by Sax Rohmer
“Ah! so!”
She sprang forward, raising flaming eyes to mine; her lips were slightly parted. With that wild abandon which betrayed the desert blood in her veins, she wrenched open the neck of her bodice and slipped a soft shoulder free of the garment. She twisted around, so that the white skin was but inches removed from me.
“These are some of the gifts that he lavishes upon me!”
I clenched my teeth. Insane thoughts flooded my mind. For that creamy skin was wealed with the marks of the lash!
She turned, quickly rearranging her dress, and watching me the while. I could not trust myself to speak for a moment, then —
“If I am a stranger to you, as you claim, why do you give me your confidence?” I asked.
“I have known you long enough to trust you!” she said simply, and turned her head aside.
“Then why do you serve this inhuman monster?”
She snapped her fingers oddly, and looked up at me from under her lashes. “Why do you question me if you think that everything I say is a lie?”
It was a lesson in logic — from a woman! I changed the subject.
“Tell me what you came here to do,” I demanded.
She pointed to the net in my hands.
“To catch birds; you have said so yourself.”
“What bird?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
And now a memory was born within my brain: it was that of the cry of the nighthawk which had harbingered the death of Forsyth! The net was a large and strong one; could it be that some horrible fowl of the air — some creature unknown to Western naturalists — had been released upon the common last night? I thought of the marks upon Forsyth’s face and throat; I thought of the profound knowledge of obscure and dreadful things possessed by the Chinaman.
The wrapping in which the net had been lay at my feet. I stooped and took out from it a wicker basket. Kâramanèh stood watching me and biting her lip, but she made no move to check me. I opened the basket. It contained a large phial, the contents of which possessed a pungent and peculiar smell.
I was utterly mystified.
“You will have to accompany me to my house,” I said sternly.
Kâramanèh upturned her great eyes to mine. They were wide with fear. She was on the point of speaking when I extended my hand to grasp her. At that, the look of fear was gone and one of rebellion held its place. Ere I had time to realize her purpose, she flung back from me with that wild grace which I had met with in no other woman, turned — and ran!
Fatuously, net and basket in hand, I stood looking after her. The idea of pursuit came to me certainly; but I doubted if I could outrun her. For Kâramanèh ran, not like a girl used to town or even country life, but with the lightness and swiftness of a gazelle; ran like the daughter of the desert that she was.
Some two hundred yards she went, stopped, and looked back. It would seem that the sheer joy of physical effort had aroused the devil in her, the devil that must lie latent in every woman with eyes like the eyes of Kâramanèh.
In the ever-brightening sunlight I could see the lithe figure swaying; no rags imaginable could mask its beauty. I could see the red lips and gleaming teeth. Then — and it was music good to hear, despite its taunt — she laughed defiantly, turned, and ran again!
I resigned myself to defeat; I blush to add, gladly! Some evidences of a world awakening were perceptible about me now. Feathered choirs hailed the new day joyously. Carrying the mysterious contrivance which I had captured from the enemy, I set out in the direction of my house, my mind very busy with conjectures respecting the link between this bird-snare and the cry like that of a nighthawk which we had heard at the moment of Forsyth’s death.
The path that I had chosen led me around the border of the Mound Pond — a small pool having an islet in the centre. Lying at the margin of the pond I was amazed to see the plate and jug which Nayland Smith had borrowed recently.
Dropping my burden, I walked down to the edge of the water. I was filled with a sudden apprehension. Then, as I bent to pick up the now empty jug, came a hail:
“All right, Petrie! Shall join you in a moment!”
I started up, looked to right and left; but, although the voice had been that of Nayland Smith, no sign could I discern of his presence!
“Smith!” I cried. “Smith!”
“Coming!”
Seriously doubting my senses, I looked in the direction from which the voice had seemed to proceed — and there was Nayland Smith.
He stood on the islet in the centre of the pond, and, as I perceived him, he walked down into the shallow water and waded across to me!
“Good heavens!” I began.
One of his rare laughs interrupted me.
“You must think me mad this morning, Petrie!” he said. “But I have made several discoveries. Do you know what that islet in the pond really is?”
“Merely an islet, I suppose.”
“Nothing of the kind; it is a burial mound, Petrie! It marks the site of one of the Plague Pits where victims were buried during the Great Plague of London. You will observe that although you have seen it every morning for some years, it remains for a British Commissioner lately resident in Burma to acquaint you with its history! Hullo!” — the laughter was gone from his eyes, and they were steely hard again— “what the blazes have we here?”
He picked up the net. “What! A bird-trap!”
“Exactly!” I said.
Smith turned his searching gaze upon me. “Where did you find it, Petrie?”
“I did not exactly find it,” I replied; and I related to him the circumstances of my meeting with Kâramanèh.
He directed that cold stare upon me throughout the narrative, and when, with some embarrassment, I had told him of the girl’s escape —
“Petrie,” he said succinctly, “you are an imbecile!”
I flushed with anger, for not even from Nayland Smith, whom I esteemed above all other men, could I accept such words uttered as he had uttered them. We glared at one another.
“Kâramanèh,” he continued coldly, “is a beautiful toy, I grant you; but so is a cobra. Neither is suitable for playful purposes.”
“Smith!” I cried hotly, “drop that! Adopt another tone or I cannot listen to you!”
“You must listen,” he said, squaring his lean jaw truculently. “You are playing, not only with a pretty girl who is the favourite of a Chinese Nero, but with my life! And I object, Petrie, on purely personal grounds!”
I felt my anger oozing from me; for this was strictly just. I had nothing to say and Smith continued:
“You know that she is utterly false, yet a glance or two from those dark eyes of hers can make a fool of you! A woman made a fool of me once, but I learned my lesson; you have failed to learn yours. If you are determined to go to pieces on the rock that broke up Adam, do so! But don’t involve me in the wreck, Petrie, for that might mean a yellow emperor of the world, and you know it!”
“Your words are unnecessarily brutal, Smith,” I said, feeling very crestfallen, “but there — perhaps I fully deserve them all.”
“You do!” he assured me, but he relaxed immediately. “A murderous attempt is made upon my life, resulting in the death of a perfectly innocent man in no way concerned. Along you come and let an accomplice, perhaps a participant, escape, merely because she has a red mouth, or black lashes, or whatever it is that fascinates you so hopelessly!”
He opened the wicker basket, sniffing at the contents.
“Ah!” he snapped, “do you recognize this odour?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you have some idea respecting Kâramanèh’s quarry?”
“Nothing of the kind!”
Smith shrugged his shoulders.
“Come along, Petrie,” he said, linking his arm in mine.
We proceeded. Many questions there were that I wanted to put to him, but one above all.
“Smith,” I said, “what, in Heaven’s na
me, were you doing on the mound? Digging something up?”
“No,” he replied, smiling dryly, “burying something!”
CHAPTER VI
UNDER THE ELMS
Dusk found Nayland Smith and me at the top bedroom window. We knew, now that poor Forsyth’s body had been properly examined, that he had died from poisoning. Smith, declaring that I did not deserve his confidence, had refused to confide in me his theory of the origin of the peculiar marks upon the body.
“On the soft ground under the trees,” he said, “I found his tracks right up to the point where — something happened. There were no other fresh tracks for several yards around. He was attacked as he stood close to the trunk of one of the elms. Six or seven feet away I found some other tracks, very much like this.”
He marked a series of dots upon the blotting-pad, for this conversation took place during the afternoon.
“Claws!” I cried. “That eerie call! like the call of a nighthawk — is it some unknown species of — flying thing?”
“We shall see, shortly; possibly to-night,” was his reply. “Since, probably owing to the absence of any moon, a mistake was made” — his jaw hardened at the thought of poor Forsyth— “another attempt along the same lines will almost certainly follow — you know Fu-Manchu’s system?”
So in the darkness, expectant, we sat watching the group of nine elms. To-night the moon was come, raising her Aladdin’s lamp up to the star world and summoning magic shadows into being. By midnight the high-road showed deserted, the common was a place of mystery; and save for the periodical passage of an electric car, in blazing modernity, this was a fit enough stage for an eerie drama.
No notice of the tragedy had appeared in print; Nayland Smith was vested with powers to silence the Press. No detectives, no special constables, were posted. My friend was of opinion that the publicity which had been given to the deeds of Dr. Fu-Manchu in the past, together with the sometimes clumsy co-operation of the police, had contributed not a little to the Chinaman’s success.
“There is only one thing to fear,” he jerked suddenly; “he may not be ready for another attempt to-night.”
“Why?”
“Since he has only been in England for a short time, his menagerie of venomous things may be a limited one at present.”
Earlier in the evening there had been a brief but violent thunderstorm, with a tropical downpour of rain, and now clouds were scudding across the blue of the sky. Through a temporary rift in the veiling the crescent of the moon looked down upon us. It had a greenish tint, and it set me thinking of the filmed, green eyes of Fu-Manchu.
The cloud passed and a lake of silver spread out to the edge of the coppice; where it terminated at a shadow bank.
“There it is, Petrie!” hissed Nayland Smith.
A lambent light was born in the darkness; it rose slowly, unsteadily, to a great height, and died.
“It’s under the trees, Smith!”
But he was already making for the door. Over his shoulder:
“Bring the pistol, Petrie!” he cried; “I have another. Give me at least twenty yards’ start or no attempt may be made. But the instant I’m under the trees, join me.”
Out of the house we ran, and over on to the common, which latterly had been a pageant-ground for phantom warring. The light did not appear again; and as Smith plunged off toward the trees, I wondered if he knew what uncanny thing was hidden there. I more than suspected that he had solved the mystery.
His instructions to keep well in the rear I understood. Fu-Manchu, or the creature of Fu-Manchu, would attempt nothing in the presence of a witness. But we knew full well that the instrument of death which was hidden in the elm coppice could do its ghastly work and leave no clue, could slay and vanish. For had not Forsyth come to a dreadful end while Smith and I were within twenty yards of him?
Not a breeze stirred, as Smith, ahead of me — for I had slowed my pace — came up level with the first tree. The moon sailed clear of the straggling cloud wisps which alone told of the recent storm; and I noted that an irregular patch of light lay silvern on the moist ground under the elms where otherwise lay shadow.
He passed on, slowly. I began to run again. Black against the silvern patch, I saw him emerge — and look up.
“Be careful, Smith!” I cried — and I was racing under the trees to join him.
Uttering a loud cry, he leaped — away from the pool of light.
“Stand back, Petrie!” he screamed. “Back! farther!”
He charged into me, shoulder lowered, and sent me reeling!
Mixed up with his excited cry I had heard a loud splintering and sweeping of branches overhead; and now as we staggered into the shadows it seemed that one of the elms was reaching down to touch us! So, at least, the phenomenon presented itself to my mind in that fleeting moment while Smith, uttering his warning cry, was hurling me back.
Then the truth became apparent.
With an appalling crash, a huge bough fell from above. One piercing awful shriek there was, a crackling of broken branches, and a choking groan....
The crack of Smith’s pistol close beside me completed my confusion of mind.
“Missed!” he yelled. “Shoot it, Petrie! On your left! For God’s sake don’t miss it!”
I turned. A lithe black shape was streaking past me. I fired — once — twice. Another frightful cry made yet more hideous the nocturne.
Nayland Smith was directing the ray of a pocket torch upon the fallen bough.
“Have you killed it, Petrie?” he cried.
“Yes, yes!”
I stood beside him, looking down. From the tangle of leaves and twigs an evil yellow face looked up at us. The features were contorted with agony, but the malignant eyes, wherein light was dying, regarded us with inflexible hatred. The man was pinned beneath the heavy bough; his back was broken; and, as we watched, he expired, frothing slightly at the mouth, and quitted his tenement of clay leaving those glassy eyes set hideously upon us.
“The pagan gods fight upon our side,” said Smith strangely. “Elms have a dangerous habit of shedding boughs in still weather — particularly after a storm. Pan, god of the woods, with this one has performed Justice’s work of retribution.”
“I don’t understand. Where was this man — ?”
“Up the tree, lying along the bough which fell, Petrie! That is why he left no footmarks. Last night no doubt he made his escape by swinging from bough to bough, ape-fashion, and descending to the ground somewhere at the other side of the coppice.”
He glanced at me.
“You are wondering, perhaps,” he suggested, “what caused the mysterious light? I could have told you this morning, but I fear I was in a bad temper, Petrie. It’s very simple; a length of tape soaked in spirit or something of the kind, and sheltered from the view of any one watching from your windows, behind the trunk of the tree; then, the end ignited, lowered, still behind the tree, to the ground. The operator swinging it around, the flame ascended, of course. I found the unburned fragment of the tape used last night, a few yards from here.”
I was peering down at Fu-Manchu’s servant, the hideous yellow man who lay dead in a bower of elm leaves.
“He has some kind of leather bag beside him,” I began.
“Exactly!” rapped Smith. “In that he carried his dangerous instrument of death; from that he released it!”
“Released what?”
“What your fascinating friend came to recapture this morning.”
“Don’t taunt me, Smith!” I said bitterly. “Is it some species of bird?”
“You saw the marks on Forsyth’s body, and I told you of those which I had traced upon the ground here. They were caused by claws, Petrie!”
“Claws! I thought so! But what claws?”
“The claws of a poisonous thing. I recaptured the one used last night, killed it — against my will — and buried it on the mound. I was afraid to throw it in the pond, lest some juvenile fisherman should pull i
t out and sustain a scratch. I don’t know how long the claws would remain venomous.”
“You are treating me like a child, Smith,” I said, slowly. “No doubt I am hopelessly obtuse, but perhaps you will tell me what this Chinaman carried in a leather bag and released upon Forsyth. It was something which you recaptured, apparently with the aid of a plate of cold turbot and a jug of milk. It was something, also, which Kâramanèh had been sent to recapture with the aid—”
I stopped.
“Go on,” said Nayland Smith, turning the ray to the left; “what did she have in the basket?”
“Valerian,” I replied mechanically.
The ray rested upon the lithe creature that I had shot down.
It was a black cat!
“A cat will go through fire and water for valerian,” said Smith; “but I got first innings this morning with fish and milk! I had recognized the imprints under the trees for those of a cat, and I knew that if a cat had been released here it would still be hiding in the neighbourhood, probably in the bushes. I finally located a cat, sure enough, and came for bait! I laid my trap, for the animal was too frightened to be approachable, and then shot it; I had to. That yellow fiend used the light as a decoy. The branch which killed him jutted out over the path at a spot where an opening in the foliage above allowed some moon rays to penetrate. Directly the victim stood beneath, the Chinaman uttered his bird-cry; the one below looked up, and the cat, previously held silent and helpless in the leather sack, was dropped accurately upon his head!”
“But—” I was growing confused.
Smith stooped lower.
“The cat’s claws are sheathed now,” he said; “but if you could examine them you would find that they are coated with a shining black substance. Only Fu-Manchu knows what that substance is, Petrie; but you and I know what it can do!”
CHAPTER VII
ENTER MR. ABEL SLATTIN
I don’t blame you!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Suppose we say, then, a thousand pounds if you show us the present hiding-place of Fu-Manchu, the payment to be in no way subject to whether we profit by your information or not?”
