The Trail of Fu Manchu f-7

  The Trail of Fu Manchu

  ( FM - 7 )

  Sax Rohmer

  The advenuters of Nayland Smith continue as the fearless hero once again squares off with the diabolical Fu Manchu!

  _______________

  This book, the seventh of 14 in Sax Rohmer's Fu Manchu series, finds the good Dr. in pretty desperate straits following the events of book #6, "The Bride of Fu Manchu." In this installment, he is a hunted man, cut off from his funds, the bulk of his Si-Fan associates, and the elixir vitae that is preserving his life. This book is something of a radical departure from the previous six in that there is no first-person narrator, but at the same time hearkens back to the tone of the first three volumes in the series, in that the action takes place in the Surrey and Limehouse regions of London. Nayland Smith, Dr. Petrie and Alan Sterling are all back, as are Fleurette and Fah Lo Suee. This book introduces the character of Inspector Gallaho from Scotland Yard, as cool and tough an ally as any bunch of Fu fighters could hope for. The story this time concerns Fu Manchu's kidnapping of Fleurette Petrie away from her father. There is also a wonderful side plot in which it is discovered that Fu has been making his own gold, alchemist style, in an abandoned tunnel under the Thames River. The raiding of this factory takes up fully 1/4 of the book, and is a very well done and suspenseful set piece. Multiple narrative strands converge here in bravura manner; a first-person narrative could not have allowed for these wonderful scenes. One of the long-standing characters in the series meets an end here, and it is a shocking moment when it comes.

  The Trail of Fu Manchu

  by Sax Rohmer

  CHAPTER

  I

  THE GREAT FOG

  “Who’s there?”

  P.C. Ireland raised his red lantern, staring with smarting eyes through moving wreaths of yellow mist. Visibility was nil. This was the great fog of 1934—the worst in memory.

  No one replied—there was no sound.

  The constable shook himself, and settled the lantern down at his feet, flapped his arms in an endeavour to restore circulation. This chilliness was not wholly physical. Something funny was going on—something he didn’t like. He stood quite still again, listening.

  Three times he had heard that sound resembling nothing so much as the hard breathing of some animal. Quite close to him in the fog—some furtive thing that crept by stealthily. . . . And now, he heard it again.

  “Who’s there?” he challenged, snatching up the red lamp.

  None answered. The sound ceased—if it had ever existed.

  Traffic had been brought to a standstill some hours before; pedestrians there were none. King fog held the city of London in bondage. The silence was appalling. P.C. Ireland felt as though he was enveloped in a wet blanket from head to feet.

  “I’ll go and have another look,” he muttered.

  He began to grope his way up a short, semicircular drive to the door of a house. He had no idea what danger threatened Professor Ambrose, but he knew that he would be in for a bad time from the inspector if any one entered or left the professor’s house unchallenged. . . .

  His foot struck the bottom of the three steps which led up to the door. Ireland mounted slowly; but not until his red lamp was almost touching the woodwork, could he detect the fact that the door was closed. He stood there awhile listening, but could hear nothing. He groped his way back to his post at the gate.

  The police ‘phone box was not fifty yards away; he would have welcomed any excuse to call up the station; to establish contact with another human being—to be where there was some light other than the dim red glow of his lantern, which, sometimes when he set it down, resembled, seen through the moving clouds of mist, the baleful eyes of a monster glaring up at him.

  He regained the gate and put the lantern down. He wondered when, if ever, he would be relieved. Discipline was all very well, but on occasions like this damned fog, when men who ought to have been in bed were turned out, a quiet smoke was the next best thing to a drink.

  He groped under his oilskin cape for the packet, took out a cigarette and lighted it. He felt for the coping beside the gate and sat down. The fog appeared to be getting denser. Then in a flash he was on his feet again.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  Stooping, he snatched up the red lantern and began to grope his way towards the other end of the semicircular drive.

  “I can see you!” he cried, slightly reassured by the sound of his own voice—”don’t try any funny business with me!”

  He bumped into the half-open gate, and pulled up, listening. Silence. He had retained his cigarette, and now he replaced it between his lips. It was the blasted fog, of course, that was getting on his nerves. He was beginning to imagine things. It wouldn’t do at all. But he sincerely wished that Waterlow would come along to relieve him, knowing in his heart of hearts that Waterlow hadn’t one chance in a thousand of finding the point.

  “Stick there till you’re relieved,” had been the inspector’s order.

  “All-night job for me,” Ireland murmured, sadly.

  What was the matter with this old bloke, Ambrose? He leaned against the gate and reflected. It was something about a valuable statue that somebody wanted to pinch, or something. Ireland found it difficult to imagine why anyone should want to steal a statue. The silence was profound—uncanny. To one used to the bombilation of London, even in the suburbs, it seemed unnatural. He had more than half smoked his cigarette when—there it was again!

  Heavy breathing and a vague shuffling sound.

  Ireland dropped his cigarette and snatched up his lantern.

  He made a surprising spring in the direction of the sound.

  “Come here, damn you!” he shouted. “What the hell’s the game?”

  And this time he had a glimpse of—something!

  It rather shook him. It might have been a crouching man, or it might have been an animal. It was very dim, just touched by the outer glow of his lantern. But Ireland was no weakling. He made another surprising leap, one powerful hand outstretched. The queer shape sprang aside and was lost again in the fog.

  “What the hell is it?” Ireland muttered.

  Aware again of that unaccountable chill, he peered around him holding the lantern up. He had lost his bearings. Where the devil was the house? He made a rapid calculation, turned about and began to walk slowly forward. He walked for some time in this manner, till his outstretched hand touched a railing. He had crossed to the verge of the Common.

  He was on the wrong side of the road.

  His back to the railings, he set out again. He estimated that he was half-way across, when:

  “Help!” came a thin, muffled scream—the voice of a woman. “For God’s sake help me!”

  The cry came from right ahead. P.C. Ireland moved more rapidly, grinding his teeth together. He had not been wrong— there was something funny going on. It might be murder. And, his heart beating fast, and all his training urging “hurry—hurry!” he could only crawl along. By sheer good luck he bumped into the half open gate of the semicircular drive.

  Evidently that cry had come from the house.

  He moved forward more confidently—he was familiar with the route. Presently, a dim light glowed through the wet blanket of the fog. The door was open.

  Ireland stumbled up the steps and found himself in a large lobby, brightly lighted. Fog streamed in behind him like the fetid breath of some monstrous dragon. There were pictures and statuettes; thick carpet on the floor; rugs and a wide staircase leading upwards. It was very warm. A coal fire had burned low in an open grate on one side of the lobby.

  “Hello there!” he shouted. “I’m a police officer. Who called?”

  There wa
s no answer.

  “Hi!” Ireland yelled at the top of his voice. “Is there anyone at home?”

  He stood still, listening. A piece of coal dropped from the fire onto the tiled hearth. Ireland started. The house was silent—as silent as the fog-bound streets outside, and great waves of clammy mist were pouring in at the open door.

  The constable put down his red lantern on a little coffee table, and then he began to look about him apprehensively. Then he walked to the foot of the stairs and trumpeted through cupped hands:

  “Is there anyone there?”

  Silence,

  He was uncertain of his duty. Furthermore, this brightly lighted but apparently empty house was even more perturbing than the silence of the Common. A telephone stood on a ledge, not a yard from the coffee table. Ireland took up the instrument.

  A momentary pause, during which he kept glancing apprehensively about him, and then:

  “Wandsworth police station—urgent!” he said. “Police calling.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  THE PORCELAIN

  VENUS

  That phenomenal fog which over a great part of Europe heralded and ushered in the New Year, was responsible for many things that were strange and many that were horrible. Amongst the latter the wreck of the Paris-Strasbourg express and the tragic crash of an Imperial Airways liner. The triumphant fog demon was responsible, also, for the present predicament of PC. Ireland.

  A big car belonging to the Flying Squad of Scotland Yard, and provided with special fog lights, stood outside Wandsworth police station. And in the divisional-inspector’s office a conversation was taking place which, could PC. Ireland have heard it, would have made that intelligent officer realize the importance of his solitary vigil.

  Divisional-inspector Watford was a grey-haired, distinguished looking man of military bearing. He sat behind a large desk looking alternately from one to the other of his two visitors. Of these, one, Chief-inspector Gallaho, of the C.I.D., was well known to every officer in the Metropolitan police force. A thick-set, clean-shaven man, of florid colouring and truculent expression, buttoned up in a blue overcoat and wearing a rather wide-brimmed bowler hat. He stood, resting one elbow upon the mantelpiece and watching the man who had come with him from Scotland Yard.

  The latter, tall, lean, and of that dully dark complexion which tells of long residence in the tropics, wore a leather overcoat over a very shabby tweed suit. He was hatless, and his close-cropped, crisply waving grey hair excited the envy of the district inspector. His own hair was of that colour but had been deserting him for many years. The man in the leather overcoat was smoking a pipe, and restlessly walking up and down the office floor.

  The divisional inspector was somewhat awed by his second visitor, who was none other than ex-Assistant Commissioner Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Something very big was afoot.

  Suddenly pulling up in front of the desk, Sir Denis took his pipe from between his teeth, and:

  “Did you ever hear of Dr. Fu Manchu?” he jerked, fixing his keen eyes upon Watford.

  “Certainly, sir,” said the latter, looking up in a startled way. “My predecessor in this division was actually concerned in the case, I believe, a number of years ago. For my own part”—he smiled slightly—”I have always regarded him as a sort of name—what you might term a trade-mark.”

  “Trade-mark?” echoed Nayland Smith. “What do you mean? That there’s no such person?”

  “Something of the kind, sir. I mean, isn’t Fu Manchu really the name for a sort of political organization, like the Mafia—or the Black Hand?”

  Nayland Smith laughed shortly, and glanced at the man from Scotland Yard.

  “He is chief of such an organization,” he replied, “but the organization itself has another name. There is a Dr. Fu Manchu—and Dr. Fu Manchu is in London. That’s why I’m here to-night.”

  The inspector, stared hard for a moment, and then:

  “Indeed, sir!” he murmured. “And may I take it that there’s some connection between this Fu Manchu and Professor Ambrose?”

  “I don’t know,” Nayland Smith snapped, “but I intend to find out to-night. What can you tell me about the professor? He lives in your area.”

  “He does, sir.” The inspector nodded. “He has a large house and studio on the North Side of the Common. We have had orders for several days to afford him special protection.”

  Nayland Smith nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth.

  “Personally, I’ve never seen him, and I’ve never seen any of his work. He’s a bit outside my province. But I understand that although he’s an Italian by birth, he is a naturalized British subject. What he wants protection for, is beyond me. In fact, I should be glad to know, if anyone can tell me.”

  Sir Denis glanced at the Scotland Yard man.

  “Bring the inspector up-to-date,” he directed; “he’s evidently rather in the dark.”

  Watford, resting his arms on the table, stared at the celebrated detective, enquiringly.

  “Well, it’s like this,” Gallaho began in a low, rumbling voice. “If it means anything to you, I’ll begin by admitting that it means nothing to me. Professor Ambrose has been abroad for some time supervising the making of a new kind of statue at the Sevres works, outside Paris. It’s a life-sized figure, I understand, and more or less life coloured. Since the matter was brought to my notice, I have been looking up newspaper reports and it appears that the thing has created a bit of a sensation in artistic circles. Well, the professor took it down to an international exhibition held in Nice. This exhibition closed a week ago, and the figure, which is called ‘The Sleeping Venus’, was brought back to Paris, and from Paris to London.”

  “Did the professor come along too?”

  “Yes. And in Paris he asked for police protection.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t ask me—I’m asking you. The French sent a man down to Boulogne on the train in which the thing was transported—then we took over on this side. There’s a man on duty outside his house now, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. And the fog’s so dense it’s impossible to relieve him.”

  Nayland Smith had begun to walk up and down again; but

  now:

  “He can be relieved when the other car arrives,” he jerked, glancing back over his shoulder. “I should have pushed straight on, but there is someone I am anxious to interrogate. I have arranged for him to be brought here.”

  That the speaker was in a state of high nervous tension none could have failed to recognize. He was a man oppressed by the cloud of some dreadful doubt.

  “That’s the story,” Gallaho added. “The professor and his statue arrived by Golden Arrow on Friday evening, just as the fog was beginning. He had two assistants, or workmen—foreigners, anyway, with him—and he had hired a small lorry. A plain-clothes man covered the proceedings, and the case containing the statue arrived at the professor’s house about nine o’clock on Friday night, I understand.” Then, unconsciously he echoed the ideas of Police Constable Ireland. “What the devil anybody wants to steal a statue for, is beyond me.”

  “It’s so far beyond me,” Nayland Smith said rapidly, “that I am here to-night to inspect that work of art.”

  Watford’s expression was pathetically blank.

  “It doesn’t seem to mean anything,” he confessed.

  “No”, said Gallaho, grimly, “it doesn’t. It will seem to mean less when I tell you that we had a wire from the Italian police this evening—advising us that Professor Ambrose had been seen in the garden of his villa in Capri yesterday morning.”

  “What?”

  “Sort that out,” growled Gallaho. “It looks as though we’ve been giving protection to the wrong man, doesn’t it?”

  “Good Lord!” Watford’s face registered the blankest bewilderment. “Is it your idea, sir——?” he turned to Nayland Smith—”I mean, you don’t think that Professor Ambrose——”

  “Well,” gro
wled Gallaho—”go ahead.”

  “No, of course, if he’s been seen alive! Good Lord!” But again he turned to Sir Denis, who was pacing more and more rapidly up and down the floor. “Where does Fu Manchu come in?”

  “That’s a long story,” Smith replied, “and until I have interviewed the professor, or the person posing as the professor, I cannot be certain that he comes in at all.”

  There was a rap on the door, and a uniformed constable came in.

  “The other car has arrived, sir,” he reported to Watford, “and there’s a Mr. Preston here, asking for Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”

  “Show him in,” said Watford.

  A few moments later a young man came into the office bringing with him a whiff of the fog outside. He wore a heavy tweed overcoat and white muffler, and carried a soft hat. He had a fresh-coloured face and light blue, twinkling eyes—very humorous and good-natured. He sneezed several times, and smiled apologetically.

  “My name is Nayland Smith,” said Sir Denis. “Won’t you please sit down?”

  “Thank you, sir,” and Preston sat down. “It’s a devil of a night to bring a bloke out, but I’ve no doubt it’s very important.”

  “It is,” Nayland Smith snapped. “I will detain you no longer than possible.”

  Gallaho turned in his slow fashion and fixed his observant eyes upon the newcomer. Divisional-inspector Watford watched Nayland Smith.

  “I understand that you were on duty,” the latter continued, “at Victoria on Friday when the Paris-London service known as the Golden Arrow, arrived?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “It is customary on this service to inspect baggage at Victoria?”

  “It is.”

  “One of the passengers was Professor Pietro Ambrose, accompanied by two servants or workmen, and having with him a large case or crate containing a statue. Did you open this case?”

  “I did.” Preston’s merry eyes twinkled. He sneezed, blew his nose and smiled apologetically. “There was a detective on special duty who had travelled across with the professor, and who seemed anxious to get the job over. He suggested that examination was unnecessary. “But—” he grinned—”I wanted to peep at the statue. The professor was inclined to be peevish, but——”