The Trail of Fu Manchu f-7

by Sax Rohmer

  Someone else had been borne down those many stairs and thrown like a sack upon the concrete floor. The doors of the furnace were opened again by the Chinese firemen, and again the heat seared his eyes. He tried to take advantage of that white glare; in a measure, he was successful.

  Detective-sergeant Murphy had joined the company of the doomed; trussed and helpless he lay beyond Alt Oke.

  The sweating Chinamen fed the hungry furnace.

  It was the closest reproduction of the traditional hell which he believed could ever have been created. He struggled to his feet: his ankles were bound, his wrists were bound. But in some way to be upright again, though he could not move a step, seemed to reinforce his failing courage. The furnace doors were reclosed.

  “Sir Denis!” he shouted, his voice reverberating in that shadow-haunted shaft. “Sergeant Murphy!”

  In his extremity he spoke with the accent of the Middle West; indeed, his father’s face was before him. He saw the home in which he had been born, Edinburgh University, too, where he had taken his degree; all the happy things of life. And Fleurette! Fleurette! Merciful heaven!—where was Fleurette? He would never see her again!

  Murphy answered.

  “O.K., sir,” he called. “While there’s life there’s. . . .”

  A dull thud, that of a blow, terminated the words.

  “Murphy!” Sterling cried again, and was in that state when he recognized hysteria in his own voice, yet fought against it. Sir Denis, he remembered to have noticed in the glare of the furnace, had a bandage over his mouth. “Murphy!”

  No answer came—but, in silhouette against the light, the gorilla shape of the Burman appeared.

  “You yellow swine!” said Sterling viciously, and bound though he was, launched himself upon the broad, squat figure.

  He received a blow upon the mouth which knocked him backwards. He tasted blood; his lips were split.

  “If I could meet you in the open, you bandy-legged horror,” he shouted, madly, “I’d knock you silly!”

  The Burman, who wore heavy shoes, kicked him in the ribs.

  Sterling groaned involuntarily. The pain of this last brutality threatened to overcome him. The horrible shadowy place began to swim before his eyes.

  His wrists were aching: his hands were numb. Nevertheless he clenched his fists, clenched his teeth. He was writhing with pain; a rib had caved in—he knew it. But his supreme desire was to retain consciousness; to be on the job if any eleventh hour hope should offer.

  “Be silent,” came a musical voice out of the darkness. Fah Lo Suee!

  “My friend, you only add more pains to those that are to come.”

  Sterling succeeded in conquering himself. His maltreated body had threatened to master his brain. But his brain won.

  Above the ever increasing roar of the furnace, a voice reached him:

  “I’m here, Sterling, old man—I couldn’t speak before.”

  It was Nayland Smith.

  In some way, the shadows of that dim shaft seemed to possess weight—to bear down on one oppressively. From where he lay, Sterling could not see the mouth of the tunnel, but he was oddly conscious of its presence, somewhere beyond the furnace. There was water above, a great quantity of water, probably the River Thames.

  This sense of depth, of being buried far below the surface, alone was horrifying; with the accompaniments which surrounded him, plus a split lip and a dislocated rib, it stretched endurance to breaking point.

  And then another voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice which, once heard, could never be forgotten: the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu.

  “Sir Denis Nayland Smith: you are, I believe, acting for the Secret Service. You are a legitimate enemy. Detective-sergeant Murphy: You are attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, and therefore entitled to my respect. Mr. Alan Sterling, you have voluntarily thrown yourself into the midst of my affairs, but since your motives are of a kind sometimes termed chivalrous, I shall accord to you also the honours of war.”

  The strange cold voice ceased for a moment.

  Sterling struggled into a crouching position, ignoring the blood dripping from his chin, striving to forget the sharp pain of his injured rib.

  “To-night may well be a climax in my war against folly and misrule; but if I triumph to-night, my path will be clear. My chief enemy will no longer obstruct me in my work, nor treachery live in my household. . . .”

  That strange, impressive voice ceased—then uttered a short, guttural command.

  The squat Burman appeared in the circle of light, dragging by the heels the inert body of Alt.

  It now became obvious that the Nubian was bound hand and foot, and that a cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. His eyes seemed to bulge from his skull; his face was wet with the sweat of fear.

  The Burman withdrew into the shadows, but appeared again almost immediately swinging a short, curved sword, which he seemed to handle with familiarity.

  “This man is a traitor,” the guttural voice said softly; “I have held my hand too long.”

  A swift, hissing word of command; and during some few, dreadful seconds in which Alan Sterling’s heart seemed to remain still in his breast, the Burmese executioner obeyed.

  Twining the fingers of his left hand into the frizzy, black hair of the Nubian, he jerked him to his feet with a single movement of that long, powerful arm. And, as the man stood there bent forward, swaying—with one mighty, unerring sweep of the scimitar he severed his head from his body!

  “My God!” groaned Sergeant Murphy—”my God!”

  Unconcernedly, the executioner threw the body on to one of the wooden frames, lashed the trunk and feet with lines which were attached to the woodwork, and stood up, glancing into the darkness in the direction from which the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu had come.

  In response to another hissing command, the two Chinese firemen came forward and threw open the furnace door. They raised the head of the framework to which the body was lashed. The Burman seized the other end.

  They began to swing it to and fro, chanting in unison: “Hi yah, hi yah, hi yah!” as they swung.

  Then, with a final shouted “HI!” they propelled it into the white heart of the furnace.

  They were about to close the door, when the Burman checked them—and stooped . . .

  CHAPTER 38

  THE BLUE LIGHT

  “It’s by no means as simple as all that, Inspector,” the chemist in charge assured Gallaho. “Before I attempt a mining operation such as you describe, I should like to know what’s above and what’s below. Also, what’s on the other side of this wall that you want me to blow down. You say it’s a concrete wall?”

  “It appears to be,” growled Gallaho, fretfully; technicians were always an infernal nuisance.

  “We could probably blast a way through the wall, but I’m wondering what that wall supports. We don’t want half Limehouse to fall in on us.”

  “Well, come and see for yourself; but come provided—for almost anything may be happening to the people we want to rescue.”

  “I shall certainly come. Inspector. I don’t fancy the responsibility, but it’s not the kind of thing I want to delegate.”

  There were further delays whilst mysterious apparatus was assembled, and Gallaho, seated in the office of the chief chemist, tapped his fingers irritably upon the table, glancing from minute to minute at a big clock over the mantelpiece. Messengers were scouring the extensive works in search of an expert with the musical name of Schumann. His attendance, according to Mr. Elliot, the chief chemist, was indispensable.

  Gallaho was getting very angry.

  Finally, arrangements were completed. Two workmen who seemed to enjoy this break in their night duties carried mysterious boxes, packages and coils of cable. Schumann, who proved to be a taciturn, bearded German, merely nodded and grunted when the chief chemist explained the nature of the project.

  At long last, they all climbed into the police car, and
set out recklessly for Limehouse. Gallaho sat in front with the driver. He was altogether too irritable for conversation, and at a point in their journey not far from their destination:

  “Pull up!” he directed, sharply.

  The brakes were applied, and the car promptly brought to a standstill.

  Inspector Gallaho stared forward and upward, and now, resting his hand on the driver’s shoulder:

  “Look!” he said. “What’s that? Right over the river bank, in a line with the smokestack?”

  The driver looked as directed. And then:

  “Good Lord!” he whispered, “what is it?”

  There was very little mist in the air, but lowering clouds overhung the river; and there, either in reality or reflected upon them as upon a screen danced that bluish, elfin light;

  Gallaho knew that it was directly above the roof of Sam Pak’s.

  “Go ahead!” he growled. . . .

  There was not much evidence of activity in the neighbourhood of the restaurant. The night life of Chinatown, such as it is, is a furtive life. A constable was standing on an adjacent corner, but there was little now to indicate that anything unusual had taken place there that evening, except the fact that the store was closed.

  One or two customers who had applied there had gone away much puzzled by this circumstance.

  No doubt there were watchers behind dark windows.

  No doubt the fact was known throughout the Chinese quarter that Sam Pak’s had been raided and his wife arrested. But those who shared this secret information kept it very much to themselves, and kept themselves carefully out of sight.

  Entering the shop, followed by the technicians with their apparatus:

  “Anything new?” Gallaho growled.

  Trench was waiting there.

  “A most extraordinary roaring sound from somewhere below,” he reported; “and the heat at the top end of the room,” said Gallaho. “I can’t make head nor tail of it.” He walked forward. “Yes; the difference is very marked. What the devil can it be?”

  “The place to hear the roaring, sir,” said another voice, “is at the end of the passage, below, outside the iron door.”

  “Come on,” said Gallaho, and made his way there. “Any report from the river?”

  “Yes. That blue light has been seen up over the roof.”

  “I know ... I have seen it myself.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  THE LOTUS GATE

  Stark horror coming on top of physical pain all but defeated Alan Sterling. As the furnace doors were reclosed and the three yellow men sweating and half-naked were lost in the shadows outside the ring of light, he thought he heard a groan . . . and he thought that the man who groaned was Nayland Smith.

  The gruesome place swam about him; the hard floor seemed to be moving like the deck of a ship.

  He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. He knew that a mighty effort was called for, or he should faint. If this happened he should despise himself; and if he must die, at least let him carry his self-respect to the end.

  Nevertheless, it was touch and go. Physical nausea saved him.

  He was violently sick.

  “The bloody swine!” came out of the darkness which concealed Sergeant Murphy. “By heaven! There’s something coming to this lot!”

  “There is something coming to all of us, Sergeant Murphy,” It was the cold, measured voice of Dr. Fu Manchu which spoke. “To-night, I am destroying some of the weeds which choked my path.”

  Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the tunnel, the entrance to which Sterling could not see from where he lay, a pump was at work. The roar of the furnace increased in volume. It was like the sustained roar of some unimaginable, ravenous beast.

  He took a firm grip upon himself.

  He was shaking violently: complete collapse threatened. . . . There was an interval during which the furnace door was opened again, but Sterling resolutely turned his head aside. At the clang of its closing he opened his eyes again.

  “Paracelsus,” came that strange voice out of the darkness— and, now, with a note of exaltation in it, a note of fanaticism, an oddly rising cadence—”Paracelsus, although in some respects an impostor, yet was the master of many truths; of the making of gold he knew something, but few have understood his dictum Vita ignis corpus lignum’ (light is the fire, the body the fuel).”

  He was silent for a moment. The roar of the furnace increased again in volume.

  “The body the fuel . . .” he repeated. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Mr. Alan Sterling, Detective-sergeant Murphy. War is merciless, and I regret that you stand in my way. But in order that you shall realize the selflessness of my motives, I wish you, before going to join the shades of your ancestors, to be witnesses of my justice.”

  He uttered again that short, guttural command.

  A figure walked gracefully out of the shadows into the light.

  It was his daughter—Fah Lo Suee. She wore a green robe, cut low upon the shoulders, and of so fine a texture that every line of her slender body might be traced in its delicacy. There were jewels on her fingers and she smiled composedly.

  Within the ring of light she knelt, and bowed her head in the direction of the unseen speaker.

  The Burmese executioner had followed her. He stood behind her, now, looking upward.

  “Of all the spies who have penetrated to my councils,”—the voice became more and more sibilant, rising ever upon a higher key—”this woman, my daughter, has been the chief culprit. There is a traitor blood in her, but she has betrayed me for the last time.”

  Fah Lo Suee knelt motionless, her graceful head lowered.

  “One who would do the work to which I have set my hand, must forget mercy in favour of justice. Yet because, though execrable, detestable, you are my daughter, I offer you the Lotus Gate of escape. Do you accept it?”

  Fah Lo Suee raised her head. She was still smiling proudly.

  “I accept,” she said. “I have only loved one man in my life— and I accept on condition that the same gate shall be opened for him.”

  “I agree to this condition.”

  The tones of the speaker indicated repressed madness.

  Fah Lo Suee extended her slender arms.

  “Denis Nayland Smith,” she said, and there was tragedy in her musical voice—”until to-night, you never even suspected. I have told you and I am unashamed. You go with me through the gate. Death gives me something that life could never give.”

  She paused; only the roar of the furnace could be heard. Then, stretching her arms upward, towards the hidden Dr. Fu Manchu:

  “I am ready.”

  “To this I had been blind, yet I might have known—for woman is a lever which a word can bend.”

  The strange voice, exalted, oracular in mad inspiration, drew nearer in the darkness until Dr. Fu Manchu appeared in the circle of light.

  His mask-like face was transfigured, his eyes glittered like jewels. He was a seer, a prophet, a man set above human laws. He carried a small, cut-glass goblet, upheld like a chalice.

  “Rise,” he commanded.

  Fah Lo Suee stood upright.

  “You are ready?”

  “I am eager. It is my wedding night.”

  “Here is the desire of your heart. . . and death.”

  “Good-bye,” said Fah Lo Suee, her lips curved in that proud, fearless smile.

  She took the glass and drained its contents.

  The crystal crashed to the floor. Fah Lo Suee sank down, slowly; her smile became a smile of rapture. She extended herself upon the concrete still wet with the blood of an earlier victim, and opened her arms ecstatically.

  “Denis, my dear, my dear!” she whispered. “Hold me close. Then, I shall not be afraid.”

  Her arms dropped—she lay still . . .

  Sterling was past speech; even Murphy was silent, Dr. Fu Manchu turned and paced slowly back into the shadows. As he reached them, he uttered that quick, guttural orde
r.

  The Burman stooped, and placed the body of Fah Lo Suee upon one of the wooden racks. The two Chinamen appeared and the furnace door was thrown open.

  Sterling had reached cracking point.

  He heard an hysterical scream, but was unaware of the fact that he had uttered it. His last recollection of the scene was that of a monotonous chanting:—

  “Hi yah, hi yah . . .”

  CHAPTER

  40

  A FIGHT TO THE DEATH

  Dr. Petrie reached London late at night.

  One knowing him, who had met him at Victoria Station, would have noticed that whereas for many years his hair had been streaked with grey, the grey was now liberally streaked with white. He was but recently recovered from an illness which only an iron constitution and a will to live—not for the sake of life itself, but for his wife and newly discovered daughter—had enabled him to survive.

  He had advised Nayland Smith of the time of his arrival;

  but, jumping from the train, for his activity was unimpaired by the stresses which had been imposed upon him, and looking eagerly up and down the platform, he failed to see the tall, gaunt figure of his friend.

  This was unlike Smith.

  Leaving a porter in charge of his baggage, he pushed rapidly on to the barrier. There was no sign of Nayland Smith, or even of Fey, that strange, taciturn creature who had been in Smith’s service in Burma, who had now rejoined him in England.

  It was unaccountable; a crown, almost crushing to the anxiety which possessed him.

  Fleurette!

  He recognized in this moment of loneliness, of disappointment, that he had even dreamed of finding Fleurette there. Smith’s last message had held out such a hope. Yet, there was no one here at all!

  “Dr. Petrie,” came a voice. “Dr. Petrie.”

  Petrie stared all about him, and then recognized that the speaker was a commissionaire.

  “Yes!” he said eagerly; “I am Dr. Petrie.”

  “Good evening, sir—” the man saluted. “I come from Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s flat, sir. My orders are to ask you to proceed there at once.”

  Hope beckoned again, but anxiety remained.

  “Is that all, Sergeant?”