His grip tightened suddenly, and he dragged me sharply to the left for three paces and then stood still again.
Faint footsteps sounded—grew nearer—louder. A beam of yellow light shone past an arched opening not ten feet from where we hid. I watched, holding my breath. The moving rays revealed a stone passage. And now came the bearer of the light—a short, stocky brown man, one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s Burmese bodyguard. He carried a hurricane lamp. He passed. Behind him came two others—they bore a body on a stretcher.
They, too, passed; the sound of footsteps faded, the light grew dim: complete darkness returned.
The most dreadful premonitions attacked me; I grew sick with dread. Whose was the muffled body? What place was this, with its stone-paved passages, whichDr. Fu Manchu had chosen for his lair? As if Hassan divined how near I was to speech: “Ss!” he hissed—and led me on.
Our route lay in that direction from which the bearers had come; and just as I thought I detected a faint light ahead, a sound echoed hollowly through the stone passages, a sound which robbed me almost of my last spark of courage.It was the note of a gong!
Hassan stopped dead. He bent to my ear.
“That call for me,” he whispered. “Must go. Listen very careful. Straight before is opening—wide and high. River below—very far below. But iron ladder straight under opening. Take much care, sir. Barge lie there; tide rising. If someone is on barge—shoot. Then wade through mud to wooden steps beyond bows . . . . ”
A second gong stroke reverberated through the building.
“Hurry!” Hassan whispered, “hurry!”
He released my hand, and was gone.
The prospect was far from pleasing; but I preferred a broken neck to the fate in store for me at the hands of Dr. Fu Manchu. I set out towards that distant glimmer. I had formed a mental picture of the “opening—wide and high”, and having no desire to plunge headlong into the mud of the Thames ventured to use my light. At sight of what lay before me my hopes were dashed.
This was an old warehouse. The passage led to wide double doors beside which I saw rusty winding gear. There was an iron-barred opening in each of the doors—which were closed and locked.
I was trapped!
Although my spirits had touched zero I went on to the doors and tried the heavy padlock. It was fast. Cold, damp air came through the grilles as I stared out, hopelessly. So dark was the night, so far below lay the River, that I could have formed no impression of the scene if searchlights had not helped me. The blackness was slashed by swords of silver. They formed a changing pattern in the sky, and this was reproduced in the oily mirror of the River far beneath.
From the distance of buildings dimly discernible on the further bank, which I assumed to be the Surrey shore, I judged that I was well below bridges and in the heart of dockland. But that great heart pulsed slowly tonight. A red glow here, a vague iridescence there, and an uneasy hum, like that of a vast hive imprisoned, alone represented the normal Wagnerian symphony of London. Above, the questing searchlights; below, a pianissimo in the song of industry until the hawk’s shadow should pass.
Turning with a smothered groan, I looked back along the passage.
At a point which I estimated to be beyond that at which Hassan and I had hidden, a bar of yellow light lay across the stone floor. Action was imperative. Walking softly, I approached this bar of light. Apart from fears of a personal character, I was filled with the wildest apprehensions concerning Smith. A theory to account for my presence in this deserted warehouse had occurred to me; for I had recalled the fact that the Regent Canal came out at Limehouse.
Along that gloomy waterway, with its cuttings and tunnels, I had been transported from the house in Regent’s Park. The body I had seen home on a stretcher had followed by the same route. I stumbled, stifled an exclamation, and managed to fall softly. There was a gap in the stone paving, and I lay still for a while; for I had fallen not two feet from the bar of light, and as I tripped I had seen a shadow move across it!
Someone was in the place from which the yellow light shone. The next few moments covered long agonies of doubt. But apparently I had not been detected. Carefully moving my hands, I tried to find out what lay between me and the light. A discovery soon came. I had tripped and fallen on a square stone landing from which steps led down to a sunken door. It was from an iron-barred window beside this door that the light was shining.
Inch by inch I changed my position, until, seated on the steps, I could look into a cellar-like room illuminated by a hurricane lamp set on a crate. From this position I saw a strange thing. Because of the imperfect illumination and my angle of vision, at first I could not altogether make out what it was that I saw. A pair of sinewy hands were working rapidly upon some mysterious task. Bare wrists and forearms I could see, hairy and muscular, but of the head and body of him to whom they belonged I could see nothing. A faint tearing sound and a sort of hiss gave me the clue at last. The man was stitching something up in sailcloth: I could just make out a shapeless bundle.
Now, I felt far from master of myself; but in the almost silent activities of this man who had such powerful arms there was something indescribably malignant.
Who was he, and what was he doing in the cellar?
Observing every precaution, I slightly changed my position again, until I could see quite clearly the nature of the bundle the sailmaker stitched.
It contained a human body!
The worker had started at the feet and had completed the shroud of sailcloth up to the breast.
I closed my eyes for a moment, clenched my teeth. Then, I moved farther down. The body lay on a stout bench and from my constrained position it was still impossible to see more than me arms, up to the elbows, of the worker.
But I saw the face of the dead man.
CHAPTER VIII
LIMEHOUSE POLICE STATION
At the moment that I obtained my first glimpse of the face of the man whose body was being sewn up in sailcloth, I saw also that his arms were crossed on his breast.
Both hands had been amputated.
A spasm of anger, revulsion, nausea swept over me. I half withdrew the automatic from my pocket; then sanity conquered: I sat still and watched. Lowering my head inch by inch I presently discerned the pock-marked features of the stitcher. I had seen that hideous mask before: it belonged to one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s Burmese killers. The yellow lantern light left the sunken eyes wholly in shadow and painted black hollows under prominent cheekbones.
Ss! hissed the thread drawn through canvas—ss as those sinewy fingers moved swiftly upon their task. My dreadful premonitions were dismissed.
The dead man was not Nayland Smith, but Dr. Oster.
In some incomprehensible way, Fu Manchu’s servants had smuggled the body from the house in Regent’s Park. I suppressed a sigh of relief. The movements of the dacoit cast grotesque shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the cellar as I crouched staring at the mutilated remains of the man I had shot.
Horror heaped on horror had had the curious result of inducing acute mental clarity. During the few minutes—not more than three—that I remained there, I conceived—and rejected—plan after plan. The best, as I still believe, was to rush the Bur-man, stun him and await a new arrival—for palpably he could not complete the business of disposing of the body without assistance. Under cover of my automatic I would compel whoever came to lead me to an exit.