The Return of Dr. Fu Manchu

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"But, Smith," I began . . .

"Let me explain, Petrie. The history of the Gables seemed to be
susceptible of only one explanation; in short it was fairly evident to
me that the object of the manifestations was to insure the place being
kept empty. This idea suggested another, and with them both in mind, I
set out to make my inquiries, first taking the precaution to disguise
my identity, to which end Weymouth gave me the freedom of Scotland
Yard's fancy wardrobe. I did not take the agent into my confidence,
but posed as a stranger who had heard that the house was to let
furnished and thought it might suit his purpose. My inquiries were
directed to a particular end, but I failed to achieve it at the time.
I had theories, as I have said, and when, having paid the deposit and
secured possession of the keys, I was enabled to visit the place
alone, I was fortunate enough to obtain evidence to show that my
imagination had not misled me.

"You were very curious the other morning, I recall, respecting my
object in borrowing a large brace and bit. My object, Petrie, was to
bore a series of holes in the wainscoating of various rooms at the
Gables--in inconspicuous positions, of course . . ."

"But, my dear Smith!" I cried, "you are merely adding to my
mystification."

He stood up and began to pace the room in his restless fashion.

"I had cross-examined Weymouth closely regarding the phenomenon of the
bell-ringing, and an exhaustive search of the premises led to the
discovery that the house was in such excellent condition that, from
ground-floor to attic, there was not a solitary crevice large enough
to admit of the passage of a mouse."

I suppose I must have been staring very foolishly indeed, for Nayland
Smith burst into one of his sudden laughs.

"A mouse, I said, Petrie!" he cried. "With the brace-and-bit I
rectified that matter. I made the holes I have mentioned, and before
each set a trap baited with a piece of succulent, toasted cheese. Just
open that grip!"

The light at last was dawning upon my mental darkness, and I pounced
upon the grip, which stood upon a chair near the window, and opened
it. A sickly smell of cooked cheese assailed my nostrils.

"Mind your fingers!" cried Smith; "some of them are still set,
possibly."

Out from the grip I began to take mouse-traps! Two or three of them
were still set but in the case of the greater number the catches had
slipped. Nine I took out and placed upon the table, and all were
empty. In the tenth there crouched, panting, its soft furry body dank
with perspiration, a little white mouse!

"Only one capture!" cried my companion, "showing how well-fed the
creatures were. Examine his tail!"

But already I had perceived that to which Smith would draw my
attention, and the mystery of the "astral bells" was a mystery no
longer. Bound to the little creature's tail, close to the root, with
fine soft wire such as is used for making up bouquets, were three tiny
silver bells. I looked across at my companion in speechless surprise.

"Almost childish, is it not?" he said; "yet by means of this simple
device the Gables has been emptied of occupant after occupant. There
was small chance of the trick being detected, for, as I have said,
there was absolutely no aperture from roof to basement by means of
which one of them could have escaped into the building."

"Then . . ."

"They were admitted into the wall cavities and the rafters, from some
cellar underneath, Petrie, to which, after a brief scamper under the
floors and over the ceilings, they instinctively returned for the food
they were accustomed to receive, and for which, even had it been
possible (which it was not) they had no occasion to forage."

I, too, stood up; for excitement was growing within me. I took up the
piece of silk from the table.

"Where did you find this?" I asked, my eyes upon Smith's keen face.

"In a sort of wine cellar, Petrie," he replied, "under the stair.
There is no cellar proper to the Gables--at least no such cellar
appears in the plans."

"But . . ."

"But there is one beyond doubt--yes! It must be part of some older
building which occupied the site before the Gables was built. One can
only surmise that it exists, although such a surmise is a fairly safe
one, and the entrance to the subterranean portion of the building is
situated beyond doubt in the wine cellar. Of this we have at least two
evidences:--the finding of the fragment of silk there, and the fact
that in one case at least--as I learned--the light was extinguished in
the library unaccountably. This could only have been done in one way:
by manipulating the main switch, which is also in the wine cellar."

"But Smith!" I cried, "do you mean that Fu-Manchu . . ."

Nayland Smith turned in his promenade of the floor, and stared into my
eyes.

"I mean that Dr. Fu-Manchu has had a hiding-place under the Gables for
an indefinite period!" he replied. "I always suspected that a man of
his genius would have a second retreat prepared for him, anticipating
the event of the first being discovered. Oh! I don't doubt it! The
place probably is extensive, and I am almost certain--though the point
has to be confirmed--that there is another entrance from the studio
further along the road. We know, now, why our recent searchings in the
East End have proved futile; why the house in Museum Street was
deserted; he has been lying low in this burrow at Hampstead!"

"But the hand, Smith, the luminous hand . . ."

Nayland Smith laughed shortly.

"Your superstitious fears overcame you to such an extent, Petrie--and
I don't wonder at it; the sight was a ghastly one--that probably you
don't remember what occurred when you struck out at that same ghostly
hand?"

"I seemed to hit something."

"That was why we ran. But I think our retreat had all the appearance
of a rout, as I intended that it should. Pardon my playing upon your
very natural fears, old man, but you could not have simulated panic
half so naturally! And if they had suspected that the device was
discovered, we might never have quitted the Gables alive. It was
touch-and-go for a moment."

"But . . ."

"Turn out the light!" snapped my companion.

Wondering greatly, I did as he desired. I turned out the light . . .
and in the darkness of my own study I saw a fiery fist being shaken at
me threateningly! . . . The bones were distinctly visible, and the
luminosity of the flesh was truly ghastly.

"Turn on the light, again!" cried Smith.

Deeply mystified, I did so . . . and my friend tossed a little
electric pocket-lamp on to the writing-table.

"They used merely a small electric lamp fitted into the handle of a
glass dagger," he said with a sort of contempt. "It was very
effective, but the luminous hand is a phenomenon producible by any one
who possesses an electric torch."

"The Gables--will be watched?"

"At last, Petrie, I think we have Fu-Manchu--in his own trap!"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE NIGHT OF THE RAID

"Dash it all, Petrie!" cried Smith, "this is most annoying!"

The bell was ringing furiously, although midnight was long past. Whom
could my late visitor be? Almost certainly this ringing portended an
urgent case. In other words, I was not fated to take part in what I
anticipated would prove to be the closing scene of the Fu-Manchu
drama.

"Every one is in bed," I said, ruefully; "and how can I possibly see a
patient--in this costume?"

Smith and I were both arrayed in rough tweeds, and anticipating the
labors before us, had dispensed with collars and wore soft mufflers.
It was hard to be called upon to face a professional interview dressed
thus, and having a big tweed cap pulled down over my eyes.

Across the writing-table we confronted one another in dismayed
silence, whilst, below, the bell sent up its ceaseless clangor.

"It has to be done, Smith," I said, regretfully. "Almost certainly it
means a journey and probably an absence of some hours."

I threw my cap upon the table, turned up my coat to hide the absence
of collar, and started for the door. My last sight of Smith showed him
standing looking after me, tugging at the lobe of his ear and clicking
his teeth together with suppressed irritability. I stumbled down the
dark stairs, along the hall, and opened the front door. Vaguely
visible in the light of a street lamp which stood at no great distance
away, I saw a slender man of medium height confronting me. From the
shadowed face two large and luminous eyes looked out into mine. My
visitor, who, despite the warmth of the evening, wore a heavy
greatcoat, was an Oriental!

I drew back, apprehensively; then:

"Ah! Dr. Petrie!" he said in a softly musical voice which made me
start again, "to God be all praise that I have found you!"

Some emotion, which at present I could not define, was stirring within
me. Where had I seen this graceful Eastern youth before? Where had I
heard that soft voice?

"Do you wish to see me professionally?" I asked--yet even as I put the
question, I seemed to know it unnecessary.

"So you know me no more?" said the stranger--and his teeth gleamed in
a slight smile.

Heavens! I knew now what had struck that vibrant chord within me! The
voice, though infinitely deeper, yet had an unmistakable resemblance
to the dulcet tones of Karamaneh--of Karamaneh whose eyes haunted my
dreams, whose beauty had done much to embitter my years.

The Oriental youth stepped forward, with outstretched hand.

"So you know me no more?" he repeated; "but I know you, and give
praise to Allah that I have found you!"

I stepped back, pressed the electric switch, and turned, with leaping
heart, to look into the face of my visitor. It was a face of the
purest Greek beauty, a face that might have served as a model for
Praxiteles; the skin had a golden pallor, which, with the crisp black
hair and magnetic yet velvety eyes, suggested to my fancy that this
was the young Antinious risen from the Nile, whose wraith now appeared
to me out of the night. I stifled a cry of surprise, not unmingled
with gladness.

It was Aziz--the brother of Karamaneh!

Never could the entrance of a figure upon the stage of a drama have
been more dramatic than the coming of Aziz upon this night of all
nights. I seized the outstretched hand and drew him forward, then
reclosed the door and stood before him a moment in doubt.

A vaguely troubled look momentarily crossed the handsome face; with
the Oriental's unerring instinct, he had detected the reserve of my
greeting. Yet, when I thought of the treachery of Karamaneh, when I
remember how she, whom we had befriended, whom we had rescued from the
house of Fu-Manchu, now had turned like the beautiful viper that she
was to strike at the hand that caressed her; when I thought how
to-night we were set upon raiding the place where the evil Chinese
doctor lurked in hiding, were set upon the arrest of that malignant
genius and of all his creatures, Karamaneh amongst them, is it strange
that I hesitated? Yet, again, when I thought of my last meeting with
her, and of how, twice, she had risked her life to save me . . .

So, avoiding the gaze of the lad, I took his arm, and in silence we
two ascended the stairs and entered my study . . . where Nayland Smith
stood bolt upright beside the table, his steely eyes fixed upon the
face of the new arrival.

No look of recognition crossed the bronzed features, and Aziz who had
started forward with outstretched hands, fell back a step and looked
pathetically from me to Nayland Smith, and from the grim commissioner
back again to me. The appeal in the velvet eyes was more than I could
tolerate, unmoved.

"Smith," I said shortly, "you remember Aziz?"

Not a muscle visibly moved in Smith's face, as he snapped back:

"I remember him perfectly."

"He has come, I think, to seek our assistance."

"Yes, yes!" cried Aziz laying his hand upon my arm with a gesture
painfully reminiscent of Karamaneh--"I came only to-night to London.
Oh, my gentlemen! I have searched, and searched, and searched, until I
am weary. Often I have wished to die. And then at last I come to
Rangoon . . ."

"To Rangoon!" snapped Smith, still with the gray eyes fixed almost
fiercely upon the lad's face.

"To Rangoon--yes; and there I heard news at last. I hear that you have
seen her--have seen Karamaneh--that you are back in London." He was
not entirely at home with his English. "I know then that she must be
here, too. I ask them everywhere, and they answer 'yes.' Oh, Smith
Pasha!"--he stepped forward and impulsively seized both Smith's hands
--"You know where she is--take me to her!"

Smith's face was a study in perplexity, now. In the past we had
befriended the young Aziz, and it was hard to look upon him in the
light of an enemy. Yet had we not equally befriended his sister?--and
she . . .

At last Smith glanced across at me where I stood just within the
doorway.

"What do you make of it, Petrie?" he said harshly. "Personally I take
it to mean that our plans have leaked out." He sprang suddenly back
from Aziz and I saw his glance traveling rapidly over the slight
figure as if in quest of concealed arms. "I take it to be a trap!"

A moment he stood so, regarding him, and despite my well-grounded
distrust of the Oriental character, I could have sworn that the
expression of pained surprise upon the youth's face was not simulated
but real. Even Smith, I think, began to share my view; for suddenly he
threw himself into the white cane rest-chair, and, still fixedly
regarding Aziz:

"Perhaps I have wronged you," he said. "If I have, you shall know the
reason presently. Tell your own story!"

There was a pathetic humidity in the velvet eyes of Aziz--eyes so like
those others that were ever looking into mine in dreams--as glancing
from Smith to me he began, hands outstretched, characteristically,
palms upward and fingers curling, to tell in broken English the story
of his search for Karamaneh . . .

"It was Fu-Manchu, my kind gentlemen--it was the hakim who is really
not a man at all, but an efreet. He found us again less than four days
after you had left us, Smith Pasha! . . . He found us in Cairo, and to
Karamaneh he made the forgetting of all things--even of me--even of
me . . ."

Nayland Smith snapped his teeth together sharply; then:

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.

For my own part I understood well enough, remembering how the
brilliant Chinese doctor once had performed such an operation as this
upon poor Inspector Weymouth; how, by means of an injection of some
serum prepared (as Karamaneh afterwards told us) from the venom of a
swamp adder or similar reptile, he had induced amnesia, or complete
loss of memory. I felt every drop of blood recede from my cheeks.

"Smith!" I began . . .

"Let him speak for himself," interrupted my friend sharply.

"They tried to take us both," continued Aziz still speaking in that
soft, melodious manner, but with deep seriousness. "I escaped, I, who
am swift of foot, hoping to bring help."--He shook his head sadly--
"But, except the All Powerful, who is so powerful as the Hakim
Fu-Manchu? I hid, my gentlemen, and watched and waited, one--two--
three weeks. At last I saw her again, my sister, Karamaneh; but ah!
she did not know me, did not know me, Aziz her brother! She was in an
arabeeyeh, and passed me quickly along the Sharia en-Nahhasin. I ran,
and ran, and ran, crying her name, but although she looked back, she
did not know me--she did not know me! I felt that I was dying, and
presently I fell--upon the steps of the Mosque of Abu."

He dropped the expressive hands wearily to his sides and sank his chin
upon his breast.

"And then?" I said, huskily--for my heart was fluttering like a
captive bird.

"Alas! from that day to this I see her no more, my gentlemen. I
travel, not only in Egypt, but near and far, and still I see her no
more until in Rangoon I hear that which brings me to England
again"--he extended his palms naively--"and here I am--Smith Pasha."

Smith sprang upright again and turned to me.

"Either I am growing over-credulous," he said, "or Aziz speaks the
truth. But"--he held up his hand--"you can tell me all that at some
other time, Petrie! We must take no chances. Sergeant Carter is
downstairs with the cab; you might ask him to step up. He and Aziz can
remain here until our return."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SAMURAI'S SWORD

The muffled drumming of sleepless London seemed very remote from us,
as side by side we crept up the narrow path to the studio. This was a
starry but moonless night, and the little dingy white building with a
solitary tree peeping, in silhouette, above the glazed roof, bore an
odd resemblance to one of those tombs which form a city of the dead so
near to the city of feverish life on the slopes of the Mokattam Hills.
This line of reflection proved unpleasant, and I dismissed it sternly
from my mind.

The shriek of a train-whistle reached me, a sound which breaks the
stillness of the most silent London night, telling of the ceaseless,
febrile life of the great world-capital whose activity ceases not with
the coming of darkness. Around and about us a very great stillness
reigned, however, and the velvet dusk which, with the star-jeweled
sky, was strongly suggestive of an Eastern night--gave up no sign to
show that it masked the presence of more than twenty men. Some
distance away on our right was the Gables, that sinister and deserted
mansion which we assumed, and with good reason, to be nothing less
than the gateway to the subterranean abode of Dr. Fu-Manchu; before us
was the studio, which, if Nayland Smith's deductions were accurate,
concealed a second entrance to the same mysterious dwelling.

As my friend, glancing cautiously all about him, inserted the key in
the lock, an owl hooted dismally almost immediately above our heads. I
caught my breath sharply, for it might be a signal; but, looking
upward, I saw a great black shape float slantingly from the tree
beyond the studio into the coppice on the right which hemmed in the
Gables. Silently the owl winged its uncanny flight into the greater
darkness of the trees, and was gone. Smith opened the door and we
stepped into the studio. Our plans had been well considered, and in
accordance with these, I now moved up beside my friend, who was dimly
perceptible to me in the starlight which found access through the
glass roof, and pressed the catch of my electric pocket-lamp . . .

I suppose that by virtue of my self-imposed duty as chronicler of the
deeds of Dr. Fu-Manchu--the greatest and most evil genius whom the
later centuries have produced, the man who dreamt of an universal
Yellow Empire--I should have acquired a certain facility in describing
bizarre happenings. But I confess that it fails me now as I attempt in
cold English to portray my emotions when the white beam from the
little lamp cut through the darkness of the studio, and shone fully
upon the beautiful face of Karamaneh!

Less than six feet away from me she stood, arrayed in the gauzy dress
of the harem, her fingers and slim white arms laden with barbaric
jewelry! The light wavered in my suddenly nerveless hand, gleaming
momentarily upon bare ankles and golden anklets, upon little red
leather shoes.

I spoke no word, and Smith was as silent as I; both of us, I think,
were speechless rather from amazement than in obedience to the evident
wishes of Fu-Manchu's slave-girl. Yet I have only to close my eyes at
this moment to see her as she stood, one finger raised to her lips,
enjoining us to silence. She looked ghastly pale in the light of the
lamp, but so lovely that my rebellious heart threatened already, to
make a fool of me.

So we stood in that untidy studio, with canvases and easels heaped
against the wall and with all sorts of litter about us, a trio
strangely met, and one to have amused the high gods watching through
the windows of the stars.

"Go back!" came in a whisper from Karamaneh.

I saw the red lips moving and read a dreadful horror in the widely
opened eyes, in those eyes like pools of mystery to taunt the thirsty
soul. The world of realities was slipping past me; I seemed to be
losing my hold on things actual; I had built up an Eastern palace
about myself and Karamaneh wherein, the world shut out, I might pass
the hours in reading the mystery of those dark eyes. Nayland Smith
brought me sharply to my senses.

"Steady with the light, Petrie!" he hissed in my ear. "My skepticism
has been shaken, to-night, but I am taking no chances."

He moved from my side and forward toward that lovely, unreal figure
which stood immediately before the model's throne and its background
of plush curtains. Karamaneh started forward to meet him, suppressing
a little cry, whose real anguish could not have been simulated.

"Go back! go back!" she whispered urgently, and thrust out her hands
against Smith's breast. "For God's sake, go back! I have risked my
life to come here to-night. He knows, and is ready!". . .

The words were spoken with passionate intensity, and Nayland Smith
hesitated. To my nostrils was wafted that faint, delightful perfume
which, since one night, two years ago, it had come to disturb my
senses, had taunted me many times as the mirage taunts the parched
Sahara traveler. I took a step forward.

"Don't move!" snapped Smith.

Karamaneh clutched frenziedly at the lapels of his coat.

"Listen to me!" she said, beseechingly and stamped one little foot
upon the floor--"listen to me! You are a clever man, but you know
nothing of a woman's heart--nothing--nothing--if seeing me, hearing
me, knowing, as you do know, I risk, you can doubt that I speak the
truth. And I tell you that it is death to go behind those curtains--
that he . . ."

"That's what I wanted to know!" snapped Smith. His voice quivered with
excitement.

Suddenly grasping Karamaneh by the waist, he lifted her and set her
aside; then in three bounds he was on to the model's throne and had
torn the Plush curtains bodily from their fastenings.

How it occurred I cannot hope to make dear, for here my recollections
merge into a chaos. I know that Smith seemed to topple forward amid
the purple billows of velvet, and his muffled cry came to me:

"Petrie! My God, Petrie!" . . .

The pale face of Karamaneh looked up into mine and her hands were
clutching me, but the glamour of her personality had lost its hold,
for I knew--heavens, how poignantly it struck home to me!--that
Nayland Smith was gone to his death. What I hoped to achieve, I know
not, but hurling the trembling girl aside, I snatched the Browning
pistol from my coat pocket, and with the ray of the lamp directed upon
the purple mound of velvet, I leaped forward.

I think I realized that the curtains had masked a collapsible trap, a
sheer pit of blackness, an instant before I was precipitated into it,
but certainly the knowlege came too late. With the sound of a soft,
shuddering cry in my ears, I fell, dropping lamp and pistol, and
clutching at the fallen hangings. But they offered me no support. My
head seemed to be bursting; I could utter only a hoarse groan, as I
fell--fell--fell . . .

When my mind began to work again, in returning consciousness, I found
it to be laden with reproach. How often in the past had we blindly
hurled ourselves into just such a trap as this? Should we never learn
that where Fu-Manchu was, impetuosity must prove fatal? On two
distinct occasions in the past we had been made the victims of this
device, yet even although we had had practically conclusive evidence
that this studio was used by Dr. Fu-Manchu, we had relied upon its
floor being as secure as that of any other studio, we had failed to
sound every foot of it ere trusting our weight to its support. . . .

"There is such a divine simplicity in the English mind that one may
lay one's plans with mathematical precision, and rely upon the Nayland
Smiths and Dr. Petries to play their allotted parts. Excepting two
faithful followers, my friends are long since departed. But here, in
these vaults which time has overlooked and which are as secret and as
serviceable to-day as they were two hundred years ago, I wait
patiently, with my trap set, like the spider for the fly! . . ."

To the sound of that taunting voice, I opened my eyes. As I did so I
strove to spring upright--only to realize that I was tied fast to a
heavy ebony chair inlaid with ivory, and attached by means of two iron
brackets to the floor.

"Even children learn from experience," continued the unforgettable
voice, alternately guttural and sibilant, but always as deliberate as
though the speaker were choosing with care words which should
perfectly clothe his thoughts. "For 'a burnt child fears the fire,'
says your English adage. But Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith, who
enjoys the confidence of the India Office, and who is empowered to
control the movements of the Criminal Investigation Department, learns
nothing from experience. He is less than a child, since he has twice
rashly precipitated himself into a chamber charged with an anesthetic
prepared, by a process of my own, from the lycoperdon or Common
Puff-ball."

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