The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu

  CHAPTER III. THE WIRE JACKET

  I suppose we were not more than a dozen paces from the lamp when weheard the thudding of the motor. The car was backing out!

  It was a desperate moment, for it seemed that we could not fail to bediscovered. Nayland Smith began to look about him, feverishly, for ahiding-place, a quest in which I seconded with equal anxiety. And Fatewas kind to us--doubly kind as after events revealed. A wooden gatebroke the expanse of wall hard by upon the right, and, as the result ofsome recent accident, a ragged gap had been torn in the panels close tothe top.

  The chain of the padlock hung loosely; and in a second Smith was up,with his foot in this as in a stirrup. He threw his arm over the top anddrew himself upright. A second later he was astride the broken gate.

  "Up you come, Petrie!" he said, and reached down his hand to aid me.

  I got my foot into the loop of chain, grasped at a projection in thegatepost and found myself up.

  "There is a crossbar on this side to stand on," said Smith.

  He climbed over and vanished in the darkness. I was still astride thebroken gate when the car turned the corner, slowly, for there was scantyroom; but I was standing upon the bar on the inside and had my headbelow the gap ere the driver could possibly have seen me.

  "Stay where you are until he passes," hissed my companion, below. "Thereis a row of kegs under you."

  The sound of the motor passing outside grew loud--louder--then began todie away. I felt about with my left foot; discerned the top of a keg,and dropped, panting, beside Smith.

  "Phew!" I said--"that was a close thing! Smith--how do we know--"

  "That we have followed the right car?" he interrupted. "Ask yourself thequestion: what would any ordinary man be doing motoring in a place likethis at two o'clock in the morning?"

  "You are right, Smith," I agreed. "Shall we get out again?"

  "Not yet. I have an idea. Look yonder."

  He grasped my arm, turning me in the desired direction.

  Beyond a great expanse of unbroken darkness a ray of moonlight slantedinto the place wherein we stood, spilling its cold radiance upon rows ofkegs.

  "That's another door," continued my friend--I now began dimly toperceive him beside me. "If my calculations are not entirely wrong, itopens on a wharf gate--"

  A steam siren hooted dismally, apparently from quite close at hand.

  "I'm right!" snapped Smith. "That turning leads down to the gate. Comeon, Petrie!"

  He directed the light of the electric torch upon a narrow path throughthe ranks of casks, and led the way to the further door. A good two feetof moonlight showed along the top. I heard Smith straining; then--

  "These kegs are all loaded with grease!" he said, "and I want toreconnoiter over that door."

  "I am leaning on a crate which seems easy to move," I reported. "Yes,it's empty. Lend a hand."

  We grasped the empty crate, and between us, set it up on a solidpedestal of casks. Then Smith mounted to this observation platform and Iscrambled up beside him, and looked down upon the lane outside.

  It terminated as Smith had foreseen at a wharf gate some six feet tothe right of our post. Piled up in the lane beneath us, against thewarehouse door, was a stack of empty casks. Beyond, over the way, was akind of ramshackle building that had possibly been a dwelling-house atsome time. Bills were stuck in the ground-floor window indicating thatthe three floors were to let as offices; so much was discernible in thatreflected moonlight.

  I could hear the tide, lapping upon the wharf, could feel the chill fromthe river and hear the vague noises which, night nor day, never ceaseupon the great commercial waterway.

  "Down!" whispered Smith. "Make no noise! I suspected it. They heard thecar following!"

  I obeyed, clutching at him for support; for I was suddenly dizzy, and myheart was leaping wildly--furiously.

  "You saw her?" he whispered.

  Saw her! yes, I had seen her! And my poor dream-world was toppling aboutme, its cities, ashes and its fairness, dust.

  Peering from the window, her great eyes wondrous in the moonlight andher red lips parted, hair gleaming like burnished foam and her anxiousgaze set upon the corner of the lane--was Karamaneh... Karamaneh whomonce we had rescued from the house of this fiendish Chinese doctor;Karamaneh who had been our ally; in fruitless quest of whom,--when, toolate, I realized how empty my life was become--I had wasted what littleof the world's goods I possessed;--Karamaneh!

  "Poor old Petrie," murmured Smith--"I knew, but I hadn't the heart--Hehas her again--God knows by what chains he holds her. But she's onlya woman, old boy, and women are very much alike--very much alike fromCharing Cross to Pagoda Road."

  He rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment; I am ashamed to confessthat I was trembling; then, clenching my teeth with that mechanicalphysical effort which often accompanies a mental one, I swallowed thebitter draught of Nayland Smith's philosophy. He was raising himself, topeer, cautiously, over the top of the door. I did likewise.

  The window from which the girl had looked was nearly on a level with oureyes, and as I raised my head above the woodwork, I quite distinctlysaw her go out of the room. The door, as she opened it, admitted a dulllight, against which her figure showed silhouetted for a moment. Thenthe door was reclosed.

  "We must risk the other windows," rapped Smith.

  Before I had grasped the nature of his plan he was over and had droppedalmost noiselessly upon the casks outside. Again I followed his lead.

  "You are not going to attempt anything, singlehanded--against him?" Iasked.

  "Petrie--Eltham is in that house. He has been brought here to be putto the question, in the medieval, and Chinese, sense! Is there time tosummon assistance?"

  I shuddered. This had been in my mind, certainly, but so expressed itwas definitely horrible--revolting, yet stimulating.

  "You have the pistol," added Smith--"follow closely, and quietly."

  He walked across the tops of the casks and leaped down, pointing to thatnearest to the closed door of the house. I helped him place it under theopen window. A second we set beside it, and, not without some noise, gota third on top.

  Smith mounted.

  His jaw muscles were very prominent and his eyes shone like steel; buthe was as cool as though he were about to enter a theater and not theden of the most stupendous genius who ever worked for evil. I wouldforgive any man who, knowing Dr. Fu-Manchu, feared him; I feared himmyself--feared him as one fears a scorpion; but when Nayland Smithhauled himself up on the wooden ledge above the door and swung thenceinto the darkened room, I followed and was in close upon his heels. ButI admired him, for he had every ampere of his self-possession in hand;my own case was different.

  He spoke close to my ear.

  "Is your hand steady? We may have to shoot."

  I thought of Karamaneh, of lovely dark-eyed Karamaneh whom thiswonderful, evil product of secret China had stolen from me--for so I nowadjudged it.

  "Rely upon me!" I said grimly. "I..."

  The words ceased--frozen on my tongue.

  There are things that one seeks to forget, but it is my lot often toremember the sound which at that moment literally struck me rigid withhorror. Yet it was only a groan; but, merciful God! I pray that it maynever be my lot to listen to such a groan again.

  Smith drew a sibilant breath.

  "It's Eltham!" he whispered hoarsely--"they're torturing--"

  "No, no!" screamed a woman's voice--a voice that thrilled me anew, butwith another emotion--

  "Not that, not--"

  I distinctly heard the sound of a blow. Followed a sort of vaguescuffling. A door somewhere at the back of the house opened--and shutagain. Some one was coming along the passage toward us!

  "Stand back!" Smith's voice was low, but perfectly steady. "Leave it tome!"

  Nearer came the footsteps and nearer. I could hear suppressed sobs. Thedoor opened, admitting again the faint light--and Karamaneh came in. Theplace was quite unfurnished, offering n
o possibility of hiding; but tohide was unnecessary.

  Her slim figure had not crossed the threshold ere Smith had his armabout the girl's waist and one hand clapped to her mouth. A stifled gaspshe uttered, and he lifted her into the room.

  I stepped forward and closed the door. A faint perfume stole to mynostrils--a vague, elusive breath of the East, reminiscent of strangedays that, now, seemed to belong to a remote past. Karamaneh! thatfaint, indefinable perfume was part of her dainty personality; it mayappear absurd--impossible--but many and many a time I had dreamt of it.

  "In my breast pocket," rapped Smith; "the light."

  I bent over the girl as he held her. She was quite still, but I couldhave wished that I had had more certain mastery of myself. I took thetorch from Smith's pocket, and, mechanically, directed it upon thecaptive.

  She was dressed very plainly, wearing a simple blue skirt, and whiteblouse. It was easy to divine that it was she whom Eltham had mistakenfor a French maid. A brooch set with a ruby was pinned at the pointwhere the blouse opened--gleaming fierily and harshly against the softskin. Her face was pale and her eyes wide with fear.

  "There is some cord in my right-hand pocket," said Smith; "I cameprovided. Tie her wrists."

  I obeyed him, silently. The girl offered no resistance, but I thinkI never essayed a less congenial task than that of binding her whitewrists. The jeweled fingers lay quite listlessly in my own.

  "Make a good job of it!" rapped Smith, significantly.

  A flush rose to my cheeks, for I knew well enough what he meant.

  "She is fastened," I said, and I turned the ray of the torch upon heragain.

  Smith removed his hand from her mouth but did not relax his grip of her.She looked up at me with eyes in which I could have sworn there was norecognition. But a flush momentarily swept over her face, and left itpale again.

  "We shall have to--gag her--"

  "Smith, I can't do it!"

  The girl's eyes filled with tears and she looked up at my companionpitifully.

  "Please don't be cruel to me," she whispered, with that soft accentwhich always played havoc with my composure. "Every one--every one-iscruel to me. I will promise--indeed I will swear, to be quiet. Oh,believe me, if you can save him I will do nothing to hinder you." Herbeautiful head drooped. "Have some pity for me as well."

  "Karamaneh" I said. "We would have believed you once. We cannot, now."

  She started violently.

  "You know my name!" Her voice was barely audible. "Yet I have never seenyou in my life--"

  "See if the door locks," interrupted Smith harshly.

  Dazed by the apparent sincerity in the voice of our lovelycaptive--vacant from wonder of it all--I opened the door, felt for, andfound, a key.

  We left Karamaneh crouching against the wall; her great eyes were turnedtowards me fascinatedly. Smith locked the door with much care. We begana tip-toed progress along the dimly lighted passage.

  From beneath a door on the left, and near the end, a brighter lightshone. Beyond that again was another door. A voice was speaking in thelighted room; yet I could have sworn that Karamaneh had come, not fromthere but from the room beyond--from the far end of the passage.

  But the voice!--who, having once heard it, could ever mistake thatsingular voice, alternately guttural and sibilant!

  Dr. Fu-Manchu was speaking!

  "I have asked you," came with ever-increasing clearness (Smith had begunto turn the knob), "to reveal to me the name of your correspondent inNan-Yang. I have suggested that he may be the Mandarin Yen-Sun-Yat, butyou have declined to confirm me. Yet I know" (Smith had the door opena good three inches and was peering in) "that some official, some highofficial, is a traitor. Am I to resort again to the question to learnhis name?"

  Ice seemed to enter my veins at the unseen inquisitor's intonation ofthe words "the question." This was the Twentieth Century, yet there, inthat damnable room...

  Smith threw the door open.

  Through a sort of haze, born mostly of horror, but not entirely, I sawEltham, stripped to the waist and tied, with his arms upstretched, to arafter in the ancient ceiling. A Chinaman who wore a slop-shop blue suitand who held an open knife in his hand, stood beside him. Eltham wasghastly white. The appearance of his chest puzzled me momentarily, thenI realized that a sort of tourniquet of wire-netting was screwed sotightly about him that the flesh swelled out in knobs through the mesh.There was blood--

  "God in heaven!" screamed Smith frenziedly--"they have the wire-jacketon him! Shoot down that damned Chinaman, Petrie! Shoot! Shoot!"

  Lithely as a cat the man with the knife leaped around--but I raised theBrowning, and deliberately--with a cool deliberation that came to mesuddenly--shot him through the head. I saw his oblique eyes turn up tothe whites; I saw the mark squarely between his brows; and with no wordnor cry he sank to his knees and toppled forward with one yellow handbeneath him and one outstretched, clutching--clutching--convulsively.His pigtail came unfastened and began to uncoil, slowly, like a snake.

  I handed the pistol to Smith; I was perfectly cool, now; and I leapedforward, took up the bloody knife from the floor and cut Eltham'slashings. He sank into my arms.

  "Praise God," he murmured, weakly. "He is more merciful to me thanperhaps I deserve. Unscrew... the jacket, Petrie... I think ... I wasvery near to.... weakening. Praise the good God, Who... gave me...fortitude..."

  I got the screw of the accursed thing loosened, but the act of removingthe jacket was too agonizing for Eltham--man of iron though he was. Ilaid him swooning on the floor.

  "Where is Fu-Manchu?"

  Nayland Smith, from just within the door, threw out the query in a toneof stark amaze. I stood up--I could do nothing more for the poor victimat the moment--and looked about me. The room was innocent of furniture,save for heaps of rubbish on the floor, and a tin oil-lamp hung, onthe wall. The dead Chinaman lay close beside Smith. There was no seconddoor, the one window was barred, and from this room we had heard thevoice, the unmistakable, unforgettable voice, of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there!

  Neither of us could accept the fact for a moment; we stood there,looking from the dead man to the tortured man who only swooned, in astate of helpless incredulity.

  Then the explanation flashed upon us both, simultaneously, and with acry of baffled rage Smith leaped along the passage to the second door.It was wide open. I stood at his elbow when he swept its emptiness withthe ray of his pocket-lamp.

  There was a speaking-tube fixed between the two rooms!

  Smith literally ground his teeth.

  "Yet, Petrie," he said, "we have learnt something. Fu-Manchu hadevidently promised Eltham his life if he would divulge the name ofhis correspondent. He meant to keep his word; it is a sidelight on hischaracter."

  "How so?"

  "Eltham has never seen Dr. Fu-Manchu, but Eltham knows certain parts ofChina better than you know the Strand. Probably, if he saw Fu-Manchu, hewould recognize him for who he really is, and this, it seems, the Doctoris anxious to avoid."

  We ran back to where we had left Karamaneh.

  The room was empty!

  "Defeated, Petrie!" said Smith, bitterly. "The Yellow Devil is loosed onLondon again!"

  He leaned from the window and the skirl of a police whistle split thestillness of the night.