Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

  “It’s the treasure of the Si-Fan, I presume,” rapped Smith. “Where it has come from and where it was going to, it must be my immediate business to ascertain.”

  “Then you …”

  “I was lying, bound and gagged, upon one of the upper shelves in the opium-den! I heard you and Fletcher arrive. I saw you pass through later with that she-devil who drove the cab to-day …”

  “Then the cab …”

  “The windows were fastened, unopenable, and some anaesthetic was injected into the interior through a tube — that speaking-tube. I know nothing further, except that our plans must have leaked out in some mysterious fashion. Petrie, my suspicions point to high quarters. The Si-Fan score thus far, for unless the search now in progress brings it to light, we must conclude that they have the brass coffer.”

  He was interrupted by a sudden loud crying of his name.

  “Mr. Nayland Smith!” came from somewhere within the Joy-Shop. “This way, sir!”

  Off he went, in his quick, impetuous manner, whilst I stood there, none too steadily, wondering what discovery this outcry portended. I had not long to wait. Out by the low doorway come Smith, a grimly triumphant smile upon his face, carrying the missing brass coffer!

  He set it down upon the planking before me.

  “John Ki,” he said, “who was also on the missing list, had dragged the thing out of the cellar where it was hidden, and in another minute must have slipped away with it. Detective Deacon saw the light shining through a crack in the floor. I shall never forget the look John gave us when we came upon him, as, lamp in hand, he bent over the precious chest.”

  “Shall you open it now?”

  “No.” He glanced at me oddly. “I shall have it valued in the morning by Messrs. Meyerstein.”

  He was keeping something back; I was sure of it.

  “Smith,” I said suddenly, “the man with the limp! I heard him in the place where you were confined! Did you …”

  Nayland Smith clicked his teeth together sharply, looking straightly and grimly into my eyes.

  “I saw him!” he replied slowly; “and unless the effects of the anaesthetic had not wholly worn off …”

  “Well!” I cried.

  “The man with the limp is Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

  CHAPTER X

  THE TÛLUN-NÛR CHEST

  “This box,” said Mr. Meyerstein, bending attentively over the carven brass coffer upon the table, “is certainly of considerable value, and possibly almost unique.”

  Nayland Smith glanced across at me with a slight smile. Mr. Meyerstein ran one fat finger tenderly across the heavily embossed figures, which, like barnacles, encrusted the sides and lid of the weird curio which we had summoned him to appraise.

  “What do you think, Lewison?” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the clerk who accompanied him.

  Lewison, whose flaxen hair and light blue eyes almost served to mask his Semitic origin, shrugged his shoulders in a fashion incongruous in one of his complexion, though characteristic in one of his name.

  “It is as you say, Mr. Meyerstein, an example of early Tûlun-Nûr work,” he said. “It may be sixteenth century or even earlier. The Kûren treasure-chest in the Hague Collection has points of similarity, but the workmanship of this specimen is infinitely finer.”

  “In a word, gentlemen,” snapped Nayland Smith, rising from the arm-chair in which he had been sitting, and beginning restlessly to pace the room, “in a word, you would be prepared to make me a substantial offer for this box?”

  Mr. Meyerstein, his shrewd eyes twinkling behind the pebbles of his pince-nez, straightened himself slowly, turned in the ponderous manner of a fat man, and readjusted the pince-nez upon his nose. He cleared his throat.

  “I have not yet seen the interior of the box, Mr. Smith,” he said.

  Smith paused in his perambulation of the carpet and stared hard at the celebrated art dealer.

  “Unfortunately,” he replied, “the key is missing.”

  “Ah!” cried the assistant, Lewison, excitedly, “you are mistaken, sir! Coffers of this description and workmanship are nearly always complicated conjuring tricks; they rarely open by any such rational means as lock and key. For instance, the Kûren treasure-chest to which I referred, opens by an intricate process involving the pressing of certain knobs in the design, and the turning of others.”

  “It was ultimately opened,” said Mr. Meyerstein, with a faint note of professional envy in his voice, “by one of Christie’s experts.”

  “Does my memory mislead me,” I interrupted, “or was it not regarding the possession of the chest to which you refer, that the celebrated case of ‘Hague versus Jacobs’ arose?”

  “You are quite right, Dr. Petrie,” said Meyerstein, turning to me. “The original owner, a member of the Younghusband Expedition, had been unable to open the chest. When opened at Christie’s it proved to contain jewels and other valuables. It was a curious case, wasn’t it, Lewison?” turning to his clerk.

  “Very,” agreed the other absently; then— “Have you endeavored to open this box, Mr. Smith?”

  Nayland Smith shook his head grimly.

  “From its weight,” said Meyerstein, “I am inclined to think that the contents might prove of interest. With your permission I will endeavor to open it.”

  Nayland Smith, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear, stood looking at the expert. Then —

  “I do not care to attempt it at present,” he said.

  Meyerstein and his clerk stared at the speaker in surprise.

  “But you would be mad,” cried the former, “if you accepted an offer for the box, whilst ignorant of the nature of its contents.”

  “But I have invited no offer,” said Smith. “I do not propose to sell.”

  Meyerstein adjusted his pince-nez again.

  “I am a business man,” he said, “and I will make a business proposal: A hundred guineas for the box, cash down, and our commission to be ten per cent on the proceeds of the contents. You must remember,” raising a fat forefinger to check Smith, who was about to interrupt him, “that it may be necessary to force the box in order to open it, thereby decreasing its market value and making it a bad bargain at a hundred guineas.”

  Nayland Smith met my gaze across the room; again a slight smile crossed the lean, tanned face.

  “I can only reply, Mr. Meyerstein,” he said, “in this way: if I desire to place the box on the market, you shall have first refusal, and the same applies to the contents, if any. For the moment if you will send me a note of your fee, I shall be obliged.” He raised his hand with a conclusive gesture. “I am not prepared to discuss the question of sale any further at present, Mr. Meyerstein.”

  At that the dealer bowed, took up his hat from the table, and prepared to depart. Lewison opened the door and stood aside.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Meyerstein.

  As Lewison was about to follow him —

  “Since you do not intend to open the box,” he said, turning, his hand upon the door knob, “have you any idea of its contents?”

  “None,” replied Smith; “but with my present inadequate knowledge of its history, I do not care to open it.”

  Lewison smiled skeptically.

  “Probably you know best,” he said, bowed to us both, and retired.

  When the door was closed —

  “You see, Petrie,” said Smith, beginning to stuff tobacco into his briar, “if we are ever short of funds, here’s something” — pointing to the Tûlun-Nûr box upon the table— “which would retrieve our fallen fortunes.”

  He uttered one of his rare, boyish laughs, and began to pace the carpet again, his gaze always set upon our strange treasure. What did it contain?

  The manner in which it had come into our possession suggested that it might contain something of the utmost value to the Yellow group. For we knew the house of John Ki to be, if not the head-quarters, certainly a meeting-place of the mysterious organizati
on the Si-Fan; we knew that Dr. Fu-Manchu used the place — Dr. Fu-Manchu, the uncanny being whose existence seemingly proved him immune from natural laws, a deathless incarnation of evil.

  My gaze set upon the box, I wondered anew what strange, dark secrets it held; I wondered how many murders and crimes greater than murder blackened its history.

  “Smith,” I said suddenly, “now that the mystery of the absence of a key-hole is explained, I am sorely tempted to essay the task of opening the coffer. I think it might help us to a solution of the whole mystery.”

  “And I think otherwise!” interrupted my friend grimly. “In a word, Petrie, I look upon this box as a sort of hostage by means of which — who knows — we might one day buy our lives from the enemy. I have a sort of fancy, call it superstition if you will, that nothing — not even our miraculous good luck — could save us if once we ravished its secret.”

  I stared at him amazedly; this was a new phase in his character.

  “I am conscious of something almost like a spiritual unrest,” he continued. “Formerly you were endowed with a capacity for divining the presence of Fu-Manchu or his agents. Some such second-sight would appear to have visited me now, and it directs me forcibly to avoid opening the box.”

  His steps as he paced the floor grew more and more rapid. He relighted his pipe, which had gone out as usual, and tossed the match-end into the hearth.

  “To-morrow,” he said, “I shall lodge the coffer in a place of greater security. Come along, Petrie, Weymouth is expecting us at Scotland Yard.”

  CHAPTER XI

  IN THE FOG

  “But, Smith,” I began, as my friend hurried me along the corridor, “you are not going to leave the box unguarded?”

  Nayland Smith tugged at my arm, and, glancing at him, I saw him frowningly shake his head. Utterly mystified, I nevertheless understood that for some reason he desired me to preserve silence for the present. Accordingly I said no more until the lift brought us down into the lobby and we had passed out from the New Louvre Hotel, crossed the busy thoroughfare and entered the buffet of an establishment not far distant. My friend having ordered cocktails —

  “And now perhaps you will explain to me the reason for your mysterious behavior?” said I.

  Smith, placing my glass before me, glanced about him to right and left, and having satisfied himself that his words could not be overheard —

  “Petrie,” he whispered, “I believe we are spied upon at the New Louvre.”

  “What!”

  “There are spies of the Si-Fan — of Fu-Manchu — amongst the hotel servants! We have good reason to believe that Dr. Fu-Manchu at one time was actually in the building, and we have been compelled to draw attention to the state of the electric fitting in our apartments, which enables any one in the corridor above to spy upon us.”

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “For a very good reason, Petrie, and the same that prompts me to retain the Tûlun-Nûr box in my own possession rather than to deposit it in the strong-room of my bank.”

  “I begin to understand.”

  “I trust you do, Petrie; it is fairly obvious. Probably the plan is a perilous one, but I hope, by laying myself open to attack, to apprehend the enemy — perhaps to make an important capture.”

  Setting down my glass, I stared in silence at Smith.

  “I will anticipate your remark,” he said, smiling dryly. “I am aware that I am not entitled to expose you to these dangers. It is my duty and I must perform it as best I can; you, as a volunteer, are perfectly entitled to withdraw.”

  As I continued silently to stare at him, his expression changed; the gray eyes grew less steely, and presently, clapping his hand upon my shoulder in his impulsive way —

  “Petrie!” he cried, “you know I had no intention of hurting your feelings, but in the circumstances it was impossible for me to say less.”

  “You have said enough, Smith,” I replied shortly. “I beg of you to say no more.”

  He gripped my shoulder hard, then plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out the blackened pipe.

  “We see it through together, then, though God knows whither it will lead us.”

  “In the first place,” I interrupted, “since you have left the chest unguarded — —”

  “I locked the door.”

  “What is a mere lock where Fu-Manchu is concerned?”

  Nayland Smith laughed almost gaily.

  “Really, Petrie,” he cried, “sometimes I cannot believe that you mean me to take you seriously. Inspector Weymouth has engaged the room immediately facing our door, and no one can enter or leave the suite unseen by him.”

  “Inspector Weymouth?”

  “Oh! for once he has stooped to a disguise: spectacles, and a muffler which covers his face right up to the tip of his nose. Add to this a prodigious overcoat and an asthmatic cough, and you have a picture of Mr. Jonathan Martin, the occupant of room No. 239.”

  I could not repress a smile upon hearing this description.

  “No. 239,” continued Smith, “contains two beds, and Mr. Martin’s friend will be joining him there this evening.”

  Meeting my friend’s questioning glance, I nodded comprehendingly.

  “Then what part do I play?”

  “Ostensibly we both leave town this evening,” he explained; “but I have a scheme whereby you will be enabled to remain behind. We shall thus have one watcher inside and two out.”

  “It seems almost absurd,” I said incredulously, “to expect any member of the Yellow group to attempt anything in a huge hotel like the New Louvre, here in the heart of London!”

  Nayland Smith, having lighted his pipe, stretched his arms and stared me straight in the face.

  “Has Fu-Manchu never attempted outrage, murder, in the heart of London before?” he snapped.

  The words were sufficient. Remembering black episodes of the past (one at least of them had occurred not a thousand yards from the very spot upon which we now stood), I knew that I had spoken folly.

  Certain arrangements were made then, including a visit to Scotland Yard; and a plan — though it sounds anomalous — at once elaborate and simple, was put into execution in the dusk of the evening.

  London remained in the grip of fog, and when we passed along the corridor communicating with our apartments, faint streaks of yellow vapor showed in the light of the lamp suspended at the further end. I knew that Nayland Smith suspected the presence of some spying contrivance in our rooms, although I was unable to conjecture how this could have been managed without the connivance of the management. In pursuance of his idea, however, he extinguished the lights a moment before we actually quitted the suite. Just within the door he helped me to remove the somewhat conspicuous check traveling-coat which I wore. With this upon his arm he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  As the door slammed upon his exit, I heard him cry: “Come along, Petrie! we have barely five minutes to catch our train.”

  Detective Carter of New Scotland Yard had joined him at the threshold, and muffled up in the gray traveling-coat was now hurrying with Smith along the corridor and out of the hotel. Carter, in build and features, was not unlike me, and I did not doubt that any one who might be spying upon our movements would be deceived by this device.

  In the darkness of the apartment I stood listening to the retreating footsteps in the corridor. A sense of loneliness and danger assailed me. I knew that Inspector Weymouth was watching and listening from the room immediately opposite; that he held Smith’s key; that I could summon him to my assistance, if necessary, in a matter of seconds.

  Yet, contemplating the vigil that lay before me in silence and darkness, I cannot pretend that my frame of mind was buoyant. I could not smoke; I must make no sound.

  As pre-arranged, I cautiously removed my boots, and as cautiously tiptoed across the carpet and seated myself in an arm-chair. I determined there to await the arrival of Mr. Jonathan Martin’s friend, which I knew
could not now be long delayed.

  The clocks were striking eleven when he arrived, and in the perfect stillness of that upper corridor. I heard the bustle which heralded his approach, heard the rap upon the door opposite, followed by a muffled “Come in” from Weymouth. Then, as the door was opened, I heard the sound of a wheezy cough.

  A strange cracked voice (which, nevertheless, I recognized for Smith’s) cried, “Hullo, Martin! — cough no better?”

  Upon that the door was closed again, and as the retreating footsteps of the servant died away, complete silence — that peculiar silence which comes with fog — descended once more upon the upper part of the New Louvre Hotel.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE VISITANT

  That first hour of watching, waiting, and listening in the lonely quietude passed drearily; and with the passage of every quarter — signalized by London’s muffled clocks — my mood became increasingly morbid. I peopled the silent rooms opening out of that wherein I sat, with stealthy, murderous figures; my imagination painted hideous yellow faces upon the draperies, twitching yellow hands protruding from this crevice and that. A score of times I started nervously, thinking I heard the pad of bare feet upon the floor behind me, the suppressed breathing of some deathly approach.

  Since nothing occurred to justify these tremors, this apprehensive mood passed; I realized that I was growing cramped and stiff, that unconsciously I had been sitting with my muscles nervously tensed. The window was open a foot or so at the top and the blind was drawn; but so accustomed were my eyes now to peering through the darkness, that I could plainly discern the yellow oblong of the window, and though very vaguely, some of the appointments of the room — the Chesterfield against one wall, the lamp-shade above my head, the table with the Tûlun-Nûr box upon it.

  There was fog in the room, and it was growing damply chill, for we had extinguished the electric heater some hours before. Very few sounds penetrated from outside. Twice or perhaps thrice people passed along the corridor, going to their rooms; but, as I knew, the greater number of the rooms along that corridor were unoccupied.