by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE RIVER GATE
My first idea, naturally enough, was that Dr. Fu-Manchu had given some signal, unobserved, for my dismissal; that I was to be dispatched in darkness. The burner hissing under the retort and its gruesome contents became silent. I sprang to my feet. At least I could go down fighting. Out of impenetrable gloom came the imperious voice, guttural now:
“Pray remain seated. Owing to certain extemporized measures, power in the laboratory is controlled from an outside switchboard—and it has been cut off. This means an air-raid warning, Mr. Kerrigan; but it need not disturb you.”
An air-raid warning? Then a terrifying idea which I had been grimly repelling—an idea that unconsciousness had lasted for a long time; that this secret laboratory was situated perhaps far away from England—need disturb me no more. However, I remained standing, and with courage greater than I had ever known in the visible presence of Dr. Fu-Manchu:
“You appear to be dangerously ill,” I said.
And the ghostly voice replied:
“I have brought myself close to death. Science is my mistress and I serve her too well. You may have noticed a small lamp (it is extinguished now) producing a violet light. The condition in which you find me is due to my experiments with this lamp. The green jacket I wear affords some slight protection; but I can discover no formula to reinforce the human economy so that it may cancel its deleterious effects. Dr. Oster, my assistant in these inquiries, developed opacity of the crystalline lens accompanied by other notable pigmentary changes; and although, a fact to which the specimens you have inspected bear witness, racial types react variously, none can sustain these emanations without suffering permanent injury. But you remain standing.”
I sat down.
Whether it was imagination, or whether, as I had sometimes suspected, the eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu possessed a chatoyant quality, I thought that I could see them watching me—shining greenly in the dark like the eyes of a great cat.
“I have submitted certain proposals to Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he went on, “Although, thanks to my recovery of the chart found by Sir Lionel Barton, I can take suitable precautions, any interference with my plans in the Caribbean may alter the world’s history. You are my hostage. If Sir Denis refuses to pay your ransom (I gather that you hold a minor science degree) I shall invite you to take the place of Companion Oster—of whose services you deprived me—and to carry on those inquiries, under my direction, which his death has interrupted.”
It is beyond the power of my pen to convey any idea of the cloud of horror which swept down upon me as I listened to his words. Before my mind’s eye they appeared, those ghastly fragments of men who had died martyrs to the lust for knowledge which animated this devil in human shape. To their tormented company I was to be added!
How I should have acted, what reply I should have made to that monstrous statement, I cannot say. Although I had detected no movement, Dr. Fu-Manchu had retired from his place on the other side of the glass-topped bench, for when he spoke again it was from beyond the hidden doorway.
“I must leave you for a time, Mr. Kerrigan. I strongly urge you to remain seated. Many of the objects here are lethal. I will arrange for the lamps to be relighted. You may smoke if you wish.”
A faint sound indicated that the door had been closed.
I was alone—alone with the violet lamp which blinded, which changed men from white to yellow, which had shattered the supernormal constitution of its Chinese creator; alone with the amputated remains of some who had suffered that this dream of Dr. Fu-Manchu might be realized. What was the purpose of these merciless experiments? What power resided in the lamp?
Fumbling in my pocket, I learned that my torch remained undisturbed. Any fate was preferable to the fate ordained by the devil Doctor. I flashed a ray about that awesome room, that silent room which smelled like a mortuary.
It glittered momentarily upon my Colt lying on the couch. It brought to life the head of the Negro grinning in a big jar, and lent uncanny movement to those discoloured hands which for ever had ceased to move.
I stepped towards the red line.
“Consciousness of cerebral pressure” mentioned by Dr. Fu-Manchu was not perceptible; the Ericksen apparatus remained disconnected. I crossed the red line and took up my automatic. At the moment I retrieved the Colt an abnormally-tensed sense of hearing told me that the sliding door had been opened.
In a flash I had turned, a ray focused on the wall behind the bench, my finger alert on the trigger.
No doubt the mystery of the lamp had inflamed my imagination, but I thought that by magic a djinn had been summoned. Although I had the apparition covered by my pistol, consternation threatened me as the torchlight wavered on a gigantic figure framed in the doorway. It was that of a herculean man who wore a white robe and a red sash; a tarbush on his head. His thick lips, flattened nostrils and frizzy hair were those of a Nubian—but his skin was white as ivory I Common sense dispersed fantasy. The man was a strangler sent by Dr. Fu-Manchu to dispatch me.
“Put up your hands!” I ordered.
Blinking in the light, the white Negro obeyed, raising thick, sinewy blond hands, and:
“No so loud, sir,” he said hoarsely, “you spoil your chances if you speak so loud.”
That he spoke in English, and spoke with an American intonation, provided a further shock: his seeming friendliness I distrusted.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name—Hassan, sir. I want to help you—”
“Why?”
“White Lady wishes.” He touched his brow as he spoke. “When White Lady wishes Hassan obeys.”
And now my heart gave a great leap.
“The White Lady—Ardatha?”
Hassan touched his brow again.
“Her family I serve, and my father, his father before; long, long time before. White Lady’s order more high than Master’s order, more high than any but God Almighty. Follow Hassan.”
A hundred questions I longed to ask, for this man perhaps held the clue to that torturing mystery never far from my mind; but a quick decision was imperative—and I made it.
“Lead the way,” I said, and stepped forward. “I will use my torch.”
“No light,” he whispered—”no light. Come close and take my hand.”
It was in no spirit of childish confidence that I grasped the muscular white hand; but as I had reached the Nubian’s side and finally switched off my torch, those blinking eyes had told me the truth—Hassan was blind.
“No sound,” he said, in a low voice. “Hassan see with inner eye. Trust Hassan…”
Along a short passage apparently covered in rubber he led me. Another silent door he opened and closed. The peculiarly nauseating smell of the laboratory was no longer perceptible; the air was cool. We crept up a stone stair, and stood at the top for a while. I thought that Hassan was listening. I could detect no sound, no glimmer of light.
His grip tightened suddenly, and he dragged me sharply to the left for three paces and then stood still again.
Faint footsteps sounded—grew nearer—louder. A beam of yellow light shone past an arched opening not ten feet from where we hid. I watched, holding my breath. The moving rays revealed a stone passage. And now came the bearer of the light—a short, stocky brown man, one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s Burmese bodyguard. He carried a hurricane lamp. He passed. Behind him came two others—they bore a body on a stretcher.
They, too, passed; the sound of footsteps faded, the light grew dim: complete darkness returned.
The most dreadful premonitions attacked me; I grew sick with dread. Whose was the muffled body? What place was this, with its stone-paved passages, which Dr. Fu-Manchu had chosen for his lair? As if Hassan divined how near I was to speech;
“Ss!” he hissed—and led me on.
Our route lay in that direction from which the bearers had come; and just as I thought I detected a faint light ahead, a sound echoed holl
owly through the stone passages, a sound which robbed me almost of my last spark of courage. It was the note of a gong!
Hassan stopped dead. He bent to my ear.
“That call for me,” he whispered. “Must go. Listen very careful. Straight before is opening—wide and high. River below—very far below. But iron ladder straight under opening. Take much care, sir. Barge lie there; tide rising. If someone is on barge—shoot. Then wade through mud to wooden steps beyond bows…”
A second gong stroke reverberated through the building.
“Hurry!” Hassan whispered, “hurry!”
He released my hand, and was gone.
The prospect was far from pleasing; but I preferred a broken neck to the fate in store for me at the hands of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I set out towards that distant glimmer. I had formed a mental picture of the “opening—wide and high”, and having no desire to plunge headlong into the mud of the Thames ventured to use my light. At sight of what lay before me my hopes were dashed.
This was an old warehouse. The passage led to wide double doors beside which I saw rusty winding gear. There was an iron-barred opening in each of the doors—which were closed and locked.
I was trapped!
Although my spirits had touched zero I went on to the doors and tried the heavy padlock. It was fast. Cold, damp air came through the grilles as I stared out, hopelessly. So dark was the night, so far below lay the River, that I could have formed no impression of the scene if searchlights bad not helped me. The blackness was slashed by swords of silver. They formed a changing pattern in the sky, and this was reproduced in the oily mirror of the River far beneath.
From the distance of buildings dimly discernible on the further bank, which I assumed to be the Surrey shore, I judged that I was well below bridges and in the heart of dockland. But that great heart pulsed slowly tonight. A red glow here, a vague iridescence there, and an uneasy burn, like that of a vast hive imprisoned, alone represented the normal Wagnerian symphony of London. Above, the questing searchlights; below, a pianissimo in the song of industry until the hawk’s shadow should pass.
Turning with a smothered groan, I looked back along the passage.
At a point which I estimated to be beyond that at which Hassan and I had hidden, a bar of yellow light lay across the stone floor. Action was imperative. Walking softly, I approached this bar of light. Apart from fears of a personal character, I was filled with the wildest apprehensions concerning Smith. A theory to account for my presence in this deserted warehouse had occurred to me; for I had recalled the fact that the Regent Canal came out at Limehouse.
Along that gloomy waterway, with its cuttings and tunnels, I had been transported from the house in Regent’s Park. The body I had seen borne on a stretcher had followed by the same route.
I stumbled, stifled an exclamation, and managed to fall softly.
There was a gap in the stone paving, and I lay still for a while; for I had fallen not two feet from the bar of light, and as I tripped I had seen a shadow move across it!
Someone was in the place from which the yellow light shone.
The next few moments covered long agonies of doubt. But apparently I had not been detected. Carefully moving my hands, I tried to find out what lay between me and the light. A discovery soon came. I had tripped and fallen on a square stone landing from which steps led down to a sunken door. It was from an iron-barred window beside this door that the light was shining.
Inch by inch I changed my position, until, seated on the steps, I could look into a cellar-like room illuminated by a hurricane lamp set on a crate. From this position I saw a strange thing. Because of the imperfect illumination and my angle of vision, at first I could not altogether make out what it was that I saw.
A pair of sinewy hands were working rapidly upon some mysterious task. Bare wrists and forearms I could see, hairy and muscular, but of the head and body of him to whom they belonged I could see nothing. A faint tearing sound and a sort of hiss gave me the clue at last. The man was stitching something up in sailcloth: I could just make out a shapeless bundle.
Now, I felt far from master of myself; but in the almost silent activities of this man who had such powerful arms there was something indescribably malignant.
Who was he, and what was he doing in the cellar?
Observing every precaution, I slightly changed my position again, until I could see quite clearly the nature of the bundle the sailmaker stitched.
It contained a human body!
The worker had started at the feet and had completed the shroud of sailcloth up to the breast.
I closed my eyes for a moment, clenched my teeth. Then, I moved farther down. The body lay on a stout bench and from my constrained position it was still impossible to see more than the arms, up to the elbows, of the worker.
But I saw the face of the dead man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LIMEHOUSE POLICE STATION
At the moment that I obtained my first glimpse of the face of the man whose body was being sewn up in sailcloth, I saw also that his arms were crossed on his breast.
Both hands had been amputated.
A spasm of anger, revulsion, nausea swept over me. I half withdrew the automatic from my pocket; then sanity conquered: I sat still and watched. Lowering my head inch by inch I presently discerned the pock-marked features of the stitcher. I had seen that hideous mask before: it belonged to one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s Burmese killers. The yellow lantern light left the sunken eyes wholly in shadow and painted black hollows under prominent cheekbones.
Ss! hissed the thread drawn through canvas—ss! as those sinewy fingers moved swiftly upon their task. My dreadful premonitions were dismissed.
The dead man was not Nayland Smith, but Dr. Oster.
In some incomprehensible way, Fu-Manchu’s servants had smuggled the body from the house in Regent’s Park. I suppressed a sigh of relief. The movements of the dacoit cast grotesque shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the cellar as I crouched staring at the mutilated remains of the man I had shot.
Horror heaped on horror had had the curious result of inducing acute mental clarity. During the few minutes—not more than three—that I remained there, I conceived—and rejected—plan after plan. The best, as I still believe, was to rush the Burman, stun him and await a new arrival—for palpably he could not complete the business of disposing of the body without assistance. Under cover of my automatic I would compel whoever came to lead me to an exit.
This plan was never put into operation.
I was calculating my chances of getting through the doorway and silently overpowering a formidable adversary, when I was arrested by a sound of light, rapid footsteps which approached from beyond the luminous band from that end of the passage which I had not explored. I was too late. Now I must act quickly if I were to escape detection.
Twisting sideways, I began to crawl back up the steps. I gained the passage above, and on hands and knees crept into the shadows. Nor did I win cover a moment too soon.
A gigantic figure, wearing only a dark vest and trousers, passed, with the swift, lithe tread of a panther, down the steps and into the cellar not two yards away. It was Hassan, the white Nubian!
I stood up, my back pressed to an icy-cold wall, automatic in hand, listening.
“Master order fix weights, quick.” (Hassan spoke in odd English, presumably the only language he had in common with the Burman.) “Must move sharp. I carry him. You bring lamp and open River door.”
On hearing those words, yet another plan occurred to me. If I could follow the funeral procession, undetected, this River door to which Hassan referred might serve a living man as well as a dead one. Success or failure turned upon the toss of a coin.
Which way were they going?
If I remained where I was, and the cortège turned left, I could not fail to be discovered; if I moved quickly to the other side of the bar of light, and they went to the right, then my fate would be sealed.
I determined
to remain in my present hiding place, and, if the Burman saw me, to shoot him and then throw myself upon the mercy of Hassan.
Much movement, clang of metal, and smothered muttering reached me from the cellar, the husky hiss of Hassan’s voice being punctuated with snarling monosyllables which I judged to represent the Burman’s replies. At last came a significant shuffling, a deep grunt, and a sound of approaching footsteps. The blind Nubian had the corpse on his back and was carrying it out. Fate had spun the coin: which way would it fall?
First came the Burman, holding the hurricane lantern. As he walked up the stone steps I tried to identify myself with the shadows; for, although he presented a target which I could not have missed, although he was a professional assassin, a blood-lustful beast in human form, I shrank from the act of dispatching him.
He turned to the right.
Every movement he had made from the moment of his appearance at the base of the steps had been covered by my Colt. The giant figure of Hassan followed, stooping, Atlas-like, under his gruesome burden. He followed the lantern-bearer.
I had not been seen.
And now, as that death march receded into the distance of the long, echoing passage, I stooped, rapidly unlaced my shoes and discarded them. Silently I followed. The cold of the stone paving numbing my feet, I crept along, preserving a discreet interval between myself and the corpse-bearer, a huge, crouching silhouette against the leading light. His shadow, and the shadow of his load, danced hellishly on the floor, upon the walls, upon the roof of the corridor.
The lantern disappeared. The Burman had walked into some opening on the left of the passage, for against a rectangular patch of light upon the opposite wall I saw the burdened figure bent under its mortal bale turn and vanish too.
I pressed on to the corner. There were descending steps. Preserving a suitable distance from the moving lamp, I followed, and found myself in a shadow-haunted place, a warehouse, fusty as some ancient vault to which the light of the sun had never penetrated, in which, picked out by the dancing yellow light, I saw stacks of cases, through an aisle between which the lantern led me.
