away. The hive-like humming of this sleepless city was at its lowest ebb. Yet I could not rest. A score of problems bombarded my mind. Where was Ardatha? How were these strange journeys of the Chinese Doctor accomplished? Should we be able to keep the marmoset alive until an opportunity arose to trade with the greatest enemy of white civilization? Would Fu Manchu restore Ardatha? Where was his New York base, from which he had operated against Longton and Kennard Wood? What caused the Snapping Fingers?
Groaning, I switched on the lights, got up and reached for my dressing-gown. As chronicler of the expedition, my work was badly in arrears: better to arrange my notes than to lie torturing myself with unanswerable queries.
A chilling wave of loneliness swept down upon me. I had to tell myself that I was really in New York, for in some way I seemed to have become removed from it, raised high above into a rarefied but sinister atmosphere; cut off from my fellow men. Although a hotel bedroom is not inspiring, I discovered inspiration of sorts, as a working journalist, in the litter of notes and a portable typewriter standing under a desk lamp. Yes, J must work.
The suite was very silent.
Thoughts of Ardatha haunted me. Her image, as I had glimpsed her in the blue dress, in the foyer below, persistently intruded between me and my purpose. Her eyes, seen even in that swift regard, had seemed to mirror a shadowy fear.
My thoughts took a new turn.
What was the nature of the gruesome experiments upon which Dr. Fu Manchu had been engaged in that deserted Limehouse warehouse? What new secret did he try to wrest from a normally unreadable future? That he had exposed himself to tremendous stresses was a fact manifest in his weakened condition. I endeavoured to visualize that laboratory beside the Thames; the violet lamp; to recall words spoken.
The ghastly horror of the Snapping Fingers was never far from my thoughts, and I was asking myself if the violet lamp might be associated in some way with that agent of death, when a sudden stir in the lobby brought me to my feet.
“Who’s there?” I heard dimly. “Don’t try any funny business!”
Something had aroused Sergeant Rorke.
The room allotted to me was the last but one at the north end of the suite. Sir Lionel’s was actually the last and there was a communicating door. Smith slept at the southern end. I set out to inquire, switching up the sitting-room lights as I went through.
Rorke had the front door open and was peering to right and left along the corridor outside, at that hour only partially lighted. Hearing my footsteps, he turned swiftly.
“Oh, it’s you!” he said, and his manner was Jumpy.
Once more he peered sharply to left and right, then came in and closed the door. He began to chew.
“What rouses you, Mr. Kerrigan?” he asked (he was a present-tense addict). “Hope it isn’t me singing out.”
“No, I was awake. Did you hear something?”
“Well”—he resumed his seat—”I’m on duty here now quite a while, and this job is kind of monotonous. Maybe I doze off, but certainly I think I hear something—right outside the door.”
“What like?”
“Now, that’s not so easy. No, sir.It might be a shuffle, like somebody steals along q
uietly, or it might be somebody fumbles with the door.”
“It didn’t sound like—snapping fingers?”
“Snapping fingers?” Sergeant Rorke stared hard and chewed hard. “Why, no. I don’t reckon so. Why does anybody snap his fingers?”
“I don’t know,” I answered wearily.“But you saw nothing?”
“Not a thing.”
I went back to my room. Smith had not been awakened, and I was inclined to believe that Rorke had dreamed the episode. The vicious little marmoset (which, nevertheless, meant so much to me) occupied a commodious cage in Barton’s adjoining room and there was nothing to indicate that the animal had been aroused.
My notes engaged my attention for the next few minutes. I was about to take a cigarette, when I paused, my hand suspended over the box.
“What was that?” I muttered.
I thought I had detected a faint movement in the sitting-room, indefinable, but inexplicable. It translated me magically to an apartment at the Prado. I seemed to hear again the ghostly snapping sound, to see the bloodless body of James Longton.
Smith had told me of ten that in dealing with Dr. Fu Manchu I must control my imagination.
But I opened a drawer, took out my Colt, and slipped it in my pocket.
There was something reassuring in its cool touch, and now I lighted a cigarette. As I dropped the lighter on the desk, I caught my breath and listened intently.
I had heard the sound again . . . .
* * *
Dismissing the idea that anyone could have been hiding in the rooms since Smith and I had returned, only one other theory seemed to remain—assuming that my overtired senses were not deluding me. I remembered that Rorke had recently opened the front door and had gone out into the corridor. It was possible, just possible, that during that interval someone had crept in.
Certain secret maps and plans, indispensable to our project, according to Barton, were locked in a steel box in Sir Lionel’s bedroom.
I stepped quickly into the darkened sitting-room and stood there for a while. I could detect no sound. I switched on die lights. The room was empty. Nevertheless, I examined it methodically, but found nothing. I believe I missed no possible hiding-place; and accepting the fact that there was no one in the room but myself, I experienced a swift reaction of contempt. I returned, and once more seated myself at the desk.
“These creatures move like shadows . . .” Almost I seemed to hear the crisp voice of Nayland Smith. “Anywhere an ape can climb a Negrito can climb.”
Had one of Fu Manchu’s devilish little brown allies crept into the place in some way?
These devil men were the bearers of the Snapping Fingers, of the loathsome thing that battened on blood. Yet, for all my tremors—and I confess I was fighting down panic—I remained unwilling to disturb Smith unless more concrete evidence presented itself. No sound came from Sergeant Rorke,
I dropped my cigarette in a tray and sat upright, listening.
There it was again . . . .
Footsteps, I was prepared to swear—padding footsteps. Pad, pad, pad—halting, furtive, but unmistakable.
I sprang up and ran to the door. I had left the lights on in the sitting-room.
It was empty.
Yet, as I stood there, my ears convinced me that soft, padding footsteps were actually receding at the further side!
I took myself firmly in hand. Was my imagination indeed playing ghostly tricks? I walked in the direction of the sound, and came to the door which led into the lobby. It was shut, and I paused there for a moment, listening. What I heard determined my next move. Quietly, I opened the door and stepped out. Sergeant Rorke was fast asleep in his chair. A short passage led to Smith’s quarters; I could see his door from where I stood; and I hesitated. I knew that he must be even more weary than Rorke. What I might have decided to do does not matter now. A decision was forced upon me.
From somewhere behind me came a weird whistling and thrumming—not loud enough to waken the sleeping police officer, but clearly audible to myself. I started wildly, twisted about, my heart leaping, and then recognized the sound. It was the marmoset in its cage! This recognition brought a momenary relief, to be followed by a doubt. What had awakened the animal? I turned back into the sitting-room. Here, the queer, sibilant language of the tiny monkey sounded much louder. The creature was excited.
Crossing to my own apartment, right on the threshold I pulled up sharply.
The communicating door, the door which led to Barton’s quarters, was wide open. When I had gone out it had been closed!
Determined, now, that the menace was real, that some clandestine thing, kin of the shadows but a thing physical, which could open doors, which I could shoot, was in the suite, I ran to the dark opening, reached for the switch and turned up the lights.
Perhaps I stood there for as long as thirty seconds, staring, staring into an empty room!
The steel box, with its three locks, remained in its place, untouched. Set on a chest of drawers, opposite, was the big cage which Sir Lionel had bought to accommodate Peko, the Doctor’s marmoset. And Peko’s behaviour was most remarkable.
Wrinkled forehead twitching, wicked teeth exposed, he tore at the wire bars with tiny, eager fingers, pouring out a torrent of angry whistling chatter. Why?
A door from Barton’s room opened directly on to the main corridor: but it was closed. I began to distrust my own judgement. I listened almost eagerly to sounds rising from the city below, sounds of motor horns, of a moving train; sounds which spoke of human activity of a normal kind, of people who did not explore the dark and sometimes evil secrets of nature but were just ordinary human beings.
Resolutely I turned my back on these phenomena which had no visible cause, returned to my room, and mixed myself a stiff drink.
I had left the door open, and even as I set my glass down on the desk, I heard again, but very softly—pad, pad, pad. The marmoset whistled furiously and tore at the bars.
And then I grew terribly afraid—afraid not of this invisible menace, but afraid of myself. I could see again the thoughtful eyes of the Harley Street doctor who had assured me that I must not think of active service for at least six months. I wondered what he had feared, perhaps that the poison in my system might in some way reach my brain.
It was a horrible thought; worse than any physical danger. But even as that dread crossed my mind, and as I raced across and stared into Barton’s room, it was dispelled by an unassailable, a physical fact.
I saw that the outer door was wide open. It closed, and I heard the snap of the lock!
Almost hurling myself forward, I re-opened it and sprang out. So precipitate was my action that Sergeant Rorke, who had evidently awakened and had come along the outside corridor, was nearly bowled over!
“Go easy, Mr. Kerrigan,” he spluttered. “Gee! What’s doing?”
“Quick! it’s important, sergeant! Did someone come out just ahead of me?”
“Come out? No, sir. I’ll say someone goes in! I wake up—oh, I’m asleep all right—and I get a hunch there’s another door to these apartments. Seems to be kind of something doing along here. I move right away. I see the door shut just as I step up to it. Then it opens again and you come out like the Gestapo’s after you.”
“But you are sure”—I grasped his arm—”that the door opened before I opened it?”
He resumed chewing, regarding me stolidly.
“That goes in my report, Mr. Kerrigan.”
“Thank God!” I whispered. “Because, you see. Sergeant Rorke, no one came in. I was just behind the door. And you know that no one came out!”
“Someone is coming out!” a snappy voice announced. “It’s impossible to sleep through all this chatter!”
Turning, I saw Nayland Smith.
“Smith!” I exclaimed, “I did not want to wake you; but something very strange is going on.”
“So I gather.”
Rapidly, in a very gabble of words, I told him of the inciden
t of the padding footsteps, of the remarkable behaviour of the marmoset, and of the opening door.
“And I’ll say,” Rorke interpolated, “that nobody comes out.”
“As you say,” Smith murmured thoughtfully, “no one comes out.”
He stared at me very hard, and in the sudden silence I knew that he was listening.
“I shall be glad,” he added, “when the conference is over, Kerrigan. In New York we are besieged by enemies who fight with strange weapons.”
CHAPTER XVII
CHRISTOPHERS CHART
“I shall be obliged. Sir Lionel,” said Mr. Hannessy, “if you will tell us now in your own way the circumstances which have led you to believe that you hold a clue to what may prove to be a secret submarine base in the Caribbean. We are told by our Navy—represented here by Commander Ingles—that allowing for underwater craft belonging to belligerent nations, there is still a big surplus around those waters belonging to no nation which so far we have been able to identify. Valuable lives have been lost in trying to plumb the mystery. One”—he glanced at Kennard Wood—”right here in New York, only last night. The credentials borne by Sir Denis Nayland Smith”—he nodded in Smith’s direction—”are sufficient proof that your theory has a concrete basis. We are all anxious to hear the facts.”
We sat around a long table in our sitting-room. On my right, at one end of the table, was Nayland Smith; facing me. Commander Ingles and Kennard Wood; on my left the celebrated Mr. Wilber Ord, expert adviser to the White House on international relations. Facing Wilber Ord, John Hannessy, the speaker, white-haired, fresh-coloured, vigorous, stood for that monument which is sometimes called Republican and sometimes Democratic but which always stands for freedom. From the other end of the table Sir Lionel Barton dominated everybody. The steel box lay before him.
He was in his element. Those dancing blue eyes under shaggy brows told how much he was enjoying himself. He glanced around at everybody, and then: “I might remark, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Hannessy, “that the credentials borne by myself are a sufficient proof that my theory has a concrete basis. But I will not stress the point. To be brief. There had been for many years an heirloom in a branch of the Stewart family known as The Stewart Luck. It consisted of a silver-mounted pistol to which a small object was attached by a piece of catgut.”