The Island of Fu-Manchu (12 page)

“Stop! It is impossible, I say! Listen: you can get in touch with me at the shop of a—”

The line was disconnected.

* * *

“So much and yet so little!” said Smith.

He was pacing restlessly up and down, surrounding himself with a smoke screen of pipe fumes.

“One thing at least is clear,” I declared. “Kennard Wood is doomed!”

“Don’t say that, Kerrigan! the idea drives me mad. Longton’s gone—and Kennard Wood next, whilst I stay idle! I wish I had been here when Ardatha called you. However, my delay with the police resulted in another clue, but a baffling one.”

“What clue?”

“The sheet—the sheet in which Longton’s body was thrown into the river—has been discovered.”

“Well?”

“It is bloodstained all over!”

“But—”

“Don’t tell me there were stains on the blanket, because I looked for them. Not a trace.” He turned suddenly. “You have noticed no evidence here of the peculiar smell?”

“None. But I have placed it. I know of what it reminded me—a charnel house!”

“Exactly. Hullo! Who’s this?”

The phone had buzzed, and he had the receiver off in a second

“What! Kennard Wood? Thank God! Quick, man—where are you? At the Hotel Prado. No, no! Listen to me. I cannot explain, now. But you simply must not dream of going to bed! Leave all lights on in your apartment, remain fully dressed and wait until I join you!”

Running out to the lobby, he gave rapid instructions to Sergeant Rorke.

“You understand?” he said finally “Inspector Hawk is downstairs. Tell him he is to start now, get this report and stand by at the Prado. Move.”

As Sergeant Rorke went out, Smith ran to the phone and called Police Headquarters. He was through in a matter of seconds.

“I want a raid squad outside the Prado in five minutes. They may not be needed, but I want them there. Is it clear? Good.” He hung up, and: “Come on, Kerrigan!” he cried.

A few minutes later we were hurrying through the foyer; but Ardatha was not there. We ran down the steps. A car belonging to the Police Department was always in attendance, so that without a moment of unnecessary delay we were off for the Hotel Prado. Somewhere a clock was chiming midnight.

I looked out from the speeding car, striving to obtain a glimpse of the faces of travellers in other cars; of those who entered and left restaurants. Had Ardatha been detected by the spy set to watch her? Had she risked a ghastly punishment in communicating with me? But such speculations were useless, and selfish. Resolutely, I fought to focus my mind on the drama of Kennard Wood.

Here, amid the supermodernity of New York, surrounded by millions of fellow creatures, a man lay in the shadow of a death which surely belonged to primeval swamps and jungles. Already, in his apartment at the Prado, most up to date and fashionable Park Avenue hotel, Kennard Wood might even now have heard the Snapping Fingers!

As if he had divined my train of thought:

“It is possible,” said Smith, “that some other method will be used against Kennard Wood. We cannot be sure. It is also highly probable that the Doctor’s watch-dogs will be in the foyer.” He leaned forward. “I am not familiar with the Prado, driver. Is there a staff entrance?”

“Sure—right on the corner of the block.”

“Stop there, but not directly outside.”

“It’s one-way, so we turn up here.”

When Smith pushed open a revolving door I followed him into a place tiled and brightly lighted, where a number of men and women in white overalls were moving about busily. I heard the rattle of dishes and in the distance caught sight of a man wearing a chef’s cap. Another man, who wore evening dress, came towards us.

“Perhaps you have made a mistake—,” he began.

“No mistake,” rapped Smith. “Police Department. Inspector Hawk should be somewhere in the hotel. Send him a message to stand by near the main entrance, and get me a house detective or anybody who is well acquainted with the building.”

The authority in Smith’s voice was unmistakable.

“It will save time if you will follow me, gentlemen.”

Our guide led us through a maze of service rooms and kitchens which the normal guest at such a hostelry never sees, presently emerging in an office where a big dark-jowled man sat at a desk, smoking a very short fragment of a very black cigar. As this man stood up:

“Oh, Sergeant Doherty,” said our guide, “these Police officers want a word with you.”

From under heavy brows suspicious eyes regarded us.

“My name is Nayland Smith,” explained my friend rapidly, indeed, irritably. “Inspector Hawk is here?”

A swift change appeared on Doherty’s truculent-looking face. “Why surely, sir! I was puzzled for a moment, but I was here waiting for you. At your service, sir.”

“Good.” Smith turned to our guide. “Will you take my message to Inspector Hawk at once.”

“At once.”

The man went out.

“Now, Sergeant Doherty, I want to go up to Colonel Kennard Wood’s apartment without entering the public rooms.”

“Easy enough. The waiters’ elevator is just outside. This way.” As we came out of the office:

“What is the house detective’s report?” asked Smith.

Sergeant Doherty closed the elevator door and pressed button 15.

“It’s kind of funny,” he replied. “The Prado is a smart place for supper these days, and Pannel—the house officer on duty—says that when the supper mob was coming in he got an idea that somebody had a large dog.”

“Large dog? I don’t follow.”

“Well, he says he hunted around, thinking some crazy deb, maybe, took a thing like that along to parties—and animals aren’t allowed in the Prado. But, except for that one glimpse, he saw nothing of it again, whatever it was.”

As we reached the fifteenth floor and stepped out of the elevator:

“Is Pannel a reliable observer?” asked Smith.

“Sure.” We were following Doherty along a carpeted passage. “Used to be with us. Mind you, he doesn’t swear it was a dog and he doesn’t swear he wasn’t mistaken; but what he told me is what I tell you.”

“When did Colonel Kennard Wood arrive?”

“He checked in around that time.” Sergeant Doherty pressed a bell. “Colonel Kennard Wood’s apartment.”

A moment later, as the door was opened:

“Stay in sight of this room,” Smith ordered.

Colonel Kennard Wood faced us. He was—a fact for which I had been prepared—superficially like James Longton; but I judged him to be ten years Longton’s senior. In build I could see that the dead man, normally, must closely have resembled his cousin. Kennard Wood was greying, sunburnt, and wore a single eyeglass.

“Smith! You are very welcome.”

We went in and the Colonel closed the door. I saw that he bore all the marks of overstrain and deep anxiety; but he placed chairs and proffered drinks.

“Thank you, but no,” said Smith. “The matter which brings myself and my friend, Bart Kerrigan, here at this hour is one of life and death.”

“I had hoped,” Kennard Wood confessed wearily, “to enjoy a few hours’ rest. I have had little enough during the past few days. So that the moment I got in, I notified you and proposed to go to sleep—”

“You would never have awakened,” said Smith grimly. Kennard Wood, dropping into a chair, stared haggardly. “You mean—I have been traced here?”

Smith nodded.

“As James will have told you,” the Colonel went on, “I was recalled at the very moment I was about to leave Havana. Some new and startling facts had come to hand. But knowing of tomorrow’s conference I sent James ahead with all material to date. You have this, no doubt?”

Smith stood up abruptly.

“I speak to a soldier,” he said, “and so I can be blunt. Your cousin James Longton—”

“Not—”

“I am sorry—yes.”

Kennard Wood crossed to a small buffet and steadily poured out a drink.

“As I decline to drink alone, Smith,” he said quietly, “no doubt Mr. Kerrigan and yourself will reconsider your decision?”

“Of course—but time is precious.
You
are marked as the next victim!”

“As to that,” said the Colonel, turning, and his features were set in a coldly dangerous mask, “we shall see.”

He served us, drained his own glass and set it down. “How—was it done?”

“Details must wait; but no doubt you recall the Snapping Fingers deaths in Port au Prince?”

“The Snapping Fingers! You don’t tell me that James—”

“Unfortunately, yes. He went to Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s, undoubtedly believing that he would be safe there—”

“We both had reason to fear for our lives. There had been numerous attempts.”

“So I gather.”

“But this horror—here, in New York!”

“Unless I am quite wrong, here in this hotel! First, where is your baggage?”

“In the bedroom. I will show you.”

As we followed Kennard Wood, Smith began sniffing suspiciously. I, too, sought traces of the vilely carnal odour which evidently betokened the presence of the thing called the Snapping Fingers. I could detect nothing. In the bedroom, Smith stood quite still for a moment, looking around. It was an ordinary, if luxurious, hotel bedroom. The bed was turned down and folded pyjamas were laid out; a travelling clock and some books were on a side table: a suitcase stood on a rack against one wall. Smith stepped into the bathroom. Toilet articles were disposed on a dressing-table and on glass shelves.

He turned to Kennard Wood: the Colonel had paled under his tan.

“Who brought up the baggage?”

“The hotel porter.”

“Were you here when he arrived?”

“As a matter of fact, no: I was at the desk below, asking for messages.”

“And who unpacked and set it out?”

“The valet. I was in my apartment. The man knows my ways; I have stayed at the Prado several times. If I understood what it is that you apprehended, Smith, I might be able to help. But we are on the fifteenth floor of a modern New York hotel, not in Haiti!”

“Harsh to remind you, Wood, but poor Longton was in his own quarters in the home of Mrs. Mendel Hammett. Forgive me if I seem to take liberties, but I must examine your gear closely.” As Kennard Wood moved forward: “Be good enough to touch nothing!”

Whilst the stricken Colonel and I stood by, inert, watching, Nayland Smith made a rapid but efficient examination of every foot of the apartment. Frequently he sniffed. High above the supper crowds, above the fashionable activities of Park Avenue, I thought that we were isolated, alone as though Fate had cast us together on an uninhabited island. Indeed, a man may be as hopelessly alone, as far from human aid, in the midst of a million fellows as one in the heart of the Sahara. The death-mark of Fu-Manchu was set upon Kennard Wood’s door; he knew.

“I have found absolutely nothing,” said Smith at last, “if I except these remnants of some kind of wrapping, which, however, you may be able to identify.”

He displayed what looked like a tattered piece of grease-proof paper.

“No.” Kennard Wood shook his head. “Nothing of mine was wrapped in that. Possibly a relic of some former occupant.”

“Possibly,” Smith murmured, and set the fragment aside. “Now for the acid test. I warn you, Wood, that I am submitting you to an ordeal of which I know nothing. But its outcome may be the solution to the mystery of the Snapping Fingers; an explanation of Longton’s death.”

“Give me my orders.”

“I must add that nothing may be attempted. Possibly the agents of Fu-Manchu responsible for your dismissal know that you are not alone. Both windows are open: the attack may come from either of them. In order to steel you for what may be a nerve-racking task, let me say that I believe that Longton was mistaken for yourself—”

“And died in my place?”

“I may be wrong, but I think so. Did you ever stay at Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”

“Yes.”

“Then I am right! But they know, now. The material in the portfolio contained new facts?”

“New facts! Smith, there’s a conspiracy aimed against this government which has no parallel in history!”

“I know,” said Smith quietly. “That is why Longton died, why so many have died; why I am here. Now, Wood. I am going to ask you to lie down on the bed, and then I am going to turn out every light in the apartment. This thing always strikes in the dark.”

“Very well.”

Kennard Wood threw himself on to the coverlet, taking an automatic from his pocket as he did so.

“No shooting!” snapped Smith. “Yours is the harder, the passive part. Is it agreed?”

“As you say!”

“Just here by the door, Kerrigan. Do nothing without the word from me.”

He moved. I heard several clicks. The whole place was plunged in darkness. Then came Smith’s voice:

“Steady, everybody. Be ready for anything.”

In the sudden darkness and complete silence, the buzz of that sleepless hive which is New York rising from far below, I became aware of a sense of impending peril which, as I knew at that moment, I had experienced before. Agents of Dr. Fu-Manchu were near. Even had I been uninformed of the fact I should have known it; every nerve in my body proclaimed it, was a herald announcing, psychically, the approach of some lethal thing.

Quite distinctly, from no more than a stride away, came a faint clicking sound.

“My God!” breathed Kennard Wood, “it’s here!”

“The Snapping Fingers!” whispered Smith. “Stand fast.”

T
he sudden knowledge that here, in the darkness of the room, some nocturnal creature which drained one’s blood was already questing victims, imposed a test upon my nerves which I found hard to meet. Kennard Wood breathed rapidly.

True, I shared the horror and the peril. But recalling that story told by the house detective, his strange account of something which might have been the “phantom hound of Peel”, I had a stiff struggle with my imagination. Since Smith had examined almost every foot of the apartment, it was not admissible that such a creature could be hiding there; but I remembered that windows were open and I visualized a giant vampire bat at this very moment entering stealthily; a hybrid horror created in the laboratories of Dr. Fu-Manchu. The suspense of those tense moments was almost unendurable.