The Island of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Silence: I was disconnected!

  Frantically I called the exchange; but all the consolation I received from the night operator was:

  “Zennor’s rung off, sir.”

  “Smith!” I shouted and burst into the dining-room.

  Nayland Smith was standing staring out of the window. He turned and faced me.

  “Yes,” he said coolly; “it was Ardatha. Where is she and what had she to say?”

  Rapidly, perhaps feverishly, I told him; and then:

  “The marmoset!” I cried. “Barton caught it! What did he do with it?”

  “Do with it!” came Sir Lionel’s great voice, and appeared at the other end of the room, his mane of hair dishevelled. “What did it do with me? After the blasted thing—it’s all of a thousand years old, and I know livestock—had bitten me twice last night, I locked it in the wardrobe. This morning—”

  He raised a bloodstained finger, there was a shrill angry whistle, and a tiny monkey, a silver grey thing no larger than a starling, shot through the doorway behind him, paused, chattered wickedly, and sprang from the buffet onto a high cornice!

  “There’s your marmoset,” cried Barton. “I should have strangled him if I hadn’t known Chinese character! I said, Kerrigan, there might be a way. This is the way—there’s your hostage!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE SNAPPING FINGERS

  “The unaccountable absence of Kennard Wood,” said Nayland Smith, staring out of the window, “is most disturbing. These apartments, Kerrigan, have been the scene of strange happenings. It was from here that I opposed Dr. Fu-Manchu when he tried—and nearly succeeded—in his plan to force a puppet President upon the United States.”

  I stood beside him looking out over the roofs of New York from this eagle’s nest on the fortieth floor of the Regal Athenian Hotel.

  A pearly moon regarded us from a cloudless sky, a moon set amidst a million stars which twinkled above a Walt Disney city. One tall tower dominated the foreground of the composition. It rose, jewelled with lights, from the frosty line of an intervening roof up to the pharos which crowned it. The river showed as a smudge of silver far below: an approaching train was a fiery dragon winding in and out of mysterious gullies.

  In that diamond-clear air I could hear the sound of the locomotive; I could hear a motor horn, the hoarse whistle of some big ship heading out for the open sea. Lights glittered everywhere, from starry heavens down to frostily-sparkling buildings and the moving headlamps of restless traffic.

  “Bit of a contrast to London,” I said.

  “Yes.” Smith pronounced the word with unusual slowness. “The fog of war has not dimmed the light of New York. But you and I know who is responsible for those rumours, and those missing men in the Caribbean; and although, according to your account, the Doctor is a sick man, we dare not under-estimate potentialities. Even now—he may be here.”

  As always, the mere suspicion that the dreadful Chinese scientist might be near induced a sense, purely nervous, no doubt, of sudden chill. We had been delayed unexpectedly at Lisbon and again later; it was possible that Fu-Manchu was approaching New York. If Ardatha’s words had been true, he was already here.

  Ardatha! She had promised to try to see me again. I continued to stare out at the myriad twinkling points. From any one of that constellation of windows Ardatha might be looking as I looked from this.

  “I am getting seriously worried about Keanard Wood,” said Smith suddenly. “According to his last message from Havana, he and his assistant, Longton, were leaving by air. They are long overdue: I don’t understand it.”

  Colonel Kennard Wood, of the United States Secret Service, had been left in charge of the Caribbean inquiry when Smith had hurriedly returned to England. We had been expecting him all day. In fact, Barton had been compelled to go to Washington that morning in Smith’s stead owing to the importance of the anticipated interview.

  There were times when I felt as one who dreams, when, seeing a double newspaper headline, “British capture Benghazi,” I asked myself what I was doing here at an hour when England and her allies grappled with a world menace. It was Smith who always supplied the answer: “An even greater menace, one which threatens the entire white race, is closing around the American continent.”

  The phone buzzed.

  Smith turned quickly and crossed to the instrument.

  “Yes—speaking… What?’

  The tone in which he rapped out the last word brought me about. His eyes glittered metallically and I saw—those prominent jaw muscles betrayed the fact—that his teeth were clenched.

  “Good God! You are sure? Yes… at once.”

  He banged the receiver back and stared at me, suddenly haggard.

  “Smith! what has happened?”

  “Longton—poor Longton has gone!”

  “What!”

  “They have just brought his body in from the river. Inspector Hawk of the Homicide Bureau recognized him, in spite of—”

  “In spite of what?”

  “Of his condition, Kerrigan!” He dashed a fist wildly into his other palm. “Fu-Manchu is here—of that we may be sure; for no one but Fu-Manchu could have brought the horror of the Snapping Fingers to New York.”

  “The Snapping Fingers?”

  But he was already running towards the door.

  “Explain on the way. Come on!”

  Seated in a chair in the lobby, the chair tipped back so that he could rest his feet on the ledge above a radiator, was a short, thick-set man whose clean-shaven red face, close-cropped dark hair, and bright eyes had at first sight reminded me of my old friend Chief Inspector Gallaho of Scotland Yard. As Smith came charging out the man righted his chair, sprang up, and began spluttering. Following Smith’s example, I hurriedly put on my topcoat. An unpleasant regurgitating sound drew my attention to the man on guard.

  “Say, mister,” he said, “what’s the big hurry?” He began to chew; for in this respect, also, he resembled Gallaho, except that Gallaho’s chewing was imaginary. “Nearly made me swallow my gum—”

  “Listen,” Smith broke in: “I’m going out. There may easily be an attempt to get into this apartment tonight—”

  “Say—I’m here.”

  “I want to make sure,” said Smith, “that you don’t stay here. These are your instructions. Having made sure that all the windows are secure—”

  “What, on the fortieth?”

  “As you say, on the fortieth. Having made sure of this, patrol every room in the suite, including the bathrooms, at intervals of fifteen minutes. If you find anything alive—except, of course, the monkey in a cage in Sir Lionel’s room—kill it. This applies to a fly or a cockroach. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sure, it’s clear enough, chief—”

  “Do it. If in doubt call Headquarters. I count upon you, Sergeant Rorke.”

  Throwing the door open, he ran to the elevator and I followed.

  * * *

  “Smith!” I said, as we were whirled in a police car through kaleidoscopic streets, “what has happened to Longton—and what did you mean by the Snapping Fingers?”

  “I meant a signal of death, Kerrigan. Poor Longton—whom you don’t know and will never know, now—may have heard it.”

  “I saw how the news affected you. Is it—something very horrible?”

  Propped in a corner of the racing car, he began to load his pipe.

  “Very horrible, Kerrigan. Some foul things have come out of the East, but this thing belongs to the West Indies. Of course, it may have a Negro origin. But at one time it assumed the size of an epidemic.”

  “In what way? I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I. It remains a mystery to the scientists. But it began, as far back as I can make out, in the Canal Zone. A young coloured man, employed on one of the locks, was found in his quarters one morning, bled white.”

  “Bled white?”

  “Almost literally.” He lighted the charred briar. “He was dead,
apparently from exhaustion. There were queerly discoloured areas on his skin; but there was practically no blood in his body—”

  “No blood?” I cried over the noise of the motor and the Broadway traffic. “What do you mean?”

  “He had been reduced to a sort of human veal. Something had drained all the blood from his veins.”

  “Good heavens! But were there no traces—no bloodstains?”

  “Nothing. He was the first of many. Then, unaccountably, the terror of the Zone disappeared.”

  “Vampire bats?”

  “This was suspected; but some of the victims—and they were not all coloured—had been found in rooms to which a bat could not have gained access.”

  “Was human agency at work?”

  “No. Conditions, in certain cases, ruled it out.”

  “But the Snapping Fingers?”

  “This clue came later. It was first reported when the epidemic struck Haiti; that is, just before I arrived there. A young American, whose name escapes me—but he had been sent from Washington in connection with the reports of unknown submarines in the Caribbean—died in just the same way.”

  “Significant!”

  “Very! But there were singular features in this case. It occurred at an hotel in Port au Prince. One odd fact was that a heavy Service pistol, fully charged, was found beside him.”

  “Where was—the body?”

  “In bed. But the mosquito net was raised as though he had been on the point of getting up. Here occurred the first reference to Snapping Fingers. It seems that he opened the door at about eleven o’clock at night and asked another resident who happened to be passing if he had snapped his fingers.”

  “Snapped his fingers?”

  “Yes, it’s queer, isn’t it? However—he was found dead in the morning.”

  “And no trace?”

  “None. But I have a hazy suspicion that those in charge of the investigation didn’t know where to look. However, the next victim was a German—undoubtedly a German agent. He died in exactly that way.”

  “At that same place?”

  “The same hotel, but not in the same room. But the case of the German differed in one respect: someone else heard the Snapping Fingers!”

  Inside the speeding car was a fog of tobacco smoke; outside, the lights of New York flashed by like a flaming ribbon.

  “Who heard it?”

  “Kennard Wood! He occupied the next room. I had just reached Port au Prince at the time, although I was putting up elsewhere; so that I know more about the case of Schonberg—that was the German’s name. After Schonberg had retired that night, it appears that Kennard Wood became curious about what he was doing. From the end of one balcony to another was not a difficult climb; and with the exercise of a little ingenuity it is easy to peep through a slatted shutter. He crept along. The German’s room was in darkness. He was about to climb back, when he heard a sound like that of someone snapping his fingers!”

  “From inside the room?”

  “Yes. It was repeated several times, but no light was switched on. Kennard Wood returned. Schonberg was found dead in the morning. His door was locked; his shutters were still closed.”

  “What did you do when you heard of this?”

  “I went along at once. I have a pretty strong stomach, but the sight of that heavy Teutonic frame quite drained of blood—ugh! Fortunately for the hotel a number of cases occurred elsewhere, not only in Port au Prince but as far north as Cap Haitien. A story got about amongst the coloured population that it was Voodoo, that someone they call the Queen Mamaloi (a fabulous woman supposed to live in the interior) was impatient for sacrifices. A perfect state of panic developed; no one dared to sleep. My God! to think that the fiend, Fu-Manchu, has brought that horror to New York!”

  “But what is it, Smith? What can it be?”

  “Just another agent of death, Kerrigan. Some unclean thing bred in a tropical swamp—”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHAT HAPPENED IN SUTTON PLACE

  “It is more than I can bear, Smith,” I whispered, and turned away, “Although I didn’t know Longton, it is more than I can bear.”

  “Probably painless, Mr. Kerrigan,” said Inspector Hawk. “Cheer up, sir.”

  But there was nothing cheerful in his manner, his appearance, or his voice. He was a tall, angular, gloomy person, depressingly taciturn; and he gave to each of his rare remarks the value of a biblical quotation. Under the harsh light of suspended lamps Longton lay on a stone slab. In life he had been slightly built; had had scanty fair hair and a small blond moustache. There was a sound of dripping water.

  “What have you got to say, doctor?” asked Smith, addressing a stout, red-faced man who beamed amiably through green-rimmed spectacles.

  “A very unusual case.” the police doctor replied breezily. “Very unusual. Observe the irregular rose-coloured spots, the evidences of pernicious, or aplastic, anaemia. A malarial subject, beyond doubt; but the actual cause of death remains obscure.”

  “Quite,” snapped Smith; “most obscure. I am sorry to seem to check your diagnosis, doctor, but James Longton had not suffered from malaria; and a month ago he was freshly-coloured as yourself. Have you heard, by chance, of the minor epidemic which recently appeared in the Canal Zone and later in Haiti?”

  “Some short account was published in the newspapers, but I don’t believe medical circles paid much attention to it. In any case, there can be no parallel here.”

  “I fear I must disagree again: the parallel is exact. I suggest that anaemia, however advanced, could never produce this result. The body is drained like that of a fly after a spider has gorged its fill.” Smith turned abruptly to Inspector Hawk. “The man is nude. How was he found, and where?”

  “Found just as you see,” the gloomy voice replied. “Brought in from West Channel, right below Queensbrough Bridge. Kind of caught up on something; shone in the moonlight and a river patrol made contact. I was once detailed to take care of Mr. Longton: recognized him right away.”

  “How long dead?” Smith asked the doctor.

  “Well,” he replied—and I detected a note of resentment—“if my views are of any value, I should say no more than four hours. Hypnostasis had only just appeared and there is little rigidity.”

  “I agree,” said Smith.

  “Thank you.”

  Some further formalities there were, and then once more we sped through the bright lights of New York. Smith was plunged in such a mood of dejection that I did not care to interrupt it. We were almost in sight of the Regal Athenian before he spoke.

  “Where did Longton die?” he exclaimed. “Why was he in New York without my being notified? And where is Kennard Wood?”

  “It’s all a dreadful mystery to me, Smith.”

  There was a momentary pause; we were whirling, issuing warning blasts, past busy night traffic, when Smith suddenly leaned forward.

  “Slow down,” he cried.

  Our speed was checked; the police driver leaned back.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go to 39B Sutton Place—”

  “Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”

  “Yes. Move.”

  We were off again.

  “But what is this, Smith?”

  “A theory—and a hope,” he replied. “Longton’s body was found below Queensborough Bridge. Making due allowances for its unusual condition, I assume that it was thrown in near that spot some time tonight. Now, how was a body transported and thrown into the river in that state; I suggested to myself that there must have been special conditions—and then I thought of Mrs. Mendel Hammett—”

  “Who is Mrs. Mendel Hammett?”

  “She is a relic of the past, Kerrigan, an institution; a patron of promising talent, and a distant relation of poor Longton. I suddenly remembered his telling me that he had an apartment in her home which he was at liberty to occupy at any time. Now, the garden of 39B Sutton Place runs down to the river; Queensborough Bridge is immediately be
low!”

  * * *

  “You need not watch me so anxiously, Sir Denis,” said Mrs. Mendel Hammett. “I am a crippled and weak-bodied old woman but not a weak-minded old woman. May I trouble you to light my cigarette.”

  She lay stretched on a couch in a sitting-room whose furnishings indicated the world traveller. The bright hazel eyes shadowed by heavy brows were those of a young girl; her skin retained its freshness: so that snow-white, curling hair suggested the period of powder and patches.

  “You are a wonderful woman, Mrs. Mendel Hammett.”

  “I belong to a tough race,” she replied, puffing at her cigarette; “and in the company of my late husband I have been in some tough places. So Jim is dead? Well, if I can help you find out who killed him, count on me.”

  “In the first place,” said Smith, speaking very gently, “I gathered from Miss Dinsford, your secretary, that James Longton was not expected; that he arrived about six o’clock this evening and stated that he wished to use his apartments.”

  “He did, sir,” the vibrant voice replied. “He had come by air from Havana and he said it was important that no one should know that he was here.”

  “He went up to his rooms,” Smith continued, “particularly requesting that he should not be disturbed—”

  “He said he was going to take a bath and lie down until dinner time, as he was tired out.”

  “Quite so. That is most important. Since then, I believe, you had not seen him?”

  “I had not.”

  “Did he bring much baggage?”

  “One light suitcase and a large portfolio.”

  “Who took them up?”

  “He took them up himself.”

  “Then no one else entered his apartments?”

  “No one. They were always kept ready for use. Later, a maid would have turned down the bed and prepared the room—” Momentarily, the bright eyes clouded; Mrs. Mendel Hammett knocked ash from her cigarette.

  “People used to find a marked resemblance between Jim and Kennard Wood. I never saw it, myself, although they were cousins on Jim’s mother’s side.”