by Sax Rohmer
At the end of this aisle Hassan dropped his load. The muffled slump of the handless corpse was a sound I was destined often to remember.
“Open the door.” He was breathless. “Got to be quick. We have to make our getaway, too.”
That supernormal clarity of brain remained. The place was about to be abandoned; presumably Dr. Fu-Manchu had already made good his escape. Visualising the Thames as I had seen it through the grille from the floor above, I determined that the door the Burman was already unlocking must be close to water level. My course was clear; the issue rested with me.
A gust of damp air swept into the fusty stagnation of the warehouse: followed, a subdued clangour. The lantern had been set on top of a crate, but dimly I discerned an opening and I knew what it represented. Whereas loads were hoisted to the upper floor, they were discharged to barges from the warehouse by way of this gangway which projected over the river at tidal level. From here the remains of Dr. Oster were to be consigned to old Father Thames and held fast in his muddy embrace until mortal decay cast fragments upon some downstream shallow, fragments which no man should identify.
I could see no searchlights; nevertheless, I could see the opening. I heard laboured breathing—creaking shoes which supported striving bodies. Dimly I heard the splash.
Then, Colt in hand, silent in shoeless feet, I rushed.
Silent, I say? Not silent enough for the blind Nubian. I was almost on the drawbridge, I had passed the Burman, when an arm like a steel band locked itself about me!
“Inshâllâh!”
Never had I experienced such acceptance of complete inertia. I am no weakling; but I know when I am mastered. The automatic was wrenched from my hand; I became crushed to that herculean body, a limp, useless thing. I divined, rather than perceived, that the dacoit stood behind me, knife raised. My brain, my brain alone, remained active.
“Hassan!” I panted. “Hassan, let me go!”
That unbreakable hold relaxed. Inexorably, I was jerked forward. A stinging in my left shoulder and a sense of moisture, told me how narrowly I had escaped death from the Burman’s knife.
A thud—a snarl—the sound of a fall, and then:
“Take your chance,” Hassan whispered. “No other way.”
Lifting me above his head as Milo of Crotona might playfully have lifted a child, he hurled me into the river!
* * *
“Who’s there?”
Breathless, all but spent, I swam for shore. There was a wharf, I remembered, and steps. That plunge into icy water had nearly defeated me. I had no breath with which to answer the challenge. A blue light shone out. I headed for it.
And, as I laboured frantically, a swift beam from the river picked me up. I heard shouted orders, the purr of an engine. My feet touched bottom: I staggered on towards the shore.
“Down the steps, Gallaho! There’s someone swimming in. Dowse that searchlight out there!”
Nayland Smith!
The light behind—it must have come from a River Police craft—shone on wooden steps and painted my own shadow before me. Suddenly, it was shut off. The blue light ahead moved, came nearer, lower. I waded forward and was grasped and held upright—for I was close to the end of my endurance.
“It’s Kerrigan,” I whispered. “Hang on to me. I’m nearly through…”
Chief Inspector Gallaho, a friend of former days, helped me to mount the steps. His lamp he extinguished, but I had had a glimpse of the familiar stocky figure enveloped in oilskins, of a wide-brimmed bowler, a grim red face.
“This is a surprise, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said, as though he had unexpectedly met me in Piccadilly. ‘It will be first class news for Sir Denis. You see, you being in their hands made our job a difficult one.”
As we stepped on to the wharf:
“That you, Kerrigan?” came Smith’s crisp voice.
“Yes, by heaven’s mercy! Winded and drenched, but still alive.”
“Straight through to the car,” Smith went on rapidly. “Show a light, someone. A brisk rub down and a hot grog at Limehouse Police Station will put you right.”
Clenching my teeth, which displayed a tendency to chatter, I followed a lozenge of luminous blue which danced ahead along a paved path.
“Here we are. Get in, Kerrigan. I leave you in charge here, inspector. See that nothing, not even a rat, comes out; but make no move without orders from me.”
Feeling not unlike a half-drowned rat myself, I tumbled into a car which stood there in the darkness, and Smith joined me.
“Limehouse Police Station,” he said to the driver. “Step on it.”
We set out along some narrow riverside street in which not one speck of light was visible. Then, Nayland Smith relaxed. He threw his arms around my shoulders, and in a voice quite unlike that in which he had been issuing orders:
“Kerrigan,” he said, “this is a miracle! Thank God you’re safe. Even now, I find it hard to believe. But first—are you hurt?”
The emotion betrayed by that man of iron touched me keenly.
“I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance. Smith,” I replied awkwardly. “It was my own folly that gave you all this trouble. I’m all right, though I don’t deserve to be. A knife scratch on my shoulder; nothing, I assure you.”
“But you are chilled to the bone. Try to tell me all you can. Time is on the side of the enemy.”
As the driver, whom I suspected to be Sergeant Sims of the Flying Squad, whirled us headlong through Limehouse darkness, I told my story. I held nothing back, not even my belief that Ardatha had betrayed me to Fu-Manchu’s thugs.
“Probably wrong there,” Smith commented staccato-fashion. “But no matter at the moment. I followed the Doctor to the garage—and was cleverly locked inside! Place nearly soundproof. When the raid squad arrived, managed to attract their attention. While they were breaking in, Fu-Manchu’s gang smuggled Oster’s body away and smuggled you away, too. Barge on canal with auxiliary motor. House formerly belonged to certain foreign diplomat—hence peep-hole behind china cupboard…”
The brakes shrieked. I was all but thrown from my seat; a headlight shot out. I had the momentary glimpse of a narrow thoroughfare, and of an evil-looking yellow man who staggered aside from the bonnet.
“Try thinkee where you go,” the driver shouted angrily. “Hop-head!”
And we were off again.
“Barton made the only capture of the night—”
“What?”
“Dr. Fu-Manchu’s marmoset! It was for the marmoset Ardatha came back, Kerrigan. While we were searching the house—and little enough we found—the phone rang. I answered it and Dr. Fu-Manchu issued his ultimatum—”
“In person?”
“In person! Won’t bore you with it now. Here we are!”
The car was pulled up in its own length.
“How did you get on my track?”
“Later, Kerrigan. Come on.”
He dragged me into the station. A vigorous towelling before the open fire and a piping hot grog quite restored me. The scratch on my shoulder was no more than skin deep—a liberal application of iodine soon staunched the bleeding. Wearing borrowed shoes and underwear and the uniform of a district inspector (which fitted me very well) I felt game again for anything. Smith was now wild with excitement to be off; he could not stand still.
“What you tell me unties my hands, Kerrigan. This hide-out of Fu-Manchu’s is an old warehouse, marked by the local authorities for demolition but still containing a certain amount of stock. Lacking clear evidence I dared not break in. The manager of the concern, a young German known to the police (he is compelled to report here at regular intervals) may or may not be a creature of the Doctor’s. In either case he has the keys. Point is, that the officer who keeps the alien register is off duty; he has taken it home to do some work on it, and nobody knows the German’s address!”
“But surely—”
“I have done that, Kerrigan! A police cyclist set out half an hour ago to fin
d Sergeant Wyckham. But now I need not wait. You agree with me, inspector?”
For a moment I failed to understand, until the laughter of the real inspector who had supervised my grooming reminded me of the fact that I was in uniform.
“For my part,” said the police officer, “I don’t think this man, Jacob Bohm, is a member of the gang. I think, though, that he suspected there was something funny going on.”
“Why?” snapped Smith, glancing irritably at the clock.
“Well, the last time he came in, so Sergeant Wyckham told me, he hinted that he might shortly have some valuable information to offer us. He said that he was collecting evidence which wasn’t complete yet, but—”
A phone buzzed; he took up the instrument on his desk.
“Hullo—yes? Speaking. That you, Wyckham?” He glanced at Smith. “Found him, sir… Yes, I’ll jot it down.” He wrote. “Jacob Bohm, 39b Felling Street, Limehouse. And you say his landlady’s name is Mullins? Good. The matter’s of some importance, sergeant. What was that you mentioned last week about the man?… Oh, he said he was putting the evidence in writing? He thought that what?… That there were cellars of which he had no keys, but which were used after dark? I see.
“Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “feel up to a job?”
“Anything you say, Smith.”
“There’s a police car outside, as well as that from the Yard. Dash across to Felling Street—the driver will know it—and get Jacob Bohm. I’m off. I leave this job to you. Bring him back here: I will keep in touch.”
He turned whilst the inspector was still talking on the phone; but I grabbed his arm.
“Smith—did you find any trace—?”
“No.” He spoke over his shoulder. “But Ardatha called me two minutes after Fu-Manchu. She was responsible for your finding me where you found me tonight. Jump to it, Kerrigan. This German may have valuable information.”
He had reached the office door, the inspector had hung up the receiver and was staring blankly after him, when again the phone buzzed. The inspector took up the instrument, said, “Yes—speaking,” and then seemed to become suddenly tensed.
“One moment, sir!” he cried after Smith. “One moment!”
Smith turned, tugging at the lobe of his ear.
“Well—what is it?”
“River Police, sir. Excuse me for a second.”
He began to scribble on a pad, then:
“Yes—I follow. Nothing on him in the way of evidence? No—I will act at once. Good-bye.”
He hung up again, staring at Smith.
“They have just hauled Jacob Bohm out of the river off Tilbury,” he said. “A ship’s anchor caught him. He was sewn up in sailcloth. Both hands had been amputated.”
CHAPTER NINE
39B PELLING STREET
Of my drive to Felling Street, a short one, I remember not one detail, except that of a searchlight which, as we turned a corner, suddenly clove the dark sky like a scimitar. I had thought that the man’s death rendered the visit unnecessary: Smith had assured me that it rendered it more than ever important.
“He was putting the evidence in writing, Kerrigan. We want his notes…”
I mused in the dark. It was Ardatha who had saved me! This knowledge was a burning inspiration. In some way she had become a victim of the evil genius of Dr. Fu-Manchu; her desertion had not been a voluntary one. Then, as the police driver threaded a way through streets which all looked alike, I found myself considering the fate of Jacob Bohm; the strange mutilation of Dr. Oster; those ghastly exhibits in the glass case somewhere below the old warehouse.
“Note the yellow hands”—I heard that harsh, guttural voice plainly as though it had spoken in my ear—”They were contributed by a blond Bavarian…” Could I doubt, now, that the blond Bavarian was Jacob Bohm? I should have been Fu-Manchu’s next ember thrown to the Moloch of science before whom he immolated fellow men as callously as the Aztec priests offered human sacrifices to Quetzacotl.
Number 39B was identical in every way with its neighbours. All the houses stood flush to the pavement; so much I could make out: all were in darkness. In response to my ring Mrs. Mullins presently opened the door. A very dim light showed (I saw that some sort of black-out curtain hung behind her) but it must have enabled her to discern my uniform.
“Oh good God!” she exclaimed. “Have the Germans landed?”
Her words reminded me of the part I had to play.
“No ma’am,” I replied gruffly. ‘I am a police inspector—”
“Oh, inspector, I haven’t shown a peep of light! Truly I haven’t. When them sirens started howling I put out every light in the house. Even when I heard the all-clear, I only used candles.”
“There’s no complaint. Are you Mrs. Mullins?”
“That’s my name, sir.”
“It’s about your lodger, Jacob Bohm, that I’m here.”
The portly figure, dimly seen, appeared to droop.
“Oh!” she whispered, “I always expected it.”
I went in. Mrs. Mullins closed the door, dropped the curtain, which I recognized for an old counterpane, and turned to face me in a little sitting-room, candle lighted, which was clean, tidy, and furnished in a way commemorated by Punch artists of the Edwardian era. She was a stout, grey-haired woman and no toper, but tonight her abode spoke of gin. She extended her hands appealingly.
“Don’t say Little Jake was a spy, sir!” she exclaimed. “He was like a son to me. Don’t tell me—”
“When did you see him last?”
“Ah, that’s it! He didn’t come home last night and I thought to myself, that’s funny. Then tonight, when the young lady from the firm called and explained it was all right—”
“What young lady—someone you know?”
“Oh, no, sir—I’ve never seen her before. But she was sure he’d be back later and went up to wait for him. Then that air-raid warning came, and—”
“Where is this—”
I ceased speaking. A faint sound had reached my ears, coming from beyond a half-opened door. Someone was stealing downstairs!
In one bound I reached the door, threw it open, and looked up. Silhouetted against faint light from above, a woman’s figure turned and dashed back! With springs in my heels I followed, leapt into a room a pace behind her, and stood squarely in the doorway.
She had run towards a curtained window, and I saw her in the light of a fire, sole illumination of the room, and that which had shone down the stair. She wore a dark raincoat and a small close-fitting hat from beneath which the glory of her hair cascaded in iridescent waves. Dancing firelight touched her face, more pale than usual, and struck amethyst glints from her lovely eyes. But my heart had already prepared me to meet “the young lady from the firm.”
“It seems I came just in time, Ardatha,” I said, and succeeded in speaking coolly.
She faced me, standing quite still.
“You!” she whispered. “So you are of the police! I thought so!”
“You are wrong; I am not. But this is no time to explain.” I had formed a theory of my own to account for her apparent ignorance of all that had passed between us, and I spoke gently. “I owe you my life, Ardatha, and it belongs to you with all else I have. You said you would try to understand. You must help me to understand, too. What are you doing here?”
She took a step forward, her eyes half fearful, her lips parted.
“I am obeying orders which I must obey. There are things which you can never understand. I believe you mean all you say, and I want to trust you.” Prompted by some swift impulse, she came up to me and rested her hands upon my shoulders, watching me with eyes in which I read a passionate questioning. “God knows how I want to trust you.”
Almost, I succumbed; her charm intoxicated me. As her accepted lover I had the right to those sweet, tremulous lips. But I had read the riddle in my own way, and clenching my teeth I resisted that maddening temptation.
“You may trust me where you can
not trust yourself, Ardatha,” I said quietly. “I am yours here and hereafter. Shake off this horrible slavery. Come with me now. The laws of England are stronger than the laws of Dr. Fu-Manchu. You will be safe, Ardatha, and I will teach you to remember all you have forgotten.”
But I kept my hands tightly clenched at my sides; for, once in my arms, all those sane resolutions regarding her would have been swept away, and I knew it.
“Perhaps I want to do so—very much,” she whispered. “Perhaps—” she glanced swiftly up at me and swiftly down again—“this is remembrance. But if such a thing is ever to be, first I must live. If I came with you now I should die within one month—”
“That is nonsense!” I spoke hotly and regretted my violence in the next breath. “Forgive me! I would see that you were safe—even from him.”
Ardatha shook her head. The firelight, which momentarily grew brighter, played wantonly in dancing curls.
“It is only with him that I can be safe,” she replied in a low voice. “He is well served because no one of the Si-Fan dare desert him—”
“Why? Whatever do you mean?”
Her hands clutched me nervously: she hid her face.
“There is an injection. It produces a living death—catalepsy. But there is an antidote too, which must be used once each two weeks. I have enough for one month more of life. Then I should be buried for dead. Perhaps he would dig up my body: he has done such things before. No one else could save me—only Dr. Fu-Manchu. And so, you see, with so many others I am just his helpless slave. Now, do you begin to understand?”
Begin to understand? My blood was boiling; yet my heart was cold. I remembered how I had tried to kill the Chinese ghoul, and realized that had I succeeded Ardatha would have been lost to me for ever; that she… But sanity forbade my following that train of thought to its dreadful conclusion.
Such a wild yearning overcame me, so mad a desire to hold and protect her from horrors unnameable, that, unwilled, mechanically, my arm went about her shoulders. She trembled slightly, but did not resist.
“You see”—the words were barely audible—“you must let me go. Forget Ardatha. Except by the will of Dr. Fu-Manchu I can be nothing to you or to any man: I can only try to prevent him harming you.” She raised her eyes to me. “Please let me go.”
