The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (read aloud TXT) 📖

and steely-eyed Burmese commissioner, there was externally little in common; but it was some little nervous trick in his carriage that conjured up through the smoky haze one distant summer evening when Smith had paced that very room as Eltham paced it now, when before my startled eyes he had rung up the curtain upon the savage drama in which, though I little suspected it then, Fate had cast me for a leading role.

I wondered if Eltham’s thoughts ran parallel with mine. My own were centered upon the unforgettable figure of the murderous Chinaman. These words, exactly as Smith had used them, seemed once again to sound in my ears: “Imagine a person tall, lean, and feline, high shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long magnetic eyes of the true cat green. Invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race accumulated in one giant intellect, with all the resources of science, past and present, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the ‘Yellow Peril’ incarnate in one man.”

This visit of Eltham’s no doubt was responsible for my mood; for this singular clergyman had played his part in the drama of two years ago.

“I should like to see Smith again,” he said suddenly; “it seems a pity that a man like that should be buried in Burma. Burma makes a mess of the best of men, Doctor. You said he was not married?”

“No,” I replied shortly, “and is never likely to be, now.”

“Ah, you hinted at something of the kind.”

“I know very little of it. Nayland Smith is not the kind of man to talk much.”

“Quite so—quite so! And, you know, Doctor, neither am I; but”—he was growing painfully embarrassed—“it may be your due—I—er—I have a correspondent, in the interior of China—”

“Well?” I said, watching him in sudden eagerness.

“Well, I would not desire to raise—vain hopes—nor to occasion, shall I say, empty fears; but—er... no, Doctor!” He flushed like a girl—“It was wrong of me to open this conversation. Perhaps, when I know more—will you forget my words, for the time?”

The telephone bell rang.

“Hullo!” cried Eltham—“hard luck, Doctor!”—but I could see that he welcomed the interruption. “Why!” he added, “it is one o’clock!”

I went to the telephone.

“Is that Dr. Petrie?” inquired a woman’s voice.

“Yes; who is speaking?”

“Mrs. Hewett has been taken more seriously ill. Could you come at once?”

“Certainly,” I replied, for Mrs. Hewett was not only a profitable patient but an estimable lady—“I shall be with you in a quarter of an hour.”

I hung up the receiver.

“Something urgent?” asked Eltham, emptying his pipe.

“Sounds like it. You had better turn in.”

“I should much prefer to walk over with you, if it would not be intruding. Our conversation has ill prepared me for sleep.”

“Right!” I said; for I welcomed his company; and three minutes later we were striding across the deserted common.

A sort of mist floated amongst the trees, seeming in the moonlight like a veil draped from trunk to trunk, as in silence we passed the Mound pond, and struck out for the north side of the common.

I suppose the presence of Eltham and the irritating recollection of his half-confidence were the responsible factors, but my mind persistently dwelt upon the subject of Fu-Manchu and the atrocities which he had committed during his sojourn in England. So actively was my imagination at work that I felt again the menace which so long had hung over me; I felt as though that murderous yellow cloud still cast its shadow upon England. And I found myself longing for the company of Nayland Smith. I cannot state what was the nature of Eltham’s reflections, but I can guess; for he was as silent as I.

It was with a conscious effort that I shook myself out of this morbidly reflective mood, on finding that we had crossed the common and were come to the abode of my patient.

“I shall take a little walk,” announced Eltham; “for I gather that you don’t expect to be detained long? I shall never be out of sight of the door, of course.”

“Very well,” I replied, and ran up the steps.

There were no lights to be seen in any of the windows, which circumstance rather surprised me, as my patient occupied, or had occupied when last I had visited her, a first-floor bedroom in the front of the house. My knocking and ringing produced no response for three or four minutes; then, as I persisted, a scantily clothed and half awake maid servant unbarred the door and stared at me stupidly in the moonlight.

“Mrs. Hewett requires me?” I asked abruptly.

The girl stared more stupidly than ever.

“No, sir,” she said, “she don’t, sir; she’s fast asleep!”

“But some one ‘phoned me!” I insisted, rather irritably, I fear.

“Not from here, sir,” declared the now wide-eyed girl. “We haven’t got a telephone, sir.”

For a few moments I stood there, staring as foolishly as she; then abruptly I turned and descended the steps. At the gate I stood looking up and down the road. The houses were all in darkness. What could be the meaning of the mysterious summons? I had made no mistake respecting the name of my patient; it had been twice repeated over the telephone; yet that the call had not emanated from Mrs. Hewett’s house was now palpably evident. Days had been when I should have regarded the episode as preluding some outrage, but to-night I felt more disposed to ascribe it to a silly practical joke.

Eltham walked up briskly.

“You’re in demand to-night, Doctor,” he said. “A young person called for you almost directly you had left your house, and, learning where you were gone, followed you.”

“Indeed!” I said, a trifle incredulously. “There are plenty of other doctors if the case is an urgent one.”

“She may have thought it would save time as you were actually up and dressed,” explained Eltham; “and the house is quite near to here, I understand.”

I looked at him a little blankly. Was this another effort of the unknown jester?

“I have been fooled once,” I said. “That ‘phone call was a hoax—”

“But I feel certain,” declared Eltham, earnestly, “that this is genuine! The poor girl was dreadfully agitated; her master has broken his leg and is lying helpless: number 280, Rectory Grove.”

“Where is the girl?” I asked, sharply.

“She ran back directly she had given me her message.”