'She seemed, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self… .'
Entranced against my will, I watched the Eurasian until, the barbaric dance completed, she ran from the room, and the curtains concealed her from view. How my mind was torn between hope and fear that I should see Karamaneh again! How I longed for one more glimpse of her, yet loathed the thought of her presence in that infamous house.
She was a captive; of that there could be no doubt, a captive in the hands of the giant criminal whose wiles were endless, whose resources were boundless, whose intense cunning had enabled him, for years, to weave his nefarious plots in the very heart of civilization, and remain immune. Suddenly—
'That woman is a sorceress!' muttered Nayland Smith. 'There is about her something serpentine, at once repelling and fascinating. It would be of interest, Petrie, to learn what State secrets have been filched from the brains of habitues of this den, and interesting to know from what unsuspected spy-hole Fu-Manchu views his nightly catch. If … '
His voice died away, in a most curious fashion. I have since thought that here was a case of true telepathy. For, as Smith spoke of Fu-Manchu's spy-hole, the idea leapt instantly to my mind that
I drew back from the rail, turned, stared at Smith. I read in his face that our suspicions were identical. Then—
'Look! Look!' whispered Weymouth.
He was gazing at the trapdoor—which was slowly rising; inch by inch … inch by inch … Fascinatedly, raptly, we all gazed. A head appeared in the opening—and some vague, reflected light revealed two long, narrow, slightly oblique eyes watching us. They were brilliantly green.
'By God!' came in a mighty roar from Weymouth. 'It's Dr. Fu-Manchu!'
As one man we leapt for the trap. It dropped, with a resounding bang— and I distinctly heard a bolt shot home.
A gutteral voice—the unmistakable, unforgettable voice of Fu-Manchu— sounded dimly from below. I turned and sprang back to the rail of the platform, peering down into the hashish house. The occupants of the divans were making for the curtained doorway. Some, who seemed to be in a state of stupor, were being assisted by the others and by the man, Ismail, who had now appeared upon the scene.
Of Karamaneh, Zarmi, or Fu-Manchu there was no sign.
Suddenly, the lights were extinguished.
'This is maddening!' cried Nayland Smith—'maddening! No doubt they have some other exit, some hiding- place—and they are slipping through our hands!'
Inspector Weymouth blew a shrill blast upon his whistle, and Smith, running to the rail of the platform, began to shatter the panes of the skylight with his foot.
'That's hopeless, sir!' cried Weymouth. 'You'd be torn to pieces on the jagged glass.'
Smith desisted, with a savage exclamation, and stood beating his right fist into the palm of his left hand, and glaring madly at the Scotland Yard man.
'I know I'm to blame,' admitted Weymouth; 'but the words were out before I knew I'd spoken. Ah!'—as an answering whistle came from somewhere in the street below. 'But will they ever find us?'
He blew again shrilly. Several whistles replied … and a wisp of smoke floated up from the shattered pane of the skylight.
'I can smell
An ever-increasing roar, not unlike that of an approaching storm at sea, came from the streets beneath. Whistles skirled, remotely and intimately, and sometimes one voice, sometimes another, would detach itself from this stormy background with weird effect. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the hashish house there went on ceaselessly a splintering and crashing as though a determined assault were being made upon a door. A light shone up through the skylight.
Back once more to the rail I sprang, looked down into the room below— and saw a sight never to be forgotten.
Passing from divan to curtained door, from piles of cushions to stacked-up tables, and bearing a flaming torch hastily improvised out of a roll of newspaper, was Dr. Fu-Manchu. Everything inflammable in the place had been soaked with petrol, and, his gaunt, yellow face lighted by the evergrowing conflagration, so that truly it seemed not the face of a man, but that of a demon of the hells, the Chinese doctor ignited point after point… .
'Smith!' I screamed, 'we are trapped! that fiend means to burn us alive!'
'And the place will flare like matchwood! It's touch and go this time, Petrie! To drop to the sloping roof underneath would mean almost certain death on the pavement… .'
I dragged my pistol from my pocket and began wildly to fire shot after shot into the holocaust below. But the awful Chinaman had escaped— probably by some secret exit reserved for his own use; for certainly he must have known that escape into the court was now cut off.
Flames were beginning to hiss through the skylight. A tremendous crackling and crashing told of the glass destroyed. Smoke spurted up through the cracks of the boarding upon which we stood—and a great shout came from the crowd in the streets… .
In the distance—a long, long way off, it seemed—was born a new note in the stormy human symphony. It grew in volume, it seemed to be sweeping down upon us—nearer—nearer—nearer. Now it was in the streets immediately adjoining the Cafe de l'Egypte … and now, blessed sound! it culminated in a mighty surging cheer.
'The fire-engines,' said Weymouth coolly—and raised himself on to the lower rail, for the platform was growing uncomfortably hot.
Tongues of fire licked out, venomously, from beneath my feet. I leapt for the railing in turn, and sat astride it … as one end of the flooring burst into flame.
The heat from the blazing room above which we hung suspended was now all but insupportable, and the fumes threatened to stifle us. My head seemed to be bursting; my throat and lungs were consumed by internal fires.
'Merciful heavens!' whispered Smith. 'Will they reach us in time?'
'Not if they don't get here within the next thirty seconds!' answered Weymouth grimly—and changed his position, in order to avoid a tongue of flame that hungrily sought to reach him.
Nayland Smith turned and looked me squarely in the eyes. Words trembled on his tongue; but those words were never spoken … for a brass helmet appeared suddenly out of the smoke banks, followed almost immediately by a second… .
'Quick, sir! this way! Jump! I'll catch you!'
Exactly what followed I never knew; but there was a mighty burst of cheering, a sense of tension released, and it became a task less agonizing to breathe.
Feeling very dazed, I found myself in the heart of a huge, excited crowd, with Weymouth beside me, and Nayland Smith holding my arm. Vaguely, I heard;—
'They have the man Ismail, but … '
A hollow crash drowned the end of the sentence. A shower of sparks shot up into the night's darkness high above our heads.
'That's the platform gone!'
Chapter 27 ROOM WITH THE GOLDEN DOOR
One night early in the following week I sat at work upon my notes dealing with our almost miraculous escape from the blazing hashish house when the clock of St. Paul's began to strike midnight.
I paused in my work, leaning back wearily and wondering what detained Nayland Smith so late. Some friends
