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

his voice was barely audible. Weakly he grasped my hand. “My fault. I shouldn’t have let you come.”

From the corner of the room where the black shadows lay flicked a long tongue of flame. Muffled, staccato, came the report. And the yellow face at the window was blotted out.

One wild cry, ending in a rattling gasp, told of a dacoit gone to his account.

A gray figure glided past me and was silhouetted against the broken window.

Again the pistol sent its message into the night, and again came the reply to tell how well and truly that message had been delivered. In the stillness, intense by sharp contrast, the sound of bare soles pattering upon the path outside stole to me. Two runners, I thought there were, so that four dacoits must have been upon our trail. The room was full of pungent smoke. I staggered to my feet as the gray figure with the revolver turned towards me. Something familiar there was in that long, gray garment, and now I perceived why I had thought so.

It was my gray raincoat.

“Karamanèh,” I whispered.

And Smith, with difficulty, supporting himself upright, and holding fast to the ledge beside the door, muttered something hoarsely, which sounded like “God bless her!”

The girl, trembling now, placed her hands upon my shoulders with that quaint, pathetic gesture peculiarly her own.

“I followed you,” she said. “Did you not know I should follow you? But I had to hide because of another who was following also. I had but just reached this place when I saw you running towards me.”

She broke off and turned to Smith.

“This is your pistol,” she said naively. “I found it in your bag. Will you please take it?”

He took it without a word. Perhaps he could not trust himself to speak.

“Now go. Hurry!” she said. “You are not safe yet.”

“But you?” I asked.

“You have failed,” she replied. “I must go back to him. There is no other way.”

Strangely sick at heart for a man who has just had a miraculous escape from death, I opened the door. Coatless, disheveled figures, my friend and I stepped out into the moonlight.

Hideous under the pale rays lay the two dead men, their glazed eyes upcast to the peace of the blue heavens. Karamanèh had shot to kill, for both had bullets in their brains. If God ever planned a more complex nature than hers⁠—a nature more tumultuous with conflicting passions, I cannot conceive of it. Yet her beauty was of the sweetest; and in some respects she had the heart of a child⁠—this girl who could shoot so straight.

“We must send the police tonight,” said Smith. “Or the papers⁠—”

“Hurry,” came the girl’s voice commandingly from the darkness of the cottage.

It was a singular situation. My very soul rebelled against it. But what could we do?

“Tell us where we can communicate,” began Smith.

“Hurry. I shall be suspected. Do you want him to kill me?”

We moved away. All was very still now, and the lights glimmered faintly ahead. Not a wisp of cloud brushed the moon’s disk.

“Good night, Karamanèh,” I whispered softly.

XVIII

To pursue further the adventure on the marshes would be a task at once useless and thankless. In its actual and in its dramatic significance it concluded with our parting from Karamanèh. And in that parting I learned what Shakespeare meant by “Sweet Sorrow.”

There was a world, I learned, upon the confines of which I stood, a world whose very existence hitherto had been unsuspected. Not the least of the mysteries which peeped from the darkness was the mystery of the heart of Karamanèh. I sought to forget her. I sought to remember her. Indeed, in the latter task I found one more congenial, yet, in the direction and extent of the ideas which it engendered, one that led me to a precipice.

East and West may not intermingle. As a student of world-policies, as a physician, I admitted, could not deny, that truth. Again, if Karamanèh were to be credited, she had come to Fu-Manchu a slave; had fallen into the hands of the raiders; had crossed the desert with the slave-drivers; had known the house of the slave-dealer. Could it be? With the fading of the crescent of Islam I had thought such things to have passed.

But if it were so?

At the mere thought of a girl so deliciously beautiful in the brutal power of slavers, I found myself grinding my teeth⁠—closing my eyes in a futile attempt to blot out the pictures called up.

Then, at such times, I would find myself discrediting her story. Again, I would find myself wondering, vaguely, why such problems persistently haunted my mind. But, always, my heart had an answer. And I was a medical man, who sought to build up a family practice!⁠—who, in short, a very little time ago, had thought himself past the hot follies of youth and entered upon that staid phase of life wherein the daily problems of the medical profession hold absolute sway and such seductive follies as dark eyes and red lips find⁠—no place⁠—are excluded!

But it is foreign from the purpose of this plain record to enlist sympathy for the recorder. The topic upon which, here, I have ventured to touch was one fascinating enough to me; I cannot hope that it holds equal charm for any other. Let us return to that which it is my duty to narrate and let us forget my brief digression.

It is a fact, singular, but true, that few Londoners know London. Under the guidance of my friend, Nayland Smith, I had learned, since his return from Burma, how there are haunts in the very heart of the metropolis whose existence is unsuspected by all but the few; places unknown even to the ubiquitous copy-hunting pressman.

Into a quiet thoroughfare not two minutes’ walk from the pulsing life of Leicester Square, Smith led the way. Before a door sandwiched in between two dingy shopfronts he paused and turned to me.

“Whatever you see or