 36. The Dungeon We were out in the corridor now, Smith showing the way with the light of his electric pocket-lamp. My mind was clear enough, but I felt as weak as a child. You look positively ghastly, old man," wrapped Smith, which is no matter for wonder. I have yet to learn how it happened that you are not lying insensible or dead as a result of the drugged wine, when I heard someone moving in your room. It never occurred to me that it was you." Smith, I said, the house seems as still as death. You, Karamina and myself, are the only occupants of the East Wing. Homopoulos saw to that. Then he—he is a member of the Sea Fan, a creature of Dr. Fu Manchu—yes, beyond all doubt. Sir Lionel is unfortunate, as ever in his choice of servants. I blame my own stupidity entirely, Petrie, and I pray that my enlightenment has not come too late. What does it all mean? What have you learnt? Mind these three steps, warned Smith, glancing back. I found my mind persistently dwelling upon the matter of that weird rapping, Petrie, and I recollected the situation of Sir Lionel's room on the southeast front. A brief inspection revealed the fact that, by means of a kindly branch of ivy, I could reach the roof of the East Tower from my window. Well, one may walk from there along the roof of the southeast front, and by lying face downwards at the point where it rejects above the main entrance, look into Sir Lionel's room. I saw you go. I feared that someone was watching me, but that it was you I never supposed. Neither Barton nor his man are in that room, Petrie. They have been spirited away. This is Karamina's door. He grasped me by the arm, at the same time directing the light upon a closed door before which we stood. I raised my fist and beat upon the panels. Then every muscle tensed and my heart throbbing wildly. I listened for the girl's voice. Not a sound broke that deathly silence except the beating of my own heart, which I thought must surely be audible to my companion. Frantically I hurled myself against the stubborn oak that Smith thrust me back. Useless, Petrie, he said, useless. This room is in the base of the East Tower. Yours is above it and mine at the top. The corridor is approaching the three floors, deceive one, that the fact remains. I have no positive evidence, but I would wager all I possess that there is a stair in the thickness of the wall and hidden doors in the panelling of the three apartments. The yellow group has somehow obtained possession of a plan of the historic secret passages and chambers of Greywater Park. Homopoulou is the spy in the household, and Sir Lionel, with his man Kennedy, was removed directly the invitation to us had been posted. The group will know by now that we have escaped them. But, Karamina— Smith, I groaned. Smith, what can we do? What has befallen her? This way, he snapped. We are not beaten yet. We must arouse the servants. Why, it would be a sheer waste of precious time. There are only three men who actually sleep in the house, accepting Homopoulou, and these are in the north-west wing. No, Petrie, we must rely upon ourselves. He was racing recklessly along the torturous corridors and up the oddly placed stairways of that old world building. My anguish had reinforced the atropine which I had employed as an antidote to the opiate in the wine, and now my blood that had coarsed sluggishly leapt through my veins like fire, and I burned with a passionate anger. Into a large and untidy bedroom we burst. Books and papers littered about the floor, curios ranging from mummied cats and ibises, to Turkish yetagans and Zulu asagais, surrounded the place in riotous disorder. Beyond doubt this was the apartment of Sir Lionel Barton. A lamp burned upon a table near to the disordered bed, and a discoloured Greek statuette of Orpheus lay overturned on the carpet close beside it. Homopoulou was on the point of leaving this room at the moment that I peered in at the window, said Smith, breathing heavily. From here there is another entrance to the secret passages. Have your pistol ready! He stepped across the disordered room to a little alcove near the foot of the bed, directing the ray of the pocket lamp upon the small square panelling. Ah! he cried, a note of triumph in his voice. He has left the door ajar. A visitive inspection was not anticipated tonight, Petrie. Thank God for an Indian liver and a suspicious mind. He disappeared into a yawning cavity, which now I perceive to exist in the wall. I hurried after him, and found myself upon roughly fashioned stone steps in a very low and narrow descending passage. Over his shoulder, note the direction, said Smith breathlessly. We shall presently find ourselves at the base of the East Tower. Down we went, and down. The ray of the electric lamp always showing more steps ahead, until at last these terminated in the level-arched passage, curving sharply to the right. Two paces more brought us to a doorway, less than four feet high, approached by two wide steps. A blackened door, having a most cumbersome and complicated lock, showed in the recess. Naelyn Smith bent and examined the mechanism intently. Freshly oiled, he commented. You know into whose room it opens. Well enough I knew, and detecting that faint, haunting perfume which spoke of the dainty personality of Karamina, my anger blazed up anew. Came a faint sound of metal grating upon metal, and Smith pulled open the door, which turned outward upon the steps, and bent further forward, sweeping the ray of light about the room beyond. Empty, of course, he muttered, now for the base of these damned nocturnal operations. He descended the steps, and began to flash the light all about the arched passageway wherein we stood. The present dining-room of Greywater Park lies almost due south of this spot, he mused. Suppose we try back. We retraced our steps to the foot of the stair, and the wall on their left was an opening, low down against the floor, and little more than three feet high. It reminded me of some of the entrances to those seemingly interminable passages whereby one approaches the sepulchral chambers of the Egyptian pyramids. Now for it, Snapp Smith, follow me closely. Down he dropped, and having the lamp thrust out before him began to crawl into the tunnel. As his heels disappeared, and only a faint light outlined the opening, I dropped upon all fours in turn, and began laboriously to drag myself along behind him. The atmosphere was damp, chilly, and evil-smelling. Therefore, at the end of some ten or twelve yards of this serpentine crawling, when I saw Smith ahead of me to be standing erect, I uttered a stifled exclamation of relief. The thought of Karamina having been dragged through this noisome hole was one I dared not dwell upon. A long, narrow passage now opened up, its end invisible from where we stood. Smith hurried forward. For the first thirty or forty paces the roof was formed of massive stone slabs, then its character changed. The passage became lower, and one was compelled frequently to lower the head in order to avoid the oaken beams which crossed it. We're passing under the dining-rooms, said Smith. It was from here the sound of beating first came. Not do you mean! I have built up a theory which remains to be proved, Petrie. In my opinion a captive of the yellow group escaped to-night and sought to summon assistance that was discovered and overpowered. Solinal? Solinal, or Kennedy, yes, I believe so. Enlightenment came to me. I understood the pitiable condition into which the Greek butler had been thrown by the phenomenon of the ghostly knocking that Smith hurried on, and suddenly I saw that the passage had entered upon a sharp declivity, and now both roof and walls were composed of crumbling brickwork. Smith pulled up and thrust back a hand to detain me. Sh! he hissed, and grasped my arm. Silent, intently still, we stood and listened. The sound of a guttural voice was clearly distinguishable from somewhere close at hand. Smith extinguished the lamp. A faint luminance proclaimed itself directly ahead. Still grasping my arm Smith began slowly to advance toward the light. One, two, three, four, five, haces we crept onward, and I found myself looking through an archway into a medieval torture chamber. Only a part of the place was visible to me, but its character was unmistakable. Leg-ions, boots, and thumb-screws hung in racks upon the fungi-covered wall. A massive iron-studded door was open at the further end of the chamber, and on the threshold stood Homopulo holding a lantern in his hand. Even as I saw him, he stepped through, followed by one of those short, thick-set Bermons, of whom Dr. Fu Manchu had a number among his entourage. They were members of the villainous robber bands notorious in India as the Dakwits. Over one broad shoulder slung sackwise, the Dakwit carried a girl clad in scanty white drapery. Madness seized me, the madness of sorrow and impotent wrath, for with Karamena being borne off before my eyes I dared not fire at her abductors, lest I should strike her. Naelyn Smith uttered a loud cry, and together we hurled ourselves into the chamber, heedless of what of whom else it might shelter we sprang for the group in the distant doorway. A memory is mine of the dark white face of Homopulo peering wild-eyed over the lantern, of the slim white-clad form of the lovely captive seeming to fade into the obscurity of the passage beyond. Then with bleeding knuckles, with wild implications bubbling from my lips, I was battering upon the mighty door which had been slammed in my face at the very instant that I had gained it. Brace up, man, brace up, cried Smith, and in his strenuous, grimly purposeful fashion he shielded me away from the door. A battering ram could not force that timber, we must seek another way. I staggered weakly back into the room. Hand raised to my head I looked about me. A lantern stood in a niche in one wall, weirdly illuminating that place of ghastly memories. There were braziers, branding irons, with other instruments dear to the black ages about me, and gagged, chained side by side against the opposite wall, Lacer Lionel Barton, and another man unknown to me. Already Nalen Smith was bending over the intrepid explorer, whose fierce blue eyes glared out from the suntanned face madly, whose gray hair and mustache liberally bristled with rage long repressed. I choked down the emotions that boiled and seized within me, and sought to release the second captive, a stockly-built, clean-shaven man. First I removed the length of towering, which was tied firmly over his mouth, and—'Thank you, sir,' he said composedly. The keys of these irons are on the ledge there beside the lantern. I broke the first ring I was chained to, but the yellow devils overhauled me, all manacled as I was, half-way along the passage before I could attract your attention, and fixed me up to another and stronger ring. Air he had finished speaking, the keys were in my hands, and I had unlocked the guys from both the captives. So Lionel Barton, his gag removed, unloosed a torrent of pent-up wrath. The hell-fiends drugged me, he shouted. That black villain Homopulo doctored my tea. I woken his damnable cell, a secret of which has been lost for generations. He turned, blazing blue eyes upon Kennedy. How did you come to be trapped? He demanded unreasonably. I credited you with a modicum of brains. Homopulo came running from your room, sir, and told me you were taken suddenly ill, and that a doctor must be summoned without delay. Well, well, you fool! Dr. Hamilton was away, sir. A false call beyond doubt, snapped Smith. Therefore I went for the new doctor, Dr. Magnus, in the village. He came at once, and I showed him up to your room. He sent Mrs. Orem out, leaving only Homopulo and myself there, except yourself. Well? Sand-bagged, explained the man nonchalantly. Dr. Magnus, who is some kind of dago, is evidently one of the gang. So Lionel, cried Smith, where does the passage lead to beyond that doorway? God knows, was the answer, which dashed my last hope to the ground. I have no more idea than yourself. Perhaps he ceased speaking. A sound had interrupted him, which in those grim surroundings, lighted by the solitary lantern, translated my thoughts magically to ancient Rome, to the Rome of Tygellinus, to the dungeons of Nero Circus. Echoing eerily along the secret passages it came, the roaring and snarling of the lioness, and the leopards. Naelyn Smith clasped his hand to his brow, and stared at me almost frenziedly then. God, God, he whispered, either their plans. Whenever they got them, or inaccurate, or in their panic, they must have mistaken the way. Wild cries were now mingling with the snarling of the beasts. They have blundered into the old crypt! How we got out of the secret labyrinth of Greywater Park into the grounds, and around the angle of the west wing to the ivy-grown pointed door, where once the chapel had been, I do not know. Light seemed to spring up about me, and half-clad servants to appear out of the void. Temporally. I was insane. Solinal Barton was behaving like a madman too, and like a madman he tore at the ancient bolts, and precipitated himself into the stone-paved cloister, barred with the moon-cast shadows of the Norman Pillars. From behind the iron bars of the home of the leopards came now a fearsome growling and scuffling. Smith held the light with a steady hand, whilst Kennedy forced the heavy bolts of the crypt door. In lept the fearless baronet among his savage pets, and in the ray of light from the electric lamp I saw that which turned me sick with horror. Prone beside a yawning gap in the floor lay homopulo, his throat torn indescribably, and his white shirt front smothered in blood. A black leopard, having its forepaws upon the dead man's breast, turned blazing eyes upon us, a second crouched beside him. Heaped up in a corner of the place amongst the straw and litter of the lair lay the Burmese Dacquot, his sinewy fingers embedded in the throat of the third and largest leopard, which was dead, whilst the creature's gleaning fangs were buried in the tattered flesh of the man's shoulder. Upon the straw beside the two, her slim, bare arms outstretched, and her head pillowed upon them, so that her rippling hair completely concealed her face. Lake Garamina, in a trice Barton lept upon the great beast standing over homopulo, had him by the back of the neck and held him in his powerful hands, whining with fear and helpless as a rat in the grip of a terrier. The second leopard fled into the inner lair, so much I visualized in a flash, then all faded, and I knelt alone beside her whose life was my life, and a world grown suddenly empty and still. Through long hours of agony I lived, hours contained within the span of seconds, and the beloved head resting against my shoulder, whilst I searched for signs of life, and dreaded to find ghastly wounds. At first I could not credit the miracle, I could not receive the wondrous truth. Garamina was quite uninjured and deep in drugged slumber. The leopards thought her dead, whispered Smith brokenly, and never touched her. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 OF THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU This lip of ox recording is in the public domain. THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU BY SAXROMER CHAPTER 37 THREE NIGHTS LATER LISTEN! cried Sir Lionel Barton. He stood upon the black rug before the massive carbon mantel-piece, a huge man in an appropriately huge setting. I checked the words on my lips and listened intently. Within Greywater Park all was still, for the hour was late. Outside the rain was descending in a deluge, its continuous roar drowning any other sound that might have been discernible. Then above it I detected a noise that at first I found difficult to define. The howling of the leopards, I suggested. Sir Lionel shook his tawny head with impatience. Then, the sound growing louder, suddenly I knew it for what it was. Someone shouting, I exclaimed, someone who rides a galloping horse. Coming here, added Sir Lionel Hark, he is at the door. A bell rang furiously, again and again sending its brazen clanger echoing through the great apartments and passages of Greywater. There goes Kennedy. Above the sibilant roaring of the rain I could hear someone releasing heavy bolts and bars. The servants had long since retired, as also had Karamina, that Sir Lionel's man remained wakeful and alert. Sir Lionel made for the door, and eyes standing up was about to follow him, when Kennedy appeared, in his wake a bedraggled groom, hatless and pale to the lips. His frightened eyes looked from face to face. Dr. Pytre, he gasped interrogatively. Yes, I said, a sudden dread assailing me. What is it? God, it's Hamilton's man, cried Barton. Mr. Nyland Smith, sir, continued the groom brokenly, and all my fears were realised. He's been attacked, sir, on the road from the station, and Dr. Hamilton, to whose house he was carried, Kennedy, shouted Sir Lionel, get the Rolls Royce out! Put your horse up here, man, and come with us. He turned abruptly, as the groom, grasping at the wall, fell heavily to the floor. Good God, I cried. What's the matter with him? I bend over the prostrate man, making a rapid examination. His head, a nasty blow, give me a hand, Sir Lionel. We must get him onto a couch. The unconscious man was laid upon a chest afield, and ably assisted by the explorer, who was used to coping with such hurts as this. I attended to him as best I could. One of the men's servants had been aroused, and, just as he appeared in the doorway, I had the satisfaction of seeing Dr. Hamilton's groom open his eyes, and look about him daisily. Quick, I said, tell me, what hurt you? The man raised his hand to his head, and groaned feebly. Something came whizzing, sir, he answered. There was no report, and I saw nothing. Oh, don't know what it can have been. Where did this attack take place? Between Aire and the village, sir, just by the coppers at the crossroads at the top of Radnill. You had better remain here for the present, I said, and gave a few words of instruction to the man whom we had aroused. This way, cried Barton, who had rushed out of the room, his huge frame reappearing in the doorway. The car is ready. My mind filled with dreadful apprehensions. I passed out onto the carriage sweep. Sir Lionel was already at the wheel. Jump in, Kennedy! He said, when I had taken the seat beside him, and the man sprang into the car. A way we shot, up the narrow lane, lurched hard on the bend, and were off at ever-growing speed toward the hills, where a long climb awaited the car. The headlight picked out the straight road before us, and Barton increased the pace, regardless of regulations, until the growing slope made itself felt, and the speed grew gradually less. Above the throbbing of the motor, I could hear now the rain and the overhanging trees. I peered through the darkness up the road, wondering if we were near to the spot where the mysterious attack had been made upon Dr. Hamilton's room. I decided that we were just passing the place, and, to confirm my opinion, at that moment Sir Lionel swung the car around suddenly, and plunged headlong into the black mouth of a narrow lane. Hitherto the roads had been fair, but now the jolting and swaying became very pronounced. Beastly road, shouted Barton, and stiff gradient. I nodded. That part of the way which was visible in front had the appearance of a muddy cataract through which we must force a path. Then, as abruptly as it had commenced, the rain ceased, and almost at the same moment came an angry cry from behind. The canvas hood made it impossible to see clearly in the car, but donning quickly I perceived Kennedy with his cap off, rubbing his close-cropped skull. He was cursing volubly. What is it, Kennedy? Somebody's sniping, cried the man. Lucky for me, I had my cap on. Eh, sniping? said Barton, glancing over his shoulder. What do you mean? A stone, was it? No, sir, answered Kennedy. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't a stone. Hurt much, I asked. No, sir, nothing at all. But there was a note of fear in the man's voice, fear of the unknown. Something struck the hood with a dull, drum-like thud. There's another, sir, cried Kennedy. There's someone following us. Can you see anyone? came the reply. I thought I saw something there about twenty yards behind. It's so dark. Try a shot, I said, passing my browning to Kennedy. The next moment the crack of the little weapon sounded sharply, and I thought I detected a vague answer in cry. See anything? came from Barton. Neither Kennedy nor I made reply, for we were both looking back down the hill. Momentarily the moon had peeped from the cloud-banks, and where, three hundred yards behind the bordering trees were few, a patch of dim light spread across the muddy road, and melted away as a new blackness gathered. But in a brief space, three figures had shown, only for an instant. But long enough for us to see that they were those of three gaunt men, seemingly clad in scanty garments. What weapons they employed I could not conjecture. But we were pursued by three of Dr. Fu Manchu's daiquits. Barton growled something savagely, and ran the car to the left of the road, as the gates of Dr. Hamilton's house came in sight. A servant was there, ready to throw them open, and Sir Lionel swung around on to the drive, and drove ahead up the Elm Avenue to where the lights streamed through the open door onto the wet gravel. The house was a blaze of lights, every window visible being illuminated, and Mrs. Hamilton stood on the porch to greet us. "'Dog the Petrie,' she asked nervously as we descended. "'I am he,' I said. "'How is Mr. Smith?' "'Still insensible,' was the reply. Passing a knot of servants who stood at the foot of the stairs, like a little flock of frightened sheep, we made our way into the room where my poor friend lay. Dr. Hamilton, a grey-haired man of military bearing, greeted Sir Lionel, and the latter made me known to my fellow practitioner, who grasped my hand, and then went straight to the bedside, tilting the lamp-shade to throw the light directly upon the patient. Nalyn Smith lay with his arms outside the coverlet, and his fists tightly clenched. His thin-tanned face wore a grayish hue, and a white bandage was about his head. He breathed stentoriously. "'We can only wait,' said Dr. Hamilton, and trust that there will be no complications. I clenched my fists involuntarily, but speaking no word turned and passed from the room. Downstairs in Dr. Hamilton's study was the man who had found Nalyn Smith. "'We don't know when it was done, sir,' he said, answering my first question. Staples and May stumbled on him in the dusk, just by the big beach, a good quarter-mile from the village. I don't know how long he'd laid there, but it must have been for some time, as the last rain arrived an hour earlier. No, sir, he hadn't been robbed. His money and watch were on him, but his pocketbook lay open beside him. Though funny as it seems, there were three five-pound oats in it. "'Do you understand,' Petrie,' cried Sir Lionel, Smith evidently obtained a copy of the old plan of the secret passages of Greywater and Monkswell, sooner than he expected, and determined to return the night. They left him for dead, having robbed him of the plans. But the attack on Dr. Hamilton's man— Vumanju clearly tried to prevent communication with us tonight. He is playing for time. Depend on it, Petrie. The hour of his departure draws near, and he is afraid of being trapped at the last moment. He began taking huge strides up and down the room, forcibly reminding me of a caged lion. "'To think,' I said bitterly, that all our efforts have failed to discover the secret—' The secret of my own property!' roared Barton, and one known to that damned cunning Chinese devil, and in all probability now known also to Smith. "'And he cannot speak!' "'Who cannot speak?' demanded a hoarse voice. I turned in a flash, unable to credit my senses, and there holding weakly to the doorpost stood Naelyn Smith. "'Smith,' I cried reproachfully, you should not have left your room.' He sank into an armchair, assisted by Dr. Hamilton. "'My skull is fortunately thick,' he replied, a ghostly smile playing around the corners of his mouth. And it was a physical impossibility for me to remain inert, considering that Dr. Vumanju proposes to leave England— "'Tonight,' end of Chapter 37. "'My inquiries in the manuscript-room of the British Museum,' said Naelyn Smith, his voice momentarily growing stronger, and some of the old fire creeping back into his eyes, have proved entirely successful. So Lionel Barton, Dr. Hamilton and myself hung upon every word, and often I found myself glancing at the old-fashioned clock on the doctor's mantelpiece. "'We had very definite proof,' continued Smith, of the fact that Vumanju and company were conversant with that elaborate system of secret rooms and passages, which forms a veritable labyrinth in, about, and beneath Graywater Park. Some of the passages we explored. That Sir Lionel should be ignorant of the system was not strange, considering that he had but recently inherited the property, and that the former owner, his kinsman, regarded the secret as lost. A starting point was discovered, however, in the old work on haunted manors unearthed in the library, as you remember. There was a reference in the chapter dealing with Graywater, so a certain monkish manuscript said, to repose in the national collection, and to contain a plan of these passages and stairways. The keeper of the manuscripts at the museum very courteously assisted me in my inquiries, and the ancient parchment was placed in my hands. Sure enough, it contained a carefully executed drawing of the hidden ways of Graywater, the work of a monk in the distant days when Graywater was a priory. This monk, I may add, a certain brother and slim, afterwards became abbot of Graywater. "'Very interesting,' cried Sir Lionel loudly. "'Very interesting indeed.' I copied the plan,' resumed Smith, with elaborate care. That labour, unfortunately, was wasted in part, at least. Then, in order to confirm my suspicions on the point, I endeavoured to ascertain if the monk's manuscript had been asked for at the museum recently. The keeper of the manuscripts could not recall that any student had handled the work prior to my own visit during the past ten years. This was disappointing, and I was tempted to conclude that Fu Manchu had blundered onto the secret in some other way, when the assistant keeper of the manuscripts put in an appearance. From him I obtained confirmation of my theory. Three months ago, a Greek gentleman, possibly Sir Lionel, your late butler, Homopoulou, obtained permission to consult the manuscript, claiming to be engaged upon a paper for some review or other. At any rate, the fact was sufficient. Quite evidently, a servant of Fu Manchu had obtained a copy of the plan, and this within a day or so of the death of Mr. Brangholm Burton, whose heir, Sir Lionel, you were. I became daily impressed anew with the omniscience, the incredible genius of Dr. Fu Manchu. The scheme which we now know of to compass the death or captivity of our three selves and Karamina was put into operation, and failed. But, with its failure, the utility of the secret chambers was by no means terminated. The local legend, according to which a passage exists, linking Greywater and Monkswell, is confirmed by the monk's plan. What? cried Sir Lionel, springing to his feet, a passage between the park and the old tower. My dear sir, it's impossible. Such a passage would have to pass under the River Starn. It's only a narrow stream, I know, but— It does, or did, pass under the River Starn, said Nalen Smith Cooley, that it is still practicable, I do not assert, what interests me is the spot at which it terminates. He plunged his hand into the pocket of the light overcoat, which he wore over the borrowed suit of pajamas, in which the kindly Dr. Hamilton had clothed him. He was seeking his pipe. Have a cigar, Smith! cried Sir Lionel, proffering his case. If you must smoke, although I think our medical friends frowning. Nalen Smith took a cigar, bit off the end, and lighted up. He began to surround himself with odorous clouds, to his evident satisfaction. To resume, he said, the Spanish priest who was persecuted at Greywater in early Reformation days, and whose tortured spirit is said to haunt the park, held the secret of this passage, and of the subterranean chamber in Monkswell, to which it led. His confession, which resulted in his death at the stake, enabled the commissioners to recover from his chamber a quantity of church ornaments. For these facts I am indebted to the author of the work on Haunted Manes. Our inquire at this point touches upon things sinister and incomprehensible. In a word, although the passage and a part of the underground room are of unknown antiquity, it appears certain that they were improved and enlarged by one of the abbots of Monkswell, at a date much later than Brother Anselm's abbotship, and the place was converted to a secret chapel. A secret chapel? said Dr. Hamilton. Exactly. This was at a time in English history when the horrible cult of Asmodeus spread from the Rhine monasteries, and gained proselytes in many religious houses of England. In this secret chapel, Richard Churchman, seduced to the abominable views of the abbot, celebrated the Black Mass. My God, I whispered a small wonder that the place is reputed to be haunted. Small wonder, cried Nalen Smith, with all his old nervous vigor, the Dr. Fu Manchu selected it as an ideal retreat in times of danger. What? The chapel! roared Sir Lionel. Beyond doubt, while knowing the penalty of discovery, those old devil worshipers had chosen a temple from which they could escape in an emergency. There is a short stair from the chamber into the cave, which, as you may know, exists in the cliff adjoining Monkswell. Smith's eyes were blazing now, and he was on his feet, pacing the floor, an odd figure with his bandaged skull and inadequate garments, biting on the already extinguished cigar as though it had been a pipe. Returning to our rooms, Petrie, he went on rapidly, who should I run into but Summers? You remember Summers? The Suez Canal pilot whom you met at Ismailia two years ago? He brought the yacht through the canal from Suez, on which I suspect Kaiming came to England. She is a big boat, used to be on the Port Said and Jaffa route before a wealthy Chinaman acquired her through an Egyptian agent for his personal use. All the crews, Summers told me, were Asiatics, and little groups of natives lined the canal and performed obeisances as the vessel passed, undoubtedly they had that woman on board, Petrie, the Lady of the Sea Fan, who escaped together with Fu Manchu when we raided the meeting in London. Like a fool, I came racing back here without advising you, and all alone, my mind occupied with the tremendous import of these discoveries, started long after dusk to walk to Greywater Park. He shrugged his shoulders whimsically and raised one hand to his bandaged head. Fu Manchu employs weapons both of the future and of the past, he said, My movements have been watched, of course, I was mad. Someone, probably a deckwit, laid me low with a ball of clay propelled from a sling of the ancient Persian pattern. I actually saw him, then saw and knew no more. Smith, I cried, whilst Sir Lionel Barton and Dr. Hamilton stared at one another dumbfounded. You think he is on the point of flying from England? The Chinese yacht, Chanak Campo, is lying two miles off the coast and in the sight of the Tower of Monkswell. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of the Hand of Fu Manchu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer Chapter 39 The Shadow Army The scene of our return to Greywater Park is destined to live in my memory forever, the storm of which the violent rainfall had been a prelude gathered blackly over the hills. Ebon clouds lowered upon us as we came racing to the gates. Then the big car was spinning around the carriage sweep amid a deathly stillness of nature indescribably gloomy and ominous. I have said a stillness of nature, but as Kennedy leapt out and ran up the steps to the door, from the distant cages wherein Sir Lionel kept his collection of rare beasts preceded the angry howling of the leopards and such a wild succession of roars from the African lioness that I stared at our eccentric host questioningly. It's the gathering storm, he explained. These creatures are particularly susceptible to atmospheric disturbances. Now the door was thrown open and, standing in the lighted hall, a picture fair to look upon in her dainty kimono and little red high-heeled slippers stood Karamina. I was beside her in a moment, for the lovely face was pale, and there was a wildness in her eyes which alarmed me. He is somewhere near, she whispered, clinging to me. Some great danger threatens. Where have you been? What has happened? Smith was attached on his way back from London, I replied. But as you see he is quite recovered. We are in no danger, and I insist that you go back to bed. We shall tell you all about it in the morning. Rebellion blazed up in her wonderful eyes instantly, and, as quickly was gone, leaving them exquisitely bright. Two tears like twin pearls hung upon the curved black lashes. It made my blood course faster to watch this lovely eastern girl conquering the barbaric impulses that sometimes flamed up within her, because I willed it. Indeed, this was a miracle that I never tired of witnessing. Mrs. Orem, the white-haired housekeeper, placed her arm in motherly fashion about the girl's slim waist. She wants to stay in my room until the trouble is all over, she said, in her refined sweet voice. You are very good, Mrs. Orem, I replied. Take care of her. One long reassuring glance I gave Karamina, then turned and followed Smith and Sir Lionel up the winding oak stair. Kennedy came close behind me, carrying one of the acetylene headlamps of the car, and just listened to the lioness, Sir, he whispered. It's not the gathering storm that's making her so restless. Jungle beasts grow quiet as a rule in this thunder about. The snarling of the great creature was plainly audible, distant though we were, from her cage. Through your room, Martin, snapped Nayland Smith when we gained the top corridor. He was his old masterful self once more, and his voice was vibrant with that suppressed excitement which I knew well. Into the disorderly sleeping apartment of the baronet we hurried, and Smith made for the recess near the bed which concealed a door in the panelling. Cautiously here, cried Smith, follow immediately behind me, Kennedy, and throw the beam ahead, hold the lamp well to the left. In we filed, into that ancient passage which had figured in many a black deed, but had never served the ends of a more evil plotter than the awful Chinaman, who had so recently rediscovered it. Down we marched, and down, but not to the base of the tower as I had anticipated, at a point which I judged to be about level with the first floor of the house, Smith, who had been audibly counting the steps, paused, and began to examine the seemingly unbroken masonry of the wall. We have to remember, he muttered, that this passage may be blocked up or otherwise impassable, and that Fu Manchu may know of another entrance. Furthermore, since the plan is lost, I have to rely upon my memory for the exact position of the door. He was feeling about in the crevices between the stone blocks of which the wall was constructed. Twenty-one steps, he muttered, I feel certain. Suddenly it seemed that his quest had proved successful. Ah, he cried, the ring! I saw that he had drawn out a large iron ring from some crevice in which it had been concealed. Stand back, Kennedy, he warned. Kennedy moved on to a lower step, as Smith, bringing all his weight to bear upon the ring, turned the huge stone slab upon its hidden pivot, so that it fell back upon the stair with a reverberating boom. We all pressed forward to peer into the black cavity. Kennedy moving the light as square well was revealed, not more than three feet across. Footholes were cut at intervals down the further side. Hmm! said Smith. I was hardly prepared for this. A method of descent that occurs to me is to lean back against one side and thrust one's weight entirely to the footholes on the other. A shaft appeared in the plan, I remember, but I had formed no theory respecting the means provided for descending it. Tilt the lamp forward, Kennedy, good, and I can see the floor of the passage below, only about fifteen feet or so down. He stretched his foot across, placed it in the niche, and began to descend. Kennedy next came his muffled voice. With the lamp, its light will enable you others to see the way. Down went Kennedy without hesitation, the lamp swung from his right arm. I will bring up the rail, said Sir Lionel Barton. Whereupon I descended, I had climbed down about halfway when from below came a loud cry, a sound of scuffling, and a savage exclamation from Smith, then— We're right, Petrie. This passage was recently used by Fu Manchu. I gained the bottom of the well and found myself standing in the entrance to the arched passage. Kennedy was directing the light of the lamp down upon the floor. You see, the door was guarded, said Naelyn Smith. Puffadder, he snapped, and indicated a small snake whose head was crushed beneath his heel. Sir Lionel now joined us, and a silent quartet, we stood staring from the dead reptile into the damp and evil-smelling tunnel, a distant muttering and rumbling rolled, echoing awesomely along it. For heaven's sake, what is that, Sir? whispered Kennedy. It was the thunder, answered Naelyn Smith. The storm is breaking over the hills, steady with the lamp my man. We had proceeded for some three hundred yards, and according to my calculation were clear of the orchard of Greywater Park and close to the fringe of trees beyond. I was taking note of the curious old brickwork of the passage when— Look out, sir! cried Kennedy, and the light began dancing madly, just under your feet. Now it's up the wall! Mind your hand, Dr. Petrie! The lamp was turned, and since it shone fully into my face, temporarily blinded me. On the roof over your head, Barton. This from Naelyn Smith. What can we kill it with? Now my sight was restored to me, and looking back along the passage I saw, clinging to an irregularity in the moldy wall, the most gigantic scorpion I had ever set eyes upon. It was fully as large as my open hand. Kennedy and Naelyn Smith were stealthily retracing their steps, the former keeping the light directed upon the hideous insect, which now began running about with a horrible febrile activity characteristic of the species. Suddenly came a sharp staccato report. Sir Lionel had scored a hit with his brunning pistol. In waves of sound the report went booming along the passage. The lamp, as I have said, was turned in order to shine back upon us, rendering the tunnel ahead a mere black mouth, a veritable inferno held by inhuman guards. Into that black cavern I stared, gloomily fascinated by the onward rolling sound storm, into that blackness I looked, to feel my scalp tingle horrifically to know the crowning horror of the horrible journey. The blackness was spangled with watching diamond eyes, with tiny insect eyes that moved upon the floor, upon the walls, upon the ceiling. A choking cry rose to my lips. Smith, Barton, for God's sake, look! The place is alive with scorpions! Around we all came, panic plucking at our hearts, around swept the beam of the big lamp, and there, retreating before the light, went a veritable army of venomous creatures. I counted no fewer than three of the giant red centipede whose poisonous touch, called the Ziad Kiss, is certain death. Several species of scorpion were represented, and some kind of bloated unwieldy spider so gross of body that its short hairy legs could scare support it, crawled hideous, almost at my feet. What other monstrosities of the insect kingdom were included in that obscene host I know not. My skin tingled from a head to feet. I experienced a sensation as if a million venomous things already clung to me. Unclean things bred in the malarial jungles of Burma, in that corpse-tainted mud of China's rivers, in the fever spots of that darkest east from which Fu Manchu recruited his shadow army. I was perilously near to losing my nerve when the crisp incisive tones of Naelyn Smith's voice came to stimulate me like a cold douche. This wand and sacrifice of horror speaks eloquently of a forlorn hope, sweep the walls with light, Kennedy. All those filthy things are nocturnal, and they will retreat before us as we advance. His words prove true, occasioning a sort of rustling sound, a faint sibilance indescribably loathsome. The creatures gray and black and red darted off along the passage. One by one, as we proceeded, they crept into holes and crevices of the ancient walls, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, the pairs locked together in deadly embrace. They cannot live long in this cold atmosphere, cried Smith. Many of them will kill one another, and we can safely leave the rest to the British climate, but see that none of them drops upon you in passing. Thus we pursued our nightmare march on through that valley of horror. Colder grew the atmosphere, and colder, again the thunder boomed out above us, seeming to shake the roof of the tunnel fiercely, as with tightened hands. A sound of falling mortar, audible for some time, now grew so loud that conversation became difficult. All the insects had disappeared. We are approaching the river-stan, roared Solinal. Note the dip of the passage and the wet walls. Note the type of brickwork, shouted Smith. Largely as a sedative to the feverish excitement which consumed me, I forced myself to study the construction of the tunnel, and I became aware of an astonishing circumstance. Partly the walls were natural, a narrow cavern traversing the bed of rock which uncropped on this portion of the estate. But partly, if my scanty knowledge of archaeology did not betray me, they were Phoenician. This stretch of passage, came another roar from Solinal, dates back to Roman days or even earlier. By God, it's almost incredible! And now Smith and Kennedy, who led, were up to their knees in a running tide, an icy shower-bath drenched us from above. A head was a solid wall of falling water. Again and louder, nearer, boomed and rattled the thunder. Its mighty voice was almost lost in the roar of that subterranean cataract. Nailin Smith, using his hands as a megaphone, cried, Failing the evidence that others have passed this way, I should not dare to risk it. But the river is less than forty feet wide at the point below Monkswell. A dozen paces should see us through the worst. I attempted no reply. I will frankly admit that the prospect appalled me. But bracing himself up, as one does preparatory to a high dive, Smith nodding to Kennedy to proceed, plunged into the cataract ahead. End of CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 OF THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU BY SAXROMER CHAPTER 40 THE BLACK CHAPEL Of how we achieved that twelve or fifteen yards below the rocky bed of the stream, the powers that lent us strength and fortitude alone hold record. Gasping for breath, drenched, almost reconciled to the end which I thought was come, I found myself standing at the foot of a steep flight of stairs, roughly hewn in the living rock. Beside me, the extinguished lamp still grasped in his hand, lent Kennedy, panting wildly and clutching at the uneven wall. Solinal Barton had sunk exhausted upon the bottom step, and Naelyn Smith was standing near him, looking up the stairs. From an arched doorway at their head, light streamed forth. Immediately behind me, in the dark place where the waters roared, opened a fissure in the rock, and into it poured the miniature cataract. I understood now the phenomenon of minor whirlpools for which the little river above was famous. Such were my impressions of that brief breathing space, then. Have your pistols ready? cried Smith. Leave the lamp, Kennedy, it can serve us no further. Mustering all the reserve that remained to us, we went. Pelmel, a wild bedraggled company, up that ancient stair and poured into the room above. One glance showed us that this was indeed the Chapel of Asmodeus, the shrine of Satan where the black mass had been sung in the Middle Ages. The stone altar remained, together with certain Latin inscriptions cut in the wall. Fu Manchu's last home in England had been within a temple of his only master. Save for nondescript litter, evidencing a hasty departure of the occupants, and a ship's lantern burning upon the altar, the chapel was unfurnished. Nothing menaced us, but the thunder hollily crashed far above. To cover his retreat Fu Manchu had relied upon the noxious host in the passage, and upon the wall of water. Silent, motionless, we forestood looking down at that which lay upon the floor of the unholy place. In a pool of blood was stretched the Eurasian girl's army. Her picturesque finery was reft into tatters, and her bare throat and arms were covered with wheels and bruises, occasioned by ruthless, clutching fingers. Of her face, which had been notable for a sort of devilish beauty I cannot write, it was the awful face of one who had died from strangulation. Beside her, with a male egg criss in his heart, a little jeweled weapon that I had often seen in Zami's hand, sprawled the obese Greek Samarkhan, a member of the sea fan group, and some time manager of a great London hotel. It was ghastly, it was infinitely horrible, that tragedy of which the story can never be known, never be written, that fiendish fight to the death in the black chapel of Asmodeus. We are too late, said Naelyn Smith, the stare behind the altar. He snatched up the lantern. Directly behind the stone altar was a narrow pointed doorway, from the depths with which it communicated proceeded vague, awesome sounds, as of waves breaking in some vast cavern. We were more than half way down the stair when, above the muffled roaring of the thunder, I distinctly heard the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu. My God! shouted Smith, perhaps they are trapped! The cave is only navigable at low tide and in calm weather. We literally fell down the remaining steps and were almost precipitated into the water. The light of the lantern showed a lofty cavern tapering away to a point at its remote end, pear fashion. The throbbing of an engine and tuning of a screw became audible. There was a faint smell of petrol. Shoot! Shoot! The frenzied voice was that of Sir Lionel. Look! They could just get through! Crack! Crack! Crack! Naelyn Smith's browning spat death across the cave, then followed the report of Barton's pistol, then those of mine and Kennedy's. A small motorboat was creeping cautiously out under a low natural archway which evidently gave access to the sea. Since the tide was incoming, a few minutes more of delay had rendered the passage of the cavern impossible. The boat disappeared. We are not beaten, snapped Naelyn Smith. The Chanuk camp will be seized in the Channel. There were formally steps in the side of the well from which this place takes its name, declared Naelyn Smith Dully. This was the means of access to the secret chapel employed by the devil-worshippers. The top of the well, alleged to be the deepest in England, said Sir Lionel, is among the tangled weeds close by the ruined tar. Smith, ascending three stone steps, swung the lantern out over the yawning pit below, then he stared long and fixedly upwards. Both thunder and rain had ceased, but even in those gloomy depths we could hear the coming of the tempest which followed upon that memorable storm. The steps are here, reported Smith, but without the aid of a rope from above I doubt that they are climbable. It's that or the way we came, Sir, said Kennedy. I was five years at sea and wind jammers. Let me swarm up and go for a rope to the park. Can you do it? demanded Smith. Come and look. Kennedy craned from the opening, staring upward and downward then. I can do it, Sir, he said quietly. Removing his boots and socks, he swung himself out from the opening into the well and was gone. The story of Fu Manchu and of the organization called the sea-fan which he employed as a mean to further his own vast projects, is almost told. Kennedy accomplished the perilous climb to the lip of the well and sped barefooted to Greywater Park for ropes. By means of these we all escaped from the strange chapel of the devil-worshippers. Oh, how we arranged for the removal of the bodies which lay in the place I need not write. My record advances twenty-four hours. The great storm which burst over England and the never-to-be-forgotten spring when Fu Manchu fled our shores has become historical. There were no fewer than twenty shipwrecks during the day and night that it raged. Imprisoned by the elements in Greywater Park, we listened to the wind howling with the voice of a million demons around the ancient manor, to the creatures of Sir Lionel's collections swelling the unholy discord. Then came the news that there was a big steamer on the Pinyon Rocks that the lifeboat could not reach her. As though it were but yesterday I can see us. Sir Lionel Barton, Nalyn Smith and I, hurrying down into the little cove which sheltered the fishing village, fighting our way against the power of the Tempest. Thrice we saw the rocket split the inky curtain of the storm. Thrice saw the gallant lifeboat crew essay to put their frail craft out to sea. Thrice, the mighty rollers, hurled them contemptuously back. Dawn. A grey, eerie dawn was creeping ghostly over the ironbound shore when fragments of wreckage began to drift in. Such are the currents upon those coasts that bodies are rarely recovered from wrecks on the cruel Pinyon Rocks. In the dim light I bent over a battered and torn mass of timber that once had been the bow of a boat, and in letters of black and gold I read S. Y. Chanuk Campo. End of Chapter 40 End of The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sacks Romer