“Fortuneteller work here?”
Lao Tai shook his head.
“Here Huan Tsung meditate. Huan Tsung great thinker.”
“He’ll have to think fast tonight. You have a cellar down below. Show me the way in.”
Lao Tai obeyed, leading Rafferty through to the back of the shop where a narrow wooden stair was almost hidden behind piles of merchandise. He switched up a light at the bottom of the stair and Rafferty went clattering down.
He found himself in a cellar not much greater in area than the shop above. A chute communicated with a trap in the sidewalk overhead. Cartons and crates bearing Chinese labels and lettering nearly filled the place. It smelled strongly of spice and rotten fish.
One long, narrow packing-case seemed to have been recently opened. Rafferty examined it with some care, then turned to Lao Tai, who watched him disinterestedly.
“When did this thing come?”
“Come tonight.”
Rafferty was beginning to wonder. All this man’s answers added up correctly—for he knew that such a crate had been delivered earlier that night.
“What was in it?”
“This and that.”
Lao Tai vaguely indicated the litter around.
“Well, show me some ‘this.’ Then we can take a look at any ‘that’ you’ve got handy.”
Lao Tai touched a chest of tea with a glossily disdainful shoe, and pointed to a number of bronze bowls stacked up on a rough wooden bench. His slightly slanting eyes held no message but one of a boredom too deep for expression. And it was while Police Captain Rafferty was wondering what lay hidden under this crust and how to break through to it, that Huan Tsung’s remarkable chariot returned to Pell Street and the old man was helped out.
He expressed neither surprise nor interest at finding police on the premises. He bowed courteously when Raymond Harkness stated that he had some questions to put to him, and, leaning on the arm of his Mongolian driver, led the way upstairs. Seating himself on the cushioned divan in the silk-lined room, he dismissed the driver, offered cigarettes, and suggested tea.
“Thanks—no,” said Harkness in his quiet way. “Just a few questions. You are acquainted with a doctor; a European, I believe. He is tall, dark, and wears a slight moustache. He called here tonight. I should be glad of his address.”
Huan Tsung began to fill a long-stemmed pipe. He had extraordinarily slender, adroit fingers.
“I fear I cannot help you,” he replied in his courteous, exact English. “A European physician, you say?” He shook his head. “It is possible, if he came here, that he came only to make a purchase. Have you questioned my assistant?”
“I haven’t. The man I mean is employed by Dr. Fu Manchu.”
Not one of Huan Tsung’s thousand wrinkles stirred. His benevolent gaze became fixed upon Harkness.
“A strange name,” he murmured. “No doubt a nom de guerre. Tell me more of this strangely named doctor, if I am to help you.”
“It’s for you to tell me more. Will you tell me now, or will you come along and tell the boys at Centre Street?”
“Why, may I ask, should I drag my old bones to Centre Street?”
“It won’t be necessary, if you care to talk. You are an educated man, and I’m prepared to treat you that way if you behave sensibly.”
Huan Tsung went on filling his pipe. The illegible parchment of his features became creased by what might have been a smile.
“It is true. I formerly administered a large province of China, probably with justice, and certainly with success. Events, however, necessitated my departure without avoidable delay.”
“Did you know Dr. Fu Manchu in China?”
Huan Tsung ignited a paper spill in the brazier and began to light his pipe.
“I regret deeply that your question is a foolish one. I thought I had made it clear that I am unacquainted with this person.”
“Pity your memory’s getting so unreliable,” said Harkness.
“Alas, after seventy, each succeeding year robs us of a hundred delights.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and Captain Rafferty came in.
“Listen—there’s a door down in the basement leading to some other place—another cellar, I guess. Let’s have the key, or shall I break it open?”
Huan Tsung regarded the intruder mildly.
“I fear you have no choice,” he said. “The door leads, as you say, into the storeroom of my neighbor, Kwee Long, whose premises are on the adjoining street. He will have gone, no doubt. The door is locked from the other side. I possess no key to this door.”
“Sure of that, Huan Tsung?” Harkness asked quietly.
“Unless my failing memory betrays me.”
The door in the cellar was forced. It proved no easy job: it was a strong, heavy door. The police found themselves in a much larger cellar, which evidently ran under several stores and was of irregular shape. Part of it seemed to be used by a caterer, for there were numerous cases of imported delicacies. They could find no switches and worked by the light of their lamps.
Then they came to the part where Chinese coffins were stacked.
This place struck a chill—to the spirit as well as to the body. The deputy commissioner had just joined the party. Their only clues, so far, led to Huan Tsung’s. Hope rested on the report of Officer Moreno, that the pseudo-doctor had been seen leaving there that night.
“No evidence anybody’s been around here,” Rafferty declared. “See any more doors any place?”
“There’s one over here. Captain,” came a muffled voice.
All flocked in that direction. Sure enough, there was, at the back of a deep alcove. The man who had found it tried to open it. He had no success.
“Smash it!” the deputy commissioner ordered.
And they had just gone to work with that enthusiasm which such an order always inspires, when Rafferty held his hand up.
“Quiet, everybody!”
Nervous silence succeeded clamor.
“What did you think you heard?” a hoarse whisper came from the deputy commissioner.
“Sort of tapping, sir.”
A silent interval of listening in semidarkness; then another whisper:
“Where from?”
“The coffins . . . Ssh! There it is again!”
Another pause for listening followed, in which the ray of more than one flashlamp moved unsteadily.
“Maybe there’s a rat in there.”
“Quiet! Listen!”
A faint, irregular knocking sound became audible. It was followed by one which resembled a stifled moan.
“Quick! This way! Open all those things. Down with the lot!”
A rush back to the coffin cellar took place. They pulled down five or six, and found them empty. Rafferty held up his hand.
“Stop the clatter. Listen.”
All became quiet. And from somewhere near the base of another pile not yet attacked they heard it again, more clearly . . . tapping and a stifled groan.
“It’s that thing with all the gilt! Last but one from the floor!”
They went to work with a will. To move the empty coffins on top was a business of minutes. And in the most ornate specimen of all, they found Nayland Smith.
His wrists and ankles were lashed up with what looked like sewing silk. But clasp-knives failed to cut it. A piece of surgical strapping was fastened across his mouth. When this had been removed:
“Thank God you heard me,” he croaked. “I could just move one foot. Don’t blunt your knives on this stuff. Get a wire-cutter. Lift me out.”