The Trail of Fu Manchu
by Sax Rohmer
CHAPTER
I
THE GREAT FOG
“Who’s there?”
P.C. Ireland raised his red lantern, staring with smarting eyes through moving wreaths of yellow mist. Visibility was nil. This was the great fog of 1934—the worst in memory.
No one replied—there was no sound.
The constable shook himself, and settled the lantern down at his feet, flapped his arms in an endeavour to restore circulation. This chilliness was not wholly physical. Something funny was going on—something he didn’t like. He stood quite still again, listening.
Three times he had heard that sound resembling nothing so much as the hard breathing of some animal. Quite close to him in the fog—some furtive thing that crept by stealthily. . . . And now, he heard it again.
“Who’s there?” he challenged, snatching up the red lamp.
None answered. The sound ceased—if it had ever existed.
Traffic had been brought to a standstill some hours before; pedestrians there were none. King fog held the city of London in bondage. The silence was appalling. P.C. Ireland felt as though he was enveloped in a wet blanket from head to feet.
“I’ll go and have another look,” he muttered.
He began to grope his way up a short, semicircular drive to the door of a house. He had no idea what danger threatened Professor Ambrose, but he knew that he would be in for a bad time from the inspector if any one entered or left the professor’s house unchallenged. . . .
His foot struck the bottom of the three steps which led up to the door. Ireland mounted slowly; but not until his red lamp was almost touching the woodwork, could he detect the fact that the door was closed. He stood there awhile listening, but could hear nothing. He groped his way back to his post at the gate.
The police ‘phone box was not fifty yards away; he would have welcomed any excuse to call up the station; to establish contact with another human being—to be where there was some light other than the dim red glow of his lantern, which, sometimes when he set it down, resembled, seen through the moving clouds of mist, the baleful eyes of a monster glaring up at him.
He regained the gate and put the lantern down. He wondered when, if ever, he would be relieved. Discipline was all very well, but on occasions like this damned fog, when men who ought to have been in bed were turned out, a quiet smoke was the next best thing to a drink.
He groped under his oilskin cape for the packet, took out a cigarette and lighted it. He felt for the coping beside the gate and sat down. The fog appeared to be getting denser. Then in a flash he was on his feet again.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
Stooping, he snatched up the red lantern and began to grope his way towards the other end of the semicircular drive.
“I can see you!” he cried, slightly reassured by the sound of his own voice—”don’t try any funny business with
He bumped into the half-open gate, and pulled up, listening. Silence. He had retained his cigarette, and now he replaced it between his lips. It was the blasted fog, of course, that was getting on his nerves. He was beginning to imagine things. It wouldn’t do at all. But he sincerely wished that Waterlow would come along to relieve him, knowing in his heart of hearts that Waterlow hadn’t one chance in a thousand of finding the point.
“Stick there till you’re relieved,” had been the inspector’s order.
“All-night job for me,” Ireland murmured, sadly.
What was the matter with this old bloke, Ambrose? He leaned against the gate and reflected. It was something about a valuable statue that somebody wanted to pinch, or something. Ireland found it difficult to imagine why anyone should want to steal a statue. The silence was profound—uncanny. To one used to the bombilation of London, even in the suburbs, it seemed unnatural. He had more than half smoked his cigarette when—there it was again!
Heavy breathing and a vague shuffling sound.
Ireland dropped his cigarette and snatched up his lantern.
He made a surprising spring in the direction of the sound.
“Come here, damn you!” he shouted. “What the hell’s the game?”
And this time he had a glimpse of—something!
It rather shook him. It might have been a crouching man, or it might have been an animal. It was very dim, just touched by the outer glow of his lantern. But Ireland was no weakling. He made another surprising leap, one powerful hand outstretched. The queer shape sprang aside and was lost again in the fog.
“What the hell is it?” Ireland muttered.
Aware again of that unaccountable chill, he peered around him holding the lantern up. He had lost his bearings. Where the devil was the house? He made a rapid calculation, turned about and began to walk slowly forward. He walked for some time in this manner, till his outstretched hand touched a railing. He had crossed to the verge of the Common.
He was on the wrong side of the road.
His back to the railings, he set out again. He estimated that he was half-way across, when:
“Help!” came a thin, muffled scream—the voice of a woman. “For God’s sake help me!”
The cry came from right ahead. P.C. Ireland moved more rapidly, grinding his teeth together. He had not been wrong— there was something funny going on. It might be murder. And, his heart beating fast, and all his training urging
Evidently that cry had come from the house.
He moved forward more confidently—he was familiar with the route. Presently, a dim light glowed through the wet blanket of the fog. The door was open.
Ireland stumbled up the steps and found himself in a large lobby, brightly lighted. Fog streamed in behind him like the fetid breath of some monstrous dragon. There were pictures and statuettes; thick carpet on the floor; rugs and a wide staircase leading upwards. It was very warm. A coal fire had burned low in an open grate on one side of the lobby.
“Hello there!” he shouted. “I’m a police officer. Who called?”
There was no answer.
“Hi!” Ireland yelled at the top of his voice. “Is there anyone at home?”
He stood still, listening. A piece of coal dropped from the fire onto the tiled hearth. Ireland started. The house was silent—as silent as the fog-bound streets outside, and great waves of clammy mist were pouring in at the open door.
The constable put down his red lantern on a little coffee table, and then he began to look about him apprehensively. Then he walked to the foot of the stairs and trumpeted through cupped hands:
“Is there anyone there?”
Silence,
He was uncertain of his duty. Furthermore, this brightly lighted but apparently empty house was even more perturbing than the silence of the Common. A telephone stood on a ledge, not a yard from the coffee table. Ireland took up the instrument.
A momentary pause, during which he kept glancing apprehensively about him, and then:
“Wandsworth police station—urgent!” he said. “Police calling.”
