The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu (2 page)

Sir Crichton Davey's study was a small one, and a glance
sufficed to show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no
hiding-place. It was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and
Chinese ornaments and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood
several framed photographs which showed this to be the sanctum of a
wealthy bachelor who was no misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire
occupied the larger part of one wall. The grate was empty, for the
weather was extremely warm, and a green-shaded lamp on the littered
writing-table afforded the only light. The air was stale, for both
windows were closed and fastened.

Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay
beside the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open
it, but my friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper!

"Smell!" he directed, handing the letter to me. I raised it to
my nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It is a rather rare essential oil," was the reply, "which I
have met with before, though never in Europe. I begin to
understand, Petrie."

He tilted the lamp-shade and made a close examination of the
scraps of paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate
and on the hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece,
and was examining it curiously, when he turned, a strange
expression upon his face.

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

Much surprised, I did as he directed.

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

Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily
replaced the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him
search, methodically, every inch of the room-behind the books, in
all the ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.

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

We returned to the library.

"Inspector Weymouth," said my friend, "I have a particular
reason for asking that Sir Crichton's body be removed from this
room at once and the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any
pretense whatever until you hear from me." It spoke volumes for the
mysterious credentials borne by my friend that the man from
Scotland Yard accepted his orders without demur, and, after a brief
chat with Mr. Burboyne, Smith passed briskly downstairs. In the
hall a man who looked like a groom out of livery was waiting.

"Are you Wills?" asked Smith.

"Yes, sir."

"It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the
house about the time of Sir Crichton's death?"

"Yes, sir. I was locking the garage door, and, happening to look
up at the window of Sir Crichton's study, I saw him jump out of his
chair. Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his
shadow on the blind. Next minute I heard a call out in the
lane."

"What kind of call?"

The man, whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened,
seemed puzzled for a suitable description.

"A sort of wail, sir," he said at last. "I never heard anything
like it before, and don't want to again."

"Like this?" inquired Smith, and he uttered a low, wailing cry,
impossible to describe. Wills perceptibly shuddered; and, indeed,
it was an eerie sound.

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

"That will do," said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of
triumph in his voice. "But stay! Take us through to the back of the
house."

The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found
ourselves in a small, paved courtyard. It was a perfect summer's
night, and the deep blue vault above was jeweled with myriads of
starry points. How impossible it seemed to reconcile that vast,
eternal calm with the hideous passions and fiendish agencies which
that night had loosed a soul upon the infinite.

"Up yonder are the study windows, sir. Over that wall on your
left is the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is
Regent's Park."

"Are the study windows visible from there?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Who occupies the adjoining house?"

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

"Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the
domestic offices and the servants' quarters, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then send someone to make my business known to the
Major-General's housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs."

Singular though my friend's proceedings appeared to me, I had
ceased to wonder at anything. Since Nayland Smith's arrival at my
rooms I seemed to have been moving through the fitful phases of a
nightmare. My friend's account of how he came by the wound in his
arm; the scene on our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey;
the secretary's story of the dying man's cry, "The red hand!"; the
hidden perils of the study; the wail in the lane-all were fitter
incidents of delirium than of sane reality. So, when a white-faced
butler made us known to a nervous old lady who proved to be the
housekeeper of the next-door residence, I was not surprised at
Smith's saying:

"Lounge up and down outside, Petrie. Everyone has cleared off
now. It is getting late. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard.
I thought I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is
worse, he probably knows by now that I am here, too."

With which he entered the house and left me out in the square,
with leisure to think, to try to understand.

The crowd which usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime
had been cleared away, and it had been circulated that Sir Crichton
had died from natural causes. The intense heat having driven most
of the residents out of town, practically I had the square to
myself, and I gave myself up to a brief consideration of the
mystery in which I so suddenly had found myself involved.

By what agency had Sir Crichton met his death? Did Nayland Smith
know? I rather suspected that he did. What was the hidden
significance of the perfumed envelope? Who was that mysterious
personage whom Smith so evidently dreaded, who had attempted his
life, who, presumably, had murdered Sir Crichton? Sir Crichton
Davey, during the time that he had held office in India, and during
his long term of service at home, had earned the good will of all,
British and native alike. Who was his secret enemy?

Something touched me lightly on the shoulder.

I turned, with my heart fluttering like a child's. This night's
work had imposed a severe strain even upon my callous nerves.

A girl wrapped in a hooded opera-cloak stood at my elbow, and,
as she glanced up at me, I thought that I never had seen a face so
seductively lovely nor of so unusual a type. With the skin of a
perfect blonde, she had eyes and lashes as black as a Creole's,
which, together with her full red lips, told me that this beautiful
stranger, whose touch had so startled me, was not a child of our
northern shores.

"Forgive me," she said, speaking with an odd, pretty accent, and
laying a slim hand, with jeweled fingers, confidingly upon my arm,
"if I startled you. But-is it true that Sir Crichton Davey has
been-murdered?"

I looked into her big, questioning eyes, a harsh suspicion
laboring in my mind, but could read nothing in their mysterious
depths-only I wondered anew at my questioner's beauty. The
grotesque idea momentarily possessed me that, were the bloom of her
red lips due to art and not to nature, their kiss would
leave-though not indelibly-just such a mark as I had seen upon the
dead man's hand. But I dismissed the fantastic notion as bred of
the night's horrors, and worthy only of a mediaeval legend. No
doubt she was some friend or acquaintance of Sir Crichton who lived
close by.

"I cannot say that he has been murdered," I replied, acting upon
the latter supposition, and seeking to tell her what she asked as
gently as possible.

"But he is-Dead?"

I nodded.

She closed her eyes and uttered a low, moaning sound, swaying
dizzily. Thinking she was about to swoon, I threw my arm round her
shoulder to support her, but she smiled sadly, and pushed me gently
away.

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

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

She shook her head, flashed a rapid glance at me with her
beautiful eyes, and looked away in a sort of sorrowful
embarrassment, for which I was entirely at a loss to account.
Suddenly she resumed:

"I cannot let my name be mentioned in this dreadful matter,
but-I think I have some information-for the police. Will you give
this to-whomever you think proper?"

She handed me a sealed envelope, again met my eyes with one of
her dazzling glances, and hurried away. She had gone no more than
ten or twelve yards, and I still was standing bewildered, watching
her graceful, retreating figure, when she turned abruptly and came
back.

Without looking directly at me, but alternately glancing towards
a distant corner of the square and towards the house of
Major-General Platt-Houston, she made the following extraordinary
request:

"If you would do me a very great service, for which I always
would be grateful,"-she glanced at me with passionate
intentness-"when you have given my message to the proper person,
leave him and do not go near him any more to-night!"

Before I could find words to reply she gathered up her cloak and
ran. Before I could determine whether or not to follow her (for her
words had aroused anew all my worst suspicions) she had
disappeared! I heard the whir of a restarted motor at no great
distance, and, in the instant that Nayland Smith came running down
the steps, I knew that I had nodded at my post.

"Smith!" I cried as he joined me, "tell me what we must do!" And
rapidly I acquainted him with the incident.

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

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

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

"She is one of the finest weapons in the enemy's armory, Petrie.
But a woman is a two-edged sword, and treacherous. To our great
good fortune, she has formed a sudden predilection,
characteristically Oriental, for yourself. Oh, you may scoff, but
it is evident. She was employed to get this letter placed in my
hands. Give it to me."

I did so.

"She has succeeded. Smell."

He held the envelope under my nose, and, with a sudden sense of
nausea, I recognized the strange perfume.

"You know what this presaged in Sir Crichton's case? Can you
doubt any longer? She did not want you to share my fate,
Petrie."

"Smith," I said unsteadily, "I have followed your lead blindly
in this horrible business and have not pressed for an explanation,
but I must insist before I go one step farther upon knowing what it
all means."

"Just a few steps farther," he rejoined; "as far as a cab. We
are hardly safe here. Oh, you need not fear shots or knives. The
man whose servants are watching us now scorns to employ such
clumsy, tell-tale weapons."

Only three cabs were on the rank, and, as we entered the first,
something hissed past my ear, missed both Smith and me by a
miracle, and, passing over the roof of the taxi, presumably fell in
the enclosed garden occupying the center of the square.

"What was that?" I cried.

"Get in-quickly!" Smith rapped back. "It was attempt number one!
More than that I cannot say. Don't let the man hear. He has noticed
nothing. Pull up the window on your side, Petrie, and look out
behind. Good! We've started."

The cab moved off with a metallic jerk, and I turned and looked
back through the little window in the rear.

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

Nayland Smith lay back and laughed unmirthfully.

"Petrie," he said, "if I escape alive from this business I shall
know that I bear a charmed life."

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

"You have asked me to explain matters," he continued, "and I
will do so to the best of my ability. You no doubt wonder why a
servant of the British Government, lately stationed in Burma,
suddenly appears in London, in the character of a detective. I am
here, Petrie-and I bear credentials from the very highest
sources-because, quite by accident, I came upon a clew. Following
it up, in the ordinary course of routine, I obtained evidence of
the existence and malignant activity of a certain man. At the
present stage of the case I should not be justified in terming him
the emissary of an Eastern Power, but I may say that
representations are shortly to be made to that Power's ambassador
in London."

He paused and glanced back towards the pursuing cab.

"There is little to fear until we arrive home," he said calmly.
"Afterwards there is much. To continue: This man, whether a fanatic
or a duly appointed agent, is, unquestionably, the most malign and
formidable personality existing in the known world today. He is a
linguist who speaks with almost equal facility in any of the
civilized languages, and in most of the barbaric. He is an adept in
all the arts and sciences which a great university could teach him.
He also is an adept in certain obscure arts and sciences which no
university of to-day can teach. He has the brains of any three men
of genius. Petrie, he is a mental giant."

"You amaze me!" I said.

"As to his mission among men. Why did M. Jules Furneaux fall
dead in a Paris opera house? Because of heart failure? No! Because
his last speech had shown that he held the key to the secret of
Tongking. What became of the Grand Duke Stanislaus? Elopement?
Suicide? Nothing of the kind. He alone was fully alive to Russia's
growing peril. He alone knew the truth about Mongolia. Why was Sir
Crichton Davey murdered? Because, had the work he was engaged upon
ever seen the light it would have shown him to be the only living
Englishman who understood the importance of the Tibetan frontiers.
I say to you solemnly, Petrie, that these are but a few. Is there a
man who would arouse the West to a sense of the awakening of the
East, who would teach the deaf to hear, the blind to see, that the
millions only await their leader? He will die. And this is only one
phase of the devilish campaign. The others I can merely
surmise."