Читать книгу The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu - Sax Rohmer - Страница 8

A SEEMINGLY drunken voice was droning from a neighboring alleyway as

Smith lurched in hulking fashion to the door of a little shop above

which, crudely painted, were the words:

"SHEN-YAN, Barber."

I shuffled along behind him, and had time to note the box of studs,

German shaving tackle and rolls of twist which lay untidily in the

window ere Smith kicked the door open, clattered down three wooden

steps, and pulled himself up with a jerk, seizing my arm for support.

We stood in a bare and very dirty room, which could only claim kinship

with a civilized shaving-saloon by virtue of the grimy towel thrown

across the back of the solitary chair. A Yiddish theatrical bill of

some kind, illustrated, adorned one of the walls, and another bill, in

what may have been Chinese, completed the decorations. From behind a

curtain heavily brocaded with filth a little Chinaman appeared, dressed

in a loose smock, black trousers and thick-soled slippers, and,

advancing, shook his head vigorously.

"No shavee--no shavee," he chattered, simian fashion, squinting from

one to the other of us with his twinkling eyes. "Too late! Shuttee

shop!"

"Don't you come none of it wi' me!" roared Smith, in a voice of amazing

gruffness, and shook an artificially dirtied fist under the Chinaman's

nose. "Get inside and gimme an' my mate a couple o' pipes. Smokee

pipe, you yellow scum--savvy?"

My friend bent forward and glared into the other's eyes with a

vindictiveness that amazed me, unfamiliar as I was with this form of

gentle persuasion.

"Kop 'old o' that," he said, and thrust a coin into the Chinaman's

yellow paw. "Keep me waitin' an' I'll pull the dam' shop down,

Charlie. You can lay to it."

"No hab got pipee--" began the other.

Smith raised his fist, and Yan capitulated.

"Allee lightee," he said. "Full up--no loom. You come see."

He dived behind the dirty curtain, Smith and I following, and ran up a

dark stair. The next moment I found myself in an atmosphere which was

literally poisonous. It was all but unbreathable, being loaded with

opium fumes. Never before had I experienced anything like it. Every

breath was an effort. A tin oil-lamp on a box in the middle of the

floor dimly illuminated the horrible place, about the walls of which

ten or twelve bunks were ranged and all of them occupied. Most of the

occupants were lying motionless, but one or two were squatting in their

bunks noisily sucking at the little metal pipes. These had not yet

attained to the opium-smoker's Nirvana.

"No loom--samee tella you," said Shen-Yan, complacently testing Smith's

shilling with his yellow, decayed teeth.

Smith walked to a corner and dropped cross-legged, on the floor,

pulling me down with him.

"Two pipe quick," he said. "Plenty room. Two piecee pipe--or plenty

heap trouble."

A dreary voice from one of the bunks came:

"Give 'im a pipe, Charlie, curse yer! an' stop 'is palaver."

Yan performed a curious little shrug, rather of the back than of the

shoulders, and shuffled to the box which bore the smoky lamp. Holding

a needle in the flame, he dipped it, when red-hot, into an old cocoa

tin, and withdrew it with a bead of opium adhering to the end. Slowly

roasting this over the lamp, he dropped it into the bowl of the metal

pipe which he held ready, where it burned with a spirituous blue flame.

"Pass it over," said Smith huskily, and rose on his knees with the

assumed eagerness of a slave to the drug.

Yan handed him the pipe, which he promptly put to his lips, and

prepared another for me.

"Whatever you do, don't inhale any," came Smith's whispered injunction.

It was with a sense of nausea greater even than that occasioned by the

disgusting atmosphere of the den that I took the pipe and pretended to

smoke. Taking my cue from my friend, I allowed my head gradually to

sink lower and lower, until, within a few minutes, I sprawled sideways

on the floor, Smith lying close beside me.

"The ship's sinkin'," droned a voice from one of the bunks. "Look at

the rats."

Yan had noiselessly withdrawn, and I experienced a curious sense of

isolation from my fellows--from the whole of the Western world. My

throat was parched with the fumes, my head ached. The vicious

atmosphere seemed contaminating. I was as one dropped--

Somewhere East of Suez, where the best is like the worst, And there

ain't no Ten Commandments and a man can raise a thirst.

Smith began to whisper softly.

"We have carried it through successfully so far," he said. "I don't

know if you have observed it, but there is a stair just behind you,

half concealed by a ragged curtain. We are near that, and well in the

dark. I have seen nothing suspicious so far--or nothing much. But if

there was anything going forward it would no doubt be delayed until we

new arrivals were well doped. S-SH!"

He pressed my arm to emphasize the warning. Through my half-closed

eyes I perceived a shadowy form near the curtain to which he had

referred. I lay like a log, but my muscles were tensed nervously.

The shadow materialized as the figure moved forward into the room with

a curiously lithe movement.

The smoky lamp in the middle of the place afforded scant illumination,

serving only to indicate sprawling shapes--here an extended hand, brown

or yellow, there a sketchy, corpse-like face; whilst from all about

rose obscene sighings and murmurings in far-away voices--an uncanny,

animal chorus. It was like a glimpse of the Inferno seen by some

Chinese Dante. But so close to us stood the newcomer that I was able

to make out a ghastly parchment face, with small, oblique eyes, and a

misshapen head crowned with a coiled pigtail, surmounting a slight,

hunched body. There was something unnatural, inhuman, about that

masklike face, and something repulsive in the bent shape and the long,

yellow hands clasped one upon the other.

Fu-Manchu, from Smith's account, in no way resembled this crouching

apparition with the death's-head countenance and lithe movements; but

an instinct of some kind told me that we were on the right scent--that

this was one of the doctor's servants. How I came to that conclusion,

I cannot explain; but with no doubt in my mind that this was a member

of the formidable murder group, I saw the yellow man creep nearer,

nearer, silently, bent and peering.

He was watching us.

Of another circumstance I became aware, and a disquieting circumstance.

There were fewer murmurings and sighings from the surrounding bunks.

The presence of the crouching figure had created a sudden semi-silence

in the den, which could only mean that some of the supposed

opium-smokers had merely feigned coma and the approach of coma.

Nayland Smith lay like a dead man, and trusting to the darkness, I,

too, lay prone and still, but watched the evil face bending lower and

lower, until it came within a few inches of my own. I completely

closed my eyes.

Delicate fingers touched my right eyelid. Divining what was coming, I

rolled my eyes up, as the lid was adroitly lifted and lowered again.

The man moved away.

I had saved the situation! And noting anew the hush about me--a hush

in which I fancied many pairs of ears listened--I was glad. For just a

moment I realized fully how, with the place watched back and front, we

yet were cut off, were in the hands of Far Easterns, to some extent in

the power of members of that most inscrutably mysterious race, the

Chinese.

"Good," whispered Smith at my side. "I don't think I could have done

it. He took me on trust after that. My God! what an awful face.

Petrie, it's the hunchback of Cadby's notes. Ah, I thought so. Do you

see that?"

I turned my eyes round as far as was possible. A man had scrambled

down from one of the bunks and was following the bent figure across the

room.

They passed around us quietly, the little yellow man leading, with his

curious, lithe gait, and the other, an impassive Chinaman, following.

The curtain was raised, and I heard footsteps receding on the stairs.

"Don't stir," whispered Smith.

An intense excitement was clearly upon him, and he communicated it to

me. Who was the occupant of the room above?

Footsteps on the stair, and the Chinaman reappeared, recrossed the

floor, and went out. The little, bent man went over to another bunk,

this time leading up the stair one who looked like a lascar.

"Did you see his right hand?" whispered Smith. "A dacoit! They come

here to report and to take orders. Petrie, Dr. Fu-Manchu is up there."

"What shall we do?"--softly.

"Wait. Then we must try to rush the stairs. It would be futile to

bring in the police first. He is sure to have some other exit. I will

give the word while the little yellow devil is down here. You are

nearer and will have to go first, but if the hunchback follows, I can

then deal with him."

Our whispered colloquy was interrupted by the return of the dacoit, who

recrossed the room as the Chinaman had done, and immediately took his

departure. A third man, whom Smith identified as a Malay, ascended the

mysterious stairs, descended, and went out; and a fourth, whose

nationality it was impossible to determine, followed. Then, as the

softly moving usher crossed to a bunk on the right of the outer door--

"Up you go, Petrie," cried Smith, for further delay was dangerous and

further dissimulation useless.

I leaped to my feet. Snatching my revolver from the pocket of the

rough jacket I wore, I bounded to the stair and went blundering up in

complete darkness. A chorus of brutish cries clamored from behind,

with a muffled scream rising above them all. But Nayland Smith was

close behind as I raced along a covered gangway, in a purer air, and at

my heels when I crashed open a door at the end and almost fell into the

room beyond.

What I saw were merely a dirty table, with some odds and ends upon it

of which I was too excited to take note, an oil-lamp swung by a brass

chain above, and a man sitting behind the table. But from the moment

that my gaze rested upon the one who sat there, I think if the place

had been an Aladdin's palace I should have had no eyes for any of its

wonders.

He wore a plain yellow robe, of a hue almost identical with that of his

smooth, hairless countenance. His hands were large, long and bony, and

he held them knuckles upward, and rested his pointed chin upon their

thinness. He had a great, high brow, crowned with sparse,

neutral-colored hair.

Of his face, as it looked out at me over the dirty table, I despair of

writing convincingly. It was that of an archangel of evil, and it was

wholly dominated by the most uncanny eyes that ever reflected a human

soul, for they were narrow and long, very slightly oblique, and of a

brilliant green. But their unique horror lay in a certain filminess

(it made me think of the membrana nictitans in a bird) which, obscuring

them as I threw wide the door, seemed to lift as I actually passed the

threshold, revealing the eyes in all their brilliant iridescence.

I know that I stopped dead, one foot within the room, for the malignant

force of the man was something surpassing my experience. He was

surprised by this sudden intrusion--yes, but no trace of fear showed

upon that wonderful face, only a sort of pitying contempt. And, as I

paused, he rose slowly to his feet, never removing his gaze from mine.

"IT'S FU-MANCHU!" cried Smith over my shoulder, in a voice that was

almost a scream. "IT'S FU-MANCHU! Cover him! Shoot him dead if--"

The conclusion of that sentence I never heard.

Dr. Fu-Manchu reached down beside the table, and the floor slipped from

under me.

One last glimpse I had of the fixed green eyes, and with a scream I was

unable to repress I dropped, dropped, dropped, and plunged into icy

water, which closed over my head.

Vaguely I had seen a spurt of flame, had heard another cry following my

own, a booming sound (the trap), the flat note of a police whistle.

But when I rose to the surface impenetrable darkness enveloped me; I

was spitting filthy, oily liquid from my mouth, and fighting down the

black terror that had me by the throat--terror of the darkness about

me, of the unknown depths beneath me, of the pit into which I was cast

amid stifling stenches and the lapping of tidal water.

"Smith!" I cried. . . . "Help! Help!"

My voice seemed to beat back upon me, yet I was about to cry out again,

when, mustering all my presence of mind and all my failing courage, I

recognized that I had better employment of my energies, and began to

swim straight ahead, desperately determined to face all the horrors of

this place--to die hard if die I must.

A drop of liquid fire fell through the darkness and hissed into the

water beside me!

I felt that, despite my resolution, I was going mad.

Another fiery drop--and another!

I touched a rotting wooden post and slimy timbers. I had reached one

bound of my watery prison. More fire fell from above, and the scream

of hysteria quivered, unuttered, in my throat.

Keeping myself afloat with increasing difficulty in my heavy garments,

I threw my head back and raised my eyes.

No more drops fell, and no more drops would fall; but it was merely a

question of time for the floor to collapse. For it was beginning to

emit a dull, red glow.

The room above me was in flames!

It was drops of burning oil from the lamp, finding passage through the

cracks in the crazy flooring, which had fallen about me--for the death

trap had reclosed, I suppose, mechanically.

My saturated garments were dragging me down, and now I could hear the

flames hungrily eating into the ancient rottenness overhead. Shortly

that cauldron would be loosed upon my head. The glow of the flames

grew brighter . . . and showed me the half-rotten piles upholding the

building, showed me the tidal mark upon the slime-coated walls--showed

me that there was no escape!

By some subterranean duct the foul place was fed from the Thames. By

that duct, with the outgoing tide, my body would pass, in the wake of

Mason, Cadby, and many another victim!

Rusty iron rungs were affixed to one of the walls communicating with a

trap--but the bottom three were missing!

Brighter and brighter grew the awesome light the light of what should

be my funeral pyre--reddening the oily water and adding a new dread to

the whispering, clammy horror of the pit. But something it showed

me . . . a projecting beam a few feet above the water . . . and directly

below the iron ladder!

"Merciful Heaven!" I breathed. "Have I the strength?"

A desire for laughter claimed me with sudden, all but irresistible

force. I knew what it portended and fought it down--grimly, sternly.

My garments weighed upon me like a suit of mail; with my chest aching

dully, my veins throbbing to bursting, I forced tired muscles to work,

and, every stroke an agony, approached the beam. Nearer I swam

. . . nearer. Its shadow fell black upon the water, which now had all

the seeming of a pool of blood. Confused sounds--a remote uproar--came

to my ears. I was nearly spent . . . I was in the shadow of the beam! If

I could throw up one arm. . .

A shrill scream sounded far above me!

"Petrie! Petrie!" (That voice must be Smith's!) "Don't touch the

beam! For God's sake DON'T TOUCH THE BEAM! Keep afloat another few

seconds and I can get to you!"

Another few seconds! Was that possible?

I managed to turn, to raise my throbbing head; and I saw the strangest

sight which that night yet had offered.

Nayland Smith stood upon the lowest iron rung . . . supported by the

hideous, crook-backed Chinaman, who stood upon the rung above!

"I can't reach him!"

It was as Smith hissed the words despairingly that I looked up--and saw

the Chinaman snatch at his coiled pigtail and pull it off! With it

came the wig to which it was attached; and the ghastly yellow mask,

deprived of its fastenings, fell from position! "Here! Here! Be

quick! Oh! be quick! You can lower this to him! Be quick! Be

quick!"

A cloud of hair came falling about the slim shoulders as the speaker

bent to pass this strange lifeline to Smith; and I think it was my

wonder at knowing her for the girl whom that day I had surprised in

Cadby's rooms which saved my life.

For I not only kept afloat, but kept my gaze upturned to that

beautiful, flushed face, and my eyes fixed upon hers--which were wild

with fear . . . for me!

Smith, by some contortion, got the false queue into my grasp, and I,

with the strength of desperation, by that means seized hold upon the

lowest rung. With my friend's arm round me I realized that exhaustion

was even nearer than I had supposed. My last distinct memory is of the

bursting of the floor above and the big burning joist hissing into the

pool beneath us. Its fiery passage, striated with light, disclosed two

sword blades, riveted, edges up along the top of the beam which I had

striven to reach.

"The severed fingers--" I said; and swooned.

How Smith got me through the trap I do not know--nor how we made our

way through the smoke and flames of the narrow passage it opened upon.

My next recollection is of sitting up, with my friend's arm supporting

me and Inspector Ryman holding a glass to my lips.

A bright glare dazzled my eyes. A crowd surged about us, and a clangor

and shouting drew momentarily nearer.

"It's the engines coming," explained Smith, seeing my bewilderment.

"Shen-Yan's is in flames. It was your shot, as you fell through the

trap, broke the oil-lamp."

"Is everybody out?"

"So far as we know."

"Fu-Manchu?"

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

"No one has seen him. There was some door at the back--"

"Do you think he may--"

"No," he said tensely. "Not until I see him lying dead before me shall

I believe it."

Then memory resumed its sway. I struggled to my feet.

"Smith, where is she?" I cried. "Where is she?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"She's given us the slip, Doctor," said Inspector Weymouth, as a

fire-engine came swinging round the corner of the narrow lane. "So has

Mr. Singapore Charlie--and, I'm afraid, somebody else. We've got six

or eight all-sorts, some awake and some asleep, but I suppose we shall

have to let 'em go again. Mr. Smith tells me that the girl was

disguised as a Chinaman. I expect that's why she managed to slip away."

I recalled how I had been dragged from the pit by the false queue, how

the strange discovery which had brought death to poor Cadby had brought

life to me, and I seemed to remember, too, that Smith had dropped it as

he threw his arm about me on the ladder. Her mask the girl might have

retained, but her wig, I felt certain, had been dropped into the water.

It was later that night, when the brigade still were playing upon the

blackened shell of what had been Shen-Yan's opium-shop, and Smith and I

were speeding away in a cab from the scene of God knows how many

crimes, that I had an idea.

"Smith," I said, "did you bring the pigtail with you that was found on

Cadby?"

"Yes. I had hoped to meet the owner."

"Have you got it now?"

"No. I met the owner."

I thrust my hands deep into the pockets of the big pea-jacket lent to

me by Inspector Ryman, leaning back in my corner.

"We shall never really excel at this business," continued Nayland

Smith. "We are far too sentimental. I knew what it meant to us,

Petrie, what it meant to the world, but I hadn't the heart. I owed her

your life--I had to square the account."