The Wrath of Fu Manchu and Other Stories (6 page)

“What of it? You may remember that I know something about Huian Tsung’s cellars, anyway. Been down there before. Point is, if anything goes wrong, you know I’m there and you know where to look for me.”

“Yes. But I feel this should be my job, not yours.”

“The hell you do!” rapped Nayland Smith, his eyes suddenly steely. “Don’t misunderstand me, Harkness. I quite follow and I appreciate. But now that poor Orson is gone, there’s probably no man outside the Si-Fan who knows more about the organisation than I do. No. Definitely it’s my job.”

Harkness sighed.

“You have memorised the notes pencilled on Orson’s report?”

“I have. But I don’t know what some of them mean. I wonder if he had a premonition of what was to happen? Or were they intended to refresh his own memory?”

The notes referred to had been scribbled on the back of one of the typed pages hidden in Orson’s hollow stick. They were:

Ring seven times

Si-Fan. The Seven

Give up card

Mask. Gown

Seven rings. Sixth bell

“The first one’s clear enough,” Harkness said. “You ring the doorbell seven times. The others are incomprehensible. I can only hope that their meaning will come to you when you get inside. But if anything goes wrong, you know what to do?”

“Certainly. But I should hate to disturb the party before it had properly begun.”

The arrival of a fourth man at Kwang’s door had been reported:

“Time we were moving,” Smith said, rapidly, and glanced at the illuminated dial of his wrist-watch. “Better put the glasses on!”

At a word from Harkness, the sedan shot forward at sudden speed, swerved swiftly left and swept almost noiselessly into a dark street. At this hour of the night on the outskirts of the Asiatic quarter, windows were blackened, there were few people on the sidewalk. These mean houses might have been uninhabited.

Even the show places on Mott and Pell Street would be closing. Only one prepared to explore deep in secret burrows could hope to penetrate to the shady side of Eastern life in Manhattan’s Chinatown.

The big car came to a sudden halt.

“You can’t miss the door,” Harkness said. “Remember—I’m standing by!”

Nayland Smith, wearing no disguise other than heavy-rimmed glasses (with plain lenses), got out. He carried Selwyn Orson’s small leather case. They had driven past the establishment of Kwang T’see an hour before, and it was impossible for him to make any mistake.

As he walked slowly along, he paid an unspoken compliment to the police arrangements, whereby several men had been placed, earlier, so that they commanded a view of Kwang T’see’s office door. The store on the next street was also under close observation.

He had the whole of the New York Police Department behind him… and the unknown before…

* * *

“We must walk from here, my lady.”

Mrs van Roorden alighted from the car. Her green gown was hidden by a dark rainproof coat, the hood pulled over her head. A satchel hung from a strap across her shoulder. Mai Cha, hatless, and wearing a cheap frock in place of her native dress, had stepped out first and held the car door open. The chauffeur sat, silent, at the wheel.

There was garbage piled on the dirty sidewalk. The dingy houses looked as though they had been deserted in a plague. Two or three dilapidated automobiles were parked along the street.

“This is a dreadful neighbourhood, Mai Cha.”

“Yes. It is bad. I worked near here for a long time. But further up it is better.”

“Which way do we go?”

“To the corner. Then around, half way along the block.”

“The car will wait?”

“Of course, my lady.”

The warmth of the night had grown sultry. Clouds gathered, to add to the gloom of the depressing street. They had nearly reached the corner when Mrs van Roorden heard the sound of a started engine. She stopped, turned.

“You told me the chauffeur would wait!”

“He will wait, my lady.” Mai Cha’s placid voice remained soft, soothing. “I shall know where to find him.”

They came to the corner, and Mrs van Roorden stood back against a wall decorated with a Chinese poster. A heavily built man, a half-caste of some sort, picturesquely drunk, had almost bumped into her. He pulled up, stared at her, stared at Mai Cha, and staggered on.

“Let’s hurry!”

Mrs van Roorden was coolly composed, but delicately disgusted. Her composure might have faltered if she had known that the drunken half-caste was one of Raymond Harkness’ men. That he had returned to the corner to watch them and that, two minutes later, he would report: “The woman has gone in.”

They hurried along to a door set beside double, barred gates.

“Here is the bell, my lady. I shall be waiting for you to come out.”

* * *

Nayland Smith five minutes before, had pressed the same bell—seven times.

An interval followed, during which nothing happened. Then, there was a faint clicking sound. Realising that it operated mechanically, Smith pushed the door—and found himself in a complete blackout, stuffy, airless. The door closed behind him.

He stood still for a moment, trying to get his bearings in the dark. But he could see nothing, hear nothing. He wondered what he should do next, thought of Orson’s notes—and had an idea.

“Si-Fan. The Seven!”
he called.

A mechanical rumbling followed, heavy, dull, thunderous. A second door was being opened. In that utter darkness he saw a panel of faint green light. It enlarged as he watched, became a wide rectangular gap.

He found himself looking out into a dimly illuminated place which resembled Aladdin’s cave. It was the warehouse referred to by Police Captain Rafferty.

This green light came from a solitary lamp far away in cavernous darkness, but coming out of even more complete darkness, Nayland Smith’s eyes quickly became accustomed to it. He glanced around—and was amazed.

Here was a fabulous treasure-house.

The distant light was from a silver mosque lamp fitted with green glass; one of the objects of art with which this incredible place was crowded. Piled upon the floor were rugs and carpets of Kermanshah, of Khorassan, of the looms of China. Here was furniture of lemonwood, ivory, exquisitely inlaid, some of it with semi-precious stones; lacquer and enamel caskets, robes heavy with gold brocades and gems, pagan gods, swords, jars and bowls of delicate porcelain.

He looked back at the door by which he had entered, for he had heard it closing.

It was a metal door, set in a steel frame.

Clearly, Kwang T’see did not rely on burglary insurance. But, setting aside certain qualms aroused by this unbreakable door, Nayland Smith concentrated upon the next move.

It was highly probable that the real delegates were familiar with the routine, and his only chance of safety lay in divining what this routine was. He hesitated for no more than twenty seconds.

Picking a route along a sort of alleyway amid priceless pieces, some of them fragile, he paused under the green lamp. It was suspended before a drapery of magnificent Chinese tapestry which only partly concealed another metal door. The ingenuity of the scheme, carried out without care for cost, earned his admiration.

These steel doors could be explained readily by the proprietor of such a collection as this. But other than a bank strongroom, no safer place could well be imagined for a meeting of conspirators.

A ticking sound, ominously like that of a time-bomb, drew his glance swiftly upward.

From somewhere in the shadowy roof an object that looked like a lacquered tray, suspended on thin metal chains, was descending slowly! Lower it came, and lower, until it swung within reach of his hand.

Feverishly, Nayland Smith reviewed the pencilled notes.

Give up card…

He might be right, he might be wrong. But to hesitate would certainly be fatal.

Taking from his pocket the card found in Orson’s flask, Smith dropped it in the tray and gently twitched the chain.

The tray was wound up again.

A moment after it had been swallowed in the shadows of the roof beams, that now familiar rumbling was repeated. He saw that the half-draped door had begun to open. When the opening became wide enough, he stepped through.

The rumbling ceased for three seconds, was renewed—and the metal door closed upon his entrance.

He was in a small, square room, unfurnished except for a long couch and a row of pegs on the wall, and lighted by one ceiling lamp. A number of cases and handbags lay on the settee. Two robes, or gowns, rather like those of university bachelors but of a dull green colour, hung on the pegs.

His next step was crystal clear…
Mask. Gown
.

Taking out the hideous green mask, he removed his glasses and fitted it onto his head. It was contrived so as to cover the hair, and made of some flexible, lightweight material. The mouth aperture was hidden by a sort of grating, but the eyeholes were not obstructed in any way.

Orson’s case he laid on the settee, where five others lay already. None of the cases was initialled, he noted. Then he draped one of the two voluminous gowns over his shoulders.

And now came the crucial test:

Seven rings. Sixth bell
.

What in the name of reason, did that mean?

He inspected the room closely. Apart from the heavy, mechanical door now shutting him off from the world of normal men, he could see no other way in or out. But he saw something else: a narrow board, with seven green buttons. Reaching out, Nayland Smith pressed the button numbered six. He pressed it seven times.

Throughout, no human sound had reached him; but he could not dismiss an impression of being covertly watched. So far, he believed, he had done nothing to betray himself. So that, unless the unseen watcher had recognised him, his course still remained clear.

As for anything which might happen now, he was totally without guidance and must rely on his wits.

His pressure on the bell-push had produced no audible result. Complete silence claimed the small room. He was just beginning to wonder, uneasily, if he had misread Orson’s last note, when a second door, camouflaged so cleverly in a wall that he had overlooked it, slid almost noiselessly open.

Nayland Smith stood at the head of a flight of concrete stairs.

He was about to enter the secret cellars!

Smiling grimly (from now onward he stood alone against the Si-Fan) he began to go down.

The stairs led to a long, paved passage. It seemed to end before semi-transparent green draperies. Evidently green was the Si-Fan colour. Light showed through the drapes.

And then, at last, a silence which had been disturbed only by the sound of his footsteps on the stair, was broken.

It was broken so sharply that he started, clenched his fists.

Six strokes on a deep-toned gong echoed, eerily, from wall to wall of the passage…

* * *

Raymond Harkness had just received the report, “The woman has gone in,” when he noted a disturbance outside the yard in which the black sedan was parked. He stubbed out a cigarette he had been inhaling and sat quite still to listen.

A bulky figure appeared-—and came right up to the open window.

“Who is it?” Harkness asked, sharply.

The glowing end of a big cigar was poked right in.

“Who does it look like?” Burke’s growling bass inquired. “Your Aunt Fanny? Suppose I could wear out the seat of my pants with a show like this on? I have all the dope up to Smith going in. What’s new since then?”

“The woman has gone in.”

“Was she alone?”

“She went in alone. But a girl came out with her.”

“Where’s this girl?”

“She walked around to Kwang T’see’s store.”

“Fine! We know where to find her. Did they come in a car?”

“Yes. But they left it too far away for anybody to pick it up. The car was driven off.”

“Lousy!” Burke growled. “Oh, lousy! Nobody tailing it?”

“Rafferty reports there wasn’t time. It was off the moment the owner got out.”

“I’ll talk to Rafferty, later. Is it certain, stone-sure certain, that every possible bolt-hole is plugged up?”

“There’s a cordon right around the two blocks. You see, this car stopped outside the netted area—’

“Forget it! How long are we to give Smith to try to find out what we want to know before we go look for him?”

Harkness fitted a cigarette into his holder. “As I’m not in charge tonight, sir, that must rest with you.”

* * *

Nayland Smith pulled the green draperies aside and stepped into a room which challenged his sanity.

It was a square room having no visible opening except the one through which he had come in. The green draperies were carried around all four walls and up to the centre of the ceiling, so that the interior resembled a tent. Its sole furniture consisted of a shaded lamp suspended on a chain over a circular ebony table around which were placed seven ebony chairs. Before each of the chairs a disk with a number stood on the gleaming surface.

Five green-masked, green-robed figures arose as he entered. Nayland Smith clenched his teeth, trying to assure himself that he had not been drugged in some subtle way, that this was not delirium.

Five pairs of eyes stared from five masks as the deputies saluted him by swinging their right hand across so that it rested, palm outward, over the heart. No word was spoken. Reverberations of six gong strokes still haunted the air.

He returned the salute, and sat down in an ebony chair placed before a disk numbered six.

The five masked men resumed their seats in silence.

Was he accepted—or did this ominous and unnatural silence mean that they were waiting for him to carry out some part of the ritual not mentioned in poor Orson’s hastily scribbled notes?

Furtively, he glanced from mask to mask, trying to detect any signal one to another. No such communion was visible. These men were waiting—but for what?

It was a nightmare. Temptation to exchange some word with his neighbours became nearly irresistible. His heart was beating overfast. Perhaps he wasn’t the man he had been. His mental reserves might be failing him. He fixed his gaze on the only vacant place at the circular table. It faced him almost directly.