The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (icecream ebook reader TXT) 📕

Our search of the house of Abel Slattin ceased only with the coming of the dawn, and yielded nothing but disappointment. Failure followed upon failure; for, in the gray light of the morning, our own quest concluded, Inspector Weymouth returned to report that the girl, Karamaneh, had thrown him off the scent.

Again he stood before me, the big, burly friend of old and dreadful days, a little grayer above the temples, which I set down for a record of former horrors, but deliberate, stoical, thorough, as ever. His blue eyes melted in the old generous way as he saw me, and he gripped my hand in greeting.

“Once again,” he said, “your dark-eyed friend has been too clever for me, Doctor. But the track as far as I could follow, leads to the old spot. In fact,”—he turned to Smith, who, grim-faced and haggard, looked thoroughly ill in that gray light—“I believe Fu-Manchu’s lair is somewhere near the former opium-den of Shen-Yan—‘Singapore Charlie.’”

Smith nodded.

“We will turn our attention in that direction,” he replied, “at a very early date.”

Inspector Weymouth looked down at the body of Abel Slattin.

“How was it done?” he asked softly.

“Clumsily for Fu-Manchu,” I replied. “A snake was introduced into the house by some means—”

“By Karamaneh!” rapped Smith.

“Very possibly by Karamaneh,” I continued firmly. “The thing has escaped us.”

“My own idea,” said Smith, “is that it was concealed about his clothing. When he fell by the open door it glided out of the house. We must have the garden searched thoroughly by daylight.”

“He”—Weymouth glanced at that which lay upon the floor—“must be moved; but otherwise we can leave the place untouched, clear out the servants, and lock the house up.”

“I have already given orders to that effect,” answered Smith. He spoke wearily and with a note of conscious defeat in his voice. “Nothing has been disturbed;”—he swept his arm around comprehensively—“papers and so forth you can examine at leisure.”

Presently we quitted that house upon which the fateful Chinaman had set his seal, as the suburb was awakening to a new day. The clank of milk-cans was my final impression of the avenue to which a dreadful minister of death had come at the bidding of the death lord. We left Inspector Weymouth in charge and returned to my rooms, scarcely exchanging a word upon the way.

Nayland Smith, ignoring my entreaties, composed himself for slumber in the white cane chair in my study. About noon he retired to the bathroom, and returning, made a pretense of breakfast; then resumed his seat in the cane armchair. Carter reported in the afternoon, but his report was merely formal. Returning from my round of professional visits at half past five, I found Nayland Smith in the same position; and so the day waned into evening, and dusk fell uneventfully.

In the corner of the big room by the empty fireplace, Nayland Smith lay, with his long, lean frame extended in the white cane chair. A tumbler, from which two straws protruded, stood by his right elbow, and a perfect continent of tobacco smoke lay between us, wafted toward the door by the draught from an open window. He had littered the hearth with matches and tobacco ash, being the most untidy smoker I have ever met; and save for his frequent rapping-out of his pipe bowl and perpetual striking of matches, he had shown no sign of activity for the past hour. Collarless and wearing an old tweed jacket, he had spent the evening, as he had spent the day, in the cane chair, only quitting it for some ten minutes, or less, to toy with dinner.

My several attempts at conversation had elicited nothing but growls; therefore, as dusk descended, having dismissed my few patients, I busied myself collating my notes upon the renewed activity of the Yellow Doctor, and was thus engaged when the ‘phone bell disturbed me. It was Smith who was wanted, however; and he went out eagerly, leaving me to my task.

At the end of a lengthy conversation, he returned from the ‘phone and began, restlessly, to pace the room. I made a pretense of continuing my labors, but covertly I was watching him. He was twitching at the lobe of his left ear, and his face was a study in perplexity. Abruptly he burst out:

“I shall throw the thing up, Petrie! Either I am growing too old to cope with such an adversary as Fu-Manchu, or else my intellect has become dull. I cannot seem to think clearly or consistently. For the Doctor, this crime, this removal of Slattin, is clumsy—unfinished. There are two explanations. Either he, too, is losing his old cunning or he has been interrupted!”

“Interrupted!”

“Take the facts, Petrie,”—Smith clapped his hands upon my table and bent down, peering into my eyes—“is it characteristic of Fu-Manchu to kill a man by the direct agency of a snake and to implicate one of his own damnable servants in this way?”

“But we have found no snake!”

“Karamaneh introduced one in some way. Do you doubt it?”

“Certainly Karamaneh visited him on the evening of his death, but you must be perfectly well aware that even if she had been arrested, no jury could convict her.”

Smith resumed his restless pacings up and down.

“You are very useful to me, Petrie,” he replied; “as a counsel for the defense you constantly rectify my errors of prejudice. Yet I am convinced that our presence at Slattin’s house last night prevented Fu-Manchu from finishing off this little matter as he had designed to do.”

“What has given you this idea?”

“Weymouth is responsible. He has rung me up from the Yard. The constable on duty at the house where the murder was committed, reports that some one, less than an hour ago, attempted to break in.”