by Sax Rohmer
There was a camp bed, a chair and a table on which stood a glass and a bottle of water. This square brick chamber had never been designed for habitation; he was in the bowels of some uncompleted engineering plant...
The man who had admitted him — who had stood aside when he had entered — appeared now in the doorway — a huge Negro with a pock-scarred face.
For one breathless moment Alan Sterling stared, not daring to believe what he saw — then:
“Ali Oke!” he whispered.
The expression on the black face of the man so oddly named defied definition — but it resolved itself into a grin. Ali Oke raised a finger to his lips in warning — and closed the heavy door. Sterling heard the sound of a bolt being shot...
Ali Oke! It was all but incredible!
Ali — called “Oke” because this term was his equivalent for “I understand” or “very good, sir” — had been Sterling’s right-hand man on his Uganda expedition! He found it hard to believe that the faithful Ali, pride of the American Mission School, could be a servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu...
Complete silence. Even that queer dim roaring had ceased...
Yet — Sterling reflected — better men than Ali Oke had slaved for the Chinese doctor. He stared at the massive wooden door. A faint, sibilant sound drew his gaze floorward.
A piece of paper was being pushed under the door!
Sterling stooped and snatched it up. It was a fragment from the margin of a newspaper, and on it in childlike handwriting was written in pencil: —
Not speak. Somebody listen. Write something. Can send somebody. Ali.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. TUNNEL BELOW WATER
Investigations in Surrey brought some curious points to light.
It was late in the afternoon when Gallaho came to Sir Denis’s apartment to make his report. To be on duty for twenty-four hours was no novelty to the C.I.D. man, but he was compelled to admit to himself that he felt extremely tired. Sir Denis, who wore a dressing-gown, but who was fully dressed beneath, simply radiated vitality. He was smoking furiously, and his blue-gray eyes were as keen as if, after a long and dreamless sleep, he had emerged fresh from his bath.
Gallaho, who guessed Sir Denis to be ten years his senior — as a matter of fact, he was wrong — found a constant source of amazement in Nayland Smith’s energy.
He reported that the mews to which Sir Bertram Morgan’s car had been driven was known to have accommodated a Ford lorry belonging to a local contractor.
Nayland Smith laughed shortly, pacing up and down the carpet.
“When it comes to making important engagements in an unoccupied house, but one with which in the past — and he never forgets anything — the Doctor has been familiar; when, above all, he condescends to travel in a decorator’s lorry...”
He laughed again, and this time it was a joyous, boyish laugh, which magically lifted the years and showed him to be a young man.
“It’s all very funny,” Gallaho agreed, “especially as Sir Bertram, according to his own statement, examined an ingot of pure gold which this Chinese magician offered to sell to him!”
Nayland Smith turned, and stared at the speaker.
“Have you ever realized the difficulty of selling gold, assuming you had any — I mean, in bulk?”
Gallaho scratched his upstanding hair, closed one eye, and cocked the other one up at the ceiling.
“I suppose it would be difficult, in bulk,” he admitted; “especially if the gold merchant was forced to operate under cover.”
“I assure you it would,” said Nayland Smith. “No further clues from Rowan House, I suppose?”
“Nothing. It’s amazing. But it accounts for an appointment at half-past two in the morning. They just dressed the lobby and two rooms of the house like preparing a stage-set for a one-night show.”
“Obviously they did, Gallaho — and it is amazing, as you say. I remember the place very well; I was there on many occasions during the time Sir Lionel Barton occupied it. I remember, particularly, the Chinese Room, with its sliding doors and lacquer appointments. Those decorations which were not Barton relics — I refer to the preserved snakes, the chemical furnace, and so forth — were imported for Sir Bertram Morgan’s benefit.”
“That’s where the Ford lorry came in!”
Nayland Smith dashed his right fist into his left palm.
“Right! You’re right! That’s where the lorry came in! The missing caretaker?”
“He’s just described by local tradesmen as ‘an old foreigner’—”
“Someone employed by, or bought by, Fu-Manchu. We shall never trace him.”
Gallaho chewed invisible gum.
“Funny business,” he muttered.
“Rowan House has known even more sinister happenings in the past. However, I will look it over myself — some time today if possible. What about the lorry?”
“I have seen the former owner.” Gallaho pulled out a book and consulted some notes. “He sold it on the fourteenth instant. The purchase price was thirty pounds. The purchaser he describes as ‘a foreign bloke.’ I may say, sir—” looking up at Sir Denis— “said contractor isn’t too intelligent; but I gather that the ‘foreign bloke’ was some kind of Asiatic. It was up to the purchaser to remove the lorry at his convenience.”
“How was payment made?”
“Thirty one-pound notes.”
“Very curious,” murmured Sir Denis. “Very, very curious. I am wondering what the real object could be in the purchase of this lorry. Its use last night was an emergency measure. I think we may take that for granted. Have you traced it?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“Has any constable reported having seen it?”
“No one.”
“What about the Morris out of the yard in Limehouse?”
“I have a short report about that,” Gallaho growled, consulting his notes. “It’s the property of Sam Pak, as we surmized, and various birds belonging to his queer aviary seem to drive it from time to time. My own idea is that he uses it to send drunks home. But it’s for hire, and according to Murphy, who has been on the job down there, it was hired last night, or rather, early in the morning, by a lady who had dined on board a steamer lying in West India Dock.”
“You have the name of the steamer, no doubt?”
“Murphy got it.”
“Did any lady dine on board?”
“The ship mentioned in my notes, sir,” Gallaho replied ill-humoredly, “pulled out when the fog lifted. We have no means of confirming.”
“I see,” snapped Nayland Smith, his briar bubbling and crackling as he smoked furiously. “But the driver?”
“A man called Ah Chuk — he’s a licensed driver; he’s been checked up — who hangs about Sam Pak’s when he’s out of a job. His usual work is that of a stevedore.”
“Has anyone seen this man?”
“Yes — Murphy. He says, and Sam Pak confirms it, that he took the car down to the gates of West India Dock and picked up a lady who was in evening dress. He drove her to the Ambassadors’ Club—” Gallaho was reading from his notes— “dropped her there and returned to Limehouse.”
“Where is the car now?”
“Back in the yard.”
Nayland Smith walked up and down for some time, and then:
“A ridiculous, but a cunning story,” he remarked. “However, Ah Chuk will probably come into our net. Anything of interest in the reports of the men who trailed customers leaving Sam Pak’s?”
“Well—” Gallaho’s growl grew deeper— “those that left were just the usual sort. Funny thing, though, is, that some of the customers you reported seeing inside didn’t leave at all!”
“What!”
“Murphy reported seven people, six men and a woman, in the ‘Sailors’ Club.’ Only three — two men and the woman — had come out at seven o’clock this morning!”
“Very odd,” Nayland Smith murmured.
“There are two things,” said Gallaho, �
�that particularly worry me, sir.”
He closed his note-book.
“What are they?”
“That funny light, which I had heard of but never seen; and... Mr. Sterling.”
He stared almost reproachfully at Sir Denis. The latter turned, smiling slightly.
“I can see that you are worrying,” he said, “and quite rightly. He is a splendid fellow — and he was very unhappy. But an individual described by the hall-porter as a loafer, left this note for me an hour ago.”
He crossed to the writing-table, took up an envelope and handed it to Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho. The latter stared at it critically. It was an envelope of poor quality, of a kind which can be bought in packets of a dozen at any cheap stationer’s and upon it in what looked like a child’s handwriting, appeared: —
Nayland Smith No 7 Westminster Court WhitehallThe inscription was in pencil. Gallaho extracted the contents — a small sheet of thin paper torn from a pocket-book. Upon this, also in pencil, the following message appeared: —
To: — Nayland Smith No 7 Westminster Court Whitehall In hands of Fu-Manchu. In some place where there is a deep pit, a furnace, and a tunnel below water. I know no more. Do your best. Alan Sterling.By the same hand which had addressed the envelope, one significant word had been added below the signature:
Limehouse
Gallaho stared across at Sir Denis. Sunshine had temporarily conquered the fog. The room was cheerful and bright. Gallaho found himself looking at a puncture in one of the windows, through which quite recently a message of death had come but had missed its target.
“Is this Mr. Sterling’s writing?”
“Yes.” Nayland Smith’s eyes were very bright. “What do we know about tunnels, Gallaho?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE. AT THE BLUE ANCHOR
The man with the claret colored nose was becoming quarrelsome. His unshaven friend who wore a tweed cap with the brim pulled right down over his eyes, was drunk also, but in a more amiable way.
John Bates, the landlord of The Blue Anchor, shirt-sleeved behind the bar, watched the pair inquiringly. The man with the claret nose came in at longish intervals, and was usually more or less drunk. Bates supposed that he was a hand in one of the coasting steamers which sailed from a near-by dock. His friend was a stranger, nor did he look like a sailor.
The Blue Anchor had only just opened and there were no other customers in the private bar, which was decorated with sporting prints and a number of Oriental curiosities which might have indicated that the landlord, or some member of his family, had traveled extensively in the East. John observed with satisfaction that the phenomenal fog which had lifted during the day, promised to return with the coming of dusk.
From long experience of dockland trade, John had learned that fog was good for business. He lighted a cigarette, leaning on the bar and listening to the conversation of the singular pair.
“I bet you half a quid as it was above Wapping.”
The claret-nosed man was the speaker, and he emphasized his words by banging his fist upon the table before him. John Bates was certain now that he was a sailor and that he had a pay-roll in his pocket. The other man stolidly shook his head.
“You’re wrong, Dick,” he declared, thickly. “It was somewhere near Limehouse Basin.”
“Wapping.”
“Limehouse.”
“Look here.” Claret Nose rose unsteadily to his feet, and approached the bar. “I’m goin’ to ask you to act as judge between me and this bloke here. See what I mean, guv’nor?”
John Bates nodded stolidly.
“It’s a bet for half a quid.”
Bates liked bets; they always led up to rounds of drinks, and:
“Put your money on the counter,” he directed; “I’ll hold the stakes.”
Claret Nose banged down a ten shilling note and turning:
“Cover that!” he shouted, truculently.
The other man, who proved to be tall and thin when he stood up, extracted a note from some inner pocket and placed it upon that laid down by the challenger.
“Right.” John Bates inverted a tumbler upon the two notes. “Now, what’s the bet about?”
“It’s like this,” said the red-nosed man— “we was talkin’ about tunnels—”
“Tunnels?”
“Tunnels is what I said. We talked about the Blackwall Tunnel, the Rotherhithe Tunnel and all sorts of bloody tunnels—”
“What for?” John Bates inquired.
“We just felt like talkin’ about tunnels. Then we got to one what was started about fifty years ago and never finished. A footpath, it was, to go under the Thames from somewhere near Wapping Old Stairs—”
“Limehouse.”
The lean man, bright eyes peering out from beneath the brim of his remarkably large tweed cap, had imparted a note of challenge to the word.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bates. “I never heard of such a tunnel.”
“Fifty years ago, everybody’d heard about it.”
“I wasn’t here fifty years ago.”
“I thought you knew all there was to know about this part o’ the world.”
“I know a lot but I don’t know that. The Old Man would know.”
“Well, ask the Old Man.”
“He’s upstairs, having a lay down.” Bates turned to a grinning boy who now stood at his elbow. “Keep an eye on that money, Billy,” he instructed. “I shan’t be a minute.”
He raised the flap of the bar, came through, and went upstairs.
“While we’re waitin’,” said Claret Nose, “another couple o’ pints wouldn’t do no harm.”
“Right,” the other agreed, and nodded to the boy. “The loser pays, so—” pointing to the notes beneath the inverted tumbler, “you take it out of one of those.”
John Bates returned inside three minutes from his interview with the invisible Old Man. He was grinning broadly, and carrying a cloth-bound book.
“Which of you said Limehouse?” he demanded.
“I did,” growled the man in the tweed cap.
Bates, stepping in between the two, raised the tumbler, and returned a ten shilling note to the last speaker. “The drinks are on you,” he said, addressing the other; “I’ll have a small whisky and soda.”
“Ho!” said the red-nosed one, “you will, will you? You will when you tell me where the bloody tunnel was, and prove it wasn’t Wapping.”
John Bates opened what proved to be a scrapbook, placing it upon the counter. He pointed to a drawing above which the words “Daily Graphic June 5, 1885” appeared. There were paragraphs from other papers pasted on the same page.
“There you are, my lad. What the Old Man doesn’t know about this district, nobody can tell him. Never mind about closing one eye, George—” addressing Claret Nose; “I don’t think you could read it even then. It boils down to this: There was a project in 1885 to build a footpath from where we stand now, to the Surrey bank. A shaft was sunk and the tunnel was commenced. Then the scheme collapsed, so the Old Man tells me.”
“Ho!” said the loser, staring truculently at the grinning boy behind the bar. “A small whisky and soda for the guv’nor, and take it out of that—” pointing to the note.
“What did they do with this ‘ere shaft?” growled the man in the tweed cap.
“The Old Man doesn’t know,” Bates replied. “Everybody about here, except him, has forgotten all about it. But if you’re in any doubt, I can tell you something else. He told me to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
The voice of the man in the tweed cap exhibited an unexpected interest, and John Bates glanced at him sharply; then:
“You know the old wharf?” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “which has been up for sale for years — a sort of Chinese restaurant backs right on to it.”
“I know it,” growled the red-nosed man.
“Well, the one and only ventilation shaft of this tunnel comes out there,
so the Old Man says; in fact, it must run right up through the building, or at the side of it.”
“Ho!” said the man in the tweed cap. “Have another drink.”
CHAPTER THIRTY. THE HUNCHBACK
Nayland Smith, wearing his long-peaked, large, check cap, and Detective-sergeant Murphy, very red of nose but no longer drunk, stood upon a narrow patch of shingle. That mysterious mist which had claimed London for so many days in succession had already masked the Surrey bank. They were staring up at the roof of that strange excrescence belonging to Sam Pak’s restaurant.
“The ventilation shaft which Bates referred to,” said Sir Denis, “is at the back of the bar, for a bet. It accounts for the heat at that end of the room.”
“Why heat, sir?”
“It is probably regarded as an old flue,” Nayland Smith went on, apparently not having heard his query, “and it very likely terminates in that big square chimney stack up yonder.”
“It’s about there that the light is seen.”
“I know, hence my deduction that that is where the ventilation shaft comes out. Unofficial channels, Sergeant, often yield more rapid information than official ones.”
“I know, sir.”
“It was a brain wave to apply to The Blue Anchor for information respecting the site of this abandoned tunnel of fifty years ago. It is significant that no other authority, including Scotland Yard, could supply the desired data.”
“But what’s the theory, sir? I am quite in the dark.”
“It wasn’t a theory; it was a mere surmise until last night when Sir Bertram Morgan told me that Dr. Fu-Manchu had shown him an ingot of pure gold. I linked this with the phantom light which so many people have seen above the restaurant of Sam Pak; then my rough surmise became a theory.”
“I see, sir,” said Sergeant Murphy respectfully: as a matter of fact he was quite out of his depth. “There is no sign of the light tonight.”
“No,” snapped Nayland Smith, “and there’s no sign of Forester’s party.”
