The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu (15 page)

The room in which Van Roon received us was roughly of the shape
of an old-fashioned keyhole; one end of it occupied the base of the
tower, upon which the remainder had evidently been built. In many
respects it was a singular room, but the feature which caused me
the greatest amazement was this:—it had no windows!

In the deep alcove formed by the tower sat Van Roon at a
littered table, upon which stood an oil reading-lamp, green shaded,
of the "Victoria" pattern, to furnish the entire illumination of
the apartment. That bookshelves lined the rectangular portion of
this strange study I divined, although that end of the place was
dark as a catacomb. The walls were wood-paneled, and the ceiling
was oaken beamed. A small bookshelf and tumble-down cabinet stood
upon either side of the table, and the celebrated American author
and traveler lay propped up in a long split-cane chair. He wore
smoked glasses, and had a clean-shaven, olive face, with a
profusion of jet black hair. He was garbed in a dirty red
dressing-gown, and a perfect fog of cigar smoke hung in the room.
He did not rise to greet us, but merely extended his right hand,
between two fingers whereof he held Smith's card.

"You will excuse the seeming discourtesy of an invalid,
gentlemen?" he said; "but I am suffering from undue temerity in the
interior of China!"

He waved his hand vaguely, and I saw that two rough deal chairs
stood near the table. Smith and I seated ourselves, and my friend,
leaning his elbow upon the table, looked fixedly at the face of the
man whom we had come from London to visit. Although comparatively
unfamiliar to the British public, the name of Van Roon was
well-known in American literary circles; for he enjoyed in the
United States a reputation somewhat similar to that which had
rendered the name of our mutual friend, Sir Lionel Barton, a
household word in England. It was Van Roon who, following in the
footsteps of Madame Blavatsky, had sought out the haunts of the
fabled mahatmas in the Himalayas, and Van Roon who had essayed to
explore the fever swamps of Yucatan in quest of the secret of lost
Atlantis; lastly, it was Van Roon, who, with an overland car
specially built for him by a celebrated American firm, had
undertaken the journey across China.

I studied the olive face with curiosity. Its natural impassivity
was so greatly increased by the presence of the colored spectacles
that my study was as profitless as if I had scrutinized the face of
a carven Buddha. The mulatto had withdrawn, and in an atmosphere of
gloom and tobacco smoke, Smith and I sat staring, perhaps rather
rudely, at the object of our visit to the West Country.

"Mr. Van Roon," began my friend abruptly, "you will no doubt
have seen this paragraph. It appeared in this morning's Daily
Telegraph."

He stood up, and taking out the cutting from his notebook,
placed it on the table.

"I have seen this—yes," said Van Roon, revealing a row of even,
white teeth in a rapid smile. "Is it to this paragraph that I owe
the pleasure of seeing you here?"

"The paragraph appeared in this morning's issue," replied Smith.
"An hour from the time of seeing it, my friend, Dr. Petrie, and I
were entrained for Bridgewater."

"Your visit delights me, gentlemen, and I should be ungrateful
to question its cause; but frankly I am at a loss to understand why
you should have honored me thus. I am a poor host, God knows; for
what with my tortured limb, a legacy from the Chinese devils whose
secrets I surprised, and my semi-blindness, due to the same cause,
I am but sorry company."

Nayland Smith held up his right hand deprecatingly. Van Roon
tendered a box of cigars and clapped his hands, whereupon the
mulatto entered.

"I see that you have a story to tell me, Mr. Smith," he said;
"therefore I suggest whisky-and-soda—or you might prefer tea, as it
is nearly tea time?"

Smith and I chose the former refreshment, and the soft-footed
half-breed having departed upon his errand, my companion, leaning
forward earnestly across the littered table, outlined for Van Roon
the story of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the great and malign being whose
mission in England at that moment was none other than the stoppage
of just such information as our host was preparing to give to the
world.

"There is a giant conspiracy, Mr. Van Roon," he said, "which had
its birth in this very province of Ho-Nan, from which you were so
fortunate to escape alive; whatever its scope or limitations, a
great secret society is established among the yellow races. It
means that China, which has slumbered for so many generations, now
stirs in that age-long sleep. I need not tell you how much more it
means, this seething in the pot… "

"In a word," interrupted Van Roon, pushing Smith's glass across
the table "you would say?—"

"That your life is not worth that!" replied Smith, snapping his
fingers before the other's face.

A very impressive silence fell. I watched Van Roon curiously as
he sat propped up among his cushions, his smooth face ghastly in
the green light from the lamp-shade. He held the stump of a cigar
between his teeth, but, apparently unnoticed by him, it had long
since gone out. Smith, out of the shadows, was watching him, too.
Then:

"Your information is very disturbing," said the American. "I am
the more disposed to credit your statement because I am all too
painfully aware of the existence of such a group as you mention, in
China, but that they had an agent here in England is something I
had never conjectured. In seeking out this solitary residence I
have unwittingly done much to assist their designs… But—my dear Mr.
Smith, I am very remiss! Of course you will remain tonight, and I
trust for some days to come?"

Smith glanced rapidly across at me, then turned again to our
host.

"It seems like forcing our company upon you," he said, "but in
your own interests I think it will be best to do as you are good
enough to suggest. I hope and believe that our arrival here has not
been noticed by the enemy; therefore it will be well if we remain
concealed as much as possible for the present, until we have
settled upon some plan."

"Hagar shall go to the station for your baggage," said the
American rapidly, and clapped his hands, his usual signal to the
mulatto.

Whilst the latter was receiving his orders I noticed Nayland
Smith watching him closely; and when he had departed:

"How long has that man been in your service?" snapped my
friend.

Van Roon peered blindly through his smoked glasses.

"For some years," he replied; "he was with me in India—and in
China."

"Where did you engage him?"

"Actually, in St. Kitts."

"H'm," muttered Smith, and automatically he took out and began
to fill his pipe.

"I can offer you no company but my own, gentlemen," continued
Van Roon, "but unless it interferes with your plans, you may find
the surrounding district of interest and worthy of inspection,
between now and dinner time. By the way, I think I can promise you
quite a satisfactory meal, for Hagar is a model chef."

"A walk would be enjoyable," said Smith, "but dangerous."

"Ah! perhaps you are right. Evidently you apprehend some attempt
upon me?"

"At any moment!"

"To one in my crippled condition, an alarming outlook! However,
I place myself unreservedly in your hands. But really, you must not
leave this interesting district before you have made the
acquaintance of some of its historical spots. To me, steeped as I
am in what I may term the lore of the odd, it is a veritable
wonderland, almost as interesting, in its way, as the caves and
jungles of Hindustan depicted by Madame Blavatsky."

His high-pitched voice, with a certain labored intonation, not
quite so characteristically American as was his accent, rose even
higher; he spoke with the fire of the enthusiast.

"When I learned that Cragmire Tower was vacant," he continued,
"I leaped at the chance (excuse the metaphor, from a lame man!).
This is a ghost hunter's paradise. The tower itself is of unknown
origin, though probably Phoenician, and the house traditionally
sheltered Dr. Macleod, the necromancer, after his flight from the
persecution of James of Scotland. Then, to add to its interest, it
borders on Sedgemoor, the scene of the bloody battle during the
Monmouth rising, whereat a thousand were slain on the field. It is
a local legend that the unhappy Duke and his staff may be seen, on
stormy nights, crossing the path which skirts the mire, after which
this building is named, with flaming torches held aloft."

"Merely marsh-lights, I take it?" interjected Smith, gripping
his pipe hard between his teeth.

"Your practical mind naturally seeks a practical explanation,"
smiled Van Roon, "but I myself have other theories. Then in
addition to the charms of Sedgemoor—haunted Sedgemoor—on a fine day
it is quite possible to see the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey from
here; and Glastonbury Abbey, as you may know, is closely bound up
with the history of alchemy. It was in the ruins of Glastonbury
Abbey that the adept Kelly, companion of Dr. Dee, discovered, in
the reign of Elizabeth, the famous caskets of St. Dunstan,
containing the two tinctures… "

So he ran on, enumerating the odd charms of his residence,
charms which for my part I did not find appealing. Finally:

"We cannot presume further upon your kindness," said Nayland
Smith, standing up. "No doubt we can amuse ourselves in the
neighborhood of the house until the return of your servant."

"Look upon Cragmire Tower as your own, gentlemen!" cried Van
Roon. "Most of the rooms are unfurnished, and the garden is a
wilderness, but the structure of the brickwork in the tower may
interest you archaeologically, and the view across the moor is at
least as fine as any in the neighborhood."

So, with his brilliant smile and a gesture of one thin yellow
hand, the crippled traveler made us free of his odd dwelling. As I
passed out from the room close at Smith's heels, I glanced back, I
cannot say why. Van Roon already was bending over his papers, in
his green shadowed sanctuary, and the light shining down upon his
smoked glasses created the odd illusion that he was looking over
the tops of the lenses and not down at the table as his attitude
suggested. However, it was probably ascribable to the weird
chiaroscuro of the scene, although it gave the seated figure an
oddly malignant appearance, and I passed out through the utter
darkness of the outer room to the front door. Smith opening it, I
was conscious of surprise to find dusk come—to meet darkness where
I had looked for sunlight.

The silver wisps which had raced along the horizon, as we came
to Cragmire Tower, had been harbingers of other and heavier banks.
A stormy sunset smeared crimson streaks across the skyline, where a
great range of clouds, like the oily smoke of a city burning, was
banked, mountain topping mountain, and lighted from below by this
angry red. As we came down the steps and out by the gate, I turned
and looked across the moor behind us. A sort of reflection from
this distant blaze encrimsoned the whole landscape. The inland bay
glowed sullenly, as if internal fires and not reflected light were
at work; a scene both wild and majestic.

Nayland Smith was staring up at the cone-like top of the ancient
tower in a curious, speculative fashion. Under the influence of our
host's conversation I had forgotten the reasonless dread which had
touched me at the moment of our arrival, but now, with the red
light blazing over Sedgemoor, as if in memory of the blood which
had been shed there, and with the tower of unknown origin looming
above me, I became very uncomfortable again, nor did I envy Van
Roon his eerie residence. The proximity of a tower of any kind, at
night, makes in some inexplicable way for awe, and to-night there
were other agents, too.

"What's that?" snapped Smith suddenly, grasping my arm.

He was peering southward, toward the distant hamlet, and,
starting violently at his words and the sudden grasp of his hand,
I, too, stared in that direction.

"We were followed, Petrie," he almost whispered. "I never got a
sight of our follower, but I'll swear we were followed. Look!
there's something moving over yonder!"

Together we stood staring into the dusk; then Smith burst
abruptly into one of his rare laughs, and clapped me upon the
shoulder.

"It's Hagar, the mulatto!" he cried—"and our grips. That
extraordinary American with his tales of witch-lights and haunted
abbeys has been playing the devil with our nerves."

Together we waited by the gate until the half-caste appeared on
the bend of the path with a grip in either hand. He was a great,
muscular fellow with a stoic face, and, for the purpose of visiting
Saul, presumably, he had doffed his white raiment and now wore a
sort of livery, with a peaked cap.

Smith watched him enter the house. Then:

"I wonder where Van Roon obtains his provisions and so forth,"
he muttered. "It's odd they knew nothing about the new tenant of
Cragmire Tower at 'The Wagoners.'"

There came a sort of sudden expectancy into his manner for which
I found myself at a loss to account. He turned his gaze inland and
stood there tugging at his left ear and clicking his teeth
together. He stared at me, and his eyes looked very bright in the
dusk, for a sort of red glow from the sunset touched them; but he
spoke no word, merely taking my arm and leading me off on a
rambling walk around and about the house. Neither of us spoke a
word until we stood at the gate of Cragmire Tower again; then:

"I'll swear, now, that we were followed here today!" muttered
Smith.

The lofty place immediately within the doorway proved, in the
light of a lamp now fixed in an iron bracket, to be a square
entrance hall meagerly furnished. The closed study door faced the
entrance, and on the left of it ascended an open staircase up which
the mulatto led the way. We found ourselves on the floor above, in
a corridor traversing the house from back to front. An apartment on
the immediate left was indicated by the mulatto as that allotted to
Smith. It was a room of fair size, furnished quite simply but
boasting a wardrobe cupboard, and Smith's grip stood beside the
white enameled bed. I glanced around, and then prepared to follow
the man, who had awaited me in the doorway.