The Hand of Fu Manchu (16 page)

Smith signaled to me to pursue the subject no further; and indeed I
realized that it would have been no easy matter to render the amazing
truth evident to a man of the Colonel's type of mind. But to me the
facts of the case were now clear enough.

That Fu-Manchu possessed a preparation for producing artificial
catalepsy, of a sort indistinguishable from death, I was well aware.
A dose of this unknown drug had doubtless been contained in the cognac
(if, indeed, the decanter had held cognac) that the prisoner had drunk
at the time of his arrest. The "yellow stuff" spoken of by Morrison I
recognized as the antidote (another secret of the brilliant Chinese
doctor), a portion of which I had once, some years before, actually
had in my possession. The "dead man" had not been carried up the
ladder; he had climbed up!

"Now, Morrison," snapped Nayland Smith, "you have acted wisely thus
far. Make a clean breast of it. How much were you paid for the job?"

"Twenty pounds, sir" answered the man promptly, "and I'd have done it
for less, because I could see no harm in it, the prisoner being dead,
and this his last request."

"And who paid you?"

Now we were come to the nub of the matter, as the change in the man's
face revealed. He hesitated momentarily, and Colonel Warrington
brought his fist down on the table with a bang. Morrison made a sort
of gesture of resignation at that, and—

"When I was in the Army, sir, stationed at Cairo," he said slowly, "I
regret to confess that I formed a drug habit."

"Opium?" snapped Smith.

"No, sir, hashish."

"Good God! Go on."

"There's a place in Soho, just off Frith Street, where hashish is
supplied, and I go there sometimes. Mr. Samarkan used to come, and
bring people with him—from the New Louvre Hotel, I believe. That's
where I met him."

"The exact address?" demanded Smith.

"Café de l'Egypte. But the hashish is only sold upstairs, and no one
is allowed up that isn't known personally to Ismail."

"Who is this Ismail?"

"The proprietor of the café. He's a Greek Jew of Salonica. An old
woman used to attend to the customers upstairs, but during the last
few months a young one has sometimes taken her place."

"What is she like?" I asked eagerly.

"She has very fine eyes, and that's about all I can tell you, sir,
because she wears a yashmak. Last night there were two women there,
both veiled, though."

"Two women!"

Hope and fear entered my heart. That Kâramaneh was again in the
power of the Chinese Doctor I knew to my sorrow. Could it be that
the Café de l'Egypte was the place of her captivity?

I could see that Nayland Smith counted the escape of the prisoner but
a trivial matter by comparison with the discovery to which it had led
us. That the Soho café should prove to be, if not the headquarters at
least a regular resort of Dr. Fu-Manchu, was not too much to hope. The
usefulness of such a haunt was evident enough, since it might
conveniently be employed as a place of rendezvous for Orientals—and
furthermore enable the cunning Chinaman to establish relations with
persons likely to prove of service to him.

Formerly, he had used an East End opium den for this purpose, and,
later, the resort known as the Joy-Shop. Soho, hitherto, had remained
outside the radius of his activity, but that he should have embraced
it at last was not surprising; for Soho is the Montmartre of London
and a land of many secrets.

"Why," demanded Nayland Smith, "have I never been told of the existence
of this place?"

"That's simple enough," answered Inspector Weymouth. "Although we knew
of this Café de l'Egypte, we have never had the slightest trouble
there. It's a Bohemian resort, where members of the French Colony,
some of the Chelsea art people, professional models, and others of
that sort, foregather at night. I've been there myself as a matter of
fact, and I've seen people well known in the artistic world come in.
It has much the same clientele as, say, the Café Royal, with a rather
heavier sprinkling of Hindu students, Japanese, and so forth. It's
celebrated for Turkish coffee."

"What do you know of this Ismail?"

"Nothing much. He's a Levantine Jew."

"And something more!" added Smith, surveying himself in the mirror,
and turning to nod his satisfaction to the well-known perruquier whose
services are sometimes requisitioned by the police authorities.

We were ready for our visit to the Café de l'Egypte, and Smith having
deemed it inadvisable that we should appear there openly, we had been
transformed, under the adroit manipulation of Foster, into a pair of
Futurists oddly unlike our actual selves. No wigs, no false mustaches
had been employed; a change of costume and a few deft touches of some
water-color paint had rendered us unrecognizable by our most intimate
friends.

It was all very fantastic, very reminiscent of Christmas charades, but
the farce had a grim, murderous undercurrent; the life of one dearer
to me than life itself hung upon our success; the swamping of the White
world by Yellow hordes might well be the price of our failure.

Weymouth left us at the corner of Frith Street. This was no more than
a reconnaissance, but—

"I shall be within hail if I'm wanted," said the burly detective; and
although we stood not in Chinatown but in the heart of Bohemian London,
with popular restaurants about us, I was glad to know that we had so
stanch an ally in reserve.

The shadow of the great Chinaman was upon me. That strange,
subconscious voice, with which I had become familiar in the past,
awoke within me to-night. Not by logic, but by prescience, I knew that
the Yellow doctor was near.

Two minutes walk brought us to the door of the café. The upper half
was of glass, neatly curtained, as were the windows on either side of
it; and above the establishment appeared the words: "Café de l'Egypte."
Between the second and third word was inserted a gilded device
representing the crescent of Islâm.

We entered. On our right was a room furnished with marble-topped
tables, cane-seated chairs and plush-covered lounges set against the
walls. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke; evidently the café was
full, although the night was young.

Smith immediately made for the upper end of the room. It was not large,
and at first glance I thought that there was no vacant place. Presently,
however, I espied two unoccupied chairs; and these we took, finding
ourselves facing a pale, bespectacled young man, with long, fair hair
and faded eyes, whose companion, a bold brunette, was smoking one of
the largest cigarettes I had ever seen, in a gold and amber cigar-holder.

A very commonplace Swiss waiter took our orders for coffee, and we
began discreetly to survey our surroundings. The only touch of Oriental
color thus far perceptible in the café de l'Egypte was provided by a
red-capped Egyptian behind a narrow counter, who presided over the
coffee pots. The patrons of the establishment were in every way typical
of Soho, and in the bulk differed not at all from those of the better
known café restaurants.

There were several Easterns present; but Smith, having given each of
them a searching glance, turned to me with a slight shrug of
disappointment. Coffee being placed before us, we sat sipping the thick,
sugary beverage, smoking cigarettes and vainly seeking for some clue
to guide us to the inner sanctuary consecrated to hashish. It was
maddening to think that Kâramaneh might be somewhere concealed in
the building, whilst I sat there, inert amongst this gathering whose
conversation was of abnormalities in art, music, and literature.

Then, suddenly, the pale young man seated opposite paid his bill, and
with a word of farewell to his companion, went out of the café. He
did not make his exit by the door through which we entered, but passed
up the crowded room to the counter whereat the Egyptian presided. From
some place hidden in the rear, emerged a black-haired, swarthy man,
with whom the other exchanged a few words. The pale young artist raised
his wide-brimmed hat, and was gone—through a curtained doorway on the
left of the counter.

As he opened it, I had a glimpse of a narrow court beyond; then the
door was closed again ... and I found myself thinking of the peculiar
eyes of the departed visitor. Even through the thick pebbles of his
spectacles, although for some reason I had thought little of the
matter at the time, his oddly contracted pupils were noticeable. As
the girl, in turn, rose and left the café—but by the ordinary
door—I turned to Smith.

"That man ..." I began, and paused.

Smith was watching covertly, a Hindu seated at a neighboring table,
who was about to settle his bill. Standing up, the Hindu made for the
coffee counter, the swarthy man appeared out of the background—and
the Asiatic visitor went out by the door opening into the court.

One quick glance Smith gave me, and raised his hand for the waiter.
A few minutes later we were out in the street again.

"We must find our way to that court!" snapped my friend. "Let us try
back, I noted a sort of alley-way which we passed just before reaching
the café."

"You think the hashish den is in some adjoining building?"

"I don't know where it is, Petrie, but I know the way to it!"

Into a narrow, gloomy court we plunged, hemmed in by high walls, and
followed it for ten yards or more. An even narrower and less inviting
turning revealed itself on the left. We pursued our way, and presently
found ourselves at the back of the Café de l'Egypte.

"There's the door," I said.

It opened into a tiny cul de sac, flanked by dilapidated hoardings,
and no other door of any kind was visible in the vicinity. Nayland
Smith stood tugging at the lobe of his ear almost savagely.

"Where the devil do they go?" he whispered.

Even as he spoke the words, came a gleam of light through the upper
curtained part of the door, and I distinctly saw the figure of a man
in silhouette.

"Stand back!" snapped Smith.

We crouched back against the dirty wall of the court, and watched a
strange thing happen. The back door of the Café de l'Egypte opened
outward, simultaneously a door, hitherto invisible, set at right
angles in the hoarding adjoining, opened
inward!

A man emerged from the café and entered the secret doorway. As he did
so, the café door swung back ... and closed the door in the hoarding!

"Very good!" muttered Nayland Smith. "Our friend Ismail, behind the
counter, moves some lever which causes the opening of one door
automatically to open the other. Failing his kindly offices, the second
exit from the Café de l'Egypte is innocent enough. Now—what is the
next move?"

"I have an idea, Smith!" I cried. "According to Morrison, the place in
which the hashish may be obtained has no windows but is lighted from
above. No doubt it was built for a studio and has a glass roof.
Therefore—"

"Come along!" snapped Smith, grasping my arm; "you have solved the
difficulty, Petrie."

Along the leads from Frith Street we worked our perilous way. From the
top landing of a French restaurant we had gained access, by means of
a trap, to the roof of the building. Now, the busy streets of Soho were
below me, and I clung dizzily to telephone standards and smoke stacks,
rarely venturing to glance downward upon the cosmopolitan throng,
surging, dwarfish, in the lighted depths.

Sometimes the bulky figure of Inspector Weymouth would loom up
grotesquely against the star-sprinkled blue, as he paused to take
breath; the next moment Nayland Smith would be leading the way again,
and I would find myself contemplating some sheer well of blackness,
with nausea threatening me because it had to be negotiated.

None of these gaps were more than a long stride from side to side; but
the sense of depth conveyed in the muffled voices and dimmed footsteps
from the pavements far below was almost overpowering. Indeed, I am
convinced that for my part I should never have essayed that nightmare
journey were it not that the musical voice of Kâramaneh seemed to be
calling to me, her little white hands to be seeking mine, blindly, in
the darkness.

That we were close to a haunt of the dreadful Chinamen I was
persuaded; therefore my hatred and my love cooperated to lend me a
coolness and address which otherwise I must have lacked.

"Hullo!" cried Smith, who was leading—"what now?"

We had crept along the crown of a sloping roof and were confronted by
the blank wall of a building which rose a story higher than that
adjoining it. It was crowned by an iron railing, showing blackly
against the sky. I paused, breathing heavily, and seated astride that
dizzy perch. Weymouth was immediately behind me, and—

"It's the Café de l'Egypte, Mr. Smith!" he said, "If you'll look up,
you'll see the reflection of the lights shining through the glass roof."

Vaguely I discerned Nayland Smith rising to his feet.

"Be careful!" I said. "For God's sake don't slip!"

"Take my hand," he snapped energetically.

I stretched forward and grasped his hand. As I did so, he slid down
the slope on the right, away from the street, and hung perilously for
a moment over the very cul de sac upon which the secret door opened.

"Good!" he muttered "There is, as I had hoped, a window lighting the
top of the staircase. Ssh!—ssh!"

His grip upon my hand tightened; and there aloft, above the teemful
streets of Soho, I sat listening ... whilst very faint and muffled
footsteps sounded upon an uncarpeted stair, a door banged, and all
was silent again, save for the ceaseless turmoil far below.

"Sit tight, and catch!" rapped Smith.

Into my extended hands he swung his boots, fastened together by the
laces! Then, ere I could frame any protest, he disengaged his hand
from mine, and pressing his body close against the angle of the
building, worked his way around to the staircase window, which was
invisible from where I crouched.