by Sax Rohmer
I wondered if Nayland Smith would have approved of Petrie’s method of inquiry. Personally, I thought it admirable, for as we entered the establishment, oddly reminiscent, as many are in the Arcade, of a shop in an Eastern bazaar:
“My wife came along this afternoon,” said Petrie, “and noticed a large Chinese figure in the room above. She asked me to call and learn the price.”
The salesman, who would not have been out of place in any jewel market of the Orient, except for the fact that he wore a well-cut morning coat, raised his eyebrows in surprise. He was leaning upon a case containing typical Levantine exhibits, and all sorts of beaded necklaces framed him about. I thought that, saving the presence of civilized London around us, he might, considered alone, have been termed a sinister figure.
“The room above, sir,” he replied, “is not my property. It is used as a storeroom by another firm. See”—he turned—“the stair is there, but the door is locked. I have a case upon it as you may observe for yourself. That door is very rarely opened. And I assure you it contains no Chinese figure.”
He made no attempt to sell us anything.
But outside, in the Arcade, we both stared up at the window above the shop. The room to which it belonged appeared to be empty. Petrie shrugged.
“She has never been wrong before,” he said significantly. “And the gentleman with whom we have been chatting gives one the shudders.”
“I agree, but what can we do!”
“Nothing,” he replied.
Turning, we walked back to the Park Avenue Hotel. The journey was a short one, but long enough for me to tell Petrie of my encounter in the corridor. He stopped as we reached the corner of Berkeley Street, and:
“There’s some very black business underlying all this, Greville,” he said. “We’ve lost the best man of the lot already. Now it looks as though the arch-devil had taken personal charge. Where’s Weymouth?”
“Gone to Victoria, I expect. Yale was with him.”
Petrie nodded.
“If you weren’t mistaken, Greville, it looks as though the danger to Swâzi Pasha is here, in London. If my wife isn’t mistaken—it’s a certainty! We can at least learn the name of the man you saw; because in dealing with Dr. Fu-Manchu and his Burmans I don’t believe in coincidences!”
We consulted the reception clerk and learned without difficulty that the room, of which I naturally remembered the number, was occupied by a Mr. Solkel, of Smyrna.
“Has he stayed here before?” Petrie asked.
No. It was Mr. Solkel’s first visit.
“Thank you,” said Petrie, and as we walked towards the lift:
“Mr. Solkel, of Smyrna,” he mused. “I don’t like the sound of him.”
“I don’t like the look of him!”
“Yet it is just possible you were wrong; and so—what can we do?”
We, went up to Petrie’s sitting room where his wife, apparently recovered, was waiting to receive us.
She smiled, her gaze set on Petrie’s face; and I wondered if Rima would greet me with a smile like that. He simply shook his head and ran his fingers through her beautiful hair.
“I knew,” she whispered; and although she continued bravely to smile, there was horror in her eyes. “He is so clever! But I was right!”
A nameless but chill foreboding possessed my mind. I believe the others shared it. I was thinking of the man who had gone out to meet this menace, and had come to his end, alone against many, in that damnable house in Khârga. But, Petrie now ringing for cocktails, we all tried to show a bold front to our troubles. Yet even as I raised my glass I seemed to detect, like a sort of patrol, the approach of something; not as a memory, but as words spoken eerily, to hear a bell-like voice:
“I am so lonely, Shan…”
For days and nights, for weeks, I had lain in her power… the witch-woman; daughter of this fiend incarnate, Dr. Fu-Manchu. “She is evil, evil…” Rima had said. And I knew it for truth. Much as we had all suffered, I felt that worse was to come. I could hear the cheery, familiar roar of London’s traffic beneath me; sometimes, dimly, I could catch snatches of conversation in the adjoining apartment, occupied by an enthusiastic American traveler and his wife.
Everything was so safe, so normal. Yet I knew, I could not venture to doubt, that some climax in the incredible business which had blotted out a month of my life and had brought Sir Lionel Barton to the edge of eternity, was creeping upon us.
“Thank goodness that part of the business is over,” said Weymouth. “There were no official formalities, as the Pasha is still indisposed. He was all silk mufflers and fur collar. He has only one secretary with him. The other members of his suite are staying at the Platz over the way. He’s safe indoors, anyway.”
“Safe?” Mrs. Petrie echoed and laughed unhappily. “After what I have told you, Superintendent?”
Weymouth’s kindly face looked very grim, and he exchanged a troubled glance with Petrie; then:
“She never used to be wrong, Doctor,” he confessed. “Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. I sent a man around directly I got the news. But of course the shop was closed and locked. I don’t know what to make of it,” he repeated. “The woman was rapidly becoming a nightmare to me, but if the Doctor in person has appeared on the scene…”
He spread his hands in a helpless gesture; and we were all silent for some time. Then Weymouth stood up:
“It’s very nice of you, Mrs. Petrie,” he said, “to ask me to dine with you. I have one or two little jobs to do downstairs, first—and I’m going to have another shot to get a look at Mr. Solkel. It isn’t really my case.” He smiled in the awkwardly boyish manner which made the man so lovable. “But I’ve been retained as a sort of specialist, and Yale is good enough to be glad.”
“I suppose,” said Petrie, as Weymouth made for the door, “there are detectives on duty in the hotel?”
“Five, with Fletcher in charge. That should be enough. But I’m worried about Solkel. His official description doesn’t correspond with yours, Greville. For one tiling, they tell me he wears glasses, is in delicate health, and keeps to his room constantly. However…”
He went out.
Petrie stared hard in my direction.
“There’s absolutely no doubt,” he said slowly, “that Madame Ingomar’s campaign has opened well, for her. Her astonishing indiscretion, I can only ascribe to”—he paused, smiling, and glanced at his wife—“a sudden and characteristically Oriental infatuation.”
She flushed, glancing at him, and:
“Nayland Smith once said that about me!” she replied.
“I’m glad he did!” Petrie returned. “But if the daughter is anything like the father, I confess even now I don’t envy Swâzi Pasha’s chances. Just check up on madame’s record, and you will see what I mean. Apart from certain mysterious movements last year, in such widely divided places as Pekin, Turkestan, Siberia, and the northern provinces of India, we may take it for a fact that Professor Zeitland fell a victim to this Chinese she-devil. He stood in her way. He knew something about Lafleur’s Tomb which she wanted to know. Having learned it, it became necessary that he should be blotted out. This duly occurred, according to schedule. Barton was the next in her path. He served her purpose and escaped by a miracle. She got what she wanted—the contents of the tomb. If we could even guess the importance of these, we might begin to understand why she stuck at nothing to achieve her end.”
He paused to light a fresh cigarette, and then:
“I believe poor old Smith knew,” he went on. “He was the one man in the world she had really to fear. And he…” the sentence remained unfinished.
“That she regarded Swâzi Pasha as an obstruction,” I said, “she was good enough to tell me herself.”
Petrie glanced at his wife, whose expressive eyes registered a deep horror; then:
“I said a while ago,” he added, “that I don’t give very much for his chances. Selfishly, I can find it in my heart to w
ish that he had chosen another hotel. Karamanèh has lived in the storm center too long to want any further experiences.”
This, then, was the atmosphere which surrounded us all that evening in a London hotel; this the shadow under which we lay.
During dinner—which was served in Petrie’s sitting room, for Weymouth had had no opportunity of dressing:
“I suppose,” said I, “that Mr. Solkel is receiving suitable attention?”
Weymouth nodded.
“He hasn’t gone out,” he replied. “But I hear that a new wardrobe trunk was delivered and taken up to his room this afternoon. This suggests that he is leaving shortly. If he goes out he will be followed. If he rings for anything, the waiter will be a Scotland Yard man.”
Weymouth had secured a small room right up under the roof, for London was packed. But I drew a great sense of security from his presence in the building. At his wife’s request, Petrie had abandoned a program for the evening, arranged earlier, and had decided to remain at home.
When we said goodnight to our host and hostess, Weymouth came along to my room. Pausing in the corridor, he stared at the door of Number 41; but not until we had entered my adjoining apartment and lighted our pipes, did he speak; then:
“Swâzi Pasha has canceled an engagement to dine with the prime minister tonight, owing to the delay in Paris,” he said. “He’s not going out and is receiving no one. Even the press have been refused. But Yale’s job starts tomorrow. The Pasha has four public appointments.”
“You feel fairly confident, then, of his safety tonight?”
“Perfectly,” Weymouth replied grimly. “I feel so confident about it that I’m going to patrol the hotel in person! You turn in, Greville. You’re not really fit yet. Goodnight.”
Sleep was a difficult problem. Apart from a morbid and uncontrollable apprehension, I was intensely strung up by reason of the fact that Rima was due in the morning. I tried reading, but simply couldn’t concentrate upon the printed page.
The jade-green eyes of Fah Lo Suee began to haunt me, and in the dialogue of the story I was trying to read I seemed to hear her voice, speaking the lines in that bell-like, hypnotic voice.
I relived those ages of horror and torment in the green-gold room: I saw again the malignant dwarf—“A Hashishîn,” Weymouth had told me. “They belong to the Old Man of the Mountain—Sheikh Ismail.” I heard the creature’s dying shrieks; I saw the Dacoit return, carrying his bloody knife…
Throwing down the magazine disgustedly, I began to pace my room. I contemplated another whiskey-and-soda, but realized in time that it would be a poor cure for insomnia. The after-theatre rush was subsiding. Piccadilly was settling down into its nightly somnolence. That inner circle of small, expensive streets containing the exclusive dance clubs would be full of motor traffic now for London’s night life is highly centralized, the Bohemia of Soho impinging on the white-shirted gayety of Mayfair; two tiny spots on the map; sleepless eyes in a sleeping world.
I wondered if Petrie and his wife were awake—and I wondered what Weymouth was doing. This curiosity about Weymouth grew so intense that I determined to ring and find out. It was at this moment that I first heard the sound.
It was difficult to identify. I stood still, listening—all those doubts and surmises centered now upon my mysterious neighbor, Mr. Solkel. What I heard was this:
A dim, metallic sound, which might have been made by someone slightly shaking a sheet of thin metal. Next, a faint sibilance, which oddly suggested paying out a line. Then came silence…
My brain was functioning at high pressure. Whereas, in the foggy stage that followed my dreadful experience, I should have been incapable of thinking consistently about anything, now a dozen theories sprang to my mind. I decided to stand still—and to listen.
The sound was renewed. It came from beyond the fireplace!
An electric radiator, which I had had no occasion to use, stood there. Stooping, I quietly placed it on the rug; and kneeling down I pressed my ear to the tiles of the recess in which it had rested.
Whispering!
And at this very moment a fact occurred to me… a startling fact!
My room was directly above Suite Number 5!
The connection defied me, but of one thing I was sure: these strange noises, which had temporarily ceased, portended some attempt on Swâzi Pasha’s apartments below.
I came to a swift decision. Walking silently in my slippers, I crossed to the door, opened it cautiously, and peeped out into the corridor. It was empty and dark save for one dim light at the end. Leaving my door ajar, I started for the staircase…
A sense of urgency possessed me—I must find Weymouth or Fletcher! The fate not only of a Turkish statesman but perhaps of Europe depended upon promptitude.
Silence everywhere as I hurried along the corridor to the staircase. I raced down in semi-darkness. I reached the corridor below, lighted only by one dim lamp just above the elevator shaft. I looked right. The corridor was empty. I looked left. There was no one.
Hesitant, I stood debating my course. I might ring for the liftman. I might race on down into the lobby and summon the night porter. The result would have been better accomplished had I used my own room telephone. No doubt I had counted too confidently on meeting Fletcher or Weymouth.
I determined to take the matter into my own hands. I turned left, and walked swiftly in the direction of the door of Suite Number 5.
Even at the moment that I reached it I hesitated again. Of the fact that some deadly peril, urgent, instant, threatened Swâzi Pasha, I seemed to have occult information. But, as I realized, my facts were scanty. If I roused him, I might save his life. On the other hand, I might make myself ridiculous.
There was a bell-push outside the door, and my hand was raised to press it. Suddenly, silently, the door opened… and I found myself staring into the gaunt, angular face of Nayland Smith!
CHAPTER NINE
THE MAN FROM EL-KHRGA
With one significant gesture, Nayland Smith silenced the words on my lips. He took a quick step forward into the corridor and I saw that he was barefooted. Then, his lips very close to my ear:
“Lucky I heard you,” he whispered. “One ring would have ruined everything! Come in. Be silent… Whatever happens, do nothing.”
He stepped back, pointing urgently to my slippers. I removed them and tiptoed into the lobby. Nayland Smith reclosed the front door without making a sound and led me into the principal bedroom.
Except for a faint streak of light coming through the curtains, the room was in darkness. He pushed me down into a corner near the foot of the bed and disappeared.
To say that I was astounded would be to labor the obvious. I actually questioned my sanity. That Nayland Smith was alive made me want to shout with joy. But what in heaven’s name was he doing in Swâzi Pasha’s apartments? Where had he been and why had he failed to notify us of his escape? Finally, what was it that I had nearly ruined by my unexpected appearance and for what was he waiting in the dark?
Where Smith had gone and why we were concealing ourselves, I simply couldn’t imagine; but, my eyes growing used to the gloom, I peered carefully about the bedroom without moving from the position in which he had placed me. I could see no one, hear nothing.
Then all my senses became keyed up—alert. I had detected a sound of soft footsteps in the corridor outside! I waited—listening to it drawing nearer and nearer. The walker had reached the door, I thought… But he did not pause, but passed on. The sound of footsteps grew faint—and finally died away.
Silence fell again. The window behind those drawn curtains was open at the top, and sometimes faint street noises reached my ears: the hooting of a passing taxi, the deeper note of a private car; and once, rumbling of what I judged to be a string of heavy lorries.
But in the building about me, complete silence prevailed. I found myself looking across an eiderdown bedspread in the direction of the fireplace. Except that it was more ornate, it closel
y resembled that in my own room. The shock of meeting Smith, the present horrible mystery, keyed up my already wide-awake brain. I began to form a theory…
At which moment, as if to confirm it, came a faint sound. Something was shuffling lightly behind the electric radiator!
This was backed by green tiles, or imitation tiles which I judged to be stamped on metal. The deep recess which they lined resembled a black cavity from where I crouched. I could just detect one spot of light on the metal hood of the radiator.
Following some moments of tense silence, came a second sound. And this… I recognized.
It was the same subdued, metallic clang which had arrested my attention in the room above!
I thought that the darkness behind the radiator had grown even denser. I scarcely breathed. Fists clenched, I watched, preparing to duck if any light should come, since my discovery was clearly the last thing Nayland Smith desired.
The spot of high light on the hood moved outwards, towards me. I was afraid to trust my sight—until a very soft padding on the carpet provided an explanation of this phenomenon.
Someone had opened the back of the fireplace and now was lifting the radiator out bodily…
Who, or what, had crept out into the room?
Nothing moved again, but I thought a figure stood between me and the recess. Whatever it might be, it remained motionless, so that, after I had concentrated my gaze, it presently took shape in the dusk—but such horrible shape, that, divided only by the width of the bed from it, I shrank involuntarily.
It was a spiritual as well as a physical shrinking, such as I had experienced in that room in Limehouse, when, on the night of horror which had led to my release, a ghastly yellow dwarf had crossed my room, carrying a lantern. Of the fate of that misshapen thing I had seen bloody evidence. This figure now standing silent in the darkness—standing so near to me—was another of the malignant killers; one of those Arabian abominations attached to the Old Man of the Mountain… he whose blazing eyes, as he sprang up from his mattress when the Mandarin Ki Ming denounced us, formed my last memory of the Council of Seven…