Читать книгу THE DEVIL DOCTOR - Sax Rohmer - Страница 6

Such were the episodes that marked the coming of Dr. Fu-Manchu to

London, that awakened fears long dormant and reopened old wounds--nay,

poured poison into them. I strove desperately, by close attention to

my professional duties, to banish the very memory of Kâramanèh from my

mind; desperately, but how vainly! Peace was for me no more, joy was

gone from the world, and only mockery remained as my portion.

Poor Eltham we had placed in a nursing establishment, where his

indescribable hurts could be properly tended; and his uncomplaining

fortitude not infrequently made me thoroughly ashamed of myself.

Needless to say, Smith had made such other arrangements as were

necessary to safeguard the injured man, and these proved so successful

that the malignant being whose plans they thwarted abandoned his

designs upon the heroic clergyman and directed his attention

elsewhere, as I must now proceed to relate.

Dusk always brought with it a cloud of apprehension, for darkness must

ever be the ally of crime; and it was one night, long after the clocks

had struck the mystic hour, "when churchyards yawn," that the hand of

Dr. Fu-Manchu again stretched out to grasp a victim. I was dismissing

a chance patient.

"Good night, Dr. Petrie," he said.

"Good night, Mr. Forsyth," I replied; and having conducted my late

visitor to the door, I closed and bolted it, switched off the light,

and went upstairs.

My patient was chief officer of one of the P. and O. boats. He had cut

his hand rather badly on the homeward run, and signs of poisoning

having developed, had called to have the wound treated, apologizing

for troubling me at so late an hour, but explaining that he had only

just come from the docks. The hall clock announced the hour of one as

I ascended the stairs. I found myself wondering what there was in Mr.

Forsyth's appearance which excited some vague and elusive memory.

Coming to the top floor, I opened the door of a front bedroom and was

surprised to find the interior in darkness.

"Smith!" I called.

"Come here and watch!" was the terse response.

Nayland Smith was sitting in the dark at the open window and peering

out across the common. Even as I saw him, a dim silhouette, I could

detect that tensity in his attitude which told of high-strung nerves.

I joined him.

"What is it?" I asked curiously.

"I don't know. Watch that clump of elms."

His masterful voice had the dry tone in it betokening excitement. I

leaned on the ledge beside him and looked out. The blaze of stars

almost compensated for the absence of the moon, and the night had a

quality of stillness that made for awe. This was a tropical summer,

and the common, with its dancing lights dotted irregularly about it,

had an unfamiliar look to-night. The clump of nine elms showed as a

dense and irregular mass, lacking detail.

Such moods as that which now claimed my friend are magnetic. I had no

thought of the night's beauty, for it only served to remind me that

somewhere amid London's millions was lurking an uncanny being, whose

life was a mystery, whose very existence was a scientific miracle.

"Where's your patient?" rapped Smith.

His abrupt query diverted my thoughts into a new channel. No footstep

disturbed the silence of the high-road. Where _was_ my patient?

I craned from the window. Smith grabbed my arm.

"Don't lean out," he said.

I drew back, glancing at him surprisedly.

"For Heaven's sake, why not?"

"I'll tell you presently, Petrie. Did you see him?"

"I did, and I can't make out what he is doing. He seems to have

remained standing at the gate for some reason."

"He has seen it!" snapped Smith. "Watch those elms."

His hand remained upon my arm, gripping it nervously. Shall I say that

I was surprised? I can say it with truth. But I shall add that I was

thrilled, eerily; for this subdued excitement and alert watching of

Smith's could only mean one thing:

Fu-Manchu!

And that was enough to set me watching as keenly as he; to set me

listening, not only for sounds outside the house but for sounds

within. Doubts, suspicions, dreads heaped themselves up in my mind.

Why was Forsyth standing there at the gate? I had never seen him

before, to my knowledge, yet there was something oddly reminiscent

about the man. Could it be that his visit formed part of a plot? Yet

his wound had been genuine enough. Thus my mind worked, feverishly;

such was the effect of an unspoken thought--Fu-Manchu.

Nayland Smith's grip tightened on my arm.

"There it is again, Petrie!" he whispered. "Look, look!"

His words were wholly unnecessary. I, too, had seen it; a wonderful

and uncanny sight. Out of the darkness under the elms, low down upon

the ground, grew a vaporous blue light. It flared up, elfinish, then

began to ascend. Like an igneous phantom, a witch flame, it rose,

higher, higher, higher, to what I adjudged to be some twelve feet or

more from the ground. Then, high in the air, it died away again as it

had come!

"For God's sake, Smith, what was it?"

"Don't ask me, Petrie. I have seen it twice. We--"

He paused. Rapid footsteps sounded below. Over Smith's shoulder I saw

Forsyth cross the road, climb the low rail, and set out across the

common.

Smith sprang impetuously to his feet.

"We must stop him!" he said hoarsely; then, clapping a hand to my

mouth as I was about to call out--"Not a sound, Petrie!"

He ran out of the room and went blundering downstairs in the dark,

crying:

"Out through the garden--the side entrance!"

I overtook him as he threw wide the door of my dispensing room.

Through he ran and opened the door at the other end. I followed him

out, closing it behind me. The smell from some tobacco plants in a

neighbouring flower-bed was faintly perceptible; no breeze stirred;

and in the great silence I could hear Smith, in front of me, tugging

at the bolt of the gate.

Then he had it open, and I stepped out, close on his heels, and left

the door ajar.

"We must not appear to have come from your house," explained Smith

rapidly. "I will go along to the high-road and cross to the common a

hundred yards up, where there is a pathway, as though homeward bound

to the north side. Give me half a minute's start, then you proceed in

an opposite direction and cross from the corner of the next road.

Directly you are out of the light of the street lamps, get over the

rails and run for the elms!"

He thrust a pistol into my hand and was off.

While he had been with me, speaking in that incisive impetuous way of

his, his dark face close to mine, and his eyes gleaming like steel, I

had been at one with him in his feverish mood, but now, when I stood

alone in that staid and respectable by-way, holding a loaded pistol in

my hand, the whole thing became utterly unreal.

It was in an odd frame of mind that I walked to the next corner, as

directed, for I was thinking, not of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the great and evil

man who dreamed of Europe and America under Chinese rule, not of

Nayland Smith, who alone stood between the Chinaman and the

realization of his monstrous schemes, not even of Kâramanèh, the slave

girl, whose glorious beauty was a weapon of might in Fu-Manchu's

hand, but of what impression I must have made upon a patient had I

encountered one then.

Such were my ideas up to the moment that I crossed to the common and

vaulted into the field on my right. As I began to run toward the elms

I found myself wondering what it was all about, and for what we were

come. Fifty yards west of the trees it occurred to me that if Smith

had counted on cutting Forsyth off we were too late, for it appeared

to me that he must already be in the coppice.

I was right. Twenty paces more I ran, and ahead of me, from the elms,

came a sound. Clearly it came through the still air--the eerie hoot of

a nighthawk. I could not recall ever to have heard the cry of that

bird on the common before, but oddly enough I attached little

significance to it until, in the ensuing instant, a most dreadful

scream--a scream in which fear and loathing and anger were hideously

blended--thrilled me with horror.

After that I have no recollection of anything until I found myself

standing by the southernmost elm.

"Smith!" I cried breathlessly. "Smith! my God! where are you?"

As if in answer to my cry came an indescribable sound, a mingled

sobbing and choking. Out from the shadows staggered a ghastly

figure--that of a man whose face appeared to be _streaked_. His eyes

glared at me madly, and he moved the air with his hands like one blind

and insane with fear.

I started back; words died upon my tongue. The figure reeled, and the

man fell babbling and sobbing at my very feet.

Inert I stood, looking down at him. He writhed a moment--and was

still. The silence again became perfect. Then, from somewhere beyond

the elms, Nayland Smith appeared. I did not move. Even when he stood

beside me, I merely stared at him fatuously.

"I let him walk to his death, Petrie," I heard dimly. "God forgive

me--God forgive me!"

The words aroused me.

"Smith"--my voice came as a whisper--"for one awful moment I

thought--"

"So did some one else," he rapped. "Our poor sailor has met the end

designed for _me_, Petrie!"

At that I realized two things: I knew why Forsyth's face had struck me

as being familiar in some puzzling way, and I knew why Forsyth now lay

dead upon the grass. Save that he was a fair man and wore a slight

moustache, he was, in features and build, the double of Nayland Smith!