Sax Rohmer - The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

one being attached to a most ingenious bald wig.

"You're sure it wasn't part of a Chinese make-up?" questioned Weymouth,

his eye on the strange relic. "Cadby was clever at disguise."

Smith snatched the wig from my hands with a certain irritation, and

tried to fit it on the dead detective.

"Too small by inches!" he jerked. "And look how it's padded in the

crown. This thing was made for a most abnormal head."

He threw it down, and fell to pacing the room again.

"Where did you find him--exactly?" he asked.

"Limehouse Reach--under Commercial Dock Pier--exactly an hour ago."

"And you last saw him at eight o'clock last night?"--to Weymouth.

"Eight to a quarter past."

"You think he has been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Petrie?"

"Roughly, twenty-four hours," I replied.

"Then, we know that he was on the track of the Fu-Manchu group, that he

followed up some clew which led him to the neighborhood of old Ratcliff

Highway, and that he died the same night. You are sure that is where

he was going?"

"Yes," said Weymouth; "He was jealous of giving anything away, poor

chap; it meant a big lift for him if he pulled the case off. But he

gave me to understand that he expected to spend last night in that

district. He left the Yard about eight, as I've said, to go to his

rooms, and dress for the job."

"Did he keep any record of his cases?"

"Of course! He was most particular. Cadby was a man with ambitions,

sir! You'll want to see his book. Wait while I get his address; it's

somewhere in Brixton."

He went to the telephone, and Inspector Ryman covered up the dead man's

face.

Nayland Smith was palpably excited.

"He almost succeeded where we have failed, Petrie," he said. "There is

no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu-Manchu! Poor

Mason had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a

similar fate. Without other evidence, the fact that they both died in

the same way as the dacoit would be conclusive, for we know that

Fu-Manchu killed the dacoit!"

"What is the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smith?"

"God knows! Cadby's death was from drowning, you say?"

"There are no other marks of violence."

"But he was a very strong swimmer, Doctor," interrupted Inspector

Ryman. "Why, he pulled off the quarter-mile championship at the

Crystal Palace last year! Cadby wasn't a man easy to drown. And as

for Mason, he was an R.N.R., and like a fish in the water!"

Smith shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Let us hope that one day we shall know how they died," he said simply.

Weymouth returned from the telephone.

"The address is No.--Cold Harbor Lane," he reported. "I shall not be

able to come along, but you can't miss it; it's close by the Brixton

Police Station. There's no family, fortunately; he was quite alone in

the world. His case-book isn't in the American desk, which you'll find

in his sitting-room; it's in the cupboard in the corner--top shelf.

Here are his keys, all intact. I think this is the cupboard key."

Smith nodded.

"Come on, Petrie," he said. "We haven't a second to waste."

Our cab was waiting, and in a few seconds we were speeding along

Wapping High Street. We had gone no more than a few hundred yards, I

think, when Smith suddenly slapped his open hand down on his knee.

"That pigtail!" he cried. "I have left it behind! We must have it,

Petrie! Stop! Stop!"

The cab was pulled up, and Smith alighted.

"Don't wait for me," he directed hurriedly. "Here, take Weymouth's

card. Remember where he said the book was? It's all we want. Come

straight on to Scotland Yard and meet me there."

"But Smith," I protested, "a few minutes can make no difference!"

"Can't it!" he snapped. "Do you suppose Fu-Manchu is going to leave

evidence like that lying about? It's a thousand to one he has it

already, but there is just a bare chance."

It was a new aspect of the situation and one that afforded no room for

comment; and so lost in thought did I become that the cab was outside

the house for which I was bound ere I realized that we had quitted the

purlieus of Wapping. Yet I had had leisure to review the whole troop

of events which had crowded my life since the return of Nayland Smith

from Burma. Mentally, I had looked again upon the dead Sir Crichton

Davey, and with Smith had waited in the dark for the dreadful thing

that had killed him. Now, with those remorseless memories jostling in

my mind, I was entering the house of Fu-Manchu's last victim, and the

shadow of that giant evil seemed to be upon it like a palpable cloud.

Cadby's old landlady greeted me with a queer mixture of fear and

embarrassment in her manner.

"I am Dr. Petrie," I said, "and I regret that I bring bad news

respecting Mr. Cadby."

"Oh, sir!" she cried. "Don't tell me that anything has happened to

him!" And divining something of the mission on which I was come, for

such sad duty often falls to the lot of the medical man: "Oh, the poor,

brave lad!"

Indeed, I respected the dead man's memory more than ever from that

hour, since the sorrow of the worthy old soul was quite pathetic, and

spoke eloquently for the unhappy cause of it.

"There was a terrible wailing at the back of the house last night,

Doctor, and I heard it again to-night, a second before you knocked.

Poor lad! It was the same when his mother died."

At the moment I paid little attention to her words, for such beliefs

are common, unfortunately; but when she was sufficiently composed I

went on to explain what I thought necessary. And now the old lady's

embarrassment took precedence of her sorrow, and presently the truth

came out:

"There's a--young lady--in his rooms, sir."

I started. This might mean little or might mean much.

"She came and waited for him last night, Doctor--from ten until

half-past--and this morning again. She came the third time about an

hour ago, and has been upstairs since."

"Do you know her, Mrs. Dolan?"

Mrs. Dolan grew embarrassed again.

"Well, Doctor," she said, wiping her eyes the while, "I DO. And God

knows he was a good lad, and I like a mother to him; but she is not the

girl I should have liked a son of mine to take up with."

At any other time, this would have been amusing; now, it might be

serious. Mrs. Dolan's account of the wailing became suddenly

significant, for perhaps it meant that one of Fu-Manchu's dacoit

followers was watching the house, to give warning of any stranger's

approach! Warning to whom? It was unlikely that I should forget the

dark eyes of another of Fu-Manchu's servants. Was that lure of men

even now in the house, completing her evil work?

"I should never have allowed her in his rooms--" began Mrs. Dolan

again. Then there was an interruption.

A soft rustling reached my ears--intimately feminine. The girl was

stealing down!

I leaped out into the hall, and she turned and fled blindly before

me--back up the stairs! Taking three steps at a time, I followed her,

bounded into the room above almost at her heels, and stood with my back

to the door.

She cowered against the desk by the window, a slim figure in a clinging

silk gown, which alone explained Mrs. Dolan's distrust. The gaslight

was turned very low, and her hat shadowed her face, but could not hide

its startling beauty, could not mar the brilliancy of the skin, nor dim

the wonderful eyes of this modern Delilah. For it was she!