The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu
"Saw him leap from the window?"
"Yes. The friend--an Englishman--was aroused by the uncanny wailing.
I was in Rangoon at the time, so that I know more of the case of
Lafitte than of that of the American. I spoke to the man about it
personally. He was an electrical engineer, Edward Martin, and he told
me that the cry seemed to come from above him."
"It seemed to come from above when we heard it at Fu-Manchu's house."
"Martin sat up in bed, it was a clear moonlight night--the sort of
moonlight you get in Burma. Lafitte, for some reason, had just gone to
the window. His friend saw him look out. The next moment with a
dreadful scream, he threw himself forward--and crashed down into the
courtyard!"
"What then?"
"Martin ran to the window and looked down. Lafitte's scream had
aroused the place, of course. But there was absolutely nothing to
account for the occurrence. There was no balcony, no ledge, by means
of which anyone could reach the window."
"But how did you come to recognize the cry?"
"I stopped at the Palace Mansions for some time; and one night this
uncanny howling aroused me. I heard it quite distinctly, and am never
likely to forget it. It was followed by a hoarse yell. The man in the
next room, an orchid hunter, had gone the same way as the others!"
"Did you change your quarters?"
"No. Fortunately for the reputation of the hotel--a first-class
establishment--several similar cases occurred elsewhere, both in
Rangoon, in Prome and in Moulmein. A story got about the native
quarter, and was fostered by some mad fakir, that the god Siva was
reborn and that the cry was his call for victims; a ghastly story,
which led to an outbreak of dacoity and gave the District
Superintendent no end of trouble."
"Was there anything unusual about the bodies?"
"They all developed marks after death, as though they had been
strangled! The marks were said all to possess a peculiar form, though
it was not appreciable to my eye; and this, again, was declared to be
the five heads of Siva."
"Were the deaths confined to Europeans?"
"Oh, no. Several Burmans and others died in the same way. At first
there was a theory that the victims had contracted leprosy and
committed suicide as a result; but the medical evidence disproved that.
The Call of Siva became a perfect nightmare throughout Burma."
"Did you ever hear it again, before this evening?"
"Yes. I heard it on the Upper Irrawaddy one clear, moonlight night,
and a Colassie--a deck-hand--leaped from the top deck of the steamer
aboard which I was traveling! My God! to think that the fiend
Fu-Manchu has brought That to England!"
"But brought what, Smith?" I cried, in perplexity. "What has he
brought? An evil spirit? A mental disease? What is it? What CAN it
be?"
"A new agent of death, Petrie! Something born in a plague-spot of
Burma--the home of much that is unclean and much that is inexplicable.
Heaven grant that we be in time, and are able to save Guthrie."
CHAPTER XV
THE train was late, and as our cab turned out of Waterloo Station and
began to ascend to the bridge, from a hundred steeples rang out the
gongs of midnight, the bell of St. Paul's raised above them all to vie
with the deep voice of Big Ben.
I looked out from the cab window across the river to where, towering
above the Embankment, that place of a thousand tragedies, the light of
some of London's greatest caravanserais formed a sort of minor
constellation. From the subdued blaze that showed the public
supper-rooms I looked up to the hundreds of starry points marking the
private apartments of those giant inns.
I thought how each twinkling window denoted the presence of some bird
of passage, some wanderer temporarily abiding in our midst. There,
floor piled upon floor above the chattering throngs, were these less
gregarious units, each something of a mystery to his fellow-guests,
each in his separate cell; and each as remote from real human
companionship as if that cell were fashioned, not in the bricks of
London, but in the rocks of Hindustan!
In one of those rooms Graham Guthrie might at that moment be sleeping,
all unaware that he would awake to the Call of Siva, to the summons of
death. As we neared the Strand, Smith stopped the cab, discharging the
man outside Sotheby's auction-rooms.
"One of the doctor's watch-dogs may be in the foyer," he said
thoughtfully, "and it might spoil everything if we were seen to go to
Guthrie's rooms. There must be a back entrance to the kitchens, and so
on?"
"There is," I replied quickly. "I have seen the vans delivering there.
But have we time?"
"Yes. Lead on."
We walked up the Strand and hurried westward. Into that narrow court,
with its iron posts and descending steps, upon which opens a well-known
wine-cellar, we turned. Then, going parallel with the Strand, but on
the Embankment level, we ran round the back of the great hotel, and
came to double doors which were open. An arc lamp illuminated the
interior and a number of men were at work among the casks, crates and
packages stacked about the place. We entered.
"Hallo!" cried a man in a white overall, "where d'you think you're
going?"
Smith grasped him by the arm.
"I want to get to the public part of the hotel without being seen from
the entrance hall," he said. "Will you please lead the way?"
"Here--" began the other, staring.
"Don't waste time!" snapped my friend, in that tone of authority which
he knew so well how to assume. "It's a matter of life and death. Lead
the way, I say!"
"Police, sir?" asked the man civilly.
"Yes," said Smith; "hurry!"
Off went our guide without further demur. Skirting sculleries,
kitchens, laundries and engine-rooms, he led us through those
mysterious labyrinths which have no existence for the guest above, but
which contain the machinery that renders these modern khans the
Aladdin's palaces they are. On a second-floor landing we met a man in
a tweed suit, to whom our cicerone presented us.
"Glad I met you, sir. Two gentlemen from the police."
The man regarded us haughtily with a suspicious smile.
"Who are you?" he asked. "You're not from Scotland Yard, at any rate!"
Smith pulled out a card and thrust it into the speaker's hand.
"If you are the hotel detective," he said, "take us without delay to
Mr. Graham Guthrie."
A marked change took place in the other's demeanor on glancing at the
card in his hand.
"Excuse me, sir," he said deferentially, "but, of course, I didn't know
who I was speaking to. We all have instructions to give you every
assistance."
"Is Mr. Guthrie in his room?"
"He's been in his room for some time, sir. You will want to get there
without being seen? This way. We can join the lift on the third
floor."
Off we went again, with our new guide. In the lift:
"Have you noticed anything suspicious about the place to-night?" asked
Smith.
"I have!" was the startling reply. "That accounts for your finding me
where you did. My usual post is in the lobby. But about eleven
o'clock, when the theater people began to come in, I had a hazy sort of
impression that someone or something slipped past in the
crowd--something that had no business in the hotel."
We got out of the lift.
"I don't quite follow you," said Smith. "If you thought you saw
something entering, you must have formed a more or less definite
impression regarding it."
"That's the funny part of the business," answered the man doggedly. "I
didn't! But as I stood at the top of the stairs I could have sworn
that there was something crawling up behind a party--two ladies and two
gentlemen."
"A dog, for instance?"
"It didn't strike me as being a dog, sir. Anyway, when the party
passed me, there was nothing there. Mind you, whatever it was, it
hadn't come in by the front. I have made inquiries everywhere, but
without result." He stopped abruptly. "No. 189--Mr. Guthrie's door,
sir."
Smith knocked.
"Hallo!" came a muffled voice; "what do you want?"
"Open the door! Don't delay; it is important."
He turned to the hotel detective.
"Stay right there where you can watch the stairs and the lift," he
instructed; "and note everyone and everything that passes this door.
But whatever you see or hear, do nothing without my orders."
The man moved off, and the door was opened. Smith whispered in my ear:
"Some creature of Dr. Fu-Manchu is in the hotel!"
Mr. Graham Guthrie, British resident in North Bhutan, was a big,
thick-set man--gray-haired and florid, with widely opened eyes of the
true fighting blue, a bristling mustache and prominent shaggy brows.
Nayland Smith introduced himself tersely, proffering his card and an
open letter.
"Those are my credentials, Mr. Guthrie," he said; "so no doubt you will
realize that the business which brings me and my friend, Dr. Petrie,
here at such an hour is of the first importance."
He switched off the light.
"There is no time for ceremony," he explained. "It is now twenty-five
minutes past twelve. At half-past an attempt will be made upon your
life!"
"Mr. Smith," said the other, who, arrayed in his pajamas, was seated on
the edge of the bed, "you alarm me very greatly. I may mention that I
was advised of your presence in England this morning."
"Do you know anything respecting the person called Fu-Manchu--Dr.
Fu-Manchu?"
"Only what I was told to-day--that he is the agent of an advanced
political group."
"It is opposed to his interests that you should return to Bhutan. A
more gullible agent would be preferable. Therefore, unless you
implicitly obey my instructions, you will never leave England!"
Graham Guthrie breathed quickly. I was growing more used to the gloom,
and I could dimly discern him, his face turned towards Nayland Smith,
whilst with his hand he clutched the bed-rail. Such a visit as ours, I
think, must have shaken the nerve of any man.
"But, Mr. Smith," he said, "surely I am safe enough here! The place is
full of American visitors at present, and I have had to be content with
a room right at the top; so that the only danger I apprehend is that of
fire."
"There is another danger," replied Smith. "The fact that you are at
the top of the building enhances that danger. Do you recall anything
of the mysterious epidemic which broke out in Rangoon in 1908--the
deaths due to the Call of Siva?"
"I read of it in the Indian papers," said Guthrie uneasily. "Suicides,
were they not?"
"No!" snapped Smith. "Murders!"
There was a brief silence.
"From what I recall of the cases," said Guthrie, "that seems
impossible. In several instances the victims threw themselves from the
windows of locked rooms--and the windows were quite inaccessible."
"Exactly," replied Smith; and in the dim light his revolver gleamed
dully, as he placed it on the small table beside the bed. "Except that
your door is unlocked, the conditions to-night are identical. Silence,
please, I hear a clock striking."
It was Big Ben. It struck the half-hour, leaving the stillness
complete. In that room, high above the activity which yet prevailed
below, high above the supping crowds in the hotel, high above the
starving crowds on the Embankment, a curious chill of isolation swept
about me. Again I realized how, in the very heart of the great
metropolis, a man may be as far from aid as in the heart of a desert.
I was glad that I was not alone in that room--marked with the
death-mark of Fu-Manchu; and I am certain that Graham Guthrie welcomed
his unexpected company.
I may have mentioned the fact before, but on this occasion it became so
peculiarly evident to me that I am constrained to record it here--I
refer to the sense of impending danger which invariably preceded a