The Island of Fu Manchu

The Island of Fu Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

CHAPTER I

SOMETHING IN A BAG

“Then you have no idea where Nayland Smith is?” said my guest.

I carried his empty glass to the buffet and refilled it.

“Two cables from him found me at Salonika,”

I replied: “the first from Kingston, Jamaica, the second from New York.”

“Ah! Jamaica and New York. Off his usual stamping ground. Nothing since?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure he isn’t back home?”

“Quite. His flat in Whitehall is closed.”

I set the whisky-and-soda before Sir Lionel Barton and passed my pouch, for he was scraping out his briar. My dining-room seemed altogether too small to hold this huge, overbearing man with a lion’s mane of tawny hair streaked with white; piercing blue eyes shadowed by craggy brows. He had the proper personality for one of his turbulent, brilliant reputation: the greatest Orientalist in Europe is expected to be unusual.

“Do you know, Kerrigan”— he stuffed Rhodesian tobacco into his pipe as though he had been charging a howitzer—“I have known Smith longer than you, and although I missed the last brush with Fu Manchu—”

“Well?”

“Old Smith and I have been out against him together in the past. To tell you the truth”—he stood up and began to walk about, lighting his pipe as he did so—”I have an idea that we have not seen the last of that Chinese devil.”

“Why?” I asked, and tried to speak casually.

“Suppose he’s here again—in England?”

Sir Lionel’s voice was rising to those trumpet tones which betrayed his army training; I was conscious of growing excitement.

“Suppose, first for argument’s sake, that I have certain reasons to believe that he is. Well—would you sleep soundly tonight? What would it mean? It would mean that, apart from Germany, we have another enemy to deal with—an enemy whose insects, bacteria, stranglers, strange poisons, could do more harm in a week than Hitler’s army could do in a year!” He took a long drink. I did not speak.

“You”—he lowered his voice—”have a personal interest in the matter. You accepted the assignment to cover the Greek campaign because—”

I nodded.

“Check me when I go wrong and stop me if I’m treading on a corn; there was a girl—wasn’t Ardatha the name? She belonged to the nearly extinct white race (I was the first man to describe them, by the way) which still survives in Abyssinia.”

“Yes, she vanished after Smith and I left Paris, at the end of Fu Manchu’s battle to put an end to dictators. Nearly two years ago—”

“You-searched?”

“Smith was wonderful. I had all the resources of the Secret Service at my command. But from that hour. Barton, not one word of information reached us, either aboutDr. Fu Manchu, or about—Ardatha.”

“I am told”—he pulled up, his back to me, and spoke over his shoulder—“that Ardatha was—”

“She was lovely and lovable,” I said and stood up.

The struggle in Greece, the wound I had received there, the verdict of Harley Street which debarred me from active service, all these experiences had failed to efface my private sorrow—the loss of Ardatha.

Sir Lionel turned and gave me one penetrating glance which I construed as sympathy. I had known him for many years and had learned his true worth; but he was by no means every man’s man. Ardatha had brought romance into my life such as no one was entitled to expect: she was gone. Barton understood.

He began to pace up and down, smoking furiously; and something in his bearing reminded me of Nayland Smith. Barton was altogether heavier than Smith, but he had the same sun-baked skin, the same nervous vitality: he, also, was a pipe addict. His words had set my brain on fire.

I wondered if an image was before his mental vision, the same vision which was before mine: a tall, lean, cat-like figure; a close-shaven head, a mathematical brow; emerald-green eyes which sometimes became filmed strangely; a voice in its guttural intensity so masterful that Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon might have animated it; Dr. Fu Manchu, embodiment of the finest intellect in the modem world.

Now, I was wild for news; but deliberately I controlled myself. I refilled Barton’s glass. He belonged to a hard-drinking generation and I never attempted to keep pace with him. I sat down again, and: “You must realize,” I said, “that you have stirred up—”

“I know, I know! I am the last man to raise hopes which may never materialize. But the fact that Nayland Smith has been in the West Indies practically clinches the matter. I threw myself on your hospitality, Kerrigan, because, to be quite frank, I was afraid to go to a hotel—”

“What!”

“Yes—and my town house as you know, went to the auctioneers on the day war started. Very well. In the small suitcase—all the baggage I carry—is something for which I know Dr. Fu Manchu has been searching for many years! Since I got hold of it there have been some uncommonly queer happenings up at my place in Norfolk. In fact things got so hot that I bolted!”

I stood up and walked across to the window; excitement grew in my brain by leaps and bounds. There was no man whom I feared as I feared the brilliant Chinese doctor; but if Ardatha lived Fu Manchu was the one and only link by means of which I might find her.

“Go on,” I said, “I am all attention.”

Grey, wintry dusk was settling over Kensington Gardens. Few figures moved on the path which led from the gate nearly Opposite to the Round Pond. At any moment now would come the mournful call of a park-keeper, “All out.” And with the locking of the gates began the long night of black-out.

“I know why Smith has been to the Caribbean,” Barton went on. “There’s something in that bag which would have saved him the journey. The United States government—Hello! What’s wrong?”

A figure was standing at the park gate, looking up at my window; a girl who wore a hooded cape. I suppose I uttered an exclamation as I clutched the ledge and stared across the road.

“What is it, Kerrigan?” cried Barton. “What is it?”

“It’s Ardatha!” I whispered.

CHAPTER II

A SECOND VISITOR

I doubt if any man ever descended a long flight of dark stairs faster than I did. A pulse was throbbing in my head as I dashed along the glass-roofed portico that divided the house from the front door. Yet as I threw the door open and ran out, already the hooded figure had vanished.

Then, as I raced across to the gate, I saw her. She had turned back into the park, and was just passing out of the shadow of a big tree near the comer where a path at right angles crossed that leading to the Round Pond. Normally, Bayswater Road at this hour would have been a race track, but war had muted the song of London and few vehicles were on the road.

In the Park, a grey mist swam in among the trees whose leafless branches reached out like lean and clutching arms menacing the traveller. But there, ahead, was the receding, elusive figure.

I continued to run. My condition was by no means all that it might have been, but I found breath enough to call. “Ardatha!” I cried, “Ardatha!”

Step by step I was overhauling her. Not another pedestrian was in sight. “Ardatha!”

I was no more than twenty yards behind her as she paused and looked back. In spirit she was already in my arms, her kiss on my lips—when she turned swiftly and began to run! For one incalculable moment I stood stock still. Astonishment, mortification, anger, fought for precedence in my mind. What, in sanity’s name, could be the meaning of her behaviour? I was about to cry out again, but I decided to conserve my resources. Fists clenched and head up, I set out in pursuit.

She had reached the path that surrounds the Pond before I really got into my stride. In Rugby days I had been counted one of the fastest men in the pack; but even allowing for loss of form due to my recent illness, an amazing fact demanded recognition. Ardatha was outrunning me easily: she ran with the speed of a young antelope!

Then, from nearby, came the expected mournful, cry—”All out!”

I saw the park-keeper at about the same moment that I accepted defeat in the race. Ardatha had passed him like a flash. He had assumed that she was running to reach a Kensington gate before it closed, and had no more than glanced at her speeding figure. For my part I was determined to keep her in sight; but as I ,bore down on the man, some suspicion seemed to cross his mind—a suspicion which linked my appearance with that of the flying girl. He glanced back at her for a moment—and then stood squarely in my path, arms outstretched!

“Not this way!” he cried. “Too late. Porchester Gate is the only way out!”

Porchester Gate was the gate by which I had come in, and for one mad moment I weighed my chances of bowling the man over and following Ardatha. I think, disastrous though such an assault must have been, that I should have risked it had I not sighted a constable heading in our direction.

I pulled up, breathing heavily, and shrugged my shoulders. That lithe figure was already a phantom in the misty distance. Such a cloud of despair succeeded to the wild joy I had known at the sight of Ardatha, such a madness of frustration, that frankly I think I was on the verge of tears. I clenched my teeth and turned back.

“One moment, sir.”

The park-keeper was following me. Struggling as I was for self-control, I prompted myself: “Don’t hit him. He is only doing his duty. She ran away. You have no case. Be tactful or you will spend the night in a lock-up.”

I slowed my pace.

“Yes—what is it?”

He ranged up alongside. Out of the comer of my eye I could see the nearing figure of the constable.

“I was just wondering why you was in such a hurry, like.”

We were walking along together, now, and I forced a smile, looking at the man’s lined, ingenuous face. I decided that he was an old gamekeeper.

“I wanted to catch somebody,” I said. “I had had a quarrel with my girl friend and she ran away from me.”

“Oh, is that so?” He continued to regard me doubtfully. “Run away had she? Young lady with a cape?”

“Yes. She was wearing a cape. I have no idea where she has gone.”

“Oh, I see. Neither of you lives over on Kensington side, like?

“No-neither of us.”

“Oh, I see.” He had accepted me now. “That’s hard luck, sir. She’s a bit high mettled, like, no doubt.”

“She is.”

“Well, them’s sometimes the best, sir, when it comes to a pinch. I reckon when the paddy’s worn out she’ll come back as sweet as honey.”

“I hope so.”

And indeed the man’s simple philosophy had helped to restore me. I was glad that I had not quarrelled with him—and glad that I had told him the truth.

We walked along together through growing dusk. In the shadows about us nothing stirred. Moisture dripped mournfully from the trees. Already, London grew silent at the touch of night. Of Ardatha I dared not think; only I knew that the mystery of her reappearance, and of her flight, belonged to the greater and darker mystery which was Dr. Fu Manchu.

A sense of evil impending, of some unwelcome truth fighting for admission, oppressed me. When I left Kensington Gardens and heard the gate locked behind me, I stood for a while looking across at my windows.

There was a light in the writing-room and the blinds were not drawn. Except for a big Packard just turning the corner into Craven Terrace, there was no nearby traffic. As I ran across, fumbling for my keys, subconsciously I noted the number-plate of the car: BXH 77. It was rememberable, and I was in that troubled mood when one notes trivialities.

Opening the door, I hurried upstairs. I had much to tell Barton—and much to learn from him. The whole current of my life had changed. I remember that I banged my front-door and dashed into the lighted workroom.

Standing by the desk was a tall, thin man, his face tropically brown, his hair nearly white at the temples and his keen eyes fixed upon me. I pulled up suddenly; I could not accept the fact.

It was Nayland Smith!

“Smith—Smith! I was never so glad to see any man in my life!”

He wrung my hand hard, watching me with those questing eyes; but his expression was stem to grimness.

‘“What has become of Barton?” I asked.

Smith seemed to grow rigid. He positively glared at me.

“Barton!” he exclaimed—”Bartoni was Barton here?”

“I left him here.”

He dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“My God, Kerrigan!” he said; “and you left your front door open—for so I found it. I have been searching London for Barton, and now—”

My fears, sorrows, forebodings, in that instant became crystallized in a dreadful certainty.

“Smith, do you mean—”

“I do, Kerrigan!” He spoke in a low voice. “Fu Manchu is in London . . . and he has got Barton!”

* * *

Smith went racing into the spare bedroom: in broken syllables I had told my tale. At the threshold, as I switched on the lights, we both pulled up.

The room was in wild disorder!”

“You see, Kerrigan, you see!” cried Smith. “It was a ruse to get you out of the house. Poor Barton put up a fight, by heaven! Look at that smashed chair!”

“His bag has gone!”

Smith nodded and began ferreting about among the wreckage. A heavy cloisonne vase lay beside the bed, although its proper place was on me mantel. He examined it carefully, although I could not imagine what evidence he hoped it might afford. Then, I saw something else.

The room was equipped with an old-fashioned open grate, beside which rested tongs and poker. The fire was not laid, for I had not anticipated receiving a guest, but the iron poker lay half under an armchair! Taking it up I uttered an exclamation.

“Smith, look!”

The poker was bent in an unmistakable, significant manner. Smith grabbed it, held it under the bedside lamp—for darkness had fallen—and touched it at several points with the tip of his forefinger. He tossed it on to the bed and began to stare around, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, a mannerism which I knew well.

“Barton is a powerful man,” he said. “Something snapped when that poker was bent! Amazing that no one heard the row.”

“Not at all. The rest of the house is empty, and my daily woman was gone before Barton arrived.”

My voice sounded dull in my ears. Ardatha had lured me away, and my poor friend had been left alone to fight for his life . . . Ardatha—

“There are other curious features, Kerrigan.”

Smith dropped to his knees and began to examine the disordered carpet with close attention. He crawled as far as the door.

“Assuming, as we must, that Fu Manchu’s agents entered shortly after you went out, they had come on very urgent business—”

“Barton’s bag! He told me that it contained something which would have saved you a journey to the Caribbean.”

“Ah!” He stood up. “As I expected. They came for the chart. Barton put up a fight. Now—if they killed him, why carry a heavy body down all those stairs and run the risk of meeting a policeman outside? If he survived, where is he?”

“You say the street door was open?”

“Yes. Quick, Kerrigan! Let us examine the stairs. But wait—first, all the cupboards and other possible hiding places.”

Outside, in Bayswater Road, I heard a bus go by. I imagined it to be laden with home-bound City workers anxious to reach their firesides. The black tragedy of war oppressed them, yet, not one, in passing, would suspect that within sight from the bus windows, two of their fellows faced a terror deeper than that of the known enemy.

My flat had become a theatre of sinister drama. As Smith and I ran from room to room, sharing a common dread, the possibility that we should come upon Barton’s body checked me more than once. It was Smith who opened the big store-cupboard, Smith who explored an old oak wardrobe.

We found no trace.

“Now, the stairs,” he snapped. “We are wasting precious time, but we cannot act without a clue.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“Nobody was dragged from the bedroom. I have satisfied myself on that point. But it may have been carried. The stair-carpet should show traces if any load had been dragged downstairs—Hullo! what’s this?”

A bell had begun to ring.

“Street door!”

“Down you go, Kerrigan. Have you got a gun?”

“No, but I’ll get one.”

I ‘hurried to my desk, slipped a friendly old Colt into my pocket and went down. Smith, using a pocket-torch was already crawling about on the landing peering at the carpet.

When I reached the front door and threw it open, I don’t quite know what I expected to find there. I found a constable,

“Is this your house, sir?” he said gruffly.

“No; but I occupy a flat on the second floor.”

“Well,, then it’s you I want to see. It’s ten minutes after blackout time and you have lights blazing from all your windows!”

As I stared into the darkness beyond—there was no traffic passing at die moment and the night was profoundly still—I realized, anew, the strange power of Dr. Fu Manchu. So completely had the handiwork of that Satanic genius disturbed us that Smith, and I (he, an ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard) had utterly forgotten regulations, and had offended against the Law!

“Good heavens! you’re right,” I exclaimed.“We must be mad.

The fact is, constable, there have been queer happenings here, and—”

“None of my business, sir. If you will go up and draw all the blinds in the first place, I shall then have to take your name, and—“

From behind me came a sound of running footsteps.

“He was not carried out, Kerrigan!” came Smith’s voice. “But there’s blood on the third stair from the bottom and there are spots on the paving—What the devil’s this?”

“A serious business sir,” the constable began, but he stared in a bewildered way. “All the lights—“

Smith muttered something and then produced a card which he thrust into the constable’s hand.

Possibly before your time,” he said rapidly. “But you’ll still remember the name.”

The constable directed his light on to the card, stared at Smith, and then saluted.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, “ifI’ve butted in on something more important; but I was just obeying orders.”

“Good enough,” snapped Smith. “I switched off everything before I came down.” He paused, staring at the stupefied man, and then: “What time did you come on duty?” he asked.

“Half an hour ago, sir.”

“And you have been in sight of/this door, how long?”

The constable stared as if Smith’s question had been a reprimand. I sympathized with the man, a freckled young fellow with straightforward blue eyes, keen on his job, and one to whom the name of Sir Denis Nayland Smith was a name to conjure with. It occurred to me that he had been held up on his patrol and that he believed Smith to be aware of the fact.

“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but I can explain my delay,” he said.

Smith snapped his fingers irritably, and I saw that a hope had died.

“It was the car running on to the pavement in Craven Terrace,” the man went on. “There was something funny about the business and I took full particulars before I let ‘em go.” He delved in a back pocket and produced a notebook. “Here are my notes. It was a Packard—“

Odd are the workings of a human brain. My thoughts as the constable had been speaking, and, it seemed, speaking of matters beside the vital point, had drifted wretchedly to Ardatha. I had been striving to find some explanation of her behaviour which did not mean the shattering of a dream. Now, as he spoke of a Packard, I muttered mechanically: “BXH 77.”

“That’s it, sir!” the constable cried. “That’s the car!”

“One moment,” rapped Smith. “Tell me, Kerrigan, how you happen to know the number of this car.”

I told him that a Packard bearing the number had turned from the main road into Craven Terrace as I had crossed to the door.

“Quick, constable!” He was suddenly on fire. “Your notes. What was suspicious about BXH 77?”

“Well, sir, I have the particulars here.” The man studied his notebook. “The car barged right on to the pavement and pulled up with a jerk about ten yards in front of me. Several people from neighbouring shops ran out. When I arrived I saw that the driver, a foreign looking man, had fainted at the wheel. In some way which I couldn’t make out—because it wasn’t a serious crash—he had broken his arm—“

“Left or right?”

“Left, sir. It was hanging down limp. He was also bleeding from a cut on the head.”

“Good. Go on.”

“In the back I found a doctor and a patient he was removing to hospital. The patient seemed in a bad way—a big powerful man he was, with reddish hair streaked with white; he was only half-conscious and the doctor was trying to soothe him. A mental case—“

“Do you understand, Kerrigan?” cried Smith, his eyes alight. “Do you understand?”

“Good God, Smith—I understand too well!”

“Describe the doctor,” Smith said crisply.

The constable cleared his throat, and then: “He had a very yellow face,” he replied; “as yellow as a lemon. He wore spectacles with black rims, and was a shortish, heavily-built man. He was not English.”

“His name?”

“Here’s his card, sir.”

As Smith took the card: “H’m!” he muttered: “Dr. Rudolph Oster, 101 Wimpole Street, W. 1. Is there such a practitioner?”

“I was on my way to a call-box when I saw all the lights blazing upstairs, sir. I was going to ask this gentleman to allow me to use his phone.”

“Have you got the doctor’s number?”

“Yes, sir: Langham 09365.”

“Efficient work, constable,” said Smith: “I’ll see that it is recognized.”

The man’s freckled face flushed.

“Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you.”

“How did the matter end?” I asked excitedly.

“We got the car back on to the road, and I helped to lift the chauffeur from the driving-seat and put him in the back. That was when I noticed his arm—when he began to come to.”

“How did the patient behave?” Smith asked.

“He just lay back muttering.Dr. Oster explained that it was important to get him to a safe place before he recovered from the effects of an injection he had had to administer.”

Smith uttered a sound like a groan and beat his fist into the palm of his hand.

“A suitcase marked L.B. was beside the driver. It was covered in foreign labels. The doctor took the wheel and drove off—“

“At what time?” snapped Smith.

“According to my watch, sir, at 7:13—that is, exactly five minutes ago.”

CHAPTER III

BXH77

“Stop for nothing,” Smith cried to the driver. “Short of murder! Use your horn. No regulations apply. Move!”

I had had a glimpse of the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police which had been a revelation. Within the last six minutes we had learned that Dr. Oster was a naturalized British subject, a dermatologist, and was not at home; that BXH 77 had been held up, for using an improperly masked headlight, by a constable on duty in Baker Street; that Dr. Oster, who was driving, said that he was taking a patient to a private clinic at North Gate, Regent’s Park. Five motor-cyclists were out, and every police officer and warden in that area had been advised.

Smith was too tensed up for ordinary conversation, but he jerked out a staccato summary as we sped through the black-out, for this London was a place of mystery, a city hushed; the heart of the world beating slowly, darkly.

“The United States have realized that the Panama Canal has two ends. Strange incidents in the Caribbean. Disappearances. Officers sent to West Indies to investigate. Never returned. Secret submarine base. I followed Fu Manchu to Jamaica. Lost him in Cuba. Barton has picked up some clue to the site of this base. Suspected before I left. Certain now. Got the facts in Norfolk only this morning. Fu Manchu has returned to England to silence Barton—and, my God! he has succeeded!”

We seemed to be speeding madly into darkness black as the Pit. I could form no idea of where we were: we might have been in the Grand Avenue of Kamak. Vague, elfin lights I saw in the shadows, to take the place of illuminated windows, blazing sky-signs. Sometimes a car would materialize like a form at a spiritualistic séance, only to disappear again immediately. The traffic signals, green, amber and red crosses, appeared and disappeared also like manifestations from another world . . .

Our car was braked so suddenly that I was nearly pitched out of my seat.

I saw the driver leap to the road and sprint forward to where a torch was flashing—in and out, in and out. Smith was on the running-board when the man came racing back.

“Jump in, sir!” he shouted, “jump in! They passed here only three minutes ago—I have the direction!”

And we were off again into impenetrable darkness. Angry cries I heard as we flashed past Crawling traffic, in contravention of the law issuing blasts of warning. Smith had commandeered Scotland Yard’s ace driver. I was wild with the spirit of the chase. Barton’s life was at stake—and more . . . .

Our brakes shrieked again, and the speeding car skidded to a perilous halt. We were all out in a trice.

In the light of torches carried by Smith and the driver I saw a police cyclist lying beside a wrecked motor-bike almost under our front wheels!

“Are you badly hurt?” cried Smith.

The man raised a pale face to the light. Blood was trickling down from his brow; his black steel helmet had fallen off. “Broken ankle, I think. This—” he touched his head—”is nothing. Just get me on to the pavement. It wasn’t your car that hit me, sir.”

We lifted him out of the traffic-way, seating him against the railings of a house veiled in darkness. Our driver bent over him.

“If you can bear it, mate,” he said, “give us the news. Have you sighted the Packard? We’re Scotland Yard. This is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

The man looked up at Smith. Obviously, he was in great pain, but he spoke calmly.

“I followed BXH 77 to this spot, sir. Having identified the number, I passed the car and signalled to the driver to pull up—”

“What happened?” snapped Smith.

“He ran me down!”

“Where did he go?”

“First left, sir—two houses beyond.”

“How long ago?”

“Less than two minutes.”

We were in one of those residential backwaters which are to be found north of Regent’s Park. Reduction and slowing of traffic had so dimmed the voice of London that when the man ceased speaking an almost complete silence fell. Black night cloaked us and in it I could hear no sound of human activity.

“You have done a good job, constable,” said Smith rapidly, “and you won’t lose by it.” He thrust a torch into my hand. “There’s a house behind there, somewhere. Find it, Kerrigan, and phone for an ambulance. Just call ‘police’ and mention my name. Sorry. No other way. Understand how you feel. But I must push on.”

“Turning to the left is a dead-end, sir,” the Yard driver cried back over his shoulder as he sprang to the wheel. “You can’t go wrong, Mr. Kerrigan, in following on foot.”

“Ah!” cried Smith. “Good! We’ve got ’em!”

He jumped in and the Yard car was off again, leaving me standing beside the injured man.

“So that’s Nayland Smith,” he muttered. “I wish we had a few more like him.” He looked up. “Sorry to be a nuisance, sir. I’m fairly new to this district, but I think the gate of the house is just along to your right. The Regent Canal runs behind: that’s why the next turning leads nowhere.”

“I suppose there’s no call-box near?”

“No, sir. But I must stick it till you find a phone.”

CHAPTER IV

THE HOUSE IN REGENT’S PARK

Up to the moment that I discovered the gate not one pedestrian passed that way.

I groped along a neglected gravel drive bordered by dripping shrubberies and presently found myself before the porch of a house to which it led. There I pulled up. An estate agent’s bill, announcing that “this desirable residence” was for sale, occupied the centre panel of the door. I had found an empty house.

Muttering savagely, I turned away. I suppose I had gone a dozen paces before it occurred to me that there might be a caretaker. I swung about to retrace my steps. As I did so I faced that wing of the ugly Victorian building which lay to the right of the entrance—and I saw a chink of light shining from a long French window.

Wondering why I had not seen it before, I pressed through wet bushes, crossed a patch of lawn and reached the lighted window. It proved to be one of three which opened on to a verandah and I stepped up with the intention of rapping on the glass. Just in time, I checked my hand.

I stood there, suddenly dizzy, my heart leaping furiously.

Heavy velvet curtains were draped inside the windows one of which was slightly ajar, and the disarranged draperies had created that chink through which light shone. I could see right into the room, and beyond an open door into a furnished lobby. It was from this lobby that the light came.

Standing there, looking back, so that I suspected it to have been she who had opened the window, was a girl wearing a hooded cape. The hood, thrown free, revealed a mass of gleaming, bewilderingly disordered curls, a pale lovely face; great eyes, blue in the dusk with the dark blue of lapis lazuli, were turned in my direction.

Ardatha . . . Ardatha whom I adored, who once had loved me, whom I had torn from the clutches of the Chinese doctor; Ardatha, for whom I had searched, desperately, during many weary months ~ who, when I had found her, had tricked me, used me, played upon my love so that I had betrayed my friend: Ardatha!

Yet, throwing discretion to the winds and forgetful of the injured man who depended upon me, I was about to spring into the room, when—a second time I checked.

Slow, dragging footsteps and a sound resembling that of a rubber-shod stick became audible from somewhere beyond the comer of the veranda.

I grew suddenly cool, master of myself; my brain ceased to buzz like a nest of wasps: I could think clearly and quickly. A swift calculation told me that I had just time to leap into cover behind a holly bush before the one who walked so laboriously reached the angle of the house. I achieved my objective and threw myself flat on sodden turf.

Holding my breath, I watched. Water dripped from the leaves on to my head. I lay not three paces from the veranda. Quite distinctly I saw Ardatha draw the curtain and look out. Those dragging footsteps passed an unseen comer, and I knew that someone was approaching the window.

At that moment, in my new clarity of mind, I grasped a fact hitherto unsuspected: The turning into which BXH 77 had been driven communicated with the back premises of this house, probably with a garage. I had blundered into the enemy’s headquarters!

A figure walked slowly along the veranda—that of a very tall, gaunt man wrapped in a heavy overcoat and wearing some kind of cap. He leaned upon a stick as one uncertain of his steps. The French window was thrown open. I saw Ardatha outlined against the light beyond. The gaunt figure went in, passed Ardatha, and then half turned.

“Lock the window,” I heard spoken sibilantly.

It wasDr. Fu Manchu!

As the window was fastened, the curtain draped and I rose to my knees: “Ss!” came a hiss from close behind me. ‘Don’t move, Kerrigan!”

My heart seemed to miss a throb. Nayland Smith was lying less than two yards away!

‘“You saw her?” he whispered.

“Of course!”

“I quite understand, old man. No wonder we failed to find her. But, even now, don’t despair—“

“Why?” I groaned. “What hope is left?”

Smith’s reply was curious: “Dr. Fu Manchu once had a daughter.”

He had drawn nearer, and now he touched my shoulder. At that moment I had no idea what his words meant; but I was to learn, later.

“Come on—this way.”

In darkness I stumbled along behind him until I found myself under a clump of trees in what I divined to be a neglected garden. Beyond, loomed the bulk of the mystery house—the house which harboured the most dangerous man in the world . . . and Ardatha.

“The lane into which the Packard turned,” he said rapidly, “simply leads to the garage of this house and the one beyond. The latter also is apparently vacant. I grasped the position in time, backed out and came to look for you. Sims, the Yard driver, has gone for a raiding party. He will take the injured man with him.”

“But—Barton?”

“We can only do our best until reinforcements arrive. But one duty we owe to the world—that we do not allow Dr. Fu Manchu to slip through our fingers!”

“Why didn’t you shoot him where he stood. Smith?”

“For two reasons. The first concerns yourself; the second is, that I know this place to be occupied by agents of the Doctor—and Barton is in their hands . . . . Good God! What’s that?”

I think I began to reply, but the words perished on my tongue.

It was one of those sounds which it is good to forget; a sound which otherwise might haunt one’s dreams. It was a strangled cry, the cry of a strong man in the grip of mortal terror. It died away. From leafless limbs of trees stretching over us came the drip-drip-drip of falling water.

Smith grasped my arm so hard that I winced.

“That was Barton!” he said, hoarsely. “God forgive me if they—“

His voice broke. Shining the torchlight on the path, he set out headlong for the house.

I have often wondered since what he had planned to do—what would have happened if that Fate which bound two destinies together had not intervened. I can only record what occurred.

We were scrambling across a thorny patch which I judged to be a rose-bed when Smith pulled up, turned, and threw me flat on the ground! His nervous strength in moments of excitement was astounding: I was down before I realized it was he who had thrown me!

“Quiet!” he hissed in my ear; he lay prone beside me. “Look!”

A door had been opened, I Saw a silhouette—I should have known it a mile away—that of a girl who seemed to be in wild distress. She raised her arms as if in a gesture of supplication, then pressed her hands over her ears and ran out, turning swiftly right, then vanished.

Smith was breathing as rapidly asI, but: “Ardatha has opened the door for us,” he said quietly. “Come on, Kerrigan.”

As we ran across and stepped into a lighted lobby Smith was as self-possessed as though we were paying a formal call; I, knowing that we challenged the greatest genius who ever worked for Satan, admired him.

“Gun ready,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate to shoot.”

Something vaguely familiar about the place in which we stood was explained when I saw an open door beyond which was an empty room, its french windows draped with sombre velvet. This was the lobby I had seen from the other side of the house. It was well furnished, the floor strewn with rugs, and oppressively hot. The air was heavy with the perfume of hyacinths, several bowls of which decorated the place. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly before the newel post of a carpeted staircase. I found myself watching the swing of the pendulum as we stood there, listening. The illumination was scanty, and from beside a partly-opened door in a recess left of the stairs light shone out.

In the room beyond a voice was speaking. Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and advanced, tip-toe. The speaker was Fu Manchu!

“I warned you as long as six months ago,” came that singular voice—who, hearing, could ever forget it! “But my warning was not heeded. I have several times attempted, and as often failed, to recover Christophe’s chart from your house in Norfolk. Tonight, my agents did not fail—“

A bearskin rug had deadened the sound of our approach: now. Smith was opening the door by decimals of an inch per move.

“You fought for its possession. I do not blame you. I must respect a man of spirit. You might even have succeeded if Dr. Oster had not managed to introduce an intra muscular injection of crataegusin which produced immediate crataegus katatonia—or shall I say, stupor—“

Smith had opened the door nearly six inches. I obtained a glimpse of the room beyond. It looked like a study, and on a long, narrow writing-table a struggling man lay bound: I could not see his face.

“Since this occurred in the street, it necessitated your removal. And now. Sir Lionel, I have decided that your undoubted talents, plus the dangers attendant upon a premature discovery of your body, entitle you to live—and to serve the Si-Fan. My plans for departure are complete. Dr. Oster will operate again, and your perspective be adjusted. Proceed.”

Smith now had the door half open. I saw that the bound man was Barton. They had gagged him. His eyes, wild with horror, were turned to the door. He had seen it opening!

A man who wore black-rimmed spectacles was bending over him, a man whose outstanding peculiarity was a bright yellow complexion. From the constable’s description I recognized Dr. Oster. Barton’s coat had been removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up. The yellow Dr. Oster grasped a muscular arm near the biceps and pinched up a pucker of flesh. The agony in those staring eyes turned me cold—murderously cold. The fang of a hypodermic syringe touched Barton’s skin—

Smith threw the door open: Dr. Oster looked up.

To this hour I cannot recall actually pressing the trigger; but I heard the report.

I saw a tiny bluish mark appear in the middle of that yellow forehead. Dr. Oster glared straight at me through his spectacles, dropping the syringe, and, still glaring, voiceless, fell forward across Barton’s writhing body.

CHAPTER V

ARDATHA

“Don’t move, Fu Manchu! The game’s up this time!”

Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu Manchu.

ButDr. Fu Manchu was not there!

“Good God!”

Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu Manchu speaking, Fu Manchu was not in the room . . . .

At the moment that Barton began to utter inarticulate sounds, Smith raised his automatic and fired a shot into the china cabinet.

A crash of glass followed; then, as he ran forward: “Release Barton!” he cried. “Quick!”

I slipped my Colt into my pocket and bent over the table. Smith had wrenched open the glazed door I heard a further crashing of glass I tore the bandage from Barton’s mouth he stared up at me his florid face purple.

“Behind the cabinet!” he gasped. “Get him. Smith—the yellow rat is behind the cabinet!”

As I pulled out a pocket-knife to cut the lashings came a second shot—more crashing.

“He’s gone this way!” Smith shouted. “Cut Barton loose and follow!”

As Sir Lionel rose unsteadily and swung his feet clear of the table, something fell to the carpet. It was the hypodermic syringe, the point of which had just touched his skin at the moment that I had fired. Barton rested against the table for a moment, breathing heavily and looking down at the dead man.

“Good shot, Kerrigan. Thank you,” he said.

The sound of a third report, more distant, echoed through the house and, turning, I saw that the china cabinet was a camouflaged door. A gap now yawned beyond.

“I’ll follow, Kerrigan. Find Smith.”

Good old Barton! I had no choice.

Stumbling over shattered china, I entered the hidden doorway. A flash of my torch showed me that I stood in a large, unfurnished room. A second door was open, although no glimmer shone beyond. I ran across and out. I found myself back in the lobby, but the lights were all off!

“Smith!” I cried. “Smith! Where are you?”

From far behind a sound of crunching footsteps reached me. Barton was coming through. Near by, in the shadows, the grandfather clock ticked solemnly. I stepped to the newel post and moved all the switches which I found there.

Nothing happened. The current had been cut off from some main control.

Knowing that the house, only a matter of minutes before, had been occupied by members of the most dangerous criminal group in the world, I stood quite still for a moment, glancing up carpeted stairs. The scent of hyacinths grew overpowering; a foreboding—almost, it seemed, a pre-knowledge of disaster—bore down upon me.

“Kerrigan!” came Barton’s voice, “the damned lights have gone out!”

“This way!” I cried, and was about to step back to guide him, when I saw something.

One of the flower-bowls lay smashed on the floor. A draught of cold, damp air bore the exotic scent of the blooms to my nostrils. The door by which we had entered, the door to the garden, was wide open; and now from out of the blackness beyond came the wail of a police whistle.

“Make your way through to the garden!” I shouted. “Smith is out there—and he needs help!”

Something in the scent of the hyacinths, in the atmosphere of the house, spoke to me of that Eastern mist out of which Dr. Fu Manchu had materialized. It was a commonplace London house, but it had sheltered the Chinese master of evil, and his aura lay heavy upon it. I ran out into the garden as one escaping. Dimly the words reached my ears: “Go ahead! I can take care of myself . . . . ”

The skirl of the whistle had died away, but it had seemed to come from a point far to the right of the route which Smith and I had followed when we had approached the house. Now, using my torch freely, I saw that a gravelled path led from the door in that direction: a short distance ahead there were glasshouses.

I grasped a probable explanation; the garage. Fu Manchu was making for the car. Smith had followed!

As I ran down the path—it sloped sharply—I was mentally calculating the time that had elapsed since Sims, the Yard driver, had gone for a raid squad, and asking myself, over and over again, if Smith had been ambushed. I was by no means blind to my own danger; the friendly Colt was ready in my hand as I passed the glass-houses. Beyond them I pulled up.

Except for a dismal dripping of moisture from the trees the night was uneasily still. I could hear no sound from Barton; but I had heard another sound, and this it was which had pulled me up sharply . . . a low whistle on three minor notes.

Switching off my light, I stood there waiting. The whistle was repeated, from somewhere nearer; I heard footsteps. And now came a soft call: I could not catch the words.

Then, a faint glimmer of light showed in the darkness. A high, red-bricked wall surrounded the garden; the forcing-houses were built against it. There was an arched opening, in which perhaps at some time there had been a gate.

There, where reflected rays from the lamp she held struck witch fires from her disordered hair, stood Ardatha!

Certainly, I had never known, nor have known since, any wild conflict of emotions such as that which shook me. The expression in those wonderful eyes, their deep blue seeming lustrous black in the darkness, was so compounded of terror and of appeal that I knew I must act quickly. I had given my heart to a soulless wanton—and she held it still.

She had seen me, and at the moment that she extinguished the lamp I saw that she carried what looked like a shawl. She turned to run, but I was too swift for her. A vigour not wholly of heaven drove me tonight; things witnessed in that hyacinth-scented house, the ghastly face of Dr. Oster (for whose end I experienced not one jot of remorse)—these had taught me the meaning of “seeing red”.

I leapt through the archway, seized the hooded cape streaming out behind as she ran. She slipped free of it. I stumbled—sprang again—and had her!

As I locked my arms around her she quivered and panted like a wild creature trapped; her head was drumming against mine.

“Let me go!” she cried; “let me go!” and beat at me with clenched fists, nor were the blows light ones.

But I held her remorsely, perhaps harshly; for her struggles ceased and her words ended on a sound like a sob. She lay, lithe, slender and helpless in my grip. My heart-throbs matched her own as I crushed her to me so that my face touched her hair—and its fragrance intoxicated me.

“Ardatha—Ardatha!” I groaned. “My God, how I love you! How could you do it!”

That beating heart drummed hard as ever, but I detected a relaxation of tensed muscles. No effort of acting could have simulated the agony in my voice: Ardatha knew, but she did not speak.

“I searched the world for you, Ardatha, after you left me in Paris. For weeks I rarely slept. I couldn’t believe, even if you had changed, why you should torture me. And so I thought you must be dead. I came very near to madness. I went to Greece—hoping to die.”

She looked up at me. To this hour I have no idea what lay beyond the brick arch, what surrounded us as we stood there. But, either I saw her psychically, or some faint light reached the spot; for I knew that there were tears on her lashes.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “Because, you must mean—some other Ardatha.”

Every quaint inflection of that elusive accent, the sympathy in her musical voice, tortured me. I turned my head aside. I could no longer trust myself. She spoke as the Ardatha I adored, the Ardatha I had lost; her pretence, her actions, spoke another

language.

“There is only one Ardatha. I was the fool, to believe in her. Where is Fu Manchu? Where is Nayland Smith?”

“Please don’t hurt me.” I had tightened my hold automatically. “I would, indeed, help you if I could. Nayland Smith is my enemy, but you are not my enemy, and I wish you no harm. Only, I tell you that if you stay here you will die—“

“Where is Nayland Smith? He has never been your enemy. Why do you say such a thing? And don’t mock me because I love you.”

She was silent for a moment. Those slim curves enclosed by my arms taunted me. One nervous, slender hand stole up and rested on my shoulder.

“I am not mocking you. You frighten me. I don’t understand. I am very, very sorry for you. I want to save you from danger. But there is some great mistake. You ran after me across Hydie Park tonight, and now, you are here. You tell me”—her voice faltered— “that you love me. How can that be?”

Her fingers were clutching my shoulder, and I knew, although I kept my head averted, that she was looking up; I knew, too, and wondered if war had driven the whole world mad, that there were tears in her eyes.

“It has always been, since the first moment I saw you. It will always be—always, Ardatha. Now lead me to Smith—I shall not let you go until we find him.”

But she clung to me, resisting.

“No, no! Wait—let me try to understand. You say, since the first moment you saw me. The first moment I saw you was tonight, when you cried out to me—cried my name—in the Park!”

“Ardatha!”

“Yes—you cried out ‘Ardatha’. I looked back, and I saw you. Perhaps I liked you and wished that I knew you. But I did not know you, and your eyes were glaring madly. So I ran. Now—“

I suppose, for the whole situation was illusory, dream-line, that my grasp had changed to a caress; I had stooped to kiss her, liar, hypocrite though she might be. I know that her voice, as she trembled in my arms, had thrust out everything else in the world except my blind hopeless love.

“No! you dare not!” She dashed her hand against my lips; I kissed her palm, her fingers. “Do you think I am a courtesan? I don’t even know your name!”

I stood suddenly still, but I did not release her.

“Ardatha,” I said, “has Dr. Fu Manchu ordered you to torture me?” At those words I felt a quiver pass through her body. She inhaled a sobbing breath, and was silent. “I loved you—I shall love you always—and you ran away. You sent me no message, no word, even to tell me that you were alive. Now, when I find you, you say that you don’t know my name . . . . Ardatha!”

She crushed her head against me and burst into passionate tears.

“I want to believe!” she sobbed; “I want to believe; I cannot understand; but I have no one in all the world to turn to! If it were true, if in some way, I had forgotten, if you were really—”

And as I held her, tenderly now, certain words of Nayland Smith’s were singing in my brain: “Don’t despair . . . Dr. Fu Manchu once had a daughter.’9 The significance of the words was not yet clear to me, but I found in them, gladly, something to reconcile the seemingly irreconcilable.

“Ardatha, my dearest, you must believe. How could I know your name—or worship you as I do—if we had never been lovers? You have forgotten—God knows why or how—and it is true.”

She made a perceptible effort to control herself, and when she spoke, although her voice was unsteady it had regained its natural timbre.

“I am trying to believe you—although to do so means that I must have had a mental breakdown and forgotten that, too. You asked me where Nayland Smith had gone. He ran to the garage: it is straight along this path. I cannot tell you where Dr. Fu Manchu is: I do not know. But unless you let me go I shall die—“

“Die! why should you die?”

“Next time we meet I will try to tell you.” She pressed her face against my shoulder. “But if I am to believe you, then you must believe me. See ~ I trust you. I took it a long time ago from your pocket—“

And she handed me my Colt!

I released Ardatha and stood there, the automatic in my hand, trying to adjust my ideas to a new scheme of things, when from far away up near the house came Barton’s great voice: “Kerrigan! Where are you? Give me a hail.”

I turned and shouted: “This way. Barton.”

But, as I swung about again—Ardatha had vanished! Her cloak I held over my arm, the Colt was still grasped in my hand. I dropped it back in my pocket, snatched out the torch and flashed a ray ahead.

Nothing moved, and I could hear no footstep. Water was dripping mournfully from the roof of a glass-house, and a long way off I detected insistent hooting of a motor horn.

The raid squad was coming.

Why was Nayland Smith silent? There was something ominous about it. I have said, and I confess it again, that at first sight of Ardatha every other idea in my mind had been swept out; and whilst I had stood there (my heart was still pounding madly) it was quite possible—

“Have you found Smith?” Barton cried. “Show a light. I’ve caught something, and—“

I turned back and threw a moving fan of light on the path which led to the house. As I did so, an overpowering smell of hawthorn swept down upon me as if borne on a sudden breeze. Too late, a decimal of a second too late, I ducked and half turned.

My head was enveloped in what felt like a moist rubber bag . . . I experienced a sensation of sinking, not swiftly, but as if floating gently downward, into deep clouds of hawthorn blossom.

CHAPTER VI

DR. FU MANCHU EXPERIMENTS

I seemed to break through some brittle surface into a plane of violet light—and silence. There was a rapidly receding background, a memory of wild action, of the drip of moisture, of a noisome tunnel and moving water. Here, all was still; nothing was visible in that luminous expanse. Then, a long way off, I heard the voice ofDr. Fu Manchu.

“A member of my family, a mandarin of my rank, is bound by codes stronger than bands of steel. For myself I ask nothing. I hold the key which unlocks the heart of the secret East; holding that key, I command the obedience of an army greater than any ever controlled by one man . . . . ”

This must be delirium; for no living thing was in sight: I. was alone in a violet void.

“My power rests in the East, but my hand is stretched out to the West. I shall restore the lost grandeur of China. When your civilization, as you are pleased to term it, has exterminated itself, when you have reduced to ashes your palaces and your temples, when in your blindness you have set back the clock which so laboriously you fashioned, I shall stir. Out of the fire I shall arise. The red dusk of the West will have fallen, the golden dawn of the East will come—“

The voice faded, and at the same time that mysterious radiance also grew dim, as though it had been a mirage created by the voice or the aura of the speaker.

I was lying, in a constrained position, upon a cushioned settee which had a metal base, in a long, narrow, low-ceilinged room which possessed no visible windows. It was lighted by hanging lamps and permeated, by a carnal smell: I thought of the Morgue. That half of the room which contained the settee or couch was unfurnished except for a tall glass-fronted cabinet. In this cabinet, preserved in jars, were all kinds of anatomical specimens; a collection so gruesome that I doubted the verity of this phase, too.

There were several human hands, black, yellow, and white; there was a brown forearm; there were internal organs which I need not describe: and, half covered by a sheet of gauze, a decapitated Negro head grinned from the largest jar.

The lower half of the room was a small but well equipped laboratory where some experiment was actually in progress. An apparatus resembling a Bunsen burner, but dissimilar in some way which my indifferent knowledge of chemistry did not enable me to define, hissed below a retort fitted with a condenser.

One glance I took at the object in process of distillation, and looked elsewhere. I grew nauseated and closed my eyes for a moment. But I had seen something which might have accounted for the violet mirage.

On a smaller bench there stood a low, squat lamp, resting on what I assumed to be a block of crystal. It produced a strange amethystine radiance—and instantly I thought of the eyes of Ardatha.

With that thought came complete consciousness . . . . Ardatha!

Had she betrayed me? Had she tricked me again, and left me to the mercies of Fu Manchu’s thugs? I remembered that she had stolen my Colt, and then returned it. Was this evidence of her innocence, or merely of a moments remorse prompted by knowledge of those who covered me, who at that instant she had seen behind me?

A door hidden in the wall near the large bench slid soundlessly open. I became aware of a sensation in my skull which resembled that experienced on quickly climbing to a high altitude. A man entered with slow, curiously feline steps, and closed the door behind him. He wore a long coat of what appeared to be varnished green silk. Turning, he stared in my direction.

It wasDr. Fu Manchu.

He was more emaciated than I remembered him to have been, and as he seated himself at the bench I noted the weariness of his movements. To one who had not met Dr. Fu Manchu it would be impossible, I suppose, to convey any idea of the peculiar force which he seemed to project.

With the exception of Nayland Smith I had never known one who could stand up to it. And now, alone with him in that long, narrow, sinister room, silent save for the hiss of the burner, I recognized the fact that this power emanated entirely from his eyes.

His imposing figure—tall, angular, high-shouldered—lent him a sort of grotesque majesty; and as he sat there before me, a vitalized skeleton clothed in wrinkled silk, his shrunken skin exposing all the contours of that wonderful skull, no whit of this force was missing. I had sprung up at the moment of his entrance, and now I stood there battling with a fear not unmixed with loathing which he inspired; and I knew that his power resided in a tremendous intellect, for it shone out like a beacon from those strange green eyes, feverishly brilliant in cavernous shadows.

He spoke.

The effort of speech was terrifying. It came to me suddenly as a conviction that Dr. Fu Manchu was very near his end. It was as though a magician had conjured back a soul into a body dead for generations.

“I trust that you are conscious of no nausea or other unpleasant after-effects. My fellows are adepts with their knives and strangling cords, but clumsy when employing more subtle methods.”

One clawlike hand, the nails long and pointed, resting on the plate-glass which covered the bench, he watched me for a few moments, and I felt, as of old, as if he read every record printed upon my brain.

I plunged my hand into my pocket: it was a gesture of resignation—but my fingers touched the automatic . . . . I had not been disarmed!

“You seriously inconvenienced my plans, Mr. Kerrigan, when you shot Companion Oster. Dr. Oster was a licentiate of Heidelberg and held also a minor London degree. His qualifications, therefore, were limited. Nevertheless, he was useful. Your own powers of observation being not entirely undeveloped, no doubt you noted that his skin displayed unusual pigmentary characteristics?”

That intolerable gaze brooked no denial. I replied: “He was yellow as a lemon.”

I was clutching the Colt and saying to myself, “You did not hesitate in the case of the lesser scoundrel; why hesitate now?”

“Exactly. This was due to the nature of the experiments which he had carried out under my direction.Be good enough to glance into the cabinet on your right—but avoid crossing the red line which you may have seen painted on the floor.”

I had not seen the red line; but I saw it now: an inch-wide band extending from wall to wall first beyond the cabinet which contained the anatomical specimens, and dividing the long, narrow room into equal parts. I moved forward; it suited me to do so: it brought Dr. Fu Manchu into a range at which I could not possibly miss him.

“The hands of the Negro,” he went on, his voice low and sibilant, “are of particular interest. Do you agree with me?”

Conquering nausea which threatened to return I looked at those gruesome fragments. One of the hands was clenched, convulsively, and I wondered how the black man had died; the other was rigidly open. But, a certain characteristic they shared in common: on close inspection it became apparent that they were not true black nor even brown, but rather of that deep purplish green which is present in some cultivated tulips. I became fascinated.

“Note the white forearm. It is that of a Lascar. The bright yellow hand, labelledG, was contributed by a blond Bavarian youth . . . . ”

I suppose it was a belated recognition of the meaning of his words, a sudden, hot understanding of the fact that human beings, black, white, and brown had been sacrificed to some unimaginable scientific experiment, which prompted my action; but, turning to Dr. Fu Manchu, I snatched the Colt from my pocket, took deliberate aim, and fired, not at his head but at his heart. To make doubly sure of ridding the world of a monster, I fired twice!

In a life which, for one of my years, had been notable for action, I think that those dragging seconds which followed the two shots epitomized all the wonder, all the terror and all the acceptance of laws beyond human understanding which any man has known.

Dr. Fu Manchu smiled!

He revealed a row of small, even, yellow teeth. It was as though a mummy of one who had lived when the world was young jeered at me. He spoke, but his words sounded as words spoken at the end of a long tunnel.

“They were live cartridges: they had not been exchanged for blanks. I wished you to attempt to add me to your bag, but I observed that you aimed at my breast. The brain, Mr. Kerrigan, and not the heart, is the seat of power. The Ancient Egyptians knew . . . . ”

But I had turned away. I tossed the Colt on to the settee and dropped down beside it. I had witnessed a miracle, and I was shaken to my soul. Only the manner of my death remained in doubt.

That odd, indefinable vibration which I had noted at the moment of his entrance suddenly ceased, as Dr. Fu Manchu’s voice again broke through the blanket of stupor which had settled upon my brain.

“A consciousness of cerebral pressure is relieved, no doubt? You experience a sense of restful silence. The explanation is a simple one. If you will be good enough to leave your automatic where it lies and accept this chair, we can approach the real purpose of our present interview.”

I stood up and faced him. His eyes were filmy, contemplative; they lacked that emerald lustre which I could never face unmoved.One clawlike hand was stretched across the bench, indicating a metal chair.

With some of the feelings of a whipped cur, I rose and moved forward. At the red line I paused.

“You may cross safely.”

I crossed and dropped down in the chair facing Dr. Fu Manchu. Save for the hissing sound of the burner, the room was silent. Dr. Fu Manchu rested his chin upon one skeleton hand: his proximity imparted a sense of chill, as though I had sat with a corpse.

“You observe, Mr. Kerrigan, that I am employing those primitive methods here which gave Paracelsus such excellent results, and by means of which van Helmont performed his transmutations. But before we proceed to the subject of my present experiments—a subject of some personal interest to yourself” (at those words my heart grew cold)—”it is only fair to explain why your bullets failed to reach me.”

I clenched my teeth.

“When you were very young.Dr. Sven Ericksen died, and the newspapers of the world were filled with stories of the Ericksen Ray which that distinguished physicist had never perfected. Although legally dead, he has since completed his inquiries, with some slight assistance from myself.”

This statement evoked ghastly memories; but I remained silent.

“The so-called ‘ray’ is, in fact, a sound wave, or chord. Ericksen discovered that a certain combination of incalculably high notes, inaudible to the human ear, could reduce nearly any substance to its original particles. It Was a problem of pure physics: that of disturbing harmonic equilibrium. A belt or curtain of these sound waves can be thrown across this room by merely depressing a switch. Continued exposure to such vibrations, however, is highly injurious. Therefore I have disconnected the apparatus.”

I looked up quickly, and as quickly down again.Dr. Fu Manchu was watching me; and even when veiled contemplatively I could not sustain the regard of those magnetic eyes.

Tour bullets are still present; not in the form of lead and nickel but in that of their component elements: they are disintegrated. The importance of this discovery it would be difficult to exaggerate. I am acquainted with only one substance capable of penetrating a zone protected by Ericksen Chords . . . . ”

I heard a faint buzzing sound—and all the lights went out!

CHAPTER VII

THE RIVER GATE

My first idea, naturally enough, was thatDr. Fu Manchu had given some signal, unobserved, for my dismissal; that I was to be dispatched in darkness. The burner hissing under the retort and its gruesome contents became silent. I sprang to my feet. At least I could go down fighting.Out of impenetrable gloom came the imperious voice, guttural now: “Pray remain seated. Owing to certain extemporized measures, power in the laboratory is controlled from an outside switchboard—and it has been cut off. This means an air-raid warning, Mr. Kerrigan; but it need not disturb you.”

An air raid warning? Then a terrifying idea which I had been grimly repelling—an idea that unconsciousness had lasted for a long time; that this secret laboratory was situated perhaps far away from England—need disturb me no more. However, I remained standing, and with courage greater than I had ever known in the visible presence of Dr. Fu Manchu: ‘‘You appear to be dangerously ill,” I said.

And the ghostly voice replied: “I have brought myself close to death. Science is my mistress and I serve her too well. You may have noticed a small lamp (it is extinguished now) producing a violet light. The condition in which you find me is due to my experiments with this lamp. The green jacket I wear affords some slight protection; but I can discover no formula to reinforce the human economy so that it may cancel its deleterious effects.Dr. Oster, my assistant in these inquiries, developed opacity of the crystalline lens accompanied by other notable pigmentary changes; and although, a fact to which the specimens you have inspected bear witness, racial types react variously, none can sustain these emanations without suffering permanent injury. But you remain standing.”

I sat down.

Whether it was imagination, or whether, as I had sometimes suspected, the eyes ofDr. Fu Manchu possessed a chatoyant quality, I thought that I could see them watching me—shining greenly in the dark like the eyes of a great cat.

“I have submitted certain proposals to Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” he went on, “Although, thanks to my recovery of the chart found by Sir Lionel Barton, I can take suitable precautions, any interference with my plans in the Caribbean may alter the world’s history. You are my hostage. If Sir Denis refuses to pay your ransom(I gather that you hold a minor science degree) I shall invite you to take the place of Companion Oster—of whose services you deprived me—and to carry on those inquiries under, my direction, which his death has interrupted.”

It is beyond the power of my pen to convey any idea of the cloud of horror which swept down upon me as I listened to his words. Before my mind’s eye they appeared, those ghastly fragments of men who had died martyrs to the lust for knowledge which animated this devil in human shape. To their tormented company I was to be added!

How I should have acted, what reply I should have made to that monstrous statement, I cannot say. Although I had detected no movement. Dr. Fu Manchu had retired from his place on the other side of the glass-topped bench, for when he spoke again it was from beyond the hidden doorway.

“I must leave you for a time, Mr. Kerrigan. I strongly urge you to remain seated. Many of the objects here are lethal. I will arrange for the lamps to be relighted. You may smoke if you wish.”

A faint sound indicated that the door had been closed.

I was alone—alone with the violet lamp which blinded, which changed men from white to yellow, which had shattered the supernormal constitution of its Chinese creator; alone with the amputated remains of some who had suffered that this dream ofDr. Fu Manchu might be realized. What was the purpose of these merciless experiments? What power resided in the lamp?

Fumbling in my pocket, I learned that my torch remained undisturbed. Any fate was preferable to the fate ordained by the devil Doctor. I flashed a ray about that awesome room, that silent room which smelled like a mortuary.

It glittered momentarily upon my Colt lying on the couch. It brought to life the head of the Negro grinning in a big jar, and lent uncanny movement to those discoloured hands which for ever had ceased to move.

I stepped towards the red line.

“Consciousness of cerebral pressure” mentioned by Dr. Fu Manchu was not perceptible; the Ericksen apparatus remained disconnected. I crossed the red line and took up my automatic. At the moment I retrieved the Colt an abnormally-tensed sense of hearing told me that the sliding door had been opened.

In a flash I had turned, a ray focused on the wall behind the bench, my finger alert on the trigger.

No doubt the mystery of the lamp had inflamed my imagination, but I thought that by magic a djinn had been summoned. Although I had the apparition covered by my pistol, consternation threatened me as the torchlight wavered on a gigantic figure framed in the doorway. It was that of a herculean man who wore a white robe and a red sash; a tarbush on his head. His thick lips, flattened nostrils and frizzy hair were those of a Nubian—but his skin was white as ivory!

Common sense dispersed fantasy. The man was a strangler sent by Dr. Fu Manchu to dispatch me.

“Put up your hands!” I ordered.

Blinking in the light, the white Negro obeyed, raising thick, sinewy blond hands, and: “No so loud, sir,” he said hoarsely, “you spoil your chances if you speak so loud.”

That he spoke in English, and spoke with an American intonation, provided a further shock: his seeming friendliness I distrusted.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name—Hassan, sir. I want to help you—“

“Why?”

“White Lady wishes.” He touched his brow as he spoke. “When White Lady wishes Hassan obeys.”

And now my heart gave a great leap.

“The White Lady—Ardatha?”

Hassan touched his brow again.

“Her family I serve, and my father, his father before; long, long time before. White Lady’s order more high than Master’s order, more high than any but God Almighty. Follow Hassan.”

A hundred questions I longed to ask, for this man perhaps held the clue to that torturing mystery never far from my mind; but a quick decision was imperative—and I made it.

“Lead the way,” I said, and stepped forward. “I will use my torch.”

“No light,” he whispered—”no light. Come close and take my hand.”

It was in no spirit of childish confidence that I grasped the muscular white hand; but as I had reached the Nubian’s side and finally switched off my torch, those blinking eyes had told me the truth—Hassan was blind.

“No sound,” he said, in a low voice. “Hassan see with inner eye. Trust Hassan . . . . ”

Along a short passage apparently covered in rubber he led me. Another silent door he opened and closed. The peculiarly nauseating smell of the laboratory was no longer perceptible; the air was cool. We crept up a stone stair, and stood at the top for a while. I thought that Hassan was listening. I could detect no sound, no glimmer of light.

His grip tightened suddenly, and he dragged me sharply to the left for three paces and then stood still again.

Faint footsteps sounded—grew nearer—louder. A beam of yellow light shone past an arched opening not ten feet from where we hid. I watched, holding my breath. The moving rays revealed a stone passage. And now came the bearer of the light—a short, stocky brown man, one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s Burmese bodyguard. He carried a hurricane lamp. He passed. Behind him came two others—they bore a body on a stretcher.

They, too, passed; the sound of footsteps faded, the light grew dim: complete darkness returned.

The most dreadful premonitions attacked me; I grew sick with dread. Whose was the muffled body? What place was this, with its stone-paved passages, whichDr. Fu Manchu had chosen for his lair? As if Hassan divined how near I was to speech: “Ss!” he hissed—and led me on.

Our route lay in that direction from which the bearers had come; and just as I thought I detected a faint light ahead, a sound echoed hollowly through the stone passages, a sound which robbed me almost of my last spark of courage.It was the note of a gong!

Hassan stopped dead. He bent to my ear.

“That call for me,” he whispered. “Must go. Listen very careful. Straight before is opening—wide and high. River below—very far below. But iron ladder straight under opening. Take much care, sir. Barge lie there; tide rising. If someone is on barge—shoot. Then wade through mud to wooden steps beyond bows . . . . ”

A second gong stroke reverberated through the building.

“Hurry!” Hassan whispered, “hurry!”

He released my hand, and was gone.

The prospect was far from pleasing; but I preferred a broken neck to the fate in store for me at the hands of Dr. Fu Manchu. I set out towards that distant glimmer. I had formed a mental picture of the “opening—wide and high”, and having no desire to plunge headlong into the mud of the Thames ventured to use my light. At sight of what lay before me my hopes were dashed.

This was an old warehouse. The passage led to wide double doors beside which I saw rusty winding gear. There was an iron-barred opening in each of the doors—which were closed and locked.

I was trapped!

Although my spirits had touched zero I went on to the doors and tried the heavy padlock. It was fast. Cold, damp air came through the grilles as I stared out, hopelessly. So dark was the night, so far below lay the River, that I could have formed no impression of the scene if searchlights had not helped me. The blackness was slashed by swords of silver. They formed a changing pattern in the sky, and this was reproduced in the oily mirror of the River far beneath.

From the distance of buildings dimly discernible on the further bank, which I assumed to be the Surrey shore, I judged that I was well below bridges and in the heart of dockland. But that great heart pulsed slowly tonight. A red glow here, a vague iridescence there, and an uneasy hum, like that of a vast hive imprisoned, alone represented the normal Wagnerian symphony of London. Above, the questing searchlights; below, a pianissimo in the song of industry until the hawk’s shadow should pass.

Turning with a smothered groan, I looked back along the passage.

At a point which I estimated to be beyond that at which Hassan and I had hidden, a bar of yellow light lay across the stone floor. Action was imperative. Walking softly, I approached this bar of light. Apart from fears of a personal character, I was filled with the wildest apprehensions concerning Smith. A theory to account for my presence in this deserted warehouse had occurred to me; for I had recalled the fact that the Regent Canal came out at Limehouse.

Along that gloomy waterway, with its cuttings and tunnels, I had been transported from the house in Regent’s Park. The body I had seen home on a stretcher had followed by the same route. I stumbled, stifled an exclamation, and managed to fall softly. There was a gap in the stone paving, and I lay still for a while; for I had fallen not two feet from the bar of light, and as I tripped I had seen a shadow move across it!

Someone was in the place from which the yellow light shone. The next few moments covered long agonies of doubt. But apparently I had not been detected. Carefully moving my hands, I tried to find out what lay between me and the light. A discovery soon came. I had tripped and fallen on a square stone landing from which steps led down to a sunken door. It was from an iron-barred window beside this door that the light was shining.

Inch by inch I changed my position, until, seated on the steps, I could look into a cellar-like room illuminated by a hurricane lamp set on a crate. From this position I saw a strange thing. Because of the imperfect illumination and my angle of vision, at first I could not altogether make out what it was that I saw. A pair of sinewy hands were working rapidly upon some mysterious task. Bare wrists and forearms I could see, hairy and muscular, but of the head and body of him to whom they belonged I could see nothing. A faint tearing sound and a sort of hiss gave me the clue at last. The man was stitching something up in sailcloth: I could just make out a shapeless bundle.

Now, I felt far from master of myself; but in the almost silent activities of this man who had such powerful arms there was something indescribably malignant.

Who was he, and what was he doing in the cellar?

Observing every precaution, I slightly changed my position again, until I could see quite clearly the nature of the bundle the sailmaker stitched.

It contained a human body!

The worker had started at the feet and had completed the shroud of sailcloth up to the breast.

I closed my eyes for a moment, clenched my teeth. Then, I moved farther down. The body lay on a stout bench and from my constrained position it was still impossible to see more than me arms, up to the elbows, of the worker.

But I saw the face of the dead man.

CHAPTER VIII

LIMEHOUSE POLICE STATION

At the moment that I obtained my first glimpse of the face of the man whose body was being sewn up in sailcloth, I saw also that his arms were crossed on his breast.

Both hands had been amputated.

A spasm of anger, revulsion, nausea swept over me. I half withdrew the automatic from my pocket; then sanity conquered: I sat still and watched. Lowering my head inch by inch I presently discerned the pock-marked features of the stitcher. I had seen that hideous mask before: it belonged to one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s Burmese killers. The yellow lantern light left the sunken eyes wholly in shadow and painted black hollows under prominent cheekbones.

Ss! hissed the thread drawn through canvas—ss as those sinewy fingers moved swiftly upon their task. My dreadful premonitions were dismissed.

The dead man was not Nayland Smith, but Dr. Oster.

In some incomprehensible way, Fu Manchu’s servants had smuggled the body from the house in Regent’s Park. I suppressed a sigh of relief. The movements of the dacoit cast grotesque shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the cellar as I crouched staring at the mutilated remains of the man I had shot.

Horror heaped on horror had had the curious result of inducing acute mental clarity. During the few minutes—not more than three—that I remained there, I conceived—and rejected—plan after plan. The best, as I still believe, was to rush the Bur-man, stun him and await a new arrival—for palpably he could not complete the business of disposing of the body without assistance. Under cover of my automatic I would compel whoever came to lead me to an exit.

This plan was never put into operation.

I was calculating my chances of getting through the doorway and silently overpowering a formidable adversary, when I was arrested by a sound of light, rapid footsteps which approached from beyond the luminous band from that end of the passage which I had not explored. I was too late. Now I must act quickly if I were to escape detection.

Twisting sideways, I began to crawl back up the steps. I gained the passage above, and on hands and knees crept into the shadows. Nor did I win cover a moment too soon.

A gigantic figure, wearing only a dark vest and trousers, passed, with the swift, lithe tread of a panther, down the steps and into the cellar not two yards away.It was Hassan, the white Nubian!

I stood up, my back pressed to an icy-cold wall, automatic in hand, listening.

“Master order fix weights, quick.” (Hassan spoke in odd English, presumably the only language he had in common with the Burman.) “Must move sharp. I carry him. You bring lamp and open River door.”

On hearing those words, yet another plan occurred to me. If I could follow the funeral procession, undetected, this River door to which Hassan referred might serve a living man as well as a dead one. Success or failure turned upon the toss of a coin.

Which way were they going?

If I remained where I was, and the cortege turned left, I could not fail to be discovered; if I moved quickly to the other side of the bar of light, and they went to the right, then my fate would be sealed.

I determined to remain in my present hiding place, and, if the Burman saw me, to shoot him and then throw myself upon the mercy of Hassan.

Much movement, clang of metal, and smothered muttering reached me from the cellar, the husky bass of Hassan’s voice being punctuated with snarling monosyllables which I judged to represent the Burman’s replies. At last came a significant shuffling, a deep grunt, and a sound of approaching footsteps. The blind Nubian had the corpse on his back and was carrying it out. Fate had spun the coin: which way would it fall?

First came the Burman, holding the hurricane lantern. As he walked up the stone steps I tried to identify myself with the shadows; for, although he presented a target which I could not have missed, although he was a professional assassin, a blood-lustful beast in human form, I shrank from the act of dispatching him.

He turned to the right.

Every movement he had made from the moment of his appearance at the base of the steps had been covered by my Colt. The giant figure of Hassan followed, stooping. Atlas-like, under his gruesome burden. He followed the lantern-bearer.

I had not been seen.

And now, as that death march receded into the distance of the long, echoing passage, I stooped, rapidly unlaced my shoes and discarded them. Silently I followed. The cold of the stone paving numbing my feet, I crept along, preserving a discreet interval between myself and the corpse-bearer, a huge, crouching silhouette against the leading light. His shadow, and the shadow of his load, danced hellishly on the floor, upon the walls, upon the roof of the corridor.

The lantern disappeared. The Burman had walked into some opening on the left of the passage, for against a rectangular patch of light upon the opposite wall I saw the burdened figure bent under its mortal bale turn and vanish too.

I pressed on to the comer. There were descending steps. Preserving a suitable distance from the moving lamp, I followed, and found myself in a shadow-haunted place, a warehouse, fusty as some ancient vault to which the light of the sun had never penetrated, in which, picked out by the dancing yellow light, I saw stacks of cases, through an aisle between which the lantern led me.

At the end of this aisle Hassan dropped his load. The muffled slump of the handless corpse was a sound I was destined often to remember.

“Open the door.” He was breathless. “Got to be quick. We have to make our getaway, too.”

That supernormal clarity of brain remained. The place was about to be abandoned; presumably Dr. Fu Manchu had already made good his escape. Visualising the Thames as I had seen it through the grille from the floor above, I determined that the door the Burman was already unlocking must be close to water level. My course was clear; the issue rested with me.

A gust of damp air swept into the fusty stagnation of the warehouse: followed, a subdued clangour. The lantern had been set on top of a crate, but dimly I discerned an opening and I knew what it represented. Whereas loads were hoisted to the upper floor, they were discharged to barges from the warehouse by way of this gangway which projected over the river at tidal level. From here the remains of Dr. Oster were to be consigned to old Father Thames and held fast in his muddy embrace until mortal decay cast fragments upon some downstream shallow, fragments which no man should identify.

I could see no searchlights; nevertheless, I could see the opening. I heard laboured breathing—creaking shoes which supported striving bodies. Dimly I heard the splash.

Then, Colt in hand, silent in shoeless feet, I rushed.

Silent, I say? Not silent enough for the blind Nubian. I was almost on the drawbridge, I had passed the Burman, when an arm like a steel band locked itself about me!

“Inshallah!”

Never had I experienced such acceptance of complete inertia. I am no weakling, but I know when I am mastered. The automatic was wrenched from my hand; I became crushed to that herculean body, a limp, useless thing. I divined, rather than perceived, that the dacoit stood behind me, knife raised. My brain, my brain alone, remained active.

“Hassan!” I panted. “Hassan, let me go!”

That unbreakable hold relaxed. Inexorably, I was jerked forward. A stinging in my left—shoulder and a sense of moisture, told me how narrowly I had escaped death from the Burman’s knife.

A thud—a snarl—the sound of a fall, and then: “Take your chance,” Hassan whispered. “No other way.”

Lifting me above his head as Milo of Crotona might playfully have lifted a child, he hurled me into the river!

* * *

“Who’s there?”

Breathless, all but spent, I swam for shore. There was a wharf, I remembered, and steps. That plunge into icy water had nearly defeated me. I had no breath with which to answer the challenge. A blue light shone out. I headed for it.

And, as I laboured frantically, a swift beam from the river picked me up. I heard shouted orders, the purr of an engine. My feet touched bottom: I staggered on towards the shore.’

“Down the steps, Gallaho! There’s someone swimming in. Dowse that searchlight out there!”

Nayland Smith!

The light behind—it must have come from a River Police craft—shone on wooden steps and painted my own shadow before me. Suddenly, it was shut off. The blue light ahead moved, came nearer, lower. I waded forward and was grasped and held upright—for I was close to the end-of my endurance.

“It’s Kerrigan,” I whispered. “Hang on to me. I’m nearly through . . . . ”

Chief Inspector Gallaho, a friend of former days, helped me to mount the steps. His lamp he extinguished, but I had had a glimpse of the familiar stocky figure enveloped in oilskins, of a wide-brimmed bowler, a grim red face.

“This is a surprise, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said, as though he had unexpectedly met me in Piccadilly. “It will be first class news for Sir Denis. You see, you being in their hands made our job a difficult one.”

As we stepped on to the wharf: “That you, Kerrigan?” came Smith’s crisp voice.

“Yes, by heaven’s mercy! Winded and drenched, but still alive.”

“Straight through to the car,” Smith went on rapidly. “Show a light, someone. A brisk rub down and a hot grog at Limehouse Police Station will put you right.”

Clenching my teeth, which displayed a tendency to chatter, I followed a lozenge of luminous blue which danced ahead along a paved path.

“Here we are. Get in, Kerrigan. I leave you in charge here, inspector. See that nothing, not even a rat, comes out; but make no move without orders from me.”

Feeling not unlike a half-drowned rat myself, I tumbled into a car which stood there in the darkness, and Smith joined me.

“Limehouse Police Station,” he said to the driver. “Step on it.”

We set out along some narrow riverside street in which not one speck of light was visible. Then, Nayland Smith relaxed. He threw his arms around my shoulders, and in a voice quite unlike that in which he had been issuing orders: “Kerrigan,” he said, “this is a miracle! Thank God you’re safe. Even now, I find it hard to believe. But first—are you hurt?”

The emotion betrayed by that man of iron touched me keenly.

“I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance. Smith,” I replied awkwardly. “It was my own folly that gave you all this trouble. I’m all right, though I don’t deserve to be. A knife scratch on my shoulder; nothing, I assure you.”

“But you are chilled to the bone. Try to tell me all you can. Time is on the side of the enemy.”

As the driver, whom I suspected to be Sergeant Sims of the Flying Squad, whirled us headlong through Limehouse darkness, I told my story. I held nothing back, not even my belief that Ardatha had betrayed me to Fu Manchu’s thugs.

“Probably wrong there,” Smith commented staccato-fashion. “But no matter at the moment. I followed the Doctor to the garage—and was cleverly locked inside! Place nearly soundproof. When the raid squad arrived, managed to attract their attention. While they were breaking in, Fu Manchu’s gang smuggled Oster’s body away and smuggled you away, too. Barge on canal with auxiliary motor. House formerly belonged to certain foreign diplomat—hence peep-hole behind china cupboard. . . .”

The brakes shrieked. I was all but thrown from my seat; a headlight shot out. I had the momentary glimpse of a narrow thoroughfare, and of an evil-looking yellow man who staggered aside from the bonnet.

“Try thinkee where you go,” the driver shouted angrily. “Hop-head!”

And we were off again.

“Barton made the only capture of the night—“

“What?”

“Dr. Fu Manchu’s marmoset!It was for the marmoset Ardatha came back, Kerrigan. While we were searching the house—and little enough we found—the phone rang. I answered it . . . andDr. Fu Manchu issued his ultimatum—”

“In person?”

“In person! Won’t bore you with it now. Here we are!”

The car was pulled up in its own length.

“How did you get on my track?”

“Later, Kerrigan. Come on.”

He dragged me into the station. A vigorous towelling before the open fire and a piping hot grog quite restored me. The scratch on my shoulder was no more than skin deep—a liberal application of iodine soon staunched the bleeding. Wearing borrowed shoes and underwear and the uniform of a district inspector (which fitted me very well) I felt game again for anything. Smith was now wild with excitement to be off, he could not stand still.

“What you tell me unties my hands, Kerrigan. This hide-out of Fu Manchu’s is an old warehouse, marked by the local authorities for demolition but still containing a certain amount of stock. Lacking clear evidence I dared not break in. The manager of the concern, a young German known to the police (he is compelled to report here at regular intervals) may or may not be a creature of the Doctor’s. In either case he has the keys. Point is, that the officer who keeps the alien register is off duty; he has taken it home to do some work on it, and nobody knows the German’s address!”

“But surely—”

“I have done that, Kerrigan! A police—cyclist set out half an hour ago to find Sergeant Wyckham. But now I need not wait. You agree with me, inspector?”

For a moment I failed to understand, until the laughter of the real inspector who had supervised my grooming reminded me of the fact that I was in uniform.

“For my part,” said the police officer, “I don’t think this man, Jacob Bohm, is a member of the gang. I think, though, that he suspected there was something funny going on.”

“Why?” snapped Smith, glancing irritably at the clock.

“Well, the last time he came in, so Sergeant Wyckham told me, he hinted that he might shortly have some valuable information to offer us. He said that he was collecting evidence which wasn’t complete yet, but—“

A phone buzzed; he took up the instrument on his desk.

“Hullo—yes? Speaking. That you, Wyckham?” He glanced at Smith. “Found him, sir, . . . Yes, I’ll jot it down.” He wrote. “Jacob Bohm, 39b Pelting Street, Limehouse. And you say his landlady’s name is Mullins? Good. The matter’s of some importance, sergeant. What was that you mentioned last week about the man? . . . Oh, he said he was putting the evidence in writing? He thought that what? , . . That there were cellars of which he had no keys, but which were used after dark? I see . . . . ”

“Kerrigan,” snapped Smith, “feel up to a job?”

“Anything you say. Smith.”

“There’s a police car outside, as well as that from the Yard. Dash across to Felling Street—the driver will know it—and get Jacob Bohm. I’m off. I leave this job to you. Bring him back here: I will keep in touch.”

He turned whilst the inspector was still talking on the phone; but I grabbed his arm.

“Smith—did you find any trace—?”

“No.” He spoke over his shoulder, “But Ardatha called me two minutes after Fu Manchu. She was responsible for your finding me where you found me tonight. Jump to it, Kerrigan. This German may have valuable information.”

He had reached the office door, the inspector had hung up the receiver and was staring blankly after him, when again the phone buzzed. The inspector took up the instrument, said, “Yes—speaking,” and then seemed to become suddenly tensed.

“One moment, sir!” he cried after Smith.“One moment!”

Smith turned, tugging at the lobe of his ear.

“Well-what is it?”

“River Police, sir. Excuse me for a second.”

He began to scribble on a pad, then: “Yes—I follow. Nothing on him in the way of evidence? No—I will act at once. Good-bye.”“

He hung up again, staring at Smith.

“They have just hauled Jacob Bohm out of the river off Tilbury,” he said. “A ship’s anchor caught him. He was sewn up in sailcloth. Both hands had been amputated,”

CHAPTER IX

39B FELLING STREET

Of my drive to Felling Street, a short one, I remember not one detail, except that of a searchlight which, as we turned a corner, suddenly clove the dark sky like a scimitar. I had thought that the man’s death rendered the visit unnecessary: Smith had assured me that it rendered it more than ever important.

“He was putting the evidence in writing, Kerrigan. We want his notes . . . . ”

I mused in the dark. It was Ardatha who had saved me! This knowledge was a burning inspiration. In some way she had become a victim of the evil genius of Dr. Fu Manchu; her desertion had not been a voluntary one. Then, as the police driver threaded a way through streets which all looked alike, I found myself considering the fate of Jacob Bohm; the strange mutilation of Dr. Oster; those ghastly exhibits in the glass case somewhere below the old warehouse.

“Note the yellow hands”—I heard that harsh, guttural voice plainly as though it had spoken in my ear—”They were contributed by a blond Bavarian . . . . ” Could I doubt, now, that the blond Bavarian was Jacob Bohm? I should have been Fu Manchu’s next ember thrown to the Moloch of science before whom he immolated fellow men as callously as the Aztec priests offered human sacrifices to Quetzacotl.

Number 39B was identical in every way with its neighbours. All the houses stood flush to the pavement; so much I could make out: all were in darkness. In response to my ring Mrs. Mullins presently opened the door. A very dim light showed (I saw that some sort of black-out curtain hung behind her) but it must have enabled her to discern my uniform.

“Oh good God!” she exclaimed. “Have the Germans landed?”

Her words reminded me of the part I had to play.

“No ma’am,” I replied gruffly. “I am a police inspector—”

“Oh, inspector, I haven’t shown a peep of light! Truly I haven’t. When the sirens started howling I put out every light in the house. Even when I heard the all-clear, I only used candles.”

“There’s no complaint. Are you Mrs. Mullins?”

“That’s my name, sir.”

“It’s about your lodger, Jacob Bohm, that I’m here.”

The portly figure, dimly seen, appeared to droop. “Oh!” she whispered, “I always expected it.”

I went in. Mrs. Mullins closed the door, dropped the curtain, which I recognized for an old counterpane, and turned to face me in a little sitting-room, candle lighted, which was clean, tidy, and furnished in a way commemorated by Punch artists of the Edwardian era. She was a stout, grey-haired woman and no toper, but tonight her abode spoke of gin. She extended her hands appealingly.

“Don’t say Little Jake was a spy, sir!” she exclaimed. “He was like a son to me. Don’t tell me—”

“When did you see him last?”

“Ah, that’s it! He didn’t come home last night and I thought to myself, that’s funny. Then tonight, when the young lady from the firm called and explained it was all right—”

“What young lady—someone you know?”

“Oh, no, sir—I’ve never seen her before. But she was sure he’d be back later and went up to wait for him. Then that air-raid warning came, and—“

“Where is this—“

I ceased speaking. A faint sound had reached my ears, coming from beyond a half-opened door. Someone was stealing downstairs!

In one bound I reached the door, threw it open, and looked up. Silhouetted against faint light from above, a woman’s figure turned and dashed back! With springs in my heels I followed, leapt into a room a pace behind her, and stood squarely in the doorway.

She had run towards a curtained window, and I saw her in the light of a fire, sole illumination of the room, and that which had shown down the stair. She wore a dark raincoat and a small close-fitting hat from beneath which the glory of her hair cascaded in iridescent waves. Dancing firelight touched her face, more pale than usual, and struck amethyst glints from her lovely eyes. But my heart had already prepared me to meet “the young lady from the firm.”

“It seems I came just in time, Ardatha,” I said, and succeeded in speaking coolly.

She faced me, standing quite still.

“You!” she whispered. “So you are of the police! I thought so!”

“You are wrong; I am not. But this is no time to explain.” I had formed a theory of my own to account for her apparent ignorance of all that had passed between us, and I spoke gently. “I owe you my life, Ardatha, and it belongs to you with all else I have. You said you would try to understand. You must help me to understand, too. What are you doing here?”

She took a step forward, her eyes half fearful, her lips parted.

“I am obeying orders which I must obey. There are things which you can never understand. I believe you mean all you say, and I want to trust you.” Prompted by some swift impulse, she came up to me and rested her hands upon my shoulders, watching me with eyes in which I read a passionate questioning. “God knows how I want to trust you.”

Almost, I succumbed; her charm intoxicated me. As her accepted lover I had the right to those sweet, tremulous lips. But I had read the riddle in my own way, and clenching my teeth I resisted that maddening temptation.

“You may trust me where you cannot trust yourself, Ardatha,” I said quietly. “I am yours here and hereafter. Shake off this horrible slavery. Come with me now. The laws of England are stronger than the laws of Dr. Fu Manchu. You will be safe, Ardatha, and I will teach you to remember all you have forgotten.”

But I kept my hands tightly clenched at my sides; for, once in my arms, all those sane resolutions regarding her would have been swept away, and I knew it.

“Perhaps I want to do so—very much,” she whispered. Perhaps—“ she glanced swiftly up at me and swiftly down again—”this is remembrance. But if such a thing is ever to be, first I must live. If I came with you now I should die within one month—“

“That is nonsense!” I spoke hotly and regretted my violence in the next breath. “Forgive me! I would see that you were safe—even from him”

Ardatha shook her head. The firelight, which momentarily grew brighter, played wantonly in dancing curls.

“It is only with him that I can be safe,” she replied in a low voice. “He is well served because no one of the Si-Fan dare desert him—“

“Why? Whatever do you mean?”

Her hands clutched me nervously: she hid her face.

“There is an injection. It produces a living death—catalepsy. But there is an antidote too, which must be used once each two weeks. I have enough for one month more of life. Then—I should be buried for dead. Perhaps he would dig up my body: he has done such things before. No one else could save me—only Dr. Fu Manchu. And so, you see, with so many others I am just his helpless slave. Now, do you begin to understand?”

Begin to understand? My blood was boiling; yet my heart was cold. I remembered how I had tried to kill the Chinese ghoul, and realized that had I succeeded Ardatha would have been lost to me forever; that she . . . . But sanity forbade my following that train of thought to its dreadful conclusion.

Such a wild yearning overcame me, so mad a desire to hold and protect her from horrors unnameable, that, unwilled, mechanically, my arm went about her shoulders. She trembled slightly, but did not resist.

“You see”—the words were barely audible—”you must let me go. Forget Ardatha. Except by the will of Dr. Fu Manchu I can be nothing to you or to any man: I can only try to prevent him harming you.” She raised her eyes to me. “Please let me go.”

But I stood there, stricken motionless, gripped by anguish such as I had never known. My very faith in a just God was shaken by this revelation, by recognition of the fact that a fiend could use this perfect casket of a human soul as a laboratory experiment, reduce a beautiful woman, meant for love and happiness, to the level of a beast of burden—and escape the wrath of Heaven. I wondered if any lover since the world began had suffered such a moment.

Yet, Fu Manchu was mortal. There must be a way.

“I shall let you go, my dearest. But don’t accept the idea that it is for good. What has been done by one man can be undone by another.” I continued to speak quietly, and as I would have spoken to a frightened child. “Tell me first, why you came here?”

“For Jacob Bohm’s notes that he was making to give to the police,” she answered simply. “I have burned everything. Look—you can see the ashes on the fire.”

As she spoke, I understood why the fire had burned up so brightly. A glance was sufficient to convince me that not a fragment could be recovered.

“And when you leave here, where are you going?”

“It is impossible for me to tell you that. But there are servants of the Si-Fan watching this house.” (I thought of the yellow-faced man whom we had nearly run down.) “Even if you were cruel enough to try, you could not get me away. I think”—she hesitated, glanced swiftly up—”that tonight or in the early morning we leave for America.”

“America!”

“Yes.” She slipped free—for I had kept my arm about her shoulders. “I just could not bear to . . . say good-bye. Please, look away for only a moment—if you really care for my happiness: I beg of you!”

There was abandonment, despair, in her pleading voice. No man could have refused; and after all I was not a police officer.

I looked long and hungrily into those eyes which tonight were like twin amethysts, and walked across to the fire.

“I will try, I will try to see you again—to speak to you.” Only the faintest sound, a light tread on the stair, told me that Ardatha was gone . . . .

CHAPTER X

BARTON’S SECRET

“I don’t blame you, Kerrigan,” said Nayland Smith; “in fact I cannot see what else you could have done.”

“Damn it, nor can I!” growled Barton.

We were back in my flat, after a night of frustration for which, in part, I held myself responsible. Barton had admitted us. He had returned an hour earlier, having borrowed my key. The police had forced a way into the old warehouse; they were still searching it when I rejoined the party. The room, the very bench on which Dr. Oster’s corpse had lain, fragments of twine, they had found, but nothing else. The River was being dragged for the body.

That laboratory which smelt like the Morgue was below water level: it had been flooded. Only by means of elaborate pumping operations could we hope to learn what evidence still remained there of the nature of the Doctor’s mysterious, and merciless, experiments.

“Infernally narrow escape for both of us, Kerrigan,” said Sir Lionel; and crossing to the buffet he replenished his glass. “Good shot, that of yours.” He squirted soda water from a syphon. “I owe my life to you: you owe yours to Ardatha. Gad! there’s a girl! But what an impossible situation!”

Smith stood up, and passing, grasped my shoulder.

“Even worse situations have been dealt with,” he said.“I am wondering, Kerrigan, if you have recognized the clue to Ardatha’s loss of memory?”

As he began to pace to and fro across my dining-room: “I think so!” I replied. “That yellow devil decided to reclaim her, and it was he who destroyed her memory!”

“Exactly—as he has done before, with others. I said to you some time ago, Fu Manchu once had a daughter—s”

“Smith!” I interrupted excitedly, “it was not until I saw Ardatha in Felling Street that the meaning of those words came to me. If he did not hesitate in the case of his own flesh and blood to efface all memories of identity, why should he hesitate in the case of Ardatha?”

“He didn’t! Ardatha remembers only that she is called Ardatha. Fu Manchu’s daughter, whom once I knew by her childish name of Fah-lo-Suee, became Koreani. You can bear me out, Kerrigan: you have met her.”

“Yes, but—“

“Ardathas and Koreanis are rare. Fu Manchu has always employed beauty as one of his most potent weapons. His own daughter he regarded merely as a useful instrument when he saw that she was beautiful. He found Ardatha difficult to replace; therefore, he recalled her. Oh! she had no choice. But she has the proud spirit of her race—and so he bound her to him by this damnable living death from which there is no escape!”

He was pacing the carpet at an ever-increasing speed, his pipe bubbling furiously; and something which emanated from that vital personality gave me new courage. I was not alone in my fight to save Ardatha from the devil doctor.

“Smith,” said Sir Lionel, leaning back against the buffet—for even his tough constitution had suffered in the night’s work and he was comparatively subdued—”this infernal thing means that if I saw Fu Manchu before me, now, I couldn’t shoot him!”

“It does,” Smith replied. “He was prepared to hold Kerrigan as a hostage. He overlooked the fact that whilst Kerrigan lived, Ardatha served the same purpose.”

Barton plunged his hands in his trouser pockets and became lost in reflection. His deep-set blue eyes danced queerly.

“We both know the Chinese,” he murmured. “I don’t think I should give up hope, Kerrigan. There may be a way.”

“I’m sure there is—there must be!” I broke in. “Dr. Fu Manchu is subject, after all, to human laws. He is supernormal, but not immortal. We all have our weaknesses. Mine, perhaps, is my love for Ardatha. He must have his. Smith, we must find Koreani!”

“I found her two months ago.”

“What!”

“She was then in Cuba. Where she is now I cannot say. But if you suppose that Fu Manchu would turn a hair’s breadth from his path to save his daughter, you are backing the wrong horse. Assuming that we could capture her, well—as an exchange for Ardatha (freed from the living death; for I have known others who have suffered it but who live today) she would be a worthless hostage. He would sacrifice Korean! without a moment’s hesitation!”

I was silent.

“Buck up, Kerrigan;’ said Sir Lionel. “I said there might be a way, and I stick to it.”

Smith stared at him curiously, and then: “As for you,” he remarked, “as usual you are an infernal nuisance.”

“Don’t mention it!”

“I must. Your inquiries in Haiti last year, followed by your studies in Norfolk and, finally, your conversations with the War Office, attracted the attention of Dr. Fu Manchu.”

“Very likely.”

“It was these conversations, reported to me whilst I was in the West Indies, that brought me back, post haste—“

“Fu Manchu got here first,” Barton interrupted. “There were two attempts to burgle my house. Queer-looking people were watching Abbots Hold. Finally, I received a notice signed “President of the Seven’, informing me that I had twenty-four hours in which to hand over certain documents.”

“You have this notice?” Smith asked eagerly. “I had: it was in the stolen bag.” Smith snapped his fingers irritably. “And when you received it what did you do?”

“Bolted. I was followed all the way to London. That was why I phoned Kerrigan and came here. I didn’t want to be alone.”

“You were right,” said Smith. “But you came to your senses too late. I am prepared to hear that the fact of Fu Manchu’s interest in your affairs did not dawn upon you until you got this notice?”

“Suspected it before that. These reports from the Caribbean suggested that something very queer was afoot there. It occurred to me that bigger things than a mere treasure hunt were involved, so I offered my services to the War Office—“

“And behaved so badly that you were practically thrown out! Let me explain what happened. Your earlier correspondence with the War Office, although obscure, was considered to be of sufficient importance to be transmitted in code to me. I was then in Kingston, Jamaica. I dashed home. I went first to Norfolk, learned you had left for London, and followed. That was yesterday morning. I was dashing about Town trying to pick you up. I practically followed you into the War Office, and what you had said there convinced me that at all costs I must find you.’“

“The War Office can go to the devil,” growled Barton, refilling his glass.

“I say,” Smith went on patiently, “that I tried to tail you in London. I still have facilities, you know!” He smiled suddenly. “I gathered that you had gone to the British Museum

“Yes—I had.”

“I failed to find you there.”

“Didn’t look in the right room.”

“Possibly not. But I looked into one room which offered certain information.” He paused to relight his pipe. “You have been working for years hunting down the few clues which remain to the hiding-place of the vast treasure accumulated by Christophe of Haiti. You know your business. Barton; you haven’t your equal in Europe or America when it comes to archaeological research.”

“Thank you,” growled Barton. “You may join the War Office and also go to the devil, with my compliments.”

Through chinks in the blinds early spears of dawn were piercing, cold and grey in contrast with the lamplight.

Tour compliments might prove to be an admirable introduction. But to continue. You, ahead of them all, even ahead of the Si-Fan and Dr. Fu Manchu, got on to the track of the family to whom these clues belong. You traced them by generations. And you ultimately obtained, from the last bearer of the name, certain objects known as The Stewart Luck”; amongst them, Christophe’s chart showing where the bullion lies. I do not inquire how you managed this.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Barton blazed. “I have my own methods. Buried history must be torn remorselessly from its hiding-place and set in the light of day. Once I have established facts, I allow nothing to stand in my way.”

“You are not enlightening me,” said Smith drily. “My experiences with you in Khorassan, in Egypt, and elsewhere had already convinced me of this. Your latest discovery from the Portuguese of da Cunha (you see I did not entirely waste my time in the British Museum) added enormously to your knowledge—“

Sir Lionel appeared to be about to burst into speech. But he restrained himself: he seemed to be bewildered. Smith paused, pulled out a note-case and from it extracted a piece of paper. Switching on the green-shaded lamp on the desk, he read aloud: “Da Cunha says that there is ‘a great and lofty cave in which a fleet might lie hid, save that the way in from the sea, although both deep and wide and high, is below the tide, so that none but a mighty swimmer could compass the passage9. . . . He adds that the one and only entrance from the land has been blocked, but he goes on. Tailing possession of Christophe’s chart no man can hope to reach the treasure9.”

Sir Lionel Barton was standing quite still, staring at Smith as one amazed.

“That quotation from a rare Portuguese MS. in the Manuscript Room,” said Smith, placing the fragment in his case, the case in his pocket, and turning to look at Barton, “you copied. The curator told me that you had borrowed the MS. Since the collection is closed to the public at present you abused your privileges, and were vandal enough to make some pencil marks on the parchment. I said, you will remember, that I was unable find you there. I did not say that I failed to find your tracks.”

Barton did not speak, nor did I, and: “It was knowing what you had discovered,” Smith continued, “which spurred my wild dash to find you. The bother in the Caribbean is explained. There is a plot to bottle up the American Navy. Fu Manchu has played a big card.”

“You are sure it is Fu Manchu?”

“Yes, Barton. He has a secret base in or near Haiti, and he has a new kind of submarine. No one but you—until tonight—knew of this other entrance to the cave. It is shown in that chart which was stolen from you by agents of Fu Manchu.”

“Suppose it is!” cried Barton; “what I should like you to tell me, if you can, is how, if Fu Manchu is using this place as a base, he gets in and out. You don’t suppose he swims? Granting that small submarines can pass through under water, small submarines can’t carry all the gear needed for a young dockyard!”

“That point is one to which I have given some attention,” said Smith. “It suggests that *the one and only entrance from the land’ referred to by da Cunha is not the entrance shown in the chart—“

“You mean there are two?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Then why should these Si-Fan devils go to such lengths to get hold of my chart?”

“Surely that is obvious. They feared an attack from this unknown point. They knew that the Intelligence services of two countries were making intensive inquiries; for whilst that “great and lofty cave’ remains undiscovered it is a menace to us and to the Unites States.”

“It’s to the United States,” said Barton, “that I am offering my services. My own country, as usual, has turned me down.”

“Nevertheless,” rapped Smith, “it is to your own country that you are offering your services. Listen. You retired from the Army with the rank of Major, I believe. Very well, you’re Lieutenant-Colonel.”

“What!” shouted Barton.

“I’ve bought you from the War Office. You’re mine, body and soul. You’re Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Lionel Barton, and you lead the expedition because I shall be in comparatively unfamiliar territory. But remember, you act under my orders.”

“I prefer to act independently.”

“You’ve been gazetted Lieutenant-Colonel and you’re under the orders of the War Office. There’s a Clipper leaves for the United States on Monday from Lisbon. I have peculiar powers. Be good enough to regard me as your commanding officer. Here are your papers.”

CHAPTER XI

THE HOSTAGE

I drew the blinds and stared down at Bayswater Road, dismal in the light of a wet, grey dawn. Sleep was out of the question. Two men stood talking over by the Park gate—the gate at which Ardatha had reappeared in my life. Although I heard no one enter the room behind me, a hand was placed on my shoulder. I started, turned, and looked into the lean, sunbaked face of Nay-land Smith.

“It’s rough on you, Kerrigan,” he said quietly. “Really you need rest. I know what you were thinking. But don’t despair. Gallaho has set a watch on every known point of departure.”

“Do you expect any result?”

He watched me for a moment, compassionately, and then: “No,” he replied, “she is probably already on her way to America.”

I stifled a groan.

“What I cannot understand,” I said, “is how these Journeys are managed. Fu Manchu seems to travel with a considerable company and to travel fast. He was prepared to include Barton and myself in the party. How is it done. Smith?”

“I don’t know! I have puzzled over that very thing more times than enough. He returned from the West Indies ahead of me; yet no liner carried him and no known plane. Granting, it is true, that he commands tremendous financial resources, in war time no private yacht and certainly no private plane could go far unchallenged. I don’t know. It is just another of those mysteries which surround Dr. Fu Manchu.”

“hose two men are watching the house. Smith—“

“It’s their job: Scotland Yard! We shall have a bodyguard up to the moment that we leave Croydon by air for Lisbon. This scheme to isolate the United States Navy is a major move in some dark game. It has a flaw, and Barton has found it!”

“But they have the chart—“

“Apart from the fact that he has copied the chart, Barton has an encyclopaedic memory—hence Fu Manchu’s anxiety to make sure of him.”

London was not awake: it came to me that Nayland Smith and I alone were alive to a peril greater than any which had ever threatened the world. In the silence, for not even the milkmen were abroad yet, I could hear Barton breathing regularly in the spare room—that hardened old campaigner could have slept on Judgement Day.

My phone bell rang.

“What’s this?” muttered Smith.

I opened the communicating door and went into the writing-room. I took up the receiver.

“Hullo,” I said, “Who wants me?”

“Are you Paddington 54321?”

“Yes.”

“Call from Zennor . . . . You’re through, miss.”

My heart began to beat wildly as I glanced towards the open door where Nayland Smith, haggard in grey light, stood watching.

“Is that you?” asked a nervous voice.

I suppose my eyes told Smith; he withdrew and quietly closed the door.

“Ardatha! My dear, my dear! This is too wonderful! Where are you?”

“I am in Cornwall. I have risked ever so much to speak to you before we go; and we are going in an hour—“

“But Ardatha!”

“Please listen. Time is so short for me. Hassan told me what happened. I knew your name and found your number in the book. It was my only chance to know if you were alive. I thank the good God that you are, because, you see, I am so alone and unhappy, and you—I like to believe that I have forgotten, now, because otherwise I should be ashamed to think about you so much!”

“Ardatha!”

“We shall be in New York on Thursday. I know that Nayland Smith is following us. If I am still there when you arrive I will try to speak to you again. There is one thing that might save me—you understand?—a queer, a silly little thing, but—“

“Yes, yes, Ardatha! What is it? Tell me!”

“I risked capture by the police to try to catch Peko—Dr. Fu Manchu’s marmoset. That was when . . . we met. This strange pet, he is very old, is more dear to his master than any living thing. Try to find out . . . . ”

Silence: I was disconnected!

Frantically I called the exchange; but all the consolation I received from the night operator was: “Zennor’s rung off, sir.”

“Smith!” I shouted and burst into the dining-room.

Nayland Smith was standing staring out of the window. He turned and faced me.

“Yes,” he said coolly; “it was Ardatha. Where is she and what had she to say?”

Rapidly, perhaps feverishly, I told him; and then: “The marmoset!” I cried. “Barton caught it! What did he do with it?”

“Do with it!” came Sir Lionel’s great voice, and appeared at the other end of the room, his mane of hair dishevelled. “What did it do with me” After the blasted thing—it’s all of a thousand years old, and I know livestock ~ had bitten me twice last night, I locked it in the wardrobe. This morning—“

He raised a bloodstained finger, there was a shrill angry whistle, and a tiny monkey, a silver grey thing no larger than a starling, shot through the doorway behind him, paused, chattered wickedly, and sprang from the buffet onto a high cornice!

“There’s your marmoset,” cried Barton. “I should have strangled him if I hadn’t known Chinese character! I said, Kerrigan, there might be a way. This is the way—there’s your hostage!”

CHAPTER XII

THE SNAPPING FINGERS

“The unaccountable absence of Kennard Wood,” said Nayland Smith, staring out of the window, “is most disturbing. These apartments, Kerrigan, have been the scene of strange happenings. It was from here that I opposed Dr. Fu Manchu when he tried ~ and nearly succeeded—in his plan to force a puppet President upon the United States.”

I stood beside him looking out over the roofs of New York from this eagle’s nest on the fortieth floor of the Regal Athenian Hotel.

A pearly moon regarded us from a cloudless sky, a moon set amidst a million stars which twinkled above a Walt Disney city. One tall tower dominated the foreground of the composition. It rose, jewelled with lights, from the frosty line of an intervening roof up to the pharos which crowned it. The river showed as a smudge of silver far below: an approaching train was a fiery dragon winding in and out of mysterious gullies.

In that diamond-clear air I could hear the sound of the locomotive; I could hear a motor horn, the hoarse whistle of some big ship heading out for the open sea. Lights glittered everywhere, from starry heavens down to frostily-sparkling buildings and the moving headlamps of restless traffic.

“Bit of a contrast to London,” I said.

“Yes.” Smith pronounced the word with unusual slowness. “The fog of war has not dimmed the light of New York. But you and I know who is reponsible for those rumours, and those missing men in the Caribbean; and although, according to your account, the Doctor is a sick man, we dare not under-estimate potentialities. Even now—he may be here.”

As always, the mere suspicion that the dreadful Chinese scientist might be near induced a sense, purely nervous, no doubt, of sudden chill. We had been delayed unexpectedly at Lisbon and again later; it was possible that Fu Manchu was approaching New York. If Ardatha’s words had been true, he was already here.

Ardatha! She had promised to try to see me again. I continued to stare out at the myriad twinkling points. From any one of that constellation of windows Ardatha might be looking as I looked from this.

“I am getting seriously worried about Kennard Wood,” said Smith suddenly. “According to his last message from Havana, he and his assistant, Longton, were leaving by air. They are long overdue: I don’t understand it.”

Colonel Kennard Wood, of the United States Secret Service, bad been left in charge of the Caribbean inquiry when Smith had hurriedly returned to England. We had been expecting him all day. In fact. Barton had been compelled to go to Washington that morning in Smith’s stead owing to the importance of the anticipated interview.

There were times when I felt as one who dreams, when, seeing a double newspaper headline, “British capture Benghazi,” I asked myself what I was doing here at an hour when England and her allies grappled with a world menace. It was Smith who always supplied the answer: “An even greater menace, one which threatens the entire white race, is closing around the American continent.”

The phone buzzed.

Smith turned quickly and crossed to the instrument.

“Yes—speaking . . . . What?”

The tone in which he rapped out the last word brought me about. His eyes glittered metallically and I saw—those prominent jaw muscles betrayed the fact—that his teeth were clenched.

“Good God! You are sure? Yes . . . at once.”

He banged the receiver back and stared at me, suddenly haggard.

“Smith! what has happened?”

“Longton—poor Longton has gone!”

“What!”

“They have just brought his body in from the river. Inspector Hawk of the Homicide Bureau recognized him, in spite of—“

“In spite of what?”

“Of his condition, Kerrigan!” He dashed a fist wildly into his other palm. *Tu Manchu is here—of that we may be sure; for no one but Fu Manchu could have brought the horror of the Snapping Fingers to New York.”

“The Snapping Fingers?”

But he was already running towards the door.

“Explain on the way. Come on!”

Seated in a chair in the lobby, the chair tipped back so that he could rest his feet on the ledge above a radiator, was a short, thick-set man whose clean-shaven red face, close-cropped dark hair, and bright eyes had at first sight reminded me of my old friend Chief Inspector Gallaho of Scotland Yard. As Smith came charging out the man righted his chair, sprang up, and began spluttering. Following Smith’s example, I hurriedly put on my topcoat. An unpleasant regurgitating sound drew my attention to the man on guard.

“Say, mister,” he said, “what’s the big hurry?” He began to chew, for in this respect, also, he resembled Gallaho, except that Gallaho’s chewing was imaginary. “Nearly made me swallow my gum—”

“Listen,” Smith broke in: “I’m going out. There may easily be an attempt to get into this apartment tonight—“

“Say—I’m here.”

“I want to make sure,” said Smith, “that you don’t stay here. These are your instructions. Having made sure that all the ‘windows are secure—“

“What, on the fortieth?”

“As you say, on the fortieth. Having made sure of this, patrol every room in the suite, including the bathrooms, at intervals of fifteen minutes. If you find anything alive—except, of course, the monkey in a cage in Sir Lionel’s room—kill it. This applies to a fly or a cockroach.Do I make myself clear?”

“Sure, it’s clear enough, chief—”

“Do it. If in doubt call Headquarters. I count upon you, Sergeant Rorke.”

Throwing the door open, he ran to the elevator and I followed.

* * *

“Smith!” I said, as we were whirled in a police car through kaleidoscopic streets, “what has happened to Longton—and what did you mean by the Snapping Fingers?”

“I meant a signal of death, Kerrigan. Poor Longton—whom you don’t know and will never know, now— may have heard it.”

“I saw how the news affected you.Is it—something very horrible?”

Propped in a comer of the racing car, he began to load his pipe. “Very horrible, Kerrigan. Some foul things have come out of the East, but this thing belongs to the West Indies. Of course, it may have a Negro origin. But at one time it assumed the size of an epidemic.”

“In what way? I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I. It remains a mystery to me scientists. But it began, as far back as I can make out, in the Canal Zone. A young coloured man, employed on one of the locks, was found in his quarters one morning, bled white.”

“Bled white?”

“Almost literally.” He lighted the charred briar. “He was dead, apparently from exhaustion. There were queerly discoloured areas on his skin; but there was practically no blood in his body—“

“No blood?” I cried over the noise of the motor and the Broadway traffic. “What do you mean?”

“He had been reduced to a sort of human veal,, Something had drained all the blood from his veins.”

“Good heavens! But were there no traces—no bloodstains?”

“Nothing. He was the first of many. Then, unaccountably, the terror of the Zone disappeared.”

“Vampire bats?”

“This was suspected; but some of the victims ~ and they were not all coloured—had been found, in rooms to which a bat could not have gained access.”

“Was human agency at work?”

“No. Conditions, in certain cases, ruled it out.”

“But the Snapping Fingers?”

“This clue came later. It was first reported when the epidemic struck Haiti; that is, just before I arrived there. A young American, whose name escapes me—but he had been sent from Washington in connection with the reports of unknown submarines in the Caribbean—died in just the same way.”

“Significant!”

“Very! But there were singular features in this case. It occurred at a hotel in Port au Prince.One odd fact was that a heavy Service pistol, fully charged, was found beside him.”

“Where was—the body?”

“In bed. But the mosquito net was raised as though he had been on the point of getting up. Here occurred the first reference to Snapping Fingers. It seems that he opened the door at about eleven o’clock at night and asked another resident who happened to be passing if he had snapped his fingers.”

“Snapped his fingers?”

“Yes, it’s queer, isn’t it? However—he was found dead in the morning.”

“And no trace?”

“None. But I have a hazy suspicion that those in charge of the investigation didn’t know where to look. However, the next victim was a German—undoubtedly a German agent. He died in exactly that way.”

“At that same place?”

“The same hotel, but not in the same room. But the case of the German differed in one respect; someone else heard the Snapping Fingers!”

Inside the speeding car was a fog of tobacco smoke; outside, the lights of New York flashed by like a flaming ribbon.

“Who heard it?”

“Kennard Wood! He occupied the next room. I had just reached Port au Prince at the time, although I was putting up elsewhere; so that I know more about the case of Schonberg—that was the German’s name. After Schonberg had retired that night, it appears that Kennard Wood became curious about what he was doing. From the end of one balcony to another was not a difficult climb; and with the exercise of a little ingenuity it is easy to peep through a slatted shutter. He crept along. The German’s room was in darkness. He was about to climb back, when he heard a sound like that of someone snapping his fingers!”

“From inside the room?”

“Yes. It was repeated several times, but no light was switched on. Kennard Wood returned. Schonberg was found dead in the morning. His door was locked; his shutters were still closed.”

‘‘What did you do when you heard of this?”

“I went along at once. I have a pretty strong stomach, but the sight of that heavy Teutonic frame quite drained of blood—ugh! Fortunately for the hotel a number of cases occurred elsewhere, not only in Port au Prince but as far north as Cap Haitien. A story got about amongst the coloured population that it was Voodoo, that someone they call the Queen Mamaloi (a fabulous woman supposed to live in the interior) was impatient for sacrifices. A perfect state of panic developed; no one dared to sleep. My God! to think that the fiend, Fu Manchu, has brought that horror to New York!”

“But what is it. Smith? What can it be?”

“Just another agent of death, Kerrigan. Some unclean thing bred in a tropical swamp—”

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT HAPPENED IN SUTTON PLACE

“It is more than I can bear. Smith,” I whispered, and turned away, “Although I didn’t know Longton, it is more than I can bear.”

“Probably painless, Mr. Kerrigan,” said Inspector Hawk. “Cheer up, sir.”

But there was nothing cheerful in his manner, his appearance, or his voice. He was a tall, angular, gloomy person, depressingly taciturn; and he gave to each of his rare remarks the value of a biblical quotation. Under the harsh light of suspended lamps Longton lay on a stone slab. In life he had been slightly built; had had scanty fair hair and a small blond moustache. There was a sound of dripping water.

“What have you got to say, doctor?” asked Smith, addressing a stout, red-faced man who beamed amiably through green-rimmed spectacles.

“A very unusual case,” the police doctor replied breezily. ‘‘Very unusual. Observe the irregular rose-coloured spots, the evidences of pernicious, or aplastic, anaemia. A malarial subject, beyond doubt; but the actual cause of death remains obscure.”

“Quite,” snapped Smith; “most obscure. I am sorry to seem to check your diagnosis, doctor, but James Longton had not suffered from malaria; and a month ago he was freshly-coloured as yourself. Have you heard, by chance, of the minor epidemic which recently appeared in the Canal Zone and later in Haiti?”

“Some short account was published in the newspapers, but I don’t believe medical circles paid much attention to it. In any case, there can be no parallel here.”

“I fear I must disagree again: the parallel is exact. I suggest that anaemia, however advanced, could never produce this result. The body is drained like that of a fly after a spider has gorged its fill.” Smith turned abruptly to Inspector Hawk. “The man is nude. How was he found, and where?”

“Found just as you see,” the gloomy voice replied. “Brought in from West Channel, right below Queensborough Bridge. Kind of caught up on something; shone in the moonlight and a river patrol made contact. I was once detailed to take care of Mr. Longton: recognized him right away.”

“How long dead?” Smith asked the doctor.

“Well,” he replied—and I detected a note of resentment—”if my views are of any value, I should say no more than four hours. Hypnostasis had only just appeared and there is little rigidity.”

“I agree,” said Smith.

“Thank you.”

Some further formalities there were, and then once more we sped through the bright lights of New York. Smith was plunged in such a mood of dejection that I did not care to interrupt it. We were almost in sight of the Regal Athenian before he spoke.

“Where did Longton die?” he exclaimed. “Why was he in New York without my being notified? And where is Kennard Wood?”

“It’s all a dreadful mystery to me. Smith.”

There was a momentary pause; we were whirling, issuing warning blasts, past busy night traffic, when Smith suddenly leaned forward.

“Slow down,” he cried.

Our speed was checked; the police driver leaned back.

“Yes, sir?”

“Go to 39B Sutton Place—“

“Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”

“Yes. Move.”

We were off again.

“But what is this. Smith?”

“A theory—and a hope,” he replied. “Longton’s body was found below Queensborough Bridge. Making due allowances for its unusual condition, I assume that it was thrown in near that spot some time tonight. Now, how was a body transported and thrown into the river in that state; I suggested to myself that there must have been special conditions—and then I thought of Mrs. Mendel Hammett—”

“Who is Mrs. Mendel Hammett?”

“She is a relic of the past, Kerrigan, an institution; a patron of promising talent, and a distant relation of poor Longton. I suddenly remembered his telling me that he had an apartment in her home which he was at liberty to occupy at any time. Now, the garden of 39B Sutton Place runs down to the river; Queens-borough Bridge is immediately below!”

* * *

“You need not watch me so anxiously. Sir Denis,” said Mrs. Mendel Hammett. “I am a crippled and weak-bodied old woman but not a weak-minded old woman. May I trouble you to light my cigarette.”

She lay stretched on a couch in a sitting-room whose furnishings indicated the world traveller. The bright hazel eyes shadowed by heavy brows were those of a young girl; her skin retained its freshness: so that snow-white, curling hair suggested the period of powder and patches.

“You are a wonderful woman, Mrs. Mendel Hammett.”

“I belong to a tough race,” she replied, puffing at her cigarette; “and in the company of my late husband I have been in some tough places. So Jim is dead? Well, if I can help you find out who killed him, count on me.”

“In the first place,” said Smith, speaking very gently, “I gathered from Miss Dinsford, your secretary, that James Longton was not expected; that he arrived about six o’clock this evening and stated that he wished to use his apartments.”

“He did, sir,” the vibrant voice replied. “He had come by air from Havana and he said it was important that no one should know that he was here.”

“He went up to his rooms,” Smith continued, “particularly requesting that he should not be disturbed—”

“He said he was going to take a bath and lie down until dinner time, as he was tired out.”

“Quite so. That is most important. Since then, I believe, you had not seen him?”

“I had not.”

“Did he bring much baggage?”

“One light suitcase and a large portfolio.”

“ho took them up?”

“He took them up himself.”

“Then no one else entered his apartments?”

“No one. They were always kept ready for use. Later, a maid would have turned down the bed and prepared the room—”

Momentarily, the bright eyes clouded; Mrs. Mendel Hammett knocked ash from her cigarette.

“People used to find a marked resemblance between Jim and Kennard Wood. I never saw it, myself, although they were cousins on Jim’s mother’s side.”

“I had certainly noted it,” murmured Smith. “And, now that this catastrophe has occurred, I must look to the Colonel’s safety. Before I go up to examine these apartments, Mrs. Mendel Hammett, may I ask if James Longton told you anything of Kennard Wood’s whereabouts?”

“He told me that they had planned to arrive together; that they had an important conference with you and some Washington people at the Regal Athenian in the morning. They were on the point of leaving Havana by special government plane when Kennard Wood was overtaken by a messenger from the United States Minister—”

“So Longton came alone?”

“He came alone. Kennard Wood was to follow as soon as possible, and Jim intended to ring up his hotel directly he—awoke. For some reason they were travelling in great secrecy.”

“I know the reason!” said Smith grimly. “If you will be good enough to excuse us. Come on, Kerrigan.”

A grey-haired coloured manservant led the way upstairs, knocked upon, and then unlocked, a door. He switched on the light inside.

“Mr. James’s apartment, sir,” he murmured.

One analytical stare Smith directed upon the man’s face, and then: “You may go,” he said.

We entered James Longton’s rooms. The first of these was a sitting-room, furnished in a manner that betrayed the hand of a woman. Some of the pictures, however, were obvious autobiographical, and there were college groups and a collection of pipes on the desk.

Nayland Smith, standing Just inside the door, which he had closed, began sniffing.

“Do you notice any unusual small, Kerrigan?”

At that I also directed my attention to the atmosphere of the place, and: “Yes,” I replied, “there is faint, but very unpleasant smell. I am trying to place it.”

“I have placed it!” said Smith. “I have come across it before. Now for the bedroom—”

He opened a door, found the switch, and led the way into a small but adequately-equipped bedroom. Beyond, on the right, I saw a curtained recess in which presumably there was a bath. The place had a Spartan quality which may have reflected the character of the dead man; so that, noting a handsome Chinese casket on a table beside a bed—an item which seemed out of place—I was about to examine it, when: “Don’t touch it!” snapped Smith. “Touch nothing. I am walking in the dark, and taking no chances. The unusual smell is more marked here?”

Startled by his abrupt order I turned from the box.

“Yes; it certainly seems to be. You have seen that the bed is much disarranged?”

“I have seen something else.”

He crossed to the draped recess, went in, and came out again.

“Longton undressed in the bathroom,” he said; “his clothes are there. He had a bath and then lay down. It is clear that he was tired out His suitcase you see there on a chair, unopened. He just got into bed as he was and fell into a deep sleep. Now, you note a chill in the air?”

“Yes.”

“Unless I am on a wrong track we shall find a window open.”

He crossed and jerked the draperies aside. I saw moonlight glittering on water.

“Wide open!” he exclaimed; “a balcony outside.”

And as he stood there peering out and flashing a torch, in a moment of perhaps psychic clarity I saw him against a different background. I saw the bloody horror of Poland, the sullen sorrow of Czecho-Slovakia, the abasement of France, that grand defiance of Greece which I had known; and I saw guns blazing around a once peaceful English countryside. An enemy pounded at the gates of civilization; but Nayland Smith was here: therefore, here, and not in Europe, the real danger must lie.

Smith turned and stared at the disordered bed.

“Observe anything unusual?” he snapped.

“It is all terribly untidy.”

“Really, Kerrigan, as a star reporter you disappoint me. A hostess of Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s calibre does not expect a guest to lie on a blanket. The under sheet is missing!”

“Good God! You’re right!”

He stared at me for a moment.

“They used it to lower his body to the garden,” he said slowly. “I can see the rope marks on the balcony rail! There is an old, strong clematis growing up the wall below. One of Fu Manchu’s thugs climbed it whilst Longton was in the bath: he may or may not have forced open the window. He returned, later, bundled up the body, and lowered it to an assistant waiting in the garden. Miss Dinsford showed me over the ground-floor rooms: unlikely that anyone would hear; these fellows work as silently as stoats.”

“But what killed him?” I cried. “There may be some clues here—”

I had turned to the disordered bed, when: “Stand back, Kerrigan!” Smith said sharply. “Touch nothing. Leave the search to me.”

Arrested by his words, I stood there whilst he stripped the bed, opened the Chinese box (which contained nothing more lethal than cigarettes), explored every bookcase, cabinet, nook, and cranny in the room. He was as painstaking in the other rooms; and from amongst Longton’s possessions he selected the key of the suitcase, opened the case, examined its contents. And all the time he was sniffing—sniffing like a hound on a half-lost scent.

“The smell is fading?” he jerked. “You note this? I can spare no more time. But the room must be sealed: it is imperative. You have no doubt remarked that the large portfolio mentioned by Mrs. Mendel Hammett has disappeared.”

CHAPTER XIV

WE HEAR THE SNAPPING FINGERS

As I hurried past the hall porter’s desk in the main entrance to the Regal Athenian, a boy came running after me. Smith had been detained, but he was anxious that I should establish contact with Sergeant Rorke.

“Urgent message for you,Mr. Kerrigan.”

At the sight of the handwriting on the envelope, my heart skipped a beat; the message was from Ardatha! I tore it open, there where I stood, and read:

Please do not recognize me unless I am alone. I think I have been followed. I am in the main foyer: you can see me as you come up the steps. If there is anyone with me, go up to your apartment and I will try to ring you up.

The note was not signed.

Thrusting it into my pocket, I started up the imposing flight of carpeted stairs which had always reminded me of the palace scene in a Cinderella pantomime, and surveyed the vast foyer. The cosmopolitan atmosphere for which the Regal Athenian was celebrated tonight was absent; but there was a considerable ebb and flow of the after-theatre supper-seekers. I saw Ardatha at once.

She was seated on a divan not five yards away—deep in conversation with a sallow-faced man. She wore a perfectly simple blue evening frock which outlined her slender figure provocatively, exposing her lovely arms and shoulders so that her head, poised proudly, with its crown of gleaming hair set me thinking of a cameo by some great master. She did not so much as glance in my direction. But I knew that she had seen me.

Resolutely I walked along to the elevator and went up to our apartment. The knowledge that the presence of the sallow man alone had denied me at least a few stolen moments with Ardatha was a bitter pill to swallow; I could gladly have strangled him.

I opened the door, to find Sergeant Rorke standing Just inside. recognizing me, his tense attitude relaxed and he beganto chew again.

“Anything to report?”

“No, sir—except that a lady calls up ten minutes ago. She won’t leave her name. I just say you are out,”

“Nothing from Sir Lionel Barton?”

“No, sir. I’m a gladder man when he’s back here. Feeding wild animals is no part of a police officer’s duty.” He displayed a bandaged finger. “There’s one dead monkey on the books if I have my way.”

But I went into the sitting-room, lighted a cigarette, and began to walk to and fro beside the telephone. Ardatha was here! She had tried to get in touch with me. She had been followed; but she would try again. That the fact of her presence meant also that of Dr. Fu Manchu could not terrorize me tonight. Ardatha was here: soon, perhaps, I should hear her voice. If I had ever doubted what she meant in my life (and certainly I had known, always; for I had wanted to die when I believed that she had left me) tonight that swift vision of her dainty loveliness, her aloof, always mysterious personality, had confirmed the fact that without her I did not want to go on.

How long I wandered up and down the carpet, how many cigarettes I smoked, I cannot say. But, at last, the phone buzzed.

So utterly selfish was my mood, so completely was I absorbed in my dreams of Ardatha, that had the caller been Smith, or even the missing Kennard Wood, I know that I should have been disappointed. But it was Ardatha.

“Please listen very carefully.” Her adorable accent was unusually marked. “First, for someone else—a man called Colonel Kennard Wood will be killed tonight at some time before twelve o’clock. I cannot tell you how, and I do not know where he is, except that he is in New York. These—murders, horrify me. Try to save this man—”

“Ardatha—”

“Please, I beg of you! At any moment I may be discovered. We are setting out for Cristobal later tonight—as soon, I think, as Colonel Wood is dead. Tell me, now, if you found in London, any trace of Peko,Dr. Fu Manchu’s marmoset. He mourns him as one mourning a lost child.”

“He’s here, darling!We have him!”

“Ah!” the word reached me as a wondering sigh. “Please God you keep him safe! Tell me again. I cannot believe it: you have him?”

“We have him, Ardatha.”

“He may mean escape for me—the end of the living death. Come to Cristobal—Bart. When you reach the Panama Canal—”

“Ardatha! It’s more than I can suffer! Give me the word, and I will seeDr. Fu Manchu now, and test the value of this hostage!”

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

The line was disconnected.

* * *

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

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

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

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

“What clue?”

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

“Well?”

“It is bloodstained all over!”

“But—”

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

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

“Exactly. Hullo! Who’s this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few minutes later we were hurrying through the foyer; but Ardatha was not there.We ran down the steps. A car belonging to the Police Department was always in attendance, so that with out a moment of unnecessary delay we were off for the Hotel Prado. Somewhere a clock was chiming midnight.

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

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

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

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

“Stop there, but not directly outside.”

“It’s one-way, so we turn up here.”

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

“Perhaps you have made a mistake—,” he began. “No mistake,” rapped Smith. “Police Department. Inspector Hawk should be somewhere in the hotel. Send him a message to stand by near the main entrance, and get me a house detective or anybody who is well acquainted with the building.” The authority in Smith’s voice was unmistakable. “It will save time if you will follow me, gentlemen.” guide led us through a maze of service rooms and kitchens which the normal guest at such a hostelry never sees, presently emerging in an office where a big dark-jowled man sat at a desk, smoking a very short fragment of a very black cigar. As this man stood up: “Oh, Sergeant Doherty,” said our guide, “these Police officers want a word with you.” From under heavy brows suspicious eyes regarded us.

“My name is Nayland Smith,” explained my friend rapidly, indeed, irritably. “Inspector Hawk is here?” A swift change appeared on Doherty’s truculent-looking face.

“Why surely, sir! I was puzzled for a moment, but I was here waiting for you. At your service, sir.”

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

“At once.”

The man went out.

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

“Easy enough. The waiters” elevator is just outside. This way,”

As we came out of the office: “What is the house detective’s report?” asked Smith.

Sergeant Doherty closed the elevator door and pressed button 15.

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

“Large dog? I don’t follow.”

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

As we reached the fifteenth floor and stepped out of the elevator: “Is Pannel a reliable observer?” asked Smith.

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

“When did Colonel Kennard Wood arrive?”

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

A moment later, as the door was opened: “Stay in sight of this room,” Smith ordered.

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

“Smith! You are very welcome.”

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

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

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

“You would never have awakened,” said Smith grimly.

Kennard Wood, dropping into a chair, stared haggardly.

“You mean—I have been traced here?”

Smith nodded.

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

Smith stood up abruptly.

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

“Not—”

“I am sorry—yes.”

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

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

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

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

He served us, drained his own glass and set it down.

“How—was it done?”

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

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

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

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

“So I gather.”

“But this horror—here, in New York!”

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

“n the bedroom. I will show you.”

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

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

‘“Who brought up the baggage?”

“The hotel porter.”

‘‘Were you here when he arrived?”

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

“And who unpacked and set it out?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me my orders.”

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

“And died in my place?”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“Very well.”

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

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

“As you say!”

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

He moved. I heard several clicks. The whole place was plunged in darkness. Then came Smith’s voice: “Steady, everybody.Be ready for anything.”

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV

NAYLAND SMITH FIRES TWICE

The sudden knowledge that here, in the darkness of the room, some nocturnal creature which drained one’s blood was already questing victims, imposed a test upon my nerves which I found hard to meet. Kennard Wood breathed rapidly.

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

A repetition of the snapping sounded very distinctly—on this occasion, I thought, from near the bed. A third time I heard it.

‘It’s utterly uncanny!” muttered Kennard Wood. “What is it. Smith? What is it?”

“Ssh!” Smith warned. “Don’t stir.”

Twice again in quick succession it came—snap snap

‘“Now!” cried Smith—’“we shall know!”

He was standing near the door, and as he cried out he turned up all the lights.

What I had expected to see it is impossible to state—some ghoul of medieval demonology I believe. What I actually saw was Kennard Wood crouching on the bed automatic in hand, staring, wild-eyed, about him, and Smith beside me looking right and left in ever growing amazement.

Nothing whatever was visible to account for the sounds! “It’s supernatural!” groaned the Colonel. “We all heard it.”

“Nothing touched you in the dark?” Smith asked. “Nothing.”

“You, Kerrigan?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Yet it’s here!” Smith cried angrily. “It’s here!” Crossing the room, he jerked the draperies aside and stared out. I could see twinkling lights and a rectangular patch of starry sky. The windows were wide open. He turned, tugging at the lobe of his left ear.

“Defeated,” he said quietly. “Get you kit together quickly, Wood: we will lend a hand. Must have you out of this!”

Kennard Wood went eagerly to work, and as we gathered up his belongings and hastily stacked them in the suitcase, I could hear the hum of traffic rising from Park Avenue. When finally we opened the door and deposited case, topcoats, and other gear out in the corridor, Sergeant Doherty came doubling up.

“All’s well,” I said. “The Colonel is changing his quarters.”

Smith, last to leave, switched off the lights inside and brought the key.

“Get all this stuff downstairs. Sergeant,” he said. “Colonel Kennard Wood will be coming with us. I will give the management instructions about this apartment in a moment.”

But as we moved towards the elevator his preoccupied manner was so marked that I was on the point of saying something about it when: “Kerrigan,” he snapped, and pulled up dead. “Did you observe a flower vase in the bedroom?”

“Yes, I believe there was a vase of flowers.”

“The management,” Kennard Wood explained wearily, “decorate the apartments of incoming guests in this way.”

Without another word. Smith turned and began to run back.

“Smith,” I cried, and followed. “What is it?”

“A bad show for Nayland Smith!” he replied. “I examined everything else, but I did not examine the flowers!”

“But surely—”

“Slipshod methods are fatal”—he was unlocking the door—”in dealing with Dr. Fu Manchu.”

Throwing the door open, he stood still for a moment.

“Quiet! Listen!”

I almost held my breath. But all that came to me out of the dark and ominous apartment was the subdued roar of Park Avenue rising from below,

He switched the lights up, and I followed him through the sitting-room into the bedroom. We both looked at a round table set between the windows. Here had stood a glass flower vase.

“Good God!” Smith shouted. “It’s gone!”

For my own part I was so dazed by this inexplicable incident that I began seriously to wonder if the Haitian Negroes had been right, if the Snapping Fingers were pure Voodoo. If, in short, we were faced with supernormal phenomena.

Smith’s reaction was strictly positive.

Running forward, he dropped down on his knees and scrutinized the carpet under the round table.

“Water spilled here!” he reported.

Springing up, he stepped to one of the windows and craned out. He appeared to be looking down into the Avenue. Then, twisting sideways, I saw him staring upward, and suddenly: “Hang on to me, Kerrigan!” he cried.

Frantically, I leapt forward and grasped him. I thought that violent vertigo threatened his precarious balance. But before I could speak and at the moment that I gripped him, he leaned right out and raised his arm. I saw the flash of his pistol in the moonlight.

He fired twice, upward and to the left.

Hot on the second shot came a high, thin scream which seemed to grow swiftly nearer and then to fade away into silence. From far below there arose a muted uproar; cries; a cessation of the immediate traffic hum: a shrill whistle . . . .

We rushed out no more than a few moments after the police had dragged something on to the sidewalk. They were holding back a crowd of morbid onlookers, many in evening dress. Inspector Hawk elbowed a way in for us. A heavy truck was drawn up nearby and the driver, an Italian, was excitedly explaining to a stolid policeman that he had had not a chance to pull up.

“I tella you he falla from the sky I” he was shouting. We stood hushed, looking down at what had been a small, browned-skinned man.

“As I thought,” said Smith. “One of the Doctor’s devils.” And as he spoke, and I turned away—for the spectacle was horrifying—a suspicion crossed my mind that here lay the origin of the strange story told by the house detective. The dead brown man wore a kind of jersey almost of the same hue as his skin, and trousers of similar colouring: his footgear consisted of rope sandals. But the outstanding characteristic was his disproportionately long arms: he had the arms of a baboon. One broad tyre of the truck had crushed him as he fell right in front of the moving vehicle.

“He was dead when he landed. Inspector,” said the patrolman to Hawk. “Must have come a long way down. He had some kind of satchel hung over his shoulder and it was filled with glass or something. The front tyre just ground it all to powder . . .”

CHAPTER XVI

PADDED FOOTSTEPS

“Kennard Wood is safe—for the time being.”‘

Smith faced me in our sitting-room. He was smoking at top speed. Wood was asleep in an apartment nearby, a man worn out. Rorke remained on duty in the lobby but would be relieved at four o’clock.

“Now that Wood has got in touch with you,” I said, “the mischief is done—from Fu Manchu’s point of view. Probably he will leave him alone.”

“I agree. In this case, Fu Manchu has failed. Wood has much to tell me, but he is too desperately tired for further exertion tonight. By the same token, we have failed, too.”

“How? It’s true that poor Longton died a horrible death; but you saved Kennard Wood.”

“And when I shot the Negrito I lost the only clue to the Snapping Fingers! Yes, it was one of the Doctor’s pygmies, whether from the Andamans or Sumatra I cannot say. You have had some experience of these little devils, Kerrigan. Undoubtedly he slipped in tonight amongst the crowd. The man Pannel, the house detective, evidently had a glimpse of him, but these creatures move like shadows and go as swiftly on all fours as upright.”

“But why did he come?”

“He brought the Snapping Fingers! Then he slipped out of the window and crouched somewhere outside to await the end. Anywhere an ape can climb a Negrito can climb. When I saw him he was swarming up an apparently smooth wall from ledge to ledge, making for the roof. He would have come down the fire ladders.”

“He carried a satchel—”

“To accommodate whatever causes the Snapping Fingers. When Wood was dead it was the pygmy’s job to remove the evidence. He saw that plans had miscarried and so made sure that no trace of the attempt should remain. The thing—whatever it is—was in that flower vase! I failed there, badly.”

I was silent for a while, watching him pacing up and down.

“The—characteristic smell was missing,” I said.

Smith turned and stared at me.

“The characteristic smell is present not before, but after the feast,” he replied. “Now I am going to bed. This delay is madly irritating, and I know just how you feel about it; but we have to meet the government representatives in the morning, and there is no escape. Kennard Wood is on the spot, and Barton is returning with the people from Washington. Take my advice and turn in.”

It was sound advice and, having bade Smith good night, I tried to act upon it.

But I found that sleep was not for me. The quiet which comes upon New York only in the very late small hours had fallen now. Dawn was not far away. The hive-like humming of this sleepless city was at its lowest ebb. Yet I could not rest. A score of problems bombarded my mind. Where was Ardatha? How were these strange journeys of the Chinese Doctor accomplished? Should we be able to keep the marmoset alive until an opportunity arose to trade with the greatest enemy of white civilization? Would Fu Manchu restore Ardatha? Where was his New York base, from which he had operated against Longton and Kennard Wood? What caused the Snapping Fingers?

Groaning, I switched on the lights, got up and reached for my dressing-gown. As chronicler of the expedition, my work was badly in arrears: better to arrange my notes than to lie torturing myself with unanswerable queries.

A chilling wave of loneliness swept down upon me. I had to tell myself that I was really in New York, for in some way I seemed to have become removed from it, raised high above into a rarefied but sinister atmosphere; cut off from my fellow men. Although a hotel bedroom is not inspiring, I discovered inspiration of sorts, as a working journalist, in the litter of notes and a portable typewriter standing under a desk lamp. Yes, J must work.

The suite was very silent.

Thoughts of Ardatha haunted me. Her image, as I had glimpsed her in the blue dress, in the foyer below, persistently intruded between me and my purpose. Her eyes, seen even in that swift regard, had seemed to mirror a shadowy fear.

My thoughts took a new turn.

What was the nature of the gruesome experiments upon which Dr. Fu Manchu had been engaged in that deserted Limehouse warehouse? What new secret did he try to wrest from a normally unreadable future? That he had exposed himself to tremendous stresses was a fact manifest in his weakened condition. I endeavoured to visualize that laboratory beside the Thames; the violet lamp; to recall words spoken.

The ghastly horror of the Snapping Fingers was never far from my thoughts, and I was asking myself if the violet lamp might be associated in some way with that agent of death, when a sudden stir in the lobby brought me to my feet.

“Who’s there?” I heard dimly. “Don’t try any funny business!”

Something had aroused Sergeant Rorke.

The room allotted to me was the last but one at the north end of the suite. Sir Lionel’s was actually the last and there was a communicating door. Smith slept at the southern end. I set out to inquire, switching up the sitting-room lights as I went through.

Rorke had the front door open and was peering to right and left along the corridor outside, at that hour only partially lighted. Hearing my footsteps, he turned swiftly.

“Oh, it’s you!” he said, and his manner was Jumpy.

Once more he peered sharply to left and right, then came in and closed the door. He began to chew.

“What rouses you, Mr. Kerrigan?” he asked (he was a present-tense addict). “Hope it isn’t me singing out.”

“No, I was awake. Did you hear something?”

“Well”—he resumed his seat—”I’m on duty here now quite a while, and this job is kind of monotonous. Maybe I doze off, but certainly I think I hear something—right outside the door.”

“What like?”

“Now, that’s not so easy. No, sir.It might be a shuffle, like somebody steals along quietly, or it might be somebody fumbles with the door.”

“It didn’t sound like—snapping fingers?”

“Snapping fingers?” Sergeant Rorke stared hard and chewed hard. “Why, no. I don’t reckon so. Why does anybody snap his fingers?”

“I don’t know,” I answered wearily.“But you saw nothing?”

“Not a thing.”

I went back to my room. Smith had not been awakened, and I was inclined to believe that Rorke had dreamed the episode. The vicious little marmoset (which, nevertheless, meant so much to me) occupied a commodious cage in Barton’s adjoining room and there was nothing to indicate that the animal had been aroused.

My notes engaged my attention for the next few minutes. I was about to take a cigarette, when I paused, my hand suspended over the box.

“What was that?” I muttered.

I thought I had detected a faint movement in the sitting-room, indefinable, but inexplicable. It translated me magically to an apartment at the Prado. I seemed to hear again the ghostly snapping sound, to see the bloodless body of James Longton.

Smith had told me of ten that in dealing with Dr. Fu Manchu I must control my imagination.

But I opened a drawer, took out my Colt, and slipped it in my pocket.

There was something reassuring in its cool touch, and now I lighted a cigarette. As I dropped the lighter on the desk, I caught my breath and listened intently.

I had heard the sound again . . . .

* * *

Dismissing the idea that anyone could have been hiding in the rooms since Smith and I had returned, only one other theory seemed to remain—assuming that my overtired senses were not deluding me. I remembered that Rorke had recently opened the front door and had gone out into the corridor. It was possible, just possible, that during that interval someone had crept in.

Certain secret maps and plans, indispensable to our project, according to Barton, were locked in a steel box in Sir Lionel’s bedroom.

I stepped quickly into the darkened sitting-room and stood there for a while. I could detect no sound. I switched on die lights. The room was empty. Nevertheless, I examined it methodically, but found nothing. I believe I missed no possible hiding-place; and accepting the fact that there was no one in the room but myself, I experienced a swift reaction of contempt. I returned, and once more seated myself at the desk.

“These creatures move like shadows . . .” Almost I seemed to hear the crisp voice of Nayland Smith. “Anywhere an ape can climb a Negrito can climb.”

Had one of Fu Manchu’s devilish little brown allies crept into the place in some way?

These devil men were the bearers of the Snapping Fingers, of the loathsome thing that battened on blood. Yet, for all my tremors—and I confess I was fighting down panic—I remained unwilling to disturb Smith unless more concrete evidence presented itself. No sound came from Sergeant Rorke,

I dropped my cigarette in a tray and sat upright, listening.

There it was again . . . .

Footsteps, I was prepared to swear—padding footsteps. Pad, pad, pad—halting, furtive, but unmistakable.

I sprang up and ran to the door. I had left the lights on in the sitting-room.

It was empty.

Yet, as I stood there, my ears convinced me that soft, padding footsteps were actually receding at the further side!

I took myself firmly in hand. Was my imagination indeed playing ghostly tricks? I walked in the direction of the sound, and came to the door which led into the lobby. It was shut, and I paused there for a moment, listening. What I heard determined my next move. Quietly, I opened the door and stepped out. Sergeant Rorke was fast asleep in his chair. A short passage led to Smith’s quarters; I could see his door from where I stood; and I hesitated. I knew that he must be even more weary than Rorke. What I might have decided to do does not matter now. A decision was forced upon me.

From somewhere behind me came a weird whistling and thrumming—not loud enough to waken the sleeping police officer, but clearly audible to myself. I started wildly, twisted about, my heart leaping, and then recognized the sound. It was the marmoset in its cage! This recognition brought a momenary relief, to be followed by a doubt. What had awakened the animal? I turned back into the sitting-room. Here, the queer, sibilant language of the tiny monkey sounded much louder. The creature was excited.

Crossing to my own apartment, right on the threshold I pulled up sharply.

The communicating door, the door which led to Barton’s quarters, was wide open. When I had gone out it had been closed!

Determined, now, that the menace was real, that some clandestine thing, kin of the shadows but a thing physical, which could open doors, which I could shoot, was in the suite, I ran to the dark opening, reached for the switch and turned up the lights.

Perhaps I stood there for as long as thirty seconds, staring, staring into an empty room!

The steel box, with its three locks, remained in its place, untouched. Set on a chest of drawers, opposite, was the big cage which Sir Lionel had bought to accommodate Peko, the Doctor’s marmoset. And Peko’s behaviour was most remarkable.

Wrinkled forehead twitching, wicked teeth exposed, he tore at the wire bars with tiny, eager fingers, pouring out a torrent of angry whistling chatter. Why?

A door from Barton’s room opened directly on to the main corridor: but it was closed. I began to distrust my own judgement. I listened almost eagerly to sounds rising from the city below, sounds of motor horns, of a moving train; sounds which spoke of human activity of a normal kind, of people who did not explore the dark and sometimes evil secrets of nature but were just ordinary human beings.

Resolutely I turned my back on these phenomena which had no visible cause, returned to my room, and mixed myself a stiff drink.

I had left the door open, and even as I set my glass down on the desk, I heard again, but very softly—pad, pad, pad. The marmoset whistled furiously and tore at the bars.

And then I grew terribly afraid—afraid not of this invisible menace, but afraid of myself. I could see again the thoughtful eyes of the Harley Street doctor who had assured me that I must not think of active service for at least six months. I wondered what he had feared, perhaps that the poison in my system might in some way reach my brain.

It was a horrible thought; worse than any physical danger. But even as that dread crossed my mind, and as I raced across and stared into Barton’s room, it was dispelled by an unassailable, a physical fact.

I saw that the outer door was wide open. It closed, and I heard the snap of the lock!

Almost hurling myself forward, I re-opened it and sprang out. So precipitate was my action that Sergeant Rorke, who had evidently awakened and had come along the outside corridor, was nearly bowled over!

“Go easy, Mr. Kerrigan,” he spluttered. “Gee! What’s doing?”

“Quick! it’s important, sergeant! Did someone come out just ahead of me?”

“Come out? No, sir. I’ll say someone goes in! I wake up—oh, I’m asleep all right—and I get a hunch there’s another door to these apartments. Seems to be kind of something doing along here. I move right away. I see the door shut just as I step up to it. Then it opens again and you come out like the Gestapo’s after you.”

“But you are sure”—I grasped his arm—”that the door opened before I opened it?”

He resumed chewing, regarding me stolidly.

“That goes in my report, Mr. Kerrigan.”

“Thank God!” I whispered. “Because, you see. Sergeant Rorke, no one came in. I was just behind the door. And you know that no one came out!”

“Someone is coming out!” a snappy voice announced. “It’s impossible to sleep through all this chatter!”

Turning, I saw Nayland Smith.

“Smith!” I exclaimed, “I did not want to wake you; but something very strange is going on.”

“So I gather.”

Rapidly, in a very gabble of words, I told him of the incident of the padding footsteps, of the remarkable behaviour of the marmoset, and of the opening door.

“And I’ll say,” Rorke interpolated, “that nobody comes out.”

“As you say,” Smith murmured thoughtfully, “no one comes out.”

He stared at me very hard, and in the sudden silence I knew that he was listening.

“I shall be glad,” he added, “when the conference is over, Kerrigan. In New York we are besieged by enemies who fight with strange weapons.”

CHAPTER XVII

CHRISTOPHERS CHART

“I shall be obliged. Sir Lionel,” said Mr. Hannessy, “if you will tell us now in your own way the circumstances which have led you to believe that you hold a clue to what may prove to be a secret submarine base in the Caribbean. We are told by our Navy—represented here by Commander Ingles—that allowing for underwater craft belonging to belligerent nations, there is still a big surplus around those waters belonging to no nation which so far we have been able to identify. Valuable lives have been lost in trying to plumb the mystery. One”—he glanced at Kennard Wood—”right here in New York, only last night. The credentials borne by Sir Denis Nayland Smith”—he nodded in Smith’s direction—”are sufficient proof that your theory has a concrete basis. We are all anxious to hear the facts.”

We sat around a long table in our sitting-room. On my right, at one end of the table, was Nayland Smith; facing me. Commander Ingles and Kennard Wood; on my left the celebrated Mr. Wilber Ord, expert adviser to the White House on international relations. Facing Wilber Ord, John Hannessy, the speaker, white-haired, fresh-coloured, vigorous, stood for that monument which is sometimes called Republican and sometimes Democratic but which always stands for freedom. From the other end of the table Sir Lionel Barton dominated everybody. The steel box lay before him.

He was in his element. Those dancing blue eyes under shaggy brows told how much he was enjoying himself. He glanced around at everybody, and then: “I might remark, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Hannessy, “that the credentials borne by myself are a sufficient proof that my theory has a concrete basis. But I will not stress the point. To be brief. There had been for many years an heirloom in a branch of the Stewart family known as The Stewart Luck. It consisted of a silver-mounted pistol to which a small object was attached by a piece of catgut.”

He paused, looking about again from face to face.

“The family met with misfortune. I had great difficulty in tracing the survivor—last of the Stewarts of that branch. From her—she is a very old woman—I acquired the Stewart Luck.”

Opening the steel box. Barton took out an old duelling pistol.

“This,” he said, “with the object attached, is the Stewart Luck. Now, this pistol was almost certainly manufactured in Edinburgh about 1810-14. The fact is significant. It is fitted with a Forsyth percussion lock, an early example. It was designed, of course, to fire a ball. How it came into the possession of that remarkable character to whom I am about to introduce you, I leave to you, gentlemen, to decide. Myself, I think I know. But this crest was added by a later hand.”

He pointed to a crest engraved upon the mounting.

“The ‘attached object’—a piece of silver resembling a small pencil case—called for my special skill. For a long time it defeated me. Only by identifying the monogram on the pistol was I enabled to grasp the real character of this mysterious object. After many failures, I deciphered the monogram. The monogram mystery solved, my next conclusion was obvious. The small silver object was almost certainly the first conical bullet ever used in the history of arms!”

Sir Lionel was warming to his subject. His great voice boomed around the room: he no longer looked at us in stressing his

points; he glared.

“My discovery was revolutionary. I had satisfied myself that the device, monogram, or crest, embodied a date in Roman numerals. That date was A.D. 1811. Together with the monogram and the silver bullet it was sufficient. This pistol had been the property of Christophe—that great Negro who built the Citadel, perhaps the most majestic fortress in the world; who expelled Napoleon’s troops; who made of cowering slaves from the interior of Africa prosperous and useful citizens. Yes, gentlemen—Henry Christophe, crowned in 1811 King of Haiti!”

No one interrupted. Barton had his audience enthralled.

“King Christophe, that noble Negro, at the height of his power was betrayed, deserted; and it is common knowledge that he fired a silver bullet into his own brain!”

John Hannessy stared around, nodding in confirmation to the others present.

“The first conical bullet in history was fired into the brain of King Christophe by his own hand. He was a negro genius; possibly the bullet was of his own invention, made for him by some skilled workmen brought to Haiti for the purpose. This point of my inquiry reached—what did I ask myself?”

“I cannot imagine, sir,” said John Hannessy in a hushed voice.

“The question I asked myself was this:—Why should so many persons—myself included—incur great risk and expense to recover the pistol and the bullet with which King Christophe possibly committed suicide? I replied: A great treasure—jewels, bullion, variously estimated at five to seven million pounds sterling—was hidden by the Negro king during his lifetime, searched for after his death—but never found!”

By now I was keyed up as tensely as the others. This strange story was not wholly new to me; but I understood at last the importance of the steel box which Sir Lionel had guarded so jealously from the outset. I was not prepared, however, for what was to follow.

Barton continued: “I found myself to be much intrigued by the fragment of catgut which formerly had attached the bullet to the pistol. Catgut is uncommon stuff. It suggested (a) a fiddler; (b) a surgeon—”

“I don’t believe, sir,” John Hannessy burst in, “re catgut, that catgut ligatures were in use circa 1811.”

“And I don’t care a damn, sir! Some later owner may have tied the bullet to the pistol. But I had my clue! You see, I knew that King Christophe had a resident medical attendant—Duncan Stewart, Scots physician.”

“Good heavens!” Smith murmured. “You certainly know your own game. Barton.”

“I knew that he.Dr. Stewart, was probably the last man to see the black king alive. Later, the body was thrown into a pit in the courtyard of Christophe’s great fortress, the Citadel, on the crest of the mountain. But”—he spoke slowly and emphatically, punctuating periods with a bang of his fist on the table—”before that event took place.Dr. Stewart had extracted the bullet and had seized the pistol, which I suspect to have been his own present to the black king.

‘“We must assume that Dr. Stewart was ignorant of the secret, assume that he retained these gruesome relics for purely sentimental reasons. It remained for me to discover that the historical silver bullet was hollow. I submitted it to a microscopical examination. It was one of the most beautifully made things I have handled—the work of an expert gunsmith. There was a pin in the base. This being removed, it became possible to unscrew the shell—for a shell it was. I extracted a roll of some tough vegetable fibre, no larger than a wooden match.”

Nayland Smith was staring hard at Sir Lionel, who had now taken from the steel box a tiny piece of papyrus set under glass. The expression upon Barton’s sun-wrinkled, truculent face was ironical.