Sax Rohmer - The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

were come to our journey's end. Then:

"What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely.

Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed

about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey's house and sought to peer in at

the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb,

Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.

"What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly of a constable.

The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and

bearing commanded respect.

"Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir."

Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and

clutched my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had

blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

"My God!" he whispered. "I am too late!"

With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group of

loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably was

a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman. Other members of

the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly, and the chilly

hand of King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they came and went,

they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a

menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded

to hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon

glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice,

and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.

A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed

the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined

with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people

were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of

Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a

couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the

opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The

uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre

figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub,

around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that

etched itself indelibly on my mind.

As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the

immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to

cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with

cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the

facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!"

Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in

conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.

The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He

had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which

now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed back his

sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm.

Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It was

unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike

the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried to

rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local

inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.

Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton's

private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and inquired if

it were constitutional. "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve,

overhearing my question. "I have already made that inquiry. Does it

suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it affords me no

assistance."

"Nothing," I replied. "It is most curious."

"Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary,

"but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I

understand that Sir Crichton was--seized with illness in his study?"

"Yes--at half-past ten. I was working here in the library, and he

inside, as was our custom."

"The communicating door was kept closed?"

"Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five,

when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then

seemed in his usual health."

"What was the message?"

"I could not say. It was brought by a district messenger, and he

placed it beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt."

"And at half-past ten?"

"Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a

scream, into the library. I ran to him but he waved me back. His eyes

were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell,

writhing, upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him

and laid him upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like 'The

red hand!' Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!"

Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to

find this evidence confusing.

"You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?"

"I think not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he

referred to something in the study."

"What did you do?"

"Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was

absolutely nothing unusual to be seen. The windows were closed and

fastened. He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather. There

is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so

that no one could possibly have gained access to it, whilst I was in

the library, unseen by me. Had someone concealed himself in the study

earlier in the evening--and I am convinced that it offers no

hiding-place--he could only have come out again by passing through

here."

Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when

meditating.

"You had been at work here in this way for some time?"

"Yes. Sir Crichton was preparing an important book."

"Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burboyne, with evident perplexity; "though I attached

no importance to it at the time. Three nights ago Sir Crichton came

out to me, and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves--you

know? Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study. He had

an idea that something was concealed there."

"Some THING or someone?"

"'Something' was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he

seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work."

"Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes'

private investigation in the study."

SIR CRICHTON DAVEY'S study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to

show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It

was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments

and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs

which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no

misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one

wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a

green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only

light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.

Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside

the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my