The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu (16 page)

We live in a peaceful age, wherein it falls to the lot of few
men to owe their survival to their fleetness of foot. At Smith's
words I realized in a flash that such was to be our fate
to-night.

I have said that the hulk lay off a sort of promontory. East and
west, then, we had nothing to hope for. To the south was Fu-Manchu;
and even as, stripped of our heavier garments, we started to run
northward, the weird signal of a dacoit rose on the night and was
answered-was answered again.

"Three, at least," hissed Smith; "three armed dacoits.
Hopeless."

"Take the revolver," I cried. "Smith, it's-"

"No," he rapped, through clenched teeth. "A servant of the Crown
in the East makes his motto: 'Keep your word, though it break your
neck!' I don't think we need fear it being used against us.
Fu-Manchu avoids noisy methods."

So back we ran, over the course by which, earlier, we had come.
It was, roughly, a mile to the first building-a deserted
cottage-and another quarter of a mile to any that was occupied.

Our chance of meeting a living soul, other than Fu-Manchu's
dacoits, was practically nil.

At first we ran easily, for it was the second half-mile that
would decide our fate. The professional murderers who pursued us
ran like panthers, I knew; and I dare not allow my mind to dwell
upon those yellow figures with the curved, gleaming knives. For a
long time neither of us looked back.

On we ran, and on-silently, doggedly.

Then a hissing breath from Smith warned me what to expect.

Should I, too, look back? Yes. It was impossible to resist the
horrid fascination.

I threw a quick glance over my shoulder.

And never while I live shall I forget what I saw. Two of the
pursuing dacoits had outdistanced their fellow (or fellows), and
were actually within three hundred yards of us.

More like dreadful animals they looked than human beings,
running bent forward, with their faces curiously uptilted. The
brilliant moonlight gleamed upon bared teeth, as I could see, even
at that distance, even in that quick, agonized glance, and it
gleamed upon the crescent-shaped knives.

"As hard as you can go now," panted Smith. "We must make an
attempt to break into the empty cottage. Only chance."

I had never in my younger days been a notable runner; for Smith
I cannot speak. But I am confident that the next half-mile was done
in time that would not have disgraced a crack man. Not once again
did either of us look back. Yard upon yard we raced forward
together. My heart seemed to be bursting. My leg muscles throbbed
with pain. At last, with the empty cottage in sight, it came to
that pass with me when another three yards looks as unattainable as
three miles. Once I stumbled.

"My God!" came from Smith weakly.

But I recovered myself. Bare feet pattered close upon our heels,
and panting breaths told how even Fu-Manchu's bloodhounds were hard
put to it by the killing pace we had made.

"Smith," I whispered, "look in front. Someone!"

As through a red mist I had seen a dark shape detach itself from
the shadows of the cottage, and merge into them again. It could
only be another dacoit; but Smith, not heeding, or not hearing, my
faintly whispered words, crashed open the gate and hurled himself
blindly at the door.

It burst open before him with a resounding boom, and he pitched
forward into the interior darkness. Flat upon the floor he lay, for
as, with a last effort, I gained the threshold and dragged myself
within, I almost fell over his recumbent body.

Madly I snatched at the door. His foot held it open. I kicked
the foot away, and banged the door to. As I turned, the leading
dacoit, his eyes starting from their sockets, his face the face of
a demon leaped wildly through the gateway.

That Smith had burst the latch I felt assured, but by some
divine accident my weak hands found the bolt. With the last ounce
of strength spared to me I thrust it home in the rusty socket-as a
full six inches of shining steel split the middle panel and
protruded above my head.

I dropped, sprawling, beside my friend.

A terrific blow shattered every pane of glass in the solitary
window, and one of the grinning animal faces looked in.

"Sorry, old man," whispered Smith, and his voice was barely
audible. Weakly he grasped my hand. "My fault. I shouldn't have let
you come."

From the corner of the room where the black shadows lay flicked
a long tongue of flame. Muffled, staccato, came the report. And the
yellow face at the window was blotted out.

One wild cry, ending in a rattling gasp, told of a dacoit gone
to his account.

A gray figure glided past me and was silhouetted against the
broken window.

Again the pistol sent its message into the night, and again came
the reply to tell how well and truly that message had been
delivered. In the stillness, intense by sharp contrast, the sound
of bare soles pattering upon the path outside stole to me. Two
runners, I thought there were, so that four dacoits must have been
upon our trail. The room was full of pungent smoke. I staggered to
my feet as the gray figure with the revolver turned towards me.
Something familiar there was in that long, gray garment, and now I
perceived why I had thought so.

It was my gray rain-coat.

"Karamaneh," I whispered.

And Smith, with difficulty, supporting himself upright, and
holding fast to the ledge beside the door, muttered something
hoarsely, which sounded like "God bless her!"

The girl, trembling now, placed her hands upon my shoulders with
that quaint, pathetic gesture peculiarly her own.

"I followed you," she said. "Did you not know I should follow
you? But I had to hide because of another who was following also. I
had but just reached this place when I saw you running towards
me."

She broke off and turned to Smith.

"This is your pistol," she said naively. "I found it in your
bag. Will you please take it!"

He took it without a word. Perhaps he could not trust himself to
speak.

"Now go. Hurry!" she said. "You are not safe yet."

"But you?" I asked.

"You have failed," she replied. "I must go back to him. There is
no other way."

Strangely sick at heart for a man who has just had a miraculous
escape from death, I opened the door. Coatless, disheveled figures,
my friend and I stepped out into the moonlight.

Hideous under the pale rays lay the two dead men, their glazed
eyes upcast to the peace of the blue heavens. Karamaneh had shot to
kill, for both had bullets in their brains. If God ever planned a
more complex nature than hers-a nature more tumultuous with
conflicting passions, I cannot conceive of it. Yet her beauty was
of the sweetest; and in some respects she had the heart of a
child-this girl who could shoot so straight.

"We must send the police to-night," said Smith. "Or the
papers-"

"Hurry," came the girl's voice commandingly from the darkness of
the cottage.

It was a singular situation. My very soul rebelled against it.
But what could we do?

"Tell us where we can communicate," began Smith.

"Hurry. I shall be suspected. Do you want him to kill me!"

We moved away. All was very still now, and the lights glimmered
faintly ahead. Not a wisp of cloud brushed the moon's disk.

"Good-night, Karamaneh," I whispered softly.

To pursue further the adventure on the marshes would be a task
at once useless and thankless. In its actual and in its dramatic
significance it concluded with our parting from Karamaneh. And in
that parting I learned what Shakespeare meant by "Sweet
Sorrow."

There was a world, I learned, upon the confines of which I
stood, a world whose very existence hitherto had been unsuspected.
Not the least of the mysteries which peeped from the darkness was
the mystery of the heart of Karamaneh. I sought to forget her. I
sought to remember her. Indeed, in the latter task I found one more
congenial, yet, in the direction and extent of the ideas which it
engendered, one that led me to a precipice.

East and West may not intermingle. As a student of
world-policies, as a physician, I admitted, could not deny, that
truth. Again, if Karamaneh were to be credited, she had come to
Fu-Manchu a slave; had fallen into the hands of the raiders; had
crossed the desert with the slave-drivers; had known the house of
the slave-dealer. Could it be? With the fading of the crescent of
Islam I had thought such things to have passed.

But if it were so?

At the mere thought of a girl so deliciously beautiful in the
brutal power of slavers, I found myself grinding my teeth-closing
my eyes in a futile attempt to blot out the pictures called up.

Then, at such times, I would find myself discrediting her story.
Again, I would find myself wondering, vaguely, why such problems
persistently haunted my mind. But, always, my heart had an answer.
And I was a medical man, who sought to build up a family
practice!-who, in short, a very little time ago, had thought
himself past the hot follies of youth and entered upon that staid
phase of life wherein the daily problems of the medical profession
hold absolute sway and such seductive follies as dark eyes and red
lips find-no place-are excluded!

But it is foreign from the purpose of this plain record to
enlist sympathy for the recorder. The topic upon which, here, I
have ventured to touch was one fascinating enough to me; I cannot
hope that it holds equal charm for any other. Let us return to that
which it is my duty to narrate and let us forget my brief
digression.

It is a fact, singular, but true, that few Londoners know
London. Under the guidance of my friend, Nayland Smith, I had
learned, since his return from Burma, how there are haunts in the
very heart of the metropolis whose existence is unsuspected by all
but the few; places unknown even to the ubiquitous copy-hunting
pressman.

Into a quiet thoroughfare not two minutes' walk from the pulsing
life of Leicester Square, Smith led the way. Before a door
sandwiched in between two dingy shop-fronts he paused and turned to
me.

"Whatever you see or hear," he cautioned, "express no
surprise."

A cab had dropped us at the corner. We both wore dark suits and
fez caps with black silk tassels. My complexion had been
artificially reduced to a shade resembling the deep tan of my
friend's. He rang the bell beside the door.

Almost immediately it was opened by a negro woman-gross,
hideously ugly.

Smith uttered something in voluble Arabic. As a linguist his
attainments were a constant source of surprise. The jargons of the
East, Far and Near, he spoke as his mother tongue. The woman
immediately displayed the utmost servility, ushering us into an
ill-lighted passage, with every evidence of profound respect.
Following this passage, and passing an inner door, from beyond
whence proceeded bursts of discordant music, we entered a little
room bare of furniture, with coarse matting for mural decorations,
and a patternless red carpet on the floor. In a niche burned a
common metal lamp.

The negress left us, and close upon her departure entered a very
aged man with a long patriarchal beard, who greeted my friend with
dignified courtesy. Following a brief conversation, the aged
Arab-for such he appeared to be-drew aside a strip of matting,
revealing a dark recess. Placing his finger upon his lips, he
silently invited us to enter.

We did so, and the mat was dropped behind us. The sounds of
crude music were now much plainer, and as Smith slipped a little
shutter aside I gave a start of surprise.

Beyond lay a fairly large apartment, having divans or low seats
around three of its walls. These divans were occupied by a motley
company of Turks, Egyptians, Greeks, and others; and I noted two
Chinese. Most of them smoked cigarettes, and some were drinking. A
girl was performing a sinuous dance upon the square carpet
occupying the center of the floor, accompanied by a young negro
woman upon a guitar and by several members of the assembly who
clapped their hands to the music or hummed a low, monotonous
melody.

Shortly after our entrance into the passage the dance
terminated, and the dancer fled through a curtained door at the
farther end of the room. A buzz of conversation arose.

"It is a sort of combined Wekaleh and place of entertainment for
a certain class of Oriental residents in, or visiting, London,"
Smith whispered. "The old gentleman who has just left us is the
proprietor or host. I have been here before on several occasions,
but have always drawn blank."

He was peering out eagerly into the strange clubroom.

"Whom do you expect to find here?" I asked.

"It is a recognized meeting-place," said Smith in my ear. "It is
almost a certainty that some of the Fu-Manchu group use it at
times."

Curiously I surveyed all these faces which were visible from the
spy-hole. My eyes rested particularly upon the two Chinamen.

"Do you recognize anyone?" I whispered.

"S-sh!"

Smith was craning his neck so as to command a sight of the
doorway. He obstructed my view, and only by his tense attitude and
some subtle wave of excitement which he communicated to me did I
know that a new arrival was entering. The hum of conversation died
away, and in the ensuing silence I heard the rustle of draperies.
The newcomer was a woman, then. Fearful of making any noise I yet
managed to get my eyes to the level of the shutter.

A woman in an elegant, flame-colored opera cloak was crossing
the floor and coming in the direction of the spot where we were
concealed. She wore a soft silk scarf about her head, a fold partly
draped across her face. A momentary view I had of her-and wildly
incongruous she looked in that place-and she had disappeared from
sight, having approached someone invisible who sat upon the divan
immediately beneath our point of vantage.

From the way in which the company gazed towards her, I divined
that she was no habitue of the place, but that her presence there
was as greatly surprising to those in the room as it was to me.

Whom could she be, this elegant lady who visited such a
haunt-who, it would seem, was so anxious to disguise her identity,
but who was dressed for a society function rather than for a
midnight expedition of so unusual a character?

I began a whispered question, but Smith tugged at my arm to
silence me. His excitement was intense. Had his keener powers
enabled him to recognize the unknown?

A faint but most peculiar perfume stole to my nostrils, a
perfume which seemed to contain the very soul of Eastern mystery.
Only one woman known to me used that perfume-Karamaneh.

Then it was she!

At last my friend's vigilance had been rewarded. Eagerly I bent
forward. Smith literally quivered in anticipation of a discovery.
Again the strange perfume was wafted to our hiding-place; and,
glancing neither to right nor left, I saw Karamaneh-for that it was
she I no longer doubted-recross the room and disappear.

"The man she spoke to," hissed Smith. "We must see him! We must
have him!"

He pulled the mat aside and stepped out into the anteroom. It
was empty. Down the passage he led, and we were almost come to the
door of the big room when it was thrown open and a man came rapidly
out, opened the street door before Smith could reach him, and was
gone, slamming it fast.

I can swear that we were not four seconds behind him, but when
we gained the street it was empty. Our quarry had disappeared as if
by magic. A big car was just turning the corner towards Leicester
Square.

"That is the girl," rapped Smith; "but where in Heaven's name is
the man to whom she brought the message? I would give a hundred
pounds to know what business is afoot. To think that we have had
such an opportunity and have thrown it away!"

Angry and nonplused he stood at the corner, looking in the
direction of the crowded thoroughfare into which the car had been
driven, tugging at the lobe of his ear, as was his habit in such
moments of perplexity, and sharply clicking his teeth together. I,
too, was very thoughtful. Clews were few enough in those days of
our war with that giant antagonist. The mere thought that our
trifling error of judgment tonight in tarrying a moment too long
might mean the victory of Fu-Manchu, might mean the turning of the
balance which a wise providence had adjusted between the white and
yellow races, was appalling.

To Smith and me, who knew something of the secret influences at
work to overthrow the Indian Empire, to place, it might be, the
whole of Europe and America beneath an Eastern rule, it seemed that
a great yellow hand was stretched out over London. Doctor Fu-Manchu
was a menace to the civilized world. Yet his very existence
remained unsuspected by the millions whose fate he sought to
command.

"Into what dark scheme have we had a glimpse?" said Smith. "What
State secret is to be filched? What faithful servant of the British
Raj to be spirited away? Upon whom now has Fu-Manchu set his death
seal?"

"Karamaneh on this occasion may not have been acting as an
emissary of the Doctor's."

"I feel assured that she was, Petrie. Of the many whom this
yellow cloud may at any moment envelop, to which one did her
message refer? The man's instructions were urgent. Witness his
hasty departure. Curse it!" He dashed his right clenched fist into
the palm of his left hand. "I never had a glimpse of his face,
first to last. To think of the hours I have spent in that place, in
anticipation of just such a meeting-only to bungle the opportunity
when it arose!" Scarce heeding what course we followed, we had come
now to Piccadilly Circus, and had walked out into the heart of the
night's traffic. I just dragged Smith aside in time to save him
from the off-front wheel of a big Mercedes. Then the traffic was
blocked, and we found ourselves dangerously penned in amidst the
press of vehicles.

Somehow we extricated ourselves, jeered at by taxi-drivers, who
naturally took us for two simple Oriental visitors, and just before
that impassable barrier the arm of a London policeman was lowered
and the stream moved on a faint breath of perfume became
perceptible to me.

The cabs and cars about us were actually beginning to move
again, and there was nothing for it but a hasty retreat to the
curb. I could not pause to glance behind, but instinctively I knew
that someone-someone who used that rare, fragrant essence-was
leaning from the window of the car.

"ANDAMAN-SECOND!" floated a soft whisper.

We gained the pavement as the pent-up traffic roared upon its
way.

Smith had not noticed the perfume worn by the unseen occupant of
the car, had not detected the whispered words. But I had no reason
to doubt my senses, and I knew beyond question that Fu-Manchu's
lovely slave, Karamaneh, had been within a yard of us, had
recognized us, and had uttered those words for our guidance.

On regaining my rooms, we devoted a whole hour to considering
what "ANDAMAN-SECOND" could possibly mean.

"Hang it all!" cried Smith, "it might mean anything-the result
of a race, for instance."

He burst into one of his rare laughs, and began to stuff
broadcut mixture into his briar. I could see that he had no
intention of turning in.

"I can think of no one-no one of note-in London at present upon
whom it is likely that Fu-Manchu would make an attempt," he said,
"except ourselves."

We began methodically to go through the long list of names which
we had compiled and to review our elaborate notes. When, at last, I
turned in, the night had given place to a new day. But sleep evaded
me, and "ANDAMAN-SECOND" danced like a mocking phantom through my
brain.

Then I heard the telephone bell. I heard Smith speaking.

A minute afterwards he was in my room, his face very grim.

"I knew as well as if I'd seen it with my own eyes that some
black business was afoot last night," he said. "And it was. Within
pistol-shot of us! Someone has got at Frank Norris West. Inspector
Weymouth has just been on the 'phone."

"Norris West!" I cried, "the American aviator-and inventor-" "Of
the West aero-torpedo-yes. He's been offering it to the English War
Office, and they have delayed too long."

I got out of bed.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the potentialities have attracted the attention of
Dr. Fu-Manchu!"

Those words operated electrically. I do not know how long I was
in dressing, how long a time elapsed ere the cab for which Smith
had 'phoned arrived, how many precious minutes were lost upon the
journey; but, in a nervous whirl, these things slipped into the
past, like the telegraph poles seen from the window of an express,
and, still in that tense state, we came upon the scene of this
newest outrage.

Mr. Norris West, whose lean, stoic face had latterly figured so
often in the daily press, lay upon the floor in the little entrance
hall of his chambers, flat upon his back, with the telephone
receiver in his hand.

The outer door had been forced by the police. They had had to
remove a piece of the paneling to get at the bolt. A medical man
was leaning over the recumbent figure in the striped pajama suit,
and Detective-Inspector Weymouth stood watching him as Smith and I
entered.