This was by no means what Nayland Smith had planned. He was savagely disappointed. Indeed the failure of his ambitious scheme would have left a sense of humiliation had it not been for the arrests made on the East River. Here at least was confirmation of his theory that the door under the dock belonging to the South Coast Trade Line undoubtedly was used by the group surrounding Dr. Fu Manchu.
It was infuriating to realize, as he had realized at the moment of the arrest of the Egyptian , that in all probability a meeting of the Council of Seven was actually taking place to-night!
The cowled robe was particularly significant. There were reasons why those summoned to be present did not wish to divulge their identity to the others: this was obvious. Ahmed Fayume was one of the Seven—a director of the Si-Fan. But it was improbable, owing to the man’s diplomatic credentials, that they would ever succeed in convicting him of any offence against the government of the United States.
From experience he knew that all attempts to interrogate the Chinese prisoner must fail. He took it for granted that the captive was a servant of Fu Manchu: that such an admission could ever be forced from his lips was wildly improbable. The other Chinaman had escaped; by now, had probably given the alarm. . . .
Corrigan’s words offered the only consolation. He recognized that it would be impracticable to sustain the siege of an area of Chinatown long enough to make it effective. He had been right, but he had failed. There was only one glimmer of hope. And suddenly he felt glad that the other Chinaman had escaped.
If, and he had little doubt upon the point, notable conspirators were present to-night, the raid on the secret water-gate might result in a desperate bid for freedom above!
But he was very silent as he brought up the rear of the party with Corrigan, groping back along the noisome tunnel. At points, vague booming noises echoed from above, the sound made by the heavy traffic. Always there was the echoing whisper of water. At a point where a lower inspection gallery crossed beneath that which they were following, he paused.
“Where do you estimate we stand, Corrigan?” he snapped.
“I should say about under Bayard and East Broadway. It’s a guess—but I don’t think I’m far out.”
“Detail men to watch this junction.”
VIII
“Stand on the foot of the ladder, Finney,” Hepburn directed.
The detective inspector gingerly took his place.
“Now, you,” indicating another man, “stand underneath and hold the rungs; and you,” to a third, “hang on to the side so that it doesn’t topple over. All set?”
The ladder, a short one, had been discovered in the warehouse yard and brought up on to the roof. Now, held by the three men, it perilously overhung a yawning gap, a gulley at the bottom of which, seen through a curtain of mist, were lights moving and stationary. Human voices distorted by the fog, muted sounds of movement were audible; but the characteristic hooting of taxicabs was missing, for this was one of the barricaded streets: the entrance to Wu King’s Bar lay immediately beneath.
“All ready, Captain.”
Mark Hepburn cautiously began to climb the ladder.
He moved in the shadow of the top storey of Wu King’s apartment house. It was a dizzy proceeding: at the cold, starry sky which seemed to beckon to him from the right of the building he could not trust himself to look, nor downward into the misty chasm of the street. Rung by rung he mounted—his objective that lighted window still some six feet above. Upward he climbed.
And, presently, standing two rungs from the top, he could rest his hands upon the ledge and look into the room to which this window belonged.
He saw a sight so strange that at first he could not fathom its significance. . . .
An oddly appointed sitting-room was visible, its character and the character of the lamps striking a definite Oriental note. Brightly coloured rugs were strewn upon the floor, and he saw that there were divans against two of the walls. The predominant colour scheme of illumination seemed to be purple, so that he found great difficulty in making out what was taking place at the farther end.
A window there was widely opened, and two Chinamen seemed to be engaged in hauling upon a line. This in itself was singular, but the third and only other figure in the room struck an ultimate note of the bizarre.
It was that of a man wearing a black cowled robe. The cowl entirely covered his face, but was provided with two eyeholes, so that save for the colour of his dress he resembled one of the Misericordia Brethren!
He was standing quite still just behind the Chinamen, who, as Mark Hepburn watched, hauled in at the open window an equipment resembling a bosun’s chair. Even now the significance of what was going on had not fully penetrated to his mind. The cowled man, clutching his robe about his legs and assisted by one of the Chinamen, took his place in the chair. Again they began hauling.
The black figure disappeared through the window. . . .
Now the truth burst upon him. Nayland Smith’s raid of the water-gate had succeeded. . . . This was an emergency exit from the surrounded block!
How many had gone before? How many were yet to come? It was clear enough. A ropeway had been thrown across the street to some tall building on the opposite side, and above the very heads of the patrolling police the wanted men were being wound across to safety!
He moved his foot, urgent to descend. It was not too late to locate that other building. . . .
Then he paused.
As the two Chinamen bore upon the line, from a curtained opening left of the room another figure entered.
It was that of a tall man wearing a yellow robe; a man whose majestic features conveyed a sense of such power that Hepburn’s movement was arrested. Tightly clutching the ledge, he watched—watched that high shouldered, imposing figure standing motionless in the curtained entrance. Perhaps his regard became so intense as
