The moonlight drew a sharp line of shadow along the wall of the house above me, but the yard itself was a well of darkness. I stumbled under the rotting brick archway, and stepped gingerly upon the muddy path that I must follow. One hand pressed to the damp wall, I worked my way cautiously along, for a false step had precipitated me into the foul water of the creek. In this fashion and still enveloped by dense shadows, I reached the angle of the building. Then—at risk of being perceived, for the wharf and the river both were bathed in moonlight— I peered along to the left… .
Out onto the paved pathway communicating with the wharf came Smith, shepherding his tottering charge. I was too far away to hear any conversation that might take place between the two, but, unless Smith gave the pre- arranged signal, I must approach no closer. Thus, as one sees a drama upon the screen, I saw what now occurred—occurred with dramatic, lightning swiftness.
Releasing Smith's arm, the old woman suddenly stepped back … at the instant that another figure, a repellent figure which approached, stooping, apish, with a sort of loping gait, crossed from some spot invisible to me, and sprang like a wild animal upon Smith's back!
It was a Chinaman, wearing a short loose garment of the smock pattern, and having his head bare, so that I could see his pigtail coiled upon his yellow crown. That he carried a cord, I perceived in the instant of his spring, and that he had whipped it about Smith's throat with unerring dexterity was evidenced by the one, short, strangled cry that came from my friend's lips.
Then Smith was down, prone upon the crazy planking, with the ape-like figure of the Chinaman perched between his shoulders—bending forward— the wicked yellow fingers at work, tightening—tightening—tightening the strangling-cord!
Uttering a loud cry of horror, I went racing along the gangway which projected actually over the moving Thames waters, and gained the wharf. But, swift as I had been, another had been swifter!
A tall figure (despite the brilliant moon, I doubted the evidence of my sight), wearing a tweed overcoat and a soft felt hat with the brim turned down, sprang up, from nowhere as it seemed, swooped upon the horrible figure squatting, simianesque, between Smith's shoulder-blades, and grasped him by the neck.
I pulled up shortly, one foot set upon the wharf. The new-comer was the double of Nayland Smith!
Seemingly exerting no effort whatever, he lifted the strangler in that remorseless grasp, so that the Chinaman's hands, after one quick convulsive upward movement, hung limply beside him like the paws of a rat in the grip of a terrier.
'You damned murderous swine!' I heard in a repressed, savage undertone. 'The knife failed, so now the cord has an innings! Go after your pal!'
Releasing one hand from the neck of the limp figure, the speaker grasped the Chinaman by his loose, smock- like garment, swung him back, once—a mighty swing—and hurled him far out into the river as one might hurl a sack of rubbish!
Chapter 23 ARREST OF SAMARKAN
'As the high gods willed it,' explained Nayland Smith, tenderly massaging his throat, 'Mr. Forsyth, having just left the docks, chanced to pass along Three Colt Street on Wednesday night at exactly the hour that
I glanced at the chief officer of the
'Heaven has blessed me with a pair of useful hands!' said the seaman, grimly, extending his horny palms. 'I've an old score against those yellow swine; poor George and I were twins.'
He referred to his brother who had been foully done to death by one of the creatures of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
'It beats me how Mr. Smith got on the track!' he added.
'Pure inspiration!' murmured Nayland Smith, glancing aside from the siphon wherewith he now was busy. 'The divine afflatus—and the same whereby Petrie solved the Zagazig cryptogram!'
'But,' concluded Forsyth, 'I am indebted to you for an opportunity of meeting the Chinese strangler, and sending him to join the Burmese knife expert!'
Such, then, were the episodes that led to the arrest of M. Samarkan, and my duty as narrator of these strange matters now bears me on to the morning when Nayland Smith was hastily summoned to the prison into which the villainous Greek had been cast.
We were shown immediately into the Governor's room and were invited by that much disturbed official to be seated. The news which he had to impart was sufficiently startling.
Samarkan was dead.
'I have Warder Morrison's statement here,' said Colonel Warrington, 'if you will be good enough to read it ——'
Nayland Smith rose abruptly, and began to pace up and down the little office. Through the open window I had a glimpse of a stooping figure in convict garb, engaged in liming the flower-beds of the prison Governor's garden.
'I should like to see this Warder Morrison personally,' snapped my friend.
'Very good,' replied the Governor, pressing a bell-push placed close beside his table.
A man entered, to stand rigidly at attention just within the doorway.
'Send Morrison here,' ordered Colonel Warrington.
The man saluted and withdrew. As the door was reclosed, the Colonel sat drumming his fingers upon the table, Nayland Smith walked restlessly about tugging at the lobe of his ear, and I absently watched the convict gardener pursuing his toils. Shortly, sounded a rap at the door, and—
'Come in,' cried Colonel Warrington.
A man wearing warder's uniform appeared, saluted the Governor, and stood glancing uneasily from the Colonel to Smith. The latter had now ceased his perambulations, and, one elbow resting upon the mantelpiece, was staring at Morrison—his penetrating gray eyes as hard as steel. Colonel Warrington twisted his chair around, fixing his monocle more closely in its place. He had the wiry white mustache and fiery red face of the old-style Anglo- Indian officer.
'Morrison,' he said, 'Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith has some questions to put to you.'
The man's uneasiness palpably was growing by leaps and bounds. He was a tall and intelligent-looking fellow of military build, though spare for his height and of an unhealthy complexion. His eyes were curiously dull, and their pupils interested me, professionally, from the very moment of his entrance.
'You were in charge of the prisoner Samarkan?' began Smith harshly.
'Yes, sir,' Morrison replied.
'Were you the first to learn of his death?'
'I was, sir. I looked through the grille in the door and saw him lying on the floor of the cell.'
'What time was it?'
'Half-past four A.M.'
'What did you do?'
'I went into the cell and then sent for the head warder.'
'You realized at once that Samarkan was dead?'
'At once, yes.'
'Were you surprised?'
Nayland Smith subtly changed the tone of his voice in asking the last question, and it was evident that the veiled significance of the words was not lost upon Morrison.
'Well, sir,' he began, and cleared his throat nervously.
'Yes, or no!' snapped Smith.
Morrison still hesitated, and I saw his underlip twitch. Nayland Smith, taking two long strides, stood immediately in front of him, glaring grimly into his face.
'This is your chance,' he said emphatically; 'I shall not give you another. You had met Samarkan before?'
