The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu (23 page)

Of all that we had hoped for in our pursuit of Fu-Manchu how
little had we accomplished. Excepting Karamaneh and her brother
(who were victims and not creatures of the Chinese doctor's) not
one of the formidable group had fallen alive into our hands.
Dreadful crimes had marked Fu-Manchu's passage through the land.
Not one-half of the truth (and nothing of the later developments)
had been made public. Nayland Smith's authority was sufficient to
control the press.

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

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

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

That she valued human life but little was no matter for wonder.
Her nationality-her history-furnished adequate excuse for an
attitude not condonable in a European equally cultured.

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

Finally, despite her lurid history, despite the scornful
self-possession of which I knew her capable, she was an unprotected
girl-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 to Egypt. The boat sailed in three days. But Karamaneh's
beautiful eyes were sad; often I detected tears on the black
lashes. Shall I endeavor to describe my own tumultuous, conflicting
emotions? It would be useless, since I know it to be impossible.
For in those dark eyes burned a fire I might not see; those silken
lashes veiled a message I dared 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
acquaintance who, having come in contact with Karamaneh, had kept
his head.

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

One afternoon we found ourselves at an exhibition of water
colors in Bond Street. Karamaneh was intensely interested in the
subjects of the drawings-which were entirely Egyptian. As usual,
she furnished matter for comment amongst the other visitors, as did
the boy, Aziz, her brother, 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
in Arabic. I saw her peachlike color fade; saw her become pale and
wild-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
flash from the picture which he was examining.

"In this room!" she whispered glancing furtively, affrightedly
about her. "Something tells Aziz when HE is near-and I, too, feel
strangely afraid. 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; and Smith was staring about him with the old alert look,
and tugging nervously at the lobe of his ear. The name of the giant
foe of the white race instantaneously had strung him up to a pitch
of supreme intensity.

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

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

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

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

Could it be Dr. Fu-Manchu?

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

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

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

"That is Professor Jenner Monde," he said. "The sergeant, here,
knows him 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 the commissionaire. "I often used to see him. But he's an
eccentric old gentleman. Seems to live in a world of his own. He's
recently back from China, I think."

Nayland Smith stood clicking his teeth together in irritable
hesitation. I heard Karamaneh sigh, and, looking at her, I saw that
her 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 the gallery.

"Professor Jenner Monde," muttered my friend, "has lived so long
in China as almost to be a Chinaman. I have never met him-never
seen him, 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 that Fu-Manchu was present in person."

"I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are
naturally sensitive to such impressions. But I doubt if even the
abnormal organization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden
presence of a creature of the Doctor's and that of the Doctor
himself. I shall make a point of calling upon Professor Jenner
Monde."

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

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

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

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

He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street. A
charwoman did such cleaning as was considered necessary by the
Professor, who employed no regular domestic. When he was in London
he might be seen fairly frequently at the British Museum, where his
shabby figure was familiar to the officials. When he was not in
London-that is, during the greater part of each year-no one knew
where he went. He never left 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
Scotland Yard) 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 Latakia mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a
pound a week. He was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled
tufts hanging from the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the
floor with smoldering fragments.

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 like his 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
Maple Cottage."

Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know I funked," he continued huskily. "But when the wife came
to the head of the stairs and whispered to me: 'There it is again.
What in heaven's name can it be'-I started to unbolt the door. The
knocking had stopped. Everything was very still. I heard Mary-HIS
widow-sobbing, upstairs; that was all. I opened the door, a little
bit 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.
But somewhere down the lane, as I looked out into the porch, I
heard most awful groans! They got fainter and fainter. Then-I could
have sworn I heard SOMEONE LAUGHING! My nerves cracked up at that;
and I shut the door again."

The narration of his weird experience revived something of the
natural fear 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 room again. His eyes were literally on fire.

"Would it be possible to get Mrs. Weymouth out of the house
before to-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 fit to 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
you to arrange something, Petrie. Mr. Weymouth"-he turned to our
visitor-"I shall be with you this evening not later than twelve
o'clock."

Weymouth appeared to be greatly relieved. I asked him to wait
whilst I prepared 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
nervous energy to refill it again from the dilapidated pouch.

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

Dusk was falling when we made our way in the direction of Maple
Cottage. Nayland Smith appeared to be keenly interested in the
character of the district. A high and ancient wall bordered the
road along which we walked for a considerable distance. Later it
gave place to 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 by the builder. It is well wooded on one side, and there appears
to be a pool lower down."

The road was a quiet one, and we plainly heard the tread-quite
unmistakable-of an approaching policeman. Smith continued to peer
through 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?" he inquired.

Quite willing for a chat, the man stopped, and stood with his
thumbs thrust in his belt.

"Yes, sir. They tell me three new roads will be made through it
between here and the hill."

"It must be a happy hunting ground for tramps?"

"I've seen some suspicious-looking coves about at times. But
after dusk 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 and
bottles 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 has
got special instructions to keep his eye open in the mornings!" The
man grinned. "It wouldn't be a very big case even if he caught
anybody!" "No," said Smith absently; "perhaps not. Your business
must be a dry one this warm weather. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," replied the constable, richer by
half-a-crown-"and thank you."

Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the
lobe of 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
Maple Cottage. There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently
awaiting Smith. 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'll
notice 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
that ivy there's a clear view of the cottage door."

"Good. Keep your eyes open. If a messenger comes for me, he is
to be intercepted, 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's
ringing came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our
arrival.

"First," said my friend briskly, "you had better run up and see
the patient."

Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by
his wife to a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman
lay, a wanly pathetic sight.

"Did you administer the draught, as directed?" I asked.

Mrs. James Weymouth nodded. She was a kindly looking woman, with
the same dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked in her
husband's blue ones.

The patient was sleeping soundly. Some whispered instructions I
gave to the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room. It
was a warm night, and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking. The
dim light from the lamp on the table lent him an almost startling
likeness to his brother; and for a moment I stood at the foot of
the stairs scarce able to trust my reason. Then he turned his face
fully towards me, and the illusion 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 one foot to the other, in his nervously restless way. The room
was foggy with the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.

At intervals of some five to ten minutes, his blackened briar
(which I never knew him to clean or scrape) would go out. I think
Smith used more matches than any other smoker I have ever met, and
he invariably carried three boxes in various pockets of his
garments.

The tobacco habit is infectious, and, seating myself in an
arm-chair, I lighted a cigarette. For this dreary vigil I had come
prepared with a bunch of rough notes, a writing-block, and a
fountain pen. I settled down to work upon my record of the
Fu-Manchu case.

Silence fell upon Maple Cottage. Save for the shuddering sigh
which whispered through the over-hanging cedars and Smith's eternal
match-striking, nothing was there to disturb me in my task. Yet I
could make little progress. Between my mind and the chapter upon
which I was at work a certain sentence persistently intruded
itself. It was as 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 brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven
skull, and long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green: invest him
with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated
in one giant intellect… "

Dr. Fu-Manchu! Fu-Manchu as Smith had described him to me on
that night which now seemed so remotely distant-the night upon
which I had learned of the existence of the wonderful and evil
being born of that secret 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 of the 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 that I had with me. Weymouth adjusted the lamp which had begun
to smoke.

I tiptoed to the stairs and, stepping softly, ascended to the
sick room. All was quiet, and Mrs. Weymouth whispered to me that
the patient still slept soundly. I returned to find Nayland Smith
pacing about the room in that state of suppressed excitement
habitual with him in the approach of any crisis. At a quarter past
two the breeze dropped entirely, and such a stillness reigned all
about us as I could not have supposed possible so near to the
ever-throbbing heart of the great metropolis. Plainly I could hear
Weymouth's heavy breathing. He sat at the window and looked out
into the black shadows under the cedars. 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 the
direction of the village street. It was a vague, indefinite
disturbance, brief, and upon it ensued a silence more marked than
ever. Some minutes before, Smith had extinguished the lamp. In the
darkness I 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
or bearing what tidings I knew not. My friend's plans were
incomprehensible to me, nor had I pressed him for any explanation
of their nature, knowing him to be in that high-strung and somewhat
irritable mood which claimed him at times of uncertainty-when he
doubted the wisdom of his actions, the accuracy of his surmises. He
gave no sign.

Very faintly I heard a clock strike the half-hour. A soft breeze
stole again through the branches above. The wind I thought must be
in a new quarter since I had not heard the clock before. In so
lonely a spot it was difficult to believe that the bell was that of
St. Paul's. Yet such was the fact.

And hard upon the ringing followed another sound-a sound we all
had expected, 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 it came-an imperative knocking on the door!

"My God!" groaned Weymouth-but he did not move from his position
at the 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 cried out as I fell
back-retreated with clenched hands from before THAT which stood on
the threshold.

It was a wild, unkempt figure, with straggling beard, hideously
staring eyes. With its hands it clutched at its hair-at its chin;
plucked at its mouth. No moonlight touched the features of this
unearthly visitant, but scanty as was the illumination we could see
the gleaming teeth-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
by the horror of the sound.

Then Nayland Smith pressed the button of an electric torch which
he carried. He directed the disk of white light fully upon the face
in the 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
could not doubt) that a thing of another world stood before me. I
am ashamed to confess the extent of the horror that came upon me.
James Weymouth raised his hands, as if to thrust away from him that
awful thing in the door. He was babbling-prayers, I think, but
wholly incoherent.

"Hold him, Petrie!"

Smith's voice was low. (When we were past thought or intelligent
action, he, dominant and cool, with that forced calm for which, a
crisis over, he always paid so dearly, was thinking of the woman
who slept above.)

He leaped forward; and in the instant that he grappled with the
one who had knocked I knew the visitant for a man of flesh and
blood-a man who shrieked and fought like a savage animal, foamed at
the mouth and gnashed his teeth in horrid frenzy; knew him for a
madman-knew him for the victim of Fu-Manchu-not dead, but
living-for Inspector Weymouth-a maniac!

In a flash I realized all this and sprang to Smith's assistance.
There was a sound of racing footsteps and the men who had been
watching outside came running into the porch. A third was with
them; and the five of us (for Weymouth's brother had not yet
grasped the fact that a man and not a spirit shrieked and howled in
our midst) clung to the infuriated madman, yet barely held our own
with him.

"The syringe, Petrie!" gasped Smith. "Quick! You must manage to
make an injection!"

I extricated myself and raced into the cottage for my bag. A
hypodermic syringe ready charged I had brought with me at Smith's
request. Even in that thrilling moment I could find time to admire
the wonderful foresight of my friend, who had divined what would
befall-isolated the strange, pitiful truth from the chaotic
circumstances which saw us at Maple Cottage that night.

Let me not enlarge upon the end of the awful struggle. At one
time I despaired (we all despaired) of quieting the poor, demented
creature. But at last it was done; and the gaunt, blood-stained
savage whom we had known as Detective-Inspector Weymouth lay
passive upon the couch in his own sitting-room. A great wonder
possessed my mind for the genius of the uncanny being who with the
scratch of a needle had made a brave and kindly man into this
unclean, brutish thing.

Nayland Smith, gaunt and wild-eyed, and trembling yet with his
tremendous exertions, turned to the man whom I knew to be the
messenger from Scotland Yard.

"Well?" he rapped.

"He is arrested, sir," the detective reported. "They have kept
him at his chambers as you ordered."

"Has she slept through it?" said Smith to me. (I had just
returned from 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."