by Sax Rohmer
“This is your department, not mine,” he said. “You know who to call up, no doubt.”
Trench nodded and stepped behind the counter, taking up the instrument.
He called Scotland Yard and waited.
A tense silence descended upon all the men present until the call was answered.
“Detective-sergeant Trench speaking,” he said, and gave a code word in an undertone. “Thanks.”
A further interval of silence, and then:
“Oh, is he, Inspector? Oh, I see... Yes, I suppose so, if those are the orders.”
Trench placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned. “The Commissioner is standing by for a report on this job!” he whispered. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned up—”
“Hello, sir. Yes, speaking from there, now. I’m sorry to report, sir, that Sir Denis has disappeared. We have reason to believe that he’s been smuggled into the cellars of this place.”
An interval of respectful silence, and then:
“The difficulty is, sir, they’ve got iron doors, here. I am speaking for Chief Detective-inspector Gallaho, sir. He has proceeded in person to Silvertown to try to get an explosive expert to deal with one of the doors below, here... Yes, sir. We thought a blow-torch might do the trick, if it’s possible to get one down in time... Very good, sir. Yes, every exit is covered.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Forester.
“The hell of it is,” he said, “we don’t know what’s going on below, there, and we can do nothing! Our only arrest is Mrs. Sam Pak, and I don’t believe she knows a thing!”
“Sst!... What’s that?”
All stood silent, waiting for a repetition of the sound, and presently it came — a muffled cry.
“It’s one of the men in the passage,” said Trench, and ran off, Forester following, his heavy boots making a booming sound upon the wooden floor. They were halfway down the stairs when the man who had called out, met them. His expression indicated excitement.
“Come this way, Inspector,” he said, “and listen.”
Their torch lights moving eerily upon brick and plaster walls, they proceeded to the end of the long passage. Another man was standing with his ear pressed to the iron door. He signaled, and they all approached, standing silently, listening.
“Do you hear it?”
Forester nodded, grimly.
“What the hell is it?” he muttered.
A dim, but dreadful roaring was perceptible, coming it seemed, from remote deeps beyond the iron door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN. CHINESE JUSTICE
Sterling realized as the horror in this hell pit rose ever higher that the company of the shadows was now complete.
Someone else had been borne down those many stairs and thrown like a sack upon the concrete floor. The doors of the furnace were opened again by the Chinese firemen, and again the heat seared his eyes. He tried to take advantage of that white glare; in a measure, he was successful.
Detective-sergeant Murphy had joined the company of the doomed; trussed and helpless he lay beyond Ali Oke.
The sweating Chinamen fed the hungry furnace.
It was the closest reproduction of the traditional hell which he believed could ever have been created. He struggled to his feet: his ankles were bound, his wrists were bound. But in some way to be upright again, though he could not move a step, seemed to reinforce his failing courage. The furnace doors were reclosed.
“Sir Denis!” he shouted, his voice reverberating in that shadow-haunted shaft. “Sergeant Murphy!”
In his extremity he spoke with the accent of the Middle West; indeed, his father’s face was before him. He saw the home in which he had been born, Edinburgh University, too, where he had taken his degree; all the happy things of life. And Fleurette! Fleurette! Merciful heaven! — where was Fleurette? He would never see her again!
Murphy answered.
“O.K., sir,” he called. “While there’s life there’s...”
A dull thud, that of a blow, terminated the words.
“Murphy!” Sterling cried again, and was in that state when he recognized hysteria in his own voice, yet fought against it. Sir Denis, he remembered to have noticed in the glare of the furnace, had a bandage over his mouth. “Murphy!”
No answer came — but, in silhouette against the light, the gorilla shape of the Burman appeared.
“You yellow swine!” said Sterling viciously, and bound though he was, launched himself upon the broad, squat figure.
He received a blow upon the mouth which knocked him backwards. He tasted blood; his lips were split.
“If I could meet you in the open, you bandy-legged horror,” he shouted, madly, “I’d knock you silly!”
The Burman, who wore heavy shoes, kicked him in the ribs.
Sterling groaned involuntarily. The pain of this last brutality threatened to overcome him. The horrible shadowy place began to swim before his eyes.
His wrists were aching: his hands were numb. Nevertheless he clenched his fists, clenched his teeth. He was writhing with pain; a rib had caved in — he knew it. But his supreme desire was to retain consciousness; to be on the job if any eleventh hour hope should offer.
“Be silent,” came a musical voice out of the darkness.
Fah Lo Suee!
“My friend, you only add more pains to those that are to come.”
Sterling succeeded in conquering himself. His maltreated body had threatened to master his brain. But his brain won.
Above the ever increasing roar of the furnace, a voice reached him:
“I’m here, Sterling, old man — I couldn’t speak before.”
It was Nayland Smith.
In some way, the shadows of that dim shaft seemed to possess weight — to bear down on one oppressively. From where he lay, Sterling could not see the mouth of the tunnel, but he was oddly conscious of its presence, somewhere beyond the furnace. There was water above, a great quantity of water, probably the River Thames.
This sense of depth, of being buried far below the surface, alone was horrifying; with the accompaniments which surrounded him, plus a split lip and a dislocated rib, it stretched endurance to breaking point.
And then another voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice which, once heard, could never be forgotten: the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith: You are, I believe, acting for the Secret Service. You are a legitimate enemy. Detective-sergeant Murphy: You are attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, and therefore entitled to my respect. Mr. Alan Sterling, you have voluntarily thrown yourself into the midst of my affairs, but since your motives are of a kind sometimes termed chivalrous, I shall accord to you also the honors of war.”
The strange cold voice ceased for a moment.
Sterling struggled into a crouching position, ignoring the blood dripping from his chin, striving to forget the sharp pain of his injured rib.
“Tonight may well be a climax in my war against folly and misrule; but if I triumph tonight, my path will be clear. My chief enemy will no longer obstruct me in my work, nor treachery live in my household...”
That strange, impressive voice ceased — then uttered a short, guttural command.
The squat Burman appeared in the circle of light, dragging by the heels the inert body of Ali.
It now became obvious that the Nubian was bound hand and foot, and that a cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. His eyes seemed to bulge from his skull; his face was wet with the sweat of fear.
The Burman withdrew into the shadows, but appeared again almost immediately swinging a short, curved sword, which he seemed to handle with familiarity.
“This man is a traitor,” the guttural voice said softly; “I have held my hand too long.”
A swift, hissing word of command; and during some few, dreadful seconds in which Alan Sterling’s heart seemed to remain still in his breast, the Burmese executioner obeyed.
Twining the finge
rs of his left hand into the frizzy, black hair of the Nubian, he jerked him to his feet with a single movement of that long, powerful arm. And, as the man stood there bent forward, swaying — with one mighty, unerring sweep of the scimitar he severed his head from his body!
“My God!” groaned Sergeant Murphy— “my God!”
Unconcernedly, the executioner threw the body on to one of the wooden frames, lashed the trunk and feet with lines which were attached to the woodwork, and stood up, glancing into the darkness in the direction from which the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu had come.
In response to another hissing command, the two Chinese firemen came forward and threw open the furnace door. They raised the head of the framework to which the body was lashed. The Burman seized the other end.
They began to swing it to and fro, chanting in unison: “Hi yah, hi yah, hi yah!” as they swung.
Then, with a final shouted “Hi!” they propelled it into the white heart of the furnace.
They were about to close the door, when the Burman checked them — and stooped...
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT. THE BLUE LIGHT
“It’s by no means as simple as all that, Inspector,” the chemist in charge assured Gallaho. “Before I attempt a mining operation such as you describe, I should like to know what’s above and what’s below. Also, what’s on the other side of this wall that you want me to blow down. You say it’s a concrete wall?”
“It appears to be,” growled Gallaho, fretfully; technicians were always an infernal nuisance.
“We could probably blast a way through the wall, but I’m wondering what that wall supports. We don’t want half Limehouse to fall in on us.”
“Well, come and see for yourself; but come provided — almost anything may be happening to the people we want to rescue.”
“I shall certainly come, Inspector. I don’t fancy the responsibility, but it’s not the kind of thing I want to delegate.”
There were further delays whilst mysterious apparatus was assembled, and Gallaho, seated in the office of the chief chemist, tapped his fingers irritably upon the table, glancing from minute to minute at a big clock over the mantelpiece. Messengers were scouring the extensive works in search of an expert with the musical name of Schumann. His attendance, according to Mr. Elliott, the chief chemist, was indispensable.
Gallaho was getting very angry.
Finally, arrangements were completed. Two workmen who seemed to enjoy this break in their night duties carried mysterious boxes, packages and coils of cable. Schumann, who proved to be a taciturn, bearded German, merely nodded and grunted when the chief chemist explained the nature of the project.
At long last, they all climbed into the police car, and set out recklessly for Limehouse. Gallaho sat in front with the driver. He was altogether too irritable for conversation, and at a point in their journey not far from their destination:
“Pull up!” he directed, sharply.
The brakes were applied, and the car promptly brought to a standstill.
Inspector Gallaho stared forward and upward, and now, resting his hand on the driver’s shoulder:
“Look!” he said. “What’s that? Right over the river bank, in a line with the smokestack?”
The driver looked as directed. And then:
“Good Lord!” he whispered, “what is it?”
There was very little mist in the air, but lowering clouds overhung the river; and there, either in reality or reflected upon them as upon a screen, danced that bluish, elfin light; and Gallaho knew that it was directly above the roof of Sam Pak’s.
“Go ahead!” he growled...
There was not much evidence of activity in the neighborhood of the restaurant. The night life of Chinatown, such as it is, is a furtive life. A constable was standing on an adjacent corner, but there was little now to indicate that anything unusual had taken place there that evening, except the fact that the store was closed.
One or two customers who had applied there had gone away much puzzled by this circumstance.
No doubt there were watchers behind dark windows. No doubt the fact was known throughout the Chinese quarter that Sam Pak’s had been raided and his wife arrested. But those who shared this secret information kept it very much to themselves, and kept themselves carefully out of sight.
Entering the shop, followed by the technicians with their apparatus:
“Anything new?” Gallaho growled.
Trench was waiting there.
“A most extraordinary roaring sound from somewhere below,” he reported; “and the heat at the back of the bar, here, is remarkable.”
“I have heard about this heat at the top end of the room,” said Gallaho. “I can’t make head nor tail of it.” He walked forward. “Yes; the difference is very marked. What the devil can it be?”
“The place to hear the roaring, sir,” said another voice, “is at the end of the passage, below, outside the iron door.”
“Come on,” said Gallaho, and made his way there. “Any report from the river?”
“Yes. That blue light has been seen up over the roof.”
“I know... I have seen it myself.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE. THE LOTUS GATE
Stark horror coming on top of physical pain all but defeated Alan Sterling. As the furnace doors were reclosed and the three yellow men sweating and half-naked were lost in the shadows outside the ring of light, he thought he heard a groan... and he thought that the man who groaned was Nayland Smith.
The gruesome place swam about him; the hard floor seemed to be moving like the deck of a ship.
He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. He knew that a mighty effort was called for, or he should faint. If this happened he should despise himself; and if he must die, at least let him carry his self-respect to the end.
Nevertheless, it was touch and go. Physical nausea saved him.
He was violently sick.
“The bloody swine!” came out of the darkness which concealed Sergeant Murphy. “By heaven! there’s something coming to this lot!”
“There is something coming to all of us, Sergeant Murphy.” It was the cold, measured voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu which spoke. “Tonight, I am destroying some of the weeds which choked my path.”
Somewhere in the neighborhood of the tunnel, the entrance to which Sterling could not see from where he lay, a pump was at work. The roar of the furnace increased in volume. It was like the sustained roar of some unimaginable, ravenous beast.
He took a firm grip upon himself.
He was shaking violently: complete collapse threatened... There was an interval during which the furnace door was opened again, but Sterling resolutely turned his head aside. At the clang of its closing he opened his eyes again.
“Paracelsus,” came that strange voice out of the darkness — and, now, with a note of exaltation in it, a note of fanaticism, an oddly rising cadence— “Paracelsus, although in some respects an impostor, yet was the master of many truths; of the making of gold he knew something, but few have understood his dictum ‘Vita ignis corpus lignum’ (light is the fire, the body the fuel).”
He was silent for a moment. The roar of the furnace increased again in volume.
“The body the fuel...” he repeated. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Mr. Alan Sterling, Detective-sergeant Murphy. War is merciless, and I regret that you stand in my way. But in order that you shall realize the selflessness of my motives, I wish you, before going to join the shades of your ancestors, to be witness to my justice.”
He uttered again that short, guttural command.
A figure walked gracefully out of the shadows into the light.
It was his daughter — Fah Lo Suee. She wore a green robe, cut low upon the shoulders, and of so fine a texture that every line of her slender body might be traced in its delicacy. There were jewels on her fingers and she smiled composedly.
Within the ring of light she knelt, and bowed her head in the direction of the unseen speaker.
The Burmese executioner had followed her. He stood behind her, now, looking upward.
“Of all the spies who have penetrated to my councils,” — the voice became more and more sibilant, rising even upon a higher key— “this woman, my daughter, has been the chief culprit. There is traitor blood in her, but she has betrayed me for the last time.”
Fah Lo Suee knelt motionless, her graceful head lowered.
“One who would do the work to which I have set my hand, must forget mercy in favor of justice. Yet because, though execrable, detestable, you are my daughter, I offer you the Lotus Gate of escape. Do you accept it?”
Fah Lo Suee raised her head. She was still smiling proudly.
“I accept,” she said. “I have only loved one man in my life — and I accept on condition that the same gate shall be opened for him.”
“I agree to this condition.”
The tones of the speaker indicated repressed madness.
Fah Lo Suee extended her slender arms.
“Denis Nayland Smith,” she said, and there was tragedy in her musical voice— “until tonight, you never even suspected. I have told you and I am unashamed. You go with me through the gate. Death gives me something that life could never give.”
She paused; only the roar of the furnace could be heard. Then, stretching her arms upward, towards the hidden Dr. Fu-Manchu:
“I am ready.”
“To this I had been blind, yet I might have known — for woman is a lever which a word can bend.”
The strange voice, exalted, oracular in mad inspiration, drew nearer in the darkness until Dr. Fu-Manchu appeared in the circle of light.
His mask-like face was transfigured, his eyes glittered like jewels. He was a seer, a prophet, a man set above human laws. He carried a small, cut-glass goblet, upheld like a chalice.
“Rise,” he commanded.
Fah Lo Suee stood upright. “You are ready?”
“I am eager. It is my wedding night.”
“Here is the desire of your heart... and death.”
“Good-bye,” said Fah Lo Suee, her lips curved in that proud, fearless smile.
