The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu, Sax Rohmer [nonfiction book recommendations .txt] 📗

CHAPTER VI

A SEEMINGLY drunken voice was droning from a neighboring alleyway as Smith

lurched in hulking fashion to the door of a little shop above which,

crudely painted, were the words:

 

“SHEN-YAN, Barber.”

 

I shuffled along behind him, and had time to note the box of studs,

German shaving tackle and rolls of twist which lay untidily in the window

ere Smith kicked the door open, clattered down three wooden steps,

and pulled himself up with a jerk, seizing my arm for support.

 

We stood in a bare and very dirty room, which could only

claim kinship with a civilized shaving-saloon by virtue of

the grimy towel thrown across the back of the solitary chair.

A Yiddish theatrical bill of some kind, illustrated, adorned one

of the walls, and another bill, in what may have been Chinese,

completed the decorations. From behind a curtain heavily brocaded

with filth a little Chinaman appeared, dressed in a loose smock,

black trousers and thick-soled slippers, and, advancing,

shook his head vigorously.

 

“No shavee—no shavee,” he chattered, simian fashion,

squinting from one to the other of us with his twinkling eyes.

“Too late! Shuttee shop!”

 

“Don’t you come none of it wi’ me!” roared Smith, in a voice of amazing

gruffness, and shook an artificially dirtied fist under the Chinaman’s nose.

“Get inside and gimme an’ my mate a couple o’ pipes. Smokee pipe,

you yellow scum—savvy?”

 

My friend bent forward and glared into the other’s eyes with a vindictiveness

that amazed me, unfamiliar as I was with this form of gentle persuasion.

 

“Kop ‘old o’ that,” he said, and thrust a coin into the Chinaman’s

yellow paw. “Keep me waitin’ an’ I’ll pull the dam’ shop down, Charlie.

You can lay to it.”

 

“No hab got pipee—” began the other.

 

Smith raised his fist, and Yan capitulated.

 

“Allee lightee,” he said. “Full up—no loom. You come see.”

 

He dived behind the dirty curtain, Smith and I following, and ran up

a dark stair. The next moment I found myself in an atmosphere which

was literally poisonous. It was all but unbreathable, being loaded

with opium fumes. Never before had I experienced anything like it.

Every breath was an effort. A tin oil-lamp on a box in the middle

of the floor dimly illuminated the horrible place, about the walls

of which ten or twelve bunks were ranged and all of them occupied.

Most of the occupants were lying motionless, but one or two were

squatting in their bunks noisily sucking at the little metal pipes.

These had not yet attained to the opium-smoker’s Nirvana.

 

“No loom—samee tella you,” said Shen-Yan, complacently testing

Smith’s shilling with his yellow, decayed teeth.

 

Smith walked to a corner and dropped cross-legged, on the floor,

pulling me down with him.

 

“Two pipe quick,” he said. “Plenty room. Two piecee pipe—

or plenty heap trouble.”

 

A dreary voice from one of the bunks came:

 

“Give ‘im a pipe, Charlie, curse yer! an’ stop ‘is palaver.”

 

Yan performed a curious little shrug, rather of the back than of

the shoulders, and shuffled to the box which bore the smoky lamp.

Holding a needle in the flame, he dipped it, when red-hot, into an old

cocoa tin, and withdrew it with a bead of opium adhering to the end.

Slowly roasting this over the lamp, he dropped it into the bowl

of the metal pipe which he held ready, where it burned with a

spirituous blue flame.

 

“Pass it over,” said Smith huskily, and rose on his knees with the assumed

eagerness of a slave to the drug.

 

Yan handed him the pipe, which he promptly put to his lips,

and prepared another for me.

 

“Whatever you do, don’t inhale any,” came Smith’s whispered injunction.

 

It was with a sense of nausea greater even than that occasioned by the

disgusting atmosphere of the den that I took the pipe and pretended to smoke.

Taking my cue from my friend, I allowed my head gradually to sink lower

and lower, until, within a few minutes, I sprawled sideways on the floor,

Smith lying close beside me.

 

“The ship’s sinkin’,” droned a voice from one of the bunks.

“Look at the rats.”

 

Yan had noiselessly withdrawn, and I experienced a curious sense

of isolation from my fellows—from the whole of the Western world.

My throat was parched with the fumes, my head ached.

The vicious atmosphere seemed contaminating. I was as one dropped—

 

Somewhere East of Suez, where the best is like the worst,

And there ain’t no Ten Commandments and a man can raise a thirst.

 

Smith began to whisper softly.

 

“We have carried it through successfully so far,” he said.

“I don’t know if you have observed it, but there is a stair

just behind you, half concealed by a ragged curtain.

We are near that, and well in the dark. I have seen nothing

suspicious so far—or nothing much. But if there was anything

going forward it would no doubt be delayed until we new arrivals

were well doped. S-SH!”

 

He pressed my arm to emphasize the warning. Through my half-closed eyes

I perceived a shadowy form near the curtain to which he had referred.

I lay like a log, but my muscles were tensed nervously.

 

The shadow materialized as the figure moved forward into the room

with a curiously lithe movement.

 

The smoky lamp in the middle of the place afforded

scant illumination, serving only to indicate sprawling shapes—

here an extended hand, brown or yellow, there a sketchy,

corpse-like face; whilst from all about rose obscene sighings

and murmurings in far-away voices—an uncanny, animal chorus.

It was like a glimpse of the Inferno seen by some Chinese Dante.

But so close to us stood the newcomer that I was able to make out a

ghastly parchment face, with small, oblique eyes, and a misshapen head

crowned with a coiled pigtail, surmounting a slight, hunched body.

There was something unnatural, inhuman, about that masklike face,

and something repulsive in the bent shape and the long,

yellow hands clasped one upon the other.

 

Fu-Manchu, from Smith’s account, in no way resembled this crouching

apparition with the death’s-head countenance and lithe movements;

but an instinct of some kind told me that we were on the right scent—

that this was one of the doctor’s servants. How I came to that conclusion,

I cannot explain; but with no doubt in my mind that this was a member

of the formidable murder group, I saw the yellow man creep nearer,

nearer, silently, bent and peering.

 

He was watching us.

 

Of another circumstance I became aware, and a disquieting circumstance.

There were fewer murmurings and sighings from the surrounding bunks.

The presence of the crouching figure had created a sudden semi-silence

in the den, which could only mean that some of the supposed opium-smokers

had merely feigned coma and the approach of coma.

 

Nayland Smith lay like a dead man, and trusting to the darkness,

I, too, lay prone and still, but watched the evil face bending

lower and lower, until it came within a few inches of my own.

I completely closed my eyes.

 

Delicate fingers touched my right eyelid. Divining what was coming,

I rolled my eyes up, as the lid was adroitly lifted and lowered again.

The man moved away.

 

I had saved the situation! And noting anew the hush about me—

a hush in which I fancied many pairs of ears listened—I was glad.

For just a moment I realized fully how, with the place watched back

and front, we yet were cut off, were in the hands of Far Easterns,

to some extent in the power of members of that most inscrutably

mysterious race, the Chinese.

 

“Good,” whispered Smith at my side. “I don’t think I could have done it.

He took me on trust after that. My God! what an awful face.

Petrie, it’s the hunchback of Cadby’s notes. Ah, I thought so.

Do you see that?”

 

I turned my eyes round as far as was possible. A man had scrambled down

from one of the bunks and was following the bent figure across the room.

 

They passed around us quietly, the little yellow man leading, with his

curious, lithe gait, and the other, an impassive Chinaman, following.

The curtain was raised, and I heard footsteps receding on the stairs.

 

“Don’t stir,” whispered Smith.

 

An intense excitement was clearly upon him, and he communicated it to me.

Who was the occupant of the room above?

 

Footsteps on the stair, and the Chinaman reappeared, recrossed the floor,

and went out. The little, bent man went over to another bunk, this time

leading up the stair one who looked like a lascar.

 

“Did you see his right hand?” whispered Smith. “A dacoit!

They come here to report and to take orders. Petrie, Dr. Fu-Manchu

is up there.”

 

“What shall we do?”—softly.

 

“Wait. Then we must try to rush the stairs. It would be futile

to bring in the police first. He is sure to have some other exit.

I will give the word while the little yellow devil is down here.

You are nearer and will have to go first, but if the hunchback follows,

I can then deal with him.”

 

Our whispered colloquy was interrupted by the return of the dacoit,

who recrossed the room as the Chinaman had done, and immediately

took his departure. A third man, whom Smith identified as a Malay,

ascended the mysterious stairs, descended, and went out; and a fourth,

whose nationality it was impossible to