 CHAPTER 1. THE TRAVELER FROM TOBET. Who's there? I called sharply. I turned and looked across the room. The window had been widely opened when I entered, and a faint fog haze hung in the apartment, seeming to veil the light of the shaded lamp. I watched the closed door intently, expecting every moment to see the knob turn, that nothing happened. Who's there? I cried again, and crossing the room I threw open the door. The long corridor without, lighted only by one inhospitable lamp at a remote end, showed choked and yellowed with this same fog, so characteristic of London in November, but nothing moved to right nor left of me. The new Louvre Hotel was in some respects yet incomplete, and the long passage in which I stood, despite its marble facings, had no air of comfort or good cheer, palatial it was, but inhospitable. I returned to the room, reclosing the door behind me. Then, for some five minutes or more, I stood listening for a repetition of that mysterious sound, as of something that both dragged and tapped, which already had arrested my attention. My vigilance went unrewarded. I had closed the window to exclude the yellow mist, but subconsciously I was aware of its encircling presence, walling me in, and now I found myself in such a silence as I had known in deserts, but could scarce have deemed possible in fogbound London, in the heart of the world's metropolis, with the traffic of the strand below me upon one side, and the restless life of the river upon the other. It was easy to conclude that I had been mistaken, that my nervous system was somewhat overwrought as a result of my hurried return from Cairo, from Cairo where I had left behind me many a fondly cherished hope. I addressed myself again to the task of unpacking my steamer-trunk, and was so engaged when again a sound in the corridor outside brought me upright with a jerk. A quick footstep approached the door, and there came a muffled rapping upon the panel. This time I asked no question, but leapt across the room and threw the door open. Nailand Smith stood before me, muffled up in a heavy travelling coat, and with his hat pulled down over his brows. At last I cried, as my friend stepped in and quickly closed the door. Smith threw his hat upon the city, stripped off the great coat, and pulling out his pipe, began to load it in feverish haste. Well, I said, standing amid the litter cast out from the trunk and watching him eagerly. What's afoot? Nailand Smith lighted his pipe, carelessly dropping the match-end upon the floor at his feet. God knows what is afoot this time, Petrie, he replied. You and I have lived no commonplace lives. Dr. Fu Manchu has seen to that, but if I am to believe what the chief has told me today, even stranger things are ahead of us. I stared at him, wonder-stricken. That is almost incredible, I said. Terror can have no darker meaning than that which Dr. Fu Manchu gave to it. Fu Manchu is dead, so what are we to fear? We have to fear, replied Smith, throwing himself into the corner of the city, the Sifan. I continued to stare uncomprehendingly, the Sifan. I always knew, and you always knew, interrupted Smith in his short, decisive manner, that Fu Manchu, genius that he was, remained nevertheless the servant of another or others. He was not the head of that organization which dealt in wholesale murder, which aimed at upsetting the balance of the world. I even knew the name of one, a certain Mandarin and member of the sublime order of the White Peacock, who was his immediate superior. I had never dared to guess at the identity of what I may term the head-centre. He ceased speaking and sat gripping his pipe grimly between his teeth, whilst I stood staring at him almost fatuously. Then, evidently you have much to tell me, I said, with forced calm. I drew up a chair beside the city and was about to sit down. Suppose you bolt the door, joked my friend. I nodded, entirely comprehending, crossed the room and shot the little nickel bolt into its socket. Now, said Smith, as I took my seat, the story is a fragmentary one in which there are many gaps. Let us see what we know. It seems that the dispatch which led to my sudden recall, and incidentally yours, from Egypt to London, and which only reached me as I was on the point of embarking at Suez for Rangoon, was prompted by the arrival here of Sir Gregory Hale, Willem Attache at the British Embassy, Peking. So much you will remember was conveyed in my instructions. Quite so. Furthermore, I was instructed, you'll remember, to put up at the New Louvre Hotel. Therefore, you came here and engaged this suite whilst I reported to the chief. A stranger business is before us, Petrie, I verily believe, than any we have known hitherto. In the first place Sir Gregory Hale is here—here—in the New Louvre Hotel. I ascertain on the way up, but not by direct inquiry, that he occupies a suite similar to this, and incidentally on the same floor. His report to the India office, whatever its nature, must have been a sensational one. He has made no report to the India office. What made no report? He has not entered any office whatsoever, nor will he receive any representative. He has been playing at Robinson Crusoe in a private suite here for close upon a fortnight. It has since the time of his arrival in London. I suppose my growing perplexity was plainly visible, for Smith suddenly burst out with his short boyish laugh. Oh, I told it was a strange business, he cried. Is he mad? Nail and Smith's gate he left him, and he became quite suddenly stern and grim. Either mad, Petrie, stark, raving mad, or the saviour of the Indian Empire, perhaps of all western civilisation. Listen, Sir Gregory Hale, whom I know slightly, and who honours me apparently with the belief that I am the only man in Europe worthy of his confidence, resigned his appointment at Peking some time ago, and set out upon a private expedition to the Mongolian frontier with the avowed intention of visiting some place in the Gobi Desert. From the time that he actually crossed the frontier he disappeared for nearly six months, to reappear again suddenly and dramatically in London. He buried himself in this hotel, refusing all visitors and only advising the authorities of his return by telephone. He demanded that I should be sent to see him, and despite his eccentric methods, so great is the chief's faith in Sir Gregory's knowledge of matters far eastern, that behold, here I am. He broke off abruptly and sat in an attitude of tense listening. Then, do hear anything, Petrie, he rapped. A sort of tapping, I inquired, listening intently myself for a while. Smith nodded his head rapidly. We both listened for some time. Smith, with his head bent slightly forward, and his pipe held in his hands, eye with my gaze upon the bolted door. A faint mist still hung in the room, and once I thought I detected a slight sound from the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness. Smith noted me turn my head, and for a moment the pair of us stared into the gap of the doorway. But the silence was complete. You have told me neither much nor little, Smith, I said, resuming for some reason in a hushed voice. Who or what is the seafan at whose existence you hint? Nailin Smith smiled grimly. Possibly the real and hitherto unsolved riddle of Tibet, Petrie, he replied, a mystery concealed from the world behind the veil of lamism. He stood up abruptly, glancing at a scrap of paper which he took from his pocket. Sweet Number 14A, he said, come along, we have not a moment to waste. Let us make our presence known to Segregari, the man who has dared to raise that veil. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of The Hand of Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. Chapter 2. The Man with a Limp. Lock the door, said Smith significantly as we stepped into the corridor. I did so, and had turned to join my friend when, to the accompaniment of a sort of hysterical muttering, a door further along and on the opposite side of the corridor was suddenly thrown open, and a man whose face showed ghastly white in the light of the solitary lamp beyond, literally hurled himself out. He perceived Smith and myself immediately. Throwing one glance back over his shoulder, he came tottering forward to meet us. My God! I can't stand it any longer! He babbled and threw himself upon Smith, who was foremost, clutching pitifully at him for support. Come and see him, sir, for heaven's sakes, come in. I know he's dying, and he's going mad. I never disobeyed an order in my life before, but I can't help myself. I can't help myself. Brace up! I cried, seizing him by the shoulders, as, still clutching at Nalen Smith, he turned his ghastly face to me. Who are you, and watch your trouble? I'm beaten, sir Gregory Hale's man. Smith started visibly, and his gaunt, tanned face seemed to me to have grown perceptibly paler. Come on, Petrie, he snapped. There's some devilry here. Thrusting beaten aside, he rushed in at the open door, upon which, as I followed him, I had time to note the number, 14A. It communicated with a suite of rooms almost identical with our own. The sitting-room was empty, and in the utmost disorder. But from the direction of the principal bedroom came a most horrible mumbling and gurgling sound, a sound utterly indescribable. For one instant we hesitated at the threshold, hesitated to face the horror beyond. Then almost side by side we came into the bedroom. Only one of the two lamps was alight, that above the bed, and on the bed a man lay arriving. He was incredibly gaunt, so that the suit of tropical twill which he wore hung upon him in folds, showing if such evidence were necessary how terribly he was fallen away from his constitutional habit. He wore a beard of at least ten days' growth which served to accentuate the cavitus hollowness of his face. His eyes seen starting from their sockets as he lay upon his back uttering inarticulate sounds and plucking with skinny fingers at his lips. Smith bent forward, peering into the wasted face, and then started back with a suppressed cry. Mercyful God, can it be hail, he muttered. What does it mean? What does it mean? I ran to the opposite side of the bed, and placing my arms under the writhing man raised him and propped a pillow at his back. He continued to babble, rolling his eyes from side to side hideously. Then by degrees they seemed to become less glazed, and a light of returning sanity entered them. They became fixed, and they were fixed upon Naelyn Smith, who, bending over the bed, was watching Sir Gregory Hale, for Sir Gregory I concluded this pitiable wreck to be, with an expression upon his face compound of many emotions. A glass of water, I said, catching the glance of the man beaten who stood trembling at the doorway. Spilling a liberal quantity upon the carpet, beaten ultimately succeeded in conveying the glass to me. Hale, never taking his gaze from Smith, gulped a little of the water, and then thrust my hand away. As I turned to place the tumbler upon a small table, he resumed the wordless babbling, and now, with his index finger pointed to his mouth. He has lost the power of speech, whispered Smith. He was stricken dumb, gentlemen, ten minutes ago, said Beaton in a trembling voice. He dropped off to sleep out there on the floor, and I brought him in here, and laid him on the bed. When he woke up he was like that. The man on the bed ceased his incohate babbling, and now, gulping noisily, began to make quick nervous movements with his hands. He wants to write something, said Smith, in a low voice. Quick, hold him up! He thrust his notebook open at a blank page before the man whose movements were numbered, and placed a pencil in the shaking right hand. Faintly and unevenly Sir Gregory commenced to write, whilst I supported him. Across the bent shoulders Smith silently questioned me, and my reply was a negative shake of the head. The lamp from above the bed was swaying as if in a heavy draft. I remembered that it had been swaying as we entered. There was no fog in the room, but already from the bleak corridor outside it was entering, murky, yellow clouds steaming in at the open door. Save for the gulping of the dying man, and the sobbing breaths of Beaton, there was no sound. Six irregular lines Sir Gregory Hale scrawled upon the page, then suddenly his body became a dead weight in my arms. Gently I laid him back upon the pillows, gently his finger from the notebook, and my head almost touching Smith's as we both craned forward over the page red, with great difficulty the following. Guard my diary. Tibetan frontier, key of Inja. Beware man with the limp, yellow rising. Watch, Tibet. The seafan. From somewhere outside the room, whether above or below I could not be sure, came a faint dragging sound, accompanied by a tap, tap, tap. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 OF THE HAND OF FUMANCHU The faint disturbance faded into silence again. Across the dead man's body I met Smith's gaze. Faint wreathes of fog floated in from the outer room. Beaton clutched the foot of the bed, and the structure shook in sympathy with his wild trembling. That was the only sound now. There was absolutely nothing physical so far as my memory serves to signalise the coming of the brown man. Yet, stealthy as his approach had been, something must have warned us, for suddenly with one accord we three turned upon the bed and stared out into the room from which the fog wreathes floated in. Beaton stood nearest the door, but although he turned he did not go out, but with a smothered cry crouched back against the bed. Smith it was who moved first, then I followed, and close upon his heels burst into the disordered sitting-room. The outer door had been closed but not bolted, and what with a tinted light diffused through the silken Japanese shade, and the presence of fog in the room I was almost tempted to believe myself the victim of a delusion. What I saw or thought I saw was this. A tall screen stood immediately inside the door, and around its end, like some materialisation of the choking mist, glided a light yellow figure, a slim crouching figure, wearing a sort of loose robe. An impression I had of jet-black hair protruding from beneath a little cap, a finely chiseled features, and great luminous eyes then, with no sound to tell of, a door opened or shut. The apparition was gone. You saw him, Petrie! You saw him! cried Smith. In three bounds he was across the room, had tossed the screen aside and thrown open the door. Out he sprang into the yellow haze of the corridor, tripped and, uttering a cry of pain, fell sprawling upon the marble floor. Hot with apprehension I joined him, but he looked up with a wry smile and began furiously rubbing his left shin. A queer trick, Petrie, he said, rising to his feet, but nevertheless effective. He pointed to the object which had occasioned his fall. It was a small metal chest, evidently a very considerable weight, and it stood immediately outside the door of No. 14A. That was what he came for, sir. That's what he came for. You were too quick for him. Beaton stood behind us, his horror-bright eyes fixed upon the box. A. wrapped Smith, turning upon him. That's what Sir Gregory brought to England. The man ran on almost hysterically. That's what he's been guarding this past two weeks, night and day, crouching over it with a loaded pistol. That's what cost him his life, sir. He's had no peace day or night since he got it. We were inside the room again now, Smith bearing the coffer in his arms, and still the man ran on. He's never slept for more than an hour at a time that I know off for weeks past. Since the day we came here he hasn't spoken to another living soul, and he's lain there on the floor at night with his head on that brass box, and sat watching over it all day. Beaton, he'd cry out, perhaps in the middle of the night. Beaton, do you hear that damned woman? But although I'd begun to think I could hear something, I believe it was the constant strain working on my nerves and nothing else at all. Then he was always listening out for someone he called the man with the limp. Five and six times a night he'd have me up to listen with him. There he goes, Beaton, he'd whisper, crouching with his ear pressed flat to the door. Do you hear him dragging himself along? God knows how I've stood it as long as I have, for I've known no peace since we left China. Once we got here I thought it would be better, but it's been worse. Gentlemen have come from the India office, I believe, but he would not see them. Said he would see no one but Mr. Naylon Smith. He had never lain in his bed until to-night. But what with taking no proper food nor sleep and some secret trouble that was killing him by inches he collapsed altogether a while ago, and I carried him in and laid him on the bed as I told you, and now he's dead. Now he's dead. Beaton lent up against the mantelpiece and buried his face in his hands, whilst his shoulders shook convulsively. He had evidently been greatly attached to his master, and I found something very pathetic in this breakdown of a physically strong man. Smith laid his hands upon his shoulders. You have passed through a very trying ordeal, he said, and no man could have done his duty better, but forces beyond your control have proved too strong for you. I am Naylon Smith. The man spun around with a surprising expression of relief upon his pale face. So whatever can be done, continued my friend, to carry out your master's wishes will be done now. Rely upon it. Go into your room and lie down until we call you. Thank you, sir, and thank God you are here, said Beaton daisily, and with one hand raised to his head he went obediently to the smaller bedroom and disappeared within. Now, Petrie, wrapped Smith, glancing around the littered floor. Since I am in power to deal with this matter as I see fit, and since you are a medical man, we can devote the next half hour, at any rate, to a strictly confidential inquiry into this most perplexing case. I propose that you examine the body for any evidences that may assist you determining the cause of death, whilst I make a few inquiries here. I nodded, without speaking, and went into the bedroom. It contained not one solitary item of the dead man's belongings, and in every way bore out Beaton's statement that Sir Gregory had never inhabited it. I bent over hail as he lay fully dressed upon the bed. Saving the singularity of the symptom which had immediately preceded death, vis the paralysis of the muscles of articulation. I should have felt disposed to ascribe his end to sheer inatiation, and a cursory examination brought to light nothing contradictory to that view. Not being prepared to proceed further in the matter at the moment, I was about to rejoin Smith, whom I could hear rummaging about amongst the litter of the outer room, when I made a curious discovery. Lying in the fold of the disordered bed linen were a few petals of some kind of blossom, three of them still attached to a fragment of slender stalk. I collected the tiny petals mechanically and held them in the palm of my hand, studying them for some moments before the mystery of their presence there became fully appreciable to me. Then I began to wonder. The petals which I was disposed to class as belonging to some species of curcus or psychic nut, though bruised were fresh, and therefore could not have been in the room for many hours. How could they have been introduced, and by whom? Above all, what could their presence there at that time portend? Smith, I called, and walked towards the door carrying the mysterious fragments in my palm, look what I found upon the bed. Nail and Smith, who was bending over an open dispatch case which he had placed upon a chair, turned, and his glance fell upon the petals and tiny piece of stem. I think I have never seen so sudden a change of expression take place in the face of any man. Even in that imperfect light I saw him blanch. I saw a hard glitter come into his eyes. He spoke evenly but hoarsely. Put those things down there, on the table, anywhere. I obeyed him without demure, for something in his manner had chilled me with foreboding. You did not break that stalk? No, I found it as you see it. Have you smelled the petals? I shook my head, whereupon having his eyes fixed upon me with the strangest expression in their gray depths, Nail and Smith said a singular thing. Pronounce slowly the words, Sakyamuni, he directed. I stared at him, scarcely crediting my senses, but I mean it, he rapped. Do as I tell you. Sakyamuni, I said, in ever-increasing wonder. Smith laughed unmerthfully. Go to the bathroom and thoroughly wash your hands, was his next order. Renew the water at least three times. As I turned to fulfil his instructions, for I doubted no longer his deadly earnestness. Beton, he called. Beton, very white-faced and shaky, came out from the bedroom as I entered the bathroom, and whilst I proceeded carefully to cleanse my hands, I heard Smith interrogating him. Are any flowers been brought into the room to-day, Beton? Flowers, sir? Certainly not. Nothing has been brought in here but what I've brought myself. Are you certain of that? Positive. Who brought up the meals, then? If you'll look into my room here, sir, you'll see that I have enough tinned and bottled stuff to last us for weeks. So Gregory sent me out to buy it on the day we arrived. No one else had left or entered these rooms until you came to-night. I returned to find Nailen Smith standing, tugging at the lobe of his left ear in evident perplexity. He turned to me. I fined my hands over full, he said. Would you oblige me by telephoning for Inspector Weymouth? Also I should be glad if you would ask Monsieur Samarkand, the manager, to see me here immediately. As I was about to quit the room, not a word of our suspicions to Monsieur Samarkand, he added, not a word about the brass box. I was far along the corridor ere I remembered that which, remembered earlier, had saved me the journey. There was a telephone in every suite. However, I was not indisposed to avail myself of an opportunity for a few moments undisturbed reflection, and avoiding the lift I descended by the broad marble staircase. To what strange adventure were we committed? What did the brass coffer contain which Sir Gregory had guarded night and day? Something associated in some way with Tibet, something which he believed to be the key of India, and which had brought in its train presumably the sinister man with a limp. Who was the man with the limp? What was the sea-fan? Lastly, by what conceivable means could the flower, which my friend evidently regarded with extreme horror, have been introduced into Hale's room? And why had I been required to pronounce the words Sakyamuni? So ran my reflections at random and to no clear end, and as is often the case in such circumstances my steps bore them company. So that all at once I became aware that instead of having gained the lobby of the hotel, I had taken some wrong turning and was in a part of the building entirely unfamiliar to me. A long corridor of the inevitable white marble extended far behind me. I had evidently traversed it. Before me was a heavily curtained archway. Irritably I pulled the curtain aside, learned that it masked a glass panel door, opened this door, and found myself in a small court, dimly lighted and redolent of some pungent incense-like perfume. One step forward I took, then pulled up a rub-plate. A sound had come to my ears. For a second curtain doorway close to my right hand it came. A sound of muffled, tapping, together with that of something which dragged upon the floor. Within my brains the words seemed audibly to form the man with a limp. I sprang to the door, had my hand upon the drapery, when a woman stepped out, barring the way. No impression, not even a vague one, did I form of her costume. Save that she wore a green silk shawl embroidered with raised white figures of birds, thrown over her head and shoulders, and draped in such fashion that part of her face was concealed. I was transfixed by the vindictive glare of her eyes, of her huge dark eyes. They were ablaze with anger, but it was not this expression within them which struck me so forcibly as the fact that they were in some way familiar. Motionless we faced one another, then, you go away, said the woman, at the same time extending her arms across the doorway as barriers to my progress. Her voice had a husky intonation, her hands and arms, which were bare and of old ivory hue, were laden with barbaric jewellery, much of it tawdry silverware over the bazaars. Certainly she was a half-cast of some kind, probably a Eurasian. I hesitated. The sounds of dragging and tapping had ceased, but the presence of this grotesque oriental figure only increased my anxiety to pass the doorway. I looked steadily into the black eyes, they looked into mine unflinchingly. You go away, please, repeated the woman, raising her right hand and pointing to the doorway by I had entered. These private rooms, what you doing here? Her words, despite her broken English, served to recall to me the fact that I was beyond doubt a trespasser. By what right did I presume to force my way into other people's apartments? There is someone in there whom I must see, I said, realizing, however, that my chance of doing so was poor. You see nobody, she snapped back, uncompromisingly. You go away. She took a step toward me, continuing to point to the door. Where had I previously encountered the glance of those splendid, savage eyes? So engaged was I with this taunting partial memory and so sure if the woman would but uncover her face of instantly recognizing her, that still I hesitated. Whereupon, glancing rapidly over her shoulder into whatever place lay beyond the curtain window, she suddenly stepped back and vanished, drawing the curtains, too, with an angry jerk. I heard her retiring footsteps, then came a loud bang. If her object in intercepting me had been to cover the slow retreat of someone, she had succeeded. Recognizing that I had cut a truly sorry figure in the encounter, I retraced my steps. By what route I ultimately regained the main staircase, I have no idea, for my mind was busy with that taunting memory of the two dark eyes looking out from the foals of the green embroidered shore. Where and when had I met their glance before? To that problem I sought an answer in vain. The message dispatched to New Scotland Yard, I found Monsieur Samaquan, long famous as a metro-dortel in Cairo, and now host of London's newest and most palatial carne. Portly and wearing a grey imperial, Monsieur Samaquan had the manners of a courtier, and the smile of a true Greek. I told him what was necessary and no more, desiring him to go to Suite 14A without delay, and also without arousing unnecessary attention. I dropped no hint of foul play, but Monsieur Samaquan expressed profound and professional regret that so distinguished, though unprofitable, a patron should have selected the new Louvre thus early in its history as the terminus of his career. By the way, I said, have you Oriental guests with you at the moment? No, Monsieur, he assured me. Not a certain Oriental lady, I persisted. Monsieur Samaquan slowly shook his head. Possibly Monsieur has seen one of the Ayas, there are several Anglo-Indian families, a resident in the new Louvre at present, an Ayah, it was just possible, of course, yet. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of The Hand of Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. Chapter 4. The Flower of Silence. We are dealing now, said Naelyn Smith, pacing restlessly up and down our sitting-room, not as of old with Dr Fu Manchu, and with an entirely unknown quantity, the C-Fan. For heaven's sake, I cried, what is the C-Fan? The greatest mystery of the mysterious east, Petrie, think. You know, as I know, that a malignant being Dr Fu Manchu was for some time in England, engaged in paving the way, I believe those words were my own, but nothing less than a giant yellow empire. That dream is what millions of Europeans and Americans term the yellow peril. Very good, such an empire needs must have an emperor. Naelyn Smith stopped his restless pacing immediately in front of me. Why not an empress, Petrie? He rapped. His words were something of a verbal thunderbolt. I found myself at loss for any suitable reply. You will perhaps remind me, he continued rapidly, of the lowly plays held by women in the east. I can cite notable exceptions, ancient and modern, in fact a moment's consideration by a hypothetical body of eastern dynast makers, not of an emperor but of an empress. Finally, there is a persistent tradition throughout the Far East that such a woman will one day rule over the known peoples. I was assured some years ago by a very learned pundit that a princess of incalculably ancient lineage residing in some secret monastery in Tartary or Tibet was to be the future empress of the world. I believe this tradition or the extensive group who seek to keep it alive and potent to be what is called the C-Fan. I was past greater amazement, but this lady can no longer be young, then, I asked. On the contrary, Petrie, she remains always young and beautiful by means of a continuous series of reincarnations. Also, she thus conserves the collated wisdom of many ages. In short, she is the archetype of lama-ism. The real secret of lama celibacy is the existence of this immaculate ruler, of whom the grand lama is merely a high priest. She has as attendance maidens of good family selected for their personal charms and rendered dumb in order that they may never report what they see and hear. Smith, I cried, this is utterly incredible. Her body slaves are not only mute but blind, for it is death to look upon her beauty unveiled. I stood up impatiently. You are amusing yourself, I said. Naelyn Smith clapped his hands upon my shoulders in his own impulsive fashion and looked earnestly into my eyes. Forgive me, old man, he said, if I had related all these fantastic particulars as though I gave them credence. Much of this is legendary, I know, some of it mere superstition, but I am serious now, Petrie. Part of it is true. I stared at the square-cut, suntanned face, and no trace of a smile lurked about that grim mouth. Such a woman may actually exist, Petrie, only in legend, but nevertheless she forms the head-centre of that giant conspiracy in which the activities of Dr. Fu Manchu were merely a part. Hale blundered on to this stupendous business, and from what I have gathered from Beaton and from what I have seen for myself it is evident that in Yonder Coffer he pointed to the brass chest standing hard by. Hale got hold of something indispensable to the success of this vast yellow conspiracy. That he was followed here to the very hotel by agents of this mystic unknown is evident, but he added grimly, they have failed in their object. A thousand outrageous possibilities fought for precedence in my mind. Smith, I cried, the half-caste woman whom I saw in the hotel. Nailin Smith shrugged his shoulders. Probably is, Mr. Samarkand suggests, an aya, he said, but there was an odd note in his voice and an odd look in his eyes. Then again I am almost certain that Hale's warning concerning the man with the limp was no empty one. Shall you open the brass chest? At present decidedly no. Hale's fate renders his warning one that I dare not neglect, for I was with him when he died, and they cannot know how much I know. How did he die? How did he die? How was the flower of silence introduced into his closely guarded room? The flower of silence. Smith laughed shortly and unmerfly. I was once sent for, he said, during the time when I was stationed in Upper Burma, to see a stranger, a sort of itinerant Buddhist priest, so I understood, who had desired to communicate some message to me personally. He was dying in a dirty hut on the outskirts of Manipur up in the hills. When I arrived, I say at a glance that the man was a Tibetan monk. He must have crossed the river and come down through a Sam, but the nature of his message I never knew. He had lost the power of speech. He was gurgling in articulate, just like poor Hale. A few moments after my arrival he breathed his last. The fellow who had guided me to the place bent over him. I shall always remember the scene, then fell back as though he had stepped upon an adder. He holds the flower of silence in his hand, he cried, the sifan, the sifan, and built it from the hut. When I went to examine the dead man, sure enough he held in one hand a little crumpled spray of flowers. I did not touch it with my fingers, naturally, but I managed to loop a piece of twine around stem, and by that means I gingerly removed the flowers and carried them to an orchid hunter of my acquaintance, who chanced to be visiting Manipur. Graeme, that was my orchid man's name, pronounced the specimen to be an unclassified species of Jatropha, belonging to the Kirkus family. He discovered a sort of hollow thorn almost like a fang amongst the blooms, but was unable to surmise the nature of its functions. He extracted enough of a certain fixed oil from the flowers, however, to have poisoned the pair of us. Probably the breaking of a bloom? It jets some of this acrid oil through the thorn? Practically the uncanny thing stings when it is hurt? That was my own idea, Petrie, and I can understand how these eastern fanatics accept their sentence, silence and death, when they have deserved it, at the hands of their mysterious organisation, and commit this novel form of a harry-carrie. And I shall not sleep soundly with that brass coffer in my possession, until I know by what means Sir Gregory was induced to touch a flower of silence, and by what means it was placed in his room. But Smith, why did you direct me to-night, to repeat the words, Sakyamuni? Smith smiled in a very grim fashion. It was after the episode, I have just related, that I made the acquaintance of that pundit, some of those statements I have already quoted for your enlightenment. He admitted that the flower of silence was an instrument frequently employed by a certain group, adding that, according to some authorities, one who touched the flower might escape death by immediately pronouncing the sacred name of Buddha. And he was no fanatic himself, however, and marking my incredulity, he explained that the truth was this. No one whose power of speech were imperfect could possibly pronounce correctly the word Sakyamuni. Therefore, since the first effect of this damnable thing is instantly to tie the tongue, the uttering of the sacred name of Buddha becomes practically a test whereby the victim may learn whether the venom has entered his system or not. I repressed a shudder. An atmosphere of horror seemed to be enveloping us, fog-like. Smith, I said slowly, we must be on our guard. For at last I had run to earth at elusive memory. Unless I am strangely mistaken, the man who so mysteriously entered Hale's room, and the supposed Aya whom I met downstairs, are one and the same. Two at least of the yellow group are actually here in the new loof. The light of the shaded lamp shone down upon the brass coffer on the table beside me. The fog seemed to have cleared from the room somewhat, but since the midnight stillness I could detect the muffled sounds of sirens from the river, and the reports of fog signals from the railways, I concluded that the night was not yet wholly clear of the choking mist. In accordance with a pre-arranged scheme we had decided to guard the key of India, whatever it might be, turn and turn about through the night. In a word we feared to sleep unguarded. Now my watch informed me that four o'clock approached, at which hour I was to arouse Smith and retire to sleep in my own bedroom. Nothing had disturbed my vigil. That is, nothing definite. True once, at about half an hour earlier, I had thought I heard the dragging and tapping sound from somewhere up above me. But since the corridor overhead was unfinished and none of the rooms opening upon it yet habitable, I concluded that I had been mistaken. The stereo at the end of our corridor, which communicated without above, was still blocked with bags of cement and slabs of marble, in fact. Faintly to my ears came the booming of London's clocks, beating out the hour of four. But still I sat beside the mysterious coffer, indisposed to awaken my friend any sooner there was necessary, particularly since I felt in no way sleeping myself. I was to learn a lesson that night, the lesson of strict adherence to a compact. I had arranged to awaken Naelyn Smith at four, and because I dallied, determined to finish my pipe air entering his bedroom, almost it happened that fate placed it beyond my power ever to awaken him again. At ten minutes past four, I met a stillness so intense that the creaking of my slippers seemed a loud disturbance. I crossed the room and pushed open the door of Smith's bedroom. It was in darkness, but as I entered I depressed the switch immediately beside the door, lighting the lamp which swung from the centre of the ceiling. Glancing toward the bed I immediately perceived that there was something different in its aspect, but at first I found this difference difficult to define. I stood for a moment and doubt, then I realised the nature of the change would have taken place. A lamp hung above the bed attached to a movable fitting which enabled it to be raised or lowered at the pleasure of the occupant. When Smith had retired he was in no reading mood and he had not even lighted the reading lamp, but had left it pushed up high against the ceiling. It was the position of this lamp which had changed, for now it swung so low over the pillow that the silken fringe of the shade almost touched my friend's face as he lay soundly asleep, with one lean brown hand outstretched upon the coverlet. I stood in the doorway, staring, mystified at this phenomenon. I might have stood there without intervening until intervention had been too late. Were it not that, glancing up toward the wooden block from which the ordinary pendant hung, I perceived that no block was visible, but only a round black cavity from which the white fleck supporting the lamp swung out. Then uttering a hoarse cry which rose unbidden to my lips I sprang wildly across the room, for now I had seen something else. Attached to one of the four silken tassels which ornamented the lamp's shade so as to almost rest upon the cheek of the sleeping man was a little quorum of bloom, the flower of silence. Grasping the shade with my left hand I seized the flecks with my right and a smith sprang upright in bed, eyes wildly glaring I wrenched with all my might. Upward my gaze was set and I glimpsed a yellow hand with long pointed fingernails. Then came a loud resounding snap, an electric spark spat venomously from the circular opening above the bed, and with the cord and lamp still fast in my grip I went rolling across the carpet as the other lamp became instantly extinguished. Dimly I perceived Smith, a raid in pyjamas jumping out upon the opposite side of the bed. Beedrie! Beedrie! he cried. Where are you? What has happened? A laugh, little short of hysterical, escaped me. I gathered myself up and made for the lighted sitting-room. Quick, Smith! I said, but did not recognise my own voice. Quick, come out of that room! I crossed to the city and shaking in every limb sank down upon it. Nalyn Smith, still wild eyed, and his face and mask of bewilderment came out of the bedroom and stood watching me. For God's sake, what has happened, Beedrie? he demanded, and began clutching at the lobe of his left ear and looking all about the room daisily. The flower of silence, I said. Someone has been at work at the top of the corridor. Heaven knows when, for since we engage these rooms we have not been much away from them. The same device as the case of poor Hale. You would have tried to brush the thing away. A light of understanding began to dawn in my friend's eyes. He drew himself stiffly upright, then a loud harsh voice uttered the words, Sake your Mooney! And again, Sake your Mooney! Thank God! I said, shakily, I was not too late. Nalyn Smith, with much rattling of glass, poured out two stiff pegs from the decanter, then, shh! What's that? he whispered. He stood tense, listening. His head cast slightly to one side. A very faint sound of shuffling and tapping was perceptible, coming, as I thought, from the incomplete stairway communicating with the upper corridor. The man with the limp! whispered Smith. He bounded to the door and actually had one hand upon the bolt when he turned and fixed his gaze upon the brass box. No! he snapped. There are occasions when prudence should rule. Neither of us must leave these rooms to-night. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 OF THE HAND OF FU MAN CHU This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE HAND OF FU MAN CHU BY SACS ROMER Chapter 5 John Kies What is the meaning of C. Fan? asked Detective Sergeant Fletcher. He stood looking from the window at the prospect below, at the trees bordering the winding embankment, at the ancient monolith which, for unnumbered ages, had looked across desert sands to the Nile, and now looked down upon another river of many mysteries. The view seemed to absorb his attention. He spoke without turning his head. Naelyn Smith laughed shortly. The C. Fan are natives of eastern Tibet, he replied. But the term has some other significance, sir, said the Detective. His words were more of an assertion than a query. It has, replied my friend grimly. I believe it to be the name or perhaps the sigil of an extensive secret society with branches stretching out into every corner of the Orient. We were silent for a while. Inspector Weymouth, who sat in a chair near the window, glanced appreciatively at the back of his subordinate, who still stood looking out. Detective Sergeant Fletcher was one of Scotland Yard's coming men. He had information of the first importance to communicate, and Naelyn Smith had delayed his departure upon an urgent errand in order to meet him. Your case to date, Mr. Smith, continued Fletcher, remaining with hands locked behind him, staring from the window. Read something like this, I believe. A brass box, locked, contents unknown, has come into your possession. It stands now upon the table there. It was brought from Tibet by a man who evidently thought that it had something to do with the seafan. He is dead, possibly by the agency of members of this group. No arrests have been made. You know that there are people here in London who are anxious to regain the box. You have theories respecting the identity of some of them, that there are practically no facts. Naelyn Smith nodded his head. Exactly, he snapped. Inspector Weymouth here, continued Fletcher, has put me in possession of such facts, as are known to him, and I believe that I have had the good fortune to chance upon a valuable one. You interest me, Sergeant Fletcher, said Smith. What is the nature of this clue? I will tell you, replied the other, and turned briskly upon his heel to face us. He had a dark, clean-shaven face, rather shallow complexion, and deep set, searching eyes. There was decision in the square, cleft chin, and strong character in the cleanly chiseled features. His manner was alert. I have specialised in Chinese crime, he said. Much of my time is spent amongst our Asiatic visitors. I am fairly familiar with the Easterns who use the port of London, and I have a number of useful acquaintances among them. Naelyn Smith nodded. Beyond doubt, Detective Sergeant Fletcher knew his business. To my lasting regret, Fletcher continued, I never met the late Dr. Fomanchou. I understand so that you believe him to have been a high official of this dangerous society. However, I think we may get in touch with some other notabilities, for instance. I am told that one of the people you are looking for has been described as the man with the limp. Smith, who had been about to relight his pipe, dropped the match on the carpet, and set his foot upon it. His eyes shone like steel. The man with the limp, he said, and slowly rose to his feet. What do you know of the man with the limp? Fletcher's face flushed slightly. His words had proved more dramatic than he had anticipated. There's a place down Shadwell Way, he replied, of which no doubt you will have heard. It has no official title, but it is known to habituase as the Joy Shop. Inspector Weymouth stood up, his burly figure towering over that of his sleight of contraire. I don't think you know John Kies, Mr. Smith, he said. We keep all those places pretty well patrolled, but until this present business cropped up, John's establishment has never given us any trouble. What is this Joy Shop, I asked? A resort of shady characters, mostly Asiatics, replied Weymouth. It's a gambling house, an unlicensed drinking shop, and even worse. But it's more used to us open than it would be shut. It is one of my regular jobs to keep an eye on the visitors to the Joy Shop, continued Fletcher. I have many acquaintances who use the place. Needless to add, they don't know my real business. Well, lately several of them asked me if I know who the man is that hobbles about the place with two sticks. Everybody seems to have heard him, but no one has seen him. Naelyn Smith began to pace the floor restlessly. I have heard him myself, added Fletcher, but never managed to get so much as a glimpse of him. When I learned about this sea-fan mystery, I realised that he might very possibly be the man for whom you're looking, and a golden opportunity has cropped up for you to visit the Joy Shop, and if our luck remains in to get a peek behind the scenes. I am all attention, snapped Smith. A woman called Zarmie has recently put in an appearance at the Joy Shop. Roughly speaking, she turned up at about the same time as the unseen man with the limp. Naelyn Smith's eyes were blazing with suppressed excitement. He was pacing quickly up and down the floor, tugging at the lobe of his left ear. She is different in some way from any other woman I have ever seen in the place. She's a eurasian and good-looking after a tigerous fashion. I have done my best, he smiled slightly, to get in her good books. And up to a point, I've succeeded. I was there last night, and Zarmie asked me if I knew what she called a strong feller. These, she informed me, contemptuously referring to the rest of the company, are poor weak Johnny's. I had nothing definite in view at the time, for I had not then heard about your return to London, but I thought it might lead to something anyway, so I promised to bring a friend along tonight. I don't know what were I wanted to do, but count on me, snapped Smith. I will leave all details to you and to Weymouth, and I will be at New Scotlandard this evening in time to adopt a suitable disguise. Petrie turned impetuously to me. I fear I shall have to go without you, but I shall be in safe company, as you see, and doubtless Weymouth can find you apart in his portion of the evening's programme. He glanced at his watch. Ah! I must be off. If you will oblige me, Petrie, by putting the brass box into my smaller portmanteau whilst I slip my coat on, perhaps Weymouth on his way out will be good enough to order a taxi. I shall venture to breathe again once our unpleasant charge is safely deposited in the bank vaults. Chapter 6 The Seafan Move A slight drizzling rain was falling as Smith entered the cab which the whole porter had summoned. The brown bag in his hand contained the brass box, which actually was responsible for our presence in London. The last glimpse I had of him through the glass of the closed window showed him striking a match to light his pipe, which he rarely allowed to grow cool. Oppressed with an unaccountable weariness of spirit, I stood within the lobby looking out upon the greyness of London in November. A slight mental effort was sufficient to blot out that drab prospect, and to conjure up before my mind's eye a balcony overlooking the Nile, a glimpse of dusty palms, a white wall overgrown with purple blossoms, and above all the dazzling bolt of Egypt. Above the balcony my imagination painted a figure, limning it with loving details, the figure of Karamina. And I thought that her glorious eyes would be sorrowful, and her lips perhaps a little tremulous as her arms resting upon the rail of the balcony. She looked out across the smiling river to the domes and minarets of Cairo, and beyond, into the hazy distance, seeing me and Riri reigns swept London, as I saw her a jazeera beneath the cloudless sky of Egypt. From these tender but mournful reflections I aroused myself almost angrily, and set off through the muddy streets toward Charing Cross, for I was availing myself of the opportunity to call upon Dr. Murray, who had purchased my small suburban practice when, finally, as I thought at the time, I had left London. This matter occupied me for the greater part of the afternoon, and I returned to the New Louvre Hotel shortly after five, seeing no one in the lobby whom I knew, proceeded immediately to our apartment. Naelyn Smith was not there, and having made some changes in my attire, I descended again and inquired if he'd left any message for me. The booking clerk informed me that Smith had not returned, therefore I resigned myself to wait. I purchased an evening paper and settled down on the lounge where I had an uninterrupted view of the entrance doors. The dinner hour approached, but still my friend failed to put in an appearance. Becoming impatient, I entered a call-box and rang up Inspector Weymouth. Smith had not been to Scotland Yard, nor had they received any message from him. Perhaps it would appear that there was little cause for alarm in this, but I, familiar with my friend's punctual and exact habits, became strangely uneasy. I did not wish to make myself ridiculous, but growing restlessness impelled me to institute inquiries regarding the cabman who had driven my friend. The result of these was to increase, rather than to allay my fears. The man was a stranger to the whole porter, and he was not one of the taximen who habitually stood upon the neighbouring rank. No one seemed to have noticed the number of the cab. And now my mind began to play with strange doubts and fears. The driver, I recollected, had been a small, dark man, possessing remarkably well-cut olive-hued features. Had he not worn spectacles, he would indeed have been handsome, in an effeminate fashion. I was almost certain by this time that he had not been an Englishman, and I was almost certain that some catastrophe had befallen Smith. Our ceaseless vigilance had been momentarily relaxed, and this was the result. At some large bank-branches there is a resident messenger. Even granting that such was the case in the present instance, I doubted if the man could help me, unless, as was possible, he chanced to be familiar with my friend's appearance, and had actually seen him there that day. I determined at any rate to make the attempt, re-entering the call-box, I asked for the bank's number. There proved to be a resident messenger who, after a time, replied to my call. He knew Nailand Smith very well by sight, and as he had been on duty in the public office at the bank at the time that Smith should have arrived, he assured me that my friend had not been there that day. Besides, sir, he said, You say he came to deposit valuables of some kind here? Yes, yes, I cried eagerly. I take all such things down to the lift to the vaults at night, sir, under the supervision of the assistant manager, and I can assure you that nothing of the kind has been left with us today. I stepped out of the call-box unsteadily. Indeed, I clutched at the door for support. What is the meaning of C. Fan, Detective Sergeant Fletcher had asked that morning? None of us could answer him. None of us knew. With a haze seeming to dance between my eyes and the active life in the lobby before me, I realized that the C. Fan, that unseen, sinister power, had reached out and plucked my friend from the very midst of this noisy life about me into its own mysterious, deathly silence. Inspector Weymouth To patrol the vicinity of John Kai's joy shop, without their getting wind of it, the entrance, as you'll see, is a long, narrow, rat-hole of a street, running at right angles to the Thames. There's no point as far as I know from which the yard can be overlooked, and the back is on a narrow-cutting belonging to a disused mill. I paid little attention to his words. Disguised beyond all chance of recognition, even by one intimate with my appearance, I was all impatient to set out. I had taken Smith's place in the night's programme for, every possible source of information having been tapped in vain, I now hoped against hope that some clue to the fate of my poor friend might be obtained at the Chinese den, which he had designed to visit with Fletcher. The latter, who presented a strange picture in his makeup as a sort of half-cast sailor, stared doubtfully at the inspector then. The River-Police-Cutter, he said, can drop down on the tide and lie off under the Surrey Bank. There's a vacant wharf facing the end of the street, and we can slip through and show a light there, to let you know we've arrived. You reply in the same way. If there's any trouble, I shall blaze away with this. He showed the butt of a service revolver protruding from his hip pocket, and you can be assured in no time. The plan had one thing to commend it, viz that no one could devise another. Therefore it was adopted, and five minutes later a taxi cab swung out of the yard, containing Inspector Weymouth and two roughenly-looking companions, myself and Fletcher. Any zest with which, at another time I might have entered upon such an expedition, was absent now. I bore with me a annoying anxiety and sorrow that precluded all conversation on my part, save monosyllabic replies to questions that I comprehended but vaguely. At the River Police Depot we found Inspector Reiman, an older quaintance awaiting us. Weymouth had telephoned from Scotland Yard. I've got a motorboat at the breakwater, said Reiman, nodding to Fletcher and staring hard at me. Weymouth laughed shortly. Evidently you don't recognise Dr. Petrie, he said. Eh? cried Reiman, Dr. Petrie. What good heavens Dr. Osh had never known you in a month of bank holidays! What's afoot, then? And he turned to Weymouth, eyebrows raised interrogatively. It's the Fu Manchu business again, Reiman. Fu Manchu? But I thought the Fu Manchu case was off the books long ago. It was always a mystery to me, never a word in the papers, and we as much in the dark as everybody else. But didn't I hear that the Chinaman Fu Manchu was dead? Weymouth nodded. Some of his friends seemed to be very much alive, though, he said. It appears that Fu Manchu, for all his genius, and there's no denying he was a genius, Reiman, was only the agent of somebody altogether bigger. Reiman whistled softly. As the real head of affairs arrived, then, we find we are up against what is known as the Seafan. At that it came to the inevitable unanswerable question. What was the Seafan? I laughed, but my laughter was not mirthful. Inspector Weymouth shook his head. Perhaps Mr. Nalen Smith could tell you that, he replied, for the Seafan got in today. Got in? cried Reiman. Absolutely. He's vanished, and Fletcher here has found out that John Kai's place is in some way connected with his business. I interrupted impatiently, I fear. Then let us set out, Inspector, I said, for it seems to me that we are wasting precious time, and you know what that may mean. I turned to Fletcher. Where is this place situated exactly? How do we proceed? The cab can take us part of the way, he replied, and we shall have to walk the rest. Patrons of John's don't turn up in taxis, as a rule. Then let us be off, I said, and made for the door. Don't forget the signal. Weymouth cried after me, and don't venture into the place until you've received our reply. But I was already outside, Fletcher following, and a moment later we were both in the cabin off into a maze of torturous streets toward John Kai's joy shop. With the coming of nightfall the rain had ceased, but the sky remained heavily overcast, and the air was filled with clammy mist. It was a night to arouse longings for southern skies, and when, discharging the cabin, we set out a foot along a muddy and ill-lighted thoroughfare, bordered on either side by high brick walls, their monotony occasionally broken by gateways. I felt that the load of depression which had settled upon my shoulders must air long bear me down. Sounds of shunting upon some railway siding came to my ears. Train whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were too, for we were close beside the Thames, that grey old stream which has borne upon its beer many a poor victim of underground London. The sky glowed sullenly red above. There's the joy shop along on the left, said Fletcher, breaking in upon my reflections. You'll notice a faint light, it's shining out through the open door. Then here is the wharf. He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside which we were standing, and a moment later, all right, slip through, he said. I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low arch with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going on the opposite bank. Go steady, warned Fletcher, it's only a few paces to the edge of the wharf. I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket. Here is my electric lamp, I said. It will serve the purpose better. Good, muttered my companion, show a light down here, so that we can find our way. With the aid of the lamp we found our way out onto the rotting timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river, but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These, without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain, along the water-level lay a belt of darkness. Let me give them the signal, said Fletcher, shivering slightly and taking the lamp from my hand. He flashed the light two or three times, and we both stood watching the belt of darkness that followed the surrey shore. The tide lapped upon the timber supporting the wharf, and little whispers and gurgling sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash from somewhere below and behind us. There goes a rat, said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze from the darkness under the distant shore, it's gone into the cutting at the back of John Kies. He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times, then, all at once, out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked a little eye of light once, twice. Thrice, it winked at us from low down upon the oily water, then was gone. It's Weymouth with the cutter, said Fletcher. They are ready, now, for John Kies. We stumbled back up the slight aclivity beneath the archway to the street, leaving the ruinous gates as we had found them. Into the uninviting little alley, immediately opposite, we plunged, and where the faint yellow luminance showed up from the muddy path before us, Fletcher paused a moment, whispering to me, warningly, Don't speak if you can help it, he said. If you do, mumble any old jargon in any language you like, and throw in plenty of cursing. He grasped me by the arm, and I found myself crossing the threshold of the jaw-shop. I found myself in a meanly furnished room, no more than twelve feet square, and very low sealed, smelling strongly of paraffin oil. The few items of furniture which it contained were but dimly discernible in the light of the common tin lamp, which stood upon a packing-case at the head of what looked like cellar steps. Abruptly I pulled up, for this stuffy little den did not correspond with preconceived ideas of the place for which we were bound. I was about to speak when Fletcher nipped my arm, and out from the shadows behind the packing-case a little bent figure arose. I started violently, for I had had no idea that another was in the room. The apparition proved to be a Chinaman, and judging from what I could see of him a very old Chinaman, his bent figure attired in a blue smock. His eyes were almost invisible amidst an intricate map of wrinkles which covered his yellow face. Evening, John, said Fletcher, and pulling me with him, he made for the head of the steps. As I came abreast of the packing-case, the Chinaman lifted the lamp and directed its light fully upon my face. Great as was the faith which I reposed in my makeup, a doubt and a tremor disturbed me now, as I found myself thus scrutinised by those cunning old eyes looking out from the mask-like, apish face. For the first time, the Chinaman spoke, You bling a flend, Charlie? He squeaked in a thin piping-voice. Him play PC card, replied Fletcher briefly. Good fellow, plenty much money. He descended the steps, still holding my arm, and I perforce followed him. Apparently John's scrutiny and Fletcher's explanation respecting me together had proved satisfactory. For the lampers replaced upon the lid of the packing-case, and the little bent figure dropped down again into the shadows from which it had emerged. Allelite! I heard faintly as I stumbled downward in the wake of Fletcher. I had expected to find myself in a cellar, but instead discovered that we were on a small square court with the mist of the night about us again. On a doorstep facing us stood a duplicate of the lamp upon the box upstairs. Evidently this was designed to indicate the portals of the joy shop. For Fletcher pushed open the door, whose threshold accommodated the lamp, and the light of the place beyond shone out into our faces. We entered, and my companion closed the door behind us. Before me I perceived a long low room lighted by flaming gas burners, the jets hissing and spluttering in the draught from the door, for they were entirely innocent of shades or mantles. Wooden tables, their surfaces stained with the marks of countless wet glasses, were ranged about the place, cafe fashion, and many of these tables accommodated groups of nondescript nationality for the most part. One or two were in a distant corner who were unmistakably Chinaman, but my slight acquaintance with the races of the east did not enable me to classify the greater number of those whom I now saw about me. There were several unattractive looking women present. Fletcher walked up the centre of the place, exchanging nods of recognition with two hangdog poker players, and I was pleased to note that our advent had apparently failed to attract the slightest attention. Through an opening on the right-hand side of the door, near the top, I looked into a smaller apartment, occupied exclusively by Chinese. They were playing some kind of roulette, and another game which seemed wholly to absorb their interest. I ventured no more than a glance, then passed on with my companion. Fan-chan! he whispered in my ear. Other forms of gambling were in progress at some of the tables, and now Fletcher silently drew my attention to yet a third dimly-lighted apartment, this opening out from the left-hand corner of the principal room. The atmosphere of the latter was sufficiently abominable. Indeed, the stench was appalling, but a wake of choking vapour met me as I paused for a moment at the threshold of this inner sanctuary. I formed, but the vaguest impression of its interior—the smell—was sufficient. This annex was evidently reserved for opium smokers. Fletcher sat down at a small table nearby, and I took a common wooden chair which he thrust forward with his foot. I was looking around at the sordid scene, filled with a bitter sense of my own impotency to aid my missing friend. When that occurred which set my heart beating wildly, at once with hope and excitement, Fletcher must have seen something of this in my attitude for, Don't forget what I told you! he whispered. Be cautious! Be very cautious! End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of The Hand of Fu Manchu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer Chapter 8 Zarmie of the Joy Shop Down the centre of the room came a girl carrying the only ornamental object which, thus far, I had seen in the Joy Shop—a large oriental brass tray. She was a figure which must have formed a centre of interest in any place, trebly so then, in such a place as this. Her costume consisted in a series of incongruities, whilst the entire effect was barbaric and by no means unpicturesque. She wore high-heeled red slippers and, as her short, gauzy skirt rendered amply evident black silk stockings, a brilliantly coloured oriental scarf was wound around her waist and knotted in front, its tassled end swinging girdle fashion. A sort of chemise like the anterie of Egyptian women completed her costume, if I accept a number of barbaric ornaments, some of them silver, with which her hands and arms were bedecked. But strange as was the girl's attire, it was to her face that my gaze was drawn irresistibly. Evidently, like most of those around us, she was some kind of half-caste, but unlike them she was wickedly handsome. I use the adverb wickedly with deliberation, for the pallidly dusky oval face with the full red lips between which rested a large yellow cigarette, and the half-closed almond-shaped eyes possessed a beauty which might have appealed to an artist of one of the modern perverted schools. But filled me less with admiration than horror, for I knew her, I recognised her. From a past brief meeting I knew her, beyond all possibility of doubt, to be one of the sea-fan group. This strange creature, tossing back her jet-black, frizzy hair, which was entirely innocent of any binding or ornament, advanced along the room towards us, making unhesitatingly for our table, and carrying her life-body with the grace of a gazia. I glanced at Fletcher across the table, Zarme, he whispered. Again I raised my eyes to the face which now was close to mine, and became aware that I was trembling with excitement. Heavens, why did enlightenment come too late? Either I was the victim of an odd delusion, or Zarme had been the driver of the cab in which Naelyn Smith had left the new Louvre Hotel. Zarme placed the brass tray upon the table and bent down. Resting her elbows upon it, her hands upturned and her chin nestling in her palms. The smoke from the cigarette now held in her fingers, mingled with her dishevelled hair. She looked fully into my face, a long searching look. Then her lips parted in the slow, voluptuous smile of the Orient. Without moving her head she turned the wonderful eyes, rendered doubly luminous by the coal with which her lashes and lids were darkened, upon Fletcher. What are you and your strong friend drinking? she said softly. Her voice possessed a faint husky note which betrayed her eastern parentage, yet it had in it the siren lure which is the ancient heritage of the eastern woman, a heritage more ancient than the tribe of the gazia, to whom I had mentally likened Zarme. The same thing replied Fletcher promptly, and raising his hand, he idly toyed with the huge gold earring which she wore. Still resting her elbows upon the table and bending down between us, Zarme turned her slumbering half-closed black eyes again upon me, then slowly languishingly upon Fletcher. She replaced the yellow cigarette between her lips. He continued to toy with the earring. Suddenly the girl sprang upright, and from its hiding-place within the silken scarf plucked out a melee chris with a richly-dualled hilt. Her eyes now widely opened and blazing she struck at my companion. I half rose from my chair, stifling a cry of horror, but Fletcher, regarding her fixedly, never moved, and Zarme stayed her hand just as the point of the dagger had reached his throat. You see, she whispered softly but intensely, How soon I can kill you? ere I had overcome the amazement and horror with which her action had filled me. She had suddenly clutched me by the shoulder, and, turning from Fletcher, had the point of the chris at my throat. You too, she whispered, you too. Lower and lower she bent, the needle-point of the weapon pricking my skin, until her beautiful, evil face almost touched mine. Then miraculously the fire died out of her eyes. They half closed again and became languishing, luresome, gazea eyes. She laughed softly, wickedly, and puffed cigarette smoke into my face. Thrusting her dagger into her waist-belt and snatching up the brass tray, she swayed down the room, chanting some barbaric song in her husky, eastern voice. I inhaled deeply and glanced across at my companion. Beneath the makeup with which I had stained my skin, I knew that I had grown more than a little pale. Fletcher, I whispered, we are on the eve of a great discovery. That girl! I broke off, and clutching the table with both hands sat listening intently. From the room behind me the opium room, whose entrance was less than two paces from where we sat, came a sound of dragging and tapping slowly. Courtlessly I began to turn my head, when a sudden outburst of simian chattering from the phantom players drowned that other sinister sound. You heard it, doctor! hissed Fletcher. The man with the limp, I said hoarsely. He is in there. Fletcher, I am utterly confused. I believe this place to hold the key to the whole mystery, I believe. Fletcher gave me a warning glance, and turning anew, I saw Zarmie approaching with her sinuous gait, carrying two glasses and jug upon the ornate tray. These she set down upon the table, then stood spinning the salver cleverly upon the point of her index finger, and watching us through half-closed eyes. My companion took out some loose coins, but the girl thrust the preferred payment aside with her disengaged hand, the salver still whirling upon the upraised finger of the other. Presently you pay for drink, she said. You do something for me, eh? Yup, replied Fletcher nonchalantly, watering the rum in the tumblers. What time? Presently I tell you, you stay here. This one strongfeller, indicating myself, sure, drolled Fletcher, strong as a mule he is. All right, I give him one little kiss, if he good boy. Tossing the tray in the air, she caught it, rested its edge upon her hip, turned and walked way down the room, puffing her cigarette. Listen, I said, bending across the table. It was Zarmie who drove the cam that came for Naaman Smith to-day. My God, whispered Fletcher, and it was nothing less than the hand of Providence that brought us here to-night. Yes, I know how you feel, doctor, but we must play our cards as they're dealt to us. We must wait. Wait. Out from the den of the opium smokers came Zarmie, one hand resting upon her hip, and the other uplifted, a smouldering yellow cigarette held between the first and second fingers. With a movement of her eyes she summoned us to join her, then turned and disappeared again through the low doorway. The time for action was arrived. We were to see behind the scenes of the joy-shop. Our chance to revenge poor Smith, even if we could not save him, now became conscious of an inward and suppressed excitement. Surreptitiously I felt the hilt of the browning pistol in my pocket. The shadow of the dead Fu Manchu seemed to be upon me. God, how I loathed and feared that memory! We can make no plans. I whispered to Fletcher, as together we rose from the table. We must be guided by circumstance. In order to enter the little room laden with those sickly opium fumes we had to lower our heads. Two steps led down into the place, which was so dark that I hesitated a momentarily peering about me. Apparently some four or five persons squatted and lay in the darkness about me. Some were crouched upon rough wooden shelves ranged around the walls, others sprawled upon the floor in the centre whereof upon a small tea-chest stood a smoky brass lamp. The room and its occupants alike were indeterminate, sketchy. Its deadly atmosphere seemed to be suffocating me. A sort of choking sound came from one of the bunks. A vague, obscene murmuring filled the whole place, revoltingly. Zarmie stood at the further end. Her lithe figure silhouetted against the vague light, which came through an opening doorway. I saw her raise her hand beckoning to us. Circling around the chest, supporting the lamp, we crossed the foul den and found ourselves in a narrow, dim passageway, but in cleaner air. Come, said Zarmie, extending her long, slim hand to me. I took it, solely for guidance, in the gloom, and she immediately drew my arm about her waist, lent back against my shoulder, and raising her pouted red lips, blew a cloud of tobacco smoke fully into my eyes. Momentarily blinded, I drew back with a muttered exclamation, suspecting what I did of this tigerish half-cast. I could almost have found it in my heart to return her savage pleasantries with interest. As I raised my hands to my burning eyes, Fletcher uttered a sharp cry of pain. I turned in time to see the girl touch him lightly on the neck with the burning tip of her cigarette. You jealous, eh, Charlie? she said. But I love you too, see? Come along, you strong vellers. And away she went along the passage, swaying her hips lightly and glancing back over her shoulders, in smiling coquetry. Tears were still streaming from my eyes when I found myself standing in a sort of rough shed, stone paved and containing a variety of nondescript rubbish. A lantern stood upon the floor and beside it, the place seemed to be swimming around me, the stone floor to be heaving beneath my feet. Beside the lantern stood a wooden chest, some six feet long and having strong rope handles at either end. Evidently the chest had, but recently, been nailed up. As Zarmie touched it lightly with the pointed toe of her little red slipper, I clutched at Fletcher for support. Fletcher grasped my arm in a vice-like grip. To him too had come the ghastly conviction, the gruesome thought that neither of us dared to name. It was Naelyn Smith's coffin that we were to carry. Who here came dimly to my ears? And then I'd tell you what to do. Coolness returned to me, suddenly unaccountably. I doubted not for an instant that the best friend I had in the world lay dead there at the feet of the hellish girl who called herself Zarmie. I knew it since it was she disguised who had driven him to his doom that she must have been actively concerned in his murder. But, I argued, although the damp night air was pouring in through the door which Zarmie now held open, although sound of temside activity came stealing to my ears, we were yet within the walls of the joy shop, with a score or more Asiatic ruffians at the woman's beck and call. With perfect truth I can state that I retain not even a shadowy recollection of aiding Fletcher to move the chest out onto the brink of the cutting, for it was upon this that the door directly opened. The mist had grown denser, and except a glimpse of slowly moving water beneath me, I could discern little of our surrounding. So much I saw by the light of a lantern which stood in the stern of a boat, and the boughs of this boat I was vaguely aware of the presence of a crouched figure enveloped in rugs, vaguely aware that two filmy eyes regarded me out of the darkness. A man who looked like Alaska stood upright in the stern. I must have been acting like a man in a stupor, for I was aroused to the realities by the contact of a burning cigarette with the lobe of my right ear. Harry, quick, strong fella, said Xami softly. At that it seemed as though some fine nerve of my brain already strained to utmost tension snapped. I turned with a wild inarticulate cry, my fists raised frenziedly above my head. You fiend! I shrieked at the mocking eurasian. You yellow fiend of hell! I was beside myself, insane. Xami fell back a step, flashing a glance from my own contorted face to that now pale even beneath its artificial tan, a fletcher. I snatched the pistol from my pocket, and for one fateful moment the lust of slaying claimed my mind. Then I turned toward the river, and raising the browning fired shot after shot in the air. Weymouth! I cried. Weymouth! A sharp hissing sound came from behind me, a short muffled cry, and something descended crushing upon my skull. Like a wild cat, Xami hurled herself past me and leapt into the boat. One glimpse I had of her pallidly dusky face, of her blazing black eyes, and the boat was thrust off into the waterway, was swallowed up in the mist. I turned dizzily to see fletcher sinking to his knees, one hand clutching his breast. She got me with a knife, he whispered, but don't worry, look to yourself, and him. He pointed weakly, then collapsed at my feet. I threw myself upon the wooden chest with a fierce sobbing cry. Smith! Smith! I babbled, and knew myself no better in my sorrow than an hysterical woman. Smith! Dear old man! Speak to me! Speak to me! Outraged emotion overcame me utterly, and with my arms thrown across the box, I slipped into unconsciousness. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Fumanchou Many poignant recollections are mine, more of them bitter than sweet, but no one of them all can compare with the memory of that moment of my awakening. Weymouth was supporting me, and my throat still tingled from the effects of the brandy which she had forced between my teeth from his flask. My heart was beating irregularly, my mind yet partly inert. With something compound of horror and hope, I lay staring at one who was anxiously bending over the inspector's shoulder watching me. It was Naelyn Smith. A whole hour of silence seemed to pass, air-speech became possible then. Smith! I whispered, are you? Smith grasped my outstretched questing hand, grasped it firmly, warmly, and I saw his grey eyes to be dim in the light of the several lanterns around us. Am I alive? he said. Dear old Petrie, thanks to you, I am not only alive, but free. My head was buzzing like the hive of bees, that I managed, aided by Weymouth, to struggle to my feet. Muffled sounds of shouting and scuffling reached me. Two men in the uniform of the Thames police were carrying a limp body in at the low doorway communicating with the infernal joy-shop. It's Fletcher, said Weymouth, noting the anxiety expressed in my face. His missing lady friend has given him a nasty wound, but he'll pull round all right. Oh, thank God for that, I replied, clutching my aching head. I don't know what weapon she employed in my case, but it narrowly missed achieving her purpose. My eyes throughout were turned upon Smith, for his presence there still seemed to me miraculous. Smith, I said, for heaven's sakes enlighten me. I never doubted that you were— In the wooden jest, concluded Smith grimly. Look! He pointed to something that lay behind me. I turned and saw the box which had occasioned me such anguish. The top had been wrenched off and the contents exposed to view. It was filled with a variety of gold ornaments, cups, vases, silks, and barbaric-procaded raiment. It might well have contained the loot of a cathedral. Inspector Weymouth laughed gruffly at my surprise. What is it, I asked, in a voice of amazement. It's the treasure of the sea-fan, I presume, wrapped Smith, where it has come from and where it was going to. It must be my immediate business to ascertain. Then you—I was lying, bound, and gagged upon one of the upper shelves in the opium den. I heard you and Fletcher arrive. I saw you pass through later with that she-devil who drove the cab today. Then the cab? The windows were fastened, unopenable, and some anesthetic was injected into the interior through a tube—that speaking tube. I know nothing further, except that our plans must have leaked out in some mysterious fashion. Petrie, my suspicions point to high quarters. The sea-fan's score thus far, for unless the search now in progress brings it to light, we must conclude that they have the brass coffer. He was interrupted by a sudden loud crying of his name. Mr. Nalen Smith came from somewhere within the joy-shop. This way, sir! Off he went in his quick, impetuous manner, whilst I stood there none too steadily, wondering what discovery this outcry portended. I had not long to wait. Out by the low doorway came Smith, a grimly triumphant smile upon his face, carrying the missing brass coffer. He set it down upon the planking before me. John Guy, he said, who was also on the missing list, had dragged the thing out of the cellar where it was hidden, and in another minute must have slipped away with it. Detective Deacon saw the light shining through a crack in the floor. I shall never forget the look John gave us when we came upon him, as lamp in hand he bent over the precious chest. Shall you open it now? No. He glanced at me oddly. I shall have it valued in the morning by Mrs. Miosteen. He was keeping something back, I was sure of it. Smith, I said suddenly, the man with the limp. I heard him in the place where you were confined. Did you? Nalen Smith clicked his teeth together sharply, looking straightly and grimly into my eyes. I saw him, he replied slowly, and unless the effects of the anaesthetic had not wholly worn off. Well, I cried. The man with the limp is Dr. Fu Manchu. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of The Hand of Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Saks Romer. Chapter 10. The Tulaneur Chest. This box, said Mr. Miosteen, bending attentively over the carbon brass coffer upon the table, is certainly of considerable value and possibly almost unique. Nalen Smith glanced across at me with a slight smile. Mr. Miosteen ran one fat finger tenderly across the heavily embossed figures, which, like barnacles, encrusted the sides and lid of the weird curio which we had summoned him to appraise. What do you think, Lewisen? He added, glancing over his shoulder at the clerk who accompanied him. Lewisen, whose flaxen hair and light blue eyes almost served to mask his Semitic origin, shrugged his shoulders in a fashion incongruous in one of his complexion, though characteristic in one of his name. It is as you say, Mr. Miosteen, an example of an early Tulaneur work, he said. It may be sixteenth-century or even earlier. The corrine treasure chest in the Hague Collection has points of similarity, but the workmanship of this specimen is infinitely finer. In a word, gentlemen, snapped Nalen Smith rising from the armchair in which he had been sitting and beginning restlessly to pace the room, in a word you would be prepared to make me a substantial offer for this box? Mr. Miosteen, his shrewd eyes twinkling behind the pebbles of his piznez, straightened himself slowly, turned in the ponderous manner of a fat man, and readjusted the piznez upon his nose. He cleared his throat. I have not yet seen the interior of the box, Mr. Smith, he said. Smith paused in his perambulation of the carpet and stared hard at the celebrated art dealer. Unfortunately, he replied, the key is missing. Ah! cried the assistant, Lewisen excitedly. You are mistaken, sir. Coffers of this description and workmanship are nearly always complicated gondring tricks. They rarely open by any such rational means as lock and key. For instance, the corrine treasure chest, to which I referred, opens by an intricate process involving the pressing of certain knobs in the design and the turning of others. It was ultimately opened, said Mr. Miosteen, with a faint note of professional envy in his voice, by one of Christie's experts. Does my memory mislead me? I interrupted. Or was it not regarding the possession of the chest to which you refer that the celebrated case of Hague v. Jacobs rose? You are quite right, Dr. Petrie, said Miosteen, turning to me. The original owner, a member of the Young Husband expedition, had been unable to open the chest. When opened at Christie's, it proved to contain jewels and other valuables. It was a curious case, wasn't it, Lewisen, turning to his clerk? Very, agreed the other absently. Then have you endeavoured to open this box, Mr. Smith? Naelyn Smith shook his head grimly. From its weight, said Miosteen, I am inclined to think that the contents might prove of interest. With your permission I will endeavour to open it. Naelyn Smith, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear, stood looking at the expert then. I do not care to attempt it at present, he said. Miosteen and his clerk stared at the speaker in surprise. But you would be mad, cried the former, if you accepted an offer for the box, whilst ignorant of the nature of its contents. But I have invited no offer, said Smith. I do not propose to sell. Miosteen adjusted his business again. I am a businessman, he said, and I will make a business proposal. A hundred guineas for the box, cash down, and our commission to be ten percent on the proceeds of the contents. You must remember, raising a fat forefinger to check Smith, who was about to interrupt him, that it may be necessary to force the box in order to open it, thereby decreasing its market value and making it a bad bargain at a hundred guineas. Naelyn Smith met my gaze across the room, again a slight smile crossed the leaned hand face. I can only reply, Mr. Miosteen, he said, in this way. If I desire to place the box on the market, you shall have first refusal, and the same applies to the contents, if any. For the moment, if you will send me a note for your fee, I shall be obliged. He raised his hand with a conclusive gesture. I am not prepared to discuss the question of sale any further at present, Mr. Miosteen. At that the dealer bowed, took up his hat from the table, and prepared to depart. Lewison opened the door and stood aside. Good morning, gentlemen, said Miosteen, as Lewison was about to follow him. Since you do not intend to open the box, he said, turning his hand upon the doorknob. Have you any idea of its contents? None, replied Smith, but with my present inadequate knowledge of its history I do not care to open it. Lewison smiled skeptically. Probably you know best, he said, bowed to us both and retired. When the door was closed, you see, Petrie, said Smith, beginning to stuff tobacco into his briar. If we are ever short of funds, here's something, pointing to the tulen nur-box upon the table, what should retrieve our fallen fortunes? He uttered one of his rare boyish laughs, and began to pace the carpet again. His gaze always set upon our strange treasure. What did it contain? The manner in which it had come into our possession suggested that it might contain something of the utmost value to the yellow group, for we knew the house of John Chai to be, if not the headquarters, certainly a meeting-place of the mysterious organization, the C-Fan. We knew that Dr. Fu Manchu used the place, Dr. Fu Manchu, the uncanny being whose existence seemingly proved him immune from natural laws, a deathless incarnation of evil. My gaze set upon the box. I wondered anew what strange dark secrets it held. I wondered how many murders and crimes greater than murder blackened its history. Smith, I said suddenly. Now that the mystery of the absence of a keyhole is explained, I am sorely tempted to essay the task of opening the coffer. I think it might help us to a solution of the whole mystery. And I think otherwise, interrupted my friend grimly. In a word, Petrie, I look upon this box as a sort of hostage by means of which, who knows, we might one day buy our lives from the enemy. I have a sort of fancy. Call it a superstition, if you will, that nothing, not even our miraculous good luck could save us if once we ravished its secret. I stared at him amazedly. This was a new phase in his character. I am conscious of something almost like a spiritual unrest, he continued. Formally you were endowed with a capacity for divining the presence of Fu Manchu or his agents. Some such second sight would appear to have visited me now. And it directs me forcibly to avoid opening the box. His steps as he paced the floor grew more and more rapid. He relighted his pipe, which had gone out as usual, and tossed the match-end into the hearth. Tomorrow, he said, I shall lodge the coffer in a place of a greater security. Come along, Petrie. Weymouth is expecting us at Scotland Yard. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Hand of Fu Manchu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer Chapter 11 In the Fog But Smith, I began as my friend, hurried me along the corridor. You are not going to leave the box, unguarded. Nailin Smith tugged at my arm, and glancing at him, I saw him frowningly shake his head. Utterly mystified, I nevertheless understood that for some reason he desired me to preserve silence for the present. Accordingly I said no more until the lift brought us down into the lobby, and we had passed out from the new Louvre Hotel, crossed the busy thoroughfare, and entered the buffet of an establishment not far distant. My friend having ordered cocktails. And now perhaps you will explain to me the reason for your mysterious behaviour, said I. Smith, placing thy glass before me, glanced about him to right and left, and having satisfied himself that his words could not be overheard. Petrie, he whispered, I believe we are spied upon at the new Louvre. What? There are spies of the Siphan of Fu Manchu amongst the hotel servants. We have good reason to believe that Dr Fu Manchu at one time was actually in the building, and we have been compelled to draw attention to the state of the electric fitting in our apartments, which enables anyone in the corridor above to spy upon us. Then why do you stay? For a very good reason, Petrie, and the same that prompts me to retain the Tulin new box in my own possession, rather than to deposit it in the strongroom of my bank. I begin to understand. I trust you do, Petrie. It is fairly obvious. Probably the plan is a perilous one, but I hope by laying myself open to attack, to apprehend the enemy, perhaps to make an important capture, setting down my glass I stared in silence at Smith. I will anticipate your remark, he said, smiling dryly. I am aware that I am not entitled to expose you to these dangers. It is my duty, and I must perform it as best I can. You, as a volunteer, are perfectly entitled to withdraw. As I continued silently to stare at him, his expression changed. The gray eyes grew less steely, and presently clapping his hand upon my shoulder in his impulsive way. Petrie, he cried, you know I had no intention of hurting your feelings, but in the circumstances it was impossible for me to say less. You have said enough, Smith, I replied shortly. I beg of you to say no more. He gripped my shoulder hard, then plunged his hand into his pocket, and pulled out the blackened pipe. We see it through together, then. God knows whether it will lead us. In the first place, I interrupted, since you have left the chest unguarded. I locked the door. What is a mere lock where Fulman Chew is concerned? Nail and Smith laughed, almost gaily. Really, Petrie, he cried, sometimes I cannot believe that you mean me to take you seriously. Inspector Weymouth has engaged the room immediately facing our door, and no one can enter or leave the suite unseen by him. Inspector Weymouth—oh, for once he has stooped to her disguise, spectacles and the muffler which covers his face right up to the tip of his nose. Add to this a prodigious overcoat and an asthmatic cough, and you have a picture of Mr. Jonathan Martin, the occupant of room 239. I could not repress a smile upon hearing this description. Number 239, continued Smith, contains two beds, and Mr. Martin's friend will be joining him there this evening. Meeting my friend's questioning glance, I nodded comprehendingly. Then what part do I play? Ostensibly, we both leave town this evening, he explained, and I have a scheme whereby you will be enabled to remain behind. We shall thus have one watcher inside and two out. It seems almost absurd, I said incredulously, to expect any member of the Yellow Group to attempt anything in a huge hotel like the New Louvre, here in the heart of London. Naelyn Smith, having lighted his pipe, stretched his arms, and stared me straight in the face. As Fu Manchu never attempted outrage, murder in the heart of London before, he snapped, the words were sufficient. Remembering black episodes in the past, one at least of them had occurred not a thousand yards from the very spot upon which we now stood. I knew that I had spoken folly. Certain arrangements were made then, including a visit to Scotland Yard, and a plan, though it sounds anomalous, at once elaborate and simple, was put into execution in the dusk of the evening. London remained in the grip of fog, and when we passed along the corridor communicating with our apartments, faint streaks of yellow vapor showed in the light of the lamp suspended at the further end. I knew that Naelyn Smith suspected the presence of some spying contrivance in our rooms, although I was unable to conjecture how this could have been managed without the connivance of the management. In pursuance of his idea, however, he extinguished the lights a moment before we actually quitted the suite. Just within the door he helped me to remove the somewhat conspicuous check travelling-coat which I wore. With this upon his arm he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. As the door slammed upon his exit I heard him cry, Come along, Petrie, we've barely five minutes to catch our train. Detective Carter of New Scotland Yard had joined him at the threshold, and muffled up in the grey travelling-coat was now hurrying the Smith along the corridor and out of the hotel. Carter in build-in features was not unlike me, and I did not doubt that anyone who might be spying upon our movements would be deceived by this device. In the darkness of the apartment I stood listening to the retreating footsteps in the corridor. A sense of loneliness and danger assailed me. I knew that Inspector Weymouth was watching and listening from the room immediately opposite, that he held Smith's key, that I could summon him to my assistance if necessary in a matter of seconds. Yet contemplating the vigil that lay before me in silence and darkness, I cannot pretend that my frame of mind was buoyant. I could not smoke. I must make no sound. As prearranged I cautiously removed my boots, and as cautiously tiptoed across the carpet and seated myself in an arm-chair. I determined there to wait the arrival of Mr. Jonathan Martin's friend, which I knew could not now be long delayed. The clocks were striking eleven when he arrived, and in the perfect stillness of that upper corridor I heard the bustle which heralded his approach, heard the rap upon the door opposite, followed by muffled come in, from Weymouth. Then as the door was opened I heard the sound of a wheezy cough. A strange cracked voice, which nevertheless I recognised was Smith's, cried, Hello Martin, cough no better! Upon that the door was closed again, and as the retreating footsteps of the servant died away, complete silence, that peculiar silence which comes with fog, descended once more upon the upper part of a new Louvre hotel. END OF CHAPTER XI That first hour of watching, waiting, and listening in the lonely quietude passed drearily, and with the passage of every quarter, signalised by London's muffled clocks, my mood became increasingly morbid. I peepled the silent rooms opening out of that wherein I sat with stealthy, murderous figures. My imagination painted hideous yellow faces upon the draperies, twitching yellow hands protruding from this crevice and that. A score of times I started nervously thinking I heard the pad of bare feet upon the floor behind me, the suppressed breathing of some deathly approach. Since nothing occurred to justify these tremors, this apprehensive mood passed, I realised that I was growing cramped and stiff, that unconsciously I had been sitting with my muscles nervously tensed. The window was open a foot or so at the top and the blind was drawn, that so accustomed were my eyes now to peering through the darkness, that I could plainly discern the yellow oblong of the window, and though very vaguely some of the appointments of the room, the chest afield against one wall, the lampshade above my head, the table with the tulen-ner box upon it. There was fog in the room, and it was growing damply chill, for we had extinguished the electric heater some hours before. Very few sounds penetrated from outside. Twice or perhaps thrice people passed along the corridor going to their rooms, but as I knew the greater number of the rooms along that corridor were unoccupied. From the embankment far below me and from the river faint noises came at long intervals, it is true, the muffled hooting of motors, the yet fainter ringing of bells, fog signals boomed distantly, and train whistles shrieked, remote and unreal. I determined to enter my bedroom and risking any sound which I might make to lie down upon the bed. I rose carefully and carried this plan into execution. I would have given much for a smoke, although my throat was parched, and almost any drink would have been nectar. But although my hopes or my fears of an intruder had left me, I determined to stick to the rules of the game as laid down. Therefore I neither smoked nor drank, but carefully extended my weary limbs upon the coverlet, and telling myself that I could guard our strange treasure as well from there as from elsewhere, slipped off into a profound sleep. Nothing approaching in acute and sustained horror to the moment when next I opened my eyes exists in all my memories of those days. In the first place I was aroused by the shaking of the bed. It was quivering beneath me as though an earthquake disturbed the very foundations of the building. I sprang upright and into full consciousness of my laps. My hands clutching the coverlet on either side of me, I sat staring, staring, staring at that which peered at me over the foot of the bed. I knew that I had slept at my post. I was convinced that I was now widely awake, yet I dared not admit to myself that what I saw was other than a product of my imagination. I dared not admit the physical quivering of the bed, for I could not with sanity believe its cause to be anything human. But what I saw, yet could not credit-seeing, was this. A ghostly white face, which seemed to glisten in some faint reflected light from the sitting-room beyond, peered over the bedrail, gibbered at me demonically, with quivering hands this nightmare horror which had intruded where I believed human intrusion to be all but impossible, clutched the bed post so that the frame of the structure shook and faintly rattled. My heart leaped wildly in my breast, then seemed to suspend its pulsations and to grow icily cold. My whole body became chilled horrifically. My scalp tingled. I felt that I must cry out or become stark, raving mad. For this clamourly white face, those staring eyes, that wordless gibbering and the shaking, shaking, aching of the bed, and the clutch of the nameless visitant, prevailed, refused to disperse like the evil dream I had hoped it all to be, manifested itself indubitably as something tangible, objective. Outraged reason deprived me of coherent speech. Past the clammy white face I could see the sitting-room illuminated by a faint light. I could even see the tulen-ner box upon the table immediately opposite the door. The thing which shook the bed was actual, existent, to be counted with. Further and further I drew myself away from it until I crouched close up against the head of the bed. Then as the thing reeled aside and merciful heaven, made as if to come around and approach me yet closer, I uttered a hoarse cry and hurled myself out upon the floor and on the side remote from that pallid horror which I thought was pursuing me. I heard a dull thud, and the thing disappeared from my view yet, and remembering the supreme terror of that visitation, I am not ashamed to confess it. I dared not move from the spot upon which I stood. I dared not make to pass that which lay between me and the door. Smith! I cried, but my voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. Smith! Waymouth! The words became clearer and louder as I proceeded, so that the last waymouth was uttered in a sort of falsetto scream. A door burst open upon the other side of the corridor. A key was inserted in the lock of the door. Into the dimly lighted arch which divided the bedroom from the sitting-room sprang the figure of Nalen Smith. Petrie! Petrie! he called, and I saw him standing there, looking from left to right. Then, ere I could reply, he turned, and his gaze fell upon whatever lay upon the floor at the foot of the bed. My God! he whispered, and sprang into the room. Smith! Smith! I cried. What is it? What is it? He turned in a flash as Waymouth entered at his heels, saw me, and fell back a step, then looked down again at the floor. God's mercy! he whispered. I thought it was you. Trembling violently, my mind a feverish chaos, I moved to the foot of the bed and looked down at what lay there. Turn up the light, snapped Smith. Waymouth reached for the switch, and the room became illuminated suddenly. Prone upon the carpet, hands outstretched, and nails dug deeply into the pile of the fabric. Lay a dark-haired man having his head twisted sideways, so that the face showed a ghastly pallid profile against the rich colourings upon which it rested. He worn a coat, but a sort of dark grey shirt and black trousers. To add to the incongruity of his attire, his feet were clad in drab coloured shoes, rubber-sold. I stood, one hand raised to my head, looking down upon him, and gradually regaining control of myself. Waymouth, perceiving something of my condition, silently passed his flask to me, and I gladly availed myself of this. Ah, in Heaven's name did he get in! I whispered. How indeed! said Waymouth, staring about him with wondering eyes. Both he and Smith had discarded their disguises, and a bewildered trio we stood looking down upon the man at our feet. Suddenly Smith dropped to his knees and turned him flat upon his back. Composure was nearly restored to me, and I knelt upon the other side of the white-faced creature, whose presence there seemed so utterly outside the realm of possibility, and examined him with a consuming and fearful interest, for it was palpable that, if not already dead, he was dying rapidly. He was a slightly built man, and the first discovery that I made was a curious one. What I had mistaken for dark hair was a wig, a short black moustache which he wore was also fictitious. Look at this! I cried. I am looking, snapped Smith. He suddenly stood up and entering the room beyond, turned on the light there. I saw him staring at the tune in Nur-Box, and I knew what had been in his mind, but the box, undisturbed, stood upon the table as we had left it. I saw Smith tugging irritably at the lobe of his ear, and staring from the box towards the man beside whom I knelt. For God's sake, what does it mean? said Inspector Weymouth in a voice hushed with wonder. How did he get in? What did he come for? And what has happened to him? As to what has happened to him, I replied. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you. I only know that unless something can be done, his end is not far off. Shall we lay him on the bed? I nodded, and together we raised the slight figure, and placed it upon the bed where so recently I had lain. As we did so, the man suddenly opened his eyes which were glazed with delirium. He tore himself from our grip, sat bolt upright, and holding his hands, fingers outstretched before his face, stared at them frenziedly. The golden pomegranates! he shrieked, and a slight froth appeared on his blanched lips. The golden pomegranates! He laughed madly, and fell back inert. He's dead! whispered Weymouth. He's dead! Hard upon his words came a cry from Smith. Quick! Petrie! Weymouth! End of Chapter 12