by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER XXIX
DUSK was falling when we made our way in the direction of MapleCottage. Nayland Smith appeared to be keenly interested in thecharacter of the district. A high and ancient wall bordered the roadalong which we walked for a considerable distance. Later it gave placeto a rickety fence.
My friend peered through a gap in the latter.
"There is quite an extensive estate here," he said, "not yet cut up bythe builder. It is well wooded on one side, and there appears to be apool lower down."
The road was a quiet one, and we plainly heard the tread--quiteunmistakable--of an approaching policeman. Smith continued to peerthrough the hole in the fence, until the officer drew up level with us.Then:
"Does this piece of ground extend down to the village, constable?" heinquired.
Quite willing for a chat, the man stopped, and stood with his thumbsthrust in his belt.
"Yes, sir. They tell me three new roads will be made through itbetween here and the hill."
"It must be a happy hunting ground for tramps?"
"I've seen some suspicious-looking coves about at times. But afterdusk an army might be inside there and nobody would ever be the wiser."
"Burglaries frequent in the houses backing on to it?"
"Oh, no. A favorite game in these parts is snatching loaves andbottles of milk from the doors, first thing, as they're delivered.There's been an extra lot of it lately. My mate who relieves me hasgot special instructions to keep his eye open in the mornings!" Theman grinned. "It wouldn't be a very big case even if he caughtanybody!" "No," said Smith absently; "perhaps not. Your business mustbe a dry one this warm weather. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir," replied the constable, richer by half-a-crown--"andthank you."
Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the lobeof his ear.
"I don't know that it wouldn't be a big case, after all," he murmured."Come on, Petrie."
Not another word did he speak, until we stood at the gate of MapleCottage. There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently awaitingSmith. He touched his hat.
"Have you found a suitable hiding-place?" asked my companion rapidly.
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Kent--my mate--is there now. You'llnotice that he can't be seen from here."
"No," agreed Smith, peering all about him. "He can't. Where is he?"
"Behind the broken wall," explained the man, pointing. "Through thativy there's a clear view of the cottage door."
"Good. Keep your eyes open. If a messenger comes for me, he is to beintercepted, you understand. No one must be allowed to disturb us.You will recognize the messenger. He will be one of your fellows.Should he come--hoot three times, as much like an owl as you can."
We walked up to the porch of the cottage. In response to Smith'sringing came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our arrival.
"First," said my friend briskly, "you had better run up and see thepatient."
Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by his wifeto a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman lay, a wanlypathetic sight.
"Did you administer the draught, as directed?" I asked.
Mrs. James Weymouth nodded. She was a kindly looking woman, with thesame dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked in herhusband's blue ones.
The patient was sleeping soundly. Some whispered instructions I gaveto the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room. It was a warmnight, and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking. The dim lightfrom the lamp on the table lent him an almost startling likeness to hisbrother; and for a moment I stood at the foot of the stairs scarce ableto trust my reason. Then he turned his face fully towards me, and theillusion was lost.
"Do you think she is likely to wake, Doctor?" he asked.
"I think not," I replied.
Nayland Smith stood upon the rug before the hearth, swinging from onefoot to the other, in his nervously restless way. The room was foggywith the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.
At intervals of some five to ten minutes, his blackened briar (which Inever knew him to clean or scrape) would go out. I think Smith usedmore matches than any other smoker I have ever met, and he invariablycarried three boxes in various pockets of his garments.
The tobacco habit is infectious, and, seating myself in an arm-chair, Ilighted a cigarette. For this dreary vigil I had come prepared with abunch of rough notes, a writing-block, and a fountain pen. I settleddown to work upon my record of the Fu-Manchu case.
Silence fell upon Maple Cottage. Save for the shuddering sigh whichwhispered through the over-hanging cedars and Smith's eternalmatch-striking, nothing was there to disturb me in my task. Yet Icould make little progress. Between my mind and the chapter upon whichI was at work a certain sentence persistently intruded itself. It wasas though an unseen hand held the written page closely before my eyes.This was the sentence:
"Imagine a person, tall, lean, and feline, high-shouldered, with a browlike Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long,magnetic eyes of the true cat-green: invest him with all the cruelcunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giantintellect. . ."
Dr. Fu-Manchu! Fu-Manchu as Smith had described him to me on thatnight which now seemed so remotely distant--the night upon which I hadlearned of the existence of the wonderful and evil being born of thatsecret quickening which stirred in the womb of the yellow races.
As Smith, for the ninth or tenth time, knocked out his pipe on a bar ofthe grate, the cuckoo clock in the kitchen proclaimed the hour.
"Two," said James Weymouth.
I abandoned my task, replacing notes and writing-block in the bag thatI had with me. Weymouth adjusted the lamp which had begun to smoke.
I tiptoed to the stairs and, stepping softly, ascended to the sickroom. All was quiet, and Mrs. Weymouth whispered to me that thepatient still slept soundly. I returned to find Nayland Smith pacingabout the room in that state of suppressed excitement habitual with himin the approach of any crisis. At a quarter past two the breezedropped entirely, and such a stillness reigned all about us as I couldnot have supposed possible so near to the ever-throbbing heart of thegreat metropolis. Plainly I could hear Weymouth's heavy breathing. Hesat at the window and looked out into the black shadows under thecedars. Smith ceased his pacing and stood again on the rug very still.He was listening! I doubt not we were all listening.
Some faint sound broke the impressive stillness, coming from thedirection of the village street. It was a vague, indefinitedisturbance, brief, and upon it ensued a silence more marked than ever.Some minutes before, Smith had extinguished the lamp. In the darknessI heard his teeth snap sharply together.
The call of an owl sounded very clearly three times.
I knew that to mean that a messenger had come; but from whence orbearing what tidings I knew not. My friend's plans wereincomprehensible to me, nor had I pressed him for any explanation oftheir nature, knowing him to be in that high-strung and somewhatirritable mood which claimed him at times of uncertainty--when hedoubted the wisdom of his actions, the accuracy of his surmises. Hegave no sign.
Very faintly I heard a clock strike the half-hour. A soft breeze stoleagain through the branches above. The wind I thought must be in a newquarter since I had not heard the clock before. In so lonely a spot itwas difficult to believe that the bell was that of St. Paul's. Yet suchwas the fact.
And hard upon the ringing followed another sound--a sound we all hadexpected, had waited for; but at whose coming no one of us, I think,retained complete mastery of himself.
Breaking up the silence in a manner that set my heart wildly leaping itcame--an imperative knocking on the door!
"My God!" groaned Weymouth--but he did not move from his position atthe window.
"Stand by, Petrie!" said Smith.
He strode to the door--and threw it widely open.
I know I was very pale. I think I c
ried out as I fell back--retreatedwith clenched hands from before THAT which stood on the threshold.
It was a wild, unkempt figure, with straggling beard, hideously staringeyes. With its hands it clutched at its hair--at its chin; plucked atits mouth. No moonlight touched the features of this unearthlyvisitant, but scanty as was the illumination we could see the gleamingteeth--and the wildly glaring eyes.
It began to laugh--peal after peal--hideous and shrill.
Nothing so terrifying had ever smote upon my ears. I was palsied bythe horror of the sound.
Then Nayland Smith pressed the button of an electric torch which hecarried. He directed the disk of white light fully upon the face inthe doorway.
"Oh, God!" cried Weymouth. "It's John!"--and again and again: "Oh,God! Oh, God!"
Perhaps for the first time in my life I really believed (nay, I couldnot doubt) that a thing of another world stood before me. I am ashamedto confess the extent of the horror that came upon me. James Weymouthraised his hands, as if to thrust away from him that awful thing in thedoor. He was babbling--prayers, I think, but wholly incoherent.
"Hold him, Petrie!"
Smith's voice was low. (When we were past thought or intelligentaction, he, dominant and cool, with that forced calm for which, acrisis over, he always paid so dearly, was thinking of the woman whoslept above.)
He leaped forward; and in the instant that he grappled with the one whohad knocked I knew the visitant for a man of flesh and blood--a man whoshrieked and fought like a savage animal, foamed at the mouth andgnashed his teeth in horrid frenzy; knew him for a madman--knew him forthe victim of Fu-Manchu--not dead, but living--for InspectorWeymouth--a maniac!
In a flash I realized all this and sprang to Smith's assistance. Therewas a sound of racing footsteps and the men who had been watchingoutside came running into the porch. A third was with them; and thefive of us (for Weymouth's brother had not yet grasped the fact that aman and not a spirit shrieked and howled in our midst) clung to theinfuriated madman, yet barely held our own with him.
"The syringe, Petrie!" gasped Smith. "Quick! You must manage to makean injection!"
I extricated myself and raced into the cottage for my bag. Ahypodermic syringe ready charged I had brought with me at Smith'srequest. Even in that thrilling moment I could find time to admire thewonderful foresight of my friend, who had divined what wouldbefall--isolated the strange, pitiful truth from the chaoticcircumstances which saw us at Maple Cottage that night.
Let me not enlarge upon the end of the awful struggle. At one time Idespaired (we all despaired) of quieting the poor, demented creature.But at last it was done; and the gaunt, blood-stained savage whom wehad known as Detective-Inspector Weymouth lay passive upon the couch inhis own sitting-room. A great wonder possessed my mind for the geniusof the uncanny being who with the scratch of a needle had made a braveand kindly man into this unclean, brutish thing.
Nayland Smith, gaunt and wild-eyed, and trembling yet with histremendous exertions, turned to the man whom I knew to be the messengerfrom Scotland Yard.
"Well?" he rapped.
"He is arrested, sir," the detective reported. "They have kept him athis chambers as you ordered."
"Has she slept through it?" said Smith to me. (I had just returnedfrom a visit to the room above.) I nodded.
"Is HE safe for an hour or two?"--indicating the figure on the couch."For eight or ten," I replied grimly.
"Come, then. Our night's labors are not nearly complete."
CHAPTER XXX
LATER was forthcoming evidence to show that poor Weymouth had lived awild life, in hiding among the thick bushes of the tract of land whichlay between the village and the suburb on the neighboring hill.Literally, he had returned to primitive savagery and some of his foodhad been that of the lower animals, though he had not scrupled tosteal, as we learned when his lair was discovered.
He had hidden himself cunningly; but witnesses appeared who had seenhim, in the dusk, and fled from him. They never learned that theobject of their fear was Inspector John Weymouth. How, having escapeddeath in the Thames, he had crossed London unobserved, we never knew;but his trick of knocking upon his own door at half-past two eachmorning (a sort of dawning of sanity mysteriously linked with oldcustom) will be a familiar class of symptom to all students ofalienation.
I revert to the night when Smith solved the mystery of the knocking.
In a car which he had in waiting at the end of the village we spedthrough the deserted streets to New Inn Court. I, who had followedNayland Smith through the failures and successes of his mission, knewthat to-night he had surpassed himself; had justified the confidenceplaced in him by the highest authorities.
We were admitted to an untidy room--that of a student, a traveler and acrank--by a plain-clothes officer. Amid picturesque and disorderedfragments of a hundred ages, in a great carven chair placed before atowering statue of the Buddha, sat a hand-cuffed man. His white hairand beard were patriarchal; his pose had great dignity. But hisexpression was entirely masked by the smoked glasses which he wore.
Two other detectives were guarding the prisoner.
"We arrested Professor Jenner Monde as he came in, sir," reported theman who had opened the door. "He has made no statement. I hope thereisn't a mistake."
"I hope not," rapped Smith.
He strode across the room. He was consumed by a fever of excitement.Almost savagely, he tore away the beard, tore off the snowy wig dashedthe smoked glasses upon the floor.
A great, high brow was revealed, and green, malignant eyes, which fixedthemselves upon him with an expression I never can forget.
IT WAS DR. FU-MANCHU!
One intense moment of silence ensued--of silence which seemed to throb.Then:
"What have you done with Professor Monde?" demanded Smith.
Dr. Fu-Manchu showed his even, yellow teeth in the singularly evilsmile which I knew so well. A manacled prisoner he sat as unruffled asa judge upon the bench. In truth and in justice I am compelled to saythat Fu-Manchu was absolutely fearless.
"He has been detained in China," he replied, in smooth, sibilanttones--"by affairs of great urgency. His well-known personality andungregarious habits have served me well, here!"
Smith, I could see, was undetermined how to act; he stood tugging athis ear and glancing from the impassive Chinaman to the wonderingdetectives.
"What are we to do, sir?" one of them asked.
"Leave Dr. Petrie and myself alone with the prisoner, until I call you."
The three withdrew. I divined now what was coming.
"Can you restore Weymouth's sanity?" rapped Smith abruptly. "I cannotsave you from the hangman, nor"--his fists clenched convulsively--"wouldI if I could; but--"
Fu-Manchu fixed his brilliant eyes upon him.
"Say no more, Mr. Smith," he interrupted; "you misunderstand me. I donot quarrel with that, but what I have done from conviction and what Ihave done of necessity are separated--are seas apart. The braveInspector Weymouth I wounded with a poisoned needle, in self-defense;but I regret his condition as greatly as you do. I respect such a man.There is an antidote to the poison of the needle."
"Name it," said Smith.
Fu-Manchu smiled again.
"Useless," he replied. "I alone can prepare it. My secrets shall diewith me. I will make a sane man of Inspector Weymouth, but no one elseshall be in the house but he and I."
"It will be surrounded by police," interrupted Smith grimly.
"As you please," said Fu-Manchu. "Make your arrangements. In thatebony case upon the table are the instruments for the cure. Arrangefor me to visit him where and when you will--"
"I distrust you utterly. It is some trick," jerked Smith.
Dr. Fu-Manchu rose slowly and drew himself up to his great height. Hismanacled hands could not rob him of the uncanny dignity which was his.He raised them above his head with a tragic gesture and fixed hispiercing gaze upon Nayland Smith.
The most awful visitor who ever threatened the peace of England, theend of the visit of Fu-Manchu was characteristic--terrible--inexplicable.
Strange to relate, I did not doubt that this weird being had conceivedsome kind of admiration or respect for the man to whom he had wroughtso terrible an injury. He was capable of such sentiments, for heentertained some similar one in regard to myself.
A cottage farther down the village street than Weymouth's was vacant,and in the early dawn of that morning became the scene of outrehappenings. Poor Weymouth, still in a comatose condition, we removedthere (Smith having secured the key from the astonished agent). Isuppose so strange a specialist never visited a patientbefore--certainly not under such conditions.
For into the cottage, which had been entirely surrounded by a ring ofpolice, Dr. Fu-Manchu was admitted from the closed car in which, hiswork of healing complete, he was to be borne to prison--to death!
Law and justice were suspended by my royally empowered friend that theenemy of the white race might heal one of those who had hunted him down!
No curious audience was present, for sunrise was not yet come; noconcourse of excited students followed the hand of the Master; butwithin that surrounded cottage was performed one of those miracles ofscience which in other circumstances had made the fame of Dr. Fu-Manchuto live forever.
Inspector Weymouth, dazed, disheveled, clutching his head as a man whohas passed through the Valley of the Shadow--but sane--sane!--walkedout into the porch!
He looked towards us--his eyes wild, but not with the fearsome wildnessof insanity.
"Mr. Smith!" he cried--and staggered down the path--"Dr. Petrie!What--"
There came a deafening explosion. From EVERY visible window of thedeserted cottage flames burst forth!
"QUICK!" Smith's voice rose almost to a scream--"into the house!"
He raced up the path, past Inspector Weymouth, who stood swaying therelike a drunken man. I was close upon his heels. Behind me came thepolice.
The door was impassable! Already, it vomited a deathly heat, borneupon stifling fumes like those of the mouth of the Pit. We burst awindow. The room within was a furnace!
"My God!" cried someone. "This is supernatural!"
"Listen!" cried another. "Listen!"
The crowd which a fire can conjure up at any hour of day or night, outof the void of nowhere, was gathering already. But upon all descendeda pall of silence.
From the heat of the holocaust a voice proclaimed itself--a voiceraised, not in anguish but in TRIUMPH! It chanted barbarically--andwas still.
The abnormal flames rose higher--leaping forth from every window.
"The alarm!" said Smith hoarsely. "Call up the brigade!"
I come to the close of my chronicle, and feel that I betray atrust--the trust of my reader. For having limned in the colors at mycommand the fiendish Chinese doctor, I am unable to conclude my task asI should desire, unable, with any consciousness of finality, to writeFinis to the end of my narrative.
It seems to me sometimes that my pen is but temporarily idle--that Ihave but dealt with a single phase of a movement having a hundredphases. One sequel I hope for, and against all the promptings of logicand Western bias. If my hope shall be realized I cannot, at this time,pretend to state.
The future, 'mid its many secrets, holds this precious one from me.
I ask you then, to absolve me from the charge of ill completing mywork; for any curiosity with which this narrative may leave the readerburdened is shared by the writer.
With intent, I have rushed you from the chambers of Professor JennerMonde to that closing episode at the deserted cottage; I have made thepace hot in order to impart to these last pages of my account somethingof the breathless scurry which characterized those happenings.
My canvas may seem sketchy: it is my impression of the reality. Nohard details remain in my mind of the dealings of that night.Fu-Manchu arrested--Fu-Manchu, manacled, entering the cottage on hismission of healing; Weymouth, miraculously rendered sane, coming forth;the place in flames.
And then?
To a shell the cottage burned, with an incredible rapidity whichpointed to some hidden agency; to a shell about ashes which held NOTRACE OF HUMAN BONES!
It has been asked of me: Was there no possibility of Fu-Manchu'shaving eluded us in the ensuing confusion? Was there no loophole ofescape?
I reply, that so far as I was able to judge, a rat could scarce havequitted the building undetected. Yet that Fu-Manchu had, in someincomprehensible manner and by some mysterious agency, produced thoseabnormal flames, I cannot doubt. Did he voluntarily ignite his ownfuneral pyre?
As I write, there lies before me a soiled and creased sheet of vellum.It bears some lines traced in a cramped, peculiar, and all butillegible hand. This fragment was found by Inspector Weymouth (to thisday a man mentally sound) in a pocket of his ragged garments.
When it was written I leave you to judge. How it came to be whereWeymouth found it calls for no explanation:
"To Mr. Commissioner NAYLAND SMITH and Dr. PETRIE--
"Greeting! I am recalled home by One who may not be denied. In muchthat I came to do I have failed. Much that I have done I would undo;some little I have undone. Out of fire I came--the smoldering fire ofa thing one day to be a consuming flame; in fire I go. Seek not myashes. I am the lord of the fires! Farewell.
"FU-MANCHU."
Who has been with me in my several meetings with the man who pennedthat message I leave to adjudge if it be the letter of a madman bentupon self-destruction by strange means, or the gibe of apreternaturally clever scientist and the most elusive being ever bornof the land of mystery--China.
For the present, I can aid you no more in the forming of your verdict.A day may come though I pray it do not--when I shall be able to thrownew light upon much that is dark in this matter. That day, so far as Ican judge, could only dawn in the event of the Chinaman's survival;therefore I pray that the veil be never lifted.
But, as I have said, there is another sequel to this story which I cancontemplate with a different countenance. How, then, shall I concludethis very unsatisfactory account?
Shall I tell you, finally, of my parting with lovely, dark-eyedKaramaneh, on board the liner which was to bear her to Egypt?
No, let me, instead, conclude with the words of Nayland Smith:
"_I_ sail for Burma in a fortnight, Petrie. I have leave to break myjourney at the Ditch. How would a run up the Nile fit your programme?Bit early for the season, but you might find something to amuse you!"
