The Trail of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Fleurette dropped her bag on to the flower-bed, put on her slippers, and wriggled through the opening. It was not a particularly easy business, but Fleurette was fit and very athletic. She knew that her hands were filthy dirty and her feet muddy, when at last she stood outside; but these things did not matter.

  Picking up her bag, she walked quickly around to the gate, opened it, and found herself in a narrow, hedge-bordered lane.

  An oak tree overhung it a few paces back on the left—there were other dark buildings ahead. But in none of them did any light show. She looked around her eagerly, sniffing the cold night air, then climbed the opposite bank and saw that where the ground fell away, there were farm buildings, beyond, backed by trees, and beyond these trees, evidently several miles beyond, a searchlight moved regularly. This, she decided, was an aerodrome.

  It was utterly, horribly, mysterious, for she should have been far out in the Mediterranean, whereas the very scent of the air told her that she was in England!

  In one direction, the lane terminated, beyond the cottage from which she had come, at a gate, with a stile. She decided to proceed the other way. The lane was very roughly paved; and now, banks of cloud suddenly obscured the moon.

  She was forced to walk slowly, for trees overhung the way and it was very dark. She passed two other buildings lying back from the lane on her right, but they showed no signs of life and she pressed on. She came to a wider lane, much better paved, hesitated whether to turn left or right, and finally decided upon right.

  From the position of the moon and the darkness in the houses she passed (and these were few,) she realized that it must be late at night, how late, she could only guess.

  On the corner of the second lane there was a large house surrounded by a high brick wall; also a post box and an electric lamp standard.

  She pulled up, breathing quickly. She had reached a main road.

  The lodge of some large residence directly faced her; but, whilst she had been hurrying along, she had been thinking clearly. She heard the sound made by the approach of a heavy vehicle; and presently came the glare of its headlights.

  A green motor bus pulled up directly by the lodge gates.

  There were very few passengers, but she saw that at least two were alighting. She raced across.

  In the light of the standard lamp she read upon the side of the bus: “Reigate—Sutton—London.”

  As she sprang onto the step, the vehicle restarted. The conductor helped her on board.

  “Are you going to London?” she asked, breathlessly.

  “Yes, miss. This is the last bus.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  NAYLAND SMITH REFUSES

  In the depths below Sam Pak’s the furnace roared hungrily.

  Sterling groped his way back through imaginary horrors to the real and greater horror of his actual surroundings.

  If he had ever doubted, he knew now what his end was to be. He believed that he was no greater coward than the average man, but just as life with Fleurette had beckoned to him so sweetly, it must end. And what an end!

  “Are you all right?” came a shaky whisper from the darkness.

  It was Sergeant Murphy.

  “Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”

  “We’re in hell before our time, sir.”

  Sterling tried to control his nerves, to concentrate upon one thing to the exclusion of all others. He must not give this fiendish maniac the satisfaction of seeing him quail. If a woman could meet death as Fah Lo Suee had met it, then—by heaven!—it was up to the Middle West to show its mettle!

  “Sir Denis Nayland Smith.” The tones of that implacable voice fell upon Sterling like a cold douche. “The hour of our parting has come.”

  There was a pause; a guttural order.

  The sound of a groan from the darkness where Nayland Smith lay, completed the horror of the scene. It was a groan of defeat, of bitter humiliation; then:

  “Dr. Fu-Manchu,” came Smith’s voice, and—to Sterling it seemed a miracle—its tone was steady, “order your human baboon to untie my ankles. I prefer to walk to death rather than to be carried. This, I think, I am entitled to ask.”

  Another order was spoken rapidly. There was a faint sniffling sound—and Nayland Smith walked into the circle of light before the furnace door.

  “Oh, my God!” Murphy whispered. “What are they doing up there. Why don’t they break through?”

  The Burmese executioner followed Sir Denis out of the shadows, and stood at his elbow.

  “Because in your long battle with me, Sir Denis,” Dr. Fu-Manchu continued, stressing now a note of insane exaltation, “you have always observed those rules of clean warfare which, rightly or wrongly, are an English tradition, I respect you. I, too, have traditions to which I have always adhered.”

  Nayland Smith, his hands behind him, stared up into the darkness which concealed the speaker.

  “I bear you no personal animosity; indeed, I admire you. I have won—although my triumph may have come too late; and, therefore, Sir Denis, I offer you the Lotus Gate of escape.”

  “I thank you, but I decline.”

  Sterling struggled on to his elbow, watching, and listening.

  “He’s playing for time, Murphy! Can’t we do anything to help him?”

  “What can we do?”

  “You prefer the sword? The end of the common criminal?”

  “I decline that also, if I may have any choice.”

  “You reduce me—” there was repressed frenzy now in the tones of Dr. Fu-Manchu—“to the third alternative... the fire.”

  There followed a moment of silence which Sterling knew that if he lived, he should never forget. Nayland Smith stood in the circle of light, motionless, looking upward. Beside Sterling, Murphy was breathing so heavily that he was almost panting in his suppressed emotion.

  “Is there no other alternative?”

  “None.”

  An order was spoken—one sibilant word. The Burman sprang forward...

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CATASTROPHE

  Now events began to move rapidly to that astounding conclusion which, although it was the result of men’s combined efforts, seemed to Sergeant Murphy, a devout Roman Catholic who had begun to pray fervently, to be an intervention by a Higher Power.

  Sir Denis Nayland Smith in the course of his long career as a police officer, had studied assiduously whenever opportunity offered, those branches of practical criminology with which his work had brought him in contact, East and West. He was something of a physician, understanding poisons and antidotes. Lock combinations had no mysteries for him, and there were few locks he could not force if called upon to do so. Knot-tying in all its intricacies, as practiced by the late Harry Houdini, he had studied in Rangoon, his professor being a Chinese malefactor who was a master of the art.

  When the ape-like Burman had come to tie him up, Smith had recognized at a glance that physical resistance was out of the question. It would have called for three powerful men and trained wrestlers at that to deal with him. His peculiar development warned Smith that the man was an expert in the art of jiu-jitsu, which together with his herculean strength, set him in a class apart.

  Fah Lo Suee had gone when the tying took place.

  Nayland Smith submitted, feigning weakness. When he saw the narrow twine that was to be used, he anticipated what was coming, and permitting the man to wrench his arms behind his back, he put into practice a trick whereby many illusionists have mystified their audiences; Chinese in origin, but long well-known to professional magicians of the West.

  The man tied his thumbs, as well as his wrists.

  By means of maintaining a certain muscular stress during this painful operation, the result, though satisfactory to Dr. Fu-Manchu’s private executioner, was also acceptable to Nayland Smith.

  The latter knew that he could withdraw his hands at any moment convenient to him!

  The lashing of his ankles was a different matter. Here, he knew
himself to be helpless, and recognized expert handiwork.

  He had preceded Alan Sterling down the stairs of the shaft, slung sackwise across one incredible shoulder of the Burmese killer...

  Now, as he stood, his arms apparently tied behind him, but his ankles unlashed, staring up to where Dr. Fu-Manchu sat veiled in darkness, he was actually a free man. He held the twine which had confined his wrists tightly clenched in his left hand.

  He was calculating his chances—tensing himself for what he must do.

  With the exception of his automatic, his personal possessions had not been disturbed; these included a pocket knife. He had opened its most serviceable blade, and held it now concealed in his right hand. He knew but one mode of attack calculated to give him the slightest chance against his scarcely human enemy.

  If it failed, his fate could be no worse.

  It was not a type of combat which he favored; but having watched this man performing his ghastly work, he found that his scruples had fled.

  As the harsh command was spoken and the monstrous Burman stepped forward, Nayland Smith sprang away, turned—and kicked with all the speed and accuracy of his rugby forward days! He put every ounce of power in his long, lean body into that murderous kick...

  The man uttered a roar not unlike the booming of a wounded gorilla—a creature he closely resembled—doubled up, staggered... and fell.

  A shrill order, maniacal in its ferocity, came out of the darkness above. It was Dr. Fu-Manchu speaking in Chinese. The order was:

  “Shoot him!—shoot him!”

  Smith ducked and darted out of the radius of light into the surrounding shadow where Sterling and Murphy lay. He almost fell over Sterling.

  “Quick, quick!” he panted—“your wrists.”

  “I’m crocked; don’t count on me. Untie Murphy.”

  But Smith cut the twine from Sterling’s wrists and ankles.

  “Stay where you are until I give the word.”

  He bent over Sergeant Murphy.

  “Ankles first... now wrists.”

  “Thank God!” cried the detective. “At least we’ll die fighting!”

  There was a flash in the darkness and a bullet spat on the floor close beside the speaker.

  “Can you walk, Sterling?”

  “Yes.”

  A second shot, and a second bullet whistled by Nayland Smith’s ear. The voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu, high-pitched and dreadful, came again, still speaking in Chinese.

  “The lights, the lights!” he screamed.

  Detective-sergeant Murphy, not too sure of cramped muscles, nevertheless set out through the darkness in the direction from which those stabs of flame had come.

  Light suddenly illuminated the pit...

  Dr. Fu-Manchu stood upon the stairs, his clenched fists raised above his head, his face that of one possessed by devils. A wave of madness, blood lust, the ecstasy of sweeping his enemies from his path, ruled him. That great brain rocked upon its aged throne.

  Murphy saw a Chinaman stripped to the waist not two paces from him. The man held an automatic: the sudden light had dazed him. Murphy sprang, struck, and fell on top of the gunman, holding down the hand which held the pistol. A second Asiatic, similarly armed, was running forward from the foot of the stairs. The Burmese strangler writhed on the floor before the furnace.

  “Kill them! Kill them!” cried the maniacal voice.

  Nayland Smith raced forward and threw himself down beside the struggling men—just as another shot cracked out.

  The bullet grazed Murphy’s shoulder.

  He inhaled sibilantly, but hung on to the Chinaman. Smith wrenched the weapon from the man’s grasp. He pulled the trigger as he released it, but the bullet went wide—registering with a dull thud upon some iron girder far up the shaft.

  The second Chinaman dropped to his knee, took careful aim, and fired again. But he pulled the trigger a decimal point too late.

  Nayland Smith had shot him squarely between the eyes.

  Dr. Fu-Manchu’s mania dropped from him like a scarlet cloak discarded. His face became again that composed, Satanic mask which concealed alike his genius and his cruelty. He descended three steps.

  The place was plunged in darkness.

  Fiery gleams from chinks in the furnace door pierced the gloom; one like an amber spear struck upon the contorted face of the Burman, lying now apparently unconscious where he had fallen.

  Then came the catastrophe.

  A booming explosion shook the place, echoing awesomely from wall to wall of the pit.

  “My God!” cried Murphy, grasping his wounded shoulder. “What’s that?”

  The words were no sooner uttered than, heralded by a terrifying roar, a cataract of water came crashing down the shaft.

  “The river’s broken through!” cried Sterling.

  Above the crash and roar of falling water:

  “Head for the stair!” shouted Nayland Smith. “All head for the stair!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  AT SCOTLAND YARD

  The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police stood up as Dr. Petrie was shown into his room at New Scotland Yard.

  The Commissioner was a very big man with an amiable and slightly bewildered manner. His room was a miracle of neatness; its hundred and one official appointments each in its correct place. A bowl of violets on his large writing desk struck an unexpected note, but even the violets were neatly arranged. The Commissioner, during a distinguished Army career, had displayed symptoms of something approaching genius as an organizer and administrator. If he lacked anything which the Chief of the Metropolitan Police should possess, it was imagination.

  “I am glad to meet you, Dr. Petrie,” he said, extending a very large hand. “I know and admire your work and I understand why you asked to see me tonight.”

  “Thank you,” said Petrie. “It was good of you to spare me the time. May I ask for the latest news?”

  He dropped into an armchair which the Commissioner indicated, and stared at the latter, curiously. He knew that his words had not been prompted by courtesy. In matters of exact information, the man’s brain had the absorbing power of a sponge—and he had the memory of an elephant.

  “I was about to call for the last report, Dr. Petrie. Normally, I am not here at this hour. It is the Fu-Manchu case which has detained me. Excuse me a moment—I thoroughly understand your anxiety.”

  He took up one of the several telephones upon the large desk, and:

  “Faversham,” he said, “bring the latest details of the Fu-Manchu case to my room.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned to Dr. Petrie.

  “I am naturally in a state of intense anxiety about my daughter,” said Petrie. “But first, tell me—where is Nayland Smith?”

  The Commissioner pulled at his mustache and stared down at the blotting-pad before him; then:

  “The last report I had left some little doubt upon that point,” he replied, finally, fixing penetrating blue eyes upon the visitor. “As to your daughter, Dr. Petrie, in the opinion of Sir Denis she is somewhere in London.” He paused, picking a drooping violet from the bowl between a large finger and thumb, snipping off a piece of the stem and replacing it carefully in water. “The theory of the means by which she was brought here is one I do not share—it is too utterly fantastic—; but Sir Denis’s record shows that in the past—” he frowned in a puzzled way—“he has accomplished much. At the moment, as you may know, he is very highly empowered; in fact—” he smiled, and it was a kindly smile, “in a way—in regard to this case, I mean he is, in a sense, my senior.”

  The Commissioner’s weakness for parentheses was somewhat bewildering, but Petrie, who grasped his meaning, merely nodded.

  “I am very anxious about Sir Denis at the moment,” the Commissioner added.

  There was a rap on the door, and in response to a gruff “Come in,” a youngish man entered, immaculately turned out in morning dress; a somewhat unexpected apparition so long after midnight. He car
ried a cardboard folder under his arm.

  “This is Wing Commander Faversham,” the Commissioner explained, staring vaguely at the newcomer, as though he had only just recognized him. “Dr. Petrie’s name will be familiar to you, Faversham. This is Dr. Petrie.”

  Faversham bowed formally, and laid the folder open upon the table. Although the Commissioner’s manner seemed to invite familiarity, it was a curious fact that none of his subordinates ever accepted that illusive lead.

  “Ah!” said the Commissioner, and adjusting spectacles, bent and read.

  “This brings us up to date, Dr. Petrie,” he said, in a few moments, looking up and removing his glasses. “Sir Denis, and Detective-sergeant Murphy—attached to the Criminal Investigation Department—visited a restaurant in Limehouse tonight, posing as sailormen. Sir Denis—” he added, in parentheses,—“has a gift for make-up. For my own part I don’t believe in disguise at any time or in any circumstances. However—Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, one of the best men we have here—you agree with me, Faversham?—”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho was in charge of raiding operations, assisted by...” there was a momentary pause, but the wonderful memory functioned... “Inspector Forester of the River Police branch.”

  “So I understand,” said Petrie eagerly, “but what happened?”

  “The agreed signal was given,” said the Commissioner, slowly, “and the party entered the premises. But the suspects had slipped into some underground cellar, and I regret to say—for no such report has ever reached me—that an iron door was encountered.”

  “An iron door?”

  “I was notified by Detective-sergeant Trench, at—” he readjusted his glasses and turned over a page in the folder—“11.49p.m. Detective-sergeant Trench,” he added, laying his glasses upon the blotting-pad, “is attached to the Flying Squad—that Gallaho was proceeding to the Kinloch Works in Silvertown in order to secure expert advice upon the forcing by explosives of this iron door, or of the wall adjoining it.”