The Hand of Fu Manchu (27 page)

"It's the gathering storm," he explained. "These creatures are
peculiarly susceptible to atmospheric disturbances."

Now the door was thrown open, and, standing in the lighted hall,
a picture fair to look upon in her dainty kimono and little red,
high-heeled slippers, stood Kâramaneh!

I was beside her in a moment; for the lovely face was pale and there
was a wildness in her eyes which alarmed me.

"
He
is somewhere near!" she whispered, clinging to me. "Some great
danger threatens. Where have you been?—what has happened?"

"Smith was attacked on his way back from London," I replied. "But, as
you see, he is quite recovered. We are in no danger; and I insist that
you go back to bed. We shall tell you all about it in the morning."

Rebellion blazed up in her wonderful eyes instantly—and as quickly
was gone, leaving them exquisitely bright. Two tears, like twin pearls,
hung upon the curved black lashes. It made my blood course faster to
watch this lovely Eastern girl conquering the barbaric impulses that
sometimes flamed up within, her, because
I
willed it; indeed this was
a miracle that I never tired of witnessing.

Mrs. Oram, the white-haired housekeeper, placed her arm in motherly
fashion about the girl's slim waist.

"She wants to stay in my room until the trouble is all over," she said
in her refined, sweet voice.

"You are very good, Mrs. Oram," I replied. "Take care of her."

One long, reassuring glance I gave Kâramaneh, then turned and
followed Smith and Sir Lionel up the winding oak stair. Kennedy came
close behind me, carrying one of the acetylene head-lamps of the car.
And—

"Just listen to the lioness, sir!" he whispered. "It's not the
gathering storm that's making her so restless. Jungle beasts grow
quiet, as a rule, when there's thunder about."

The snarling of the great creature was plainly audible, distant though
we were from her cage.

"Through your room, Barton!" snapped Nayland Smith, when we gained the
top corridor.

He was his old, masterful self once more, and his voice was vibrant
with that suppressed excitement which I knew well. Into the disorderly
sleeping apartment of the baronet we hurried, and Smith made for the
recess near the bed which concealed a door in the paneling.

"Cautiously here!" cried Smith. "Follow immediately behind me, Kennedy,
and throw the beam ahead. Hold the lamp well to the left."

In we filed, into that ancient passage which had figured in many a
black deed but had never served the ends of a more evil plotter than
the awful Chinaman who so recently had rediscovered it.

Down we marched, and down, but not to the base of the tower, as I had
anticipated. At a point which I judged to be about level with the
first floor of the house, Smith—who had been audibly counting the
steps—paused, and began to examine the seemingly unbroken masonry
of the wall.

"We have to remember," he muttered, "that this passage may be blocked
up or otherwise impassable, and that Fu-Manchu may know of another
entrance. Furthermore, since the plan is lost, I have to rely upon
my memory for the exact position of the door."

He was feeling about in the crevices between the stone blocks of which
the wall was constructed.

"Twenty-one steps," he muttered; "I feel certain."

Suddenly it seemed that his quest had proved successful.

"Ah!" he cried—"the ring!"

I saw that he had drawn out a large iron ring from some crevice in
which it had been concealed.

"Stand back, Kennedy!" he warned.

Kennedy moved on to a lower step—as Smith, bringing all his weight
to bear upon the ring, turned the huge stone slab upon its hidden
pivot, so that it fell back upon the stair with a reverberating boom.

We all pressed forward to peer into the black cavity. Kennedy moving
the light, a square well was revealed, not more than three feet across.
Foot-holes were cut at intervals down the further side.

"H'm!" said Smith—"I was hardly prepared for this. The method of
descent that occurs to me is to lean back against one side and trust
one's weight entirely to the foot-holes on the other. A shaft appeared
in the plan, I remember, but I had formed no theory respecting the
means provided for descending it. Tilt the lamp forward, Kennedy.
Good! I can see the floor of the passage below; only about fifteen
feet or so down."

He stretched his foot across, placed it in the niche and began to
descend.

"Kennedy next!" came his muffled voice, "with the lamp. Its light will
enable you others to see the way."

Down went Kennedy without hesitation, the lamp swung from his right
arm.

"I will bring up the rear," said Sir Lionel Barton.

Whereupon I descended. I had climbed down about half-way when, from
below, came a loud cry, a sound of scuffling, and a savage exclamation
from Smith. Then—

"We're right, Petrie! This passage was recently used by Fu-Manchu!"

I gained the bottom of the well, and found myself standing in the
entrance to an arched passage. Kennedy was directing the light of the
lamp down upon the floor.

"You see, the door was guarded" said Nayland Smith.

"What!"

"Puff adder!" he snapped, and indicated a small snake whose head was
crushed beneath his heel.

Sir Lionel now joined us; and, a silent quartette, we stood staring
from the dead reptile into the damp and evil-smelling tunnel. A
distant muttering and rumbling rolled, echoing awesomely along it.

"For Heaven's sake what was that, sir?" whispered Kennedy.

"It was the thunder," answered Nayland Smith. "The storm is breaking
over the hills. Steady with the lamp, my man."

We had proceeded for some three hundred yards, and, according to my
calculation, were clear of the orchard of Graywater Park and close to
the fringe of trees beyond; I was taking note of the curious old
brickwork of the passage, when—

"Look out, sir!" cried Kennedy—and the light began dancing madly.
"Just under your feet! Now it's up the wall!—mind your hand, Dr.
Petrie!"

The lamp was turned, and, since it shone fully into my face,
temporarily blinded me.

"On the roof over your head, Barton!"—this from Nayland Smith. "What
can we kill it with?"

Now my sight was restored to me, and looking back along the passage,
I saw, clinging to an irregularity in the moldy wall, the most
gigantic scorpion I had ever set eyes upon! It was fully as large as
my open hand.

Kennedy and Nayland Smith were stealthily retracing their steps, the
former keeping the light directed upon the hideous insect, which now
began running about with that horrible, febrile activity characteristic
of the species. Suddenly came a sharp, staccato report.... Sir Lionel
had scored a hit with his Browning pistol.

In waves of sound, the report went booming along the passage. The lamp,
as I have said, was turned in order to shine back upon us, rendering
the tunnel ahead a mere black mouth—a veritable inferno, held by
inhuman guards. Into that black cavern I stared, gloomily fascinated
by the onward rolling sound storm; into that blackness I looked ...
to feel my scalp tingle horrifically, to know the crowning horror of
the horrible journey.

The blackness was spangled with watching, diamond eyes!—with tiny
insect eyes that moved; upon the floor, upon the walls, upon the
ceiling! A choking cry rose to my lips.

"Smith! Barton! for God's sake, look! The place is
alive
with
scorpions!"

Around we all came, panic plucking at our hearts, around swept the
beam of the big lamp; and there, retreating before the light, went a
veritable army of venomous creatures! I counted no fewer than three of
the giant red centipedes whose poisonous touch, called "the zayat kiss,"
is certain death; several species of scorpion were represented; and
some kind of bloated, unwieldy spider, so gross of body that its short,
hairy legs could scarce support it, crawled, hideous, almost at my feet.

What other monstrosities of the insect kingdom were included in that
obscene host I know not; my skin tingled from head to feet; I
experienced a sensation as if a million venomous things already clung
to me—unclean things bred in the malarial jungles of Burma, in the
corpse-tainted mud of China's rivers, in the fever spots of that
darkest East from which Fu-Manchu recruited his shadow army.

I was perilously near to losing my nerve when the crisp, incisive
tones of Nayland Smith's voice came to stimulate me like a cold douche.

"This wanton sacrifice of horrors speaks eloquently of a forlorn hope!
Sweep the walls with light, Kennedy; all those filthy things are
nocturnal and they will retreat before us as we advance."

His words proved true. Occasioning a sort of
rustling
sound—a faint
sibilance indescribably loathsome—the creatures gray and black and
red darted off along the passage. One by one, as we proceeded, they
crept into holes and crevices of the ancient walls, sometimes singly,
sometimes in pairs—the pairs locked together in deadly embrace.

"They cannot live long in this cold atmosphere," cried Smith. "Many of
them will kill one another—and we can safely leave the rest to the
British climate. But see that none of them drops upon you in passing."

Thus we pursued our nightmare march, on through that valley of horror.
Colder grew the atmosphere and colder. Again the thunder boomed out
above us, seeming to shake the roof of the tunnel fiercely, as with
Titan hands. A sound of falling water, audible for some time, now
grew so loud that conversation became difficult. All the insects had
disappeared.

"We are approaching the River Starn!" roared Sir Lionel. "Note the dip
of the passage and the wet walls!"

"Note the type of brickwork!" shouted Smith.

Largely as a sedative to the feverish excitement which consumed me, I
forced myself to study the construction of the tunnel; and I became
aware of an astonishing circumstance. Partly the walls were natural,
a narrow cavern traversing the bed of rock which upcropped on this
portion of the estate, but partly, if my scanty knowledge of
archaeology did not betray me, they were
Phoenician!

"This stretch of passage," came another roar from Sir Lionel, "dates
back to Roman days or even earlier! By God! It's almost incredible!"

And now Smith and Kennedy, who lid, were up to their knees in a
running tide. An icy shower-bath drenched us from above; ahead was a
solid wall of falling water. Again, and louder, nearer, boomed and
rattled the thunder; its mighty voice was almost lost in the roar of
that subterranean cataract. Nayland Smith, using his hands as a
megaphone, cried;—

"Failing the evidence that others have passed this way, I should not
dare to risk it! But the river is less than forty feet wide at the
point below Monkswell; a dozen paces should see us through the worst!"

I attempted no reply. I will frankly admit that the prospect appalled
me. But, bracing himself up as one does preparatory to a high dive,
Smith, nodding to Kennedy to proceed, plunged into the cataract ahead....

Of how we achieved that twelve or fifteen yards below the rocky bed of
the stream the Powers that lent us strength and fortitude alone hold
record. Gasping for breath, drenched, almost reconciled to the end
which I thought was come—I found myself standing at the foot of a
steep flight of stairs roughly hewn in the living rock.

Beside me, the extinguished lamp still grasped in his hand, leant
Kennedy, panting wildly and clutching at the uneven wall. Sir Lionel
Barton had sunk exhausted upon the bottom step, and Nayland Smith was
standing near him, looking up the stairs. From an arched doorway at
their head light streamed forth!

Immediately behind me, in the dark place where the waters roared,
opened a fissure in the rock, and into it poured the miniature
cataract; I understood now the phenomenon of minor whirlpools for
which the little river above was famous. Such were my impressions of
that brief breathing-space; then—

"Have your pistols ready!" cried Smith. "Leave the lamp, Kennedy. It
can serve us no further."

Mustering all the reserve that remained to us, we went, pell-mell, a
wild, bedraggled company, up that ancient stair and poured into the
room above....

One glance showed us that this was indeed the chapel of Asmodeus, the
shrine of Satan where the Black Mass had been sung in the Middle Ages.
The stone altar remained, together with certain Latin inscriptions cut
in the wall. Fu-Manchu's last home in England had been within a temple
of his only Master.

Save for nondescript litter, evidencing a hasty departure of the
occupants, and a ship's lantern burning upon the altar, the chapel was
unfurnished. Nothing menaced us, but the thunder hollowly crashed far
above. To cover his retreat, Fu-Manchu had relied upon the noxious
host in the passage and upon the wall of water. Silent, motionless, we
four stood looking down at that which lay upon the floor of the unholy
place.

In a pool of blood was stretched the Eurasian girl, Zarmi. Her
picturesque finery was reft into tatters and her bare throat and arms
were covered with weals and bruises occasioned by ruthless, clutching
fingers. Of her face, which had been notable for a sort of devilish
beauty, I cannot write; it was the awful face of one who had did from
strangulation.

Beside her, with a Malay
krîs
in his heart—a little, jeweled weapon
that I had often seen in Zarmi's hand—sprawled the obese Greek,
Samarkan, a member of the Si-Fan group and sometime manager of a great
London hotel!

It was ghastly, it was infinitely horrible, that tragedy of which the
story can never be known, never be written; that fiendish fight to the
death in the black chapel of Asmodeus.