Читать книгу Trail of Fu Manchu - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 13
ОглавлениеSAM PAK OF LIMEHOUSE
Nayland Smith walked up and down his study in Whitehall. Heavy blue curtains were drawn before the windows. Alan Sterling from the depths of an armchair watched him gloomily.
“I am satisfied that the other shells in that vault were occupied by deceased Demurases,” said Sir Denis. “How long the group has had access to that mausoleum, is something we are unlikely ever to know. But doubtless it has served other purposes in the past. The supposed sarcophagus of Isobel Demuras, as I showed you, was no more than a trick box or hiding-place, having a spy-hole by means of which one concealed there could watch what was going on below. It is certain that I have been covered closely for some days past. We were followed to Dr. Norton’s house this evening, and later I was followed to the Home Secretary’s. To make assurance doubly sure, the Doctor planted a spy in the mausoleum.”
He paused, knocking out his pipe in the hearth.
“That knife was meant for me, Sterling,” he said, grimly, “and Dr. Fu Manchu’s thugs rarely miss.”
“It was an act of Providence—the protection of heaven!”
“I agree. The reign of the Mandarin Fu Manchu is drawing to a close. The omens are against him. He smuggled Fleurette from Ambroso’s studio to the cemetery. The device seems elaborate; but consider the difficulty of transporting an insensible girl!”
Sterling jumped up, a lean but athletic figure, clenching and unclenching his sunburned hands.
“Insensible—yes!” he groaned. “How do we know she isn’t—dead....”
“Because all the evidence points the other way. Dr. Fu Manchu is a good gambler; he would never throw away an ace. Consider the sheer brilliance of his asking police protection for Professor Ambroso—that is, for himself!”
“He had not anticipated that it would be continued in London.”
“Possibly not.”
He pressed a bell. A tall, gaunt manservant came in. A leathery quality in his complexion indicated that he had known tropical suns; his face was expressionless as that of a Sioux brave; his small eyes conveyed nothing.
“Set out a cold buffet in the dining-room, Fay,” Nayland Smith directed.
Fay, seeming to divine by means of some extra sense that this completed his instructions, slightly inclined his close-cropped head and went out as silently as he had come in.
The telephone bell rang. Sir Denis took up the instrument, and:
“Yes,” he said; “please show him up at once.” He replaced the receiver. “Gallaho is downstairs. I hope this means that the deceased thug has been identified.”
Sterling’s restlessness was feverish.
“This waiting,” he muttered, “is damnably trying.”
Nayland Smith unscrewed the top of a tobacco jar.
“Get out your pipe,” he snapped. “We’ll have a drink when Gallaho arrives. You don’t have to be jumpy—there’s work ahead, and I’m counting on you.”
Sterling nodded, clenched his white teeth, and plunged into a pocket of his suit for his pipe. At which moment, a bell rang. Sir Denis opened the door, crossed the lobby and faced Chief detective-inspector Gallaho at the very moment that the silent Fay admitted him. He could not wait for the Scotland Yard man to cross the threshold, but:
“Who was he?” he snapped; “do you know?”
“Got his history, sir, such as it is.”
“Good.”
The fog had penetrated to the lift-shaft of the building; wisps floated out on the landing and already were penetrating the lobby. When the inspector had come in:
“Have you had any dinner?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“No, sir. I haven’t had time to think about eating.”
“I thought not. There’s a cold buffet in the dining-room, as I gather we may be late to-night. Am I right?”
“Quite probably, sir.”
“Excellent.”
Sterling had charged his pipe from the tobacco jar, and now Nayland Smith pulled out a tangle of broad-cut mixture and began stuffing it into the hot bowl of his own cracked briar.
“Help yourself to whisky and soda, Inspector,” he said; “it’s on the side table there. Please go ahead.”
Gallaho nodded, took a glass and helped himself to a modest drink, then:
“The dead man has been identified by Detective-sergeant Pether, of K Division,” he went on. “What Pether doesn’t know about the Asiatics isn’t worth knowing. Can I help you, sir?” indicating the decanter.
“Thanks, Inspector—and one for Mr. Sterling while you’re there.”
Gallaho, officiating as butler, continued:
“His real nationality, Pether doesn’t know, but he’s probably Burmese. He always passed for a lascar at Sam Pak’s——”
“Sam Pak’s?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“You’re a bit out of touch with Limehouse, sir,” said Gallaho, handing a tumbler to Sir Denis and one to Sterling. “But Sam Pak’s is a small restaurant frequented by seamen from ships docking in the river. It’s generally known that opium and hashish can be got there. But as its use seems to be confined to the Asiatics, we have never moved. There have been no complaints. Well——” he took a sip of his whisky and soda—“It seems that the dead man was known as ‘Charlie’—apparently he had no other name; and sometimes he used to act as waiter for Sam Pak.”
“Highly important,” murmured Nayland Smith, beginning to walk up and down. “A very strong link, Gallaho. The Doctor’s on the run. His available servants are few, and he’s back in his old haunts. Very significant. Could you give me a brief character sketch of this Sam Pak?”
“I can try, sir. Pether knows him better than I do, but I didn’t bother to bring him along. Let me see ...” He chewed imaginary gum, staring up at the ceiling, then: “Sam Pak is a small, old, very wrinkled Chinaman. He might be any age up to, say, a hundred. He has run this restaurant for the past four years. He has a voice like a tin whistle, and speaks pidgin English.”
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Detective-sergeant Fletcher of K Division retired some years ago, didn’t he?”
“He did, sir,” Gallaho replied, rather startled. “He’s landlord of the George and Dragon in Commercial Road. I happen to know him well.”
“Get through to the George and Dragon,” Nayland Smith directed. “Find out if Fletcher is home, and if so, ask him to come on the line.”
“Very good, sir.... Now?”
“You might as well; I want to think. You can use the telephone in the lobby.”
“Very good, sir.”
Inspector Gallaho went out, carrying his tumbler, and:
“You know,” said Nayland Smith, turning and staring at Sterling, “I have an idea that I know Sam Pak. I believe he is a certain John Ki, who disappeared from Chinatown some years ago. He was one of Fu Manchu’s people, Sterling. I should like to be sure.”
Sterling had lighted his pipe and had dropped back into the big armchair, but his mood was far from restful. He sat there, clutching the arms, watching Sir Denis pacing up and down the carpet. Suddenly:
“On your word of honour, Sir Denis,” he said, “do you think she’s alive?”
Nayland Smith turned and fixed an unflinching gaze upon the speaker.
“On my word of honour,” he replied, “I do.”
“Thank God!” Sterling murmured. “You’re a rock of refuge!”
“He’s well on the run,” Sir Denis continued, grimly, the cold grey-blue eyes alight with suppressed excitement. “He has doubled back to his riverside haunts. He’s finding it difficult to raise funds. The police of Europe are on his tail. He’s a cornered rat, and dangerous. The Mandarin Prince has become the common criminal. I wonder if it’s to be his fate, Sterling, that having threatened the safety of nations, he is to fall captive to an ordinary Metropolitan police officer? That would be poetic justice, indeed. In the past, he has shown them scant mercy.”
Sterling watched the speaker fascinatedly. He radiated vitality; the force within him vibrated through one’s nerves. Only a man who had known Dr. Fu Manchu, as Sterling knew him, could have doubted that the Chinaman’s fate was sealed. But knowing, and appreciating, the genius of the great Eastern physician, Sterling, with optimism crying out for recognition in his heart, was forced to admit that the betting was even. Sir Denis Nayland Smith would have been an impossible adversary for any normal man to pit himself against, but Dr. Fu Manchu was not a normal man. He was a superman, Satan materialized, and one equipped with knowledge which few had ever achieved: a cold, dominating intellect, untrammelled by fleshly ties, a great mind unbound by laws of man.
The silence which fell was only broken by faint ringings of a telephone bell and the distant rumbling of the voice of Inspector Gallaho. Nayland Smith walked up and down. Sterling smoked, and clutched the arms of the chair. Then, Gallaho, still carrying his glass which now was empty, returned.
“I’ve found him, sir,” he reported, “and by great good luck, got him on the ’phone.”
