These words were the last he spoke.
Strong fingers were clasped over his mouth; a sinewy arm jerked his head back—and the stinging in his neck continued!
Nayland Smith believed (he was not in a condition to observe accurately) that the assaulted woman was giving particulars to a patrolman, that the group of onlookers was dispersing.
Making a sudden effort, he bent, twisted, and threw off his attacker.
Turning, fists clenched, he faced a tall man dimly seen in the darkness, for the scuffle had taken place at a badly lighted point. He registered a medium right on this man’s chin and was about to follow it up when the man closed with him. He made no attempt to use his fists, he just threw himself upon Smith and twined powerful arms around his body, at the same time crying out:
“Officer! Come and lend me a hand!”
This colossal impudence had a curious effect.
It changed Nayland Smith’s anger to something which he could only have described as cold hatred. By heavens! he would have a reckoning with this suave ruffian!
But he ceased to struggle.
Those onlookers who still remained, promptly deserted the robbed woman and surrounded this new center of interest. The officer, slipping his notebook into a tunic pocket, stepped forward, a big fellow marked by the traditional sangfroid of a New York policeman.
He shone a light onto the face of the tall man, who still had his arms around Nayland Smith, and Smith studied this face attentively.
He saw pale, clear-cut features, a shadowy moustache, heavy brows, and dark, penetrating eyes. The man wore a black overcoat, a white muffler, and a soft black hat. Smith noted with pleasure a thin trickle of blood on his heavy chin.
Then the light was turned upon himself, and:
“What goes on?” the patrolman asked.
“My patient grew fractious. Excitement has this effect. I think he’s cooling down, though. Do you think you could lend me a hand as far as my car? I am Dr. Malcolm—Central Park South.”
“Poor guy. Do what I can. Doctor.”
But Nayland Smith smiled grimly. It was
“Listen, Officer,” he said—or, more exactly, he framed his lips to say . . . for no sound issued from his mouth!
He tried again—and produced only a sort of horrible, gurgling laughter.
Then he understood.
He knew that he was in the hands of that same bogus physician who had visited Moreno—that the man was a servant of Dr. Fu Manchu.
And he knew that the stinging sensation had been caused by the point of a hypodermic syringe.
He was stricken
The only sound he could utter was that imbecile laugh!
“Poor guy,” muttered the officer again.
“War veteran,” Dr. Malcolm explained in a low voice. The onlookers murmured their sympathy. “Japanese prison camp. Escaped from my clinic yesterday. But we shall get him right—in time—with care.”
During this astounding statement. Dr. Malcolm, overconfident, perhaps, in the presence of the burly patrolman, made the mistake of slightly relaxing his hold.
The temptation was too strong for Nayland Smith.
Tensing every relevant muscle in his body, he broke free. He had no foot room to haul off for a straight one, no time to manoeuvre, but he managed to register a really superior upper-cut on the point of Dr. Malcolm’s prominent jaw. Dr. Malcolm tottered—and fell.
Then, turning. Smith ran for his life . . . He knew nothing less was at stake.
A whistle was blown. A girl screamed. Someone shouted, “Escaped madman! Stop him!” Runners were hot on his heels.
The hunt was up!
No nightmare of the past, in his long battle with Fu Manchu, approached in its terrors those which now hounded him on. Capture meant death—and what a death! For he could not doubt that Dr. Fu Manchu intended, first, to interrogate him.
And escape?
Escape meant the life of a dumb man . . .
He saw now, plainly enough, how he had held the game in his hands if only he had kept his poise. Many things that he might have done appeared to mock him.
And throughout this time, all about him, hunters multiplied. Voices cried, “Escaped madman—stop him!” Police whistles skirled; the night became a charivari of racing footsteps.
All New York pursued him.
He tried to think as he ran.
Instinctively he had turned back the way he had come. He had a faint hope that, contrary to his orders, a detective might have been assigned to follow him. How he regretted those orders! What madness to underestimate the profound cunning of Dr. Fu Manchu . . .
Suddenly someone stepped out upon him and tried a tackle. He missed. Smith tripped the tackier (he admired his pluck) and ran on.
“Escaped madman! Stop him!”
Those cries seemed to come from all around. Once he tried to shout also, wildly anxious to test again his power of speech. Only a guttural laugh rewarded him. After that he ran in silence, wondering how long he could hope to last at that pace.
Some swift runner was hot on his heels, having outdistanced all others. But Nayland Smith had recognized a warehouse just ahead, the yard gate open, which he had passed a few minutes earlier. If he could reach it first, he still had a chance. Desperation had prompted apian.
Then, as he raced up to the gate, something happened which was not in the plan . . . A pair of stocky figures sprang out, one on either hand!
They had been posted to intercept him—the game was up!
The man on the left Smith accounted for—and he used his feet as well as his fists. The other threw him. He was a trained wrestler and gave not one opening. Then the pack came up. It was led by the big policeman who had muttered, “Poor guy.” His were the footsteps which Smith had heard so close behind.
As he lay, face downward, in a stranglehold, this officer took charge, speaking breathlessly.
“Good work! Don’t hurt him. The doctor’s coming.” Dimly Nayland Smith became aware of an increasing crowd. “Hand him over to me. I can manage him.”
He was lifted upright and seized skillfully by the patrolman. The two thickset thugs vanished into darkness outside a ring of light cast by several flashlamps. Smith retained sufficient sanity to observe that one of them limped badly. He thought and hoped that his kick had put cancelled to his kneecap.
He opened his mouth to speak, remembered, and remained silent.
“Take it easy, brother,” said the big officer sympathetically. He was still breathing hard from his run. “You’re not in Japan now. I don’t like holding you, but you surely can use ‘em, and I’m not looking for a K.O.” He steered Smith into the warehouse yard—that very haven he had prayed to reach!
“We’ll wait here. Hi! you!”—to the audience—”shift!”
A car came along. It pulled up opposite the gateway in which they were standing . . . and Dr. Malcolm got out! A second patrolman was with him. Dr. Malcolm’s voice sounded pleasantly shaky.
“Congratulations, Officer. I shall commend you for this.”
“All in the day’s work,” replied the man who held Smith. “Glad to see you’ve snapped out of it. A nifty one, that was. Shall I get the wagon?”
“No, no.” Dr. Malcolm stepped forward. “It would only excite him. Here is my chauffeur. He is used to—such cases. We can manage quite well between us. Just call me in about twenty minutes. Dr. Scott Malcolm, Circle 7- 0300.”
