The Trail of Fu Manchu

At a side table, two Chinamen were playing Mah jong, a game harmless enough, but interdict in Limehouse. At another table, a party, one of whom was a white girl, played fan-tan, also illegal in the Chinese quarter. The players spoke little, being absorbed in their games.

Although the fog had cleared from the streets of Limehouse and from the river, one might have supposed that this stuffy room had succeeded in capturing a considerable section of it. Visibility was poor. Tobacco smoke predominated in the “club”, but with it other scents were mingled. Half a dozen nondescripts were drinking and talking—mostly, they drank beer. One visitor seated alone at the end of the divan, elbows resting on the table before him, glared sullenly into space. He had a shock of dark hair, and his complexion was carrot-coloured. His prominent nose was particularly eloquent.

“Gimme another drink, Sam,” he kept demanding. “Gimme another drink, Sam.”

Save for two chairs set before the table upon which the thirsty man rested his elbows, there was no visible accommodation in the “Sailors’ Club”.

“Go ahead!” Nayland Smith whispered in Sterling’s ear. “Grab those two chairs.”

No one took the slightest notice of their entrance, and walking towards the bar, they seated themselves in the two vacant chairs. The one-eyed boy stood by for orders.

“Two pints beer,” said Nayland Smith in his queer broken English.

The boy went to the bar to give the order. And the barman to whom he gave it was quite easily the outstanding personality in the room. He was a small Chinaman, resembling nothing so much as an animated mummy. His chin nearly met his nose, for apparently he was quite toothless; and there was not an inch of his skin, nor a visible part of his bald head, which was not intricately traced with wrinkles. His eyes, owing to the puckering of the skin, were almost invisible, and his hands when they appeared from behind the counter resembled the talons of some large bird.

“Gimme another drink, Sam,” hiccupped the man on the divan. “Never mind those blokes—gi’ me another drink.”

One elbow slipped and his head fell right forward on the table.

“O.K. sir,” came a low whisper. “Detective-sergeant Murphy. Something funny going on here to-night, sir.”

Nayland Smith turned to the aged being behind the bar.

“Give him another drink,” he said rapidly in Chinese. “Charge me. He is better asleep than awake.”

The incredible features of Sam Pak drew themselves up in a ghastly contortion which may have been a smile.

“It is good,” he whistled in Chinese—”a sleeping fool may pass for a wise man.”

The one-eyed boy was bending over the counter, placing the mugs on a tray. Sterling watched, and suddenly:

“Sir Denis,” he whispered—”look! That isn’t a boy’s figure.”

“Gimme a drink,” blurted Murphy; then, in a whisper: “It isn’t a boy, sir—it’s a girl...”

CHAPTER

15

A LIGHTED WINDOW

Forester of the River Police had taken charge of the party covering Sam Pak’s from the Thames. His presence, which was unexpected, had infused a new spirit into the enterprise. The fact that he was accompanied by the celebrated Inspector Gallaho of the C.I.D., caused a tense but respectful silence to fall upon the party. Everyone knew now that some very important case lay behind this monotonous duty.

A sort of rumour hitherto submerged, now ran magically from man to man, the presence of the famous detective lending it wings.

“If s the Fu Manchu business—I told you so. . .”

“He’s been dead for years. . . .”

“If you ever have the bad luck to meet him, you’ll . . .”

“Silence on board!” said Forester, in a low but authoritative voice. “This isn’t a picnic: you’re on duty. Listen —isn’t one of you an able-bodied seaman?”

The ex-steward spoke up.

“I was an A.B., sir, before I became a steward.”

“You’re the man I want. You see that lighted window—the one that belongs to Sam Pak’s?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It isn’t more than three feet below the roof and there’s plenty of foothold. Do you think you could climb it?”

There was a moment of silence, and then:

“To the roof, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I could try. There wouldn’t be much risk if the tide was in, but I’m not so sure of the mud.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I’ll take a chance.”

“Good man,” growled Gallaho. “Inspector Forester has brought a rope ladder. We want you to carry a line up to make the ladder fast. The idea is to get a look in at that lighted window. Bear it in mind. But for the love of Mike, don’t make any row. We are taking chances.”

Merton, the ex-sailor, rather thought that he was the member of the party who was taking chances. He was endeavouring to find suitable words in which to express this idea, when:

“That’s a good man, Inspector,” snapped a voice from the barge. “Always keep your eye on a man who volunteers for dangerous duty.”

Merton looked up as two men who resembled Portuguese deck-hands dropped from the barge into the tail of the cutter. But the speaker’s voice held an unmistakable note. Rumour had spoken truly.

The presence of Inspector Gallaho had started tongues wagging; here was someone vastly senior to Gallaho, and masquerading in disguise. The attitude of the famous C.I.D. detective was sufficient evidence of the seniority of the last speaker.

The River Police craft was eased alongside the rotting piles which supported that excrescence of Sam Pak’s restaurant. Merton swarmed up without great difficulty towards a point just below the lighted window. Here he paused, making signs to the crew below.

“Push out,” snapped Nayland Smith in a low voice.

The little craft was eased away, and Merton, carrying the line, proceeded to the second and more difficult stage of his journey, watched breathlessly by every man aboard the River Police launch. Twice he faltered, and, once, seemed to have lost his hold. But at last a sort of sympathetic murmur ran around the watching party.

He had reached the roof of the wooden structure. He waved, and began to haul in the line attached to the rope ladder.

A stooping figure passed behind the lighted window. . .

Merton, in response to signals from Gallaho, moved further left, so that when the ladder was hauled up it just cleared the window. Some delay followed whilst Merton, disappearing from the view of those below, sought some suitable stanchion to which safely to lash the ladder. This accomplished, he gave the signal that all was fast, and:

“As soon as I’m on the ladder,” said Nayland Smith, “get back to cover. The routine, as arranged, holds good.”

He began to climb . . . and presently he could look in at the lighted window.

CHAPTER16

A BURNING GHAT

A woman attired in scanty underwear was pulling on high-heeled, jade green shoes. She was seated on a cheap dilapidated wooden chair. Depended upon a hanger on the wall behind this chair, was a green frock, which Nayland Smith guessed to be probably a creation of Worth. A dressing-table of a kind which can only be found in the