by Sax Rohmer
A cracked bell in the mortuary chapel dimly chimed the hour.
“Do you mind if I wait outside?” said Mr. Roberts. “The fog seems to be settling in this place. It’s following us in—look— it’s coming down the steps in waves.”
“Quite alright,” growled Gallaho; “everything is in order, sir.”
Mr. Roberts ascended the steps, brushing almost hastily past the ancient warden who stood head bowed, at their foot.
The squeak of the screws was harrowing. Long trailers of mist wavered fantastically in the dim opening. Generations of Demurases seemed to stir in their happy vineyards and to look down upon the intruders. It was a desecration of their peace—Nayland Smith knew it. By what means, he was unable to guess, but by some means, Dr. Fu Manchu had secured access to this mausoleum.
“Do you mind lending me a hand, sir?”
Constable Dorchester, the handyman of the party, addressed Alan Sterling. The latter turned, clenched his teeth, and:
“O.K.” he replied. “How can I help?”
“Just get hold of that end, sir, and ease it a bit. I’ll get hold of this.”
“Right.”
Nayland Smith seemed to be listening for sounds from above. The watcher of the dead, hands clasped, was apparently praying. Chief-inspector Gallaho, from time to time, jerked out words of advice, and then resumed his phantom chewing.
The lid was removed. Sterling dropped back, raising his arms to his eyes.
“Steady!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Keep your grip, Sterling.”
“May God forgive them, whoever they were,” came the sepulchral voice of the old sexton.
The leaden shell had been sawn open and its top removed. . . .
“Who lies there?” Sterling whispered: “who is it?”
None answered. Complete silence claimed the tomb of the Demurases, until:
“Look!” said Nayland Smith . . .
CHAPTER 10
THE MARK OF KALI
“Shall l lock the door?” Inspector Gallaho inquired, jangling the keys.
Nayland Smith had been last to leave the tomb of the Demurases. That great fog which with brief intervals was destined to prevail for many days, already had claimed this city of the dead. They were a phantom company enveloped in a mist which might have been smoke of the Ultimate Valley. Alan Sterling was restraining an intense excitement.
Mr. Roberts, the Home Office representative, loomed up out of darkness.
“I understand that the shell was empty, Sir Denis?”
Nayland Smith came down the three steps.
“Not empty” he replied. “It was weighted with a head-stone stolen from near by!”
The old guardian of sepulchres stood by the open door. Bewilderment had lent that grey and sorrowful face a haunted expression, which might have belonged to the spirit of some early Demuras disturbed in the mausoleum.
Thereupon, Nayland Smith did a very odd thing. He stooped and began to remove his shoes!
“I say, Sir Denis——”
An upraised hand checked Alan Sterling at those first few words.
“Shut up, Sterling!” Sir Denis snapped., “Listen, everybody.” He discarded his leather coat. “I am going back down there.”
“Alone?” Gallaho asked.
“Yes.”
“Good God!”
“As soon as I’ve slipped in, partly close the door. Sing out in a loud voice, ‘Here are the keys, Sir Denis’, or anything you like to convey the idea that I am with you. Understand?”
“Yes,” Gallaho answered gruffly. “But if you suspect there’s anybody hidden there, it’s rather a mad move, isn’t it, sir?”
“I can think of no other. Don’t really lock the door,” said Nayland Smith in a low voice. “Turn the key, but leave the door slightly ajar——”
“Very good, sir.”
Soft-footed, Nayland Smith re-entered the tomb, turned and signalled with his hand. Gallaho began to close the heavy teak door.
“This is ghastly,” Mr. Roberts muttered. “What does he expect to find?”
Gallaho rettled the keys, and:
“Shall I lock up, Sir Denis?” he said in his deep, gruff voice, paused a moment, and then: “Very good, sir. You go ahead; I’ll follow.”
He shot the lock noisily. The door was not more than an inch ajar.
“Silence!” he whispered. “Everybody stand by.”
Beyond that ghostly door, guarded by sentinel cypresses, Nayland Smith was creeping down the stone steps, silently, stealthily. Gallaho had played his part well. All too familiar with red tape, Smith knew that short of sand-bagging the man from the Home Office, to have attempted to disturb the repose of another Demuras would have resulted in an adjournment of the investigation. Alone, and uninterrupted, he must convince himself that that queer impression of something which lived and moved in an ancient shell in a stone niche, must be confirmed or disproved by himself alone.
He reached the vault without having made a sound. His feet were chilled by the stone paving. Imagination charged the fog-laden atmosphere with odours of mortal decay. The darkness was intense. Looking up the steps down which he had come, no more than a vague blur indicated the presence of the stained glass windows. On hands and knees he moved cautiously, right, and then crouched down against the wall and directly beneath the niche which contained the mortal remains of Isobel Demuras—or so the inscription stated.
Complete silence prevailed for fully a minute. He could detect no repetition of that furtive movement which he had heard, or imagined he had heard. Turning slowly and cautiously, he looked up ...
He saw a thing which for a moment touched him with awe.
The stone recess above had become vaguely illuminated, as if some spiritual light were thrown out from the shell of Isobel Demuras!
There came a vague shuffling—the same which he had detected when, last to leave, he had paused for a moment at the foot of the steps. Then ... a ray of light shot across the vault, touching the further wall, where it rested upon a brass plate. The inscription upon this he remembered to have read:
here lay Tristan Demuras, founder of the English branch of the family.
The noise above became louder. To it was added a squeaking sound. The ray disappeared from the opposite wall, but the niche above became more brightly illuminated. Nayland Smith on hands and knees crept to the corner of the vault. He had not vacated his former position more than three seconds when light poured down upon the pavement. He was just outside its radius.
The light disappeared; complete darkness fell. There came a renewed and a louder creaking, then a soft thud upon the floor beside him.
In that instant Nayland Smith sprang. . . .
“Gallaho!” he shouted. “Sterling!”
The teak door was opened with a crash. Gallaho shining his torch ahead of him came cluttering down the steps, Sterling close behind.
“The light. . . here, Gallaho—quick!” Nayland Smith spoke hoarsely. “Get his knife!”
“My God!”
Sterling sprang forward.
A lithe yellow man, his eyes on fire with venomous hatred, was struggling in Nayland Smith’s grasp! Sir Denis had him by the throat, but with his left hand he clutched the man’s lean, muscular wrist. A knife, having a short, curved blade, was grasped in the sinewy fingers. For all Nayland Smith’s efforts, its point was creeping nearer and nearer, driven by the maniacal strength which animated the tigerish body. The left arm of the yellow man was thrown around his captor, seeking to drag him down upon the quivering blade . . .
Gallaho twisted the weapon from the man’s grasp, and Nayland Smith stood up, breathing heavily. Two constables had joined them now, their lamps reinforcing the illumination.
“Who’s got bracelets?” growled Gallaho.
None of the party had handcuffs, but Constable Dorchester, of the spiky red hair, grabbed the prisoner and ran him up the steps.
Outside, held by Dorchester and another, his back against the teak door, he grinned fie
ndishly, but uttered no word whilst Nayland Smith resumed his shoes and put on his leather overcoat. Gallaho shone the light of a torch on to the face of the captive.
The man wore a soft shirt and no tie; a cheap flannel suit;
his ankles were bare, and his lean feet were encased in rubber-soled shoes. His teeth gleamed in that fixed grin of hatred; his sunken eyes held a reddish smouldering fire. Disordered oily black hair hung down over his forehead. He was panting and wet with perspiration.
Nayland Smith raised the damp hair from the man’s brow, revealing a small mark upon parchment-like skin.
“The mark of Kali,” he said. “I thought so ... One of the Doctor’s religious assassins.”
“What ever is the meaning of all this?” Mr. Roberts demanded in a high, quavering voice.
Nayland Smith turned in the speaker’s direction, so that from Sterling’s point of view, the keen, angular profile was clearly visible against the light of a lamp held by one of the constables.
“It means,” Sir Denis began . . .
Something hummed like a giant insect past Sterling’s ear, missed Nayland Smith by less than an inch as he sprang back, fists clenched, glittered evilly in the lantern light, and . . . the man whose brow was branded with the mark of Kali gurgled, and became limp in the grip of his two big captors.
A bloody foam appeared upon his lips.
He was pinned to the door by a long, narrow-bladed knife, which had completely pierced his throat and had penetrated nearly an inch into the teak against which he stood!
CHAPTER 11
SAM PAK OF LIMEHOUSE
Nayland Smith walked up and down his study in Whitehall. Heavy blue curtains were drawn before the windows. Alan Sterling from the depths of an armchair watched him gloomily.
“I am satisfied that the other shells in that vault were occupied by deceased Demurases,” said Sir Denis. “How long the group has had access to that mausoleum, is something we are unlikely ever to know. But doubtless it has served other purposes in the past. The supposed sarcophagus of Isobel Demuras, as I showed you, was no more than a trick box or hiding-place, having a spy-hole by means of which one concealed there could watch what was going on below. It is certain that I have been covered closely for some days past. We were followed to Dr. Norton’s house this evening, and later I was followed to the Home Secretary’s. To make assurance doubly sure, the Doctor planted a spy in the mausoleum.”
He paused, knocking out his pipe in the hearth.
“That knife was meant for me, Sterling,” he said grimly, “and Dr. Fu Manchu’s thugs rarely miss.”
“It was an act of Providence—the protection of heaven!”
“I agree. The reign of the Mandarin Fu Manchu is drawing to a close. The omens are against him. He smuggled Fleurette from Ambrose’s studio to the cemetery. The device seems elaborate; but consider the difficulty of transporting an insensible girl!”
Sterling jumped up, a lean but athletic figure, clenching and unclenching his sunburned hands.
“Insensible—yes!” he groaned. “How do we know she isn’t— dead... .”
“Because all the evidence points the other way. Dr. Fu Manchu is a good gambler; he would never throw away an ace. Consider the sheer brilliance of his asking police protection for Professor Ambrose—that is, for himself!”
“He had not anticipated that it would be continued in London.”
“Possibly not.”
He pressed a bell. A tall, gaunt manservant came in. A leathery quality in his complexion indicated that he had known tropical suns; his face was expressionless as that of a Sioux brave; his small eyes conveyed nothing.
“Set out a cold buffet in the dining-room, Fay,” Nayland Smith directed.
Fay, seeming to divine by means of some extra sense that this completed his instructions, slightly inclined his close-cropped head and went out as silently as he had come in.
The telephone bell rang. Sir Denis took up the instrument, and:
“Yes,” he said; “please show him up at once.” He replaced the receiver. “Gallaho is downstairs. I hope this means that the deceased thug has been identified.”
Sterling’s restlessness was feverish.
“This waiting,” he muttered, “is damnably trying.”
Nayland Smith unscrewed the top of a tobacco jar.
“Get out your pipe,” he snapped. “We’ll have a drink when Gallaho arrives. You don’t have to be jumpy—there’s work ahead, and I’m counting on you.”
Sterling nodded, clenched his white teeth, and plunged into a pocket of his suit for his pipe. At which moment, a bell rang. Sir Denis opened the door, crossed the lobby and faced Chief detective-inspector Gallaho at the very moment that the silent Fay admitted him. He could not wait for the Scotland Yard man to cross the threshold, but:
“Who was he?” he snapped; “do you know?”
“Got his history, sir, such as it is.”
“Good.”
The fog had penetrated to the lift-shaft of the building;
wisps floated out on the landing and aleady were penetrating the lobby. When the inspector had come in:
“Have you had any dinner?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“No, sir. I haven’t had time to think about eating.”
“I thought not. There’s a cold buffet in the dining-room, as I gather we may be late to-night. Am I right?”
“Quite probably, sir.”
“Excellent.”
Sterling had charged his pipe from the tobacco jar, and now Nayland Smith pulled out a tangle of broad-cut mixture and began stuffing it into the hot bowl of his own cracked briar.
“Help yourself to whisky and soda, Inspector,” he said; “it’s on the side table there. Please go ahead.”
Gallaho nodded, took a glass and helped himself to a modest drink, then:
“The dead man has been identified by Detective-sergeant Pether, ofK Division,” he went on. “What Pether doesn’t know about the Asiatics isn’t worth knowing. Can I help you, sir?” indicating the decanter.
“Thanks, Inspector—and one for Mr. Sterling while you’re there.”
Gallaho, officiating as butler, continued:
“His real nationality, Pether doesn’t know, but he’s probably Burmese. He always passed for a lascar at Sam Pak’s——”
“Sam Pak’s?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“You’re a bit out of touch with Limehouse, sir,” said Gallaho, handing a tumbler to Sir Denis and one to Sterling. “But Sam Pak’s is a small restaurant frequented by seamen from ships docking in the river. It’s generally known that opium and hashish can be got there. But as its use seems to be confined to the Asiatics, we have never moved. There have been no complaints. Well—” he took a sip of his whisky and soda—”It seems that the dead man was known as ‘Charlie’— apparently he had no other name; and sometimes he used to act as a waiter for Sam Pak.”
“Highly important,” murmured Nayland Smith, beginning to walk up and down. “A very strong link. Gallaho. The doctor’s on the run. His available servants are few, and he’s back in his old haunts. Very significant. Could you give me a brief character sketch of this Sam Pak?”
“I can try, sir. Pether knows him better than I do, but I didn’t bother to bring him along. Let me see . . .” He chewed imaginary gum, staring up at the ceiling, then: “Sam Pak is a small, old, very wrinkled Chinaman. He might be any age up to, say, a hundred. He has a voice like a tin whistle, and speaks pidgin English.”
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Detective-sergeant Fletcher of K Division retired some years ago didn’t he?”
“He did, sir,” Gallaho replied, rather startled. “He’s landlord of the George and Dragon in Commercial Road. I happen to know him well.”
“Get through to the George and Dragon,” Nayland Smith directed. “Find out if Fletcher is home, and if so ask him to come on the line.”
“Very good, sir. . . . Now?”
“You might as well; I want to
think. You can use the telephone in the lobby.”
“Very good, sir.”
Inspector Gallaho went out, carrying his tumbler, and:
“You know,” said Nayland Smith, turning and staring at Sterling, “I have an idea that I know Sam Pak. I believe he is a certain John Ki, who disappeared from Chinatown some years ago. He was one of Fu Manchu’s people, Sterling. I should like to be sure.”
Sterling had lighted his pipe and had dropped back into the big armchair, but his mood was far from restful. He sat there, clutching the arms, watching Sir Denis pacing up and down the carpet. Suddenly:
“On your word of honour, Sir Denis,” he said, “do you think she’s alive?”
Nayland Smith turned and fixed an unflinching gaze upon the speaker.
“On my word of honour,” he replied, “I do.”
“Thank God!” Sterling murmured. “You’re a rock of refuge!”
“He’s well on the run,” Sir Denis continued, grimly, the cold grey-blue eyes alight with suppressed excitement. “He has doubled back to his riverside haunts. He’s finding it difficult to raise funds. The police of Europe are on his tail. He’s a cornered rat, and dangerous. The Mandarin Prince has become the common criminal. I wonder if it’s to be his fate, Sterling, that having threatened the safety of nations, he is to fall. That would be poetic justice, indeed. In the past, he has shown them scant mercy.”
Sterling watched the speaker fascinatedly. He radiated vitality; the force within him vibrated through one’s nerves. Only a man who had known Dr. Fu Manchu, as Sterling knew him, could have doubted that the Chinaman’s fate was sealed. But knowing, and appreciating, the genius of the great Eastern physician, Sterling, with optimism crying out for recognition in his heart, was forced to admit that the betting was even. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would have been an impossible adversary for any normal man to pit himself against, but Dr. Fu Manchu was not a normal man. He was a superman, Satan materialized, and one equipped with knowledge which few had ever achieved: a cold, dominating intellect, untrammelled by fleshly ties, a great mind unbound by laws of man.
The silence which fell was only broken by faint ringings of a telephone bell and the distant rumbling of the voice of Inspector Gallaho. Nayland Smith walked up and down. Sterling smoked, and clutched the arms of the chair. Then, Gallaho, still carrying his glass which now was empty, returned.
