The Hand of Fu Manchu (26 page)

The head-light picked out the straight road before us, and Barton
increased the pace, regardless of regulations, until the growing slope
made itself felt and the speed grew gradually less; above the
throbbing of the motor, I could hear, now, the rain in the
overhanging trees.

I peered through the darkness, up the road, wondering if we were near
to the spot where the mysterious attack had been made upon Dr.
Hamilton's groom. I decided that we were just passing the place, and
to confirm my opinion, at that moment Sir Lionel swung the car around
suddenly, and plunged headlong into the black mouth of a narrow lane.

Hitherto, the roads had been fair, but now the jolting and swaying
became very pronounced.

"Beastly road!" shouted Barton—"and stiff gradient!"

I nodded.

That part of the way which was visible in front had the appearance of
a muddy cataract, through which we must force a path.

Then, as abruptly as it had commenced, the rain ceased; and at almost
the same moment came an angry cry from behind.

The canvas hood made it impossible to see clearly in the car, but,
turning quickly, I perceived Kennedy, with his cap off, rubbing his
close-cropped skull. He was cursing volubly.

"What is it, Kennedy?

"Somebody sniping!" cried the man. "Lucky for me I had my cap on!"

"Eh, sniping?" said Barton, glancing over his shoulder. "What d'you
mean? A stone, was it?"

"No, sir," answered Kennedy. "I don't know what it was—but it wasn't
a stone."

"Hurt much?" I asked.

"No, sir! nothing at all." But there was a note of fear in the man's
voice—fear of the unknown.

Something struck the hood with a dull drum-like thud.

"There's another, sir!" cried Kennedy. "There's some one following us!"

"Can you see any one?" came the reply. "I thought I saw something
then, about twenty yards behind. It's so dark."

"Try a shot!" I said, passing my Browning to Kennedy.

The next moment, the crack of the little weapon sounded sharply, and I
thought I detected a vague, answering cry.

"See anything?" came from Barton.

Neither Kennedy nor I made reply; for we were both looking back down
the hill. Momentarily, the moon had peeped from the cloud-banks, and
where, three hundreds yards behind, the bordering trees were few, a
patch of dim light spread across the muddy road—and melted away as a
new blackness gathered.

But, in the brief space, three figures had shown, only for an instant—
but long enough for us both to see that they were those of three gaunt
men, seemingly clad in scanty garments. What weapons they employed I
could not conjecture; but we were pursued by three of Dr. Fu-Manchu's
dacoits!

Barton growled something savagely, and ran the car to the left of the
road, as the gates of Dr. Hamilton's house came in sight.

A servant was there, ready to throw them open; and Sir Lionel swung
around on to the drive, and drove ahead, up the elm avenue to where the
light streamed through the open door on to the wet gravel. The house
was a blaze of lights, every window visible being illuminated; and Mrs.
Hamilton stood in the porch to greet us.

"Doctor Petrie?" she asked, nervously, as we descended.

"I am he," I said. "How is Mr. Smith?"

"Still insensible," was the reply.

Passing a knot of servants who stood at the foot of the stairs like a
little flock of frightened sheep—we made our way into the room where
my poor friend lay.

Dr. Hamilton, a gray-haired man of military bearing, greeted Sir
Lionel, and the latter made me known to my fellow practitioner, who
grasped my hand, and then went straight to the bedside, tilting the
lampshade to throw the light directly upon the patient.

Nayland Smith lay with his arms outside the coverlet and his fists
tightly clenched. His thin, tanned face wore a grayish hue, and a
white bandage was about his head. He breathed stentoriously.

"We can only wait," said Dr. Hamilton, "and trust that there will be
no complications."

I clenched my fists involuntarily, but, speaking no word, turned and
passed from the room.

Downstairs in Dr. Hamilton's study was the man who had found Nayland
Smith.

"We don't know when it was done, sir," he said, answering my first
question. "Staples and me stumbled on him in the dusk, just by the big
beech—a good quarter-mile from the village. I don't know how long
he'd laid there, but it must have been for some time, as the last
rain arrived an hour earlier. No, sir, he hadn't been robbed; his
money and watch were on him but his pocketbook lay open beside him;—
though, funny as it seems, there were three five-pound notes in it!"

"Do you understand, Petrie?" cried Sir Lionel. "Smith evidently
obtained a copy of the old plan of the secret passages of Graywater
and Monkswell, sooner than he expected, and determined to return
to-night. They left him for dead, having robbed him of the plans!"

"But the attack on Dr. Hamilton's man?"

"Fu-Manchu clearly tried to prevent communication with us to-night! He
is playing for time. Depend on it, Petrie, the hour of his departure
draws near and he is afraid of being trapped at the last moment."

He began taking huge strides up and down the room, forcibly reminding
me of a caged lion.

"To think," I said bitterly, "that all our efforts have failed to
discover the secret—"

"The secret of my own property!" roared Barton—"and one known to
that damned, cunning Chinese devil!"

"And in all probability now known also to Smith—"

"And he cannot speak! ..."

"
Who
cannot speak?" demanded a hoarse voice.

I turned in a flash, unable to credit my senses—and there, holding
weakly to the doorpost, stood Nayland Smith!

"Smith!" I cried reproachfully—"you should not have left your room!"

He sank into an arm-chair, assisted by Dr. Hamilton.

"My skull is fortunately thick!" he replied, a ghostly smile playing
around the corners of his mouth—"and it was a physical impossibility
for me to remain inert considering that Dr. Fu-Manchu proposes to
leave England to-night!"

"My inquiries in the Manuscript Room of the British Museum," said
Nayland Smith, his voice momentarily growing stronger and some of the
old fire creeping back into his eyes, "have proved entirely successful."

Sir Lionel Barton, Dr. Hamilton, and myself hung upon every word; and
often I fond myself glancing at the old-fashioned clock on the
doctor's mantel-piece.

"We had very definite proof," continued Smith, "of the fact that
Fu-Manchu and company were conversant with that elaborate system of
secret rooms and passages which forms a veritable labyrinth, in, about,
and beneath Graywater Park. Some of the passages we explored. That
Sir Lionel should be ignorant of the system was not strange,
considering that he had but recently inherited the property, and that
the former owner, his kinsman, regarded the secret as lost. A
starting-point was discovered, however, in the old work on haunted
manors unearthed in the library, as you remember. There was a
reference, in the chapter dealing with Graywater, so a certain monkish
manuscript said to repose in the national collection and to contain a
plan of these passages and stairways.

"The Keeper of the Manuscripts at the Museum very courteously assisted
me in my inquiries, and the ancient parchment was placed in my hands.
Sure enough, it contained a carefully executed drawing of the hidden
ways of Graywater, the work of a monk in the distant days when
Graywater was a priory. This monk, I may add—a certain Brother Anselm—
afterwards became Abbot of Graywater."

"Very interesting!" cried sir Lionel loudly; "very interesting indeed."

"I copied the plan," resumed Smith, "with elaborate care. That labor,
unfortunately, was wasted, in part, at least. Then, in order to
confirm my suspicions on the point, I endeavored to ascertain if the
monk's MS. had been asked for at the Museum recently. The Keeper of
the Manuscripts could not recall that any student had handled the work,
prior to my own visit, during the past ten years.

"This was disappointing, and I was tempted to conclude that Fu-Manchu
had blundered on to the secret in some other way, when the Assistant
Keeper of Manuscripts put in an appearance. From him I obtained
confirmation of my theory. Three months ago a Greek gentleman—possibly,
Sir Lionel, your late butler, Homopoulo—obtained permission to consult
the MS., claiming to be engaged upon a paper for some review or another.

"At any rate, the fact was sufficient. Quite evidently, a servant of
Fu-Manchu had obtained a copy of the plan—and this within a day or
so of the death of Mr. Brangholme Burton—whose heir, Sir Lionel, you
were! I became daily impressed anew with the omniscience, the
incredible genius, of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

"The scheme which we know of to compass the death, or captivity, of
our three selves and Kâramaneh was put into operation, and failed.
But, with its failure, the utility of the secret chambers was by no
means terminated. The local legend, according to which a passage
exists, linking Graywater and Monkswell, is confirmed by the monk's
plan."

"What?" cried Sir Lionel, springing to his feet—"a passage between
the Park and the old tower! My dear sir, it's impossible! Such a
passage would have to pass under the River Starn! It's only a narrow
stream, I know, but—"

"It
does
, or
did
, pass under the River Starn!" said Nayland Smith
coolly. "That it is still practicable I do not assert; what interests
me is the spot at which it terminates."

He plunged his hand into the pocket of the light overcoat which he
wore over the borrowed suit of pyjamas in which the kindly Dr. Hamilton
had clothed him. He was seeking his pipe!

"Have a cigar, Smith!" cried Sir Lionel, proffering his case—"if you
must
smoke; although I think our medical friends frowning!"

Nayland Smith took a cigar, bit off the end, and lighted up. He began
to surround himself with odorous clouds, to his evident satisfaction.

"To resume," he said; "the Spanish priest who was persecuted at
Graywater in early Reformation days and whose tortured spirit is said
to haunt the Park, held the secret of this passage, and of the
subterranean chamber in Monkswell, to which it led. His confession—
which resulted in his death at the stake!—enabled the commissioners
to recover from his chamber a quantity of church ornaments. For these
facts I am indebted to the author of the work on haunted manors.

"Our inquiry at this point touches upon things sinister and
incomprehensible. In a word, although the passage and a part of the
underground room are of unknown antiquity, it appears certain that
they were improved and enlarged by one of the abbots of Monkswell—at
a date much later than Brother Anselm's abbotship—and the place was
converted to a secret chapel—"

"A
secret
chapel!" said Dr. Hamilton.

"Exactly. This was at a time in English history when the horrible
cult of Asmodeus spread from the Rhine monasteries and gained
proselytes in many religious houses of England. In this secret chapel,
wretched Churchmen, seduced to the abominable views of the abbot,
celebrated the Black Mass!"

"My God!" I whispered—"small wonder that the place is reputed to be
haunted!"

"Small wonder," cried Nayland Smith, with all his old nervous vigor,
"that Dr. Fu-Manchu selected it as an ideal retreat in times of danger!"

"What! the chapel?" roared Sir Lionel.

"Beyond doubt! Well knowing the penalty of discovery, those old
devil-worshipers had chosen a temple from which they could escape in
an emergency. There is a short stair from the chamber into the cave
which, as you may know, exists in the cliff adjoining Monkswell."

Smith's eyes were blazing now, and he was on his feet, pacing the
floor, an odd figure, with his bandaged skull and inadequate garments,
biting on the already extinguished cigar as though it had been a pipe.

"Returning to our rooms, Petrie," he went on rapidly, "who should I run
into but Summers! You remember Summers, the Suez Canal pilot whom you
met at Ismailia two years ago? He brought the yacht through the Canal,
from Suez, on which I suspect Ki-Ming came to England. She is a big
boat—used to be on the Port Said and Jaffa route before a wealthy
Chinaman acquired her—through an Egyptian agent—for his personal use.

"All the crews, Summers told me, were Asiatics, and little groups of
natives lined the Canal and performed obeisances as the vessel passed.
Undoubtedly they had that woman on board, Petrie, the Lady of the
Si-Fan, who escaped, together with Fu-Manchu, when we raided the
meeting in London! Like a fool I came racing back here without
advising you; and, all alone, my mind occupied with the tremendous
import of these discoveries, started, long after dusk, to walk to
Graywater Park."

He shrugged his shoulders whimsically, and raised one hand to his
bandaged head.

"Fu-Manchu employs weapons both of the future and of the past," he
said. "My movements had been watched, of course; I was mad. Some one,
probably a dacoit, laid me low with a ball of clay propelled form a
sling of the Ancient Persian pattern! I actually saw him ... then saw,
and knew, no more!

"Smith!" I cried—whilst Sir Lionel Barton and Dr. Hamilton stared at
one another, dumbfounded—"you think
he
is on the point of flying
from England—"

"The Chinese yacht,
Chanak-Kampo,
is lying two miles off the coast
and in the sight of the tower of Monkswell!"

The scene of our return to Graywater Park is destined to live in my
memory for ever. The storm, of which the violet rainfall had been a
prelude, gathered blackly over the hills. Ebon clouds lowered upon us
as we came racing to the gates. Then the big car was spinning around
the carriage sweep, amid a deathly stillness of Nature indescribably
gloomy and ominous. I have said, a stillness of nature; but, as
Kennedy leapt out and ran up the steps to the door, from the distant
cages wherein Sire Lionel kept his collection of rare beasts proceeded
the angry howling of the leopards and such a wild succession of roars
from the African lioness that I stared at our eccentric host
questioningly.