The Island of Fu-Manchu (3 page)

A bell had begun to ring.

“Street door!”

“Down you go, Kerrigan. Have you got a gun?”

“No, but I’ll get one.”

I hurried to my desk, slipped a friendly old Colt into my pocket and went down. Smith, using a pocket-torch was already crawling about on the landing peering at the carpet.

When I reached the front door and threw it open, I don’t quite know what I expected to find there. I found a constable.

“Is this your house, sir?” he said gruffly.

“No; but I occupy a flat on the second floor.”

“Well, then it’s you I want to see. It’s ten minutes after blackout time and you have lights blazing from all your windows!”

As I stared into the darkness beyond—there was no traffic passing at the moment and the night was profoundly still—I realized, anew, the strange power of Dr. Fu-Manchu. So completely had the handiwork of that Satanic genius disturbed us that Smith and I (he, an ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard) had utterly forgotten regulations, and had offended against the Law!

“Good heavens! you’re right,” I exclaimed. “We must be mad. The fact is, constable, there have been queer happenings here, and—”

“None of my business, sir. If you will go up and draw all the blinds in the first place, I shall then have to take your name, and—”

From behind me came a sound of running footsteps.

“He was not carried out, Kerrigan!” came Smith’s voice. “But there’s blood on the third stair from the bottom and there are spots on the paving—What the devil’s this?”

“A serious business sir,” the constable began, but he stared in a bewildered way. “All the lights—”

Smith muttered something and then produced a card which he thrust into the constable’s hand.

“Possibly before your time,” he said rapidly. “But you’ll still remember the name.”

The constable directed his light on to the card, stared at Smith, and then saluted.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, “if I’ve butted in on something more important; but I was just obeying orders.”

“Good enough,” snapped Smith. “I switched off everything before I came down.” He paused, staring at the stupefied man, and then: “What time did you come on duty?” he asked.

“Half an hour ago, sir.”

“And you have been in sight of this door, how long?”

The constable stared as if Smith’s question had been a reprimand. I sympathized with the man, a freckled young fellow with straightforward blue eyes, keen on his job, and one to whom the name of Sir Denis Nayland Smith was a name to conjure with. It occurred to me that he had been held up on his patrol and that he believed Smith to be aware of the fact.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but I can explain my delay,” he said.

Smith snapped his fingers irritably, and I saw that a hope had died.

“It was the car running on to the pavement in Craven Terrace,” the man went on. “There was something funny about the business and I took full particulars before I let ’em go.” He delved in a back pocket and produced a notebook. “Here are my notes. It was a Packard—”

Odd are the workings of a human brain. My thoughts as the constable had been speaking, and, it seemed, speaking of matters beside the vital point, had drifted wretchedly to Ardatha. I had been striving to find some explanation of her behaviour which did not mean the shattering of a dream. Now, as he spoke of a Packard, I muttered mechanically:

“BXH 77.”

“That’s it, sir!” the constable cried. ‘That’s the car!”

“One moment,” rapped Smith. “Tell me, Kerrigan, how you happen to know the number of this car.”

I told him that a Packard bearing the number had turned from the main road into Craven Terrace as I had crossed to the door.

“Quick, constable!” He was suddenly on fire. “Your notes. What was suspicious about BXH 77?”

“Well, sir, I have the particulars here.” The man studied his notebook. “The car barged right on to the pavement and pulled up with a jerk about ten yards in front of me. Several people from neighbouring shops ran out. When I arrived I saw that the driver, a foreign looking man, had fainted at the wheel. In some way which I couldn’t make out—because it wasn’t a serious crash—he had broken his arm—”

“Left or right?”

“Left, sir. It was hanging down limp. He was also bleeding from a cut on the head.”

“Good. Go on.”

“In the back I found a doctor and a patient he was removing to hospital. The patient seemed in a bad way—a big powerful man he was, with reddish hair streaked with white; he was only half-conscious and the doctor was trying to soothe him. A mental case—”

“Do you understand, Kerrigan?” cried Smith, his eyes alight. “Do you understand?”

“Good God, Smith—I understand too well!”

“Describe the doctor,” Smith said crisply.

The constable cleared his throat, and then:

“He had a very yellow face,” he replied; “as yellow as a lemon. He wore spectacles with black rims, and was a shortish, heavily-built man. He was not English.”

“His name?”

“Here’s his card, sir.”

As Smith took the card:

“H’m!” he muttered: “Dr. Rudolph Oster, 101 Wimpole Street, W.1. Is there such a practitioner?”

“I was on my way to a call-box when I saw all the lights blazing upstairs, sir. I was going to ask this gentleman to allow me to use his phone.”

“Have you got the doctor’s number?”

“Yes, sir: Langham 09365.”

“Efficient work, constable,” said Smith: “I’ll see that it is recognized.”

The man’s freckled face flushed.

“Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you.”

“How did the matter end?” I asked excitedly.

“We got the car back on to the road, and I helped to lift the chauffeur from the driving-seat and put him in the back. That was when I noticed his arm—when he began to come to.”

“How did the patient behave?” Smith asked.

“He just lay back muttering. Dr. Oster explained that it was important to get him to a safe place before he recovered from the effects of an injection he had had to administer.”

Smith uttered a sound like a groan and beat his fist into the palm of his hand.

“A suitcase marked L.B. was beside the driver. It was covered in foreign labels. The doctor took the wheel and drove off—”

“At what time?” snapped Smith.

“According to my watch, sir, at 7.13—that is, exactly five minutes ago.”

“
S
top for nothing,” Smith cried to the driver. “Short of murder!

Use your horn. No regulations apply. Move!”

I had had a glimpse of the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police which had been a revelation. Within the last six minutes we had learned that Dr. Oster was a naturalized British subject, a dermatologist, and was not at home; that BXH 77 had been held up, for using an improperly masked headlight, by a constable on duty in Baker Street; that Dr. Oster, who was driving, said that he was taking a patient to a private clinic at North Gate, Regent’s Park. Five motor-cyclists were out, and every police officer and warden in that area had been advised.

Smith was too tensed up for ordinary conversation, but he jerked out a staccato summary as we sped through the black-out, for this London was a place of mystery, a city hushed; the heart of the world beating slowly, darkly.

“The United States have realized that the Panama Canal has two ends. Strange incidents in the Caribbean. Disappearances. Officers sent to West Indies to investigate. Never returned. Secret submarine base. I followed Fu-Manchu to Jamaica. Lost him in Cuba. Barton has picked up some clue to the site of this base. Suspected before I left. Certain now. Got the facts in Norfolk only this morning. Fu-Manchu has returned to England to silence Barton—and, my God! he has succeeded!”

We seemed to be speeding madly into darkness black as the Pit. I could form no idea of where we were: we might have been in the Grand Avenue of Kamak. Vague, elfin lights I saw in the shadows, to take the place of illuminated windows, blazing sky signs. Sometimes a car would materialize like a form at a spiritualistic séance, only to disappear again immediately. The traffic signals, green, amber and red crosses, appeared and disappeared also like manifestations from another world…

Our car was braked so suddenly that I was nearly pitched out of my seat.

I saw the driver leap to the road and sprint forward to where a torch was flashing—in and out, in and out. Smith was on the running-board when the man came racing back.

“Jump in, sir!” he shouted, “jump in! They passed here only three minutes ago—I have the direction!”

And we were off again into impenetrable darkness. Angry cries I heard as we flashed past crawling traffic, in contravention of the law issuing blasts of warning. Smith had commandeered Scotland Yard’s ace driver. I was wild with the spirit of the chase.

Barton’s life was at stake—and more…

Our brakes shrieked again, and the speeding car skidded to a perilous halt. We were all out in a trice.

In the light of torches carried by Smith and the driver I saw a police cyclist lying beside a wrecked motor-bike almost under our front wheels!

“Are you badly hurt?” cried Smith.

The man raised a pale face to the light. Blood was trickling down from his brow; his black steel helmet had fallen off.

“Broken ankle, I think. This—” he touched his head—“is nothing. Just get me on to the pavement. It wasn’t your car that hit me, sir.”

We lifted him out of the traffic-way, seating him against the railings of a house veiled in darkness. Our driver bent over him.

“If you can bear it, mate,” he said, “give us the news. Have you sighted the Packard? We’re Scotland Yard. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

The man looked up at Smith. Obviously, he was in great pain, but he spoke calmly.

“I followed BXH 77 to this spot, sir. Having identified the number, I passed the car and signalled to the driver to pull up—”

“What happened?” snapped Smith.

“He ran me down!”

“Where did he go?”

“First left, sir—two houses beyond.”

“How long ago?”

“Less than two minutes.”

We were in one of those residential backwaters which are to be found north of Regent’s Park. Reduction and slowing of traffic had so dimmed the voice of London that when the man ceased speaking an almost complete silence fell. Black night cloaked us and in it I could hear no sound of human activity.

“You have done a good job, constable,” said Smith rapidly, “and you won’t lose by it.” He thrust a torch into my hand. “There’s a house behind there, somewhere. Find it, Kerrigan, and phone for an ambulance. Just call ‘police’ and mention my name. Sorry. No other way. Understand how you feel. But I must push on.”

“Turning to the left is a dead-end, sir,” the Yard driver cried back over his shoulder as he sprang to the wheel. “You can’t go wrong, Mr. Kerrigan, in following on foot.”

“Ah!” cried Smith. “Good! We’ve got ’em!”

He jumped in and the Yard car was off again, leaving me standing beside the injured man.

“So that’s Nayland Smith,” he muttered. “I wish we had a few more like him.” He looked up. “Sorry to be a nuisance, sir. I’m fairly new to this district, but I think the gate of the house is just along to your right. The Regent Canal runs behind; that’s why the next turning leads nowhere.”

“I suppose there’s no call-box near?”

“No, sir. But I must stick it till you find a phone.”

U
p to the moment that I discovered the gate not one pedestrian passed that way.

I groped along a neglected gravel drive bordered by dripping shrubberies and presently found myself before the porch of a house to which it led. There I pulled up. An estate agent’s bill, announcing that “this desirable residence” was for sale, occupied the centre panel of the door. I had found an empty house.

Muttering savagely, I turned away. I suppose I had gone a dozen paces before it occurred to me that there might be a caretaker. I swung about to retrace my steps. As I did so I faced that wing of the ugly Victorian building which lay to the right of the entrance—and I saw a chink of light shining from a long French window.

Wondering why I had not seen it before, I pressed through wet bushes, crossed a patch of lawn and reached the lighted window. It proved to be one of three which opened on to a veranda and I stepped up with the intention of rapping on the glass. Just in time, I checked my hand.

I stood there, suddenly dizzy, my heart leaping furiously.

Heavy velvet curtains were draped inside the windows one of which was slightly ajar, and the disarranged draperies had created that chink through which light shone. I could see right into the room, and beyond an open door into a furnished lobby. It was from this lobby that the light came.

Standing there, looking back, so that I suspected it to have been she who had opened the window, was a girl wearing a hooded cape. The hood, thrown free, revealed a mass of gleaming, bewilderingly disordered curls, a pale lovely face; great eyes, blue in the dusk with the dark blue of lapis lazuli, were turned in my direction.

Ardatha… Ardatha whom I adored, who once had loved me, whom I had torn from the clutches of the Chinese doctor; Ardatha, for whom I had searched, desperately, during many weary months—who, when I had found her, had tricked me, used me, played upon my love so that I had betrayed my friend: Ardatha!

Yet, throwing discretion to the winds and forgetful of the injured man who depended upon me, I was about to spring into the room, when—a second time I checked.

Slow, dragging footsteps and a sound resembling that of a rubber-shod stick became audible from somewhere beyond the corner of the veranda.

I grew suddenly cool, master of myself; my brain ceased to buzz like a nest of wasps: I could think clearly and quickly. A swift calculation told me that I had just time to leap into cover behind a holly bush before the one who walked so laboriously reached the angle of the house. I achieved my objective and threw myself flat on sodden turf.

Holding my breath, I watched. Water dripped from the leaves on to my head. I lay not three paces from the veranda. Quite distinctly I saw Ardatha draw the curtain and look out. Those dragging footsteps passed an unseen corner, and I knew that someone was approaching the window.