The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, Sax Rohmer [knowledgeable books to read TXT] 📗

my watery prison. More fire fell from above, and the scream of hysteria quivered, unuttered, in my throat.

Keeping myself afloat with increasing difficulty in my heavy garments, I threw my head back and raised my eyes.

No more drops fell, and no more drops would fall; but it was merely a question of time for the floor to collapse. For it was beginning to emit a dull, red glow.

The room above me was in flames!

It was drops of burning oil from the lamp, finding passage through the cracks in the crazy flooring, which had fallen about me⁠—for the death trap had reclosed, I suppose, mechanically.

My saturated garments were dragging me down, and now I could hear the flames hungrily eating into the ancient rottenness overhead. Shortly that cauldron would be loosed upon my head. The glow of the flames grew brighter⁠ ⁠… and showed me the half-rotten piles upholding the building, showed me the tidal mark upon the slime-coated walls⁠—showed me that there was no escape!

By some subterranean duct the foul place was fed from the Thames. By that duct, with the outgoing tide, my body would pass, in the wake of Mason, Cadby, and many another victim!

Rusty iron rungs were affixed to one of the walls communicating with a trap⁠—but the bottom three were missing!

Brighter and brighter grew the awesome light the light of what should be my funeral pyre⁠—reddening the oily water and adding a new dread to the whispering, clammy horror of the pit. But something it showed me⁠ ⁠… a projecting beam a few feet above the water⁠ ⁠… and directly below the iron ladder!

“Merciful Heaven!” I breathed. “Have I the strength?”

A desire for laughter claimed me with sudden, all but irresistible force. I knew what it portended and fought it down⁠—grimly, sternly.

My garments weighed upon me like a suit of mail; with my chest aching dully, my veins throbbing to bursting, I forced tired muscles to work, and, every stroke an agony, approached the beam. Nearer I swam⁠ ⁠… nearer. Its shadow fell black upon the water, which now had all the seeming of a pool of blood. Confused sounds⁠—a remote uproar⁠—came to my ears. I was nearly spent⁠ ⁠… I was in the shadow of the beam! If I could throw up one arm⁠ ⁠…

A shrill scream sounded far above me!

“Petrie! Petrie!” (That voice must be Smith’s!) “Don’t touch the beam! For God’s sake don’t touch the beam! Keep afloat another few seconds and I can get to you!”

Another few seconds! Was that possible?

I managed to turn, to raise my throbbing head; and I saw the strangest sight which that night yet had offered.

Nayland Smith stood upon the lowest iron rung⁠ ⁠… supported by the hideous, crook-backed Chinaman, who stood upon the rung above!

“I can’t reach him!”

It was as Smith hissed the words despairingly that I looked up⁠—and saw the Chinaman snatch at his coiled pigtail and pull it off! With it came the wig to which it was attached; and the ghastly yellow mask, deprived of its fastenings, fell from position! “Here! Here! Be quick! Oh! be quick! You can lower this to him! Be quick! Be quick!”

A cloud of hair came falling about the slim shoulders as the speaker bent to pass this strange lifeline to Smith; and I think it was my wonder at knowing her for the girl whom that day I had surprised in Cadby’s rooms which saved my life.

For I not only kept afloat, but kept my gaze upturned to that beautiful, flushed face, and my eyes fixed upon hers⁠—which were wild with fear⁠ ⁠… for me!

Smith, by some contortion, got the false queue into my grasp, and I, with the strength of desperation, by that means seized hold upon the lowest rung. With my friend’s arm round me I realized that exhaustion was even nearer than I had supposed. My last distinct memory is of the bursting of the floor above and the big burning joist hissing into the pool beneath us. Its fiery passage, striated with light, disclosed two sword blades, riveted, edges up along the top of the beam which I had striven to reach.

“The severed fingers⁠—” I said; and swooned.

How Smith got me through the trap I do not know⁠—nor how we made our way through the smoke and flames of the narrow passage it opened upon. My next recollection is of sitting up, with my friend’s arm supporting me and Inspector Ryman holding a glass to my lips.

A bright glare dazzled my eyes. A crowd surged about us, and a clangor and shouting drew momentarily nearer.

“It’s the engines coming,” explained Smith, seeing my bewilderment. “Shen-Yan’s is in flames. It was your shot, as you fell through the trap, broke the oil-lamp.”

“Is everybody out?”

“So far as we know.”

“Fu-Manchu?”

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“No one has seen him. There was some door at the back⁠—”

“Do you think he may⁠—”

“No,” he said tensely. “Not until I see him lying dead before me shall I believe it.”

Then memory resumed its sway. I struggled to my feet.

“Smith, where is she?” I cried. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“She’s given us the slip, Doctor,” said Inspector Weymouth, as a fire-engine came swinging round the corner of the narrow lane. “So has Mr. Singapore Charlie⁠—and, I’m afraid, somebody else. We’ve got six or eight all-sorts, some awake and some asleep, but I suppose we shall have to let ’em go again. Mr. Smith tells me that the girl was disguised as a Chinaman. I expect that’s why she managed to slip away.”

I recalled how I had been dragged from the pit by the false queue, how the strange discovery which had brought death to poor Cadby had brought life to me, and I seemed to remember, too, that Smith had dropped it as he threw his arm about me on the ladder. Her mask the girl might have retained, but her wig, I felt certain, had been dropped into the water.

It was later that night, when the brigade still were playing upon the blackened shell of what had been Shen-Yan’s opium-shop, and