Читать книгу The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu - Sax Rohmer - Страница 4

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."

"But, Smith, this is almost incredible! What perverted genius controls

this awful secret movement?"

"Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow

like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long,

magnetic eyes of the true cat-green. Invest him with all the cruel

cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect,

with all the resources of science past and present, with all the

resources, if you will, of a wealthy government--which, however,

already has denied all knowledge of his existence. Imagine that awful

being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril

incarnate in one man."