The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Rohmer (ebook reader below 3000 .TXT) 📕

now.”

 

Smith thanked the commissionaire for his information and we

quitted the gallery.

 

“Professor Jenner Monde,” muttered my friend, “has lived so long

in China as almost to be a Chinaman. I have never met him—

never seen him, before; but I wonder—”

 

“You wonder what, Smith?”

 

“I wonder if he could possibly be an ally, of the Doctor’s!”

 

I stared at him in amazement.

 

“If we are to attach any importance to the incident at all,”

I said, “we must remember that the boy’s impression—and Karamaneh’s—

was that Fu-Manchu was present in person.”

 

“I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are naturally

sensitive to such impressions. But I doubt if even the abnormal

organization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden presence

of a creature of the Doctor’s and that of the Doctor himself.

I shall make a point of calling upon Professor Jenner Monde.”

 

But Fate had ordained that much should happen ere Smith made

his proposed call upon the Professor.

 

Karamaneh and her brother safely lodged in their hotel

(which was watched night and day by four men under Smith’s

orders), we returned to my quiet suburban rooms.

 

“First,” said Smith, “let us see what we can find out

respecting Professor Monde.”

 

He went to the telephone and called up New Scotland Yard.

There followed some little delay before the requisite information

was obtained. Finally, however, we learned that the Professor

was something of a recluse, having few acquaintances,

and fewer friends.

 

He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street.

A charwoman did such cleaning as was considered necessary

by the Professor, who employed no regular domestic.

When he was in London he might be seen fairly frequently

at the British Museum, where his shabby figure was familiar

to the officials. When he was not in London—that is,

during the greater part of each year—no one knew where he went.

He never left any address to which letters might be forwarded.

 

“How long has he been in London now?” asked Smith.

 

So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied Scotland Yard)

roughly a week.

 

My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room.

The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakia

mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week.

He was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts

hanging from the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor

with smoldering fragments.

 

A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.

 

“Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir.”

 

“Hullo!” rapped Smith. “What’s this?”

 

Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects

singularly like his brother, in others as singularly unlike.

Now, in his black suit, he was a somber figure; and in the blue

eyes I read a fear suppressed.

 

“Mr. Smith,” he began, “there’s something uncanny going on at Maple Cottage.”

 

Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.

 

“Sit down, Mr. Weymouth,” he said. “I am not entirely surprised.

But you have my attention. What has occurred?”

 

Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured

out a peg of whisky. His hand was not quite steady.

 

“That knocking,” he explained. “It came again the night

after you were there, and Mrs. Weymouth—my wife, I mean—

felt that she couldn’t spend another night there, alone” “Did she

look out of the window?” I asked.

 

“No, Doctor; she was afraid. But I spent last night downstairs

in the sitting-room—and I looked out!”

 

He took a gulp from his glass. Nayland Smith, seated on

the edge of the table, his extinguished pipe in his hand,

was watching him keenly.

 

“I’ll admit I didn’t look out at once,” Weymouth resumed.

“There was something so uncanny, gentlemen, in that knocking—

knocking—in the dead of the night. I thought”—his voice

shook—“of poor Jack, lying somewhere amongst the slime

of the river—and, oh, my God! it came to me that it was Jack

who was knocking—and I dare not think what he—what it—

would look like!”

 

He leaned forward, his chin in his hand. For a few moments we

were all silent.

 

“I know I funked,” he continued huskily. “But when the wife came

to the head of the stairs and whispered to me: `There it is again.

What in heaven’s name can it be’—I started to unbolt the door.

The knocking had stopped. Everything was very still.

I heard Mary—HIS widow—sobbing, upstairs; that was all.

I opened the door, a little bit at a time.”

 

Pausing again, he cleared his throat, and went on:

 

“It was a bright night, and there was no one there—not a soul.

But somewhere down the lane, as I looked out into the porch, I heard

most awful groans! They got fainter and fainter. Then—I could

have sworn I heard SOMEONE LAUGHING! My nerves cracked up at that;

and I shut the door again.”

 

The narration of his weird experience revived something of the natural

fear which it had occasioned. He raised his glass, with unsteady hand,

and drained it.

 

Smith struck a match and relighted his pipe. He began to pace

the room again. His eyes were literally on fire.

 

“Would it be possible to get Mrs. Weymouth out of the house

before tonight? Remove her to your place, for instance?”

he asked abruptly.

 

Weymouth looked up in surprise.

 

“She seems to be in a very low state,” he replied. He glanced at me.

“Perhaps Dr. Petrie would give us an opinion?”

 

“I will come and see her,” I said. “But what is your idea, Smith?”

 

“I want to hear that knocking!” he rapped. “But in what I may see fit

to do I must not be handicapped by the presence of a sick woman.”

 

“Her condition at any rate will admit of our administering an opiate,”

I suggested. “That would meet the situation?”

 

“Good!” cried Smith. He was intensely excited now.

“I rely upon you to arrange something, Petrie. Mr. Weymouth”—

he turned to our visitor—“I shall be with you this evening

not later than twelve o’clock.”

 

Weymouth appeared to be greatly relieved. I asked him

to wait whilst I prepared a drought for the patient.

When he was gone:

 

“What do you think this knocking means, Smith?” I asked.

 

He tapped out his pipe on the side of the grate and began with nervous

energy to refill it again from the dilapidated pouch.

 

“I dare not tell you what I hope, Petrie,” he replied—

“nor what I fear.”