by Sax Rohmer
Entering the shop, followed by the technicians with their apparatus:
“Anything new?” Gallaho growled.
Trench was waiting there.
“A most extraordinary roaring sound from somewhere below,” he reported; “and the heat at the back of the bar, here, is remarkable.”
“I have heard about this heat at the top end of the room,” said Gallaho. “I can’t make head nor tail of it.” He walked forward. “Yes; the difference is very marked. What the devil can it be?”
“The place to hear the roaring, sir,” said another voice, “is at the end of the passage, below, outside the iron door.”
“Come on,” said Gallaho, and made his way there. “Any report from the river?”
“Yes. That blue light has been seen up over the roof.”
“I know... I have seen it myself.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE LOTUS GATE
Stark horror coming on top of physical pain all but defeated Alan Sterling. As the furnace doors were reclosed and the three yellow men sweating and half-naked were lost in the shadows outside the ring of light, he thought he heard a groan... and he thought that the man who groaned was Nayland Smith.
The gruesome place swam about him; the hard floor seemed to be moving like the deck of a ship.
He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. He knew that a mighty effort was called for, or he should faint. If this happened he should despise himself; and if he must die, at least let him carry his self-respect to the end.
Nevertheless, it was touch and go. Physical nausea saved him.
He was violently sick.
“The bloody swine!” came out of the darkness which concealed Sergeant Murphy. “By heaven! there’s something coming to this lot!”
“There is something coming to all of us, Sergeant Murphy.” It was the cold, measured voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu which spoke. “Tonight, I am destroying some of the weeds which choked my path.”
Somewhere in the neighborhood of the tunnel, the entrance to which Sterling could not see from where he lay, a pump was at work. The roar of the furnace increased in volume. It was like the sustained roar of some unimaginable, ravenous beast.
He took a firm grip upon himself.
He was shaking violently: complete collapse threatened... There was an interval during which the furnace door was opened again, but Sterling resolutely turned his head aside. At the clang of its closing he opened his eyes again.
“Paracelsus,” came that strange voice out of the darkness—and, now, with a note of exaltation in it, a note of fanaticism, an oddly rising cadence—“Paracelsus, although in some respects an impostor, yet was the master of many truths; of the making of gold he knew something, but few have understood his dictum ‘Vita ignis corpus lignum’ (light is the fire, the body the fuel).”
He was silent for a moment. The roar of the furnace increased again in volume.
“The body the fuel...” he repeated. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Mr. Alan Sterling, Detective-sergeant Murphy. War is merciless, and I regret that you stand in my way. But in order that you shall realize the selflessness of my motives, I wish you, before going to join the shades of your ancestors, to be witness to my justice.”
He uttered again that short, guttural command.
A figure walked gracefully out of the shadows into the light.
It was his daughter—Fah Lo Suee. She wore a green robe, cut low upon the shoulders, and of so fine a texture that every line of her slender body might be traced in its delicacy. There were jewels on her fingers and she smiled composedly.
Within the ring of light she knelt, and bowed her head in the direction of the unseen speaker.
The Burmese executioner had followed her. He stood behind her, now, looking upward.
“Of all the spies who have penetrated to my councils,”—the voice became more and more sibilant, rising even upon a higher key—“this woman, my daughter, has been the chief culprit. There is traitor blood in her, but she has betrayed me for the last time.”
Fah Lo Suee knelt motionless, her graceful head lowered.
“One who would do the work to which I have set my hand, must forget mercy in favor of justice. Yet because, though execrable, detestable, you are my daughter, I offer you the Lotus Gate of escape. Do you accept it?”
Fah Lo Suee raised her head. She was still smiling proudly.
“I accept,” she said. “I have only loved one man in my life—and I accept on condition that the same gate shall be opened for him.”
“I agree to this condition.”
The tones of the speaker indicated repressed madness.
Fah Lo Suee extended her slender arms.
“Denis Nayland Smith,” she said, and there was tragedy in her musical voice—“until tonight, you never even suspected. I have told you and I am unashamed. You go with me through the gate. Death gives me something that life could never give.”
She paused; only the roar of the furnace could be heard. Then, stretching her arms upward, towards the hidden Dr. Fu-Manchu:
“I am ready.”
“To this I had been blind, yet I might have known—for woman is a lever which a word can bend.”
The strange voice, exalted, oracular in mad inspiration, drew nearer in the darkness until Dr. Fu-Manchu appeared in the circle of light.
His mask-like face was transfigured, his eyes glittered like jewels. He was a seer, a prophet, a man set above human laws. He carried a small, cut-glass goblet, upheld like a chalice.
“Rise,” he commanded.
Fah Lo Suee stood upright. “You are ready?”
“I am eager. It is my wedding night.”
“Here is the desire of your heart... and death.”
“Good-bye,” said Fah Lo Suee, her lips curved in that proud, fearless smile.
She took the glass and drained its contents.
The crystal crashed to the floor. Fah Lo Suee sank down, slowly; her smile became a smile of rapture. She extended herself upon the concrete still wet with the blood of an earlier victim, and opened her arms ecstatically.
“Denis, my dear, my dear!” she whispered. “Hold me close. Then, I shall not be afraid.”
Her arms dropped—she lay still...
Sterling was past speech; even Murphy was silent. Dr. Fu-Manchu turned and paced slowly back into the shadows. As he reached them, he uttered that quick, guttural order.
The Burman stooped, and placed the body of Fah Lo Suee upon one of the wooden racks. The two Chinamen appeared and the furnace door was thrown open.
Sterling had reached cracking point.
He heard an hysterical scream, but was unaware of the fact that he had uttered it. His last recollection of the scene was that of a monotonous chanting:—
“Hi yah, hi yah...”
CHAPTER FORTY
A FIGHT TO THE DEATH
Dr. Petrie reached London late at night.
One knowing him, who had met him at Victoria Station, would have noticed that whereas for many years his hair had been streaked with gray, the gray was now liberally streaked with white. He was but recently recovered from an illness which only an iron constitution and a will to live—not for the sake of life itself, but for his wife and newly discovered daughter—had enabled him to survive.
He had advised Nayland Smith of the time of his arrival; but, jumping from the train, for his activity was unimpaired by the stresses which had been imposed upon him, and looking eagerly up and down the platform, he failed to see the tall, gaunt figure of his friend.
This was unlike Smith.
Leaving a porter in charge of his baggage, he pushed rapidly on to the barrier. There was no sign of Nayland Smith, or even of Fey, that strange, taciturn creature who had been in Smith’s service in Burma, who had now rejoined him in England.
It was unaccountable; a crown, almost crushing, to the anxiety which possessed him.
Fleurette!
He recognized in this moment of l
oneliness, of disappointment, that he had even dreamed of finding Fleurette there. Smith’s last message had held out such a hope. Yet, there was no one here at all!
“Dr. Petrie,” came a voice. “Dr. Petrie.”
Petrie stared all about him; and then recognized that the speaker was a commissionaire.
“Yes!” he said, eagerly; “I am Dr. Petrie.”
“Good evening, sir—” the man saluted. “I come from Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s flat, sir. My orders are to ask you to proceed there at once.”
Hope beckoned again, but anxiety remained.
“Is that all, Sergeant?”
“That is all I was told to say, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Petrie, wearily. “Have a drink as you go out, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
The assembly of his baggage was a tedious business. A man who traveled light himself, on this occasion he was cumbered with many trunks and boxes belonging to Fleurette. He deposited the bulk of them in the cloakroom, and jumping into a taxi, proceeded to Westminster.
Fey admitted him.
Petrie observed with astonishment, for he knew the man for a perfect servant, that a large briar pipe was fuming in the ash-tray in the lobby.
“Good evening, sir.” Fey turned to the hall porter. “Leave the baggage to me. Your room is prepared, sir.”
“Is Sir Denis at home?”
“No, sir.”
Fey took Petrie’s hat and coat and Petrie walked through into the cheerful, lofty, sitting-room. He observed that the curtains had not been drawn in the bay window.
A premonition of some new disaster began to creep upon his mind. Fey joined him almost immediately.
“Whisky and soda, sir?”
“Thank you.”
Fey prepared one in silence, Petrie watching him; then:
“Where is Sir Denis?” he asked.
Fey handed the doctor his drink upon a silver tray, and then:
“I don’t exactly know, sir,” he replied; “and with regard to the pipe, sir: as you are aware, I am not unlike Sir Denis in build, and my orders are to keep walking up and down in view from the Embankment, below, smoking a pipe, but not to show my face too much.”
Petrie set his glass down.
“Do you mean that he is out on some investigation—and that your job is to pretend that he is at home?”
“Exactly, sir—excuse me.”
Fey went out and returned smoking the briar, strolled forward and stared out of the window. The night was damp but not foggy. The sky was overcast. He turned and walked back into the room.
“Is there any news, Fey, of... my daughter?”
“Sir Denis is certain that she is in London, sir, and alive.”
“Thank God!”
Dr. Petrie finished his whisky and soda at a gulp.
“There’s a bit of a mix up, sir, I am sorry to say. Things have been moving very fast. That Chinese devil has got hold of Mr. Sterling.”
“What!”
“But he was O.K. this morning; we had a message from him. I am a bit anxious tonight, though, and I’m glad you’ve arrived, sir.”
The unusual volubility of Fey alarmed Dr. Petrie anew.
“Where is Sir Denis?” he asked; “I must get in touch with him.”
“He’s gone to a place called Sam Pak’s, sir, in Limehouse. Somehow, I didn’t like the sound of it tonight, sir. This Chinese devil is desperate; it’s a fight to the death...
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE LAST BUS
Fleurette opened her eyes and looked in the direction where she thought the porthole of her cabin should be.
She closed them again quickly. She saw a small curtained window, but not a porthole. This seemed to be a cottage bedroom, very cleanly and simply furnished. She opened her eyes again.
The room remained as she had first seen it—she was not dreaming.
She clenched her hands tightly and sat up in bed.
Only a few hours before, her brain told her, she had parted from Alan in her cabin on the Oxfordshire. She remembered how much that last smile had cost her, that struggle to restrain her tears. She had heard his footsteps on the deck. And then, she had sat down, she remembered quite well, and had poured out a glass of water...
And now, what in heaven’s name had happened? Where was she? And how had she got here?
It was very silent, this place in which she found herself, until a slight movement in an adjoining room told her that there was someone in there.
The room was lighted by moonlight, and although she could see that there was a lamp on the table beside the bed, she was afraid to switch it on. Throwing off the bedclothes she slipped lightly to the floor.
She realized that she was wearing a suit of pyjamas which did not belong to her. But, staring at a heap of garments in an armchair, she recognized the suit which she had actually been wearing when she had parted from Alan on the ship!
Her head ached slightly, and she knew that she had been dreaming. It was difficult to believe that she was not dreaming, now. She stepped to the window, and gently drawing the curtain aside, looked out.
She saw a little hedge-bordered garden with a smooth patch of grass in the center of which stood a stone bird bath. There was a gaunt looking apple tree on the left, leafless now, a weird silhouette against the moon. Over the hedge, she could see the tops of other trees; but apparently the ground fell away there. She was, as she had supposed, in a cottage.
Whose cottage? And how had she got there?
Above all, where was Alan, and where was her father?
Was it possible that she had been seriously, dangerously ill?—that there had been a hiatus of which she knew nothing—that now she was convalescent?
Perhaps that person whose movements she had detected in the next room was a nurse. She retraced her steps, her bare feet making no sound upon the carpet, and looked for evidence to support this theory. There were no medicine bottles or cooling draughts upon the table beside the bed; nothing but a cigarette case—her own—and a box of matches.
A further slight movement in the adjoining room indicated that someone was seated there, reading. Fleurette had heard the rustle of a turned page.
She recognized with gratitude that despite this insane, this inexplicable awakening, she was cool and self-controlled. The theory of serious illness did not hold good. She felt perfectly fit except for that slight headache. She seated herself on the side of the bed, thinking deeply.
Her first impulse, to open the door and demand of whoever was in the next room what it was all about, she conquered. Fleurette had had the advantage of a very singular training. She had been taught to think, and this teaching availed her now. She crossed to the door very quietly, and by minute fractions of an inch began to turn the handle.
The door was locked.
Fleurette nodded.
A louder movement in the next room warned her that someone might be approaching. She slipped back into bed, drawing the clothes up close to her chin, but preparing to peep under her long lashes at anyone who should come in.
A key was quietly turned in the lock and the door opened.
Light shone in from a little sitting-room; Fleurette could see one end of it from where she lay. A newspaper and some illustrated magazines were upon a table beside which an armchair was drawn up. Her nostrils were assailed by that stuffy smell which tells of a gas fire. A strange looking old woman came into the bedroom.
She was big and very fat. In the glimpse which Fleurette had of her face in the lamplight, before she crossed the threshold, she saw that this was a puffy, yellow, wrinkled face, decorated by wide-rimmed spectacles. The woman wore a costume which might possibly have been that of a hospital nurse. In silence she stood just within the little room, looking down at Fleurette.
To her horror, Fleurette saw that the woman carried a hypodermic syringe in her hand.
“Are you asleep?” she whispered, softly.
She spo
ke English, but with a strange accent. There was something in the crouching attitude of this huge woman, and something in the tones of her voice so threatening and sinister, that Fleurette clenched her hands beneath the coverlet. She lay quite still.
“Ah hah!” the woman sighed, evidently satisfied.
She returned quietly to the outer room, closing and gently relocking the door.
Fleurette listened intently, and whilst she listened she was thinking hard.
Sounds of subdued movements came from the outer room—the chinking of glass, that subdued popping sound which indicates that a gas fire has been turned off; then a click—and the streak of light beneath the door vanished. Soft footsteps, evidently the woman wore padded slippers, moved beyond the partition against which Fleurette’s bed was set. A door was closed.
Her guardian had gone to bed.
Controlling her impatience only by means of a great effort, Fleurette waited, her ear pressed to the wooden partition.
She could hear the woman moving about in what was evidently an adjoining bedroom, and at last came the creak of a bed, as the heavily built custodian retired. Finally, she heard the click of an extinguished electric light.
Fleurette got up quietly, and began to dress. It did not take her long, but she could find no hat and no shoes. But she found a pair of red bedroom slippers; these would serve her purpose. A handbag, her own, lay on the cheap dressing-table. Its contents seemed to be undisturbed since she had laid it on the sofa berth in her cabin.
Dropping cigarette case and matches into the bag, Fleurette very quietly drew the curtains aside from the low square window.
It was latched, and the room, though cold, was stuffy. The latch was a difficult problem—it was a very old fitting, much worn and warped. Once, it emitted a terrifying squeak.
Fleurette stopped dead in her operations, and creeping across the room, applied her ear to the wooden partition.
Sonorous snores sounded from the adjoining bedroom.
She raised the window steadily but firmly. To her great surprise it made very little noise. She looked out and saw a neglected flower border immediately below. Then came a moss-grown, paved path leading on the right to a little pergola. This, in turn, communicated with a gate.
