The Trail of Fu Manchu

“I know, hence my deduction that that is where the ventilation shaft comes out. Unofficial channels, Sergeant, often yield more rapid information than official ones.”

“I know, sir.”

“It was a brain wave to apply to the Blue Anchor for information respecting the site of this abandoned tunnel of fifty years ago. It is significant that no other authority, including Scotland Yard, could supply the desired data.”

“But what’s your theory, sir? I am quite in the dark.”

“It wasn’t a theory, it was a mere surmise until last night, when Sir Bertram Morgan told me that Dr. Fu Manchu had shown him an ingot of pure gold. I linked this with the phantom light which so many people have seen above the restaurant of Sam Pak; then my rough surmise became a theory.”

“I see, sir,” said Sergeant Murphy respectfully: as a matter of fact, he was quite out of his depth.

“There is no sign of the light to-night.”

“No,” snapped Nayland Smith, “and there’s no sign of Forester’s party.”

A stooping figure passed the lighted window in the wooden outbuilding which abutted upon Sam Pak’s.

“They are on the down-stream side of the place, sir. Inspector Forester thought they might have been spotted, and so to-night, he has changed his tactics.”

“Good enough. I hadn’t been notified of this.”

They scrambled up the muddy shingle, climbed a ladder, and entered a little shadowy alley. A figure showed for a moment in misty darkness.

“Gallaho!” Nayland Smith challenged.

“0. K. sir. Everything’s ready.”

“Has the light been seen to-night?”

“Yes. Two hours ago; it hasn’t appeared since.”

“From my memories of Sam Pak, formerly known as John Ki,” said Smith rapidly, “he sleeps as lightly as a stoat. He may appear to be ignorant of the fact that his premises are being covered by the police, but appearances, in the case of an aged and cunning sinner of this kind, are very deceptive. To penetrate a second time to the Sailor’s Club, is rather like walking into the lions’ den.”

“I have heard a lot about Chinese cunning,” growled Gallaho, “and I have seen something of what this Dr. Fu Manchu can do. But you ought to know, sir, that the C.I.D. can put up a pretty sound show. I don’t think for a moment that there’s anything suspected inside there.”

“In any event,” said Nayland Smith, significantly, “don’t waste time if I give you the signal. Several lives are at stake.”

Two minutes later, he lurched into the Chinese delicatessen store of Sam Pak, Murphy close behind him. His make-up was identical with that which he had worn on his previous visit; but whereas in the Blue Anchor he had spoken Cockney, he now assumed that queer broken English of which he had a complete mastery.

The very stout lady was playing patience behind the counter. She did not look up. There was no one else in the shop.

Fourth wife of the venerable Sam Pak, sometime known as John Ki, she had borne him two sons, bringing the grand total to Sam’s credit up to eighteen. She knew something, but by no means all, of the life of her aged husband. He was an influential member of his Tong. He had secret dealings with great people; there was some queer business in the cellar, below the Sailor’s Club; and the Sailor’s Club, although it showed a legitimate profit, was really a meeting place for some secret Society of which she knew nothing, and cared less. Sam treated her well—his affairs were his own.

“Lucky Strike, please,” said Nayland Smith; “club price.”

Mrs. Sam Pak looked up sharply, recognized the new member, grinned at the old and drunken one, and nodded.

“Get them inside,” she said—and focussed her attention upon her cards.

Nayland Smith nodded, and walked to the door which led to the “club”. He opened it, went along the narrow passage, and presently entered the club room, Murphy following.

The place presented much of its usual appearance. One of those games disallowed in Chinatown was being played. A fan-tan party occupied a table on the left. Two nondescript sailormen were throwing dice. Old Sam Pak sat behind the bar, apparently dead.

Nayland Smith and Murphy dropped down on to the dirty settee, half-way up the right-hand side of the room. From the withered lips of Sam Pak a faint whistle emitted.

A hunchback Chinese boy with a patch over his eye appeared from the doorway on the left of the bar and approached the new arrivals.

“Beer!” said Murphy, in a loud, thick voice, assuming his usual role of a hard drinker.

The visible eye of the waiter opened widely. It was a long narrow eye, brilliantly green, and dark-lashed. Automatically, as it seemed, the waiter bent over the table and swabbed it with a dirty duster.

“Sir Denis,” came the soothing voice of Fah Lo Suee, “you are in danger.

“Blimey,” muttered Murphy, “we’re spotted!”

“Thank you,” Nayland Smith replied in a low tone. “I rather suspected it.”

“It is useless to attempt anything to-night. You would find nothing.” She continued to swab the table. “I will join you if you say so. I mean it.”

“I could never trust you.”

“My life has been hell, since something you know about. I am sincere—I don’t wish his death . . . but I must get away.”

“I wonder ...”

Old Sam Pak whistled again, this time more shrilly. One of the fan-tan players deserted the party, and crossed to the door which communicated with the shop.

“Oh God!” whispered Fah Lo Suee. “He knows! If I can save you, will you save me?”

“Yes!” snapped Nayland Smith.

CHAPTER

31

THE SI-FAN

“Hands up!”

Nayland Smith was on his feet, covering the room.

He had noted that the door which now barred the way out to the shop and to the street was a heavy iron door of that kind which at one time gave so much exercise to the police of New York’s Chinatown. The man who had closed the door, turned, and, back to it, slowly raised his hands. He was a short, incredibly thick-set Burman, built like a gorilla, with long arms and a span of shoulder which told of formidable strength.

The other men at the fan-tan table also obeyed the order. Fah Lo Suee, following a moment’s hesitation, caught a swift side-glance from Smith and raised her hands.

Murphy, pistol ready, slipped behind Sir Denis and made for the Burman.

The bowl of a heavy bronze incense-burner stood upon the counter where it was used as a paper-weight and a receptacle for small change. At this moment, the aged Sam Pak— snatching it up with a lighning movement incredible in a man of his years—hurled the heavy bowl with unerring aim.

It struck Nayland Smith on the right temple.

He dropped his automatic, staggered, and fell forward over the table.

Sergeant Murphy came about in a flash, a police whistle between his teeth. Stupefaction claimed him for a moment as he saw Sir Denis lying apparently dead across the table . . . for no more than a moment; but this was long enough for the baboon-like Burman who guarded the door.

In two leaps worthy of the jungle beast he so closely resembled, the man hurled himself across the room, sprang upon the detective’s shoulders, and, herculean hands locked about his neck, brought him to the floor!

Too late to turn to meet the attack, Murphy had sensed the man’s approach. At the very moment that the Burman made his second spring, the detective pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot was curiously muffled in that airless, sealed-up place. The bullet crashed through the