The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu - Sax Rohmer (best ebook reader TXT) 📗
- Author: Sax Rohmer
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Smith thanked the commissionaire for his information and we
quitted the gallery.
“Professor Jenner Monde,” muttered my friend, “has lived so long
in China as almost to be a Chinaman. I have never met him—
never seen him, before; but I wonder—”
“You wonder what, Smith?”
“I wonder if he could possibly be an ally, of the Doctor’s!”
I stared at him in amazement.
“If we are to attach any importance to the incident at all,”
I said, “we must remember that the boy’s impression—and Karamaneh’s—
was that Fu-Manchu was present in person.”
“I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are naturally
sensitive to such impressions. But I doubt if even the abnormal
organization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden presence
of a creature of the Doctor’s and that of the Doctor himself.
I shall make a point of calling upon Professor Jenner Monde.”
But Fate had ordained that much should happen ere Smith made
his proposed call upon the Professor.
Karamaneh and her brother safely lodged in their hotel
(which was watched night and day by four men under Smith’s
orders), we returned to my quiet suburban rooms.
“First,” said Smith, “let us see what we can find out
respecting Professor Monde.”
He went to the telephone and called up New Scotland Yard.
There followed some little delay before the requisite information
was obtained. Finally, however, we learned that the Professor
was something of a recluse, having few acquaintances,
and fewer friends.
He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street.
A charwoman did such cleaning as was considered necessary
by the Professor, who employed no regular domestic.
When he was in London he might be seen fairly frequently
at the British Museum, where his shabby figure was familiar
to the officials. When he was not in London—that is,
during the greater part of each year—no one knew where he went.
He never left any address to which letters might be forwarded.
“How long has he been in London now?” asked Smith.
So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied Scotland Yard)
roughly a week.
My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room.
The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakia
mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week.
He was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts
hanging from the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor
with smoldering fragments.
A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.
“Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir.”
“Hullo!” rapped Smith. “What’s this?”
Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects
singularly like his brother, in others as singularly unlike.
Now, in his black suit, he was a somber figure; and in the blue
eyes I read a fear suppressed.
“Mr. Smith,” he began, “there’s something uncanny going on at Maple Cottage.”
Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.
“Sit down, Mr. Weymouth,” he said. “I am not entirely surprised.
But you have my attention. What has occurred?”
Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured
out a peg of whisky. His hand was not quite steady.
“That knocking,” he explained. “It came again the night
after you were there, and Mrs. Weymouth—my wife, I mean—
felt that she couldn’t spend another night there, alone” “Did she
look out of the window?” I asked.
“No, Doctor; she was afraid. But I spent last night downstairs
in the sitting-room—and I looked out!”
He took a gulp from his glass. Nayland Smith, seated on
the edge of the table, his extinguished pipe in his hand,
was watching him keenly.
“I’ll admit I didn’t look out at once,” Weymouth resumed.
“There was something so uncanny, gentlemen, in that knocking—
knocking—in the dead of the night. I thought”—his voice
shook—“of poor Jack, lying somewhere amongst the slime
of the river—and, oh, my God! it came to me that it was Jack
who was knocking—and I dare not think what he—what it—
would look like!”
He leaned forward, his chin in his hand. For a few moments we
were all silent.
“I know I funked,” he continued huskily. “But when the wife came
to the head of the stairs and whispered to me: `There it is again.
What in heaven’s name can it be’—I started to unbolt the door.
The knocking had stopped. Everything was very still.
I heard Mary—HIS widow—sobbing, upstairs; that was all.
I opened the door, a little bit at a time.”
Pausing again, he cleared his throat, and went on:
“It was a bright night, and there was no one there—not a soul.
But somewhere down the lane, as I looked out into the porch, I heard
most awful groans! They got fainter and fainter. Then—I could
have sworn I heard SOMEONE LAUGHING! My nerves cracked up at that;
and I shut the door again.”
The narration of his weird experience revived something of the natural
fear which it had occasioned. He raised his glass, with unsteady hand,
and drained it.
Smith struck a match and relighted his pipe. He began to pace
the room again. His eyes were literally on fire.
“Would it be possible to get Mrs. Weymouth out of the house
before tonight? Remove her to your place, for instance?”
he asked abruptly.
Weymouth looked up in surprise.
“She seems to be in a very low state,” he replied. He glanced at me.
“Perhaps Dr. Petrie would give us an opinion?”
“I will come and see her,” I said. “But what is your idea, Smith?”
“I want to hear that knocking!” he rapped. “But in what I may see fit
to do I must not be handicapped by the presence of a sick woman.”
“Her condition at any rate will admit of our administering an opiate,”
I suggested. “That would meet the situation?”
“Good!” cried Smith. He was intensely excited now.
“I rely upon you to arrange something, Petrie. Mr. Weymouth”—
he turned to our visitor—“I shall be with you this evening
not later than twelve o’clock.”
Weymouth appeared to be greatly relieved. I asked him
to wait whilst I prepared a drought for the patient.
When he was gone:
“What do you think this knocking means, Smith?” I asked.
He tapped out his pipe on the side of the grate and began with nervous
energy to refill it again from the dilapidated pouch.
“I dare not tell you what I hope, Petrie,” he replied—
“nor what I fear.”
DUSK was falling when we made our way in the direction of Maple Cottage.
Nayland Smith appeared to be keenly interested in the character
of the district. A high and ancient wall bordered the road along
which we walked for a considerable distance. Later it gave place
to a rickety fence.
My friend peered through a gap in the latter.
“There is quite an extensive estate here,” he said, “not yet
cut up by the builder. It is well wooded on one side,
and there appears to be a pool lower down.”
The road was a quiet one, and we plainly heard the tread—
quite unmistakable—of an approaching policeman.
Smith continued to peer through the hole in the fence,
until the officer drew up level with us. Then:
“Does this piece of ground extend down to the village,
constable?” he inquired.
Quite willing for a chat, the man stopped, and stood with his thumbs
thrust in his belt.
“Yes, sir. They tell me three new roads will be made through it
between here and the hill.”
“It must be a happy hunting ground for tramps?”
“I’ve seen some suspicious-looking coves about at times.
But after dusk an army might be inside there and nobody would
ever be the wiser.”
“Burglaries frequent in the houses backing on to it?”
“Oh, no. A favorite game in these parts is snatching
loaves and bottles of milk from the doors, first thing,
as they’re delivered. There’s been an extra lot of it lately.
My mate who relieves me has got special instructions
to keep his eye open in the mornings!” The man grinned.
“It wouldn’t be a very big case even if he caught anybody!”
“No,” said Smith absently; “perhaps not. Your business must
be a dry one this warm weather. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” replied the constable, richer by
half-a-crown—“and thank you.”
Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the lobe
of his ear.
“I don’t know that it wouldn’t be a big case, after all,” he murmured.
“Come on, Petrie.”
Not another word did he speak, until we stood at the gate of Maple Cottage.
There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently awaiting Smith.
He touched his hat.
“Have you found a suitable hiding-place?” asked my companion rapidly.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Kent—my mate—is there now.
You’ll notice that he can’t be seen from here.”
“No,” agreed Smith, peering all about him. “He can’t. Where is he?”
“Behind the broken wall,” explained the man, pointing.
“Through that ivy there’s a clear view of the cottage door.”
“Good. Keep your eyes open. If a messenger comes for me, he is to
be intercepted, you understand. No one must be allowed to disturb us.
You will recognize the messenger. He will be one of your fellows.
Should he come—hoot three times, as much like an owl as you can.”
We walked up to the porch of the cottage. In response to Smith’s ringing
came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our arrival.
“First,” said my friend briskly, “you had better run up and see the patient.”
Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by his
wife to a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman lay,
a wanly pathetic sight.
“Did you administer the draught, as directed?” I asked.
Mrs. James Weymouth nodded. She was a kindly looking woman,
with the same dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked
in her husband’s blue ones.
The patient was sleeping soundly. Some whispered instructions I gave to
the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room. It was a warm night,
and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking. The dim light from the lamp
on the table lent him an almost startling likeness to his brother; and for
a moment I stood at the foot of the stairs scarce able to trust my reason.
Then he turned his face fully towards me, and the illusion was lost.
“Do you think she is likely to wake, Doctor?” he asked.
“I think not,” I replied.
Nayland Smith stood upon the rug before the hearth, swinging from one
foot to the other, in his nervously restless way. The room was foggy
with the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.
At intervals of some five to ten minutes, his blackened briar
(which I never knew him to clean or scrape) would go out.
I think Smith used more matches than any other smoker I have
ever met, and he invariably carried three boxes in various
pockets of his garments.
The tobacco habit is infectious, and, seating myself in an arm-chair,
I lighted a cigarette. For this dreary vigil I had come prepared
with a bunch of rough notes, a writing-block, and a fountain pen.
I settled down to work upon my record of the Fu-Manchu case.
Silence fell upon Maple Cottage. Save for the shuddering sigh
which whispered through the over-hanging cedars and Smith’s eternal
match-striking, nothing was there to
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