The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu (17 page)

In looking over my notes dealing with the second phase of Dr.
Fu-Manchu's activities in England, I find that one of the worst
hours of my life was associated with the singular and seemingly
inconsequent adventure of the fiery hand. I shall deal with it in
this place, begging you to bear with me if I seem to digress.

Inspector Weymouth called one morning, shortly after the Van
Roon episode, and entered upon a surprising account of a visit to a
house at Hampstead which enjoyed the sinister reputation of being
uninhabitable.

"But in what way does the case enter into your province?"
inquired Nayland Smith, idly tapping out his pipe on a bar of the
grate.

We had not long finished breakfast, but from an early hour Smith
had been at his eternal smoking, which only the advent of the meal
had interrupted.

"Well," replied the inspector, who occupied a big armchair near
the window, "I was sent to look into it, I suppose, because I had
nothing better to do at the moment."

"Ah!" jerked Smith, glancing over his shoulder.

The ejaculation had a veiled significance; for our quest of Dr.
Fu-Manchu had come to an abrupt termination by reason of the fact
that all trace of that malignant genius, and of the group
surrounding him, had vanished with the destruction of Cragmire
Tower.

"The house is called the Gables," continued the Scotland Yard
man, "and I knew I was on a wild goose chase from the first—"

"Why?" snapped Smith.

"Because I was there before, six months ago or so—just before
your present return to England—and I knew what to expect."

Smith looked up with some faint dawning of interest perceptible
in his manner.

"I was unaware," he said with a slight smile, "that the
cleaning-up of haunted houses came within the jurisdiction of
Scotland Yard. I am learning something."

"In the ordinary way," replied the big man good-humoredly, "it
doesn't. But a sudden death always excites suspicion, and—"

"A sudden death?" I said, glancing up; "you didn't explain that
the ghost had killed any one!"

"I'm afraid I'm a poor hand at yarn-spinning, Doctor," said
Weymouth, turning his blue, twinkling eyes in my direction. "Two
people have died at the Gables within the last six months."

"You begin to interest me," declared Smith, and there came
something of the old, eager look into his gaunt face, as, having
lighted his pipe, he tossed the match-end into the hearth.

"I had hoped for some little excitement, myself," confessed the
inspector. "This dead-end, with not a ghost of a clue to the
whereabouts of the yellow fiend, has been getting on my
nerves—"

Nayland Smith grunted sympathetically.

"Although Dr. Fu-Manchu has been in England for some months,
now," continued Weymouth, "I have never set eyes upon him; the
house we raided in Museum Street proved to be empty; in a word, I
am wasting my time. So that I volunteered to run up to Hampstead
and look into the matter of the Gables, principally as a
distraction. It's a queer business, but more in the Psychical
Research Society's line than mine, I'm afraid. Still, if there were
no Dr. Fu-Manchu it might be of interest to you—and to you, Dr.
Petrie, because it illustrates the fact, that, given the right sort
of subject, death can be brought about without any elaborate
mechanism—such as our Chinese friends employ."

"You interest me more and more," declared Smith, stretching
himself in the long, white cane rest-chair.

"Two men, both fairly sound, except that the first one had an
asthmatic heart, have died at the Gables without any one laying a
little finger upon them. Oh! there was no jugglery! They weren't
poisoned, or bitten by venomous insects, or suffocated, or anything
like that. They just died of fear—stark fear."

With my elbows resting upon the table cover, and my chin in my
hands, I was listening attentively, now, and Nayland Smith, a big
cushion behind his head, was watching the speaker with a keen and
speculative look in those steely eyes of his.

"You imply that Dr. Fu-Manchu has something to learn from the
Gables?" he jerked.

Weymouth nodded stolidly.

"I can't work up anything like amazement in these days,"
continued the latter; "every other case seems stale and hackneyed
alongside the case. But I must confess that when the Gables came on
the books of the Yard the second time, I began to wonder. I thought
there might be some tangible clue, some link connecting the two
victims; perhaps some evidence of robbery or of revenge—of some
sort of motive. In short, I hoped to find evidence of human agency
at work, but, as before, I was disappointed."

"It's a legitimate case of a haunted house, then?" said
Smith.

"Yes; we find them occasionally, these uninhabitable places,
where there is something, something malignant and harmful to human
life, but something that you cannot arrest, that you cannot hope to
bring into court."

"Ah," replied Smith slowly; "I suppose you are right. There are
historic instances, of course: Glamys Castle and Spedlins Tower in
Scotland, Peel Castle, Isle of Man, with its Maudhe Dhug, the gray
lady of Rainham Hall, the headless horses of Caistor, the Wesley
ghost of Epworth Rectory, and others. But I have never come in
personal contact with such a case, and if I did I should feel very
humiliated to have to confess that there was any agency which could
produce a physical result—death—but which was immune from physical
retaliation."

Weymouth nodded his head again.

"I might feel a bit sour about it, too," he replied, "if it were
not that I haven't much pride left in these days, considering the
show of physical retaliation I have made against Dr.
Fu-Manchu."

"A home thrust, Weymouth!" snapped Nayland Smith, with one of
those rare, boyish laughs of his. "We're children to that Chinese
doctor, Inspector, to that weird product of a weird people who are
as old in evil as the pyramids are old in mystery. But about the
Gables?"

"Well, it's an uncanny place. You mentioned Glamys Castle a
moment ago, and it's possible to understand an old stronghold like
that being haunted, but the Gables was only built about 1870; it's
quite a modern house. It was built for a wealthy Quaker family, and
they occupied it, uninterruptedly and apparently without anything
unusual occurring, for over forty years. Then it was sold to a Mr.
Maddison—and Mr. Maddison died there six months ago."

"Maddison?" said Smith sharply, staring across at Weymouth.
"What was he? Where did he come from?"

"He was a retired tea-planter from Colombo," replied the
inspector.

"Colombo?"

"There was a link with the East, certainly, if that's what you
are thinking; and it was this fact which interested me at the time,
and which led me to waste precious days and nights on the case. But
there was no mortal connection between this liverish individual and
the schemes of Dr. Fu-Manchu. I'm certain of that."

"And how did he die?" I asked, interestedly.

"He just died in his chair one evening, in the room which he
used as a library. It was his custom to sit there every night, when
there were no visitors, reading, until twelve o'clock—or later. He
was a bachelor, and his household consisted of a cook, a housemaid,
and a man who had been with him for thirty years, I believe. At the
time of Mr. Maddison's death, his household had recently been
deprived of two of its members. The cook and housemaid both
resigned one morning, giving as their reason the fact that the
place was haunted."

"In what way?"

"I interviewed the precious pair at the time, and they told me
absurd and various tales about dark figures wandering along the
corridors and bending over them in bed at night, whispering; but
their chief trouble was a continuous ringing of bells about the
house."

"Bells?"

"They said that it became unbearable. Night and day there were
bells ringing all over the house. At any rate, they went, and for
three or four days the Gables was occupied only by Mr. Maddison and
his man, whose name was Stevens. I interviewed the latter also, and
he was an altogether more reliable witness; a decent, steady sort
of man whose story impressed me very much at the time."

"Did he confirm the ringing?"

"He swore to it—a sort of jangle, sometimes up in the air, near
the ceilings, and sometimes under the floor, like the shaking of
silver bells."

Nayland Smith stood up abruptly and began to pace the room,
leaving great trails of blue-gray smoke behind him.

"Your story is sufficiently interesting, Inspector," he
declared, "even to divert my mind from the eternal contemplation of
the Fu-Manchu problem. This would appear to be distinctly a case of
an 'astral bell' such as we sometimes hear of in India."

"It was Stevens," continued Weymouth, "who found Mr. Maddison.
He (Stevens) had been out on business connected with the household
arrangements, and at about eleven o'clock he returned, letting
himself in with a key. There was a light in the library, and
getting no response to his knocking, Stevens entered. He found his
master sitting bolt upright in a chair, clutching the arms with
rigid fingers and staring straight before him with a look of such
frightful horror on his face, that Stevens positively ran from the
room and out of the house. Mr. Maddison was stone dead. When a
doctor, who lives at no great distance away, came and examined him,
he could find no trace of violence whatever; he had apparently died
of fright, to judge from the expression on his face."

"Anything else?"

"Only this: I learnt, indirectly, that the last member of the
Quaker family to occupy the house had apparently witnessed the
apparition, which had led to his vacating the place. I got the
story from the wife of a man who had been employed as gardener
there at that time. The apparition—which he witnessed in the
hallway, if I remember rightly—took the form of a sort of luminous
hand clutching a long, curved knife."

"Oh, Heavens!" cried Smith, and laughed shortly; "that's quite
in order!"

"This gentleman told no one of the occurrence until after he had
left the house, no doubt in order that the place should not acquire
an evil reputation. Most of the original furniture remained, and
Mr. Maddison took the house furnished. I don't think there can be
any doubt that what killed him was fear at seeing a
repetition—"

"Of the fiery hand?" concluded Smith.

"Quite so. Well, I examined the Gables pretty closely, and, with
another Scotland Yard man, spent a night in the empty house. We saw
nothing; but once, very faintly, we heard the ringing of
bells."

Smith spun around upon him rapidly.

"You can swear to that?" he snapped.

"I can swear to it," declared Weymouth stolidly. "It seemed to
be over our heads. We were sitting in the dining-room. Then it was
gone, and we heard nothing more whatever of an unusual nature.
Following the death of Mr. Maddison, the Gables remained empty
until a while ago, when a French gentleman, name Lejay, leased
it—"

"Furnished?"

"Yes; nothing was removed—"

"Who kept the place in order?"

"A married couple living in the neighborhood undertook to do so.
The man attended to the lawn and so forth, and the woman came once
a week, I believe, to clean up the house."

"And Lejay?"

"He came in only last week, having leased the house for six
months. His family were to have joined him in a day or two, and he,
with the aid of the pair I have just mentioned, and assisted by a
French servant he brought over with him, was putting the place in
order. At about twelve o'clock on Friday night this servant ran
into a neighboring house screaming 'the fiery hand!' and when at
last a constable arrived and a frightened group went up the avenue
of the Gables, they found M. Lejay, dead in the avenue, near the
steps just outside the hall door! He had the same face of horror…
"

"What a tale for the press!" snapped Smith.

"The owner has managed to keep it quiet so far, but this time I
think it will leak into the press—yes."

There was a short silence; then:

"And you have been down to the Gables again?"

"I was there on Saturday, but there's not a scrap of evidence.
The man undoubtedly died of fright in the same way as Maddison. The
place ought to be pulled down; it's unholy."

"Unholy is the word," I said. "I never heard anything like it.
This M. Lejay had no enemies?—there could be no possible
motive?"

"None whatever. He was a business man from Marseilles, and his
affairs necessitated his remaining in or near London for some
considerable time; therefore, he decided to make his headquarters
here, temporarily, and leased the Gables with that intention."

Nayland Smith was pacing the floor with increasing rapidity; he
was tugging at the lobe of his left ear and his pipe had long since
gone out.

I started to my feet as a tall, bearded man swung open the door
and hurled himself impetuously into the room. He wore a silk hat,
which fitted him very ill, and a black frock coat which did not fit
him at all.

"It's all right, Petrie!" cried the apparition; "I've leased the
Gables!"

It was Nayland Smith! I stared at him in amazement

"The first time I have employed a disguise," continued my friend
rapidly, "since the memorable episode of the false pigtail." He
threw a small brown leather grip upon the floor. "In case you
should care to visit the house, Petrie, I have brought these
things. My tenancy commences to-night!"

Two days had elapsed, and I had entirely forgotten the strange
story of the Gables which Inspector Weymouth had related to us;
evidently it was otherwise with my friend, and utterly at a loss
for an explanation of his singular behavior, I stooped mechanically
and opened the grip. It contained an odd assortment of garments,
and amongst other things several gray wigs and a pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles.

Kneeling there with this strange litter about me, I looked up
amazedly. Nayland Smith, with the unsuitable silk hat set right
upon the back of his head, was pacing the room excitedly, his
fuming pipe protruding from the tangle of factitious beard.

"You see, Petrie," he began again, rapidly, "I did not entirely
trust the agent. I've leased the house in the name of Professor
Maxton… "

"But, Smith," I cried, "what possible reason can there be for
disguise?"

"There's every reason," he snapped.

"Why should you interest yourself in the Gables?"

"Does no explanation occur to you?"

"None whatever; to me the whole thing smacks of stark
lunacy."

"Then you won't come?"

"I've never stuck at anything, Smith," I replied, "however
undignified, when it has seemed that my presence could be of the
slightest use."

As I rose to my feet, Smith stepped in front of me, and the
steely gray eyes shone out strangely from the altered face. He
clapped his hands upon my shoulders.

"If I assure you that your presence is necessary to my safety,"
he said—"that if you fail me I must seek another companion—will you
come?"

Intuitively, I knew that he was keeping something back, and I
was conscious of some resentment, but nevertheless my reply was a
foregone conclusion, and—with the borrowed appearance of an
extremely untidy old man—I crept guiltily out of my house that
evening and into the cab which Smith had waiting.

The Gables was a roomy and rambling place lying back a
considerable distance from the road. A semicircular drive gave
access to the door, and so densely wooded was the ground, that for
the most part the drive was practically a tunnel—a verdant tunnel.
A high brick wall concealed the building from the point of view of
any one on the roadway, but either horn of the crescent drive
terminated at a heavy, wrought-iron gateway.

Smith discharged the cab at the corner of the narrow and winding
road upon which the Gables fronted. It was walled in on both sides;
on the left the wall being broken by tradesmen's entrances to the
houses fronting upon another street, and on the right following,
uninterruptedly, the grounds of the Gables. As we came to the
gate:

"Nothing now," said Smith, pointing into the darkness of the
road before us, "except a couple of studios, until one comes to the
Heath."

He inserted the key in the lock of the gate and swung it
creakingly open. I looked into the black arch of the avenue,
thought of the haunted residence that lay hidden somewhere beyond,
of those who had died in it—especially of the one who had died
there under the trees—and found myself out of love with the
business of the night.

"Come on!" said Nayland Smith briskly, holding the gate open;
"there should be a fire in the library and refreshments, if the
charwoman has followed instructions."

I heard the great gate clang to behind us. Even had there been
any moon (and there was none) I doubted if more than a patch or two
of light could have penetrated there. The darkness was
extraordinary. Nothing broke it, and I think Smith must have found
his way by the aid of some sixth sense. At any rate, I saw nothing
of the house until I stood some five paces from the steps leading
up to the porch. A light was burning in the hallway, but dimly and
inhospitably; of the facade of the building I could perceive
little.

When we entered the hall and the door was closed behind us, I
began wondering anew what purpose my friend hoped to serve by a
vigil in this haunted place. There was a light in the library, the
door of which was ajar, and on the large table were decanters, a
siphon, and some biscuits and sandwiches. A large grip stood upon
the floor, also. For some reason which was a mystery to me, Smith
had decided that we must assume false names whilst under the roof
of the Gables; and:

"Now, Pearce," he said, "a whisky-and-soda before we look
around?"

The proposal was welcome enough, for I felt strangely
dispirited, and, to tell the truth, in my strange disguise, not a
little ridiculous.

All my nerves, no doubt, were highly strung, and my sense of
hearing unusually acute, for I went in momentary expectation of
some uncanny happening. I had not long to wait. As I raised the
glass to my lips and glanced across the table at my friend, I heard
the first faint sound heralding the coming of the bells.

It did not seem to proceed from anywhere within the library, but
from some distant room, far away overhead. A musical sound it was,
but breaking in upon the silence of that ill-omened house, its
music was the music of terror. In a faint and very sweet cascade it
rippled; a ringing as of tiny silver bells.

I set down my glass upon the table, and rising slowly from the
chair in which I had been seated, stared fixedly at my companion,
who was staring with equal fixity at me. I could see that I had not
been deluded; Nayland Smith had heard the ringing, too.

"The ghosts waste no time!" he said softly. "This is not new to
me; I spent an hour here last night and heard the same sound… "

I glanced hastily around the room. It was furnished as a
library, and contained a considerable collection of works,
principally novels. I was unable to judge of the outlook, for the
two lofty windows were draped with heavy purple curtains which were
drawn close. A silk shaded lamp swung from the center of the
ceiling, and immediately over the table by which I stood. There was
much shadow about the room; and now I glanced apprehensively about
me, but especially toward the open door.

In that breathless suspense of listening we stood awhile;
then:

"There it is again!" whispered Smith, tensely.

The ringing of bells was repeated, and seemingly much nearer to
us; in fact it appeared to come from somewhere above, up near the
ceiling of the room in which we stood. Simultaneously, we looked
up, then Smith laughed, shortly.

"Instinctive, I suppose," he snapped; "but what do we expect to
see in the air?"

The musical sound now grew in volume; the first tiny peal seemed
to be reinforced by others and by others again, until the air
around about us was filled with the pealings of these invisible
bell-ringers.

Although, as I have said, the sound was rather musical than
horrible, it was, on the other hand, so utterly unaccountable as to
touch the supreme heights of the uncanny. I could not doubt that
our presence had attracted these unseen ringers to the room in
which we stood, and I knew quite well that I was growing pale. This
was the room in which at least one unhappy occupant of the Gables
had died of fear. I recognized the fact that if this mere overture
were going to affect my nerves to such an extent, I could not hope
to survive the ordeal of the night; a great effort was called for.
I emptied my glass at a gulp, and stared across the table at
Nayland Smith with a sort of defiance. He was standing very upright
and motionless, but his eyes were turning right and left, searching
every visible corner of the big room.

"Good!" he said in a very low voice. "The terrorizing power of
the Unknown is boundless, but we must not get in the grip of panic,
or we could not hope to remain in this house ten minutes."

I nodded without speaking. Then Smith, to my amazement, suddenly
began to speak in a loud voice, a marked contrast to that, almost a
whisper, in which he had spoken formerly.

"My dear Pearce," he cried, "do you hear the ringing of
bells?"

Clearly the latter words were spoken for the benefit of the
unseen intelligence controlling these manifestations; and although
I regarded such finesse as somewhat wasted, I followed my friend's
lead and replied in a voice as loud as his own:

"Distinctly, Professor!"

Silence followed my words, a silence in which both stood
watchful and listening. Then, very faintly, I seemed to detect the
silvern ringing receding away through distant rooms. Finally it
became inaudible, and in the stillness of the Gables I could
distinctly hear my companion breathing. For fully ten minutes we
two remained thus, each momentarily expecting a repetition of the
ringing, or the coming of some new and more sinister manifestation.
But we heard nothing and saw nothing.

"Hand me that grip, and don't stir until I come back!" hissed
Smith in my ear.

He turned and walked out of the library, his boots creaking very
loudly in that awe-inspiring silence.

Standing beside the table, I watched the open door for his
return, crushing down a dread that another form than his might
suddenly appear there.

I could hear him moving from room to room, and presently, as I
waited in hushed, tense watchfulness, he came in, depositing the
grip upon the table. His eyes were gleaming feverishly.

"The house is haunted, Pearce!" he cried. "But no ghost ever
frightened me! Come, I will show you your room."