The other men at the fan-tan table also obeyed the order. Fah Lo Suee, following a moment’s hesitation, caught a swift side-glance from Smith and raised her hands.
Murphy, pistol ready, slipped behind Sir Denis and made for the Burman.
The bowl of a heavy bronze incense-burner stood upon the counter where it was used as a paper-weight and a receptacle for small change. At this moment, the aged Sam Pak— snatching it up with a lighning movement incredible in a man of his years—hurled the heavy bowl with unerring aim.
It struck Nayland Smith on the right temple.
He dropped his automatic, staggered, and fell forward over the table.
Sergeant Murphy came about in a flash, a police whistle between his teeth. Stupefaction claimed him for a moment as he saw Sir Denis lying apparently dead across the table . . . for no more than a moment; but this was long enough for the baboon-like Burman who guarded the door.
In two leaps worthy of the jungle beast he so closely resembled, the man hurled himself across the room, sprang upon the detective’s shoulders, and, herculean hands locked about his neck, brought him to the floor!
Too late to turn to meet the attack, Murphy had sensed the man’s approach. At the very moment that the Burman made his second spring, the detective pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot was curiously muffled in that airless, sealed-up place. The bullet crashed through the woodwork of the bar, and into a wall beyond, missing old Sam Pak by a matter of inches. But that veteran, motionless in his chair, never stirred.
As the pistol dropped from Murphy’s grasp, the Burman, kneeling on his back, lifted one hand to the detective’s jaw, and began to twist his head sideways—slowly.
“No!” Fah Lo Suee whispered—’Wo!”
The wrinkled yellow lips of Sam Pak moved slightly.
“It is for the Master to decide,” he said, in that seaport bastard Chinese which evidently the Burman understood.
Fah Lo Suee, wrenching the patch from her eye and the cap from her head, turned blazing eyes upon the old Chinaman.
“Are you mad?” she said, rapidly in Chinese. “Are you mad? This place is surrounded by police!”
“I obey the orders, lady.”
“Whose orders?”
“Mine.”
A curtain on the left of the bar was drawn aside—and Dr. Fu Manchu came in ...
The Orientals in the room who were not already on their feet, stood up; even old Sam Pak rose from his chair. The Burmese strangler, resting his right foot upon Murphy’s neck, rose to confront the Master. A queer hush descended where a scene of violence had been. All saluted the Chinese doctor, using the peculiar salutation of the Si-Fan, that far-flung secret society which Nayland Smith had spent so many years of life in endeavouring to destroy.
Dr. Fu Manchu wore Chinese indoor dress, and a mandarin’s cap was set upon his high skull. His eyes were half closed, but his evil, wonderful face exhibited no expression whatever.
Nevertheless, he was watching Fah Lo Suee.
A muffled scream in a woman’s voice, doubtless that of Mrs Sam Pak, broke this sudden silence. There were loud cries; the flat wailing of a police whistle; and then a resounding crash.
The wooden door of the Sailors’ Club had been broken down . . . but the iron door now confronted the raiding party.
Dr. Fu Manchu turned slowly, holding the curtain aside.
“Let them all be brought down,” he directed.
CHAPTEE32
IRON DOORS
inspector gallaho heard the sound of the shot—but very dimly. Later he was to know why it had sounded so dim. At the time he did not understand, and wondered where the shot had been fired. It was not the prearranged signal, but it was good enough.
He was leaning out of a window above a shuttered-up shop. The room to which it belonged, a dingy bedroom, had recently been leased by a respectable man of the sea. The landlady who owned the shop, a little general store, had been given tickets for the second house at the Palladium, as her well-behaved lodger was unable to use them that evening. It was unlikely that she would be back until considerably after midnight.
The room was full of plain-clothes police.
“Jump to it, Trench,” growled Gallaho. “That was a shot!”
The door behind him was thrown open. Heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs. He waited at the window, watching.
He saw Detective-officer Trench come out from the door below and dash across to the entrance to Sam Pak’s restaurant, two men close behind him. He waited until the rest of the party had set out for their appointed posts; then himself descended.
There was a smell of paraffin and cheese on the staircase which he found definitely unpleasant. In the open door-way he paused for a moment, readjusting his bowler. A woman’s scream came from Sam Pak’s shop. Something about it did not sound English. There was a sudden scuffling—a crash— another crash. On the river bank a police whistle wailed.
Gallaho crossed and walked in.
Mrs. Sam Pak, her gross features curiously leaden in hue, sat in a state of semi-collapse upon a chair before one of the small tables. Trench and another man were breaking down the door at the other end of the shop; the third detective guarded the woman.
“What is this?” she demanded. “Are you bandits? By what right do you break up my place?”
“We are police officers,” growled Gallaho, “as you have already been informed. I have a warrant to search your premises.”
The third man turned.
“She locked the door and hid the key the moment we came in, Inspector.”
“You know the penalty, don’t you?” said Gallaho.
Mrs. Sam Pak watched him sullenly.
“There is nothing in my house,” she said; “you have no right to search it.”
The lock gave with a splintering crash—but the door refused to open more than a few inches.
“Hello!” said Trench, breathing heavily “What’s this?”
“Let me have a look,” said Gallaho.
As he stepped forward, torch in hand, the third man advanced also, but:
“Close the shop door, and pull the blinds down,” Gallaho directed, tersely.
He reached the broken door which refused to open fully, and shot the light of his torch through the aperture, then:
“K Division has been blind to this dive,” he growled. “They’ve got an iron door!”
“Whew!” whistled Trench.
The four men stared at each other; then, their joint gazes were focussed upon Mrs. Sam Pak, seated, ungainly but indomitable, upon a small chair which threatened to collapse beneath her great bulk.
“You are under arrest,” said Gallaho, “for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.”
There came the roar of a powerful motor. The Scotland Yard car concealed not far away, had arrived.
“Open the door,” Gallaho directed, “and take her out.”
The woman, breathing heavily and pressing one hand over her heart, went out without protest.
“What now, Inspector?”
“We’ve got to find another way in. Make contact with Forester. That sailor man of his is on the job again to-night. We shall have to go up the ladder and in at the back window.”
“Very good, Inspector.”
At any hour in any London street, whatever the weather conditions, a crowd assembles magically at the first sign of trouble. A sort of drizzling rain descended through the mist which overhung Limehouse. Few pedestrians had been abroad when that muffled shot had sounded at Sam Pak’s. But now an interested group, eight or ten strong, formed a semicircle before the door as the man detailed to get in touch with the River Police came out and ran rapidly along the street.