The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (english novels for students .txt) 📕

A French doctor, named Lafitte, died in exactly the same way.”

“At the same place?”

“At the same hotel; but he occupied a different room. Here is the extraordinary part of the affair: a friend shared the room with him, and actually saw him go!”

“Saw him leap from the window?”

“Yes. The friend⁠—an Englishman⁠—was aroused by the uncanny wailing. I was in Rangoon at the time, so that I know more of the case of Lafitte than of that of the American. I spoke to the man about it personally. He was an electrical engineer, Edward Martin, and he told me that the cry seemed to come from above him.”

“It seemed to come from above when we heard it at Fu-Manchu’s house.”

“Martin sat up in bed, it was a clear moonlight night⁠—the sort of moonlight you get in Burma. Lafitte, for some reason, had just gone to the window. His friend saw him look out. The next moment with a dreadful scream, he threw himself forward⁠—and crashed down into the courtyard!”

“What then?”

“Martin ran to the window and looked down. Lafitte’s scream had aroused the place, of course. But there was absolutely nothing to account for the occurrence. There was no balcony, no ledge, by means of which anyone could reach the window.”

“But how did you come to recognize the cry?”

“I stopped at the Palace Mansions for some time; and one night this uncanny howling aroused me. I heard it quite distinctly, and am never likely to forget it. It was followed by a hoarse yell. The man in the next room, an orchid hunter, had gone the same way as the others!”

“Did you change your quarters?”

“No. Fortunately for the reputation of the hotel⁠—a first-class establishment⁠—several similar cases occurred elsewhere, both in Rangoon, in Prome and in Moulmein. A story got about the native quarter, and was fostered by some mad fakir, that the god Siva was reborn and that the cry was his call for victims; a ghastly story, which led to an outbreak of dacoity and gave the District Superintendent no end of trouble.”

“Was there anything unusual about the bodies?”

“They all developed marks after death, as though they had been strangled! The marks were said all to possess a peculiar form, though it was not appreciable to my eye; and this, again, was declared to be the five heads of Siva.”

“Were the deaths confined to Europeans?”

“Oh, no. Several Burmans and others died in the same way. At first there was a theory that the victims had contracted leprosy and committed suicide as a result; but the medical evidence disproved that. The Call of Siva became a perfect nightmare throughout Burma.”

“Did you ever hear it again, before this evening?”

“Yes. I heard it on the Upper Irrawaddy one clear, moonlight night, and a Colassie⁠—a deckhand⁠—leaped from the top deck of the steamer aboard which I was traveling! My God! to think that the fiend Fu-Manchu has brought that to England!”

“But brought what, Smith?” I cried, in perplexity. “What has he brought? An evil spirit? A mental disease? What is it? What can it be?”

“A new agent of death, Petrie! Something born in a plague-spot of Burma⁠—the home of much that is unclean and much that is inexplicable. Heaven grant that we be in time, and are able to save Guthrie.”

XV

The train was late, and as our cab turned out of Waterloo Station and began to ascend to the bridge, from a hundred steeples rang out the gongs of midnight, the bell of St. Paul’s raised above them all to vie with the deep voice of Big Ben.

I looked out from the cab window across the river to where, towering above the Embankment, that place of a thousand tragedies, the light of some of London’s greatest caravanserais formed a sort of minor constellation. From the subdued blaze that showed the public supper-rooms I looked up to the hundreds of starry points marking the private apartments of those giant inns.

I thought how each twinkling window denoted the presence of some bird of passage, some wanderer temporarily abiding in our midst. There, floor piled upon floor above the chattering throngs, were these less gregarious units, each something of a mystery to his fellow-guests, each in his separate cell; and each as remote from real human companionship as if that cell were fashioned, not in the bricks of London, but in the rocks of Hindustan!

In one of those rooms Graham Guthrie might at that moment be sleeping, all unaware that he would awake to the Call of Siva, to the summons of death. As we neared the Strand, Smith stopped the cab, discharging the man outside Sotheby’s auction-rooms.

“One of the doctor’s watchdogs may be in the foyer,” he said thoughtfully, “and it might spoil everything if we were seen to go to Guthrie’s rooms. There must be a back entrance to the kitchens, and so on?”

“There is,” I replied quickly. “I have seen the vans delivering there. But have we time?”

“Yes. Lead on.”

We walked up the Strand and hurried westward. Into that narrow court, with its iron posts and descending steps, upon which opens a well-known wine-cellar, we turned. Then, going parallel with the Strand, but on the Embankment level, we ran round the back of the great hotel, and came to double doors which were open. An arc lamp illuminated the interior and a number of men were at work among the casks, crates and packages stacked about the place. We entered.

“Hallo!” cried a man in a white overall, “where d’you think you’re going?”

Smith grasped him by the arm.

“I want to get to the public part of the hotel without being seen from the entrance hall,” he said. “Will you please lead the way?”

“Here⁠—” began the other, staring.

“Don’t waste time!” snapped my friend, in that tone of authority which he knew so well how to assume. “It’s a matter of life and death. Lead the way, I say!”

“Police, sir?” asked the man civilly.

“Yes,” said Smith; “hurry!”

Off went our guide without further demur.