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Sax Rohmer - The Hand Of Fu Manchu

S >> Sax Rohmer >> The Hand Of Fu Manchu



THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU

Being a New Phase in the Activities of Fu-Manchu, the Devil Doctor

by

SAX ROHMER







THE HAND OF FU MANCHU



CHAPTER I

THE TRAVELER FROM TIBET


"Who's there?" I called sharply.

I turned and looked across the room. The window had been widely opened
when I entered, and a faint fog haze hung in the apartment, seeming to
veil the light of the shaded lamp. I watched the closed door intently,
expecting every moment to see the knob turn. But nothing happened.

"Who's there?" I cried again, and, crossing the room, I threw open the
door.

The long corridor without, lighted only by one inhospitable lamp at a
remote end, showed choked and yellowed with this same fog so
characteristic of London in November. But nothing moved to right nor
left of me. The New Louvre Hotel was in some respects yet incomplete,
and the long passage in which I stood, despite its marble facings, had
no air of comfort or good cheer; palatial it was, but inhospitable.

I returned to the room, reclosing the door behind me, then for some
five minutes or more I stood listening for a repetition of that
mysterious sound, as of something that both dragged and tapped, which
already had arrested my attention. My vigilance went unrewarded. I
had closed the window to exclude the yellow mist, but subconsciously I
was aware of its encircling presence, walling me in, and now I found
myself in such a silence as I had known in deserts but could scarce
have deemed possible in fog-bound London, in the heart of the world's
metropolis, with the traffic of the Strand below me upon one side and
the restless life of the river upon the other.

It was easy to conclude that I had been mistaken, that my nervous
system was somewhat overwrought as a result of my hurried return from
Cairo--from Cairo where I had left behind me many a fondly cherished
hope. I addressed myself again to the task of unpacking my
steamer-trunk and was so engaged when again a sound in the corridor
outside brought me upright with a jerk.

A quick footstep approached the door, and there came a muffled rapping
upon the panel.

This time I asked no question, but leapt across the room and threw the
door open. Nayland Smith stood before me, muffled up in a heavy
traveling coat, and with his hat pulled down over his brows.

"At last!" I cried, as my friend stepped in and quickly reclosed the
door.

Smith threw his hat upon the settee, stripped off the great-coat, and
pulling out his pipe began to load it in feverish haste.

"Well," I said, standing amid the litter cast out from the trunk, and
watching him eagerly, "what's afoot?"

Nayland Smith lighted his pipe, carelessly dropping the match-end upon
the floor at his feet.

"God knows what _is_ afoot this time, Petrie!" he replied. "You and I
have lived no commonplace lives; Dr. Fu-Manchu has seen to that; but
if I am to believe what the Chief has told me to-day, even stranger
things are ahead of us!"

I stared at him wonder-stricken.

"That is almost incredible," I said; "terror can have no darker
meaning than that which Dr. Fu-Manchu gave to it. Fu-Manchu is dead,
so what have we to fear?"

"We have to fear," replied Smith, throwing himself into a corner of
the settee, "the Si-Fan!"

I continued to stare, uncomprehendingly.

"The Si-Fan----"

"I always knew and you always knew," interrupted Smith in his short,
decisive manner, "that Fu-Manchu, genius that he was, remained
nevertheless the servant of another or others. He was not the head of
that organization which dealt in wholesale murder, which aimed at
upsetting the balance of the world. I even knew the name of one, a
certain mandarin, and member of the Sublime Order of the White Peacock,
who was his immediate superior. I had never dared to guess at the
identity of what I may term the Head Center."

He ceased speaking, and sat gripping his pipe grimly between his teeth,
whilst I stood staring at him almost fatuously. Then--

"Evidently you have much to tell me," I said, with forced calm.

I drew up a chair beside the settee and was about to sit down.

"Suppose you bolt the door," jerked my friend.

I nodded, entirely comprehending, crossed the room and shot the little
nickel bolt into its socket.

"Now," said Smith as I took my seat, "the story is a fragmentary one
in which there are many gaps. Let us see what we know. It seems that
the despatch which led to my sudden recall (and incidentally yours)
from Egypt to London and which only reached me as I was on the point
of embarking at Suez for Rangoon, was prompted by the arrival here of
Sir Gregory Hale, whilom attache at the British Embassy, Peking. So
much, you will remember, was conveyed in my instructions."

"Quite so."

"Furthermore, I was instructed, you'll remember, to put up at the New
Louvre Hotel; therefore you came here and engaged this suite whilst I
reported to the chief. A stranger business is before us, Petrie, I
verily believe, than any we have known hitherto. In the first place,
Sir Gregory Hale is here----"

"Here?"

"In the New Louvre Hotel. I ascertained on the way up, but not by
direct inquiry, that he occupies a suite similar to this, and
incidentally on the same floor."

"His report to the India Office, whatever its nature, must have been
a sensational one."

"He has made no report to the India Office."

"What! made no report?"

"He has not entered any office whatever, nor will he receive any
representative. He's been playing at Robinson Crusoe in a private
suite here for close upon a fortnight--_id est_ since the time of his
arrival in London!"

I suppose my growing perplexity was plainly visible, for Smith
suddenly burst out with his short, boyish laugh.

"Oh! I told you it was a strange business," he cried.

"Is he mad?"

Nayland Smith's gaiety left him; he became suddenly stern and grim.

"Either mad, Petrie, stark raving mad, or the savior of the Indian
Empire--perhaps of all Western civilization. Listen. Sir Gregory Hale,
whom I know slightly and who honors me, apparently, with a belief that
I am the only man in Europe worthy of his confidence, resigned his
appointment at Peking some time ago, and set out upon a private
expedition to the Mongolian frontier with the avowed intention of
visiting some place in the Gobi Desert. From the time that he actually
crossed the frontier he disappeared for nearly six months, to reappear
again suddenly and dramatically in London. He buried himself in this
hotel, refusing all visitors and only advising the authorities of his
return by telephone. He demanded that _I_ should be sent to see him;
and--despite his eccentric methods--so great is the Chief's faith in
Sir Gregory's knowledge of matters Far Eastern, that behold, here I am."

He broke off abruptly and sat in an attitude of tense listening. Then--

"Do you hear anything, Petrie?" he rapped.

"A sort of tapping?" I inquired, listening intently myself the while.

Smith nodded his head rapidly.

We both listened for some time, Smith with his head bent slightly
forward and his pipe held in his hands; I with my gaze upon the bolted
door. A faint mist still hung in the room, and once I thought I
detected a slight sound from the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness.
Smith noted me turn my head, and for a moment the pair of us stared
into the gap of the doorway. But the silence was complete.

"You have told me neither much nor little, Smith," I said, resuming
for some reason, in a hushed voice. "Who or what is this Si-Fan at
whose existence you hint?"

Nayland Smith smiled grimly.

"Possibly the real and hitherto unsolved riddle of Tibet, Petrie," he
replied--"a mystery concealed from the world behind the veil of
Lamaism." He stood up abruptly, glancing at a scrap of paper which he
took from his pocket--"Suite Number 14a," he said. "Come along! We have
not a moment to waste. Let us make our presence known to Sir Gregory--
the man who has dared to raise that veil."




CHAPTER II

THE MAN WITH THE LIMP


"Lock the door!" said Smith significantly, as we stepped into the
corridor.

I did so and had turned to join my friend when, to the accompaniment
of a sort of hysterical muttering, a door further along, and on the
opposite side of the corridor, was suddenly thrown open, and a man
whose face showed ghastly white in the light of the solitary lamp
beyond, literally hurled himself out. He perceived Smith and myself
immediately. Throwing one glance back over his shoulder he came
tottering forward to meet us.

"My God! I can't stand it any longer!" he babbled, and threw himself
upon Smith, who was foremost, clutching pitifully at him for support.
"Come and see him, sir--for Heaven's sake come in! I think he's dying;
and he's going mad. I never disobeyed an order in my life before, but
I can't help myself--I can't help myself!"

"Brace up!" I cried, seizing him by the shoulders as, still clutching
at Nayland Smith, he turned his ghastly face to me. "Who are you, and
what's your trouble?"

"I'm Beeton, Sir Gregory Hale's man."

Smith started visibly, and his gaunt, tanned face seemed to me to have
grown perceptively paler.

"Come on, Petrie!" he snapped. "There's some devilry here."

Thrusting Beeton aside he rushed in at the open door--upon which, as I
followed him, I had time to note the number, 14a. It communicated with
a suite of rooms almost identical with our own. The sitting-room was
empty and in the utmost disorder, but from the direction of the
principal bedroom came a most horrible mumbling and gurgling sound--a
sound utterly indescribable. For one instant we hesitated at the
threshold--hesitated to face the horror beyond; then almost side by
side we came into the bedroom....

Only one of the two lamps was alight--that above the bed; and on the
bed a man lay writhing. He was incredibly gaunt, so that the suit of
tropical twill which he wore hung upon him in folds, showing if such
evidence were necessary, how terribly he was fallen away from his
constitutional habit. He wore a beard of at least ten days' growth,
which served to accentuate the cavitous hollowness of his face. His
eyes seemed starting from their sockets as he lay upon his back
uttering inarticulate sounds and plucking with skinny fingers at his
lips.

Smith bent forward peering into the wasted face; and then started back
with a suppressed cry.

"Merciful God! can it be Hale?" he muttered. "What does it mean? what
does it mean?"

I ran to the opposite side of the bed, and placing my arms under the
writhing man, raised him and propped a pillow at his back. He
continued to babble, rolling his eyes from side to side hideously;
then by degrees they seemed to become less glazed, and a light of
returning sanity entered them. They became fixed; and they were fixed
upon Nayland Smith, who bending over the bed, was watching Sir Gregory
(for Sir Gregory I concluded this pitiable wreck to be) with an
expression upon his face compound of many emotions.

"A glass of water," I said, catching the glance of the man Beeton,
who stood trembling at the open doorway.

Spilling a liberal quantity upon the carpet, Beeton ultimately
succeeded in conveying the glass to me. Hale, never taking his gaze
from Smith, gulped a little of the water and then thrust my hand away.
As I turned to place the tumbler upon a small table the resumed the
wordless babbling, and now, with his index finger, pointed to his
mouth.

"He has lost the power of speech!" whispered Smith.

"He was stricken dumb, gentlemen, ten minutes ago," said Beeton in a
trembling voice. "He dropped off to sleep out there on the floor, and
I brought him in here and laid him on the bed. When he woke up he was
like that!"

The man on the bed ceased his inchoate babbling and now, gulping
noisily, began to make quick nervous movements with his hands.

"He wants to write something," said Smith in a low voice. "Quick! hold
him up!" He thrust his notebook, open at a blank page, before the man
whose movement were numbered, and placed a pencil in the shaking
right hand.

Faintly and unevenly Sir Gregory commenced to write--whilst I
supported him. Across the bent shoulders Smith silently questioned me,
and my reply was a negative shake of the head.

The lamp above the bed was swaying as if in a heavy draught; I
remembered that it had been swaying as we entered. There was no fog in
the room, but already from the bleak corridor outside it was entering;
murky, yellow clouds steaming in at the open door. Save for the gulping
of the dying man, and the sobbing breaths of Beeton, there was no
sound. Six irregular lines Sir Gregory Hale scrawled upon the page;
then suddenly his body became a dead weight in my arms. Gently I laid
him back upon the pillows, gently his finger from the notebook, and,
my head almost touching Smith's as we both craned forward over the
page, read, with great difficulty, the following:--

"Guard my diary.... Tibetan frontier ... Key of India. Beware man ...
with the limp. Yellow ... rising. Watch Tibet ... the _Si-Fan_...."

From somewhere outside the room, whether above or below I could not be
sure, came a faint, dragging sound, accompanied by a _tap--tap--tap_....



CHAPTER III

"SAKYA MUNI"


The faint disturbance faded into silence again. Across the dead man's
body I met Smith's gaze. Faint wreaths of fog floated in from the
outer room. Beeton clutched the foot of the bed, and the structure
shook in sympathy with his wild trembling. That was the only sound
now; there was absolutely nothing physical so far as my memory serves
to 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, and
stared out into the room from which the fog wreaths floated in.

Beeton stood nearest to the door, but, although he turned, he did not
go out, but with a smothered cry crouched back against the bed. Smith
it was who moved first, then I followed, and close upon his heels
burst into the disordered sitting-room. The outer door had been closed
but not bolted, and what with the tinted light, diffused through the
silken Japanese shade, and the presence of fog in the room, I was
almost tempted to believe myself the victim of a delusion. What I saw
or 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, yellow
figure, a slim, crouching figure, wearing a sort of loose robe. An
impression I had of jet-black hair, protruding from beneath a little
cap, of finely chiseled features and great, luminous eyes, then, with
no 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 aside
and thrown open the door. Out he sprang into the yellow haze of the
corridor, tripped, and, uttering a cry of pain, fell sprawling upon
the marble floor. Hot with apprehension I joined him, but he looked
up with a wry smile and began furiously rubbing his left shin.

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

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

"That was what he came for, sir! That was what he came for! You were
too 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 almost
hysterically; "that's what he's been guarding this past two weeks,
night and day, crouching over it with a loaded pistol. That's what
cost him his life, sir. He's had no peace, day or night, since he
got it...."

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

"He's never slept for more than an hour at a time, that I know of, for
weeks past. Since the day we came here he hasn't spoken to another
living soul, and he's lain there on the floor at night with his head
on 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 I
could hear something, I believe it was the constant strain working on
my nerves and nothing else at all.

"Then he was always listening out for some one he called 'the man with
the limp.' Five and six times a night he'd have me up to listen with
him. 'There he goes, Beeton!' he'd whisper, crouching with his ear
pressed 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 since
we left China. Once we got here I thought it would be better, but it's
been worse.

"Gentlemen have come (from the India Office, I believe), but he would
not see them. Said he would see no one but Mr. Nayland Smith. He had
never lain in his bed until to-night, but what with taking no proper
food 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 him
on 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 his
hands, whilst his shoulders shook convulsively. He had evidently been
greatly attached to his master, and I found something very pathetic in
this breakdown of a physically strong man. Smith laid his hands upon
his shoulders.

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

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

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

"Thank you, sir, and thank God you are here," said Beeton dazedly, and
with one hand raised to his head he went, obediently, to the smaller
bedroom 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 since
you are a medical man, we can devote the next half-hour, at any rate,
to a strictly confidential inquiry into this most perplexing case. I
propose that you examine the body for any evidences that may assist
you determining the cause of death, whilst I make a few inquiries here."

I nodded, without speaking, and went into the bedroom. It contained not
one solitary item of the dead man's belongings, and in every way bore
out Beeton's statement that Sir Gregory had never inhabited it. I bent
over Hale, as he lay fully dressed upon the bed.

Saving the singularity of the symptom which had immediately preceded
death--viz., the paralysis of the muscles of articulation--I should
have felt disposed to ascribe his end to sheer inanition; and a
cursory examination brought to light nothing contradictory to that
view. Not being prepared to proceed further in the matter at the moment
I was about to rejoin Smith, whom I could hear rummaging about amongst
the 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 some
kind of blossom, three of them still attached to a fragment of slender
stalk.

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

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

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

I think I have never seen so sudden a change of expression take place
in 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 me
with 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 the
strangest expression in their gray depths, Nayland Smith said a
singular 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 next
order. "Renew the water at least three times." As I turned to fulfill
his 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 my
hands 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 here
but 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 enough
tinned and bottled stuff to last us for weeks. Sir Gregory sent me out
to buy it on the day we arrived. No one else had left or entered these
rooms until you came to-night."

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

"I find my hands over full," he said. "Will you oblige me by
telephoning for Inspector Weymouth? Also, I should be glad if you
would 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 word
about the brass box."

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

To what strange adventure were we committed? What did the brass coffer
contain which Sir Gregory had guarded night and day? Something
associated 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 what
conceivable means could the flower, which my friend evidently regarded
with extreme horror, have been introduced into Hale's room, and why
had I been required to pronounce the words "Sakya Muni"?

So ran my reflections--at random and to no clear end; and, as is often
the case in such circumstances, my steps bore them company; so that
all at once I became aware that instead of having gained the lobby of
the hotel, I had taken some wrong turning and was in a part of the
building 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 a
glass-paneled door, opened this door--and found myself in a small
court, dimly lighted and redolent of some pungent, incense-like perfume.

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

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

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

No impression, not even a vague one, did I form of her costume, save
that she wore a green silk shawl, embroidered with raised white
figures of birds, thrown over her head and shoulders and draped in
such fashion that part of her face was concealed. I was transfixed
by the vindictive glare of her eyes, of her huge dark eyes.

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

Motionless, we faced one another. Then--

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

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