by Sax Rohmer
“Well?” he rapped.
“He is arrested, sir,” the detective reported. “They have kept him at his chambers as you ordered.”
“Has she slept through it?” said Smith to me. (I had just returned from a visit to the room above.) I nodded.
“Is HE safe for an hour or two?” — indicating the figure on the couch. “For eight or ten,” I replied grimly.
“Come, then. Our night’s labors are not nearly complete.”
CHAPTER XXX
LATER was forthcoming evidence to show that poor Weymouth had lived a wild life, in hiding among the thick bushes of the tract of land which lay between the village and the suburb on the neighboring hill. Literally, he had returned to primitive savagery and some of his food had been that of the lower animals, though he had not scrupled to steal, as we learned when his lair was discovered.
He had hidden himself cunningly; but witnesses appeared who had seen him, in the dusk, and fled from him. They never learned that the object of their fear was Inspector John Weymouth. How, having escaped death in the Thames, he had crossed London unobserved, we never knew; but his trick of knocking upon his own door at half-past two each morning (a sort of dawning of sanity mysteriously linked with old custom) will be a familiar class of symptom to all students of alienation.
I revert to the night when Smith solved the mystery of the knocking.
In a car which he had in waiting at the end of the village we sped through the deserted streets to New Inn Court. I, who had followed Nayland Smith through the failures and successes of his mission, knew that to-night he had surpassed himself; had justified the confidence placed in him by the highest authorities.
We were admitted to an untidy room — that of a student, a traveler and a crank — by a plain-clothes officer. Amid picturesque and disordered fragments of a hundred ages, in a great carven chair placed before a towering statue of the Buddha, sat a hand-cuffed man. His white hair and beard were patriarchal; his pose had great dignity. But his expression was entirely masked by the smoked glasses which he wore.
Two other detectives were guarding the prisoner.
“We arrested Professor Jenner Monde as he came in, sir,” reported the man who had opened the door. “He has made no statement. I hope there isn’t a mistake.”
“I hope not,” rapped Smith.
He strode across the room. He was consumed by a fever of excitement. Almost savagely, he tore away the beard, tore off the snowy wig dashed the smoked glasses upon the floor.
A great, high brow was revealed, and green, malignant eyes, which fixed themselves upon him with an expression I never can forget.
IT WAS DR. FU-MANCHU!
One intense moment of silence ensued — of silence which seemed to throb. Then:
“What have you done with Professor Monde?” demanded Smith.
Dr. Fu-Manchu showed his even, yellow teeth in the singularly evil smile which I knew so well. A manacled prisoner he sat as unruffled as a judge upon the bench. In truth and in justice I am compelled to say that Fu-Manchu was absolutely fearless.
“He has been detained in China,” he replied, in smooth, sibilant tones— “by affairs of great urgency. His well-known personality and ungregarious habits have served me well, here!”
Smith, I could see, was undetermined how to act; he stood tugging at his ear and glancing from the impassive Chinaman to the wondering detectives.
“What are we to do, sir?” one of them asked.
“Leave Dr. Petrie and myself alone with the prisoner, until I call you.”
The three withdrew. I divined now what was coming.
“Can you restore Weymouth’s sanity?” rapped Smith abruptly. “I cannot save you from the hangman, nor” — his fists clenched convulsively— “would I if I could; but—”
Fu-Manchu fixed his brilliant eyes upon him.
“Say no more, Mr. Smith,” he interrupted; “you misunderstand me. I do not quarrel with that, but what I have done from conviction and what I have done of necessity are separated — are seas apart. The brave Inspector Weymouth I wounded with a poisoned needle, in self-defense; but I regret his condition as greatly as you do. I respect such a man. There is an antidote to the poison of the needle.”
“Name it,” said Smith.
Fu-Manchu smiled again.
“Useless,” he replied. “I alone can prepare it. My secrets shall die with me. I will make a sane man of Inspector Weymouth, but no one else shall be in the house but he and I.”
“It will be surrounded by police,” interrupted Smith grimly.
“As you please,” said Fu-Manchu. “Make your arrangements. In that ebony case upon the table are the instruments for the cure. Arrange for me to visit him where and when you will—”
“I distrust you utterly. It is some trick,” jerked Smith.
Dr. Fu-Manchu rose slowly and drew himself up to his great height. His manacled hands could not rob him of the uncanny dignity which was his. He raised them above his head with a tragic gesture and fixed his piercing gaze upon Nayland Smith.
“The God of Cathay hear me,” he said, with a deep, guttural note in his voice— “I swear—”
The most awful visitor who ever threatened the peace of England, the end of the visit of Fu-Manchu was characteristic — terrible — inexplicable.
Strange to relate, I did not doubt that this weird being had conceived some kind of admiration or respect for the man to whom he had wrought so terrible an injury. He was capable of such sentiments, for he entertained some similar one in regard to myself.
A cottage farther down the village street than Weymouth’s was vacant, and in the early dawn of that morning became the scene of outre happenings. Poor Weymouth, still in a comatose condition, we removed there (Smith having secured the key from the astonished agent). I suppose so strange a specialist never visited a patient before — certainly not under such conditions.
For into the cottage, which had been entirely surrounded by a ring of police, Dr. Fu-Manchu was admitted from the closed car in which, his work of healing complete, he was to be borne to prison — to death!
Law and justice were suspended by my royally empowered friend that the enemy of the white race might heal one of those who had hunted him down!
No curious audience was present, for sunrise was not yet come; no concourse of excited students followed the hand of the Master; but within that surrounded cottage was performed one of those miracles of science which in other circumstances had made the fame of Dr. Fu-Manchu to live forever.
Inspector Weymouth, dazed, disheveled, clutching his head as a man who has passed through the Valley of the Shadow — but sane — sane! — walked out into the porch!
He looked towards us — his eyes wild, but not with the fearsome wildness of insanity.
“Mr. Smith!” he cried — and staggered down the path— “Dr. Petrie! What—”
There came a deafening explosion. From EVERY visible window of the deserted cottage flames burst forth!
“QUICK!” Smith’s voice rose almost to a scream— “into the house!”
He raced up the path, past Inspector Weymouth, who stood swaying there like a drunken man. I was close upon his heels. Behind me came the police.
The door was impassable! Already, it vomited a deathly heat, borne upon stifling fumes like those of the mouth of the Pit. We burst a window. The room within was a furnace!
“My God!” cried someone. “This is supernatural!”
“Listen!” cried another. “Listen!”
The crowd which a fire can conjure up at any hour of day or night, out of the void of nowhere, was gathering already. But upon all descended a pall of silence.
From the heat of the holocaust a voice proclaimed itself — a voice raised, not in anguish but in TRIUMPH! It chanted barbarically — and was still.
The abnormal flames rose higher — leaping forth from every window.
“The alarm!” said Smith hoarsely. “Call up the brigade!”
I come to the close of my chronicle, and feel that I betray a trust — the trust of my reader. For having limned in the colors at my command the fiendish Chinese doctor, I am unable to conclude my task as I should desire, unable, with any consciousness of finality, to write Finis to the end of my narrative.
It seems to me sometimes that my pen is but temporarily idle — that I have but dealt with a single phase of a movement having a hundred phases. One sequel I hope for, and against all the promptings of logic and Western bias. If my hope shall be realized I cannot, at this time, pretend to state.
The future, ‘mid its many secrets, holds this precious one from me.
I ask you then, to absolve me from the charge of ill completing my work; for any curiosity with which this narrative may leave the reader burdened is shared by the writer.
With intent, I have rushed you from the chambers of Professor Jenner Monde to that closing episode at the deserted cottage; I have made the pace hot in order to impart to these last pages of my account something of the breathless scurry which characterized those happenings.
My canvas may seem sketchy: it is my impression of the reality. No hard details remain in my mind of the dealings of that night. Fu-Manchu arrested — Fu-Manchu, manacled, entering the cottage on his mission of healing; Weymouth, miraculously rendered sane, coming forth; the place in flames.
And then?
To a shell the cottage burned, with an incredible rapidity which pointed to some hidden agency; to a shell about ashes which held NO TRACE OF HUMAN BONES!
It has been asked of me: Was there no possibility of Fu-Manchu’s having eluded us in the ensuing confusion? Was there no loophole of escape?
I reply, that so far as I was able to judge, a rat could scarce have quitted the building undetected. Yet that Fu-Manchu had, in some incomprehensible manner and by some mysterious agency, produced those abnormal flames, I cannot doubt. Did he voluntarily ignite his own funeral pyre?
As I write, there lies before me a soiled and creased sheet of vellum. It bears some lines traced in a cramped, peculiar, and all but illegible hand. This fragment was found by Inspector Weymouth (to this day a man mentally sound) in a pocket of his ragged garments.
When it was written I leave you to judge. How it came to be where Weymouth found it calls for no explanation:
“To Mr. Commissioner NAYLAND SMITH and Dr. PETRIE —
“Greeting! I am recalled home by One who may not be denied. In much that I came to do I have failed. Much that I have done I would undo; some little I have undone. Out of fire I came — the smoldering fire of a thing one day to be a consuming flame; in fire I go. Seek not my ashes. I am the lord of the fires! Farewell.
“FU-MANCHU.”
Who has been with me in my several meetings with the man who penned that message I leave to adjudge if it be the letter of a madman bent upon self-destruction by strange means, or the gibe of a preternaturally clever scientist and the most elusive being ever born of the land of mystery — China.
For the present, I can aid you no more in the forming of your verdict. A day may come though I pray it do not — when I shall be able to throw new light upon much that is dark in this matter. That day, so far as I can judge, could only dawn in the event of the Chinaman’s survival; therefore I pray that the veil be never lifted.
But, as I have said, there is another sequel to this story which I can contemplate with a different countenance. How, then, shall I conclude this very unsatisfactory account?
Shall I tell you, finally, of my parting with lovely, dark-eyed Karamaneh, on board the liner which was to bear her to Egypt?
No, let me, instead, conclude with the words of Nayland Smith:
“I sail for Burma in a fortnight, Petrie. I have leave to break my journey at the Ditch. How would a run up the Nile fit your programme? Bit early for the season, but you might find something to amuse you!”
THE SINS OF SÉVERAC BABLON
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER I
TO INTRODUCE MR. JULIUS ROHSCHEIMER
“There’s half a score of your ancestral halls,” said Julius Rohscheimer, “that I could sell up to-morrow morning!”
Of the quartet that heard his words no two members seemed quite similarly impressed.
The pale face of Adeler, the great financier’s confidential secretary, expressed no emotion whatever. Sir Richard Haredale flashed contempt from his grey eyes — only to veil his scorn of the man’s vulgarity beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke. Tom Sheard, of the Gleaner, drew down a corner of his mouth and felt ashamed of the acquaintance. Denby, the music-hall comedian, softly whistled those bars of a popular ballad set to the words, “I stood in old Jerusalem.”
“Come along to Park Lane with me,” continued Rohscheimer, fixing his dull, prominent eyes upon Sheard, “and you’ll see more English nobility than you’d find inside the House of Lords!”
“What’s made him break out?” the comedian whispered, aside, to Adeler. For it was an open secret that this man, whose financial operations shook the thrones of monarchy, whose social fêtes were attended by the smartest people, was subject to outbursts of the kind which now saw him seated before a rapidly emptying magnum in a corner of the great restaurant. At such times he would frequent the promenades of music-halls, consorting with whom he found there, and would display the gross vulgarity of a Whitechapel pawnbroker or tenth-rate variety agent.
“‘S-sh!” replied the secretary. “A big coup! It is always so with him. Mr. Rohscheimer is overwrought. I shall induce him to take a holiday.”
“Trip up the Jordan?” suggested Denby, with cheery rudeness.
The secretary’s drooping eyelids flickered significantly, but no other indication of resentment displayed itself upon that impassive face.
“A good Jew is proud of his race — and with reason!” he said quietly. “There are Jews and Jews.”
He turned, deferentially, to his employer — that great man having solicited his attention with the words, “Hark to him, Adeler!”
“I did not quite catch Mr. Sheard’s remark,” said Adeler.
“I merely invited Mr. Rohscheimer to observe the scene upon his right,” explained Sheard.
The others turned their eyes in that direction. Through a screen of palm leaves the rose-shaded table lights, sparkling silver, and snowy covers of the supper room were visible. Here a high-light gleamed upon a bare shoulder; there, a stalwart male back showed, blocked out in bold black upon the bright canvas. Waiters flitted noiselessly about. The drone of that vocal orchestra filled the place: the masculine conversation, the brass and wood-wind — the sweeter tones of women, the violins; their laughter, tremolo passages.
“I’m observing it,” growled Rohscheimer. “Nobody in particular there.”
“There is comfort, luxury, there,” said Sheard.
The financier stared, uncomprehensively.
“Now look out yonder,” continued the other.
It was a different prospect whereto he directed their eyes.
The diminuendo of the Embankment lamps, the steely glitter of the waters beyond, the looming bulk of the bridge, the silhouette shape of the On monolith; these things lay below them, dimly to be seen from the brilliant
room. Within was warmth, light, and gladness; without, a cold place of shadows, limned in the grey of discontent and the black of want and desolation.
“Every seat there,” continued Sheard, as the company gazed vaguely from the window, “has its burden of hopelessness and misery. Ranks of homeless wretches form up in the arch yonder, awaiting the arrival of the Salvation Army officials. Where, in the whole world, can misery in bulk be found thus side by side with all that wealth can procure?”
There was a brief silence. Sheard was on his hobbyhorse, and there were few there disposed to follow him. The views of the Gleaner are not everybody’s money.
“What sort of gas are you handing us out?” asked Rohscheimer. “Those lazy scamps don’t deserve any comfort; they never worked to get it! The people here are moneyed people.”
“Just so!” interrupted Sheard, taking up the challenge with true Gleaner ardour. “Moneyed people! That’s the whole distinction in two words!”
“Well, then — what about it?”
“This — that if every guest now in the hotel would write a cheque for an amount representing 1 per cent. of his weekly income, every man, woman, and child under the arch yonder would be provided with board and lodging for the next six months!”
“Why do it?” demanded Rohscheimer, not unreasonably. “Why feed ’em up on idleness?”
“Their idleness may be compulsory,” replied Sheard. “Few would employ a starving man while a well-nourished one was available.”
“Cut the Socialist twaddle!” directed the other coarsely. “It gets on my nerves! You and your cheques! Who’d you make ’em payable to? Editor of the Gleaner.”
“I would suggest,” said Sir Richard Haredale, smiling, “to Séverac Bablon.”
“To who?” inquired Rohscheimer, with greater interest than grammar.
“Séverac Bablon,” said Sheard, informatively, “the man who gave a hundred dollars to each of the hands discharged from the Runek Mill, somewhere in Ontario. That’s whom you mean, isn’t it, Haredale?”
“Yes,” assented the latter. “I was reading about it to-day.”
