Chapter 1: Murder at Midnight
London at midnight, the city is wrapped in a heavy shroud of dense yellow fog. Streetlights, weird as elfin lamps, glow mistily like something fashioned in a dream. The murmur of creeping traffic is low, hushed, mysterious.
Behind an ancient wall surrounding unkempt lawns, a vast, gloomy, old mansion crouches like an evil beast of prey. Vines of ivy spill like tendrils of blood from the cracked and crumbling walls. Then again, perhaps, the predator has become the prey. The vines creeping up, like tentacles from a sea of vegetation, threaten to consume the abandoned domicile, to pull it down and under, to devour it whole. In disrepair with windows boarded shut, the place is dark, forbidding, haunting.
A blade of white light suddenly pierces the darkness as a curious black limousine turns off the narrow street into a private drive. It proceeds past the iron gate, up the circular drive. Stops in front of the main entrance. Switching on the inside light, the chauffeur jumps out and opens the door for his passenger. A wonderfully gowned, beautifully exotic, woman emerges. The chauffeur closes the car door, returns to his seat and drives out the way he had come in. Standing alone, the woman watches as taillights fade into the mist and vanish. Certain the driver is out of sight, veiled in the blackness of night, she strides toward the house.
Though its outward appearance is unwelcoming, unknown to all but a chosen few, unvisited by uninvited guests, lurking inside that neglected facade is a luxurious dwelling. The interior walls are concealed by thick brocade tapestries, magnificently figured with golden dragons. The floors are richly carpeted with lavish, deep-piled, oriental rugs. With each room elegantly furnished, cushioned, and perfumed, a secret palace of eastern magnificence resides, a hidden jewel in the grimy casket of London.
Sitting silently, partially hidden in darkness, is the shadowy figure of a man. Enveloped in a flowing, yellow silk robe, he sits completely still, motionless, unmoving. Watching fearfully, Kharahmin now stands before him timid, apprehensive, submissive.
The ominous figure studies her carefully through long and narrowed eyes. Presently, he leans forward and slowly nods. With a simple but courtly gesture of his hand, he motions her to rest on the thick pillow-like cushion before him. This is not so much an invitation as a command.
The soft twinkling of a beaded curtain chimes as it parts to reveal Di Lai Tian. She's fashionably gowned and an exquisitely beautiful Eurasian girl. Little more than a child, she could be no more than fifteen. Garbed in a short thin silk sheath of a dress with a mandarin collar, she looks less a human being than a delicate work of art. She carries a tray upon which sits a cup, a pot of fragrant tea, and a freshly sliced orange. This she sets before Kharahmin. Returning to her master's side, the young girl takes her place on a large round cushion, which lay on the lush carpeted floor beside her master's feet, looking up at him with seemingly genuine affection.
"You have followed my instructions, Kharahmin?"
"The letter for Sir Clayton Davis, Number Five West End Road, has been delivered to the courier office. It is to be delivered by private messenger tomorrow."
"Good. And our friend, who believes he can forestall the hand of Dr. Fu Hong Wu, Mr. Ryland Smyth, the detective, what of him?"
"At this moment, master, he approaches the house of Dr. Arthur Phillips Beaker on Baker Street."
"Dr. Phillips of Baker Street is a fool and of little consequence. Then it is time, Kharahmin, to conclude matters with Sir Clayton Davis."
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Chapter 2: Inspector Dennis Ryland Smyth
Meanwhile, Dr. Phillips is working at his desk in the study when the doorbell sounds. His housekeeper, Mrs. McGregor, moves toward the door.
"Visitors at this time of night? A person can't get any sleep in this house."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but is Dr. Phillips in?"
"And where else would the Doctor be at this hour? That's where all self-respecting people should be. Well, come in and wait here a moment."
McGregor walks to Dr. Phillips' study and knocks on the door. A voice replies, "Yes, come in."
"A gentleman to see you, Doctor."
"I'm sorry, what were you saying, Mrs. McGregor?"
"I say there's a gentleman here to see you."
"Now? Rather late to be receiving guests. Very well, show him in."
Pushing his papers aside, Phillips tilts the lampshade toward the approaching footsteps. The gentleman enters the room. He's tall and lean with sun-baked skin, the hue of coffee. The man is possessed of a clean-shaven and square-cut face. He smiles and extends his hand. Immediately, Phillips is on his feet, gripping the man's hand tightly.
"Well, if it isn't Ryland Smyth!"
"In the flesh, my dear Phillips! Bit of a surprise, isn't it, old chap? Didn't expect me, I'd wager."
"Anyone but you, old man. It's certainly a delightful surprise! I thought you were in China."
"Excuse me, Phillips." Smyth puts out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
Surprised, Phillips inquires, "Whatever are you doing, Smyth?"
"Putting out your light."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"No doubt you think me mad, but soon enough you'll know that I have good reason to be cautious."
Smyth walks to the window and peers out into the road. "Hmm, good, nothing suspicious and no one seems to be watching from the street."
Satisfied that he has not been followed and is not being watched, Smyth believes they are safe, at least for the moment. "Alright. You may turn on the light now."
"I do say, Ryland, what's all this mystery about? You break into a man's room at midnight and..."
"Mystery enough, old chap, but first a bit of scotch, please."
"Why, certainly. Neat or soda?"
"Neat, if you don't mind."
"So you're on leave, eh?"
"Leave? No, Phillips. No such luck. I'm on duty."
"In London? You've been transferred home?"
"I have a roving commission, here today and gone tomorrow."
"So tell me, what's it all about?"
"Here, let me show you something."
Smyth stands up and rapidly removes his coat. Rolling back his shirt sleeve, he reveals a wound in his forearm. It was nearly healed, but curiously striated for an inch or so around.
"Ever see a wound like that?"
"Hmm, not exactly. Nasty looking, isn't it? Good job, it got you in the fleshy part of the forearm. It's quite healed, though, and appears to have been deeply cauterized."
"Right, very deeply, it had to be. An arrow, dipped in the venom of a hamadryad, went in there."
"A hamadryad?"
"A rather deadly eastern reptile. At any rate, there was only one treatment, a sharp blade, a match, and a broken cartridge."
"Definitely a strong treatment, but even then it's touch and go."
"Indeed! I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterward, in a Burmese jungle rampant with malaria."
"And you say it was an arrow, not a random snake bite. So, it was no accident?"
"It, definitely, was not an accident. It was a deliberate attempt on my life and I am now, at this very moment, on the trail of the man who patiently extracted that venom, prepared the arrow, and caused it to be shot at me."
"Surely, you're joking?"
"Does that wound look like a joke?"
"What fiend would do such a thing?"
"A fiend who is fond of employing scorpions, spiders, reptiles, and other loathsome, venomous, vermin as his weapons. A fiend who, unless my calculations are wrong, is now in London."
"And you hope to find him?"
"I certainly do, Phillips."
"Well, it all sounds rather fantastic, old man."
"If only it were fantasy. I came to you because you're the only man I dare to trust. Aside from the station chief, you are the only person who knows that I have left Burma, or so I hope."
"How can I help you, Ryland? A local physician is hardly likely to..."
"I must have someone with me at all times. Someone I can absolutely trust. It's imperative! Phillips, can you spare a few days to a strange and dangerous business?"
"Well, of course, my practice doesn't confine me too closely."
"Good, I knew that I could count on you, old friend. Why don't I fill you in on the details over another glass of scotch? What do you say?"
"On that matter, you'll get no objection from me, old man."
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Chapter 3: The Limehouse Incident
Sitting comfortably in his library, Dr. Phillips pours another round as Smyth continues the conversation.
"Very well then. When you think of Limehouse, what images spring inevitably to mind?"
"The Asiatic quarter? London's Chinatown, where East is West. I picture restaurants and curious little shops dealing in everything, clothing, furniture, antiques, teas, and spices. I think of the wharves, shipping docks, warehouses, and the import-export offices."
"And at night... a vista of dark streets, shadowy forms, the brief flash of a knife blade, a scream in the night, and far too often, a bloated corpse fished up from the murky waters of the Thames... London's Chinatown!"
"Ah, yes. The sordid drama of Limehouse, with its complement of river noises and frequent fog effects, does cast a rather strange spell."
Limehouse is a warren of narrow streets and alleyways in the neighborhood of West India Dock Road, Pennyfields, and Limehouse Causeway. After nightfall, it's a dark, mysterious, and dangerous place, where the police always patrol in pairs and where most honest citizens fear to tread. The precise toll of lives lost in that somber labyrinth cannot be estimated. The region houses an Asian community, which lives by laws foreign to and older than the laws of England.
"Do you recall Phillips, some months back, the death of a pretty showgirl, under mysterious circumstances, that led to a Scotland Yard investigation which unearthed a drug syndicate operating among London's smart set?"
"Why certainly, there were raids in fashionable quarters and numerous arrests. Despite heavy prison sentences, the identity of the mastermind controlling the syndicate remained unknown. Not one of those questioned would open his mouth.
It was reported in all the papers. In fact, one daily newspaper put a star reporter on the job. His inquiries led to Limehouse, where he heard whispers of a certain Mr. King, but all lips were sealed."
"Tell me, Phillips, what do you know of that Mr. King?"
"Not much, I'm afraid, only what I've read in the newspapers. Seems, he's a man of mystery whose shadow haunts London's Chinatown. Apparently, nobody has ever met this Mr. King, yet, he's said to be a considerable property owner, a known drug trafficker, and, according to rumor, the guiding hand in half the underworld activities of Limehouse."
"Quite right, Phillips. According to Inspector Chow at K Division, he controls the Chinese gambling parlors, brothels, opium dens, human slave trade, and drug traffic. He's feared by every Asiatic in the district, where he's known as Mr. King. Presumably, only part of his real name. Authorities suspect he's a high-ranking representative of that Chinese secret society, known as the Triad and has alliances with the local Tongs. He's rumored to make frequent visits to China and no member of the Division has ever seen him, nor has the slightest idea what he looks like!"
"Simply incredible! A rather fascinating character, most unusual."
"My thoughts exactly, Phillips. So, I decided to investigate. As you well know, London's Chinatown has always fascinated me. I've made many friends in the Asiatic quarter, European and Oriental alike. I believed that with my many contacts, I had at least a sporting chance of piercing the veil. So I began to comb Limehouse from Commercial Road to the waterfront, the highways, byways, alleys, and wharves. I found nothing. The mere mention of the name Mr. King was a signal for silence."
"So, your investigation hit a bit of a dead end, then?"
"Not quite, Phillips. You see, that's when I remembered my old friend Fong Wah, a shopkeeper who deals in strange delicacies. A man I know well. On the matter that had brought me to him, he proved most helpful. With warnings and promises of secrecy, though even then quite fearfully, Fong hinted that a person of importance owns most of the houses in Three Colt Street and that person sometimes visits those properties when he's in London. He also revealed this important person happened to be in London at that very moment!
As you may know, Colt Street is a mean little path that runs beside a canal to the riverside. Consisting of two-story houses, with occasional alleys between them, it's inhabited by Chinese sailors, laundrymen, and so forth. It's a place I knew quite well. But after Fong's revelation, I began to study it far more carefully. In fact, I kept watch for days, but to no avail. In all that time, I had not seen even the slightest thing out of the ordinary, neither hide nor hair of our elusive Mr. King. Then just as I was about to lose all hope, quite by luck, mind you, I caught a break!
I'd all but given up and had spent most of the evening at a nearby restaurant. Fittingly, it was a foggy night and I was on my way home, but made a detour leading through Three Colt Street. It was rather late and not a light could be seen in any of those dingy little houses. I was halfway along when something happened, something sufficiently unusual in that place to qualify as a phenomenon.
Suddenly, a bright light split the darkness, emanating from the headlamps of a limousine just turning into the narrow street. I took cover in the entrance to a narrow alleyway. The car pulled up less than ten yards from where I stood. A smart chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for his passengers.
I saw a tall and very dignified man alight. Chinese, but different from any I had ever met. He wore a long, black topcoat and a peculiar gong mao, the headwear of a Mandarin official worn during the Manchu Qing Dynasty. He strode into the house. He was followed by an Arab girl, or she may have been an Egyptian. I couldn't tell which through the dark and haze, but she reminded me of an Edmund Dulac illustration for the Arabian Nights. The chauffeur closed the car door, returned to his seat and waited.
If the tall Chinaman was the elusive Mr. King or someone else, I did not know, but that he was a man of great power and enormous authority, I never doubted. As I waited, hidden in the mist, I imagined inside that cheap-looking dwelling, unknown to all but a chosen few and unvisited by unwanted guests, were impressively furnished and luxurious rooms. I imagined a sanctuary of grand magnificence, a shining jewel of the east, concealed in the dingy district of Limehouse.
I'm afraid my imagination had gotten the better of me, Phillips. Later investigation proved that house was completely empty. No furniture, no kitchenware, no food, not even the slightest sign anyone had lived there in quite some time. Which makes me wonder, what exactly had transpired there on that night? To this day, I still can not answer that question."
"A most curious occurrence indeed!"
"Quite right, old friend. At any rate, I was standing in that alley, hidden in the darkness, cloaked by fog, waiting and watching. Nearly an hour had passed when the Chinaman and his female companion returned to the limousine and drove off, the taillights fading into the mist and gloom. Since I'd been walking that night, I had no transportation of my own and thought a taxi too conspicuous to make chase. So, I decided to pursue other avenues of inquiry."
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Chapter 4: The Black Poppy Society
Ryland continued, "Upon further investigation, I became quite certain the man I had seen that night was indeed the elusive Mr. King. Continuing my investigation of the mysterious Chinaman, I followed him to Burma. It was there I discovered that Mr. King has some association with a secret group of arch-criminals who call themselves The Black Poppy Society."
"The Black Poppy Society? Sounds rather sinister."
"Indeed, Phillips. I discovered this secret society is an alliance of major crime lords in the Orient. The leaders of the Hashashin, Thuggee, Phansigar, Dacoit, Triads, Shinobi, and Yakuza, each working in cooperation with the other. Someone succeeded in establishing cooperation among them and organizing them into a unified network.
The Black Poppy Society generally controls all major criminal activity throughout the Orient. Like most criminal organizations, their principal activities are commonly conducted to generate monetary profit. Unlike some criminal organizations, they don't seem to be politically motivated. Though occasionally, political or governmental figures may be targeted, if their policies or agendas put them in conflict with the criminal interests and activities of that Society.
Their business activity includes everything from smuggling, contract murder, gambling, prostitution, kidnapping, human trafficking, theft, bribery, to extortion, and any other such forms of racketeering. Although, their main business concerns appear to center around the production, transportation, distribution, and sale of illicit drugs. Opium, hashish, and cannabis are high on the list. But of course, they're quite willing to deal in any commodity which will bring a profit, such as coffee, tea, silk, ivory, tobacco, and alcohol.
This secret criminal empire stretches from Istanbul to Tokyo. For these criminals, it's a contemporary Silk Road spanning Turkey, Egypt, Arabia, India, Tibet, China, Mongolia, and Japan. Recently, they've been expanding that empire to include operations in South Africa, South America, England, and even to Amsterdam in the Netherlands.
Just imagine, Phillips! Leaders of the most highly organized criminal networks and syndicates in the region gathered under the leadership of one small group. It's an unprecedented consolidation of power in the criminal underworld.
Even more frightening, if all the major crime bosses have joined forces, then who has orchestrated it? If a single person is influential enough and ambitious enough to have accomplished this, it's a safe wager that he must wield a great deal of influence over each of its members."
"Do you think that man is Mr. King?"
"It's quite possible, Phillips. Although, I can't say for certain. I was in the process of trying to uncover that information when I was poisoned by that arrow. By the time I'd recovered, I had missed the opportunity to get that question answered. So I made my way back to England and having just returned to London, I came to see you straight away."
"And you fear that you may have been followed here by an agent of this criminal organization. Presumably, to finish the job which they'd started in that Burmese jungle."
"Something like that, yes. Very good, Phillips."
Seeing that Smyth has finished his drink, Phillips pulls a pocket watch from his vest and glances. Checks the time. It has grown quite late and both men are rather tired. Graciously, Phillips offers the use of his spare bedroom to Smyth for the duration of his visit. Smyth is naturally grateful and accepts the offer. The two men agree to continue their conversation in the morning, after a good night's rest.
"Tomorrow, Phillips, there's someone I think you should meet, an old friend of mine, Fong Wah."
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Chapter 5: The Sword of Fong Wah
Late the next evening, Smyth and Phillips are in a taxi and on their way to Chinatown.
"Before you meet Fong Wah, I should tell you a bit about him, Phillips. Presently, old Fong deals in strange delicacies. He's a rather prosperous man and much respected by his neighbors, but in more ways than one, he's something of a mystery. Fong is a person of considerable culture. He's a philosopher who regards life as a feast to be enjoyed while digestion remains good, but otherwise not a serious business.
It's my understanding that before coming to London, Fong ran a restaurant on Grant Street in San Francisco's Chinatown. Sometime later, he was a shopkeeper on Nanking Road in Shanghai. His third manifestation was a restaurateur on Canal Street in New York. His appearances and disappearances are most intriguing. Later, I learned he was an official of the Hip Sing Tong. I suspect the policy of this powerful organization had something to do with his erratic movements."
"The Hip Sing Tong! You knowingly associate with a man, whom you know to be not only the member of a Tong, but an official, no less?"
"Why certainly! Perhaps you're unaware, Phillips, but most merchants and businesses in Chinatown have, at the very least, a passing association with the Tongs, either willingly or unwillingly. Just consider what information and insight, an official of those secret societies would have to offer someone in my position."
"Speaking of which, just exactly what position are you in, Ryland? Last I knew, you were a Cultural Attaché working in the Communications Office at the British Embassy in China. Why were you in London investigating the mysterious Mr. King?"
"Quite right, Phillips. I'm no longer an agent of the British Embassy. I left their employ nearly a year ago. I now work for..."
The cab is stopped in front of a small shop. A sign above the door proclaims, "Fong Wah's House of Fine Delicacies". Smyth pays the driver and exits the cab. Phillips is quick to follow. At first sight, the shop seems to be closed. Smyth peers through the glass door.
"Well, this is most unusual. I see no lights. It appears the counters and shelves are bare. Typically, the place is heavily crowded with tins, packages, jars, and countless unidentifiable things dangling from the ceiling. But now, save for a few small boxes, the shop is empty."
Smyth raps a few times sharply on the door. There are sounds from within, followed by footsteps and the dim silhouette of a person moving through darkness toward the door. The door opens to reveal a figure straight out of fantasy. A girl wearing a fine silk, short-fitted, brocade dress steps forth. She's quite young, most likely no more than sixteen. Her appearance gives an impression reminiscent of a fragile porcelain doll. She speaks softly in a melodic bell-like voice.
"You are welcomed, honorable guests, to the house of Fong Wah. My husband begs you to take tea with him."
Smyth and Phillips are guided through the curiously empty shop and into a stuffy little room. At once, the atmosphere transforms into a Chinese fairy tale. The room is sparsely furnished. A black lacquered shrine occupies one corner. Wisps of jasmine-scented smoke wreath up before the tranquil face of a brass Buddha. Nearby, like a second image, an old Chinese man sits in a beautifully crafted armchair. Intricately hand-carved with inlaid wood and a high back, it's suggestive of a throne. On the wall behind him hangs a peculiarly curved sword in a polished wood scabbard.
Fong Wah rises impressively from his throne and bows twice. Wearing a flowing black silk robe and padded slippers, he's a powerfully built man and oddly dignified. He looks nothing like a shopkeeper and old enough to be the girl's grandfather.
"Greetings, most honorable guests. You are always welcome in the house of Fong Wah and never more so than today. You have come at a most fortunate hour. Please sit. I have auspicious news for you, Mr. Ryland Smyth."
With his own hands, he places chairs and cushions for his guests and returns to his throne. Glancing nervously over his shoulder, Phillips takes his seat. In a dark and narrow cabinet without a door, watching with wicked and beady eyes lurks a long-bodied creature.
Smyth whispers to Phillips, "Mongoose. Keeps rats away. It won't hurt you if you don't touch him."
Fong Wah nods. "Where a European storekeeper pins his faith to a cat, a Chinese shopkeeper goes for a mongoose."
Carrying a tray set out with tiny eggshell-thin cups of fragrant tea and a freshly sliced orange, Fong's young bride reappears. Having served everyone, she smiles at her husband with great affection. She bows and again leaves the room.
Smyth turns to the old Chinaman. "I couldn't avoid noticing the barren shelves in your shop. Are you moving again, Fong?"
"Yes, I am afraid so. I have grown old and weary. For many years, I have worked here and saved money so that I may live well in retirement. The time has come and now I shall return to Hankow."
"You were born in Hankow?"
"No, but I have pleasant memories of that place."
"You've lived here in London for quite some time, Fong. Returning to Hankow, you'll find that much has changed."
"I am prepared for these changes. However, before I leave, I have four gifts for you, Mr. Ryland Smyth."
Rapidly, the mongoose emerges from his lair and bounds across the room. It crouches beside Fong's throne, ever watchful with those evil eyes. Fong inclines his head towards Phillips, at the same time indicating Smyth with a courtly gesture of his hand.
"Over the past many years, my honored friend has brought comfort into the life of an old man, far from his own country. He listens with respect to my tales of China, as China used to be. For you see, I was not always a shopkeeper."
Returning his attention to Smyth, old Fong smiles beneficently. "This brings me to gift number one. The last tale I will have the pleasure of sharing with you."
Fong begins his narrative of Hankow under the old regime. He speaks of an illustrious Mandarin. The Provincial Governor, in a manner which suggests that even now, he's retained some veneration for that man.
There had been a plague of river pirates and Fong describes, with graphic detail, how their heads had been chopped off. He gives particular details about the punishments handed out to those gang leaders. The 'Six Steps of Wisdom' in which a man is stripped of his clothing. Then he's placed into a large iron cage in the marketplace. His head is locked into a collar at the top of the cage. His feet rest on three large stones. One of these stones is removed every day. The 'Way of All Penetrating Truth', the details of which need not be known. The horrifying 'Wire Jacket', wherein the executioner's sword plays an important part.
"You know, honorable friend, that my countrymen do not fear death. Other unpleasant misfortunes must threaten the criminal. These lessons in correct behavior, under the direction of the Mandarin, were carried out by the Public Executioner.
In the West, such a person is looked upon with scorn. In Hankow, the Hankow I remember, he was a highly respected public officer."
In a single imperceptibly quick movement, the mongoose pounces from the floor, landing heavily in Fong's lap. It's a rather unexpected occurrence that rouses old Fong from his reverie. Softly and slowly, he pets the creature as one would a cat.
"But enough of the past and on to the present. I know why you are here, Mr. Smyth. I know why you left London for Burma and why you have returned. So, I give you gift number two.
To find the one you seek, the one whose dark shadow envelops this city, the one whose hand guides the underground activities of Limehouse, it would be most useful for you to know these facts. In conventional speech, the terms underground and underworld in relation to both secret societies and criminal activity are used figuratively, metaphorically. This was not always so.
In 1571, the two separate words 'under' and 'ground' were combined to form the solitary compound word 'underground', meaning 'below the surface'. By 1632, the word had taken the additional meaning of 'hidden', 'secret'. But most interestingly, in 1850, it had taken the additional meaning 'subculture' and was used synonymously with the more sinister term 'underworld '. Do you know why this is so?"
Ryland shook his head. "I must admit that I have no idea."
"Before the great San Francisco earthquake, known only to those of Chinese birth, kept secret from the 'Gwai Lo', the Chinese underworld of that city was an amazing place. If one knew where to look, he might enter a shop or private residence in Chinatown, proceed to the basement or some other secret place and locate a hidden door or passageway. To prevent intrusion by police and unwelcome outsiders, often these passageways were sealed by iron doors, most cunningly constructed with special locks. Sometimes they lead to other basements, hidden doors, passageways, down from floor to floor, far below street level.
There one would find shops, restaurants, temples, places of entertainment, gambling parlors, brothels, opium dens, and even private residences. An entire secret city, literally, existing 'under the ground' of that city above. That is the origin of the meaning.
Unknown to non-Chinese, historically speaking, many Chinatowns throughout the world also possess such features, but on a smaller scale. Gambling, prostitution, and opium smoking are catered to. Many outsiders know these things happen in Chinatown. Most will never discover exactly where. Chinese have their own codes. We live by laws foreign to and older than the laws of Western nations. This is the secret empire dominated by the man you seek."
In one swift pounce, the mongoose leaps to the floor and scurries off, presumably in pursuit of some mischievous rodent.
Fong continues, "As I have said, the Chinese have codes of their own. Even in Limehouse, the police of K Division respect those codes, unless a flagrant infringement of the law is thrust in their face. So, such things are kept from sight and contained within our own community. What goes on behind closed doors in Chinatown is of no concern to outsiders. It has always been this way."
Gracefully rising from his throne, Fong unhooks the curved sword from the wall, quickly slides it into an embroidered silk cover, and ties it shut. Holding it between out stretched hands, he walks toward Smyth.
"Now, my third gift to you."
"No, Fong. I couldn't possibly..."
"You have no choice. You may not refuse me this, Ryland. That would be a most unforgivable offense. Consider it a gesture of gratitude for having brought friendship into the life of a lonely old man, so very far from home."
This is the first time Fong has addressed Smyth so informally, as Ryland. In speaking, Fong always calls him Mr. Ryland Smyth or, at the very least, Mr. Smyth, but never simply Ryland. This fact does not escape Smyth's notice. After many years of friendship, after all this time, Fong has very subtly, though unmistakably, expressed his affection for Smyth. Fong Wah is correct. Smyth can not refuse.
"Lastly, my fourth and final gift to you is the gift of information. As I escort you to the door, for you must be on your way."
The two men stand to join old Fong. Proceeding out of the little room, through the dim and empty shop, toward the front entrance, Fong delivers his gift of information to Smyth.
"It has come to my attention the one you seek has returned to London on a most unpleasant mission. He intends to see the life of Sir Clayton Davis extinguished."
"Clayton Davis of the India Bureau?" Phillips questions.
"Of course!" Smyth exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of it before? Sir Clayton Davis, the India Bureau, he's a rather influential man, one of the political bigwigs!"
Fong continues, "Be that as it may, he is a doomed man. More, I can not say. I do not know when the strike will fall, how it will befall him, nor from where. Still, it is your duty to warn him, Mr. Smyth. You must hurry, for I fear that it may already be too late."
Making a swift goodbye, Phillips and Smyth take their leave from old Fong to search for an available cab. They manage to locate one at a nearby corner and quickly climb in.
"Number Five West End Road, quickly as you can, driver."
Sitting in silence, Phillips glances down at the finely wrapped weapon. Smyth follows the doctor's gaze to the object now lying across Smyth's lap. With a sorrowful sigh, Smyth speaks.
"Although our visit today began only as a social call, it was quite necessary, Phillips. Not to have made it would have been the grossest of discourtesies. I owe Fong Wah far more than I may yet realize, more than any of us may realize."
"Great Scot!" Phillips exclaims. "I just thought of something."
"What is it, Phillips?"
"Do you think that Fong Wah's tale of Hankow is, in reality, a story about himself? That he had been the Executioner of Hankow and the sword, which he insisted upon giving you, has a truly bloody history?"
Both men stare at the beautifully concealed weapon. A moment of silence passes between them.
"Most likely, Phillips. Most likely."
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Chapter 6: The Red Hand of Death
The cab ride to Sir Clayton's place is uneventful. Both men sit quietly. Each is lost in thought. Abruptly, Phillips snaps out of his trance.
"Say, there seems to be quite a crowd up ahead, Ryland."
"What's this? Stop here, driver!"
Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb, Ryland Smyth leaps out recklessly. Phillips instructs the driver to wait for them. Exiting the cab, he follows close behind Smyth.
Constables are moving a crowd of curious onlookers who have gathered about the steps of Sir Clayton Davis' house. Smyth approaches one of the constables, introduces himself and states his credentials. The constable glances at him doubtfully. With an air of authority, Smyth begins to question him.
"What's happened here?"
"Sir Clayton Davis is dead. He's been killed, sir."
Smyth lurches back, as though he's been struck by a physical blow. With an expression of horror and eyes wide, the heavy tan of his face turns pale. Smyth turns, presses through the group of onlookers, and bounds up the steps.
In the hall stands a rather tall and very muscular hulk of a man. It is Inspector Wallace of Scotland Yard and he is speaking to a footman. Other members of the household are moving about, more or less aimlessly.
Smyth approaches the Inspector and shows him a card. Upon this, Wallace says something in a low voice and nods, tipping his hat to Smyth in a respectful manner. After a few questions and answers, Smyth calls for Phillips to join them.
"Inspector Wallace, this is my associate, Dr. Phillips."
"Oh yes, of course. I'm glad you came, gentlemen. It's a bit of a mystery."
Phillips whispers, "Murder, Ryland?"
"Of course, a clever and sinister murder. As usual, he's left no clue."
Smyth and Phillips follow Inspector Wallace up the heavily carpeted stairs. They move through a corridor lined with pictures and busts and into a large library. People are standing about, one of whom Phillips recognizes.
"I say, Smyth, did you notice who's here? The great Dr. Clive Chalmers of Harley Street."
"Never mind him, it's your diagnosis I want."
"Dr. Chalmers, this is Special Inspector Ryland Smyth and his associate, Dr. Phillips."
Smyth inquires, "Doctor, what's your opinion as to the cause of death?"
"Frankly, I do not care to venture an opinion, at present, regarding the immediate cause of death. Sir Clayton was a morphine addict, but there are indications which are not in accordance with an overdose. I fear that only a post-mortem examination can establish the facts, if we ever arrive at them."
"What do you mean, Doctor?"
"I very much doubt the true cause of death will ever be established. A most curious case, Inspector."
"Would you mind Dr. Phillips making an examination?"
"On the contrary, I'd value his opinion."
The dead man is in evening dress and wearing an old smoking jacket. He's of spare but hardy build, with thin aquiline features, which now are oddly puffy, as are his clenched hands. Phillips pushes back his sleeve and notices multiple marks caused by a hypodermic syringe on his left arm. Quite mechanically, Phillips turns his attention to the right arm. It's unscarred, but on the back of the hand is a strange mark. Phillips examines it closely.
Phillips notes, "There's a faint red mark on the back of his right hand. You've noticed it, of course, Dr. Chalmers?"
"Yes, not unlike the imprint of painted lips. It's not a birthmark, I'm sure of that. It's most likely the result of some morbid process of local inflammation."
Smyth interrupts, "Well, I rather doubt that. Nor anything constitutional, I should say. Does it suggest anything to your mind, Dr. Phillips?"
"No. I'm sorry, Ryland, nothing. It's most curious."
"Heart failure?"
"I can't be certain. As Dr. Chalmers said, a post-mortem might clear things up."
Wallace suggests, "Inspector Smyth, perhaps you'd like to question this man, Sir Clayton's secretary, Mr. Bramley. He'd been working in this library when Sir Clayton died."
"Why yes, thank you, Inspector. Excuse me, Mr. Bramley, but I understand that Sir Clayton was taken seriously ill, here in this library."
"Yes, at half past eleven. I was working here, he in the little study there."
"I see the connecting door is closed. It was closed then?"
"Yes, it was. It always is. However, it was open for a moment at about eleven thirty, when a message came for Sir Clayton."
"A message? What was it?"
"I couldn't say. It was brought by private messenger and I placed it on the desk, next to Sir Clayton."
"And then?"
"About thirty minutes later, Sir Clayton burst through the door with a strangled scream and fell to the floor. I rushed to him. Just as I'd reached his side, he gasped something that sounded like 'the red hand'. Before I could reach the telephone, he was dead."
"Hmm, the red hand. Do you believe he referred to this red mark on his hand?"
"No, sir, I do not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he referred to something in the study."
"The red hand, the red hand. Hmm, the red... I wonder, could it... The study, Bramley, have you been in there since Sir Clayton died?"
"Why yes! That is, I stood at the threshold to have a glance around, but there was absolutely nothing unusual to be seen."
"You didn't go inside then?"
" Well, no."
"The windows and doors were they closed or open? Did you notice?"
"There is no other door, nor are there any windows."
"Thank you, Mr. Bramley. That will do for now. Inspector Wallace, Dr. Phillips and I would like a few minutes of investigation in the study, if you don't mind."
"Why certainly, Inspector."
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Chapter 7: Tears Give Way to Pity
Seeing Phillips has entered the room, Smyth is quick to secure the door behind them. The study is indeed small. It's heavily carpeted and overstuffed with curios from the Orient. Displayed on the mantelpiece are several framed photographs which indicate this sanctum belongs to a wealthy bachelor. A green lamp on the desk provides the only light. Smyth immediately pounces on the envelope which lays upon the desk. Sir Clayton had not even troubled to open it, but Smyth does.
Phillips is astonished. "Why, it's a blank sheet of paper!"
"Yes, but it served its purpose. Here, you smell that?"
Smyth waves the paper in front of Phillips' face. It's scented with some pungent perfume.
"A peculiar scent, what is it?"
"It's a rather rare scent. I've encountered it before, but never in Europe. I'm beginning to understand how Sir Clayton was killed, Phillips. Don't touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous."
Something in the tone of Smyth's voice sends a chill through Phillips, who's standing anxiously by the door. Smyth tilts the desk lamp and makes an examination of the grate in the fireplace. Smyth methodically searches every inch of the room, behind the books, in all the ornaments, in table drawers, in cabinets and on shelves.
"That will do, Phillips. There's nothing else here."
The two men return to the library. Smyth immediately approaches Wallace.
"Inspector Wallace, I have a particular reason for asking that Sir Clayton's body be removed from this room at once and the library locked. Let no one be admitted on any pretense whatsoever until you hear from me. While you're finishing up here, Dr. Phillips and I will have a look around outside."
It reveals much about Smyth's mysterious credentials that an Inspector from Scotland Yard accepts his orders without reluctance. After a brief chat with Mr. Bramley, Smyth moves rapidly downstairs.
"Just what do you hope to find out here, Ryland?"
"I really don't know, Phillips, probably nothing now. However, I'll take this footpath and you take the other. We'll meet at the rear of the house. Keep your eyes open and be on your guard."
Smyth walks off, leaving Phillips. Now at leisure to examine his questions about events thus far, he wonders how exactly Sir Crichton had met his death. Did Ryland know? Phillips rather suspected that he did.
What was the significance of the perfumed paper? Who exactly was the mysterious person Smyth so evidently dreaded? Who had made an attempt on Smyth's life in Burma? Who, presumably, had murdered Sir Clayton and why?
During his time in India and long term of service at home, had Sir Clayton Davis made many enemies, and if so, then who was this unknown enemy? Was this unseen assassin the mysterious and elusive Mr. King? Smyth has led Phillips to believe so, but he never actually said.
Something touches Phillips lightly on the shoulder. He turns to see a girl standing at his elbow. She glances up at him. Never before had he encountered a face so exotically, enticingly, lovely. With eyes, locks, and lashes black as night, lips of pale pink, skin of brilliant bronze, she's a strikingly beautiful stranger.
"Forgive me if I startled you. But is it true that Sir Clayton Davis has been murdered?"
She speaks with an odd but pretty accent. Confidingly, she lays a delicate hand upon his arm. Phillips gazes into her beseeching eyes. Suspicion stirs his mind, but he could read nothing in her mysterious depths. He could only marvel at her beauty.
A grotesque and morbid question emerges. Would a kiss from those lips have left that mark on Sir Clayton's hand? He dismisses that notion as unlikely, something only worthy of medieval legend. No doubt she was a friend or acquaintance of Sir Clayton.
Phillips struggles to think of a way to answer her question as gently as possible.
"Murdered? Well, I cannot say that he's been murdered, definitely."
"But he is dead?"
"Yes, he is dead."
She closes her eyes, giving a soft and sorrowful sigh. Thinking she was about to cry, Phillips put his arm around her. She smiles sadly and pushes him gently away.
"I am fine, thank you."
"Are you quite sure?"
She nods her head and glances briefly at Phillips with those beckoning eyes. In shameful embarrassment, she quickly turns away.
"I cannot let my name be mentioned in this dreadful matter, but I have information for the police. Will you give this to... to the proper person in authority?"
Again meeting his gaze with those dazzling dark eyes, she hands the envelope to Phillips. Turning away, she quickly hurries off. Watching her graceful figure as she walks away, Phillips is bewildered.
The girl takes only a few steps, abruptly halts, and returns to Phillips. Looking not at him, but far off in the distance, she makes an odd request.
"If you would do me a very great service, for which I would always be grateful."
With sincere and passionate intensity, she turns her attention to Phillips.
"When you have given my message to the proper person, leave him and do not go near him any more tonight."
Again, her words arouse suspicion. Before Phillips can reply, she's on her way once more. By the time he decides to follow, she disappears. Turning, he notices Ryland Smyth running frantically toward him.
"Phillips, that woman, who was she?"
"Well, I really don't know."
"Describe her."
"She's a lovely creature, Ryland. Enchanting really, with eyes and hair as black as ink, her skin had the light and soft scent of jasmine..."
"Tell me, did you notice a crescent-shaped mark at the outer corner of her left eye?"
"As a matter of fact, yes, I did. Why do you know this girl?"
"What did she want, Phillips?"
"She gave me this. It's for you, I believe. Information for the police, she said. Who is she, Ryland?"
"It's Kharahmin. She's one of the finest weapons in the enemy's arsenal. She's his daughter, perhaps."
"What, his daughter? Why, she's not even Chinese!"
"Eurasian, but what difference does it make whether she's his daughter, wife, or slave? Nevertheless, she's his servant and his spy. It's evident she was employed to get that letter placed into my hands. Give it to me."
Phillips holds up the envelope and Smyth instantly snatches it away.
"Now she has succeeded. Here, smell. Do you recognize the scent?"
Smyth holds the envelope under Phillips' nose. With a sudden sense of nausea, Phillips recognized the strange perfume.
"Great Scot, Ryland! It's the same scent... She told me to leave as soon as I'd given it to you."
Smyth's expression is very grave. Then a grim smile appears.
"She was a high card to play, but he doesn't know that I hold one to beat it."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"Fortunately for us, she has an attraction to you, or she wouldn't have warned you."
"Oh, that's ridiculous, Ryland. We'd never previously met. I didn't even know her name."
"Scoff if you will. Nevertheless, it's true. You know what the receipt of a similar letter meant in Sir Clayton's case?"
"A horrible death."
"Right! Do you doubt that she doesn't want you to share his fate, Phillips? Come now, we've finished here."
"Now, Ryland, hold on a minute. I've followed you blindly in this horrible business and I haven't insisted on explanations. But now, I believe you know far more than you have let on and I must insist, before going one step farther, on knowing what this is all about!"
"I'll explain on the way. We're not safe here."
"You certainly don't believe someone's going to take a shot at you."
"Oh, no. We need not fear guns, Phillips. The man whose servants are watching us now scorns to employ such weapons. Nor would any in his service dishonor themselves by resorting to such means. In his way of thinking, there's no honor in using a firearm. Any bloody fool can pull a trigger.
Besides, it's simply not his style. It lacks a certain elegance and mystique. It lacks the psychological impact of his preferred methods.
A common shooting would send the wrong message. Make no mistake, Phillips, when he commits murder and leaves the body to be found, it's most definitely a message. Two messages, actually, the first being that to oppose him is to seal your fate. Secondly, at his hand, death will be slow, horrible, and excruciatingly painful. It's about creating terror and using the power of fear for control.
Come now, Doctor, our cab is still waiting."
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Chapter 8: The Insidious Dr. Fu Hong Wu
"Where to now, Ryland?"
"Baker Street."
"My place?"
"Yes. Here, get in."
The cab moves off with a metallic lurch. Phillips turns and peers through the little window in the rear.
"I say, Ryland. I think someone is following us."
Ryland Smyth lay back and laughed unmirthfully.
"I expected that. There is little to fear until we arrive home, Phillips. Afterward, there is much. Well, if I escape alive from this business, old chap, I shall know that I live a charmed life.
You've asked me to explain matters, and I will to the best of my ability. You no doubt still wonder why a servant of the British Government, recently in Burma, suddenly appears in London, bearing credentials from the very highest sources."
"I certainly do."
"Simply because I stumbled onto a clue, quite by accident. Following it up in the ordinary course of routine, I obtained definite evidence of the existence and activity of a certain man. A man who calls himself Dr. Fu Hong Wu."
"Dr. Fu Hong Wu?"
"Remember our discussion about that certain Mr. King? How, in the course of that investigation, I followed him to Burma? Remember too, I learned of his association with The Black Poppy Society?"
"Yes, yes, I recall."
"While attempting to track down Mr. King in Burma, that's when I first heard rumors of a certain man. So feared was he that very few would speak of him. When they did, it was always in whispers and even then only behind closed doors. Most would not speak of him at all.
It was there, in Burma, that I first laid eyes on Dr. Fu Hong Wu. It was the first and only time. I've learned a great deal about him since then. And now, I know why none will speak of him. This man has the most devious and formidable personality I've ever encountered. It was under his orders that one of his henchmen made the attempt on my life. As to his mission among men, what does any master criminal seek? Fortune, infamy, and power, I suspect."
"So you know this criminal, Ryland? Tell me precisely, who is he?"
"The prince of evil. The ultimate expression of cunning. Perhaps the greatest criminal mind of our time, a phenomenon such as occurs only once in generations.
He is a linguist who fluently speaks any civilized language and most of the barbaric. He is an adept in all the arts and sciences which a great university could teach. He's also an adept in certain obscure arts and sciences which no university can possibly teach. He is possessed of an intellect equal to any three men of genius. If he so willed, he might have revolutionized science and been the greatest scientist of our day."
"Odd how some mental geniuses turn their talents to evil, eh? But what does he look like?"
"Imagine a person, tall and feline, broad-shouldered, with a face like Satan, and magnetic almond-shaped eyes of a true cat-like green, eyes that shine like blazing emeralds. His hair is smooth and fine as silk, dark as black onyx, pulled back into a braid that hangs to his waist. Imagine a figure majestically arrayed in a brocade yellow silk robe, which flows from his shoulders to the floor and tends to make him appear even taller and more slender. From his sleeves emerge long and powerful predatory hands. Their long and narrow fingers, with nails of unusual length, are like the talons of an eagle. With smooth and glowing skin of a sickly sandy yellow, he's a truly terrifying sight to behold.
Invest in him, all the cruel cunning developed throughout mankind's history, accumulated in one great intellect. Give him all the resources of a small but wealthy government. Feared throughout the Orient, he's the most dangerous, ruthless, and elusive man in Asia. Imagine that awful being, Phillips, and you will have a mental picture of Dr. Fu Hong Wu, the most insidiously evil man on earth."
"Fantastic character, old chap. But surely you exaggerate. I must say, I find all this very difficult to believe. Fu Hong Wu indeed, it suggests an assumed name."
"Perhaps, perhaps not."
"Is he the emissary of an Eastern Power?"
"Not exactly, Phillips. He's not a representative of any political or governmental agency. In fact, the Chinese Government has already denied any knowledge of his existence. However, he's definitely the emissary of some powerful eastern organization. I suspect he's the head of The Black Poppy Society."
"If this Fu Hong Wu is not the agent of a foreign government, why then was Sir Clayton Davis murdered?"
"Think about it, Phillips. Sir Clayton was chief officer of the India Bureau. He's the one man in charge of an entire agency whose major concerns deal with the trade between India and England.
If you remember, Sir Clayton was also addicted to morphine, which is a pharmaceutical derivative of opium. I suspect it was a habit that he first acquired many years earlier while stationed in India. The ports of India would be an ideal place from which to export opium grown in the Golden Triangle.
Who controls the opium trade, but the Black Poppy Society? It suggests to me that Sir Clayton was an unwilling participant in the opium trade. He must have had a falling out with the criminal group and, as a result, was eliminated by Fu Hong Wu.
And now, because of Sir Clayton's murder, I can tell you with absolute certainty. Regardless of China's claim to have no association with the devil doctor, very soon the British Government will request that China convince Dr. Fu Hong Wu to remove himself and his influence as quickly and as far from England as possible."
"And if China refuses?"
"Then, Phillips, it will be my duty to remove him."
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Chapter 9: The Zayat Kiss
Phillips collapses into his chair and gulps down a strong peg of brandy.
"Smyth, you know we've been followed here. Why didn't you make any attempt to throw the pursuers off the track or to have them intercepted?"
Smyth laughs, "Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went, Fu Hong Wu would find us. And of what use is it to arrest his minions? We could prove nothing against them. Furthermore, it's evident that an attempt is to be made upon my life tonight and by the same means that proved so successful in the case of poor Sir Clayton."
"You can't mean he'll make an attempt against you here?"
"That's exactly what I mean. That villain, that fiendishly clever villain. I knew that an attempt was to be made on Sir Clayton's life, but we arrived too late, Phillips. That hits me hard, old friend. I knew and yet failed to save him."
Smyth collapses into his seat and reaches for a distinctive pack of cigarettes, produced by a London-based manufacturer. Oddly enough, the brand is named after the location of the factory on Great Marlborough Street. For some unknown reason, he's fiercely loyal to that particular brand. Lighting one Smyth smokes hard, taking a long and deep drag. By the expression on his face, it's obvious he derives a great deal of pleasure from this little vice.
"But Fu Hong Wu has made the blunder common to men of unusual genius. He's underestimated his adversary. He doesn't know that I understand the meaning of the scented messages and he's used Kharahmin to get such a message into my hands. He thinks that once safely indoors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as Sir Clayton died. But even without the indiscretion of your charming friend, I still would have known what to expect when I received her "information", which consists only of blank paper."
"Smyth, who is she, the girl Kharahmin?"
"She's either Fu Hong Wu's daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am inclined to believe the last, for she has no will but his. Except, it seems, where you are concerned. It appears she's formed a sudden predilection for you."
"You amaze me! How can you jest about such a thing?"
"I'm quite serious, Phillips. Love in the East is mystical. It is born, grows, and flowers at the touch of a hand. It's quite clear that she did not want you to share my fate. Do you doubt that? The warning she gave you is ample proof.
And while we're on the subject, a word of warning on the matter, my dear friend. Every woman is a double-edged sword. They're treacherous, particularly that one. Her name, Kharahmin, do you know what it means?"
"I'm sure, I haven't the foggiest."
"Literally translated, it means 'Tears Give Way to Pity'. That's exactly her method and specialty. She uses her feminine ways to beguile and seduce. Her seeming innocence and vulnerability, combined with her exotically alluring beauty, are the keys to her success. She is a temptress who plays on a man's inherent desire to be a protector by eliciting your sympathy and compassion. As I said before, she's his finest weapon."
"Now, what caused Sir Clayton's death, Ryland? I suspect you know."
"He died of the Zayat Kiss."
"What's the Zayat Kiss?"
"I don't know, exactly. Some sort of insect, I believe, venomous and deadly."
"What sort of insect?"
"Again, I say, I don't know. In Burma, there are certain rest houses. They're called Zayats. Travelers who use them are sometimes found dead, with nothing to show as the cause of death but a little red mark upon the face, arm, or neck. A mark, such as you found on Sir Clayton. It's called the Zayat Kiss.
I have my theory and I hope to prove it tonight. If I live, it will be one more broken weapon in his fiendish armory. This was my principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Chalmers. Even the walls have ears. where Fu Hong Wu is concerned. So, I pretended not to know the meaning of the mark on Sir Clayton's hand. I figured that Fu Hong Wu would most likely employ the same method upon another victim. I've wanted an opportunity to see the Zayat Kiss in operation and I shall soon have one."
"And what's the significance of the scented envelopes?"
"In the swampy forests, near those rest houses, is a rare species of orchid with a peculiar scent. I recognized the heavy perfume at once. I'm certain the creature, which kills the traveler, is attracted by the scent of that orchid. You'll notice the perfume clings to whatever it touches. I doubt it can be washed off in any ordinary way. Fu Hong Wu must have brought the creatures with him, along with a supply of orchids, possibly to feed the things."
"How could any kind of creature have gotten into Sir Clayton's study? There were no windows and only one door, which was closed and visible to Mr. Bramley the whole evening."
"You observed that I examined the grate of the study. I found a fair quantity of fallen soot. I at once assumed, since it appeared to be the only means of entrance, that something had been dropped down. I also assumed the creature, whatever it is, must still be concealed either in the study or in the library. I found nothing when I searched the study, which is why I requested that Clayton's body be removed from the library, the rooms sealed, and no one allowed entry."
"My God!"
Phillips apprehensively glances over his shoulder, as if each shadow in the room cloaks some unseen menace. Once again, the unseen icy hand of Fu Hong Wu can be felt reaching out of the darkness to strike fear into the hearts and minds of men.
"What's your theory respecting this creature, what shape, what color?"
"It's an insect that moves rapidly and silently. I suspect it works in the dark. The study was dark, remember, save for the bright patch beneath the reading lamp. More than that, I dare not say.
However, I suggest that we go into the bedroom and appear to make preparations to retire. Then I'm sure we may rely upon Fu Hong Wu's servants to attempt my removal, if not yours."
"But my dear fellow, it's a climb of thirty-five feet, at the very least, to the bedroom window."
"I noticed the back of this house is covered with ivy. Fu Hong Wu has Dacoity in his service. It's most likely that a Dacoit operates the Zayat Kiss. And to a Dacoit, an ivy-covered wall is a grand staircase."
Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from their hands with a solution of ammonia, Smyth and Phillips prepare a trap. Smyth has no doubt that upon seeing the light go out in the front, the unseen assassin would proceed to the back. It's an easy matter to reach the rear of the house. A person would simply have to climb the fence.
The bed chamber is a large room. Smyth and Phillips set up a folding bed at one end, stuffing odds and ends under the blankets to lend the appearance of a sleeper. A strategy they also use for the other bed. The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee table in the center of the room. Smyth, with an electric pocket lamp and a revolver, sits in the shadow of the wardrobe. Phillips occupies a post between the windows.
Nearly an hour passes. No unusual sound, so far, disturbs the stillness of this night. Save for the muffled throb of the rare passing car, the vigil has been a silent one. The full moon paints weird shadows about the floor, of the clustering ivy, spreading the design gradually from the door, across the room, past the little table where the envelope lay, and finally to the foot of the bed.
A slight breeze stirs the ivy. A new shadow appears. Something rises, inch by inch, above the sill of the window. Phillips can see only its shadow. A sharp and sibilant breath from Smyth is a signal to Phillips that, from his hiding place, Smyth spies the cause of that shadow. Every nerve in Phillips' body is strung tensely. He's icy cold, expectant, and prepared for whatever horror is upon them.
The shadow is stationary. The Dacoit is studying the interior of the room. Suddenly, the shadow is moving again. Phillips turns his head to see a lithe form, cloaked in black, surmounted by a masked face, sketchy in the moonlight, pressing against the windowpanes.
Two brown hands appear over the edge of the lowered sash. The Dacoit makes absolutely no sound. A hand disappears and reappears. It holds a small square box. There is a very faint CLICK. With a dull, muffled thud, something drops upon the carpet.
Smyth exclaims, "Stand still, for your life!"
A beam of white light leaps across the room and plays full upon the coffee table in the center. Prepared as Phillips is for something horrible, he grows pale upon sight of that creature running around the edge of that envelope.
It's an insect, six inches long and of a vivid, venomous, red color. It has the appearance of a great ant with horrible vitality and long quivering antennae. However, it's proportionately longer in body and smaller in head with numberless rapidly moving legs like a centipede. Phillips notices all these things in one breathless instant. In the next, Smyth dashes the creature's poisonous life out with one hard blow of a golf club!
Phillips leaps to the window and throws it widely open, feeling a silk thread brush his hand. A black shape is dropping with incredible agility, from branch to branch of the ivy. It merges into the shadows beneath trees in the garden. Phillips turns and switches on the light. Smyth drops limply into a chair and leans his head upon his hands. Even his grim courage has been sorely tried.
"Never mind the Dacoit, Phillips. Our nemesis, Fu Hong Wu, will know where to find him and will deal with his failure. We now know what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss. Therefore, science is richer for our first brush with the enemy and the enemy is poorer, unless he has any more unclassified insects.
I understand now something that's been puzzling me, since I first heard of it, Sir Clayton's stifled cry. When we remember that he was almost past speech, it's reasonable to suppose that his cry was not 'The red hand' but 'The red ANT'!"
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 10: The Braided Ponytail
At the house of Dr. Arthur Phillips Beaker, the two men are relaxing comfortably in the sitting room and enjoying the peace that morning always seems to bring. With the day's paper in hand, an interesting article catches Smyth's attention. He passes the paper to Phillips and points to the article.
THE FLEET STREET DAILY GUARDIAN
Chapter 11: Another Body Found in the Thames
By Ward Sarsfield
LONDON, ENGLAND.
The body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual to a boatman, was recovered from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at six o'clock yesterday morning. It is supposed the man met with an accident while leaving his ship.
Smyth says, "For 'lascar' read 'Dacoit', our visitor who came by way of the ivy. Fortunately for us, he failed to follow his instructions and he lost the Zayat creature. Fu Hong Wu doesn't overlook such lapses."
Phillips scarcely finishes reading this when the telephone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Dr. Phillips?"
"Speaking, Wallace. What is it?"
"I'm calling from the Wapping River Police Station. Can Inspector Smyth come down here at once?"
"Just a moment, you can speak to him yourself."
Turning to Smyth, Phillips hands the receiver to him.
"Inspector Wallace is on the phone."
"Hello, Inspector, what is it?"
"I'd rather not say over the phone, Inspector Smyth, but you must come down here right away. Bit of a follow-up on the Clayton case."
"Certainly, Wallace, we'll be down there right away."
Smyth returns the phone to its cradle and turns his attention to Phillips.
"Come along, Phillips, it's something important. And if Fu Hong Wu has something to do with it, probably something ghastly."
Smyth and Phillips charter a cab and proceed east. Throughout the journey, Smyth speaks entertainingly about his previous work in China, with intent to avoid any reference to the circumstances which brought him in contact with a certain sinister genius. Rather, he spoke about the sunshine of the East and not of its shadows.
But the drive concludes all too soon. In a silence which neither man seemed disposed to break, they enter the police depot and follow an officer who escorts them to the room where Wallace waits. The inspector greets them briefly.
"Ah, Special Inspector Ryland Smyth, I'm glad you came, and you, Dr. Phillips. Gentlemen, this is Detective Lyman of the River Police."
Smyth enquires, "Alright, Wallace, what is it?"
"Over here, Mr. Smyth, on this table. It's Colby, the most promising young lad at Scotland Yard. His body was pulled from the river less than two hours ago."
Colby's corpse is prone upon the table, the latest body to be given up by the river. Dressed in a manner common to sailors, he outwardly appears to be a seaman of nondescript nationality. Such is common in Wapping and Shadwell. His curly dark hair is wet and sticking to the brown forehead. His skin is stained. He wears a gold ring in one ear. Obviously, he's in disguise and had been working undercover. Oddly, though, three fingers of the left hand are missing. It appears as if they have been chopped off.
Smyth strikes his right fist into the palm of his left hand and curses under his breath. He paces up and down the room. No one speaks for a moment and in that silence the whispering of the Thames could be heard outside. That river, which holds so many strange secrets, was now burdened with another.
Wallace continues, "It was almost the same with Maxton. A week ago, he went off in his own time on some funny business down St. George's way. The next night, the ten o'clock boat got hold of him near Hanover Hole. Two fingers on his right hand were clean gone and his left hand was frightfully mutilated. That lascar too, the one reported in the papers, fished out of the river yesterday. Both of his hands were mutilated in the same manner."
"He was not a lascar. He was the Dacoit who visited us two nights ago. These things on the table, they were found among Colby's possessions?"
"They were."
"A watch, money, knife. Hmm.. What the devil, a braided ponytail?"
"That's why we sent for you. It appears to be the first clue pointing to the authors of these strange crimes."
"Hmm... It's a false braid, of course, attached to a bald head wig."
"Yes, we believe it to be part of a Chinese makeup. Colby was clever at disguises."
"A disguise, yes, but certainly not used by Colby. Look here. It's too small for his head and notice how the crown is padded. This was made for a most abnormal head. Where did you find Colby's corpse, exactly?"
"Limehouse Reach under the Commercial Dock Pier, two hours ago."
"And when did you last see him?"
"Eight o'clock last night."
"You think he's been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Phillips?"
Phillips responds, "Roughly, twenty-four hours, I'd say."
"So, we can assume that Colby was on the track of the Fu Hong Wu group. Because, without evidence to the contrary, the fact that he died in the same manner as the Dacoit is conclusive. For we know that Fu Hong Wu killed the Dacoit. We know that he followed up on some clue which led him to the neighborhood of Limehouse Reach and that he died the same night. You're sure that's where he was going?"
Wallace replies, "Yes. He said the neighborhood of old Ratcliff Highway is where he expected to be, just before he left the Yard at eight o'clock to go home and dress for the job."
"Did he keep any record of his cases?"
"Certainly, we all do. In that respect, though, he was most particular. Colby was a man with ambitions and it would have meant a promotion for him if he had solved the case. Of course, you'll want to see his book. Wait while I find his address. It's somewhere in Brixton."
"Colby almost succeeded where we've failed, Phillips. There's no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu Hong Wu. Poor Maxton had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a similar fate."
Lyman questions, "What's the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smyth?"
"Heaven only knows. Colby's death was from drowning?"
Phillips responds, "Most certainly. Other than the mutilated hands, there are no other marks of violence."
Lyman objects, "But he was a very strong swimmer, Doctor. Colby wasn't an easy man to drown. And as for Maxton, he was like a fish in the water!"
Smyth shrugs his shoulders helplessly.
"When we capture Fu Hong Wu, perhaps then we shall learn how they died."
Wallace returns with the information.
"Ah, here we go. The address is Twenty Two Cold Harbor Lane. There's no family, fortunately. He was quite alone in the world. If his case book isn't in the desk, which you'll find in his sitting room, it's in the cabinet, in the corner, top shelf. Here are his keys."
"Come, Phillips, we must move along this time. We haven't a second to waste."
"Yes, yes of course, Ryland."
Their cab is waiting and in a few seconds it's speeding along Wapping High Street. It hasn't gone far when Smyth suddenly slaps his hand down on his knee.
"That braided ponytail. I've forgotten it. I must have it, Phillips. Stop, driver! Stop!"
The cab screeches to a halt. Smyth steps out.
"Don't wait for me. Go to Colby's place and get that book. It's all we want. Come straight on to Scotland Yard and meet me there."
"But Ryland, I'll wait, or we'll go back. A few minutes can make no difference!"
"Can't it? Do you suppose Fu Hong Wu is going to leave evidence like that book lying about? Odds are he already has it, but there's still a chance. Go on now."
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Chapter 12: Seduction by Kharahmin
Once again on his way, Phillips is lost in thought, reviewing the events since the return of Ryland Smyth. Mentally, he looks again upon the dead body of Sir Clayton Davis. How he and Smyth had waited in the dark for the dreadful Zayat creature. It's with those memories jostling in his mind that he's going to the house of Fu Hong Wu's latest victim. The shadow of that great evil is upon Phillips like a storm cloud, and before long, the cab is outside the house. Colby's old landlady greets Phillips at the door.
"Yes, what do you want?"
"I'm Dr. Phillips and I'm sorry to bring bad news regarding your tenant, Mr. Colby."
"Bad news, eh? Well, that was to be expected, with the company he kept."
"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow your meaning."
"Well, with him staying out till all hours of the night and all. Then there's that woman who's been coming around."
"What woman might that be?"
"The young woman in his room now. She has a pretty face, but from the way she's dressed, I'd say she's most likely a lady of ill repute. No respectable woman would dare to dress so shamelessly. She waited for him last night and again this morning. She came for the third time about an hour ago and has been here since."
"Very well then, could you direct me to Colby's room?"
"Third floor, second door to your right."
Phillips notices a soft rustling as someone descends the stairs. He dashes into the hall. A girl turns to flee back up the stairs. Taking three steps at a time, Phillips follows her. Almost at her heels, bounding into the room, he stands with his back to the door. He has her cornered. Phillips turns the key in the lock. In so doing, elicits a sad and shameful sort of sigh from the girl.
Timidly, she cowers against a desk by the window. A slim figure scandalously dressed in a clinging silk outfit, which can only be described as that of a dancing dervish, she gives the impression of a scantily clad Arabian harem girl. The lights are dim and darkness shadows her face, but it can not hide her startling beauty, the bronze colored brilliance of her skin, the allure of those wonderful dark eyes, nor the crescent shaped mark near her left eye. There is no mistaking the beautifully seductive Kharahmin!
"So, I did get here in time!" Phillips exclaims.
She sighs softly, sadly, sorrowfully. With slender hands clutching the edge of the desk, she leans against the wall in pitiful defeat. She speaks softly. Her voice is breathy, little more than a whisper. A slight accent adds charm to her musical voice.
"Dr. Phillips, you must go at once."
"I'll not leave until you give me whatever it is you have taken from here."
With fear in her eyes and her breast heaving tumultuously, she timidly steps forward as her lips part.
"I have taken nothing."
As proof of her words, she extends her arms and offers two delicate hands. They're open and empty. She moves closer to him.
"See? I speak the truth. Now, please go from this place. You are in terrible danger. You must leave. I beg of you, go now."
"Not until you give me what you've taken."
Impulsively, she throws herself forward, pressing her hands against Phillips' shoulders. Looking up into his face, there's passionate pleading in her eyes. Her tremulous lips are close to his. Her breath is warm upon his cheek as she leans close to his ear and whispers.
"I promise you, I have taken nothing. If you will not leave this place, then allow me to go from here. I ask this only because I wish to keep you safe. I beg you to let me go. Tell me that I may, if not for my sake, then for yours."
Her fingers grasp his shoulders nervously. She watches him tentatively. Kharahmin's expression is intensely sincere and convincing. Her soulful eyes are persuasive with fear and despair. She seems so small and fragile in his arms. Warm, soft, and very feminine, her slim body quivers against his. A faint perfume lingers about her, the light sweet scent of jasmine. Her silky smooth hair is long, straight, and black as night. Her Eurasian face elicits angelic innocence. Long, thick, black lashes punctuate the sparkling dark ebony of her smoldering eyes. Her pouting, pastel pink, lips are a striking contrast, which complements the bronze glow of her skin. Her bare and exposed shoulders are the vanguard of her mystique, arousing curiosity, seductively asking what exciting mysteries lie below.
Much to Phillips' shame, her charm envelopes him like a mystic haze. Smyth once said, "Love in the East is mystical. It is born, grows, and flowers at the touch of a hand". Now in her arms and in those pleading eyes, Phillips discovers the truth of those words.
Unfamiliar with her complex temperament, he had scoffed when Smyth had spoken of the girl's affection for Phillips. Could Smyth be right? Was Phillips the object of the girl's infatuation?
Her beauty is wholly intoxicating. Like all Fu Hong Wu's servants, she was perfectly chosen for her particular duties. Thus, her seductive and fragile beauty argues against Phillips' sense of right.
"Why are you here, Kharahmin? What have you been sent here to retrieve?"
"For you, I will speak. I will tell you all I can, all I dare. Could you hide me from him, if I came to you and told you all I know?"
"If you tell me where I can find him."
"And if I do, would you go to find him?"
"I would."
A new terror shows in her face.
"I dare not! Not if you would go to find him! Your friend. Yes, your friend Ryland Smyth, I will tell him. Then he will die, not you."
"Nonsense, Kharahmin, either tell me where he is or give me whatever you have taken. Else I shall have no alternative but to hand you over to the authorities."
Her lip trembles, her eyes grow wide and moist with tears. A gasp of complete exasperation and shameful disappointment escapes her lips. A tear falls, trailing down that beautiful cheek, leaving a wet streak.
"You think I am awful, because I do his bidding. You do not think that I am worthy of mercy. It is not my wish to serve him, but I must. I have no choice. If you only understood, then you would not be so cruel."
"Then explain yourself and make me understand."
"I am not free, as your English women are. What I do, I must do. For it is the will of my master. I am only a slave. I can not refuse him. I dare not disobey him... Unless you will hide me.
I may deserve no mercy. I may even be as awful as you must think. But YOU have no heart, if you can forget that I have already tried to save you once. Now, I try to save you again. You are not a man if you can give me to the police. Can you betray the one who saved your life? Could you ever look a woman, whom you love, in the eyes, knowing you had done such a thing?"
Phillips is speechless. He feared she might use that plea. It was true. She had tried to save him from a deadly peril. Could he now turn her over to the authorities? Sensing his indecision, she continues to persuade him.
"I have no friend in all the world, or I would not be here. Do not be my enemy. Do not be my judge and make me worse than I am. Be my friend and save me from him. Hide me from your police, from him, from everybody, and I will no longer be his slave. I will belong to you. I will be your slave. Listen to the words your heart speaks. Have mercy on me."
At that moment, Phillips honestly would have given half his worldly possessions to be spared the decision which he knew must come. What could he do? Could he live with himself in either case?
What proof had he that she was a willing accomplice of Dr. Fu Hong Wu? Irreconcilable as the concept may be with Western ideas, Smyth had said that he believed the girl to be a slave. Furthermore, she was from a foreign land and her code must necessarily be different. Old Fong Wah had said, Chinese have codes of their own. They live by laws foreign to and older than the laws of England. Might that be so with her as well? There also remains that other reason why Phillips loathes the idea of becoming her captor. It is almost tantamount to betrayal. Must he soil his hands with such work?
His heart is beating with painful rapidity. He'd not counted on warring with this woman and it was more difficult than he might have imagined. For some time, he'd been aware that by charm of her personality and art of her pleading, she'd brought him down from his seat of judgment. She'd made it all but impossible for him to give her up to justice. Now he is disarmed, in a quandary, and she is all too aware of that fact.
"Listen, I will tell you of the notebook. I came here twice and could not find it. This third time I found it, but the book was too big for me to steal away. I have taken the notebook and torn out the last pages. I burned them. Look in the grate. You can see with your own eyes."
Phillips turns away from her and walks to the hearth. There lay some paper ash, still emitting a faint odor. Not more than ten seconds elapse from the time he steps across the room until he glances back, but she has gone. As he charges to the door, the key turns gently from the outside.
"Forgive me, but I am afraid to trust you yet. Be comforted, though, for there is one nearby who would have killed you, had I wished it. Remember, dearest Phillips, I will come to you whenever you will take me and keep me."
With those parting words, light footsteps patter down the stairs. A stifled cry from Mrs. Dylan can be heard as the mysterious visitor runs past. The front door opens and shuts.
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Chapter 13: A Clue In Ashes
In the office of Inspector Wallace at New Scotland Yard, burned fragments from Colby's case book are arranged on a sheet of foolscap. Interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Phillips, Kharahmin had done her work so hurriedly that combustion had not been complete.
Inspector Wallace enquires, "Oh, by the way, I've been meaning to ask you something. That Eurasian woman you mentioned the other day, Kharahmin. How does she figure in all this business?"
Smyth replies, "She's one of Fu Hong Wu's greatest weapons, beautiful and extremely clever. She's a siren, a temptress, a seductress, and..."
A mischievous grin creeps across Smyth's face.
"She's in love with Dr. Phillips."
"In love with him?"
Smyth and Wallace turn to Phillips. His face flushes and a look of dread comes over him. Mistaking it for embarrassment, Wallace laughs uncontrollably. Smyth flashes a reassuring wink to Phillips. Turning his attention back to Smyth, Wallace inquires.
"Great Scot! How long has he known it?"
"Oh, I'd say less than twenty-four hours now, to the best of my knowledge. She met him for the first time outside the home of Sir Clayton Davis, the night he died. I knew it right then. It's a fine thing too. She may yet prove to be a valuable ally. But enough about the good Doctor's love life, let's get down to business, shall we?"
"Alright then, Shang Yin's is an opium den masquerading as a barber's shop in one of the burrows off the old Ratcliff Highway. They call it "Singapore Charlie's". You have anything on it, Lyman?"
Lyman nods and says, "Yes, it's a center for some of the Chinese societies, I believe, but all sorts of opium smokers use it. There have never been any complaints that I know of."
Smyth interjects, "What do you chaps make of this? Dr. Phillips found it at Colby's room in the fireplace. Someone had burned several sheets from his case book and these are the charred fragments that Phillips managed to rescue. Whoever removed the pages burned them all together. They lay flat and this must have been in the middle."
...hunchbacklascar went up... unlike others did not return.... till Shang Yin turned me out... booming sound.... lascar in mortuary. I could identify... not for days, or suspicion... Tuesday night in a different makeup... snatch ponytail...
"Now, we have a reference to a hunchback, and what follows amounts to this. A lascar, amongst several others, went up somewhere at Shang Yin's and didn't come down."
Lyman offers, "Colby, who was there and disguised, noted a booming sound."
Smyth continues, "Later, he identified the lascar in some mortuary. We have no means of fixing the date of this visit to Shang Yin's, but I'm inclined to put down the lascar as the Dacoit who was murdered by Fu Hong Wu."
Wallace cuts in, "It's sheer supposition, of course, but probably correct and it's evident that Colby meant to pay another visit to the place using a different cover or disguise."
Again, Smyth resumes, "Exactly. Furthermore, it's a reasonable deduction, the Tuesday night proposed was undoubtedly last night. The reference to a pigtail is interesting because it was found on Colby's body."
Inspector Wallace nods affirmatively and Smyth glances at his watch.
"Well, it's exactly ten twenty-three. I'll trouble you, Inspector, for the freedom of Scotland Yard's fancy wardrobe. I'm going to Shang Yin's tonight in disguise."
Wallace questions, "That might be risky. What about an official visit?"
Ryland Smyth laughs.
"Worse than useless! By your own admission, the place is masquerading as a business and open to inspection. No, Wallace. We're dealing with a man of unusual genius, a man who's most subtly devious."
Wallace offers, "Well, I'm not an advocate of disguises. It's mostly played out, that game, and generally leads to failure. Still, if you're determined, our man Foster will make you up."
"What character do you propose to adopt, Mr. Smyth?" Lyman asks.
"Oh, the usual rough seaman, something like Colby."
Dr. Phillips interrupts, "You're forgetting me, Ryland. I'll go with you, of course."
"That's not necessary, Phillips, I can handle it."
"Do you mean that you can no longer rely upon me?"
"My dear old chap, that was really unkind. You know I didn't mean that."
"Very well then, I can pretend to smoke opium as well as any other. I'll be going along."
Some twenty minutes later, a dangerous-looking seafaring ruffian is admiring himself in the mirror.
Smyth comments, "Good job, Foster. I don't even recognize myself. How are you coming, Phillips?"
"All ready."
Phillips steps out of the dressing room. Takes one look at Smyth and declares, "By George! You're a villainous looking beast."
Smyth laughs hardily.
"Well, you'd hardly instill confidence in a child yourself, Phillips!"
It was strange to see his usually distinguished associates disguised as two disreputable-looking blokes. But knowing their true identities and hearing them trading discourtesies was enough to elicit a chuckle from Wallace.
Outside the New Scotland Yard building, two rough and dangerous sailors enter a waiting cab. Accompanied by Inspector Wallace, they drive off into the wilderness of London's night. This theatrical business is so ridiculous and almost childish that Phillips could have laughed mirthfully had it not been for the grim tragedy lurking so near.
The mere recollection that somewhere at this journey's end Fu Hong Wu awaits is sufficient to sober his reflection. With all the forces pitted against him, Fu Hong Wu continues to triumphantly pursue his dark schemes. Fu Hong Wu, whose name stands for horrors indefinable, remains hidden. Fu Hong Wu, whom Phillips has never seen, continues to lurk and most likely somewhere nearby. Phillips wonders if he is destined to meet the terrible devil doctor tonight. Ceasing this train of thought, which promises to spiral toward morbid depths, he directs his attention to more pleasant things.
The cab pulls up outside the river police depot. Wallace, Smyth, and Phillips enter without delay. Four shabby-looking fellows, who are sitting in the office, spring up to salute Inspector Wallace.
"Alright, if we're ready to start, let's stop in the assembly room. I have some instructions to give my men."
Inspector Wallace, Smyth, Phillips, Lyman, and four other men gather in the assembly room.
Smyth begins, "We'll drop down the river from Wapping and reconnoiter close to the riverside. Then Lyman can put us ashore somewhere below. He can keep the launch close to the back of the premises. Wallace, your fellows should be hanging about near the front and close enough to hear a whistle."
"Yes, I'll arrange for that. If you're suspected, you'll give the alarm?" Wallace asks.
"I'm not sure yet. Even in that event, I might wait a bit."
Detective Lyman cautions, "Don't wait too long. We wouldn't appear much wiser if your next appearance is on the end of a grappling hook somewhere down Greenwich Reach, with half your fingers missing."
Smyth chuckles in amusement.
"The next time you see me, I'll try to have all my digits intact."
"Yes, sir. ALL of them!"
Wallace continues, "Godfrey and Lysle, you two get along and find a dark corner which commands the door of Singapore Charlie's, but don't move till you hear the whistle and note everybody that goes in or comes out. That's all. You other two are Lyman's men and belong to the River Police division?"
Wallace's men having departed, the remaining pair salute. Wallace addresses them firmly.
"You're on special duty tonight and don't act so proud. Where we're going, it might get you filleted. You know a good spot to keep an eye on Shang Yin's?"
The men look at one another, and both nod their heads.
One of the men responds, "There's an empty shop nearly opposite, sir. I know of a broken window at the back, where we could get in. We could go to the front and watch from there."
"Good! Get in there and see you're not spotted. If you hear the whistle, be inside Shang Yin's fast as the devil will let you. Otherwise, wait for orders. Understand?"
The two men respond, "Yes, sir."
"Very well, get at it."
Lyman glances at the clock and says, "The launch should be ready now, gentlemen."
Smyth says, "Right-O, we might as well get started."
Lyman leads the men, "Out this way, through the back."
Smyth muses, "I am afraid recent alarms may have scared our quarry, Wallace's men, Maxton, then Colby. On the other hand, so far as Fu Hong Wu knows, there's no clue pointing to this opium den. Remember, he thinks Colby's notes are destroyed."
Detective Lyman confesses, "The whole business is an utter mystery to me. I'm told there's some dangerous Chinaman devil hiding somewhere in London and you expect to find him at Shang Yin's. Suppose he uses that place, how do you know he's there tonight?"
"I don't know, chap, but it's the only clue we've got pointing to one of his haunts and time means precious lives where Fu Hong Wu is concerned."
Lyman questions, "Who is he exactly, this Fu Hong Wu?"
"I have only the vaguest idea, Lyman, but he's no ordinary criminal. He is the greatest criminal genius which the powers of evil have put on earth. He has the backing of a group whose wealth is enormous."
"What is his object, Smyth?"
"His mission in Europe is to pave the way, if you understand what I mean. He's the advance agent of an organized criminal movement, so momentous that not one Britisher and not one American, in a hundred thousand, has ever dreamt of it."Lyman stares incredulously, but says nothing. They walk out, passing down to the breakwater and boarding the waiting launch. It swings out into the river, clearing the pier, then turns to hug the murky shore.
The night had been clear enough, but now scudding rain clouds begin to curtain the crescent moon. Then pass on to unveil it again and reflect the muddy swirls in the river. The view is not extensive from the launch. Sometimes, a deepening of the shadows hints of a moored barge, or lights high overhead mark the deck of a large vessel. In the flood of moonlight, gaunt shapes tower above. Only the oily glitter of the tide occupies the foreground in the ensuing darkness.
The Surrey shore is a broken wall of blackness, patched with lights through which move hazy suggestions of human activity. The bank offers a prospect even more gloomy. It is a dense, dark mass, amid which mysterious half-tones mark a dock gate and sudden highlights leap flaring to the eye.
Out of the mystery ahead, a green light grows and creeps down. A giant shape looms up, then frowns crushingly upon the little craft. A blaze of light, the jangle of a bell, and a large ship passes. The murk falls again. Discords of remote activity rise above the more intimate throbbing of the launch whose passengers feel the chill of the near water.
Far over on the Surrey shore, a blue light, vaporous and mysterious, flicks a translucent tongue against the night's curtain. It's a weird and elusive flame, leaping, wavering, magically changing from blue to a yellowed violet, rising, falling.
Smyth is aware that Phillips has been watching those elfin fires as well and says, "Only a gasworks, but it always reminds me of a Mexican teocalli and the altar of sacrifice."
From the tone of his voice, Phillips knows the night mystery of the Thames has captivated at least one other victim. The simile was apt, but gruesome. Phillips imagines Fu Hong Wu with those severed fingers and can not repress a shudder.
Detective Lyman speaks, "On your left, past the wooden pier. Not where the lamp is, just beyond that, next to the dark, square building, that's Shang Yin's."
Smyth instructs, "Drop us somewhere handy and keep close by with your ears open. We may have to run for it, so don't go far."
Lyman replies, "Dead slow. We'll put in at the stone stairs."
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Chapter 14: Singapore Charlie's Opium Den
A seemingly drunken voice is droning from a neighboring alleyway as Smyth lurches into the door of a little shop above which are the crudely painted words "Shang Yin's Barber Shop". Phillips shuffles along behind him. Smyth kicks open the door, clatters down three wooden steps, and pulls himself up with a jerk, seizing Phillips' arm for support.
They stand in a bare, dirty, little room which could only claim kinship with a civilized shaving shop by virtue of a grimy towel thrown across the back of the solitary chair. Theatrical bills, which adorn one of the walls, complete the decor. From behind a curtain heavily covered with filth, a little Chinaman appears. He's dressed in the manner of his native land, a loose shirt, black trousers, and thick-soled slippers. Advancing toward the two sailors, the Chinaman shakes his head vigorously.
"Wha you wah? No shave. No shave tonigh. Too layah! Closi ah chop."
"Don't you give me none of that! Get inside and gimme an' my mate a couple a pipes. Go on, ya hear me? Smokee pipe, you savvy?" Smyth says.
"Oh, no, no, no. No cahn do! No cahn do!"
"Don't worry, I pay good. Here's your money, but keep me waitin' an' I'll pull down the whole damn' shop. You can count on it."
"No hap pigh."
Smyth raises his fist and Yin capitulates.
"Ah ligh, ah ligh, fu up, no hap loom. You cahm see."
"Shang Yin dives behind the dirty curtain, Smyth and Phillips follow, running up the dark stairs. Momentarily, they find themselves in an atmosphere which seems, to Phillips, literally poisonous. He finds it unbreathable. It's permeated with the thick and heavy, sticky-sweet scent of opium fumes. Never before has Phillips experienced anything like it. A tin oil lamp, on a box in the middle of the floor, dimly illuminates the room. About the walls, twelve bunks are arranged and all of them occupied. Most of the occupants are lying motionless, but one or two are squatting in their bunks, noisily sucking at the little metal pipes. These men have not yet attained the opium smoker's Nirvana.
"See no loom, ligh I say."
Smyth walks to a corner and drops on the floor, pulling Phillips down with him.
"There's plenty of room on the floor. You bring two pipe quick! Plenty room. Two pipe or plenty heap trouble."
"Go on, give 'em a pipe, Charlie, you sorry bloody..." one of the opium smokers grumbles.
"Ah ligh, I go geh you pigh."
Yin performs an odd little shrug and shuffles to the box which bears the smoky lamp. Holding a needle in the flame until it's red hot, he dips it into an old cocoa tin and withdraws it with a bead of opium adhering to the end. Slowly roasting this over the lamp, he drops it into the bowl of the metal pipe, where it burns with a spirituous blue flame.
Smyth rises to his knees with the assumed eagerness of a slave to the drug. Yin hands him the pipe, which he promptly puts to his lips. Yin prepares another for Phillips. Smyth whispers to Phillips.
"Whatever you do, don't inhale any."
With a sense of nausea, Phillips takes the pipe and pretends to smoke. Taking a cue from Smyth, he allows his head to gradually sink lower and lower. Within a few minutes, he sprawls sideways on the floor with Smyth lying close beside him.
A dazed and delirious opium smoker cries out, "The ship's a sinkin'! Look at the rats."
Yin noiselessly withdraws and Phillips experiences a curious sense of isolation from the rest of the Western world. His throat is parched from the fumes and his head aches. To Phillips, the vicious atmosphere seems contaminating. Smyth whispers softly.
"So far, so good. I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a stairway just behind that ragged curtain. I've seen nothing suspicious so far, but if anything is going on, it would be delayed until we new arrivals are well doped. So be still and quiet."
Smyth presses Phillips' arm to emphasize the warning. Through half-closed eyes, Phillips perceives a shadowy form near the curtain to which Smyth had referred. Phillips lies very still, but his muscles are nervously tense. The shadowy figure materializes as it moves forward into the room with a curiously lithe movement. The smoky lamp in the middle of the place affords scant illumination, serving only to indicate sprawling shapes, here an extended hand, there a sketchy corpse-like face.
From all around, obscene sighs and murmurings escape from slumbering dreamers. It's like a glimpse of the Inferno as envisioned by a Chinese Dante. The newcomer stands so close to Phillips that he can make out a ghastly face, with small oblique eyes and a misshapen head crowned with a coiled ponytail, surmounting a slight hunched body. There's something unnatural, inhuman, about that mask-like face and something repulsive in the bent shape.
Fu Hong Wu, from Smyth's account, in no way resembled this crouching apparition with the death's head countenance and lithe movements. But an instinct tells Phillips they are on the right scent and this is one of the doctor's servants. There's no doubt in his mind. This is a member of the formidable murder group. Phillips watches the man creep nearer and nearer, silently bent and peering. He is definitely watching them.
Phillips is suddenly aware there are fewer murmurings and sighs from the surrounding bunks. The presence of the crouching figure creates a sudden semi-silence in the den. This can only mean that some of these supposed smokers are merely feigning an opium induced sleep.
Smyth lies like a dead man, trusting the darkness. Phillips also lays prone and still, but watches the evil face. Bending lower and lower, until it comes within a few inches of his own. Phillips completely closes his eyes. Delicate fingers touch his eyelid. Divining what is coming, he rolled his eyes up as the lid is adroitly lifted and lowered again. The man moves away and Smyth whispers to Phillips.
"Good job, Phillips! I couldn't have done it better. My God, what an awful face! That's the hunchback of Colby's notes. Ah, I thought so. Do you see that?"
A Chinaman scrambles down from one of the bunks and follows the bent figure across the room. They pass by quietly. The curtain is raised. Footsteps recede on the stairs.
Minutes pass. Again, there are footsteps on the stairway. The hunchback reappears with the Chinaman, who crosses the floor and exits the way Smyth and Phillips had come in. The little bent man walks over to another bunk. This time, leading up the stairs, one who looks like a lascar.
Smyth whispers, "A Dacoit! These men come here to report and to receive orders. Phillips, you know who's up there?"
An intense excitement is clearly upon Smyth and the answer is apparent.
Dr. Phillips enquires, "What shall we do?"
"On my mark, we'll rush the stairs. You're nearer and will have to go first, but if the hunchback follows, I'll take care of him."
Smyth is interrupted by the return of the Dacoit, who crosses the room as the Chinaman had done and immediately takes his departure. A third man, whom Smyth identifies as a Malaysian, ascends the mysterious stairs, descends, and exits. A fourth man, whose nationality is impossible to determine, follows.
"Now! Up you go, Phillips!"
Phillips leaps to his feet. Snatching a revolver from the pocket of his jacket, he bounds to the stairway and blunders up in complete darkness. A chorus of brutish cries clamors from behind, and a muffled scream rises above them all, but Smyth is close behind as Phillips races along a covered gangway. Phillips crashes through a door at the end and almost falls into the room beyond.
He sees a dirty table with assorted odds and ends upon it. An oil lamp swings by a brass chain above and a man sits behind the table. From the moment his gaze rested upon the one who sat there, if the place had been Aladdin's palace, Phillips would not have noticed any of its wonders.
With the majestic splendor of an emperor and highly dignified, he sits. Obviously, he's a man of great power and enormous authority. Wearing a plain, green silk robe, his hands are large with narrow fingers and unusually long claw-like nails. Upon those hands rests his chin. He has a high brow crowned with ink black hair.
As it looks over the dirty table, his emotionless face is like an archangel of evil! It's wholly dominated by the most uncanny eyes that ever reflected a human soul. They are long, narrow, and nearly glowing green like fiery emeralds. Their unique horror lay in his terrifying, all-seeing, all-knowing, and unblinking gaze. His ice-cold stare is mesmerizing and penetrating, which, as Phillips throws wide the door, seems to pierce his soul. As Phillips passes the threshold, he's dealt a devastating blow by those frightening and magnetic eyes in all their blazing and scintillating iridescence.
Phillips stops dead, for the malignant force of that man is truly an impressive and intimidating experience. He's surprised by this sudden intrusion, but not one hint of fear shows upon that beautifully awful face, only a sort of pitying contempt. As Phillips stands awe-struck, the man slowly unfolds himself in a smooth, serpentine, undulation, rising, in all his glory, to his full height, never removing his gaze from Phillips.
Smyth's voice cries out, "IT'S FU HONG WU! Cover him! Shoot him dead if..."
Phillips never hears the conclusion of that sentence. Dr. Fu Hong Wu reaches down beside the table and the floor slips from under Phillips. He has one final glimpse of those fixed green eyes and with a scream he drops, falling helplessly. As Phillips falls, he vaguely notices a flickering tongue of flame. He hears another cry following his own, the booming sound of the trapdoor, the flat note of a police whistle.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 15: An Ally of Love
Plunging feet first into the icy water, it quickly swallows him and closes overhead. As he swims to the surface, an impenetrable darkness envelopes him. He spits filthy oily liquid from his mouth and fights the black terror that has him by the throat. The uncertainty of the darkness, the fear of the unknown depths beneath, this frightening pit surrounds him. He is cast amid stifling stenches and the lapping of tidal water.
Phillips cries out, "Smyth! Help! Help!"
His voice seems to beat back upon him. He is about to cry out again, but musters all his presence of mind and all his failing courage. He realizes there is better employment of his energies and begins to swim straight ahead, desperately determined to face all the horrors of this place or to die hard, if die he must.
A drop of liquid fire falls through the darkness and hisses into the water beside him, as a sense of madness envelopes him. Another fiery drop falls and another. Drops of burning oil from the lamp find passage through the cracks in the flooring and falling around him.
He touches a rotting wooden post and slimy timbers. He has reached one bound of this watery prison. More fire falls from above and the scream of hysteria quivers, unuttered, in his throat. Keeping himself afloat with increasing difficulty in those heavy garments, he throws back his head and raises his eyes. No more fire falls for the moment, but it's merely a question of time before the floor collapses. It's beginning to emit a dull red glow and the room above him is in flames.
His saturated garments are dragging him down and now he can hear the flames hungrily eating into the ancient rotted timber overhead. Shortly, that cauldron will be loosed upon his head. The glow of the flames grows brighter and illuminates the half rotten piles supporting the building. It illuminates the tidal mark upon the slime-coated walls, but shows no escape. By some subterranean duct, the foul place is fed from the Thames. By that duct, with the outgoing tide, Phillips' body would pass, in the wake of Maxton, Colby, and many other victims.
Brighter and brighter grows the fearsome light. That light, which is meant to be Phillips' funeral pyre. The flames redden the oily water, adding a new dread to the whispering and clammy horror of the pit. It illuminates a projecting beam a few feet above the water and directly above it is an iron ladder. A rusty iron ladder is affixed to the wall and communicates with a door, but the bottom three rungs are missing. A desire for laughter claims Phillips with a sudden irresistible force. He knew what it signified.
His garments weigh upon him like a suit of mail. His chest aching dully, veins throbbing to burst, he forces tired muscles to work. With every stroke an agony, he approaches the beam. Nearer he swims, nearer. Its shadow falls black upon the water, which now seems like a pool of blood. Confused sounds, a remote uproar comes to his ears. He is nearly exhausted, but so near that beam. If he can throw up one arm... A shrill scream sounds far above.
Smyth's voice echoes, "Phillips! Phillips! Don't touch the beam! For God's sake, DON'T TOUCH THE BEAM! Another few seconds and I can get to you!"
Phillips manages to turn. He raises his throbbing head to behold the strangest sight which this night has yet offered. Ryland Smyth stands upon the lowest iron rung, supported by the hideous hunchback, who stands upon the rung above.
"Oh, the devil, I can't reach him!"
Smyth hisses those words despairingly. As Phillips looks up, he sees the hunchback snatch at his coiled ponytail and pull it off. The wig to which it was attached and the ghastly yellow mask, deprived of its fastenings, fell from position.
The hunchback says, "Here. Here. Be quick. Oh, be quick! You can lower this to him."
A cloud of hair falls about the slim shoulders as the speaker bends to pass this strange lifeline to Smyth. It's Kharahmin, the girl whom earlier that day Phillips had surprised in Colby's room. It's the girl who spared his life twice already and now for a third time. He keeps his gaze on that beautifully frightened face and his eyes fix upon hers.
Smyth, by some contortion, maneuvers the false queue into Phillips' grasp. With the strength of desperation, he seizes hold upon the lowest rung. With Smyth's arm around him, Phillips realizes that exhaustion is even nearer than he had supposed. Phillips' last distinct memory is the bursting of that floor above and the big burning joist hissing into the pool beneath them. Its fiery passage of streaking light discloses two sword blades, riveted edges up along the top of the beam, which he had striven to reach.
Colby's severed fingers! Phillips now understands what must have happened to the man. A shudder convulses through his body.
How Smyth got him through the trap Phillips doesn't know, nor how they made way through the smoke and flames of that narrow passage it opened upon. His next recollection is of sitting up with Smyth's arm supporting him and Detective Lyman holding a glass to his lips. A bright glare dazzles his eyes. A crowd surges about them, a clangor and shouting draws near.
Detective Lyman explains, "It's the engines coming, Shang Yin's is in flames. They'll let that place burn, but keep the fire from the other buildings."
"It was your shot, as you fell through the trapdoor, that broke the oil lamp," Smyth adds.
Phillips wonders aloud, "Is everybody out?"
"So far as we know," Lyman answers.
"Fu Hong Wu?" Phillips presses.
Wallace answers, "He's still inside, at least according to our men. None of them has seen him leave the building."
Phillips exclaims, "By George, Ryland! Perhaps we're well rid of him. It's a horrible death to wish a man, but..."
"No, not until I see his dead body will I believe it."
"Kharahmin, where is she, Smyth? Where is she?"
"I don't know. A woman, Wallace, did a woman come out?"
"There was not a woman in the place, at least, not a one came out," Wallace explains.
Phillips responds, "Ryland, she's still in there. We have to..."
Smyth enquires, "The hunchback, Wallace, did he come out?"
"Yes, and he's given us the slip, got clean away."
"The hunchback is Kharahmin," Smyth divulges.
Wallace questions, "Kharahmin? Then she's a clever one, Smyth. She's gotten away and so has Singapore Charlie."
The fire brigade is upon the blackened shell of what had been Shang Yin's opium shop, the scene of so many crimes. A question enters Phillips' mind as he recalls how he'd been dragged from the pit by the false queue and how that strange discovery, which had brought death to poor Colby, had brought life to Phillips. He seemed to remember that Smyth had dropped it as he threw his arm about him on the ladder. Her mask the girl might have retained, but her wig, he felt certain, had been dropped into the water. Which begs the question, how had Kharahmin escaped under the guise of the hunchback?
Phillips asks, "Smyth, did you bring the ponytail with you? That one found on Colby?"
"Yes. I had hoped to meet the owner."
"Have you got it now?"
"No. I met the owner."
"Thank you, Ryland, for my life and for her freedom."
"We shall never really excel at this business of man trapping, Phillips. We're far too sentimental. I knew what it meant to us, to the world, but I hadn't the heart. You see, I owed her your life. I had to square the account. Come on, we'll go home now."
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 16: Sir Linus Burton
Nearly a week has passed since Singapore Charlie's was destroyed, but the tireless search continues for that cunning criminal mastermind, that prince of evil. Unfortunately, the elusive ghost has once more vanished into the mysterious depths of the city's dark underworld.
During the time Fu Hong Wu remained in England, the press preserved a uniform silence upon the subjects of his existence and domestic activities. Since Smyth's return to London, he's made certain of that. Phillips is positive it has something to do with Smyth's mysterious credentials. As a result, Phillips is sure that any account of the Chinaman's deeds will, in many quarters, meet with incredulous reception. How difficult it would be for the general public, amid secure and cozy surroundings, to credit any human being with the callous villainy and unemotional cruelty of this criminal mastermind.
Since his introduction to Fu Hong Wu, Phillips has rarely taken up a paper without coming upon some evidence of the devil doctor's covert activities. Before, such articles seemed to demand no particular notice. Given a present awareness of the evil villain and his criminal organization, Phillips wonders if such items had previously escaped his attention or if the activities of this criminal network have now become increasingly numerous. Phillips is unable to arrive at an answer to that question.
In glancing through numerous papers, Phillips notices three items of news in particular. Seemingly, they're related to the grim business activities of Fu Hong Wu's secret international crime organization, The Black Poppy Society. Here is evidence of the awful endeavors manifest by the secret society, under the direction of the sinister Doctor.
So thinking, these articles furnish work for his scissors. He's determined that, if he lives to publish an account of these days, he'll quote these articles to cast a sidelight upon the villainous character. He removes the following and pastes the cuttings into a scrapbook.
THE FLEET STREET DAILY GUARDIAN
Chapter 17: Infanticide in China
By Ward Sarsfield
SHANGHAI, CHINA.
Secret Police of the Chinese Government are searching the city of for a certain Chinaman, who is believed to be selling poisonous scorpions to couples anxious to do away with their unwanted children.
Infanticide, by scorpion and otherwise, in Shanghai, has increased so drastically that authorities have begun a searching inquiry, which has led to the hunt for the scorpion dealer.
Practically all the babies that die mysteriously are unwanted girls. In nearly every case, the parents promptly ascribe the death to the bite of a scorpion and are ready to produce some more or less poisonous insect in support of the statement.
The authorities have no doubt that infanticide by scorpion bite is a growing practice and orders have been given to hunt down the scorpion dealer of Shanghai at any cost.
THE FLEET STREET DAILY GUARDIAN
Chapter 18: Assassination Attempt in Hong Kong
By Saxon Rohmer
HONG KONG, CHINA.
Li Hai Wong, the Chinaman who assassinated the Governor yesterday, appeared before the magistrate today. He is charged with premeditated murder. The prisoner, who was not defended, pleaded guilty. The Assistant Crown Solicitor prosecuting the case requested a remand until Monday, which was granted.
Snapshots taken by the spectators of the outrage yesterday disclosed the presence of a second man, believed to be an accomplice. It is reported this man was arrested last night and possessed incriminating documentary evidence.
Examination of the documents found on Li Hai Wong's unnamed accomplice has revealed that both men were well-financed by the Cantonese Triad Society. The directors had also ordered the assassination of Sir Flinders Marshall, the Colonial Secretary. In a report prepared by the accomplice for dispatch to the Cantonese Triad, also found on his person, the unnamed accomplice expressed regret that the attempt had failed.
THE FLEET STREET DAILY GUARDIAN
Chapter 19: Russian Embassy Attacked
By Arthur Ward
KHOTAN, TURKISTAN.
It is officially reported in St. Petersburg that a force of unknown Chinese assassins surrounded the Russian Embassy building near Khotan, in Chinese Turkistan. According to rumors, the assassins were in search of a subject named Vladimir Effendi.
The embassy building was set on fire and destroyed by the flames. It is reported, there were nearly 100 Russian citizens, diplomats, and employees in the building at the time, most of whom died in the blaze.
The Russian Government has instructed its Diplomatic Minister at Peking to make the most vigorous representations on the subject.
Phillips is pasting these into the book when Ryland Smyth walks in and throws himself into an armchair. His darkly tanned face has grown leaner since he began the fight against this most uncanny opponent. This fact does not escape Phillips as he shows the clippings to Smyth.
Smyth remarks, "It seems The Black Poppy Society has been rather busy as of late. Well, so have I. A cable arrived today from Fong Wah. Seems he's safely made the trip to Hankow."
Phillips enquires, "A message from Fong Wah? How is the old man? What did he have to say?"
"Here, see for yourself."
Smyth stands up and hands the wire to Phillips. Restlessly pacing about the room, Smyth furiously puffs at his cigarette as Phillips reads this message.
C A B L E G R A M
TELEGRAPH OFFICE
LONDON BRANCH
TO:
MR. RYLAND SMYTH
C/O
DR. ARTHUR PHILLIPS
TWENTY ONE BAKER STREET
LONDON, ENGLAND.
FROM:
MR. FONG WAH
HANKOW, CHINA.
GREETINGS,
I HAVE ARRIVED IN HANKOW AND ALL IS WELL. IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT A CERTAIN MAN HAS SUDDENLY TAKEN AN UNHEALTHY INTEREST IN A BRITISHER NAMED SIR LINUS BURTON. I THOUGHT THIS MAY BE OF INTEREST TO YOU.
IT IS MY UNDERSTANDING HE HAS JUST RETURNED TO ENGLAND FROM AN EXPEDITION ABROAD. I STRONGLY SUGGEST YOU MEET WITH HIM IMMEDIATELY.
YOUR FRIEND,
FONG WAH.
Dr Phillips asks, "Sir Linus Burton, the archeologist, celebrated orientalist, and explorer?"
Smyth replies, "The very same, Phillips. Sir Linus, the fearless traveler, the first westerner to penetrate Lhassa, the man who thrice has entered the forbidden city of Mecca in disguise as a pilgrim. During the last few months, he's been somewhere in Egypt."
"So that's where you've been all day. You went to warn Sir Linus."
"That's correct, Phillips. I have seen Sir Linus Burton and, to put the whole thing in a nutshell, he laughed at me."
"Well, I can't say as though I blame him, Ryland. In his place, I might have difficulty believing you myself. He certainly bears a charmed life. Besides, why on earth would Fu Hong Wu want Sir Linus dead?"
"Based on his letters to the Fleet Street papers, he's seen things in Tibet which Fu Hong Wu would have the world blind to. In fact, I think he's found a new keyhole in the gate of the opium trade."
"But he's reached London alive, isn't that a hopeful sign?"
Smyth shakes his head and lights another smoke.
"London, at present, is the web and the spider will be waiting. Sir Linus is a man impossible to shepherd. Gallivanting across the East as he does, his movements are unpredictable and erratic. As you said, Sir Linus bears a charmed life, but he's a much easier target here at home.
Speaking of which, you ought to see his house in Finchley. A low squat place completely hemmed in by trees. It's damp as a swamp and smells like a jungle. Everything is topsy-turvy. Having just arrived home today, he's working, eating, and I expect sleeping, in a study that looks like an earthquake at Sotheby's auction rooms. The rest of the house is half menagerie and half circus. He has a Bedouin groom, a Chinese houseboy, and heaven only knows what other strange people."
"A Chinese houseboy!"
"Yes, I saw him. A squinting Cantonese he calls Kwai. I don't like him. Also, there's a secretary known as Sergio, who has an unpleasant face. I understand he's a fine linguist who's engaged upon the Spanish notes for Burton's forthcoming book on the Mayapan temples. By the way, all Sir Linus's baggage disappeared from the landing stage, including his Tibetan notes."
"Significant?"
"Of course. But he argues, he's crossed Tibet from the Kun Lun to the Himalayas without being assassinated and therefore it's unlikely that he'll meet his fate in London. When I left him, he was dictating his book from memory, at the rate of about two hundred words a minute."
"He's wasting no time."
"Wasting time? In addition to his Yucatan book and the work on Tibet, he's to read a paper at the Institute next week about some tomb he's unearthed in Egypt. As I was leaving, a van arrived from the docks and delivered a sarcophagus big as a boat. According to Sir Linus, it's quite unique and will go to the British Museum after he's examined it. The man crams six months of work into six weeks. Then he is off again."
"What do you propose to do?"
"What can I do? I know that Fu Hong Wu will make an attempt on him. I don't doubt Fong's information. The old Chinaman has never given me misinformation yet."
"Have you taken any precautions?"
"I called Scotland Yard and talked with Wallace. He sent a man down to watch the house, but..."
Smyth shrugs his shoulders helplessly.
Phillips asks, "What's Sir Linus like?"
"A madman, Phillips. He's a tall massive man wearing a dirty smoking jacket of neutral color. He's a man with untidy gray hair and a bristling mustache, keen blue eyes, and brown skin. He has a short beard or rarely shaves, I don't know which. I left him striding about the thousand and one curiosities of that incredible room. He was picking his way through antique furniture, reference works, manuscripts, spears, pottery and whatnot. Sometimes kicking a book from his path or stumbling over a stuffed crocodile or a Mexican mask. And all the while he was alternately dictating and conversing."
For some time, the two men are silent.
"Smyth, we're making no headway in this business. With all the forces arrayed against him, Fu Hong Wu still eludes us."
Smyth nods, signaling his agreement. He glances at his watch.
"Nearly midnight, but sleep seems a waste of time."
Their discussion is interrupted by the sound of a ringing bell. Smyth jumps to the telephone. His jaw looks very square in the lamplight. His grey eyes shine like steel as he listens. Hanging up the telephone, he reaches for his hat, which lay upon Phillips' desk.
"Heaven help us, Phillips! Sir Linus Burton's been murdered."
Phillips follows closely as Smyth rushes out the door.
Phillips enquires, "We're going to meet Wallace at Sir Linus's house?"
"Indeed, we are. A taxi should put us there by the time Wallace arrives."
"Here comes a late prowling cab now."
Smyth hails the taxi. It stops. They get in.
Smyth instructs the driver, "Number Sixteen Wesley Road in Finchley, driver. Quickly as you can, it's police business if you're stopped."
"Bloody hell, Phillips. I knew Fu Hong Wu would kill Sir Linus. That conceited fool would laugh at my warning today. Ugh! That house of his gave me the creeping shudders."
"Well, Ryland, if it's anything like your description, it must be ideal for Fu Hong Wu's work."
"Indeed, the sunlight can't penetrate the rooms. When I arrived this afternoon, I thought I was in a jungle. Clouds of gnats floated in and out of the windows. And there's a steamy smell about the place that's positively malicious. It reminded me of spots I've seen in Burma."
"Hard to picture, here in London."
"It's the jungle transferred to the British Isles, Phillips. The entire front of the place is covered with a sort of monkey-creeper, which he's imported from heaven knows where. It has a close and exotic perfume that fits perfectly in the picture. I tell you, the place was made for murder."
"And Fu Hong Wu has used it to pursue his devilishly inscrutable plans."
"Yes, blast it. We find a man alive. We warn him, if we have time. Perhaps he escapes. Perhaps, he does not. But what of those others we don't know about, who will die every week by his murderous agency? We can never hope to know everyone who stumbles upon the secrets of Fu Hong Wu or the covert activities of his criminal organization.
I never see a report of someone found drowned, of an apparent suicide, of a sudden, though seemingly a natural death, without wondering. If I didn't know better, I'd swear Fu Hong Wu is omniscient and omnipresent. His shadow is cast all over London. His hand embraces everything. The very fact that we are still alive..."
"Here it is, gentlemen. Shall I wait?" asks the driver.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 20: Green Mist of Death
Avoiding all unnecessary delay, it's midnight as the cab swung round into a darkly shadowed avenue. At the far end and through a tunnel of dense growth, the moonlight glitters upon the windows of Rowan House, Sir Linus Burton's home.
The property is a wilderness. Concealed by trees and shrubs, it's isolated and ideal for murder. The house is surrounded by trees and shrubs. The facade is mantled in the strange exotic creeper. The air is pungent with an odor of decaying vegetation and mingles with a heavy perfume from small, red, nocturnal flowers that bloom luxuriously upon the creeper.
The exotic interior matches the theme of the landscape. The hall is constructed to resemble an Assyrian temple. The squat columns, low seats, and wall hangings are thickly covered in dust. The musty smell is nearly as putrid in here as outside.
Something leaps from the top of the bookcase, scurries silently across the littered carpet, and passes from the hall in a golden streak. Phillips stares at it with startled eyes. Inspector Wallace laughs cheerfully.
Dr. Phillips exclaims, "Great Scot! What's that?"
Inspector Wallace answers, "It's a young puma or a civet cat. I don't know which. This house is full of surprises and mysteries."
Ryland Smith questions, "Where is he, Wallace? How was it done?"
Wallace sits down and lights a cigar, which Phillips offers him. Smyth already has a smoldering cigarette in hand.
Wallace begins, "I thought you'd like to know what led up to it, so far as we know, before seeing him."
"Yes, yes, of course. Go ahead," Smyth encourages.
"Well, my man from the Yard, the man you asked for, got here all right and took up a post in the road outside, where he could watch the gates. He saw and heard nothing until half past ten. That's when a young lady turned up and went in."
"A woman?" Phillips interrupts.
Wallace responds, "Yes, but not the one you have in mind."
Phillips blushes, Smith and Wallace grin mischievously at one another.
"It was not Kharahmin?" Phillips asks.
Wallace explains, "It was Miss Edmonds, Sir Linus's typist. She'd forgotten her purse and came back for it. She gave the alarm. My man heard the ruckus from the road and came in on the run. He rang us up. I immediately called you."
Smyth enquires, "He heard the ruckus, you say. What ruckus?"
"Miss Edmonds went into violent hysterics."
"Describe what he saw."
"He saw an Arab footman. There isn't an Englishman in the house. He was trying to calm the girl out in the hall yonder. Two African men were beating their foreheads and howling."
"Did he get anything out of them?"
"Nothing that makes any sense. So he started to investigate for himself. The door to the study was locked from the inside."
"Yes, well?"
"He went round to the window, looked in, and what he saw accounted for the girl's hysterics."
"Go on, man, get to the point!"
"Amongst all the rubbish on the floor was a big mummy case. It lay on its side and face down. With his arms thrown across it was Sir Linus, dressed in an old smoking jacket."
"Yes, then?"
"The light from a reading lamp shone down on him and made a patch of light on the floor. Well, as my man smashed the glass, then got the window open and started climbing in, he saw something else, or so he says."
"What did he see?"
"A sort of green mist. He says it seemed to be alive. It moved over the floor, about a foot from the ground, going away from him and toward a curtain at the far end of the study."
"Where did he first see this green mist?"
"He says, he thinks it came from the mummy case."
"The sarcophagus?"
"Yes. It's to his credit that he climbed in and turned the body over. Sir Linus was quite dead. Then he opened the glass door behind that curtain at the end of the study. It opened on to a conservatory filled with more junk. In there, he caught another glimpse of the crawling green mist and a dead Chinese."
"A Chinese, you say?"
"Yes. Sir Linus's man servant, I'm told."
"A doctor's already examined them?"
"Yes, a local man. He was out of his depth, though. However, there's no need for another opinion until the coroner comes."
"And your man?"
Inspector Wallace raises his eyebrows and carefully knocks the ash from his cigar.
"He held out until I came. He gave me the story and fainted dead away. He said that something in the conservatory seemed to get him by the throat."
"He meant that literally?"
"I couldn't say. We had to send him and the girl home in cabs."
"What's your theory?"
"I haven't got any, not that includes the green mist."
"Alright, shall we go in?"
Crossing the Assyrian hall, Smyth notes four members of that strange household are gathered. Two of them are African and two Arabian. Not present are the Chinaman Kwai nor the Italian Sergio. From the way Smyth peered about the shadows of the hall, Phillips divined that he also wondered at their absence.
Sir Linus's study is a room in despair. The library overflows with cascades of literary works in torrents upon the floor. The place is simply stacked with curious litter, loot from Africa, Mexico, and Persia. In a clearing by the fireplace, a gas stove sits upon a crate. Around it lie utensils for camp cookery. The odor of rotting vegetation mingles with the insistent perfume of the strange night-blooming flowers and floats in through the broken window.
In the center of the floor, beside an overturned sarcophagus, lies a body. Wearing an old neutral colored smoking jacket, the body lay face down with arms thrust forward over the Egyptian sarcophagus. Smyth advances and kneels beside the dead man.
Wallace speaks, "This is the study where he works."
"Good heavens, what a mess!" Phillips exclaims.
"It is a bit of a mess, Doctor. How a man can work in any place littered with stuff from the four corners of the earth is a mystery to me."
Ryland Smyth calls out, "Wallace, Phillips, come here!"
Smyth springs up and turns with an extraordinary expression to Inspector Wallace.
"You don't know Sir Linus Burton by sight, Wallace?"
"No, I've never seen him..."
"This is not Sir Linus! It's Sergio, the secretary."
"What? Are you certain?"
"Why of course. I met him this afternoon. Where is the other, the Chinese?"
"He's there in the conservatory. He's been left where we found him until you could see him."
Smyth races across the room and beyond the open door. Holding back the curtain, he bends forward over a crumpled figure that lies upon the floor below.
"As I thought, it's Kwai, Sir Linus's servant."
A breeze whispers through the leaves. A great wave of exotic perfume flows from the open window. It's a breath of the East that stretches out a hand to the West, rather like the subtle intangible power manifest in the sinister Fu Hong Wu.
"One thing is evident, Wallace. No one in the house, except Sergio, knew of Sir Linus's absence."
"How do you arrive at that, Ryland?" Phillips interrupts.
"The servants, out there in the hall, believe him dead. Had they seen him go out, they would know it's someone else who lies here."
Wallace asks, "And what about the Chinese?"
Smyth replies, "Since there's no other way into this conservatory but through the study, Kwai must have hidden himself there when Sir Linus was out of the room."
"My man found the communicating door closed. What killed Kwai?"
"Both Miss Edmonds and your man found the study door locked from the inside. So, what killed Sergio? Tell me that and you'll have your answer, Wallace."
"What killed Sergio, indeed, and why is he wearing Sir Linus's smoking jacket? It was seeing him in that, which led Miss Edmonds to mistake him for her employer and put us on the wrong scent."
"He wore it because anyone looking in through the window would certainly make that same mistake."
Again, Phillips interjects, "But why, Ryland?"
"Look at these tools beside the sarcophagus. The lid is up. Obviously, Sergio came here to open it. He was here when Sir Linus told me a number of priceless jewels were probably hidden in the wrappings of the mummy."
Phillips remarks, "Strange Sir Linus didn't open it himself."
"He expected to do just that tonight and examine the contents. Fortunate for him, he must have changed his mind."
"Then what became of the mummy?"
Ryland Smyth laughs dryly.
"It seems to have vanished in the form of a green mist. Look at Sergio's face."
Smyth turns the body over. The contorted features of the Italian are filled with horror. It's suggestive of a death more than ordinarily violent. Phillips pulls aside the clothing and searches the body for marks, but fails to find any. Ryland Smyth crosses the room to Kwai, the Chinaman. His awful face presents a sight even more ghastly than the other. His blue lips are drawn back, exposing both upper and lower teeth. There are no marks of violence, but his limbs, like Sergio's, are tortured from his mortal struggle into unnatural postures.
The breeze is growing stronger. Pungent odor waves from the damp shrubbery. The oppressive sweetness of the creeping plant drifts constantly through the broken window. Inspector Wallace carefully relights his cigar.
Dr. Phillips notes, "From the looks of it, I'd say it was strangulation, but from what?"
Inspector Wallace interjects, "I'm with you so far, Mr. Smyth. Sergio, knowing Sir Linus to be absent, locked himself in here to loot the mummy case. He couldn't have known the Chinaman was hidden in the conservatory."
Smyth continues, "And Kwai didn't dare show himself, because he too was there for some mysterious reason."
"Having removed the lid, something or somebody..."
"Suppose we say the mummy?"
Inspector Wallace laughs uneasily.
"Well, anyway, something killed Sergio and the Chinaman."
"Then vanished from a locked room without opening the door or the window. For once, Dr. Fu Hong Wu has employed an ally that even his giant will was unable to entirely control. What blind force, what terrible agent of death did he confine in that mummy case?"
Phillips enquires, "Ryland, if you're correct in your surmise and this is the work of Dr. Fu Hong Wu..."
Smith interrupts, "Can you doubt it? The presence of a concealed Chinaman is proof enough for me. I'll wager that Kwai was one of Fu's murder group, though probably only recently enlisted in that mysterious service. He's unarmed. Otherwise, I would think that his part was to kill Sir Linus while he was at work inspecting the sarcophagus. Sergio's opening the sarcophagus clearly spoiled the scheme."
Phillips continues, "And led to the death..."
Again, Smyth interjects, "Of a servant of Fu Hong Wu. Yes, I'm at a loss to account for that."
Wallace questions, "Do you think that the sarcophagus entered into the scheme, Smyth?"
"You mean that its arrival at the time when a servant of the Fu Hong Wu's, Kwai, was hidden here? That may have been a coincidence."
"Something like that."
"I'm afraid I'm as much in the dark there as you, Wallace. If we had the answer to that, we'd likely have the key to the entire riddle."
Suddenly, a spear, flying through the air, barely misses Smyth before hitting the wall with a tremendous thud. Hanging from the weapon, which is stuck into the wall, tied to the shaft is a folded paper. Smith snatches it, unfolds it, and reads it. With a chuckle, he turns to Phillips.
"You wanted proof, Phillips? Listen to this."
Inspector Ryland Smyth,
Your interference in my affairs, I shall tolerate no longer. BE WARNED!
- Dr. Fu Hong Wu
"By George! It's uncanny, Ryland."
Wallace fumes, "That it is, Doctor. How, in the name of seven devils, could anyone get passed my men, surrounding this place? It's beyond comprehension. I'll have the grounds searched at once."
Smyth argues, "Useless, Wallace. A search now would be a waste of time. Let's continue with our investigation. A green mist, what do you make of it, Phillips?"
"Obviously, some sort of poisonous gas, but what I couldn't possibly say."
Smyth bends over the sarcophagus, curiously examining it.
"See how heavy this sarcophagus is? Sergio must have turned it over as he fell. He wouldn't have laid it on its side to remove the lid. Look at these paintings, inside and out, wonderfully preserved through the ages. Hello?"
"What is it? What have you found?" Phillips asks.
"A piece of twine, see what's attached to the end of it?"
"A rubber stopper, it's a plug of some sort."
"Here inside is the vial. Don't you see the idea? The mummy was taken out. A vial of poisonous gas was affixed to the inside. It was then delivered here to Sir Linus's home. Any attempt to open the sarcophagus would pull the rubber plug from the vial, releasing the green mist. Who but Dr. Fu would think of such a thing?"
A loud voice sounds in the hall. The door is thrown open. A big man rushes impetuously into the room.
"What's all this? What's going on here?"
Smyth answers, "It's murder, Sir Linus! I warned you! And see, you've had an awfully narrow escape."
Sir Linus Burton glances at what lay upon the floor. He glances from Smyth to Phillips, and finally to Inspector Wallace. He drops into one of the few chairs not stacked with books.
"By George! Sergio, is he dead?" Burton asks.
"Quite dead."
"What is this about, Mr. Smyth?"
"A visit was paid to your house by Fu Hong Wu, the man I warned you about today."
"I figured that, but why did he kill Sergio?"
"As you see, Sergio wears your smoking jacket. Does that suggest anything to you?"
"He was mistaken for me."
"Exactly, Sir Linus, he was after the jewels."
"Of course, he came for the jewels. I was wrong to submit him to the temptation."
Sir Linus notices the body of Kwai.
"Kwai's also dead, but why?"
"Well, if I'm not mistaken, he was in the pay of Fu Hong Wu. He had lain in hiding, awaiting just such an opportunity to murder you."
"Kill me? I doubt that, Mr. Smyth. He'd been in my employ for several years."
"Somehow Fu Hong Wu got to him, forced him to act against you."
"I don't like to contradict you, sir, but I don't think this is the work of your Chinese doctor."
"What do you mean?"
"I received a wire from Professor Humboldt tonight. That's why I left so suddenly, to meet him at the traveler's club. No one but Sergio knew of my absence."
"You met the professor?"
"I did. He knew about my discovery of the tomb of Mehkura. He knew that the sarcophagus had been brought, untouched, to England. He warned me not to open it."
Wallace interjects, "What reason did he give Sir Linus for his warning?"
Burton answers, "One, which amused me at the time. I must inform you that Mehkura was a high priest and first prophet of Amun-Ra under the Pharaoh of the Exodus. In short, Mehkura was one of the magicians who contested in magic arts with Moses. I thought the discovery unique. Until Professor Humboldt furnished me with some curious particulars respecting the death of Mr. Pierre LaRoy, the French Egyptologist, particulars new to me.
Mr. LaRoy had secretly discovered the tomb of Amun-Ti, another of this particular brotherhood of magicians. These priests were of royal line and are buried in the valley of Bibahn-el Mehluk. It appears that LaRoy opened the sarcophagus on the spot. He was found dead beside it, apparently strangled."
Phillips remarks, "I recall reading about Pierre LaRoy's death, but the particulars were missing."
Burton responds, "Yes, the matter was hushed up by the Egyptian Government."
Smyth asks, "How long had this sarcophagus lain in the docks?"
Burton answers, "Two days. I'm not a superstitious man, but I thank God that I wasn't here to see whatever came out of that sarcophagus."
Smyth agrees, "So do I. For whatever the priest Mehkura has to do with the matter, by means of his sarcophagus, Fu Hong Wu has made his first attempt upon your life. He's failed this time, but he'll try again. And Fu Hong Wu does not fail twice."
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Chapter 21: Nocturnal Visit
Late the following night, Ryland Smyth and Inspector Wallace are engaged in an investigation at the docks. While they conduct inquiry about the mysterious disappearance of that mummy, Dr. Phillips is alone in his Baker Street quarters. Seated at his desk, he's engrossed in a treatise on oriental poisons. For the moment, his housekeeper is out and the house is quite still.
Above the noise of a passing tramcar, Phillips hears the door open. In the ensuing silence, he sits and listens. Not a sound. A stealthy movement in the dark hall outside the study attracts his attention. There is a sound. Someone or something is creeping upstairs in the dark.
Familiar with the ghastly methods employed by the Chinaman, Phillips is seized with an impulse to leap to the door, shut, and lock it. The rustling sound now proceeds from immediately outside the partially opened door. He had no time to close it. Not knowing all the horrors at the command of Fu Hong Wu, he had not the courage to open it.
From where it lay on the desk by his elbow, Phillips snatches up his pistol. His heart is leaping wildly. His eyes are upon the darkness. His mind wild with the gruesome potentialities, he waits impatiently for whatever is to come. Twelve seconds pass in silence.
Dr Phillips calls out, "Who's there? Answer me."
Phillips leaps to his feet as the door is pushed open. Out of the darkness and into the light, a dark figure steps into the room. Wrapped in a hooded cloak, the slim figure stands silently and unmoving at the threshold.
"Don't move or I'll fire! Who are you? Take off that cloak."
A voice calls to him.
"No. Put down the pistol quickly. I must speak to you."
The voice is soft, feminine, and thrillingly musical. Letting his hand fall, Phillips relaxes. In shock and silence, he stares into the beautiful dark eyes of Kharahmin. The slave girl and messenger of Fu Hong Wu.
On three occasions, this girl had risked, heaven knows what, unimaginable punishment to save Phillips from death, from three horrifyingly painful and terrible deaths. Phillips wonders for what purpose she has now come. Her lips slightly parted, she stands, holding her cloak about her, and watching Phillips with sincerely passionate eyes.
"How did you get in?" Phillips demands.
" He has a duplicate key to the house door. I stole it tonight and came to you."
"A key to my door?"
"Yes. Oh, I have never betrayed a secret of my master before, but you must replace that lock at once."
"Why are you here at this time of night?"
She steps close to him and rests her slim hands confidingly upon his shoulders.
"I have come again to ask you to take me away from him, to hide me where he can not find me, ever..."
"Your request must be a pretense. Why do you keep the secrets of that man, when they mean death to so many?"
"Death? Death is nothing. I have seen my own sister die of fever in the desert. I have seen her thrown like rotting animal flesh into a hole in the sand. I have seen men whipped until they prayed for death. I have known the lash myself. Death? There are things far worse than death."
Her words are a great shock to Phillips. It was dreadful to hear such things from this beautiful girl. Enveloped in her cloak with only her slight accent to betray her, she might have been a cultured European.
"There's no question you're his servant, but I doubt your claim to be his slave. If that were true, you wouldn't be here now. No, he doesn't control your actions."
"No? You think not? Do you know what it means to be a slave?" She cries, scornfully. How beautiful she is in her indignation.
"It is quite absurd to talk of slavery here in England."
"You imagine slavery no longer exists. Here, in England, you are free and so far from the desert journey, the whips of the drivers, the house of the dealer, so far from these shameful things. You do not believe that today, twenty-five sovereigns will buy a girl who is brown or that two hundred fifty will buy a girl who is white. No? If there is no slavery, then what am I?"
She throws open her cloak. She's arrayed in gossamer silk, which more than indicates the perfect lines of her slender shape. She wears a jeweled girdle and barbaric ornaments. She is a figure fit for the walled gardens of Istanbul, a figure amazing and incomprehensible in the ordinary setting of this room.
"Tonight, as the last time we met, I am not dressed like an English miss. You see me as I am."
Again, there's the faint scent of jasmine perfume. It reminds Phillips of their last encounter. Kharahmin lifts her face as he looks into her challenging eyes.
"Then prove you truly wish to leave the service of Fu Hong Wu. Tell me what killed Sergio and the Chinaman."
She shrugs, "I do not know that."
She clutches him nervously.
"But if you will carry me off, so that I am helpless. Lock me up so that I cannot escape. Beat me, if you like. And I will tell you all I know. While he is my master, I will never betray him. Tear me from him by force! Do you understand? By force, then my lips will be sealed no longer."
A clock across the common begins to strike and startles the girl. With her hands upon Phillips' shoulders, tears glitter on her curved black lashes.
Her words strike a chord in Phillips' heart, which sang with strange music. Music so barbaric that he blushed. Phillips marveled at her. To say that she's beautiful is a gross understatement. It conveys only the faintest conception of her. With her bronzed skin, the velvet darkness of her eyes, and pink lips so tempting and so near to his, she is the most seductively lovely creature he's ever looked upon. In that electric moment, his heart went out in sympathy to every man who had bartered honor or country for a woman's kiss.
"Then let me place you under police protection."
"The police? Your police can not protect me from him. If you will not take me away yourself... but you do not understand, and I have said enough. Oh, will you never understand and release me from him? I must go. I have remained away too long already. But listen, go away without delay. Go where you will, but do not stay here tonight."
"And Ryland Smyth?"
"What is Ryland Smyth to me? But you, you are in grave danger. Why will you not unseal my lips? You are in danger! Do you hear me? Go away from here tonight."
She drops her hands and runs from the room. In the open doorway, she turns, stamping her foot passionately.
"You have hands and arms, yet you let me go. Then be warned and flee from here."
Wrapping her cloak quickly about her, she departs. Phillips makes no effort to prevent her, this beautiful accomplice of that villainous arch-murderer. He hears light footsteps pattering down the stairs. The door opens and closes. Unmoving, he stands where she had left him. That's where he remains when a key grates in the lock and Ryland Smyth comes running up.
"Ryland, did you see her? Pass her on the stairs just now? You must have met her."
Smith's face shows that he had not. Rapidly, Phillips tells him of the strange visitor, of her words, and of her warning.
"Kharahmin, she left here just as you arrived. How could she pass through London in that costume? Where could she have come from?"
Smyth shrugs his shoulders and lights a cigarette.
"She might have traveled in a car or in a cab. Undoubtedly, she came directly from the house of Fu Hong Wu. You should've detained her, Phillips. It's the fourth time we've had that woman in our power and the fourth time we've let her go free."
"Smyth, I couldn't. She came of her own free will to give me another warning. Why, I don't know."
"Because she's in love with you, you idiot!"
Smyth bursts into one of his rare laughs. Phillips' face flashes with anger.
"Will you believe me now, Phillips? If you insisted, she would have told you all she knows. You don't know the woman's mind as I do. I quite understand the girl's position. She fears the English authorities, but will submit to capture by you.
If you'd only seize her by the hair, drag her to some cellar, hurl her down. Stand over her with a whip. She would tell you everything. Then soothe her strange Eastern conscience with the reflection that speech was forced from her. I assure you, she would adore you for your savagery, deeming you forceful and strong! Otherwise, you should let her seduce you and earn her trust. We could use an ally inside Fu's organization."
"Smyth, be serious."
"I'm not joking. I'm quite serious. She's in love with you, Phillips. Why pretend to be blind to it?"
"If I am blind, it's because I don't want to see. Love is for poets and hopeless romantics. Love is for those who believe in it... not for me. Regardless, she came here with a warning. And you know what her warning meant before.
"Yes, and I can guess what it means now."
Someone rings the doorbell furiously.
"I'll get that, Phillips. I believe it's something for me."
A minute later, Smyth returns, carrying a large square package.
"From Wallace, by district messenger. I left him at the docks. He was to send me any evidence that he might find. Most likely, this'll be fragments of the mummy."
"You know where the mummy was removed?"
"Yes, at the docks. I am sure of it. I'm hoping these fragments may give us a clue to Fu Hong Wu's whereabouts."
Smyth throws the wrappings on the floor and tugs at the loop of twine, which holds the lid onto the square box. Suddenly, the lid opens. Over the table billows a yellowish green cloud, an oily vapor. The warning from Phillips' beautiful visitor echoes in his memory.
"Run, Smyth! The door, run for your life! Fu Hong Wu sent that box!"
Phillips throws his arms around Smyth. The moving vapor rises almost to Smyth's nostrils. Phillips drags him back and all but pitches him out onto the landing. Evacuating the house, the two men run outside toward the street. As Phillips turns, he notices that Smyth's tanned face is unusually drawn and touched with pallor.
Phillips speaks, "It's a poisonous gas! In many respects, identical to ammonia hydrochloride, but with unique properties. There would have been enough of that frightful stuff to have suffocated a regiment!"
Smyth clenches his fists convulsively.
"How can I hope to deal with a man so ruthless? How do you cope with a man who unscrupulously uses such heinous things?"
Ryland raises his haggard face.
"He evidently made more than was necessary to dispatch Sir Linus Burton and contemptuously devoted the remainder to me. His contempt is not justified. It's through no cleverness on my part that Fu Hong Wu failed to kill Sir Linus with that stuff."
At that moment, a man approaches. He wears the uniform of a courier.
"I beg your pardon, but are you Inspector Ryland Smyth?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"And Dr. Arthur Phillips?"
"Yes, what can we do for you?"
Suddenly, out of the shadows, two more men appear. After a brief struggle, Smyth and Phillips are rendered unconscious. A limousine pulls to the curb and stops. The car door opens.
"Quickly, put them in the car," orders the courier.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 22: The Strange Dream
From the journal of Dr. Arthur Phillips Beaker:
I will tell you now of a strange dream and of the stranger things to which I awoke. Born of unconsciousness, this vision burst in upon my mind. I cannot do better than relate it as thus:
I dreamed that I lay writhing on the floor in indescribable agony. My veins were filled with liquid fire and darkness was about me. I told myself that I must have seen the smoke rising from my burning body. I thought this was death.
Then a cooling shower descended upon me. It soaked through skin and tissue to the tortured arteries and quenched the fire within. Panting, but free from pain, I lay... exhausted.
Strength gradually returning to me, I tried to rise, but the carpet felt so unusually soft that it offered no foothold. I waded and plunged like a swimmer treading water. All about me were impenetrable walls of darkness, a darkness that was all but palpable. I wondered why I could not see the windows. The horrible idea flashed in my mind that I was blind!
Somehow, I got upon my feet and stood swaying dizzily. I became aware of a heavy perfume, like some kind of incense. Then a dim light was born at an immeasurable distance away. It grew steadily in brilliance. It spread like a bluish-red liquid stain. It lapped up the darkness and spread throughout the room.
This was not my room. Nor was it any room known to me. It was an apartment of such size that its dimensions filled me with awe, such as I never had known, the awe of walled vastness.
There was no visible door. Tapestries covered the walls and were magnificently figured with golden dragons. Their serpentine bodies gleamed and shimmered in the increasing radiance. Each dragon intertwined its glittering coils closely with those of another. The carpet was of such richness that I stood knee deep in its pile. This, too, was fashioned all over with golden dragons. They seemed to glide stealthily about in the shadows of the design.
At the farther end of the hall was a huge table with dragon's legs standing solitary amid the luxuriance of the carpet. That table bore scintillating globes and tubes. Some of which held living organisms. There were books of a size and in such bindings as I never had imagined. There were instruments of a type unknown to Western science. There was a heterogeneous litter quite indescribable, which overflowed onto the floor, forming an amazing oasis in that dragon-haunted desert of carpet. A lamp hung above this table, suspended by golden chains from the ceiling. The ceiling was so lofty that when I followed the chains upward, my gaze lost itself in the purple shadows above.
In a chair piled high with dragon-covered cushions, a man sat behind this table. The light from the swinging lamp fell fully upon one side of his face. As he leaned forward amid the jumble of weird objects, the light left the other side of his face in shades of purple shadow. From a plain brass bowl upon the corner of the huge table, smoke writhed aloft and at times partially obscured that dreadful face.
From the instant that my eyes were drawn to the table and to the man who sat there, neither the incredible extent of the room nor the nightmare fashion of its mural decorations could reclaim my attention. I had eyes only for him. For it was Dr. Fu Hong Wu!
Delirium seemed to fill my veins with fire. The walls with dragons and the knee-deep carpet left me. Those dreadful green eyes struck me like cold water. I knew, without removing my gaze from the still face, that the walls no longer lived, but were merely draped in exquisite Chinese tapestries. The rich carpet beneath my feet ceased to be as a jungle and became a normal carpet. It was extraordinarily rich, but was merely a carpet. However, the sense of vastness remained. I was left with the uncomfortable knowledge that those things upon the table were nearly all of a fashion strange to me.
Almost instantaneously, the comparative sanity which I had temporarily experienced began to slip from me again. The smoke faintly penciled through the air from the burning perfume on the table. It grew in volume, thickened, and wafted towards me in a cloud of gray horror. It enveloped me. Dimly through its oily wreaths, I saw the immobile yellow face of Fu Hong Wu. My stupefied brain acclaimed him a sorcerer, against whom we had unwittingly pitted our poor human wits. The green eyes showed through the fog. An intense pain shot through my lower limbs. Catching my breath, I looked down. As I did, the points of the red slippers, which I dreamed that I wore, increased in length, curled sinuously upward, twined about my throat, and choked the breath from my body!
There came an interval of darkness. Then a dawning like consciousness, but it was a false consciousness. Since it brought the idea that my head lay softly pillowed. A woman's hand caressed my throbbing forehead. Confused, as though in the remote past, I recalled a kiss, and the recollection thrilled me strangely. Dreamily content, I lay. A voice came to my ears.
"They are killing him! They are killing him! Oh! Do you not understand?"
In my dazed condition, I thought it was I who had died and this girl's musical voice was communicating to me the fact of my own dissolution. I was conscious of no interest in the matter.
For hours and hours, that soothing hand caressed me. I never once raised my heavy lids until a resounding crash seemed to set my very bones vibrating. It was a metallic jangling crash like the fall of heavy chains. I half opened my eyes. In the dimness, I had a fleeting glimpse of a figure clad in gossamer silk, with arms covered in barbaric bangles and slim ankles surrounded by gold bands. Then the girl was gone. I told myself that she was an Arabian angel and I had been consigned, by some error, to the paradise of Mohammed.
Then a complete blank.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 23: Prisoners of Fu Hong Wu
His head throbs madly. His brain seems clogged and inert. His first feeble movement is followed by the rattle of chains. Some moments elapse before Phillips realizes those chains are fastened to a steel collar, which is clasped around his neck.
"Smyth, where are you? Smyth!"
Phillips struggles to his knees. The pain on the top of his skull is nearly unbearable. It's coming back to him now. He has only a vague memory of rushed footsteps and a blow. His vision of the hall with dragons. Now this awakening to a far worse reality.
Groping in the darkness, his hands touch a body lying close by. His fingers seek, find the throat, and the steel collar about it.
"Smyth!"
Phillips groans as he shakes the still form.
"Smyth, old man, speak to me! Smyth!"
Could he be dead? Was this the end of his gallant fight with Dr. Fu Hong Wu and the murderous group? If so, what does the future hold for Phillips? What does he have to face?
Smyth stirs beneath Phillips' trembling hands.
"Thank heaven you're alive."
His joy is tainted with selfishness. For waking in that impenetrable darkness and yet obsessed with his dream, Phillips had realized what true fear meant. Fear caused by a realization that, alone and chained, he must face the dreadful Chinese assassin in the flesh. Smyth begins muttering incoherently.
"Sand-bagged... Phillips... both of us... Oh..."
He struggles to his knees, clutching at Phillips' hand. The haze that clouds Smyth's mind begins to clear. The place has a damp earthen scent. It's some slimy cellar.
"Where the devil are we, Smyth? It's dark as a coal mine in here."
"Heaven only knows, Phillips. We were sandbagged, both of us. He has us now."
"It's alright, old man. We're both alive, let's be thankful for that."
"But I've dragged you into this. God forgive me."
"Dry up, Smyth. I'm not a child. There's no question of being dragged into the matter. I'm here and if I can be of any use, that's enough."
"There were three Chinese, in European clothes. They came up behind us as we talked to that other chap. They jumped us in plain sight. They rushed us into a car and it was all over. Oh, how my head throbs. They gave me an awful knock! Bloody hell, like a couple of schoolboys, we walked deliberately into his trap."
"Now we're chained in a dark cellar, but why have we been spared? What's he saving us for?"
"Nothing pleasant, you can be sure of that. If you'd been in China, if you'd seen what I've seen..."
Footsteps echo in a passage outside the dark little cell. A blade of light creeps slowly across the floor toward the prisoners. A door slowly opens. A man enters, carrying a lantern. It illuminates the damp and slime-coated walls of a dungeon roughly fifteen feet square. The light shines upon a long, green, silk robe. Emblazoned upon which, the figure of a phoenix is embroidered with golden thread. Partially illuminating a malignant and intellectual countenance, the light half covers in shadows that horrible face of the man who stood watching... The face of Dr. Fu Hong Wu.
At last, they are face-to-face. How to paint an accurate description of that devilish ghost, who now stands before his prisoners? A demon who is, perhaps, the greatest criminal genius of modern times.
Rightly, it has been said, his face is that of Satan. He's beautifully sinister. Something serpentine, hypnotic, and venomous radiates from his very presence. Before meeting Fu Hong Wu, Phillips had never experienced such an intense and malign force emanating from a human being.
Smyth draws one sharp breath. Then he's silent. Chained to the wall, two medieval captives are living mockeries of assumed modern security. Together, they crouch helplessly before the insidious Fu Hong Wu.
He steps forward with an indescribable gait. His movements are agile, almost feline, yet impressively courtly and graceful. His posture is dignified and perfectly aligned. His broad shoulders are high and square. He places the lantern on a recessed shelf in the wall, never turning that reptilian gaze away from his prisoners. That horrifyingly piercing gaze from those all-seeing eyes shall forever haunt Phillips' dreams. Those eyes possess a glowing iridescent brightness, which only seems possible in the eyes of a cat.
"Welcome, Mr. Ryland Smyth, and you, Dr. Phillips, to the House of Fu."
His pronunciation of English is perfect. Though at times, his words are oddly chosen. His delivery is alternately guttural and sibilant.
"What do you want of us?" Smyth demands.
"You and your friend have dared to interfere with my plans, Mr. Smyth. I have taken the trouble to warn each of you more than once. You have both failed to heed those warnings. Now, I must seriously turn my attention to you."
With an intimidating and evil grin, he displays his perfectly aligned, sparkling white teeth. His canine incisors have a slightly pronounced, almost vampiric fang-like appearance. Phillips studies Fu's eyes with a new professional interest, which even the close proximity of extreme danger could not wholly banish. The iris is large and completely green with no other flecks of color. The pupils are oddly contracted, mere pinpoints. The overall effect was both mesmerizing and terrifying.
Smyth leans his back against the wall with feigned indifference.
Fu Hong Wu continues, "You have presumed to meddle in my business affairs. You have linked my name with The Black Poppy Society, the name of Fu Hong Wu. I have nothing to do with that group nor with China, Mr. Smyth. You would be wise to remember that."
"But the Black Poppies...
"You are an incompetent meddler, Mr. Smyth. I despise you. As for you, Dr. Phillips, you are a fool. I am sorry for you."
He narrows those long eyes as he looks down at the two men. The purposeful cruelty of the man is inherent. It was no theatrical act of deception.
"So I am determined to remove you both from the scene of your blunders."
"Opium will shortly do the same for you!" Phillips exclaims.
Without emotion, he turns those awful gleaming eyes upon Phillips. Always so cold and distant, his manner proclaims unquestionable superiority. Nothing seems to penetrate his core of complete tranquility.
"That is a matter of opinion, Dr. Phillips. You may not have had the opportunities that have been mine for studying the subject. In any event, however, I shall not be privileged to enjoy your advice in the future."
"You will not outlive me, Fu Hong Wu. Furthermore, our deaths will not profit you, because..."
"Careful, Phillips!" Smyth warns.
"Because?"
Inquires Fu Hong Wu softly, calmly, and smugly. With his evil peaking eyebrow raised in question and that evil grin creeping once more across his face, he dares Phillips to continue speaking. Upon this and further consideration, Phillips decides it's best to bite his tongue.
"Mr. Smyth's advice is prudent. He has heard rumors of my methods."
He pronounces the word with a hiss and in a way that makes Smyth shudder.
"And he has seen the Wire Jacket."
Phillips declares, "Your methods and wire jacket don't impress me."
"Have you ever seen a wire jacket? As a surgeon, its functions would interest you."
With a shrill whistling sound, a small shape bounds into the dimly lit vault and leaps upward. A marmoset landed on the shoulder of Fu Hong Wu. It peers grotesquely into the dreadful face of his master. The Devil Doctor lifts his claw-like hand and fondles the little creature.
"One of my pets."
"I have seen your pets," Phillips hisses with spite.
A mischievous smile crawls across Fu's face. A glimmer of evil delight sparkles in his scintillating eyes. Opening his eyes fully, they blaze like green flames, emeralds glowing with bright light.
"You speak of the Zayat scorpion. Yes, you have met one of my pets. I have others, equally useful."
He pauses, speaking no more of these things. Allowing the captives to wonder, what other vile and loathsome creatures he has at his command? Perhaps, he refers to his most sensuously seductive and dangerous servant, Kharahmin. There's no way of knowing.
Once more raising his predatory hand, the sleeve of his sickly green silk robe fell back to his elbow. The little bearded monkey dropped, chattering, to the floor and ran from this dungeon.
"By what death shall the two of you die? You miserable creatures who clumsily seek to bind my vast empire."
Like some satanic priest before an altar of human sacrifice, he stands. His eyes upraised toward the ceiling, his great body begins to quake as he laughs. It's a sight to shock the most unimpressionable mind.
"He's mad! God help us, the man is a dangerous homicidal maniac!" says Phillips.
Ryland Smyth's tanned face is very drawn as he shakes his head grimly.
"Dangerous, yes, but not mad," Smyth counters.
Fu Hong Wu takes the lantern. Turning abruptly, he walks to the door. At the threshold, he looks back in that odd and intimidating manner.
"You were in Rangoon in 1908? Do you remember the call?"
From somewhere above comes a low wailing cry, an uncanny thing of falling cadences. In that dismal vault, with the sinister green-robed figure at the door, the sound pours ice into Smyth's veins. Its effect upon him is truly extraordinary. His face shows grey in the faint light. Phillips hears him draw a hissing breath through clenched teeth.
"It calls for you, Mr. Smyth, and for you, Dr. Phillips."
The door is closed. Again, darkness falls upon the damp and slimy cell. The two captives are left alone in silence.
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Chapter 24: The Drums of Shiva
There may be some men who could lie chained in that noiseless cell and feel no fear, no dread of what the blackness might hold, but Phillips is not such a man. Knowingly, he and Smyth stand in the path of that most insidiously evil genius, an evil genius who has devoted his intellect to crime. Phillips knows the wealth and power of Fu Hong Wu is a menace greater than the plague.
Fu Hong Wu is an assassin trained in mysterious dark arts and the secrets of nature. He's a man who has gone farther into the unknown than any living man. His mission is to remove all obstacles, human obstacles, from the path of his secret criminal organization. An organization whose movement progresses from the Far East and reaches out across the world.
Smyth and Phillips are two such obstacles. Of all the horrible devices at Fu Hong Wu's command, Phillips wonders by which they will meet their doom. At that very moment, some venomous centipede might be wriggling towards them over the slimy stones. Some poisonous spider may be preparing to drop from the roof. Perhaps, a serpent is coiled in that cell waiting to strike or the air might be alive with microbes of some terrible disease.
"Smyth, I can't bear this suspense. He intends to kill us, that is certain, but..."
"Don't worry, Phillips. He intends to learn our plans first."
"You mean..."
"You heard him speak of his methods and of his wire jacket?"
"Can this really be happening in present-day England?"
Smyth laughs dryly. Phillips can hear him fumbling with the steel collar about his neck.
"Not so many years back, they placed men on the rack in England. But I still have one great hope and that's only because you're with me. For the moment, try your pocket knife on the lock of that collar. I'm already working on mine."
That idea had not entered his half-dazed mind, but Phillips immediately acts upon his friend's suggestion. He is so engaged when a sound echoes. It emanates from beneath his feet.
"Smyth, listen!"
The scraping and clicking that tell of Smyth's efforts cease. Motionless, they sit in that humid darkness and listen. Something is moving beneath the stones of the cell. Phillips holds his breath. Every nerve in his body is tingling.
A line of light shows a few feet from where the two men lay. It widens and becomes oblong. A hidden door is lifted and the dim silhouette of a head appears. Phillips expects horror and death, or worse. Instead, a lovely face, crowned with a disordered mass of curling hair, comes into focus. A bronze arm holds that stone slab. It's a shapely arm and clasped about the elbow is a broad gold bangle.
The girl climbs into the cellar and places the lantern on the stone floor. In the dim light she's an unreal sight, a figure from an opium vision. With her clinging silk dress and garish jewelry, she wears little blue slippers. In short, this is the Arabian Angel of his vision. It's difficult for Phillips to believe that he's in present-day England. It's far easier to dream they are captives of a Caliph in a dungeon of old Baghdad.
"Dr. Phillips!"
"Kharahmin?"
Smyth exclaims, "My prayers are answered! My one hope is realized. She's come to save you."
"Shush! One sound and he will kill us all," warns the girl, her wonderful eyes open wide with fear.
She bends over Phillips. A key turns gratingly in the rusty old lock and the collar is off. As Phillips scrambles to his feet, the girl turns and releases Smyth. She raises the lantern above the trap and signals to descend the wooden steps, which are revealed by the light.
"Leave your knife on the floor. He will think you forced the locks. Now down, quickly!"
Ryland Smyth, stepping gingerly, disappears into the darkness. Phillips rapidly follows. Lastly follows their mysterious friend, a gold band about one of her ankles, gleaming in that lantern light. They stand in a low arched passage.
"Where does this passage lead, Kharahmin?"
"That I may not tell you. You must tie these blindfolds over your eyes and do exactly as I tell you."
Neither man hesitates to obey. Blindly, Phillips allows her to lead. Smyth rests his hand upon Phillips' shoulder. In that order, they proceed until they come to stone steps which they ascend.
"Keep to the wall on the left. There is danger on the right."
With his free hand Phillips searches for and finds the wall. They press forward. The place through which they walk has a steamy atmosphere and is loaded with the odor of exotic plant life.
Phillips whispers, "You recognize that scent, Ryland?'
"Orchids."
A faint animal scent creeps to Smyth's nostrils. There's subdued movement around him, infinitely suggestive and mysterious. Suddenly, his foot falls upon a soft carpet and a curtain brushes his shoulder. A gong sounds. They stop as the din of distant drumming can be heard.
"Wait!"
"What is it, Kharahmin?" enquires Phillips.
"The Drums of Shiva"
"What are the drums of Shiva, pray tell?"
Smyth replies, "To us, Phillips, they can mean only one thing... death. They're coming toward us. We must go back."
"No," says Kharahmin. "Quickly, this way, behind this door, come inside, quickly. Be silent until they pass. Make no sound as your lives depend on it."
The delicate hand grasping Phillips quivers nervously. They must be near a door or a window. For a breath of perfume is wafted through the air. It reminds Phillips of his other encounters with the beautiful woman. The woman who's now leading their escape from the house of Fu Hong Wu. The woman who, with her own lips, has told Phillips that she is Fu Hong Wu's slave. through this horrible phantasmagoria she flits, a seductive vision. Her unusual loveliness stands out richly in a black setting of murder and devilry. Not once, but a thousand times, Phillips has tried to reason out the nature of those ties that bind her to the insidious Doctor.
Approaching footsteps and the rhythmic beating of the drum draw ever closer. They pass and fade. Silence falls.
"Quick! This way, follow me. They are coming for you. They go to your cell now. They would take you to the chamber of horrors."
"Are you sure that he doesn't suspect you, Kharahmin?" asks Phillips.
"If so, I would already be dead."
"When will we be out of here?" asks Smyth.
"Not long, only a moment more."
Up thickly carpeted stairs, they move. Kharahmin opens a door and guides the men along a passage. Another door opens and they're in fresh open air. The girl doesn't hesitate, pulling the men along a gravel path. With a fresh breeze blowing in their face until, unmistakably, they stand at the riverbank. Now, planking creaks underfoot. Looking downward beneath the blindfold, Smyth notices the gleam of water beneath his feet.
"Be careful and do not speak! Still, you are not safe!" she warns.
Phillips finds himself stepping into a narrow boat. Ryland Smyth follows. The girl pushes a punt off and poles into the stream. The water of this stream, upon which they float, splashes and tinkles all around them.
"What river is this?"
"Do not speak, Dr. Phillips, if not for your sake then for my own. We are still in great danger."
His brain is fevered. Phillips scarcely knows if he's dreaming or awake. Reality ended with consciousness before that strange dream. Their imprisonment in the clammy cellar and this silent, blindfolded escape, is this all a hallucination? Could they truly be upon the river with this girl for a guide? A few moments pass.
"This is a fantastic dream, Ryland. It must be fantasy, the mockery of sleep."
"Yes. Blindfolded, a silent escape on a river, a rescue by this beautiful girl, who might have stepped from the pages of "The Arabian Nights". It's an adventure from the Orient brought to London."
"London? No! Such things can not happen in England."
Kharahmin speaks, "You will hear a clock strike in a few minutes, but I rely upon your honor not to remove the blindfolds until then. You owe me this."
"We do indeed and you have my word.'
Suddenly, the punt touched the riverbank. The two men are escorted to terra firma. A moment later, one soft hand is placed on Phillips. He stands resolute and holds the girl's hand, drawing her near him.
"You mustn't go back. We'll take care of you. You must not return to that place."
"Let me go! When I asked you to take me from him, you spoke of police protection. That was your answer, police protection! You would let them lock me up, imprison me, and make me betray him! For what? For what?"
She wrenches herself free from his grasp.
"How little you understand me. Nevermind. Perhaps one day you will know. Remember, until the clock strikes!"
She leaves. Smyth hears the creak of the punt and the drip of the water from the pole. The sound grows far off and faint. The distant sound dies away entirely.
"Well, she's gone. What's her secret, Phillips? Why does she cling to that monster?"
"Heaven only knows."
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Chapter 25: The Call of Shiva
The clock chimes. It strikes half past the hour. In an instant, the blindfolds are off. Away to the left, the moon shines upon the towers and battlements of an ancient fortress.
"Where the devil are we, Ryland?"
"A towing path on the Thames, Phillips. Look, over there. It's Windsor Castle."
"What was that wailing cry we heard? What are the drums of Shiva and what did Fu Hong Wu mean when he referred to Rangoon? I noticed how it affected you."
"Oh, there was a ghastly business there in 1908. It was an utterly mysterious epidemic. That awful wailing was associated with it. It's become known as the Call of Shiva. Shiva is the Hindu goddess of destruction. Among devotees of the god are the cult of Thuggee and the cult of Dacoit."
"What do you mean by an epidemic?"
"It began at the Palace Mansions Hotel. A young American was staying there. One night he went to his room, locked the door, and jumped out of the window. It broke his neck, of course."
"Suicide?"
"Apparently, but there were unusual features in the case. For instance, in the courtyard beside the body lay his revolver. It was fully loaded."
"Was it murder then?"
"No clues were pointing to murder at the time. The door to his suite was locked from the inside. It had to be broken open."
"What about this wailing cry?"
"That developed later. Rather, it was only noticed later. A French doctor died the same way a week later at the same hotel. Though, he occupied a different room. Now here's the extraordinary part of the affair. A friend shared the room with him and actually saw him do it."
"Saw him leap from the window?"
"Yes, the friend, an Englishman, was aroused by the wailing. I was in Rangoon then. So I know more about that case than of the young Americans. I spoke to the Englishman personally. He told me the cry seemed to come from above."
"It seemed to come from above, when we heard it at Fu Hong Wu's tonight," notes Phillips.
"The Englishman said it was a clear moonlit night. He saw the doctor at the window and saw him look out. Suddenly and with a scream, he threw himself forward and crashed headfirst into the courtyard below."
"And then?"
"His friend ran to the window and looked down. There was absolutely nothing to account for the occurrence."
"How is it that you recognize the cry?"
"I stayed at the Palace Mansions for some time. One night, the uncanny howling aroused me. I heard it quite distinctly. I'm never likely to forget it."
"What happened?"
"It was followed by a hoarse yell. The man in the next room, a botanist, had gone the same way. Fortunately for the reputation of the hotel, several similar cases happened elsewhere in Rangoon."
"They were all alike?"
"Exactly, in every detail. The story spread and was fostered by some fakir. The goddess Shiva was reborn. The call was her call for victims."
"That is a ghastly business."
"Yes, one that led to a breakout among the Dacoit. It gave the district superintendent no end of trouble."
"Was there anything unusual about the bodies?"
"Yes, they all developed marks after death, as though they'd been strangled. These marks possessed a peculiar form. It was said to be the five heads of Shiva."
"The deaths were all confined to foreigners?"
"By no means, several Burmese and others died in the same way. The Call of Shiva became a nightmare in Rangoon. It was a new agent of death, Phillips, something born in the plagued spot of Burma, home of the inexplicable."
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 26: The Capture of Kharahmin
The following day, Smyth and Phillips are again in search of their elusive enemy. With its calm tide slumbering seaward, the beautiful Thames is rather soothing. Beyond the river is Royal Windsor Castle, its towers showing through the evening haze.
All that's peaceful in nature seems to be an irony and a mockery to the two men. For an evil demigod has his sacrificial altar amid these sweet groves of London. That idea weighs heavily in Phillips' mind upon this soft autumnal day.
At last, they're narrowing the resources of that enemy. The man whose dark shadow has fallen over the city. The man who's written his villainous name over England in characters of blood.
On a map, Smyth has marked an area along the Thames with Windsor at its center. Somewhere within that circle, Smyth expects to find the house from which they'd miraculously escaped. The house used by Fu Hong Wu and his highly organized criminal group. This location is one of the few tangible clues they have.
"We've been methodically searching this area all day. So far, we've found nothing, drawn a complete blank, Ryland."
"Yes, Phillips, but the net is closing in."
"Well, let's hope for a big catch."
"I can scarcely hope to capture Fu Hong Wu."
"Why not? It seems likely enough that we'll find the house."
"When we do, Phillips, I'm prepared to find it vacated by the elusive Fu Hong Wu and his mysterious servants. Nevertheless, once we know the location, it shall be one less resource at his disposal."
"I must confess, Ryland, I'm rather anxious to discover the abode of our criminal adversary."
"And perhaps, the hiding place of that beautiful slave girl?" Smyth suggests with a sly and mischievous grin.
Phillips casually ignores that comment and continues the conversation without missing a beat.
"She does seem to play a significant role in the Devil Doctor's plans."
"Ah, but she may still prove to be a double-edged sword."
"A dangerous weapon, which you hope to turn upon Fu Hong Wu?"
"Indeed, I do, Phillips. For even in the hands of a master, a beautiful woman is a treacherous weapon."
"And to accomplish that, you'll require my assistance. Will you not?"
Phillips flashes a self-satisfied grin. It's a rather clever response to Smyth's comment concerning the slave girl. With one of his rare laughs, Smyth concedes to the good Doctor.
"Point taken, Phillips. I was merely having a bit of fun. I rarely have an opportunity to amuse myself with your romantic involvements."
"And rightly so. I've been quite careful to avoid romantic entanglements."
"So I've noticed, Phillips. Why is that, I wonder?"
"Well, look here. I do believe we've reached our destination, Ryland."
"Yes! This must be the place, Phillips. Just look at it. An old mansion with extensive grounds completely surrounded by a stone wall, it was made for the work of Fu Hong Wu."
"It certainly looks the part, old chap. It's precisely the type of place you'd expect him to occupy, which gives me reason to suspect it's another dead end."
Leaving the river behind, they proceed into a lane that flanks the high stone wall surrounding the grounds of the mansion. In the lane, next to the stone wall, is a gypsy caravan. An old woman is seated on the steps. Her wrinkled face is resting with her chin in the palm of her hand.
"That old woman on the steps, Phillips, I want to talk to her."
"Lot of good she'll be."
"Perhaps, she's seen something that may be of use to us."
"You talk to her, Ryland. I'm going on."
"Very well, I'll be along shortly."
Phillips continues to move along the lane. A few moments pass while Smyth questions the old gypsy woman. Suddenly, she cries out. Phillips quickly turns to behold an odd sight.
Smyth struggles furiously with the old gypsy woman. His arms are clasped tightly around her as he drags the old woman into the street. She thrashes about like a wild animal, silently and fiercely.
"Now, my dear, there's no use struggling."
"Let me go. I know nothing. Nothing, I tell you."
"Oh, no, of course not."
Smyth calls out, "Phillips, come back here. Hurry!"
Phillips darts toward Smyth. He's nearly there when a swarthy man leaps from the caravan. Seeing Phillips rapidly approaching, the man runs off toward the river. Never releasing his hold on the old woman, Smyth calls out.
"After him, Phillips! Don't let him escape."
Phillips starts down the road chasing after the man. Not once does the man glance behind him. The dusty road echoes beneath his agile footsteps. Over the grass and down the riverbank, the man flees. Phillips is close upon his heels. Without hesitation, the man plunges into the Thames. Seeing this, Phillips quickly halts his pursuit, waiting for the man to surface.
A full minute passes, but the man does not surface. Phillips carefully eyes the water. He searches the river in every direction and far as he can see. There's no sign of the man. Phillips concludes he must have dived too deeply, become entangled in the weeds or caught up in the currents and drowned. With a final glance along the length of the river, Phillips turns his back and walks away.
He's not taken five steps when a faint splash echoes from behind. Instinctively, he drops to the ground and rapidly lowers his head. Something hums close by. It soars beyond the grass and falls with a jangle on the dusty roadside.
Phillips climbs to his feet and returns to the water's edge. Nothing disturbs the calm surface. Not a single living thing moves upon the river.
In the fading evening light, an eerie consciousness possesses Phillips. With an uncomfortable feeling, a single thought enters his mind. That phantom foe might be aiming a second knife at Phillips' back, this very moment. With that thought, Phillips hastens toward Smyth. On his way, he pauses to pick up the little weapon which had so narrowly missed its target. With knife in hand, he returns to Smyth.
"I've lost him, Smyth. He's gotten away."
"Gotten away? Where did he go?"
"He disappeared into the Thames."
The gypsy woman lifts her eyes to Phillips and laughs. It's not the laugh of an old hag. It's musical, youthful, and oddly familiar.
Smyth enquires, "What's that in your hand, Phillips?"
"He threw this at me. It narrowly missed my head. Then he vanished."
"You saw nothing?"
"Nothing."
Obviously amused, the old gypsy woman laughs again.
" No matter, Phillips. He's made his escape, but we still have this one."
"And what good is this old gypsy woman?"
Smyth laughs heartily, hugging the girl tightly.
"Use your eyes, old man."
As he pulls a wig from her head, beautiful, silky, black tendrils cascade and shimmer lustrously in the sunset. Phillips stares into those smoldering dark eyes. Obscured by makeup, the charming features of the seductively beautiful slave girl are cleverly concealed.
"A wet sponge will do the rest."
From somewhere upstream, the faint call of a Dacoit hails. A second call answers it from somewhere nearby. Yet a third call responds from somewhere near the old mansion. A column of black smoke rises beyond the wall and massive flames consume the old building.
"Curse it all! The man's daring is incredible, Phillips. I suspect that fire was carefully planned. Most likely, there'll be nothing left of that house. I fear its ashes will afford us no further clues.
"He's toying with us, Ryland. He leads us along until the very last moment. Then he pulls the rug out from under our feet."
"No matter, Phillips. We've secured a new lever which should serve to disturb Fu Hong Wu's world."
Smyth glances at the pitiful girl in his arms. She can barely stand and trembles from exhaustion. Her head low, hiding her face in defeat, with a soft musical voice and great shame, she speaks.
"You need not hold me so tightly. I know that I can not escape. I will go with you quietly."
"What are you going to do with her, Ryland?"
"Oh, nothing very drastic, old chap. After all, we do owe her something. However, she's coming home to Baker Street with us. There are some questions I would like her to answer."
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Chapter 27: The Story of Kharahmin
Without delay, Kharahmin is hurried back to Dr. Phillips' Baker Street quarters. It's a swift journey. They quickly find themselves sequestered in the study.
Phillips sits with elbows upon the desk and his chin in hand. Smyth restlessly paces the floor, cigarette in hand. Kharahmin is curled on a large cushioned armchair. A brief scrubbing has converted the face of that wizened old gypsy woman into a fascinatingly pretty girl. Wildly picturesque, she still wears the ragged Romanian garb. She holds a cigarette in her fingers and watches the two men through lowered lashes.
With true Oriental fatalism, she's quite reconciled to her fate. Every so often, she bestows upon Phillips a glance from those beautiful eyes. Phillips can not ignore the emotions of that passionate Eastern soul. Though, he tries desperately to set them aside for the moment. Dangerously lovely she might be, but she's also the accomplice of a murderous criminal.
Smyth questions, "Kharahmin, that man who was with you, that one from the caravan, he was in Burma until quite recently. He murdered a man there only three months ago. The British officials had placed a bounty of a thousand rupees on his head. Am I right?"
The girl shrugs her shoulders.
"And suppose he was. What then?"
"Suppose I place you in the hands of the police, my dear."
"As you please, the police would learn nothing."
"No, I suppose not."
Seeing this line of questioning is going nowhere, Smyth tries a different approach.
"Kharahmin, you don't belong to the Far East. You may have Eastern blood in your veins, but you're certainly no kin of Fu Hong Wu."
"That is true."
"So, will you tell me where to find him?"
She shrugs her shoulders again, glancing inquisitively at Phillips.
"No, I thought not."
Smyth walks to the door.
"I must make out my report, Phillips. Look after the prisoner. I'll be in the next room."
As Smyth softly closes the door behind him, Phillips knows what's expected of him. What attitude should he adopt? How should he go about the delicate task? In a quandary, he watches the girl. A girl, who, through circumstance, is now captive in his home.
"Why won't you trust us, Kharahmin? No harm will come to you."
"You ask me to fight Fu Hong Wu. You talk of protection. You have been able to protect them, those others whom he has sought? Did your protection save Sir Crichton Davis? What of those detectives, Maxton and Colby?"
Phillips shakes his head sadly.
"Even with my warnings, you can hardly protect yourself, Dr. Phillips."
"And you fear that if you speak, Fu Hong Wu will find a way to kill you?"
"Kill me?" she flashes scornfully. "I do not fear for myself, Dr. Phillips."
"Then for whom do you fear?"
She speaks with a tender intonation. Her slight accent renders it all the more soft.
"When I was seized and sold for a slave, my sister was taken, too, and my brother. He was only a child. My sister died in the desert. My brother lived. Better, far better, that he had died, too."
"What do you mean? You speak of slave raids in the desert. Where did these things take place? Of what country are you?"
"Does it matter? A slave has no country, no name."
"But you have a name."
"As Kharahmin, I was sold to Dr. Fu Hong Wu and my brother, too. We were cheap at the price he paid, but he has spent much money to educate us.
My brother is all that I have left in the world and he is in the power of Dr. Fu Hong Wu. Do you understand? It is upon my brother the wrath of Fu Hong Wu will fall."
Her words make an intense impression on Phillips.
"You understand now, why I cannot disobey my master's orders? Do you understand why I dare not betray him?"
Phillips walks to the window and looks out. How could he answer her arguments? What could he say? The rustle of her ragged skirt fills his ears as she approaches to stand beside him. She lays a delicate hand upon his arm.
"He cannot revenge himself upon your brother when you are in no way to blame. We arrested you. You are not here of your own free will."
Her voice quakes with emotion. "Oh, let me go. He will kill him!"
"I can not, Kharahmin. I..."
"Listen!"
She draws a sharp breath, clutching at Phillips' arm. In her eyes, he can read that she's forcing her mind to some arduous decision.
"If I tell you where Fu Hong Wu is to be found alone, will you solemnly promise me that you will immediately go to the place where I shall guide you? That you will release my brother and that you will let us both go free?"
Phillips hesitates uncomfortably.
"Ryland Smyth has often accused me of weakness where you are concerned. Isn't it my plain duty to consult with him first?"
"Ryland Smyth?"
"You may rest assured that he'll look at the matter fairly. He's an honorable man. I guarantee that if you speak to him, he'll agree to your proposal."
"You... You are sure?"
"I am."
Phillips looks into Kharahmin's eyes. They are aflame with emotion, perhaps with an excitement of anticipation or perhaps of fear. She lays her hands upon his shoulders.
"There is one more condition."
"What is it?"
"You will be careful?"
"For your sake, I shall."
"Not for my sake."
"Then for your brother's."
"No."
Her voice falls to a whisper.
"For your own."
She pauses, allowing the impact of those few ominous words to fully press themselves into his consciousness.
"Very well, call him back."
Phillips walks to the door, opens it, and calls to Smyth.
"Oh, Ryland? Come in, please."
"Yes, Phillips. What is it?"
"I do not think it necessary to explain again, Dr. Phillips. Ryland Smyth is a detective. I am sure he found a way to hear what I told you."
Amused, Smyth laughs cheerfully.
"My dear Kharahmin, you're beautiful and clever! Why yes, I overheard."
"And you will help me, my brother?"
"Yes, we agree. We'll let you go the moment you tell us where we can find Fu Hong Wu."
"Then listen closely. On the bank of the Thames, five miles downstream from the mansion that was burned tonight..."
Suddenly, the conversation is interrupted by that horrible Call of Shiva.
Smyth calls out, "Put out the lights, Phillips, quick! Fu Hong Wu's assassins have arrived sooner than I expected."
Without warning, splinters of light pierce the darkness, as a thousand shards of sharp glass slice through the air and fall to the floor with a distinctive tinkling sound. A masked figure stands menacingly in the shadows of that dark room. The figure of a man clad entirely in black pauses only a fraction of a second.
Moving with blinding speed, he viciously attacks with unyielding ruthlessness and without mercy. A single devastating blow forces Phillips to the floor, leaving him dazed and confused. Turning his deadly attention on Smyth, the black devil continues his malicious onslaught.
Smyth is no match for this assailant. He immediately finds himself being pummeled, it seems, from every direction. The blows strike with lightning speed from every angle and all around him. In excruciating pain and spinning around as if in the throes of a tornado, Smyth is panic-stricken. He's dizzy and nauseous. His senses assault his mind, bombarding him with confusion. He's lost in a maelstrom of physical motion. The hurricane of violence beats him senseless. The seemingly endless blows of fists, elbows, knees, and feet falling upon him with incomprehensible rapid succession, do not cease until Smyth lay in destruction on the floor.
Phillips can hear the door to his study open and light rapidly receding footsteps fade. Looking across the room, he can barely focus on that terrifying figure standing over the limp and fallen body of Ryland Smyth. Climbing to his feet, he stumbles through his mental haze to the desk. The black devil moves toward Phillips, through the darkness like a living shadow of death. Opening the drawer, fumbling for his pistol, and finding it, he fires two successive shots at the intruder.
As the ringing of those shots fades from his ears, there is nothing. Deafening silence falls upon him. The only sound in the room is Smyth's labored breathing, then his moaning and groans. Smyth's voice calls painfully.
"Turn on the light, Phillips."
While Phillips does so, Smyth struggles unsteadily to his feet. With the sudden illumination, the two men find themselves standing alone in the room. Other than splinters of broken glass upon the floor, there's nothing. No dead body lying on the floor. No blood is to be found. Not even the slightest sign that an assassin has been in the room.
"I don't understand it, Smyth! I shot him. He's dead. Where's the body? It's vanished."
"And so has Kharahmin."
"No, she must be here. She couldn't have gotten out so quickly. She must be hiding somewhere in the house."
"She's gone, Phillips. There's no use searching the house. She's gone, slipped through our fingers again. She's as elusive as any of his servants."
"But she hadn't finished telling us where we could find him."
"Oh, she never meant to, old chap."
"So you think that tale about her brother..."
"Rubbish! Nothing more than a red herring."
"Oh, I can't believe she'd..."
A single sheet of paper lay conspicuously on the desk. Upon it is a note, written hurriedly, scrawled across the page unevenly. Definitely written by a woman's hand, but the script was very odd-looking, as if it had been written in the dark.
"She's a deceptive, manipulative, treacherous woman, Phillips. She's..."
"Look here, Ryland. It seems she's left us a note."
"What does it say?"
"The houseboat on the Thames... That's all it says, nothing more."
Phillips offers the paper to Smyth, who immediately snatches it away and begins to study it carefully.
"Well, I'll be damned! I was wrong, Phillips. It seems she was going to tell us where to find him."
"So, it seems she's not nearly the villain you make her out to be..."
"Alright, old chap. I'm man enough to admit that I may have misjudged the woman. I apologize for thinking the lady's story was untrue and a ruse to lead us from the trail, but we've more important things to be concerned with at the moment. This little paper should mean the capture of Fu Hong Wu this very night!"
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Chapter 28: On the Marshes
A cool breeze flows gently from the lower reaches of the Thames. Far behind twinkles the dim lights of Lowe's Cottages, the last regular habitations near the marshes. Between the two men and those cottages stretches a half mile of lush land. Before them, a dull and monotonous expanse is painted silver and grey beneath the moon. The river flows around the bend of land on which they presently walk. It's very quiet. Only the sound of their footsteps interrupts the silence of that lonely place.
Not once but many times, within the last twenty minutes, Phillips thought it unwise for him and Smyth to adventure alone. It seems foolish to attempt the capture of the formidable Chinese crime lord without assistance. Once more, he voices his concern to Smyth.
"It's a dangerous business, Ryland, our trying to take this monster alone. Wouldn't it have been better to inform Inspector Wallace what we had in mind?"
"And have a heavy-footed troupe of police stumbling through the dark? We might as well have brought the Royal Marine Band."
A light shines in the distance.
"Well, that's the light ahead of us, Phillips, and that's probably the houseboat. If we keep it straight before us, we can't miss.
"He certainly has isolated himself, if it is Fu Hong Wu in that boat. Those cottages are a half mile behind us. There's no other habitation between them and the river."
Phillips grips the revolver in his pocket. The presence of the little weapon is reassuring. Still, he fears, knowing Fu Hong Wu is near, nested in an atmosphere of unique horror. Fu Hong Wu is unlike normal men. He inspires dread in every person who has experienced his terrifying gaze. The terrors, which he controls and hurls at whoever crosses his path, render him supremely sinister. Phillips fears he only has the slightest conception of the man's evil power.
"Wait!" exclaims Smyth.
He stops suddenly, grabbing Phillips by the arm. They stand listening.
"What is it?"
"You heard nothing?"
"Nothing but the wind."
Smyth is peering back over the marshes in his oddly alert way. He turns to Phillips, his tanned face wearing a peculiar expression.
"We might be walking into a nicely set trap, old man. We're trusting her blindly."
"No, Ryland. Now, I trust Kharahmin. Don't ask me why, but I do."
"Very well. Come along then. We're in sight of the Thames."
Phillips nods. They press on.
"Have you noticed, Ryland, how Fu's activities center about the river?"
'Yes, it's most likely his highway, his line of communication, along which he moves his mysterious forces."
"That was my thought. Singapore Charlie's opium den off Shadwell Highway, the burned mansion upstream, now this houseboat lying off the marshes."
'Yes, it is significant. Even if we fail tonight, the fact that he invariably makes his headquarters somewhere on the river will be a clue to guide us in the future."
"There, that black bulk must be the place."
"Bear to the right a bit. We'll survey from here before making our attack."
They follow a path that leads directly to the riverbank. Before them lies an expanse of grey water. The life of that river seemed widely removed. It's a lonely spot. Its dreariness is illuminated by the brilliant moon, which creates a feeling of utter detachment from the world of living men.
"It's a dismal spot, Ryland. If it wasn't for the moonlight, I'd be tempted to go back."
"But the moonlight is bad for us, if anyone should be watching."
Silently, Smyth stares out at a rough dock, a floating platform. Beside it, in a patch of gloom that stretches far out over water, is a shadowy shape. Only one dim light is visible amid this darkness.
"There's the boat, tied up to that old dock. That light will be coming from the cabin."
Acting upon a prearranged plan, they turn and walk to a staging above the dock. A wooden ladder leads down to the deck. It's loosely lashed to a ring on the dock. With every motion of the tidal waters, the ladder rises and falls, its rings creaking harshly against the old wooden planks.
"Wait! Before we go out on that dock, Phillips, look closely. Do you see anyone down there on the boat?'
"No, but there seems to be a wooden walkway leading down from the deck of the houseboat to the dock."
"Careful! Step lightly as you can."
Without further words, Smyth climbs onto the ladder and commences to descend. Phillips waits until Smyth's head disappears below the level and prepares to follow him. Standing on the dock and looking across it, over to the gang plank that climbs to the deck of the hulking houseboat, gives Phillips cause for doubt.
"How the devil are we going to get on the deck without being seen?"
"We've got to risk that. Just follow me and make as little noise as you can."
At that moment, the houseboat gives an unusually hard heave, pitched by the waves. The boat smashes heavily against the floating dock, causing it to pitch and sway upon the water. Phillips stumbles and, for one breathless moment, looks down upon the glittering surface that streaks the darkness beneath. His foot slips. He feels something fall from his hip pocket. The weird creaking of the ladder, the groans of the laboring hulk, and the lapping of the waves about the staging cover the splash as his revolver drops into the river.
Rather white faced, Phillips scrambles up the planking and joins Smyth on the deck. Smyth has witnessed Phillips' accident. Tilting his head dismissively and giving a little shrug, Smyth whispers.
"Well, I still have mine. We can't turn back now."
He plunges into the semi-darkness, making for the cabin. Phillips follows him closely. They come fully into the light streaming out from the entrance. It appears to be a laboratory. A glimpse reveals shelves loaded with jars and bottles, a table strewn with scientific paraphernalia, tubes of extraordinary shapes, holding living organisms, and other such instruments. Some of the large jars contain anatomical specimens. Books, papers, and rolls of parchment are piled on the bare wooden floor.
Splashing waves echo through the cool night air. The boat slowly rocks to and fro as the river gently laps against the hull. A faint scent, the sticky-sweet perfume of opium, lingers in the air. The little marmoset chatters and leaps skittishly about, while playing with a tassel that hangs from the cushion of his master's chair. Smyth's voice is harsh, incisive, and commanding.
"Don't move, Dr. Fu! I have you covered!"
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Chapter 29: The Deadly Bargain
Fu Hong Wu sits impassively at the table, unmoved and impervious. His wonderfully evil face betrays no hint of emotion. In this setting, he presents a horrifying image, the portrait of a demon summoned from some terrible nightmare. A devilish figure conjured from the realms of delirium
He's cloaked in that long and flowing, sickly green silk robe. Its color alone is nauseating. His satanic face is inscrutable, its expression unaffected. His skin, with that horrible yellow tinted pallor, nearly glows in the soft haze of light which falls from a shaded lamp above. His menacing hands, with those raptor like claws, always seem poised and threatening to strike without warning.
Those scintillating eyes of iridescent green fire are terrifying. The awful power possessed by his sinister gaze is both frightening and mesmerizing. The malign force pervading his presence is devastating, dominating, and inescapable. It flows from that invasive, permeating, and unwavering stare. Strangest of all, the imagery is nearly an identical tableau of the vision from Phillips' dream as he lay chained in that dark and slime-covered cell.
"Put up your hands and don't try any tricks. This time the game's over. Find something to tie him with, Phillips."
Phillips moves forward to Smyth's side and is about to pass him in the narrow doorway. Unexpectedly, the hulk shifts beneath their feet, moving like a living creature. It groans and creaks as the water laps against the rotten woodwork, creating an infinitely dreary sound.
"Put up your hands!"
Fu Hong Wu slowly lifts those predatory talons. A smile creeps across his face. It's a wicked mirthless smile that exhibits only menace and reveals those vampyric teeth. The insidiously evil horror possessed by those brilliantly gleaming and unblinking eyes is inhuman. Momentarily, their luminescence seems to glow even more brightly. He speaks softly and sibilantly.
"The honors, Mr. Smyth, are mine. I would advise Dr. Phillips to look behind him before he moves."
Smyth's sharp grey eyes do not, even for a moment, leave the devilish figure. The glinting barrel of the pistol does not waver a hair's breadth.
"That's an old worn out trick, Fu Hong Wu. I'd given you credit for better..."
"Ryland, don't turn around!" cries Phillips. "For heaven's sake keep him covered, but there's a knife at my throat!"
At this, Smyth's hand trembles slightly, but his glance never wavers from the malevolent and emotionless countenance of Fu Hong Wu. Smyth clenches his teeth hard. The muscles tense prominently at his jaw.
The silence which follows prevails only a few seconds, but to Phillips each second holds the lingering threat of death. In that moment, he feels more icy terror than he'd experienced during any previous meeting with the fearsome Dr. Fu. Standing on that groaning hulk, his brain throbs. A single horrible thought plagues his mind. The slave girl has betrayed them.
"An impasse, Mr. Smyth."
Smyth makes no reply. He furiously assesses the situation. Trying desperately to find a solution, he carefully considers their predicament. He must find some means to safely extricate Phillips from that precarious position.
"You have assumed that I was alone, Mr. Smyth. Indeed, I was. However, my faithful servant, Lao, has been following you and Dr. Phillips."
Fu shifts those eerie green eyes from Smyth to Lao. With a courtly nod, he continues.
"I thank you, Lao."
The marmoset playfully leaps upon Fu's shoulder and crouches there. The tiny animal chatters softly in a high pitched squeaking voice. Fu Hong Wu moves his hand to caress the little bearded creature.
"Don't move Dr. Fu! I warn you! I'll blast you to kingdom come," Smyth threatens.
Fu Hong Wu is unaffected and does not hesitate, even for a second. The words seem to have no impact whatsoever. Fu continues to stroke his little pet with that vicious claw-like hand.
"And should you fire that gun, Mr. Smyth, our estimable Dr. Phillips also dies... Again I say, an impasse."
Smyth glares angrily through narrowed eyes. His jaws clench, biting down, gritting his teeth.
"May I ask you how you discovered my retreat?"
"This boat has been watched since dawn."
It's a bold and brazen lie.
"Is that so?"
His response is enigmatic and undecipherable. Perhaps he believes Smyth's claim. Perhaps he knows it's a deception.
"Today you compelled me to burn a house and you captured one of my people. I congratulate you... but she would not betray me though lashed with scorpions."
The gleaming knife is near to Phillips' neck. His vein pulses against the blade with each beat of his heart which throbbed even more wildly upon hearing those words.
"I advise you to go, Mr. Smith. Leave this place at once and set her free."
"And if I don't?"
"Then someone very dear to her will die."
He looks directly at Phillips.
"However, the present situation calls for a suggestion. I have a proposal to make. I assume that you will not accept my word for anything?"
"I would not!" Smyth declares.
"Therefore, I must accept yours."
"What do you suggest?"
"Of your resources outside this cabin, I know nothing and you know as little of mine."
"Come to the point Dr. Fu."
"Lao and Dr. Phillips will lead the way. You and I will follow. We will strike out across the marsh for three hundred yards."
"And then?"
"You will place your pistol on the ground, pledging me your word to leave it there. You shall further agree that you will make no attempt upon me until I have retraced my steps. I and my good servant shall leave you. At the expiration of that specified time, you may act as you see fit regarding Kharahmin. Do you agree?"
Smyth hesitates.
"The Dacoit will leave his knife."
Again that horribly evil smile creeps across Fu Hong Wu's expression. There is a note of triumph in his voice as he speaks.
"On the ground with your pistol. To this I agree. Shall I lead the way?"
"No! Phillips and the Dacoit first, then you, and I last."
"Very well, it will be awkward on the ladder. I will accept your word, Dr. Phillips, that you will adhere to the terms."
Phillips agrees, the words almost choking him.
"I promise."
"You have heard and understood, Lao?"
"Yes, master."
"Good... Then lead on with the Doctor."
They take leave of the boat. Having reached the dock, they continue across the flats. Smyth is careful to keep the Chinaman always under close cover of his revolver. About their feet, leaping ahead and scurrying back, came and went the marmoset. The Dacoit walks beside Phillips. Carrying that huge knife, occasionally he glances at Phillips with blood lust in his eyes.
Dr. Fu speaks, "And here, Ryland Smyth, we part. Lao, my friend, drop your knife."
The man throws his knife to the ground.
"So Mr. Smyth, I have kept my part of the bargain."
"Phillips, search Lao!" demands Smyth. "He may have a second weapon concealed."
Phillips glances at Fu. With a nod, Fu gives his consent. Phillips passes his hands over the man's garments and finds nothing.
"Now search Fu Hong Wu. You will permit, Doctor?"
Fu Hong Wu gives a creepy guttural sound. It has some semblance of a laugh, but more like an evil growl. Regardless, it makes Phillips' skin crawl.
"Of course," assents the Devil Doctor.
Phillips hesitates, daunted by the very thought of touching this ghoulish figure. With great apprehension, he places his hands on the silky smooth material of Fu Hong Wu's robe. The cool night air gave the fabric a clammy, damp, almost slimy feel. It was cool, soft, and clingy.
It's an odd sensation and a shocking contrast to the intense warmth of the body that lie beneath it. With a sense of nausea overtaking him, Phillips begins to move his hands over the Chinese devil. Much to his disgust, Phillips can feel a surprisingly muscular form lurking beneath the deceptively flowing fabric.
A shiver of fear and sickening repulsion runs like ice water through Phillips' veins. He completes this appalling task as a tight knot forms in his throat. Feeling very ill and as though about to vomit, he urgently breaks contact and pulls away. Withdrawing his hands and stepping away, he desires only to place as much distance as possible between himself and Fu Hong Wu. Never in his life, has Phillips experienced a similar sense of revulsion from any human being. Even now, having completed the unpleasant task, he shudders as though he'd touched a venomous reptile.
"No, he has nothing, Ryland."
Again Fu Hong Wu presses, "Now Mr. Smyth, your part of the bargain."
"I curse myself for an honorable fool, Dr. Fu Hong Wu. No one on earth would dispute my right to shoot you dead where you stand."
"But you will not."
"No, I will not."
Smyth tosses his revolver to the ground.
There's suppressed passion in Smyth's voice. Only by Fu's unhesitating acceptance of Smyth's word and implicit faith that he would keep it, had Fu Hong Wu escaped retribution at that moment. Although he was a fiend, Fu must have known this and Phillips admired his courage.
Dr. Fu issues a triumphant laugh.
"Goodnight Mr. Smyth and to you Dr. Phillips. May you reach London safely."
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Chapter 30: Run for Your Life
He bows in the typical fashion of traditional Chinese etiquette. He turns and with the Dacoit walks back toward the houseboat. Smyth's next move fills Phillips with surprise. For just as Phillips was thanking God for their escape, his friend began shedding his coat and vest.
"What the devil are you doing, Ryland?"
"I suggest you take your valuables and do the same. Take off your coat and vest. Then loosen your collar. We have one slim chance. Thank heaven we're both fit."
"I don't understand."
"Tonight, old chap, we quite literally have to run for our lives. East is the river. To the south is Fu Hong Wu. That last house, in the grove of cottages to the north, must be our goal."
"But that place is deserted. We found it so, as we passed through on our way out here."
"It's our only chance. Perhaps we can barricade ourselves inside. Come on!"
They live in a peaceful age, where few men owe their survival to their fleetness of foot. At Smyth's words Phillips realizes that such is to be his fate tonight. Stripping off their heavier garments, the two men start to run northward. They follow the path by which they had earlier come. The strange call of a Hashashin floats on the night and is answered by two more.
"There are three of them, at least. Three armed Hashashins are following us. I'm afraid it's hopeless."
"But your revolver, Smyth, it's..."
"No. A servant of the Crown in the East lives his word. I don't think we need fear it being used against us. Fu Hong Wu and his servants avoid such methods."
"It's a mile, at least, to that first deserted cottage."
"And another quarter of a mile to any that's occupied. Our chance of meeting a living soul, other than Fu's killers, is practically nil. Pace yourself for the first half mile, old chap. It's the second half that will decide our fate."
The professional killers move fast as panthers. For a long time neither men dares to look back. They simply continue to run quickly, silently, and relentlessly.
As he glances back, a hissing breath escapes from Smyth. It's impossible for Phillips to resist the horrid fascination. He takes a quick glance over his shoulder.
Two of the pursuing assassins are quickly gaining. They look more like dreadful animals than human beings, running bent forward, with their faces upturned. The brilliant moonlight gleams upon bared teeth. And sharp knives.
"They've gained on us. There not more than a hundred yards behind. Hard as you can go now, Phillips, run! We must break into the empty cottage. Our only chance..."
Not once does either man look back as they race forward together. Their hearts seem to be bursting. Their leg muscles are throbbing with pain. With the empty cottage in sight, to Phillips the last three yards seem as unattainable as three miles.
"They're right behind us. I can't make it!"
"You must! Run for your life, Phillips. Run!"
Smyth crashes through the gate and hurls himself blindly at the door. It bursts open with a resounding boom. Pitching forward he continues into the darkness. Flat upon the floor he lay, as Phillips passes the threshold and drags himself in, almost falling over Smyth's prone body.
Madly Phillips snatches at the door. Smyth's foot held it open. Phillips kicks the foot away and bangs the door shut. In so doing, Phillips gets a short glimpse of a solitary assassin. With the face of a demon, the professional killer leaps wildly through the gate.
Phillips was certain that Smyth had broken the lock as he burst through the door, but by some divine accident his weak hands found the bolt. With his last ounce of strength, he thrusts it into the rusty socket. Suddenly, a full six inches of shining steel splits the wooden door, scarcely missing his head. Phillips drops, sprawling, beside his friend.
"Sorry, Phillips. It's my fault. I shouldn't have let you come."
A terrific blow shatters the pane of window glass and one of the assassins peers in. From the black shadows in the corner of the room, a long tongue of flame flashes. The loud and unmistakable sound of a gun shot echoes. The assassin at the window falls away. One wild cry, ending in a rattling gasp, means the bullet has found its mark.
A grey figure glides past Phillips and is silhouetted against the broken window. Again the pistol sends its message into the night and again comes the reply to tell how well that message has been delivered. The room is full of pungent smoke. Phillips staggers to his feet. The grey figure with the revolver turns toward him. There's something familiar about that long grey garment. It was Phillips' raincoat.
"Kharahmin?" Phillips asks.
"Oh, God bless her!" cries Smyth.
The girl is trembling. She places her hands upon Phillips' shoulders with the quaint and pathetic gesture that's so peculiarly her own.
"I followed you. Did you not know I should follow you? But I had to hide because of another who was following also. I had just reached this place when I saw you running towards me."
She turns to Smyth.
"This is one of your pistols. I found it in your bag at Dr. Phillips' house. Will you please take it!"
"Thank you."
"Now go. Hurry! You are not safe yet."
"But you?" Phillips protests.
"You have failed. I must go back to him. There is no other way."
"She's right, Phillips. Come along, we must go."
Phillips pleads, "Come with us, Kharahmin."
"No. No, I can not. You must hurry."
"Great Scot!" Smyth exclaims. "Look there."
Strangely sick at heart for a man who has miraculously escaped from death, Phillips passes through the door. Coatless, disheveled figures, Smyth and Phillips stepped out into the moonlight. Hideous under the pale moonlight are two dead men. Their glazed eyes are turned to the peaceful night sky.
Kharahmin had shot to kill. Both men have bullets in their brains. If ever there was a more complex nature than hers, a nature more tumultuous with conflicting passions, Phillips cannot conceive of it. Yet her beauty is the sweetest, and in some respects, she has the heart of a child.
Smyth calls out, "Two of them dead..."
"Yes, yes, but go! Hurry!" Kharahmin begs.
"Tell us how we can reach you, to communicate," Smyth demands.
"Leave that to me. Now go. I shall be suspected. Do you want him to kill me?"
Though his heart and soul rebels against it, Phillips moves away. All is very still and the lights glimmer faintly ahead. Not a wisp of cloud brushes the moon.
"Goodnight, Kharahmin."
With one quick glance around, Kharahmin impulsively runs to Phillips. Throwing her little body against his and wrapping her arms tightly about him, she kisses him passionately. It's a profound and touching moment. Her soft, delicate, pink lips are pressed against his and their bodies entwine in a loving embrace. She softly whispers in her melodic voice.
"Goodnight, Phillips."
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Chapter 31: Love Blossoms Bittersweet
To pursue further adventure on the marshes is a task at once useless and thankless. In its dramatic significance it concludes with Phillips parting from Kharahmin. It's in that parting he learns what Shakespeare meant by "sweet sorrow".
There's a world, upon the edge of which he now stands, a world whose very existence he had not previously suspected. Not the least of those mysteries which peep from the darkness is the mystery Kharahmin's heart. He wants to forget her. He desires to remember her. The latter task is far easier than the first, but such thoughts lead to a dangerous place.
If her words are to be credited, Kharahmin has come to Fu Hong Wu a slave. She had fallen into the hands of raiders and crossed the desert with slave traders. She has known the house of a slave dealer. Could it be? Phillips had thought such things to have passed, but if it were so?
His thoughts of her are bittersweet. The mere thought of that girl so deliciously beautiful, so exotically delicate, in the brutal power of slave traders, causes Phillips to grind his teeth. He closes his eyes in a futile attempt to blot out those images conjured by his imagination.
At such times, He finds himself disbelieving her story.
Again, he wonders why such problems persistently haunt his mind, but, always, his heart holds the answer. He's a logical man and thought himself past such heated passionate follies of youth. He had entered upon that staid phase wherein the daily problems of life hold absolute sway and such seductive distractions as dark eyes and soft lips have no place. They are excluded, ignored, and forgotten. They are left to younger, more passionate, and more foolish men.
Yet he can not deny the attraction he feels for her. The slow burning desire that's locked away and hidden deep inside some long forgotten place. There's some indefinable quality about her. It's some combination of exquisite beauty, child-like innocence, seductive sensuality, and delicate frailty. Whatever it may be, something calls out to him, beckons him, and arouses the need to possess her. It arouses the desire to keep her and hold her close, to love her.
She arouses in him feelings that have long since been forgotten and buried. Feelings he doesn't want to have. Emotions he believed, he was no longer capable of feeling. Why, after all this time, have they returned to haunt him, to torture him, to unsettle his mind, and disturb his calm, uncomplicated, easy life?
He doesn't want this, but can he deny it, deny her? It's only a matter of circumstance. Sooner or later she will come to him at the right time and in the right place. In a moment of weakness, she will destroy his self-control. This is inevitable, a forgone conclusion. Afterward, he will hate himself for it. That too is unavoidable.
But then what? There's the real question. What to do afterward? Use her until he's had his fill and grows weary of her? Then toss her aside or hold her and keep her forever? Forever is a promise no love can survive. Forever is a fools dream. Nothing lasts forever. Everything must end. Eventually even the greatest love dies. Emotions and passions are fleeting and impermanent. Given enough time, one of them will stop caring about the other. This too is inevitable.
In the end someone will get hurt. Someone's heart will break. Could he possibly bear that pain again?
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Chapter 32: The Plea of Kharahmin
In the growing dark of evening Phillips is browsing some of the items for sale outside a second hand bookshop in New Oxford Street. One dealing with the secret societies of China strikes him as being likely to prove instructive. He is about to call the shopkeeper when he is startled by a hand clutching his arm.
He turns rapidly and is looking into the darkly beautiful eyes of Kharahmin. She is dressed in a perfectly fitting walking habit. Much of her wonderful hair is concealed beneath a fashionable hat. She glances about apprehensively.
"Quick! Come round the corner. I must speak to you. We must not be seen."
"What's the matter, my dear? You look frightened."
Phillips never quite has control in her presence. Only a man of ice could maintain his composure in her presence. For her beauty has all the bouquet of rarity. She is a mystery and mystery adds charm to a woman. As they turn into a quiet thoroughfare, she stops. Her musical voice is thrilling with excitement.
"I followed you here, because I am in distress. You have often asked me to help you trap Fu Hong Wu. I am prepared to show you where he is."
Phillips can scarcely believe that he hears correctly.
"You're willing to helps us capture..."
She seizes his arm entreatingly, looking into his eyes.
"But first my brother! You are a doctor. I want you to come and see him now."
"Your brother, he's in London? I thought you said..."
"He is at the house of Fu Hong Wu."
"And you want me to go there..."
"Accompany me there, yes. Fu Hong Wu is not there now. The servants are out. No one is there but my brother. Oh, please come."
"Yes, of course I'll go, but why didn't you speak to me earlier? If you followed me, you must have known that Ryland was..."
"Oh, yes, yes. He was with you, but he would have considered his own desire to capture my master. He would not have thought of my brother. Please come now, Dr. Phillips."
Ryland Smyth would have counseled Phillips against trusting his life in the hands of this girl with the pleading eyes. Yet he does so and with little hesitation. Shortly, they are traveling eastward in a cab.
Kharahmin is very silent, but always when he turns to her Phillips finds her big eyes fixed upon him. In her expression there is pleading. There is sorrow and there is something else. Something indefinable, yet strangely disturbing.
The driver proceeds to the lower end of the Commercial Road, the neighborhood of the new docks, and the scene of an earlier adventure with Fu Hong Wu. The mantle of dusk has closed about the squalid activity of the East End streets as they near their destination. Aliens of every shade of color are about them now, emerging from burrow-like alleys into the glare of lamps upon the main road. In the short space of the drive, they had passed from the bright world of the West into the dubious underworld of the East.
As they near the abode of the pernicious Chinaman, Kharahmin moves nearer to Phillips. When the cab stops, they walk down a narrow alley that turns leading riverward. She clings to him fearfully, hesitates, and even seems upon the point of turning back. But overcoming her fear or repugnance, she leads on. Through a maze of alleyways and courts, where Phillips hopelessly looses his bearings, it came to him how wholly he was in the hands of this girl whose history was so full of shadows. Her true character is inscrutable. Her beauty and charm might truly mask the cunning of a serpent.
"What a maze of filthy alleyways. You shouldn't wander through them alone, Kharahmin. It's dangerous."
"Shush. Please, be quite now. This is the place. Though Fu Hong Wu and his servants were out, it is possible one of them may have returned during my absence."
In the darkness, a drab brick wall that looks like some part of a dock building looms above. The indescribable stenches of the lower Thames are borne to Phillips' nostrils through a gloomy tunnel-like opening, beyond which whispers the river. The muffled clangor of waterside activity surrounds them. He hears the grating of key in a lock. Kharahmin draws him into the shadow of an open door, enters, and closes it behind her.
For the first time he perceives, in contrast to the odors of the court without, the fragrance of the peculiar perfume which now he has come to associate with her. Absolute darkness is about them. By this perfume alone, he knew that she was near.
Her hand touches his. He's led down an uncarpeted stair and along a labyrinth of passages in complete darkness. A second door is unlocked and he finds himself in an exquisitely furnished room. It's illuminated by the soft light of a shaded lamp, which stands upon a low inlaid table. There's an ocean of silken cushions, strewn upon a Persian carpet, whose burgundy richness is lost in the shadows beyond the circle of light.
Kharahmin raises a curtain draped before a doorway. They listen intently for a moment. Something stirs amid the wilderness of cushions. Two tiny bright eyes look up at them. Peering closely, Phillips can barely distinguish that crouching in soft luxuriance is a little creature, Fu Hong Wu's marmoset.
Kharahmin. whispers, "This way, quickly. My brother is in the room beyond."
Phillips begins to have second thoughts about this unwise enterprise, but he has come this far. Any consideration of prudence now is of no avail.
The corridor beyond is thickly carpeted. Following the direction of a faint light which gleams ahead, it proves to extend as a balcony across one end of a spacious apartment. Together they stand high up in the shadows and look down upon such a scene as Phillips never could have imagined to exist within all of England.
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Chapter 33: The Undead
The place below is even more richly appointed than the room through which they had first come. Piles of cushions form splashes of bright color about the floor. Three lamps hang by chains from the ceiling. Their light is softened by rich silk shades.
One wall is almost entirely occupied by glass cases containing chemical apparatus, tubes, and other less orthodox indications of Dr. Fu Hong Wu's pursuits. Along the back wall of this extraordinary room extends a low couch. Upon this lies the most extraordinary object of all, the motionless form of a boy.
In the light from a lamp directly above, his olive face shows an almost startling resemblance to that of Kharahmin. Except the girl's coloring is more delicate. His black curly hair prominently contrasts against the white covering upon which he lay and his hands are crossed upon his chest.
Transfixed with astonishment, Phillips stares down at him. All the wonder from the "Arabian Nights" are wonders no longer. For here, in East-end London, is a true magician's palace, complete with a beautiful slave girl and her enchanted prince!
"It is Ali, my brother. He lies so deathly quiet."
They pass down a stairway to the lower floor of the room. Kharahmin kneels and bends over the boy. She strokes his hair and lovingly whispers to him. She fondles the cold hands and speaks softly in her native tongue.
Phillips moves close to make a brief examination. Anxiety is reflected in the girl's eyes as she eagerly observes. Before Phillips touches the boy, he knows the body holds no spark of life. Phillips remains silent.
Reading the truth in his eyes, Kharahmin rises from her knees, standing rigid and upright. She trembles as she clutches Phillips' arm. Seeking to arouse a proper understanding, she shakes him as a child might and whispers.
"He is not dead. He is NOT dead! I tell you, he is not."
"Indeed he is. I'm afraid my dear, there's nothing I can do for him."
"No! You do not understand. You are a doctor, yet you do not understand..."
"There's nothing I can do, Kharahmin. The dead can not be brought back to life."
She moans softly to herself and glances at the handsome face of the boy, then to Phillips. Her lovely expression is pitiful and sorrow for the girl dominates Phillips. Momentarily forgetting himself, Phillips is lost in her beauty. Suddenly, a sound echoes from somewhere in the house.
"Quick! Up the stairs! He has returned!"
Kharahmin grabs Phillips by the arm. They flee up the stairs to the balcony. Darkness veils their movement and thick carpet silences their footsteps. Together, they hide in shadows of a little alcove as someone approaches the room.
Cloaked in that sickly colored robe, Fu Hong Wu threads his way through the many cushions. Those inhuman catlike green eyes are glittering even before the light strikes them. He leans over the body of Ali as Kharahmin whispers to Phillips.
"Now watch, but on your life and mine make no sound."
Fu Hong Wu checked the boy's body for a pulse. Stepping to the tall glass case, he removes a long necked flask of engraved gold. From that, he pours an amber liquid into a glass. It is a liquid compound wholly unfamiliar to Phillips, who watches closely. He carefully notes the amount of liquid Dr. Fu dispenses. Loading a syringe and bending over Ali, Dr. Fu administers an injection.
At that moment, all the wonders Phillips heard of this man suddenly became reality. With great astonishment, Phillips watches breathlessly as the dead boy is resurrected. The glow of health returns to the boy's olive skinned cheeks. Raising his hands above his head, he sits up with support from the Devil Doctor.
Fu Hong Wu touches some hidden bell. An exquisitely beautiful Chinese girl entered, carrying a tray. It bears a bowl of steaming soup, rice cakes, and a flask of red wine.
The boy exhibits no unusual symptoms. It's as if he'd just awakened from a normal sleep. As he begins his meal, Kharahmin draws Phillips gently along the passage to the room through which they had first entered. The marmoset bounds past and drops, hand over hand, to the lower apartment in search of its master. Kharahmin speaks softly, her voice quivering.
"You see? He is not dead! But without Fu Hong Wu he is dead to me. How can I leave him when he holds the life of Ali in his hand?"
"Tell me, how does he produce the appearance of death?"
"I cannot tell you. I do not know. It is something in the wine. In another hour Ali will sleep again as you saw him."
"You must get me that flask or some of its contents."
Opening a little ebony box, she produces a vial half-filled with that amber liquid. Phillips slips it into his pocket. Opening the door, she pushes him hurriedly from the room. She leads him along that subterranean labyrinth until they reach the alley from which they had entered.
"When will be the best time to seize Fu Hong Wu and to restore your brother?"
"I will let you know. Do nothing until you hear from me. He is going away tonight, some place to the north, but you must not come tonight. Do not come until I send for you. But now you must hurry. Go along the alley. He may call me at any moment. You must go now."
With the vial in his pocket and one last long look into the eyes of Kharahmin, he moves into the narrow alley. Leaving behind the fragrant perfumes of that mysterious house, he's surrounded by the stench of Limehouse.
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Chapter 34: An Eventful Night
Later that same night, at the home of Dr. Phillips on Baker Street, the two men sit comfortably. Phillips relates his strange tale, bringing Smyth up to speed on the events of his adventure in the lair of Fu Hong Wu. Smyth listens with amazement.
"So Ryland, with that vial in my pocket, containing a chemical concoction unknown to Western science, I left."
"Well, for a usually logical man, Phillips, you certainly committed yourself to an unwise venture. Of course, we must arrange with Inspector Wallace to raid the place at once."
"No, Ryland, my promise to Kharahmin must be kept."
"Very well, old man. You can look after that. I will devote the whole of my attention to Fu Hong Wu."
Up and down the room Smyth paces, gritting his teeth. The muscles stand out squarely upon his lean jaws. The bronze tan which spoke of his years in the Eastern sun enhances the brightness of his grey eyes.
"See Phillips? What have I all along maintained? Though she's one of the strongest weapons in his armory, she's one which would some day turn against him. I hope that day has dawned."
"Nevertheless, we must await word from her."
"Very well. Have you any idea about that stuff in the vial?"
"Not the slightest. I have none to spare for analysis, but if I only knew the composition of the drug which produced the semblance of death, my fame would long survive my ashes."
"She said it was something he put in the wine?"
"In the wine, yes. It must be some extraordinarily powerful narcotic. I swear, Ryland, if his treasury of obscure scientific wisdom were thrown open to the sick and suffering, the name of Dr. Fu Hong Wu would rank with the golden ones in the history of healing."
" We are no other than a moving show,
Of Magic Shadow shapes that come and go,
Round with the Sun illumined Lantern held,
In Midnight by the Master of the Show.
In this case Phillips, Fu Hong Wu is the master of the show.
There's at least one thing of which we can be certain. None of the three places we've raided here in London are his headquarters. I can state with confidence the opium den, the mansion near Windsor, and the boat on the Thames. None of these is the spot which Fu Hong Wu has chosen for his home."
"Can it be the East End riverside building to which Kharahmin took me?"
"Heaven only knows. That place in Commercial Road had a look of permanency you say?"
"Oh very much so. Probably an old warehouse, it had that appearance from the outside anyway. Inside, it was exquisite. Within was a palace of wondrous luxury. I've never seen such luxury, rugs, inlaid tables, priceless hangings, and bronze lamps."
Silence falls. Phillips' thoughts revert to Kharahmin, whom Fu Hong Wu held in bonds stronger than any slave chains. With Ali, her brother, suspended between life and death, what could she do save obey the mandates of the cunning Chinaman? What perverted genius he is.
"I cannot rest, Phillips. I'm itching to get to work. Yet, one false move and..."
Smyth lights his cigarette and stands at the window, staring out into the night.
"She said he was leaving tonight for the north, eh? Hmm, I wonder. Phillips I have an idea! I'm taking the next train north. I don't have much time to spare."
"Shall I go with you, Ryland?"
"No, that's not necessary, Phillips. It's rather late. You stay here and get some rest."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, Phillips. It's only a hunch and I'm probably just going off on a wild goose chase. Besides, I'd rather you wait here. Kharahmin may try to contact us."
"Very well, Ryland. In that case, I'll see you in the morning."
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Chapter 35: Sleeping with the Enemy
Having finished his bath, Phillips enters the bed chamber only to discover that he is not alone. The veils of sheer material she wears are scandalously revealing and elicit excitement. The satiny, smooth, formfitting items beneath cling lovingly to her shape, but are placed strategically enough to preserve mystery. Her appearance is evocative and forces a man's curiosity to ask immodest questions.
Phillips is speechless and fairly certain of the reason for her presence. In the silence and dim light she approaches slowly, so very slowly. When she dare not come any nearer, she lingers so close to him that he can feel the warmth emanating from her body.
To be in her presence, to stand in such close proximity, and to behold such exotic beauty, Phillips can think of nothing else. That attraction is impossible to resist. She's simply breathtaking and he's helplessly lost in her charm. It's so very rare to see such thing, something so strikingly beautiful. She's literally stunning. When he gazes upon her, words do not come.
There's only an empty aching, a longing desire. Yearning to touch her, wanting to hold her, a desire to take her, the need to possess her creeps over him from some dark, forgotten, hidden place. At moments like this, Phillips wishes he could walk away, but it's late and that's when he grows weak. Funny how he feels so much stronger in the daylight. He just wants to go to bed, to clear his mind, and just forget her.
That is not an option. She won't let it be. Slowly and enticingly she moves closer to him, placing her arms around his waist. Like the weave of a spider, she expertly spins her spellbinding web. Winding her captivating net around him, she presses closer. Gently, she rests her cheek against his chest. That's a surprisingly disarming tactic, which Phillips had not expected. Enchantingly, she begins swaying with him. A slow, rhythmic, rocking, almost dancing, it's just enough to cause their bodies to lightly brush against each other. She pulls him closer, holding him tighter, the friction and physical contact suddenly makes Phillips aware of her body.
Feeling her against him, so warm, so soft, and completely feminine. She's everything a woman should be, soft everywhere a woman should be soft, and firm everywhere a woman should be firm. A faint sweet scent lingers about her body. So much like her, it's very subtle, light, and delicate. A scent that's simultaneously stimulating and intoxicating. Lifting her head, their eyes meet.
Suddenly, he feels lightheaded and dizzy. Spinning round, thoughts of her fill his head, crowding his mind. His heart quickens, thumping furiously in his chest. There's an uneasy, knot in his stomach. He's confused by his feelings for her. Paralyzed by indecision, he can neither advance nor retreat.
She can sense his indecision and knows the cause. His heart is at war with his mind, but why does he hold back? Why does he refuse to give into his desire, to give himself to her?
Never before has she met a man so difficult to seduce. In her experience, men are all the same. They're fool-hearty, not only willing but boyishly eager to be seduced. How easily they succumb, yielding to the thrilling touch of her hand, consumed by her beauty, and falling prey to her charming allure.
He wants her. His yearning is obvious and undeniable. A need so overwhelming, so powerful, she can feel it. She can see it in his eyes. Yet, he refuses to give into that desire.
There's only one possible explanation. Dr. Phillips is a man with a past. He's been hurt before and it was most certainly by a woman. Yes, it must have been a woman. Nothing else damages a man that badly.
There's only one way to deal with a man like that. A man who refuses to take what he wants, is a man who must be taken!
She kisses him. Softly, slowly, she brushes her warm pink lips against his. He momentarily stiffens, recoiling from the shock of her sudden advance, but quickly his body melts into hers. With a weak and breathy sigh, he looks fearfully into her smoky dark eyes. Innocently, without the slightest hint of regret or deceit, her eyes beg and plead for him to return her affection.
Unable to bear the intensity of her gaze nor the weight of his shame, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. His arms tighten their hold on her, pulling her body close as possible against his. Pressing into him, her supple body yields to his will. Her slender little frame seems so small, so fragile in his embrace. A course groan escapes from deep in his throat. In defeat, he gently whispers.
"You shouldn't have done that."
She nuzzles against his neck. Her hands move from his waist, along his back, her arms squeezing him, giving a little hug. Her fingers caressing him as one slender hand finds its way to the back of his neck. Her lips brush against his skin seductively. His head tilts slightly, giving her room to continue. She trails a line of kisses from near his chest, moving teasingly up his neck, following his jawline toward his ear. His head falls farther to the side, exposing his neck to her, an unconscious act of submission. With a child-like innocence, she questions.
"Why not?"
Pausing, her tone changes. Her breathing is heavy, almost panting, as she whispers.
"It's what you want, what you need. It's been far too long since a woman has touched you like this. More importantly... it's what I want.
I need this, Phillips. I need you. Take me, make me yours, keep me. Accept the love I offer you, the pleasure my body aches to give you."
Her body is warm, inviting, and insistent as it writhes against his. Her fingers part, sliding through his hair and seizing hold. Ever so gently, but firmly, pulling him to face her, daring him to see the pleading in her eyes. His heart beats slow but hard, throbbing in his chest, and pounding in his ears. His passion rises, a passion that has long been repressed. Warmth builds within him. The flame of desire grows into a violent inferno. An uncontrollable blaze consuming his thoughts, until she can see it burning wildly in his eyes.
With an increasing sense of urgency, he places his hand beneath her chin, tilting her lips toward his. He kisses her, moving his hand to the back of her neck. Snaking his fingers along her neck and underneath her long, straight, black hair, his fingers mingle with those silky fine locks. At last he's where she wants him, where he wants to be.
As a new day dawns, Phillips walks her to the door, holds her close, and kisses her one last time. Opening the door, he follows her to the sidewalk. Again, he's reminded what Shakespeare meant by "parting is such sweet sorrow".
Phillips wishes time were not a moving thing. If he could make it stay, that night of love they shared would never end. There would be no coming day to harshly shine it's morning light and force him to realize that night is over.
As she walks away, he shades his eyes against the sun that rises overhead. He watches her walk away. Somehow he knows, he has to let her go.
If she only knew just how he really felt, she might return, and yet, there are so many times people have to love and then forget. This was one of those times. There might have been a way somehow, but no. He must force himself to accept it's over.
So he turns his back and turns his collar to the wind, moving along in silence, trying not to think at all. He sees his feet before him, walking along the empty street. He simply keeps walking and wondering. What happened to all his self-control? He tried so hard.
He hates himself for loving her, for wanting to be with her, for needing her. Knowing she'll never love him, the way he wants her too. She was playing her part. The girl would do anything to ensure her brothers safety. She could not possibly be in love with him and he was a fool, a weak, pathetic fool. It was nothing more than a momentary lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.
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Chapter 36: Back to Life
With the aid of Kharahmin and at the moment selected by their beautiful accomplice, they locate the lair of Dr. Fu Hong Wu. Inspector Wallace and a team of detectives entirely surround it. The river police lay in wait near the wharf adjacent to the warehouse on the riverside.
"You will fulfill your promise to me?" asks Kharahmin.
She was enveloped in a big, loose cloak, and from the shadow of the hood her wonderful eyes gleamed out like stars.
"What do you wish us to do?" asked Ryland Smyth.
"You and Dr. Phillips," she replies swiftly, "must enter first and bring out Ali. Until he is safe, until he is out of that place, you are to make no attempt upon..."
Kharahmin hesitates to pronounce the dreaded name, as she always does.
"Upon Dr. Fu Hong Wu?" interrupts Wallace. "But how can we be certain there is no trap laid for us?"
The Scotland Yard man did not entirely share Phillips' confidence in the integrity of this Eastern girl whom he knew to be a servant of the Chinaman.
"Ali lies in the private room," she explains eagerly, her odd accent more noticeable than usual.
"There is only one of the Burmese men in the house, and he.... he dare not enter without orders!"
"And Fu Hong Wu?"
"We have nothing to fear from him. He will be your prisoner within ten minutes from now! I have no time for words. You must believe!" She stomps her foot impatiently.
"And the Dacoit?" Smyth demands.
"He also."
"I think perhaps I'd better come in, too," says Wallace slowly.
Kharahmin shrugs with quick impatience. She unlocks the door in the high brick wall which divides the gloomy and evil-smelling court from the luxurious apartments of Dr. Fu Hong Wu.
"Make no noise," she warns.
Smyth and Phillips follow her into the uncarpeted passage. Inspector Wallace, with a final word of instruction to his second in command, quickly joins them.
The door is re-closed. The men are led along that labyrinth of stairs and passages, leading down far below street level. A large and heavy iron door with a most cunningly devised locking mechanism is opened.
Smyth grips his friend's arm. Phillips turns to see Smyth's face marked with an expression of sudden understanding. Leaning close, Smyth speaks in hushed tones.
"Do you recall that night we met with old Fong Wah?"
"What of it?"
"He spoke of secret places and hidden subterranean passages! He spoke of iron doors and underground apartments existing beneath Chinatown! He spoke of the secret 'underworld' empire dominated by the one we seek!"
"Great Scot! I'd completely forgotten about that, Smyth. It seems he gave us more than a mere history lesson."
"Indeed, Phillips! The old man was trying to tell us the location of Fu Hong Wu's lair. He was pointing us in the right direction. We simply failed to understand the clue and investigate."
Passing through a small unfurnished room, another passage leads to a balcony. The transition is startling. Darkness and silence surrounds them now. It's a perfumed, slumberous, darkness and a curious silence, a silence full of mystery. For, beyond the walls of the apartment wages the unceasing battle of sounds of the great industrial river. Beyond these scented confines floated the oily smoke-laden vapors of the Lower Thames.
From the metallic clangor of dockside life, from the unpleasant odors which prevail, from where ships swallow in and belch out the concrete evidences of commercial prosperity, they had come into this incensed stillness, where the light from a solitary flame dances upon the nearer walls and leaves the greater part of the room darker by contrast.
Nothing of the riverside activity, none of the riveting and scraping, the bumping of bales, the bawling of orders, or the hiss of steam penetrates to this hidden place. In the pool of tinted light lay the deathlike figure of a dark-haired boy, Kharahmin's exotically alluring form bending over him.
"At last, I stand in the house of Dr. Fu Hong Wu!" Smyth whispers.
Despite the girl's assurance, the men knew that proximity to the sinister Chinaman must be fraught with danger. They stood, not in the lion's den, but in the serpent's lair.
From the time when Ryland Smyth had come from Burma in pursuit of this criminal mastermind, the face of Dr. Fu Hong Wu rarely had been absent from his dreams. The millions might sleep in peace, the millions in whose cause he labored, but Smyth knows the reality of the danger. He knows that a veritable octopus has fastened upon England, an evil yellow octopus whose head was that of Dr. Fu Hong Wu, whose tentacles control London's opium trade, human slave trafficking, prostitution, and modes of death, secret and swift, which in the darkness plucked men from life and left no clue behind.
"Kharahmin!" Phillips calls softly.
The delicate form beneath the lamp turns. A soft light falls upon the lovely face of that slave girl. She had been a pliant instrument in the hands of Fu Hong Wu. Now, she is to be the means whereby society should be rid of him.
She raises a finger in warning and beckons Dr. Phillips to approach.
His feet sink in the rich pile of that carpet as he moves through the gloom of this great apartment. Stepping into the patch of light, standing beside Kharahmin, He gazes down upon the boy. It was Ali, her brother. Dead so far as Western lore had power to judge, but kept alive in that deathlike trance by the uncanny power of the Devil Doctor.
"Be quick," she pleads. "Be quick! Awaken him! I am fearful."
From the black physician's case, which he carried, Phillips produces a syringe and a vial containing a small quantity of amber-hued liquid. It is a drug not found in the British Pharmacopoeia. Of its constitution, Phillips knows nothing. Although he had possession of this vial for some days, Phillips dared not devote any of its precious contents to analytical purposes. The amber drops hold the mystery of life for Ali. That promises success for the mission of Ryland Smyth, promises ruin for the fiendish Chinaman.
Phillips raises the white coverlet. The boy, fully dressed, lay with his arms crossed upon his breast. Phillips notes the mark of previous injections, as charging the syringe from the vial, he makes what he hopes will be the last of such experiments upon the boy. Phillips would have given half his worldly possessions to understand the real nature of that drug which is now coursing through the veins of Ali.
Unfortunately, that is not the purpose of his visit. Phillips came to remove from the house of Dr. Fu Hong Wu that living chain which bound Kharahmin to him. With the boy alive and free, Fu Hong Wu's hold upon the enticingly beautiful slave girl would be broken.
Kharahmin, her hands convulsively clasped, kneels, and her eyes devour the face of that boy who was passing through the most amazing physiological change in the history of therapeutics. The peculiar perfume that she wears, which seems to be a part of her, which Phillips always associates with her, is faintly perceptible. Kharahmin is breathing rapidly.
"You have nothing to fear," Phillips whispers. "See, he is reviving. In a few moments, all will be well with him."
The hanging lamp with its garish colored shade swings gently above, wafted, it seems, by some draft which passes through the apartment. The boy's heavy lids begin to quiver, and Kharahmin nervously clutches Phillips' arm. She holds him while they watch for those long-lashed eyes to open.
The stillness of this place is positively unnatural. It seems inconceivable that all about is the discordant activity of the commercial East End. Indeed, this eerie silence is becoming oppressive. It begins to positively appall Phillips.
Inspector Wallace's wondering face peeps over Kharahmin's shoulder.
"Where is Dr. Fu Hong Wu?" Phillips whispers as Ryland Smyth in turn appears beside them.
"I cannot understand the silence of this house..."
"Look about," replies Kharahmin, never moving her gaze from the face of Ali.
Phillips peers around the shadowy walls. Tall glass cases, shelves, niches, the gallery above from which he had seen the tubes and retorts, the jars of unfamiliar organisms, the books of unfamiliar lore, the impedimenta of the occult student and man of science, the visible evidences of Fu Hong Wu's presence. Shelves, cases, and niches were bare.
Of the complicated appliances unknown to civilized laboratories, of the tubes containing isolated bacilli from unclassified diseases, of the bound volumes for a glimpse at which the great men of Harley Street would have given a fortune, no trace remains. The silken cushions, the inlaid tables, all are gone.
The room is stripped, dismantled. Has Fu Hong Wu escaped? The silence assumes a new significance. His servants and kindred ministers of death all must have vanished, as well.
Explosive anger builds within Phillips. His mind fills with emotions of betrayal and shame. It was a grievous mistake to take her into his bed and into his confidence. He was a fool.
"You have let him escape us!" Phillips exclaims. "You promised to aid us in capturing him, but you have delayed until..."
"No!" she insists and clutches his arm even more urgently. "Oh! Is he not reviving slowly? Are you sure that you have made no mistake?"
Her thoughts are only for the boy. Her solicitude tugs at Phillips' heart. Again, he examines Ali, the most remarkable patient of his busy professional career.
As Phillips counts the strengthening pulse, Ali opens his dark eyes. They are so like the eyes of Kharahmin. With the girl's eager arms tightly about him, the boy sits up, looking dazedly around.
Kharahmin presses her cheek to his, whispering loving words in that softly spoken native tongue, which now reveals her nationality to Ryland Smyth. Phillips hands her a flask filled with wine.
"My promise is fulfilled!" Phillips says. "You are free! Now for Fu Hong Wu! Let us admit the police to this house. There is something uncanny in its stillness."
"No," she replies. "First, let my brother be taken out and placed in safety. Will you carry him?"
She raises her face to that of Inspector Wallace, upon which is written awe and wonder.
The burly detective lifts the boy tenderly, passes through the shadows to the stairway, ascends, and is swallowed by the gloom. Ryland Smyth's eyes gleam feverishly. He turns to Kharahmin.
"You will play with us no more!" he demands harshly. "We have done our part. It remains for you to do yours."
"Do not speak so loudly," the girl begs. "HE is near us and, oh God, I fear him so!"
"Where is he?"
Kharahmin's eyes are glassy with fear.
"You must not touch him until the police are here," she warns.
From the direction of her quick and agitated glances, Phillips understands that she now fears for him, and for him alone. Those glances cause his blood to dance. For Kharahmin was an Eastern jewel, which any man must covet should she lie within his reach. Her dark eyes are twin lakes of mystery, which, more than once, Phillips experienced the desire to explore.
"Look beyond that curtain, but do not enter. Even as he is, you would be wise to fear him."
Her voice, her palpable agitation, prepares the two men for something extraordinary. Tragedy and Fu Hong Wu are never far apart. Though help was so near, they were in the abode of the most cunning murderer to ever migrate from the East.
With strangely mingled emotions, they cross the thick carpet. Ryland Smyth draws aside the draperies concealing a door, to which Kharahmin had pointed. Upon looking into the dim space beyond, all else save what it holds is forgotten.
They look upon a small, square room, the walls draped with fantastic Chinese tapestry, the floor strewn with cushions, and reclining in a corner, where the faint blue light from a lamp paints grotesque shadows about the mesmerizing face of Dr. Fu Hong Wu!
At the sight of him, Phillips' heart leaps and seems to suspend its functions. So intense is the horror which this man's presence inspires in men. Clutching the curtain, Phillips stands watching him. The lids veiled those malignant green eyes, but the thin lips seemed to smile.
Smyth silently points to the hand that holds a little pipe. A sickly sticky-sweet perfume assailed his nostrils, and the explanation of the hushed silence, and the ease with which they had thus far executed their plan, is now obvious to Phillips. The cunning mind is torpid, lost in a realm of dreams. Fu Hong Wu is possessed by an opium induced sleep.
The dim light plays upon the yellow face, from the pointed chin to the top of the great domed brow. Shadows form deep pools in the hollows beneath his eyes. At last, they had triumphed.
Phillips can not determine the depth of Hong Wu's obscene trance. Mastering some of his repugnance and forgetful of Kharahmin's warning, he's about to step forward into the room, loaded with its nauseating opium fumes, when a soft breath fanned his cheek.
"Do not go in!" Kharahmin warns. Her voice is hushed and trembling. Her little hand grasps his arm. She pulls Smyth and Phillips away from the door.
"There is danger in that chamber!" she whispers. "Do not enter! The police must reach him and drag him out! Do not enter that room!"
The girl's voice quivers hysterically. Her eyes blaze into savage flame. The fierce resentment born of dreadful wrongs consumes her now, but fear of Fu Hong Wu grips her yet. Inspector Wallace descends the stairs and joins them.
"I have sent the boy to Lyman's room at the station. The divisional surgeon will look after him until you arrive, Dr. Phillips. All is ready now. The launch is just off the wharf and every side of the place is under observation. Where's our man?"
He produces a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and raises his eyebrows interrogatively. The absence of sound puzzles him.
Ryland Smyth pokes his thumb toward the curtain.
At that, Wallace steps to the draped door. He is a man who drives straight at his goal and reserves reflections for subsequent leisure. Not to mention, the atmosphere of this place has begun to get a hold on him. He is anxious to shake it off, to be done with this, and to be out of here.
He pulls the curtain aside and steps into the room. Smyth and Phillips follow him. Just within the door, those three stand looking across at the limp thing which has spread terror and death throughout the Eastern and Western world. Helpless as Fu Hong Wu might be at this moment, he continues to inspire terror.
In the dimly lit apartment, Phillips hears Kharahmin utter a stifled scream, but it is already too late.
As though cast up by a volcano, the silken cushions, the inlaid table with its blue-shaded lamp, the garish walls, the sprawling figure, with the ghastly light playing upon its features, quivers, and bolts upward!
In that instant, Phillips recalls, too late, that previous experience with the floors in Singapore Charlie's opium den. He knows what has already befallen them. A trap triggers beneath their feet.
Phillips is being suffocated, but his hands find only deathly emptiness. Into a poisonous well of darkness, he sinks. He can not cry out. He is helpless. The fate of his companions is unknown. He can surmise nothing. Then ... all consciousness ends.
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Chapter 37: The Poison Abyss
Phillips is carried along a dimly lit tunnel. He's slung, sack-wise, across the shoulder of a Burman. A deadly nausea held him, but the rough handling has served to restore his consciousness. Phillips' hands and feet are closely lashed. He hangs limp as a wet towel.
Phillips imagines, in these first moments of awareness, that he's been smuggled into China. As his head swings downward, he supposes these huge and puffy mushrooms strewn about the path are a species of giant fungi, unfamiliar to him, and possibly peculiar to whatever district of China this may be.
The air is hot, steamy, and loaded with a smell of rotting vegetation. He wonders why his captor so scrupulously avoids touching any of the unwholesome-looking growths in passing through what seems a succession of cellars. The man navigates a tortuous course among the bloated, unnatural shapes, lifting his bare brown feet with a catlike delicacy.
The Burman passes beneath a low arch, drops Phillips roughly to the ground, and runs back. Half-stunned, Phillips lay watching the agile brown body melt into the distances of the underground passage. The walls and ceiling emit a faint phosphorescent light.
"Phillips!" a weak voice echoes from somewhere ahead. "Is that you, Phillips?"
"Smyth!" Phillips calls. He attempts to sit upright, but the intense nausea dissolves his intention.
Smyth calls out again, but Phillips can attach no meaning to the words. A sound of heavy footsteps approaches. The Burman reappears, bending under a heavy load. As he picks his way through the bloated specimens that grow upon the floors of the cellars, Phillips realizes the Burman carries the inert body of Inspector Wallace. Behind him, a second figure, which immediately claims Phillips' complete attention.
"Fu Hong Wu!" hisses Ryland, from within the darkness that conceals him.
It is indeed none other than Fu Hong Wu, the very same Fu Hong Wu whom they had thought to be helpless. The depth of the Chinaman's cunning, the fine quality of his courage, are forced upon Phillips as amazing facts.
He had assumed the appearance of a drugged opium-smoker so well as to dupe Phillips, a medical doctor, so well as to dupe Kharahmin, whose experience of the noxious habit probably was greater still. Even with the gallows dangling before him, Fu Hong Wu had waited, played the part of a lure, while a team of police actually surrounded the place!
Now, holding a lantern above his head, the fiendish devil moves through the passage, following the brown man who carries Wallace. The faint rays of the lantern reveal a veritable forest of gigantic fungi, poisonously colored, hideously swollen, climbing from the floor up the slimy walls, like horrid parasites to the arched ceiling.
Fu Hong Wu navigates a path through the fungi cautiously as though the distorted and tumid things are vipers.
The resounding footsteps which Phillips had noted before, and which had never ceased, culminate in a splintering crash. Dr. Fu Hong Wu and his servant, who carried the apparently insensible detective, passed in under the arch. Fu Hong Wu glances back once along the passages. The lantern is extinguished, or concealed, and while Phillips waits, he recalls memories of all the threats which this uncanny being had uttered.
Dr. Fu Hong Wu closes a heavy iron door. The ethereal glow plays around the fungi, rendering the vista faintly luminous and visible. Fu Hong Wu speaks softly. His voice, its guttural note alternating with a sibilance on certain words, betrays not a trace of agitation. The man's unbroken calm exhibits something inhuman, for he has just perpetrated an act of unparalleled daring.
"I have decided that you are more worthy of my attention than I had formerly supposed. A man who can solve the secret of the Golden Elixir should be a valuable acquisition to my Council. Furthermore, it is incumbent upon me to learn the extent of knowledge Mr. Ryland Smyth and Scotland Yard possess of my activity in England. Therefore, gentlemen, you live... for the present!"
"And you'll swing in the near future!" threatens Wallace, his voice hoarse. "You and all your yellow gang!"
"I trust not," is the placid reply. "Most of my people are safe. Some are shipped as lascars upon the liners. Others have departed by different means. "
through the glass wall, sealed by that iron door, a disk of light dances among the brilliant poison hues of the passages, but no sound reaches this chamber. It is much cooler here than it was in those passages and the nausea begins to leave Phillips.
"It's Logan!" cries Inspector Wallace as he struggles to free himself of his bonds. From his voice, it is evident that he, too, is recovering from the effects of whatever narcotic had been administered to the three captives.
"Logan!" he cries. "Logan! This way! HELP!"
But the sound echoes back in this enclosed space and seems to carry no farther than the walls of this prison.
"The door fits well." Fu Hong Wu's tone is mocking. "This is my observation window, Dr. Phillips, and you are about to enjoy a rather unique opportunity of studying fungology. I have already drawn your attention to the anesthetic properties of the lycoperdon, or common puff-ball. You may have recognized the fumes? The chamber into which you rashly precipitated yourselves was charged with them. By a process of my own, I have greatly enhanced their value in this respect. Your friend, Mr. Wallace, proved the most obstinate subject, but he succumbed in fifteen seconds."
"Logan! Help! HELP! This way, man!"
Something very like fear sounds in Wallace's voice now. Indeed, the situation is so uncanny that it nearly seems unreal. A group of men enters the farthermost passages. Lights dance from bloated gray fungi to others of nightmare shape, of dazzling, venomous brilliance. The mocking, lecture-room voice continues.
"Note the snowy growth upon the roof, Doctor. Do not be deceived by its size. It is a giant variety of my own culture and is of the order Empusa. You, in England, are familiar with the death of the common house-fly, which is found attached to the windowpane by a coating of white mold. I have developed the spores of this mold and have produced a giant species. Observe the interesting effect of the strong light upon my orange and blue amanita fungus!"
Phillips hears Ryland Smyth groan. Wallace is suddenly silent. Phillips wants to shriek in pure horror. For he knew what was about to transpire. He understands in one agonizing instant the significance of the dim lantern, of the careful progress through the subterranean fungi grove, of the care with which Fu Hong Wu and his servant had avoided touching any of the growths. He knows, now, that Dr. Fu Hong Wu is the greatest fungologist the world has ever known. Fu Hong Wu is a poisoner to whom the Borgias are as children, and he knows the detectives are walking blindly into the valley of death.
Then it begins, the unnatural scene, the saturnalia of murder. Like so many bombs, the brilliantly colored caps of the huge mushrooms exploded. As the white ray seeks them out in darkness, a magenta mist clouds the passage.
Phillips tries to close his eyes and turn away from the reeling forms of those men who are trapped in that poisonous abyss. It is useless. He must look.
A bright light fills that chamber of death. Doubtless, at the touch of that fiendish being who now resumes speaking.
"Observe the symptoms of delirium, Doctor!" Out there, beyond the glass door, the unfortunate victims are laughing, tearing their garments, leaping, waving their arms, as they're claimed by mania.
"We will now release the ripe spores of giant entpusa," continues the wicked voice. "The air of that passage being super-charged with oxygen, they immediately germinate. It is a triumph! That process is a scientific triumph!"
Like powdered snow, the white spores fall from the roof, frosting the writhing shapes of the already poisoned men. Before Phillips' horrified gaze, THE FUNGUS GROWS! It spreads from the head to the feet of those it touches. It envelops them in glittering shrouds.
"They die like flies," observes Fu Hong Wu. "It is my fly-trap and I am the god of destruction!"
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 38: The Last Laugh
All but silently, the launch moves through the mist. That clangor from the dock and wharf fades into a remote discord. A foggy curtain veils the traffic of the great waterway. The calm of night is broken only by the calling of sirens, the tinkling of bells, and the guttural voice of Fu Hong Wu as he speaks in his habitual calm manner.
"Set course for the yacht, Lao. The fog will cover our movement until we reach the sea beyond the mouth of this river, but watch closely for police launches."
He turns to address his captive guests.
"Now, gentleman, Kharahmin may remove your gags. However, let me warn you that even one cry for assistance, should we encounter a police launch, will mean worse than death for the three of you. For your own sake, I trust you will be discreet."
As Kharahmin is about to remove those bindings from their mouths, the gentle propulsion of the boat ceases altogether. The launch heaves slightly upon the swells. A distant throbbing grows louder as something advances through the haze. A bell rings, muffled by the fog. A voice proclaims itself. A voice which Phillips recognizes. Wallace shifts uneasily and Phillips knows that he, too, has recognized the voice.
It's the voice of Detective Lyman with the river police. Their launch is somewhere very nearby.
Phillips trembles with feverish excitement. Ignoring the pain that radiates from his spine to his skull, Phillips cranes his neck to the left. The port light of the police launch glows angrily through the mist.
"Ahoy! Ahoy!"
Phillips is unable to utter a sound. His companions are equally helpless. It's a desperate position. Had the police seen this vessel? Had they hailed at random? The light draws nearer.
"Launch, ahoy!"
"Hurry, Lao. Loose them in the fog. Quickly!" orders Fu Hong Wu.
With a sudden surge, the launch is underway again. It pushes ahead into the darkness and fog. Faint grows the light of the police launch and is gone, but Lyman's voice is still shouting.
"Full speed ahead! Follow that launch!"
The fog closes in. With the river police far astern, Phillips and company race deeper into the night, speeding seaward, sweeping over growing swells.
A voice mumbles in Phillips' ear. He turns. Inspector Wallace lifts his unbound hands in the dimness and partly slips the bandage from his mouth.
"I've been working at the cords since we left those filthy cellars," he whispers. "When I've freed my ankles..."
Smyth kicks him with bound feet. Wallace slips the bandage back to position and places his hands behind him again. Dr. Fu Hong Wu sits on the cushions near the men. His brilliantly white vampyric teeth are faintly visible in the dim light as Kharahmin removes the bindings from the mouths of the three captives.
"You can not escape, Fu Hong Wu! The river is crowded with police launches."
"We have escaped, Mr. Smyth. Shortly, we will be at sea, aboard my yacht, and on our way to the Orient.
Dr. Phillips shall be my honored guest. Together we shall revolutionize chemistry.
As for you, Mr. Smyth, I fear you know more of my plans than I would prefer. I am interested to know if you have disclosed what you know to your superiors. Where your memory fails, and should my files and wire jacket prove ineffectual, Inspector Wallace's recollections may prove more accurate."
He turns to the cowering girl. Kharahmin shrinks away from him in pitiful and abject terror. Again, he turns to Dr. Phillips.
"You, Doctor, appear to display an undue interest in my delightful Kharahmin. You appreciate the supple grace of her movements and the sparkle of her eyes. Do you not?
Unfortunately, you can never devote your entire mind to those studies which I have planned for you while such distractions exist. "
"The girl means nothing to me," replies Phillips.
"Ah! But you, Doctor, mean much to her, and she is no longer useful to me. Since she has decided to work against me.
In the East, there is a saying. 'Before casting away a tool no longer useful, it should be destroyed.'
In my hand, Doctor, I hold a hypodermic syringe charged with a rare toxin of my own design. It is quite swift and most horrible. One touch of this and the beautiful Kharahmin becomes a shrieking hag..."
With an ox-like rush, Wallace seizes Fu Hong Wu! Kharahmin, with a sobbing cry, falls to the deck and remains still. Phillips manages to struggle into a half-sitting posture. Smyth rolls aside as the Inspector and the Chinaman crash down together.
Wallace has one massive hand on the Doctor's yellow throat. With his left, he grips the Chinaman's right. It holds the unhealthy needle.
The murk grows denser and closes in like a coffin. The throb of that motor, the hissing breath of those two who fight, the wash of the water, these sounds alone disturb the eerie stillness.
By slow degrees, and with reptilian agility horrible to watch, Fu Hong Wu neutralizes the advantage gained by Wallace. Dr. Fu's talon-like claws are fast in the big man's throat. His right hand, with its deadly needle, is forcing down the left of his opponent.
Fu Hong Wu gains the upper hand. His endurance and combat skills are clearly superior to the hulking giant of a man with whom he battles. Wallace's breath comes and goes in great gasps. He is palpably tiring.
Wallace suddenly changes tactics. By a supreme effort, to which he is spurred by the growing proximity of the needle, he lifts Fu Hong Wu by the throat and arm, then pitches the Chinaman sideways.
Dr. Fu's grip does not relax. The two men drop, a writhing mass upon the port cushions. The launch heels over. As Fu Hong Wu seeks to extricate himself, he overbalances, falls back, and, bearing Wallace with him, plunges into the river!
The mist swallows them up.
There are moments when no man can recall his mental impressions. Moments so acutely horrible that, mercifully, our memory retains nothing of the emotions they occasion. This is one of them. Chaos clouds Phillips' mind.
The Burman, who has been piloting the craft, glances back. The course of that launch changes. The black hull of a steamship appears suddenly like a massive wall alongside the launch.
With a sickening jerk, the launch is aground. A loud explosion ensues. Phillips clearly perceives the Burman leap out into the fog. Water begins to wash aboard.
Fully aware of imminent peril, Phillips struggles with the cords that bind him. He lacks the strength of wrist and accepts the horrible possibility of an imminent death from drowning, within six feet of the bank.
Ryland Smyth is straining and twisting. His object is to touch Kharahmin, in the hope of arousing her. Where he fails in this endeavor, the inflowing water succeeds. A silent prayer of thankfulness ensues from Phillips' very soul when she wakes, when she raises her hands to her head, and when her mysterious dark eyes gleam through that misty veil of fog.
They escape the wrecked launch barely a few seconds before her stern settles beneath the river's surface. Their location upon the mud-bank of this great industrial river, they have no idea. Nevertheless, at least it's terra firma and they are free from Dr. Fu Hong Wu.
As the river police launch approaches this mud-flat below Greenwich, from somewhere out there in the fog-laden night, echoes an uncanny howling and peals of maniacal laughter. It is a sound that will haunt Phillips' dreams for weeks to come.
Smyth stands looking out towards the river.
"My God!" he groans. "My God!"
He is thinking of Wallace.
Kharahmin, who nestles beside Phillips like a frightened child, shivers in horror. Fu Hong Wu's needle has done its work, despite Wallace's giant strength. Smyth swallows noisily.
"Pray God the river has put an end to that accursed Satan, Fu Hong Wu," he growls. "I would sacrifice ten years of my life to see his body on the end of a grappling-iron!"
They're a somber and sullen party as they steam homeward through the fog this night. It seems to them almost like deserting a staunch comrade to leave that spot, so nearly as they could determine, where Wallace has put up his last gallant fight. Their helplessness is pathetic, and had the night been clear as crystal, Smyth doubts if they could have acted otherwise. It seems to him this hazy murk is a new enemy that drives them back in cowardly retreat.
The following day, members of the fire brigade, helmed against contagion, remove from that poisonous passage the bodies of those victims wrapped in their living shrouds. The final toll of that poison abyss is eight men in total.
But so many are the calls upon his duty that Ryland Smyth has matter to relieve his mind from this stress of sorrow. There is Kharahmin to be considered and her brother. A brief counsel is held, whereupon it is decided that for the present they should be anonymously lodged at a hotel.
"I shall arrange to have the place patrolled night and day," Smyth declares.
"You cannot suppose..."
"Phillips, I cannot and dare not suppose Fu Hong Wu dead until with my own eyes I have seen his corpse!"
From Kharahmin, Smyth and Phillips learn much about Fu Hong Wu, little of herself.
"What am I? Does my poor history matter to anyone?" is her answer to questions respecting herself. Then she drops those lush black lashes over her dark eyes.
Ryland Smyth questions the girl about the Chinaman's private yacht. However, she had never been on board, had never even set eyes upon it, and could give no information respecting its character. She believed it had already sailed for China.
"You are certain that it has actually departed?"
"I understood that if we did not board before midnight, it was to sail without us and that we were to follow by another means."
"Would it have been difficult for Fu Hong Wu to travel by a passenger boat?"
"I cannot say what were his plans."
"What exactly was the meaning of the horrible laughter which we heard in the fog?"
Kharahmin, sitting beside Phillips, shudders at those words.
"You will recall when your brave comrade, Inspector Wallace, and Dr. Fu Hong Wu, were swallowed up by the river, Fu Hong Wu held a poisoned needle in his hand."
"Yes, I recall," Smyth replies grimly.
"The laughter meant the needle had done its work. Your friend had become mad!"
Dr. Phillips turns aside to hide his emotion. "Yes, we assumed that. But what exactly was the toxin in that needle?"
"It was something which he prepared from the venom of a kind of swamp adder. It produces madness, but not always death."
"Wallace would've had a poor chance," said Smyth, "even had he been in complete possession of his senses. At the time of the encounter, we must have been some considerable distance from shore and the fog was impenetrable."
"But how do you account for the fact that neither of their bodies have been recovered?" Phillips enquires of Smyth.
"Lyman of the river police tells me that persons lost in that part of the Thames are not always recovered... or not until a considerable time later."
In the coming days, Smyth and Dr. Phillips learn from Kharahmin the Dacoits, who the Chinaman had brought to England, originally numbered seven. Probably, only one now remained in England. They had lived in a camp on the grounds of that house near Windsor, which the Doctor had purchased outright. As suspected, the Thames had indeed been his highway.
Other members of the group had occupied quarters in various parts of the East End, where seamen of all nationalities congregate. Shang Yin's had been their East End headquarters. Fu Hong Wu had employed the houseboat from the time of his most recent arrival, as a laboratory for a certain class of experiments undesirable in proximity to a place of residence.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 39: A New Beginning
FROM THE JOURNAL OF:
Dr. Arthur Phillips Beaker
Of all that we had hoped for in our pursuit of Fu Hong Wu, how little had we accomplished. Excepting Kharahmin and her brother, who were victims and not creatures of the Devil Doctor, not one of the formidable group had fallen alive into our hands. Dreadful crimes had marked Fu Hong Wu's passage through the land. Not one-half of the truth, and nothing of the later developments, had been made public. Ryland Smyth's authority was sufficient to control the press.
In the absence of such a veto, a veritable panic must have seized upon the entire country. For a monster, a thing more than humanly evil, existed in our midst.
Always, Fu Hong Wu's secret activities had centered on the great waterway. There was much poetic justice in his end. For the Thames had claimed him, who so long had used the stream as a highway for the passage to and fro for his secret forces. Gone now were the yellow men who had been the instruments of his evil will. Gone was the giant intellect that had controlled the complex murder machine. Kharahmin, whose beauty he had used as a lure, at last was free, and no more with her smile would tempt men to death, that her brother might live.
Many there are, I doubt not, who will regard the Eastern girl with horror. I ask their forgiveness in that I regarded her quite differently. No man, having seen her, could have condemned her unheard. Many, having looked into her lovely eyes, had they found there what I found, must have forgiven her almost any crime.
That she valued human life but little was no matter for wonder. Her nationality, her history, furnished adequate excuse for an attitude not condonable in a European equally cultured.
But indeed let me confess that hers was a nature incomprehensible to me in some respects. The soul of Kharahmin was a closed book to my short-sighted Western eyes. But the body of Kharahmin was exquisite. Her beauty of a kind that was a key to the most extravagant rhapsodies of Eastern poets. Her eyes held a challenge wholly Oriental in their appeal. Her lips, even in repose, were a taunt. And, herein, East is West and West is East.
Finally, despite her lurid history, despite the scornful self-possession of which I knew her capable, she was an unprotected girl, in years, I believe, a mere child, whom Fate had cast in my way. At her request, we had booked passages for her brother and herself to Egypt. The boat sailed in three days. But Kharahmin's beautiful eyes were sad. Often, I detected tears on the black lashes. Shall I endeavor to describe my own tumultuous and conflicting emotions? It would be useless, since I know it to be impossible. For in those dark eyes burned a fire I might not see. Those silken lashes veiled a message I dared not read.
Ryland Smyth was not blind to the facts of the complicated situation. I can truthfully assert that he was the only man of my acquaintance who, having come in contact with Kharahmin, had kept his head.
We endeavored to divert her mind from the recent tragedies by a round of amusements, though with poor Wallace's body still at the mercy of unknown waters, Smyth and I made but a poor show of gaiety. I took a gloomy pride in the admiration which our lovely companion everywhere excited. I learned, in those days, how rare a thing in nature is a truly beautiful woman.
One afternoon, we found ourselves at an exhibition of watercolors in Bond Street. Kharahmin was intensely interested in the subjects of the drawings, which were entirely Egyptian. As usual, she furnished matter for comment amongst the other visitors, as did the boy, Ali, her brother, anew upon the world from his living grave in the house of Dr. Fu Hong Wu.
Suddenly, Ali clutched at his sister's arm, whispering rapidly in his native tongue. I saw her peach-like color fade, saw her become pale and wild-eyed, the haunted Kharahmin of the old days.
She turned to me.
"Dr. Phillips, he says that Fu Hong Wu is here!"
"Where?"
Ryland Smyth rapped out the question violently, turning in a flash from the picture which he was examining.
"In this room!" she whispered glancing furtively, affrightedly about her. "Something tells Ali when HE is near. And I, too, feel strangely afraid. Oh, can it be that he is not dead!"
She held my arm tightly. Her brother was searching the room with big, velvet black eyes. I studied the faces of several visitors. Smyth was staring about him with the old alert look, and tugging nervously at the lobe of his ear. The name of the giant foe of the white race instantaneously had strung him up to a pitch of supreme intensity.
Our united scrutinies discovered no figure which could have been that of the Chinese devil. Who could mistake that long, tall shape, with those high shoulders, and the indescribable gait, which I can only liken to that of a graceful feline?
Then, over the heads of a group of people who stood by the doorway, I saw Smyth peering at someone. Someone who passed through the outer room. Stepping aside, I, too, obtained a glimpse of this person.
As I saw him, he was a tall, old man, wearing a black Inverness coat and a rather shabby silk hat. He had long white hair and a patriarchal beard, wore smoked glasses, and walked slowly, leaning upon a stick.
Smyth's gaunt face paled. With a rapid glance at Kharahmin, he made off across the room.
Could it be Dr. Fu Hong Wu in disguise?
Many days had passed since, already half-choked by Inspector Wallace's iron grip, Fu Hong Wu, before our own eyes, had been swallowed up by the Thames. Even now, men were seeking his body, and that of his last victim. Nor had we left any stone unturned. Acting upon information furnished by Kharahmin, the police had searched every known haunt of the murder group. But everything indicated the group disbanded and dispersed. All indications led us to believe the lord of strange deaths, who had ruled that group, was no more.
Yet Smyth was not satisfied. Neither, let me confess, was I. Every port was watched. In suspect districts, a kind of house-to-house patrol had been instituted. Unknown to the general public, in those days, a secret war raged. A war in which all the available forces of the authorities took the field against one man! But that one man was the evil of the East incarnate.
- TERMINUS LIBRI -
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