The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  OF all that we had hoped for in our pursuit of Fu-Manchu how little hadwe accomplished. Excepting Karamaneh and her brother (who were victimsand not creatures of the Chinese doctor's) not one of the formidablegroup had fallen alive into our hands. Dreadful crimes had markedFu-Manchu's passage through the land. Not one-half of the truth (andnothing of the later developments) had been made public. NaylandSmith's authority was sufficient to control the press.

  In the absence of such a veto a veritable panic must have seized uponthe entire country; for a monster--a thing more than humanlyevil--existed in our midst.

  Always Fu-Manchu's secret activities had centered about the greatwaterway. There was much of poetic justice in his end; for the Thameshad claimed him, who so long had used the stream as a highway for thepassage to and fro for his secret forces. Gone now were the yellow menwho had been the instruments of his evil will; gone was the giantintellect which had controlled the complex murder machine. Karamaneh,whose beauty he had used as a lure, at last was free, and no more withher smile would tempt men to death--that her brother might live.

  Many there are, I doubt not, who will regard the Eastern girl withhorror. I ask their forgiveness in that I regarded her quitedifferently. No man having seen her could have condemned her unheard.Many, having looked into her lovely eyes, had they found there what Ifound, must have forgiven her almost any crime.

  That she valued human life but little was no matter for wonder. Hernationality--her history--furnished adequate excuse for an attitude notcondonable in a European equally cultured.

  But indeed let me confess that hers was a nature incomprehensible to mein some respects. The soul of Karamaneh was a closed book to myshort-sighted Western eyes. But the body of Karamaneh was exquisite;her beauty of a kind that was a key to the most extravagant rhapsodiesof Eastern poets. Her eyes held a challenge wholly Oriental in itsappeal; her lips, even in repose, were a taunt. And, herein, East isWest and West is East.

  Finally, despite her lurid history, despite the scornfulself-possession of which I knew her capable, she was an unprotectedgirl--in years, I believe, a mere child--whom Fate had cast in my way.At her request, we had booked passages for her brother and herself toEgypt. The boat sailed in three days. But Karamaneh's beautiful eyeswere sad; often I detected tears on the black lashes. Shall I endeavorto describe my own tumultuous, conflicting emotions? It would beuseless, since I know it to be impossible. For in those dark eyesburned a fire I might not see; those silken lashes veiled a message Idared not read.

  Nayland Smith was not blind to the facts of the complicated situation.I can truthfully assert that he was the only man of my acquaintancewho, having come in contact with Karamaneh, had kept his head.

  We endeavored to divert her mind from the recent tragedies by a roundof amusements, though with poor Weymouth's body still at the mercy ofunknown waters Smith and I made but a poor show of gayety; and I took agloomy pride in the admiration which our lovely companion everywhereexcited. I learned, in those days, how rare a thing in nature is areally beautiful woman.

  One afternoon we found ourselves at an exhibition of water colors inBond Street. Karamaneh was intensely interested in the subjects of thedrawings--which were entirely Egyptian. As usual, she furnished matterfor comment amongst the other visitors, as did the boy, Aziz, herbrother, anew upon the world from his living grave in the house of Dr.Fu-Manchu.

  Suddenly Aziz clutched at his sister's arm, whispering rapidly inArabic. I saw her peachlike color fade; saw her become pale andwild-eyed--the haunted Karamaneh of the old days.

  She turned to me.

  "Dr. Petrie--he says that Fu-Manchu is here!"

  "Where?"

  Nayland Smith rapped out the question violently, turning in a flashfrom the picture which he was examining.

  "In this room!" she whispered glancing furtively, affrightedly abouther. "Something tells Aziz when HE is near--and I, too, feel strangelyafraid. Oh, can it be that he is not dead!"

  She held my arm tightly. Her brother was searching the room with big,velvet black eyes. I studied the faces of the several visitors; andSmith was staring about him with the old alert look, and tuggingnervously at the lobe of his ear. The name of the giant foe of thewhite race instantaneously had strung him up to a pitch of supremeintensity.

  Our united scrutinies discovered no figure which could have been thatof the Chinese doctor. Who could mistake that long, gaunt shape, withthe high, mummy-like shoulders, and the indescribable gait, which I canonly liken to that of an awkward cat?

  Then, over the heads of a group of people who stood by the doorway, Isaw Smith peering at someone--at someone who passed across the outerroom. Stepping aside, I, too, obtained a glimpse of this person.

  As I saw him, he was a tall, old man, wearing a black Inverness coatand a rather shabby silk hat. He had long white hair and a patriarchalbeard, wore smoked glasses and walked slowly, leaning upon a stick.

  Smith's gaunt face paled. With a rapid glance at Karamaneh, he madeoff across the room.

  Could it be Dr. Fu-Manchu?

  Many days had passed since, already half-choked by Inspector Weymouth'siron grip, Fu-Manchu, before our own eyes, had been swallowed up by theThames. Even now men were seeking his body, and that of his lastvictim. Nor had we left any stone unturned. Acting upon informationfurnished by Karamaneh, the police had searched every known haunt ofthe murder group. But everything pointed to the fact that the groupwas disbanded and dispersed; that the lord of strange deaths who hadruled it was no more.

  Yet Smith was not satisfied. Neither, let me confess, was I. Everyport was watched; and in suspected districts a kind of house-to-housepatrol had been instituted. Unknown to the great public, in those daysa secret war waged--a war in which all the available forces of theauthorities took the field against one man! But that one man was theevil of the East incarnate.

  When we rejoined him, Nayland Smith was talking to the commissionaireat the door. He turned to me.

  "That is Professor Jenner Monde," he said. "The sergeant, here, knowshim well."

  The name of the celebrated Orientalist of course was familiar to me,although I had never before set eyes upon him.

  "The Professor was out East the last time I was there, sir," stated thecommissionaire. "I often used to see him. But he's an eccentric oldgentleman. Seems to live in a world of his own. He's recently backfrom China, I think."

  Nayland Smith stood clicking his teeth together in irritablehesitation. I heard Karamaneh sigh, and, looking at her, I saw thather cheeks were regaining their natural color.

  She smiled in pathetic apology.

  "If he was here he is gone," she said. "I am not afraid now."

  Smith thanked the commissionaire for his information and we quitted thegallery.

  "Professor Jenner Monde," muttered my friend, "has lived so long inChina as almost to be a Chinaman. I have never met him--never seenhim, before; but I wonder--"

  "You wonder what, Smith?"

  "I wonder if he could possibly be an ally, of the Doctor's!"

  I stared at him in amazement.

  "If we are to attach any importance to the incident at all," I said,"we must remember that the boy's impression--and Karamaneh's--was thatFu-Manchu was present in person."

  "I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are naturallysensitive to such impressions. But I doubt if even the abnormalorganization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden presence of acreature of the Doctor's and that of the Doctor himself. I shall makea point of calling upon Professor Jenner Monde."

  But Fate had ordained that much should happen ere Smith made hisproposed call upon the Professor.

  Karamaneh and her brother safely lodged in their hotel (which waswatched night and day by four men under Smith's orders), we returned tomy quiet suburban rooms.

  "First," said Smith, "let us see what we can find out respectingProfessor Monde."

  He
went to the telephone and called up New Scotland Yard. Therefollowed some little delay before the requisite information wasobtained. Finally, however, we learned that the Professor wassomething of a recluse, having few acquaintances, and fewer friends.

  He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street. A charwomandid such cleaning as was considered necessary by the Professor, whoemployed no regular domestic. When he was in London he might be seenfairly frequently at the British Museum, where his shabby figure wasfamiliar to the officials. When he was not in London--that is, duringthe greater part of each year--no one knew where he went. He neverleft any address to which letters might be forwarded.

  "How long has he been in London now?" asked Smith.

  So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied ScotlandYard) roughly a week.

  My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room.The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakiamixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week. Hewas one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts hanging fromthe pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor with smolderingfragments.

  A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.

  "Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir."

  "Hullo!" rapped Smith. "What's this?"

  Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects singularly likehis brother, in others as singularly unlike. Now, in his black suit,he was a somber figure; and in the blue eyes I read a fear suppressed.

  "Mr. Smith," he began, "there's something uncanny going on at MapleCottage."

  Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.

  "Sit down, Mr. Weymouth," he said. "I am not entirely surprised. Butyou have my attention. What has occurred?"

  Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured outa peg of whisky. His hand was not quite steady.

  "That knocking," he explained. "It came again the night after you werethere, and Mrs. Weymouth--my wife, I mean--felt that she couldn't spendanother night there, alone."

  "Did she look out of the window?" I asked.

  "No, Doctor; she was afraid. But I spent last night downstairs in thesitting-room--and _I_ looked out!"

  He took a gulp from his glass. Nayland Smith, seated on the edge ofthe table, his extinguished pipe in his hand, was watching him keenly.

  "I'll admit I didn't look out at once," Weymouth resumed. "There wassomething so uncanny, gentlemen, in that knocking--knocking--in thedead of the night. I thought"--his voice shook--"of poor Jack, lyingsomewhere amongst the slime of the river--and, oh, my God! it came tome that it was Jack who was knocking--and I dare not think whathe--what it--would look like!"

  He leaned forward, his chin in his hand. For a few moments we were allsilent.

  "I know I funked," he continued huskily. "But when the wife came tothe head of the stairs and whispered to me: 'There it is again. Whatin heaven's name can it be'--I started to unbolt the door. Theknocking had stopped. Everything was very still. I heard Mary--HISwidow--sobbing, upstairs; that was all. I opened the door, a littlebit at a time."

  Pausing again, he cleared his throat, and went on:

  "It was a bright night, and there was no one there--not a soul. Butsomewhere down the lane, as I looked out into the porch, I heard mostawful groans! They got fainter and fainter. Then--I could have swornI heard SOMEONE LAUGHING! My nerves cracked up at that; and I shut thedoor again."

  The narration of his weird experience revived something of the naturalfear which it had occasioned. He raised his glass, with unsteady hand,and drained it.

  Smith struck a match and relighted his pipe. He began to pace the roomagain. His eyes were literally on fire.

  "Would it be possible to get Mrs. Weymouth out of the house beforeto-night? Remove her to your place, for instance?" he asked abruptly.

  Weymouth looked up in surprise.

  "She seems to be in a very low state," he replied. He glanced at me."Perhaps Dr. Petrie would give us an opinion?"

  "I will come and see her," I said. "But what is your idea, Smith?"

  "I want to hear that knocking!" he rapped. "But in what I may see fitto do I must not be handicapped by the presence of a sick woman."

  "Her condition at any rate will admit of our administering an opiate,"I suggested. "That would meet the situation?"

  "Good!" cried Smith. He was intensely excited now. "I rely upon youto arrange something, Petrie. Mr. Weymouth"--he turned to ourvisitor--"I shall be with you this evening not later than twelveo'clock."

  Weymouth appeared to be greatly relieved. I asked him to wait whilst Iprepared a draught for the patient. When he was gone:

  "What do you think this knocking means, Smith?" I asked.

  He tapped out his pipe on the side of the grate and began with nervousenergy to refill it again from the dilapidated pouch.

  "I dare not tell you what I hope, Petrie," he replied--"nor what Ifear."