President Fu Manchu f-8

by Sax Rohmer

  “That’s true enough. But I’m out for a story.” He turned, fixing deep-set eyes upon the fat face of the proprietor. “I’m told that one of the Seven is in town. Is that right, Wu?”

  Less experienced than Nayland Smith in the ways of the Orient, he looked for some change of expression in the pock-pitted face—and looked in vain. Wu King’s immobile features registered nothing whatever.

  “The Seven?” he said innocently. “What seven’s that, mister?”

  “I’ll say I’m glad to get out,” said Corrigan as, assisted by willing helpers, he crawled under the partly raised door. “I don’t like the looks of that tunnel.”

  From out of the echoing hollow under the dock came a shouted order:

  “Silence!”

  A buzz of excited words ceased. The men crowded into the narrow space between the two doors—the outer one partly jammed open by the spar—became silent.

  “That’s Eastman,” said Corrigan. “Let’s see what’s new.”

  Outside in a Dantesque scene peopled by moving shadows:

  “Launch just been signalled from the bridge,” the invisible Eastman explained. “Are you held up there?”

  “We were,” Corrigan replied shortly. He turned to Nayland Smith. “What now?”

  Nayland Smith, a parody of his normal self, wearing a shabby suit and a linen cap which had once been white pulled down over one eye, stood silent behind the speaker. He was tugging at the lobe of his left ear.

  “A change of plan,” he rapped. “This is something I had not foreseen. Get all the men under cover again, Corrigan, and run the launch out of sight downstream. Pick two good men to remain with us. Jump to it.”

  “D’you hear that, Eastman?” Corrigan shouted. “Everybody under cover, just like when we first came up. The launch to clear the dock, lay up and wait for signals. Get busy.” He turned to two men who stood near to the spot where the spar projected into the partly open doorway. “You two,” he said, “stand by. Everybody else up the ladder.”

  An ordered scuffling followed; three men tumbled into the launch and the others, some of whom had been crowded into the narrow space between the two doors, hurried up the ladder to the deck of the dock above. The launch went out astern, a phantom craft against the myriad lights reflected in the water, and disappeared from view.

  “I want a small wedge fixed in that door; a clasp-knife would do, or anything that will bear pressure.”

  Smith ran inside, flashing the light of his torch ahead, and springing over the spar which crossed the tunnel. The iron door beyond was about two-thirds raised.

  “All ready, Chief,” came a voice. “I’ve got the door jammed.”

  “Good. Now Corrigan, join us. You two men get inside but hang on to the door.”

  There came further scuffling. The men, two black silhouettes, crossed the narrow opening.

  “Are you ready?” rapped Nayland Smith.

  “All ready, Chief.”

  “Pull. Now, Corrigan, we have to get the spar inside.”

  Pulling simultaneously, the thing was done and the spar laid down against one wall of the tunnel.

  “Now,” Nayland Smith directed breathlessly, “ease the door to. Don’t let it bang if you can help it.”

  Slowly the door, propelled by a powerful spring, closed, almost dragging the two men with it; and as it closed, that second door which resembled a sluicegate rose, inch by inch. At last:

  “Can’t hang on any longer, Captain,” one of the men reported; “we shall get our hands jammed.”

  “Let go,” Smith ordered.

  The door snapped to; there was a slight grinding sound as its edge came in contact with the obstacle which had been placed there to hold it. Nayland Smith flashed his light upward. . . .

  Less than two inches of the drop-gate showed in the slot in the ceiling of the tunnel.

  The exact working of this cunning mechanism was not clear, and the place in which they stood afforded no cover whatever.

  “I get your idea,” said Corrigan, “but short of shooting ‘em down, we haven’t a chance.”

  “No shooting without orders.”

  “I guess they’ll see the door’s phony, anyway,” said one of the men.

  “Once they’re under the dock, Eastman will drop on ‘em,” Corrigan replied. “Get your guns out, boys. The moment that door comes open, the order is ‘stick ‘em up.’“ ,

  There was a moment of silence broken only by river sounds audible through the narrow opening made by the wedge.

  “Just check up,” said Corrigan. “I’m thinking, Chief, maybe the machinery won’t work unless the door is tight closed. There’s just time to see if we can haul it open. Go to it, boys!”

  “I can just get a hold,” came hoarsely.

  “Pull—not far—just to see if she moves.”

  Another interval and then:

  “Sure, we could haul it open right enough.”

  “Then stand by,” rapped Nayland Smith; “haul if there’s any hitch.”

  Up above, Eastman, peering through a gap in a row of barrels, saw the little motor craft stealing downstream, sometimes bathed in light, sometimes lost in darkness. One of the two Chinamen on board squatted in the bows, looking out sharply ahead, as the other drove the engine. A dim figure was seated astern; mist hovered over the water.

  “This is some damned conjuring trick,” Eastman muttered.

  The man in the stern, as moving lights from a passing steamboat momentarily had revealed, wore black oilskins and a gleaming sou’wester beneath the brim of which his features were entirely hidden. His dress was identical with that of the other four who had preceded him as passengers in the launch!

  The concealed party on the dock watched breathlessly as the little craft, rolling on an oily swell, was turned into the narrow opening all but invisible from mid-river and brought to the ladderway. The manoeuvre was performed smoothly;

  the man in the bows grasping the rail, extending one hand to the passenger in the stern. The engine had been shut off as they took the bend, and all lights doused.

  Stepping cautiously, the passenger came forward and was assisted on to the ladder. There was an exchange of whispered words, indistinguishable to the men above. But Eastman, who had watched a previous arrival through binoculars from a police boat, guessed that the Chinaman who had been in the bows was leading the way. . . .

  Inside, in utter darkness, four men waited tensely. Faintly to their ears came the sound of footsteps on the ladder.

  “Stand by,” said Corrigan in a low voice; “cover ‘em.”

  The door opened—whether automatically or because it was pulled by the two men on duty was not at the moment apparent.

  “Hands up!” rapped Nayland Smith.

  He shot the ray of a torch fully into the face of the man who entered; a meaningless Mongolian face, which ever under these circumstances exhibited no change of expression whatever. The man raised his hands above his head. The figure immediately behind him clad in gleaming black made a similar movement.

  From outside came a muffled shout, a clatter of footsteps— the sound of a splash in the river, and:

  “Get that man!” Eastman was heard shouting. “He went in off the stern of the boat!”

  Answering shouts responded, scurrying movements.

  “Search the blackbird, Waygood,” Corrigan directed. “You— search the Chink.”

  The man addressed as Waygood roughly snatched the sou’wester from the head of the traveller and peeled back his oilskin at the same moment that the other roughly overhauled the immobile Chinaman.

  Nayland Smith stared eagerly into the face revealed. Recognition of an astounding fact had come to him. By one of those divine incidents which so rarely rallied to his aid, he had selected for this attempt on Fu Manchu’s underground quarters a night when influential supporters of the movement were meeting in conference!

  He had hoped to see the stoical features of General Li Wu Chang—but he was disappointed.<
br />
  He saw a face Oriental in character, but rather of the Near then of the Far East; a proud, olive-skinned face with flashing dark eyes and supercilious lips. But the man was unknown to him.

  The Chinaman was relieved of an automatic and a wicked-looking knife. The other was apparently unarmed, but a curious fact came to light when his oilskins were slipped off. Beneath them he wore a black robe, with a cowl!

  Eastman burst in at the door.

  “We’ve lost the second Chink,” he reported. “I guess he swims like a shark. He must have swum under water for a long time, unless he knocked himself out! Anyway, there’s no trace of him. And there’s a sea mist coming up.”

  “Bad luck,” snapped Nayland Smith, “but keep a sharp look-out,” Turning to Corrigan: “Have this Chinaman taken outside,” he directed. “I have some questions to put to the other.”

  A few moments later he stood before the dignified Oriental upon whose face Corrigan directed the light of a torch.

  “Do you know the Chinaman, Corrigan?”

  “No; but Finney, down on Mott Street, will know him when he sees him. He knows every Chink in the town.”

  Nayland Smith fixed his penetrating regard upon the features of the Egyptian: that the man was an Egyptian he had now determined.

  “What is your name?” he demanded.

  “By what authority do you ask?”

  The man, who retained a remarkable composure, spoke easily, in perfect English and with a cultured voice.

  “I am a government agent. What is your name?”

  “Judging from the treatment received by my Chinese acquaintance,” the Egyptian replied, “I have nothing but a man-handling to gain by silence. My name is Ahmed Fayume. Would you care to see my passport?”

  “Hand it to Police Captain Corrigan.”

  The Egyptian, from beneath the curious robe which he wore, produced a passport which he handed to Corrigan, who glared at him in that intimidating manner cultivated by the police and opened the document savagely as though he hated it.

  “When did you arrive in New York?”

  “Last night by the lie de France.”

  “And you are staying at. . .”

  “The Grosvenor-Grand.”

  “What is your business in the States?”

  “I am on a visit to Washington.”

  “Are you a diplomat?”

  “I am attached to the personal suite of King Fuad of Egypt.”

  “That’s right,” growled Corrigan, looking up from the passport. “Something funny about this.”

  His expression became puzzled.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Fayume,” said Nayland Smith crisply, “you can explain what you are doing here to-night in the company of two suspected men.”

  The Egyptian smiled slightly.

  “Naturally I was unaware that they are suspected men,” he replied. “When the Egyptian consulate put me in touch with them, I was under the impression that I was being taken to a unique house of entertainment where hashish and other amusements were provided.”

  “Indeed! But why the fancy dress?”

  “The black domino?” The Egyptian continued to smile. “This was provided by my guides, as visitors to the establishment to which I refer do not invariably wish to be recognized.”

  Nayland Smith continued to stare into the large velvety eyes of the speaker, and then:

  “Your story requires investigation, Mr. Fayume,” he said drily. “In the meantime, I must ask you to regard yourself as under arrest. Will you be good enough to empty your pockets?”

  Ahmed Fayume shrugged his shoulders resignedly and obeyed the order.

  “I fear,” he said calmly, “that you are creating an international incident. . . .”

  VI

  A report received out on the street as the party left Wu King’s Bar, from the man whom Hepburn had dispatched to East River, was reassuring. The water-gate referred to by Nayland Smith had actually been discovered; two arrests had been made: operations on that front were proceeding in accordance with plan.

  The life of Chinatown within the barricaded area carried on much along its usual lines. The stoicism of the Asiatics, like the fatalism of the Arab, makes for acceptance of things as they are. From a dry-goods store, when a customer entered or emerged, came mingled odours of joss stick and bombay duck; attractively lighted restaurants seemed to be well patronized; lobsters, crayfish and other crustacean delicacies dear to the Chinese palate were displayed in green herbal settings. John Chinaman blandly minded his own business, so that there seemed to be something quite grotesque about the guarded barrier at the end of the street.

  Mark Hepburn was badly worried. Nayland Smith’s unique experience had enabled him to postulate the existence of a Chinatown headquarters and of a river-gate. Right in this, it seemed improbable that he was wrong in his theory that there were exits and entrances somewhere on the streets surrounding this particular block.

  He turned to Detective Inspector Finney, who silently walked beside him.

  “You tell me there’s nothing secret about Chinatown any more,” he said slowly; “if that’s true, there’s a bad muddle here.”

  Inspector Finney, a short, thick-set man with a red, square-jawed face, wearing rainproofs and a hard black hat, turned and stared at Hepburn.

  “There’s no more iron doors,” he declared defiantly. “An iron door couldn’t get unloaded and set up without I knew about it. There used to be gambling joints and opium dens, but since the new regulations they’ve all moved over there— not so strict. All my boys can’t be deaf and blind. When we get the word, we’ll check up the block. If any strangers have arrived they’ll have to show their birthmarks.”

  Mark Hepburn, inside one of the barriers beyond which stood a group of curious onlookers, pulled up sharply, and turning to Finney:

  “There’s just one part of this area,” he said, “which I haven’t explored—the roofs.” He turned to one of a group behind him, and: “You’re in charge, Johnson,” he added. “I don’t expect to be long.”

  Ten minutes later, followed by Inspector Finney and two men, Hepburn climbed the fire ladders at the back of a warehouse building which seemed to be deserted. No light showed from any of the windows. When at last they stepped upon the leads:

  “Stick to the shadow,” said Hepburn sharply. “There’s a high point at the end of the block from which we might be seen.”

  “Sure,” Finney replied; “that’s the building where Wu King’s Bar is located. He goes three floors up—the rest is a Chinese apartment house. I checked up on every apartment six o’clock this evening, and there’s a man on the street entrance. Outside of this block we’re overlooked plenty any way.”

  “There are lights in the top story of the Wu King building. Maybe you recall who lives there?”

  “Wu King and his wife live up there,” came the voice of one of the men, hidden in the shadows behind him. “He owns the whole building but rents part of it out. He’s one of the wealthiest Chinks around here.”

  Mark Hepburn was becoming feverishly restless. He experienced an intense urge for action. These vague, rather aimless investigations failed to engross his mind. Even now, with the countless lights of the city around him, the curiously altered values of street noises rising to his ears, the taunting mystery which lay somewhere below, he found his thoughts, and not for the first time that night, leading him into a dream world inhabited by Moya Adair.

  He wondered what she was doing at that moment—what duties had been imposed upon her by the sinister President. She had told him next to nothing. For all he knew to the contrary, her slavery might take her to the mysterious Chinatown base, that unimaginable den which in grotesque forms sometimes haunted his sleep. The awful idea presented itself that if Nayland Smith’s raid should prove successful, Moya might be one of the prisoners!

  A damp grey mist borne upon a fickle breeze was creeping insidiously through the streets of Chinatown.

  “Is there any way of o
btaining a glimpse of that apartment?” he asked.

  “We could step right up and ring the bell,” Finney answered. “Otherwise, not so easy. Looks to me as if the ladders from that point join up with the lower roof beyond the dip. And I don’t know if we can get from this one down to the other.”

  “Stay in the shadows as much as possible,” Hepburn directed.

  He set out towards the upstanding storey of Wu King’s building, which like a squat tower dominated the flat surface of the leads.

  VII

  “There’s something wrong here,” said Nayland Smith.

  From the iron gallery upon which he stood he shone the light of his torch down upon slowly moving evil-smelling water.

  “We’ve got into one of the main sewers,” said Corrigan:

  “that’s what’s wrong. From the time it’s taken us to make it I should say we’re way up on Second; outside the suspected area, anyway.”

  He turned, looking back. It was an eerie spectacle. Moving lights dotted the tunnel—the torches of the raiding party. Sometimes out of whispering shadows a face would emerge smudgily as a straying beam impinged upon it. There were muffled voices and the rattle of feet on iron treads.

  “Suppose we try back,” came a muffled cry. “We might go on this way all night.”

  “Turn back,” snapped Nayland Smith irritably. “This place is suffocating and we’re obviously on the wrong track.”

  “There’s a catch somewhere,” Corrigan agreed. “All we can do is sit around the rat hole and wait for the rat to come out.”

  This was by no means what Nayland Smith had planned. He was savagely disappointed. Indeed the failure of his ambitious scheme would have left a sense of humiliation had it not been for the arrests made on the East River. Here at least was confirmation of his theory that the door under the dock belonging to the South Coast Trade Line undoubtedly was used by the group surrounding Dr. Fu Manchu.

  It was infuriating to realize, as he had realized at the moment of the arrest of the Egyptian , that in all probability a meeting of the Council of Seven was actually taking place to-night!