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

such distractions exist. A touch of this keen point, and the laughing Karamanèh becomes the shrieking hag⁠—the maniacal, mowing⁠—”

Then, with an ox-like rush, Weymouth was upon him!

Karamanèh, wrought upon past endurance, with a sobbing cry, sank to the deck⁠—and lay still. I managed to writhe into a half-sitting posture, and Smith rolled aside as the detective and the Chinaman crashed down together.

Weymouth had one big hand at the Doctor’s yellow throat; with his left he grasped the Chinaman’s right. It held the needle.

Now, I could look along the length of the little craft, and, so far as it was possible to make out in the fog, only one other was aboard⁠—the half-clad brown man who navigated her⁠—and who had carried us through the cellars. The murk had grown denser and now shut us in like a box. The throb of the motor⁠—the hissing breath of the two who fought⁠—with so much at issue⁠—these sounds and the wash of the water alone broke the eerie stillness.

By slow degrees, and with a reptilian agility horrible to watch, Fu-Manchu was neutralizing the advantage gained by Weymouth. His clawish fingers were fast in the big man’s throat; the right hand with its deadly needle was forcing down the left of his opponent. He had been underneath, but now he was gaining the upper place. His powers of physical endurance must have been truly marvelous. His breath was whistling through his nostrils significantly, but Weymouth was palpably tiring.

The latter suddenly changed his tactics. By a supreme effort, to which he was spurred, I think, by the growing proximity of the needle, he raised Fu-Manchu⁠—by the throat and arm⁠—and pitched him sideways.

The Chinaman’s grip did not relax, and the two wrestlers dropped, a writhing mass, upon the port cushions. The launch heeled over, and my cry of horror was crushed back into my throat by the bandage. For, as Fu-Manchu sought to extricate himself, he overbalanced⁠—fell back⁠—and, bearing Weymouth with him⁠—slid into the river!

The mist swallowed them up.

There are moments of which no man can recall his mental impressions, moments so acutely horrible that, mercifully, our memory retains nothing of the emotions they occasioned. This was one of them. A chaos ruled in my mind. I had a vague belief that the Burman, forward, glanced back. Then the course of the launch was changed. How long intervened between the tragic end of that gargantuan struggle and the time when a black wall leaped suddenly up before us I cannot pretend to state.

With a sickening jerk we ran aground. A loud explosion ensued, and I clearly remember seeing the brown man leap out into the fog⁠—which was the last I saw of him.

Water began to wash aboard.

Fully alive to our imminent peril, I fought with the cords that bound me; but I lacked poor Weymouth’s strength of wrist, and I began to accept as a horrible and imminent possibility, a death from drowning, within six feet of the bank.

Beside me, Nayland Smith was straining and twisting. I think his object was to touch Karamanèh, in the hope of arousing her. Where he failed in his project, the inflowing water succeeded. A silent prayer of thankfulness came from my very soul when I saw her stir⁠—when I saw her raise her hands to her head⁠—and saw the big, horror-bright eyes gleam through the mist veil.

XXVII

We quitted the wrecked launch but a few seconds before her stern settled down into the river. Where the mud-bank upon which we found ourselves was situated we had no idea. But at least it was terra firma and we were free from Dr. Fu-Manchu.

Smith stood looking out towards the river.

“My God!” he groaned. “My God!”

He was thinking, as I was, of Weymouth.

And when, an hour later, the police boat located us (on the mud-flats below Greenwich) and we heard that the toll of the poison cellars was eight men, we also heard news of our brave companion.

“Back there in the fog, sir,” reported Inspector Ryman, who was in charge, and his voice was under poor command, “there was an uncanny howling, and peals of laughter that I’m going to dream about for weeks⁠—”

Karamanèh, who nestled beside me like a frightened child, shivered; and I knew that the needle had done its work, despite Weymouth’s giant strength.

Smith swallowed noisily.

“Pray God the river has that yellow Satan,” he said. “I would sacrifice a year of my life to see his rat’s body on the end of a grappling-iron!”

We were a sad party that steamed through the fog homeward that night. It seemed almost like deserting a staunch comrade to leave the spot⁠—so nearly as we could locate it⁠—where Weymouth had put up that last gallant fight. Our helplessness was pathetic, and although, had the night been clear as crystal, I doubt if we could have acted otherwise, it came to me that this stinking murk was a new enemy which drove us back in coward retreat.

But so many were the calls upon our activity, and so numerous the stimulants to our initiative in those times, that soon we had matter to relieve our minds from this stress of sorrow.

There was Karamanèh to be considered⁠—Karamanèh and her brother. A brief counsel was held, whereat it was decided that for the present they should be lodged at a hotel.

“I shall arrange,” Smith whispered to me, for the girl was watching us, “to have the place patrolled night and day.”

“You cannot suppose⁠—”

“Petrie! I cannot and dare not suppose Fu-Manchu dead until with my own eyes I have seen him so!”

Accordingly we conveyed the beautiful Oriental girl and her brother away from that luxurious abode in its sordid setting. I will not dwell upon the final scene in the poison cellars lest I be accused of accumulating horror for horror’s sake. Members of the fire brigade, helmed against contagion, brought out the bodies of the victims wrapped in their living shrouds.⁠ ⁠…

From Karamanèh we learned much of Fu-Manchu, little of herself.

“What am I? Does my