“This man is a traitor,” the guttural voice said softly; “I have held my hand too long.”
A swift, hissing word of command; and during some few, dreadful seconds in which Alan Sterling’s heart seemed to remain still in his breast, the Burmese executioner obeyed.
Twining the fingers of his left hand into the frizzy, black hair of the Nubian, he jerked him to his feet with a single movement of that long, powerful arm. And, as the man stood there bent forward, swaying—with one mighty, unerring sweep of the scimitar he severed his head from his body!
“My God!” groaned Sergeant Murphy—”my God!”
Unconcernedly, the executioner threw the body on to one of the wooden frames, lashed the trunk and feet with lines which were attached to the woodwork, and stood up, glancing into the darkness in the direction from which the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu had come.
In response to another hissing command, the two Chinese firemen came forward and threw open the furnace door. They raised the head of the framework to which the body was lashed. The Burman seized the other end.
They began to swing it to and fro, chanting in unison: “Hi yah, hi yah, hi yah!” as they swung.
Then, with a final shouted “HI!” they propelled it into the white heart of the furnace.
They were about to close the door, when the Burman checked them—and stooped . . .
CHAPTER 38
THE BLUE LIGHT
“It’s by no means as simple as all that, Inspector,” the chemist in charge assured Gallaho. “Before I attempt a mining operation such as you describe, I should like to know what’s above and what’s below. Also, what’s on the other side of this wall that you want me to blow down. You say it’s a concrete wall?”
“It appears to be,” growled Gallaho, fretfully; technicians were always an infernal nuisance.
“We could probably blast a way through the wall, but I’m wondering what that wall supports. We don’t want half Limehouse to fall in on us.”
“Well, come and see for yourself; but come provided—for almost anything may be happening to the people we want to rescue.”
“I shall certainly come. Inspector. I don’t fancy the responsibility, but it’s not the kind of thing I want to delegate.”
There were further delays whilst mysterious apparatus was assembled, and Gallaho, seated in the office of the chief chemist, tapped his fingers irritably upon the table, glancing from minute to minute at a big clock over the mantelpiece. Messengers were scouring the extensive works in search of an expert with the musical name of Schumann. His attendance, according to Mr. Elliot, the chief chemist, was indispensable.
Gallaho was getting very angry.
Finally, arrangements were completed. Two workmen who seemed to enjoy this break in their night duties carried mysterious boxes, packages and coils of cable. Schumann, who proved to be a taciturn, bearded German, merely nodded and grunted when the chief chemist explained the nature of the project.
At long last, they all climbed into the police car, and set out recklessly for Limehouse. Gallaho sat in front with the driver. He was altogether too irritable for conversation, and at a point in their journey not far from their destination:
“Pull up!” he directed, sharply.
The brakes were applied, and the car promptly brought to a standstill.
Inspector Gallaho stared forward and upward, and now, resting his hand on the driver’s shoulder:
“Look!” he said. “What’s that? Right over the river bank, in a line with the smokestack?”
The driver looked as directed. And then:
“Good Lord!” he whispered, “what is it?”
There was very little mist in the air, but lowering clouds overhung the river; and there, either in reality or reflected upon them as upon a screen danced that bluish, elfin light;
Gallaho knew that it was directly above the roof of Sam Pak’s.
“Go ahead!” he growled. . . .
There was not much evidence of activity in the neighbourhood of the restaurant. The night life of Chinatown, such as it is, is a furtive life. A constable was standing on an adjacent corner, but there was little now to indicate that anything unusual had taken place there that evening, except the fact that the store was closed.
One or two customers who had applied there had gone away much puzzled by this circumstance.
No doubt there were watchers behind dark windows.
No doubt the fact was known throughout the Chinese quarter that Sam Pak’s had been raided and his wife arrested. But those who shared this secret information kept it very much to themselves, and kept themselves carefully out of sight.
Entering the shop, followed by the technicians with their apparatus:
“Anything new?” Gallaho growled.
Trench was waiting there.
“A most extraordinary roaring sound from somewhere below,” he reported; “and the heat at the top end of the room,” said Gallaho. “I can’t make head nor tail of it.” He walked forward. “Yes; the difference is very marked. What the devil can it be?”
“The place to hear the roaring, sir,” said another voice, “is at the end of the passage, below, outside the iron door.”
“Come on,” said Gallaho, and made his way there. “Any report from the river?”
“Yes. That blue light has been seen up over the roof.”
“I know ... I have seen it myself.”
CHAPTER
39
THE LOTUS GATE
Stark horror coming on top of physical pain all but defeated Alan Sterling. As the furnace doors were reclosed and the three yellow men sweating and half-naked were lost in the shadows outside the ring of light, he thought he heard a groan . . . and he thought that the man who groaned was Nayland Smith.
The gruesome place swam about him; the hard floor seemed to be moving like the deck of a ship.
He ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. He knew that a mighty effort was called for, or he should faint. If this happened he should despise himself; and if he must die, at least let him carry his self-respect to the end.
Nevertheless, it was touch and go. Physical nausea saved him.
He was violently sick.
“The bloody swine!” came out of the darkness which concealed Sergeant Murphy. “By heaven! There’s something coming to this lot!”
“There is something coming to all of us, Sergeant Murphy,” It was the cold, measured voice of Dr. Fu Manchu which spoke. “To-night, I am destroying some of the weeds which choked my path.”
Somewhere in the neighbourhood of the tunnel, the entrance to which Sterling could not see from where he lay, a pump was at work. The roar of the furnace increased in volume. It was like the sustained roar of some unimaginable, ravenous beast.
He took a firm grip upon himself.
He was shaking violently: complete collapse threatened. . . . There was an interval during which the furnace door was opened again, but Sterling resolutely turned his head aside. At the clang of its closing he opened his eyes again.
“Paracelsus,” came that strange voice out of the darkness— and, now, with a note of exaltation in it, a note of fanaticism, an oddly rising cadence—”Paracelsus, although in some respects an impostor, yet was the master of many truths; of the making of gold he knew something, but few have understood his dictum Vita ignis corpus lignum’ (light is the fire, the body the fuel).”
He was silent for a moment. The roar of the furnace increased again in volume.
“The body the fuel . . .” he repeated. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith, Mr. Alan Sterling, Detective-sergeant Murphy. War is merciless, and I regret that you stand in my way. But in order that you shall realize the selflessness of my
