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

by the river police at six a.m. this morning. It is supposed that the man met with an accident in leaving his ship.”

Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above paragraph.

“For ‘lascar’ read ‘dacoit,’ ” he said. “Our visitor, who came by way of the ivy, fortunately for us, failed to follow his instructions. Also, he lost the centipede and left a clue behind him. Dr. Fu-Manchu does not overlook such lapses.”

It was a sidelight upon the character of the awful being with whom we had to deal. My very soul recoiled from bare consideration of the fate that would be ours if ever we fell into his hands.

The telephone bell rang. I went out and found that Inspector Weymouth of New Scotland Yard had called us up.

“Will Mr. Nayland Smith please come to the Wapping River Police Station at once,” was the message.

Peaceful interludes were few enough throughout that wild pursuit.

“It is certainly something important,” said my friend; “and, if Fu-Manchu is at the bottom of it⁠—as we must presume him to be⁠—probably something ghastly.”

A brief survey of the timetables showed us that there were no trains to serve our haste. We accordingly chartered a cab and proceeded east.

Smith, throughout the journey, talked entertainingly about his work in Burma. Of intent, I think, he avoided any reference to the circumstances which first had brought him in contact with the sinister genius of the Yellow Movement. His talk was rather of the sunshine of the East than of its shadows.

But the drive concluded⁠—and all too soon. In a silence which neither of us seemed disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and followed an officer who received us into the room where Weymouth waited.

The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.

“Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard,” he said; and his usually gruff voice had softened strangely.

Smith struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand and swore under his breath, striding up and down the neat little room. No one spoke for a moment, and in the silence I could hear the whispering of the Thames outside⁠—of the Thames which had so many strange secrets to tell, and now was burdened with another.

The body lay prone upon the deal table⁠—this latest of the river’s dead⁠—dressed in rough sailor garb, and, to all outward seeming, a seaman of nondescript nationality⁠—such as is no stranger in Wapping and Shadwell. His dark, curly hair clung clammily about the brown forehead; his skin was stained, they told me. He wore a gold ring in one ear, and three fingers of the left hand were missing.

“It was almost the same with Mason.” The river police inspector was speaking. “A week ago, on a Wednesday, he went off in his own time on some funny business down St. George’s way⁠—and Thursday night the ten o’clock boat got the grapnel on him off Hanover Hole. His first two fingers on the right hand were clean gone, and his left hand was mutilated frightfully.”

He paused and glanced at Smith.

“That lascar, too,” he continued, “that you came down to see, sir; you remember his hands?”

Smith nodded.

“He was not a lascar,” he said shortly. “He was a dacoit.”

Silence fell again.

I turned to the array of objects lying on the table⁠—those which had been found in Cadby’s clothing. None of them were noteworthy, except that which had been found thrust into the loose neck of his shirt. This last it was which had led the police to send for Nayland Smith, for it constituted the first clue which had come to light pointing to the authors of these mysterious tragedies.

It was a Chinese pigtail. That alone was sufficiently remarkable; but it was rendered more so by the fact that the plaited queue was a false one being attached to a most ingenious bald wig.

“You’re sure it wasn’t part of a Chinese makeup?” questioned Weymouth, his eye on the strange relic. “Cadby was clever at disguise.”

Smith snatched the wig from my hands with a certain irritation, and tried to fit it on the dead detective.

“Too small by inches!” he jerked. “And look how it’s padded in the crown. This thing was made for a most abnormal head.”

He threw it down, and fell to pacing the room again.

“Where did you find him⁠—exactly?” he asked.

“Limehouse Reach⁠—under Commercial Dock Pier⁠—exactly an hour ago.”

“And you last saw him at eight o’clock last night?”⁠—to Weymouth.

“Eight to a quarter past.”

“You think he has been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Petrie?”

“Roughly, twenty-four hours,” I replied.

“Then, we know that he was on the track of the Fu-Manchu group, that he followed up some clue which led him to the neighborhood of old Ratcliff Highway, and that he died the same night. You are sure that is where he was going?”

“Yes,” said Weymouth; “He was jealous of giving anything away, poor chap; it meant a big lift for him if he pulled the case off. But he gave me to understand that he expected to spend last night in that district. He left the Yard about eight, as I’ve said, to go to his rooms, and dress for the job.”

“Did he keep any record of his cases?”

“Of course! He was most particular. Cadby was a man with ambitions, sir! You’ll want to see his book. Wait while I get his address; it’s somewhere in Brixton.”

He went to the telephone, and Inspector Ryman covered up the dead man’s face.

Nayland Smith was palpably excited.

“He almost succeeded where we have failed, Petrie,” he said. “There is no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu-Manchu! Poor Mason had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a similar fate. Without other evidence, the fact that they both died in the same way as the dacoit would be conclusive, for we know that Fu-Manchu killed the dacoit!”

“What is the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smith?”

“God knows! Cadby’s death was from drowning, you say?”

“There are no other marks of violence.”

“But he was a