Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (read aloud TXT) 📖
- Author: Sax Rohmer
Book online «The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (read aloud TXT) 📖». Author Sax Rohmer
“Merely an islet, I suppose—”
“Nothing of the kind; it is a burial mound, Petrie! It marks the site of one of the Plague Pits where victims were buried during the Great Plague of London. You will observe that, although you have seen it every morning for some years, it remains for a British Commissioner resident in Burma to acquaint you with its history! Hullo!”—the laughter was gone from his eyes, and they were steely hard again—“what the blazes have we here!”
He picked up the net. “What! a bird trap!”
“Exactly!” I said.
Smith turned his searching gaze upon me. “Where did you find it, Petrie?”
“I did not exactly find it,” I replied; and I related to him the circumstances of my meeting with Karamaneh.
He directed that cold stare upon me throughout the narrative, and when, with some embarrassment, I had told him of the girl’s escape—
“Petrie,” he said succinctly, “you are an imbecile!”
I flushed with anger, for not even from Nayland Smith, whom I esteemed above all other men, could I accept such words uttered as he had uttered them. We glared at one another.
“Karamaneh,” he continued coldly, “is a beautiful toy, I grant you; but so is a cobra. Neither is suitable for playful purposes.”
“Smith!” I cried hotly—“drop that! Adopt another tone or I cannot listen to you!”
“You must listen,” he said, squaring his lean jaw truculently. “You are playing, not only with a pretty girl who is the favorite of a Chinese Nero, but with my life! And I object, Petrie, on purely personal grounds!”
I felt my anger oozing from me; for this was strictly just. I had nothing to say, and Smith continued:
“You know that she is utterly false, yet a glance or two from those dark eyes of hers can make a fool of you! A woman made a fool of me, once; but I learned my lesson; you have failed to learn yours. If you are determined to go to pieces on the rock that broke up Adam, do so! But don’t involve me in the wreck, Petrie—for that might mean a yellow emperor of the world, and you know it!”
“Your words are unnecessarily brutal, Smith,” I said, feeling very crestfallen, “but there—perhaps I fully deserve them all.”
“You do!” he assured me, but he relaxed immediately. “A murderous attempt is made upon my life, resulting in the death of a perfectly innocent man in no way concerned. Along you come and let an accomplice, perhaps a participant, escape, merely, because she has a red mouth, or black lashes, or whatever it is that fascinates you so hopelessly!”
He opened the wicker basket, sniffing at the contents.
“Ah!” he snapped, “do you recognize this odor?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you have some idea respecting Karamaneh’s quarry?”
“Nothing of the kind!”
Smith shrugged his shoulders.
“Come along, Petrie,” he said, linking his arm in mine.
We proceeded. Many questions there were that I wanted to put to him, but one above all.
“Smith,” I said, “what, in Heaven’s name, were you doing on the mound? Digging something up?”
“No,” he replied, smiling dryly; “burying something!”
CHAPTER VI. UNDER THE ELMS
Dusk found Nayland Smith and me at the top bedroom window. We knew, now that poor Forsyth’s body had been properly examined, that he had died from poisoning. Smith, declaring that I did not deserve his confidence, had refused to confide in me his theory of the origin of the peculiar marks upon the body.
“On the soft ground under the trees,” he said, “I found his tracks right up to the point where something happened. There were no other fresh tracks for several yards around. He was attacked as he stood close to the trunk of one of the elms. Six or seven feet away I found some other tracks, very much like this.”
He marked a series of dots upon the blotting pad at his elbow.
“Claws!” I cried. “That eerie call! like the call of a nighthawk—is it some unknown species of—flying thing?”
“We shall see, shortly; possibly to-night,” was his reply. “Since, probably owing to the absence of any moon, a mistake was made,” his jaw hardened at the thoughts of poor Forsyth—“another attempt along the same lines will almost certainly follow—you know Fu-Manchu’s system?”
So in the darkness, expectant, we sat watching the group of nine elms. To-night the moon was come, raising her Aladdin’s lamp up to the star world and summoning magic shadows into being. By midnight the highroad showed deserted, the common was a place of mystery; and save for the periodical passage of an electric car, in blazing modernity, this was a fit enough stage for an eerie drama.
No notice of the tragedy had appeared in print; Nayland Smith was vested with powers to silence the press. No detectives, no special constables, were posted. My friend was of opinion that the publicity which had been given to the deeds of Dr. Fu-Manchu in the past, together with the sometimes clumsy co-operation of the police, had contributed not a little to the Chinaman’s success.
“There is only one thing to fear,” he jerked suddenly; “he may not be ready for another attempt to-night.”
“Why?”
“Since he has only been in England for a short time, his menagerie of venomous things may be a limited one at present.”
Earlier in the evening there had been a brief but violent thunderstorm, with a tropical downpour of rain, and now clouds were scudding across the blue of the sky. Through a temporary rift in the veiling the crescent of the moon looked down upon us. It had a greenish tint, and it set me thinking of the filmed, green eyes of Fu-Manchu.
The cloud passed and a lake of silver spread out to the edge of the coppice, where it terminated at a shadow bank.
“There it is, Petrie!” hissed Nayland Smith.
A lambent light was born in the darkness; it rose slowly, unsteadily, to a great height, and died.
“It’s under the trees, Smith!”
But he was already making for the door. Over his shoulder:
“Bring the pistol, Petrie!” he cried; “I have another. Give me at least twenty yards’ start or no attempt may be made. But the instant I’m under the trees,
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