Gallaho twisted the weapon from the man’s grasp, and Nayland Smith stood up, breathing heavily. Two constables had joined them now, their lamps reinforcing the illumination.
“Who’s got bracelets?” growled Gallaho.
None of the party had handcuffs, but Constable Dorchester, of the spiky red hair, grabbed the prisoner and ran him up the steps.
Outside, held by Dorchester and another, his back against the teak door, he grinned fiendishly, but uttered no word whilst Nayland Smith resumed his shoes and put on his leather overcoat. Gallaho shone the light of a torch on to the face of the captive.
The man wore a soft shirt and no tie; a cheap flannel suit;
his ankles were bare, and his lean feet were encased in rubber-soled shoes. His teeth gleamed in that fixed grin of hatred; his sunken eyes held a reddish smouldering fire. Disordered oily black hair hung down over his forehead. He was panting and wet with perspiration.
Nayland Smith raised the damp hair from the man’s brow, revealing a small mark upon parchment-like skin.
“The mark of Kali,” he said. “I thought so ... One of the Doctor’s religious assassins.”
“What ever is the meaning of all this?” Mr. Roberts demanded in a high, quavering voice.
Nayland Smith turned in the speaker’s direction, so that from Sterling’s point of view, the keen, angular profile was clearly visible against the light of a lamp held by one of the constables.
“It means,” Sir Denis began . . .
Something hummed like a giant insect past Sterling’s ear, missed Nayland Smith by less than an inch as he sprang back, fists clenched, glittered evilly in the lantern light, and . . . the man whose brow was branded with the mark of Kali gurgled, and became limp in the grip of his two big captors.
A bloody foam appeared upon his lips.
He was pinned to the door by a long, narrow-bladed knife, which had completely pierced his throat and had penetrated nearly an inch into the teak against which he stood!
CHAPTER 11
SAM PAK OF LIMEHOUSE
Nayland Smith walked up and down his study in Whitehall. Heavy blue curtains were drawn before the windows. Alan Sterling from the depths of an armchair watched him gloomily.
“I am satisfied that the other shells in that vault were occupied by deceased Demurases,” said Sir Denis. “How long the group has had access to that mausoleum, is something we are unlikely ever to know. But doubtless it has served other purposes in the past. The supposed sarcophagus of Isobel Demuras, as I showed you, was no more than a trick box or hiding-place, having a spy-hole by means of which one concealed there could watch what was going on below. It is certain that I have been covered closely for some days past. We were followed to Dr. Norton’s house this evening, and later I was followed to the Home Secretary’s. To make assurance doubly sure, the Doctor planted a spy in the mausoleum.”
He paused, knocking out his pipe in the hearth.
“That knife was meant for me, Sterling,” he said grimly, “and Dr. Fu Manchu’s thugs rarely miss.”
“It was an act of Providence—the protection of heaven!”
“I agree. The reign of the Mandarin Fu Manchu is drawing to a close. The omens are against him. He smuggled Fleurette from Ambrose’s studio to the cemetery. The device seems elaborate; but consider the difficulty of transporting an insensible girl!”
Sterling jumped up, a lean but athletic figure, clenching and unclenching his sunburned hands.
“Insensible—yes!” he groaned. “How do we know she isn’t— dead... .”
“Because all the evidence points the other way. Dr. Fu Manchu is a good gambler; he would never throw away an ace. Consider the sheer brilliance of his asking police protection for Professor Ambrose—that is, for himself!”
“He had not anticipated that it would be continued in London.”
“Possibly not.”
He pressed a bell. A tall, gaunt manservant came in. A leathery quality in his complexion indicated that he had known tropical suns; his face was expressionless as that of a Sioux brave; his small eyes conveyed nothing.
“Set out a cold buffet in the dining-room, Fay,” Nayland Smith directed.
Fay, seeming to divine by means of some extra sense that this completed his instructions, slightly inclined his close-cropped head and went out as silently as he had come in.
The telephone bell rang. Sir Denis took up the instrument, and:
“Yes,” he said; “please show him up at once.” He replaced the receiver. “Gallaho is downstairs. I hope this means that the deceased thug has been identified.”
Sterling’s restlessness was feverish.
“This waiting,” he muttered, “is damnably trying.”
Nayland Smith unscrewed the top of a tobacco jar.
“Get out your pipe,” he snapped. “We’ll have a drink when Gallaho arrives. You don’t have to be jumpy—there’s work ahead, and I’m counting on you.”
Sterling nodded, clenched his white teeth, and plunged into a pocket of his suit for his pipe. At which moment, a bell rang. Sir Denis opened the door, crossed the lobby and faced Chief detective-inspector Gallaho at the very moment that the silent Fay admitted him. He could not wait for the Scotland Yard man to cross the threshold, but:
“Who was he?” he snapped; “do you know?”
“Got his history, sir, such as it is.”
“Good.”
The fog had penetrated to the lift-shaft of the building;
wisps floated out on the landing and aleady were penetrating the lobby. When the inspector had come in:
“Have you had any dinner?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“No, sir. I haven’t had time to think about eating.”
“I thought not. There’s a cold buffet in the dining-room, as I gather we may be late to-night. Am I right?”
“Quite probably, sir.”
“Excellent.”
Sterling had charged his pipe from the tobacco jar, and now Nayland Smith pulled out a tangle of broad-cut mixture and began stuffing it into the hot bowl of his own cracked briar.
“Help yourself to whisky and soda, Inspector,” he said; “it’s on the side table there. Please go ahead.”
Gallaho nodded, took a glass and helped himself to a modest drink, then:
“The dead man has been identified by Detective-sergeant Pether, ofK Division,” he went on. “What Pether doesn’t know about the Asiatics isn’t worth knowing. Can I help you, sir?” indicating the decanter.
“Thanks, Inspector—and one for Mr. Sterling while you’re there.”
Gallaho, officiating as butler, continued:
“His real nationality, Pether doesn’t know, but he’s probably Burmese. He always passed for a lascar at Sam Pak’s——”
“Sam Pak’s?” rapped Nayland Smith.
“You’re a bit out of touch with Limehouse, sir,” said Gallaho, handing a tumbler to Sir Denis and one to Sterling. “But Sam Pak’s is a small restaurant frequented by seamen from ships docking in the river. It’s generally known that opium and hashish can be got there. But as its use seems to be confined to the Asiatics, we have never moved. There have been no complaints. Well—” he took a sip of his whisky and soda—”It seems that the dead man was known as ‘Charlie’— apparently he had no other name; and sometimes he used to act as a waiter for Sam Pak.”
“Highly important,” murmured Nayland Smith, beginning to walk up and down. “A very strong link. Gallaho. The doctor’s on the run. His available servants are few, and he’s back in his old haunts. Very significant. Could you give me a brief character sketch of this Sam Pak?”