The Hand Of Fu-Manchu

  CHAPTER III

  "SAKYA MUNI"

  The faint disturbance faded into silence again. Across the dead man'sbody I met Smith's gaze. Faint wreaths of fog floated in from theouter room. Beeton clutched the foot of the bed, and the structureshook in sympathy with his wild trembling. That was the only soundnow; there was absolutely nothing physical so far as my memory servesto signalize the coming of the brown man.

  Yet, stealthy as his approach had been, something must have warned us.For suddenly, with one accord, we three turned upon the bed, andstared out into the room from which the fog wreaths floated in.

  Beeton stood nearest to the door, but, although he turned, he did notgo out, but with a smothered cry crouched back against the bed. Smithit was who moved first, then I followed, and close upon his heelsburst into the disordered sitting-room. The outer door had been closedbut not bolted, and what with the tinted light, diffused through thesilken Japanese shade, and the presence of fog in the room, I wasalmost tempted to believe myself the victim of a delusion. What I sawor thought I saw was this:--

  A tall screen stood immediately inside the door, and around its end,like some materialization of the choking mist, glided a lithe, yellowfigure, a slim, crouching figure, wearing a sort of loose robe. Animpression I had of jet-black hair, protruding from beneath a littlecap, of finely chiseled features and great, luminous eyes, then, withno sound to tell of a door opened or shut, the apparition was gone.

  "You saw him, Petrie!--you saw him!" cried Smith.

  In three bounds he was across the room, had tossed the screen asideand thrown open the door. Out he sprang into the yellow haze of thecorridor, tripped, and, uttering a cry of pain, fell sprawling uponthe marble floor. Hot with apprehension I joined him, but he lookedup with a wry smile and began furiously rubbing his left shin.

  "A queer trick, Petrie," he said, rising to his feet; "butnevertheless effective."

  He pointed to the object which had occasioned his fall. It was a smallmetal chest, evidently of very considerable weight, and it stoodimmediately outside the door of Number 14a.

  "That was what he came for, sir! That was what he came for! You weretoo quick for him!"

  Beeton stood behind us, his horror-bright eyes fixed upon the box.

  "Eh?" rapped Smith, turning upon him.

  "That's what Sir Gregory brought to England," the man ran on almosthysterically; "that's what he's been guarding this past two weeks,night and day, crouching over it with a loaded pistol. That's whatcost him his life, sir. He's had no peace, day or night, since hegot it...."

  We were inside the room again now, Smith bearing the coffer in hisarms, and still the man ran on:

  "He's never slept for more than an hour at a time, that I know of, forweeks past. Since the day we came here he hasn't spoken to anotherliving soul, and he's lain there on the floor at night with his headon that brass box, and sat watching over it all day."

  "'Beeton!' he'd cry out, perhaps in the middle of the night--'Beeton--do you hear that damned woman!' But although I'd begun to think Icould hear something, I believe it was the constant strain working onmy nerves and nothing else at all.

  "Then he was always listening out for some one he called 'the man withthe limp.' Five and six times a night he'd have me up to listen withhim. 'There he goes, Beeton!' he'd whisper, crouching with his earpressed flat to the door. 'Do you hear him dragging himself along?'

  "God knows how I've stood it as I have; for I've known no peace sincewe left China. Once we got here I thought it would be better, but it'sbeen worse.

  "Gentlemen have come (from the India Office, I believe), but he wouldnot see them. Said he would see no one but Mr. Nayland Smith. He hadnever lain in his bed until to-night, but what with taking no properfood nor sleep, and some secret trouble that was killing him by inches,he collapsed altogether a while ago, and I carried him in and laid himon the bed as I told you. Now he's dead--now he's dead."

  Beeton leant up against the mantelpiece and buried his face in hishands, whilst his shoulders shook convulsively. He had evidently beengreatly attached to his master, and I found something very pathetic inthis breakdown of a physically strong man. Smith laid his hands uponhis shoulders.

  "You have passed through a very trying ordeal," he said, "and no mancould have done his duty better; but forces beyond your control haveproved too strong for you. I am Nayland Smith."

  The man spun around with a surprising expression of relief upon hispale face.

  "So that whatever can be done," continued my friend, "to carry outyour master's wishes, will be done now. Rely upon it. Go into yourroom and lie down until we call you."

  "Thank you, sir, and thank God you are here," said Beeton dazedly, andwith one hand raised to his head he went, obediently, to the smallerbedroom and disappeared within.

  "Now, Petrie," rapped Smith, glancing around the littered floor,"since I am empowered to deal with this matter as I see fit, and sinceyou are a medical man, we can devote the next half-hour, at any rate,to a strictly confidential inquiry into this most perplexing case. Ipropose that you examine the body for any evidences that may assistyou determining the cause of death, whilst I make a few inquiries here."

  I nodded, without speaking, and went into the bedroom. It contained notone solitary item of the dead man's belongings, and in every way boreout Beeton's statement that Sir Gregory had never inhabited it. I bentover Hale, as he lay fully dressed upon the bed.

  Saving the singularity of the symptom which had immediately precededdeath--viz., the paralysis of the muscles of articulation--I shouldhave felt disposed to ascribe his end to sheer inanition; and acursory examination brought to light nothing contradictory to thatview. Not being prepared to proceed further in the matter at the momentI was about to rejoin Smith, whom I could hear rummaging about amongstthe litter of the outer room, when I made a curious discovery.

  Lying in a fold of the disordered bed linen were a few petals of somekind of blossom, three of them still attached to a fragment of slenderstalk.

  I collected the tiny petals, mechanically, and held them in the palmof my hand studying them for some moments before the mystery of theirpresence there became fully appreciable to me. Then I began to wonder.The petals (which I was disposed to class as belonging to some speciesof _Curcas_ or Physic Nut), though bruised, were fresh, and thereforecould not have been in the room for many hours. How had they beenintroduced, and by whom? Above all, what could their presence thereat that time portend?

  "Smith," I called, and walked towards the door carrying the mysteriousfragments in my palm. "Look what I have found upon the bed."

  Nayland Smith, who was bending over an open despatch case which he hadplaced upon a chair, turned--and his glance fell upon the petals andtiny piece of stem.

  I think I have never seen so sudden a change of expression take placein the face of any man. Even in that imperfect light I saw him blanch.I saw a hard glitter come into his eyes. He spoke, evenly, but hoarsely:

  "Put those things down----there, on the table; anywhere."

  I obeyed him without demur; for something in his manner had chilled mewith foreboding.

  "You did not break that stalk?"

  "No. I found it as you see it."

  "Have you smelled the petals?"

  I shook my head. Thereupon, having his eyes fixed upon me with thestrangest expression in their gray depths, Nayland Smith said asingular thing.

  "Pronounce, slowly, the words _Sakya Muni,_'" he directed.

  I stared at him, scarce crediting my senses; but----

  "I mean it!" he rapped. "Do as I tell you."

  "Sakya Muni," I said, in ever increasing wonder.

  Smith laughed unmirthfully.

  "Go into the bathroom and thoroughly wash your hands," was his nextorder. "Renew the water at least three times." As I turned to fulfillhis instructions, for I doubted no longer his deadly earnestness:"Beeton!" he called.

  Beeton, very white-faced and shaky, came out from the bedroom as I
entered the bathroom, and whist I proceeded carefully to cleanse myhands I heard Smith interrogating him.

  "Have any flowers been brought into the room today, Beeton?"

  "Flowers, sir? Certainly not. Nothing has ever been brought in herebut what I have brought myself."

  "You are certain of that?"

  "Positive."

  "Who brought up the meals, then?"

  "If you'll look into my room here, sir, you'll see that I have enoughtinned and bottled stuff to last us for weeks. Sir Gregory sent me outto buy it on the day we arrived. No one else had left or entered theserooms until you came to-night."

  I returned to find Nayland Smith standing tugging at the lobe of hisleft ear in evident perplexity. He turned to me.

  "I find my hands over full," he said. "Will you oblige me bytelephoning for Inspector Weymouth? Also, I should be glad if youwould ask M. Samarkan, the manager, to see me here immediately."

  As I was about to quit the room--

  "Not a word of our suspicions to M. Samarkan," he added; "not a wordabout the brass box."

  I was far along the corridor ere I remembered that which, rememberedearlier, had saved me the journey. There was a telephone in every suite.However, I was not indisposed to avail myself of an opportunity for afew moments' undisturbed reflection, and, avoiding the lift, Idescended by the broad, marble staircase.

  To what strange adventure were we committed? What did the brass coffercontain which Sir Gregory had guarded night and day? Somethingassociated in some way with Tibet, something which he believed to be"the key of India" and which had brought in its train, presumably,the sinister "man with a limp."

  Who was the "man with the limp"? What was the Si-Fan? Lastly, by whatconceivable means could the flower, which my friend evidently regardedwith extreme horror, have been introduced into Hale's room, and whyhad I been required to pronounce the words "Sakya Muni"?

  So ran my reflections--at random and to no clear end; and, as is oftenthe case in such circumstances, my steps bore them company; so thatall at once I became aware that instead of having gained the lobby ofthe hotel, I had taken some wrong turning and was in a part of thebuilding entirely unfamiliar to me.

  A long corridor of the inevitable white marble extended far behind me.I had evidently traversed it. Before me was a heavily curtained archway.Irritably, I pulled the curtain aside, learnt that it masked aglass-paneled door, opened this door--and found myself in a smallcourt, dimly lighted and redolent of some pungent, incense-like perfume.

  One step forward I took, then pulled up abruptly. A sound had come tomy ears. From a second curtained doorway, close to my right hand, itcame--a sound of muffled _tapping_, together with that of somethingwhich dragged upon the floor.

  Within my brain the words seemed audibly to form: "The man withthe limp!"

  I sprang to the door; I had my hand upon the drapery ... when a womanstepped out, barring the way!

  No impression, not even a vague one, did I form of her costume, savethat she wore a green silk shawl, embroidered with raised whitefigures of birds, thrown over her head and shoulders and draped insuch fashion that part of her face was concealed. I was transfixedby the vindictive glare of her eyes, of her huge dark eyes.

  They were ablaze with anger--but it was not this expression withinthem which struck me so forcibly as the fact that they were in someway familiar.

  Motionless, we faced one another. Then--

  "You go away," said the woman--at the same time extending her armsacross the doorway as barriers to my progress.

  Her voice had a husky intonation; her hands and arms, which were bareand of old ivory hue, were laden with barbaric jewelry, much of ittawdry silverware of the bazaars. Clearly she was a half-caste of somekind, probably a Eurasian.

  I hesitated. The sounds of dragging and tapping had ceased. But thepresence of this grotesque Oriental figure only increased my anxietyto pass the doorway. I looked steadily into the black eyes; they lookedinto mine unflinchingly.

  "You go away, please," repeated the woman, raising her right hand andpointing to the door whereby I had entered. "These private rooms. Whatyou doing here?"

  Her words, despite her broken English, served to recall to me the factthat I was, beyond doubt, a trespasser! By what right did I presume toforce my way into other people's apartments?

  "There is some one in there whom I must see," I said, realizing,however, that my chance of doing so was poor.

  "You see nobody," she snapped back uncompromisingly. "You go away!"

  She took a step towards me, continuing to point to the door. Where hadI previously encountered the glance of those splendid, savage eyes?

  So engaged was I with this taunting, partial memory, and so sure, ifthe woman would but uncover her face, of instantly recognizing her,that still I hesitated. Whereupon, glancing rapidly over her shoulderinto whatever place lay beyond the curtained doorway, she suddenlystepped back and vanished, drawing the curtains to with an angry jerk.

  I heard her retiring footsteps; then came a loud bang. If her objectin intercepting me had been to cover the slow retreat of some one shehad succeeded.

  Recognizing that I had cut a truly sorry figure in the encounter, Iretraced my steps.

  By what route I ultimately regained the main staircase I have no idea;for my mind was busy with that taunting memory of the two dark eyeslooking out from the folds of the green embroidered shawl. Where, andwhen, had I met their glance before?

  To that problem I sought an answer in vain.

  The message despatched to New Scotland Yard, I found M. Samarkan, longfamous as a _maitre d' hotel_ in Cairo, and now host of London'snewest and most palatial _khan_. Portly, and wearing a gray imperial,M. Samarkan had the manners of a courtier, and the smile of a true Greek.

  I told him what was necessary, and no more, desiring him to go tosuite 14a without delay and also without arousing unnecessaryattention. I dropped no hint of foul play, but M. Samarkan expressedprofound (and professional) regret that so distinguished, thoughunprofitable, a patron should have selected the New Louvre, thusearly in its history, as the terminus of his career.

  "By the way," I said, "have you Oriental guests with you, at the moment?"

  "No, monsieur," he assured me.

  "Not a certain Oriental lady?" I persisted.

  M. Samarkan slowly shook his head.

  "Possibly monsieur has seen one of the _ayahs?_ There are severalAnglo-Indian families resident in the New Louvre at present."

  An _ayah?_ It was just possible, of course. Yet ...

  CHAPTER IV

  THE FLOWER OF SILENCE

  "We are dealing now," said Nayland Smith, pacing restlessly up anddown our sitting-room, "not, as of old, with Dr. Fu-Manchu, but withan entirely unknown quantity--the Si-Fan."

  "For Heaven's sake!" I cried, "what is the Si-Fan?"

  "The greatest mystery of the mysterious East, Petrie. Think. You know,as I know, that a malignant being, Dr. Fu-Manchu, was for some timein England, engaged in 'paving the way' (I believe those words weremy own) for nothing less than a giant Yellow Empire. That dream iswhat millions of Europeans and Americans term 'the Yellow Peril! Verygood. Such an empire needs must have----"

  "An emperor!"

  Nayland Smith stopped his restless pacing immediately in front of me.

  "Why not an _empress_, Petrie!" he rapped.

  His words were something of a verbal thunderbolt; I found myself atloss for any suitable reply.

  "You will perhaps remind me," he continued rapidly, "of the lowly placeheld by women in the East. I can cite notable exceptions, ancient andmodern. In fact, a moment's consideration by a hypothetical body ofEastern dynast-makers not of an emperor but of an empress. Finally,there is a persistent tradition throughout the Far East that such awoman will one day rule over the known peoples. I was assured someyears ago, by a very learned pundit, that a princess of incalculablyancient lineage, residing in some secret monastery in Tartary or Tibet,was to be the future empress of
the world. I believe this tradition,or the extensive group who seek to keep it alive and potent, to bewhat is called the Si-Fan!"

  I was past greater amazement; but--

  "This lady can be no longer young, then?" I asked.

  "On the contrary, Petrie, she remains always young and beautiful bymeans of a continuous series of reincarnations; also she thusconserves the collated wisdom of many ages. In short, she is thearchetype of Lamaism. The real secret of Lama celibacy is the existenceof this immaculate ruler, of whom the Grand Lama is merely a highpriest. She has, as attendants, maidens of good family, selected fortheir personal charms, and rendered dumb in order that they may neverreport what they see and hear."

  "Smith!" I cried, "this is utterly incredible!"

  "Her body slaves are not only mute, but blind; for it is death to lookupon her beauty unveiled."

  I stood up impatiently.

  "You are amusing yourself," I said.

  Nayland Smith clapped his hands upon my shoulders, in his ownimpulsive fashion, and looked earnestly into my eyes.

  "Forgive me, old man," he said, "if I have related all these fantasticparticulars as though I gave them credence. Much of this is legendary,I know, some of it mere superstition, but--I am serious now, Petrie--_part of it is true_."

  I stared at the square-cut, sun-tanned face; and no trace of a smilelurked about that grim mouth. "Such a woman may actually exist, Petrie,only in legend; but, nevertheless, she forms the head center of thatgiant conspiracy in which the activities of Dr. Fu-Manchu were merelya part. Hale blundered on to this stupendous business; and from what Ihave gathered from Beeton and what I have seen for myself, it isevident that in yonder coffer"--he pointed to the brass chest standinghard by--"Hale got hold of something indispensable to the success ofthis vast Yellow conspiracy. That he was followed here, to the veryhotel, by agents of this mystic Unknown is evident. But," he addedgrimly, "they have failed in their object!"

  A thousand outrageous possibilities fought for precedence in my mind.

  "Smith!" I cried, "the half-caste woman whom I saw in the hotel ..."

  Nayland Smith shrugged his shoulders.

  "Probably, as M. Samarkan suggests, an _ayah!_" he said; but there wasan odd note in his voice and an odd look in his eyes.

  "Then again, I am almost certain that Hale's warning concerning 'theman with the limp' was no empty one. Shall you open the brass chest?"

  "At present, decidedly _no_. Hale's fate renders his warning one thatI dare not neglect. For I was with him when he died; and they cannotknow how much _I_ know. How did he die? How did he die? How was theFlower of Silence introduced into his closely guarded room?"

  "The Flower of Silence?"

  Smith laughed shortly and unmirthfully.

  "I was once sent for," he said, "during the time that I was stationedin Upper Burma, to see a stranger--a sort of itinerant Buddhist priest,so I understood, who had desired to communicate some message to mepersonally. He was dying--in a dirty hut on the outskirts of Manipur,up in the hills. When I arrived I say at a glance that the man was aTibetan monk. He must have crossed the river and come down throughAssam; but the nature of his message I never knew. He had lost thepower of speech! He was gurgling, inarticulate, just like poor Hale.A few moments after my arrival he breathed his last. The fellow whohad guided me to the place bent over him--I shall always remember thescene--then fell back as though he had stepped upon an adder.

  "'He holds the Flower Silence in his hand!' he cried--'the Si-Fan! theSi-Fan!'--and bolted from the hut."

  "When I went to examine the dead man, sure enough he held in one handa little crumpled spray of flowers. I did not touch it with my fingersnaturally, but I managed to loop a piece of twine around the stem,and by that means I gingerly removed the flowers and carried them toan orchid-hunter of my acquaintance who chanced to be visiting Manipur.

  "Grahame--that was my orchid man's name--pronounced the specimen to bean unclassified species of _jatropha;_ belonging to the _Curcas_family. He discovered a sort of hollow thorn, almost like a fang,amongst the blooms, but was unable to surmise the nature of itsfunctions. He extracted enough of a certain fixed oil from the flowers,however, to have poisoned the pair of us!"

  "Probably the breaking of a bloom ..."

  "Ejects some of this acrid oil through the thorn? Practically theuncanny thing stings when it is hurt? That is my own idea, Petrie. AndI can understand how these Eastern fanatics accept their sentence--silence and death--when they have deserved it, at the hands of theirmysterious organization, and commit this novel form of _hara-kiri_.But I shall not sleep soundly with that brass coffer in my possessionuntil I know by what means Sir Gregory was induced to touch a Flowerof Silence, and by what means it was placed in his room!"

  "But, Smith, why did you direct me to-night to repeat the words,'Sakya Muni'?"

  Smith smiled in a very grim fashion.

  "It was after the episode I have just related that I made theacquaintance of that pundit, some of whose statements I have alreadyquoted for your enlightenment. He admitted that the Flower of Silencewas an instrument frequently employed by a certain group, adding that,according to some authorities, one who had touched the flower mightescape death by immediately pronouncing the sacred name of Buddha. Hewas no fanatic himself, however, and, marking my incredulity, heexplained that the truth was this;--

  "No one whose powers of speech were imperfect could possibly pronouncecorrectly the words 'Sakya Muni.' Therefore, since the firsteffects of this damnable thing is instantly to tie the tongue, theuttering of the sacred name of Buddha becomes practically a testwhereby the victim my learn whether the venom has entered his systemor not!"

  I repressed a shudder. An atmosphere of horror seemed to be envelopingus, foglike.

  "Smith," I said slowly, "we must be on our guard," for at last I hadrun to earth that elusive memory. "Unless I am strangely mistaken,the 'man' who so mysteriously entered Hale's room and the supposed_ayah_ whom I met downstairs are one and the same. Two, at least, ofthe Yellow group are actually here in the New Louvre!"

  The light of the shaded lamp shone down upon the brass coffer on thetable beside me. The fog seemed to have cleared from the room somewhat,but since in the midnight stillness I could detect the muffled soundsof sirens from the river and the reports of fog signals from therailways, I concluded that the night was not yet wholly clear of thechoking mist. In accordance with a pre-arranged scheme we had decidedto guard "the key of India" (whatever it might be) turn and turn aboutthrough the night. In a word--we feared to sleep unguarded. Now mywatch informed me that four o'clock approached, at which hour I wasto arouse Smith and retire to sleep to my own bedroom.

  Nothing had disturbed my vigil--that is, nothing definite. True once,about half an hour earlier, I had thought I heard the dragging andtapping sound from somewhere up above me; but since the corridoroverhead was unfinished and none of the rooms opening upon it yethabitable, I concluded that I had been mistaken. The stairway at theend of our corridor, which communicated with that above, was stillblocked with bags of cement and slabs of marble, in fact.

  Faintly to my ears came the booming of London's clocks, beating outthe hour of four. But still I sat beside the mysterious coffer,indisposed to awaken my friend any sooner than was necessary,particularly since I felt in no way sleepy myself.

  I was to learn a lesson that night: the lesson of strict adherence toa compact. I had arranged to awaken Nayland Smith at four; and becauseI dallied, determined to finish my pipe ere entering his bedroom,almost it happened that Fate placed it beyond my power ever to awakenhim again.

  At ten minutes past four, amid a stillness so intense that thecreaking of my slippers seemed a loud disturbance, I crossed the roomand pushed open the door of Smith's bedroom. It was in darkness, butas I entered I depressed the switch immediately inside the door,lighting the lamp which swung form the center of the ceiling.

  Glancing towards the bed, I immediately perceived that there wassomething diffe
rent in its aspect, but at first I found thisdifference difficult to define. I stood for a moment in doubt. ThenI realized the nature of the change which had taken place.

  A lamp hung above the bed, attached to a movable fitting, whichenabled it to be raised or lowered at the pleasure of the occupant.When Smith had retired he was in no reading mood, and he had not evenlighted the reading-lamp, but had left it pushed high up against theceiling.

  It was the position of this lamp which had changed. For now it swungso low over the pillow that the silken fringe of the shade almosttouched my friend's face as he lay soundly asleep with onelean brown hand outstretched upon the coverlet.

  I stood in the doorway staring, mystified, at this phenomenon; I mighthave stood there without intervening, until intervention had been toolate, were it not that, glancing upward toward the wooden block fromwhich ordinarily the pendant hung, I perceived that no block wasvisible, but only a round, black cavity from which the white flexsupporting the lamp swung out.

  Then, uttering a horse cry which rose unbidden to my lips, I sprangwildly across the room ... for now I had seen something else!

  Attached to one of the four silken tassels which ornamented thelamp-shade, so as almost to rest upon the cheek of the sleeping man,was a little corymb of bloom ... the _Flower of Silence!_

  Grasping the shade with my left hand I seized the flex with my right,and as Smith sprang upright in bed, eyes wildly glaring, I wrenchedwith all my might. Upward my gaze was set; and I glimpsed a yellowhand, with long, pointed finger nails. There came a loud resoundingsnap; an electric spark spat venomously from the circular openingabove the bed; and, with the cord and lamp still fast in my grip, Iwent rolling across the carpet--as the other lamp became instantlyextinguished.

  Dimly I perceived Smith, arrayed in pyjamas, jumping out upon theopposite side of the bed.

  "Petrie, Petrie!" he cried, "where are you? what has happened?"

  A laugh, little short of hysterical, escaped me. I gathered myself upand made for the lighted sitting-room.

  "Quick, Smith!" I said--but I did not recognize my own voice. "Quick--come out of that room."

  I crossed to the settee, and shaking in every limb, sank down upon it.Nayland Smith, still wild-eyed, and his face a mask of bewilderment,came out of the bedroom and stood watching me.

  "For God's sake what has happened, Petrie?" he demanded, and beganclutching at the lobe of his left ear and looking all about the roomdazedly.

  "The Flower of Silence!" I said; "some one has been at work in the topcorridor.... Heaven knows when, for since we engaged these rooms wehave not been much away from them ... the same device as in the caseof poor Hale.... You would have tried to brush the thing away ..."

  A light of understanding began to dawn in my friend's eyes. He drewhimself stiffly upright, and in a loud, harsh voice uttered the words:"Sakya Muni"--and again: "Sakya Muni."

  "Thank God!" I said shakily. "I was not too late."

  Nayland Smith, with much rattling of glass, poured out two stiff pegsfrom the decanter. Then--

  "_Ssh!_what's that?" he whispered.

  He stood, tense, listening, his head cast slightly to one side.

  A very faint sound of shuffling and tapping was perceptible, coming,as I thought, from the incomplete stairway communicating with the uppercorridor.

  "The man with the limp!" whispered Smith.

  He bounded to the door and actually had one hand upon the bolt, whenhe turned, and fixed his gaze upon the brass box.

  "No!" he snapped; "there are occasions when prudence should rule.Neither of us must leave these rooms to-night!"