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

We raised the poor victim and turned him over on his back. I dropped upon my knees, and with unsteady fingers began to strike a match. A slight breeze was arising and sighing gently through the elms, but, screened by my hands, the flame of the match took life. It illuminated wanly the sun-baked face of Nayland Smith, his eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness. I bent forward, and the dying light of the match touched that other face.

“Oh, God!” whispered Smith.

A faint puff of wind extinguished the match.

In all my surgical experience I had never met with anything quite so horrible. Forsyth’s livid face was streaked with tiny streams of blood, which proceeded from a series of irregular wounds. One group of these clustered upon his left temple, another beneath his right eye, and others extended from the chin down to the throat. They were black, almost like tattoo marks, and the entire injured surface was bloated indescribably. His fists were clenched; he was quite rigid.

Smith’s piercing eyes were set upon me eloquently as I knelt on the path and made my examination—an examination which that first glimpse when Forsyth came staggering out from the trees had rendered useless—a mere matter of form.

“He’s quite dead, Smith,” I said huskily. “It’s—unnatural—it—”

Smith began beating his fist into his left palm and taking little, short, nervous strides up and down beside the dead man. I could hear a car humming along the highroad, but I remained there on my knees staring dully at the disfigured bloody face which but a matter of minutes since had been that of a clean looking British seaman. I found myself contrasting his neat, squarely trimmed mustache with the bloated face above it, and counting the little drops of blood which trembled upon its edge. There were footsteps approaching. I stood up. The footsteps quickened; and I turned as a constable ran up.

“What’s this?” he demanded gruffly, and stood with his fists clenched, looking from Smith to me and down at that which lay between us. Then his hand flew to his breast; there was a silvern gleam and—

“Drop that whistle!” snapped Smith—and struck it from the man’s hand. “Where’s your lantern? Don’t ask questions!”

The constable started back and was evidently debating upon his chances with the two of us, when my friend pulled a letter from his pocket and thrust it under the man’s nose.

“Read that!” he directed harshly, “and then listen to my orders.”

There was something in his voice which changed the officer’s opinion of the situation. He directed the light of his lantern upon the open letter and seemed to be stricken with wonder.

“If you have any doubts,” continued Smith—“you may not be familiar with the Commissioner’s signature—you have only to ring up Scotland Yard from Dr. Petrie’s house, to which we shall now return, to disperse them.” He pointed to Forsyth. “Help us to carry him there. We must not be seen; this must be hushed up. You understand? It must not get into the press—”

The man saluted respectfully; and the three of us addressed ourselves to the mournful task. By slow stages we bore the dead man to the edge of the common, carried him across the road and into my house, without exciting attention even on the part of those vagrants who nightly slept out in the neighborhood.

We laid our burden upon the surgery table.

“You will want to make an examination, Petrie,” said Smith in his decisive way, “and the officer here might ‘phone for the ambulance. I have some investigations to make also. I must have the pocket lamp.”

He raced upstairs to his room, and an instant later came running down again. The front door banged.

“The telephone is in the hall,” I said to the constable.

“Thank you, sir.”

He went out of the surgery as I switched on the lamp over the table and began to examine the marks upon Forsyth’s skin. These, as I have said, were in groups and nearly all in the form of elongated punctures; a fairly deep incision with a pear-shaped and superficial scratch beneath it. One of the tiny wounds had penetrated the right eye.

The symptoms, or those which I had been enabled to observe as Forsyth had first staggered into view from among the elms, were most puzzling. Clearly enough, the muscles of articulation and the respiratory muscles had been affected; and now the livid face, dotted over with tiny wounds (they were also on the throat), set me mentally groping for a clue to the manner of his death.

No clue presented itself; and my detailed examination of the body availed me nothing. The gray herald of dawn was come when the police arrived with the ambulance and took Forsyth away.

I was just taking my cap from the rack when Nayland Smith returned.

“Smith!” I cried—“have you found anything?”

He stood there in the gray light of the hallway, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, an old trick of his.

The bronzed face looked very gaunt, I thought, and his eyes were bright with that febrile glitter which once I had disliked, but which I had learned from experience were due to tremendous nervous excitement. At such times he could act with icy coolness and his mental faculties seemed temporarily to acquire an abnormal keenness. He made no direct reply; but—

“Have you any milk?” he jerked abruptly.

So wholly unexpected was the question, that for a moment I failed to grasp it. Then—

“Milk!” I began.

“Exactly, Petrie! If you can find me some milk, I shall be obliged.”