by Sax Rohmer
Of Kâramaneh, Zarmi, or Fu-Manchu there was no sign.
Suddenly, the lights were extinguished.
“This is maddening!” cried Nayland Smith— “maddening! No doubt they have some other exit, some hiding-place — and they are slipping through our hands!”
Inspector Weymouth blew a shrill blast upon his whistle, and Smith, running to the rail of the platform, began to shatter the panes of the skylight with his foot.
“That’s hopeless, sir!” cried Weymouth. “You’d be torn to pieces on the jagged glass.”
Smith desisted, with a savage exclamation, and stood beating his right fist into the palm of his left hand, and glaring madly at the Scotland Yard man.
“I know I’m to blame,” admitted Weymouth; “but the words were out before I knew I’d spoken. Ah!” — as an answering whistle came from somewhere in the street below. “But will they ever find us?”
He blew again shrilly. Several whistles replied … and a wisp of smoke floated up from the shattered pane of the skylight.
“I can smell petrol!” muttered Weymouth.
An ever-increasing roar, not unlike that of an approaching storm at sea, came from the streets beneath. Whistles skirled, remotely and intimately, and sometimes one voice, sometimes another, would detach itself from this stormy background with weird effect. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the hashish house there went on ceaselessly a splintering and crashing as though a determined assault were being made upon a door. A light shone up through the skylight.
Back once more to the rail I sprang, looked down into the room below — and saw a sight never to be forgotten.
Passing from divan to curtained door, from piles of cushions to stacked-up tables, and bearing a flaming torch hastily improvised out of a roll of newspaper, was Dr. Fu-Manchu. Everything inflammable in the place had been soaked with petrol, and, his gaunt, yellow face lighted by the evergrowing conflagration, so that truly it seemed not the face of a man, but that of a demon of the hells, the Chinese doctor ignited point after point….
“Smith!” I screamed, “we are trapped! that fiend means to burn us alive!”
“And the place will flare like matchwood! It’s touch and go this time, Petrie! To drop to the sloping roof underneath would mean almost certain death on the pavement….”
I dragged my pistol from my pocket and began wildly to fire shot after shot into the holocaust below. But the awful Chinaman had escaped — probably by some secret exit reserved for his own use; for certainly he must have known that escape into the court was now cut off.
Flames were beginning to hiss through the skylight. A tremendous crackling and crashing told of the glass destroyed. Smoke spurted up through the cracks of the boarding upon which we stood — and a great shout came from the crowd in the streets….
In the distance — a long, long way off, it seemed — was born a new note in the stormy human symphony. It grew in volume, it seemed to be sweeping down upon us — nearer — nearer — nearer. Now it was in the streets immediately adjoining the Café de l’Egypte … and now, blessed sound! it culminated in a mighty surging cheer.
“The fire-engines,” said Weymouth coolly — and raised himself on to the lower rail, for the platform was growing uncomfortably hot.
Tongues of fire licked out, venomously, from beneath my feet. I leapt for the railing in turn, and sat astride it … as one end of the flooring burst into flame.
The heat from the blazing room above which we hung suspended was now all but insupportable, and the fumes threatened to stifle us. My head seemed to be bursting; my throat and lungs were consumed by internal fires.
“Merciful heavens!” whispered Smith. “Will they reach us in time?”
“Not if they don’t get here within the next thirty seconds!” answered Weymouth grimly — and changed his position, in order to avoid a tongue of flame that hungrily sought to reach him.
Nayland Smith turned and looked me squarely in the eyes. Words trembled on his tongue; but those words were never spoken … for a brass helmet appeared suddenly out of the smoke banks, followed almost immediately by a second….
“Quick, sir! this way! Jump! I’ll catch you!”
Exactly what followed I never knew; but there was a mighty burst of cheering, a sense of tension released, and it became a task less agonizing to breathe.
Feeling very dazed, I found myself in the heart of a huge, excited crowd, with Weymouth beside me, and Nayland Smith holding my arm. Vaguely, I heard; —
“They have the man Ismail, but …”
A hollow crash drowned the end of the sentence. A shower of sparks shot up into the night’s darkness high above our heads.
“That’s the platform gone!”
CHAPTER XXVII
ROOM WITH THE GOLDEN DOOR
One night early in the following week I sat at work upon my notes dealing with our almost miraculous escape from the blazing hashish house when the clock of St. Paul’s began to strike midnight.
I paused in my work, leaning back wearily and wondering what detained Nayland Smith so late. Some friends from Burma had carried him off to a theater, and in their good company I had thought him safe enough; yet, with the omnipresent menace of Fu-Manchu hanging over our heads, always I doubted, always I feared, if my friend should chance to be delayed abroad at night.
What a world of unreality was mine, in those days! Jostling, as I did, commonplace folk in commonplace surroundings, I yet knew myself removed from them, knew myself all but alone in my knowledge of the great and evil man, whose presence in England had diverted my life into these strange channels.
But, despite of all my knowledge, and despite the infinitely greater knowledge and wider experience of Nayland Smith, what did I know, what did he know, of the strange organization called the Si-Fan, and of its most formidable member, Dr. Fu-Manchu?
Where did the dreadful Chinaman hide, with his murderers, his poisons, and his nameless death agents? What roof in broad England sheltered Kâramaneh, the companion of my dreams, the desire of every waking hour?
I uttered a sigh of despair, when, to my unbounded astonishment, there came a loud rap upon the window pane!
Leaping up, I crossed to the window, threw it widely open and leant out, looking down into the court below. It was deserted. In no other window visible to me was any light to be seen, and no living thing moved in the shadows beneath. The clamor of Fleet Street’s diminishing traffic came dimly to my ears; the last stroke from St. Paul’s quivered through the night.
What was the meaning of the sound which had disturbed me? Surely I could not have imagined it? Yet, right, left, above and below, from the cloisteresque shadows on the east of the court to the blank wall of the building on the west, no living thing stirred.
Quietly, I reclosed the window, and stood by it for a moment listening. Nothing occurred, and I returned to the writing-table, puzzled but in no sense alarmed. I resumed the seemingly interminable record of the Si-Fan mysteries, and I had just taken up my pen, when … two loud raps sounded upon the pane behind me.
In a trice I was at the window, had thrown it open, and was craning out. Practical joking was not characteristic of Nayland Smith, and I knew of none other likely to take such a liberty. As before, the court below proved to be empty….
Some one was softly rapping at the door of the chambers!
I turned swiftly from the open window; and now, came fear. Momentarily, the icy finger of panic touched me, for I thought myself invested upon all sides. Who could this late caller be, this midnight visitor who rapped, ghostly, in preference to ringing the bell?
From the table drawer I took out a Browning pistol, slipped it into my pocket and crossed to the narrow hallway. It was in darkness, but I depressed the switch, lighting the lamp. Toward the closed door I looked — as the soft rapping was repeated.
I advanced; then hesitated, and, strung up to a keen pitch of fearful anticipation, stood there in doubt. The silence remained unbroken for the space, pe
rhaps of half a minute. Then again came the ghostly rapping.
“Who’s there?” I cried loudly.
Nothing stirred outside the door, and still I hesitated. To some who read, my hesitancy may brand me childishly timid; but I, who had met many of the dreadful creatures of Dr. Fu-Manchu, had good reason to fear whomsoever or whatsoever rapped at midnight upon my door. Was I likely to forget the great half-human ape, with the strength of four lusty men, which once he had loosed upon us? — had I not cause to remember his Burmese dacoits and Chinese stranglers?
No, I had just cause for dread, as I fully recognized when, snatching the pistol from my pocket, I strode forward, flung wide the door, and stood peering out into the black gulf of the stairhead.
Nothing, no one, appeared!
Conscious of a longing to cry out — if only that the sound of my own voice might reassure me — I stood listening. The silence was complete.
“Who’s there?” I cried again, and loudly enough to arrest the attention of the occupant of the chambers opposite if he chanced to be at home.
None replied; and finding this phantom silence more nerve-racking than any clamor, I stepped outside the door — and my heart gave a great leap, then seemed to remain inert, in my breast….
Right and left of me, upon either side of the doorway, stood a dim figure: I had walked deliberately into a trap!
The shock of the discovery paralyzed my mind for one instant. In the next, and with the sinister pair closing swiftly upon me, I stepped back — I stepped into the arms of some third assailant, who must have entered the chambers by way of the open window and silently crept up behind me!
So much I realized, and no more. A bag, reeking of some hashish-like perfume, was clapped over my head and pressed firmly against mouth and nostrils. I felt myself to be stifling — dying — and dropping into a bottomless pit.
When I opened my eyes I failed for some time to realize that I was conscious in the true sense of the word, that I was really awake.
I sat upon a bench covered with a red carpet, in a fair-sized room, very simply furnished, in the Chinese manner, but having a two-leaved, gilded door, which was shut. At the further end of this apartment was a dais some three feet high, also carpeted with red, and upon it was placed a very large cushion covered with a tiger skin.
Seated cross-legged upon the cushion was a Chinaman of most majestic appearance. His countenance was truly noble and gracious and he was dressed in a yellow robe lined with marten-fur. His hair, which was thickly splashed with gray, was confined upon the top of his head by three golden combs, and a large diamond was suspended from his left ear. A pearl-embroidered black cap, surmounted by the red coral ball denoting the mandarin’s rank, lay upon a second smaller cushion beside him.
Leaning back against the wall, I stared at his personage with a dreadful fixity, for I counted him the figment of a disarranged mind. But palpably he remained before me, fanning himself complacently, and watching me with every mark of kindly interest. Evidently perceiving that I was fully alive to my surroundings, the Chinaman addressed a remark to me in a tongue quite unfamiliar.
I shook my head dazedly.
“Ah,” he commented in French, “you do not speak my language.”
“I do not,” I answered, also in French, “but since it seems we have one common tongue, what is the meaning of the outrage to which I have been subjected, and who are you?”
As I spoke the words I rose to my feet, but was immediately attacked by vertigo, which compelled me to resume my seat upon the bench.
“Compose yourself,” said the Chinaman, taking a pinch of snuff from a silver vase which stood convenient to his hand. “I have been compelled to adopt certain measures in order to bring about this interview. In China, such measures are not unusual, but I recognize that they are out of accordance with your English ideas.”
“Emphatically they are!” I replied.
The placid manner of this singularly imposing old man rendered proper resentment difficult. A sense of futility, and of unreality, claimed me; I felt that this was a dream-world, governed by dream-laws.
“You have good reason,” he continued, calmly raising the pinch of snuff to his nostrils, “good reason to distrust all that is Chinese. Therefore, when I despatched my servants to your abode (knowing you to be alone) I instructed them to observe every law of courtesy, compatible with the Sure Invitation. Hence, I pray you, absolve me, for I intended no offense.”
Words failed me altogether; wonder succeeded wonder! What was coming? What did it all mean?
“I have selected you, rather than Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith,” continued the mandarin, “as the recipient of those secrets which I am about to impart, for the reason that your friend might possibly be acquainted with my appearance. I will confess there was a time when I must have regarded you with animosity, as one who sought the destruction of the most ancient and potent organization in the world — the Si-Fan.”
As he uttered the words he raised his right hand and touched his forehead, his mouth, and finally his breast — a gesture reminiscent of that employed by Moslems.
“But my first task is to assure you,” he resumed, “that the activities of that Order are in no way inimical to yourself, your country or your King. The extensive ramifications of the Order have recently been employed by a certain Dr. Fu-Manchu for his own ends, and, since he was (I admit it) a high official, a schism has been created in our ranks. Exactly a month ago, sentence of death was passed upon him by the Sublime Prince, and since I myself must return immediately to China, I look to Mr. Nayland Smith to carry out that sentence.”
I said nothing; I remained bereft of the power of speech.
“The Si-Fan,” he added, repeating the gesture with his hand, “disown Dr. Fu-Manchu and his servants; do with them what you will. In this envelope” — he held up a sealed package— “is information which should prove helpful to Mr. Smith. I have now a request to make. You were conveyed here in the garments which your wore at the time that my servants called upon you.” (I was hatless and wore red leathern slippers.) “An overcoat and a hat can doubtless be found to suit you, temporarily, and my request is that you close your eyes until permission is given to open them.”
Is there any one of my readers in doubt respecting my reception of this proposal? Remember my situation, remember the bizarre happening that had led up to it; remember, too, ere judging me, that whilst I could not doubt the unseen presence of Chinamen unnumbered surrounding that strange apartment with the golden door, I had not the remotest clue to guide me in determining where it was situated. Since the duration of my unconsciousness was immeasurable, the place in which I found myself might have been anywhere, within say, thirty miles of Fleet Street!
“I agree,” I said.
The mandarin bowed composedly.
“Kindly close your eyes, Dr. Petrie,” he requested, “and fear nothing. No danger threatens you.”
I obeyed. Instantly sounded the note of a gong, and I became aware that the golden door was open. A soft voice, evidently that of a cultured Chinaman, spoke quite close to my ear —
“Keep your eyes tightly closed, please, and I will help you on with this coat. The envelope you will find in the pocket and here is a tweed cap. Now take my hand.”
Wearing the borrowed garments, I was led from the room, along a passage, down a flight of thickly carpeted stairs, and so out of the house into the street. Faint evidences of remote traffic reached my ears as I was assisted into a car and placed in a cushioned corner. The car moved off, proceeded for some distance; then —
“Allow me to help you to descend,” said the soft voice. “You may open your eyes in thirty seconds.”
I was assisted from the step on to the pavement — and I heard the car being driven back. Having slowly counted thirty I opened my eyes, and looked about me. This, and not the fevered moment when first I had looked upon the room with the golden door, seemed to be my true awakening, for about me was comprehensible
world, the homely streets of London, with deserted Portland Place stretching away on the one hand and a glimpse of midnight Regent Street obtainable on the other! The clock of the neighboring church struck one.
My mind yet dull with wonder of it all, I walked on to Oxford Circus and there obtained a taxicab, in which I drove to Fleet Street. Discharging the man, I passed quickly under the time worn archway into the court and approached our stair. Indeed, I was about to ascend when some one came racing down and almost knocked me over.
“Petrie! Petrie! Thank God you’re safe!”
It was Nayland Smith, his eyes blazing with excitement, as I could see by the dim light of the lamp near the archway, and his hands, as he clapped them upon my shoulders, quivering tensely.
“Petrie!” he ran on impulsively, and speaking with extraordinary rapidly, “I was detained by a most ingenious trick and arrived only five minutes ago, to find you missing, the window wide open, and signs of hooks, evidently to support a rope ladder, having been attached to the ledge.”
“But where were you going?”
“Weymouth has just rung up. We have indisputable proof that the mandarin Ki-Ming, whom I had believed to be dead, and whom I know for a high official of the Si-Fan, is actually in London! It’s neck or nothing this time, Petrie! I’m going straight to Portland Place!”
“To the Chinese Legation?”
“Exactly!”
“Perhaps I can save you a journey,” I said slowly. “I have just come from there!”
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE MANDARIN KI-MING
Nayland Smith strode up and down the little sitting-room, tugging almost savagely at the lobe of his left ear. To-night his increasing grayness was very perceptible, and with his feverishly bright eyes staring straightly before him, he looked haggard and ill, despite the deceptive tan of his skin.
