The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

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."

CHAPTER III

I SANK into an arm-chair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg of

brandy.

"We have been followed here," I said. "Why did you make no attempt to

throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?"

Smith laughed.

"Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went, HE would find us. And

of what use to arrest his creatures? We could prove nothing against

them. Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my

life to-night--and by the same means that proved so successful in the

case of poor Sir Crichton."

His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leapt stormily to his

feet, shaking his clenched fists towards the window.

"The villain!" he cried. "The fiendishly clever villain! I suspected

that Sir Crichton was next, and I was right. But I came too late,

Petrie! That hits me hard, old man. To think that I knew and yet

failed to save him!"

He resumed his seat, smoking hard.

"Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual genius,"

he said. "He has underrated his adversary. He has not given me credit

for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages. He has thrown away

one powerful weapon--to get such a message into my hands--and he thinks

that once safe within doors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as

Sir Crichton died. But without the indiscretion of your charming

friend, I should have known what to expect when I receive her

'information'--which by the way, consists of a blank sheet of paper."

"Smith," I broke in, "who is she?"

"She is either Fu-Manchu's daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am

inclined to believe the last, for she has no will but his will,

except"--with a quizzical glance--"in a certain instance."

"How can you jest with some awful thing--Heaven knows what--hanging

over your head? What is the meaning of these perfumed envelopes? How

did Sir Crichton die?"

"He died of the Zayat Kiss. Ask me what that is and I reply 'I do not

know.' The zayats are the Burmese caravanserais, or rest-houses. Along

a certain route--upon which I set eyes, for the first and only time,

upon Dr. Fu-Manchu--travelers who use them sometimes die as Sir

Crichton died, with nothing to show the cause of death but a little

mark upon the neck, face, or limb, which has earned, in those parts,

the title of the 'Zayat Kiss.' The rest-houses along that route are

shunned now. I have my theory and I hope to prove it to-night, if I

live. It will be one more broken weapon in his fiendish armory, and it

is thus, and thus only, that I can hope to crush him. This was my

principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Cleeve. Even walls have ears

where Fu-Manchu is concerned, so I feigned ignorance of the meaning of

the mark, knowing that he would be almost certain to employ the same

methods upon some other victim. I wanted an opportunity to study the

Zayat Kiss in operation, and I shall have one."

"But the scented envelopes?"

"In the swampy forests of the district I have referred to a rare

species of orchid, almost green, and with a peculiar scent, is

sometimes met with. I recognized the heavy perfume at once. I take it

that the thing which kills the traveler is attracted by this orchid.

You will notice that the perfume clings to whatever it touches. I

doubt if it can be washed off in the ordinary way. After at least one

unsuccessful attempt to kill Sir Crichton--you recall that he thought

there was something concealed in his study on a previous

occasion?--Fu-Manchu hit upon the perfumed envelopes. He may have a

supply of these green orchids in his possession--possibly to feed the

creature."

"What creature? How could any kind of creature have got into Sir

Crichton's room tonight?"

"You no doubt observed that I examined the grate of the study. I found

a fair quantity of fallen soot. I at once assumed, since it appeared

to be the only means of entrance, that something has been dropped down;

and I took it for granted that the thing, whatever it was, must still

be concealed either in the study or in the library. But when I had

obtained the evidence of the groom, Wills, I perceived that the cry

from the lane or from the park was a signal. I noted that the

movements of anyone seated at the study table were visible, in shadow,

on the blind, and that the study occupied the corner of a two-storied

wing and, therefore, had a short chimney. What did the signal mean?

That Sir Crichton had leaped up from his chair, and either had received

the Zayat Kiss or had seen the thing which someone on the roof had

lowered down the straight chimney. It was the signal to withdraw that

deadly thing. By means of the iron stairway at the rear of

Major-General Platt-Houston's, I quite easily, gained access to the

roof above Sir Crichton's study--and I found this."

Out from his pocket Nayland Smith drew a tangled piece of silk, mixed

up with which were a brass ring and a number of unusually large-sized

split-shot, nipped on in the manner usual on a fishing-line.

"My theory proven," he resumed. "Not anticipating a search on the

roof, they had been careless. This was to weight the line and to

prevent the creature clinging to the walls of the chimney. Directly it

had dropped in the grate, however, by means of this ring I assume that

the weighted line was withdrawn, and the thing was only held by one

slender thread, which sufficed, though, to draw it back again when it

had done its work. It might have got tangled, of course, but they

reckoned on its making straight up the carved leg of the writing-table

for the prepared envelope. From there to the hand of Sir

Crichton--which, from having touched the envelope, would also be

scented with the perfume--was a certain move."

"My God! How horrible!" I exclaimed, and glanced apprehensively into

the dusky shadows of the room. "What is your theory respecting this

creature--what shape, what color--?"

"It is something that moves rapidly and silently. I will venture no

more at present, but I think it works in the dark. The study was dark,

remember, save for the bright patch beneath the reading-lamp. I have

observed that the rear of this house is ivy-covered right up to and

above your bedroom. Let us make ostentatious preparations to retire,

and I think we may rely upon Fu-Manchu's servants to attempt my

removal, at any rate--if not yours."

"But, my dear fellow, it is a climb of thirty-five feet at the very

least."

"You remember the cry in the back lane? It suggested something to me,

and I tested my idea--successfully. It was the cry of a dacoit. Oh,

dacoity, though quiescent, is by no means extinct. Fu-Manchu has

dacoits in his train, and probably it is one who operates the Zayat

Kiss, since it was a dacoit who watched the window of the study this

evening. To such a man an ivy-covered wall is a grand staircase."

The horrible events that followed are punctuated, in my mind, by the

striking of a distant clock. It is singular how trivialities thus

assert themselves in moments of high tension. I will proceed, then, by

these punctuations, to the coming of the horror that it was written we

should encounter.

The clock across the common struck two.

Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from our hands

with a solution of ammonia Smith and I had followed the programme laid

down. It was an easy matter to reach the rear of the house, by simply

climbing a fence, and we did not doubt that seeing the light go out in

the front, our unseen watcher would proceed to the back.

The room was a large one, and we had made up my camp-bed at one end,

stuffing odds and ends under the clothes to lend the appearance of a

sleeper, which device we also had adopted in the case of the larger

bed. The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee table in the

center of the floor, and Smith, with an electric pocket lamp, a

revolver, and a brassey beside him, sat on cushions in the shadow of

the wardrobe. I occupied a post between the windows.

No unusual sound, so far, had disturbed the stillness of the night.

Save for the muffled throb of the rare all-night cars passing the front

of the house, our vigil had been a silent one. The full moon had

painted about the floor weird shadows of the clustering ivy, spreading

the design gradually from the door, across the room, past the little

table where the envelope lay, and finally to the foot of the bed.

The distant clock struck a quarter-past two.

A slight breeze stirred the ivy, and a new shadow added itself to the

extreme edge of the moon's design.

Something rose, inch by inch, above the sill of the westerly window. I

could see only its shadow, but a sharp, sibilant breath from Smith told

me that he, from his post, could see the cause of the shadow.

Every nerve in my body seemed to be strung tensely. I was icy cold,

expectant, and prepared for whatever horror was upon us.

The shadow became stationary. The dacoit was studying the interior of

the room.

Then it suddenly lengthened, and, craning my head to the left, I saw a

lithe, black-clad form, surmounted by a Yellow face, sketchy in the

moonlight, pressed against the window-panes!

One thin, brown hand appeared over the edge of the lowered sash, which

it grasped--and then another. The man made absolutely no sound

whatever. The second hand disappeared--and reappeared. It held a

small, square box. There was a very faint CLICK.

The dacoit swung himself below the window with the agility of an ape,

as, with a dull, muffled thud, SOMETHING dropped upon the carpet!

"Stand still, for your life!" came Smith's voice, high-pitched.

A beam of white leaped out across the room and played full upon the

coffee-table in the center.

Prepared as I was for something horrible, I know that I paled at sight

of the thing that was running round the edge of the envelope.

It was an insect, full six inches long, and of a vivid, venomous, red

color! It had something of the appearance of a great ant, with its

long, quivering antennae and its febrile, horrible vitality; but it was

proportionately longer of body and smaller of head, and had numberless

rapidly moving legs. In short, it was a giant centipede, apparently of

the scolopendra group, but of a form quite new to me.

These things I realized in one breathless instant; in the next--Smith

had dashed the thing's poisonous life out with one straight, true blow

of the golf club!

I leaped to the window and threw it widely open, feeling a silk thread

brush my hand as I did so. A black shape was dropping, with incredible

agility from branch to branch of the ivy, and, without once offering a

mark for a revolver-shot, it merged into the shadows beneath the trees

of the garden. As I turned and switched on the light Nayland Smith

dropped limply into a chair, leaning his head upon his hands. Even

that grim courage had been tried sorely.

"Never mind the dacoit, Petrie," he said. "Nemesis will know where to

find him. We know now what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss.

Therefore science is richer for our first brush with the enemy, and the

enemy is poorer--unless he has any more unclassified centipedes. I

understand now something that has been puzzling me since I heard of

it--Sir Crichton's stifled cry. When we remember that he was almost

past speech, it is reasonable to suppose that his cry was not 'The red

hand!' but 'The red ANT!' Petrie, to think that I failed, by less than

an hour, to save him from such an end!"

CHAPTER IV

"THE body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual on the P. & O.

boats, was recovered from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at

six A.M. this morning. It is supposed that the man met with an

accident in leaving his ship."

Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above

paragraph.

"For 'lascar' read 'dacoit,'" he said. "Our visitor, who came by way

of the ivy, fortunately for us, failed to follow his instructions.

Also, he lost the centipede and left a clew behind him. Dr. Fu-Manchu

does not overlook such lapses."

It was a sidelight upon the character of the awful being with whom we

had to deal. My very soul recoiled from bare consideration of the fate

that would be ours if ever we fell into his hands.

The telephone bell rang. I went out and found that Inspector Weymouth

of New Scotland Yard had called us up.

"Will Mr. Nayland Smith please come to the Wapping River Police Station

at once," was the message.

Peaceful interludes were few enough throughout that wild pursuit.

"It is certainly something important," said my friend; "and, if

Fu-Manchu is at the bottom of it--as we must presume him to

be--probably something ghastly."

A brief survey of the time-tables showed us that there were no trains

to serve our haste. We accordingly chartered a cab and proceeded east.

Smith, throughout the journey, talked entertainingly about his work in

Burma. Of intent, I think, he avoided any reference to the

circumstances which first had brought him in contact with the sinister

genius of the Yellow Movement. His talk was rather of the sunshine of

the East than of its shadows.

But the drive concluded--and all too soon. In a silence which neither

of us seemed disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and

followed an officer who received us into the room where Weymouth waited.

The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.

"Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard," he said; and his

usually gruff voice had softened strangely.

Smith struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand and swore

under his breath, striding up and down the neat little room. No one

spoke for a moment, and in the silence I could hear the whispering of

the Thames outside--of the Thames which had so many strange secrets to

tell, and now was burdened with another.

The body lay prone upon the deal table--this latest of the river's

dead--dressed in rough sailor garb, and, to all outward seeming, a

seaman of nondescript nationality--such as is no stranger in Wapping

and Shadwell. His dark, curly hair clung clammily about the brown

forehead; his skin was stained, they told me. He wore a gold ring in

one ear, and three fingers of the left hand were missing.

"It was almost the same with Mason." The river police inspector was

speaking. "A week ago, on a Wednesday, he went off in his own time on

some funny business down St. George's way--and Thursday night the

ten-o'clock boat got the grapnel on him off Hanover Hole. His first

two fingers on the right hand were clean gone, and his left hand was

mutilated frightfully."

He paused and glanced at Smith.

"That lascar, too," he continued, "that you came down to see, sir; you

remember his hands?"

Smith nodded.

"He was not a lascar," he said shortly. "He was a dacoit."

Silence fell again.

I turned to the array of objects lying on the table--those which had

been found in Cadby's clothing. None of them were noteworthy, except

that which had been found thrust into the loose neck of his shirt.

This last it was which had led the police to send for Nayland Smith,

for it constituted the first clew which had come to light pointing to

the authors of these mysterious tragedies.

It was a Chinese pigtail. That alone was sufficiently remarkable; but

it was rendered more so by the fact that the plaited queue was a false

one being attached to a most ingenious bald wig.

"You're sure it wasn't part of a Chinese make-up?" questioned Weymouth,

his eye on the strange relic. "Cadby was clever at disguise."

Smith snatched the wig from my hands with a certain irritation, and

tried to fit it on the dead detective.

"Too small by inches!" he jerked. "And look how it's padded in the

crown. This thing was made for a most abnormal head."

He threw it down, and fell to pacing the room again.

"Where did you find him--exactly?" he asked.

"Limehouse Reach--under Commercial Dock Pier--exactly an hour ago."

"And you last saw him at eight o'clock last night?"--to Weymouth.

"Eight to a quarter past."

"You think he has been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Petrie?"

"Roughly, twenty-four hours," I replied.

"Then, we know that he was on the track of the Fu-Manchu group, that he

followed up some clew which led him to the neighborhood of old Ratcliff

Highway, and that he died the same night. You are sure that is where

he was going?"

"Yes," said Weymouth; "He was jealous of giving anything away, poor

chap; it meant a big lift for him if he pulled the case off. But he

gave me to understand that he expected to spend last night in that

district. He left the Yard about eight, as I've said, to go to his

rooms, and dress for the job."

"Did he keep any record of his cases?"

"Of course! He was most particular. Cadby was a man with ambitions,

sir! You'll want to see his book. Wait while I get his address; it's

somewhere in Brixton."

He went to the telephone, and Inspector Ryman covered up the dead man's

face.

Nayland Smith was palpably excited.

"He almost succeeded where we have failed, Petrie," he said. "There is

no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu-Manchu! Poor

Mason had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a

similar fate. Without other evidence, the fact that they both died in

the same way as the dacoit would be conclusive, for we know that

Fu-Manchu killed the dacoit!"

"What is the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smith?"

"God knows! Cadby's death was from drowning, you say?"

"There are no other marks of violence."

"But he was a very strong swimmer, Doctor," interrupted Inspector

Ryman. "Why, he pulled off the quarter-mile championship at the

Crystal Palace last year! Cadby wasn't a man easy to drown. And as

for Mason, he was an R.N.R., and like a fish in the water!"

Smith shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Let us hope that one day we shall know how they died," he said simply.

Weymouth returned from the telephone.

"The address is No.--Cold Harbor Lane," he reported. "I shall not be

able to come along, but you can't miss it; it's close by the Brixton

Police Station. There's no family, fortunately; he was quite alone in

the world. His case-book isn't in the American desk, which you'll find

in his sitting-room; it's in the cupboard in the corner--top shelf.

Here are his keys, all intact. I think this is the cupboard key."

Smith nodded.

"Come on, Petrie," he said. "We haven't a second to waste."

Our cab was waiting, and in a few seconds we were speeding along

Wapping High Street. We had gone no more than a few hundred yards, I

think, when Smith suddenly slapped his open hand down on his knee.

"That pigtail!" he cried. "I have left it behind! We must have it,

Petrie! Stop! Stop!"

The cab was pulled up, and Smith alighted.

"Don't wait for me," he directed hurriedly. "Here, take Weymouth's

card. Remember where he said the book was? It's all we want. Come

straight on to Scotland Yard and meet me there."

"But Smith," I protested, "a few minutes can make no difference!"

"Can't it!" he snapped. "Do you suppose Fu-Manchu is going to leave

evidence like that lying about? It's a thousand to one he has it

already, but there is just a bare chance."

It was a new aspect of the situation and one that afforded no room for

comment; and so lost in thought did I become that the cab was outside

the house for which I was bound ere I realized that we had quitted the

purlieus of Wapping. Yet I had had leisure to review the whole troop

of events which had crowded my life since the return of Nayland Smith

from Burma. Mentally, I had looked again upon the dead Sir Crichton

Davey, and with Smith had waited in the dark for the dreadful thing

that had killed him. Now, with those remorseless memories jostling in

my mind, I was entering the house of Fu-Manchu's last victim, and the

shadow of that giant evil seemed to be upon it like a palpable cloud.

Cadby's old landlady greeted me with a queer mixture of fear and

embarrassment in her manner.

"I am Dr. Petrie," I said, "and I regret that I bring bad news

respecting Mr. Cadby."

"Oh, sir!" she cried. "Don't tell me that anything has happened to

him!" And divining something of the mission on which I was come, for

such sad duty often falls to the lot of the medical man: "Oh, the poor,

brave lad!"

Indeed, I respected the dead man's memory more than ever from that

hour, since the sorrow of the worthy old soul was quite pathetic, and

spoke eloquently for the unhappy cause of it.

"There was a terrible wailing at the back of the house last night,

Doctor, and I heard it again to-night, a second before you knocked.

Poor lad! It was the same when his mother died."

At the moment I paid little attention to her words, for such beliefs

are common, unfortunately; but when she was sufficiently composed I

went on to explain what I thought necessary. And now the old lady's

embarrassment took precedence of her sorrow, and presently the truth

came out:

"There's a--young lady--in his rooms, sir."

I started. This might mean little or might mean much.

"She came and waited for him last night, Doctor--from ten until

half-past--and this morning again. She came the third time about an

hour ago, and has been upstairs since."

"Do you know her, Mrs. Dolan?"

Mrs. Dolan grew embarrassed again.

"Well, Doctor," she said, wiping her eyes the while, "I DO. And God

knows he was a good lad, and I like a mother to him; but she is not the

girl I should have liked a son of mine to take up with."

At any other time, this would have been amusing; now, it might be

serious. Mrs. Dolan's account of the wailing became suddenly

significant, for perhaps it meant that one of Fu-Manchu's dacoit

followers was watching the house, to give warning of any stranger's

approach! Warning to whom? It was unlikely that I should forget the

dark eyes of another of Fu-Manchu's servants. Was that lure of men

even now in the house, completing her evil work?

"I should never have allowed her in his rooms--" began Mrs. Dolan

again. Then there was an interruption.

A soft rustling reached my ears--intimately feminine. The girl was

stealing down!

I leaped out into the hall, and she turned and fled blindly before

me--back up the stairs! Taking three steps at a time, I followed her,

bounded into the room above almost at her heels, and stood with my back

to the door.

She cowered against the desk by the window, a slim figure in a clinging

silk gown, which alone explained Mrs. Dolan's distrust. The gaslight

was turned very low, and her hat shadowed her face, but could not hide

its startling beauty, could not mar the brilliancy of the skin, nor dim

the wonderful eyes of this modern Delilah. For it was she!

"So I came in time," I said grimly, and turned the key in the lock.

"Oh!" she panted at that, and stood facing me, leaning back with her

jewel-laden hands clutching the desk edge.

"Give me whatever you have removed from here," I said sternly, "and

then prepare to accompany me."

She took a step forward, her eyes wide with fear, her lips parted.

"I have taken nothing," she said. Her breast was heaving tumultuously.

"Oh, let me go! Please, let me go!" And impulsively she threw herself

forward, pressing clasped hands against my shoulder and looking up into

my face with passionate, pleading eyes.

It is with some shame that I confess how her charm enveloped me like a

magic cloud. Unfamiliar with the complex Oriental temperament, I had

laughed at Nayland Smith when he had spoken of this girl's infatuation.

"Love in the East," he had said, "is like the conjurer's mango-tree; it

is born, grows and flowers at the touch of a hand." Now, in those

pleading eyes I read confirmation of his words. Her clothes or her

hair exhaled a faint perfume. Like all Fu-Manchu's servants, she was

perfectly chosen for her peculiar duties. Her beauty was wholly

intoxicating.

But I thrust her away.

"You have no claim to mercy," I said. "Do not count upon any. What

have you taken from here?"

She grasped the lapels of my coat.

"I will tell you all I can--all I dare," she panted eagerly, fearfully.

"I should know how to deal with your friend, but with you I am lost!

If you could only understand you would not be so cruel." Her slight

accent added charm to the musical voice. "I am not free, as your

English women are. What I do I must do, for it is the will of my

master, and I am only a slave. Ah, you are not a man if you can give

me to the police. You have no heart if you can forget that I tried to

save you once."

I had feared that plea, for, in her own Oriental fashion, she certainly

had tried to save me from a deadly peril once--at the expense of my

friend. But I had feared the plea, for I did not know how to meet it.

How could I give her up, perhaps to stand her trial for murder? And

now I fell silent, and she saw why I was silent.

"I may deserve no mercy; I may be even as bad as you think; but what

have YOU to do with the police? It is not your work to hound a woman

to death. Could you ever look another woman in the eyes--one that you

loved, and know that she trusted you--if you had done such a thing?

Ah, I have no friend in all the world, or I should not be here. Do not

be my enemy, my judge, and make me worse than I am; be my friend, and

save me--from HIM." The tremulous lips were close to mine, her breath

fanned my cheek. "Have mercy on me."

At that moment I honestly would have given half of my worldly

possessions to have been spared the decision which I knew I must come

to. After all, what proof had I that she was a willing accomplice of

Dr. Fu-Manchu? Furthermore, she was an Oriental, and her code must

necessarily be different from mine. Irreconcilable as the thing may be

with Western ideas, Nayland Smith had really told me that he believed

the girl to be a slave. Then there remained that other reason why I

loathed the idea of becoming her captor. It was almost tantamount to

betrayal! Must I soil my hands with such work?

Thus--I suppose--her seductive beauty argued against my sense of right.

The jeweled fingers grasped my shoulders nervously, and her slim body

quivered against mine as she watched me, with all her soul in her eyes,

in an abandonment of pleading despair. Then I remembered the fate of

the man in whose room we stood.

"You lured Cadby to his death," I said, and shook her off.

"No, no!" she cried wildly, clutching at me. "No, I swear by the holy