woodwork of the bar, and into a wall beyond, missing old Sam Pak by a matter of inches. But that veteran, motionless in his chair, never stirred.
As the pistol dropped from Murphy’s grasp, the Burman, kneeling on his back, lifted one hand to the detective’s jaw, and began to twist his head sideways—slowly.
“No!” Fah Lo Suee whispered—’Wo!”
The wrinkled yellow lips of Sam Pak moved slightly.
“It is for the Master to decide,” he said, in that seaport bastard Chinese which evidently the Burman understood.
Fah Lo Suee, wrenching the patch from her eye and the cap from her head, turned blazing eyes upon the old Chinaman.
“Are you mad?” she said, rapidly in Chinese. “Are you mad? This place is surrounded by police!”
“I obey the orders, lady.”
“Whose orders?”
“Mine.”
A curtain on the left of the bar was drawn aside—and Dr. Fu Manchu came in ...
The Orientals in the room who were not already on their feet, stood up; even old Sam Pak rose from his chair. The Burmese strangler, resting his right foot upon Murphy’s neck, rose to confront the Master. A queer hush descended where a scene of violence had been. All saluted the Chinese doctor, using the peculiar salutation of the Si-Fan, that far-flung secret society which Nayland Smith had spent so many years of life in endeavouring to destroy.
Dr. Fu Manchu wore Chinese indoor dress, and a mandarin’s cap was set upon his high skull. His eyes were half closed, but his evil, wonderful face exhibited no expression whatever.
Nevertheless, he was watching Fah Lo Suee.
A muffled scream in a woman’s voice, doubtless that of Mrs Sam Pak, broke this sudden silence. There were loud cries; the flat wailing of a police whistle; and then a resounding crash.
The wooden door of the Sailors’ Club had been broken down . . . but the iron door now confronted the raiding party.
Dr. Fu Manchu turned slowly, holding the curtain aside.
“Let them all be brought down,” he directed.
CHAPTEE32
IRON DOORS
inspector gallaho heard the sound of the shot—but very dimly. Later he was to know why it had sounded so dim. At the time he did not understand, and wondered where the shot had been fired. It was not the prearranged signal, but it was good enough.
He was leaning out of a window above a shuttered-up shop. The room to which it belonged, a dingy bedroom, had recently been leased by a respectable man of the sea. The landlady who owned the shop, a little general store, had been given tickets for the second house at the Palladium, as her well-behaved lodger was unable to use them that evening. It was unlikely that she would be back until considerably after midnight.
The room was full of plain-clothes police.
“Jump to it, Trench,” growled Gallaho. “That was a shot!”
The door behind him was thrown open. Heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs. He waited at the window, watching.
He saw Detective-officer Trench come out from the door below and dash across to the entrance to Sam Pak’s restaurant, two men close behind him. He waited until the rest of the party had set out for their appointed posts; then himself descended.
There was a smell of paraffin and cheese on the staircase which he found definitely unpleasant. In the open door-way he paused for a moment, readjusting his bowler. A woman’s scream came from Sam Pak’s shop. Something about it did not sound English. There was a sudden scuffling—a crash— another crash. On the river bank a police whistle wailed.
Gallaho crossed and walked in.
Mrs. Sam Pak, her gross features curiously leaden in hue, sat in a state of semi-collapse upon a chair before one of the small tables. Trench and another man were breaking down the door at the other end of the shop; the third detective guarded the woman.
“What is this?” she demanded. “Are you bandits? By what right do you break up my place?”
“We are police officers,” growled Gallaho, “as you have already been informed. I have a warrant to search your premises.”
The third man turned.
“She locked the door and hid the key the moment we came in, Inspector.”
“You know the penalty, don’t you?” said Gallaho.
Mrs. Sam Pak watched him sullenly.
“There is nothing in my house,” she said; “you have no right to search it.”
The lock gave with a splintering crash—but the door refused to open more than a few inches.
“Hello!” said Trench, breathing heavily “What’s this?”
“Let
As he stepped forward, torch in hand, the third man advanced also, but:
“Close the shop door, and pull the blinds down,” Gallaho directed, tersely.
He reached the broken door which refused to open fully, and shot the light of his torch through the aperture, then:
“K Division has been blind to this dive,” he growled. “They’ve got an
“Whew!” whistled Trench.
The four men stared at each other; then, their joint gazes were focussed upon Mrs. Sam Pak, seated, ungainly but indomitable, upon a small chair which threatened to collapse beneath her great bulk.
“You are under arrest,” said Gallaho, “for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.”
There came the roar of a powerful motor. The Scotland Yard car concealed not far away, had arrived.
“Open the door,” Gallaho directed, “and take her out.”
The woman, breathing heavily and pressing one hand over her heart, went out without protest.
“What now, Inspector?”
“We’ve got to find another way in. Make contact with Forester. That sailor man of his is on the job again to- night. We shall have to go up the ladder and in at the back window.”
“Very good, Inspector.”
At any hour in any London street, whatever the weather conditions, a crowd assembles magically at the first sign of trouble. A sort of drizzling rain descended through the mist which overhung Limehouse. Few pedestrians had been abroad when that muffled shot had sounded at Sam Pak’s. But now an interested group, eight or ten strong, formed a semicircle before the door as the man detailed to get in touch with the River Police came out and ran rapidly along the street.
As he disappeared in the mist, Gallaho opened the door and stepped out on to the wet pavement. Two police constables came up at the double.
“Clear these people away,” Gallaho directed. “I’m in charge here, and I don’t want loafers.”
At that the two constables got busy with the well-known formula “Move on, there.” The reluctant ones were gently shoved, and by that combination of persuasion and force which is one of the highest assets of the Metropolitan Police, the immediate neighbourhood was cleared of unofficial spectators. Windows had been opened, and heads craned curiously from them. The police car had pulled up half a block away, but now the officer in charge of the party came forward.
“What’s the trouble, sir?” he asked, saluting Gallaho. “Can’t we get through?”
“Iron door,” growled the Inspector.
“That means the finish of Sam Pak.”
“I know it does—and I’m wondering why it’s worth it.”
Forester of the River Police, handling the matter in accordance with his own ideas, had already sent Merton
