The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu E-Book

Sax Rohmer

• Herausgeber: neobooks
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 365

Beschreibung

Rohmer also wrote several novels of supernatural horror, including Brood of the Witch-Queen, described by Adrian as "Rohmer's masterpiece".Rohmer was very poor at managing his wealth, however, and made several disastrous business decisions that hampered him throughout his career.

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Sax Rohmer

The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

Impressum neobooks

CHAPTER I

The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

Author: Sax Rohmer

Release Date: May 24, 2008 [EBook #173]

[Last updated: October 13, 2012]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INSIDIOUS DR. FU-MANCHU ***

This etext was updated by Stewart A. Levin of Englewood, CO.

"A GENTLEMAN to see you, Doctor."

From across the common a clock sounded the half-hour.

"Ten-thirty!" I said. "A late visitor. Show him up, if you please."

I pushed my writing aside and tilted the lamp-shade, as footsteps

sounded on the landing. The next moment I had jumped to my feet, for a

tall, lean man, with his square-cut, clean-shaven face sun-baked to the

hue of coffee, entered and extended both hands, with a cry:

"Good old Petrie! Didn't expect me, I'll swear!"

It was Nayland Smith--whom I had thought to be in Burma!

"Smith," I said, and gripped his hands hard, "this is a delightful

surprise! Whatever--however--"

"Excuse me, Petrie!" he broke in. "Don't put it down to the sun!" And

he put out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

I was too surprised to speak.

"No doubt you will think me mad," he continued, and, dimly, I could see

him at the window, peering out into the road, "but before you are many

hours older you will know that I have good reason to be cautious. Ah,

nothing suspicious! Perhaps I am first this time." And, stepping back

to the writing-table he relighted the lamp.

"Mysterious enough for you?" he laughed, and glanced at my unfinished

MS. "A story, eh? From which I gather that the district is beastly

healthy--what, Petrie? Well, I can put some material in your way that,

if sheer uncanny mystery is a marketable commodity, ought to make you

independent of influenza and broken legs and shattered nerves and all

the rest."

I surveyed him doubtfully, but there was nothing in his appearance to

justify me in supposing him to suffer from delusions. His eyes were

too bright, certainly, and a hardness now had crept over his face. I

got out the whisky and siphon, saying:

"You have taken your leave early?"

"I am not on leave," he replied, and slowly filled his pipe. "I am on

duty."

"On duty!" I exclaimed. "What, are you moved to London or something?"

"I have got a roving commission, Petrie, and it doesn't rest with me

where I am to-day nor where I shall be to-morrow."

There was something ominous in the words, and, putting down my glass,

its contents untasted, I faced round and looked him squarely in the

eyes. "Out with it!" I said. "What is it all about?"

Smith suddenly stood up and stripped off his coat. Rolling back his

left shirt-sleeve he revealed a wicked-looking wound in the fleshy part

of the forearm. It was quite healed, but curiously striated for an

inch or so around.

"Ever seen one like it?" he asked.

"Not exactly," I confessed. "It appears to have been deeply

cauterized."

"Right! Very deeply!" he rapped. "A barb steeped in the venom of a

hamadryad went in there!"

A shudder I could not repress ran coldly through me at mention of that

most deadly of all the reptiles of the East.

"There's only one treatment," he continued, rolling his sleeve down

again, "and that's with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge.

I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterwards, in a forest that

stank with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had

hesitated. Here's the point. It was not an accident!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon

the tracks of the man who extracted that venom--patiently, drop by

drop--from the poison-glands of the snake, who prepared that arrow, and

who caused it to be shot at me."

"What fiend is this?"

"A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault is now in London, and

who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind. Petrie, I have

traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British Government

merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly

believe--though I pray I may be wrong--that its survival depends

largely upon the success of my mission."

To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos created

by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum suburban life

Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest. I did not know what

to think, what to believe.

"I am wasting precious time!" he rapped decisively, and, draining his

glass, he stood up. "I came straight to you, because you are the only

man I dare to trust. Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the

only person in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has

quitted Burma. I must have someone with me, Petrie, all the time--it's

imperative! Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the

strangest business, I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or

fiction?"

I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional duties

were not onerous.

"Good man!" he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way. "We start

now."

"What, to-night?"

"To-night! I had thought of turning in, I must admit. I have not

dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute

stretches. But there is one move that must be made to-night and

immediately. I must warn Sir Crichton Davey."

"Sir Crichton Davey--of the India--"

"Petrie, he is a doomed man! Unless he follows my instructions without

question, without hesitation--before Heaven, nothing can save him! I

do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence,

but I know that my first duty is to warn him. Let us walk down to the

corner of the common and get a taxi."

How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum; for, when

it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion is sudden and

unlooked for. To-day, we may seek for romance and fail to find it:

unsought, it lies in wait for us at most prosaic corners of life's

highway.

The drive that night, though it divided the drably commonplace from the

wildly bizarre--though it was the bridge between the ordinary and the

outre--has left no impression upon my mind. Into the heart of a weird

mystery the cab bore me; and in reviewing my memories of those days I

wonder that the busy thoroughfares through which we passed did not

display before my eyes signs and portents--warnings.

It was not so. I recall nothing of the route and little of import that

passed between us (we both were strangely silent, I think) until we

were come to our journey's end. Then:

"What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely.

Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed

about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey's house and sought to peer in at

the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb,

Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.

"What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly of a constable.

The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and

bearing commanded respect.

"Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir."

Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and

clutched my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had

blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

"My God!" he whispered. "I am too late!"

With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group of

loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably was

a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman. Other members of

the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly, and the chilly

hand of King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they came and went,

they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a

menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded

to hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon

glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice,

and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.

A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed

the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined

with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people

were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of

Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a

couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the

opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The

uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre

figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub,

around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that

etched itself indelibly on my mind.

As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the

immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to

cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with

cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the

facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!"

Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in

conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.

The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He

had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which

now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed back his

sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm.

Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It was

unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike

the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried to

rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local

inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.

Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton's

private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and inquired if

it were constitutional. "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve,

overhearing my question. "I have already made that inquiry. Does it

suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it affords me no

assistance."

"Nothing," I replied. "It is most curious."

"Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary,

"but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I

understand that Sir Crichton was--seized with illness in his study?"

"Yes--at half-past ten. I was working here in the library, and he

inside, as was our custom."

"The communicating door was kept closed?"

"Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five,

when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then

seemed in his usual health."

"What was the message?"

"I could not say. It was brought by a district messenger, and he

placed it beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt."

"And at half-past ten?"

"Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a

scream, into the library. I ran to him but he waved me back. His eyes

were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell,

writhing, upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him

and laid him upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like 'The

red hand!' Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!"

Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to

find this evidence confusing.

"You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?"

"I think not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he

referred to something in the study."

"What did you do?"

"Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was

absolutely nothing unusual to be seen. The windows were closed and

fastened. He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather. There

is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so

that no one could possibly have gained access to it, whilst I was in

the library, unseen by me. Had someone concealed himself in the study

earlier in the evening--and I am convinced that it offers no

hiding-place--he could only have come out again by passing through

here."

Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when

meditating.

"You had been at work here in this way for some time?"

"Yes. Sir Crichton was preparing an important book."

"Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burboyne, with evident perplexity; "though I attached

no importance to it at the time. Three nights ago Sir Crichton came

out to me, and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves--you

know? Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study. He had

an idea that something was concealed there."

"Some THING or someone?"

"'Something' was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he

seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work."

"Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes'

private investigation in the study."

CHAPTER II

SIR CRICHTON DAVEY'S study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to

show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It

was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments

and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs

which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no

misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one

wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a

green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only

light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.

Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside

the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my

friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper!

"Smell!" he directed, handing the letter to me. I raised it to my

nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It is a rather rare essential oil," was the reply, "which I have met

with before, though never in Europe. I begin to understand, Petrie."

He tilted the lamp-shade and made a close examination of the scraps of

paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate and on the

hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was

examining it curiously, when he turned, a strange expression upon his

face.

"Put that back, old man," he said quietly.

Much surprised, I did as he directed.

"Don't touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous."

Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced

the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him search,

methodically, every inch of the room--behind the books, in all the

ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.

"That will do," he said at last. "There is nothing here and I have no

time to search farther."

We returned to the library.

"Inspector Weymouth," said my friend, "I have a particular reason for

asking that Sir Crichton's body be removed from this room at once and

the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any pretense whatever

until you hear from me." It spoke volumes for the mysterious

credentials borne by my friend that the man from Scotland Yard accepted

his orders without demur, and, after a brief chat with Mr. Burboyne,

Smith passed briskly downstairs. In the hall a man who looked like a

groom out of livery was waiting.

"Are you Wills?" asked Smith.

"Yes, sir."

"It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the house about

the time of Sir Crichton's death?"

"Yes, sir. I was locking the garage door, and, happening to look up at

the window of Sir Crichton's study, I saw him jump out of his chair.

Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his shadow on

the blind. Next minute I heard a call out in the lane."

"What kind of call?"

The man, whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened, seemed

puzzled for a suitable description.

"A sort of wail, sir," he said at last. "I never heard anything like

it before, and don't want to again."

"Like this?" inquired Smith, and he uttered a low, wailing cry,

impossible to describe. Wills perceptibly shuddered; and, indeed, it

was an eerie sound.

"The same, sir, I think," he said, "but much louder."

"That will do," said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of triumph

in his voice. "But stay! Take us through to the back of the house."

The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found ourselves in a

small, paved courtyard. It was a perfect summer's night, and the deep

blue vault above was jeweled with myriads of starry points. How

impossible it seemed to reconcile that vast, eternal calm with the

hideous passions and fiendish agencies which that night had loosed a

soul upon the infinite.

"Up yonder are the study windows, sir. Over that wall on your left is

the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is Regent's Park."

"Are the study windows visible from there?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Who occupies the adjoining house?"

"Major-General Platt-Houston, sir; but the family is out of town."

"Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the domestic

offices and the servants' quarters, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then send someone to make my business known to the Major-General's

housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs."

Singular though my friend's proceedings appeared to me, I had ceased to

wonder at anything. Since Nayland Smith's arrival at my rooms I seemed

to have been moving through the fitful phases of a nightmare. My

friend's account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on

our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary's story

of the dying man's cry, "The red hand!"; the hidden perils of the

study; the wail in the lane--all were fitter incidents of delirium than

of sane reality. So, when a white-faced butler made us known to a

nervous old lady who proved to be the housekeeper of the next-door

residence, I was not surprised at Smith's saying:

"Lounge up and down outside, Petrie. Everyone has cleared off now. It

is getting late. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard. I thought

I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is worse, he

probably knows by now that I am here, too."

With which he entered the house and left me out in the square, with

leisure to think, to try to understand.

The crowd which usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime had

been cleared away, and it had been circulated that Sir Crichton had

died from natural causes. The intense heat having driven most of the

residents out of town, practically I had the square to myself, and I

gave myself up to a brief consideration of the mystery in which I so

suddenly had found myself involved.

By what agency had Sir Crichton met his death? Did Nayland Smith know?

I rather suspected that he did. What was the hidden significance of

the perfumed envelope? Who was that mysterious personage whom Smith so

evidently dreaded, who had attempted his life, who, presumably, had

murdered Sir Crichton? Sir Crichton Davey, during the time that he had

held office in India, and during his long term of service at home, had

earned the good will of all, British and native alike. Who was his

secret enemy?

Something touched me lightly on the shoulder.

I turned, with my heart fluttering like a child's. This night's work

had imposed a severe strain even upon my callous nerves.

A girl wrapped in a hooded opera-cloak stood at my elbow, and, as she

glanced up at me, I thought that I never had seen a face so seductively

lovely nor of so unusual a type. With the skin of a perfect blonde,

she had eyes and lashes as black as a Creole's, which, together with

her full red lips, told me that this beautiful stranger, whose touch

had so startled me, was not a child of our northern shores.

"Forgive me," she said, speaking with an odd, pretty accent, and laying

a slim hand, with jeweled fingers, confidingly upon my arm, "if I

startled you. But--is it true that Sir Crichton Davey has

been--murdered?"

I looked into her big, questioning eyes, a harsh suspicion laboring in

my mind, but could read nothing in their mysterious depths--only I

wondered anew at my questioner's beauty. The grotesque idea

momentarily possessed me that, were the bloom of her red lips due to

art and not to nature, their kiss would leave--though not

indelibly--just such a mark as I had seen upon the dead man's hand.

But I dismissed the fantastic notion as bred of the night's horrors,

and worthy only of a mediaeval legend. No doubt she was some friend or

acquaintance of Sir Crichton who lived close by.

"I cannot say that he has been murdered," I replied, acting upon the

latter supposition, and seeking to tell her what she asked as gently as

possible.

"But he is--Dead?"

I nodded.

She closed her eyes and uttered a low, moaning sound, swaying dizzily.

Thinking she was about to swoon, I threw my arm round her shoulder to

support her, but she smiled sadly, and pushed me gently away.

"I am quite well, thank you," she said.

"You are certain? Let me walk with you until you feel quite sure of

yourself."

She shook her head, flashed a rapid glance at me with her beautiful

eyes, and looked away in a sort of sorrowful embarrassment, for which I

was entirely at a loss to account. Suddenly she resumed:

"I cannot let my name be mentioned in this dreadful matter, but--I

think I have some information--for the police. Will you give this

to--whomever you think proper?"

She handed me a sealed envelope, again met my eyes with one of her

dazzling glances, and hurried away. She had gone no more than ten or

twelve yards, and I still was standing bewildered, watching her

graceful, retreating figure, when she turned abruptly and came back.

Without looking directly at me, but alternately glancing towards a

distant corner of the square and towards the house of Major-General

Platt-Houston, she made the following extraordinary request:

"If you would do me a very great service, for which I always would be

grateful,"--she glanced at me with passionate intentness--"when you

have given my message to the proper person, leave him and do not go

near him any more to-night!"

Before I could find words to reply she gathered up her cloak and ran.

Before I could determine whether or not to follow her (for her words

had aroused anew all my worst suspicions) she had disappeared! I heard

the whir of a restarted motor at no great distance, and, in the instant

that Nayland Smith came running down the steps, I knew that I had

nodded at my post.

"Smith!" I cried as he joined me, "tell me what we must do!" And

rapidly I acquainted him with the incident.

My friend looked very grave; then a grim smile crept round his lips.

"She was a big card to play," he said; "but he did not know that I held

one to beat it."

"What! You know this girl! Who is she?"

"She is one of the finest weapons in the enemy's armory, Petrie. But a

woman is a two-edged sword, and treacherous. To our great good

fortune, she has formed a sudden predilection, characteristically

Oriental, for yourself. Oh, you may scoff, but it is evident. She was

employed to get this letter placed in my hands. Give it to me."

I did so.

"She has succeeded. Smell."

He held the envelope under my nose, and, with a sudden sense of nausea,

I recognized the strange perfume.

"You know what this presaged in Sir Crichton's case? Can you doubt any

longer? She did not want you to share my fate, Petrie."

"Smith," I said unsteadily, "I have followed your lead blindly in this

horrible business and have not pressed for an explanation, but I must

insist before I go one step farther upon knowing what it all means."

"Just a few steps farther," he rejoined; "as far as a cab. We are

hardly safe here. Oh, you need not fear shots or knives. The man

whose servants are watching us now scorns to employ such clumsy,

tell-tale weapons."

Only three cabs were on the rank, and, as we entered the first,

something hissed past my ear, missed both Smith and me by a miracle,

and, passing over the roof of the taxi, presumably fell in the enclosed

garden occupying the center of the square.

"What was that?" I cried.

"Get in--quickly!" Smith rapped back. "It was attempt number one!

More than that I cannot say. Don't let the man hear. He has noticed

nothing. Pull up the window on your side, Petrie, and look out behind.

Good! We've started."

The cab moved off with a metallic jerk, and I turned and looked back

through the little window in the rear.

"Someone has got into another cab. It is following ours, I think."

Nayland Smith lay back and laughed unmirthfully.

"Petrie," he said, "if I escape alive from this business I shall know

that I bear a charmed life."

I made no reply, as he pulled out the dilapidated pouch and filled his

pipe.

"You have asked me to explain matters," he continued, "and I will do so

to the best of my ability. You no doubt wonder why a servant of the

British Government, lately stationed in Burma, suddenly appears in

London, in the character of a detective. I am here, Petrie--and I bear

credentials from the very highest sources--because, quite by accident,

I came upon a clew. Following it up, in the ordinary course of

routine, I obtained evidence of the existence and malignant activity of

a certain man. At the present stage of the case I should not be

justified in terming him the emissary of an Eastern Power, but I may

say that representations are shortly to be made to that Power's

ambassador in London."

He paused and glanced back towards the pursuing cab.

"There is little to fear until we arrive home," he said calmly.

"Afterwards there is much. To continue: This man, whether a fanatic

or a duly appointed agent, is, unquestionably, the most malign and

formidable personality existing in the known world today. He is a

linguist who speaks with almost equal facility in any of the civilized

languages, and in most of the barbaric. He is an adept in all the arts

and sciences which a great university could teach him. He also is an

adept in certain obscure arts and sciences which no university of

to-day can teach. He has the brains of any three men of genius.

Petrie, he is a mental giant."

"You amaze me!" I said.

"As to his mission among men. Why did M. Jules Furneaux fall dead in a

Paris opera house? Because of heart failure? No! Because his last

speech had shown that he held the key to the secret of Tongking. What

became of the Grand Duke Stanislaus? Elopement? Suicide? Nothing of

the kind. He alone was fully alive to Russia's growing peril. He

alone knew the truth about Mongolia. Why was Sir Crichton Davey

murdered? Because, had the work he was engaged upon ever seen the

light it would have shown him to be the only living Englishman who

understood the importance of the Tibetan frontiers. I say to you

solemnly, Petrie, that these are but a few. Is there a man who would

arouse the West to a sense of the awakening of the East, who would

teach the deaf to hear, the blind to see, that the millions only await

their leader? He will die. And this is only one phase of the devilish

campaign. The others I can merely surmise."

"But, Smith, this is almost incredible! What perverted genius controls

this awful secret movement?"

"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,

with all the resources of science past and present, with all the

resources, if you will, of a wealthy government--which, however,

already has denied all knowledge of his existence. Imagine that awful

being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril

incarnate in one man."

CHAPTER III

I SANK into an arm-chair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg of

brandy.

"We have been followed here," I said. "Why did you make no attempt to

throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?"

Smith laughed.

"Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went, HE would find us. And

of what use to arrest his creatures? We could prove nothing against

them. Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my

life to-night--and by the same means that proved so successful in the

case of poor Sir Crichton."

His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leapt stormily to his

feet, shaking his clenched fists towards the window.

"The villain!" he cried. "The fiendishly clever villain! I suspected

that Sir Crichton was next, and I was right. But I came too late,

Petrie! That hits me hard, old man. To think that I knew and yet

failed to save him!"

He resumed his seat, smoking hard.

"Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual genius,"

he said. "He has underrated his adversary. He has not given me credit

for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages. He has thrown away

one powerful weapon--to get such a message into my hands--and he thinks

that once safe within doors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as

Sir Crichton died. But without the indiscretion of your charming

friend, I should have known what to expect when I receive her

'information'--which by the way, consists of a blank sheet of paper."

"Smith," I broke in, "who is she?"

"She is either Fu-Manchu's daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am

inclined to believe the last, for she has no will but his will,

except"--with a quizzical glance--"in a certain instance."

"How can you jest with some awful thing--Heaven knows what--hanging

over your head? What is the meaning of these perfumed envelopes? How

did Sir Crichton die?"

"He died of the Zayat Kiss. Ask me what that is and I reply 'I do not

know.' The zayats are the Burmese caravanserais, or rest-houses. Along

a certain route--upon which I set eyes, for the first and only time,

upon Dr. Fu-Manchu--travelers who use them sometimes die as Sir

Crichton died, with nothing to show the cause of death but a little

mark upon the neck, face, or limb, which has earned, in those parts,

the title of the 'Zayat Kiss.' The rest-houses along that route are

shunned now. I have my theory and I hope to prove it to-night, if I

live. It will be one more broken weapon in his fiendish armory, and it

is thus, and thus only, that I can hope to crush him. This was my

principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Cleeve. Even walls have ears

where Fu-Manchu is concerned, so I feigned ignorance of the meaning of

the mark, knowing that he would be almost certain to employ the same

methods upon some other victim. I wanted an opportunity to study the

Zayat Kiss in operation, and I shall have one."

"But the scented envelopes?"

"In the swampy forests of the district I have referred to a rare

species of orchid, almost green, and with a peculiar scent, is

sometimes met with. I recognized the heavy perfume at once. I take it

that the thing which kills the traveler is attracted by this orchid.

You will notice that the perfume clings to whatever it touches. I

doubt if it can be washed off in the ordinary way. After at least one

unsuccessful attempt to kill Sir Crichton--you recall that he thought

there was something concealed in his study on a previous

occasion?--Fu-Manchu hit upon the perfumed envelopes. He may have a

supply of these green orchids in his possession--possibly to feed the

creature."

"What creature? How could any kind of creature have got into Sir

Crichton's room tonight?"

"You no doubt observed that I examined the grate of the study. I found

a fair quantity of fallen soot. I at once assumed, since it appeared

to be the only means of entrance, that something has been dropped down;

and I took it for granted that the thing, whatever it was, must still

be concealed either in the study or in the library. But when I had

obtained the evidence of the groom, Wills, I perceived that the cry

from the lane or from the park was a signal. I noted that the

movements of anyone seated at the study table were visible, in shadow,

on the blind, and that the study occupied the corner of a two-storied

wing and, therefore, had a short chimney. What did the signal mean?

That Sir Crichton had leaped up from his chair, and either had received

the Zayat Kiss or had seen the thing which someone on the roof had

lowered down the straight chimney. It was the signal to withdraw that

deadly thing. By means of the iron stairway at the rear of

Major-General Platt-Houston's, I quite easily, gained access to the

roof above Sir Crichton's study--and I found this."

Out from his pocket Nayland Smith drew a tangled piece of silk, mixed

up with which were a brass ring and a number of unusually large-sized

split-shot, nipped on in the manner usual on a fishing-line.

"My theory proven," he resumed. "Not anticipating a search on the

roof, they had been careless. This was to weight the line and to

prevent the creature clinging to the walls of the chimney. Directly it

had dropped in the grate, however, by means of this ring I assume that

the weighted line was withdrawn, and the thing was only held by one

slender thread, which sufficed, though, to draw it back again when it

had done its work. It might have got tangled, of course, but they

reckoned on its making straight up the carved leg of the writing-table

for the prepared envelope. From there to the hand of Sir

Crichton--which, from having touched the envelope, would also be

scented with the perfume--was a certain move."

"My God! How horrible!" I exclaimed, and glanced apprehensively into

the dusky shadows of the room. "What is your theory respecting this

creature--what shape, what color--?"

"It is something that moves rapidly and silently. I will venture no

more at present, but I think it works in the dark. The study was dark,

remember, save for the bright patch beneath the reading-lamp. I have

observed that the rear of this house is ivy-covered right up to and

above your bedroom. Let us make ostentatious preparations to retire,

and I think we may rely upon Fu-Manchu's servants to attempt my

removal, at any rate--if not yours."

"But, my dear fellow, it is a climb of thirty-five feet at the very

least."

"You remember the cry in the back lane? It suggested something to me,

and I tested my idea--successfully. It was the cry of a dacoit. Oh,

dacoity, though quiescent, is by no means extinct. Fu-Manchu has

dacoits in his train, and probably it is one who operates the Zayat

Kiss, since it was a dacoit who watched the window of the study this

evening. To such a man an ivy-covered wall is a grand staircase."

The horrible events that followed are punctuated, in my mind, by the

striking of a distant clock. It is singular how trivialities thus

assert themselves in moments of high tension. I will proceed, then, by

these punctuations, to the coming of the horror that it was written we

should encounter.

The clock across the common struck two.

Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from our hands

with a solution of ammonia Smith and I had followed the programme laid

down. It was an easy matter to reach the rear of the house, by simply

climbing a fence, and we did not doubt that seeing the light go out in

the front, our unseen watcher would proceed to the back.

The room was a large one, and we had made up my camp-bed at one end,

stuffing odds and ends under the clothes to lend the appearance of a

sleeper, which device we also had adopted in the case of the larger

bed. The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee table in the

center of the floor, and Smith, with an electric pocket lamp, a

revolver, and a brassey beside him, sat on cushions in the shadow of

the wardrobe. I occupied a post between the windows.

No unusual sound, so far, had disturbed the stillness of the night.

Save for the muffled throb of the rare all-night cars passing the front

of the house, our vigil had been a silent one. The full moon had

painted about the floor weird shadows of the clustering ivy, spreading

the design gradually from the door, across the room, past the little

table where the envelope lay, and finally to the foot of the bed.

The distant clock struck a quarter-past two.

A slight breeze stirred the ivy, and a new shadow added itself to the

extreme edge of the moon's design.

Something rose, inch by inch, above the sill of the westerly window. I

could see only its shadow, but a sharp, sibilant breath from Smith told

me that he, from his post, could see the cause of the shadow.

Every nerve in my body seemed to be strung tensely. I was icy cold,

expectant, and prepared for whatever horror was upon us.

The shadow became stationary. The dacoit was studying the interior of

the room.

Then it suddenly lengthened, and, craning my head to the left, I saw a

lithe, black-clad form, surmounted by a Yellow face, sketchy in the

moonlight, pressed against the window-panes!

One thin, brown hand appeared over the edge of the lowered sash, which

it grasped--and then another. The man made absolutely no sound

whatever. The second hand disappeared--and reappeared. It held a

small, square box. There was a very faint CLICK.

The dacoit swung himself below the window with the agility of an ape,

as, with a dull, muffled thud, SOMETHING dropped upon the carpet!

"Stand still, for your life!" came Smith's voice, high-pitched.

A beam of white leaped out across the room and played full upon the

coffee-table in the center.

Prepared as I was for something horrible, I know that I paled at sight

of the thing that was running round the edge of the envelope.

It was an insect, full six inches long, and of a vivid, venomous, red

color! It had something of the appearance of a great ant, with its

long, quivering antennae and its febrile, horrible vitality; but it was

proportionately longer of body and smaller of head, and had numberless

rapidly moving legs. In short, it was a giant centipede, apparently of

the scolopendra group, but of a form quite new to me.

These things I realized in one breathless instant; in the next--Smith

had dashed the thing's poisonous life out with one straight, true blow

of the golf club!

I leaped to the window and threw it widely open, feeling a silk thread

brush my hand as I did so. A black shape was dropping, with incredible

agility from branch to branch of the ivy, and, without once offering a

mark for a revolver-shot, it merged into the shadows beneath the trees

of the garden. As I turned and switched on the light Nayland Smith

dropped limply into a chair, leaning his head upon his hands. Even

that grim courage had been tried sorely.

"Never mind the dacoit, Petrie," he said. "Nemesis will know where to

find him. We know now what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss.

Therefore science is richer for our first brush with the enemy, and the

enemy is poorer--unless he has any more unclassified centipedes. I

understand now something that has been puzzling me since I heard of

it--Sir Crichton's stifled cry. When we remember that he was almost

past speech, it is reasonable to suppose that his cry was not 'The red

hand!' but 'The red ANT!' Petrie, to think that I failed, by less than

an hour, to save him from such an end!"

CHAPTER IV

"THE body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual on the P. & O.

boats, was recovered from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at

six A.M. this morning. It is supposed that the man met with an

accident in leaving his ship."

Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above

paragraph.

"For 'lascar' read 'dacoit,'" he said. "Our visitor, who came by way

of the ivy, fortunately for us, failed to follow his instructions.

Also, he lost the centipede and left a clew behind him. Dr. Fu-Manchu

does not overlook such lapses."

It was a sidelight upon the character of the awful being with whom we

had to deal. My very soul recoiled from bare consideration of the fate

that would be ours if ever we fell into his hands.

The telephone bell rang. I went out and found that Inspector Weymouth

of New Scotland Yard had called us up.

"Will Mr. Nayland Smith please come to the Wapping River Police Station

at once," was the message.

Peaceful interludes were few enough throughout that wild pursuit.

"It is certainly something important," said my friend; "and, if

Fu-Manchu is at the bottom of it--as we must presume him to

be--probably something ghastly."

A brief survey of the time-tables showed us that there were no trains

to serve our haste. We accordingly chartered a cab and proceeded east.

Smith, throughout the journey, talked entertainingly about his work in