Trench nodded and stepped behind the counter, taking up the instrument.
He called Scotland Yard and waited.
A tense silence descended upon all the men present until the call was answered.
“Detective-sergeant Trench speaking,” he said, and gave a code word in an undertone. “Thanks.”
A further interval of silence, and then:
“Oh, is he, Inspector? Oh, I see . . . Yes, I suppose so, if those are the orders.”
Trench placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned.
“The Commissioner is standing by for a report on this job!” he whispered. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned up——”
“Hello, sir. Yes, speaking from there, now. I’m sorry to report, sir, that Sir Denis has disappeared. We have reason to believe that he’s been smuggled into the cellars of this place.
An interval of respectful silence, and then:
“The difficulty is, sir, they’ve got iron doors, here. I am speaking for Chief detective-inspector Gallaho, sir. He has proceeded in person to Silvertown to try to get an explosive expert to deal with one of the doors below, here. . . . Yes, sir. We thought a blow-torch might do the trick, if it’s possible to get one down in time. . . .Very good, sir. Yes, every exit is covered.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Forester.
“The hell of it is,” he said, “we don’t know what’s going on below, there, and we can do nothing! Our only arrest is Mrs. Sam Pak, and I don’t believe she knows a thing!”
All stood silent, waiting for a repetition of the sound, and presently it came—a muffled cry.
“It’s one of the men in the passage,” said Trench, and ran off, Forester following, his heavy boots making a booming sound upon the wooden floor. They were halfway down the stairs when the man who had called out, met them. His expression indicated excitement.
“Come this way, Inspector,” he said, “and listen.”
Their torch lights moving eerily upon brick and plaster walls, they proceeded to the end of the long passage. Another man was standing with his ear pressed to the iron door. He signalled, and they all approached, standing silently, listening.
“Do you hear it?”
Forester nodded, grimly.
“What the hell is it?” he muttered.
A dim, but dreadful roaring was perceptible, coming it seemed, from remote deeps beyond the iron door.
CHAPTER 37
CHINESE JUSTICE
Sterling realized as the horror in this hell pit rose ever higher that the company of the shadow was now complete.
Someone else had been borne down those many stairs and thrown like a sack upon the concrete floor. The doors of the furnace were opened again by the Chinese firemen, and again the heat seared his eyes. He tried to take advantage of that white glare; in a measure, he was successful.
Detective-sergeant Murphy had joined the company of the doomed; trussed and helpless he lay beyond Alt Oke.
The sweating Chinamen fed the hungry furnace.
It was the closest reproduction of the traditional hell which he believed could ever have been created. He struggled to his feet: his ankles were bound, his wrists were bound. But in some way to be upright again, though he could not move a step, seemed to reinforce his failing courage. The furnace doors were reclosed.
“Sir Denis!” he shouted, his voice reverberating in that shadow-haunted shaft. “Sergeant Murphy!”
In his extremity he spoke with the accent of the Middle West; indeed, his father’s face was before him. He saw the home in which he had been born, Edinburgh University, too, where he had taken his degree; all the happy things of life. And Fleurette! Fleurette! Merciful heaven!—where was Fleurette? He would never see her again!
Murphy answered.
“O.K., sir,” he called. “While there’s life there’s. . . .”
A dull thud, that of a blow, terminated the words.
“Murphy!” Sterling cried again, and was in that state when he recognized hysteria in his own voice, yet fought against it. Sir Denis, he remembered to have noticed in the glare of the furnace, had a bandage over his mouth. “Murphy!”
No answer came—but, in silhouette against the light, the gorilla shape of the Burman appeared.
“You yellow swine!” said Sterling viciously, and bound though he was, launched himself upon the broad, squat figure.
He received a blow upon the mouth which knocked him backwards. He tasted blood; his lips were split.
“If I could meet you in the open, you bandy-legged horror,” he shouted, madly, “I’d knock you silly!”
The Burman, who wore heavy shoes, kicked him in the ribs.
Sterling groaned involuntarily. The pain of this last brutality threatened to overcome him. The horrible shadowy place began to swim before his eyes.
His wrists were aching: his hands were numb. Nevertheless he clenched his fists, clenched his teeth. He was writhing with pain; a rib had caved in—he knew it. But his supreme desire was to retain consciousness; to be on the job if any eleventh hour hope should offer.
“Be silent,” came a musical voice out of the darkness. Fah Lo Suee!
“My friend, you only add more pains to those that are to come.”
Sterling succeeded in conquering himself. His maltreated body had threatened to master his brain. But his brain won.
Above the ever increasing roar of the furnace, a voice reached him:
“I’m here, Sterling, old man—I couldn’t speak before.”
It was Nayland Smith.
In some way, the shadows of that dim shaft seemed to possess weight—to bear down on one oppressively. From where he lay, Sterling could not see the mouth of the tunnel, but he was oddly conscious of its presence, somewhere beyond the furnace. There was water above, a great quantity of water, probably the River Thames.
This sense of depth, of being buried far below the surface, alone was horrifying; with the accompaniments which surrounded him, plus a split lip and a dislocated rib, it stretched endurance to breaking point.
And then another voice spoke out of the darkness. It was a voice which, once heard, could never be forgotten: the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu.
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith: you are, I believe, acting for the Secret Service. You are a legitimate enemy. Detective-sergeant Murphy: You are attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, and therefore entitled to my respect. Mr. Alan Sterling, you have voluntarily thrown yourself into the midst of my affairs, but since your motives are of a kind sometimes termed chivalrous, I shall accord to you also the honours of war.”
The strange cold voice ceased for a moment.
Sterling struggled into a crouching position, ignoring the blood dripping from his chin, striving to forget the sharp pain of his injured rib.
“To-night may well be a climax in my war against folly and misrule; but if I triumph to-night, my path will be clear. My chief enemy will no longer obstruct me in my work, nor treachery live in my household. . . .”
That strange, impressive voice ceased—then uttered a short, guttural command.
The squat Burman appeared in the circle of light, dragging by the heels the inert body of Alt.
It now became obvious that the Nubian was bound hand and foot, and that a cloth was tied tightly over his mouth. His eyes seemed to bulge from his skull; his face was wet with the sweat of fear.
The Burman withdrew into the shadows, but appeared again almost immediately swinging a short, curved sword, which he seemed to handle with familiarity.
