The Trail of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “It’s like this,” said the red-nosed man—“we was talkin’ about tunnels—”

  “Tunnels?”

  “Tunnels is what I said. We talked about the Blackwall Tunnel, the Rotherhithe Tunnel and all sorts of bloody tunnels—”

  “What for?” John Bates inquired.

  “We just felt like talkin’ about tunnels. Then we got to one what was started about fifty years ago and never finished. A footpath, it was, to go under the Thames from somewhere near Wapping Old Stairs—”

  “Limehouse.”

  The lean man, bright eyes peering out from beneath the brim of his remarkably large tweed cap, had imparted a note of challenge to the word.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bates. “I never heard of such a tunnel.”

  “Fifty years ago, everybody’d heard about it.”

  “I wasn’t here fifty years ago.”

  “I thought you knew all there was to know about this part o’ the world.”

  “I know a lot but I don’t know that. The Old Man would know.”

  “Well, ask the Old Man.”

  “He’s upstairs, having a lay down.” Bates turned to a grinning boy who now stood at his elbow. “Keep an eye on that money, Billy,” he instructed. “I shan’t be a minute.”

  He raised the flap of the bar, came through, and went upstairs.

  “While we’re waitin’,” said Claret Nose, “another couple o’ pints wouldn’t do no harm.”

  “Right,” the other agreed, and nodded to the boy. “The loser pays, so—” pointing to the notes beneath the inverted tumbler, “you take it out of one of those.”

  John Bates returned inside three minutes from his interview with the invisible Old Man. He was grinning broadly, and carrying a cloth-bound book.

  “Which of you said Limehouse?” he demanded.

  “I did,” growled the man in the tweed cap.

  Bates, stepping in between the two, raised the tumbler, and returned a ten shilling note to the last speaker. “The drinks are on you,” he said, addressing the other; “I’ll have a small whisky and soda.”

  “Ho!” said the red-nosed one, “you will, will you? You will when you tell me where the bloody tunnel was, and prove it wasn’t Wapping.”

  John Bates opened what proved to be a scrapbook, placing it upon the counter. He pointed to a drawing above which the words “Daily Graphic June 5, 1885” appeared. There were paragraphs from other papers pasted on the same page.

  “There you are, my lad. What the Old Man doesn’t know about this district, nobody can tell him. Never mind about closing one eye, George—” addressing Claret Nose; “I don’t think you could read it even then. It boils down to this: There was a project in 1885 to build a footpath from where we stand now, to the Surrey bank. A shaft was sunk and the tunnel was commenced. Then the scheme collapsed, so the Old Man tells me.”

  “Ho!” said the loser, staring truculently at the grinning boy behind the bar. “A small whisky and soda for the guv’nor, and take it out of that—” pointing to the note.

  “What did they do with this ’ere shaft?” growled the man in the tweed cap.

  “The Old Man doesn’t know,” Bates replied. “Everybody about here, except him, has forgotten all about it. But if you’re in any doubt, I can tell you something else. He told me to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  The voice of the man in the tweed cap exhibited an unexpected interest, and John Bates glanced at him sharply; then:

  “You know the old wharf?” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “which has been up for sale for years—a sort of Chinese restaurant backs right on to it.”

  “I know it,” growled the red-nosed man.

  “Well, the one and only ventilation shaft of this tunnel comes out there, so the Old Man says; in fact, it must run right up through the building, or at the side of it.”

  “Ho!” said the man in the tweed cap. “Have another drink.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE HUNCHBACK

  Nayland Smith, wearing his long-peaked, large, check cap, and Detective-sergeant Murphy, very red of nose but no longer drunk, stood upon a narrow patch of shingle. That mysterious mist which had claimed London for so many days in succession had already masked the Surrey bank. They were staring up at the roof of that strange excrescence belonging to Sam Pak’s restaurant.

  “The ventilation shaft which Bates referred to,” said Sir Denis, “is at the back of the bar, for a bet. It accounts for the heat at that end of the room.”

  “Why heat, sir?”

  “It is probably regarded as an old flue,” Nayland Smith went on, apparently not having heard his query, “and it very likely terminates in that big square chimney stack up yonder.”

  “It’s about there that the light is seen.”

  “I know, hence my deduction that that is where the ventilation shaft comes out. Unofficial channels, Sergeant, often yield more rapid information than official ones.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “It was a brain wave to apply to The Blue Anchor for information respecting the site of this abandoned tunnel of fifty years ago. It is significant that no other authority, including Scotland Yard, could supply the desired data.”

  “But what’s the theory, sir? I am quite in the dark.”

  “It wasn’t a theory; it was a mere surmise until last night when Sir Bertram Morgan told me that Dr. Fu-Manchu had shown him an ingot of pure gold. I linked this with the phantom light which so many people have seen above the restaurant of Sam Pak; then my rough surmise became a theory.”

  “I see, sir,” said Sergeant Murphy respectfully: as a matter of fact he was quite out of his depth. “There is no sign of the light tonight.”

  “No,” snapped Nayland Smith, “and there’s no sign of Forester’s party.”

  A stooping figure passed the lighted window in the wooden outbuilding which abutted upon Sam Pak’s.

  “They are on the down-stream side of the place, sir. Inspector Forester thought they might have been spotted, and so tonight, he has changed his tactics.”

  “Good enough. I hadn’t been notified of this.”

  They scrambled up the muddy shingle, climbed a ladder, and entered a little shadowy alley. A figure showed for a moment in misty darkness.

  “Gallaho!” Nayland Smith challenged.

  “O.K. sir. Everything’s ready.”

  “Has the light been seen tonight?”

  “Yes. Two hours ago; it hasn’t appeared since.”

  “From my memories of Sam Pak, formerly known as John Ki,” said Smith rapidly, “he sleeps as lightly as a stoat. He may appear to be ignorant of the fact that his premises are being covered by the police, but appearances, in the case of an aged and cunning sinner of this kind, are very deceptive. To penetrate a second time to the Sailors’ Club, is rather like walking into the lions’ den.”

  “I have heard a lot about Chinese cunning,” growled Gallaho, “and I have seen something of what this Dr. Fu-Manchu can do. But you ought to know, sir, that the C.I.D. can put up a pretty sound show. I don’t think for a moment that there’s anything suspected inside there.”

  “In any event,” said Nayland Smith, significantly, “don’t waste time if I give you the signal. Several lives are at stake.”

  Two minutes later, he lurched into the Chinese delicatessen store of Sam Pak, Murphy close behind him. His make-up was identical with that which he had worn on his previous visit; but whereas in the Blue Anchor he had spoken Cockney, he now assumed that queer broken English of which he had a complete mastery.

  The very stout lady was playing patience behind the counter. She did not look up. There was no one else in the shop.

  Fourth wife of the venerable Sam Pak, sometime known as John Ki, she had borne him two sons, bringing the grand total to Sam’s credit up to eighteen. She knew something, but by no means all, of the life of her aged husband. He was an influential member of his Tong. He had
secret dealings with great people; there was some queer business in the cellar, below the Sailors’ Club; and the Sailors’ Club, although it showed a legitimate profit, was really a meeting place for some secret Society of which she knew nothing, and cared less. Sam treated her well—his affairs were his own.

  “Lucky Strike, please,” said Nayland Smith; “club price.” Mrs. Sam Pak looked up sharply, recognized the new member, grinned at the old and drunken one, and nodded.

  “Get them inside,” she said—and focussed her attention upon her cards.

  Nayland Smith nodded, and walked to the door which led to the “club.” He opened it, went along the narrow passage, and presently entered the club room, Murphy following.

  The place presented much of its usual appearance. One of those games disallowed in Chinatown was being played. A fan-tan party occupied a table on the left. Two nondescript sailormen were throwing dice. Old Sam Pak sat behind the bar, apparently dead.

  Nayland Smith and Murphy dropped down on to the dirty settee, half-way up the right-hand side of the room. From the withered lips of Sam Pak a faint whistle was emitted.

  A hunchback Chinese boy with a patch over his eye appeared from the doorway on the left of the bar and approached the new arrivals.

  “Beer!” said Murphy, in a loud, thick voice, assuming his usual role of a hard drinker.

  The visible eye of the waiter opened widely. It was a long, narrow eye, brilliantly green, and dark-lashed. Automatically, as it seemed, the waiter bent over the table and swabbed it with a dirty duster.

  “Sir Denis,” came the soothing voice of Fah Lo Suee, “you are in danger.”

  “Blimey,” muttered Murphy, “we’re spotted!”

  “Thank you,” Nayland Smith replied in a low tone. “I rather suspected it.”

  “It is useless to attempt anything tonight. You would find nothing.” She continued to swab the table. “I will join you if you say so. I mean it.”

  “I could never trust you.”

  “My life has been hell, since something you know about. I am sincere—I don’t wish his death... but I must get away.”

  “I wonder...”

  Old Sam Pak whistled again, this time more shrilly.

  One of the fan-tan players deserted the party, and crossed to the door which communicated with the shop.

  “Oh God!” whispered Fah Lo Suee. “He knows! If I can save you, will you save me?”

  “Yes!” snapped Nayland Smith.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE SI-FAN

  “Hands up!”

  Nayland Smith was on his feet, covering the room.

  He had noted that the door which now barred the way out to the shop and to the street was a heavy iron door of that kind which at one time gave so much exercise to the police of New York’s Chinatown. The man who had closed the door, turned, and, back to it, slowly raised his hands. He was a short, incredibly thick-set Burman, built like a gorilla, with long arms and a span of shoulder which told of formidable strength.

  The other men at the fan-tan table also obeyed the order. Fah Lo Suee, following a moment’s hesitation, caught a swift side-glance from Smith and raised her hands.

  Murphy, pistol ready, slipped behind Sir Denis and made for the Burman.

  The bowl of a heavy bronze incense-burner stood upon the counter where it was used as a paper-weight and a receptacle for small change. At this moment, the aged Sam Pak—snatching it up with a lightning movement incredible in a man of his years—hurled the heavy bowl with unerring aim.

  It struck Nayland Smith on the right temple.

  He dropped his automatic, staggered, and fell forward over the table.

  Sergeant Murphy came about in a flash, a police whistle between his teeth. Stupefaction claimed him for a moment as he saw Sir Denis lying apparently dead across the table... for no more than a moment; but this was long enough for the baboon-like Burman who guarded the door.

  In two leaps worthy of the jungle beast he so closely resembled, the man hurled himself across the room, sprang upon the detective’s shoulders, and, herculean hands locked about his neck, brought him to the floor!

  Too late to turn to meet the attack, Murphy had sensed the man’s approach. At the very moment that the Burman made his second spring, the detective pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the shot was curiously muffled in that airless, sealed-up place. The bullet crashed through the woodwork of the bar, and into a wall beyond, missing old Sam Pak by a matter of inches. But that veteran, motionless in his chair, never stirred.

  As the pistol dropped from Murphy’s grasp, the Burman, kneeling on his back, lifted one hand to the detective’s jaw, and began to twist his head sideways—slowly.

  “No!” Fah Lo Suee whispered—“No!”

  The wrinkled yellow lips of Sam Pak moved slightly.

  “It is for the Master to decide,” he said, in that seaport bastard Chinese which evidently the Burman understood.

  Fah Lo Suee, wrenching the patch from her eye and the cap from her head, turned blazing eyes upon the old Chinaman.

  “Are you mad?” she said, rapidly in Chinese. “Are you mad? This place is surrounded by police!”

  “I obey the orders, lady.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Mine.”

  A curtain on the left of the bar was drawn aside—and Dr. Fu-Manchu came in...

  The Orientals in the room who were not already on their feet, stood up; even old Sam Pak rose from his chair. The Burmese strangler, resting his right foot upon Murphy’s neck, rose to confront the Master. A queer hush descended where a scene of violence had been. All saluted the Chinese doctor, using the peculiar salutation of the Si-Fan, that far-flung secret society which Nayland Smith had spent so many years of life in endeavoring to destroy.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu wore Chinese indoor dress, and a mandarin’s cap was set upon his high skull. His eyes were half closed, but his evil, wonderful face exhibited no expression whatever.

  Nevertheless, he was watching Fah Lo Suee.

  A muffled scream in a woman’s voice, doubtless that of Mrs. Sam Pak, broke this sudden silence. There were loud cries; the flat wailing of a police whistle; and then a resounding crash.

  The wooden door of the Sailors’ Club had been broken down... but the iron door now confronted the raiding party.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu turned slowly, holding the curtain aside.

  “Let them all be brought down,” he directed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  IRON DOORS

  Inspector Gallaho heard the sound of the shot—but very dimly. Later, he was to know why it had sounded so dim. At the time he did not understand, and wondered where the shot had been fired. It was not the prearranged signal, but it was good enough.

  He was leaning out of a window above a shuttered-up shop. The room to which it belonged, a dingy bedroom, had recently been leased by a respectable man of the sea. The landlady who owned the shop, a little general store, had been given tickets for the second house at the Palladium, as her well-behaved lodger was unable to use them that evening. It was unlikely that she would be back until considerably after midnight.

  The room was full of plain-clothes police.

  “Jump to it, Trench,” growled Gallaho. “That was a shot!”

  The door behind him was thrown open. Heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs. He waited at the window, watching.

  He saw Detective-officer Trench come out from the door below and dash across to the entrance to Sam Pak’s restaurant, two men close behind him. He waited until the rest of the party had set out for their appointed posts; then himself descended.

  There was a smell of paraffin and cheese on the staircase which he found definitely unpleasant. In the open doorway he paused for a moment, readjusting his bowler. A woman’s scream came from Sam Pak’s shop. Something about it did not sound English. There was a sudden scuffling—a crash—another crash. On the river bank a police whistle wailed. Gallaho crossed and walked
in.

  Mrs. Sam Pak, her gross features curiously leaden in hue, sat in a state of semi-collapse upon a chair before one of the small tables. Trench and another man were breaking down the door at the other end of the shop; the third detective guarded the woman.

  “What is this?” she demanded. “Are you bandits? By what right do you break up my place?”

  “We are police officers,” growled Gallaho, “as you have already been informed. I have a warrant to search your premises.”

  The third man turned.

  “She locked the door and hid the key the moment we came in, Inspector.”

  “You know the penalty, don’t you?” said Gallaho.

  Mrs. Sam Pak watched him sullenly.

  “There is nothing in my house,” she said; “you have no right to search it.”

  The lock gave with a splintering crash—but the door refused to open more than a few inches.

  “Hello!” said Trench, breathing heavily. “What’s this?”

  “Let me have a look,” said Gallaho.

  As he stepped forward, torch in hand, the third man advanced also, but:

  “Close the shop door, and pull the blinds down,” Gallaho directed, tersely.

  He reached the broken door which refused to open fully, and shot the light of his torch through the aperture, then:

  “K Division has been blind to this dive,” he growled. “They’ve got an iron door!”

  “Whew!” whistled Trench.

  The four men stared at each other; then, their joint gazes were focussed upon Mrs. Sam Pak, seated, ungainly but indomitable, upon a small chair which threatened to collapse beneath her great bulk.

  “You are under arrest,” said Gallaho, “for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.”

  There came the roar of a powerful motor. The Scotland Yard car concealed not far away, had arrived.

  “Open the door,” Gallaho directed, “and take her out.”

  The woman, breathing heavily and pressing one hand over her heart, went out without protest.

  “What now, Inspector?”

  “We’ve got to find another way in. Make contact with Forester. That sailor man of his is on the job again tonight. We shall have to go up the ladder and in at that back window.”