If it failed, his fate could be no worse.
It was not a type of combat which he favoured; but having watched this man performing his ghastly work, he found that his scruples had fled.
As the harsh command was spoken and the monstrous Burman stepped forward, Nayland Smith sprang away, turned—and kicked with all the speed and accuracy of his Rugby forward days! He put every ounce of power in his long, lean body into that murderous kick . . .
The man uttered a roar not unlike the booming of a wounded gorilla—a creature he closely resembled—doubled up, staggered . . . and fell.
A shrill order, maniacal in its ferocity, came out of the darkness above. It was Dr. Fu Manchu speaking in Chinese. The order was:
“Shoot him!—shoot him!”
Smith ducked and darted out of the radius of light into the surrounding shadow where Sterling and Murphy lay. He almost fell over Sterling.
“Quick, quick!” he panted—”your wrists.”
“I’m crocked; don’t count on me. Untie Murphy.”
But Smith cut the twine from Sterling’s wrists and ankles.
“Stay where you are until I give the word.”
He bent over Sergeant Murphy.
“Ankles first. . . now wrists.”
“Thank God!” cried the detective. “At least we’ll die fighting!”
There was a flash in the darkness and a bullet spat on the floor close beside the speaker.
“Can you walk, Sterling?”
“Yes.”
A second shot, and a second bullet whistled by Nayland Smith’s ear. The voice of Dr. Fu Manchu, high-pitched and dreadful, came again, still speaking in Chinese.
“The lights, the lights!” he screamed.
Detective-sergeant Murphy, not too sure of cramped muscles, nevertheless set out through the darkness in the direction from which those stabs of flame had come.
Light suddenly illuminated the pit...
Dr. Fu Manchu stood upon the stairs, his clenched fists raised above his head, his face that of one possessed by devils. A wave of madness, blood lust, the ecstasy of sweeping his enemies from his path, ruled him. That great brain rocked upon its aged throne.
Murphy saw a Chinaman stripped to the waist not two paces from him. The man held an automatic: the sudden light had dazed him. Murphy sprang, struck, and fell on top of the gunman, holding down the hand which held the pistol. A second Asiatic, similarly armed, was running forward from the foot of the stairs. The Burmese strangler writhed on the floor before the furnace.
“Kill them! Kill them!” cried the maniacal voice.
Nayland Smith raced forward and threw himself down beside the struggling men—just as another shot cracked out.
The bullet grazed Murphy’s shoulder.
He inhaled sibilantly, but hung on to the Chinaman. Smith wrenched the weapon from the man’s grasp. He pulled the trigger as he released it, but the bullet went wide—registering with a dull thud upon some iron girder far up the shaft.
The second Chinaman dropped to his knee, took careful aim, and fired again. But he pulled the trigger a decimal point too late.
Nayland Smith had shot him squarely between the eyes.
Dr. Fu Manchu’s mania dropped from him like a scarlet cloak discarded. His face became again that composed, satan-ic mask which concealed alike his genius and his cruelty. He descended three steps.
The place was plunged in darkness.
Fiery gleams from chinks in the furnace door pierced the gloom; one like an abler spear struck upon the contorted face of the Burman, lying now apparently unconscious where he had fallen.
Then came the catastrophe.
A booming explosion shook the place, echoing awesomely from wall to wall of the pit.
“My God!” cried Murphy, grasping his wounded shoulder, “what’s that?”
The words were no sooner uttered than, heralded by a terrifying roar, a cataract of water came crashing down the shaft.
“The river’s broken through!” cried Sterling.
Above the crash and roar of falling water:
“Head for the stair!” shouted Nayland Smith. “All head for the stair!”
CHAPTER 44
AT SCOTLAND YARD
The commissioner of Metropolitan Police stood up as Dr. Petrie was shown into his room at New Scotland Yard.
The Commissioner was a very big man with an amiable and slightly bewildered manner. His room was a miracle of neatness; its hundred and one official appointments each in its correct place. A bowl of violets on his large writing desk struck an unexpected note, but even the violets were neatly arranged. The Commissioner, during a distinguished Army career, had displayed symptoms of something approaching genius as an organizer and administrator. If he lacked anything which the Chief of the Metropolitan Police should possess, it was imagination.
“I’m glad to meet you, Dr. Petrie” he said extending a very large hand. “I know and admire your work and I understand why you asked to see me tonight.”
“Thank you,” said Petrie. “It was good of you to spare me the time. May I ask for the latest news?”
He dropped into an armchair which the Commissioner indicated, and stared at the latter, curiously. He knew that his words had not been prompted by courtesy. In matters of exact information, the man’s brain had the absorbing power of a sponge—and he had the memory of an elephant.
“I was about to call for the last report, Dr. Petrie. Normally, I am not here at this hour. It is the Fu Manchu case which has detained me. Excuse me a moment—I thoroughly understand your anxiety.”
He took up one of the several telephones upon the large desk, and:
“Faversham,” he said, “bring the latest details of the Fu Manchu case to my room.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Dr. Petrie.
“I am naturally in a state of intense anxiety about my daughter,” said Petrie. “But first, tell me—where is Nayland Smith?”
The Commissioner pulled at his moustache and stared down at the blotting-pad before him; then: “The last report I had left some little doubt upon that point,” he replied, finally, fixing penetrating blue eyes upon the visitor. “As to your daughter, Dr. Petrie, in the opinion of Sir Denis she is somewhere in London.” He paused, picking a drooping violet from the bowl between a large finger and thumb, snipping off a piece of the stem and replacing it carefully in water. “The theory of the means by which she was brought here is one I do not share—it is too utterly fantastic—; but Sir Denis’s record shows that in the past——” he frowned in a puzzled way— “he has accomplished much. At the moment, as you may know, he is very highly empowered;
in fact——” he smiled, and it was a kindly smile, “in a way— in regard to this case, I mean he is, in a sense, my senior.”
The Commissioner’s weakness for parentheses was somewhat bewildering, but Petrie, who grasped his meaning, merely nodded.
“I am very anxious about Sir Denis at the moment,” the Commissioner added.
There was a rap on the door, and in response to a gruff “Come in,” a youngish man entered, immaculately turned out in morning dress; a somewhat unexpected apparition so long after midnight. He carried a cardboard folder under his arm.
“This is Wing Commander Faversham,” the Commissioner explained, staring vaguely at the newcomer, as though he had only just recognized him. “Dr. Petrie’s name will be familiar to you, Faversham. This is Dr. Petrie.”
Faversham bowed formally, and laid the folder open upon the table. Although the Commissioner’s manner seemed to invite familiarity, it was a curious fact that none of his subordinates ever accepted that illusive lead.
“Ah!” said the Commissioner, and adjusting spectacles, bent and read.