The Hand of Dr. Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Out onto the paved pathway communicating with the wharf came Smith, shepherding his tottering charge. I was too far away to hear any conversation that might take place between the two, but, unless Smith gave the pre-arranged signal, I must approach no closer. Thus, as one sees a drama upon the screen, I saw what now occurred—occurred with dramatic, lightning swiftness.

  Releasing Smith’s arm, the old woman suddenly stepped back ... at the instant that another figure, a repellent figure which approached, stooping, apish, with a sort of loping gait, crossed from some spot invisible to me, and sprang like a wild animal upon Smith’s back!

  It was a Chinaman, wearing a short loose garment of the smock pattern, and having his head bare, so that I could see his pigtail coiled upon his yellow crown. That he carried a cord, I perceived in the instant of his spring, and that he had whipped it about Smith’s throat with unerring dexterity was evidenced by the one, short, strangled cry that came from my friend’s lips.

  Then Smith was down, prone upon the crazy planking, with the ape-like figure of the Chinaman perched between his shoulders—bending forward—the wicked yellow fingers at work, tightening—tightening—tightening the strangling cord!

  Uttering a loud cry of horror, I went racing along the gangway which projected actually over the moving Thames waters, and gained the wharf. But, swift as I had been, another had been swifter!

  A tall figure (despite the brilliant moon, I doubted the evidence of my sight), wearing a tweed overcoat and a soft felt hat with the brim turned down, sprang up, from nowhere as it seemed, swooped upon the horrible figure squatting, simianesque, between Smith’s shoulder-blades, and grasped him by the neck.

  I pulled up shortly, one foot set upon the wharf. The new-comer was the double of Nayland Smith!

  Seemingly exerting no effort whatever, he lifted the strangler in that remorseless grasp, so that the Chinaman’s hands, after one quick convulsive upward movement, hung limply beside him like the paws of a rat in the grip of a terrier.

  “You damned murderous swine!” I heard in a repressed, savage undertone. “The knife failed, so now the cord has an innings! Go after your pal!”

  Releasing one hand from the neck of the limp figure, the speaker grasped the Chinaman by his loose, smock-like garment, swung him back, once—a mighty swing—and hurled him far out into the river as one might hurl a sack of rubbish!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ARREST OF SAMARKAN

  “As the high gods willed it,” explained Nayland Smith, tenderly massaging his throat, “Mr. Forsyth, having just left the docks, chanced to pass along Three Colt Street on Wednesday night at exactly the hour that I was expected! The resemblance between us is rather marked and the coincidence of dress completed the illusion. That devilish Eurasian woman, Zarmi, who has escaped us again—of course you recognized her?—made a very natural mistake. Mr. Forsyth, however, made no mistake!”

  I glanced at the chief officer of the Andaman, who sat in an armchair in our new chambers, contentedly smoking a black cheroot.

  “Heaven has blessed me with a pair of useful hands!” said the seaman, grimly, extending his horny palms. “I’ve an old score against those yellow swine; poor George and I were twins.”

  He referred to his brother who had been foully done to death by one of the creatures of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  “It beats me how Mr. Smith got on the track!” he added.

  “Pure inspiration!” murmured Nayland Smith, glancing aside from the siphon wherewith he now was busy. “The divine afflatus—and the same whereby Petrie solved the Zagazig cryptogram!”

  “But,” concluded Forsyth, “I am indebted to you for an opportunity of meeting the Chinese strangler, and sending him to join the Burmese knife expert!”

  Such, then, were the episodes that led to the arrest of M. Samarkan, and my duty as narrator of these strange matters now bears me on to the morning when Nayland Smith was hastily summoned to the prison into which the villainous Greek had been cast.

  We were shown immediately into the governor’s room and were invited by that much-disturbed official to be seated. The news which he had to impart was sufficiently startling.

  Samarkan was dead.

  “I have Warder Morrison’s statement here,” said Colonel Warrington, “if you will be good enough to read it—”

  Nayland Smith rose abruptly, and began to pace up and down the little office. Through the open window I had a glimpse of a stooping figure in convict garb, engaged in liming the flowerbeds of the prison governor’s garden.

  “I should like to see this Warder Morrison personally,” snapped my friend.

  “Very good,” replied the governor, pressing a bell-push placed close beside his table.

  A man entered, to stand rigidly at attention just within the doorway.

  “Send Morrison here,” ordered Colonel Warrington.

  The man saluted and withdrew. As the door was reclosed, the Colonel sat drumming his fingers upon the table, Nayland Smith walked restlessly about tugging at the lobe of his ear, and I absently watched the convict gardener pursuing his toils. Shortly, sounded a rap at the door, and—

  “Come in,” cried Colonel Warrington.

  A man wearing warder’s uniform appeared, saluted the governor, and stood glancing uneasily from the colonel to Smith. The latter had now ceased his perambulations, and, one elbow resting upon the mantelpiece, was staring at Morrison—his penetrating gray eyes as hard as steel. Colonel Warrington twisted his chair around, fixing his monocle more closely in its place. He had the wiry white mustache and fiery red face of the old-style Anglo-Indian officer.

  “Morrison,” he said, “Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith has some questions to put to you.”

  The man’s uneasiness palpably was growing by leaps and bounds. He was a tall and intelligent-looking fellow of military build, though spare for his height and of an unhealthy complexion. His eyes were curiously dull, and their pupils interested me, professionally, from the very moment of his entrance.

  “You were in charge of the prisoner Samarkan?” began Smith harshly.

  “Yes, sir,” Morrison replied.

  “Were you the first to learn of his death?”

  “I was, sir. I looked through the grille in the door and saw him lying on the floor of the cell.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Half-past four A.M.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went into the cell and then sent for the head warder.”

  “You realized at once that Samarkan was dead?”

  “At once, yes.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  Nayland Smith subtly changed the tone of his voice in asking the last question, and it was evident that the veiled significance of the words was not lost upon Morrison.

  “Well, sir,” he began, and cleared his throat nervously.

  “Yes, or no!” snapped Smith.

  Morrison still hesitated, and I saw his underlip twitch. Nayland Smith, taking two long strides, stood immediately in front of him, glaring grimly into his face.

  “This is your chance,” he said emphatically; “I shall not give you another. You had met Samarkan before?”

  Morrison hung his head for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists; then he looked up swiftly, and the light of a new resolution was in his eyes.

  “I’ll take the chance, sir,” he said, speaking with some emotion, “and I hope, sir”—turning momentarily to Colonel Warrington—“that you’ll be as lenient as you can; for I didn’t know there was any harm in what I did.”

  “Don’t expect any leniency from me!” cried the Colonel. “If there has been a breach of discipline there will be punishment, rely upon it!”

  “I admit the breach of discipline,” pursued the man doggedly; “but I want to say, here and now, that I’ve no more idea than anybody else how the—”

  Smith snapped his fingers irritably.

  “The facts—the facts!” he demanded. “What yo
u don’t know cannot help us!”

  “Well, sir,” said Morrison, clearing his throat again, “when the prisoner, Samarkan, was admitted, and I put him safely into his cell, he told me that he suffered from heart trouble, that he’d had an attack when he was arrested and that he thought he was threatened with another, which might kill him—”

  “One moment,” interrupted Smith, “is this confirmed by the police officer who made the arrest?”

  “It is, sir,” replied Colonel Warrington, swinging his chair around and consulting some papers upon his table. “The prisoner was overcome by faintness when the officer showed him the warrant and asked to be given some cognac from the decanter which stood in his room. This was administered, and he then entered the cab which the officer had waiting. He was taken to Bow Street, remanded, and brought here in accordance with someone’s instructions.”

  “My instructions,” said Smith. “Go on, Morrison.”

  “He told me,” continued Morrison more steadily, “that he suffered from something that sounded to me like apoplexy.”

  “Catalepsy!” I suggested, for I was beginning to see light.

  “That’s it, sir! He said he was afraid of being buried alive! He asked me, as a favor, if he should die in prison to go to a friend of his and get a syringe with which to inject some stuff that would do away with all chance of his coming to life again after burial.”

  “You had no right to talk to the prisoner!” roared Colonel Warrington.

  “I know that, sir, but you’ll admit that the circumstances were peculiar. Anyway, he died in the night, sure enough, and from heart failure, according to the doctor. I managed to get a couple of hours leave in the evening, and I went and fetched the syringe and a little tube of yellow stuff.”

  “Do you understand, Petrie?” cried Nayland Smith, his eyes blazing with excitement. “Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “It’s more than I do, sir,” continued Morrison, “but as I was explaining, I brought the little syringe back with me and I filled it from the tube. The body was lying in the mortuary, which you’ve seen, and the door not being locked, it was easy for me to slip in there for a moment. I didn’t fancy the job, but it was soon done. I threw the syringe and the tube over the wall into the lane outside, as I’d been told to do.”

  “What part of the wall?” asked Smith.

  “Behind the mortuary.”

  “That’s where they were waiting!” I cried excitedly. “The building used as a mortuary is quite isolated, and it would not be a difficult matter for someone hiding in the lane outside to throw one of those ladders of silk and bamboo across the top of the wall.”

  “But, my good sir,” interrupted the governor irascibly, “whilst I admit the possibility to which you allude, I do not admit that a dead man, and a heavy one at that, can be carried up a ladder of silk and bamboo! Yet, on the evidence of my own eyes, the body of the prisoner, Samarkan, was removed from the mortuary last night!”

  Smith signaled to me to pursue the subject no further; and indeed I realized that it would have been no easy matter to render the amazing truth evident to a man of the colonel’s type of mind. But to me the facts of the case were now clear enough.

  That Fu-Manchu possessed a preparation for producing artificial catalepsy, of a sort indistinguishable from death, I was well aware. A dose of this unknown drug had doubtless been contained in the cognac (if, indeed, the decanter had held cognac) that the prisoner had drunk at the time of his arrest. The “yellow stuff” spoken of by Morrison I recognized as the antidote (another secret of the brilliant Chinese doctor), a portion of which I had once, some years before, actually had in my possession. The “dead man” had not been carried up the ladder; he had climbed up!

  “Now, Morrison,” snapped Nayland Smith, “you have acted wisely thus far. Make a clean breast of it. How much were you paid for the job?”

  “Twenty pounds, sir,” answered the man promptly, “and I’d have done it for less, because I could see no harm in it, the prisoner being dead, and this his last request.”

  “And who paid you?”

  Now we were come to the nub of the matter, as the change in the man’s face revealed. He hesitated momentarily, and Colonel Warrington brought his fist down on the table with a bang. Morrison made a sort of gesture of resignation at that, and—

  “When I was in the army, sir, stationed at Cairo,” he said slowly, “I regret to confess that I formed a drug habit.”

  “Opium?” snapped Smith.

  “No, sir, hashish.”

  “Good God! Go on.”

  “There’s a place in Soho, just off Frith Street, where hashish is supplied, and I go there sometimes. Mr. Samarkan used to come, and bring people with him—from the New Louvre Hotel, I believe. That’s where I met him.”

  “The exact address?” demanded Smith.

  “Café de l’Egypte. But the hashish is only sold upstairs, and no one is allowed up that isn’t known personally to Ismail.”

  “Who is this Ismail?”

  “The proprietor of the café. He’s a Greek Jew of Salonica. An old woman used to attend to the customers upstairs, but during the last few months a young one has sometimes taken her place.”

  “What is she like?” I asked eagerly.

  “She has very fine eyes, and that’s about all I can tell you, sir, because she wears a yashmak. Last night there were two women there, both veiled, though.”

  “Two women!”

  Hope and fear entered my heart. That Kâramaneh was again in the power of the Chinese doctor I knew to my sorrow. Could it be that the Café de l’Egypte was the place of her captivity?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CAFÉ DE L’EGYPTE

  I could see that Nayland Smith counted the escape of the prisoner but a trivial matter by comparison with the discovery to which it had led us. That the Soho café should prove to be, if not the headquarters at least a regular resort of Dr. Fu-Manchu, was not too much to hope. The usefulness of such a haunt was evident enough, since it might conveniently be employed as a place of rendezvous for Orientals—and furthermore enable the cunning Chinaman to establish relations with persons likely to prove of service to him.

  Formerly, he had used an East End opium den for this purpose, and, later, the resort known as the Joy-Shop. Soho, hitherto, had remained outside the radius of his activity, but that he should have embraced it at last was not surprising; for Soho is the Montmartre of London and a land of many secrets.

  “Why,” demanded Nayland Smith, “have I never been told of the existence of this place?”

  “That’s simple enough,” answered Inspector Weymouth. “Although we knew of this Café de l’Egypte, we have never had the slightest trouble there. It’s a Bohemian resort, where members of the French Colony, some of the Chelsea art people, professional models, and others of that sort, foregather at night. I’ve been there myself as a matter of fact, and I’ve seen people well known in the artistic world come in. It has much the same clientele as, say, the Café Royal, with a rather heavier sprinkling of Hindu students, Japanese, and so forth. It’s celebrated for Turkish coffee.”

  “What do you know of this Ismail?”

  “Nothing much. He’s a Levantine Jew.”

  “And something more!” added Smith, surveying himself in the mirror, and turning to nod his satisfaction to the well-known perruquier whose services are sometimes requisitioned by the police authorities.

  We were ready for our visit to the Café de l’Egypte, and Smith having deemed it inadvisable that we should appear there openly, we had been transformed, under the adroit manipulation of Foster, into a pair of Futurists oddly unlike our actual selves. No wigs, no false mustaches had been employed; a change of costume and a few deft touches of some watercolor paint had rendered us unrecognizable by our most intimate friends.

  It was all very fantastic, very reminiscent of Christmas charades, but the farce had a grim, murderous undercurrent; the life of one
dearer to me than life itself hung upon our success; the swamping of the White world by Yellow hordes might well be the price of our failure.

  Weymouth left us at the corner of Frith Street. This was no more than a reconnaissance, but—

  “I shall be within hail if I’m wanted,” said the burly detective; and although we stood not in Chinatown but in the heart of Bohemian London, with popular restaurants about us, I was glad to know that we had so staunch an ally in reserve.

  The shadow of the great Chinaman was upon me. That strange, subconscious voice, with which I had become familiar in the past, awoke within me tonight. Not by logic, but by prescience, I knew that the Yellow doctor was near.

  Two minutes’ walk brought us to the door of the café. The upper half was of glass, neatly curtained, as were the windows on either side of it; and above the establishment appeared the words: “Café de l’Egypte.” Between the second and third word was inserted a gilded device representing the crescent of Islâm.

  We entered. On our right was a room furnished with marble-topped tables, cane-seated chairs and plush-covered lounges set against the walls. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke; evidently the café was full, although the night was young.

  Smith immediately made for the upper end of the room. It was not large, and at first glance I thought that there was no vacant place. Presently, however, I espied two unoccupied chairs; and these we took, finding ourselves facing a pale, bespectacled young man, with long, fair hair and faded eyes, whose companion, a bold brunette, was smoking one of the largest cigarettes I had ever seen, in a gold and amber cigar-holder.

  A very commonplace Swiss waiter took our orders for coffee, and we began discreetly to survey our surroundings. The only touch of Oriental color thus far perceptible in the Café de l’Egypte was provided by a red-capped Egyptian behind a narrow counter, who presided over the coffee pots. The patrons of the establishment were in every way typical of Soho, and in the bulk differed not at all from those of the better-known café restaurants.