by Sax Rohmer
Nayland Smith stared eagerly into the face revealed. Recognition of an astounding fact had come to him. By one of those divine accidents 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.
He saw a face Oriental in character, but rather of the Near than 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 Ile 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 tonight 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…”
* * *
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 Asiatic, 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 odors 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 definitely. “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 to the other shore, see? It’s different 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 were 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 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 h
ad 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 gray mist borne upon a fickle breeze was creeping insidiously through the streets of Chinatown.
“Is there any way of obtaining 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 story of Wu King’s building, which like a squat tower dominated the flat surface of the leads.
* * *
“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 tonight!
The cowled robe was particularly significant. There were reasons why those summoned to be present did not wish to divulge their identity to the others: this was obvious. Ahmed Fayume was one of the Seven—director of the Si-Fan. But it was improbable, owing to the man’s diplomatic credentials, that they would ever succeed in convicting him of any offense against the government of the United States.
From experience he knew that all attempts to interrogate the Chinese prisoner must fail. He took it for granted that the captive was a servant of Fu-Manchu: that such an admission could ever be forced from his lips was wildly improbable. The other Chinaman had escaped; by now, had probably given the alarm…
Corrigan’s words offered the only consolation. He recognized that it would be impracticable to sustain the siege of an area of Chinatown long enough to make it effective. He had been right, but he had failed. There was only one glimmer of hope. And suddenly he felt glad that the other Chinaman had escaped.
If, and he had little doubt upon the point, notable conspirators were present tonight, the raid on the secret water-gate might result in a desperate bid for freedom above!
But he was very silent as he brought up the rear of the party with Corrigan, groping back along the noisome tunnel. At points, vague booming noises echoed from above, the sound made by the heavy traffic. Always there was the echoing whisper of water. At a point where a lower inspection gallery crossed beneath that which they were following, he paused.
“Where do you estimate we stand, Corrigan?” he snapped.
“I should say about under Bayard and East Broadway. It’s a guess—but I don’t think I’m far out.”
“Detail men to watch this junction.”
* * *
“Stand on the foot of the ladder, Finney,” Hepburn directed.
The detective inspector gingerly took his place.
“Now, you,” indicating another man, “stand underneath and hold the rungs; and you,” to a third, “hang on to the side so that it doesn’t topple over. All set?”
The ladder, a short one, had been discovered in the warehouse yard and brought up on to the roof. Now, held by the three men, it perilously overhung a yawning gap, a gulley at the bottom of which, seen through a curtain of mist, were lights moving and stationary. Human voices distorted by the fog, muted sounds of movement were audible; but the characteristic hooting of taxicabs was missing, for this was one of the barricaded streets: the entrance to Wu King’s Bar lay immediately beneath.
“All ready, Captain.”
Mark Hepburn cautiously began to climb the ladder. He moved in the shadow of the top story of Wu King’s apartment house. It was a dizzy proceeding: at the cold, starry sky which seemed to beckon to him from the right of the building he could not trust himself to look, nor downward into the misty chasm of the street. Rung by rung he mounted—his objective that lighted window still some six feet above. Upward he climbed.
And, presently, standing two rungs from the top, he could rest his hands upon the ledge and look into the room to which this window belonged.
He saw a sight so strange that at first he could not fathom its significance.
An oddly appointed sitting-room was visible, its character and the character of the lamps striking a definite Oriental note. Brightly colored rugs were strewn upon the floor, and he saw that there, were divans against two of the walls. The predominant color scheme of illumination seemed to be purple, so that he found great difficulty in making out what was taking place at the farther end.
A window there was widely opened, and two Chinamen seemed to be engaged in hauling upon a line. This in itself was singular, but the third and only other figure in the room struck an ultimate note of the bizarre. It was that of a man wearing a black cowled robe. The cowl entirely covered his face, but was provided with two eye-holes, so that save for the color of his dress he resembled one of the Misericordia Brethren!
He was standing quite still just behind the Chinamen, who, as Mark Hepburn watched, hauled in at the open window an equipment resembling a bosun’s chair. Even now the significance of what was going on had not fully penetrated to his mind. The cowled man, clutching his robe about, his legs and assisted by one of the Chinamen took his place in the chair. Again they began hauling.
The black figure disappeared through the window…
Now the truth burst upon him. Nayland Smith’s raid of the water-gate had succeeded… This was an emergency exit from the surrounded block!
How many had gone before? How many were yet to come? It was clear enough. A ropeway had been thrown across the street to some tall building on the opposite side, and above the very heads of the patrolling police the wanted men were being wound across to safety!
He moved his foot, urgent to descend. It was not too late to locate that other building…
Then he paused.
As the two Chinamen bore upon the line, from a curtained opening left of the room another figure entered.
It was that of a tall man wearing a yellow robe; a man whose majestic features conveyed a sense of such power that Hepburn’s movement was arrested. Tightly clutching the ledge, he watched—watched that high-shouldered, imposing figure standing motionless in the curtained entrance. Perhaps his regard became so intense as to communicate a sense of his presence to the majestic newcomer.
Slowly the massive head was turned. Hepburn, through the glass of the window, met the regard of a pair of vivid green eyes which seemed to be lookin
g directly into his own… Never in his life had he seen such eyes. If, under the circumstances, he was actually visible from inside the room he could not be sure; but of one fact, one astounding fact, he was certain:
This was Dr. Fu-Manchu!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIEGE OF CHINATOWN (CONCLUDED)
Mark Hepburn, keyed up by the immensity of the moment, ventured to the very top of the swaying ladder. He clutched a hook on one side of the window, placed there for the convenience of window-cleaners, and crashed his right heel through a pane of glass.
Stooping, he thrust his automatic through the opening, and:
“Hands up, Fu-Manchu!” he shouted, his voice rising from syllable to syllable upon notes of excitement.
The sea mist continued its insidious invasion of the streets of Chinatown. One by one it blotted out the lights below. A voice spoke from the leads at the foot of the ladder:
“Go easy, Captain; we can’t catch you if you fall!”
Hepburn scarcely heeded the cry: his entire interest was focused upon the uncanny being who stood in the curtained opening. The two men straining on the rope were wonderfully trained servants; for at the glass crash and harsh words of command they had not started, had not turned, but had continued to perform mechanically the duty allotted to them!
Slowly, the perturbing regard of those green eyes never wavering, the tall Chinaman raised his hands. If he could not see the speaker, he could see the barrel of the automatic. From below:
“Bear left!” came urgently. “We can’t hold the ladder.”
During one irrevocable moment Hepburn tore his attention away. In that moment, the room became plunged in darkness!
Clutching at the hook he fired in the direction of the curtained doorway… and the flash showed it to be empty. Further shots would be wasted. He craned downward.
“Pass the word there’s a ropeway across the street. This damnable fog has helped them. Have the house opposite covered and searched.”
